The Slice of Life That...Stings

Hi Hon. A quick note. I decided it's OK. That box that's in the pantry? I'm raiding it.The box that has the leftover beers from your stash. When you were here in January? I'm having 4 of those 6 beers tonight. I'm calling it dinner. McMuffin and GF went to 88 cups and got some dinner earlier. Bob has a slice of venison something puree pate in his dish with the kibble, from Ed and Donna. I'm sure it is like that sprig of parsley next to the prime rib. Bijoux got her ration of generic canned fish.

So I'm sorry about the raid :) Went with H to the oncologist. He examined her. It is massive. 14 centimeters by 11 centimeters. He includes the fat and tissue, saying he just wanted to get an idea. We looked next at the scan on the large monitor. It is in her lymph nodes under her right arm. Thankfully, we're told here, it isn't anywhere else. So far. That is not what we were told last week by someone else. It isn't no longer just a lump. It is now black and smeary within her outline. He mentioned numbers and I tried to write it down: "25-35% patients can can't predict not one of those." I don't understand my notes. She needs an echocardiogram, then a port-cath and blood work. After, the chemo starts. With the 30% discount, my unemployed uninsured H is quoted a price of $36,000 for her doses of chemo. The base rate, we're told. If there aren't enough white cells or red cells, I forget which, she'll need two injections of N-something and Neuplasta. Each one is $4,000. H wonders if it'd be cheaper to go somewhere else outside the country for care. Last week, a symbiot. This week, an invader parasite. This odd cellular structure betwixt the future and a distant beyond. The cost...the cost is numbing.

Driving home we try to fathom our thoughts and feelings. We feel oddly calm, but for the marble rattling around in our hubcaps. Hon, you tell me to be strong. I'm not sure which kind of strong. Is strong also brave?

Trinkets & Such...

Inspired bling is on the brain. Here, a brooch and bracelet by Israeli artist Ava Soffer, who plied organic silver designs with found pieces of Roman glass or simply set pearls with strands of gold. His work has energy and flow and elegance, and I like that silver and gold is kept earthy and delicate.

Take a stick of butter and cut it into thirds. With that third you now have a sense of the size of this diamond, the Darya-ye-Noor (Sea of Light). Its "cleft" mate is the Kooh-i-Noor. Large gems, of course, verify that a kingdom or civilization has greater power, wealth, military might than those that do not, and there is a fascinating history of how large gems were, like inorganic Helens of Troy, coveted and kidnapped from one moghul to another. The Darya-ye-Noor is part of the Iranian Crown Jewels. Its history is fascinating, but more importantly it is the largest uncut diamond known. It is a captivating collection of carbon because its crystal face is unviolated by man's tinkering and, after all its travels and travails, remains simply radiant!

This inspired twist of copper is by Jerry Fels, from his Renoir line of copper jewelry. Jerry began fashioning the ductile metal in 1946, striking an attractive balance between abstract and natural forms. Best place to enjoy his work, somewhat oddly, is Ebay. Later, Jerry embellished his copper with enamel. By 1964, tastes in costume jewelry changed and these simple, energetic designs came to an end but in its heyday, Renoir was the go-to jewelry piece for dinner on the town. I recall my grandmother explaining to me that not only was the design elegant but, as she clipped on her pair of Renoir earrings , they were healthy to wear. Feast your eyes because it is a delight to see copper elevated from workhorse wire to precious metal!

This is metalsmith-sculptor Rebecca Bashara's work. Her necklace is silver-riveted pebbles from the great Missoula flood, whose smooth shapes and subtle colors are a tactile delight. I know because I collected 40 lbs. of these pebbles out of my own fascination with their shapes and, well, out of creative envy for Rebecca's work. More of her work can be seen on her website--and it's for sale!! Her earring designs are fantastically abstract, earthy, whimsical....love it!!

We have been so carefully marketed and culturized about diamonds, that they are forever, a girl's best friend, and the hallmark of happily ever after. To think about them any other way is a considerable struggle, even for me who is, by no means, minion to the DeBeers monopoly. This artist, whose name I can't seem to find, offers a great piece of transitional jewelry for those who want the diamond, but don't want to be terribly obvious about it!



We're off to Seattle in a few days to share the holidays with family. On my list of places to investigate is this fun place, Facere Jewelry, in downtown Seattle. I wander off and disappear into this site to enjoy that feeling of amazement at the breadth and depth of ornament energy. Take a look yourself. Maybe you'll find a little trinket that captures your amazement?

What is Wisdom Wearing This Season?

It's been a down day. I received a letter from a childhood friend and she's all aflutter about the happy ending drama in her life. She ends it begging me to write, that is, hand-write her a letter. I like the idea. It's rather quaint. Please, she begs, describe what's going on in your life! It's a down day because I don't know where or how to begin.

I approach the sink with caution-bonded reluctance. Piles of dishes. Louise, my hypothetical housekeeper, did not come today as she'd promised earlier. So this huge gunky pile is left for me to dispatch to the dishwasher. Were I a purer--and younger--soul, I'd handwash each dish and decoratively arrange it in the drainer. Fortunately, I'm wiser. I'm also wisely noticing that this makes for a down day. Why is it that white gunk on a dish needs more scrubbing than dark gunk?

Sequential is good. It is reassuring. And one likes to feel reassured. A down day isn't sequential and it feels mostly wasted no matter what quantity of effort was applied. This would surely cause my dear motherinlaw to erupt with gung-ho gusto and proclaim that "a day wasted is a life saved." She would also roll her eyes, say "MyGodCarla! How many times must I remind you!!"

Ma Mere. She's awaiting "clearance for flight" in the words of my brother in law. He has a way of describing the moment which, were alzheimers people capable, they would nod and sadly agree. It's all a blur of down days for them--certainly whenever I look from the outside in. And yet, they bring the moment into focus with a smile and a nonsensical clattering of sounds. For instance, I have no idea what Ma Mere is trying to say to me, except she says it with a smile and a reassuring tone of voice.

It no longer matters where to begin. Or end. Or that the substance inbetween is truly substance or even sequential. It is the feel of the moment.

Apple Trees, Prodding, and Sputnik

Tis been a sabbatical of sorts. But then, tis been a year of sorts. I am custodian of my father-in-law's apple starts. These are from the dwarf apple tree in his backyard. He's coaching me to grow 2 apple trees using his dwarf tree as a host and graft stems from the apple trees now growing wild in the abandoned farm next to our house. I love the promise of this. And apples seem like such a sturdy fruit. After all, we get wholesomeness and patriotism and education from apples! So, here they are. They looked like 2 dead sticks after their trip from Washington to the outback. Now they're repotted and thriving. These apple starts are stubborn, by the way. It's now cold out there and they have yet to shed their leaves. Sounds rather like my father-in-law. I like that.

No one gets anywhere without some prodding. Thanks to my Woze for prodding me to start this blog project up again. I had to change the name of course. Sputnik was floated out there to see if the universe could be explored. It answered that question with its now famous sound. And here's to my sweetie who encourages me to be a whole lot stronger than I think I really am or ever can be. I may not get my great american novel done in time, or produce the tiara all desire, or design the collection that Dior will crave. But I can enjoy my sputnik moment here in the outer space of the internet!

Tomatoes

Not a perfect haul this fall, but more abundant than I expected! My goal was to plant tomatoes and can as much as possible. I started with my neighbors in the Compound: What did they grow with success? Ah, they loved the question! Something other than Harry Reid and Nevada's crummy economy! Tomatoes, of course, and squashes, peppers of all ilk, berries, herbs, and forget the fussy stuff. Fussy stuff? Peas, carrots, broccoli, and brussel sprouts. Oh, right, no one likes to eat that anyway. And, what did they do with all this produce once ripe and ready? They gave it away to their neighbors. Who had, er, gardens of their own? Why...yes, wouldn't you? Well, I think I'd can some of it, you know there's research about the plastic liner in cans that causes----oh, sorry you gotta run. Right. Catch up with you later. Thanks, good luck yourself! A case of TMI, perhaps delivered by a too eager messenger. The rock opera Jesus Christ Superstar warned me of this years ago: you just can't save everyone.

Back to tomatoes. This year's garden started with Heirloom Tomatoes from my neighbor, Lori. I'm not sure which heirloom variety. I wonder if heirlooms are really the collected seed of mutant plants gone awry. I also used tomato seed from Home Depot, which seemed a sturdy and reliable brand. Lastly, while running off to get the mail one Saturday recalled that the high school was hosting a plant sale. All I wanted to do was look, but the Future Farmers of America convinced me to buy their sturdiest yet hybrid tomato. I was impressed and bought four. As my neighbors know well, you grow all this indoors because nothing goes in the ground until after Memorial Day Weekend. June first looked like a good day, but I lazed off into the land of procrastination. Just as well. The rest of June's first week was a nasty deep freeze. Afterwards, in went the plants. They grew well. Those hybrids, however, were otherworldly, producing one very small anemic cluster of blooms for every 2 foot of daily growth.

In hindsight, I think I fed the plant when I should have been starving it to produce its fruit. Clearly the plants were enjoying the sun, the chemically correct and compostedly nourished soil, and growing themselves into a frenzy of green. Their fruits were an afterthought, which contradicts good evolutionary practice. Eventually, tomatoes started to show up on the vines. Home Depot was first, then the crazy heirlooms, and then came the hybrids who went overnight from bloom to bowling ball-sized fruit bending their wire cages in half. I waited for the red to show. Waited and waited and waited. Then one night mid-October a neighbor phoned me. Get those tomatoes in, she cried, a really big freeze is coming! Right. It was late. I was on the verge of bed. I stepped outside. Doesn't seem any colder than it usually is. No! cried the neighbor, either you harvest them tonight or cover 'em up and hope for mercy! Ok, cover it is.
Gotta use sleeping bags, too--or else! She sighed loudly and with a bit of...disgust? before hanging up. Some tomato farmer I was! All the towels in the house went outside converting my green frenzy into a papasan chair convention.

All was saved, but not for long. November showed up. November isn't a maybe; it does freeze at night without hesitation. I picked all the red, got it blanched and crushed, and into the huge stockpot. Then there was the green. Lots of it. The freeze neighbor suggested I try canning a green tomato salsa. I was game but that meant 4 gallons of the stuff. Remembering that apples exude ethylene gas as they ripen, I packed the house with green tomatoes and apples. And that produces a vague odor of the sort that stops people at the door. Two weeks later, the green is transforming to ripe red, and into the stockpot it goes. Thus far, I've canned 22 quarts of tomato sauce. That is a lotta tomatah.

Am I done yet? No. There remains two card tables covered with greenish-red tomatoes. The green salsa neighbor is thinking I should can a green-red salsa just to get 'em outta your house!
Was it a perfect haul? No. Next time I starve those vines!!

Gotta Love That Pesticide!

I saw a commercial last night for a Reno hospital urging us viewers to consider their robotic surgery service for excising our cancers when they show up. Pinpoint accuracy. You're in and out and done, and can return to your busy schedule and your toxic neighborhood.


Here in the Outback, spring has sprung. Our compound is specific about lawn care. Needs to be neatly maintained, "uniform in appearance." Edged. Pruned. Weed-free. The HOA believes that this will "maintain the value of our properties." This pro-active stance is necessary, I'm sure, to safeguard the Compoundians' property investment regardless of the recession, the housing downturn, and Nevadans' falling credit scores.


The first thing the Compoundians do, naturally, is have their gardners reach for the Round-Up. And since the weather started warming here, and shrubberies started robusting forth, the rich perfume of herbicides and pesticides thicken the air, rich, redolent, and clearly the right thing to do. Their lawns indeed look like the sanctified ground, the proprietary moat, the expression of gentrified control over otherwise uncontrollable Nature, that Fritz Haeg describes with such accuracy and humor. Fritz, you are so way on target!


Meanwhile, at our house... I happen to like dandelions. They support an amazing microcommunity, from the ants that run aphid "nurseries" on tender new leaves, to the sphinx moth savoring dandelion nectar. I happen to like thistles. The native finches here cannot suppress their impatience for these plants to hurry up and bloom. They love its seeds. I like the other "weeds," too, for their amazing ability to look so lush--ie, extract so much nitrogen--from a clayey desert soil, or produce a leaf oil that repels all other pesty pests. Maintaing a lawn, in a desert, is just as absurd as supporting an automobile manufacturer that produces irrelevant cars. But what I like happens to be directly opposite the community sentiment here at the Compound. I am grateful we are JUST renting.

On my list of things to do today is pull my 6 buckets of weeds--and, finish my research with the Nevada Extension service. They provide all kinds of herbicide and pesticide alternatives for people with sanctified, verdant moats. From there, I'm off to the HOA meeting to present my petition for our Compound to become a shining example of how NOT to kill green, living things. Meanwhile, on a slightly different tangent...I found this list of how to buy organic fruits and vegetables. It makes choices so much easier! I suppose that's what the Reno hospital wants us to think, too. When you get it, a robot will clean up the cancer like Round-Up does weeds. This technology should make your choices so much easier! Maybe some avoidance-therapy should be the first choice.

Judging Appearances, part I

Not too long ago a young woman made medical history. She stepped up to the microphones and announced that she was recepient of the face transplant. Her own face was blown off in a gun accident. A generous donor stepped in and with unprecidented medical skill her face is now on the way to being rebuilt. She wasn't there to plea for more money for transplant research. Instead, she asked the public to remember her and know firsthand that she is so much more than how she appears. It was time to give up judging people by their looks. Everyone applauded and cheered in loud, hearty enthusiastic approval. The TV station then cut to a commercial...on what? A cream to make women appear years younger. The mixed message had, again, been successfully sent off with its final word to linger, most likely, the longest in viewer's minds.

On a related note, I present to you my Walk Ladies. You may see age, wrinkles, gray hair, and some unfashionable roundness. But these ladies are my heroes, and their looks are most deceptive. One is a two-time breast cancer survivor. She has used her skills as an accomplished horsewoman to teach autistic children by teaching them how to care, feed, and ride horses. Another is a mother of three, of whom meth addiction took two, and not for lack of medical or parental intervention. One is a native of the devastated town of Greensburg, Kansas. She has been instrumental in helping that town recover and redesign itself as a green community. One is a former peacecorps worker who made a career afterwards of working with the sick and one of the few nurses who walked the streets of San Francisco looking for those afflicted with what was later recognized as acquired immune deficiency. She helped start the AIDS quilt. Another has logged over 100,000 miles of travel donating her computer skills and materiel to poor countries in hopes they can participate in the democracy of the internet. Three maintain their status as registered nurses, all help run the local food closet which helps barely-funded local and state governments keep the poor and unemployed fed.

And the dogs? They help all of us keep to the Path.