Z is for...

Zapping the PRAM

Raise your hand if you know what this is…

   (And if you do, I like you already!)

PRAM (Parameter RAM) is, or was, the Mac equivalent of the BIOS on a pc. Nowadays, it’s called the NVRAM. (non-volatile RAM) (Do I need to add that RAM is the memory in your computer?)

It’s a little piece of memory that’s specially designated to hold certain computer settings, like clocks, volume, mouse speed, disk cache, etc. If this bit of special memory gets corrupted, you can experience all sorts of bizarre and random problems, so you want to set it back to default. 

“Reset”… that’s the official term… but anyone who’s been a Mac geek since the days of Classic most likely knows it as “zapping” the PRAM. Apple will recommend very specific instances when you should do your zapping but most techs of long-standing will tell you that it can fix a wide range of quirky problems too.

          “Did you try zapping it?”

          “All I did was zap it…” 

          “What’s the key combination for zapping, again?” 

Even in these days of no more PRAM, we still zap.

They’ve even continued to use the same key combo…

We just kinda leave off the last part about what exactly we’re zapping.

Everyone knows.  :-D

**********************************************************

And that, ladies and gentlemen, wraps up the A to Z Challenge for this year.

Thank you for sticking it out with me. I know I get a little random at times but it can be a hard road to walk, trying to be interesting, to not pick the same words as half the participants but to also not be so out there you completely lose your audience. (I like you guys - I want you to stick around!)

Y is for...

(this is almost
a "Y", isn't it?)

Yokozuna

SUMO!!!

I haven’t written about sumo in a long time!

But now I’m going to… because Y, dammit.  :-)

When I first started watching sumo, I was intrigued but also baffled. As with any new sport, you’re lost without somebody to explain what the heck is going on, but I was watching Japanese TV programs, so the commentary in Japanese wasn’t helping me (I never got past “kore wa”...,) and none of the people I lived with were curious enough to have learned the details. I tried bookstores, libraries… and kept coming up empty handed. Oddly enough, it wasn’t until I moved back to New England that I was able to find some information. My favorite source is Mina Hall’s The Big Book of Sumo, which I have relied on heavily for this little story about yokozuna… 

Yokozuna is the highest rank in the world of sumo. 

(i.e. the big guys wearing the huge white belts with giant rick-rack hanging off 'em.) 

Sumo ranking is a fluid pyramidal hierarchy, with the wrestlers moving up and down through the ranks, according to their wins and losses. As the ranks increase, the number of wrestlers in them decreases, until you finally get to yokozuna. 

There are generally only 1-3 yokozuna at a time and, interestingly, sometimes there aren’t any… because you achieve the rank of yokozuna based not only on the concrete factors of power and skill, but also by demonstrating that you possess dignity and grace. Since this is a subjective qualification, there have been times when the Yokozuna Deliberation Council has simply found no one to recommend to the Sumo Association for promotion. (As of 2014, there had only been a total of 71 yokozuna since formal record keeping began in 1789.) 

It’s a very difficult rank to attain (only about 1 in 900 wrestlers makes it to yokozuna) but once you’re there, you get to stay. Yokozuna cannot be demoted, but they are expected to retire when they can no longer compete at the level of performance expected of the top dog.

After a yokozuna’s promotion is approved, there is a formal acceptance ceremony, which will be the first time a yokozuna wears a tsuna, (the big funky white belt.) Those belts, which weigh anything from 30 up to 44 pounds and contain all kinds of padding and copper wiring, are made for the new initiate by the other wrestlers in his stable. It is expected to be sparkling white at all times, so the wrestlers wear towels and white gloves while weaving it, so as not to get it dirty. (They're purely ceremonial, so they aren't worn to wrestle in...)

After the yokozuna is formally installed, he will then perform his first dohyo-iri, which is the ring-entering ceremony in which the yokozuna calls on the gods and chases away demons by clapping his hands and stomping his feet.
This same ceremony opens every sumo tournament.

Then everybody puts away the big belts and fancy skirts and gets down to wrasslin’!! ;-)

X is For...

well…, X

It’s a miserable, stinkin’ letter when you’re trying to look for words you can write interestingly about…

I’ve already done my best with X-ray, and I pretty much think I shot my wad right there.

But as a letter, X is kind of cool - not to mention highly versatile.

It’s sacred (the abbreviation for Χριστός, or Christ, in Greek); it’s profane (X-rated); it can mean quality (XX); it’s the unknown (X factor);  it’s kisses (xoxo); it’s ten (if you know your Roman numerals); it denotes dimensions (2 x 4); instructs you to multiply; and marks the spot for buried treasure.

That is a LOT to have going on for a single letter!

But still, it produces a fairly pathetic supply of words when extended by other letters.

I don’t like X-Day.

W is For...

Weight Watching

          (an experiment in alliteration and cummingsian structure)

     Woman

wistfully

wondering

where (her)

  waist

went

Oh, Woe!

she wails as she waddles,

my width isn’t waning…

     those weiners wreaked havoc (with wearing 

my wardrobe.

Would that I had watched more diligently!

Been more wary, less wilful, 

                     less weak, and more wise…

done less waving to the waitress 

   and more

walking wi

           dd

         er

       shins   

         around

           the

              waffles.

Oh, Wretched Waif Wannabe,

weeping into your won tons...

Forego that wheat!

   Whine not at watermelon

      nor whimper at the want of chocolate.

Think wraith, not warthog…

****************************************************************

(Yeah, okay, fine... YOU try it!)   ;-p

V is For...

Vestal Virgins

Let's talk about another of my pet peeves… 

     the misspeaking of the term “Vestal Virgin”. 

It’s understandable, really. The term comes from the days of Roman religion, which means there haven’t been any Vestal Virgins around since 394 AD. And in the meantime, Christianity has popularized the view of women as vessels. Plus, not a lot of people are good about enunciation.

So I get the confusion. I really do.

But, still…

it’s Vestal, not Vessel.

Please.

Vesta was the Roman goddess of the hearth. She had a temple on the Roman forum which was attended by six priestesses - the Vestal Virgins. (VV’s for short) They fetched sacred water, prepared food, cared for the temple, and officiated at the Vestalia. (Love that name!)

VV’s were chosen sometime between the ages of 6 to 10 and served for 30 years... Thirty years during which they had to remain virgins. If they were caught falling into fornication, it meant their death - by being buried alive, since the blood of a VV could not be shed. (The logic of the ancients sometimes escapes me...) 

After their obligations to Vesta were fulfilled, VVs were free to marry, but few did. Although their rules of service seem a bit restrictive to our modern sensibilities, a Vestal Virgin enjoyed a lot of privileges rare for women in those days - emancipation from their fathers’ authority and the right to control their own property being chief among those. So it’s not too surprising that they weren't in any hurry to lose that independence. 

So you see, a Vestal Virgin is a very real, distinct (if outmoded) thing. And it’s true that the phrase is so outdated that it really shouldn’t bother me when it’s misused - but it still does.

(Unless, of course, it’s mispronounced by Annie Lennox in a lovely song… then it's ok.
But in my mind, I still insert the "T"...)

U is For...

Uncertainty

News flash - I don't like uncertainty.

I am not, in the general run of things, particularly plagued by the beast. I do not need a precise topographical map for my life... I am far too aware that there are an infinite number of ways in which things can go wrong, so I don’t spend much time letting the possibilities tie knots in my head. (There are too many more interesting musings to wrangle with! :-D )

But I'm not sanguine about uncertainty, either.

I hate not having a rough game plan for any part of my life. I don't require a complete set of Mapquest directions but I do like at least a rough idea of where I’m headed and how I’ll get there. Without that very basic level of knowledge, agita sets in - it's sort of like a life lived always waiting for the results of a medical test. 

Which isn’t to say that I can’t punt and adjust my plans - I can. It’s not always comfortable or joyfully undertaken, but I understand (^see paragraph one^) that stuff happens and we adjust.

But a rough idea that you can adjust is still a completely different animal than a state of total uncertainty - and is much more comfortable. It lets me sleep at night.

So remind again why I’m dating the King of Winging It?

One’s romantic life has to be one of the most maddening places for uncertainty to make an appearance. Not that certainty is completely lacking - our recovery from The Time of Troubles demonstrated that. But he still has this thing where he is so reluctant to become forsworn that, in effect, he refuses to think past next Tuesday.

I respect that in principle…, but the reality makes me nuts.

Uncertainty.

I'm living it... but it's not my favorite thing.

And On Each Seventh Day...

The challenge bloggers rest.

(they need to... those last six letters are buggers!)

T is For...

Transplanting Cactii

This must surely be one of the most miserable jobs in existence… and I have to do it soon. (Can you spell, “dread”?)

It doesn’t help that, overall, I’m only so-so on cactii to start with. But I have an heirloom collection inherited from my dad, a couple of which actually are kind of cool-looking, so I take care of them in dad’s memory… plus, I have one that SP bought me as a souvenir from his travels - so obviously that one is cherished! 

Unhappily, however, it’s also the one causing me the most headaches at the moment.

When SP presented me with this cactus, it was a sweet little thing. He held it, nestled in his hand, and made much of the fact that this little bit of prickly green looked like a small phallus… and that the bristles down near the base were actually quite soft. 

      “So you should stroke it - A LOT.”

Well, let me tell you, prurience aside, there was absolutely no need for me to do any stroking — that sucker has shot up at practically land-speed-record pace without any help at’all, at’all. I’ve already had to transplant it once from it’s (admittedly somewhat small) little pot. I had hoped that the new one would have sufficient room to accommodate the adolescent growth spurt and still house the cactus well into a comfortable maturity.

Instead, (and I should not be surprised by this, given the giver!) there is no end in sight to the rampant growth of this spiny succulent. From tiny phallus to randy teenager, my modest cactus has burgeoned into the John Holmes of the Cactaceae world. And, much as Mr. Holmes used to claim he couldn’t wear underwear because there wasn’t enough room in there, so too is my porn star cactus finding life a little cramped these days.

There’s only one shelf with enough height to accommodate the plant, it has sprung such a plethora of offshoots that they form a stubbly merkin about its base, and the pot I’d so optimistically selected as its permanent home is now woefully inadequate for the root structure. The plant bows so energetically toward the sun that one almost suspects religious fervor, and I live in fear of it toppling over under its own weight. 

So really, I need to quit stalling and just transplant the thing.

But, oooh, how I dread it!

The spines on John H. Cactus aren’t nearly as rigidly ferocious as some on the heirloom plants, but they are about eighty-six times more plentiful and impossible to avoid. Even enveloped by several layers of brown paper bag, they can still pierce the sturdiest suede glove and leave broken tips embedded in the flesh of your fingers. 

And lord help you with stabalizing it upright as you press the new soil around it!

(Not to mention that how on earth am I going to deal with that merkin, I do not know…)

Transplanting Cactii…

It’s not for the faint of heart.

S is For...

Spelling

Because it matters...  :-D

(for SP, who gave me the idea for how I could use this:-*)

R is For...

rhythm [ˈriT͟Həm/]

noun

     1:  a strong, regular, repeated pattern of movement or sound

     2:  an ordered recurrent alternation of strong and weak elements in the flow of sound and silence in speech

     3:  the aspect of music comprising all the elements (as accent, meter, and tempo) that relate to forward movement
     4:  a particular type of pattern formed by rhythm

     5:  movement, fluctuation, or variation marked by the regular recurrence or natural flow of related elements

     6:  a regularly recurrent quantitative change in a variable biological process 

     7:  the effect created by the elements in a play, movie, or novel that relate to the temporal development of the action

(If the tap sequence from “An American in Paris” was worked into this mix, my happiness would be complete!)

Rhythm has as many forms as it has definitions - because it’s a funny thing to pin down.

It’s not just a pattern or a beat… it’s a flow, a way of proceeding forward, in both movement and sound. Rhythm can express itself in different forms, as well. Many people have a fairly comprehensive sense of rhythm, finding it in everything around them. Yet I know musicians who never lose a beat, but who cannot dance to save their souls; writers whose words create a gorgeous symphony but who can’t find the beat in a tune, and people whose internal clocks never fail them but who struggle to flnd a flow to anything… 

And then there are those people who can’t find a rhythm At All.

I myself have a pretty decent sense of rhythm. Not flawless, by any means, but pretty deeply ingrained - the result of both genetics and training. (The dance instructor I had as a kid was of the opinion that you start ‘em early, at 3 or 4, and spend those first couple of years teaching, not so much dance techniques, but how to hear the rhythm in the music.) 

So, annoyingly picky as it may sound, rhythm really is something I notice.

I don't require it in others, however. For the most part, if you have it, great; if not, oh well. 

Man does not live by rhythm alone, after all..., right?

Except there's one situation that makes me eat those words... one arena where I do require rhythm... and that would be in touch.

I absolutely cannot get past someone lacking rhythm in their touch.

Touch may seem like an odd place to house that requirement, particularly at such an uncompromising level, but rhythm creates flow… and touch without flow is one of the most unsatisfying things in the world to me. I might date you for a short while if you lack it, but you can be pretty sure you’re off my long-term radar. 

BeachMan once said: 

“If you can’t move well together, you probably won’t do well in bed, either.” 

Well, this is a corollary:

"If you can't make me crave your touch, I won't be craving much else."

Shallow? Yeah, maybe... 

Won't argue it with you one way or the other. 

Won't change my mind, either.  ;-p

Who needs rhythm?

Me.

Q is For...

Quahog (Mercenaria mercenaria)

Alternate common names: Hard-shell Clam, Cherrystone, Littleneck

Quahog is one of those words that were as familiar to me from earliest childhood as Mommy, Daddy, and doggie… yet a surprising number of people have never heard it. So for today’s Q word, I’m doing my part to rectify that. (With a little help from this environmental data center.)

Quahogs are shellfish found all along the east coast from Canada to Florida, altho’ they are most abundant in muddy estuaries between Cape Cod and New Jersey. 

The name is commonly held to be derived from the Indian name “poquauhock” - meaning horse fish. Native Americans used long beads made from the purple inner shell of this clam as money, so giving the mollusk a Latin name that meant wages seemed like a good idea to some 18th century botanist. (Delightful factoid of the post: At one time, before King Philip’s War, you could pay your tuition at Harvard University with wampum - about 1,900 beads per year.)

The environmental data center makes a point of noting that quahogs do not stay put in one point for life… which anyone who’s ever been whacked in the ankle by one that’s fleeing disturbance can attest to. Those suckers move FAST for something that looks like nothing so much as an algae-covered rock! 

They have reason to flee, however. Quahogs are a very popular seafood.

They are the main ingredient in clam chowder (spurious recipe here) and in fritters (mouth-watering photo here)  - which are my two favorite ways to eat them, but there are plenty of ways to enjoy quahogs - steamed, fried, scalloped, raw, in stuffies, in dip, in pasta sauces, really, anywhere a minced meat might go…

The only thing you shouldn’t do with quahogs is to try and figure out the correct pronunciation. 

No one agrees. There’s cah-hog, coh-hog, coh-hawg, qwah-hog…

Really, I shouldn’t be surprised most people gave up and just say “clam”!

P is For...

plimsoll [ˈplimsəl,ˈplimsōl/]

noun BRITISH

plural: plimsolls

1 a light rubber-soled canvas shoe, worn especially for sports.

I have a distinct fondness for this word, despite the fact that I can never bring myself to actually say it. There are a lot of British English words that Americans can pick up and use and get away with… plimsoll does not seem to me to be one of them. If you didn’t grow up using this word, it never really fits comfortably into the mouth.

I love it, tho’, because every time I hear it, it reminds me of my very first British friend, Liz. She was here doing a year abroad and had been assigned to the dorm room next to mine. I struck up the friendship with no ulterior motives but as it happened, becoming friends with Liz was my entré into a large and extended circle of Brits, which became my primary social arena for the rest of the many years that I lived in that city. 

But back to plimsolls…

This is the story of how a humble sneaker changed my thinking.

“Plimsoll” was my first experience with a British-only English word. Prior to hearing Liz blithely tell me she needed to find her plimsolls, it hadn’t really occurred to me that the shared language of our countries could ever be so far removed from each other.  Slang, sure. That varies from region to region even within countries, so I was prepared for the experience of known words being used in unknown ways… 

But a whole new, unknown word…? That, I was not expecting.

And I came perilously close to responding to this sudden exposure of my own ignorance by mocking Liz for her word choice. Except (fortunately) understanding bitch-slapped me upside the head just in time…

I had been making assumptions, you see. I had assumed that because I didn’t need to learn a new language to communicate with someone from a different country, that there wasn’t anything else I needed to learn about them, either. Clearly, they must all be just like us, right? So I would be completely justified to expect them all to fit the reality of their lives into my uninformed expectation. (*nod, nod*)

Oh, dear lord...

It was an appalling example of insularity, made (just barely) forgivable only by my youth, inexperience, and the fact that I picked up on it quickly and managed to not make a fool of myself.

But it was a close call…

     and a danged good lesson.

“Keep your mouth shut until you’ve walked a mile in those plimsolls”

O is for...

Open Circuit

Any relationship is, ideally, a symbiosis… something that is of mutual advantage to each participant.  It’s a circle of give and take. I give BG something he wants, he takes it and gives me something I want in return… and so on and so on. That all sounds pretty easy, doesn’t it?

I often get the feeling however, that we forget (overlook?) that all this giving and taking does not have only one source or one circle. Relationships have rings within rings within rings… Using my own as an example: yes, BG wants submission; I give him that, he gives me dominance, that enhances my submission, blah, blah, blah… That circle is spinning quite happily. 

But there are multiple circuits here - I’m not with him because I want only one thing, and vice versa. We both also want caring (check!) intimacy (check!) and understanding (check!). More rings happily spinning…

However, there can also be things that one person wants but the other doesn’t/can’t/won’t strive for. So that (those?) particular circuit ends up bucking the tide, trying to run along with the others but unable to, because there is resistance.

So what happens to this open circuit?

Ignore it? Shut it off?

Declare it invalid because can’t be completed?

I don’t have any answers here. But I am wondering, because at some point, I’m going to need to know. Both BG and I each have a couple of open circuits… but none of them have been declared permanently unmanageable at this point, they’re just things we can’t deal with right now… so we’ve simply bracketed them for the time being.

Eventually, however, they will interfere with the other merry spins… and then what?

Think I Can Pull This One Off?

N is for...

Netiquette

Waaay back in the day, when I was first learning about this amazing new internet thing, I was given some advice: 

     “do not participate in flame wars”

     “do not type your emails in all capitals - that’s the written equivalent of shouting and it’s obnoxious”  

and most importantly,

     “do not forget the human being at the other end of your communication.”

These guidelines make up a part of what is known as netiquette. 

Etiquette for the internet…

Every bit as important as the everyday stuff, and every bit as much of a lost art…

Every culture has its own rules of conduct, of course, and manners and mores are always changing within them. So, in one very real sense, my annoyance at the demise of netiquette is simply another instance of “nothing new under the sun”. 

Yet, it’s not entirely the same.

Unlike the simple generational differences of the past, the changing means of interpersonal communication are actually taking the “person” right out of the definition. That blank surface of a monitor makes it seem perfectly acceptable to go ahead and express our unfiltered opinion… because we never need to look anyone in the eye. 

This leaves us blinded, lacking the means to see and identify expressions, gestures, and tone, and as a result, the recipients of our words become somehow less than human. They are seen through the overlay of an inanimate object and the two images become somehow merged to our mind. And without that face looking back at us in hurt or dismay, we may fail to recognize that we have just injured another human being.

I know that I have been hurt, stunned, offended, and angered by things that total strangers have felt entitled to say to me. Unfortunately, I also know that I myself have unintentionally hurt others, as well. (A feeling which falls more into the “sickened” category.)

It can be a fine line to walk, this faceless conversation stuff…

We could all avoid a whole lot of hurt if we would just stop and ask ourselves, “Would I say this to the person’s face?” Even better would be if we would not forget the humanity of the person in the first place.

Netiquette exists for a reason -- we should really use it.

(It’s bad enough that my views on the importance of manners, civility, and courtesy already make me feel like a dinosaur in todays world. But now I’ve moved on to railing at the loss of manners and civility on the interwebz?!?)

holy crap, I must be old!!

M is for...

If you check the dictionary, you’ll find that “moxie" is an informal North American word that means "courage, daring, spirit, or verve” … as in, “She’s got moxie!” (Always said in an admiring tone.)

The ironic things is that the word came into our culture from the advertising for the beverage… and while you can find plenty of people who might acknowledge your courage in drinking Moxie, odds are 50/50 at best on whether or not there will be admiration in their tone.

An old-fashioned New England favorite, Moxie has one of the more distinctive tastes out there. Originally a health tonic, later sold as a soda, Moxie contains gentian root extract, which is seriously bitter stuff. It was originally marketed as “a delicious blend of bitter and sweet, a drink to satisfy everyone’s taste.” 

Now, that may have been a true statement in the early 20th century (for a while, Moxie sales rivaled those of Coca Cola,) but these days, any discussion of Moxie’s flavor is likely to turn into a heated debate. (Although possibly not in Maine, where it was designated the official state soft drink in 2005.) But for the rest of us, this is a divisive taste.

My family is split nearly down the middle on The Great Moxie Question. It’s not unheard of for a case or two of it to show up at BYOB picnics, with devotees smacking their lips in defiant appreciation. But you'll also find nearly as many sneering at the sight of the cans and decrying it as “carbonated creosote”. (Loudly and with vigor, I might add.)

Personally, I’m one of the few holding the middle ground. I don’t have much truck with the carbonated sugar water drinks that rule the marketplaces today, so I can appreciate the complexity of flavor in Moxie that you simply don’t find anymore. It’s certainly an interesting flavor… I’ve always thought that it's a bit like a cola made with tonic water instead of soda water -- and I like tonic water (especially mixed with grapefruit juice!) -- so that part isn’t a problem. Indeed, I find the initial taste to be fairly pleasant. The problem is that there is some lingering base note to it that I don’t find particularly palatable. So while I can drink Moxie without complaining, it’s never quite won me over, either.

At least, the beverage hasn’t. 

The word it gave us charms me. 

There’s just something delightful about the picture of sass and adventure that it evokes.

But the soda?

Maybe check back later... :-D

Or Not...

L is for...

lingua franca

By definition, this is “a language that is adopted as the common language between speakers whose native languages are different.”

That makes it pretty clear that it’s a language, doesn’t it? ;-)

But there are more ways to establish common ground with people than just through language — it seems to me that we all have our own versions of a lingua franca - some favorite way to approach connecting with other people. 

Some people use empathy, others might be kind, this person is friendly, and the shy one over there just smiles a lot. There’s humor, deference, conciliation…, why, I hear there are even people who use touch! ;-p

So I was thinking about it, trying to decide what I felt my own personal lingua franca was…

At first I figured it was humor, but then I got considering my relationship with BG... and I started to wonder…

Do you think sex counts??

K is for...

Kashmir

There’s something about music and the teenager, isn’t there?

Some magical symbiosis between hormones and sound waves... The song amplifies the intensity of emotion, the emotion intensifies the song, until the overpowering rightness of it all seems to carve into our very being. For the rest of our lives, certain songs will always feel like wisdom from the cosmos… (even if we never really did quite understand the lyrics!)

Generally (for me at least,) once a song has achieved that status as personal classic, I want it left alone. “Don’t mess with my tunes, that song is perfect as it is!”

Except, however, that sometimes, what the “messer” achieves is an entirely new piece of magic. Especially if that person happens to be Ofra Haza.

Kashmir, as I first came to love it…

and as a singer I love made it her own…

(I know it's a long song - skip the Zeppelin version if you need to but please, listen to Ofra!)

J is for...

Jewelry

Given that I am so disinclined to fripperies, you might be surprised to learn that I have a bit of a jewelry habit. (You’ll probably be less surprised to hear that I’m pretty picky about what I wear, however. *ahem*) 

It’s funny how personal tastes can be formed. My mother was a great wearer of clip-on earrings and matching pins - and that’s it. The only rings she owned were the wedding/engagement combo that she never took off, and I only ever found one necklace in all her cache of jewelry boxes. The rest of the multitude were filled with clip-ons for every mood - sparkling, serious, classic, whimsical. I never knew that plastic beads could be grouped to convey such a range of emotion…

I, on the other hand, like necklaces and bracelets. I do wear earrings (in fact, the one piece of jewelry I almost never take off is the hoop that occupies the third hole in my ears) and I have quite a collection of rings, but it’s hit or miss whether you’ll see any of those on me. I just kind of forget about them half the time.

Bracelets and necklaces, however, are my weaknesses. I have a keen ear for their siren call… and never fail to follow it.  Not so much in stores, tho' - I tend to buy my jewelry at crafts fairs. I like pieces that are unique - things you won’t find on every third person on the street. I did not inherit my mothers love of beads, so even at crafts fairs, I’m able to walk past a lot of the stalls. But show me something made of recycled materials and I may very well leave the contents of my wallet with that vendor! I have steampunk necklaces made from bottlecaps and old greeting cards, several of hand-made tiles… there are bracelets of wire and glass, old typewriter keys,and old chewing gum wrappers. (Those are, for the record, three different bracelets…!)

Like Mom’s earrings, each piece suits a different mood (and as a Moonchild, I have more of those than you can shake a stick at!) so my collection grows, just as my mom’s did. 

Unlike mom, however, I have no one to cherish my collection when I’m gone…

I’d better wear the hell out of this stuff while I can!!  :-)

I is for...

I had intended to write about Independence for my I-word. There is a large, convoluted mass of thoughts in my head on the topic, all interwoven with society, expectations, singlehood, solitude… Really, there’s a lot in that big tangle.

The problem is that it won’t come out — and I don’t have the leisure to wait for my thoughts to coalesce into something coherent and interesting. 

I’m on a schedule here and this writer’s clog is goofing me up!

Plus, I have another urgent deadline to meet…

So, I’m sorry to chump out on you but “I” is now:

Income Taxes.

As in mine…, need to be done NOW…, ‘really..., gotta go!

(Sorry to be lame but this is getting critical…)

Day Off

H is for...

Are you ready for some armchair traveling?

Well, pack your bags, cuz we’re off to Istanbul to visit:

Hagia Sofia

1500 years old, a UNESCO world heritage site..., and one of the most glorious buildings ever created… and I want to see it!

Textbooks inform us that this is not the original 4th century church erected by Constantine the Great..., or even the second structure, which burned down in 532… Like I’m going to look down my nose at this 537 version for being a Johnny-come-lately! 

This venerable building has survived earthquakes, dome collapses, neglect, and bad restoration and still, it looks like this…

I want to go wander around the old basilica, the seat of the Orthodox Patriarchate of Constantinople, host to church councils and imperial crownings for over 900 years. After Constantinople fell in 1453, Hagia Sofia became the principal mosque of Istanbul for the next 500 years… and I want to experience that gorgeous juxtaposition of cultures...

Byzantine pendentives, Islamic roundels, the Christ Pantokrator, the Sultan’s Lodge… I want to see the mosaic galleries, to discover if it’s true that the Virgin’s blue robe and green cushion are actually made of the same color tiles when seen up close… I want to touch the Viking graffiti on the parapet and imagine the Varangian Guard who may have carved it… I want to meditate in Mahmut’s Library and to gaze on the face of the seraph…

I want to lie on the marble floor and stare at the domed ceiling for hours…

It'll never happen, of course...

          But oh, how I like to pretend that it will! 

G is for...

Greywalker

"Between the worlds of the living and the dead

There lies a realm of spectres and magic

Where every nightmare 

The human mind can conceive is given flesh

The Grey.

One woman, recovering from a near-fatal accident has

gained access to this dark domain

To protect us from what dwells within,

She may have to keep on dying

Her name is Harper Blaine

She is a Greywalker"

(promotional video for greywalker.com)

“You must be careful, Harper. You're stubborn, hardheaded, scientific practicalist, and all of this seems like a nightmare to you that you hope will simply evaporate when you wake up. But you don't wake up from this.”

Harper Blaine is a private investigator who is attacked, shot, and actually dies for two minutes before being revived… but the world she comes back to is a very different world from the one she left. She is now able to see and move through The Grey, a realm of ghosts, vampires, witches, and magic which bridges the lands of the living and the dead.

It’s sort of funny that I’m so hooked by this series… I will usually inform you that I don’t like my books noir — yet “dark” is the overwhelming impression left from reading these stories…

     Harper lives in Seattle, overcast and rainy, altho' much of the action takes place in the old underground city, far beyond the reaches of any weather (or light.)

     Ms. Richardson's descriptions of The Grey are so vivid, they leave you feeling off-kilter, mildly nauseated, and as though you are smudged with soot and cobwebs every time you slide into it with poor Harper.

     Bucking a popular trend, the vampires and ghosts in this world are not charming or sexy. These are throwbacks to the literary originals - vicious, self-serving creatures of the night who you really don’t want to run into in a dark alley.

     Not to mention the fact that much of the tension in the story stems from the fact that Harper has been irrevocably thrust into a life she hates, with no way to get back to the one that was stolen from her. 

And yet…

It's not all grim -- there is hope in this world, as well. 

     Hope, humor, honor, good friends, and a pet ferret.

It may be dark in The Grey, but the characters shine brightly.

If you don’t mind urban fantasy (or a few cobwebs in your hair,) you should give this one a try.

F is for...

floozy

   noun Slang.

1. a gaudily dressed, usually immoral woman, especially a prostitute.

It’s a great word, isn’t it?

It was also my Dad’s biggest fear — ending up father to a floozy.

The thought of my potential descent into floozihood was bad enough, of course, but I suspect Dad's concern was made even worse by the fact that my mother had been most decidedly “The Anti-Floozy” — and if I turned out badly, it would be All His Fault.  (He probably had nightmares of being greeted in heaven by a swat upside his head and the accusation, “What did you let happen to our little girl?!?”)

The state of high alert that this worry kept him occupying was frequently one of our biggest bones of contention. Yet, somehow, I also found it perversely charming that my dad considered me to have floozy potential… I couldn’t even get someone to ask me out bowling, much less entertain any wild ideas about making it to first base! Yet there was poor Dad, worrying about All These Men who were going to ruin my reputation…

A father's nightmare... a daughter's wildest dream!

The Dreaming Floozy (en chapeau)