Collection

It's been a bit of a while, but I've been collecting ALL sorts of links to share and not gotten around to posting them on Spoutible, my sole social home now on Teh Intarwebs.

My apologies, by the way, for the formatting. I literally am collecting these from a zillion sources, it's late, and my head is pounding. So - here goes...

German museum weirdly asks Italy to give back the Discobolus

The implicit bias problem won’t be solved by training alone | Aeon Essays

"Eugene Ofosu, asked whether same-sex marriage legalisation was associated with reduced anti-gay implicit biases across US states. His team studied US IAT scores between 2005 and 2016, and what they found was striking. While the implicit anti-gay bias for each state, on average, decreased at a steady rate before same-sex marriage legislation, these biases decreased at a sharper rate following legalisation, even after controlling for demographic variables such as participants’ age and gender, as well as state-level factors such as education and income."

Development hell (nature.com) 

"the story may have been less about idiot male techs and more about the NASA approach of solving all problems with more equipment. ...if you want to hear about NASA engineers not understanding female anatomy, better options are available ..."

What To Do When Your Period Comes… In Space ‹ Literary Hub (lithub.com)

Indigenous people wrestle with Buffy Sainte-Marie false identity claims - The Washington Post 

I've spoken for years about what I call Colonizer #Trek (lookin' at you, #TNG). Here is an interesting look at the questions of ethics, resources, private and public management, and financial and disability access as well as other barriers to participation in space - and what the heck's going on already. "The popular narrative that space is a bottomless reservoir of resources does not fit the facts." ... "(W)e are at step zero." Please enjoy this well-written essay.

As space gets more commercial, how can it be governed ethically? | Aeon Essays

Meet the absentee gods and nefarious spirits of ancient Mesopotamia | Aeon Videos

Cats have nearly 300 facial expressions | Science | AAAS

https://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/2023/10/16/fox-news-violent-crime/ 

Perception Census | Welcome (dreamachine.world)

FBI: Killings fell 6 percent in 2022, violent crime declined - The Washington Post

In post-communist Europe, economics is laden with morality | Aeon Essays

In France, workers build a castle from scratch the 13th century way : NPR

Alien life might not be something science can ever ‘discover’ | Aeon Essays

For socialism and freedom: the life of Eugene Debs | Aeon Essays

Reviving Virginia’s historic Black cemeteries after decades of neglect - The Henrico Citizen

The deeper I’ve fallen down this rainbow-colored rabbit hole, the more I’ve come to understand that my shock at the breadth of queerness in nature is a symptom of a horrible miseducation, of centuries of science bullying the abundance of queerness off the record.
Orion Magazine - A Work of Love

Also, Biological Exuberance may be #MyNewDragName

Native Americans are building their own solar farms (bbc.com)
Native Americans are building their own solar farms
For decades, Native Americans were reliant on the US government to bring them power. Now, that may be changing


The last 2 are gift links - no paywall:

https://wapo.st/3tdrl9I

Jubilation and high expectations as Poland marks end of right-wing rule

Donald Tusk as prime minister will face challenges fixing relations with the E.U., restoring independence to courts and media and loosening abortion restrictions.

We will keep finding ways to Karen up the place. Pee-yew.
https://wapo.st/3RbTS7u
First-time author loses book deal for ‘review bombing’ authors on Goodreads
Cait Corrain, the author of the sci-fi fantasy novel “Crown of Starlight,” has faced backlash for “review bombing” fellow authors for months through fake Goodreads accounts.

What DID happen to them?

 

 

This is one of my favorite videos in a long time. 24 minutes and some change, but if you're interested in dogs and history, or the history of dogs, worth every bit of it. Carolinas of course do feature, and in this context pups like my girl are even more interesting.

Morning walk

The alarm went off at 5:30 a.m. instead of 5:40, and I rolled over out of habit, then found I actually felt like getting up. Pum came to the bedside in the dark, her ritual morning greeting, and I felt the strong, tight curl of her tail on my wrist as she padded away again, back to her bed.

Dressed and hair wrestled down, the kit and pup kibbled, I pulled on a sweater coat and light gloves, and we were off.

Penelope is a good girl on walks, and today was so quiet I had time to notice the tall oak to the southeast was not lit from below, as it usually is on autumn and winter mornings. Against the fathomless teal just outside the bare halo of sunrise, its bent branch and filigree were achingly lovely. I had time to muse - is that quiet sound, of minimal sand on damp asphalt under my soft shoe, is that a crunch, or something gentler? I had the time to muse, but did not find the word.

Just last night, talking with mom about her puppy and my now older baby girl, I'd said how funny it is: dogs' communication is most chancy not in the dark, but at twilight and dawn - when light is there, but they can't quite see the cues dogs signal each other with. This morning, we passed a shepherd going our way briefly, but across the street, and though she clearly saw the other dog, Penelope had no response at all. No pulling, "Mom, I want to go see the other dog - and thereby make friends with its person."

Dark, still, when we got home, Pum had her sniffs and her business done, and I had all my shoulder and back muscles intact. Seven years old now, she's powerful and big enough, this still is important.


***


One week from today, it will be the first anniversary of my best friend's - my sister's - death. Someone who loved her hard has gone to a place the rest of us who love her can't join him, and it is heartbreaking. Two of us - two of the three who made up our little Musketeers - cling to each other, and count ourselves blessed we ever had her. We are angry still, and yet able to laugh at the ways she haunts us.

Mostly by sending Def Leppard songs at incongruous - or entirely TOO congruous - moments. She remains an inveterate smartass. And she remains with us.

I will mark her passing in a couple of ways, across the miles with our third sister, and alone - and in figuring out exactly how to dress for Hallowe'en. She always LOVED Hallowe'en, and if dressing up is memorial to her now, it is a joyous celebration.


***


The dark season has begun, and that means not just winter's advent. It means not just cooling and sweatering and cozying and contemplating. It means BOO, it's Hallowe'n. It means grappling and reckoning with her loss. Trips to the cemetery, and always, always down memory lane.

Squees and Thanks

Thanksgiving didn't turn out as planned, but oh I do love the quiet holidays that are just me, mom, and my stepfather. He has been ailing for seven years now, but the point has come where doctors are starting to recommend stopping recurring procedures, and the slowdown he is in now feels somewhat different from previous periods when he has felt low. So, though I'd invited them to my house, at about 1:30 on Thanksgiving day, when I was pulling the turkey breast out to tent it for its final phase, grabbed the broccoli and sweet potato dishes, and went to their house.

When your mom is in tears, the dishes you've twice-washed and spot-inspected lose all significance.

But our day, which is possibly the last quiet-holiday time the three of us will share, was lovely. He was up most of the time I was there, and dressed even. We had a few little laughs; his grace is at times the greatest blessing for others, in the face of his pain. I deeply love my stepfather. Another blessing, and one I did not see coming eleven or twelve years ago.

As much as those I love must endure, my own life is richly blessed and comfortable right now. I still miss Mr. X. But there is someone that remarkable in this world, for me to miss. That is inestimable.

At four years in, my "new" job is now entirely mine. I love the work I do, and I like and respect the people I get to work with. It was scary to leave public service, but I have learned that a form of service that is much more direct has great rewards, and what we do is honorable, sometimes fun, and gives to our community in ways that are new to me and mean so much. All this, and at four years there's a bump in vacation accrual, so woo!

Gossamer and Penelope are still the finest little monsters anyone could ask to live with. Goss is soft and gentle - and preternaturally forgiving of his great lummox of a human. Pum is soulful and warm, both magnificent and insouciant. They make me laugh every day, and then they warm my heart.

Writing ... I'm doing that. Not enough - but is it ever enough, in any writer's mind? What is happening with it is good. That counts.

Christmas: we are looking forward to my brother and BOTH nieces coming for a visit.

And homeownership ... ahhh, homeownership! Here may be the most immediate squee for today. In three days from now, I will have a new run of five kitchen cabinets. One wall has always been the home of every bit of storage in this 67-year-old house - and it's not too bad, actually; lowers, as well as uppers all the way to the ceiling, and I have eleven-foot ceilings, so storage is significant.

So 'long about my birthday (suffice it to say, this was over half a year ago), I went to the Habitat for Humanity Restore a couple or three times, and found a pair of midcentury cabinets which will coordinate nicely with the originals. Since, then, I have poked now and then at all of them - removing the old black hammered hinges from mine, spackling and repainting the uppers (white), throwing around a bad paint job (black) on the lowers, re-hinging all of the uppers including the "new" ones.

Today is the day to remove the lower doors and old hardware, give them a spackle and sanding, and tomorrow paint 'em black.

MONDAY ... comes the handyman. He will cut the crown molding and patch the circa-1950 hole in the wall that was all we had in the kitchen for a vent back then. Install the cabinets, AND the ventless range hood. And all the drawer and cabinet handles. He's even going to tidy up a spot of water damage (long since resolved) that predates my 16 year ownership. The tile I ordered isn't here yet, but we'll call this guy back. Or cross fingers it'll arrive today! :)

Oh my gosh. In three days, I will have new kitchen cabinets. I'll be able to put away my crock pot, cookie jar, lots of things. So exciting!

And on the first day of The Big Holiday Family Visit, I also will have a brand new chair. Mom and I recently went chair (s)hopping at a couple of stores, and on my own time I tried at least one more place, on a quest to find The Chair. The chair you come home to, that will welcome you and take care of you all evening after work. The chair that is kind of foxy, but also comfortable. And one we saw on the day she and I sallied forth was all that, but also had remarkably good BACK SUPPORT. It was the chair that stuck in my head through a few more chairs and another shopping trip. And it will be mine.

This is the kind of chair that makes a big difference in a home. It's the kind of chair that makes a big difference in most days, too. So, with this, and the major changes in the kitchen, some really big improvements for the holidays. After The Great Bookcase Project of the summer of 2017 (three. seven-foot. bookcases, y'all. Don't even tell me you're not jealous), and the final completion of the it-seemed-neverending basement job, this is going to make for one HECK of an organized domicile. And just in time to clutter it all up with Christmas decorations!

Still life with much clutter

Hoping everyone had a splendid, blessed, and joyous Thanksgiving, and that the best is yet to come.

Are you ready ... ???

Collection

Turn of the century Worcester Mass in pristine portraiture by William Bullard - not only a great record of people of color living there around the turn of the 20th century, but a pretty remarkable testament to photography itself at that stage (some of the images are stunning in detail and clarity) and a trove for history or costume enthusiasts. Certainly a wonderful sort of neighborhood genealogy; the detail regarding who is who is stellar. (You can exit the slide show for a bit of background, but I'd recommend NOT scrolling down to the comments section. Just enjoy Mary E. Price's glorious traveling ensemble, Edward Perkins' garden, or the many joy-inducing kids' portraits.)

When we were freaking out about Trump's election a year ago, my brother and I clung to certain things. Awareness that we were less likely to suffer, and still have more power by way of this privilege, than others ... the ignorance we still had to some extent back then (though little faith in that famous "pivot" they used to go on about, even as they prognosticated Ivanka would save us all). And infrastructure. Trump's dedication to infrastructure looked GOOD, so we invested in the idea of his investments there. He's a real estate guy, it was something to get behind, right?

Well, if this has anything to do with his administration, hope may yet have reason to spring eternal. And this click isn't even political at all, actually! Go forth, if only because architecture is pretty durn cool, and apparently can be made to smell really good, too. Mmm, Douglas fir. 'Tis the season!

The click beyond: NOVA's recent look at the earthquake-readiness of China's Forbidden City. Engineering is extraordinary, but replica "re-enactment" experiments are the stone cold bomb diggety!

Dr. Art Evans, entomologist, is a regular part of my evening commute. And a favorite part!  This week, he did a segment on an internet CREATURE sensation. The clickbait vibe reminded me of the keywords I chose for this (failed :() flash fic post at Hallowe'en.

The historian Henry Adams was being metaphorical, not medical, when he described power as “a sort of tumor that ends by killing the victim’s sympathies.”

The Atlantic looks at the brain science studying the debilitating effects of power. Per Spock: "Fascinating!" He must've had a toe holder ... or all of Vulcan culture was a toe holder ... !

Also fascinating, but in more of a car-wreck kind of way, is the second time this week I have witnessed The Atlantic using the term GALS and mentioning a "lady problem" in a political piece. The byline is a woman writer, and it seems apparent that this is a gendered sort of informality - because, you know, girlies talk like that. Either that, or you can't expect journalistic standards out of GALS.

In my entire life, I have never known a friend or coworker to use this term except in sarcasm. Most often, it's been a comedic prop, this word. See also: 'lady' - which is a queasy joke for a lot of us in my generation, because it is so often wielded by oily guys who think they have a way with The Ladies.

These words are diminutizations. They're inappropriate to a serious piece looking at an important dynamic, and they chip away at the very power of the feminine vote by subtly dismissing it using joking terms. It also erodes the influence of reportage which has set a certain standard of reliability, and negates an article which clearly involved a lot of research and legwork - there are interviews, there are stats and links and sources. There are conclusions, too. And there are "gals" and a "lady problem" (not in quotes used in the article, but in the writing of the reporter herself).

This is what I have

Right now, I am sitting on my little loveseat with Gossamer, as he sleeps. He's doing that cat thing, where he's got one paw up against my leg. Just touching me. I reach down and take one of his little back feet in my hand, and his body is utterly relaxed. There is trust with him so complete that having his foot grasped in his sleep doesn't even faze him.

Most people know, it's no small thing to get this level of trust with a puddy. And it's not just me that he trusts; this isn't just a bond between two creatures. This is a boy so secure in his safety in his world that he just doesn't worry about little things like a random touch when he is *asleep*. The most vulnerable possible moment. And his relaxation is that complete.

Penelope used to be the sort of pup who would wig out and bark if there was an unfamiliar car parked in the neighborhood when we took our walks. I mean, her back would go up, she was afraid of everything. And a bit of a protector, even then.

She is still wary of the unfamiliar, and will always be exciteable with new people. She is a dog. But the animal she is now, compared to the little baby bag of wiggles I adopted? She is magnificent, and I love her more all the time.

The things I am proud of in this life have always related to the people I love, and who are generous to love - and even respect - me in kind. It means the world to me that any animal I was ever blessed to live with felt safe like this. When Sweet Siddy La used to try to live in my armpit because she was afraid of storms ... this big, strong, brave girl - was turning to ME when she felt fear? I was the thing she trusted to keep her safe?

Holding a limp, warm cat's paw in your hand is so much more than a little gesture of affection on a Saturday afternoon.

Loving my pets. It's not just an "aww they're so cute" thing in my life. It is an honor. It is the deepest kind of pleasure.

It's also fun, pretty much every day of our lives. Little Poobahs.

Lolly

Five years ago right now, I was alone. More alone than I'd been for nine years, nine months.

Sidney. Sweet Siddy-la, my Lolly, my Lolly-ya, Stinky Tuscadero, Funky Monkey, pup-head. Bebe'. Gooderest t'ing.

La was about four when I adopted her, and she was, as I still say to the Poobahs currently livening up my life, a particular favorite girl of mine. By the age of fourteen, she was still fairly spry and healthy, but she'd had some setbacks in the months before she died.

I remember all the lead up, I remember the way she lay on her bed next to the couch (a large old ottoman, I brought it downstairs while I tapped on my laptop and answered emails and such; the floor looked so hard, and she was closer to my touch) and put her head on a pizza crust I gave her - loving it, but unable to eat it.

She never got up again.

My mom came, with the new Buick she and my stepfather had bought, and she and I lifted Sidney lock stock and big bed into the back of it, and we drove to the vet. I know she was with me while Siddy died, and we spent time together after, but I do not remember the after.

I remember going back to the vet when ... she was taken care of. To pick up her ashes. I still have them, though never have really known quite what to do with them. She lives in the guest room. (My dad's ashes do not. Today was perhaps not a good day to read this. But then ... maybe so.)

One memory wraps around another, and one love skeins through others, never necessarily comes to an end.

And now I get to love Gossamer and Penelope.

And still hope I will ever be good enough for either of them.

Collection

Science Daily has a great piece on the reward mechanisms in our brain relating to making art. This article focuses on the study of visual arts in this, but I would expect any writer to pipe up and say, "me too!" on this phenomenon.

(Bonus question for the novelists: is this a new meaning for the term SCIENCE FICTION? Heh.)

Sorry.

Regular readers here know, I love me a good debunking of The Dirty, Stupid Past - and American Duchess is serving up an epic takedown of the old 18th-century-bugs-in-the-hair routine. Along with quite a lot of good info, and a little period experimentation. Their podcasts are not short, but SO cool. And the very depth is what I am digging.

I have family in the Pacific Northwest, and one of the first local uniquenesses I remember hearing about was the wooly dogs. The mention of separating the dogs connects to hearing about their island breeding; this was a precious animal (as indeed all dogs are). So these Salish dogs fascinate me in a similar way to Carolinas.

Unscented flatus and original sin. A very interesting piece indeed on Augustine at The New Yorker. I am intrigued by the many quotes here, most uncited - and the very contemporary-versa vulgata translation of his Confessions mentioned at the top.

200 legitimate voters may be impeded from voting for every double vote stopped.

Finally, from The Atlantic - an in-depth look at the extensively documented relationship between white supremacist organizations and the GOP's voter-fraud initiatives. To anyone who feels "just having to show a driver's license" is not a coded method of racist targeting, look again. Or just look once. And consider the emphasis on data which purges tens of thousands of legitimate voters in a single state. Alfred K. Brewer could tell you a story.

Collection

Even apart from the fact that I am a writer, words have always meant a great deal to me. They are more than stories, more than communication, they are avatars for what me must express as human beings. Today, I learned a new word. It is meaningful to me. How about you?

How to keep cool in eighteenth-century summer clothes - American Duchess provides such interesting background (yes, silk IS the worst in summertime in Virginia!). Observations from experience, some of them unexpected. (And, inauthentic or not, an icepack in the bonnet does sound pretty good to me ...)

Aww ... I shall recuse myself from entering Janet's latest caption contest, but it's about my boy again! Also, I already won a book this week, so someone else deserves this win. I deserve just to enjoy the entries!

Notes to entrants: Kate Larkindale, Gossamer used to RUN under that door when I first adopted him! And kathy joyce, a draft sock didn't even stop him. I used to pull a DRAWER out of my chest of drawers and put it at the crack to keep him from careening in and out all night long. He was so wee. I love Melanie Sue Bowles's caption, and BJ Muntain's, and got such a laugh out of Mark Ellis's and Colin's and Donna's and Elissa M's and Craig F's. Note to Brian Schwarz - I have a pic of him on my cube wall at work - all giant eyeballs and curious whiskers. On it is pasted, in about 24 pt. bold font, the question, "Didja ever get the feelin' ... ... you was bein' WATCHED?"

My theory? He was remembering when he used to bolt under that door, and reminiscing about being so small he could do that ... and then fall asleep on my neck with my chin for a pillow. And how he used to knead on my head so I got such INTERESTING hairdos. (Because: Gossamer.)

Editing to add another link - Donna Everhart is going to start her first-sentence Fridays feature again, now for her new novel, The Road to Bittersweet. In celebration, a clip of great music and dacing - one of those things it is a joy to see digitized online, real people in a real place and a real time, in joy and creativity and community. What a wonderful document, and a fine way for Donna to celebrate.

Another Five Years

Right at the moment I was thinking of one scale of time, I was missing out on multiple others. This year, I managed to forget not only TEO's birthday, but Gossamer's (May Day) and Penny's (my April Fool).

Last night, I saw something I have never seen before. Goss has closed his eyes in the *presence* of Penelope before, of course. But last night, as I got up from the laptop and TV to go upstairs and go to bed, I saw Gossamer closing his eyes AT Penelope.

For those non catters among us: a cat's closing its eyes "at" another living thing is a specific communication. It means "I trust you", and is a profound cue to its relationships. Cats aren't famous for handing out their trust lightly. So to see Goss gazing clearly and fixedly on Penny (who was on the couch and oblivious), and repeatedly almost-closing his eyes at her was a revelation to me. I wished it were possible for Pen to understand. But she didn't even see it. She was as unaware of Gossie in that moment as she was of current events in Southeast Asia.

Which is a shame. But I saw something wonderful.

Between the two of them, he tends to be the aggressor when they scuffle, and their scuffles - while not worrisome - don't feel like play. It's not because he doesn't mean to play, it's because Pen doesn't understand him as playing. The two of them speak completely different languages. Shoot, Pen and I speak completely different languages.

I have wished, since the two of them were kidlets, that they would ever become snuggle buddies. But I realized not long ago that Penny actually doesn't know how to snuggle. (Well ... not REALLY.) When she wants to be near me, she can't sit still. She demands pettin's, or just needs to wiggle. She's actually very physically awkward with affection, has been all her life. On the occasion she is allowed on the couch or on the bed, she can lie down, but rarely is she touching me. When I try to cozy up with her, she gets actively confused - and by actively, I mean that the physical contact, no matter how relaxed my demeanor, drives her to activity, even anxiety. She can't sit still and just snuggle. She cannot even seem to conceive of it. So approaches to snuggling confuse her and set her off.

Now, Gossamer: he is a nestler from way back. He likes body heat, and he likes stillness. Sure, he loves a good pettin', but he can settle in for a good sit without being attended to, and often prefers that over any form of movement. Petting itself tends to end in lying still and snoozing.



So obviously, the lack of snuggle-ation between these two has never been antipathetic, it's just that one party is incapable of it. They have their moments. And since I realized Pen doesn't know how to snuggle, I've tried to work her towards at least understanding snoozy physical contact. When she's been allowed on the bed of late, I put my feet against her back and just say the word, "Snuggle." Once or twice, I've been able to achieve non-petting contact when she's been on the couch, and said the word, "Snuggle."

Communicating. I'm slow, but I learn.



Happy fifth birthdays to my Poobahs, yellow and grey. They are my ongoing adventure, most of the laughs in my life, and constant blessings.

I still aspire to be good enough for either one of 'em.

Collection

Paleoburrowing is perhaps the most winsome new word I have seen in a long time. It has a nice, soft syncopation to it, and lots of my favorite vowels. It is also connected to this neato story about gigantic prehistoric burrowing animals, and I want to see a myth or an allegory to go with the artist's renderings of what these creatures must have looked like! The tunnels they have left us are pretty impressive to see, and the implications make for ... well. Ancient, giant plot bunnies armadillos?

(I)f a 90-pound animal living today digs a 16-inch by 20-foot borrow, what would dig one five feet wide and 250 feet long?

Indeed! Writer pals, you tell me.

Still another story about the perils of The Internet of Things - care to get into potential litigation (or just become the public subject of this sort of discussion) just to open your garage door? I still don't.

Aww. My cat thinks I'm cool. But then, I didn't need Scientific American to tell me that. He's a big old kiss-up, and tells me all the time. (There is this philosophical question, though - given that I am the BRINGER of treats and food and toys, does he really like me better, or does he just cultivate me in order to keep them coming? I am also the bringer of body heat, and that's as good as a sunbeam, when the light is not available.)

Last night, I took "Salem" for a spin on Netflix, and was unimpressed both by the racism and sexism on display. Like, "how did this even get WRITTEN, much less made?" unimpressed. So I turned back to the lesser-explored corners of my queue, and tried different magic, with "Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell". Much more to my liking, this even provides a fantabulous setpiece fairly early in the going, set in York Minster and starring all my favorite statues. I may need to watch that alone several times just for the myriad overlapping dialogue from every direction.

Collection

Okay. Y'ALL. I love my country, but even apart from the sulphurous-tinted mass metastasizing in the White House, there are reasons much of the rest of the world finds us bewildering (not to say bat-splat cray). I ask you: kitten. fur. perfume.

Nobody's beating the sweet, bread-baking scent of my Gossamer, no way no how.

"The HELL you say?"

Casey Karp has an insightful post about security and yet more pitfalls of modern technology. Now doesn't Luddite little me feel all smug I never so much as connected my Bluetooth? But man. I can remember when I used to change the oil and even my pads and rotors. And yeah, I'm going to keep linking stuff like this. When did privacy become so recklessly unhip?

Maggie Maxwell has another uplifting one - on how to handle that bad review. Oh, ow. But she's right!

Okay, enough doom and gloom. Take a trip over to American Duchess's blog, where the saga continues, with the 1820s dress and its restoration. Post 1, linked previously. Post 2, here's how they dated it. The comp dresses and fashion plates are fascinating; but then, I'm a research nerd. Post 3 - the guts of the gown! - coming soon.

Grammar pedant and/or legal story time - why the Oxford Comma matters. A labor dispute digs into gerunds and forms, and drivers get better overtime terms.

Collection

This piece from CNN is kind of a wonderful look at what it's like for freshmen representatives. In this age of political horrors, it's important to remember that some people really do want to serve. This look at first-timers is encouraging, and the excitement is one source of hope.

Are you a photosensitive sneezer? It’s funny; I am, but not in the way this article seems to describe this phenomenon. I can only sneeze when looking at a light if I needed to sneeze already; it doesn’t just happen spontaneously because bright light appears. (Bonus points to Scientific American for the phrase “for the trait to be expressed” AND for getting a “shed light” in there. I get the light-sneeze from my mom, and my mom does love a good (bad) pun, so this is a suitable turn of phrase. Heh.) I do prefer my phrase “photosensitive sneezer” to “photic sneeze reflex” – but their other article on the subject includes ACHOO as an acronym, which has a “Happy April Fool’s Day from Scientific American!” feel to it, so I can at least appreciate the whimsy. The pointer toward light-induced seizures and migraine is especially curious.

We need to help people, and computers, to avoid being distracted by unimportant, attention-grabbing, information.

SA also has a great piece on the road to pseudoscientific thinking. Is it paved with good intentions? Could be … Could also devolve into magical thinking, which is just as unhelpful to us, intellectually. The best part, though, is; it is UN-learnable.

The results are IN on the Pen and Goss (or Rex and Simone) flash fiction contest at Janet Reid's blog. I note with some fascination that she points out that a lot of entries were "constrained by reality" ... a hint to the Reidership?

This is not-Rex indulging not-reality.

Speaking of Janet's blog, I haven't linked it in ages except to show off my wee and timorous beasties. The decision to seriously contemplate self-pub, I think, may have colored my collection-linking tendencies, which disappoints even me. I haven't even *read* BookEnds' blog in too long. So how about a great link today, on textbook bad agenting? However I end up publishing, in the end, it's always wise to learn, and Mizz Reid is a good teacher. She's also a great cheerleader, reminding authors that we are NOT beggars at the banquet of publishing.

You should never be made to feel that you are somehow a lesser part of the publishing process.
--Guess Who?

Okay, and *sigh* - I'll "go there", as the kids probably haven't said for years, and get to the question of Nazi-punching. My feeling is this: no matter which side of the political or ethical/activist spectrum you fall on, this is YET ANOTHER DISTRACTION. Distraction has become the modus operandi at the highets levels of government and across all media (journalism and well beyond), and this is in its way just as frightening as any ideology.

I'll close out THAT thought, and this Collection, with two quotes ...

"To delight in a kind of comeuppance when someone is hoisted by his own petard—when someone who advocates violence against others meets a kind of of nonlethal violence—to enjoy hearing about that, that's not a crime. That's not an ethical transgression. That's asking more of human beings than they can resist."

"(W)hy are you writing about this relatively trivial question rather than something important?"

Exactly.

Aieeeeeee!!!!

Count on me to be LATE to the party the day Penelope and Gossamer star in Janet Reid's latest Flash Fiction contest!!!!

My entry ...

If it weren’t for that knee in the dog’s ear, this might be a perfect yin and yang.

The knee may make it possible, though.

The one Janet used ...
Aww.

SO MANY excellent stories about these two. CarolynnWith2Ns's entry, the very first, is splendid. I'm also taken with Donna Everhart's. Pen and Goss themselves got a nice laugh at Theresa's, and Penelope looked hopeful when she read Susan's. Katie's is poetry, literally.

So I thought I'd share ... the REST ... of the story.

They were theoretically snuggling with me. But the space heater is just out of frame. Pen was licking the heat off of Gossamer's pearl-like head, and Goss doesn't really mind because (a) tongues are warm and soft, and (b) he can sleep through anything he likes.

More often than not, it's actually Gossamer snooting around in Penelope's ears. Sometimes he comes away making the flehmen face because apparently it gets pretty fascinating in there.

They are not super cuddly, but they know each other real good and I think would be lonesome without each other.

Today, Goss is nestling in a box, and Pum is at my feet.

And now my feet really need to go get back into the cleaning.


***


Edited to add - these entries just keep getting more fun! I love how many people have named Penelope Rex, which is VERY likely to become her next nickname. And Mark Ellis named Gossamer Simone, which I further adore. Simone's such a great name. So is Rex.

I'm also always fascinated how the archetypal dog is male, and the archetypal cat tends to be female. Count on me to get that wrong ... ;)

James Sanders made me want to cry, then I looked at not-Rex, gave her a snoodle, and was just grateful I get to be her doggy-mommy. Little beating heart and all.

Four

In a couple or three weeks, it will be Penelope's fourth adoptiversary. In some ways, Pen feels like she's been with me always, and yet the memories of our early days never quite fades, either. It was a hard time for both of us, but great ZOT you never saw an animal more eager to please or learn or just be utterly OSUM than my girl.

Goss is like any cat. He came fully assembled - no litter training, and cuddlesome and highly portable. He is gorgeous and hilarious and boyish and sleek (and you never saw nimbleness the like of his; I sure haven't, and I've had four cats now).

Ahh, but my Pen. The Yellow Poobah, the bestest girl-thing, the bestest dog, the bestest yellow thing in the history of ever.

I knew I was going to love this little maniac, but geez how MUCH I do.

Four and a half or a hair more by now, she has become a powerhouse of a magnificent canine. Just the most beautiful dog I've ever owned; even Sid, who was gorgeous, did not have quite the ineffable dingo-ness that is Penelope's magic. Sid was more wolf, more a dog I was familiar with from the word go. She was aristocratic and majestic. Calm.

But Penelope is the ur-puppy, that elemental dogness, a breed little mucked-around-with by mankind, my ghost from an Egyptian stela, my swamp thing, my Carolina dog, my Yaller Dawg, my Dixie Dingo, my unexpected living ancient. There is something both ineffably alien about her and everything else overwhelmingly PRESENT about her. She is the most *here* animal.

Her alacrity is of course legend among her friends. "Sit, you say? I can sit for you. Look, I've sat. Ooh, and I can also 'down' for you. I'm down. See? Down. Ooh, but wait. I can 'belly' too - see this? This is my belly!" It's unbearably endearing and extremely funny, and of course being a boring old PERSON, I try to train her out of this. "That's not sit! Gimme sit. Good girl."

Her alacrity in greeting is also pretty legendary - and, unfortunately, is the main reason others don't tend to love Penelope as I do. Doing the ignore-her-turn-around-till-she-calms-down thing is all very well and good, but the effusiveness of a happy pup is not so easily to be gainsaid every time. Bless her bones.



But age has been working upon her of late. At four, she's hardly old, but she's much more capable of checking her OWN energy now. When even her "grandma" comments, "Penny has been good" - you have to know, that dog has been dadgum near perfect.

Milestones of note: a week or so ago, I ordered pizza, and when I told her to sit and to stay, that dog sat AND she stayed. First time ever. No "A FRIEND HAS COME TO THE DOOR, BEARING FOOD NO LESS, I MUST THANK THIS FRIEND AND PERHAPS GO SOMEWHERE WITH THEM IN THEIR CAR" greetings.



Pen's effusiveness, and I know it, owes a lot to her doggy-mommy's own mental energies, and when someone is coming to the house there's some skein in my awareness that amps up, even if I'm not thinking directly "the dog's going to wig", and even if I behave calmly.

I worry less now. Pen wigs less.

It has not been my habit to compare Pen with Sweet Siddy La generally. (Yes, I've done it here and am now, but in daily life I don't go looking at Penelope and seeing my late dog.) But as she reaches the age Sid was when I adopted her, Penelope reminds me more of Sidney than she ever has before. And Sid was universally LOVED by my friends and family. A great sitting-at-your-feet-and-napping dog.

Which Pen has always been, but she punctuates greetings with *such* emphasis, few people know what she's really like.

If they are fortunate, they'll see.

My dear yellow soul. I'm lucky she said, "ADOPT ME" when I met her.



Awwwwwww. and when I went to find an image of an Adopt Me vest or a pup wearing one, I found this along the way. That very first pic could have been my Poobah on the first day we met. That pure, perfect coat, the white-white teeth, clear eyes, and black-black nose. Even better than a labeled-for-reuse graphic. Please click.

Collection

Unless my writer friends are in need of a plot bunny, they might not want to click just yet ... but this is the fascinating story of a woman who, for a time, was held to be the longest-lived person in the world - and that isn't even the interesting part. It's a story of madness, mystery, heartbreak, and a lady's own loveliness, and I wish we could know more.

Nobody EVER knows what others think of them, not really. But some of us get to be comfortable because what we don't know isn't likely a threat. This is why I am PRIVILEGED. And this is why we need to acknowledge that people of color are not.

Semi-related news ... how Ariel is not the only Disney Princess who gave up her voice. The charts alone here are eye-opening (... whether it's mouth-closing is up to us). I TOLD y'all we've regressed in gender roles since I was a kid. And: as "the default is white" in the creation of characters in popular entertainment - it's also overwhelmingly male, even in products with pink labels on them.

Also: I think I really am going to have to become addicted to that Tumblr. Because, laughter sometimes is the best medicine, particularly for the ailments of our society.

Quote of the day:

Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.
--Mike Tyson

Meanwhile, over on The History Blog ... million year old mammoth tusks. The reason I post this is that JUST last night, Mr. X and I were discussing a mastadon tusk present in the estate of a recently-deceased relation, and "how do you determine value, how do you sell such a thing?" I told him, as it happens, I am very much in need of a mastadon tusk to decorate my about-to-be-waterproofed-and-then-cleaned-and-organized basement. I think it would be JUST the thing to hang over the washer and dryer.

Finally, the Caustic Cover Critic is back, and there is madness and lust and all sorts of lurid fun to be had. Some great Roald Dahl covers, and more.

Carolinized

I need to thank Donna Everhart for pointing me toward this link ...

My Penny is not the only one. In fact: "There can't be only one", if I may steal from Highlander.

There is nothing I can do to top the post I have linked, so I beg of you to read that. Its main result here has been a review of my pics of Penelope here upon the blog - and inspiration to create something of a different sort of Collection post.


I've been told of Dr. Brisbin, pretty much The authority on Carolina Dogs, but am also arrogant enough to self-diagnose Penelope's breed. As she is spayed, there is no other way to know. She just *is*. My ur-puppy.

She has the fishhook tail, the almond eyes - the yaller coat I cannot spend enough time scritching. She digs snout holes. She looks like pariahs across the world; those dogs in Egyptian stelae, living half-wild in New Guinea, known in Korea ... and the Midatlantic U. S.

Her relationship to the ground seems to me clearest in this photo. It's merely the thing she uses to lift herself up; nothing that has pull on her, it is the springboard from which her life above it is conducted. Occasionally, it makes a good place to nap.

... or to play ...

But really, the ground is just where she keeps a few things and leaps up from.

This was my outdoor bone. It was like ten pounds. I flindered it.
Only half an ounce or so remains of this mammajamma.

This. Is my indoor bone. It is a hambone.

The Yellow Poobah likes They Grey Poobah well enough. They get along.

But it's nowhere near so snugglesome as occasionally it may appear.

Pum's muscular power became clear to me about this moment, when I'd known her about a year:

Her smile is beautiful, and she loves Christmas.

Ugh. I mean, seriously. Have you ever seen a more beautiful thing, greater happiness and contentment, sweeter eyes, funnier ears?

A more natural nature?

I am privileged, both in Pen and in Gossamer too.

I oughtta repay the privilege I have in Pen, and take her to one of those tail-gate events for her kind.

They adopt good.
--Mark Eden

Yes. Yes, they do. As people, we should do as well.

And, to paraphrase Cy Brown's closing lines: I love *my* Penny. I'm her people.

Collection

Museum Day is coming, September 24! Do you have one you'd like to see but haven't been there, or not recently? Check to find out whether they are participating ...

Awrighty, fellow Trek fans. We've been saying since 1987's Next Generation debut that Star Trek's tech was prescient - the personal computer ubiquitous by the late 80s strongly resembled the terminals used in the original series, flip phones looked rather like the original communicators ... and, later on, we pointed to Trek's PADDs as inspirations for today's tablet devices. Welp, ladies and germs, please officially welcome the food replicator. Kind of. There's been talk of 3D printing's resemblance to some of the sci-fi technologies long dreamed of, even before Trek. At bottom, though - all the "wow, look how predictive science fiction is!" gee-whiz comes down to this: humanity is composed of a whole lot of dreamers and a few innovators, and the latter bring to life the visions of the former. Because you don't have to be an Asimov fan to be into robots, or read Philip K. Dick to want to talk to someone and see them at the same time.

In need of a funny story? KD James has a great one, about a frog in a fireplace. Go! Enjoy!

Ooh, a nice post from someone I knew about six lives ago - no parking, comfort zone!

I've known for years that dying in the hospital - or living in one, for that matter - is anathema to me. As it is to most people. But I fail to subscribe to a unique tenet of modern life, that you have to go to the hospital every time something goes wrong, especially the older you become. Here are two reasons there is hope this could change. Understanding is growing, that hospitals are bad for us, particularly for the elderly. And there are other ways to find care, such as hospice. I could live with hospice. And I could die with it, too. Much more happily than any hospital bed.

And, as an antidote to thoughts of death - how about the top 9 things John Davis Frain has to teach us about owning a convertible? Bwaaaaaahahahahahahahahaaaa!! (Notes: my brother and I used to ride in the back seat of my dad's Fiat Pininfarina as kids; this was a family car! I had forgotten about the rain thing. Dad bought another Fiat in the early 1990s, and brother asked him, "Hey dad, did you break down and get a radio?" Dad replied, "Yes; it even has a tape deck! But they don't make 8-tracks anymore, do they?" My Beloved Ex was MOST excited to take that 8-track off his hands. Because: dork.)

Paul Lamb's summer of waning ticks and chiggers, horseflies ... and how writing is really rewriting. He's such an evocative writer of *place*.

Collection

“How do the breasts look?
“She was always very fancy.”
“I don’t have nothing to hide.”

So, yeah. Eep, the world ... ... ... but for now, there are puppies. Thoughts from E. M. Goldsmith (and a couple comments from me, too).

"23 shipwrecks in 22 days" is a lot of discovery.

And, because I needed MORE blogs to provide me perpetually renewing online TBR, Benjamin Clark on researching wet paper towels - and so much more!

EDITED TO ADD ...

Like Benjamin Clark wasn't bad enough, then I found Nate Wilson's blog and, on top of having the AbFab theme running through my head, now I want to write science haiku.

And finally, Stephen Parks' post on automation actually reminds me that the fiction he cites, fearing exactly the same things we fear now, is generations old now. Reassuring? Could be ... But I did think of the comments Jeff Sypek recently had regarding some of the less-observed socio-economic aspects of the self-driving car question.

Pet Moments

We love our pets - whether they are dogs, cats, fish, birds, iguana, or imaginary friends, we can be affectionate with the nonhuman in unique and gratifying ways. I've been blessed to live with dogs and cats most of my life; those few years without an animal of my own were not my favorite of times.

The Reiders at Janet Reid's community know the current feline resident of my home well. He is Gossamer the Editor Cat, Keeper of the Bucket of Chum, lover of the lady herself, cruel taskmaster of my work in progress, sometime nestler, eternal funnyboy and cutie-pie-face extraordinaire.

Ohmigosh EYEBALLS

Penelope the Publishing Pup has made it to Janet's pages as well, but she stays home with me more than not. She guards our windows, and that one spot in the front dormer in the master, makes sure the floor lies still for all of us by napping on it strategically, and revels in her yard, keeping our estate free of squirrels, bunnies, and That One Cat we call Sylvester.

Four years old now, their baby days are over, for all they get babied even so. So it was a surprise when I came home yesterday, and found myself assailed by the old, familiar stench we shall say was connected with her house training.

Oh my poor girl. I won't go into full forensic analysis, but it appears within an hour (probably less) before I came home, her stomach attacked. In five spots throughout the area of the home she has access to when I am at work, she had erupted unhappily.

She is not in the presence of plants, and there were no unexpected open cabinets, giving her access to cleaning products or the like. The "evidence" included no particular clue to what had gotten to her, but twice before I took her outside, she threw up again, poor kiddo.

I expect she thought she was in trouble, but I kept her close and asked her how she was feeling and reassured her. Her eyes were clear, her tongue normal, her teeth fine, and there was no foam or sputum around her mouth. She showed no sensitivity to my touch, and no heat or swelling. Her limbs were perfectly normal, so no injury. Last night, she was normal in her behavior, and ate kibble with no ill effects.

After a massive and damaging storm last night, the kids' vet is closed, but Pen bounced back with alacrity, and we are relaxing this evening. G-TEC appears unfazed and fine, though he always seems too skinny to me in summer, when his coat thins and you see his real shape and size. They are both eating normally, and another inspection revealed no untoward variables around the house.

We'll keep a sharp eye on both of them. If I can, I'll get them in Monday or Tuesday, when I am taking off and working from home, respectively. They are both probably overdue, so a 200,000-mile checkup is in order.

In the meantime: let there be scritches.

Dubious-faced Pum.
"Scritches? I'll have three."