Far too often I let the sight of falling snow consolidate all the maybes and possibilies and might-bes into a mass of twisted iron. It weighs and coats everything, the wind freezes the locks, and expands the metal to the point where the slightest adjustment in pressure might cause everything inside to pinata outwards. It's time to move...
On January 12th I leave for Decatur, IL. Until today, I didn't know where I'd be living - the fear that I might being forced to live with an 18-year old freshman, experiencing alcohol and independence for the first time - or whether I'd be able to eat anything. I tried to speak with the head chef about my "food requirements" over three months ago to no avail. He suggested that I get an apartment off campus and cook for myself, noting a Kroger not more than a mile from campus. I gave him a look through the phone, it was not received. That conversation ended with nothing. He passed the buck, refused to actually deal with my requests, and told me to handle it for myself. Of course, this is something I do right now, something I've been doing for two years now since discovering my "food requirements", and am perfectly comfortable continuing to do so. Problem was: Kroger.
A Kroger in Decatur, IL, no less. This is like asking a rock climber to buy her/his gear for the ascension of Mount Everest from a sporting goods recyclery store; all second hand and nearly worn through. There's just no way.
Then, continued the tribulations of trying to uncover whether or not a friend would sublet my apartment. His dodging had become tiresome over the months, his excuses (which turned out to be realistic, but still) unending, and I was left with more creaking and groaning of steel. It wasn't surprising that I find myself, right now, sitting at this computer wishing my stomach ache would subside or disappear so I can get to sleep. Usually, I'm forced to wait until I'm about to fall over, to hit the pillow, and it's becoming more then I can handle.
But, as I said before, this all existed until today. Today, I found out I have an apartment and that the director of dinning services has assured the dean I've been in contact with that there will be food for me to eat, every day, three times a day. Then, after more evading phone calls and texts, my friend finally told us what's going on with taking over the apartment. It was relieving. I felt my stomach warm and unbend...until I realized I'd be gone in less than a month.
Soon I'll be gone. Five months, sure, isn't a long time, but it is when you're in the belly of the beast. When you're unsure where your heart sits. I'll be back where I was six-years ago but older now, more prepared. But that doesn't calm me, it just opened one gate and froze a different one.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Brain threads
There's something that wants to come out right now, but I'm not sure which 'something' I want to hold the cage upon for. That's the way it ends up after watching a great film, seeing something inspiring, drinking a eye-opening song or album. And that's where I am right now.
I'm in bed. There are sleep noises all around me: hum of the laptop's fan, sag of bed, churning of the heater, jangle as it turns off. I want to write about inspiration, but I won't. I want to write about where an idea begins, but I won't. So, let's go with train of thought.
Apparently, I've been told, the train that sits in the station in my head does not make all the stops a lot of other people's does. There are a few that try to tie that to this disability thing that I won't get into but I doubt that's it. After all, could a disability shape one's perspective? Could it form the pattern? Could it extrapolate the projected path from someone mentioning how beautiful the sunset is to me just stopping, completely shutting down? Nah, that doesn't make much sense. My brain does that. Sure, the route isn't necessarily predetermined all the time but more often than not, it is.
I'm a staunch believer in thought nodes. What I mean to say is that the phycological star I hitch my theory to is that there are these nodes, interconnected through synapses, of thoughts, memories, images that are spaced out throughout the brain. Now, these nodes are just the generalized notions, the most basic, boiled down generality of things. Hmm...let's try this again. Yellow, green, and blue are all colors. They're all defined within that umbrella, right? Right. So, there's a node. Colors: Yellow, green, blue, etc. The problem is that green is comprised of both blue and yellow, so those branches are connected independently of the umbrella: color. Following? Awesome.
So, here's the thing: these items in the brain, plus the nodes that they branch from are associated and organized specifically. So, I'm saying, my brain associates things differently then most. Why? Because there's one giant node, in my head, that all other nodes are threaded. All other branches can be lead back to one, universal mega-node: God.
Wow, I just went all over the place. Anyway, with God firmly established, with this "mega-node" as the backbone, the fundamental, purest, first creative point well established I can say that all inspiration and thought stems from that source: God.
Was that coherent at all? I'm not sure.
I watched ADAPTATION tonight for the first time and my brain immediately went to the way it's wired and why. So, I guess that's an explanation of who I am and how I think. I guess. Some train, huh?
I'm in bed. There are sleep noises all around me: hum of the laptop's fan, sag of bed, churning of the heater, jangle as it turns off. I want to write about inspiration, but I won't. I want to write about where an idea begins, but I won't. So, let's go with train of thought.
Apparently, I've been told, the train that sits in the station in my head does not make all the stops a lot of other people's does. There are a few that try to tie that to this disability thing that I won't get into but I doubt that's it. After all, could a disability shape one's perspective? Could it form the pattern? Could it extrapolate the projected path from someone mentioning how beautiful the sunset is to me just stopping, completely shutting down? Nah, that doesn't make much sense. My brain does that. Sure, the route isn't necessarily predetermined all the time but more often than not, it is.
I'm a staunch believer in thought nodes. What I mean to say is that the phycological star I hitch my theory to is that there are these nodes, interconnected through synapses, of thoughts, memories, images that are spaced out throughout the brain. Now, these nodes are just the generalized notions, the most basic, boiled down generality of things. Hmm...let's try this again. Yellow, green, and blue are all colors. They're all defined within that umbrella, right? Right. So, there's a node. Colors: Yellow, green, blue, etc. The problem is that green is comprised of both blue and yellow, so those branches are connected independently of the umbrella: color. Following? Awesome.
So, here's the thing: these items in the brain, plus the nodes that they branch from are associated and organized specifically. So, I'm saying, my brain associates things differently then most. Why? Because there's one giant node, in my head, that all other nodes are threaded. All other branches can be lead back to one, universal mega-node: God.
Wow, I just went all over the place. Anyway, with God firmly established, with this "mega-node" as the backbone, the fundamental, purest, first creative point well established I can say that all inspiration and thought stems from that source: God.
Was that coherent at all? I'm not sure.
I watched ADAPTATION tonight for the first time and my brain immediately went to the way it's wired and why. So, I guess that's an explanation of who I am and how I think. I guess. Some train, huh?
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
As the days move on...
It's been a little while, yes. Right now, I sit in Cafe Ambrosia in Evanston, a block from Northwestern's campus, trying to create content. Since the last time I posted Heather and I launched Davidprecht.com and really want you to visit it. It's super rad!
Outside of that, I've been so busy with the Central Region Baha'i Conference this past weekend and trying to get this site up and content-ful. I haven't really been able to think about life without work, I've been so cocooned in other stuff. We'll see how things settle in the next couple days. Perhaps I'll begin thinking about it again. As it stands, however, there's too much else to think about.
Outside of that, I've been so busy with the Central Region Baha'i Conference this past weekend and trying to get this site up and content-ful. I haven't really been able to think about life without work, I've been so cocooned in other stuff. We'll see how things settle in the next couple days. Perhaps I'll begin thinking about it again. As it stands, however, there's too much else to think about.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Post No Work, Day 3: Late night
As the night continues, we're still up. We sit here in the kitchen/dinning room sharing stories and thoughts. All deeply personal. Some causing welling up. At this point we've gotten into the innate varieties in our (Bobby Aazami and my) Persian parents - both his parents and my mother are from Iran. Talking about the pride they carry, the inability to translate personal thoughts and passions into words [unless, of course, they're talking about the Baha'i Faith or their pride in their children when speaking with strangers or friend and we are not around (an attribute Emily Price had mentioned her father also shared, as well as my father)], and their, thankfully, diminishing belief that the non-Persian cultures of the world will eventually come around and aline themselves with traditional, Farsi speaking people. This last bit is one that doesn't solely dwell with Persians, but one that most other cultures have had to tackle over the last hundred to two hundred years. Anyway...
Hitting the rewind button for a while, we talked about our (Bobby and my) leaving of the Baha'i National Center. How we both felt like the time had come for us to move on. I admitted to both of them that I had been feeling it for some time, and Bobby told us a story about how his moving on felt right, three months or so before the lay off. He told us that it was the perfect time to leave, especially knowing now that the lay offs took place.
Then, he told a story about receiving a prayer book at his goodbye party, a tradition for those departing from the BNC and weren't fired. He said that he wanted to make a big joke about receiving the prayer book, that he was primed and ready to blurt it out, but got choked up looking down at the personalized message and signatures from all the members of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of the United States. It was a big deal for him. It's a big deal for everyone leaving to feel like their service was appreciated.
I stood there across from him, looking down at my hands. They looked the way one's hands would look if they were holding something that meant something. ...yeah, that sounds overly dramatic and silly, but that's the way it felt. When the story concluded I told them that I felt bad for everyone that was laid off. No one had a party; no one was forced to stand in front of a large group of people to tell them what their plans were for the future; no one had the chance to look down at a symbol of their service.
Bobby was shocked. He apologized to me as if a proxy for the NSA, and it was appreciated but I still felt a little hollow.
Fast-forward a bit to Luthando walking back through the front door, shifting pieces of mail in his hands. Amongst them was a book-sized, padded envelope. I saw it and felt something, but didn't dare cling to it. We continued talking about whatever we were talking about at that moment until he got to the table in the dinning room. He analyzed the envelope addressed to him and passed the rest of the stack to me.
On the sticker, affixed to the padded envelope was the letterhead for the BNC and my name and address. First, I thought it was a DVD. The newsreel or something. But why would they send me the newsreel? I rationalized it away quickly and began opening, and there it was... The prayer book.
It hit hard. Bobby began cheering and stomping, hooting and hollering, around the kitchen as if rubbing it in my face. "See! See what happens! You feel bad, like you're not appreciated and Baha'u'llah delivers proof!" And he was right. Despite my previous comments that I had come to grips with my departure from the BNC, despite swearing to my parents that it didn't hurt "that much" and that I was prepared and probably needed to leave, it still hurt a bit until that moment.
I opened it up and saw that every member had signed the card, stuck to the inside cover. On the opposite side of the folded page, a message addressed "Dear David". It didn't matter that each are the same, that they're form letters printed out, folded, and presented to the NSA members to sign. I felt like they cared. That my service meant something to someone other then me.
Hitting the rewind button for a while, we talked about our (Bobby and my) leaving of the Baha'i National Center. How we both felt like the time had come for us to move on. I admitted to both of them that I had been feeling it for some time, and Bobby told us a story about how his moving on felt right, three months or so before the lay off. He told us that it was the perfect time to leave, especially knowing now that the lay offs took place.
Then, he told a story about receiving a prayer book at his goodbye party, a tradition for those departing from the BNC and weren't fired. He said that he wanted to make a big joke about receiving the prayer book, that he was primed and ready to blurt it out, but got choked up looking down at the personalized message and signatures from all the members of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of the United States. It was a big deal for him. It's a big deal for everyone leaving to feel like their service was appreciated.
I stood there across from him, looking down at my hands. They looked the way one's hands would look if they were holding something that meant something. ...yeah, that sounds overly dramatic and silly, but that's the way it felt. When the story concluded I told them that I felt bad for everyone that was laid off. No one had a party; no one was forced to stand in front of a large group of people to tell them what their plans were for the future; no one had the chance to look down at a symbol of their service.
Bobby was shocked. He apologized to me as if a proxy for the NSA, and it was appreciated but I still felt a little hollow.
Fast-forward a bit to Luthando walking back through the front door, shifting pieces of mail in his hands. Amongst them was a book-sized, padded envelope. I saw it and felt something, but didn't dare cling to it. We continued talking about whatever we were talking about at that moment until he got to the table in the dinning room. He analyzed the envelope addressed to him and passed the rest of the stack to me.
On the sticker, affixed to the padded envelope was the letterhead for the BNC and my name and address. First, I thought it was a DVD. The newsreel or something. But why would they send me the newsreel? I rationalized it away quickly and began opening, and there it was... The prayer book.
It hit hard. Bobby began cheering and stomping, hooting and hollering, around the kitchen as if rubbing it in my face. "See! See what happens! You feel bad, like you're not appreciated and Baha'u'llah delivers proof!" And he was right. Despite my previous comments that I had come to grips with my departure from the BNC, despite swearing to my parents that it didn't hurt "that much" and that I was prepared and probably needed to leave, it still hurt a bit until that moment.
I opened it up and saw that every member had signed the card, stuck to the inside cover. On the opposite side of the folded page, a message addressed "Dear David". It didn't matter that each are the same, that they're form letters printed out, folded, and presented to the NSA members to sign. I felt like they cared. That my service meant something to someone other then me.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Post No Work, Day 2: Lax days, stiff beats
It's been over a week since last I wrote. The Thanksgiving break, the primarily reason why. But here I am again, sitting at my computer, wondering about not only what to say, but where I am mentally. Hmm...here goes something.
I've realized that I have a derth of new music. After the sometimes painful drive up to Minnesota, cramped in the back seat with Lindsay and my little sister, I found myself pouring over the tracks on my iPhone. Very old hat. In fact, even my parents, whose commentary on the music I listen to has become something not only old hat but background noise, interjected that what I was suggesting they had either already heard or was boring. Usually, I brush this off but...they were right. My iTunes has become riddled with collections of dust and hair. Enter, last.fm's Top 10 lists of 2008.
The great thing about last.fm is that it's largely democratic. Their system catalogues what you listen to and how many times and keeps a running tally on their site; I highly recommend it. This is the perfect dynamic for unbiased representations of what is "hot".
Last.fm, although apparently largely comprised of Brits, has decided, based on number of plays, what the top 10 artists, albums, and tracks are of 2008. This list, after I ignored MGMT for reasons I don't care to get into right now, has become one of my benchmarks. It is my springboard into a new world of tunes.
Oh, did I mention the Shortlist Awards? Yeah, that's another brilliant resource. Because, really, I don't care that an album went gold. I care that it's good, great, or fantastic.
In as much as my current mental status: I'm optimistic.
I'm working on the content for my website and, when I feel tapped out on that, I'll be attempting to pull out another essay or two. And as far as non-creative ventures, Monday was my last full day at the office. I cleared everything out save a drawer full of drum sticks and a cowbell - don't ask. Having explained the piles of unfinished, unfiled, or ignored work to Steve, I left with Lindsay. Perhaps her stressful state, attempting to create and print the agendas for at least two of the upcoming, spur of the moment Baha'i conferences, keeps my mouth closed about the whole experience. That maybe there's something lingering that will require my attention at some point in the near future, but I don't think so. I think the two weeks I spent after being told I was laid off was preparation enough. That any more dwelling on it or mulling over the ramifications would only serve to set me back, and I really don't need any of that.
I, instead, walked through the building, collecting hugs and warmest wishes from many of the most impressive people I've ever had the chance to work or spend extended time with. There was an air of confidence from them, and hopefully from me, as I walked out. And a smiling calm that I thanked him for helping me whenever I needed it, goodbye from Mr. Bowers, the Secretary of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of the United States. Also, that he pushed me out the door when I felt the tractor beam of the building beginning to take hold.
I've realized that I have a derth of new music. After the sometimes painful drive up to Minnesota, cramped in the back seat with Lindsay and my little sister, I found myself pouring over the tracks on my iPhone. Very old hat. In fact, even my parents, whose commentary on the music I listen to has become something not only old hat but background noise, interjected that what I was suggesting they had either already heard or was boring. Usually, I brush this off but...they were right. My iTunes has become riddled with collections of dust and hair. Enter, last.fm's Top 10 lists of 2008.
The great thing about last.fm is that it's largely democratic. Their system catalogues what you listen to and how many times and keeps a running tally on their site; I highly recommend it. This is the perfect dynamic for unbiased representations of what is "hot".
Last.fm, although apparently largely comprised of Brits, has decided, based on number of plays, what the top 10 artists, albums, and tracks are of 2008. This list, after I ignored MGMT for reasons I don't care to get into right now, has become one of my benchmarks. It is my springboard into a new world of tunes.
Oh, did I mention the Shortlist Awards? Yeah, that's another brilliant resource. Because, really, I don't care that an album went gold. I care that it's good, great, or fantastic.
In as much as my current mental status: I'm optimistic.
I'm working on the content for my website and, when I feel tapped out on that, I'll be attempting to pull out another essay or two. And as far as non-creative ventures, Monday was my last full day at the office. I cleared everything out save a drawer full of drum sticks and a cowbell - don't ask. Having explained the piles of unfinished, unfiled, or ignored work to Steve, I left with Lindsay. Perhaps her stressful state, attempting to create and print the agendas for at least two of the upcoming, spur of the moment Baha'i conferences, keeps my mouth closed about the whole experience. That maybe there's something lingering that will require my attention at some point in the near future, but I don't think so. I think the two weeks I spent after being told I was laid off was preparation enough. That any more dwelling on it or mulling over the ramifications would only serve to set me back, and I really don't need any of that.
I, instead, walked through the building, collecting hugs and warmest wishes from many of the most impressive people I've ever had the chance to work or spend extended time with. There was an air of confidence from them, and hopefully from me, as I walked out. And a smiling calm that I thanked him for helping me whenever I needed it, goodbye from Mr. Bowers, the Secretary of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of the United States. Also, that he pushed me out the door when I felt the tractor beam of the building beginning to take hold.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Post Job, Day 13: The excuses
Yesterday, I decided to take the day off. I remember doing very little, if anything, to further my situation at school. That's...pretty much it.
There's been a funk seeping like the water from the washing machine upstairs into my brain and soul, brown from collecting dust and rust flakes. It's lethargy, I think. That belief that I shouldn't do much of anything, ever save sitting around and feeling sorry for myself. That, unfortunately, hasn't helped anything, however, yet it persists.
Today, was a different story, I suppose. I woke up, late, and began my day slowly. It's obvious my pace and mindset stems from the malaises that is life right now. I'm unhappy with being dropped, can't accept it, and am being a bit of a baby about it. Scratch that, a huge baby about it. This is something I should have pushed through quite some time ago. Should have been able to conquer the fear over the unknown next step and accepted it instead of this childish sitting around in my underwear, watching movies or television shows as work piles up both at my former place of business and the projects I claim to be working on. The truth is, I'm not. And that, what?, makes me less then I know I can be. It leaves me sitting in my head, shaking in disgust at what I see that I'm doing. You know, nothing.
Not only is this a problem with my professional life but with personal life as well. I'm trying to make progress, align myself correctly with the stages I should be involved in for my age, and be on the look out for that "someone". Problem is, I'm not. I'm just here, in front of my desk like a sad sack of crap. And now I'm off the rails...
What everything here boils down to, what is at it's heart is fear. Terror, really. Am I ready to return to school after everything that happened last time? Am I ready to get married when I don't know that I've made the kind of progress I feel I should have made? Am I ready to make that step into my career instead of continuing this line of poor-paying part-time positions that don't initiate my brain at all?
The answer to all these is 'yes'. A resounding 'yes'. But what of the terror? What of the grip it has over me. What happens when I'm in Decatur and can't see family and friends and remember that I am capable and can push through this? It owns me. But it shouldn't. And, at this point, I need to ignore the juvenile excuses that used to "work" and be an adult. Accept it. Be it.
I'll get there.
There's been a funk seeping like the water from the washing machine upstairs into my brain and soul, brown from collecting dust and rust flakes. It's lethargy, I think. That belief that I shouldn't do much of anything, ever save sitting around and feeling sorry for myself. That, unfortunately, hasn't helped anything, however, yet it persists.
Today, was a different story, I suppose. I woke up, late, and began my day slowly. It's obvious my pace and mindset stems from the malaises that is life right now. I'm unhappy with being dropped, can't accept it, and am being a bit of a baby about it. Scratch that, a huge baby about it. This is something I should have pushed through quite some time ago. Should have been able to conquer the fear over the unknown next step and accepted it instead of this childish sitting around in my underwear, watching movies or television shows as work piles up both at my former place of business and the projects I claim to be working on. The truth is, I'm not. And that, what?, makes me less then I know I can be. It leaves me sitting in my head, shaking in disgust at what I see that I'm doing. You know, nothing.
Not only is this a problem with my professional life but with personal life as well. I'm trying to make progress, align myself correctly with the stages I should be involved in for my age, and be on the look out for that "someone". Problem is, I'm not. I'm just here, in front of my desk like a sad sack of crap. And now I'm off the rails...
What everything here boils down to, what is at it's heart is fear. Terror, really. Am I ready to return to school after everything that happened last time? Am I ready to get married when I don't know that I've made the kind of progress I feel I should have made? Am I ready to make that step into my career instead of continuing this line of poor-paying part-time positions that don't initiate my brain at all?
The answer to all these is 'yes'. A resounding 'yes'. But what of the terror? What of the grip it has over me. What happens when I'm in Decatur and can't see family and friends and remember that I am capable and can push through this? It owns me. But it shouldn't. And, at this point, I need to ignore the juvenile excuses that used to "work" and be an adult. Accept it. Be it.
I'll get there.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Updated
So, I updated the site a bit. It was getting a little drafty in there and needed a quick redesign. I'll spend more time manipulating things later, but as is, it doesn't look bad.
Post Job, Day 11: Weekend relaxation feels like weekday relaxation
Sure, there was a hiccup with our internet connection earlier today, but this feels like an all together lax day. 'Dear Science,' plays in the background as I've been sitting here at my desk for most of the day. And by day, I mean that I woke up at two. Oh, did I mention the shower I took an hour ago? That's my day so far.
I'll need to do some work on the many projects I have tonight or today will be an absolute wash. ...script writing it is!
I'll need to do some work on the many projects I have tonight or today will be an absolute wash. ...script writing it is!
Dear Comcast,
"I'm doing this as hard as I can."
Yeah, why do I have to pay you more when you make a mistake? Grr...
Yeah, why do I have to pay you more when you make a mistake? Grr...
Friday, November 21, 2008
Post Job, Day 10: The dream
There was a conscious setting of my alarm last night. 8 o'clock. I'd wake up and get to work as close to the time I would normally do so. 8 o'clock came, music started playing, my eyes opened. I layed there in my bed recognizing that I needed more sleep. Snooze button. Out. Fifteen minutes later music starts playing again, and my eyes open. I recognized the need to be awake by turning off my alarm and sitting up for a minute or two. I sat there, attempting to glare through my caked eyes, fell over and went back to sleep.
In that in between time, between turning off my alarm at whatever time and waking up again at 11:30, I had some kind of dream. Not sure if it was of the day variety or if I was in the actual state of REM sleep, but, well, who cares. So, here's the dream...I'm being kicked out of the Baha'i Faith. No joke.
Obviously, this has links to my being laid off by the Baha'i National Center and my father's passed history of being laid off but I felt something different. As if this was something possible. Like doing something "wrong" in accordance to whomever would have the effect of having me be kicked out of the Faith that I have prescribed my life. It's odd, sure, but there's something there. Did I mention I was being fired by my boss at the National Center? No, well, he did. ...perhaps this just links me back to being laid off and finally dealing with it subconsciously. That would make sense anyway. Hmm, I'll really have to delve deeper into this at some point. Just not right now. I'd like to spend some time relaxing after this week. After a taxing day of having people tell me, again, that they'll miss me so much when I'm gone. That I shouldn't leave; as if this was my choice; it would have been sooner or later anyway, so there's that. I'm not sitting here in judgment of them or angry that they care, just that it's draining to hear it three or four times a day by three or four people. It's just a constant reminder of "hey, you won't be here anymore."
On the plus side, I received a letter today, handwritten and professional, from someone in the office offering their perspective of the situation and me, personally. It was uplifting to see what those whom work around you think of you. So positive and loving they are.
THAT WAS MY DAY!
In that in between time, between turning off my alarm at whatever time and waking up again at 11:30, I had some kind of dream. Not sure if it was of the day variety or if I was in the actual state of REM sleep, but, well, who cares. So, here's the dream...I'm being kicked out of the Baha'i Faith. No joke.
Obviously, this has links to my being laid off by the Baha'i National Center and my father's passed history of being laid off but I felt something different. As if this was something possible. Like doing something "wrong" in accordance to whomever would have the effect of having me be kicked out of the Faith that I have prescribed my life. It's odd, sure, but there's something there. Did I mention I was being fired by my boss at the National Center? No, well, he did. ...perhaps this just links me back to being laid off and finally dealing with it subconsciously. That would make sense anyway. Hmm, I'll really have to delve deeper into this at some point. Just not right now. I'd like to spend some time relaxing after this week. After a taxing day of having people tell me, again, that they'll miss me so much when I'm gone. That I shouldn't leave; as if this was my choice; it would have been sooner or later anyway, so there's that. I'm not sitting here in judgment of them or angry that they care, just that it's draining to hear it three or four times a day by three or four people. It's just a constant reminder of "hey, you won't be here anymore."
On the plus side, I received a letter today, handwritten and professional, from someone in the office offering their perspective of the situation and me, personally. It was uplifting to see what those whom work around you think of you. So positive and loving they are.
THAT WAS MY DAY!
Post Job, Day 10: Oh, right. I was going to write something...
The day came and went and I got very little "work" done. I did, however, solidify my final semester's schedule, dropping a redundant Shakespeare course for History of Modern China (why not?).
Oh, and there was lunch with Josh Elder, writer of Mail Order Ninja and the new Starcraft graphic novels. We talked about publishing and inexpensive yet fabulous Argentinean artists and the proposals I will send to them in the form of short stories, then scripts. The prospect has become to be more real to me. Like it could very well happen in the very near future. Like I could write two or three short stories, or maneuver a couple I'm working on, to be ready to send off by January; a very doable prospect. I will have, after all, an entire month of butt growing and eye destroying to endure. Wee!
He also talked of beta testing and street teaming his new project, primed to begin launch in February. Whereas before things looked like they might happen, now, they done gunna. Which is a good feeling. -- Weather Channel app for the iPhone?! Whaaa? Wait...wait...my phone's battery just died as I was trying out the app. Damn you, battery and my obsessive playing of majong for the last hour! -- ...oh, right, blogging. So, right, I'll be working on those things I mentioned...you know the ones.
Also, I have this plan to finish, at least, three books before I leave: 'Conscious Courtship', 'The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay ', and 'Kite Runner'. I'd like to crack 'Theodore Rex' and 'Hero of a Thousand Faces' as well but I'm trying to be realistic here. You can follow my progress and read my reviews on goodreads.com, easily one of my favorite sites that doesn't include the buying of them.
Also-also, no hair cut. Too cold. Didn't want to have to wear a hat right after getting things did. Too many short hairs. Too many excuses. Next week, it'll happen.
Also-also-also, there's a $10 triple-feature of 'The Creature Walks Among Us', 'Godzilla vs the Sea Monster', and 'Horror of Dracula' at the Portage Theater starting at 6:00 p.m. Join me, won't you.
Much more writing tomorrow...also, some blogging about where I'm at mentally and all that. Night night.
Oh, and there was lunch with Josh Elder, writer of Mail Order Ninja and the new Starcraft graphic novels. We talked about publishing and inexpensive yet fabulous Argentinean artists and the proposals I will send to them in the form of short stories, then scripts. The prospect has become to be more real to me. Like it could very well happen in the very near future. Like I could write two or three short stories, or maneuver a couple I'm working on, to be ready to send off by January; a very doable prospect. I will have, after all, an entire month of butt growing and eye destroying to endure. Wee!
He also talked of beta testing and street teaming his new project, primed to begin launch in February. Whereas before things looked like they might happen, now, they done gunna. Which is a good feeling. -- Weather Channel app for the iPhone?! Whaaa? Wait...wait...my phone's battery just died as I was trying out the app. Damn you, battery and my obsessive playing of majong for the last hour! -- ...oh, right, blogging. So, right, I'll be working on those things I mentioned...you know the ones.
Also, I have this plan to finish, at least, three books before I leave: 'Conscious Courtship', 'The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay ', and 'Kite Runner'. I'd like to crack 'Theodore Rex' and 'Hero of a Thousand Faces' as well but I'm trying to be realistic here. You can follow my progress and read my reviews on goodreads.com, easily one of my favorite sites that doesn't include the buying of them.
Also-also, no hair cut. Too cold. Didn't want to have to wear a hat right after getting things did. Too many short hairs. Too many excuses. Next week, it'll happen.
Also-also-also, there's a $10 triple-feature of 'The Creature Walks Among Us', 'Godzilla vs the Sea Monster', and 'Horror of Dracula' at the Portage Theater starting at 6:00 p.m. Join me, won't you.
Much more writing tomorrow...also, some blogging about where I'm at mentally and all that. Night night.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Post Job, Day 9: Tomorrow's day
Scheduling
10:30 - Doctor's appointment
12:00 - Lunch with Josh to talk about comics, options open to me
2:00 - Haircut 4k
2:30 - Grocery shopping: pizza ingredients
3:30 - Following Josh's advice on finding a cheap artist
4:00 - Script writing
5:00 - Beginning pizza making process, thinking about the day, meditating while chopping red and green peppers
8:00 - The Office, 30 Rock, conversations
10:30 - Script writing
Any in between time on the train will be spent reading and any at home will be reading, minimizing noodling on the tubes, and writing various blog posts or short pieces I get inspired to write.
Geez, being a writer is exhausting or something.
10:30 - Doctor's appointment
12:00 - Lunch with Josh to talk about comics, options open to me
2:00 - Haircut 4k
2:30 - Grocery shopping: pizza ingredients
3:30 - Following Josh's advice on finding a cheap artist
4:00 - Script writing
5:00 - Beginning pizza making process, thinking about the day, meditating while chopping red and green peppers
8:00 - The Office, 30 Rock, conversations
10:30 - Script writing
Any in between time on the train will be spent reading and any at home will be reading, minimizing noodling on the tubes, and writing various blog posts or short pieces I get inspired to write.
Geez, being a writer is exhausting or something.
Post Job, Day 9: I like my life more then blogging!
A friend sent me this New York Times article called "In Web World of 24/7 Stress, Writers Blog Till They Drop". It's a pretty self-explanatory article. People are blogging themselves to death, to bad health, to nervous breakdowns.
The reason I mentioned death first must be for the same reason the writer of the article did, scare bloggers. Make it pop like a blogger. Also, that whole inverted pyramid thing. But, regardless, this hit a nerve in me. I've thought about living the life of a blogger. I had a lady and gent from a Mac website offer the opportunity to write for them, to be the voice of new Mac news, and I wanted to do it. I was excited by the idea of pumping out a fewarticles blog posts a day and reaping the benefits. Then, things didn't work out and I was bummed out like Matt Buchanan, passed out on his keyboard.
This article, though, freaked me out! Like scared straight, but it worked. Matt Buchanan doesn't have time to eat proper meals, so he's "regularly consuming a protein supplement mixed into coffee." Pardon my language, but that's fucked up. The articles does not, however, mention any kind of social life or his emotional state; both of which, I'm sure, are massively screwed up.
It's like the single mom, working three jobs to support her kids but LOVING IT. But there's another aspect of the story that was disturbing: do they have families? Do they see their families if they have them? I want a family!
Ugh. Sure, this post is a bit reactionary and I recognize the irony that I'm sitting here typing this out as I freak about the conditions many bloggers subject themselves to and that I'm going to keep writing in this and one other blog, but I certainly won't be getting paid for it! Oh...wait...
The reason I mentioned death first must be for the same reason the writer of the article did, scare bloggers. Make it pop like a blogger. Also, that whole inverted pyramid thing. But, regardless, this hit a nerve in me. I've thought about living the life of a blogger. I had a lady and gent from a Mac website offer the opportunity to write for them, to be the voice of new Mac news, and I wanted to do it. I was excited by the idea of pumping out a few
This article, though, freaked me out! Like scared straight, but it worked. Matt Buchanan doesn't have time to eat proper meals, so he's "regularly consuming a protein supplement mixed into coffee." Pardon my language, but that's fucked up. The articles does not, however, mention any kind of social life or his emotional state; both of which, I'm sure, are massively screwed up.
It's like the single mom, working three jobs to support her kids but LOVING IT. But there's another aspect of the story that was disturbing: do they have families? Do they see their families if they have them? I want a family!
Ugh. Sure, this post is a bit reactionary and I recognize the irony that I'm sitting here typing this out as I freak about the conditions many bloggers subject themselves to and that I'm going to keep writing in this and one other blog, but I certainly won't be getting paid for it! Oh...wait...
Post Job, Day 9: Lingering afterthoughts
I've realized something as I wrote that last post, and I'm not sure how I want to word it. ...well, let's try this...
With regards to continuing work at the National Center even though everyone laid off has left there are twofold reasons:
1) When I was hired, I told my bosses that I would attempt to stay for my full, two-year commitment. That's not to say I didn't bitch and moan during that time, wishing I could leave or be doing anything more interesting then making adjustments to someone's contact information. I did plenty of that. Heck, I even wanted to leave a few times. I straight up told my boss I was ready to leave. That I was looking for other jobs and would leave the second I found one. He supported it. Not surprisingly, Steve saw that I was unhappy, unchallenged, and in need of change and made ever accommodation that I could interview for other positions or make my schedule flexible. So, he's the reason I'm doing what I'm doing. I know that when I tell people that I want to stay for my full two-year commitment it sounds noble and wonderful, but it really has to do with Steve. The guy gets crapped on day-in and day-out, and I want to help him out as best I can until I leave. Sure, it doesn't make up for the complaints and bitching in his office, but it's something, I think.
2) When I'm not there, I feel a difference. Not in me, necessarily, - although that is fairly evident in that the job gives me some semblance of structure and purpose - but in another person. A person I don't want to see sad. When I come in, there's a difference. That's all I'm saying.
So, I'm committed to staying there until December 1st because of Steve and, well, because I want to be there for someone. Someone whom I would buy a Juan Valdez Pod Coffee Maker for. ...on second thought, that thing's kind of ugly. Next Woot Off item!
With regards to continuing work at the National Center even though everyone laid off has left there are twofold reasons:
1) When I was hired, I told my bosses that I would attempt to stay for my full, two-year commitment. That's not to say I didn't bitch and moan during that time, wishing I could leave or be doing anything more interesting then making adjustments to someone's contact information. I did plenty of that. Heck, I even wanted to leave a few times. I straight up told my boss I was ready to leave. That I was looking for other jobs and would leave the second I found one. He supported it. Not surprisingly, Steve saw that I was unhappy, unchallenged, and in need of change and made ever accommodation that I could interview for other positions or make my schedule flexible. So, he's the reason I'm doing what I'm doing. I know that when I tell people that I want to stay for my full two-year commitment it sounds noble and wonderful, but it really has to do with Steve. The guy gets crapped on day-in and day-out, and I want to help him out as best I can until I leave. Sure, it doesn't make up for the complaints and bitching in his office, but it's something, I think.
2) When I'm not there, I feel a difference. Not in me, necessarily, - although that is fairly evident in that the job gives me some semblance of structure and purpose - but in another person. A person I don't want to see sad. When I come in, there's a difference. That's all I'm saying.
So, I'm committed to staying there until December 1st because of Steve and, well, because I want to be there for someone. Someone whom I would buy a Juan Valdez Pod Coffee Maker for. ...on second thought, that thing's kind of ugly. Next Woot Off item!
Post Job, Day 9: Settling in
As some of you know, I was laid off last week. It wasn't a happy experience, but not nearly as jarring as it was for those 27 others. I spoke with three of them and their soreness struck me. They had no plan. This was a surprise.
So, I commiserated with them, knowing full well that I wasn't sore. My job would be phased out in the next two years anyway, I was leaving for school in January to finish my degree, and, well, I had a framework. I watched them as they spoke, their eyes shifting around the room, full of nerves and what-am-I-to-dos. It helped them, maybe, to get past that first emotion of anger or disappointment or whatever negative thing their minds went to first, but I'm not sure. No one's ever sure. Then, I answer the question of what I was to do. There was a noticeable change in their posture. They no longer thought of me as one of them but as an outsider. I didn't worry about work as they were. I would be staying on, volunteering my time, until December 1st to the office I had been part of for two years. I would remain there, comfortable, as they all sat in their homes, scrambling to find some kind of work.
That was last week, though. I've shifted my schedule to work three days a week (Monday, Wednesday, and Friday), and spend my "free time" on the phone ensuring everything is in line for my return to school.
And that's where I am right now. This is the first time I've posted anything or openly talked about my joblessness on the internets outside vague posts to twitter. So, I'll try to keep myself focused with this, and, hopefully, ensure I don't sink into something bad...if that makes sense.
More to come.
So, I commiserated with them, knowing full well that I wasn't sore. My job would be phased out in the next two years anyway, I was leaving for school in January to finish my degree, and, well, I had a framework. I watched them as they spoke, their eyes shifting around the room, full of nerves and what-am-I-to-dos. It helped them, maybe, to get past that first emotion of anger or disappointment or whatever negative thing their minds went to first, but I'm not sure. No one's ever sure. Then, I answer the question of what I was to do. There was a noticeable change in their posture. They no longer thought of me as one of them but as an outsider. I didn't worry about work as they were. I would be staying on, volunteering my time, until December 1st to the office I had been part of for two years. I would remain there, comfortable, as they all sat in their homes, scrambling to find some kind of work.
That was last week, though. I've shifted my schedule to work three days a week (Monday, Wednesday, and Friday), and spend my "free time" on the phone ensuring everything is in line for my return to school.
And that's where I am right now. This is the first time I've posted anything or openly talked about my joblessness on the internets outside vague posts to twitter. So, I'll try to keep myself focused with this, and, hopefully, ensure I don't sink into something bad...if that makes sense.
More to come.
Daily blog
So, I sent this to myself while in bed thinking it might be a good idea. The more I thought on it the more I liked it.
I'm going to do that. It's going to follow this post here here. So there you go.
Unemployed blog entries keeping me up on my daily life, ensure my brain won't numb out, and writing sharp. Do I start now or December 1? ...Might make sense to write more on days I take off but still a post or two while at work.
Set a time table: wake up earlier, timeframe it up; watch a movie, read a book and talk about it; get myself ready for the shift to the new site; get ready for school; etc.
Get back to basics.
Set daily tasks.
Can't get depressed, talk about it.
Sent through the tubes from my iPhone
I'm going to do that. It's going to follow this post here here. So there you go.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
The Destiny of America
"...May the American people and their government unite in their efforts in order that this light may dawn from this point and spread to all regions, for this is one of the greatest bestowals of God. In order that America may avail herself of this opportunity, I beg that you strive and pray with heart and soul, devoting all your energies to this end: that the banner of international peace may be upraised here and that this democracy may be the cause of the cessation of warfare in all other countries."
~ Abdu'l-Baha, The Promulgation of Universal Peace (1912)
~ Abdu'l-Baha, The Promulgation of Universal Peace (1912)
Thursday, October 09, 2008
There was background noise
My walk home from the train station, the dusk red/pink showing me the way, is a standard one. Turn left after the trellis onto Paulina; walk passed the Currency Exchange; the small, Jamaican shop that is undoubtedly a front for the sale of drugs; and passed the Belizean Restaurant. I always stay on this side of the street, claiming to Jon that it’s better lit. In reality, I just feel safer and surrounded by more people. Passed the vacant storefronts and Post Office, passed the Howard Street Academy, and the boarded up doors leading to, one would surmise, the office of the folks that worked in the approaching shelter. But today, as I cleared the parking lot for the Academy, I saw a man walking passed giving someone a look. When he got a few steps from him he did much then same, furrowing his brow, and looking at me with worry.
I craned forward in wonder at the first person he gave the look to, a young adult male, red track jacket with blue piping, black shorts with red pinstripes, red Kedds, and a black, rayon bag. My first thought was of bewilderment; which I’d have to say was on the gentleman’s mind before. Who was this young man walking down Paulina in the same direction? His posture pulled back, arms akimbo with hands around the rope straps of his bag, and arrogance in his step. What business did he have in my neighborhood?
Gentrification, I thought. That must have been going through the older gentleman’s head. He looked at this swaggery mf, acting like he could buy and sell everyone on this street. Taking a stroll, like the sidewalk was being paved just for him. And then he saw me…but he didn’t see me. He saw my face and his reaction was immediate. I was his white friend. I was here to gentrify with that mf that just walked by. I was here to push all the black folk out of their houses and turn North Howard into the new Hyde Park, Up- or Boys-town; that’s who I was. Only I wasn’t.
I followed this buck, watched him push through a crowd in front of the shelter. Congregated and jovial, blind to what the older gentleman and I saw. He continued this way and made the turn directly ahead of me at Jonquil Terrace, staying on the south side of the street as I crossed to the north, and passed both schools. He ran in front of a car that wanted to turn left, ignoring its presence and took no notice of the children on my side of the street. They walked like they had sticks up their a- as they looked over at him and giggled. One girl put her arms at her sides like thinly drawn, black triangles, and puffing out her cheeks, as she couldn’t mimic this cat’s beard.
He kept going after I turned down the alley. More people noticing. I unlocked the backdoor to my apartment, and locked it behind me, saying hello to my smoking, short-haired neighbor that I had helped two nights before. When I got to my door, the keys hanging from my fingers I wondered if I was a racist.
I quickly changed cloths and entered the bathroom, turning on the light above the center of the room and turned on the hot water. I washed my face furiously with hand soap, paying special attention to my forehead and chin, and I prayed. Not just the normal prayer I say after a day at the office or when I’m struggling. The kind of prayer that made the water washing over my face matter.
Afterwards I just stood there looking at myself, and wondering if what I was becoming was helpful to anyone.
I craned forward in wonder at the first person he gave the look to, a young adult male, red track jacket with blue piping, black shorts with red pinstripes, red Kedds, and a black, rayon bag. My first thought was of bewilderment; which I’d have to say was on the gentleman’s mind before. Who was this young man walking down Paulina in the same direction? His posture pulled back, arms akimbo with hands around the rope straps of his bag, and arrogance in his step. What business did he have in my neighborhood?
Gentrification, I thought. That must have been going through the older gentleman’s head. He looked at this swaggery mf, acting like he could buy and sell everyone on this street. Taking a stroll, like the sidewalk was being paved just for him. And then he saw me…but he didn’t see me. He saw my face and his reaction was immediate. I was his white friend. I was here to gentrify with that mf that just walked by. I was here to push all the black folk out of their houses and turn North Howard into the new Hyde Park, Up- or Boys-town; that’s who I was. Only I wasn’t.
I followed this buck, watched him push through a crowd in front of the shelter. Congregated and jovial, blind to what the older gentleman and I saw. He continued this way and made the turn directly ahead of me at Jonquil Terrace, staying on the south side of the street as I crossed to the north, and passed both schools. He ran in front of a car that wanted to turn left, ignoring its presence and took no notice of the children on my side of the street. They walked like they had sticks up their a- as they looked over at him and giggled. One girl put her arms at her sides like thinly drawn, black triangles, and puffing out her cheeks, as she couldn’t mimic this cat’s beard.
He kept going after I turned down the alley. More people noticing. I unlocked the backdoor to my apartment, and locked it behind me, saying hello to my smoking, short-haired neighbor that I had helped two nights before. When I got to my door, the keys hanging from my fingers I wondered if I was a racist.
I quickly changed cloths and entered the bathroom, turning on the light above the center of the room and turned on the hot water. I washed my face furiously with hand soap, paying special attention to my forehead and chin, and I prayed. Not just the normal prayer I say after a day at the office or when I’m struggling. The kind of prayer that made the water washing over my face matter.
Afterwards I just stood there looking at myself, and wondering if what I was becoming was helpful to anyone.
New and Pretty Speculation
(This was going to be a piece published, but it was decided not to as there were too many articles on the same or similar topics. Oh well, next time, for sure!)
According a new engadget article by Joshua Topolsky, the Apple event this Tuesday, October 14th at 10 am PDT will be to unveil the new line of laptops.
This is exciting for several reasons, the most important of which are as follows:
There’s been a lot of speculation with regards to new notebooks for neigh on three years now. And lately on this very site. Because, really, Apple has lacked any sort of game changing innovation in their design or functionality. Sure the Air was an innovation, but it’s still not the “laptop for everyone” that the MacBook or MacBook Pros’ were. Those machines were built as shuttles, go betweens for folks that didn’t really need a disc drive. Also, they were gorgeous. But here’s the thing, I didn’t want one. I like disc drives. The MacBooks were perfect because they kept with Apple’s mold of laptop creation, but, yes, they are quite dated. Sure the MacBook Air is great, especially since they’re lightweight and sexy like woah, but I don’t want to have to download a movie illegally to watch it on my laptop; I do that anyway, but that’s neither here nor there.
As well, more PC companies have learned from Apple’s iPod model and gone the way of giving the consumer choice on the color of their laptop, instead of shiny black or ‘blah’ gray, and we’re all wondering if Apple will do the same. After all, when it works for one product, it will no doubt work for the rest. (I want a blue, aluminum laptop. Give me a blue, aluminum laptop!)
But will it really matter? Will color be introduced with rumors of this new “brick” method…whatever that is. Many have speculated that Apple is investing time and resources in creating a new enclosure for their MacBook Pros, similarly to their Air. A sort of single piece of aluminum, without use of screws and seems, creating the sleekest, sexiest laptop ever birthed.
There’s so much speculation here. So much hype! So many questions!
October 14th…don’t let me down Steve.
According a new engadget article by Joshua Topolsky, the Apple event this Tuesday, October 14th at 10 am PDT will be to unveil the new line of laptops.
This is exciting for several reasons, the most important of which are as follows:
- It’s about damn time
- Possible Blue Ray disc drives
- Possible use of “brick” technology
- It’s about damn time
There’s been a lot of speculation with regards to new notebooks for neigh on three years now. And lately on this very site. Because, really, Apple has lacked any sort of game changing innovation in their design or functionality. Sure the Air was an innovation, but it’s still not the “laptop for everyone” that the MacBook or MacBook Pros’ were. Those machines were built as shuttles, go betweens for folks that didn’t really need a disc drive. Also, they were gorgeous. But here’s the thing, I didn’t want one. I like disc drives. The MacBooks were perfect because they kept with Apple’s mold of laptop creation, but, yes, they are quite dated. Sure the MacBook Air is great, especially since they’re lightweight and sexy like woah, but I don’t want to have to download a movie illegally to watch it on my laptop; I do that anyway, but that’s neither here nor there.
As well, more PC companies have learned from Apple’s iPod model and gone the way of giving the consumer choice on the color of their laptop, instead of shiny black or ‘blah’ gray, and we’re all wondering if Apple will do the same. After all, when it works for one product, it will no doubt work for the rest. (I want a blue, aluminum laptop. Give me a blue, aluminum laptop!)
But will it really matter? Will color be introduced with rumors of this new “brick” method…whatever that is. Many have speculated that Apple is investing time and resources in creating a new enclosure for their MacBook Pros, similarly to their Air. A sort of single piece of aluminum, without use of screws and seems, creating the sleekest, sexiest laptop ever birthed.
There’s so much speculation here. So much hype! So many questions!
October 14th…don’t let me down Steve.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
I would like to address detractors of the new Facebook
Shut up!
As of a month ago, facebook unveiled their new site. A site of simplicity and ease of use. It's too bad that you folks don't understand the concept of web 2.0. It's too bad you're still using your hotmail or yahoo email accounts. Learn to use the site, grow with it. Recognize that scrolling = bad, and that setting up your feed filters makes everyone's life easier.
To distill this message to it's purest form: the internet is about change; embrace the change or get out of the way.
Sorry if that's rude, but, seriously, if you have a problem, go use myspace and it's copious nudity.
As of a month ago, facebook unveiled their new site. A site of simplicity and ease of use. It's too bad that you folks don't understand the concept of web 2.0. It's too bad you're still using your hotmail or yahoo email accounts. Learn to use the site, grow with it. Recognize that scrolling = bad, and that setting up your feed filters makes everyone's life easier.
To distill this message to it's purest form: the internet is about change; embrace the change or get out of the way.
Sorry if that's rude, but, seriously, if you have a problem, go use myspace and it's copious nudity.
Friday, September 19, 2008
High School Story Time
me: there's a background joke to thatme: thanks
Heather: yeah, I'm sure
care to share with the class??
me: My friend Brandon and his family went to the Rainforest Cafe while we were in high school
now, Brandon is my friend, and very intelligent and completely out of his mind
So, his parents were reminding him not to make a scene or be too silly
even though his entire family is, well, insane
They're sitting there, looking over the menu when the server comes up looking rather morose and wearing nothing but the darkness of his soul
Heather: hahaha
so far so good
He, like corpse, asks for their orders starting with his mom. While this is happening, his dad leans over and tells him not to be "an ass", and Brandon agrees
Very soon thereafter the server looks at Brandon and with a complete lack of emotion asks what he'll be having
to which Brandon replies, in his best death metal growl, "RAM'S BLOOD!"
Heather: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
Heather: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
beautiful
me: the server quickly excused himself, saying that he'd get a different server
that is one of my favorite stories about Brandon
Heather: wait, seriously?!
me: yes
this actually happened
Heather: I mean the getting a different server part
me: yep
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Poem-ish - Draft One
Production Factor or The Mumbler in the Kitchen
He believes that things should remain in motion, flux, static. He'll set the microwave to two minutes, but won't let it get to it's preprogrammed destination. And he'll leave the display: 8 seconds. He leaves it for himself. For others. He leaves it remaining. Then, there's lights. The ones in his bath and bedroom that burn all night. Often times over the island in the kitchen. Like a trail. A reminder that he was there. Well-lit breadcrumbs.
He'll turn the tv on, volume down, while motioning with his thin, black brush on linen paper. The gesture soaked up by the paper in water colored dullness. Sometimes he'll unmute it, laughing and repeating lines at night. Missing other lines and wishing he could rewind the program to hear it again. But he knows if he did, he'd miss it again from the laughter. The glow of Comedy Central's late night programming adding to the brightness from the crack of the door.
He believes that things should remain in motion, flux, static. He'll set the microwave to two minutes, but won't let it get to it's preprogrammed destination. And he'll leave the display: 8 seconds. He leaves it for himself. For others. He leaves it remaining. Then, there's lights. The ones in his bath and bedroom that burn all night. Often times over the island in the kitchen. Like a trail. A reminder that he was there. Well-lit breadcrumbs.
He'll turn the tv on, volume down, while motioning with his thin, black brush on linen paper. The gesture soaked up by the paper in water colored dullness. Sometimes he'll unmute it, laughing and repeating lines at night. Missing other lines and wishing he could rewind the program to hear it again. But he knows if he did, he'd miss it again from the laughter. The glow of Comedy Central's late night programming adding to the brightness from the crack of the door.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Does it hurt?
Jeremy stands there and offers the common question. Then, explaining that “most people want you to say ‘it doesn’t hurt’ or ‘you get used to it.’ Even though it’s impossible to get used to, you’re sticking a needle in your stomach!” I just watch him. His smile and demeanor mask the consistent pain and annoyance. He’s had it for nearly twenty-years now. He’s entitled to a few tirades.
“I mean, does it hurt when you bleed? Of course it does,” he answers before anyone could respond. I start thinking back to the many responses I’ve given people when they’ve asked as he laughs, the cap to a syringe between his lips. He draws back the plunger and I remember my mother watching my first time in the hospital bed. I was 20, so they put me in the pediatric ward, a room away from a kid with breathing tubes in his nose and a shakiness as he walked, the wheels squeaking in synchronicity on the mobile IV and oxygen tubes. She stood there, half in wonder, half in terror. What had happened to her son?
She took responsibility. I never understood why, but, then again, I’ve never been a parent. Especially at the time I didn’t understand. I just wanted her to stop, so I told her it was nothing. The doctor stood next to my bed on the day I was to be discharged, the day I would have to give myself a shot. I had attempted to skirt the issue until then. Telling the nursing staff I wasn’t ready. I’m sure they understood somewhat. My life, after all, had just spun wildly out of control.
Jeremy yanked the syringe out from the bottle of his Lantus, the same kind I use at night. Flicking the side to concentrate the bubbles and discharge them. A couple drops slid down the metal delivery system and I remembered how my mom’s eyes welled up. I was holding the needle, hovering over the pinched fat on my thigh for a while. Must have been two minutes, easy. The doctor just kept smiling and watching my leg, my mother preparing to cup her hands over her mouth and cry, and me, in a state of disbelief. What was this? How did I get here? I looked over at my mother and realized it didn’t matter. She didn’t need her son to be an existentialist here; she needed me to do it. Do it and make it seem like it didn’t matter. Like it was nothing. So, I did.
Jeremy then sat down and pulled up his shirt, grasping some fat around his stomach. His skin was so smooth and incident-free I got a little jealous over his experience. I could think of no other reason why his stomach wasn’t riddled with bruises, red dots, and bubbles under the skin from burst blood vessels. These are the things I hide from my mother and show to few friends. It’s not easy to avoid the dome or trickle down of blood in your first few years. Now, 90% of the time I’m golden, but that 10%...there’s enough of a percentage there to give me pause. Enough sharp, consistent pain as I graze or get nearby a nerve. Enough mornings standing in front of the mirror at nearly matching, dull purple bruises. Just standing there, willing them to go away. Poking at them to see if they still hurt, they do until they disappear, or counting the dots that unnaturally freckle between the hairs.
Jeremy’s movement to his stomach was fluid, something I feel like I’ve gotten down as well in my quarter-of-the-time dealing with it. The nonchalant pinching and plunging and holding for an entire minute and removing isn’t an easy task, but it’s pedestrian for him. As the rest of us in the room allow him the courtesy to vent, I’m wondering if people perceive my own unwillingness to hide my “disease” to the world the way they look at Jeremy. Do they shrug it off? Are they used to it? Do they think it’s an act of defiance?
He recaps the syringe and sits it next to him on the couch, returning the vial of clear, stings your nostrils fluid to the bag at his feet. I then catch wind of the smell. The stereotypical medicine smell: sterile with an acute sting deep in the nostrils. Or like the green, roll-on bottle of Absorbing Jr. my dad would apply to his pre-arthritised joints and onto my knee when I thought that was the only physical problem I had.
“If you don’t say something like that they brace themselves like I’m going to reach over and stab them or something,” or that they feel the need to share in the experience, I think. They bite or try to swallow their bottom lip. It’s better to just comfort them, I think. Not let them worry. If people knew what it was like they’d coddle us. My mother specifically. So, Jeremy pushes back while I try and reassure those around me, those who care so much they gird themselves like I did before the first nurse pinched behind my arm. I’m not sure if that’s his standard response, but even if it were it would be understandable. Type-One diabetics have a right, I think, to get angry from time to time. We didn’t cause this. Didn’t not take care of ourselves. We’re just stuck with this thing that requires not only care of our own wellbeing but of those around us.
I sat there listening to him chuckle some more at the absurdity his life has become. Twenty-eight, diabetic, and at more frequent risk of spikes or drops in his blood sugar I wonder if his parents responded the way mine did. With guilt and my need to comfort them. And I remember the response I gave earlier that day to a friend who saw me inject for the first time, “sometimes, when you hit the wrong spot, it still does hurts. A lot.”
“I mean, does it hurt when you bleed? Of course it does,” he answers before anyone could respond. I start thinking back to the many responses I’ve given people when they’ve asked as he laughs, the cap to a syringe between his lips. He draws back the plunger and I remember my mother watching my first time in the hospital bed. I was 20, so they put me in the pediatric ward, a room away from a kid with breathing tubes in his nose and a shakiness as he walked, the wheels squeaking in synchronicity on the mobile IV and oxygen tubes. She stood there, half in wonder, half in terror. What had happened to her son?
She took responsibility. I never understood why, but, then again, I’ve never been a parent. Especially at the time I didn’t understand. I just wanted her to stop, so I told her it was nothing. The doctor stood next to my bed on the day I was to be discharged, the day I would have to give myself a shot. I had attempted to skirt the issue until then. Telling the nursing staff I wasn’t ready. I’m sure they understood somewhat. My life, after all, had just spun wildly out of control.
Jeremy yanked the syringe out from the bottle of his Lantus, the same kind I use at night. Flicking the side to concentrate the bubbles and discharge them. A couple drops slid down the metal delivery system and I remembered how my mom’s eyes welled up. I was holding the needle, hovering over the pinched fat on my thigh for a while. Must have been two minutes, easy. The doctor just kept smiling and watching my leg, my mother preparing to cup her hands over her mouth and cry, and me, in a state of disbelief. What was this? How did I get here? I looked over at my mother and realized it didn’t matter. She didn’t need her son to be an existentialist here; she needed me to do it. Do it and make it seem like it didn’t matter. Like it was nothing. So, I did.
Jeremy then sat down and pulled up his shirt, grasping some fat around his stomach. His skin was so smooth and incident-free I got a little jealous over his experience. I could think of no other reason why his stomach wasn’t riddled with bruises, red dots, and bubbles under the skin from burst blood vessels. These are the things I hide from my mother and show to few friends. It’s not easy to avoid the dome or trickle down of blood in your first few years. Now, 90% of the time I’m golden, but that 10%...there’s enough of a percentage there to give me pause. Enough sharp, consistent pain as I graze or get nearby a nerve. Enough mornings standing in front of the mirror at nearly matching, dull purple bruises. Just standing there, willing them to go away. Poking at them to see if they still hurt, they do until they disappear, or counting the dots that unnaturally freckle between the hairs.
Jeremy’s movement to his stomach was fluid, something I feel like I’ve gotten down as well in my quarter-of-the-time dealing with it. The nonchalant pinching and plunging and holding for an entire minute and removing isn’t an easy task, but it’s pedestrian for him. As the rest of us in the room allow him the courtesy to vent, I’m wondering if people perceive my own unwillingness to hide my “disease” to the world the way they look at Jeremy. Do they shrug it off? Are they used to it? Do they think it’s an act of defiance?
He recaps the syringe and sits it next to him on the couch, returning the vial of clear, stings your nostrils fluid to the bag at his feet. I then catch wind of the smell. The stereotypical medicine smell: sterile with an acute sting deep in the nostrils. Or like the green, roll-on bottle of Absorbing Jr. my dad would apply to his pre-arthritised joints and onto my knee when I thought that was the only physical problem I had.
“If you don’t say something like that they brace themselves like I’m going to reach over and stab them or something,” or that they feel the need to share in the experience, I think. They bite or try to swallow their bottom lip. It’s better to just comfort them, I think. Not let them worry. If people knew what it was like they’d coddle us. My mother specifically. So, Jeremy pushes back while I try and reassure those around me, those who care so much they gird themselves like I did before the first nurse pinched behind my arm. I’m not sure if that’s his standard response, but even if it were it would be understandable. Type-One diabetics have a right, I think, to get angry from time to time. We didn’t cause this. Didn’t not take care of ourselves. We’re just stuck with this thing that requires not only care of our own wellbeing but of those around us.
I sat there listening to him chuckle some more at the absurdity his life has become. Twenty-eight, diabetic, and at more frequent risk of spikes or drops in his blood sugar I wonder if his parents responded the way mine did. With guilt and my need to comfort them. And I remember the response I gave earlier that day to a friend who saw me inject for the first time, “sometimes, when you hit the wrong spot, it still does hurts. A lot.”
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Just a touch, briefly
So, this is a quick message before I can write something substantive later...in a year or two.
Best name of the day.
Johann Sebastian Wong
Let it really sink in there. This could actually be the best name ever. I mean...wow!
Best name of the day.
Johann Sebastian Wong
Let it really sink in there. This could actually be the best name ever. I mean...wow!
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Fat Tony the "official poop collector"
This whole trip I could have been writing my thoughts; collecting them for the book I'll undoubtably write. But I couldn't. My brain hasn't worked at all today, and that all culminates here on the Pink Line to the Loop.
I'm sitting here, reflecting on the day and realizing that I was running purely on adrenaline and faith. Adrenaline from the, cold that kept my nose running and head aching, excitement that there might be a treatment for the diabetes I've been afflicted with for
-- Transfer at State to the Purple Line Express to Linden --
the last five years, and faith that the time had come. There's a movement to what's happened. A fluid motion in the continuity of it all.
A little more then a year ago I became part of an inhaled insulin study downtown. I would inhale and drop by or call with my blood-sugar readings, regularly give blood tests to ensure my levels were constant, and the occasional chest x-rays to make sure the inhaling process wasn't destroying my lungs. They were always impressed looking over my A1C, "its like you don't have diabetes at all." That's the same thing doctors, endocrinologists, and nurses have been saying for as long as I've had this. I actually remember the first time someone said it. I was at a visit to my first endocrinologist, Dr. Chang. His nurse looked down at my chart at the results of the A1C they'd drawn on my last visit. With a smile she said those same words I would become so accustomed to today. I've always just smiled, proud that I had been taking care of myself so well, been able to keep my levels stable, but there was also that other feeling. Something inside me clung to the words "don't even have diabetes," like there was a reason those specific words were used so consistently.
Then, last April, I had a conversation with a family friend, Dr. Moyyaid, at the Baha'i National Convention about what lead to my diagnosis.
-- Transfer at Fullerton to the Red Line to Howard --
He expressed interest in the knowledge that I had been to Jamaica and fell sick with dysentery three years before my diagnosis. He never smiled but pulled on his lip every time he heard something interesting. Dysentery. 21-years old. No family history. Healthy. He waited until he noticed I was looking around at the doors I was supposed to be ushering and stopped me, asking for me to come by his office on my vacation to Dallas at the end of May. He told me it could be a parasitic infestation in my gut. That it was common for people who did service or were missionaries to the Caribbean. I shrugged but agreed. He smiled, shaking my hand with determination and vigor. Like a man with an undeniable hunch. He told me he'd speak with my mom and dad some more, and grasped my shoulder before I ran back to the doors.
The next day, on the last day of convention, my mom told me that she and Dr. Moyyaid had been talking over lunch. That he felt confident in his earlier comments, and insisted that I come to his office in May. I agreed, and set it up.
-- Exited the Red Line at Sheridan, walked home --
On the first full day of my vacation, my grandfather, in a terrifying drive, brought me to Dr. Moyyaid's office. I won't get into the details about how he and his assistant arrived at their diagnosis or the odd layout and mumbo-jumbo craziness that spouted from them, but there it was. He confirmed it. There were, in fact, parasites in my lower intestines that he believed cased my diabetes. "And, if you take these supplements," he handed me two boxes housing two bottles each and another independent bottle, "we can clear out your gut, and get you healthy again." I was pretty excited. Not as excited as my mother, who wanted to reward this possible solution with mountains of gold purchased with the tears of both her and my grandmother.
So, I did it. I took the pills. They made me crap like a thunderbolt and fart like an elderly person after a prune health shake. My roommate complained about the smell. I complained about the smell! Still, Dr. Moyyaid told me that was normal and to, if I could handle it, stop eating meat to accelerate the process. So, I did. I stopped eating meat. And it my insulin requirements slowly began to drop. After two months of hypoglycemic miscalculations, my insulin requirements were cut in half. I told my family and they freaked out. I told the head of the inhaled insulin study and she, after seeing my readings, was baffled. Same with the doctor heading up the study.
When I called Dr. Moyyaid to reorder those supplements, however, I didn't return my calls. Weeks went by. Then a month, until he finally called me back. By then my numbers had gone back to where they were. Worse, actually, and I quietly cursed him for not getting back to me. For letting my numbers creep back up, even though it might not have been his fault at all. Here's where that faith part comes in. I just prayed. I prayed that if this was the time, if that was the moment I was supposed to be rid of my diabetes, so be it. If not...well, all right.
There were other situations where Dr. Moyyaid didn't get back to me. Two weeks here, two months there all piled up, and I noticed no change to my levels. Everything was back to where I had been before speaking with him. I shrugged the feelings that God was messing with me. Remembering all those comments from my parents and in Baha'i School about how tests are God's way of showing us He's paying attention. I thanked Him for the attention, and, where I would usually falter and my spiritual base crumble around me, kept going. Sure, there were a few moments where I cursed Him for messing with me like that, but very quickly I came back to remembering that feeling I had whenever a doctor came in with my chart.
This long entry all culminates to Friday, March 27th, the day after returning from a project-rich vacation to L.A. Out of no where I receive this friend invite on Myspace with a bizarre message about how this girl, Erin, had been stalking me online for three years now and decided to just introduce herself now. I hesitated. I checked her page and noticed my ex-girlfriend in her "Top-8". Also, she was attractive, which helped things, so I accepted the invite and started a conversation with her. Within a day I realized she wasn't crazy and we made a date to get tea Sunday night.
The "date" happened - was it a date or wasn't it still escapes me, but I don't know that it really matters for the story. We sat there at Uncommon Ground - a fitting choice for my desire to not be around alcohol as there was a bar, blurg - and talked for two hours about ourselves. She seemed interesting with her story of how she decided to quit medical school and, years later, was working toward her nursing degree at Loyola and obviously high intelligence level. Several times I looked at her, knowing full well that she was a nurse and would probably eat up the fact that I was a diabetic and perhaps even having this whole thing turn into a pity situation or diagnosis, and wondered how and when my illness would break through into the conversation. It took a while until the comment "I don't do sugar" that it came up. I was then telling her a short, much shorter then this mind you, version of how I got to where I was. She sat there confused, like something was knocking on a door somewhere in her brain, listening to me. After deciding we should get together again we went home. I went home and I shot myself in the butt with 15-units of Latus, and I went to bed.
Next day, Monday, there was a message in my inbox from Erin. She had done research after hearing about the parasite hypothesis Dr. Moyyaid had given me and pinpointed an article about a bug with the same symptoms and situation I found myself in right now. The key to this message was at the bottom: "These abnormalities are reversible after specific treatment for TS. / Translation: Get rid of your amoebas!!!" Treatment? Reversible? "Is there a specific person I should go to? A specialty doctor of some kind?" I fired back. It had begun.
So, here I am. I'm coming back from Rush Hospital downtown after scrapping two pieces of tightly packed, red poop into a vial with a disgusting smelling green fluid in the bathroom of a lab in the Professional Building to have them check for parasites and amoebas and being directed to five different offices in three different buildings. It didn't take long, actually. Like everything was set out in front of me. A path with arrows of gold tape pointing to that end destination. Whatever that may be is fine. If its all illuminated, great. If not, oh well. I've lived through it all. Continued to draw breath and my prayer book to thank God for all the attention...even though I do hope this is the last of this specific test.
I'm sitting here, reflecting on the day and realizing that I was running purely on adrenaline and faith. Adrenaline from the, cold that kept my nose running and head aching, excitement that there might be a treatment for the diabetes I've been afflicted with for
-- Transfer at State to the Purple Line Express to Linden --
the last five years, and faith that the time had come. There's a movement to what's happened. A fluid motion in the continuity of it all.
A little more then a year ago I became part of an inhaled insulin study downtown. I would inhale and drop by or call with my blood-sugar readings, regularly give blood tests to ensure my levels were constant, and the occasional chest x-rays to make sure the inhaling process wasn't destroying my lungs. They were always impressed looking over my A1C, "its like you don't have diabetes at all." That's the same thing doctors, endocrinologists, and nurses have been saying for as long as I've had this. I actually remember the first time someone said it. I was at a visit to my first endocrinologist, Dr. Chang. His nurse looked down at my chart at the results of the A1C they'd drawn on my last visit. With a smile she said those same words I would become so accustomed to today. I've always just smiled, proud that I had been taking care of myself so well, been able to keep my levels stable, but there was also that other feeling. Something inside me clung to the words "don't even have diabetes," like there was a reason those specific words were used so consistently.
Then, last April, I had a conversation with a family friend, Dr. Moyyaid, at the Baha'i National Convention about what lead to my diagnosis.
-- Transfer at Fullerton to the Red Line to Howard --
He expressed interest in the knowledge that I had been to Jamaica and fell sick with dysentery three years before my diagnosis. He never smiled but pulled on his lip every time he heard something interesting. Dysentery. 21-years old. No family history. Healthy. He waited until he noticed I was looking around at the doors I was supposed to be ushering and stopped me, asking for me to come by his office on my vacation to Dallas at the end of May. He told me it could be a parasitic infestation in my gut. That it was common for people who did service or were missionaries to the Caribbean. I shrugged but agreed. He smiled, shaking my hand with determination and vigor. Like a man with an undeniable hunch. He told me he'd speak with my mom and dad some more, and grasped my shoulder before I ran back to the doors.
The next day, on the last day of convention, my mom told me that she and Dr. Moyyaid had been talking over lunch. That he felt confident in his earlier comments, and insisted that I come to his office in May. I agreed, and set it up.
-- Exited the Red Line at Sheridan, walked home --
On the first full day of my vacation, my grandfather, in a terrifying drive, brought me to Dr. Moyyaid's office. I won't get into the details about how he and his assistant arrived at their diagnosis or the odd layout and mumbo-jumbo craziness that spouted from them, but there it was. He confirmed it. There were, in fact, parasites in my lower intestines that he believed cased my diabetes. "And, if you take these supplements," he handed me two boxes housing two bottles each and another independent bottle, "we can clear out your gut, and get you healthy again." I was pretty excited. Not as excited as my mother, who wanted to reward this possible solution with mountains of gold purchased with the tears of both her and my grandmother.
So, I did it. I took the pills. They made me crap like a thunderbolt and fart like an elderly person after a prune health shake. My roommate complained about the smell. I complained about the smell! Still, Dr. Moyyaid told me that was normal and to, if I could handle it, stop eating meat to accelerate the process. So, I did. I stopped eating meat. And it my insulin requirements slowly began to drop. After two months of hypoglycemic miscalculations, my insulin requirements were cut in half. I told my family and they freaked out. I told the head of the inhaled insulin study and she, after seeing my readings, was baffled. Same with the doctor heading up the study.
When I called Dr. Moyyaid to reorder those supplements, however, I didn't return my calls. Weeks went by. Then a month, until he finally called me back. By then my numbers had gone back to where they were. Worse, actually, and I quietly cursed him for not getting back to me. For letting my numbers creep back up, even though it might not have been his fault at all. Here's where that faith part comes in. I just prayed. I prayed that if this was the time, if that was the moment I was supposed to be rid of my diabetes, so be it. If not...well, all right.
There were other situations where Dr. Moyyaid didn't get back to me. Two weeks here, two months there all piled up, and I noticed no change to my levels. Everything was back to where I had been before speaking with him. I shrugged the feelings that God was messing with me. Remembering all those comments from my parents and in Baha'i School about how tests are God's way of showing us He's paying attention. I thanked Him for the attention, and, where I would usually falter and my spiritual base crumble around me, kept going. Sure, there were a few moments where I cursed Him for messing with me like that, but very quickly I came back to remembering that feeling I had whenever a doctor came in with my chart.
This long entry all culminates to Friday, March 27th, the day after returning from a project-rich vacation to L.A. Out of no where I receive this friend invite on Myspace with a bizarre message about how this girl, Erin, had been stalking me online for three years now and decided to just introduce herself now. I hesitated. I checked her page and noticed my ex-girlfriend in her "Top-8". Also, she was attractive, which helped things, so I accepted the invite and started a conversation with her. Within a day I realized she wasn't crazy and we made a date to get tea Sunday night.
The "date" happened - was it a date or wasn't it still escapes me, but I don't know that it really matters for the story. We sat there at Uncommon Ground - a fitting choice for my desire to not be around alcohol as there was a bar, blurg - and talked for two hours about ourselves. She seemed interesting with her story of how she decided to quit medical school and, years later, was working toward her nursing degree at Loyola and obviously high intelligence level. Several times I looked at her, knowing full well that she was a nurse and would probably eat up the fact that I was a diabetic and perhaps even having this whole thing turn into a pity situation or diagnosis, and wondered how and when my illness would break through into the conversation. It took a while until the comment "I don't do sugar" that it came up. I was then telling her a short, much shorter then this mind you, version of how I got to where I was. She sat there confused, like something was knocking on a door somewhere in her brain, listening to me. After deciding we should get together again we went home. I went home and I shot myself in the butt with 15-units of Latus, and I went to bed.
Next day, Monday, there was a message in my inbox from Erin. She had done research after hearing about the parasite hypothesis Dr. Moyyaid had given me and pinpointed an article about a bug with the same symptoms and situation I found myself in right now. The key to this message was at the bottom: "These abnormalities are reversible after specific treatment for TS. / Translation: Get rid of your amoebas!!!" Treatment? Reversible? "Is there a specific person I should go to? A specialty doctor of some kind?" I fired back. It had begun.
So, here I am. I'm coming back from Rush Hospital downtown after scrapping two pieces of tightly packed, red poop into a vial with a disgusting smelling green fluid in the bathroom of a lab in the Professional Building to have them check for parasites and amoebas and being directed to five different offices in three different buildings. It didn't take long, actually. Like everything was set out in front of me. A path with arrows of gold tape pointing to that end destination. Whatever that may be is fine. If its all illuminated, great. If not, oh well. I've lived through it all. Continued to draw breath and my prayer book to thank God for all the attention...even though I do hope this is the last of this specific test.
Entamoeba Histolytica
Exocrine pancreatic insufficiency in tropical sprue.
BACKGROUND: Pancreatic insufficiency may appear secondary to several intestinal disorders. It may contribute to malabsorption in tropical sprue (TS).
METHODS: The exocrine pancreatic function was evaluated with the indirect pancreolauryl test (PT) in 56 patients with TS. The PT results were analyzed and correlated with serum albumin levels, degree of intestinal atrophy, and steatorrhea.
RESULTS: Abnormally low values were found in 36 (64.2%) cases. A significant relationship was not observed between PT and hypoalbuminemia. Patients with more severe damage by intestinal biopsy tended to have lower PT values. No relationship was found between pancreatic insufficiency and steatorrhea (expressed as g/24 h), but patients with pancreatic insufficiency had increased stool fat concentrations (expressed as percentage of wet stool weight). All patients responded favorably to treatment with folic acid and tetracycline. Fifteen patients with abnormal initial PT values underwent a repeat PT after a 6-week therapy; all of them showed normalization of PT values.
CONCLUSIONS: The abnormal exocrine pancreatic function found with an indirect test in patients with TS is probably secondary to a low pancreatic hormonal stimulation due to intestinal damage, as occurs in celiac sprue.
These abnormalities are reversible after specific treatment for TS.
Thank you, Erin!!!
If you know what all this means you'll understand why I'm excited at the possibility. If not, well, "it" could be "reversible after specific treatment for TS."
I'm off to the clinic to get my poop screened!
BACKGROUND: Pancreatic insufficiency may appear secondary to several intestinal disorders. It may contribute to malabsorption in tropical sprue (TS).
METHODS: The exocrine pancreatic function was evaluated with the indirect pancreolauryl test (PT) in 56 patients with TS. The PT results were analyzed and correlated with serum albumin levels, degree of intestinal atrophy, and steatorrhea.
RESULTS: Abnormally low values were found in 36 (64.2%) cases. A significant relationship was not observed between PT and hypoalbuminemia. Patients with more severe damage by intestinal biopsy tended to have lower PT values. No relationship was found between pancreatic insufficiency and steatorrhea (expressed as g/24 h), but patients with pancreatic insufficiency had increased stool fat concentrations (expressed as percentage of wet stool weight). All patients responded favorably to treatment with folic acid and tetracycline. Fifteen patients with abnormal initial PT values underwent a repeat PT after a 6-week therapy; all of them showed normalization of PT values.
CONCLUSIONS: The abnormal exocrine pancreatic function found with an indirect test in patients with TS is probably secondary to a low pancreatic hormonal stimulation due to intestinal damage, as occurs in celiac sprue.
These abnormalities are reversible after specific treatment for TS.
Thank you, Erin!!!
If you know what all this means you'll understand why I'm excited at the possibility. If not, well, "it" could be "reversible after specific treatment for TS."
I'm off to the clinic to get my poop screened!
Monday, March 17, 2008
Deadlines
So, the real problem with self-imposed deadlines is that they don't feel real. Heck, I'm not paying myself to write this or anything else. I'm not writing for anyone else who's expecting my work to be complete by Friday at 5 p.m. No, doesn't happen. Instead, I push things back further and make myself feel bad when they're not done several weeks later.
Its something I need to figure out. Or I could give up now...no, I'll just figure it out, hopefully.
Its something I need to figure out. Or I could give up now...no, I'll just figure it out, hopefully.
Captain Research
This is the point where I need to find a professional writer to talk to; because, I'm stuck here with a problem. I've been working on three projects now for about two weeks and feel I'm approaching the point where I should be typing things up - I've been writing all these things in my Moleskine because I missed the tactile nature of shaping words and erasing and so forth - with the same, if not more, vigor. Only problem is I feel as though I've come across a roadblock in the form of research. There's a lot of stuff I haven't read or asked people and I'm not sure how comfortable I am continuing to write without that information. So, I start writing thins thing. Just to keep myself loose or tight or alert. Wondering if I've ruined these projects due to a lack of due diligence in researching. Should I have even started work without the information I needed? Should I plow through, going as far as I possibly can before I get stuck and start researching, only to plug things in later? I've written notes, after all, above pages on things that need clarification or expansion. It all leaves me kind of at a loss. I just sit here, my pencil ready to go and my brain hacking through the confusion position I'm in.
Monday, March 10, 2008
As it were...
So, I haven't been doing the whole "blogging" thing save a few spots on irregardable.com - check it out, I write reviews, post random and funny things I find online, and attempt to fill the void left over the complete lack of any comments by anyone the site was intended to be created for (blurg) - as I've been a little preoccupied with my attempts at writing. As it were, I'm working on several projects, scripts, and concepts that I'm hoping will catapult me into superstardom...or help me land some money writing comic books or graphic novels or anything. I've been getting tips and help from people already in the industry that have really solidified my wont for the genre. Something about writing dialogue with very specific pictures in mind to coincide that gets me going...came out weird, but its pretty spot on.
I'm told that a lot of how the industry works is by getting a whole lot of stuff written, find an artist to work on your stuff, and hand in whatever you can get. So that's what I'm doing. At this point I have two illustrators that I'm working with, each different in styles, personalities, and senses of how books should be laid out and created. Its an incredibly rewarding situation to be in, and I can't thank them or anyone who put me in contact with them enough. Seriously, Touba, you're amazing...but you kind of suck. You knew this.
What's really great about all this is the chance to be writing. I get on the train in the morning and I've already pulled out my Moleskine and pencil. The ideas have become more fluid and complete as scenes fall out of the graphite and onto the page with such ease that its hard to believe I'm writing them. Sounds like I'm degrading myself, and I kind of am, here but it really feels different. I feel different. I feel the way I always thought I would feel if I were able to do this for a living. Now I just need to badger my illustrators to get things done before I'm driven mad by data entry work.
I'm told that a lot of how the industry works is by getting a whole lot of stuff written, find an artist to work on your stuff, and hand in whatever you can get. So that's what I'm doing. At this point I have two illustrators that I'm working with, each different in styles, personalities, and senses of how books should be laid out and created. Its an incredibly rewarding situation to be in, and I can't thank them or anyone who put me in contact with them enough. Seriously, Touba, you're amazing...but you kind of suck. You knew this.
What's really great about all this is the chance to be writing. I get on the train in the morning and I've already pulled out my Moleskine and pencil. The ideas have become more fluid and complete as scenes fall out of the graphite and onto the page with such ease that its hard to believe I'm writing them. Sounds like I'm degrading myself, and I kind of am, here but it really feels different. I feel different. I feel the way I always thought I would feel if I were able to do this for a living. Now I just need to badger my illustrators to get things done before I'm driven mad by data entry work.
Wednesday, February 06, 2008
All I could muster at this point
I'm very tired right now. Very tired. Tired to the point where I leaned back in my chair to look at the ceiling in an attempt to gather up more knowledge from the universe and woke up a few minutes later. Isn't that a shame? Can't even tap into the infinite understanding and information bank without falling asleep. Maybe I need to purchase more bandwidth, purchase a strong router, or invest in sleeping pills. (snore)
OH GOD! I mean, I'm awake. Anyway! For the last two weeks now I've been awash with ideas and creativity on the mind grapes, and I'd like to thank Henry, my partner. He's...wait...business parter. He's been doing illustrations and been a great resource to bounce ideas off. Its been truly fantastic to finally have a partner, someone who shares in my enthusiasm about projects and is willing to read all the stuff I write, decent or masterful or shred-worthy or kindling-worthy or wordy and long winded, without making it feel like a chore or annoyed with my insistence that he read it RIGHT NOW!
Anyway, he and I are continuing to work towards completing three or four short comics for submission to the Baha'i Publishing Trust and some other backburner projects, I've just pitched an idea for a graphic novel about a genius little girl, and I'm beginning to outline the framework of the skeletons of a possible book about being diagnosed with Type-1 Diabetes in your twenties. So, that was a long sentence and is what's going on.
Sorry that I don't write in this here blog as much as I wish I could, like the old days in Dallas with nothing to do and a mind that wondered aimlessly, but I'm going to attempt somewhat of a comeback. An attempt to write a little more than five times a month and to, possibly, post up some dialogue or random stuff that I'm working on. Because I love you, invisible audience of people who don't read this blog! Oh, and by the way, invisible audience, those comments are not necessary or wanted. ...I will not eat that cheeseburger nor the pickle!
OH GOD! I mean, I'm awake. Anyway! For the last two weeks now I've been awash with ideas and creativity on the mind grapes, and I'd like to thank Henry, my partner. He's...wait...business parter. He's been doing illustrations and been a great resource to bounce ideas off. Its been truly fantastic to finally have a partner, someone who shares in my enthusiasm about projects and is willing to read all the stuff I write, decent or masterful or shred-worthy or kindling-worthy or wordy and long winded, without making it feel like a chore or annoyed with my insistence that he read it RIGHT NOW!
Anyway, he and I are continuing to work towards completing three or four short comics for submission to the Baha'i Publishing Trust and some other backburner projects, I've just pitched an idea for a graphic novel about a genius little girl, and I'm beginning to outline the framework of the skeletons of a possible book about being diagnosed with Type-1 Diabetes in your twenties. So, that was a long sentence and is what's going on.
Sorry that I don't write in this here blog as much as I wish I could, like the old days in Dallas with nothing to do and a mind that wondered aimlessly, but I'm going to attempt somewhat of a comeback. An attempt to write a little more than five times a month and to, possibly, post up some dialogue or random stuff that I'm working on. Because I love you, invisible audience of people who don't read this blog! Oh, and by the way, invisible audience, those comments are not necessary or wanted. ...I will not eat that cheeseburger nor the pickle!
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Status Report!
Well, if we're talking about right at this exact moment, I'm pretty tired. Looking out the window it would appear as though the office will be open tomorrow, not what I wanted at all, but its beautiful. There are intermittent flakes that appear in street light beams and uninterrupted albino snakes tracing branches. Then again, I'm not spending too much time looking out the window, unless you're calling a monitor a window...which it is in certain senses...hmm. Regardless, I had a burst of creativity/excitement/
ideas as I read. Since Henry dropped off a copy of the Hidden Words of Baha'u'llah from the library in the basement of the Baha'i National Center I've decided not only to read it in search of great imagery and story ideas but I want to just read it. Get through the entire thing, reading each Hidden Word at least twice to attempt to grasp everything that's going on. I won't, as is Their nature, but I'm trying. As step in the right direction indeed. Anyway, that burst of creativity has lead me to attempt to finish this short comic I've been working on for...about three or four months now. An idea that I really liked back then and am loving now that I had some consultation with Henry on some ideas and possible new directions. Its forcing its way out of my head and, right now with this short break, I'm preventing its unleashment. Its beginning to hurt my head a little. So, I'll get back to it. I should probably find a way to write more in this thing, at least once a day as I had before preventing depression and sadness and prompting happiness and introspection. Those were good times.
More later!
For now...here's some of what I'm working on right now. It's for a comic, so its mostly just overall plot points as the thing doesn't have any dialogue. All action, no speaking! At least fourteen explosions! ...so, that's not true at all. Here's the thingy:
"It’s four years later and our girl sits in a stark, white examination room in a blue gown on an examination table. She’s hunched over and you can see her spin. She’s fairly emotionless, hoping not to anticipate or over think anything. She’s gripping the table tightly. On the chair next to the table there sits her clothing, tossed out of frustration, and her purse, a stuffed horse’s head sticking out."
ideas as I read. Since Henry dropped off a copy of the Hidden Words of Baha'u'llah from the library in the basement of the Baha'i National Center I've decided not only to read it in search of great imagery and story ideas but I want to just read it. Get through the entire thing, reading each Hidden Word at least twice to attempt to grasp everything that's going on. I won't, as is Their nature, but I'm trying. As step in the right direction indeed. Anyway, that burst of creativity has lead me to attempt to finish this short comic I've been working on for...about three or four months now. An idea that I really liked back then and am loving now that I had some consultation with Henry on some ideas and possible new directions. Its forcing its way out of my head and, right now with this short break, I'm preventing its unleashment. Its beginning to hurt my head a little. So, I'll get back to it. I should probably find a way to write more in this thing, at least once a day as I had before preventing depression and sadness and prompting happiness and introspection. Those were good times.
More later!
For now...here's some of what I'm working on right now. It's for a comic, so its mostly just overall plot points as the thing doesn't have any dialogue. All action, no speaking! At least fourteen explosions! ...so, that's not true at all. Here's the thingy:
"It’s four years later and our girl sits in a stark, white examination room in a blue gown on an examination table. She’s hunched over and you can see her spin. She’s fairly emotionless, hoping not to anticipate or over think anything. She’s gripping the table tightly. On the chair next to the table there sits her clothing, tossed out of frustration, and her purse, a stuffed horse’s head sticking out."
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
An excerpt from a skit I'm working on
Well, so, I’m here to read some things from my bookkkkkkkks. Yes. But first, I wanted to take care of some things. First, I don’t really want to answer questions. I know its normal at readings, but I’m hardly normal.
[Laughter and applause]
Also, I probably can’t answer the questions anyway. Second, I need four more glasses of water, tall as a man, to drink, then pee out. My kidneys aren’t what they used to be. They need a little nudge from time to time. Sometimes a kick from a little kid who doesn’t like you or a young woman who calls you ‘disgusting’ for trying to look up her skirt. Only happened once.
[Laughter and applause]
Also, I probably can’t answer the questions anyway. Second, I need four more glasses of water, tall as a man, to drink, then pee out. My kidneys aren’t what they used to be. They need a little nudge from time to time. Sometimes a kick from a little kid who doesn’t like you or a young woman who calls you ‘disgusting’ for trying to look up her skirt. Only happened once.
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