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Dec. 28th, 2009
03:27 am - Lion of the Day #462
While the majority of us have been back in Berkeley for quite a while now, Leo has been away in Arkansas, and hasn't managed to visit us until today. Naturally we held something of a party, with Zachary's pizza (absolutely necessary), unhealthy amounts of soda and plenty of games. The games we play serve, largely, as something for us to do with our hands; the real appeal of the evening is in jokes and banter, and it's clear that we all work very well together in that respect. We'll continue to have nights like this for years to come, I hope - with the sort of gradual change in atmosphere that comes with growing older, probably.
I have one more week left in Berkeley before I return to school, and it is vital that I use this remaining time wisely.
Dec. 27th, 2009
01:39 am - Pile of the Day #461
I've heard no news about my grandpa, but I haven't pursued it, either. He's probably doing okay.
My day ran parallel with Emily's but intersected with those of several other friends - Laura, Jeff, Mekayla, Ben, Kate, Mackenzie, Wilson. . .
This is the sort of day I was hoping for over winter break. I'm tired, now, and it's time to rest.
Dec. 26th, 2009
02:17 am - Imbroglio of the Day #460
I feel that this is something I should write about, but I am very reluctant to do so.
We drove out to San Francisco today - Joe driving Emily, my sister and myself, and Mom driving her parents - for a Christmas brunch at the Chinese restaurant Yank Sing. We'd gone there for Christmas a few times before, so it was becoming a sort of tradition, and with my mom speaking to her parents again it seemed like a good idea.
Few restaurants are open on Christmas, so Yank Sing was naturally very crowded, with several tables of large families. The ceiling is about three stories high, and from it water falls into a pool at the center of the room. The roar of the fountain's rain, coupled with the thrumming conversations, made the restaurant loud enough to silence Emily and me.
Since we arrived in two cars, it took us some time to find each other, but eventually we made our way to Mom and her parents. Grandma stood up from her seat in the waiting area to come speak with us, leaving Grandpa behind. He started to stand up as well, placed his hand against the wall for support, and apparently decided against it, sitting down again. I wasn't sure whether to offer him a hand or let him sit; the decision was made for me when Joe went to sit and talk with him for a while (Joe's taken a liking to Grandpa), and I went to join my mother and grandmother. We stood idle for some time, waiting for our table, and when our pager rang my grandma went to claim our spot while the rest of us got ready to eat.
I became aware, then - reluctantly - that my grandpa was having difficulty walking. Mom and Joe supported him for a few steps, then he stopped, and they could pull him no further. He hooked a pale arm around Joe's shoulder, holding himself up, and spoke incomprehensible things - though his words may have just been drowned in the restaurant's uproar. His eyes were shut, his back crooked and his head bowed, and he looked to be in great pain, and I had no idea what to do.
My grandpa has Parkinson's disease, a nervous disease that impairs the victim's motor skills. I think he's had it for some time now, but I've never seen him unable to support himself. Mom and Joe tried to lower him into a chair, but he was unwilling to sit - he may not have been able to tell that there was a seat ready for him.
Grandma has had some experience with his affliction for a while now, and when she saw his condition she shrugged it off, probably thinking that he would recover in a few minutes (which he has done before). Still intent on continuing with our brunch, she went off to find our table. Joe insisted that Grandpa be taken to a hospital, and asked me to call 911.
I've been asked to call 911 once before, when a stranger fell off his bike near my church and was apparently unconscious. Back then, as today, I was hesitant to call, and thrust Emily's phone into Mom's hands, so she would do it instead. I didn't want the responsibility, and considering Grandma's reaction I wasn't sure it was the best thing to do.
Mom called, and Grandma ended up taking the phone, telling the emergency operator that she would call back in five minutes if we still needed assistance. She insisted that someone go to our table and watch her purse, which she had left there. Emily and I went to our table, and a waiter offered us tea. I watched my family from four tables away, wondering what to do. I'd have been even more lost if not for Emily, I think.
Eventually I saw everyone standing up, apparently to leave, and I grabbed Grandma's purse to join them. Grandpa himself didn't want to abandon our Christmas brunch, though, and walked toward our table, which was quickly claimed by another family. He ended up sitting on a step next to the tables for about a quarter of an hour, as Joe held him up and rubbed his back. Emily and I sat near and she held my hand, and we watched and waited. The restaurant owner called an ambulance, and while the paramedics came my Grandpa asked for a glass of water and took a pill from a little orange container. His hands have been shaky for as long as I can remember, and I was comforted to see that he could hold the glass and drink from it on his own, despite this sudden episode.
In a few minutes he showed improvement, and took a few chocolates from a box of See's candies mom had given her parents. He looked up at my sister, his granddaughter, gave a little wave and smiled the same smile I'd always known, which had made me like him so much when I was little.
I wonder if things might have turned out better, then, if no one had called an ambulance at all.
It took a long time, but the paramedics eventually showed up. One introduced himself as Chris, and asked Grandpa a few questions. What year is it? Who is the president of the United States? What is today? My grandpa could still think clearly, answered soundly, and Chris confirmed each reply. 2009. Obama. Today is Christmas. Good He measured Grandpa's blood sugar and checked his vitals, all of which were fine. All of this was very reassuring - the relief bubbling up in my chest grew with each answer. He was okay.
I think that, after all this, Grandpa felt ashamed of having caused such a commotion. He might have been frustrated at his body for giving out on him, and wanted to prove that he was still strong, and whatever the paramedics said, he was vehemently opposed to seeking any sort of medical care. Chris's partner offered my grandpa a hand to help him up, to lead him to Mom's car, and Grandpa refused, afraid that the paramedics were trying to trick him into going to the hospital. The situation was worsened when one man rolled in a tremendous metal wheelchair - a throne for the inadequate and the feeble, the most insulting seat you could offer to anyone with the slightest sense of self-pride. It looked like an executioner's electric chair, and must have inspired in my Grandpa the same sort of feeling that the dentist's chair strikes into the hearts of small children. It was clearly a bad idea, and Chris's partner sent it away quickly. It took another ten minutes to convince Grandpa to stand and leave.
As he walked, insistent upon supporting himself, my grandpa must have been considering the whole ordeal, and decided that in a last attempt to salvage his pride, he would prove himself by making his way home alone, on public transportation. None of us liked this idea. As the medics lead him out of the building toward Mom's car, Grandpa suddenly whirled around, finding some new stubborn strength in himself, and ran in the opposite direction. The medics, who had all struck me as kind and understanding people, were forced to chase him down and restrain him; after many attempts to convince him to get into Mom's car, they tied him up, strapped him onto a stretcher and wheeled him into the ambulance as he moaned and yelled at them.
My sister, who for the entire experience had kept her distance, went into the passenger's seat and sat there. I caught a glimpse of her face, and saw that her eyes were red, and a few teardrops were scattered were she had been standing.
My grandpa always seemed to me like such a cheery person. Seeing him like this today, especially in such pain during his attack, was terribly difficult to bear. I might have broken, myself, if I hadn't had Emily with me.
I haven't heard about Grandpa's condition since this afternoon, but I'm telling myself that he's probably feeling better, though his pride might be shot. I hope he's okay.
When the ambulance left, and we all prepared to return home, our stomachs still empty, I noticed the bay bridge to our right. Little cars were driving along it a hundred feet above us, and either end of the bridge was hidden by skyscrapers. I'd never noticed before how beautiful it was.
I hope you had a lovely Christmas.
Dec. 25th, 2009
11:51 am
I just woke up with a massive headache. I don't know where Sku is. Her phone is by the bed. Argh. Don't know what's going on?
Edit: She went out on a breakfast scavenger hunt with Moogle. Yay breakfast!
01:39 am - Harlequins of the Day #459
Here are two porcelain clowns from my step-grandparents' house. They (my step-grandparents, not the jesters) hold a Christmas Eve party every year, and I went along with my family today, though I haven't visited in a long time. Their house is almost exactly the same as when I was five years old: immaculately trimmed and decorated with harlequins, dozens of mirrors, cuckoo clocks and jeweled eggs. The house has changed so little in the last fifteen years that I can predict with confidence where every trinket in the house will be before I turn a corner and look. The iron squirrel nutcracker, paws outstretched to accept an offering, stands at the kitchen counter; the wooden opossum family, babies hanging from the mother's tail, guards the entry hall; out the back door you can be sure to find the turtle ashtray, just as always. Nothing in the house looks like it's aged at all in the past fifteen years - not a speck of dust can be found anywhere, and everything stands in the exact same place. It's a pleasant place to me, but to someone who grew up there, and who visits regularly, it must be an immortal comfort, an absolute constant in a life which may otherwise hold unpredictable unpleasantries. The home is a place beyond time, and its clowns, its mirrors, its soft carpets and its scent (which smells to me like Super Mario Bros, but has different associations for others, I'm sure) will stand there forever. Or so it must seem.
My step-grandma is so nice, too. She has a large family, and must take great happiness from seeing all her grown children come home to tell stories about their lives.
I am not very well acquainted with most of that part of the family, and so I never know quite what to do with myself at these gatherings. Several people asked me what I study, and when I told them I was a neuroscience major, many of them started calling me a genius. I was surprised - I've told many people what I study, and none of them have reacted that way. I certainly don't think of myself as a genius, but it's still encouraging, I suppose~
I made a mistake and deleted everything I'd written up to this point, and had to rewrite it from memory. Certain ideas and rhythms of thought were irretrievably lost, and the day has dripped deep into Christmas morning! I must go to bed, or Santa will never melt into our house with his amorphous bag of goodies. Good night..
Dec. 24th, 2009
12:12 am - Storyteller of the Day #458
It's a common practice in the Dactyl household for Emily's parents to read stories aloud, to Emily or to the two of us. Here is Emily's mom, sitting by the cold heater with a curled-up Nora, reading John Bellairs's The Face in the Frost. I was never very good at reading stories aloud - my throat always caught on the sharper consonants, or the writing would melt together in my mouth and come out as some indecipherable mess, and I could feel my listeners losing interest as I read. Both of Emily's parents are rather good at reading, though, and can convey very well the author's wit and charm, even if they stumble on the occasional latin words. A good reader makes the writing seem important, and keeps the listener attentive, and it's rather nice to listen to both of Emily's parents when they read.
People always told me that if I wanted to be a writer, I would need to do public readings. I would rather leave it to someone with a good reading voice, I think~
09:44 am - Ho's ho's ho's - What do you mean that's not cheerful?
Leaving for Armidale for Christmas. Hope it won't be too hot.
If you need to contact me, catch me on the Mobile.
Merry Christmas Motherfuckers. ♥
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cheerfulDec. 22nd, 2009
11:08 pm - Nuh-uh of the Day #457
Mackenzie, Riva and Alina have all returned from their respective schools, and we climbed into Emily's loft today to avoid the vicious fumes of fried peppers a story below us. We were quickly beset by the nuh-uh triceratopses, who scaled us as if we were mountains and subjected us to their gainsays. We nearly succumbed to their influence, unable to descend into the fallout below, but the danger subsided before too much time passed and we proceeded to cut lemon cookies into christmas trees and bats.
I am with Emily now, and she is singing everything she knows while I write. All is well.
03:22 am - Ordeal of the Day #456
Here is our adventure in its final stages, as Anton and Ben roll in Ben's new gargantuan 53-inch TV. Getting it to Ben's house from its original owner near Games of Berkeley was a huge undertaking, a lengthy process which made the screen's brilliant glow all the more rewarding when we finally plugged it in.
We bought the screen from a college-age man with a medieval haircut and sharp eyebrows, like a young and naive King Arthur before he pulled the sword from the stone. His name was rather prosaic - I've already forgotten it - but I think a name like Tristan or Charlemagne would have better suited him.
The television, fortunately, was fitted with wheels, so we were able to leave the building without too much difficulty, though we were a bit dubious about riding in the elevator with it, afraid that it the elevator might plummet under our collective weight. Anton, playing the noble martyr, descended with the screen while Ben and I raced to meet him downstairs.
Our original plan was to cart the TV back in Anton's minivan, but we soon discovered that it was far to big to fit easily inside, and too heavy to lift with any degree of confidence. We decided to just roll the monolith the ten blocks to Ben's house.
Moving such a massive object along the street is a slow and precarious process; we needed to be delicate with the screen, for fear that it might topple over, or that the rough ground would vibrate some vital tubes out of its machinery. As we pushed it along, every crack in the ground became a gorge, every bump a mountain; we were giants carrying a doomsday device over the earth, and any misstep could send it hurtling out of our control. We imagined it might break loose and roll down the hill, serendipitously weaving between traffic and through crowds, scarcely scraping by babies in their strollers till it came to rest in a grassy field, untouched and safe. Crossing the street, I felt like a plate-glass carrier in an action movie, and half expected a sports car chased by cops to roar down the street and crash right through our payload, throwing shards of glass and splintered plastic into the air.
At one point Ben suggested we could use the television to ford a river, assuming we didn't die of dysentery before we had the opportunity.
Unfortunately, televisions are not designed for long-distance travel, especially not across cracked concrete, and about halfway to our destination one of the little plastic wheels broke off. There are a total of eight wheels on the behemoth, but we were afraid of losing any more, and so I enlisted the help of my father to get us the rest of the way home. He was quite willing to give us aid, and quickly arrived with his red pickup. The four of us managed to hoist the screen into the truck's bed, Anton and I climbed in alongside it to keep it steady, and we drove off. I smiled and waved to other cars, enjoying the strange feeling of inertia and the soft wind as we moved along. Cars feel much freer, and rather more dangerous, when you ride without seat or seatbelt.
Once we arrived at Ben's house and placed the TV back on solid ground, we had to prove ourselves in one last trial before our adventure's end - the stairs up to his back porch. We were quite resourceful here, collecting an old closet door from the basement, a discarded rug near the recycling and a cardboard box from Ben's home and constructed a passable ramp, smooth and soft enough to push the screen upstairs without damaging it. It was a feat of makeshift engineering, and we were all quite proud of ourselves when the job was complete.
The gargantuan screen glowed brightly and the bass speakers rumbled like bubbles of molten rock, and Ben was almost paralyzed with happiness from our success and his new TV.
(did I mention it cost only $100? That alone made it worth the trouble - though I dare say the trouble itself was the best part of the night)
Despite all the adventure, I'm still sad that I wasn't able to see Emily afterwards. I've seen little of her the last few days, and this must be righted as soon as possible. Tomorrow will be a good day.
Dec. 21st, 2009
03:58 am - Clue of the Day #455
[There is some strong language, and it is a bit offensive, so be warned. Keep in mind that my friends are all quite respectful people, and nothing they say here reflects their actual beliefs]
I was a bit apprehensive about posting this video, but I felt that it was a good human moment despite its rather offensive nature. If you don't know the game of Taboo, the goal is to get your teammate to guess the keyword by giving clues, without saying specific "taboo" words (for example, you cannot use the word "inches" when describing a tape measure). This forces you to find new ways to describe words, which can be quite a challenge sometimes.
I think I can understand Anton's train of thought - imagine, for example, the TV girlfriend who is allergic to her boyfriend's pet dog, and offers an ultimatum: either the dog goes or she goes. It can be difficult to articulate this idea when racing against the hourglass, though, and often the clue-giver will panic and say something ridiculous when he might have found a much simpler clue (for example, mentioning the Bourne movies: The Bourne Identity, The Bourne Supremacy, The Bourne Ultimatum).
Don't let this strange sense of humor bother you too much - Anton means not what he says, and neither does Ben; this line of thought runs parallel with racist jokes and other dark humor, which is funny only because it's so ridiculously bad; none of us would ever take these ideas seriously. Witness Ben at the end of the video, who swats away Anton's ridiculous clue, while Anton also laughs at himself.
I have to appreciate moments like this, as terrible as they are - we can only use this kind of humor with very close friends, who know us well enough not to judge us when we say awful things. These are good friends of mine, and I'm glad to have moments like this, filled with pastries and apple cider at almost two in the morning.
Dec. 20th, 2009
03:48 am - Sight of the Day #454
More than nine months ago, I took a photo from almost this exact place, standing alone and staring out over the brightly sleeping city. I climbed Indian Rock again tonight, this time with friends, and we discussed theoretical physics and space travel in the mild night air.
This was after a late showing of Avatar, which, despite being supersaturated with clichés, was a fantastic movie. A story's strength doesn't necessarily lie in its plot, but rather its telling, and in its details, and Avatar succeeded in both respects beautifully.
I love all these people who, in their striving to tell a story, create entire worlds, explaining each and every element involved. Even more interesting, in a way, is a world created by many people, each person working to his or her strength. I'm reminded of Slartibartfast from The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, who made Norway with great pride. In Metroid Prime there are little schools of fish that swim to avoid your shots, then come together again when it's safe - someone made them. Avatar's director hired a linguist to invent a new language for the Na'vi, a musician to build a new musical structure (which I can't name properly, since the science and art of music both elude me), a biologist to create wildlife and an interconnected ecosystem, and a physicist to explain the floating islands (via some magnetic system). And so they have created a world which is not only beautiful, but believable in many ways, even though it is so fantastical.
I'm making a world too! I mustn't forget! And you'll be a part of it too, and we can swim together in the Collective Unconscious!
Dec. 19th, 2009
01:18 am - Fingerprint of the Day #453
And I mean that a nearly literal sense - this is very much the day's fingerprint, a distribution of color and clouds and the intricate textures of trees which is unique from that of any other day. I opened the door to greet Emily, saw her in her velvet red, like the clothes of a faerie, and the sky that framed her was beautiful. Between the blue and the red it cradled a subtle pink that my camera simply could not see (was I made colorblind by my digital eye?)
This is a sight that I used to see every day, coming home from school, and I'd somehow forgotten it in the few months I'd been gone.
The sky is always a swirling soup, always a different flavor, and always delicious~
Dec. 18th, 2009
01:14 am - Glow of the Day #452
For the first time in three years, we've gone out to buy a Christmas tree, and the entire process of carting it home, setting it up and decorating it held the same colorful energy it had when I was little. Our apartment is small and we picked a tree to match - about four feet tall - so I carried it up the stairs by its trunk, needles upwards, wielding it like an olympic torch, and as Joe mounted it onto the tree stand I dissected the Christmas lights.
Untangling the lights is as much a holiday tradition as the tree decoration itself, and there is something rather satisfying about straightening out the vines of chromatic flames, clicking and unwinding them into a manageable string. Winding them around the tree is a delicate process; bringing them around the back of the tree feels like wrapping a loved one in a wool scarf, and to keep the colors balanced one must find the best branches to support the wire.
When I was little the flashing lights cast nightmare shadows on the walls, with alternating patterns of pine needles forming monsters and dark forests, but the fright is gone now. I think perhaps Mr. Skellington might have approved of that sort of visualization, though.
Mom has a beautiful collection of ornaments, from a rocketeer Santa to sugared fruits to elegantly shaded glass bubbles that turn the lights into constellations, and I found that I appreciated some of them more now than I ever did before. Finding branches that could hold their weight, I decided that it was an important thing to build a collection of ornaments when I have my own home someday, to take out and admire for a few weeks each year. I still have some of the glass creatures Ben got me a few years ago, and made sure to find a good place for the bee by a green flame.
Our tree is decorated, glowing, with its ankles swathed in a white sheet. I'm excited~
Dec. 17th, 2009
02:49 am - Forge of the Day #451
Here is an inside look at the Pastry Forge, where cookies, pies, tarts, cakes and all other manner of breaded confections are crafted through ancient alchemical techniques. The cinnamon chocolate chip cookies here have nearly completed their metamorphosis, and will soon emerge into the world in their final form, as sweet, chewy delights.
I wish I could leave the camera in with the cookies to record their transformation, but unfortunately cameras are made of far feebler stuff than sugary goods, and could not survive in such a hostile environment.
It is through such infernos that the sweetest creations are forged. Think of it as a rite of passage, as the cookie's final demonstration of its goodness; only those who are pure of heart will endure such a trial without losing their sweetness. The rest will come out blackened and bitter, and then you will know who you can trust to lift your spirits.
Dec. 16th, 2009
02:04 am - Public Works Notice of the Day #450
I found this sign (which reads Soon Obsolete at the top) posted on a wooden fence outside someone's house. There's an identical sign near the Bart station, on a chain-link fence, and because it looked both official and ridiculous, I had to investigate.
From the website of the Elsewhere Public Works Agency:
OUR MISSION
Time control. Historical evidence indicates that ordinary men & women once had quite a bit of time of their own. Anthropologists have estimated that our smelly prehistoric ancestors worked only about three hours a day, on average. These ancestors may not have lived well by our standards, but they had plenty of time to think, play, socialize, perform rituals & look around at the nature of their world. One book on folklore states that the Elsewhere Public Works Agency came into being in such a time. . .
The mission statement prattles on like a berserk Lemony Snicket, listing their services in as vague and long-winded a way as possible. I appreciate that they describe Elsewhere as extra-dimensional and effervescent, but I think there is a limit to how obtuse your mission statement should be before it loses force.
After watching Fight Club for the first time, they seem like a relatively mellow version of Project Mayhem, and now I'm thinking of a few different organizations that strive to make life more interesting, or more free, or more meaningful, that rebel against the consumerist clockwork of society. Improv Everywhere comes to mind, though it has no particular political tilt, and operates solely for the sake of fun.
I am all for leaving mysterious signs for people to find, and scattering secrets and clues throughout a city, and indeed I intend to do some such project myself eventually, but something about Elsewhere seems a bit off. Maybe it's because their website tried to sell me a black box for $14.95. Maybe it's because the Bart fence they posted on was meant for safety rather than as an impediment. They just don't seem entirely sincere, and may perhaps be rebelling just for the sake of rebellion.
Search for them on Google and see what you can find. Their website is rather difficult to use, and filled with words that mostly amount to gibberish, despite their official tone.
I think I would like to do a similar project, though, and a better job at it. We could build a better Elsewhere, and one that is not so vaguely critical of the state of the world..
There are so many organizations and stories and graffiti scribbles that tell you to just take an active role and make your life into something you want it to be. And that's something that you should be doing! Do it! (But why is it so hard?) There must be a better way to get people to start thinking proactively.
Dec. 15th, 2009
02:47 am - Shoe of the Day #449
"Take a picture of my ghetto shoe," my sister said. I asked her what made it ghetto, and she said it was pretty and from Nike. Kids these days and their newfangled lingo.
That's my bed in the photo, I suppose, bare as can be. I haven't slept in my room since September. Since then my mom has taken the bed for herself, and brought her belongings in to mingle with mine. It's a little difficult to think of the room as my own, now, and so I find that I don't have any particular room to myself anywhere. In Santa Cruz I share a room with Trevor and Sal, and here my room is a sort of internet nexus point, so my sister spends a rather large amount of time here.
It doesn't really bother me - I don't really need a private nook, so long as I can occasionally find a quiet place to read. It just underlines the fact that home to me is not really any specific place, but rather the people I'm with - I'm at home with Emily, and with my friends when we play card games, and when we all gather round on squashy sofas or in the grass with koosh folk.
I feel a little bit like the air itself hums a different tune here in Berkeley than in Santa Cruz, and I hum along with it. That is to say, perhaps, that depending on the people I'm with, I am a slightly different person.
But I suppose that is an idea approaching the self-evident, so I needn't dwell too long on it.
I hope you had a beautiful day.