This last weekend, I had houseguests. Friends came out from Ohio and we drove up to Fort Hood and picked up their niece and brought her back for the weekend. I have been in hospitals, universities, even prisons, but other than going to the Air Force Museum in Dayton, I’ve never been on an army base. I don’t know what I expected, but I didn’t expect a rather decent sized town with fast food restaurants. It’s a weird town because its all painted in tans and browns–a rather drab architectural experience. And there are tanks and helicopters and troop transports used as sort of giant lawn decorations at major intersections.

Rachel gave us a limited tour of where she lived and of the PX. (I suspect we are not allowed on a lot of the base.) The PX was rather like a big box store. Clothes, kitchenwares, a little Yankee Candle shop, Easter candy. You can tell the guys shopping who are soldiers because they all have short hair. But it was difficult to tell the wives from the women who are soldiers because women don’t get their hair cut.

I asked Rachel if the people in her company, and more especially, she and her friends, talk about Iraq. She said that they don’t talk about it the way we do. They don’t talk about the politics of it, not even the ones who have been there. She said, ‘We talk about it like you would if you were in a job and they sent you somewhere else. We talk about how big the PX is where we might be stationed.”

In 2006, my kid’s best friend was stationed in Iraq, and I started the adopt a marine program. If you contacted me, I sent you the name and address of someone in his company and asked you to send a box of fun stuff. It’s very possible that this year I will be asking you to Adopt an Army Soldier. If so, I will post here.

My younger daughter is a big fan of process. “Let’s make bread!” (Highly successful experiment). “Let’s make a dress!” (Not so much.) “Let’s make dinner!” (Not only successful but useful.) “Let’s make butter! Ice cream! Ravioli!” (Delicious, if eccentric.)

As of yesterday, I am informed that the kid intends to be a cook. Or rather, a patisserier (sp?)–a baker and chocolatier. Where this came from, I’m not sure, other than her to-the-death fondness for Godiva chocolates. And today she decided that we were going to make chocolates. Nothing simple like chocolates in molds, or even truffles: she wanted to make raspberries in fondant and chocolate, just like the pros. From five o’clock onward tonight my life was a) a delightful round of sugar, melting chocolate and raspberries, or b) and chaos with a great potential for 3rd degree burns. YG, dancing around in alternate states of panic and glee, was at least as much help as hinderance, and the results–60 really scabby looking chocolate-raspberry candies–will, God willing, go in to school with the girl tomorrow to be shared around.

The kitchen looks like a warzone. She washed the pots; I’m taking on the dinner dishes.

Can I confess that I love this part of my child? When I was her age I had taken weaving lessons for four years; I taught myself to knit and sew–neither professionally well, but well enough. I taught myself to bake, and spent the summer between 7th and 8th grade baking to order (three days a week I woke at 5am, put the first pot of milk on to scald, brushed my teeth, got dressed, and put the first shift of bread on to rise). I made 20-24 loaves of bread a day, brioche, rolls, pies, croissants–I was fearless and fortunate, and decided at the end of the summer that this was too much work for too little return (my net for the entire summer was $47–even by 1967 standards that was pretty poor). I have never been a spectacularly good cook or baker or seamstress or weaver or floor-layer (yes, I put down a hardwood floor in my bedroom when I was 18, mostly because I was really tired of plywood underfoot). But I love knowing how to do things. And it appears that this, at least, is genetic.

And the chocolates, no matter how eccentric looking, taste fine. I mean: chocolate, raspberries, fondant–what’s not to love?

• 197 – Roman Emperor Septimius Severus defeats usurper Clodius Albinus in the Battle of Lugdunum, the bloodiest battle between Roman armies.
• 1473 – Nicolaus Copernicus born, mathematician and astronomer (d. 1543)
• 1807 – In Alabama, Former Vice President of the United States Aaron Burr is arrested for treason and confined to Fort Stoddart.
• 1846 – In Austin, Texas the newly-formed Texas state government is officially installed. The Republic of Texas government officially transfers power to the State of Texas government following Texas’ annexation by the United States.
• 1847 – The Donner Party is rescued. It is noted that some of the survivors seem to be remarkably well-fed considering their ordeal.
• 1878 – The phonograph is patented by Thomas Edison.
• 1881 – Kansas became the first U.S. state to prohibit all alcoholic beverages.
• 1982 – Ozzy Osbourne arrested for urinating on The Alamo.
• 2007 – Steven Gould Finishes his sixth solo novel

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Believe it or not, I’ve been thinking about quite a few of the posts and commentary here over the past few weeks. Caroline’s ‘You Don’t Know Me’, about truth and fiction and self-revelation, Morgan’s about the end of the Earth, Morgan’s other one about Travel, Mad’s one about ‘Trashbin of the Mind’. And so on, just letting it moosh around in the back of my brain.

And remembering that I’m a writer again.

So — over the past two hours, I wrote a story. The song was written long ago, of course, and I didn’t know I’d use it until I was two-thirds done with the prose. I recycled bits of story elements that have been kicking around in my brain for years, as well as stealing a lot of bits that have been posted here by others. I leave it as an exercise to figure out who and what I’ve plagiarized.

Uh, that I’ve honored as thought-sources, that is….

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I honestly don’t care what people believe. But I very much care how people behave. And since some people use their beliefs to justify things which do affect me, I particularly like my facts “testable.”

(From WellingtonGrey.net )

ps.  Also go see this on Why Go?

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to view the first of nine vids chronicling the 1992 reunion tour of our favorite band, then use your advanced computer skills to track down the remaining eight in the series.

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And, then, below the cut, something from the Tap that’s perhaps Not Entirely Safe for Work.

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This is Igor.

Igor now hangs in my bedroom, but for many years he hung in my parents’ bedroom along with four other watercolors. Igor and those pieces were painted by my grandfather, Max Bachofen. Igor is unusual because my grandfather mainly painted landscapes. Far as I know, Igor’s one of only two portraits my grandfather ever painted.

In recent years, Papa Max’s artwork has become somewhat collectable. His paintings have shown up at auction and he’s even hung in the Cleveland Museum of Art. (Though that piece is an oil and I think his best work was done in watercolor.)

I never knew Papa Max. I think I met him once when he was very old and my uncle had tracked him down. He abandoned my mother’s family when she was a child. He was part of the WPA program which allowed him to travel around painting during the Depression. He married again and had another family. My mother and her siblings were plenty surprised when they found out about this other family.

I bring this up because as I was reading a bio of Papa Max, I realized that the destruction that he had wrought in his family wasn’t there in that short description of his life. And it got me to thinking about how we tend to imbue artists/writers/musicians with special qualities based on their work. If we like the work, we think we’ll like the person.

And as writers/musicians/artists we tend to think we’re changing the world in some deep and meaningful way through our work, when the best we can expect to do is change ourselves through our work. Yes, there are the rare artists who have really changed the world – but they’re the exceptions, not the rule. Most of us muddle along hoping that we’ll touch someone with our work – and, occasionally, we do.

But the reality is that we aren’t our work. No matter how fantastic we are at our craft, that isn’t who we are. It’s what we do. There’s a real danger in confusing the two. And there’s also a danger for the recipients of the work to think that they have an intimacy with the artist (using this generically here) because of their exposure to the work. From people who think they “know” what you’re “really” writing about, to stalkers who won’t leave you alone, the power of art to affect another person is unpredictable.

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OK, I haven’t been tagged, but can’t resist.

Science Fiction, Fantasy or Horror?
Science Fiction. But I can’t say I’m monogamous, especially when it comes to fantasy, mysteries/ thrillers, or popular science.

Hardback or Trade Paperback or Mass Market Paperback?
I lean toward paperbacks, but for my favorite authors, I won’t wait.

Heinlein or Asimov?
Tough call. They both have major strengths, and serious weaknesses.

Amazon or Brick and Mortar?
Yes.

Barnes & Noble or Borders?
Borders… that’s the closest. .. but I’ll take what I can get.
Hitchhiker or Discworld?
Hitchhiker, but I haven’t read Discworld.

Bookmark or Dogear?
Bookmark, naturally.

Magazine: Asimov’s Science Fiction or Fantasy & Science Fiction?
I browse them, but subscribe to neither.

Alphabetize by author Alphabetize by title or random?
Random. I haven’t properly organized my books for about the last three moves. Maybe when I’m retired.

Keep, Throw Away or Sell?
Keep. I am a re-reader. And I like to have them there for the kids, just in case.

Year’s Best Science Fiction series (edited by Gardner Dozois) or Years Best SF series (edited by David G. Hartwell)?
Are you kidding? Both.

Keep dustjacket or toss it?
I am indifferent.

Read with dustjacket or remove it?
Usually leave it on, but I cry no tears if it gets misplaced.

Short story or novel?
Novels, mostly, but a good short story is like fine chocolate — rich, quick, hits you right where you need to be hit.

Harry Potter or Lemony Snicket?
Potter. I’ve never gotten hooked by Snicket, though my kids like them a lot.

Stop reading when tired or at chapter breaks?
When brain shuts down from sheer exhaustion.

“It was a dark and stormy night” or “Once upon a time”?
Once upon a time, by a mile.

Buy or Borrow?
Buy.

Buying choice: Book Reviews, Recommendation or Browse?
All three: Book Reviews (3), Recommendation (1), Browse (2).

Lewis or Tolkien?
Tolkien; I reread him annually till I was in my 30s, and still do occasionally, but I went on a Lewis binge in my 20s.
Hard SF or Space Opera?
Hard SF by a kilometer, but I won’t say no to well-written space opera.

Collection (short stories by the same author) or Anthology (short stories by different authors)?
Collections.

Hugo or Nebula?
Not a big selection criterion for me, but I lean toward a Neb.
Golden Age SF or New Wave SF?
Dude! All of the above.

Tidy ending or Cliffhanger?
I like my stories to end, but ambiguity’s OK.

Morning reading, Afternoon reading or Nighttime reading?
Hah, don’t I wish! Nighttime or traveltime.

Standalone or Series?
Yes.

Urban fantasy or high fantasy?
Urban.  But George RR Martin ate my brain with his Song of Ice and Fire, and Bujold also took the top of my head off with Curse of Chalion et seq.
New or used?
New, unless I can’t find it new.

Favorite book of which nobody else has heard?
Top X favorite genre books read last year? (Where X is 5 or less)
Top X favorite genre books of all time? (Where X is 5 or less)
X favorite genre series? (Where X is 5 or less)
Top X favorite genre short stories? (Where X is 5 or less)

Let me get back to you on the rest of these tomorrow — my brain is shutting down. But I will add one:

Currently Reading?

Seeker by Jack McDevitt. Just started it. I’m about to go read him some more before brain shuts down. Incidentally, if you like your SF hard, you can’t go wrong by reading McDevitt. My favorite so far is hard to pick — I like all his stuff — but try DeepSix. It’s about a planet about to be swallowed up by a Jovian world, and the scientists who, when it becomes clear the doomed world had once harbored intelligent life, try to gather as much info as they possibly can before the world is obliterated. Naturally, things go horribly wrong…

Tag:

My fellow EatOurBrainiacs…

I got nothin today, the synapses are misfiring; you know the drill. So I thought I’d blow up a planet for y’all instead.

Seriously, this guy knows from planetary destruction. His list of methods for destroying the Earth made the rounds a while back, but it’s such a classic that it bears revisitation. My personal fave is:

1. Whipped by a cosmic string

   You will need: a cosmic string and a whole lotta luck

   Method: Cosmic strings are hypothetical 1-dimensional defects in spacetime, left over from earlier phases of the universe, somewhat like cracks in ice. They are potentially universe-spanning objects, thinner than a proton but with unimaginable density – one Earth mass per 1600m of length! All you need to do is get a cosmic string near Earth, and it’ll be torn apart, shredded, and sucked in. Probably the entire rest of the solar system would be too.

   Earth’s final resting place: String.

   Feasibility rating: 1/10. Mind-bogglingly unlikely. Even if cosmic strings do exist, which they may not, there are probably only about ten of them left in the ENTIRE UNIVERSE. And they can’t be steered, unless you have godlike powers, in which case you might as well chuck the Earth into the Sun and have done with it, so you’re relying entirely on luck. This. Will. Never. Happen.

   Source: this method suggested by Dan Winston.

Check it out. It is a handy way to put life into perspective.

Update: I’m a reader at heart, and prefer text, but he has put together an earth destruction instruction video, if you prefer multimedia.

It has been, in the words of playwright John Guare, a day for surprises. YG, with whom I was supposed to leave tonight for the Winterfest Camporee (a Girl Scout event the planning and staging of which was supposed to earn the kid her Bronze Award–this is a big deal in GS land) went to sleep at 4:30 yesterday and slept until 7 this morning with time out only to take her temperature (102.5 last night). Though she woke up fever-free this morning, I couldn’t in good conscience let her go to the Camporee.

Then Sarcasm Girl called from school with a migraine. She came home.

Then the Insurance Appraiser called. The car needs at least $6700 worth of repairs, and it’s only worth $5500. So we get a check for the $5500 (less deductible) and go hunting for a new car…at a time when buying a new car was not, shall we say, on the short list of things we were budgeting for.

So when, about half an hour ago, the full import of the No Camporee dictum finally lodged in YG’s formerly-fevered mind, she came out swinging. Actually, she came out weeping with outrage. In the process of getting her into a more Zen mind-space, she asked piteously if she could swear. I told her that I would not only permit her five minutes of foul language, but I would participate. Sarcasm Girl, wrenched from her migrainous misery by the sight of her sister’s woe, decided to help out too. I think we scandalized the dog with the blue air that was hovering over our heads. The favorite curse, by acclaimation, was “Fuck a bunny.” Although “Fuck a puppy” came close. And “Apple-knocking pig fucker” (a phrase I picked up at Harvard when I was working there) was popular.

The five minutes of foulness completed, everyone felt better. Except perhaps for the dog. And maybe the bunny.

I’ve been a snorer ever since I was an adolescent. But when I was in my twenties, Barb told me that I actually stopped breathing on occasion. And by the time I was thirty, I often woke up in the middle of the night choking, struggling for air . . . feeling as if a silent, invisible intruder had crept up on me and stuffed a tube sock down my throat. Before I reached my mid-thirties, the nighttime choking incidents were occurring almost weekly.

Barb was convinced that I was suffering from obstructive sleep apnea, which occurs when the tongue and/or soft palate collapses during sleep and blocks the airway. So I read up on the condition (this was in the days before the Internet, which meant going to an actual library), and my symptoms did indeed seem to match those of sleep apnea.

Trouble was, I didn’t match the profile of a typical sleep apnea patient. At the time, the literature said that apnea sufferers were almost always overweight and/or smokers. I was neither.

So I tried piling up pillows to keep me lying on my side. I tried using those little adhesive nasal-strip things. I tried self-medicating with heroic doses of Benadryl, thinking that my allergies might be contributing to the problem.

But I woke up in the night choking when I slept on my side, too. The little adhesive strips just took the skin off my nose. And the Benadryl made me dopey. (Okay, dopey-er.)

So finally, at Barb’s urging (not to mention threatening), I told my then- physician — let’s call him “Theodoric of York” — about my sleep problems during a physical exam.

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The Unitarian Jihad. Many of you probably remember this, but just in case, I think we need this even more now than we did when Jon Carrol wrote…I mean, published this communique.

You can even be assigned a Unitarian Jihad name.

I was tagged to write a Six Weird Things post on my own blog and my first one was this:

I frequently dream that I look different than I actually do. Last night I dreamed I was a very short, very overweight woman who wore white pants and sandals and painted her toenails. I was living in Africa with my new husband and his many children, who were in high school and older. It was somewhat stressful.

After I posted that, I wondered if maybe that wasn’t at all weird. Maybe everybody dreams that way. I have been conditioned to think that I know how other people dream based on reading. But my dreams are nothing like the dreams in books and movies. If I think very much about my dreams I realize pretty quickly that they’re sort of a mishmosh. I’m in an elevator with a bunch of people from the college where I teach and when the elevator door opens we’re in my garage and I sort of forget about those people because Bob is in the attic. When I wake up, if I remember a dream its because there was something striking about it, like the Africa dream which was full of strange and striking images. At one point the doorbell rings and its a young African black man and I am not sure why he is there and he is acting very oddly and comes into my house before I can stop him. He is looking for the medical clinic downstairs of which I am unaware. But later it turns out his name is Rollo and he is a friend of one of the stepsons (who looks rather like a guy I sometimes work with. My kid, Adam is not in this dream at all, and neither is my husband.) And later I am running with lions in the grass in the darkness, gliding along bodiless, while Africa shimmers green around me. (I believe I dream in color if only because I used to have a recurring nightmare when I was a child that was in black and white, and that was something that struck me as singular about the dream–but maybe I dream in black and white and supply the color later.)

When I remember the dreams, I find in the first waking moments I construct them. I impose narrative on them. And then later I remember them as much more cohesive than they are. It’s very difficult to remember what I had in my head when I woke up. Mostly the dream dissipates like fog.

So I figured I’d ask. Does anyone else dream that they look different than they actually do? Not younger, but completely different?

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