I reached out and touched my best friend first thing friday morning, like I usually do. She purred to life as I walked downstairs to get a cup of warm morning stuff. I was looking forward to what was supposed to be as a lazy day with her. As I drank my morning brew, I watched tv and caressed her with my fingers every now and again. But she suddenly became confused and disoriented. She started bringing up random non-sensical things. I wasn’t quite sure what was happening. Then she just stopped, standing still where she was, not moving, just there. It was scary.
When your partner, your best friend, your companion, your love, who you wake up with and go to bed is quickly overcome by a terminal illness, it is devastating.
I spent hours with her, holding her, listening to her making sure was getting enough juice to continue fighting. She stopped talking to everyone but me, which was perhaps for the best. It hit her so fast, anyone with a weak immune system was surely at risk. Before long though, she could not even speak to me. It was as though she could not remember me, and I guess she didn’t.
Experts were brought in, but it was too late. She had become sick to fast. Despite heroic measures, there was nothing left that could be done.
We had a little more than a day though. She did her best to give me everything, her insight, her stories, her knowledge, her jokes, her stories, her songs, all before succumbing to multi-process failure a few hours ago. I sit here now, with her mother, looking through the memories of she left behind.
Most of you knew her, if only through her work which includes nearly everything posted here. If you would like to pay your respects, reinstallation will be held tomorrow. In lieu of flowers, her family would appreciate software.
LadyLaptop Inspiron is survived by her mother Goddess Dimension, father W2K3 AMD and me ladylaptop\mika.
In her Easter Sunday resurrection, she will christen Pandora_Box, or simply Pandora.
RIP LadyLaptop
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Cost Per Mile, Swimming vs. Driving
Yesterday, after my $2.45/gallon fill up, that was it! I was dedicated to walking to my commitments today. (Note the lack of canoe in that sentence.)
Laughed at by the gods, I forged rivers and even swam instead.
It rained three inches today, between 7am and 7 pm, promptly raining at a rate of over an inch per hour when I was equidistant between two places. [It has now been the second wettest year, measured July to July (for fun!), since local record keeping started in 1884.]
I was supposed to have gutters up in October. As soon as the gutters are up, the rain will stop.
So on behalf of my saturated neighbors, I have decided, for the long term, to follow up on the gutters. For the short term, I will drive tomorrow.
Besides I figure the $2.45/gallon translates into less per mile than $9.99/umbrella.
Laughed at by the gods, I forged rivers and even swam instead.
It rained three inches today, between 7am and 7 pm, promptly raining at a rate of over an inch per hour when I was equidistant between two places. [It has now been the second wettest year, measured July to July (for fun!), since local record keeping started in 1884.]
I was supposed to have gutters up in October. As soon as the gutters are up, the rain will stop.
So on behalf of my saturated neighbors, I have decided, for the long term, to follow up on the gutters. For the short term, I will drive tomorrow.
Besides I figure the $2.45/gallon translates into less per mile than $9.99/umbrella.
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Abducted
Expected Date of Return:
March 27
assuming we don’t get lost on the way back to the mother ship, again.
March 27
assuming we don’t get lost on the way back to the mother ship, again.
Monday, March 14, 2005
HodgePodge And Geek HodgePodge
Random TidBits:
Over heard at a party: "If you think about it Logic doesn't make any sense" (um, ok)
my friend: you a mind reader?
me: hell no, I can't even read my own mind
mikainsb: Who invented dry cleaning and what the fuck were they thinking
dem0nh00d: cleanliness obsessive compulsives who were afraid of water
Comedy Central comedian: She cursed like a long shore man with tourette’s.
Me: Being organized is very annoying. I spent all this time looking for a receipt, everywhere in the house, pockets of clothes, on my desk, stuck to my fridge, in my purses, and in various piles of paper which seem to creep into around my house like unwanted ivy. So after an hour and some, where do I find the receipt, in my filing cabinet in a file labeled receipts. Who would have thunk!
License Plate: Cialis (A drug for Erectile Dysfunction)
License Plate Holder: If you can’t get, It up any other way.
Geek Out Land:
instant message geek chat:
mikainsb: unfortunately I have juggle zeros and ones this week for cash
dem0nh00d: watch out for the twos
mika in sb: WHAT!!! there are twos! jesus christ... apocalypse
dem0nh00d: so yeah, keep an eye out
mika in sb: how will I recognize them?
dem0nh00d: pain. lots of pain, and crashes, lots of crashes
mika in sb: no no no crashes. no crashes! no cpu peaks, no blue screens of death! no crashes!
mika in sb: and none of my pcs have airbags!
dem0nh00d: you're doomed
Geek License plates:
License plate: ILLINIX
License plate: DELETE
License plate: IM ROOT
(I have been collecting these for about a month.) I like the DELETE one the best. I guess I live in a geeky town. Lots of geek license plates. I think my friend has SYSADMN.
The end.
P.S. I learned how to spell hodgepodge for this entry (aren't you proud), and yes I know the P is not supposed to be capitalized... but it is prettier that way. Same with TidBits. Spelling be damned for the sake of aesthetics. Grammar be damned for humor. Boy my English teachers would be proud.
Over heard at a party: "If you think about it Logic doesn't make any sense" (um, ok)
my friend: you a mind reader?
me: hell no, I can't even read my own mind
mikainsb: Who invented dry cleaning and what the fuck were they thinking
dem0nh00d: cleanliness obsessive compulsives who were afraid of water
Comedy Central comedian: She cursed like a long shore man with tourette’s.
Me: Being organized is very annoying. I spent all this time looking for a receipt, everywhere in the house, pockets of clothes, on my desk, stuck to my fridge, in my purses, and in various piles of paper which seem to creep into around my house like unwanted ivy. So after an hour and some, where do I find the receipt, in my filing cabinet in a file labeled receipts. Who would have thunk!
License Plate: Cialis (A drug for Erectile Dysfunction)
License Plate Holder: If you can’t get, It up any other way.
Geek Out Land:
instant message geek chat:
mikainsb: unfortunately I have juggle zeros and ones this week for cash
dem0nh00d: watch out for the twos
mika in sb: WHAT!!! there are twos! jesus christ... apocalypse
dem0nh00d: so yeah, keep an eye out
mika in sb: how will I recognize them?
dem0nh00d: pain. lots of pain, and crashes, lots of crashes
mika in sb: no no no crashes. no crashes! no cpu peaks, no blue screens of death! no crashes!
mika in sb: and none of my pcs have airbags!
dem0nh00d: you're doomed
Geek License plates:
License plate: ILLINIX
License plate: DELETE
License plate: IM ROOT
(I have been collecting these for about a month.) I like the DELETE one the best. I guess I live in a geeky town. Lots of geek license plates. I think my friend has SYSADMN.
The end.
P.S. I learned how to spell hodgepodge for this entry (aren't you proud), and yes I know the P is not supposed to be capitalized... but it is prettier that way. Same with TidBits. Spelling be damned for the sake of aesthetics. Grammar be damned for humor. Boy my English teachers would be proud.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Within The Vapors Drift,
Resonating With The Atoms
And spring, its sun warming your skin, the ridiculously loud cacophony of birds singing, calling, bickering, bees whistling, kids on bikes, hammers and lawnmowers, and dogs barking, people laughing, and music driving slowly by.
Everything green is charging higher, the bright bursts of color, engulfing sweet fragrance, light purple wisteria, dripping grapelike bunches, exuberantly climbing everything, streets lined with natures confetti, small petals of white and pink and purple… As my mother described snowdrifts, I watched petals whist into the air by a warm breeze, fall like whimsical feathers, collect against trees and curbs and plants laden with a vast pallet velvety figurines.
But spring has lapsed, and summer arrived now. Summer here, is not as it is sold in brochures.
The fog descended on Monday and, coming in from the ocean, took root on Tuesday.
The islands off the coast have been erased. The mountains to the north forgotten, and wisps of white air, like smoky traces, enchanting, wander.
The deep vibrant new growth, feverishly green, accented by the quiet, sleepy migration of aerial gray trails.
It is quiet, so amazingly quiet and you hear, clearly, sounds from miles away. Like the surf, the only sound heard at the moment, a distance from here and it sounds only a few steps away.
It is as if a day of silence has been instilled, not only of us, but of the birds, bees, barking dogs, even the cars sound quieter, best not to disturb the sleeping spring sprite.
I have spent a couple afternoons walking up the beach to my local surf spot, watching sea foam cartwheel down the beach, jiggle in the wind, or hydroplane steady at six or seven knots. At the point, I stand, where a creek gurgles between cliffs and over rounded stones before running into the ocean, the two waters greeting each other embracing, the reunion fond, contented, before scurrying away together, as the tide recedes. The waves, like children not yet taught the rules, don’t travel into the nook, into the beach, but rather sweep beside it. Looking to the ocean, is looking along the waves, as crests move from right to left, not at them as they reach for the beach, the customary, the mundane way to touch the beach.
The recent rains have left this spot still metamorphosing, rocks occasionally trickle off the cliffs. It is an amazing meld of soft contemplative sounds, a gurgling creep, trickling rocks, a wave not crashing, so much as completing itself, and gently at that.
There the fog, dark, as if night has already begun to fall, dissolving the world 100 yards from shore, both into the ocean and away from it, I watch six-foot, eight-foot, waves divinely sculpted, smooth, they wait their turn, before breaking for their worshippers.
Their worshippers. Each a distance from the next. Each sleeping on the ocean, feeling its murmurs, waiting for its sign. And when the ocean whispers, they turn, and they paddle, thrilled with anticipation.
The wave carries them, and feet firm, they ride with zeal and fervor and delight and ecstasy. It is strictly experienced shortboards, for maneuvers, for thrill, for zen, and some, for sponsorship.
Like flecks of black, the drift, the fog sometimes swallowing them. They reappear in an approaching barrel, in tune with it, like a dance partner of years, or a venerated lover.
It is their religion, made spiritual by the effuse fog.
So I sit here at midnight. The cool air, late at night, its droplets tickling my skin, it is giddy and sleepy and drunk on champagne. The foghorn reminds me that the world about is protected by the quiet, the stillness, all is absolved.
Under the blanket of a mystical nymph, I should sleep.
Fading into the sanctuary of the vapor.
Everything green is charging higher, the bright bursts of color, engulfing sweet fragrance, light purple wisteria, dripping grapelike bunches, exuberantly climbing everything, streets lined with natures confetti, small petals of white and pink and purple… As my mother described snowdrifts, I watched petals whist into the air by a warm breeze, fall like whimsical feathers, collect against trees and curbs and plants laden with a vast pallet velvety figurines.
But spring has lapsed, and summer arrived now. Summer here, is not as it is sold in brochures.
The fog descended on Monday and, coming in from the ocean, took root on Tuesday.
The islands off the coast have been erased. The mountains to the north forgotten, and wisps of white air, like smoky traces, enchanting, wander.
The deep vibrant new growth, feverishly green, accented by the quiet, sleepy migration of aerial gray trails.
It is quiet, so amazingly quiet and you hear, clearly, sounds from miles away. Like the surf, the only sound heard at the moment, a distance from here and it sounds only a few steps away.
It is as if a day of silence has been instilled, not only of us, but of the birds, bees, barking dogs, even the cars sound quieter, best not to disturb the sleeping spring sprite.
I have spent a couple afternoons walking up the beach to my local surf spot, watching sea foam cartwheel down the beach, jiggle in the wind, or hydroplane steady at six or seven knots. At the point, I stand, where a creek gurgles between cliffs and over rounded stones before running into the ocean, the two waters greeting each other embracing, the reunion fond, contented, before scurrying away together, as the tide recedes. The waves, like children not yet taught the rules, don’t travel into the nook, into the beach, but rather sweep beside it. Looking to the ocean, is looking along the waves, as crests move from right to left, not at them as they reach for the beach, the customary, the mundane way to touch the beach.
The recent rains have left this spot still metamorphosing, rocks occasionally trickle off the cliffs. It is an amazing meld of soft contemplative sounds, a gurgling creep, trickling rocks, a wave not crashing, so much as completing itself, and gently at that.
There the fog, dark, as if night has already begun to fall, dissolving the world 100 yards from shore, both into the ocean and away from it, I watch six-foot, eight-foot, waves divinely sculpted, smooth, they wait their turn, before breaking for their worshippers.
Their worshippers. Each a distance from the next. Each sleeping on the ocean, feeling its murmurs, waiting for its sign. And when the ocean whispers, they turn, and they paddle, thrilled with anticipation.
The wave carries them, and feet firm, they ride with zeal and fervor and delight and ecstasy. It is strictly experienced shortboards, for maneuvers, for thrill, for zen, and some, for sponsorship.
Like flecks of black, the drift, the fog sometimes swallowing them. They reappear in an approaching barrel, in tune with it, like a dance partner of years, or a venerated lover.
It is their religion, made spiritual by the effuse fog.
So I sit here at midnight. The cool air, late at night, its droplets tickling my skin, it is giddy and sleepy and drunk on champagne. The foghorn reminds me that the world about is protected by the quiet, the stillness, all is absolved.
Under the blanket of a mystical nymph, I should sleep.
Fading into the sanctuary of the vapor.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Too Wide A Net
I am a 28-year-old single woman, with now confirmed poor judgment.
My friend and I went to the bars downtown, Saturday night.
We walk into a trendy nightclub and WOW, sailors. This is not unheard of, as there is a small harbor walking distance from the heart of our small city. Still, it is infrequent enough to be a surprise when it happens. The service men and a rare few women are always picture perfect in a nicely pressed dress uniform and they are more politely behaved than most, though a little over enthusiastic, not that I blame them.
The addition of sailors, this Saturday makes the male female ratio quite favorable for my friend and me. Though neither of us felt like a sailor, there were women that did, freeing up some of the local guys. So we get drinks and watch the crowd. The sailors seem ecstatic and are having a great time.
After a few hours, I have my friend lure potential prey. (Imagine a black widow, rubbing front legs together in anticipation.)
I talked to my victim a little while before it became clear. In bar full of men, probably 70% or so, I picked up on a gay guy.
He was liking the ratio too.
My friend and I went to the bars downtown, Saturday night.
We walk into a trendy nightclub and WOW, sailors. This is not unheard of, as there is a small harbor walking distance from the heart of our small city. Still, it is infrequent enough to be a surprise when it happens. The service men and a rare few women are always picture perfect in a nicely pressed dress uniform and they are more politely behaved than most, though a little over enthusiastic, not that I blame them.
The addition of sailors, this Saturday makes the male female ratio quite favorable for my friend and me. Though neither of us felt like a sailor, there were women that did, freeing up some of the local guys. So we get drinks and watch the crowd. The sailors seem ecstatic and are having a great time.
After a few hours, I have my friend lure potential prey. (Imagine a black widow, rubbing front legs together in anticipation.)
I talked to my victim a little while before it became clear. In bar full of men, probably 70% or so, I picked up on a gay guy.
He was liking the ratio too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)