Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Posner's Avian Flu Article

Judge Richard Posner has recently posted on his shared blog, The Becker-Posner Blog. The piece, about "WHY YOU SHOULD BE AFRAID OF THE AVIAN FLU" is eloquently written. I have a new idol.

http://www.becker-posner-blog.com/archives/2005/11/economics_polit.html

Be afraid, people. Be very afraid.

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Best "Jerry Maguire" Mission Statement for Bloggers

Someone had a couple of pieces of bad pizza and woke with a conscience. My vote for "Inspiring Article of the Month".

Friends, There is Good News
by Ray Matthews on November 28, 2004 at 04:32 PM
http://www.rssgov.com/archives/000130.html

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Monday, November 28, 2005


HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ANYWHERE BUT HERE!

One year later, and on the 335th post, I'm still up and kicking. No evil bitch nasties parodying my brain jumble. No Technorati profile. You don't know me. And that's okay.

I'm not all that interesting. I'm sitting here, taking a break from my schoolwork because I'm tired of writing down things that I already know and have no interest in sharing. (My term paper is about Diabetes. Assigned by the Professor. Go figure.) I'm drinking the last of my 2003 Bogle Petite Syrah, and I'm patiently waiting for my sweet Z to return with a one serving sample of Tylenol PM.

I just finished crying because I'm too stressed to successfully give a BJ. Dammit. I'm a pro. Ferizzle My Nizzle. When I'm anxious my hands shake and I can't feel my left hand or my left foot's toes. I'm such a Type A Competitive Bitch. It's pretty mind-altering when I can't complete a task. I feel inferior. And Afraid.

My first house closes next week, and I'm feverishly trying to pack up my nasty house. No furniture really to speak of, just a lot of books, rocks, baking supplies I never use (pastry chefs on diets don't make for very good amateur cooks), Z's blue pottery, a treadmill, strange hippie art from antique shops, more books....

I packed up 14 boxes labelled "Classics and Bookshelf" the other day. I read too damned much. If I ran more, or played more, maybe I would be a much less stressed out person. But no. It's my duty to make my way through the public library that will soon be my basement.

Sad part is, I can't remember what I've read. I usually have to re-read through Chapter 2 or so before I have it figured out and I decide to read the book again. What use is a book if you can't remember if you have read it? I chucked Anna Karenina at the wall the other day...and Don Quixote...

Better watch out. I'm going to break out the Castaneda, hook myself up with some Alice in Wonderland, and housepaint next weekend. For real, yo. We're going 1997 old school. We'll even hunt down the other Monty. Laugh. It was funny.

Shout out to my brothas and sistas. You keep me real, yo. Keep checkin my shit and tellin me I'm whacked. I need it.

Happy Birthday.


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Friday, November 25, 2005


Emotional Pretzelmaking Part Two

My last move was a bit traumatic. I had lived in my best friend's condo since my divorce. It just didn't go that well. He moved in as well, you see. Anyway, after about a year, he kicked me out. It was scary and horrible and anxiety filled. It was also just right before Christmas, and I was freaked about trying to move in somewhere and still be able to celebrate Christmas. Ugh.

Anyway, in retrospect it seemed to go okay. I managed to get all of my things in about two trips, and not have to spend much time with my friend in-residence. We haven't spoken since, by the way.

I have everything that is mine except for my tarot cards. And that is really weird, to say the least.

I've had the same set of Tarot cards for almost a decade. They are pretty- The Arthurian Tarot deck- and have done me a lot of good. They are a tool. Nothing else. I don't claim to see the future in my deck of cards. What I do see is what I already know. The imagery helps you describe it.

But the deck disappeared. In many circles, that is considered very, very bad luck. I was pissed. I don't feel right about purchasing a new deck until I have some kind of closure occur with the missing deck. It's now been almost two? three? years since I've messed with the Tarot.

I was packing Wednesday when I found an old jewelry box my grandmother gave me. It's the Wizard of Oz - it has a studio still from the movie embedded in the face. I always kept old nothings/nostalgia in it. Like my grandmother's earrings.

But as I opened it, I fruck out some more. Within were the telltale backs of my Tarot card deck - this purplish gold design with celtic looking knots and such. I thought I had hit the jackpot, and my missing deck was now recovered.

Was I wrong. Within were exactly three cards from my deck. Again, in many circles this would be considered a sign also. You aren't supposed to divide your deck unless you are playing with them. Setting aside a few cards in itself could be considered bad luck. You certainly can't use the remainder of the deck until the missing cards have been replaced.

Not many people throw just three cards in Tarot, but it is a pretty simple way to gauge a situation. You can ascribe all kinds of categories to the cards. I prefer to consider the three cards as "Past, Present, and Future".

So you tell me what you think about the three cards that were mysteriously set aside. I really can't see myself as having done that. I prefer to think that someone left three cards behind when cleaning out my deck. (All of my stones, used for spiritual/religious purposes, also disappeared. That is horribly bad luck for the taker, I might add.
%&$#er.)

The Three Card Deck for 11/23/05:

The Six of Cups (PAST)
(Rider-Whaite devotees may call this "The Lord of Pleasure")

Basic Interpretation: Beginning of wish, happiness, success and enjoyment.

Wider Meaning: Harmony, past associations have brought present relationships. A sense of the past. Happiness that results from past efforts. Pleasant memories and the realization of a dream. Can also indicate new elements entering one's life which are linked to the past, which will work through the present to create the future.

The Grail Lance (PRESENT)
(Rider-Whaite devotees may call this the Ace of Spears)

Basic Interpretation: A new enterprise or creative activity. Use of the will and of will power. The drive to get things done. Harnessing all accomplishing action. The spark that explodes in the dark. Great opportunity. Beginning of change or growth. Conception of life. Knowing things you can’t fully express or intellectually know.

Wider Meaning: Executive Responsibilities. Proving one’s self capable of managing a large project. Exerting authority. Brainstorming, contemplating, and putting forth ideas for consideration. Planning for the future. Courage and maturity. Using all of one’s talents to achieve a communal vision. Employing intuitive insights to assist with decision making. A capable leader, and one who is governed by honorable motives.

The Hierophant (FUTURE)

Basic Interpretation: To be ruled by convention. Continuing the process, Ancient Grace. Manifestation of Knowledge. Priest of Mystery School. Spiritual Discipline. Organized Religion. Societies Rules. Wisdom with structure. Search for truth and understanding. Conforms and diligently searches for truth. Position that serves society. The Hierophant (or High Priest) deals with worldly problems. He strives to create harmony and peace in the midst of a crisis. At his best, he is wise and soothing, at his worst, he is an unbending traditionalist.

The Hierophant is the archetypal representative of all physicians, healers, teachers, and counsellors who try to help others. Outwardly The Hierophant may appear in the guise of a concerned friend or therapist, or as a book of learning, or else inwardly as a small voice directing a person’s understanding and healing.


How bout them apples?



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Thursday, November 24, 2005

Emotional Pretzelmaking

I mentioned in the past that I am packing. Somehow, this move is very different in both obvious and subtle ways.

I am realizing that I have changed residences in the past decade the way some agoraphobics/OCD packrats change underwear (every six months or so). Although quite a few of the moves occurred during my marriage, for the most part, a lot of them were efforts to leave a man. Many men.

They seem faceless now. I think that is what happens when you fall in love and it lasts. You forget the stupid shit. And past lovers are stupid shit. Yes, they may teach you plenty and help you grow. But they are still unnecessary memories that take up too much room in the cranial cap. I prefer to dump the unnecessary as often as possible. I egotistically believe that it helps me learn and grow smarter in other ways.

That aside, I am pretty emotional about this current move. For the first time ever I don't feel like I am trying to rid myself of a man. Instead, I am trying to build my life further with one. That is different. And scary. And new.

So, just to fill you people in (not that you are that intrigued) I thought I'd share one of the things that flipped me into an emotional pretzel this evening while I packed. I don't have time to go into the other pretzel-making emotion today. A later post.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I uncovered a scrapbook I had hidden in Charky's books. It contains all the photos of my early marriage: the wedding, the pregnancy, her birth, her infancy. I purposely hid it in her things because I don't want it anymore. It is some superstitious belief of mine that I don't keep pictures of former lovers. Feels like ghosts lingering in the corners of a life that is trying to be real and happy.

But this scrapbook is important to her. It explains where she came from, and its significant for me. I feel I have some kind of duty to help her in the future, when she is ashamed and insecure because her parents are no longer married. I know she'll go through it - all children of divorce do. She deserves to know that she was born into a state of happiness. Perhaps not incredibly deep love, but at the time we were content, and happy, and thrilled that she would soon be joining us.

I know it shouldn't bother me to look at it. But it does. I don't know if I will be able to have more children. Each year I go through this thing where the biological clock hits me like a freight train. I am built to be a babymaker. I know this to be true. Unfortunately, I think hard living at an early age alongside my chronic disease - the viral fluke that transpired against me in kindergarten, as some kind of universal check upon my feelings of invincibility - may prevent me from being the barefoot pregnant lady I know lurks within.

And that hurts. A lot. I can't even describe the pain that accompanies that knowledge. I imagine it must be somewhat similar to wanting a sex change. You have felt absolutely different internally from the shallow, vapid exterior presented to the world. The surface doesn't feel real. It feels like the wrong M&M colored-shell coating the surface of the chocolate sphere.

Anyway, that walk down memory lane through my photos of pregnancy was hard, and somewhat coincidental and serendipitous. The only friend to really be present at Charlotte's birth, now-estranged, just had her first baby last week after years and years of trying to have children. Today I walked through the baby department of a clothing store, while waiting on someone, and touched newborn layettes like some expectant mother. In truth I was thinking about my estranged friend's first child. But it sure did bring back a flood of memories of how absolutely incredible it feels to prepare for the most important first meeting you'll ever have.

I'll be okay. Z reminds me that we have a seven year human clock ticking away within. It was around 7 years ago, almost to the very month, that I became pregnant. It isn't something I will forget. It was this huge life altering surprise that I didn't believe could happen. Unlike many other major life events, I didn't work towards it or work hard to accomplish it. It just happened. And I saw my own folly as a human being in her conception. It was among the first of my experiences where I began to question my atheism.

Yes, we do have the ability to make choices that will help refine our path. But we are only human. And we are too insignificant to really be in control.

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Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Marzipan Turkeys. Why, I don't know.

Homecoming: Cardinal Rules of Communication

Some of you have a lot of work to do tomorrow so that your family doesn't end up hacked into pieces, thrown in a septic tank, and covered in lye.

Here are a few items that I tend to espouse when I am busy punditing on my soapbox. Let's try and get this right this year, people. Turkey carving can be a dangerous task.

"Cardinal Rules of Communication"

1. Agree on a time to talk when you won't be interuppted.

2. Only one person may speak at a time. Listen without interuppting. Restate the other person's message and any feelings behind it before you continue the discussion.

3. Bring up one problem at a time and stick to the subject.

4. Focus on the present. Don't bring up past history.

5. Express your feeling. Use "I" statements. Example: "I was hurt when you didn't call and say you would be late".

6. Be willing to compromise.

7. Don't hit or yell. Watch for blaming and labeling others-it will only put the other person on the defensive. Instead of saying that something was stupid, talk about what you didn't like or why the idea wouldn't work.

8. No one can read your mind; do not make assumptions that others, even those that know and love you, will always know what you mean. Remember, you can't read minds either, so don't assume how someone feels- ask.

9. Don't put the relationship on the line. Avoid the "do it or else" threats, it will only cause resentment. Don't ever say you'll do something if you're not willing to follow through.

10. If you find that either of you are getting angry, take a break. Set a time when you will finish the discussion.

11. Remember that all communication should be clear, direct, and specific.

12. Remember that the body talks also; be aware of facial expression, body position, muscle tone, breathing tempo and voice tone.

* Note: I am definitely not smart enough to have thought these up on my own. One of my psychology professors distributed this as a memo. As she was a real stickler with me about appropriately citing info, I felt it was a bit comic that her own information had no citation.

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Monday, November 21, 2005

Make Me A Billionaire

According to Forbes' "Are You A Born Entrepreneur?" Quiz, I scored 21 out of 30. http://www.forbes.com/2005/11/15/entrepreneur-personality-quiz_cx_bn_1116quiz.html?partner=daily_newsletter

The 30 questions are geared toward measuring five broad aspects of personality: openness to experience, conscientiousness, extroversion, agreeableness and neuroticism.

"What Are You Waiting For? Start Raising Capital!"

Funny, I know I can be bolder than other people but I see myself as a little neurotic. Maybe not.

So give me some money. I'm gonna make us all rich.

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Sunday, November 20, 2005

LET ME OUT! IT"S FREEZING!

Preview: Winter '05

Winter in Georgia is a lot like a bad visit to the OB/GYN. You go, knowing that it is slightly unnerving to bare your private parts to a professional. I mean, he sees hundreds upon thousands of female genitalia during his career. However, you are strengthened because you are so much cooler than that. It's no big deal. I can spread my legs and welcome unpleasantries with the best of them, right? I was married, you know.

But you go, and in that cold ass examination room you undress. You put on that stupid gown with the light blue chevrons on it, and you notice that the chillbumps on your thighs are making your unshaved legs look hairy. (I meant to take a pic of my legs yesterday. I hadn't shaved them in a month, and I was exceedingly proud of how you couldn't tell.) Slowly your proud, confident surface is being undermined. The murmur of concerned sounding voices in the hallway outside send your mind into shockwaves of anxiety. You know that your Doctor is friendly, and married, and has a daughter your age. You take a couple of deep breaths, and know it will soon be over.

But it gets worse. And you don't really know it until you hear a couple of concerned "Oooohhhs" and "Uhhhhs" coming from the head between your legs. You can barely see his forehead...but you notice that the bald crescent that he doesn't combover is obviously loofahed or something. It doesn't shine. Yay for an OB/GYN with good hygienics.

Winter in Georgia is like that, I'm convinced. You keep telling yourself that it isn't that bad, quit being such a baby. Plenty of people in the Northeast would kill to live here in this climate. Not much snow, and temps between 30-50 on average.

But it sure isn't winter in California. Even when I lived near San Francisco, the cold wet drizzle had a victorian romanticism to it. It seemed appropriate. And not at all harsh. Women there had good skin and never looked weathered. Hair was kempt, and frizz was unheard of. Only the telltale flushed cheeks would let you know that it was wintertime.

Here, winter in many ways evokes a stillness that is disconcerting. You wait to hear the sound of birds in the trees, and you forever wait. The fallen leaves lay in piles and look damp and uncomfortable. The biting wind streaks over the brown grasses in fields, and makes you feel like a farmer in the Depression.

I knew I was in full winter disgust when I spent three hours online today, looking at thatched huts on beaches with turquoise water. I dreamed of diving, deeper and deeper, and the warm temperatures near the equator don't dissipate as you sink beneath the surface. My hair is bleached from salt and sun, and sand has penetrated my crevices that have no relief from the powerful showerhead. My pedicure is destroyed and my legs are so dark I can't even tell...they still appear cream colored in the sunshine.
I bake in the sun, and feel my energy wane. But underneath, you know you are being recharged. Your soul is being warmed like a terracotta tile.

Send me to warm temperatures. I'm done already, and we aren't even through November.


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Friday, November 18, 2005

Demographic Map

I'm a map whore. When I found this site - "Demographic Map" - I spent an hour there looking at who lives where and how much money they make. WARNING. May be addictive and propel you into your car, gas card in hand, ready to drive and explore.

http://65.39.85.13/google/default.htm

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Thursday, November 17, 2005

Peridot

Today I came a little bit closer to a dream. It's been in the back of my mind, lingering, like a toothache you've been purposefully ignoring. I realized that I am so close I can almost touch it.

And I'm freaked out.

I'm packing....looking at shoes I haven't seen in years; the handbag I wore to visit the divorce attorney for our first meeting.

I found my favorite bear yesterday. His name is Fuzzy; I've had him since the time I was diagnosed with diabetes. I was scary looking and tiny, looking like a little concentration camp survivor. Asleep with no dreams; in a coma at UCLA. My Dad brought me flowers, and tucked on one of those clear plastic tridents was Fuzzy. 20 years old now.

Last night I slept with Fuzzy tucked under my arm. I cried in my sleep. It was as if I had some kind of bittersweet homecoming.

Z told me today that there was a reason he hadn't packed any of his own things. He said that his reason was stupid, and he didn't want to tell me. I behaved normally and prodded.

He said that he worried. Z knows that when I left my husband, I packed house, saying that we were putting some old things in a storage building. While my husband slept one night I finished the packing as best I could and I was gone. POOF. He drove around for two days looking for me. It was an awful thing to do, I know this now. And I regret it. But at the time I was stupid and afraid.

I almost cried when Z explained that he was afraid. I told him that I hadn't packed his stuff because I just hadn't started packing those rooms yet. I told him that I've already packed his rocks, his daddy's spurs. I could hear him smile over the phone.

I'm a mess. I admit to it all. I took this stress test the other night in class. Apparently psychologists and social workers administer the test to determine just how many stressful life events someone has been through in the past twelve months. If you score up to 50 points, you are doing okay and aren't likely to suffer physical ailments due to your stress level.
100-150 may grant you tension headaches. 250-300 pretty much says that you are likely to suffer a major illness in the next two years based on your stress level.

I scored 490. I'm not trying to break any records here.

I've felt pretty out of control over the past year or so, but only lately have I felt overwhelmed. Pushed to the max. I wonder if I can take any more.

I cry for no reason. I take long baths, and hide in the scalding water. Most of the time I feel as though I am one big bubble, and I am just about to burst.

I'm tired of grinding my teeth. I'm tired of waking up in the morning, feeling nauseous and stiff, and feeling the dried sticky trails of tears on my face.

A string of peridot is across the back of my neck. I had forgotten how calming it is. I desperately want to take my last pill - a muscle relaxer - throw a Tylenol PM on top, wash it down with my remaining Cuervo, and go to bed.

But I can't. I'm packing. For another physical frame for the life I desperately need to change from within.

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"Judge deals blow to inmates"

By John Woolfolk, Mercury News

"A federal judge has terminated two consent decrees that for three decades have required Santa Clara County jails to provide inmates access to a law library and to written disciplinary procedures. U.S. ... The county sought to overturn the consent decrees last November under the Prison Litigation Reform Act. ... "

Someone needs to say something to this fool. Perhaps I'm of a one-track mind, but come on. You have to be kidding me.





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Wednesday, November 16, 2005

No Restraint

I'm a bit like Peter Pan, I admit. I don't really know what I want to do when I grow up. The idea of limiting myself to just one thing makes me feel like the Cat Lady (without the Shelby). I mean, where do I start? If I had my choice I'd be a part-time Great White Shark biologist/folk artist/art car maker/antique store owner/book collector/coffee shop shrink/Graffiti Artist/Swimmer/Ghost hunter/Editorialist/Travel Writer/Serial Killer Behaviorist....

Anyway, the degree I'm working on is a B.S. of B.M. No, I don't intend upon spending my life observing chimps sling poo.

But I have no clue what is next. I keep finding these older, mentor-like people who really, really want to direct my path. (Insert soundbite: Lenny Kravitz's "Are You Gonna Go My Way"). The rebellious evil part of me runs when I find someone who gets a little too cozy in their advisement. I don't know why. I just really, really favor autonomy, and the idea that someone actually thinks that they have it down pat - so much so that they can shift the life of another person - that strikes me as BRING BRINNNNGGGGG........Hello? Ego? Are you there?

Jim Carroll has the right idea. His idea for a post-graduate degree is called a Masters of Business Imagination. His ideas make me smile and all of a sudden I feel optimistic. Love that. http://www.innovationtools.com/weblog/innovationblog-detail.asp?ArticleID=690

and here is his essay http://www.jimcarroll.com/10s/10MBI.htm.

You know, Peter Drucker died this week. I haven't really talked about it because I'm still trying to comprehend all that he meant. His thoughts weren't limited, and he certainly didn't accept other people's own inner barriers.

I'm not sure where I am. But maybe that is okay. We can't all have a clearcut path in front of our feet. We'd be lazy and complacent as a result.






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Sunday, November 13, 2005

Food and Hyperglycemia

Now that Snewo's blood sugar has zanily crept its way to the 300s, we are now incredibly hungry. I forgot to mention the other ironic side effect of high blood sugar. Sorry.

Imagine feeling stoned, and having the munchies. Problem is, you paid that lousy dude working behind the counter of your local cantina for the sack you easily smoked. Only now did you manage to remember why you don't buy that dirtbag's grass - it's dirt. Your head is pounding You are starving And you have the worst case of the lazies.

That's high blood sugar, people.

So when I am supposed to be out cavorting in my running shoes like some triathlon contender, instead I am making miracles in the kitchen with leftover Scharffenberger bittersweet and organic brown sugar.

Yes, I consider myself a foodie. It started in elementary school, when my mother came home every day to find every single pan out on the middle of the linoleum floor. I'm sitting in the middle, mixing, stirring, and making gooey droplets all over the place. There is powdered sugar all over my t-shirt, and chocolate bits in my elbow crannies. A streak of raspberry jam decorates my cheek.

After working both as a pastry chef and as a caterer, I realized I would have to quit working in the restaurant industry. Remarkably, having to taste test your creations raises your blood sugars, and because you don't remember exactly how much and what you tasted, you can't adequately compensate with a dose of insulin.

So most of my foodie creativity is in books. I have cookbooks all over the place, and every time I'm hungry and want something delightful I force myself to read about it while I eat my veggie burger. Nothing wrong with veggie burgers, mind you, but they aren't exactly the "Shrimp Cakes With Chili Lime Sauce" that you are craving, right? (Epicurious recipe: http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/recipe_views/views/232743). We all can't just have Spanakopita (my recipe, dammit, and you can't have it) and pumpkin flan (http://www.epicurious.com/recipes/rotw/) any time we want.

Dear readers, Snewo has also learned that her bootylicious rear end is more like a 200 lb. freight train without a whole lot of self denial. She just can't eat whatever the hell strikes her fancy.

I laughed aloud this afternoon when I found a new blog - "The Bruni Digest". This feisty little New Yorker has decided to parody the New York Times Food Critic du jour, Frank Bruni.

And it is mad funny. If you read restaurant critiques, that is.

http://brunidigest.blogspot.com

Restaurant critics to me are a lot like music critics. They really, really love their craft and therefore their prose is completely inexplicable to normal people. How you can compare 50 Cents' new single to " a long, wafting, mournful bellow, reminiscent of a dirge in winter" is absolutely beyond me. And restaurant reviews are written the same way. Don't tell me that the ice tea was bitter by stating "the acerbic wit of a cantankerous senior citizen was readily evoked in their liquid replenishments". Just tell me they forgot the baking soda, dammit.

If you like food, and think food editors are mad funny the same way I do, read "The Bruni Digest". Well worth it.


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High Blood Sugar Sucks

I'm pretty lucky, I suppose. Nearly two years ago, after a bunch of letter writing/nasty phone calls/Specialist persuasion, my HMO allowed me to have an insulin pump. It's nice in that I was really, really growing tired of poking myself five or six times a day with a BD UltraFine. When the stupid pumpie actually works, I feel pretty good (Manufacturer name not listed - read http://www.diabeticinvestor.com/ and you'll see who leads the pack in Insulin Pump-Making).

Every once in a while my blood sugars are uncontrollable. Right now it's a post-cold /PMS issue. When this does happen, I'm reminded how grateful I am that I've changed my life - that yucky existence: Married w/no medical insurance. If I feel this crappy now, I can only contemplate how crappy I felt when my blood sugars were awful for years.

So, my list for today.

Reasons Having High Blood Sugar Sucks

1. Your head hurts and nothing can help it. Apparently high sugar content in the blood does something awful to your blood vessels/capillaries and the like. Swells em up. Like having a perma-migraine. And migraine meds won't help, you just have to sustain lower blood sugars.

2. You get dehydrated. Imagine having to pee every hour, even when you haven't had anything to drink. Also, see #3.

3. You have diarrhea. Ick.

4. Your joints/muscles hurt. A lot. I'm sure it has something to do with the vessel/capillary issue - See #1.

5. You don't sleep well. Unless it's high enough to die/go to the ER, which is pretty high for me...700 or 800 on the meter. Your dreams are weird. You get up every couple hours to pee like some pregnant lady. Your body hurts when it's in one position too long. Like some arthritic senior citizen.

6. You gain weight. Simply because you have to take more Insulin. And boy, do those pounds pack on fast. I remember one week several years ago where the weight on Monday was 20 lbs. less than the weight on the following Monday. 20 lbs., people. That's hideous.

7. Your immune system is compromised. Meaning it's easier to pick up weird infections and illnesses.

8. You are bitchy. Mostly because you feel like shit, but I've discovered that some of the worst fights I've been in were when my blood sugars were a mess.

9. You get depressed. When you can't feel good enough to do much except lay around, who wouldn't be depressed.

10. Exercise makes you sick. I know I'm supposed to be out there running my ass off when my blood sugars suck, but I usually end up dizzy and throwing up.

11. You throw up. I forgot that part. When it's pretty bad you'll throw up, even when you don't eat. It's acidic and it's violent and it hurts and it will change your mind about bulimia forever. Stupid bitches.

12. You can see your lifeline drifting away like sands in an hourglass. Yucky, I know. But true. Every time your blood sugars are a mess your veins/capillaries/vessels/heart suffer damage. Leading to future issues: eyes/dead nerve endings/heart/stroke.

That's my whine for the day. I'm going out to the living room to optimistically pack more household items.


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Dalai Lama Touts Connection Between Science, Buddhism

I'm speechless. As a wannabe Buddhist who can't commit (Buddha says "Life is misery". Snewo says "I'm having a pretty good time thus far".) the Dalai Lama's link of science to theology means great things. Finally, someone important said what I think. Makes me feel a little less alone in this crazy world.


For the article, visit http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20051113/ap_on_sc/dalai_lama;_ylt=AmnIXzQX_fEWY93WtkTCBqGs0NUE;_ylu=X3oDMTA3MzV0MTdmBHNlYwM3NTM- Dalai Lama Links Science, Buddhism
By ELIZABETH WHITE, Associated Press Writer Sat Nov 12, 7:57 PM ET







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Friday, November 11, 2005

Cat Lady Drives A Shelby

I'm beginning to be much nicer as I get older. I wonder if that is unusual. Before I would have easily made fun of some middle aged gentleman in his mid-life crisis auto. I see it a lot. I drive through Pretentiousness-land back and forth to work.

Z has taught me a lot of invaluable lessons about driving. One of my favorite lessons is this:

" Always follow the car that is outrageously speeding."

The logic is good, and it has worked thus far. The maniac in front of you is more likely to get a ticket than you are, and he usually opens up traffic, too. Of course, I recognize the cons: the maniac in front of you is also more likely to slam into a tractor-trailer. Comme Si Comme Sa.

Anyway, I followed a particularly delightful maniac this morning, who was doing 20 or 25 over the 45 mph speed limit. Easy. The car was one of those limited edition Shelbys. You know what they look like. Not as pretty as the originals, but damn was that car fast. Zip Zip Zip through traffic.

As traffic thinned out, I read the cars' license plate. Elenore. Okay, now I'm intrigued. http://www.carmemories.com/cgi-bin/viewzoom.cgi?image=3928

Don't get me wrong. I usually hate Nicolas Cage. But "Gone in 60 Seconds" is like chicken noodle soup for me. I pop it in when I'm in a funk and I usually feel better by the time Nic Cage and Angelina Jolie are playing with a clutch. I can't help my habits. That movie reminds me of me a long time ago, when I was lawbreaking and fearless and an absolute delight to be around if you needed a good time.

Most middle aged men in their mid-life crisis don't zip around in their luxe cars. It drives me apeshit when I find someone in a perfectly gorgeous restored Barracuda doing 30 in a 45 mph zone. The man I saw on Monday during my commute home was driving a restored Delorian, and completely holding up traffic in the fast lane.What the hell dude. It livened up your life enough just to own the object? You need to USE THE CAR. THAT IS WHAT IT IS FOR.

(Note: For full recognition of my own driving habits in the past, refer to the story where I drag raced down I-75 from Chattanooga to Adairsville, doing 115. It was then that I started to contemplate commuting to Chattanooga from my home - it did only take 30-40 minutes. Much faster than going to Atlanta.)

I finally pull into a two lane and as I prepare to stop, I glance over to see this middle-aged, post-mid-life crisis hottie. I can just see his graying temples and spectacles.

OH NO, DEAR READERS. THE DRIVER LOOKED LIKE THE CATLADY I TALK ABOUT. You know, the one who collects teapots, spends evenings shopping on QVC, and collects porcelain dolls. She had her hair in a longish, dingy auburn pageboy. Her glasses were smallish and very librarian like. She was wearing harvest colored knits, by God.

Ok Catlady. If I have to end up that way, you're my new idol. I'll gladly follow you in your "Elenore" into the sunset.


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Monday, November 07, 2005

Calling The Cynical, The Hardened, The Less Than Erudite

I'm not one of these people who are thrilled by art. Admittedly, I was more into art when I had a close friend who was an incredible artist. His pencil sketches had meaning and depth and made you feel something.

But honestly, I could usually care less about paintings or flat, two dimensional pieces. I can't draw or paint, and I know that has something to do with it. The only painting I ever did I gave away to someone I love. It was destroyed, and I haven't had the urge ever since.

This gallery in New York is full of pieces - mostly objets de art - that made me feel something. I thought I would share. I'm a cynic, so if I can spread anything for the hardened we'll be in luck.

www.jasonjacques.com

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Rev Run on Money

"I'm successful financially because I treat finances correctly," he says. "You're not successful financially 'cause you throw money around. Money is like a fine high-class woman, you don't treat it bad. It'll escape from you. It'll run from you if you're not nice to money. Don't be mean to money and throw it everywhere. How would you feel if somebody were throwing you around? Would you want to hang with them? Well, money likes me because I like taking good care of it. Money's my friend and I'm not gonna just throw her to anything." - Rev Run

Oh, and yes, Run DMC was one of the first albums I got into trouble for in the Anywhere household. Somehow, the lyrics just don't sound good coming from your 10 year old.


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Sunday, November 06, 2005

Throw Trashy Literature to the Curb

I was ill in bed all day. No, don't bother to ask what is wrong. Anyway, I tried doing all kinds of things to make me feel better. I drank lots of water with diluted Grapefruit Seed Extract. I ate my favorite comfort foods, like chicken bouillon and fried green tomatoes. I had sex twice.

None of it really worked, though. I was left reading one of my favorite trash novels. I am really, really afraid and reluctant to admit to this behavior.

Some girls read romance novels. Some read V.C. Andrews, kind of a throwback to a disturbed suburban youth. I read Maeve Binchy.

You know who she is. She wrote "Circle of Friends", that book that resulted in that horrible movie with Chris O'Donnell and Minnie Driver.
I really got into her other crappy pseudo romantic trauma dramas, though.

So by 5 PM I was nearing the end of the novel I was reading, "Echoes", and I remembered how it ended. The oh-so-happy couple in love end up in this horrible tragic end beginning when he cheats on her with some rich floozy on the golf course. Ick. Imagine this in an Irish setting and you'll be set.

I chucked the novel at the wall and left a big nick (more repairs for later. Shit.). Z looked up and away from World of Warcrack and gave me a look of semi-interest.

I explained that I had just remembered how the stupid book ended, and how badly it pissed me off. I then gathered a grocery bag full of other novels I have kept that piss me off also. I think I am ready to dispense with the bullshit. If I can't stand something - anything - about something I own, it's out the fuc&ing door. I don't have time for mediocrity. Stupid Maeve Binchy. The rest of the freaking book was great, and she had to screw it up just so it wouldn't be so fairytale like.

Well Dammit, I'm living in a freaking fairytale, and I expect that. It's okay to write about despair and darkness, for Buddha's sake. I mean, Jesus, I threw Ann Rule's Green River Killer book next to my pillow to start re-reading later.

My issue is that something small can taint everything. And life is too damn short for me not to have it exactly the way I want. I better like the nuances and personality quirks, by God. Because if I don't, they fall into the LOSER pile.

Here are a few other books I threw out for fun:

1. "Night Whispers" by Judith McNaught.

I stole this book from my mother's heap, and I liked it because the cover had a nice, dark aquamarine look at a gloomy sea floor. Reminded me of my origins or something. Turned out to be the biggest piece of trashy romantic/mystery gook I've read in a long time. Ick. Gives me the feeling I've just slathered myself in Mary Kay cosmetics after my visit to the tanning bed right after I went and had a fill on my hot pink two inch long acrylic nails.

2. "Horrors! 365 Scary Stories" Selected by a bunch of Jewish and Russian men for Barnes & Noble Books.

This anthology actually isn't that bad. The stuff inside is pretty creative. It's one of those $10 books you grab from the cheepie rack at Barnes & Noble.

My problem is this: It was given to me by an ex-lover as a birthday present, along with a few other assorted items. One was a Black Flag style bomber jacket - I lost it and I loved it...I felt like Henry Rollins' girlfriend.
Anyway, the night the ex-lover gave it to me, he was trying to reconcile things. I had brought my best friend, asexual elfin boy, to help protect me from doing anything stupid. Unfortunately, that didn't really work because my ex-lover raped me upstairs during our gift giving session.
No harm, no foul. I blame drugs. That sordid episode still isn't the issue. I just think I don't need to hang on to things that remind me of past events. Out the window, people.

3. "Catch Me If You Can" - by Frank Abagnale.

I saw this movie and really liked it. I admit, if he didn't resemble a plucked chicken, Dicraprio would be hot. He has a seriousness that is kind of cute. But the book sucks. Abagnale is big on puffery and "I'm-hot-shit-because-I-did-this". Not in-depth enough on what kind of creep feels the need to constantly pretend to be someone else.

4. "Butterfly" - by Kathryn Harvey.

Don't get me wrong. The premise of this book rocks. It's about a women's club - Butterfly - that basically offers women the opportunity to have their own fantasy based harem. Problem is, the madam/owner ends up using it as some vengeful plot to destroy some dude who screwed her up. It's just a bit too dark for me. As I try not to let anyone effect me that way, I don't like to hear that other people can't shed the rubbish that surrounds their soul.

5. "While I Was Gone" - Sue Miller.

This one also had the makings of a good book. Same prose style as Anna Quindlen (think "One True Thing"). However, her lead character pissed me off by ruining a full 1/2 of the book when she almost cheated on her good husband. No sympathy. As I've said before, "If you want it that bad you'll leave".

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So I'm left with an orderly bookshelf and a lot of questions. Who for god's sakes pays these people to write? Why the fuc& aren't they calling me? I know at least enough to not screw up the goddamned ending. What the hell.

Second, do I really feel morally competent taking my trashpile to the Salvation Army like usual? Am I not inflicting some fellow Salvation Army consumer with poor prose? Z said I should burn them. If this was any other reasonable place in the U.S., I would have to worry about the trash pickers reading them, but they practically charge you with a felony for that in the South (trash picking, that is).

Any ideas on how to properly dispose of these with my karma intact?


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Saturday, November 05, 2005

Hawaii Screens For Bird Flu and New Opportunities For Writers

Hawaii is now apparently screening airline passengers for bird flu.
http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20051105/ap_on_he_me/bird_flu;_ylt=AgbijIHhhWzUrPa8efT85NGs0NUE;_ylu=X3oDMTA3b2NibDltBHNlYwM3MTY
Makes sense, considering its proximity to Asia. However, from my recent readings from the WHO regarding Avian flu, I learned that carriers may seem only to have traditional flu symptoms, or MAY BE ASYMPTOMATIC.

I don't know what to tell you people, except I see the next big stink in politics will be over hoarding privately produced medications. Tamiflu is one of two vaccinations that can halt Avian Flu in its tracks. The Governments of the World are now stockpiling it "in case of emergency".

Tell me that is the right course of action. Tell me that it isn't more appropriate to designate representatives from both the public and private sectors to distribute these drugs when necessary. At least that way you won't have groups surfacing later who claim that "the man" was really trying to eradicate their race, and wouldn't distribute drugs to Black/Green/Yellow/Orange/Purple people.

Sharpen your pens and start your bill-writing. I see whole new opportunities open for legislation aimed at Disaster Relief preparedness and logical solutions for pandemic disease control.

This needs to be written down and set into legislative stone. I don't want to have unwritten rules making decisions for me, a la "Outbreak" or "The Stand".



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Friday, November 04, 2005

Rowr.

He was the man

"That stuff to me, to be honest with you, is a total lack of respect for each other. Forget me, you don't have to respect me. But respect each other."

----Sherman

From http://www.typepad.com/t/trackback/3508574.

Talk about Sperm Part II, Friday, November 4, 2005

So on another mental rambling about sperm, I found this link:

http://www.vgmerchandise.com/misc.html

There you can read about how Vincent Gallo http://www.vincentgallo.com/
(my favorite Van Gogh look alike)
is offering his sperm for a cool $1 Million.

Gallo seems interested in this from a propagation of the fittest, Darwin-esque attitude. In fact, the site offers a few genetic/racial characteristics that may intrigue him:

"Mr. Gallo maintains the right to refuse sale of his sperm to those of extremely dark complexions. Though a fan of Franco Harris, Derek Jeter, Lenny Kravitz and Lena Horne, Mr. Gallo does not want to be part of that type of integration. In fact, for the next 30 days, he is offering a $50,000 discount to any potential female purchaser who can prove she has naturally blonde hair and blue eyes. Anyone who can prove a direct family link to any of the German soldiers of the mid-century will also receive this discount. Under the laws of the Jewish faith, a Jewish mother would qualify a baby to be deemed a member of the Jewish religion. This would be added incentive for Mr. Gallo to sell his sperm to a Jew mother, his reasoning being with the slim chance that his child moved into the profession of motion picture acting or became a musical performer, this connection to the Jewish faith would guarantee his offspring a better chance at good reviews and maybe even a prize at the Sundance Film Festival or an Oscar."

(* Note: Please keep in mind that the article I read just prior to Vincent Gallo's classified was about the X and Y chromosome, how men are more likely to be either geniuses or mental retards, and how women have more variable chromosomes, meaning that they are more likely to be different.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/4355355.stm)

Gallo's request is interesting. Not that I am actively seeking a mate to commingle chromosomes with, but I find his prerequisites intriguing.

"Mr. Gallo maintains the right to refuse sale of his sperm to those of extremely dark complexions"

That is too bad. Gallo's piercing features and crystalline colored eyes would make a very lovely mixed-race child. Just ask my Home Depot friend. Besides, a la "Waterworld", I am all about white folks getting some melanin. How do you expect to make it when the ozone layer is finally gone?

"$50,000 discount to any potential female purchaser who can prove she has naturally blonde hair and blue eyes. Anyone who can prove a direct family link to any of the German soldiers of the mid-century will also receive this discount. "

Well I missed the blue eyed gene because Mom's genes were dominant. But I do have naturally blonde hair and I do have a family link to German soldiers of the mid-century.

"Under the laws of the Jewish faith, a Jewish mother would qualify a baby to be deemed a member of the Jewish religion. This would be added incentive for Mr. Gallo to sell his sperm to a Jew mother..."

Hmm. That entire bit seems racist to me. I hate it when Jewish people are inextricably linked with the word "Jew". (See above). Sometimes it just sounds degregating. Sorry.

That being said, I may have to dismiss Gallo's request even further based on the even more racist stereotypes being affronted by him...that a Jewish baby would end up a major Hollywood big whig...

You missed out, Vinnie. My Great Great Grandad (on the same damn genetic side as those offensive Germans from the mid-century) was a Rabbi. Levi Zimmerman. So I may have qualified, even though I don't follow the Jewish religion. We're more talking about the racial quotient, aren't we?









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Freaking Friday (at last)

I'm sick. I hate being sick. I don't remember being so susceptible to stinking colds and flus as a kid. Seems like it only got worse after my early- high school-dustbunny indoctrination. Say no to drugs, people. Don't try something just on the premise that you could end up loving it forever.

Case in point. I ran out of sleepy pills about 7 days ago. I don't feel any withdrawals or irritation, thank buddha. The funny part is now I am sleeping. I actually get tired like a normal person at 10 PM because I'm not enjoying my high. My sleep has been heavy (no snoring since the weight lost on the starvation diet) and I am dreaming for the first time in years.

I dream of real things. Somehow that makes sense because right now, real life is the scary part for me.

Conversations with friends:
I dreamed that I was talking to my friend who I am trying to convince he needs to come to Crittersville for Thanksgiving. No one seems to believe me when I tell them that everyone loves my family. More than I do. I promise. Ask anyone (except for my lovers). Anyway, it must be really important for me to convince this friend because I dreamed about it. When I called him the next morning, I had to do a weird double-take because I could swear my dream was real.

Ghost Hunting and Powder Snorting:
I don't know what the hell that is about. I've been talking about ghost hunting for a week now, and I think I found a compadre who has the same attitude about it. If we approach it rationally, and with an eye for the historical aspects of it, we may be able to convince Z.

So my dream last night was of ghost hunting at some creepy campground in the woods. Some female I know (but I can't figure out who it is) comes up to me, grabs my shoulder, and says,
"I left something in the bathroom for you."

I walk in there and open up the stall door. Sure enough, she has left me a present on top of the TP holder. A nice amount, too.

So I sit there on the toilet and prepare to scrape it into a little silk drawstringed sack ( I once made these obsessively and gave them away to people. Stuffed with potpourri, drugs or a fortune cookie, they made people happy somehow. Maybe since I'm completely broke I'll start making them again.)

The campground cops walk in, and are looking for me a la "Witness"
(http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0090329/). I end up spilling some on the floor through the crack on the backside of the mounted TP holder. Slowly my mind returns to really horrible desperate strung-out days, when it was normal to hunt on the floor with a straw up your nose.

And I wake.

Watching Way too much Nip/Tuck:

I'm a newfound Nip/Tuck addict. I absolutely detest the idea of plastic surgery, which is weird because I don't have the nasty factor most people do. I was one of those freaks who was given a really good quality microscope set in second grade, and I enjoyed dissection.(Damn you people. I told you to read the San Francisco Chronicle's weekly special on Golden Gate Bridge suicides. Yesterday was suicide from the perspective of the coroners. Hence, the nastiness factor.
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2005/11/02/MNG9UFH43N1.DTL)

In the last two episodes of Nip/Tuck, these bitches are running an after-plastic-surgery-care spa. Their first patient is about 50, but looks 35. She admits that she has been slathering a certain bodily emission on her face for years. In fact, she tells them that it is her son's only chore in the house. Ewww. The bitches freak out, then decide to market it as their signature product.

My jaw drops, and remains that way for the next hour watching TV.

* Note: I don't usually refer to women as bitches so casually, but the lead female, actress Joely Richardson, was a really shitty-bad nazi in one of my favorite Melanie Griffith movies, "Shining Through".

So in my dream I am actually considering this as a moisturizer. I've been whining for a week about how winter is really horrible for my skin - makes me all dried out and yucky. So my focus on a good moisturizer is apropos.

I have a friend who made the mistake once of telling me that her man was way into Jackson Pollack-esque splatter displays on her lovely face. Unfortunately, now all I envision when I have those brief three second mental pictures ( a la Tourette's syndrome, but more visual than auditory) of my friend and her man doing it, I see the splatter effect. It's horrible, I know.

This is the effect of Post 70s porn, people. Classic porn from the late '60s and '70s would never have shown such a rite on such a consistent basis. Now every modern porn has face splattering. Think about it. We have two, maybe three generations of virile teenage boys learning that face splattering is sexy. No, No, No, No, No. AND No.

It's not that it is ucky to me, I just find it disrespectful. It's akin to grabbing the back of a woman's head while she is - um - performing something really nice for a man. That's just rude. If she has no rhythm or makes inappropriate head jerks or something, just tell her what to do. Don't allow her to continue so haphazardly. No one needs to perpetrate the now-common misconception that gay men give better head. I'll be damned.

(Please keep in mind that I only recently discovered that nearly everyone I know believes I am a true Aggressive/Aggressive. No wonder lesbians love me. Explains a lot about how I am not incredibly keen on the idea of a man exhibiting extreme aggressive/aggressive sexual behavior. I need to appreciate that other people are different, I know. It's okay for women to be passive. I guess.)

So I told Z about my dream of a new regenerative protein-based moisturizer. NO. I promise. I haven't gone there. I'm still stuck in my vain perception that my genetics are going to produce beautiful skin for me well into middle age.

But if I find another wrinkle, or get accused again of being in my mid-thirties, I swear to Buddha I may reconsider.
.............................................................................................

So what is the point here? Couldn't tell you. My head is stuck in this congested cloud of fog. I'm looking forward to a nice weekend in bed. I'm not going to stress about this stupid house I'm trying to buy (which has turned into a debacle of horrific proportions), packing, or housecleaning.

Z bought "The Stand", so I can sit home and start freaking about the Flu Pandemic. More on that later.















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Thursday, November 03, 2005

Pandemic Flu Website

FYI

Here is the link to the newly created Pandemic Flu Website from Dubya. Read info with a critical eye and a whole lot of caution. I needn't warn you about the Republican Party's influence upon scientific research and the CDC.

http://www.pandemicflu.gov/

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Michael Tolcher

I very rarely get excited about music anymore. Call me jaded. Call me a music snob. I admit to it all.

It just seems as though new artists from the past 5 years or so really suck. There isn't a decent percussive beat, and everyone mimics eachother. The Napster-effect on the music industry really killed a lot of executive's zeal for ingenuity and creativity.

I nearly wet myself this morning on the way to work. If you have any desire to hear something new and awesome, go to Michael Tolcher's website here:

http://www.michaeltolcher.com/

An Atlanta boy who only recently got into music (started playing guitar at 21), Michael is like a girl's wet dream.

A. He's mad smart. I think you have to be to graduate from GA Tech in something mechanical.
B. He's mad fine.
B. His Dad was the Prison Chaplain at the Atlanta Penitentiary, and he played for the inmates in the chapel. ( Dad organized it as a "religious" musical event).
There he met Dr. Shakur, Tupac's Dad, who is an inmate. Pac's daddy is in there for conspiracy/anti-government junk, he apparently was pretty serious about his Black-Pantherism. I somehow remember that from Tupac's documentary.

Anyway, Dr.Shakur told him that he had a global voice, and could really reach young people. It was then that he decided to pursue this as a career.

The music is incredible- reminds me of a funked out Phish with much less instrumentals and great lyrics. In a way he reminds me of John Mayer, but I absolutely detest John Mayer (that breathy voice makes my nipples retract ad infinitum) so I don't want to label him that way. Besides, Tolcher's lyrics are much better.

His CD, "I Am", is apparently available anywhere.

And he's touring with Sister Hazel, Pat McGee Band, Marc Broussard, and O.A.R. Those sets together is like music porn.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Golden Gate Death

Once the welcome beacon for the West Coast, the Golden Gate Bridge is among my favorite places. I'll never forget the first time I went. Like most days there, it was foggy, cold and windy, even though it was a June day. You smell the ocean - the salty air, that fresh fish smell that only comes from the Pacific. You see the dark expanse of black water just past the bridge, outside of the bay, and in the deep ocean, and you begin to feel smaller than anyone else on earth.

Your mind drifts to seafaring. What a hard life it must be, to be clothed in waterproof windbreakers that do very little to shield you from the biting wind. How weathered your skin becomes after exposure to such conditions.

Yet you feel alive somehow, that air that is so filled with smells of nature and purpose fills your lungs and gives you energy and intensity. You realize that the fisherman from Hemingway were incredibly strong and massively powerful. This ocean is home to some of the largest, ferocious creatures on the planet, and those sailors drift amongst them daily. Their lot in life was in part determined by heritage, but in many ways it was impossible to deny. A life of adventure, battling nature and forces powerful beyond your control, will create Gods instead of men.

This bridge crosses that divide. The bay opens to cities of prosperity, built upon immigrant dreams. No one here is fortunate enough to be a native. The natives haven't been here that long, you see. Only several hundred years ago, Inuits, Russians, Spaniards, Mexicans and ragtaggled goldminers fought for settler's rights on these waters. Teeming with fish of all brands and colors, this land was worth it.

The fog covered mountains surrounding the bridge remind one of photos of Japan or China, before industry built its cement monoliths. Dark and light interspersed: the trees framed by the mist. Even now that the modern age has fully developed these peninsulas, much of the landscape is still covered in the dark, almost black of the leaves.

The bridge is immense. You can only barely see the Marin shores from your perch on the southern side. In this feeling of fulfillment you have derived - the intense smells, the romantic mists, the choppy, beautiful cold water, you realize you just may be on the precipice of life. The divide, if it does exist. To dive in, as your body screams from every pore to do, is a venture into an unknown chasm. You would not survive. Few have.

The beauty is tempting. And that temptation seeps into your consciousness like your first line of coke. It will always reside there. You know it will ebb in times of sadness, and remain just underneath the surface of you. Your life may spin in directions of happiness instead of despair, but that glimpse of the beautiful, deadly place is not something you can release. The memory will sustain through joy and laughter.

You may not make the choice. But the choice will always be there.

The San Francisco Chronicle is publishing a week long segment about The Golden Gate Bridge suicides, entitled "Lethal Beauty". The incredible sadness part of this place is overwhelming, but a very necessary part of our understanding of the locale. It reminds me of the yin and yang. You cannot have enormous beauty without incredible ugliness.

Read the Lethal Beauty segments at http://sfgate.com/lethalbeauty/. Complete with charts, graphs and anecdotes about the incredible number of suicides that are forever linked to the bridge.