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legendline [userpic]

It's not just dogs

December 25th, 2009 (09:46 am)

The alarm goes off just as the sun crests the hill to peek into my window. I get up on the first buzz, ready to make my own fun. Yesterday was intense and today is bound to be also, so this morning is my time.

I slip quietly through the pasture gate, the horses meeting me there. Turbo, the best horse in the world, ol’ reliable. Arrow, my heart horse, the evil sidekick to Turbo, the squeaky wheel that’s never had enough grease.
My pockets are full of the candy canes from yesterday’s stocking. My mother knows the type I like- either the minis, or the extra-thick ones. The minis are each one bite for the horses. The extra-thick ones can be broken into two or three pieces and still make enough of a crunch in the horse’s mouth that they enjoy it.
Hearing the rustle of the plastic, they crowd me, noses reaching inside my coat. No human concepts of gluttony or shame stop them from wanting. I stand between them and feed both at the same time. As they finish, I slide a halter over Turbo’s head and lead him into the barn.

The horses in stalls look at us, blink. It’s earlier than I’m usually down to get them. They hover near their feeders, the remains of their dinners still left, hoping they get the usual routine of another hour or two inside to finish it before being put out. They needn’t worry, I’m not here for them, yet.

I’ll be back soon enough for Arrow, but he’s a herd animal and doesn’t like being alone. He paces the fenceline, shakes out his short mane and snorts down low to the ground, telling any predators watching that he’s One Tuff Cat who shouldn’t be messed with.

I trade Turbo’s winter blanket for a saddle and his halter for a bridle. I glance at my riding helmet, gathering dust, and decide to skip it. A bike has no sense of self-preservation- a horse like Turbo will take care of me. We go back outside and I slip the halter onto Arrow, then climb on Turbo. Turbo’s helped me train countless colts like this, me leading them along from the saddle, him showing them where to put their feet and what not to be afraid of. Arrow has done this quite a bit with Turbo and I, but it’s somehow always more treacherous with him on the line than most other horses.

We move carefully down the hill to the bottom gate of my property and head into the cow pasture, hundreds of secluded acres set aside for our private enjoyment. Hurrying past the creek lest either of the horses think I intend them to swim, we open out into the flatland. We walk, keeping quiet and getting in tune with each other again. They live together and I’m an outsider, but they let me in at times.

Heading up a big long hill, we all feel like a run. Turbo can feel me and knows I’m ready, but Arrow is an island with plans of his own. I raise the hand holding Arrow’s rope until he looks at me, then I twist in the saddle so the shoulder nearer him pushes forward, opening up the plane of my body to allow him past. As he surges forward I wrap my knees around Turbo and we all move together, cantering up the hill.

Turbo has a 200-pound handicap between me and his tack, and he tires first, less than half way up the hill. He slows but Arrow challenges, moves up even with him. I lose control of Arrow when his head goes past me, and yet he pushes further, his nose past Turbo’s and now Turbo has no control over Arrow, either, all of us still moving uphill quite a bit faster than I could ever run.

I have a few options, some only slightly safer than others. Let Arrow loose. Be pulled from Turbo by Arrow. Pull Turbo around left and hope we can swing Arrow in with us and avoid both of the first two options, while also not slipping on the wet ground or tangling their legs in each other.

And just as I think, “If only Turbo weren’t tired, he could just outrun Arrow and we’d be okay again,” Turbo puts it in high gear and flies past the unruly younger horse. Arrow is my heart horse but Turbo is wired right into my brain. This is only the zillionth time I’ve thought about something I wanted but didn’t think he could or would do, only to find Turbo proving me wrong and giving it to me.

Being the fastest horse I’ve ever ridden, Turbo evens up with Arrow in two strides and is past him in a third. We race to the top of the hill like that, Turbo expending enough energy to stay ahead of Arrow, who is giving it his all.

As we level out I worry that this speed will do us harm up here. I raise the hand holding Arrow’s line out to the side, into his field of vision. I lower Turbo’s reins onto his neck and sit up from my aerodynamic crouch, speaking quietly to both horses, “Wup.” Simultaneously they take it down a notch, hind legs coming under to collect as they bring it to a slow canter.

We go several more strides at that speed before they are ready to slow further. I raise Arrow’s rope again and tip my shoulders toward him, using the plane of my body to push him back, while I lower Turbo’s reins and say again, softer, “Wup.” They drop into a slow trot and we move along the crest of the high hill, dodging gopher holes and stands of scotch broom larger than we are.

When we come to the far edge, no where to go but down, I feel Turbo asking for a break. I relax my body down into the saddle, raise a hand toward Arrow, and let out a long breath, siiiiiigggggghhhhhhh, “Whoa.” Turbo stops like he’s grown roots to the ground. Arrow, younger and less trained, misses the stop cues and continues forward, hitting the end of his line and circling around us. He doesn’t want to stop, wants to get to the next adventure, but Turbo knows how to rest when he has the chance- as the old-timers say, that horse knows how to stop and smoke. Arrow restlessly paces around us and paws at the ground.

Ready to move again, I lift my hand off Turbo’s neck and tighten my knees. He moves off, positioning himself properly alongside Arrow, who is still struggling with subtlety. Quietly we negotiate the steep parts of the hill, the horses working together to yield and go such that they both have solid footing at all times. I sit aboard and watch, knowing whether Arrow will go or stop by the direction of his eyes or the lay of Turbo’s ears. It turns out Arrow doesn’t struggle with subtlety, only with subtlety in my cues to him. He reads Turbo just fine. I am the one not speaking a language he can understand.

Hitting the flatland again we move through the herd of cows, hundreds of them, bunching together to stand against us, until we are close, then they part like the sea, rippling out and away, the green grass they free up a sharp contrast to their black hides.

By the time we are through the cows and over the creek the horses have cooled from the run, but after we cross back onto our property we have another hill to climb to the barn. We slide into the aisle, steam rising from the sweat marks on their chests and bellies. I put them in stalls with light wicking sheets thrown over them and slowly do the morning chores, putting the other horses, finally awake and ready, outside, then feeding everyone, cleaning stalls.

When I finish the two are dry and I swap their now-wet sheets for their warm winter blankets. I walk them back to their pasture and turn them loose, but they don’t leave. They spend a moment next to me nuzzling each other, then Arrow, always demanding, bumps my pocket. They both hear the rustle and lean closer. I pull out the last candy cane, almost as thick as my pinky, and break it apart. Turbo gets the larger piece and I put the long end of the J into my mouth, Turbo using his lips to take the hook and pull it free. Arrow gets the next piece, from my hand, until we learn to talk to each other better. I put the last piece in my mouth and slip out the pasture gate, the taste of mint and smell of horses enough to get me through the rest of this day.

legendline [userpic]

The games we play

December 23rd, 2009 (06:22 pm)

Too cooped up in this house. Despite the 40-minute ride this morning, I still feel cooped up and the dogs do too. They wrestle back and forth, bumping couch and wall, going vertical when they run out of floor space. "Let's go for a walk" sends them flying out the front door to wait at the gate while I gather hat, coat, gloves and boots.

We head down the gravel road to the cow pasture. The lowest point of my private valley, the fog hangs five feet over my head. Visibility is limited to a hundred yards, adding to the feeling of isolation, not just from houses and roads, which can never be seen or heard from here, but also from animals, the birds that take flight at our approach disappearing into clouds while I can still almost reach them, the cows that live here off in the foothills, indistinct shadows in the fog.

Passing through the mud in a gateway, I lose a shoe and my balance, and have to decide between putting a sock down in the mud or my hands, a high stakes version of Foot Tag. Hands are easier to clean but I put the sock down anyway. By the time I’ve rescued the shoe and gotten through the gate, I’ve lost the other one. Not wanting to put muddy socks back into my boots, I remove them and slide bare clean feet in. Within steps I can feel the blisters start to form, so I remove the boots and continue barefoot through the short wet grass.

I am an adult and this is immature, but I can do better. Feeling safe in the fog, I spread my arms to the sides and run circles, making “put-put-put-put” airplane sounds like the boys in The Striped Pajamas. I don’t know if I didn’t play the right childhood games or if the games they played aren’t real, but this is the first I’ve done this. The dogs enjoy it, racing along at my sides.

On one of our circles we come to a ditch, deep, narrow, the length of the field, made to catch runoff. Rain bolts ahead, looks back at me three strides before it, giving me a chance to tell him not to, then looks ahead and jumps, a huge leap carrying him well onto the next bank. He spins around and faces me, dropping into a bow. Always one to recognize and take a challenge, I cut off my circle and aim for him. I leap the ditch and land, Rain passing by me to jump back the other direction. He is teaching me to play his game and I follow.

A few more jumps and I am too hot. I remove my jacket, hat in the pocket, and tie it around my waist. It becomes my cape, fluttering behind me as I jump, but tangles in my legs on bad landings and soon I take it off and leave it in a heap. We run up the length of the pasture, jumping back and forth and running circles out in the field when the jumping becomes too much.

With none to judge around my imagination runs off with me, perhaps going to a more childish frame, except where it goes isn’t childish at all.
Running fast beyond the point of being tired becomes affinity group training. The banks of the ditch become the walls of buildings and I leap across, afraid of who might catch me should I lag. Occasional rocks on the ground become tear gas canisters and we, all of us, must avoid them with a ten-foot radius.

Rain becomes a horse cop, faster and more agile than I, and extremely dangerous to collide with. The two times we collide in the air I am the one who falls, landing on the vertical of the bank and scrambling up on my hands and knees. When we collide after a landing, I go down in a roll, all arms and legs, and push myself out of it and back to my feet, Rain taking advantage and bolting out ahead.

It is also a lesson in ablism, as Tally can’t make most of the jumps that Rain and I can. She runs up and down the bank, looking for a place she can cross. When she finds a low spot she slides down to it and pushes off for the far bank, sometimes making it, sometimes sliding down as her nails fail to grab, landing with a plop in the water below. Deep enough for her to swim and fast enough to carry her, she resolutely turns herself downstream and swims to a place where she can climb out, always on the side she was aiming for. She is in no danger. The ditches run for hundreds of yards before coming to anything that might drown her, and I can easily outrun them. Each time she hits the water Rain watches her from the bank until she climbs out again. After her third fall, I notice she climbs the banks with her head already pointed downstream, believing she can make the jumps but setting herself up for an easier swim should she miss.

I decide Tally is a member of my affinity group and if she can’t keep up, I will carry her. I scoop her up, tuck her against my black hoodie and run for the bank. When I leap she struggles, nails scratching my neck, and when we land her body tightens so much I know she doesn’t want to fly with me.

I revert to communication, telling her she can stay on her side, we’ll be back in moments. At times she moves right to the place I am about to land, and I have to decide in midair how to avoid her, landing splay-footed or on hands and knees. She never moves during those times, confident that I will not squish her.
I offer her more reassurance and she stops watching us cross the ditch to sniff around the banks, finding the occasional pile of grain abandoned by a cow in search of greener grass, or the occasional bone, pulled from the dead pile by coyotes and forgotten in the middle of the field.

Rain and I jump and jump, coming to the top of the field and reversing, going back down in a zig-zag fashion, Tally staying on one bank while we leap back and forth. I’ve learned to watch Rain jump, to see how much effort he puts into it to know if I can jump where he did or not. If he looks like he’s trying at all, and lands with less than a foot to spare, I angle up or down and make an easier jump.
Jumping downhill is easier, but jumping uphill leaves a feeling of accomplishment. At a wide point I jump to a low island, not thinking about how I’m going to get off of it, and hear Rain coming with just enough time to duck as he flies over my head from bank to bank. Not one to be so stunningly outdone, I leap off the island from a standstill and make it to the top of the bank without using my hands.

We near the end and there are two jumps left to be made, one to retrieve my jacket and one back to the side which will end the game. An hour of success has me overconfident, and on the jump out I realize that for the first time, I’m not going to make it. I twist forward in midair and land low on the vertical of the bank, hands stretched up to the top, and remembering scaling the tall wooden fence, I pull myself up in one smooth motion.
I tie my jacket back around my waist and pick a slightly easier jump back, landing with a foot and a half to spare, and I know it’s really because my cape helped me do it.

The dogs and I, we head back up the road. There is still daylight left in the valley but when we walk up into the fog the dark comes around us. We do the horse chores on the way back up, quiet, bonded, serene.


Tonight it is cold and because it is always wet, it might snow. If it does, tomorrow will find us out on the hills, riding the Red Slider, inventing a new game all our own.

legendline [userpic]

open post- RNC Anniversary

September 4th, 2009 (07:31 am)


Thoughts and Reflections One Year Post-RNC

It’s anniversary week. To celebrate, a lawyer has filed the first class action lawsuit against the City of St Paul on the basis that they violated our First and Fourth Amendment rights by mass-arresting us in the park after attacking us with chemical weapons.

 

I’ve already written my story; it’s already gone all around the web. The lawyer has a copy, and we told the story on KBOO radio. What happens now is the reflections. “Hold on to the lessons; let go of the pain.”

 

The pain of chemical weapons has faded. The handcuff injuries remain. That week, each time I mentioned to other medics that I had no feeling on the outside of my thumb and little finger, I was told it takes 6 to 12 months to regenerate nerves. At 12 months, I still have half-inch-wide stripes up both sides of my hand that lack feeling.

 

Volatile emotions have subsided. I still watch youtube riot porn regularly, but instead of regularly being 7 or 8 hours a day, every day, it’s just a few times a month- just to check a fact or look for new evidence, mostly- only occasionally to make sure I don’t forget what it was like when we were there.

When I watch the videos, I no longer jump when the concussion grenades explode. I no longer duck when the cameras get pepper-sprayed. I no longer lean away when a cop’s hands enter the frame.

 

I learned lessons that week. Some I didn’t need. Some I did. I learned that the only sure thing is that cops are unpredictable; I learned that a medic buddy who you’d run through the gates of hell with isn’t just a saying. I learned to smell pepper spray in the air from half a block away; I learned to read a crowd’s movements to know if there actually was chemical weapons or if they were just predicting them. I learned that fast is subjective to who is running near you; I learned the sound of tear gas cans flying through the air, of tear gas cans hitting windows, of tear gas cans hitting people. I learned that crying is a perfectly acceptable means of communication when words fail; I learned that sometimes, crying is the necessary refresher before the next round.

 

I came home and couldn’t function. I wanted to be with my friends all the time to make sure nothing bad would happen to them. I was convinced every time I was away from them that horrible things would happen before I saw them again. Every waking, alone moment was spent watching videos on youtube to relive every detail. I wouldn’t cook food because it would take time away from the videos. I couldn’t work a job- I didn’t want to leave the house, and if I did leave, it was only to go to medic meetings.

 

Time passed and things got easier. I went out to a non-radical social event, and there I bought a horse. I named him Riot. The medics began forming a collective. I started feeling more secure that these people not only wouldn’t leave me, but that they might be as committed to me as I was to them. 

 

It took a long time to let go of the bigger things. Still in December, unknown numbers calling my phone made me think someone was going to tell me my friends were in jail. 

In March, six months after, I relived the seizure-in-the-park with someone who had been there. In fact, she was taking our medic training at that time, and said she was taking it because of the work she’d seen me do that day. I was stressing to talk to her about it, but we supported each other as we told the story together, we each answered some questions for the other, and I felt stronger afterward.

In May, I panicked and cried when the cops pulled over a car full of medics on their way to a protest. I almost couldn’t believe it when they drove away with a huge ticket, but none in handcuffs. “This isn’t St Paul,” one of them whispered in my ear when they stepped out of the car.

In June, after a trip back to St Paul and alerting the NLG to my charges still existing, the Ramsey Co. attorney finally dropped them. On that trip back there, nine months after, I planted purple irises along the bike trail we’d been chased up, next to the cement pillar I’d hit my head on, in the park next to the fountain where we’d been arrested.

In August, I was back in St Paul again, and some of the bulbs had flowered. They’ll flower there every year at the end of August and be in full bloom the first week of September- the week St Paul was a police state.

 

It’s been a year now. My medic collective formed strong because of what happened there; we stayed strong because that’s who we are. I’m stronger and smarter now because of everything that happened there. I’ve held on to the lessons; I’m letting go of the pain.

 

legendline [userpic]

The yummyness

March 31st, 2009 (08:19 pm)

This is what I took to work today and had for lunch:
"A salad of fresh mixed baby greens with grated carrots and juliened cucumbers, topped with organic chicken breast broiled with lemon pepper and dill, marinated in homemade ranch with all-natural bacon crumbles.  For desert, fresh chopped strawberries over organic shortcake with a generous dollop of whipped cream."

I made it all myself, packed it up and took it in.  The trick is, neither of those things can be just tossed in a container, because the meats make the salad greens go wilty and the strawberries would soak the shortcake.  So it was all packaged up in little tupperwares ready to be put together at lunch time. 
I hadn't figured out how to pack the whipped cream, it seemed silly to put it in another tupperware, so mostly for laughs I just took the whole bottle of it and put it next to my lunch bag in the fridge.  Since that's such a tempting item, to guard against theft of it and for added humor, I stuck a sticky note on it that said, "I licked this" with an arrow toward the tip. 

When I came in for my lunch, 3 people having taken their lunches between my arrival and my lunch, there was an addendum to my sticky note.  "I did too."
Everyone's a bloody comedian.

legendline [userpic]

(no subject)

February 17th, 2009 (07:12 am)

what i want someone to tell me is, how the hell am i supposed to unlearn to hate the world when stuff like this happens?

stuff like this being, on sunday my neighbor's two dogs from down the road came over, broke through TWO layers of fencing to end up in my yard, and fought with Rain.

who has thus far racked up $800 in vet bills, with two surgeries left to go.  they punctured all around his eye, a laceration on top that needed stitches and a hole going from inside his cheek to his lower eyelid.  i guess they put dye on his eyeball to see if it was damaged, and they found the dye in his mouth, which if you stop to think about it is actually kind of cool, but not cool enough to compensate for the fact that he has multiple holes in his face.

the reason for so much expense is surgeries to put in the drain and stitches, take out the drain, and take out the stitches.  as the vet said, "we don't play with sharp objects next to the eye of a dog that can move."

i had called the neighbors immediatly when i chased their dogs home, and she said, "if you want to take him to the vet, we'll pay.  i'll send husband over to fix the hole in your fence"  i told her i didn't think there was anything a vet could do and that i appreciated that husband would fix the fence.

when i got home a few hours later, he looked so much worse that i called her and said i was taking him in and that i'd stop by her house if she wanted to see him.  she said, "i was over there just after you called, your roommates let me in, i took his picture, it's just an abrasion, there's nothing the vet can do, blah blah blah," and when i insisted that i was taking him in, she said, "well, let me know."

so last night i call to ask her to come over because i want her to see him with half his face shaved and swollen and in an e collar and fucking miserable.  she says the kids are in bed (it's 7pm and her kids are 7 and 10) but i can come over there.  so i go over with the four pages of vet notes (the vet wrote a SOAP on him!) and she and husband are waiting outside, husband says, "well- what do you want?" as way of greeting.

we proceed to talk for an hour, during which time they throw out reason after reason why they don't feel they have to pay-
1) when katie's leg was broken they put her hay up for her.  i put my own hay up that year.
2) four years ago, when i had a border collie, they tell me now that she killed some of their chickens and they never said anything because they were being 'good neighbors.'  that dog ran loose with my chickens and with chickens at my work- that dog never killed a chicken. but whatever.  i told them if they'd told me at the time, i wouldn't have let her get out (not that i ever let her run loose, but whatever).
3) my roommate has two dogs that were in the yard when their dogs broke in, so how do they know, really KNOW 100%, that it was their dogs that put the holes in him? (i should have offered that they could split the bill with the roommate then, because both my other dogs were gone at this time, and he sure as shit didn't put the holes in himself)
4) last year they used their winch and truck to pull my horse trailer up the bank after someone tried to steal it and pushed it off.
5) five years ago, when their dogs ran loose every day and tipped my garbage and harassed my dogs daily even though i'd returned their dogs home at least a dozen times and they still let them run loose, i took their dogs to the pound, which told me i'd be anonymous but then told them who'd dropped them off, and it cost them $200 to get them out.  but also resulted in them building a dog kennel and since then, i've only seen their dogs out about once a month rather than daily.

so they won't pay a fucking dime.  and to cap it all off, i didn't even want their money.  sure, a nice gesture would have been to give me $200 dollars, but i want restorative justice, i want this to not happen again.  i have two weak spots in my fence, one where their dogs broke it this time, and then about 100 feet where the fence is loose.  i wanted to ask husband, who has all the right tools and skills, to spend the 90 minutes it would take him to fix those two areas for me (it will take me closer to 4 hours and it still won't be as good as he could do it) so that it would be less likely his dogs could get in or mine out.  i wanted wife, who is a nurse and an animal caretaker, to offer (though i wouldn't have taken her up on it) to come over today while i'm at work and do the hot and cold compresses, ointment, and pills for rain so that i could go to work. 

but instead, they just harped and harped on what being good neighbors is.  they never even said they're sorry.  their mistake costs me close to $1500 when it's all done and all they can do is say why it's not their fault and not even get the word 'sorry' out of their mouths.

i am trying to be all like beth or janice would here, and chalk this up to an experience in learning to let go of things that i can't control, but fuck it, they're both more than twice my age.  right now i want to be angry and i will use this to feel justitifed in hating the world that just keeps dumping on me.
(also my brand-new-to-me car is broken, the check engine light came on when i'd owned the car about 300 miles, it needs a new catalytic converter which will run at least $400, and when they switched out the tires for me they misaligned them so i have to get it back there and make them fix it).

legendline [userpic]

sue the bastards

February 15th, 2009 (12:41 pm)

i got home from canada at 2am.  was wide awake, so stayed up and talked to the roommates, took a shower, played on computer.  was woken early this morning by reports from a roommate about a sick sheep, so am dealing with the third dying sheep in two months.

but mostly, mostly, am working on how to sue st paul and ramsey county, MN for last summer.  the kind folks who took out 10 million dollars in insurance to pay off claims of police brutality.  we're now at the point where we file "intent to file claim" forms that tell them to not throw away any paperwork because we (thousands of us) might sue. 

i ended up being the bottomliner of this project for the rosehip collective, because it's most important to me.  today i am printing off forms, figuring out what info goes where, getting the forms (physically, not by email) to each person, walking them through it, and then prepping them to be sent off. 

end result should be more money in the hands of good people to be put into important community projects, repentant and poor city and county, and a lack of cities willing to host events like RNC in future because it is too costly.  thus, we destroy the system with the system.  slightly less fun than tearing it down by hand, but effective nonetheless.

mostly this post was to say, if you were in st paul and felt the effects of police violence (you don't have to have been arrested!) and might want to at a later date join a class action suit, but you don't know what to do now, get in touch with me in the next few days and i'll make sure you can get it done.

legendline [userpic]

(no subject)

February 10th, 2009 (10:05 am)


Portland and Portland-area radicals, take note.  Medic announcements!
note edit: potluck on Friday the 20th


"there will be a sober medic-related potluck on the 20th at 6:30pm in SE portland. we might discuss substance use and misuse/abuse but we might also just eat great food, socialize and have fun w/o any recreational substances available. please define sober as you need/want to with regards to medicinal uses of whatever you use."

Street Medic training in Portland by Rosehip Medic Collective (formerly Portland Street Medics)!
Dates are Feb 27/28 and March 1.  The training will follow our usual schedule of 5-9pm Friday and 9am-6pm Saturday and Sunday.  Because of the building-blocks nature of the training, you MUST be able to attend the entire time (which includes being on time, pretty please).
We will teach action preperation, foundations of medicking, life-saving techniques and Red Flags (when to call 911), treatment for injuries and illnesses, uses of herbs on the streets and for aftercare, and treating chemical weapons.  There will be a lot of hands-on practice and several life-like scenarios.

To reserve your spot, PM or email me and I will put you in touch with the person taking sign-ups.  We ask a $10 deposit to hold your space and an additional $10 at the training.  If money is a problem please talk to us, but in the past we've had a low rate of people who don't pay actually coming and staying through the training, which takes up a spot that could be given to another person. 
We are considering waiving or reducing the fee for folks coming from out-of-town.  At the least, we will help arrange housing for folks who want to come from other areas. 

If you have already been working as a Street Medic with at least one 20-hour training under your belt you can come to refresh for no fee, but we do ask that you print your own manual (or make a small donation and we will provide you one). 
If you can't commit to the whole weekend or don't have an interest in learning to be a medic, but have an interest in having good medics around for you and others, then come and help out as a patient in our scenarios.  Times we will need folks are approximatly 2:30pm Saturday and 3pm Sunday for about two-three hours each day.

Contact me if you'd like to be a participant, get refreshed or be a patient- legendline@yahoo.com
If you have a relevant friend's list (radicals near Portland) who may be interested feel free to forward, link or repost, but please do NOT post to public forums (indymedia and the like)- we will do that advertising ourselves if the training doesn't fill by word-of-mouth.

legendline [userpic]

In six days

December 28th, 2008 (10:33 am)

Observations from six days without power-
On day one, I worried about pipes freezing and getting water for the horses.
On day two, I stopped flipping light switches when I walked into rooms.
On day three, I accepted that wearing four layers in the house was my new normal.
On day four, I stopped worrying about pipes freezing and elements buring out and house fires from candles and just accepted that whatever happened, I would deal with when it happened.
On day five, I thought about what the revolution will look like.
On day six, I found a water source and felt like an explorer in unchartered territory who just found money growing on trees.
On day seven, I have decided that I am not strong enough for the revolution.

legendline [userpic]

(no subject)

December 23rd, 2008 (07:51 pm)

oh and the snow here is now exactly one Tally deep.  I knew it was deep, yet the small dogs were kind of skimming along the surface.  So I scooped out snow down to the grass and put Tally in it, and the natural snow level comes to her back.  Luckily she has webbed Jack Russell feet which allow her to not sink all the way with every step she takes.  Sammy is less weather-adapted and prefers to ride on the sled through the deep snow.

legendline [userpic]

(no subject)

December 19th, 2008 (06:36 pm)


I'm not sure if this is more confusing, or more funny.  you be the judge.

Roommate is out there yelling and cussing for several minutes about "he's a LIAR!  We never knew that before the election- they covered THAT one up good!" 
I go out to see what's up- "Oh, are we hating politicians?  I wanna help hate politicians!  Who are we hating?"

She says, "Barack HUSSEIN." 
"Oh- okay.  What did he lie about?"
"His MIDDLE NAME!"
"Um...."

I told her that was out before the election.  She said it wasn't.  I said it was.  She said his camp tried to "cover it up" and said it was just a joke, and now she finds out it's REAL.

I quietly retreated to my bedroom without even asking if that really makes a difference in how she feels about him.  I don't really want to know the answer.
These are the people filling out ballots and deciding who gets to run our country.  *headdesk*

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