tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77439653578612349812024-03-08T08:46:54.400-06:00nsomniasaumSaumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.comBlogger61125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-80656268084299565282014-03-28T14:33:00.001-05:002014-03-28T14:33:39.378-05:00Even Knowing How It Will End, We Choose This Love. (Again And Again)<p><em>I’m posting this for a friend who is having her beloved dog euthanized today. You may have read <a href="http://nsomniasaum.blogspot.com/2011/10/even-knowing-how-it-will-end-we-choose.html" target="_blank">parts of it here before</a>. </em></p> <p><em>This remains the only thing I’ve ever written about the death of one of my animals. I’ve never since been able to find words for that loss, so when it happens, (and, inevitably, after a few incidents of unproductive floundering around on the keyboard) I just go back and read this. When someone close to me loses a pet, I share it with them. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got. </em></p> <p><em>It hit me hard to re-read it today. I haven’t lost one of my animals, but I am grieving the loss of my group of friends from that part of my life. It was my choice to step away from them, and I do not regret it. It hurts, but it’s the hurt of a healing wound…I forget about it for awhile, then something catches me just right and the pain flares, fresh. </em></p> <p><em>When we mourn the loss of a pet, we also mourn the part of our life that they carried us through. </em></p> <p><em>Bringing an animal into our life is an optimistic act. We know how it will end, but we take the risk again and again. Love, of anyone or anything, is the ultimate engagement with life. Life is going to end in death. We might trick ourselves into thinking that not loving will spare us pain, but that’s no way to live. Optimism in the face of death: what the hell else is life? </em></p> <p><em>Lovers leave, or we leave them. Friends fall away. Animals are relentless companions, our ultimate confidants. They see and know what we cannot bring ourselves to show other people; sometimes the parts we cannot even bear to show ourselves. <em>Animals remain mostly silent; we mostly see our reflections in them, and thus they refract all the unconscious choices that make up the profound minutiae of our lives. We know so little of their internal lives. When we mourn our pets, we mourn the people we were with them. </em></em></p> <p><em>The good days in the sun are easy. It is when we are in pain and think ourselves alone that we reach out and feel breathing evidence of our not-aloneness. They romp along for the best of it, and stay steady at our side through the worst of it. What we cannot bear, they help carry.</em></p> <p><em>So, go on, hug your pet. Remember the ones you’ve lost, and what they carried for you. And try to let it go.</em></p> <p><em>********************************************************************************* </em></p> <p>Dagaz was literally born into our hands. Asha followed a few hours later. Kalia (his mom) had a special relationship with him; she used to pick him up and carry him around by his butt. After awhile she would tenderly deposit him in the bathroom trash can. I think this explains why he always loved stuff in trash cans. </p> <p>When he was growing up, he cost us a small fortune in vet bills; he ALWAYS had stitches for one thing or another. He and Asha and the rest of the Doberman 6-pack had fun up at our friends’ cabin where we all gather for sunshine and bonfires. We got to know each dog by the shape of their head when they came up to be petted in the dark; most of the time when I dropped my hand down it was Day’s oddly square noggin beside me. The dogs would bound through the woods, go for rides in the boat, and play hard with each other. Every morning I would wake up and think, Oh, no, it’s storming, and then be confused by clear skies…six Dobermans running is the sound of thunder. It’s hard to believe that  Asha is the only one left of all those sweet, sleek beauties. I love my Dobermans, but I sure wish they lived  longer.</p> <p>Every animal is its own being, just like us, and my relationships with them are complex, aggravating and fulfilling. You can’t lie to animals. They teach me more about myself than I want to know sometimes. I have always had a close affinity to my dogs, but Dagaz saw me through the worst emotional and physical pain of my life. He learned to “stand steady” so I could lean on him when I had trouble getting up. When I was well, he followed me as I wandered around getting to know our land, or  sat with me on my late nights with books. No matter where I was, no matter the time of day or night, I could drop my hand down and find him there beside me. His presence was silent and constant. The room feels empty now, at 3am with only me in it. </p> <p>I’m glad I played with Asha & Day today, took the time to watch them run down the hill and up the hill and jump on each other and grin at me. They are so much a part of this land. They were thrilled to have me spend a couple of minutes with them on my way out to the barn. I thought it might rain so I opened the door to the porch (our version of a doghouse) for them. Dagaz jumped up on the couch and looked happy. I headed out to the barn. When Urban came home he let the dogs into the house. I opened the front door a few minutes later, and found my dog collapsed at the foot of the stairs. He was gone.</p> <p>I don’t know if animals understand or care about the concept of names, but my animals are named with care. “Dagaz” is Norse. It means daytime, the fullness of light, midday, midsummer, the high point of the cycle. They say every dog has its day; Day’s day was June 21, Summer Solstice. It’s not his birthday but it’s what his name means, what I think of as his essence. In the Elder Futhark rune system, the divinatory meaning of Dagaz is the spiritual path. The symbol looks like an angular infinity symbol, or, to me, like Shiva’s drum. I name my animals for what I see in them: I saw vigor and sensitivity in Dagaz.  I also name them for what they show me of myself, and what my relationship with them brings me. More than anything, Dagaz helped me both to face my pain and turn my back on it when needed. He taught me patience and emotional honesty. He taught me about the land, where the good shady spots are on the hill, and that possums really do faint when frightened. He brought me constancy and light. It’s hard to imagine this place without him.</p> <p>But it’s not just me that has lost him. Urban is also grieving and sad. Asha is confused and whining a lot. She keeps running around looking for her brother. We are a little worried about her, but she is eating and drinking just fine. We will probably stick close to home for awhile, as she is unaccustomed to being alone. She will ride in the truck with us tomorrow (oh, well, today) morning when we go to the vet to take Day’s remains to be cremated. </p> <p>I don’t know what we will do with his ashes, probably scatter them on the hill where he liked to run. I have been thinking of putting down some wildflower seeds, maybe we will scatter those, too.  It would be nice to walk in knee-high flowers next midsummer, and remember him. I will drop my hand down and find him there beside me, his presence silent and constant.</p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-76280564144173207172014-01-27T14:12:00.001-06:002014-01-27T14:55:59.211-06:00Absence<p>I haven’t been around lately. This took me a long time to write. </p> <p>Recently, I’ve had seizures.When I started having them, I decided: these are not seizures. I do not accept them. Guess what? They didn’t go away. On some level, I still find this baffling (and on another level, I find my bafflement amusing and irritating). As if the force of my will ought to be enough to make reality what I wish it were. </p> <p>Look, I wanted to be healed, not inconvenienced. Healing is something I can do in the evenings. In my spare time. I will learn lessons, grow as a person, etc. etc., and apply those lessons to the life I have. I will be the same, just better. More. I will know the world, be in it, exert myself upon it. And I will be healed. I will know my worth.</p> <p>All evidence to the contrary, this is what I believed. This is what I believed <em>before</em>. And I believed: if I believe something hard enough, it simply will be so. I didn’t believe this in any organized or coherent way. I believed it even though I knew it was silly. I marched forward toward my goals, shoving this belief before me like a snowplow. It worked. I was, in most of the way these things are measured, becoming successful. </p> <p>I believed that my worth could be measured by evidence of my presence in the world. Articles. Grades. Conferences. Projects. My <a href="http://klout.com/home" target="_blank">Klout Score</a>. These things told me: I am here. As I’ve withdrawn from the world, as I am disconnected from my own memories, I wonder about my worth. Urban told me that once I said: <em>I don’t feel like a real person</em>. </p> <p>My seizures are not dramatic. It’s almost like passing out or blanking out. These are called “Absence Seizures.” <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Post-traumatic_seizure" target="_blank">Seizures are one of the side effects of my Traumatic Brain Injury.</a> Having spent the last 8 months absent from life as I know it, these interludes just take me deeper into absenteeism. </p> <p>I know it sounds alarming but I am ok and we are dealing with it. I get some symptoms just prior to a seizure (metallic taste in mouth, hands & feet go numb, sounds fade in & out) so I am able to sit down or lay down before it happens. My neurologist thinks they are triggered by lack of sleep and overstimulation, which is not unusual for someone with a Traumatic Brain Injury. We have adjusted my medications so I’m sleeping regularly, and have not had any reoccurrence. If they continue, we will do more tests and consider anti-seizure medication, but we don’t think it will be necessary. I also had an EEG (and after washing my hair three times, I still have the gunk on my scalp to prove it), which showed damage to parts of the left side of my brain. It made me angry to find this out. I feel obscurely betrayed by my own brain. </p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-Xl2uidaVlQ0/UubHjILbI1I/AAAAAAAABJY/tyaw6ODpN2A/s1600-h/WHEN-THE-BRAIN-STARTS-TO-FALL-APART%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img title="WHEN-THE-BRAIN-STARTS-TO-FALL-APART" style="display: inline" alt="WHEN-THE-BRAIN-STARTS-TO-FALL-APART" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-v6v-G_1KmFw/UubHj20dDNI/AAAAAAAABJg/zK8tycAZ64E/WHEN-THE-BRAIN-STARTS-TO-FALL-APART_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="516" height="381" /></a> <br /><font size="1">source: <a title="http://iyashisource.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/WHEN-THE-BRAIN-STARTS-TO-FALL-APART.jpg" href="http://iyashisource.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/WHEN-THE-BRAIN-STARTS-TO-FALL-APART.jpg">http://iyashisource.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/WHEN-THE-BRAIN-STARTS-TO-FALL-APART.jpg</a></font></p> <p>I am being careful of my safety, and only go out to see the horses or take baths and stuff when Urban is around. </p> <p>Going out to visit the horses was one thing I could do on my own. It is hard to lose this small independence. It is hard to accept this reality. </p> <p>All this could mean nothing in terms of my long-term recovery. I am improving overall. Most recovery from TBI happens in the first 18 months after the injury. I’m about 8 months in. As inconvenient as it is, I am healing. I’ve had some very difficult times. My life <em>before</em> was lived with engagement. I felt connected to the wider world. I felt influential. </p> <p>I try to focus on the positive (I can read again!) and understand that the negative (I don’t remember anything I read!) will improve with time. The seizures are scary. I was pretty freaked out about it, but talking with my doctor has helped me calm down and understand that we have the ability to control them. I just have to be sure I am sleeping on a regular schedule and not overtaxing my brain. </p> <p>The irony of this is not lost on me. I’ve spent my adult life staying up late in order to overtax my brain. Showing up was never enough for me, I always strived to be <em>present</em>: in my own life, in my relationships, in the larger world. Being present was a requirement for exerting control. I had already come a long way to understanding that my drive for control was not always a healthy thing. Having gotten that far, I learn what it’s like not to show up at all. I learn to be absent. </p> <p>I try not to define my value by imagining a return to what I was (but I do anyway, see above). I have had to admit that I will not pick up where I left off. This is not an interlude. This is radical healing. My old way of living is over. Rather than thinking: <em>someday I will be able to…whatever…again, and there will be value in that</em>, I want to know the value of this absent life, withdrawn from the world. There is a lot going on in this silence. I perceive and experience the world, and myself (as if those are not the same), differently. Time and memory do not march in lock-step. There is no <em>here</em> and <em>there</em> in time. My narrative does not flow, it skips like a smooth rock on still water, glancing in as moments. I exert little influence. Things flow over, around, through me. Events leap out, then vanish. Unfixed. I feel sort of postmodern. </p> <p>I am at the mercy of my brain. Here’s the thing: I always was. I just didn’t believe it. It didn’t inconvenience me, so I had no reason to think of it. Now I know: how ever far I traveled, however much I ever did, all life, all reality, is lived and known through my mind. Whether I show up or not. In the shallows or in the depths. There is no measurement of my value. Wherever I am: there is life. It’s all I’m worth. All I can know is my self, my ever changing self. It will be enough when I will it to be so. </p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-74352658943911942182013-08-08T14:24:00.001-05:002013-08-08T14:24:52.220-05:00This Is Your Brain Damage On Drugs<p>In which, I am admitted to the hospital, jacked up on morphine, record things & people in my room, and comment upon them. (It’s dark for the first few seconds, hang on as we grope around for a light switch). <br /> <br />This whole brain damage thing has been so serious. I thought y’all would enjoy a laugh. I know I did. <br /> <br /></p> <div style="padding-bottom: 0px; margin: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; float: none; padding-top: 0px" id="scid:5737277B-5D6D-4f48-ABFC-DD9C333F4C5D:baaa0cf3-652a-434a-8c23-18e18a790460" class="wlWriterEditableSmartContent"><div><object width="420" height="315"><param name="movie" value="//www.youtube.com/v/bmwufWMgRCE?hl=en_US&version=3"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="//www.youtube.com/v/bmwufWMgRCE?hl=en_US&version=3" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="420" height="315" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object></div></div> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-2282379237335395902013-08-07T10:41:00.001-05:002013-08-07T10:43:31.727-05:00This Side Up<p>Or, <em>My Continuing <a href="http://nsomniasaum.blogspot.com/search/label/Adventures%20in%20Brain%20Damage" target="_blank">Adventures in Brain Damage</a>. <br /> <br />~I’m not writing much these days, for obvious reasons, so if you want to keep up with my slightly addled hijinks, give me a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/saumya.haas" target="_blank">Follow on Facebook</a>.~ <br /></em> <br />Time has passed. What does this mean? Look at your calendar. Pick a day in early June. That was three days ago, maybe four. A week at most. What have you been doing? You don’t know. <strike>April</strike> You may have suspicions (some people came over, right?) but although it was only a few days ago, it is like remembering <strike>a forest for the trees</strike> what you were doing this week last year. Because it wasn’t a few days ago. Early June was two months ago. <br /> <br />This is astonishing. Time seems to have tumbled and tangled all around itself. I feel like I’m trying to put together an old-fashioned tent…I can’t tell the inside from the outside, never mind which way is up. <br /> <br />I do remember things. I recall myself (mostly? sometimes?) but it’s more like remembering a character in a book I really liked but read a long time ago. There is <strike>concealing overarching</strike> emotion in my associations but it doesn’t sit right in the socket. My connection to my own narrative is disjoined, dislocated. Fractured, maybe. <br /> <br />This is the most content I have every been. <br /> <br />Why? Because I can’t remember anything long enough for it to truly bother me. The only thing <strike>avoidance</strike> that troubles me is pain, but it is mute, dumb. It has no beginning and no end. I would like it to stop <strike>stop stop</strike> hurting but there is seldom impetus attached to that feeling. It’s more like: it would be nice to have a cookie. It would be nice to not be in pain. But is it worth getting up and rummaging around in the cupboards? <br /> <br />I have drugs to take for the degrees of pain, and if that doesn't work, we go to the hospital and they kindly connect me to tubes and morphine. <br /> <br />I don’t actually remember going to the hospital but Urban assured me that we did. We discussed <strike>forever</strike> it several times, so although I don’t remember doing it, I remember <strike>dreamy</strike> talking about doing it, and that is close enough. I do remember that some people came over. We made cake. Or, I made a cake and took it somewhere. Or something. Maybe not the same incident as the hospital. Anyway, I recall that there was cake. Good enough for me. <br /> <br />Before my injury, things were seldom good enough for me. Actually, <em>I</em> was seldom good enough <strike>having fortunate</strike> for me. I was so driven. Ambitious, although I didn’t think of it like that. I had a lot of different different opaque boxes open all the time: school, writing,  work in NOLA, work in India, various projects I can’t recall. I got irate at current events, politics, <strike>social social</strike> social issues. I had an urgent need to <em>know,</em> and a bone-deep habit of reacting to whatever I thought I knew. everything was connected to everything else. Things seemed very important. Once I reacted to one thing, I pounced on another thing. Ever onward. Ever forward. Always wondering what was next. <br /> <br />Now there is no “next.” Sometimes I wonder what will happen if I don’t get better, what will happen if my ambition never returns, and I worry about it for a few minutes, then think, well, I guess I will just sit here. Doing whatever I’m doing. Good enough for me. <br /> <br />I’m not always content, of course. There are issues. <br /> <br />For awhile, people terrified me. Knowing that people were coming over would put me into a spiral of anxiety that ended up with me in bed hiding under a pillow. I found this troubling. Generally, I like people. The people who come over are normally invited in some way and presumably, I want to see them. But terror would seize me. I thought maybe this was one of the random emotions that crash into me occasionally, but after Urban and I talked about it for awhile <strike>dog roadblock</strike> I realized that when people come over, the dog barks. These barks ricochet around in my hollow head, gaining volume and depth and breadth until all else is drowned out. There is an insistence, a pressure that comes as a <strike>jocular</strike> sensation that pushes out all other sensation. I can’t function with so much sensation hammering at me. I don’t know if it’s pain or salve something else but pain will do as a definition. I was relieved to understand this. I may have brain damage, but least I’m not antisocial. <br /> <br />Sensation and stimulation are problems for me. Things are often <strike>florist</strike> overwhelming. Normally our brains only bother to inform of relevant stimuli. My brain, in an excess of enthusiasm, wants me to know everything. It overshares; gushes. Every color, movement, noise is its own thing, clamoring for attention. I am getting better at processing <strike>returns</strike> this stimuli and sorting out what requires response. I can understand again. But the overwhelmingness of it makes it hard to put anything in context; the memory problems and disjunction with the passage of time make it hard to connect one experience with another. Coherence without continuity. No wonder I hide under a pillow. </p> <p>Sometimes I feel like an empty box. There is a label on it that says “Saum,” but it’s empty. I know I am Saum, but what does that mean when there are no parts to assemble that construct the entity of self? <br /> <br />This is what I believed: narrative force anchors our own meaning. <br /> <br />I have ever been a creature obsessed with finding meaning, patterns, coherence. I opened every box, rummaging about for new meaning, more meaning, deeper meaning; everything a puzzle piece that had to fit just right to reveal some obscure and obvious truth.  <br />   <br /><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-sF8cs4Gp-9w/UgJqiXC5uKI/AAAAAAAABHg/HlpqNGOj5QQ/s1600-h/0315.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="031" alt="031" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-rrxif-LHGdI/UgJqi7i-k0I/AAAAAAAABHo/8tXnIAlaTUo/031_thumb2.jpg?imgmax=800" width="368" height="256" /></a> <br /> <br />Now I am adrift in my own story. What little I find in the box of <em>self</em> are vignettes. Fragments. What was the thing itself? The <em>Saum-</em>self I was accustomed to? Where is it/she now? Resting? Gone for good? Does it matter? <br /> <br />My memories may only be souvenirs, not the thing itself. I can no longer construct myself from my past. Unmoored from my own context, I’m free to speculate.  </p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-85339731974104971852013-07-09T21:06:00.001-05:002013-07-09T21:06:27.415-05:00Celebrate My Birthday: Do Something For Yourself<p>I am not writing this. I am dictating to <a href="http://www.chasingtheasson.com/" target="_blank">Urban</a> because I can’t look at the screen anymore. </p> <p>Tomorrow is my 42nd birthday. (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Answer_to_The_Ultimate_Question_of_Life,_the_Universe,_and_Everything#Answer_to_the_Ultimate_Question_of_Life.2C_the_Universe.2C_and_Everything_.2842.29" target="_blank">42! The answer to life, the universe, and everything!</a>)</p> <p>This is the first year I will not be having a birthday party. I'm blessed with amazing friends and a summer birthday; the confluence of these two things is one of my greatest joys. </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-h-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-prn1/300797_10150349163653792_1309575_n.jpg" width="390" height="388" /> <br /><font size="1">And we throw fantastic parties. These are not fireworks, they are light-up hula hoops.</font></p> <p><img alt="" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-e-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-frc3/288867_10150349156378792_7806575_o.jpg" width="389" height="262" /> <br /><font size="1">This is a flaming hula hoop. No, that’s not me. Do you think I’m crazy?</font></p> <p>It makes me very sad that I'm not well enough to gather new friends and old to share our home and company. My <a href="http://nsomniasaum.blogspot.com/2013/06/brainstorm.html" target="_blank">head injury</a> makes it tough for me to focus, and I cannot deal with large groups of people…even people I love, talking in soft voices. And if you’ve been to one of our parties, you know the “soft voices” bit won’t last very long. </p> <p>So I'd like to ask you, my beloved friends: those I know well and those I have never met, to help me celebrate my birthday by doing something amazing for yourself, wherever you are: read to your kids, eat a watermelon, go skydiving or just for a walk, watch a movie, have ice cream, sing a song, dance, go scuba diving, crash a wedding, do a cartwheel -- I don't care, just do <em>something</em>, for me, because I can't do anything right now.</p> <p>Please invite your friends, and join my <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/396709807105716/?notif_t=plan_admin_added" target="_blank">event on Facebook</a> and post a picture there, or just tell me what you did. Give me the gift of your happiness. I love y'all so much. So much. </p> <p><img alt="" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-b-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-prn2/6696_123645728791_7925053_n.jpg" width="390" height="371" /> <br /><font size="1">Yes, that is me. Breathing fire. So you better do something really awesome.</font></p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-63082701726719835592013-07-09T13:01:00.001-05:002013-07-09T13:01:58.618-05:00There’s That Dog Again<p>Or, <em>My <a href="http://nsomniasaum.blogspot.com/2013/06/brainstorm.html" target="_blank">Further Adventures</a> in Brain Damage.</em> <br /> <br />I am sitting on the porch with Urban when a handsome, dun-colored dog runs up to the <strike>neutral</strike> glass door and wags its tail in a friendly way. <br /><em>There’s a dog outside.</em> I say. <br /> <br />Urban looks at me, and tells me: <em>That’s Barnabas. He’s our dog. <br /></em>I say: <em>Oh. Are you sure? <br /></em>Urban: <em>Yeah, pretty sure.</em> <em>Don’t you remember him? <br /></em>Me: I<em> do now. <br /> <br /></em>Sometimes, I am fine. Yesterday our horse-trainer came to work with Jetta and <strike>Styx </strike>Jasper and give Urban <strike>a salad a caravan a horse a hat what the the the</strike> a riding lesson. I sat on the big wooden mounting block and watched. Over the course of two hours, we had normal conversations about the horses. Granted, I could probably have brains leaking out my ears and still have a coherent conversation about <strike>yellow legal pads</strike> horses. But other times, I have no idea what’s going on, how I got where I happen to be, or what I am supposed to do next. Normal activities or instruments (like a spoon, or my shoelaces, or my phone) take on the mystery and complexity of the <a href="http://home.web.cern.ch/about/accelerators/large-hadron-collider" target="_blank">Large Hadron Collider</a> and I have about as much much <strike>much much</strike> luck getting soup to my mouth as I would discovering the <a href="http://science.howstuffworks.com/higgs-boson.htm" target="_blank">Higgs bosun</a>. A life-long writer, I have always – always!—been able to transfer thoughts to written word, but now <strike>emails and and emails and emails texts</strike> Now, I hack one laborious word at a time. One word, two, three. There. One, two, three sentences. it’s like carving my own flesh. My head pounds. My brain seems to swell and heat. <br /> <br />I don’t know why I’m sitting here, who is even writing this. I take a break. I come back. Four sentences, five. A paragraph. I take a nap. I forget I was writing anything, then I find this open on my computer and I think it sounds pretty good so I keep chopping tat tat tat at it. I write what I think I am thinking things, put them away for a few <strike>feet</strike> hours and go back and try to pick through and weed out the <strike>garden before it rains out all over the</strike> phantom words. Everything <strike>1 C flour</strike> I write reads like Mad-Libs: The Brain Damage Edition. <br /> <br /><em>Good lord, Saum!</em> people say. <em>Why are you even writing anything?</em> <br />Me? I have to. I just have to. </p> <p>Yes, I am incredibly frightened and frustrated, but happily I can’t keep track of anything for very long, so the fear is fleeting and I go back to staring out the window or taking a nap or whatever it is I pass my days doing. I actually have no idea what it is I pass my days doing. I am startled to find that days pass at all. <br /> <br />We are at the dining table. I am <strike>really cold, frozen</strike> eating a salad with tiny beets (I have a great love for tiny beets) but then it isn’t a salad at all. It is toast. <em>Urban,</em> I say, <em>what happened to my salad? I was just eating a salad with beets. Where the hell did this toast come from? <br /></em>Urban: <em>I made you the toast. The salad was last night. <br /> <br /></em>I argue with him about this for a few minutes. Finally, he convinces me, and I realize that it’s tomorrow. <br /> <br />A small dun-colored dog walks past. <em>Look,</em> I say. <em>There’s that dog again! <br /></em>Urban: <em>That’s our dog. Can you remember his name?</em> <br /> <br /><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-yr5_T7JWZk0/UdxQCGwETzI/AAAAAAAABGU/2On4fQgZ3Io/s1600-h/farm%252520summer%2525202011%252520060%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="farm summer 2011 060" alt="farm summer 2011 060" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-0x3uaikxrEI/UdxQCxBFJnI/AAAAAAAABGc/ZrTUc0OSxQQ/farm%252520summer%2525202011%252520060_thumb%25255B11%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="240" height="233" /></a> <br /> <br />I cannot remember the dog’s name. I actually cannot remember the entire dog. Urban reminds me. Then I remember that the dog has lived with us for years, since he was a puppy. I feel terrible that I forgot him, that I forgot his name. His name is Barnabas. <br /> <br /><em>I should write that down,</em> I say.  <br /> <br />I write the dog’s name on a piece of paper and stick it to the glass door connecting the living <strike>finish writing this then then then then then lie down</strike> room to the porch. It takes me several attempts.  </p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-ErvIaIphV2M/UdxQDkJ2koI/AAAAAAAABGk/llFJXIWY4eI/s1600-h/005%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="005" alt="005" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-mYoXp59zKKY/UdxQEPc3XCI/AAAAAAAABGs/ospuTXea6fc/005_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="240" height="180" /></a></p> <p>Awhile later, a friendly, dun-colored dog trots into the living room and presents me with a chewed-up Nylabone. I think I have seen this dog before, but what is he doing in my living room? <br /> <br /><em>Urban!</em> I say, <em>there’s a dog in here again. <br /></em>Urban: <em>That’s our dog. Can you remember his name? <br /></em>I try. Urban reminds me. <br />I say: <em>I should write that down.  </em></p> <p><em><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-AUme3278KgQ/UdxQE36owBI/AAAAAAAABG0/03bEP51v4F4/s1600-h/006%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="006" alt="006" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-AOTtFetiNLw/UdxQFFmmcPI/AAAAAAAABG8/dHDlMZRtcL8/006_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="240" height="180" /></a></em></p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-39191201025058301002013-06-27T14:01:00.001-05:002013-06-27T14:01:57.234-05:00Brainstorm<p>For a few minutes last night, I couldn’t remember who I was. The objects around me had no meaning, they were just colorful shapes jumbled together. You guys, I didn’t know what <em>books</em> were. These rectangular objects <strike>arboreal</strike> were strewn all over and I had no idea what they signified. I didn’t know what <em>I</em> signified. <br /> <br /><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-WJFINnUHbTM/UcyMFsI_2JI/AAAAAAAABFM/1r1C58TLJaE/s1600-h/bookshelf%252520003%25255B13%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="bookshelf 003" alt="bookshelf 003" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-A-WYR1x6pnI/UcyMGXZtF1I/AAAAAAAABFU/cECu4sAGTjg/bookshelf%252520003_thumb%25255B10%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="249" height="186" /></a> <br /> <br />You’re probably wondering: <em>What the hell, Saum?</em> I certainly am.<em> <br /></em> <br />A few weeks ago, Jasper and I had a rather abrupt meeting of the minds (by smashing our heads together). Since then, I’ve discovered that I have pre-existing brain damage from past head injuries, and that this latest debacle is going to seriously <font color="#cccccc"><strike>semicolon semicolon</strike></font> mess up my plans.</p> <p><a href="http://nsomniasaum.blogspot.com/2013/06/jasper.html" target="_blank">Jasper</a> was hanging his head over Jetta’s side of the fence, but looking at me. I was standing at his <strike>lasting</strike> shoulder. Jetta snuck up and nipped him on the nose. Jasper started to swing his body away from her (and into me), realized I was there, and did a sort-of <strike>coaxial </strike>backwards jig to avoid me. His jaw caught me on my left temple. I fell on my ass. And got up. I felt fine. For three days. <br /> <br /> Then, suddenly—headache is too mild of a word. It was like there was a thunderstorm in my head, flashing lightning, rolling thunder, shredding tissue, <strike>voluntary</strike> trying to push out of my skull.The pain was (is) amazing. <br /> <br />We went to the ER, to a specialist, to another ER, back to the specialist (or something like that; details of the last few weeks are fuzzy). Luckily, all the <strike>Fortitude</strike> <strike>know</strike> scans came back clean. But the doctors have made it pretty clear that I’m in some trouble.   <br /> <br />Here is the way I have always explained it to people: because I have had concussions in the past, I am prone to them. Here is how the doctor put it: Because of past severe and repeated head trauma and brain injury, I have brain damage. Further head trauma triggers the symptoms. And causes more damage. <strike>Lausanne.</strike> <br /> <br />I was outraged. I am a straight-A student at Harvard. A writer. An intellectual. An articulate speaker. <em>I do not have brain damage.</em> <br /> <br /><em>Listen</em>, the doctor said, <em>brain damage is not like in the movies.</em> <br /> <br />Well, since I’ve used that line <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/saumya-arya-haas/what-is-vodou_b_827947.html" target="_blank">to explain Vodou to people</a>, it shut me up. <br /> <br />Here is some of what I’ve been experiencing: <br />Memory loss, both short- and long-term <br />Lack of motor skills <br />Cognitive issues <br />Inability to focus <br />Vision problems including complete inability to see <br />Sensitivity to light and <strike>fortune</strike> sound. <br />Emotional outbursts, anxiety <br /> <br />It’s likely that most of these symptoms will clear up. With time. But we’re not certain. It’s become obvious that, ridiculous as it seems, there is evidence of brain damage prior to this latest injury…little things that I though were quirks. As the <strike>haveli</strike> doctors have explained to me, the effects are cumulative. (If you are worried about me, be assured I am surrounded by a phalanx of specialists, alternative medicine folks, good friends, supportive family, and <a href="http://www.chasingtheasson.com/" target="_blank">one incredible guy</a>. We are dealing with this sensibly and systematically.) <br /> <br />Summer Session started yesterday. I’ve been looking forward to my class on <strike>granary</strike> Islam, but was a little worried about being able to keep up with <strike>severed</strike> the demanding short session pace: 17 weeks of material 8 weeks. I watched the first lecture video. <strike>17 17 1717</strike> It was great, I could follow what was <strike>171717 17</strike> going on, I could take notes. <em>I can do this.</em> Then I looked down at my notes. In nearly every sentence: random, bizarre words. <strike>Like the ones I’ve left in this blog entry. <br /></strike> <br />I had no idea I was doing this. When I discovered it, I meticulously crossed out all the phantom words, <strike>datura</strike> watched the lecture again, and replaced them. Like I could cover it up. <br /> <br /><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-ojY2vgwHPFs/UcyMG0HE-CI/AAAAAAAABFc/bM-Oadc2Gjs/s1600-h/010%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="010" alt="010" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-ow5dH1kD_5o/UcyMHRcLp1I/AAAAAAAABFk/L2Af2fbDf7I/010_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="232" height="306" /></a> <br /> <br />Urban and I had a long talk. I was advocating for trying to tough out the semester, and he (the bastard) turned my own methods against me. He asked: <em>If someone came to you with this story, what advice would you give them?</em> Encoded in my long silence: why can’t I be as kind to myself as I am to others? <br /> <br />So, I dropped the class. This means I won’t be graduating next spring. It stings, but I’ll deal. I’m more worried about what I might be facing <strike>greater New Orleans area</strike> long-term. <br /> <br />I value nothing more than my intellect. Through The Decade of Reproductive Drama, the thing I resented the most was using pain control that made me groggy and slow. I am a talker. I am a thinker. I am a scholar. My mind is my most valuable possession. I don’t know who I would be without it. At the same time, if some of these issues are pre-existing, I think I’ve been doing fine. The brain adjusts. We adjust. <br /> <br />There is part of <strike>Systemic</strike> me that finds all of this deeply interesting. I have to control my impulse to read some <a href="http://www.oliversacks.com/" target="_blank">Oliver Sacks</a>. I have been coloring in the brain section in my beloved but (ancient and) neglected <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Anatomy-Coloring-Book-4th/dp/0321832019/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1372359581&sr=1-1&keywords=anatomy+coloring+book" target="_blank">Anatomy Coloring Book</a>. I’m not bale to intellect cumulous making little creatures out of Play-Doh, and creating videos <strike>save </strike>chronicling the adventures of a stuffed toy that our nieces left at our house last summer. <br /></p> <p> <div style="padding-bottom: 0px; margin: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; float: none; padding-top: 0px" id="scid:5737277B-5D6D-4f48-ABFC-DD9C333F4C5D:44091a76-f935-490b-8318-0e78c69a65dc" class="wlWriterEditableSmartContent"><div id="9c5e866e-b5ce-4135-a747-72074fe066dd" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; display: inline;"><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6B1DN1JUsDQ" target="_new"><img src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-l_Sm5rvwB08/UcyMHxMVx7I/AAAAAAAABFs/znf2ofXcVn0/video17826afa1f51%25255B108%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-style: none" galleryimg="no" onload="var downlevelDiv = document.getElementById('9c5e866e-b5ce-4135-a747-72074fe066dd'); downlevelDiv.innerHTML = "<div><object width=\"448\" height=\"252\"><param name=\"movie\" value=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/6B1DN1JUsDQ?hl=en&hd=1\"><\/param><embed src=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/6B1DN1JUsDQ?hl=en&hd=1\" type=\"application/x-shockwave-flash\" width=\"448\" height=\"252\"><\/embed><\/object><\/div>";" alt=""></a></div></div><div style="width:448px;clear:both;font-size:.8em">Mepole Finds A Hat</div></div> </p> <p>It’s hard to think. It feels like there is a hurricane raging in my head: thoughts, feelings, images torn loose, shredded and flung haphazardly about; signposts destroyed; familiar pathways inaccessible; my <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Method_of_loci" target="_blank">memory palace</a> underwater.. The pain’s no fun but not being able to access my mind, what I think of as my <em>self</em>, is terrifying. And intriguing. <br /> <br /><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-rnELcp10eOo/UcyMIsOg77I/AAAAAAAABF0/p4dZi7gj-kM/s1600-h/blood%252520red%252520sky%252520005%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="blood red sky 005" alt="blood red sky 005" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-dvy5CAnjWAo/UcyMI6HhLRI/AAAAAAAABF8/YCxpQ6PxJjQ/blood%252520red%252520sky%252520005_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="350" height="233" /></a> <br /> <br />Last night I could not remember who I was. It seemed to only last a few minutes. I wonder if I ever really have known. I wonder if this is what it takes to find out. </p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-3342703665324914852013-06-21T14:44:00.001-05:002013-06-21T14:44:36.375-05:00A Summer Haiku<p><font size="4">Second destruction: <br />Chainsaws echo night’s thunder, <br />The day after storm.</font> </p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-8uqMo8EcwhU/UcStDF4iPhI/AAAAAAAABEE/NeUiun7VLE4/s1600-h/005%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="005" alt="005" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-pXxHx129O-s/UcStEDu0PUI/AAAAAAAABEM/tNBV5PCtXBI/005_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="240" height="180" /></a> <br />Surveying the Damage</p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-dkysamvfJ9w/UcStFCzcQUI/AAAAAAAABEU/5ED4tpvjNWg/s1600-h/009%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="009" alt="009" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-Tg3DZ5IayLU/UcStFl9A34I/AAAAAAAABEc/PdcVDSHuIGs/009_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="180" height="240" /></a> <br />*sigh*</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-hKRFgeeemkk/UcStG1MWCwI/AAAAAAAABEk/NtacUTcjyAc/s1600-h/006%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="006" alt="006" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-bV0QUjYgmXM/UcStHdmWabI/AAAAAAAABEs/izp6AZP-9bo/006_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="328" height="249" /></a> <br />I didn’t do it! It just fell off. </p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-4vaRPC8pGJE/UcStIRNsC4I/AAAAAAAABE0/MwycLHsqZ7E/s1600-h/008%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="008" alt="008" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-zDSjmT5nIWg/UcStI9G9zyI/AAAAAAAABE8/Zw0y1JP59c4/008_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="350" height="262" /></a> <br />Good news: the intermittent rain & sunshine we’ve been getting helps the pasture stay healthy. Our maintenance methods are 99% organic. </p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-9581242987231594842013-06-02T13:13:00.001-05:002013-06-02T14:26:53.886-05:00Jasper<p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-fDOEEJ1ee80/UauKnYbrXUI/AAAAAAAAA9E/UJzz_C2HXGw/s1600-h/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520036%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="2013 Jasper & Summer 036" alt="2013 Jasper & Summer 036" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-LVJbkMwHFTc/UauKoCBmz-I/AAAAAAAAA9I/I4LxgR9xuQM/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520036_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="356" /></a> <br />Where am I? What is this place? <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-XhXBzIcuzdA/UauKou1lAHI/AAAAAAAAA9M/BR4dw-enmQw/s1600-h/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520048%25255B9%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="2013 Jasper & Summer 048" alt="2013 Jasper & Summer 048" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-hpQ7bZmoLYc/UauKpUbXR4I/AAAAAAAAA9Q/BkD2_ywV_bs/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520048_thumb%25255B6%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="352" /></a>  <br />I see a lady. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-tDDvIM4CXk4/UauKqHAU1XI/AAAAAAAAA9U/yqX701N8Qjw/s1600-h/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520032%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="2013 Jasper & Summer 032" alt="2013 Jasper & Summer 032" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-A4wtzO6EhnA/UauKtAf5vnI/AAAAAAAAA9Y/fL-hf8Lmhlc/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520032_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="313" /></a> <br />Hello, lady. I think I might be lost. I’m Jasper. I’m a Clydesdale/Thoroughbred mix. I am six years old. Who are you? <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-u0jtHusjFJg/UauKt2PygOI/AAAAAAAAA9c/Vfi0cfM88ho/s1600-h/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520037%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="2013 Jasper & Summer 037" alt="2013 Jasper & Summer 037" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-XixRPaggFTk/UauKuWwWI9I/AAAAAAAAA9g/RlhbVK5UF5A/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520037_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="257" /></a> <br />My new mom? What? <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-y2V8O6RXGTs/UauKuwZIQnI/AAAAAAAAA9k/oMlUph6xFnI/s1600-h/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520011%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="2013 Jasper & Summer 011" alt="2013 Jasper & Summer 011" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-_K-maeBZTdA/UauKvSEdLMI/AAAAAAAAA9o/-0xH-rLMJeM/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520011_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="317" /></a> <br />Ok. You can be my mom. But you have to be nice. I’m sensitive and could use some reassurance. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/--6eXUFwT-Fo/UauKwGaMYZI/AAAAAAAAA2Q/a1btmep--PE/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520150%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 150" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 150" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-KPTtdddKGqM/UauKwoZsjiI/AAAAAAAAA2Y/wyS3dGj_Yh8/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520150_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="301" height="323" /></a> <br />Well this doesn’t suck. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-cwMMi-tFbwA/UauKx1daSOI/AAAAAAAAA9s/w0alDCPnITk/s1600-h/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520057%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="2013 Jasper & Summer 057" alt="2013 Jasper & Summer 057" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-4tt3iqNYfTE/UauKyeHo6VI/AAAAAAAAA9w/NrVqMoPWbqQ/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520057_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="257" /></a> <br />Hey, look! There’s a little mare! <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-vZVbQQ-4bYk/UauKzeedU2I/AAAAAAAAA90/caSCPnRbwL8/s1600-h/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520018%25255B9%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="2013 Jasper & Summer 018" alt="2013 Jasper & Summer 018" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-DmJTYadHorc/UauKzqjpg3I/AAAAAAAAA94/FWmjJHZn3P4/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520018_thumb%25255B10%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="124" /></a> <br />Please please please be my friend. I’m new here and I don’t really know anyone. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-PG0BSz8_Yd8/UauK0nZXTCI/AAAAAAAAA98/OC2nl8G6i8c/s1600-h/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520071%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="2013 Jasper & Summer 071" alt="2013 Jasper & Summer 071" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-WmvmIzQiXX4/UauK08Gr4GI/AAAAAAAAA-A/F3G7jEIU_Zk/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520071_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="260" /></a>  <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-r13dOCzcz5Y/UauK1xOogrI/AAAAAAAAA-E/_Ocm0l6xmTY/s1600-h/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520035%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="2013 Jasper & Summer 035" alt="2013 Jasper & Summer 035" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-V6rvvHAUT94/UauK2TT5q2I/AAAAAAAAA-I/1R4d4D3uD8A/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520035_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="257" /></a> <br /><font face="Arial Rounded MT Bold"><em>I’ll think about it.</em> <br /> <br /> <br /></font></p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-5KG-mGWUuNc/UauK3QhzZEI/AAAAAAAAA-M/-3D2cATsNLE/s1600-h/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520063%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="2013 Jasper & Summer 063" alt="2013 Jasper & Summer 063" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-nxUP1v57DyQ/UauK34ldWXI/AAAAAAAAA-Q/NEXjV56s8n0/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520063_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="280" /></a> <br /></p> <p> <br /> <br /><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-_VE5tEMudbI/UauK4uuJcrI/AAAAAAAAA3w/J4B6fxsCjLc/s1600-h/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520023%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="2013 Jasper & Summer 023" alt="2013 Jasper & Summer 023" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-sOZI1YYpZHM/UauK5NI6jLI/AAAAAAAAA34/vjD2zRYeN04/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520023_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="240" height="160" /></a> <br />Ok. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-GfPNOw3LJgw/UauK5_yMGPI/AAAAAAAAA-U/_W_G_2zUeLQ/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520104%25255B9%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 104" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 104" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-vYDjOXHEe94/UauK6Qj5MGI/AAAAAAAAA-Y/Om5A3p9D-xg/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520104_thumb%25255B9%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="347" height="318" /></a> <br />Hold on. Who are all these people looking at me? Blog readers, huh?  Don’t be fooled by my friendliness. I am one smart horse, and I know about blogs. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-L8bXuO6SaK0/UauK6y09qCI/AAAAAAAAA-c/p_c6vsPugTE/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520133%25255B8%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 133" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 133" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-89wY3WcyY6Y/UauK7LTaL8I/AAAAAAAAA-g/3MUaa7gQzug/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520133_thumb%25255B5%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="496" /></a> <br />Hiiiiii! I like everyone. Life is awesome. Let me tell you about myself, and my new home. <br /> <br /> <br /><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-a3RLDi-3b3Y/UauK8L5zHSI/AAAAAAAAA-k/EWSFRJNrCOM/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520108%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 108" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 108" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-00XApqEN1fU/UauK8gOpMAI/AAAAAAAAA-o/4p48ZSO6OWc/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520108_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="290" /></a> <br />You heard the part about my breeding and age and stuff. I’m a gelding (a castrated male horse). My family are immigrants and went through a lot of bad times. My horse-mom was <a href="http://www.gentlegiantsdrafthorserescue.com/pmuindustry.html" target="_blank">a PMU rescue</a> from Canada (maybe not from the linked org, but you get the idea, and maybe don’t click on these links if images of suffering animals will upset you). PMU mares are used to make Premarin, an estrogen replacement drug. It is <a href="http://www.premarin.org/" target="_blank">a terrible life for a horse</a>. If my mom had not been rescued, and I had been born into the Premarin industry, I probably would have been considered a “byproduct” and sent to slaughter; they don’t have any use for male horses. But she was rescued, and lots of my relatives have gone into law enforcement with the Canadian Mounties! If you like me, please don’t use Premarin…you swallow my family’s suffering with every pill. There are natural hormone replacement therapies available, but you still need to consult a health care provider. </p> <p>Once I was old enough, I moved to MN and lived at a nice barn with a nice mom and lots of other horses. Then I came to live here at Dark River Farm. It’s very peaceful. I am still figuring everything out. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-scFwx5HhrTY/UauK9snXXaI/AAAAAAAAA-s/8JxeEyc9TMs/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520129%25255B9%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 129" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 129" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-_ILjc8GH2J8/UauK-MAn93I/AAAAAAAAA-w/YmSFbyms2r4/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520129_thumb%25255B9%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="359" height="307" /></a> <br />This short lady is my new mom. Her name is Saum. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-D2891dH31O4/UauK_GyusvI/AAAAAAAAA-0/mENw8ivKIN8/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520122%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 122" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 122" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-fUYUwLAJtbw/UauK_SabqtI/AAAAAAAAA-4/2sdwdfbwlNo/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520122_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="285" /></a> <br />She can’t see over my back. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-4V-I9w3N9-U/UauLAD_Lz-I/AAAAAAAAA-8/wx7EbMXEm-0/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520150%25255B13%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 150" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 150" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-xX2S-JzFvok/UauLAleyDnI/AAAAAAAAA_A/xmKfVdjI2Iw/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520150_thumb%25255B7%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="408" /></a> <br />We are getting used to each other. We have not started riding, because we don’t have a saddle that fits yet, but we do lots of groundwork and go for little walks. We’re having fun. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-zNodZUTkLIM/UauLBow33-I/AAAAAAAAA_E/kVdd44EtttI/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520138%25255B8%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 138" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 138" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-THQAkG-lRWE/UauLB-fGSUI/AAAAAAAAA_I/cQdvBqAd0t8/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520138_thumb%25255B8%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="454" /></a> <br />She tells me stuff. I found out that she used to have another horse, a mare named Styx, but Styx died. Everyone is sad about that. Even me. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. I told her about my other mom, and my friends at the old barn where I lived. We decided that we are going to remember Styx and my previous family, and be sad about it for as long as we feel like. When we’re ready, we’ll stop feeling sad together. <br /> <br /> <br /><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-3J-HOIin5BE/UauLDDjrkWI/AAAAAAAAA_M/XERGY-rqsa0/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520113%25255B8%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 113" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 113" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-RX9b3hDnVM0/UauLDk2NYiI/AAAAAAAAA_Q/C-ANRvlaFG8/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520113_thumb%25255B8%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="338" height="326" /></a> <br />I like it here, even if it’s different. There’s lots to find out. Saum visits me often. I come up and greet her, because I am a gentleman. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-gPPY8pOKC_A/UauLEAs1gZI/AAAAAAAAA_U/LZ65UWfjuWA/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520174%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 174" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 174" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-2Yrc7odHA8I/UauLEmKOzuI/AAAAAAAAA_Y/SwcREVDQZmg/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520174_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="288" /></a> <br />I like to put my nose in her hand. Sometimes this causes treats to appear, sometimes it does not. I’m not sure why this is. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-TsIGNga-bdI/UauLFbB34KI/AAAAAAAAA_c/6FiH8-RASO0/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520191%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 191" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 191" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-Bw3C7iZk4Ow/UauLF02WWaI/AAAAAAAAA_g/YCz7P-YNJ3U/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520191_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="288" /></a> <br />She likes to pet me. I love attention. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-kD6BmIq2YrU/UauLGjF8pjI/AAAAAAAAA_k/acW6pNbfw0g/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520159%25255B10%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 159" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 159" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-wVz6IEshRS8/UauLHFPmAdI/AAAAAAAAA_o/TV79KDcf5FE/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520159_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="288" /></a> <br />Let me get a little closer. Watch this… <br /> <br /> <br /><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-1RjQ4WGtpLI/UauLH1mATyI/AAAAAAAAA_s/LC28dARijbo/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520154%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 154" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 154" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-jkgQivFmtic/UaubsKk2GcI/AAAAAAAAA_w/uuURzc9OctE/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520154_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="288" /></a> <br />Ha! Got her. <br /> <br /> <br /><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-xLZSnNDR8nc/UauLJT3JH4I/AAAAAAAAA_4/ki9dZYgVShY/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520115%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 115" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 115" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-vrxYZuXze-A/UauLJ6UUI4I/AAAAAAAAA_8/BVQrZq6Vm80/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520115_thumb%25255B7%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="381" height="287" /></a> <br />A cat lives here, too. He’s interested in me. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-o_d3uVHuCNQ/UauLK0JfpuI/AAAAAAAABAA/kWfKtf3kSKk/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520116%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 116" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 116" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-BF-MkgVaMIc/UauLLbt12GI/AAAAAAAABAE/PWqoylkPmcA/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520116_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="289" /></a>  <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-FLkXonMhWRA/UauLMGO9vzI/AAAAAAAABAI/2t0rP17yruc/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520111%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 111" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 111" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-pnY4eEzHecA/UauLMgecH7I/AAAAAAAABAM/q1WjtG7ESuI/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520111_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="290" /></a> <br />I’ll give him space and he’ll come back. This is how you have to deal with cats. </p> <p> <br /><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-VWlJ-sGrYEg/UauLNSXCryI/AAAAAAAABAQ/QMDtmaKHel0/s1600-h/spring%252520summer%252520jasper%2525201984%252520project%252520069%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="spring summer jasper 1984 project 069" alt="spring summer jasper 1984 project 069" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-G1SXWXo1Wpg/UauLNwVfcUI/AAAAAAAABAU/zUdUiq4DkHM/spring%252520summer%252520jasper%2525201984%252520project%252520069_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="282" /></a> <br />This blonde guy is my new dad, Urban. The blonde dog is my my new buddy, Barnabas. He is not scared of me. We touched noses and everything. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-ikqS4pGRrFc/UauLOtklyOI/AAAAAAAABAY/nvc8qDoxVMw/s1600-h/spring%252520summer%252520jasper%2525201984%252520project%252520066%25255B8%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="spring summer jasper 1984 project 066" alt="spring summer jasper 1984 project 066" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-YlX4HXJXiZk/UauLPOda1HI/AAAAAAAABAc/GyqkSdTLIN8/spring%252520summer%252520jasper%2525201984%252520project%252520066_thumb%25255B5%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="292" /></a> <br />Dad brought me hay and I was sort of excited to get to it. Then we had a conversation about personal space. I guess personal space counts even when the person has hay. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-7C3wHE1Gy0k/UauLPnEo9QI/AAAAAAAABAg/BPfy_80ZBkA/s1600-h/spring%252520summer%252520jasper%2525201984%252520project%252520065%25255B6%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="spring summer jasper 1984 project 065" alt="spring summer jasper 1984 project 065" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-1En3ycXTDS0/UauLQaIbTII/AAAAAAAABAk/VlGn3D6OmoY/spring%252520summer%252520jasper%2525201984%252520project%252520065_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="391" /></a>  <br />I like hay. And I’m liking this new dad.  <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-itCi8MYPsSU/UauLRL907tI/AAAAAAAABAo/UCX0mPj9ljs/s1600-h/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520029%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="2013 Jasper & Summer 029" alt="2013 Jasper & Summer 029" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-pa_bFiKD61g/UauLRj0qrUI/AAAAAAAABAs/NOYXRb6BcgI/2013%252520Jasper%252520%252526%252520Summer%252520029_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="296" /></a>  <br />This seems like a pretty nice place. I think I’ll stay. <br /> <br /> <br /></p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-9kRml0-taEY/UauLSWjMszI/AAAAAAAABAw/_0QdYnE52G4/s1600-h/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520169%25255B7%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 169" alt="Jasper;Horses;Dark River Farm 169" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-8uDHaeM8o1Q/UauLS2BnJCI/AAAAAAAABA0/-FxDu4cqwFo/Jasper%25253BHorses%25253BDark%252520River%252520Farm%252520169_thumb%25255B4%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="380" height="311" /></a> <br />Like, forever. </p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-29757597668329536032012-12-14T20:59:00.001-06:002012-12-14T21:01:34.588-06:00Three Strangers<p>I am in Target. It is full of crabby shoppers and harried staff. I am just entering the aisle of 10,000 Christmas Things when my Tardis ringtone starts: rrrrWOOOrrrrWOOOrrrrWOOO… rrrrWOOOrrrrWOOOrrrrWOOO… rrrrWOOOrrrrWOOOrrrrWOOO…. (<em>What’s a Tardis?</em> you wonder. Here: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/TARDIS" target="_blank">more than you wanted to know</a>, but you asked for it.)</p> <p>A lady in the same aisle, coolly assessing wrapping paper, predictably  glances up, has no interest in the Tardis or me, and goes back to it. Suddenly, a (tired, stressed-looking) Target Employee comes running around the corner, yelling <em>“TAKE ME WITH YOU, DOCTOR!”</em> He nearly knocks me over. </p> <p>Alarmed, the lady asks: <em>“Is he ok? Are you a doctor? Should I call an ambulance?”</em> Mr. Target Employee & I look at each other and start laughing like loons. We can’t stop. Wrapping Paper Lady looks affronted. He finally collects himself and says to her <em>“Sorry, ma’am. It’s a geek thing. Happy Holidays.” <br /></em> <br />Then he shakes my hand, turns, and returns from whence he came. </p> <p>I am still grinning when I walk out of the store. I am still grinning when a friend texts me one word: <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2012/12/14/us/connecticut-school-shooting/index.html" target="_blank">Connecticut</a>. My smile fades as I scroll through my Twitter feed to find out what’s going on. The news is fresh and contradictory, but one thing is clear: some asshole walked into a school and killed a bunch of little kids. Holy fuck. Little kids. </p> <p>The face of every kid I love shines behind my eyes. Then: no. Don’t go there. </p> <p>I drive over to my sister’s house. It’s where I go when things feel rough, you know? We talk for awhile, about how horrible it is, how it’s not happening to us, yet it is happening to us. I mean, we’re fine. But…we’re all one family in the end. But we’re not. But it could happen to anyone, to anyone’s kids. But it didn’t, it happened to specific people and specific kids. It shouldn’t happen to anyone. But it does. All the time. All we can conclude is that little kids are dead, it’s messed up, and we feel helpless and terrible. In this moment, I am happy that I don’t have children. By the time I leave, my mind is back on my errands. </p> <p>I stop at a gas station. As I walk up to the door, I see a guy in a Massive Pick-Up Truck (I live in the land of MPUTs). His head is down and his shoulders shaking. He looks up and I see tears running down his face. </p> <p>Hesitating a bit, I go over to his window. He rolls it down. Big, burly dude, wearing a farm-battered Carhartt coat. </p> <p>Me: <em>“Are you ok? Are you sick?”</em> Flashback to TAKE ME WITH YOU, DOCTOR! <br /> <br />Him: <em>“No…I’m not sick. I’m not ok. I just dropped my boy off at practice, and I keep thinking about those kids in Connecticut. All those kids. And I just keep thinking of my kid…”</em> He starts crying, hard. I reach into the window and take his hand. I start crying, too, of course. </p> <p>I stand there and cry with this guy (I never got his name). He finally gives my hand a squeeze and lets go. He says <em>thanks</em>. I say, <em>same goes</em>. He rolls up his window, Puts his MPUT in gear, and goes. I sit in The Red Barron (my car) until I calm down. It never really happens, but I have to head home. I take the long way, feeling awful, and sniffling. </p> <p>I am halfway home when: <em>fuck this</em>. I turn the radio on, and crank it loud. It helps. I’m waiting at a stoplight and singing along to LCD Soundsystem’s <em>Daft Punk Is Playing at My House (My House),</em> when I look over and see this kid in a Toyota, also singing his heart out. After a minute, I realize, Holy Shit! He’s singing the same song.  He notices me, does a double take as he realizes the same thing, rolls his windows down, and turns the music UP. I do the same. Winter air washes over me. The bassline makes our cars shiver. We howl along.</p> <p>We don’t move until the cars behind us start honking. He waves once, and turns the corner. </p> <p> </p> <div style="padding-bottom: 0px; margin: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; float: none; padding-top: 0px" id="scid:5737277B-5D6D-4f48-ABFC-DD9C333F4C5D:61d07224-077c-41e9-beda-2aa13768c1b2" class="wlWriterEditableSmartContent"><div id="925d0316-ded5-45d3-aa63-29c0bc2eb07f" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; display: inline;"><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cj8JrQ9w5jY" target="_new"><img src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-BvVKxp-yswk/UMvne5S5cqI/AAAAAAAAAxk/OOmd20Sba4c/videof228750d2e8b%25255B43%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="border-style: none" galleryimg="no" onload="var downlevelDiv = document.getElementById('925d0316-ded5-45d3-aa63-29c0bc2eb07f'); downlevelDiv.innerHTML = "<div><object width=\"448\" height=\"252\"><param name=\"movie\" value=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/Cj8JrQ9w5jY?hl=en&hd=1\"><\/param><embed src=\"http://www.youtube.com/v/Cj8JrQ9w5jY?hl=en&hd=1\" type=\"application/x-shockwave-flash\" width=\"448\" height=\"252\"><\/embed><\/object><\/div>";" alt=""></a></div></div></div> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-47695482305887612932012-11-07T03:00:00.001-06:002012-11-07T03:00:51.855-06:00First Draft<p><font size="3"><em><font face="Times New Roman">I recently published an article to both </font><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/saumya-arya-haas/my-vote-on-gay-marriage-shouldnt-count-and-neither-should-yours_b_2048847.html"><font face="Times New Roman">HuffPost</font></a><font face="Times New Roman"> and </font><a href="http://www.stateofformation.org/2012/11/why-my-vote-on-gay-marriage-shouldnt-count-and-neither-should-yours/"><font face="Times New Roman">State of Formation</font></a><font face="Times New Roman">:</font></em><font face="Times New Roman"> Why My Vote On Gay Marriage Shouldn’t Count (And Neither Should Yours).</font><em><font face="Times New Roman"> I wrote it in a mezcal-and rage-induced frenzy. Before I sent it in, I edited out all the expletives…although someone pointed out that you can still kinda hear them when you read the article. A number of people asked to see the unedited draft. If you ever wondered about my “creative process,” I’ll let you in a secret: it involves liberal use of the word “fuck,” and a great deal of me talking to myself. <br /> <br />Now that the Marriage Amendment has failed (yay!), here is my First Draft, in all its obscenity-laden glory:</font></em></font> </p> <p>On November 6, we will be voting on (among other things) whether or not to amend the Minnesota State Constitution to include the following: <a href="http://ballotpedia.org/wiki/index.php/Minnesota_Same-Sex_Marriage_Amendment,_Amendment_1_%282012%29">Only a union of one man and one woman shall be valid or recognized as a marriage in Minnesota.</a></p> <p>This is bullshit. Total, complete, fucking bullshit. I am ashamed to part of this crap. </p> <p>Imagine this: I am 22, freshly escaped from an abusive relationship, emotionally vulnerable, partying heavily, and I just got engaged. My family and friends thought it was a terrible idea for me to get married. It probably was. But you know what? They didn’t get to fucking decide that for me. As concerned as they were, it didn’t occur to anyone to propose a law that prevented young, emotionally fucked-up people from marrying each other. </p> <p>something something about our interracial marriage & my dual priestess-hood something something </p> <p>People object to the caste system because it creates a society where there are social strata based on perceived spiritual worthiness: those on top are invested with a moral authority that puts them in a position to control, exploit and oppress those on the bottom. The lower castes are less able to exercise or access basic social, civil and human rights.  Does this sound familiar, asshole? Suppose that Brahmins (the top-tier, priestly caste) got to decide that the lower tier castes were not able to marry (which is not the case). How would you feel about that, motherfucker? Huh? Would that piss you off? </p> <p>And arranged marriage? The idea that people can’t marry who they choose? Non-Hindu Americans freak the fuck out about this. While the are freaking-the-fuck-out, they are able to hold in their minds the idea the THEY HAVE THE RIGHT to decide that people can’t marry who (whom? fuck? is it whom?) they choose. </p> <p>Now, on to Vodou. One of the many misconceptions about Vodou is that is a magical system that gives practitioners the ability to control others through spells and whatnot. Imagine that part of that system of control was control people’s ability to love and marry. Does that sound fucked up to you? Cuz it does to me.  </p> <p>We see things (real or imagined) in other, less familiar, cultures that disturb us. But we are not able to see that the things that disturb us not only exist, but are being nurtured, in our own nation. </p> <p>The worst kind of thumb-sucking idiots claim that Homosexuality is wrong, corrupt, damaging to society. Even if it were true, I’d argue that many people think that young, emotionally fucked-up people are also potentially wrong, corrupt and damaging to society. But no-one votes on their goddamn marriages. </p> <p>Our attitude towards homosexuality is a big part of the problem. First of all, the entire emphasis seems to be on the second half of the word: sexuality. Sex! Gay sex! Gays using gay sex to fuck other gays! OMFG! The horror! Come on. Grow up. </p> <p>When two straight people want to get married, nobody worries about how they fuck. Why? Because marriage is not about fucking (well…ok, you know what I mean). If you want to fuck, you don’t need to get married to do so. Sex is everywhere: gay, straight or any combination thereof. Gay people don’t want to get married so they can have lots of gay sex, and, frankly, if they do, whose fucking business is it? If you object to gay sex, why do you spend so much goddam time thinking about it?? Does anyone else see the problem here, or is it just me? fuck that’s not going to work. </p> <p>Hm. Try: The problem is: we sexualize gay folks. We don’t see them as whole people. </p> <p>On that note, let’s talk about girl-on-girl porn. I’m been dying to bring this us. There is a hella crazy lot of girl-on-girl porn. I know, I just checked. Good Lord! While I haven’t conducted a scientific survey, it seems that this is not actually aimed at lesbians. It’s practically a national pass-time for straight dudes to watch women fuck each other. Should we vote on whether those women get to have sex when no-one is recording it? Should they be allowed to cuddle afterwards? Have breakfast together? Get married and raise a family? </p> <p>Are we really investing ourselves with the moral authority to decide that for other people? What the fuck? </p> <p>Yes, it seems that we are. BTW, If you’re a straight dude who has ever enjoyed watching women make out or have sex, I sincerely hope you support their right to have a full relationship. If not, I would sincerely like to kick the everloving shit out of you, because you are a creepy, exploitative asshole that thinks women exist only in relation to how they stimulate your tiny monkey-dick. There’s a word for that: sociopath. Fuck you and the patriarchal, objectifying bullshit you rode in on.  </p> <p>Listen up. people: American is not a religion, it is a nation. I don’t give a good goddam what the Founding Fathers intended. They left us plenty to work with. For example: we hold certain truths to be self-evident. That means some truths should be a given: not debated, not voted on. <em>Given</em>. By virtue of being a citizen of this country, each American should have access to the same fucking rights. </p> <p>Instead, we have created, in America, in the year 2012, a priestly caste of people who believe that their interpretation of certain scriptures should be used to decide others’ fate. We aren’t practicing magic but we are using means acceptable in our society to control the lives of other adults. We are reducing erotic homosexual expression to either a bogeyman or a means of entertainment for heterosexuals. This tells us something about us, not something about gay folks.  </p> <p>What the fuck do we think we are doing? I really don’t know, but I can tell you what we are actually doing: we are perverting our precious and useful system of democracy to invest ourselves with unearned and tyrannical power over the lives of other Americans. </p> <p>On November sixth, my husband and I will cast our votes on the Minnesota Marriage Amendment, which aims to exclude gay couples from access to the civil right that we stumbled into, young and clueless, but have enjoyed for seventeen years. </p> <p>The ballot will ask me if I wish for <i>"Recognition of Marriage Solely Between One Man and One Woman."</i> I will vote NO. But it makes me feel ashamed of myself, of all of us, that our vote counts. </p> <p>VOTE NO, Minnesota. VOTE NO. Let’s kick this motherfucker to the curb. </p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-18348285801004035142012-11-05T18:01:00.001-06:002012-11-05T18:01:17.362-06:00Read My Rant<p>Ok, Minnesota. We vote on the Marriage Amendment tomorrow. Let’s kick this motherfucker to the curb. </p> <p><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/saumya-arya-haas/my-vote-on-gay-marriage-shouldnt-count-and-neither-should-yours_b_2048847.html">Read my rant at Huffington Post Religion</a></p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-90666310184492132642012-09-10T11:39:00.001-05:002012-09-10T11:39:57.540-05:00Messages to the Ancestors…<p> <br />Last year I wrote a piece called “<em><a href="http://www.stateofformation.org/2011/10/flesh-and-bone-honoring-ancestors/" target="_blank">Flesh and Bone: Honoring Ancestors</a></em>” for State of Formation. The article, and the issues I raise in it, have continued to haunt me. Our disconnection from and fear of our dead: why is this so often the stuff of horror movies? Why do we make our dead into monsters? These are our departed loved ones, our community, our history. Why do we fear them? I felt like the article was the start of something but I didn’t know what else to do. Write another article? </p> <p>We were brainstorming new ideas for the <a href="http://neworleanshealingcenter.org/2012/09/02/anba-dlo-v-festival-and-parade/" target="_blank">Fifth Annual Anba Dlo Halloween Festival</a> at the <a href="http://neworleanshealingcenter.org/events/" target="_blank">New Orleans Healing Center</a>: how can we make the spiritual principles represented by Halloween fun and engaging? How can we recognize and express our heritage while doing some good for people in the city we all love? I was trying to think of an interactive project to host in the Spiritual Space. </p> <p>BAM! It hit me. Messages to the Ancestors. An easy, practical and beautiful way to reach out to our departed ones. A way to ease our guilt and fear, to forge a small connection based in love. To say what might have been unsaid, to soothe our regrets. Maybe a way to make a small peace. I envisioned messages sent as a blog comment, via email, or written out by attendees on the night of the festival, then displayed in the ascetic but resonant 4th floor Spiritual Space. Even more fitting, the adjacent rooftop space will be hosting the 10,000 Bones exhibit (these bones represent a protest against genocide). So we’ll have the symbolic bones of our ancestors keeping company with the created bones of artistic protest against the harms we do to each other. I like that. </p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-bJxRLsvsNys/UE4XzDTHUnI/AAAAAAAAAtI/r7QtGZIXArQ/s1600-h/Peristlye%252520Gede%252520altar%25255B31%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Peristlye Gede altar" alt="Peristlye Gede altar" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-TsKBuVgML2k/UE4X2ULA5dI/AAAAAAAAAtQ/2S6kslz11bI/Peristlye%252520Gede%252520altar_thumb%25255B28%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="307" height="436" /></a></p> <p>I had the idea roughed out and ready to go…then I got (Viral) Meningitis and lost nearly a month of work time. As  recovered and scrambled to get ready to leave for Burkina Faso for a month, I kept worrying about this project. It got pushed back and back. I finally got the website launched the night before I left…and realized that now, the timing felt right: the eve of my departure to Africa, home of all of our ancestors.</p> <p>So, please: visit <a href="http://ancestormessages.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Messages to the Ancestors</a>. Reach into your history, reach within you, reach forward into a future where you are at peace with your past. Leave a message. </p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-35016995063652718932012-04-16T17:30:00.001-05:002012-04-16T21:48:57.403-05:00Bangles<p>Sometimes they annoy me and I say <br />I’m going to take them off for good.</p> <p>I remember the night when the bangle-seller eased them on: <br />Bright and clattering, red and gold, spangly with glitter <br />For weeks afterwards, small shimmers appear <br />On my clothes, my face, my husband’s blonde hair.</p> <p>The gentle glitterbomb of Love and India.</p> <p>I remember my regular bangle-seller, <br />Rotund and genial, <br />Telling me (I was 14) that if a man ever grabs me <br />And I cannot get away, <br />To slam my wrist against his eyes. <br />This surprises me: <br />They are glass, these bangles, decorative and fragile-seeming <br />Pretty, useless. <br />But he tells me that adornment never only serves one purpose.</p> <p>These shining rings are blinding <br />In more than one way. <br />One at a time, they are delicate things. <br />I wear 30 on each arm. </p> <p>And when a man grabs me and I cannot get away <br />I smash his eyes and nose and he lets go <br />Howling and calling me crazy. <br />I bare teeth, raise fists and shake shattered, bloody bangles at him. <br />He runs. <br /> <br />But that was a long time ago. Now they break <br />Against the edge of the sink <br />As I throw a ball for the dogs <br />While grinding spices <br />When I’m cleaning stalls <br />Or for no reason I can fathom.</p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-FvWny7gqWWM/T4ydi5cTnYI/AAAAAAAAAjc/P82EPkraa3s/s1600-h/JaiChai%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="JaiChai" alt="JaiChai" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-lmZqesn4ksk/T4ydjXmP5uI/AAAAAAAAAjk/UgsK7cHFcUc/JaiChai_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="240" height="240" /></a></p> <p>Sometimes in the night I roll over and feel a stab at my back, <br />An unnoticed casualty tangled with us in the sheets. <br />I know how that one broke. <br />I place it on the shard-strewn bedside table <br />And smile back into sleep. </p> <p>My bangles are not so bright anymore. Stripped of sparkles by <br />The Indian ocean <br />The New Orleans sun <br />My Minnesota farm.</p> <p>I meant to take them off when I came back home but they stay <br />Lose against my dark skin <br />Jangling now against the keyboard <br />Chiming when I ride my horse <br />Dwindling of their own accord.</p> <p>In the grocery store, a woman admires them and asks if I am a Hindu lady. <br />I say yes. <br /> <br />I smile at her and think, that’s me, darlin:  <br />A Hindu lady, deadly and adorned. </p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-3147256567693514062012-02-15T11:54:00.001-06:002012-02-15T12:19:39.516-06:00Some things I have done:<p>I have traveled (approximately) 22,000 miles in under 60 days. I have been on planes, cars, boats, and an elephant named Sundari. I have debated the differences (if any) between a vacation, a journey, and a pilgrimage. </p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-YOLzkj7iE2E/TzvwE8NolHI/AAAAAAAAAfM/-a0YxLcKLT8/s1600-h/Munnar%2525202012%252520094.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Munnar 2012 094" alt="Munnar 2012 094" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-D9-PZi5hHJE/TzvwIHSOGdI/AAAAAAAAAfU/gVjM7hQTrug/Munnar%2525202012%252520094_thumb.jpg?imgmax=800" width="323" height="426" /></a> <br /><font size="1">Spice Gardens in Munnar, Kerala</font></p> <p>I have visited 3 mountain ranges, 2 of India's major rivers, 1 really huge lake, and the Indian Ocean. </p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-f0KePeqxt_0/TzvwLq1ZidI/AAAAAAAAAfc/4rooGEwI9Go/s1600-h/Guwahati%252520Shiva%252520temple%252520008%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Guwahati Shiva temple 008" alt="Guwahati Shiva temple 008" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-3WTEiMjTh3I/TzvwObpDZ_I/AAAAAAAAAfk/tTwnI-b9zN0/Guwahati%252520Shiva%252520temple%252520008_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="408" height="309" /></a> <br /><font size="1">Brahmaputra River, Assam </font></p> <p>I have seen painted trucks and unadorned Uzis. I have passed heavy carts pulled by cows, horses, and human beings. I have left offerings at remote roadside shrines and ancient temples. I have knelt in the womb of the Goddess. </p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-HJc-LQReO0M/TzvwSBj9VsI/AAAAAAAAAfs/oTsMuWp8jGY/s1600-h/Assam%252520Guwahati%252520017%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Assam Guwahati 017" alt="Assam Guwahati 017" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-4o-ZtX1MAQc/TzvwU6rclzI/AAAAAAAAAf0/tOvXyJtJv-s/Assam%252520Guwahati%252520017_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="332" height="435" /></a> <br /><font size="1">Kamakhya Temple, Assam</font></p> <p>I have struggled to find an internet connection so I could check my email. I have seen sacred images chiseled from stone, carved from the living roots of trees, and made from rebar. </p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-Qg814brNHuo/TzvwZiySEZI/AAAAAAAAAf8/hGOBx8SdgFQ/s1600-h/Munnar%2525202012%252520208%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Munnar 2012 208" alt="Munnar 2012 208" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-r48cDTLMly8/TzvwddNJ_2I/AAAAAAAAAgE/c19ys8mZIr8/Munnar%2525202012%252520208_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="349" height="460" /></a> <br /><font size="1">Trishul (trident) sacred to Lord Shiva. Roadside shrine outside Munnar, Kerala</font></p> <p>I have been in 5 states and 9 cities. I have fallen in love with Kolkata (Calcutta). I have had coconut oil and fresh jasmine flowers in my hair. I have wondered why I don’t live here. </p> <p> <br /><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-3l3Sk-PyGPk/TzvwiHdDlXI/AAAAAAAAAgM/fw-ABQxEbsE/s1600-h/Kokata%2525202%252520012%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Kokata 2 012" alt="Kokata 2 012" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-d8u1qBfEvWk/TzvwlaaFBOI/AAAAAAAAAgU/gpIjjSY_57Y/Kokata%2525202%252520012_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="356" height="270" /></a> <br /><font size="1">Street food. Kolkata, West Bengal</font></p> <p>I have been disgusted by humanity, and myself. I have wanted to punch people (but didn't). I have been happy that I don’t live here. </p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-E4-I69izQzA/TzvwxmuPbVI/AAAAAAAAAgs/GEZXEuGS-qM/s1600-h/Rishikesh%2525202011%252520028%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Rishikesh 2011 028" alt="Rishikesh 2011 028" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-Af5BS4iayEo/Tzvw0UB6JiI/AAAAAAAAAg0/6f19bWygz8o/Rishikesh%2525202011%252520028_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="338" height="386" /></a> <br /><font size="1">Child beggar dressed as Lord Shiva. Rishikesh, Uttarkhand.  </font></p> <p>I have been so cold I didn’t want to get out of bed, and so warm I wanted to hide in an air-conditioned room. I have felt sand, dirt, teak and marble under my bare feet. I have been immanent, and transcendent. </p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-AnpgfL98nOA/Tzvw4Ef0GoI/AAAAAAAAAg8/mC9U7vt3KY8/s1600-h/Kerala%252520Assam%2525202012%252520096%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Kerala Assam 2012 096" alt="Kerala Assam 2012 096" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-usiXsMfAGkc/Tzvw6Zi0x9I/AAAAAAAAAhE/76rgXjItIwA/Kerala%252520Assam%2525202012%252520096_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="443" height="248" /></a> <br /><font size="1">The Himalayas, view from Delhi-Guwahati flight.</font></p> <p>I have watched Indian soap operas. I have stepped over open sewers, onto deserted beaches, and across glittering marble lobbies. I have listened to temple bells, Bollywood songs, prayer call, wall-to-wall traffic, late-night roosters, the sound of the ocean, and <a href="http://nsomniasaum.blogspot.com/2012/02/music-for-mountain-roads.html" target="_blank">Kanye</a>. </p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-l87s8z9NEh8/Tzvw-QSw5LI/AAAAAAAAAhM/X2vLKA-NY4Y/s1600-h/Assam%252520Guwahati%2525202%252520061%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Assam Guwahati 2 061" alt="Assam Guwahati 2 061" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-ufP0xglnvDo/TzvxBN2c3nI/AAAAAAAAAhU/ZP8-ll3LDNQ/Assam%252520Guwahati%2525202%252520061_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="491" height="307" /></a> <br /><font size="1">Traffic in Guwahati, Assam.</font></p> <p>I have been thirsty. I have enjoyed fresh lime soda (sweet), coconut water, South Indian coffee, and chai. I have had wonderful meals, and awful ones. I have eaten off china plates and banana leaves.</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-KRq6WCo40M0/TzvwpjKYxXI/AAAAAAAAAgc/bOOj98SdYDM/s1600-h/Kerala%2525202012%252520309%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Kerala 2012 309" alt="Kerala 2012 309" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-xykO295kQw8/Tzvwtvgu4WI/AAAAAAAAAgk/9bKNfQ2MhwQ/Kerala%2525202012%252520309_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="409" height="274" /></a> <br /><font size="1">Traditional South India meal. Kettuvalum (houseboat), Kerala backwaters.</font> </p> <p>I have been jostled by ocean waves, crowds, and decrepit taxis. I have been called Madam, Memsahib, didi (older sister), and Durga-devi. I have hugged an old friend. I have touched silk that pooled in my hand like cream.</p> <p><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-C3oV9KR_Oy0/TzvxFVd1QiI/AAAAAAAAAhc/zmBWqA9AJ_c/s1600-h/Rishikesh%2525202011%252520042%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Rishikesh 2011 042" alt="Rishikesh 2011 042" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-NRj6xOjBpp8/TzvxH2HNLyI/AAAAAAAAAhk/Q5l9ZxGmOF4/Rishikesh%2525202011%252520042_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="240" height="180" /></a> <br /><font size="1">Silk saris in Haridwar, Uttarkhand</font> </p> <p>I have been bitten by mosquitoes and skinned my knee. I have haggled over the price of fresh nutmeg and silver anklets.  I have earned the undying loyalty of hotel doormen by tipping them $2 and looking them in the eye. I have smelled human excrement, rotting garbage, and pure sandalwood oil. </p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-L4tHDzagCvc/TzvxMrnuXcI/AAAAAAAAAhs/0kPMNlSX6G8/s1600-h/106%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="106" alt="106" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-eVAq-jfuNws/TzvxPLi344I/AAAAAAAAAh0/P6w3V-G8HX0/106_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="331" height="436" /></a> <br /><font size="1">Perfume Shop in Kochi (Cochin), Kerala</font> </p> <p>I have mourned for the <a href="http://nsomniasaum.blogspot.com/2012/01/riding-home.html" target="_blank">India that I knew so well,</a> and discovered the India I could never have imagined. </p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-12720277922635592002012-02-05T12:33:00.001-06:002012-02-05T13:01:52.252-06:00Music for Mountain Roads<p>Things I associate with other things: <br />The MN State Fair and mini-donuts <br />Bare feet and the beach <br />The smell of alcohol and hospitals <br />Indian mountain roads and very loud music through headphones</p> <p>*   *   *   *   *   *</p> <p>On the way down from the hill town of Munnar, we bounce and shimmy over a road that is almost wide enough for two vehicles to pass comfortably. Sometimes, leaping around a switchback, we meet another vehicle. Both lurch to a halt. The drivers communicate with complicated hand signals and abrupt jerks of their chins. Usually the coming-down-the-mountain vehicle reverses, maneuvering backwards up a hairpin turn or two. We find a place to squeeze by, like a passenger in the window seat scooting up to the airplane aisle. Now imagine doing that if, instead of the seatbacks in front of you, there’s nothing but a drop-off and empty air. I peer out my window as we rattle past a truck; it may as well be 10,000 feet down. </p> <p>As soon as we’re clear, the car sprints forward. This is less of a flat-race than hurdles: we spend a great deal of time partially airborne, crashing back to the road with elephantine grace. I hold the <i>Oh, Jesus</i> handle. (Would that be a <i>Hai-Ram</i> handle in India?) Unlike the USA, where the <i>Oh, Jesus</i> handle is so called because it’s what passengers grab in an emergency or accident, here in India, these situations are so constant they lose urgency. You learn to hold the handle (or the prayer, if you swing that way) the whole time. You keep your bag zipped up so that when it is flung onto the floor all your stuff doesn’t fall out and roll around. My headphone cord is arranged in such a way that it will not strangle me if<i> I</i> am flung onto the floor (learned that the hard way); the phone it is plugged into is wedged carefully so it does not become a projectile (same incident).  </p> <p>I am listening to Kanye West: aggressive, misogynistic, smart and melodic: <i>Everybody knows I’m a motherfucking monster.</i> I turn it up all the way. The sound is fantastic. <br /> <br />I have (have always had) diverse musical tastes. Growing up, I was as likely to listen to Air Supply as Iron Maiden, Billy Joel as Peter Tosh. But when it came time to buck over the narrow, nearly vertical paths and ruts of the Himalaya of my childhood, I always chose the loudest, most parent-disapproval-earning, ear-drum-punishing sound for my headphones. When I was young, it was as much escape from my family as anything else. I don’t know why I do it now. <br /> <br />Kanye threatens, howls and opines: <i>I mean this shit is, fucking ridiculous…</i></p> <p>I listen to the pounding bass and observe the bewildering tragicomedy of Indian billboards: smiling sari-clad women loaded in gold jewelry, a child sprays water at an Audi, half-dressed men lurk on motorcycles and scowl, happy couples jump for joy, a swami floats beatifically over a temple, a group of anxious people are menaced by a gigantic snake. There are signs for something called Globstar Sofas (that is not a typo). Every single person in every single ad could pass for white. The signs are mostly in Malayalam, a language I can’t read or speak. Besides the sofas, I have no idea what the ads are for. Movies? Wedding jewelry? Undershirts? Motorcycles? White folks? </p> <p><i>Praises due to the most high Allah <br />Praises due to the most fly Prada <br />Baby, I’m magic. Ta-da!</i></p> <p>I settle my sunglasses more firmly on my face (they will shake lose again in a couple of minutes) and glance over at Urban. He is wearing a fine, cream-colored cotton shirt, and a lungi (the sarong-like garment traditionally worn by Indian men). It looks good with his fair skin, unruly blonde hair, and the ease with which he carries himself. His eyes are closed and he counts prayer beads on his mala: he is meditating. I look down at myself: I am wearing capris and a shirt I bought at Ridgedale. Kanye thumps and cusses in my ears. </p> <p><em>We got nothing to lose, motherfucker, we rolling. Motherfucker, we rollin. With some light-skinned girls…</em></p> <p>I am the Indian one, although all the Indians in the billboards now rushing past at roughly the speed of sound have complexions closer to Urban’s than my own. </p> <p><i>Ain’t no question if I want it: I need it. I can feel it slowly drifting away from me…</i></p> <p>We pass painted trucks & indifferent cows, sometimes whipping by inches away. A group of shirtless men squat by the roadside drinking chai. A young woman in a pink <i>salwar kameez</i> roars by on a motorcycle. Our eyes meet. She does a double-take at Urban and gives me a grin and a nearly suicidal thumbs-up. </p> <p><i>Would you rather be underpaid or overrated? <br /></i>(I consider this line for some time, and try to imagine a scenario where I would have to choose between these two options. Then I realize that I already have both. This makes me happy.)<i> </i></p> <p><em>Turn up the lights in here, baby: extra bright, I want you to see this. </em></p> <p> <p><i></i></p> Urban finishes his mala, digs around for his headphones, and plugs them into my phone. This is possible due to a device that goes with me everywhere. I call it The Nifty Dual Headphone Jack Adapter Thingy. Getting all this technology out of bags and connected while the car jumps and spins takes some doing. Now Urban is trying to take pics of the billboards while holding on to the <i>Hai-Ram</i> handle with one hand. I turn the music down for him, a little. Kanye is picking up steam:</p> <p><i>No more drugs for me; pussy and religion is all I need. Grab my hand and baby, we’ll live a hell of a life. </i></p> <p>We pass a bus with an Indian-looking Mighty Mouse emblazoned on the back. Urban & I grin delightedly. We reach out to each other, but the car careens around a corner, and we have to clutch our respective handles to avoid being thrown across the bench seat and out my open window. </p> <p>Exchanging amazed glances at the world outside, the same music in our ears, we can’t hold hands because the ride’s too wild. Coming down the mountain, hurtling toward the sea: we have no idea what we’ll find there. </p> <p><i>That’s one hell of a life. </i></p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-43962312272910002162012-01-08T15:40:00.001-06:002012-01-08T15:57:58.750-06:00This Is The Plan<p>We’ve been in India for a few weeks now, in Garhwal, the first range of the Himalayan foothills. It’s chilly. </p> <p>We’ve visited <a href="http://www.yoga.in/centers/swami-rama-sadhaka-grama-130.html" target="_blank">SRSG ashram</a> in Rishikesh, spent the day in Haridwar and for the last week we’ve been camped out and bundled up at my mom’s vast white house in Dehradun. </p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-3AyrrY_ZkaA/TwoNEM8-uyI/AAAAAAAAAes/xokqW3CXw_Y/s1600-h/Rishikesh%2525202011%252520034%25255B17%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Rishikesh 2011 034" alt="Rishikesh 2011 034" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-3EEoJfsdAvk/TwoNFABJ1kI/AAAAAAAAAew/lt20OMcc_m8/Rishikesh%2525202011%252520034_thumb%25255B14%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="378" height="495" /></a> <br /><font size="1">River Ganges at Rishikesh</font></p> <p> </p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-8PkTO6fyhzA/TwoNGk2cWoI/AAAAAAAAAds/u98a0YFC6Jw/s1600-h/041%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="041" alt="041" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-mGUNIwDSk5c/TwoNH1nbKDI/AAAAAAAAAd0/7U_vJKU-uDA/041_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="270" height="338" /></a> <br /><font size="1">SRSG Ashram, Rishikesh</font></p> <p> </p> <p><a href="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-CSN2y4PlYQA/TwoNJAs56KI/AAAAAAAAAd8/L2-IjPmfR4o/s1600-h/Rishikesh%2525202011%252520009%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Rishikesh 2011 009" alt="Rishikesh 2011 009" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-gOf6P5uPb1w/TwoNKO6qcgI/AAAAAAAAAeA/aCdKbKUmMGc/Rishikesh%2525202011%252520009_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="240" height="180" /></a> <br /><font size="1">Har-ki-pauri, Haridwar</font></p> <p> </p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-wBXK7Jxylko/TwoNLIpi2xI/AAAAAAAAAeM/YRbpMQq5CQk/s1600-h/sadhu%252520-%252520Copy%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="sadhu - Copy" alt="sadhu - Copy" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-UsHyrvEtIEQ/TwoNMTUrWwI/AAAAAAAAAeU/ErJIgy8WQ48/sadhu%252520-%252520Copy_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="375" height="340" /></a> <br /><font size="1">Sadhu (wandering holy man) having a smoke outside a sari shop, Triveni Ghat, Rishikesh. </font> </p> <p> </p> <p>We’ve made offering into the sacred river Ganges. We’ve marveled over gorgeous fabric, gems and statues. We’ve bounced around in taxis, and <a href="http://www.thenational.ae/news/world/south-asia/rogue-elephant-terrorises-villagers-in-india" target="_blank">discussed the rogue elephant attacking cars on the Rishikesh road</a>. We’ve told stories, made fun of my brother-in-law’s hat, reminisced, argued, watched weird Bollywood music videos, laughed, consumed heroic amounts of chai, and generally just gotten to be a family. </p> <p>I had great plans for this portion of the trip. I was going to write an article about the International Yoga Youth and Children’s Retreat going on at SRSG. I was going to interview my dad. I was going to interview a traditional Welsh storyteller I met at the ashram. I was going to track down my old horseback riding buddies. I was going to write about my family history with social work, go through old photo albums, visit some historic sites, spend time at the school we run, do art. I was going to be productive. </p> <p>I did none of these things. India is the great destroyer of itineraries. </p> <p>I’ve walked in the gardens, consulted (fruitlessly) on how to deal with the monkey menace, meditated in the little hut on the corner of the property, gotten as many hair oiling/head massages as I can coerce my mom or sister into giving me. I’ve gotten up to speed on The Land War In Asia in which we are embroiled. I’ve reconnected with my few friends here. I’ve <a href="http://nsomniasaum.blogspot.com/2012/01/riding-home.html" target="_blank">struggled to adjust to the changes in India</a>. </p> <p>Now we’ve all pulled out our bags and boxes and started cramming our stuff back in. My sis & bro-in-law leave for Delhi in the morning, Urban & I leave the day after that, the nieces the day after that. Tonight we sat around and read our old Asterix and Tintin comics. Tomorrow this great house will start to empty. </p> <p>We are not going home though. </p> <p>Urban and I are headed to Kerala, the southern-most state in India. There, we will explore the backwater canals in a houseboat, travel up into the hills and stay on a tea plantation, then head to the beach to do nothing for a week. </p> <p>After I see Urban off in Delhi, my mom will meet me and we will head east. I’m not sure what to say about that part of the trip. We will visit a friend’s ashram in Orissa, but that’s sort of a detour. The real purpose of the trip is harder to explain. </p> <p>When I “became a woman” i.e. started menstruating, my father took me on pilgrimage to two of the primary Kali/Shakti temples: one in Calcutta, one in Assam. On that journey, I was dedicated to the Goddess. Now, I’m going back. </p> <p>At least, that’s the plan. </p> <a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-wQygHXxCe18/TwoNN6REnmI/AAAAAAAAAec/6tXxBUCgRsg/s1600-h/image%25255B3%25255D.png"><img style="background-image: none; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; display: inline; border-top: 0px; border-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px" title="image" border="0" alt="image" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-rXo5S2mWlS8/TwoNPuXOq3I/AAAAAAAAAek/SKKCQHd8YYE/image_thumb%25255B1%25255D.png?imgmax=800" width="410" height="422" /></a> <p>Let’s see what actually happens. </p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-43521525670225438852012-01-03T12:42:00.001-06:002023-03-09T21:38:55.730-06:00Riding Home<p> <br />From the gate of your mother’s house, you could swing up on a horse, clop down a few quiet streets, cross the river and then there was nothing but packed dirt roads good for a gallop, tiny temples perched on mountainsides, villagers gathering firewood and grasses, miles and miles of rice paddy. You would come around a hill and see the paddy rising in terraces from the valley floor, marching ponderously up the slopes, shrinking as they go. </p> <p>These hills are as big as some mountain ranges. They are foothills only compared to the sweep of the snowpeaks that float behind them: The Himalaya. When you saw the mountains you would finally feel that the city was behind you. It’s not that you could relax: things here require your full attention. But something in you eased, a little. </p> <p>You would follow broad forest paths through the hills then take goat tracks that clung to the mountain and shed pebbles into steep drop offs as you rode by, going too fast on an unpredictable horse. You would pass through villages, and tiny old ladies would call to you from the fields. They would ask you to have chai and chapattis (flatbread) with them. You would sigh, because it meant dismounting, which meant remounting. The mare would stand steady and quiet while you held her, and walk like an angel when you took a village kid up in the saddle for a quick pony ride, but when it was time for you to mount up she basically tried to kill you. If she knocked you down, she would then trample you. You had to vault up quickly, hauling her head around to the right so she didn’t give you a bite on the ass to hurry you into the saddle. She was sinewy, tough, and quick as a snake. </p> <p>You get to know the villagers. You help haul firewood, you carry packages and messages between the scattered settlements. You are given chai and admonitions. They joke and call you “<em>Kalki didi</em>,” after the last incarnation of Vishnu who will come to end the world, riding a pale horse. It is better than what they call you in the city. </p> <p>You mount up (quickly), turn your body toward home and the horse beneath you follows and carries you at the same time. You ride her like a current. You go home in the dusk to the sound of temple bells and prayer call. Cows are coming home, plodding and lowing. </p><p>Many years later you read a book by a woman returning to India after an absence and she describes this time of day and what haunts you is her line “the air was dust and jasmine.” Haunts, because you read her words and you feel warm dusty air and breathe in jasmine. You hear hoof beats. </p> <p>* * * * * </p> <p>You have been gone for 10 years now, and these memories are even older than that. Now you come back, and there’s an airport with a glass elevator. There are luggage trolleys, a gift shop. You get in a Toyota and the driver takes a back way home because Rahul Gandhi is speaking at the Parade Ground and there are crowds. You remember when his grandmother was assassinated and there were riots and killings. You remember when his father was assassinated, too. You were in the States by then, and you remember thinking: <em>that bloody country.</em> You think about this as you take the back way home. You are excited to be here. You know it’s going to be different. You’re ok with that. </p> <p>The roads you take are packed with vehicles: trucks, cars, putt-putts, scooters. Everything has an engine. Traffic is both lumbering and nimble. Car horns sound, not in complaint but orientation: a wolf howl, saying: <em>I am here. I am here.</em> You swerve and bully your way through. You parry and dodge. </p> <p>The roadsides are packed with stalls and carts selling: pyramids and piles of oranges, apples, red winter carrots, potatoes, T-shirts, shoes, and everwhere everywhere plastic plastic plastic: buckets and bags and baskets and toys. There are no sidewalks and no parking lots, the traffic and the bicycle guys and the pedestrians come together with the inevitable and irresistible force of the sea meeting the land. Road verges foam like surf. Everyone is in motion but nobody gives ground. Pedestrians in jeans and dhotis, leather jackets and shawls, weave and thread through moving and parked vehicles and talk on their phones. A dog sits down and has a good scratch. Everyone goes around him, not even looking down. The dog trots off. </p> <p>Behind the pedestrians and the carts are the shops. Steel shutters on cement block and plaster buildings, built to last. They are streaked and mottled with black monsoon stains. Above are apartments and homes, washing hung out to dry, kids hanging off crumbling railings. The buildings are solid, the doors and windows square and steady. Everything else: doors, curtain rods, shutters, is askew. The city is festooned with electric wires, a snarled canopy of current. A festival of lights. </p> <p>Amid this are shanty tarps and tin roofs. You have no idea if the rickety shack you are looking at is a shop, a home, or both. These structures look fragile but seem to have stood for a thousand years. Here and there a massive tree survives, propping up the world. </p> <p>You pass by a man squatting on the ground, his head tilted back. There is another man behind him, holding a straight razor to his throat. Only after they vanish in the dust of your wake do you figure it out: a barber, shaving a customer on the side of the road. </p> <p>The road is curvier now, you take disorienting turns onto side streets with less activity and fewer crowds. It is still wall-to-wall buildings but the noise has lessened. Now and then you catch a glimpse of the hilltops: a familiar confluence of peaks catches your eye. You ask the driver what the massive cement building under construction on your left is, and he says they are building an IT park and call centers. You feel a sense of dread. The road curves left, right, left again. You look around, crane backwards, look up at the hills, look at the city surrounding you and think: <em>no. No. It’s not.</em> But the next curve is a sharp one to the right and you are descending towards the riverbed and then you have to acknowledge that you know where you are. </p> <p>These are your dirt tracks, your goat paths. These are the fields where you helped gather grass for winter forage. There, where the IT center is rising: that was the maze of camelthorn bushes with their small, bright flowers and vicious thorns that left your calves bloody when the damn horse swerved into them. This rusty steel bridge, this is the shallow curve of the levee over the riverbed, hard packed dirt with a good sight line so it was safe to canter. </p> <p>Beyond the next curve, finally. This, here, is the straight open stretch where you could leave off the battle and let her run, full and true at a gallop, nothing between you, nothing holding you back, nothing before you but the hills. You had to remember to slow down before the next rise and look for rare but lethal trucks barreling over the hill: you could never hear them over the reverb of hoofbeats, the wind in your mount’s lungs and your own. The beating of your hearts drowned out the world. </p><p>This is your refuge: built upon, populated, grimy. Strewn with trash. Crumbling as though it has been like this for a thousand years. As if there were never anything else here at all.</p> <p>* * * * * </p> <p>Some days later, you walk down to the Ganga during <em>arti</em>, the evening prayers to the sacred river. You have to stop at the market first, to buy offerings: little leaf-boats are piled with marigolds. A rose makes a scarlet ruffle amid the orange petals. There is a rough clay dish with a hunk of camphor to light, and two graceful incense sticks leaning out at an angle. The whole thing is about the size of a soup bowl. Although you are in a hurry, you raise the leaf-boat up to examine the construction. It is woven together by the fragile stems. Nothing more. </p> <p>Priests are waving towering oil lamps at the river, and chants are broadcast on loudspeaker. There is a crowd milling around the priests and their dramatic accouterments but the verges are peaceful. Most people are carrying garlands of marigolds and roses, or little boats like yours. People spread out into clumps, then groups, then families. Some young guys strut around. The beach is rocky and the water is swift. It is not the color of any North American water you have ever seen. Not clear blue, this, but jade and opaque. You have journeyed to the source of this water, high in the Himalaya. There, it is white as milk. </p> <p>You all huddle around and try to light the lumps of camphor in your flower boats. It takes some doing, what with the wind tearing down from the hills. </p> <p>You take your shoes and socks off and wade in. It is cold. Offerings buck and scurry past. Rocks shift under your feet and the current urges you downriver. You stub your toe, plant your feet. You offer prayers for others, but when you light your own you don’t have anything to pray for. Everything seems ridiculous. <em>Well, I carried it this far,</em> you think, lowering the bright cup towards the water, <em>so, here…just, take it.</em> </p> <p>It is dark now. The flame of your offering mingles with the reflections of electric lights. The priests are wrapping up their ritual. For now, their voices cannot reach you. <em>Take it away</em>, you think again. The river rushes on, ignoring you. The river rushes on, unchanging. Because of this, you will never be the same. </p> <p> </p> <p><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-IhSGDKoP3yQ/TwNL--_ATiI/AAAAAAAAAdM/yuxdd8VfDSU/s1600-h/Rishikesh%2525202011%252520076%252520copy%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img alt="Rishikesh 2011 076 copy" height="252" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-K0ujqbFBiQs/TwNMAPvdU0I/AAAAAAAAAdU/v0IbdzEVwMk/Rishikesh%2525202011%252520076%252520copy_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" style="display: inline;" title="Rishikesh 2011 076 copy" width="333" /></a></p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-89920308449273613112011-12-03T16:58:00.001-06:002011-12-03T16:58:56.407-06:00Amazing Opportunity: Found Object Poetry<p><em>I assembled these poems using subject lines from spam email. These are circa 2007; I just came across them again. I remember that for awhile I was excited to get spam so I could add to my cache of lines. </em><em>All !? are original, other punctuation is added.</em> <em>They are otherwise unedited.</em> </p> <p><u>Why be an average guy?</u></p> <p>Amazing Frankfurt Symbol! <br />Amazing opportunity! <br /> <br />Why be an average guy <br />When when when <br />The front brake fluid reservoir can be flushed? <br />The Germans know how to do it </p> <p>Hey <br />Hey <br />I’m looking for you. <br />Why don’t you buy some medications? <br />All medications to cure yourself <br />Terrific gains possible</p> <p>On your next visit <br />Sex can help <br /> <br />Everybody knows that <br />I’m not a Nigerian Prince <br />Even I know that</p> <p><u>Some Observation</u></p> <p>Tooth & unit, some observation. <br />Simply put, <br />No more loosing with this</p> <p>At least in the 1990’s you know who your friends and enemies were <br />Do you have a New Age book? <br /></p> Who would want this when <br />Books are hard to kill <br />Books are hard to understand <p>Don’t miss this unique chance- <br />I’m a passionate lover again. <br />For venereal, this resemble: <br />As weak is to bullseye <br />So this Facebook thing will fail. </p> <p>Check out the wonders of pound melting, <br />Check out this cookbook: <br />Enlargement of your pepper.</p> <p>He said he’d have to think about it for awhile. <br />I didn’t believe it the first time, either.</p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-76931817783264134852011-10-19T00:21:00.001-05:002011-10-19T01:01:58.265-05:00The Witch of Endo, pt. 4: Surrender<p><em>No.</em> I say to my doctor. <em>In fact: <font size="3"><font size="2">Fuck, no</font>.</font></em> <em>You can’t have my cervix. Let’s just schedule another laparoscopic clean-up. Go in, find the Endo, zap the Endo, and I’ll be home by noon. And it has to be early in November because I have travel plans.    <br /> <br /></em>My OB/Gyn  has known me since I was 18, when I had my first surgery for an ovarian cyst. He does not take the swearing personally. Over the years, he has cut me open, soldered me up, held my hand. He’s the one who told me I was unlikely to have children. I have chronic pelvic pain and this is the guy who has to poke at me and ask me to describe the pain. I can be <em>very</em> descriptive. (The ultrasound tech his office once told me that he’d heard worse language from women on the ultrasound table than he had in his many years in the Navy.) Besides all this, my doctor respects my choices on how I live with and manage this disease. But when Urban comes up to the scheduling office so we can cram a surgery onto our calendars, Doc says to him: <em>She made me a liar. I said the next time this happened, we were taking the cervix out. I said that the time BEFORE the last time. And the time before that! She’s not listening to me. You try talking to her.</em> </p> <p><em>You always did call me your problem child </em>I say sweetly to the Doc, who I really am very fond of. He throws up his hands and walks off.<em> </em></p> <p><em>Ok, Toni, </em>I turn to the surgery-scheduling lady, w<em>hat’ve you got open?</em> </p> <p>We schedule the surgery for the second week of November. I’ll start getting back to work a week after the procedure. I’ll take it easy for a few weeks but it’s ok. I’ll have plenty of time to recover before heading to India for the holidays, so it won’t screw that up. I can live with this. I’m used to maneuvering around it. </p> <p>On the way back from the appointment, I sit grimly in the car, gritting my teeth against the pain, absolutely certain I am doing the right thing. I will not have my cervix removed. My doctor thinks I’m insane. He believes that the <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/endometriosis/DS00289" target="_blank">Endometriosis</a> has eaten into the tissue of the cervix and that these superficial solutions – going in with a laser and cauterizing the Endo on the surface of organs-- have outlived their usefulness. Whey they took out my uterus, it was riddled and veined with Endo (technically, once it eats into organs, it’s called <a href="http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/Adenomyosis/DS00636" target="_blank">Adenomyosis</a>). I don’t care. I didn’t give a damn about my uterus: it was nothing but trouble and I wasn’t planning on using it anyway. Giving up my last ovary was angsty but not a hard decision to make, just a hard one to accept. But I will not have my cervix removed. Anyway, it’s a major surgery. I would have to be in the hospital for a couple of days, and it’s a longer recovery. I don’t have the time. I have a life, goddamn it.  <br /> <br />My last surgery was in January. I brood over this and watch the familiar scenery slide by on 394. I want to turn on the radio but I’m afraid I would snap the knob right off. </p> <p>Instead, I review the facts with Urban, and ask him: <em>What do you think?</em> </p> <p>It’s mostly rhetorical; I know I can count on Urban’s reassurance. But he is quiet for a long time. Then he says that he thinks the reason Gede told me to do the series of ritual baths (which I’m in the middle of) was to help me reach a more open emotional state so I could hear what I needed to hear, and accept it. (<em>Huh?</em> you’re wondering, <em>Who said what?</em> <em>Ritual baths, wtf?</em> Sorry, darlin…that’s a post for another day). He keeps his eyes on the road, but reaches for my hand. </p> <p>I want to yank my hand away. This is not what I needed to hear! But I feel a truth in my body, in the beat of my blood, the vibrations in my pain seem to resonate a <em>yes</em>. He’s right. I shut my eyes and don’t say much. Urban drops me off at my sister’s, where it takes me all afternoon to talk myself into what I already know. My cervix has to go. I can’t keep putting it off. At this point, I’m just being stubborn. <br /> <br />The idea of this surgery terrifies me. I don’t know why. I’ve had so many other bits cut out, one at a time: appendix, gallbladder, left ovary, uterus, right ovary. I’ve had more surgeries for Endo than I can count. </p> <p>But this. This. </p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-Rkxs46uLYRU/Tp5eYQHhS8I/AAAAAAAAAcM/vZUJYqgGLc0/s1600-h/45%252520mins%252520--%252520001%25255B18%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto" title="45 mins -- 001" alt="45 mins -- 001" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-k-3X5EgBJPI/Tp5eZNfkrZI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/-ZrBNukcAAA/45%252520mins%252520--%252520001_thumb%25255B15%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="305" height="488" /></a></p> <p> </p> <p>It’s a pretty major surgery, since they are cutting out an organ. The cervix is the lower part of the uterus; sometimes it’s removed with a hysterectomy. Also, it’s connected to the top of the vagina (the cervix-bone connected to the vagina-bone!), where there are lots and lots of nerves; my doc says it may be more painful than the hysterectomy. So, yeah. Not fun. </p> <p>And what if… oh, crap, what if? Some women have “decreased sexual function” (i.e. are unable to have an orgasm) after having their cervix removed. Of course, constant pelvic pain also decreases sexual function (duh) so my chances of having an orgasm right now are roughly 0 anyway. When I brought up this sucktastic, potentially life-altering side-effect with Urban, he said…well, sorry, what he said is private but let’s just say I’m not so worried anymore. </p> <p>That leaves the worst, the real: what if this doesn’t help at all? </p> <p>For all these years, this has been the last step, the one thing we could do if nothing else worked. Well, nothing else did work. We’ve tried it all: conventional, alternative, metaphysical. I’m better than I was before but it’s still pretty bad. What if I have this surgery but I don’t get better? One of the things Gede said is that I have to believe I can recover. Deep inside, I don’t know if I really do believe that. I’ve lived with this pain so long. It seems…inevitable. When I try to imagine or envision a life that is pain-free, I come up blank. I have vague images of being able to drive again, and ride my horse more often…but it seems suspect. Have I been holding off on this surgery because I’m afraid it won’t work? </p> <p>Here I am, coolly assessing one of my organs and deciding whether to kick it out of the club of Saum. Trying to figure out what I’m really feeling. I talk to my sister all day. I talk to Urban all night. I go out to the barn and lean against Styx for so long that she dozes off. Then I call my doctor and tell him to schedule the whatever-the-medical-term-for-cervix-removal-is. I expect him to gloat a little. He doesn’t. </p> <p>I hate breaking myself into pieces. I want to think of myself as whole, entire, not made up of disposable parts that can be excised and thrown away. </p> <p>I don’t get any better at this. I WANT MY CERVIX. I’m not exactly sure why. But I do. It’s me. I’ve imbued it with meaning.It’s the part of me where the inside meets the outside. It’s one of my thresholds.  In sex, when so many other boundaries blur, this is where <em>you</em> becomes <em>me</em>. This is what holds me in. I feel like if I keep giving parts of myself up, it will all come spilling out: guts and organs, everything raw and essential. What will be left of me? This fear feels simultaneously terrifying and ridiculous. </p> <p>I also feel failure. Aren’t I supposed to heal myself? Or something? </p> <p>Maybe not. Maybe I’m meant to be unhealed and raw. Open wounds are passageways. Burden is a door. I feel like I’ve been braced in this threshold for so long. What am I holding on to? </p> <p>I remember something the Doc said: <em>Saumya, this is not something you did. </em></p> <p>One of my other doctors (I have, like, a whole panel of them) once said: T<em>his disease has put so many limits on you, but you do so much. I’d like to see what you’d be capable of if you were healthy. </em></p> <p>You know what? So would I. So would I. <br />Fuck <em>yes.</em> Let’s find out. </p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-79007416576448270622011-10-14T19:53:00.001-05:002011-10-14T19:56:48.686-05:00Even Knowing How It Will End, We Choose This Love<p><em>The story of my dogs is a long one. It goes back, and back, and back. They are integral to my life, not as chapters but as currents that rush through everything. I have a much longer piece about my dogs –-sort of— that I’ve been working on over the years. Maybe this will become a part of it.</em> </p> <p>Last night, a little dog that was not my dog, died. Tiger (he was named by a six year old, ok?) belonged to my sister and her family, especially my nieces. </p> <p>Tiger was old. I am on my third generation of big dogs; he lived with us for about a year when Urban & I had our first dog. If you’re one of the people who knew Kalia, well, you know. If you’re not, I pity you. She was a wise and charismatic animal, regal and kind. Clever. A Doberman Pincher. </p> <p>Tiger was a MinPin – A Miniature Pincher. He looked just like Kalia but he weighed about six pounds. Like most little dogs, he didn’t know or care that he was a little dog. When he spoke (in my head), it was with the voice of Robert DeNiro. He picked fights with Kalia, but only when she was laying down. He would then retreat under an ottoman and peer out while she barked and raged at him. He wasn’t stupid. </p> <p>The two of them would curl up and sleep together. Sometimes when Kalia kicked in her sleep, she would send him flying. He would shake himself, look around, and go sleep on her other side. </p> <p>After Tiger went home to what we called his birth family, we missed him. Of course we still saw him on visits to my sister’s, and our frequent phone calls were interrupted by his alarmed yap-squeaks, and her exasperated “Tiger!” As the years went on, he barked less, but with more focus. We had to put Kalia down, but kept two of her pups: Asha and Dagaz. Tiger mellowed out, but would pee in my nieces’ rooms if he was displeased with them. When the doorbell rang, his bark was high and sharp, carrying. Dagaz died, and, unable to bear Asha’s grief-stricken howling, we got Barnabas, a Shepherd mix. Tiger developed some health issues, and spent more time in his cushy basket. We had to put Asha down, and Shidiri the Great Dane came to live with us. Over at my sister’s, Tiger had a few seizures. He stopped noticing when people came to the door. He napped in the sun, dreaming whatever sweet dogs dream. </p> <p>Yesterday I was over for a visit. Grey and fragile, Tiger carefully tottered over and pressed against my ankles. He was shivering. He wouldn’t move. I reached down and rested my hand on his back, and I knew. He was asking for help. He was tired. He was ready. “Ok, buddy,” I said softly, “ok.” He stopped shivering.</p> <p>I didn’t say anything at the time, but resolved to call my sister the next day and, and as gently as possible, raise the subject of putting Tiger to sleep. We talked about other things instead, and I went on my way. Tiger was out on the deck when I left. It was nice and sunny. He didn’t notice me leave. </p> <p>A few hours later, my sister found Tiger in the woods behind her home. He appeared unharmed but was disoriented and obviously fading. They took him to the vet and kindly made the decision to have him put to sleep. We met them there, and I sat next to my niece while she held the dog she had known her whole life. They gave him an injection. He died, quietly and in comfort. </p> <p>It is hard knowing, when they come home with us, tiny and fat and full of possibility, that one day we will have to watch them die. The pain of loss seems to compound. I came home and cried for Tiger, for my sister and her family, for myself, for all the dogs I’ve said goodbye to. </p> <p>I’d like to think that dogs go to Elysium, the afterlife that the Greeks imagined for heroes. The Elysian Fields contain whatever you need for happiness: vast fields, lots of rabbits, humans who really know how to throw a stick. Soft blankets, a gentle hand. Whatever sweet dogs dream. </p> <p>October 14, 2011 <br />Dark River Farm</p> <p><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-00IFqv9ow2E/TpjaTH0snmI/AAAAAAAAAaY/ao_IhqrLwxs/s1600-h/front%252520pasture%252520mist%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="front pasture mist" alt="front pasture mist" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-ys3TV-vuf9c/TpjaTwLcCqI/AAAAAAAAAag/dC1vzHoKl8I/front%252520pasture%252520mist_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="311" height="236" /></a> <br /><font size="1">photo by Stomy Persaud</font></p> <p>************************</p> <p><em>I lost one of my own dogs a few years ago. Dagaz was Kalia’s son. Tiger would have been his uncle, if dogs thought of things in such a way. Here’s the letter I wrote to my friends and family at the time:</em></p> <p>Dagaz was literally born into our hands. Asha followed a few hours later. Kalia (his mom) had a special relationship with him; she used to pick him up and carry him around by his butt. After awhile she would tenderly deposit him in the bathroom trash can. I think this explains why he always loved stuff in trash cans. </p> <p>When he was growing up, he cost us a small fortune in vet bills; he ALWAYS had stitches for one thing or another. He and Asha and the rest of the Doberman 6-pack had fun up at our friends’ cabin where we all gather for sunshine and bonfires. We got to know each dog by the shape of their head when they came up to be petted in the dark; most of the time when I dropped my hand down it was Day’s oddly square noggin beside me. The dogs would bound through the woods, go for rides in the boat, and play hard with each other. Every morning I would wake up and think, Oh, no, it’s storming, and then be confused by clear skies…six Dobermans running is the sound of thunder. It’s hard to believe that  Asha is the only one left of all those sweet, sleek beauties. I love my Dobermans, but I sure wish they lived  longer.</p> <p>Every animal is its own being, just like us, and my relationships with them are complex, aggravating and fulfilling. You can’t lie to animals. They teach me more about myself than I want to know sometimes. I have always had a close affinity to my dogs, but Dagaz saw me through the worst emotional and physical pain of my life. He learned to “stand steady” so I could lean on him when I had trouble getting up. When I was well, he followed me as I wandered around getting to know our land, or  sat with me on my late nights with books. No matter where I was, no matter the time of day of night, I could drop my hand down and find him there beside me. His presence was silent and constant. The room feels empty now, at 3 am with only me in it. </p> <p>I’m glad I played with Asha & Day today, took the time to watch them run down the hill and up the hill and jump on each other and grin at me. They are so much a part of this land. They were thrilled to have me spend a couple of minutes with them on my way out to the barn. I thought it might rain so I opened the door to the porch (our version of a doghouse) for them. Dagaz jumped up on the couch and looked happy. I headed out to the barn. When Urban came home he let the dogs into the house. I opened the front door a few minutes later, and found my dog collapsed at the foot of the stairs. He was gone.</p> <p>I don’t know if animals understand or care about the concept of names, but my animals are named with care. “Dagaz” is Norse. It means daytime, the fullness of light, midday, midsummer, the high point of the cycle. They say every dog has its day; Day’s day was June 21, Summer Solstice. It’s not his birthday but it’s what his name means, what I think of as his essence. In the Elder Futhark rune system, the divinatory meaning of Dagaz is the spiritual path. The symbol looks like an angular infinity symbol, or, to me, like Shiva’s drum. I name my animals for what I see in them: I saw vigor and sensitivity in Dagaz.  I also name them for what they show me of myself, and what my relationship with them brings me. More than anything, Dagaz helped me both to face my pain and turn my back on it when needed. He taught me patience and emotional honesty. He taught me about the land, where the good shady spots are on the hill, and that possums really do faint when frightened. He brought me constancy and light. It’s hard to imagine this place without him.</p> <p>But it’s not just me that has lost him. Urban is also grieving and sad. Asha is confused and whining a lot. She keeps running around looking for her brother. We are a little worried about her, but she is eating and drinking just fine. We will probably stick close to home for awhile, as she is unaccustomed to being alone. She will ride in the truck with us tomorrow (oh, well, today) morning when we go to the vet to take Day’s remains to be cremated. </p> <p>I don’t know what we will do with his ashes, probably scatter them on the hill where he liked to run. I have been thinking of putting down some wildflower seeds, maybe we will scatter those, too.  It would be nice to walk in knee-high flowers next midsummer, and remember him. I will drop my hand down and find him there beside me, his presence silent and constant.</p> <p>June 11, 2008 <br />Dark River Farm</p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-26997600612495895442011-10-06T09:09:00.001-05:002011-10-06T09:17:23.889-05:00Fall Morning, Dark River Farm<p>I was up all night. This is not unusual. </p> <p>I am curled up, reading The Sandman (again), and eating a lime popsicle. After awhile I become aware of a sound that’s been going on for awhile. A rumbling, engine noise, like a plane…what? Hovering over my house? Then I realize it’s the sound of combines and tractors, my farmer neighbors bringing in the harvest. </p> <p>Around 3 am, the sounds fade. </p> <p>As it starts to get light out, Barnabas (aka B-dog) nudges me and does a little dance. I throw on my cloak, which smells like woodsmoke and horse, and head out to the deck to take a look at the morning.  </p> <p>The world is muted, earth-toned with dawn. Mist covers the pasture. The trees are changing into their autumn gear; now and then there is the soft crackle of a leaf drifting down to join its brethren on the ground. A breeze ruffles by and it sounds like Rice Krispies everywhere. One of the horses sticks her head over the fence and huffs in my general direction. Breakfast is on everyone’s mind. </p> <p>B trots down the stairs, does his dog stuff and trots back up to me.</p> <p>I lean on the rail and look out over my land. The pasture grass is getting shaggy and pale. A rabbit lopes across the field in static bursts: leap leap freeze, leap leap freeze. The pines are lean shadows. I can see into the barn through the huge sliding door. In a month it will be shut. In two months it will be <em>frozen</em> shut and we will have to use the small people-door that is ignored all summer. Sabbath’s head appears out of the tiny cat-portal set into the tack room door, then vanishes. The flap slaps shut, and Barnabas looks toward the noise. I don’t blame Sabbath. The tack room is heated. The outside is not. </p> <p>Barnabas & I stand side by side. He presses against my leg, his tail rhythmically whaps-whaps-whaps me. I lean down and stroke his fuzzy head. He is looking out over the firepit towards the woods, and goes rigid at the distant noise of the wild turkey – I don’t know what to call it— flock? Posse? There are so many of them this year that it’s more like a Turkey Apocalypse. I remind B about the house policy of staying in the yard. He whines, and relaxes. </p> <p>That’s when I see the fox and vixen. They are frozen, staring at me from the driveway in front of the barn. He is a bold, gleaming red with a bright white tip to his tail. She is a quiet brown that blends into the fallen leaves surrounding them. They do not move. We look at each other for a long moment, then B gives his squeaky bark and I turn. He’s still focused the other way, towards the possibility of turkey invasion. When I look back at the driveway, the foxes are gone. </p> <p>The turkeys are closer now, I can hear them muttering and gargling back in the woods. It always makes me laugh. B-dog can’t take it anymore and dashes off, barking shrilly. I call him back when he reaches the fence-line. He returns, puffed up with indignation or satisfaction. I dig in my pocket for a treat, then we go inside.  </p> <p>I turn and look out the porch door as I close it. The light is rising, bringing fire into autumn. There is nothing muted about the woods now: the trees blaze golden, red and bright. Everything has gone silent. Barnabas & I left smudgy inter-species footprints in the dew on the deck: compact paws and curved human commas blur together. I realize that although I’m wearing my long woolen cloak, I am barefoot and freezing. </p> <p>I look out towards the driveway and pasture, hoping for another glimpse of the foxes. There’s nothing there but the trees. </p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-64171892878149334662011-09-24T12:57:00.001-05:002011-09-24T13:42:53.004-05:00The Witch of Endo, Pt. 3: The Companionship of Pain<p><font size="3" face="Book Antiqua"><em>(Ok—look, I’m fine. I had a rough couple of nights and needed to get this out. It’s fairly melodramatic. But I am not alone. Please don’t worry about me.)</em></font></p> <p>Sometimes the pain gets to the point that you cannot sleep. It wants your company and just will not let you be. It’s as if your whole body is on red alert: unresponsive to drugs, deep breathing, visualization exercises or any combination thereof. You toss and turn, or (if it’s really bad), grimly lay as still as possible. You get up, read for a bit (1am) drink soothing teas (2am), go back to bed (3am), check your Facebook (4am), cave in and take more drugs (7am). Go back to bed (9am). Try some more deep breathing. No dice. Your body is convinced there is some sort of immanent crisis and you cannot talk it out of its stubborn and pointless readiness to act.  </p> <p>Nothing is going to happen. Ever. The pain is just going to go on and on. This <em>is</em> the crisis. At 11am you give up. You get up. </p> <p>You feel terrible. You feel weak: no one ever died from Endometriosis. People are starving in The Horn of Africa, being shot and killed in the Mid-East. People have Cancer, MS, AIDS. Your pain is inane. It means nothing. It fills the world. </p> <p>There are all kinds (not just one kind!) of pain. They are distinct characters, and you know them well: their shape and tone. their foibles and preferences. You’ve spent a lot of time with them. They are reliable company. </p> <p>1. The Drum: This is pain that can creep up on you. It starts out quiet, distant. Sometimes it stays that way, and you only notice it when the wind is right. Sometimes it get closer. It’s still background music but it has a beat and you dance to it. Your body knows the rhythm and you tread carefully. Then you realize you are standing in front of the big speakers and the music is so loud it actually occupies space and shoves you around. People’s lips move but you hear nothing.</p> <p>2. The Lava: This is pain that oozes tendrils of heat through your pelvis. Sometimes you can feel the point of eruption. It craws and burns and spreads. It is slow but relentless. Everything in its path catches fire. </p> <p>3. The Seams: These are the places that the pain is dug in. It can feel like seams of a rare mineral running through bedrock, foreign veins burrowing into bones and organs. It is hooked into everything and you imagine if you could ever grasp it and pull it out, your whole bloody dripping pelvis would be dragged along with it. You think it might not be so bad to be rid of the damn thing. </p> <p>4. The Lighting Storm: This is electric, and comes out of the clear blue nothing. You are going about your day when BOOM! Shots and shards of sensation vibrate through your abdomen. You are wide-eyed, stunned, shivering.</p> <p>5. The Weasels: You seem to be inhabited by tiny, sharp-toothed rodents with ill intentions. They scarper and claw, around and around and around. They trigger a similar hamster wheel in your brain: around and around and around you go. You get going so fast it’s as if your mind develops a centrifugal force: your pain is the only still point, and everything else is flung out, away from you. Nothing gets through. </p> <p>6. The Orgasm. I think this is what they call “breakthrough pain.” Other symptoms lead up to it, and at some point you realize that everything else has been foreplay and you are choicelessly headed for something bigger and there is no turning back. It is as encompassing and immediate as a climax. You clutch a pillow and scream. Afterwards, you are left trembling and vulnerable, clinging to whatever flotsam of self you are able to salvage. If you are lucky, the pain rolls off you and leaves you alone for a bit. If you’re not, it’s an all-nighter and that bastard is tireless. You hate every second that he rips into you but there’s no stopping it. You’re his, and you are helpless. <br /> <br />Like sex, you don’t really want the general public to witness this. Any of this. Sure, people know you have it, but that’s no reason to share the reality of the event. It’s too raw, to private. Too revealing. So you take a shower, get dressed, and fake your way through another day. You find a smile that fits. You tell yourself that this does not have to be a bad day. When people (who are not as stupid as you’d like them to be), inevitably ask how you’re feeling, you conjure up something vague, like, “I’m a little worn out.”  You say this as much to fool yourself as to reassure others. </p> <p>You tell yourself that the work will at least distract you. It doesn’t. You are pissed off—at the pain, your own weakness, everything. Rage keeps you moving when nothing else does; you grit your teeth and think something along the lines of “<em>You might have fucked me all night, but you are not going to fuck up my day.”</em>  You tell yourself this is not the best habit to get into. </p> <p>When you write about it, you can’t even bring yourself to be you.  You write for the second person, for someone else who is you. You do this because it makes it easier to admit to, but also because the bastard has half convinced you that you are utterly isolated and even when you are writing alone at 11am after two nights of no sleep and giving the pain faintly ridiculous characteristics to somehow break it down into a manageable reality, you mostly write for the second person because you want to believe there is one. You would wish this on no-one. But you don’t want to believe that you are the only one. You don’t want to be alone, with only the pain for company. </p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-38400476220203139132011-09-18T11:36:00.001-05:002011-09-18T12:08:23.320-05:00When PEEPS Attack, or, My Visit To The ER<p>I am typing this one-handed. I tried typing two-handed, while avoiding using my injured left index finger, but ended up typing: <em>So, rrerftg, </em>then screaming: Ouch, <font size="3">FUCK!</font></p> <p>So, as y’all know, I have been gone most of the summer, and barely seen Urban. This is the first weekend we have really had together at home, so we decided to stay in and relax. It was lovely last night, cool and breezy, and we wanted to enjoy the fine weather on our little farm.</p> <p>We have this magnificent fire-pit: </p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-BEBLCM2xOi0/TnYdXqeyRrI/AAAAAAAAAZY/yMTYF_oacLM/s1600-h/firepit%25255B5%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="firepit" alt="firepit" src="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-zJMeLQMPjWo/TnYda4cYbNI/AAAAAAAAAZc/ZvBPSuamQw0/firepit_thumb%25255B3%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="292" height="201" /></a></p> <p>We also had Halloween Marshmallow Peeps (Peeps are shapely marshmallows coated in sugar. When you roast them over a fire, the sugar caramelizes. It’s delicious): </p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-aEEvJx5uDVc/TnYdc4M9lXI/AAAAAAAAAZg/HYc-l-84mKU/s1600-h/PEEPS%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="PEEPS" alt="PEEPS" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-_BHNe7igB48/TnYdft1_IDI/AAAAAAAAAZk/AgfdEcyTBgQ/PEEPS_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="239" height="171" /></a> <br /><font size="1">The ghost did it</font></p> <p align="left">We didn’t think that putting the two together would land me in the Emergency Room at 1am. I mean, we’ve done stuff like <em>this</em> at our house without it resulting in the filling-out-of-forms:</p> <p align="center"> <br /> <br /><a href="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-WPczyDFcFJ8/TnYdiee1edI/AAAAAAAAAZo/N80grGQ7vIs/s1600-h/flaming%252520sword%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="flaming sword" alt="flaming sword" src="http://lh4.ggpht.com/-YvyyJDQif9w/TnYdmA9Ba7I/AAAAAAAAAZs/mkrGwAM4pFc/flaming%252520sword_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="240" height="160" /></a> <br /><font size="1">This is a trained professional!</font></p> <p align="center"><font size="1">*</font></p> <p align="center"><font size="1"></font></p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-t8bcoOfDLAM/TnYdqKBEYvI/AAAAAAAAAZw/ARanBaGbKtE/s1600-h/Saum%252520breathes%252520fire%2525201%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Saum breathes fire 1" alt="Saum breathes fire 1" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-YIiIvsLNMng/TnYdtPcEM3I/AAAAAAAAAZ0/NfrZYP6Y-ms/Saum%252520breathes%252520fire%2525201_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="240" height="228" /></a> <br /><font size="1">This is just me</font></p> <p>We settled in at the fire-pit for the evening. I really enjoy circling and poking at a fire, getting the logs just right for maximum temperature and aesthetic affect. After some satisfactory shifting and adjusting, I finally sat down next to Urban. The dogs lolled about, now and then furtively gnawing on a bit of stick from the woodpile. The only sounds were the bustling fire-noise, the breeze, crickets, and the occasional, faint <em>mooooo</em> from the cows over at Cow Pond. Farm sounds. I felt myself relaxing… the last three months of stressful school, travel and work slipping away into the Midwestern night. Urban & I talked and laughed as we happily began roasting Peeps. </p> <p>I like my marshmallows done properly: they should be gooey on the inside and crisp on the outside. They must be cooked evenly. The innards should not be so underdone that they separate from the outer melty part and adhere in a sad, cold lump to the end of the stick (the shame!). The exterior should not be blackened or burnt, but carefully roasted to a rich, toasty golden-brown. Now and then I’d pull mine out of the fire and peer at it. I couldn’t see the little ghostly dude clearly, so I stuck my finger in it to see if it was done. </p> <p>Sugar starts to caramelize around 320 degrees Fahrenheit. When marshmallows melt, they get sticky. The burning hot sugar-and-marshmallow-goop adhered to my finger. </p> <p>I wiped it off. It felt like I wiped most of my actual finger off with it. <br /> <br />At first I was, like, <em>oh wow, that one hurt.</em> Urban, being the thinking one in our marriage, wanted me to go inside immediately and check out the damage in adequate lighting. I am the stubborn one. After some ceremonial fussing, delay and denial, I complied. It really did hurt. In we went, trailing Peeps, marshmallow sticks, blankies and dogs behind us. By then I was starting to feel sort of weird, like I might puke and/or pass out (not necessarily in that order). The tip and pad of my finger was dark red, blistered and swollen.  For such a tiny area, it seemed to be generating an excessive amount of sensation. I stuck it under cold water and took lots of deep breaths.</p> <p>Urban wanted to take me to the ER. I was, like: <em>Don’t be ridiculous, it’s not that bad; I’ll be fine in a minute. </em>He gave me the look (you know the one) and pointed out –-rather unnecessarily, I thought— that when I sheared a sizeable hunk of bone off of my femur a few years ago, I said the same thing (I didn’t realize it was broken, ok? I thought it was just a bad sprain). <br /> <br />After a few minutes, even I had to admit that all was not well in Saum’s-index-finger-land. My protests began to sound whiny and half-hearted. Urban bundled me into the car, and off to the ER we went. I felt foolish, convinced the ER people would ignore and/or mock me. It wasn’t a very impressive-looking injury. <br /> <br />The ER folks at Maple Grove were wonderful. By the time we got there I was feeling shaky and ill. The pain was astonishing. </p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-zLkNV7UvdbA/TnYdv8PUVyI/AAAAAAAAAZ4/q__e5202_BM/s1600-h/wong_baker_faces%25255B4%25255D.gif"><img style="display: inline" title="wong_baker_faces" alt="wong_baker_faces" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-IGqGithnCLQ/TnYdyrOsPjI/AAAAAAAAAZ8/LESf9sQZ7Gg/wong_baker_faces_thumb%25255B2%25255D.gif?imgmax=800" width="367" height="170" /></a> <br /><font size="1">Tearing off a hunk of femur: 7. Dime-sized 2nd degree burn on tip of index finger: 9.</font></p> <p>ER Doc: <em>We can give you something for the pain right away, either as a shot or a pill. <br /></em>Me: <em>No needles. I have a thing about needles.</em> <br />ER Doc: <em>The pill will take awhile to work. The injection will help immediately. <br /></em>Me: <em>I’ll take the shot.</em> <br /></p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-o8pMwFTxVc0/TnYd3IerGjI/AAAAAAAAAaA/dgtaW37TDEw/s1600-h/Our%252520Lady%252520of%252520Morphine%252520copy%25255B9%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="Our Lady of Morphine copy" alt="Our Lady of Morphine copy" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-4B6t5tjMKbU/TnYd6Afo61I/AAAAAAAAAaE/5ca2Enh3ltQ/Our%252520Lady%252520of%252520Morphine%252520copy_thumb%25255B6%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="373" height="230" /></a> <br /><font size="1"><em>Our Lady Of Morphine</em>. 2002</font></p> <p align="left">They gave me a shot, bandaged up my finger, shared some sympathetic <em>don’t-feel-dumb,-marshmallow-injuries-are-more-common-than-you-realize</em> stories, and sent us on our way. </p> <p align="left">On our way out, we got to stop by the fascinating magical narcotics-dispensing machine. I was delighted.</p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh6.ggpht.com/-S_har5nLL7c/TnYd9QvCD3I/AAAAAAAAAaI/K5Ji1wc-RAc/s1600-h/InstyMeds%25255B3%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="InstyMeds" alt="InstyMeds" src="http://lh5.ggpht.com/-pkeB2-ETfcY/TnYd_90XREI/AAAAAAAAAaM/U1Hlu9kt_to/InstyMeds_thumb%25255B1%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="190" height="240" /></a> <br /><font size="1">This is really a thing!</font></p> <p align="left">So that was our adventure. I’m fine, or at least I will be in a few days. Urban is taking care of me (as usual). I’m happy it’s my left hand. And I’m happy that it’s raining today so I’m not missing out on riding or anything. <br /> <br />Oh, and by the way? Before Urban dragged me from the firepit back into the house, I finished roasting my Peep and ate the damn thing. It was perfect. </p> <p align="center"><a href="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-_Mx3KOR78EI/TnYeB_LB8qI/AAAAAAAAAaQ/OiZxtyUogDo/s1600-h/when%252520peeps%252520attack%25255B4%25255D.jpg"><img style="display: inline" title="when peeps attack" alt="when peeps attack" src="http://lh3.ggpht.com/-yhbgbY6K500/TnYeFFSIxFI/AAAAAAAAAaU/7s3RyoBKjB8/when%252520peeps%252520attack_thumb%25255B2%25255D.jpg?imgmax=800" width="300" height="229" /></a></p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7743965357861234981.post-51177474797319384062011-07-20T00:18:00.001-05:002011-07-20T00:18:17.633-05:00Ahhh! Haikus!<p>Must write a haiku <br />For my “Journey and Quest” class. <br />It’s not going well. <br /> <br />This terse verse is huge-- <br />I don’t know how to begin. <br />My words feel empty. <br /> <br />I read the Masters <br />Beauty, in words and meaning <br />Now I’m scared to try. <br /> <br />No cherry blossoms-- <br />I should just write what I know. <br />What is before me. <br /> <br />Grey squirrels gather <br />Discarded crumbs from my lunch. <br />This park is dirty. <br /> <br />Walking in the sun <br />My friend and I laugh so loud <br />People turn and look. <br /> <br />Cambridge cooks in heat, <br />Packed with tourists and students. <br />I love this city. <br /> <br />Midterms stress me out. <br />I avoid writing papers <br />And play ‘Angry Birds.’ <br /> <br />In the shade of trees <br />The grass is green, cool and deep. <br />Tired eyes find peace. <br /> <br />Fragrant jasmine tea: <br />Icy and sweet, from a straw. <br />Nice, on a hot day. <br /> <br />July moon steals sleep <br />I stroll beside the river. <br />Drunk boys stagger by. <br /> <br />I miss my small farm-- <br />Horses leave rich summer grass <br />And run to greet me. <br /> <br />I remember, once <br />The dog came in from outside; <br />Coughed up a live frog. <br /> <br />I look at my phone <br />To find out that it’s raining-- <br />I’m standing in it. </p> Saumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05684586617971796705noreply@blogger.com1