I Ain't Afraid of No Daleks

Again, last night, more dreams of my past. I don't want to dream of my past. It's gone.

Oh, it's nice to remember. But that's the problem. Lately, I've been spending too much time, "remembering." I don't want to do that.

The odd thing is, is that the memories I have now, are so completely different than anything I'd ever had before--and, stranger still, much more mundane. When things were better, when my parents were still alive, when I still had a "proper" home, a hometown, a solid place in this life, my memories were of special moments, happier times. I didn't dwell overly much on the miserable times--the fights, the silences, the humiliations.

Now, when I think back on my past, I remember the little things--totally insignificant, in some respects: shopping at woolworth's, mowing the lawn, lying on my bed reading a book or playing with my toy cowboys, waiting on a foggy morning for the school bus, mum making dinner in the kitchen, dad sitting in his chair reading the paper, sis and that daft stuffed cat she won at the church fair--and how it reeked of the perfume she doused its head with. totally random, meaningless stuff--helping mum at the library, walking home from a trip down to the village, walking along the rail tracks, the sound of the school bus as it came grinding up the long hill, before stopping at our street, the look and smell of the bright, bright green grass in springtime, in the field next door to our house. Totally, utterly insignificant.

And it's more than just memories, now--much more. It's feelings, as well--deep seated stirrings of emotion--I can also remember how each moment felt, if not exactly what I was thinking--it's almost like traveling back in time to the exact second the moment happened...it's, sometimes nice, but more often than not, for some reason, uncomfortable. Because I've never had this before.

I don't want to dwell on the past too much--it's over, it's gone, it's dead. So why am I, now--even in my dreams at night? I don't know. I just don't.

I grew up adoring westerns--TV westerns, old western films, didn't matter. I played cowboys, dreamed cowboys, even dressed cowboy--and have a few pics to prove it.

I really wish Hollywood would do some classic westerns again. Modern westerns have become a bit dry--more into showing off how macho the young stars are, and how "realistic" the setting is, rather than focusing on traditional western plots--you know, the one's that worked so well, Hollywood was churning them out on a regular basis from the mid-1900's to the mid-1970's.

But now, Hollywood is remaking a classic western film: Indians, cowboys, a lone stagecoach in the dessert, the 7th Cavalry, the whole works, sadly tho', it's a little "low" budget...

Just saw this podcast on YouTube, and oh--darn! I missed this!

There I was, in Lake George, probably stuck in my little laundry room at the Travelodge, (if it was after late July)--if it was before then, I was either still working at the Saratoga Racino, tossin' rubbish bags and stuff, or out looking for a new job.) But, if it was after late July, I was, most likely, in the back lot of the motel, folding towels like an auton--and there they were, the Doctor Who team--James Strong, Phil Collinson, et al, less then 200 miles south of me. (Smacks forehead) I'm telling you--it kills me, knowing that--I would have loved watching these guys filming. Darn (kicks the dirt with her naff old shoe) darn.

So Flame has gotten back most of her fur, now, and to keep it looking nice, I comb her.

I use a special cat brush with fine metal teeth. At first, she whined (oh yes, she whines EXACTLY like a human child would--seriously, she does.) It was, "Noo-! I don' wanna' mummy!" Now, she begs for it.

She sits up in my lap, and I gently comb the top of her head, and she tilts her head back, relaxes her ears, shuts her eyes tightly closed--even her mouth drops open a bit, and she's just in a state of utter bliss.

And now, she's got this new thing, where, when I'm done, she want to play with the comb--or rather the comb's handle. I've no clue what about the handle/comb fascinates her, but it does. She bats it around and chews one the rubber grip of the handle. Guess I do waste my money sometimes, on cat toys, ey? But then, Flame will play with my socks, my shoes, mum's old comforter that's made of some slippery synthetic material, my Ace bandage after I've removed it--she'll drag that around the living room--last night, she grabbed some popcorn out of the bowl by my chair--ate two, and played with the other one. Unlike my two bhoys, Flame will play with just about anything. But then, girls are smarter, yes?

"Waugh! 900 years of time travel, and I never knew Daleks could fart!"

The Bodysnatchers

Chapter 10: Sound Bite

The Doctor looked proudly at his screwdriver. He grinned impishly at Martha. “What is this chapel made of?” Martha shrugged. “I don’t know…limestone?” “Riiight!” The Doctor exclaimed. “And the thing I love about limestone is, is that it resonates beautifully. It’s made of up stone quartz crystals. Resonate these crystals just right, and the whole structure falls down on us--which we don’t want to have happen, do we? So---“ he paced around the walls, “---what else can we do with this knowledge, eh?” Martha frowned in thought and said, “I don't know. Change the resonance?”

The Doctor jumped up and strode over to the mysterious alcove. “That doesn’t explain what he’s doing here, why they’re using poison marsh gas from Draxil , why they’re killing innocent humans and snatching dead bodies or what his so-called master is up to--and there’s only one way to find out the answers to all these questions.” So saying, the Doctor pulled aside the curtain.

Oh, don't get yer knicker's in a twist--I'm not picking on Mr Davies...

I had just read something about him, and I felt the need to do a blog post about my thoughts, as I was reading. Mind you, I didn't want to be reading..or doing much else, for that matter, no help for it, I'm afraid.

Tho' I wanted dearly just to dive back into bed and wallow in the misery of my sickdom, I had to stay up, because some meathead at the office forgot to turn the answering machine on, so I could just call in sick and be done with it. I had to wait until half past one (the office doesn't open 'till 1.30pm, on Sundays). Then I ring up the supervisor--mine must be out sick, as it's the Saturday supervisor that's there...I tell her I'll come in on Friday to make up my hours--only to be told that I'm already scheduled to work Friday night (Friday is one of my "new" days off on my most recent schedule)---okay, WHEN were they planning on cluing me in on my most recent scheduling change--next week? As it stood on Thursday, my most recent schedule was Sun through Thurs--days. Now, I'm back on nights??? And no one bothers to tell me this??? Oh yeah, this is marvelous. Now I have to wait 'till my own supervisor gets back to work, to find out what the hell hours I'm working this week! I work for a "communications" company--that doesn't blinking communicate! I don't mind a changeable schedule, I mean, it's not like I have a life, anymore... But, I wish the office would wake up and smell the coffee and realize, at least as far as I know, that we are are not physic!

Think I'm not sick? Ha! I just went in the kitchen a while ago, to to put the kettle on for tea--and made coffee instead! This, by the way, involves me getting out my blue metal enamel "butch" Adirondack coffee pot, putting the water in, dumping in the grounds, placing the big heavy thing on the cooker, etc...and I didn't even notice, till I got back into the living room! Yeah, think calling in sick was a very good idea, today.

Anyway, getting back to the subject of this post...

Anyway, someone e-mail me a few links to Doctor Who-related interviews. I needed to kill some time, so I checked one out. A Russell T. Davies interview.

Anyway, the interviewer was on about the fact that the man had not had a holiday in three years, like it was this awful thing. Yeah, right. He makes millions, is doing a job he loves...poor man.

I've not had a holiday--of any shape or kind--since January of 2004--it was one helluva holiday, I will say--two weeks in Egypt with my college group--but I came home--with a bad case of traveler's sickness two weeks on (lost 20 pounds in 2 weeks), and also to my dad's dying and frozen solid--and broken-- water pipes, my mum in hospital, and the cat's not having been fed or watered in 3 days, and the fact that someone had stolen 3000 out of the 3500 dollars I had in my savings account, at the time!

Someone just try and tell me there's no such thing as Egyptian curses.

And, not going to have any holidays, very likely, for years to come, if ever again. Not complaining--I've had four good holidays in my 46 years, and that's more than a lot of people can say, as well I know.

So, forgive me if I don't feel terribly sorry for Mr. Davies not having a holiday. Personally, I think he's one of the luckiest men on the planet, myself.

Home from work today. Seems I waited too long to cook up the leftover Polish Sausage from a while back. Ah well. Means I have to work Friday, to make up the hours--only 1 day off for the next 14 days, but no hope for it.

I really don't get the so-called "logic" of the BBC. They pay big bucks to put their content on YouTube, only to completely shut out all viewers outside the UK. Which is, really beginning to make non-UK viewers quite incensed. I had someone write me the other day, to say she's stopped watching BBC America, because she's tired of the games they keep playing with programming, but also on YouTube--like me, she could watch BBC content on YouTube--UNTIL she signed up to "subscribe" to the BBC on YouTube--now she's BANNED. Stupid. There's no delicate way to put it, it's just plain daft.

And please, no long comments on how the BBC works--I know, I know, I know already.

And YouTube, is getting angry responses as well, I'm told, by allowing media giants to ban content from some viewers, but allowing it with others. YouTube--now owned by the almighty Google, used to allow all people to see its videos, but now it's prostituting itself to big business, and banning many viewers from the very videos that first brought them to the website to begin with. Capitalism totally sucks, sometimes, don't it tho'? Yeah, YouTube is daft, as well.

But then, so, for that matter, are the viewers who allow this to happen, who are angry about it and, then do and say nothing and just accept it. We DO NOT have to accept this. I'm doing my bit, here, and have made my views known to both parties--including unsubscribing to BBC and YouTube, and refusing to visit the BBC's Dr Who website--because of banned content there, as well.

The BBC wants international viewership--by their own admission--they want us Yanks to buy their books, videos and gift items, they want us to shell out big bucks for the premium channels to get BBC America--but then, they spit on us and treat us like rubbish--no apologies, no reasons--just the old two-finger salute and an "oh, well, tough cheese old bean."

There's a game on a certain website: "What's in Yer Sporan, David Tennant?"

There's been some...uh...interesting, answers.

I rather like, "A little Rose doll, because I like to keep her close to my...erm..."

And, "My pipes--fancy a blow?" And, "Freema's lacy red knickers..oh wait, I'm wearin' those."

Although one person chimed in and said his sporan wss "too low." Hmmm--David "Teninch" indeed, ey? Tho' I'm told, that the true Scots with the "big bhoys" wear their sporans to the side--umm--TMI--too much information!

Ah, the local drive-in movie theater opened for the season, this weekend. I adore drive-in movies! I grew up going to them. There used to be, in the 60's and up to the mid-70's, thousands and thousands of drive-in movie theaters, all across the country.

Many of them are gone now. But, they are making a small come back--they've even built a new one, in virtually the middle of nowhere in nearby Fulton county, and they did quite a good business, last year.

We had a drive-in in my village, right up until the late 1980's. Tri-City Twin Drive in. It was great! They had a playground and a fantastic snack bar--tho' dad was usually too cheap to spring for more than a small bucket of hot buttered popcorn--that he usually gobbled most of--we kids were lucky if we got more than a handful or two.

The playground was nice. There was a creek--I think it was the Krommekill, that ran right smackdab in the middle of the drive-in complex, and the playground was built alongside it, sandwiched between The lot for the Screen 1 side, and the lot for the screen 2 side. And didn't it half stink! Pee-eww! Polluted? Oh yeah. But then, the lots, which were gravel over oiled dirt--well, now we know that oil was filled with nasty carcenogens--PCB's, mostly. But, hey, what's a little pollution, ey? We were having fun!

Other "fun" we used to have, was with discared pop top tabs from soda and beer cans (see last photo above). The ground was just littered with them. And sis and I used to make "necklaces" out of them--amazingly, we never cut ourselves, either.

The nice thing about going to the drive-in's--especially now, with today's huge prices at the snack bar--is that you can, indeed, bring your own refreshments. When I had a car, here, I used to (when I had the money) pop some microwave popcorn (movie theater butter flavour, of course), fill the cooler with ice and Cokes, and stop along the way and pick up a pizza or even some Chinese takeaway (there's a Chinese buffet across from the Glen Drive-in here), or maybe McDonald's or even sandwiches I'd made at home, if the budget was short. The snack bars of today, are nothing compared to what you had in the 60's. In the 60's, everything was made fresh: Pizza, hot dogs, hamburgers--all nice and fresh. Now, everything is pre-made and put in the steamer to keep warm--and most of it's pre-packaged frozen that's just been heated through--and way overpriced, in the bargain.

The thing is, those hokey intermission films? They've not changed in 30 or 40 years--I mean literally! Same intermission films--with that male voice over that sounded eerily like the same guy who used to do the voice-overs in those health films you had to watch at school. The stiff upstanding white guy trying to sound perky as he pitched the product: "And pop-corn! Piping hot popcorn!" And his contradictory announcements: "There's plenty of time to get a snack before the movie!" Followed by, a few minutes later, "5 minutes to go before show time." And what about that naff canned music that played, while pictures of flowers and the sun moving through a cloud, ran across the screen? Ugh! They still show that!

I used to be fascinated by the projector--you can see the projector lights, streaming through the night, all blue and white--with moths flutter about the opening in the second story of the snack bar--which is where the projector usually is situated.

But, drive-in's do have their drawbacks: The first time I watched Star Wars, it didn't do much for me (I later saw it again, in the winter indoors, and fell in love with it)--but my initial dislike of the movie, might have had something to do with that fact, that mum and I were trying to watch it in the middle of a thunderstorm. Yeah, rain can be a bit of a drag, at the movies--as well as cold weather--or hot, steamy muggy weather, as well.

That, and the mosquitoes. Oh yeah. Never--I mean, never, ever ever--go to a drive-in movie without your mosquito repellent. There's nothing on God's earth that's worse than being trapped in your car on a hot steamy summer night--with a great big ol' mosquito whining about your head, looking to suck some blood and make you itch like blazes. And the moths--ugh! I shudder to remember the time this huge moth got trapped in my car--doesn't happen often, mind, hardly ever, actually--but this one time the moth kept flying about my hair--arggh! I hate moths!

Usually, if the night's not to hot, I just hang the speaker by the wire and roll up the window--letting the window keep the wire in place. On hot nights, that's not so possible. Some drive-in's have eliminated speakers--or, use both systems--they use a radio frequency--FM, and you can listen to the movie on your car radio. This eliminates the expense of the drive-in people, of having to replace a speaker, because some dunce forgot to remove it from his/her winder before he or she drove off after the show.

Oh, and there are idiots at the drive-in...usually the inexperienced, or, really, the just plain dolts. There's people who party too loud, don't turn their headlight's off, or honk their horns repeatedly, when there's a glitch with the movie. There's the pot smokers (I personally find the smell of marajuna quite sickening), the loud talkers, the drunks, the kids running around. But, mostly..well, usually, it's a good crowd.

The thing about the drive-in's is, that sometimes you can interchange movies--if you don't like the second feature at you movie, you can switch to the one on the other screen, by just driving 'round--done that myself a few times. Second feature's are a bit of a crap shoot at the drive-in. One of the big draws, these days, is that you can see two movies at the drive-in, for less than the price of one movie at an indoor cinema. But--big "but" here--the second features may be good--or, they may be total rubbish. I remember once, I went to a drive-in movie. Don't remember the first feature, but the second feature--"Adventures in Babysitting," had me in stitches! You just never know. And that's all part of the fun, really.

It's great tho', because you can go and hang out with your friends--sit in the back of a pick up truck, or set out in lawn chairs, and pass the time before and between shows. Or, if alone, you can listen to the drive-in's DJ, or your car radio, and sit and read or whatever, eat you dinner, relax before the movie.

Movies I remember as a kid: The Horse in the Gray Flannel suit--that's the first movie I remember. The Love Bug movies, The War Wagon, with John Wayne--loved that, All the President's Men, Clint Eastwood's Dirty Harry movies, Most of the James Bond films from the 60's to late 70's. Loved Live and Let Die, it was really a cool movie. You can tell dad preferred to take us to movies HE liked...but usually, I liked them too--except for this one John Wayne movie--I remember it was like Chinese water torture having to sit through that, it was called McQ--and I can safely tell you, that to a 13-year old, it pretty much McSucked.

Of course, nearly all of the drive-in's I went to as a kid, are gone now: The Mowhawk, the Latham, Tri-City, Scotia-Glen, Hollywood, Tommahawk, so many others--all gone. But there's still one in Malta (Saratoga, NY) and Hoosick, NY and a few other places..still, it's sad to see so many fall by the wayside.

Now, all that's left of many of these places, is the old snackbar in an empty field, or maybe the remnants of a giant movie screen...more's the pity.

The Bodysnatchers

CHAPTER 9: Enter the Tall Man

At first the Doctor had held his breath. Now, mentally crossing his fingers, he let it out. He took a good sniff. Then, several good sniffs. He coughed and slapped his lungs. Then he sneezed. "Phew! Musty in here!" The air was clean again. He turned and called back, “Sorry about that. Thought it'd be better for you to stay out there...you know..just in case I passed out from the gas, didn’t want to risk falling on you…” Despite her mild anger, she found herself grinning--was the Doctor's playfulness rubbing off on her? The Doctor looked around the chapel's dim interior. "All clear. There's no one in here, either...at least, no one living." Martha sensed a movement behind her and looked up. She gasped with fear. The tall man was standing not thirty meters from her. He was just standing there with this unspeakable grin on his face. Unable to take her eyes from the evil-looking man, she cried, “Doctor!”

Holding the screwdriver aloft, he said to Martha, “You might want to cover your ears. This shouldn’t be harmful to humans--but, you never know.” Martha looked a trifle disconcerted. “You mean you don’t know.” The Doctor smiled reassuringly. “Never tried this around humans before, but I think it’s safe.” He scratched his head, adding hopefully, “I mean, I’m pretty sure it’s safe. Yeah. well..probably is.” Martha pointed towards the outside, in the direction of the tall man. “Isn’t he human?” The Doctor looked at her. “No. Humanoid, yes, but not human--at least, not in your sense.” Looking around at the unfeeling grey stone walls of the chapel, Martha rubbed her arms and asked, “So, what are you going to do, Doctor?”

Well, I'm off in about an hour, to do the laundry--that I didn't do yesterday.

I'd rather be out for a drive in the chill, gray but oh-so-glorious-to-see greening countryside--but alas, didn't win the lottery again (okay, didn't actually play it...) so no car to drive about in--so, I'll settle for what greenery (precious little) I can see out the taxi window on the way to the Broad St laundromat. Hopefully my foot will be up a bit better today...I've about four or five loads, this time, I think. Not going to be a fun day--I truly miss my washing machine and clothesline, I do.

Anyway, 'nuff about me--found a couple of videos to leave you with--I just wanna' have fun, but since I can't I'll do it vicariously. (PS: She's still so lovely, isn't she?)

WOT'S WRONG???? HE'S FLIPPING BONKERS!!!

(I've met the guy--Brian Allen--in the maroon and blue racing silks)

I had a dream last night--well, had a lot of dreams, really. Never eat pizza before bedtime, ey? Oh yeah, dreamed I was working at the harness race track, shoveling manure--while all my "friends"--dream friends, not real one's, no clue who these people in my dream actually were), anyway, I'm shoveling manure--in a harness race stable--while my dream "friends" are coming in with their horses--and all of them are bragging, because they'd just one big ribbons and championships at some hunter-jumper horse show--oh, I was happy for them, and they were all nice to me, but--what the heck were hunter-jumpers doing in a harness racing barn?

Oh, I don't mind the demotion to manure mover--best job I ever had was as a stablehand--manure, who cares? Very low pay, no benefits, no hospitalization, and sometimes considerable pain? So what? I loved it, anyway. I got to be outside all day, all on my own (mostly), with horses (and a cat and two dogs), and fresh air and no time clocks/cards, loads of excercise (lost 50 pounds in 6 months just lifting and working) And, except for the times when I fell in the manure spreader, got knocked out cold getting hit in the head by a weaver (a horse that swings its head back and forth out of boredom), run over by a horse, bitten in the arse by a Shetland pony, nipped in the arm daily by a thick-headed quarter horse, nearly had my face frostbitten, and had to lay on my back in a foot of snow, using my shoulder to lift a 300 pound sliding barn door back on its track--otherwise, it was fantastic--adored my job, most days. So, I suppose it was a good dream, if a bit odd.

I had another dream, that we kids on the street I grew up on were playing by the Delaware and Hudson tracks, down the hill, when a big train came by--it leaped the tracks and chased us! Under the highway overpass and straight into the village park's baseball diamond! Then, abruptly, we were all playing softball together, nice sunny summer day, and everything was fine.

We used to have little "myths" we'd make up, to scare each other. Most freight engines that went through the village, were the familiar gray/blue/yellow D & H engines--but some were black, as well--old engines, I was told, from the former New York Central line. Someone made up the "myth" or game, where, if the engine was black, you had to get your feet off of the ground, because if your feet touched the ground when a black engine was passing, it would drag you into hell. Nice, ey?

There was a similar myth, that if you walked on a fresh grave in the Catholic cemetery adjoining our street--you would go to hell when you die.

Yet another variation--we lived with the remains of a lovely old Victorian-era estate in our backyard--loads of gardens, moss-covered paths--and a somewhat high wooden footbridge. There was a myth, that if you walked over the bridge and the sun went behind a cloud--if you didn't get off the bridge right away, the bridge would collapse next time you used it.

Likewise, in the 1930's-era teahouse in the estate's Japanese garden, there was a notion that if you went in there at night, there was a ghost in the cupboards, and it would come out and eat you.

Oh yeah, who needs video games--I think we managed to have a good scare and adventure, and we didn't have to spend a dime on games or equipment, to do it.

Yep. I'm addicted to Doctor Who, what can I say? Nothing for it but to go to DWA--Doctor Who Anonymous.

A friend of mine has outlined the 12 steps as thus:

The Twelve Steps of DWA ...

Other twelve-step groups have modified the twelve steps slightly from those of Doctor Who Anonymous to refer to problems other than Doctor Who Addiction.

But...do I really have to apologize to a Dalek?

The Bodysnatchers

CHAPTER 8: Escape to Danger

Martha tried to scream, but was silenced by a fierce “Shhhh---!” She gasped with relief. It was the Doctor. “Don’t move.” He whispered in her ear. They looked on, seeing that the tall man hesitated, as if hearing some voice inside his head. “Yes master,” he hissed, “it shall be as you command.” Martha felt the Doctor’s hand squeeze her shoulder reassuringly. The tall man looked directly at the trees where the two were hiding, and smiled hideously. The peculiar green cloud began to form again. The Doctor whispered one more word in Martha’s ear: “Run!” she thought, “Make up your mind, Doctor!” Just before she lit out after him, as he sprinted back towards the chapel.

The Doctor sniffed the air again and turned to her. “You wouldn’t. It’s origin is from a small planet on the far side of the universe, called Draxil. As for the cloud…not sure." Martha frowned. "Not sure? What does that mean?" Without answering, the Doctor stepped inside the doorway, just out of sight, his voice echoing back to her. “Martha, you'd better stay back, just in case.” She looked in his direction worriedly, “Just in case of what?” She was greeted by silence. “Doctor?” No answer. “Doctor? Are you alright?” But no sound came through the open doorway, but the rising wind coming through the broken window, moaning through the rafters.

Sorry about that last post--I'm afraid I don't handle feeling stupid, very well--and computers and math equally make me feel stupid! I had to juggle the cheque book balance today--then tonight tried to download the script writing programme--not that I'm thinking of writing a sit-com or drama or anything, just wanted to stay in practice..for what, I'm not sure--but, I spent so many hours/months/years learning to write this stuff, I guess I just don't like to see it go to a total waste. Still stings that I can't finished my writing education, but..what can I do? I'm stuck. Just gotta' adjust and deal with it. One day at a time--just like an old turtle.

So, tonight moi had a bit of a public temper-tantrum. A side of me I probably shouldn't let out in public, I suppose. But, it helped, actually, to get it out, instead of letting it fester.

Didn't get to the laundromat. I can't believe how tired I get! A little shopping--maybe 30 minutes--and It's like I just ran the Boston Marathon! And, geez, the foot hurts--well, the part that isn't numb and tingly, that is. My back is sore as well. My landlord was here--fixing the light. Did he offer to help me get my six, mostly heavy bags of groceries up the two flights of stairs? No. In fact, he made me wait outside, in the blinking rain, while he set up the ladder to change the lightbulb--which was the wrong kind. He did, before he left, leave his torch on, propped up against the bottom step--but left the extension ladder in the hall, which I banged by bad foot against--but managed, I'm pleased to say, to keep my "choice words" in my head, and not blurt them out loud.

Today was the first time in three weeks that I've been able to get a whole week's worth of groceries at once--it's the first time I felt well enough to take that many bags upstairs. I've mostly either been doing without, or getting things a few days at a time, mostly from the little store, down the street...which has been an added expense as well, as things cost more in the smaller stores.

It's a bit past 11, here. Watched some Doctor Who, lost against the computer some more, on the online cribbage game, cuddled with Flame and Boots, Had two slices of the store brand's frozen pizza (pepperoni and sausage, not bad for a $2.50 pizza) and some diet rootbeer, fiddled with the computer (let's not go there again) surfed a Dr Who website, blogged, listened to The Proclaimers, The Dr Who soundtrack, The Monkees live tour CD, messed about with a play I've been toying with for the last 8 months--and getting not very far--only on page 2 in 8 months, not good --I've trashed this play so many times, only to try it again and again. I love the idea of the play, but I just can't seem to make it work--exposition is hard, for me. Well, so's plot too, for that matter--dialog on the other hand, is a cakewalk. But a play is rubbish without good exposition and a solid plotline, so all the dialog in the world won't help, if you haven't got those other two things nailed down solid.

So, I going to try and go to bed--I am tired, but the pain's rather bad--took 400mg of Ibueprofin, but it's likely going to take a while for it to kick in. Anyway, Flame's nagging me to go to bed--she used to do that to my late mum, a lot--mum didn't sleep well, last few years--and Flame likes to go to bed at a certain time. Gets genuinely upset if I stay up too late. Shell "talk" to me, paw at me, sit and stare at me--until bedtime--and..being a cat...naturally she wakes up and wants to play.

WARNING: I'm about to seriously whine and cry and moan and just totally "vent."

Okay, I'm a complete moron when it comes to anything with computers. I'm just plain totally stupid. 'Nuff said?

I'm trying to install this script programme--and I CAN'T find the flippin' "drop down box" shown on the page in my MS Word!

The directions say to "right click the link"

But the jerks who gave us these instructions totally forgot to tell us where the hell the flippin' "link" is!!!!!!!!!

The so-called "link" has stuff like "open" and "Save target as" I DON'T HAVE THAT!!! Where the hell on my blinking Word toolbar is a flippin' link that says flippin' "Save Target As?????????????"

I can't find my computer book from college, and even if I could, I don't have a clue. I so goshdarned totally flippin' stupid! I hate this! Why do I have to be so stupid that I can even download a simple frickin' programme by myself?

I've taken no less than 5 computer classes and I'm so f'ing stupid I can't learn jack! Comptuers and math! I hate them. I hate being feeling like this! I can't say how lousy trying and wanting to learn something--and my lousy low I.Q won't let me! Yes, I really do have a low I.Q., I've been tested twice or three times. And believe me, when it comes to maths or computers or science--it really, seriously shows. I don't want to be stupid. It makes me mad! My sister's a borderline genius and she doesn't care about learning--she doesn't like learning, much--comes too easy to her, mum said. It never comes easy with me--and I've got a serious memory problem on top of all that--I'm just...stupid. It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't care about learning, if I was so damn curious about stuff--but that makes it hurt twice as bad--when I want to learn something, but my stinking mind won't let me. It hurts and it makes me feel like total rubbish inside, and no one on the planet who's "normal" can even begin to know how bad this feels.

Well the old drudge (namely me) is off in a few minutes. I've done the washing up, cleaned the counters in the kitchen, as well as the stove, polished the wood cabinets, and swept and mopped the kitchen floor, as well as swept the apartment's vestibule as well as emptied the trash in the bathroom and swept (sort of) the bathroom floor--oh, and taken the rubbish to the dumpster in the car park out back.

Now all I have to do is:

1. Get a cab to the office to pick up my cheque.

2. Go to Price Chopper on Cooper St, cash said cheque, get groceries and pet food.

3. Get cab back to the apartment.

4. pick up the dirtys and take said cab to Broad St laundromat.

5. Go buy myself a blinking 1/2 Polish sausage 1/2 sliced Italian sausage pizza from Talk of the Town Tavern nearby.

6. Go home and totally collapse. Isn't that a fun day off, ey? Everyone come to my place for an exciting holday!

ADDENDUM:

Damn! I have to wait a while for the taxi! I HATE Glens Fall's taxi's!!! Oh well, I'll just listen to some more of that wonderful Doctor Who soundtrack, some more, whilst I wait...and wait.

The rain in Glens Falls drips softly from this old building's eaves. It's a gray and gloomy day--going to stay that way for the better part of the week, with temps under 60 degrees F...hovering between 12 and 18 C for highs for the next four or five days, with rain off and on. So much for the nice 70 and 80 F weather, ey?

Still, snow's 98 percent gone, except on the ski slopes outside the city here, and shadowed places in the surrounding mountains, where it got piled up deep in gullies, and also on the ground, in the dark corners of steep roofed buildings.

So, soon as I'm done with my kitchen chores, it's off to pick up my pay, to the bank, then the store--and if I'm really feeling ambitious (LOL), to Broad street to the Laundromat there, get as much done today as possible, so I'll have most of tomorrow to myself--or do I want that?

Lately, seems like my day is a white space--that blank page every writer dreads. It's as if, lately, I'm having living writer's block--just don't know what the hell to do, anymore. Just don't. I feel like a living automaton. I hate this! I'm going to emphasize again that I'm NOT suicidal, but gah! I wish I wasn't...well, sometimes...I wish I just wasn't here, anymore. I feel like I'm dying a slow and lingering death. I keep trying to tell myself to stop feeling this way--God only knows there's people out there--millions--worse off than me. But I can't help it. It's like standing on the tracks staring at an oncoming freight train and being unable to move.

Still, I have my writing--tho' to be quite honest, I don't even feel much like doing that, any longer. The life is going out of me, leaking like a sieve, and I can't seem to patch the holes inside me, no matter how hard I try.

I haven't read much lately, either--which for a book-a-holic like me, is seriously saying something is wrong. Even if I could afford to pay off those fines, I couldn't get to the library right now, anyway.

Even my appetite is way off, especially since the accident. I think the accident hurt me as much, emotionally, as physically. I mean I have full realization as to my situation, as far as being alone. But the accident made me realize just how vulnerable I truly am. For two or three days, I barely ate, could hardly get to the loo--and if I'd broken my leg--what then? How would I have managed, then? I wouldn't have been able to even get up my own stairs, unassisted. Sure, the terrible pain took its toll, but the realization of my own helplessness--that scared the hell out of me.

But, I carry on. Another month or two, and I'll (mostly) be my old self again--at least physically--I hope.

I'm thinking tho' lately, about my failed attempt at an education. I tried to register for a cheap (under $20) class--but it was filled. I miss college a lot. I really miss the interaction, the discussion, the learning and growing. I even miss the writing assignments! Sure, I would have loved writing for a living. Heck, I would have even liked being a librarian or a PR person or something like that--but realistically, not going to happen. Ever. I'm a chav. Not only that, but I'm a mentally ill chav. And, I'm alone--no knights in shining armor live in Glens Falls, no magic genies, and no one here has ever won the big lotto drawing.

I'm not only never going to be a writer, I'll probably never get a better job than I've got, right now. Tho', things can change in a heartbeat, as well I know, and I'm not being self-defeating, so much as bluntly realistic. Only I can change my life--and for once, I don't have the guts to try anymore. I hope that changes, I truly do. Right now, I'm just trying to survive from one day to another. That's all. No more.

My dreams are long dead. Never thought that'd happen. I live knowing I tried. And, I had some wonderful times, in between the horrors that live has placed in my path. And, I can still write--even if it is in this daft old blog. But my dreams of being a playwright or a wrter--nah. It was a pipe dream, something "normal" people do. No one will ever hear my plays, nor will I ever be published--at least not by real publisher.

Still, I don't think any Doctor Who publishers are going to be knocking down my door, but I do enjoy writing the DW stories--even if I do get seriously stuck, sometimes, and don't always have the drive to finish one (I've two or three left undone). But, I've four whole readers and a "fan,"--what more could I ask for?

The Bodysnatchers

CHAPTER 7: Death Trap

The Doctor rummaged with his free hand through his suit pockets, frantically looking for his for the sonic screwdriver. If he hadn’t been holding the tie to his mouth, he might have slapped his forehead. His trusty screwdriver was still safely tucked away in his coat pocket--which he’d left with Martha. The Doctor was worried. Even a Time Lord could only hold his breath just so long. He looked wildly around the chapel. That’s when he noticed a sturdy wrought iron chandelier. It hung down low from the ceiling, just several feet over the wooden benches. His lungs were starting to ache. Holding his breath, he made a decision. Calculating the distance, the Doctor backed up against the wall. He took a running start, jumped up onto the bench, grabbed onto the chandelier and pushed off in a mighty swing.

Without thinking, she continued backing away. The tall man growled deep in his throat and began swiftly stalking towards her. Remembering her previous encounter, Martha’s only thought was to run. Immediately she backed into something solid. A hand was clasped over her mouth and she was held fast from behind.

The local bull

The local pro-rodeo, Painted Pony Rodeo, does night rodeos every Wednesday, Friday and Saturday night, July and August. They advertise, by dragging a trailer around area towns and here in the city--on the trailer is an enormous (as in bigger than a VW and a Skoda put together) anatomically correct Hereford bull--I mean it's huge! (Picutred above) It's got adverts for the rodeo written all over it--including on it's arse. On it's enormous arse are the words "PRO" on one "cheek" and "RODEO" on the other.

I know this, because I've been stuck behind it in traffic, more than once. You haven't lived 'till you've had to stare at an big bull's arse--staring right up his big ol' balls, for 10 minutes on a hot summer's day.

http://www.paintedponyrodeo.com/

But one event you WON'T find at our local rodeo's: Goat dressing.

Yup, only gay rodeo would come up with this one--tho' I gotta' admit, I rather like the idea--something I'd have a go at--but them, I'm not "normal."

The idea is for a team of two cowboys--or cowgirls--to grab a goat and put a set of Y-fronts (we call them BVD's, here) on them--and beat the clock.

Here's a video from the Los Angles, California gay rodeo last year:

This guy, I think, plays so simply and beautifully, I had to share just one more--let the mood flow through you. Look at the picture above--feel the wind in the music, the drifting clouds, imagine the ocean-like sound of the wind sweeping down the hills, the grass and trees bending to the wind--let the music take you there--the peace and serenity only found in empty churches and the solitude of nature...

Been a tough day. I think an added...well, frustration isn't really the word I want here--more like, wistfulness, I suppose...is that I am pretty much trapped indoors--basically in a prison without bars, and it's spring. I miss sitting out on a spring evening--like to do that in autumn, as well. Wish with all my heart that I had a fireplace--some soft piano music or jazz, a nice flavoured coffee and a pastry, and a really good book that I'd not read before. But...I don't.

Crazy-Glued to Glens Falls. That's me. In a nutshell.

But, I look out my windows at the budding trees, the soft gray night, the fading sky and oddball Victorian rooftops with their great imposing chimneys, the mixture of 100 year old spruce trees and slowly greening maple, ash and elm. Hear the lonely final caw of a crow in the damp, chill air...wishing, wishing, always wishing I could be, "OUT THERE."

And, I wish in vain.

I did, tho', find some nice music for a soft spring evening. It's an original composition called "Prelude in Db Major." Perfect. Pulling down the dark of night, over the shades of gray, mellowing my mood like having a really good cup of coffee after an excellent and relaxing dinner. (Not that I had that--I'm just imagining it )

The Bodysnatchers

CHAPTER 7: Death in the Chapel

The Doctor lowered his voice and with a serious glint in his eye asked, “Who’s behind that curtain?” At first, the vicar seemed to be having an inner struggle. He gurgled and gasped as if in pain. “Who is it! Who? Tell me who it is.” The Doctor demanded hoarsely. The vicar finally stuttered out haltingly “I--I--he is…he is…evil. Beware. He is darkness, eternal darkness. He is…pain. So much pain.” The vicar gave a little cry. He straightened his posture and began speaking in a clipped formal voice that did not quite sound like his own. “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.”

Meanwhile, in the cemetery, Martha stayed crouched behind the tree, watching wide-eyed, as the coffin was raised out of the ground, hovered for a moment, and settled onto the grass. She stared with a mixture of both horror and mere human curiosity. Martha shivered in the damp air, wishing the Doctor where there with her. "Still," she thought, "I've got this thing-a-ma-wots-it he gave me." She pulled it out and looked at the little box that looked suspiciously like a television remote. "What could go wrong?" She wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer to that. The pallid man smiled as the lid of the coffin slowly began to rise.

"I just stepped something soft and squishy, didn't I?"

Ugh! What a day. Hardly made any sales to day--but I did speak with a lot of flippin' brainless twits, tho'. And got yelled at a lot, besides.

I needed an ingredient for dinner tonight (kind of hard to make a southwestern casserole without chili powder or taco seasoning) and the little store across the street didn't have either--so called a cab to take me to another store--which fare was quoted to me as $3.75--since I was going home after. I get in the cab--and I'm told the fare's $6--and I only have $6.50 on me--so nuts to that--I got caught in this new scam the city cab companies are pulling--if you are going somewhere and need to stop in the opposite direction--even if this is only half a block or a block away--they charge you DOUBLE fare! They used to charge 75 cents! That's one helluva leap!

And it made me so angry and frustrated--if I had a blasted good foot, I could just stinking walk over--but because it's still too far away yet, I now have to bite the bullet and pay double fare just to go to the drug store (chemists) or bank--or, like tonight, go without...which left me with a very, very tasteless meal. Life sucks! Life sucks! Life suck! I was so upset and angry! The cab companies just abruptly made this change without any notice whatsoever. I HATE this! I can't afford this! Well, I'll just have to find a new drug store, or go without, from now on. I can't do this--can't afford my meds as it is now--thank goodness the Vicodin is gone--that's one co-pay I don't have to worry about, any longer.

So, anyway, I get home--to the dark gloomy staircase with the broken overhead light--and just before I make the top landing where my door is--WHAM! Slam my bad foot into the top step--because I can't see in the dark (early stage of nightblindness makes dim light virtually black to me--can see better in the "dark" than in dim light) and man! It hurt!!
I said, sadly, the "F" word--and a few choice other words beside. It still hurts, really.

So, I was a first-class bitch, by the time I got home.

But then I read some truly astoundingly lovely comments left on some of my older blogs. Wow. I feel better now--but I'm still mad about that cab fare (and my tasteless casserole )

My favourite news story of the day:

Seems Sammy the horse made a sizable bank deposit, in a German bank, overnight.

Here's the "scoop"---or should I say, "poop?"

BERLIN - An early-morning bank customer had a bit of a shock when he found a horse at the automatic teller machine.

No charges were filed, but there might be some cleanup needed: Apparently Sammy made his own after-hours deposit on the carpet.

I WUZ HERE

The Continental or "Great" Divide, is the physical divide in the USA, that literally separates the watershed drainage from east to west---divides the waters. In one direction it flows east, towards the Atlantic and Arctic Oceans, in the other it flows west, towards the Pacific Ocean. It begins in Alaska and continues all the way into South America.

When I lived and worked in Yellowstone National Park at 19, I literally straddled the Great Divide. Jeans wet to the knees, I had the unique experience of knowing one wet leg was in waters bound for the Atlantic, and the other soaking wet leg was in waters bound for the Pacific. Confused yet?

Two creeks flowing together--one going west, one going east--and me in the middle. Cool.

But sometimes, of late, I feel like my legs are wet again, without me ever leaving my own apartment. Sometimes, I feel like my life is straddling a gaping divide, between what I can be, and what I actually am.

I tried for years, not to end up like my dad--a totally miserable soul who hated his job, his living situation, his whole lot in life. Yet, here I am. Standing on the divide of what can be, and what could have been. Tottering on the brink of a brighter, more hopeful future, and long dull years filled with emptiness and pain.

I've no clue what the outcome will be. I know full well that no one on the planet can change my life--except me. And the problem with that is, I'm tired. I'm emotionally and spiritually drained, the indicator of my future is pointing towards empty, and right now, as I write this, I'm basically running on fumes and far-off wishes.

I WUZ HERE, TOO

Okay, okay. Three requests for Chapter six--who am I to argue with my audience?

CHAPTER 6: The Mysterious Curtain

The vicar held open the curtain for the Doctor, but the Doctor hesitated. He turned and said to the vicar, “You know, this reminds me of a little joke one of my companions once told me. A patient says to her psychiatrist--don’t suppose you know what that is, do you?" The vicar gave the Doctor a polite but blank stare."No? Well, anyway, this patient says, 'Doctor, I keep thinking that I’m a curtain'. And the doctor says, 'Well, pull yourself together.' Ha-ha. Quite droll, don’t you think?” Meanwhile, the Doctor's mind was mulling over the strange sense he felt about the vicar--something really seemed off--but the cause of his unease had the Doctor puzzled.

The vicar’s features quickly relaxed and became blank. “It’s a nice day, isn’t it vicar, a nice sunny day, not a cloud in the sky…” “Yes.” the vicar said in a monotone. “Right then,” spoke the Doctor in his most authoritarian voice, “what’s really behind that curtain, eh, vicar?"

I've been thinking about being alone--about how people treat me--have always treated me. I'm not sure why I seem to repel people--put them off me. I wish I did know, then I could maybe fix it and change things--but after 40 years, I'm not sure that's even possible, now.

I have a bad memory, once, when mum met some woman from the village in the store, and they started talking about our village school, and suddenly the woman--who I don't think knew I was within earshot (at least I'd like not to think so), ask my mum if she was going to send me to the "workshop." Okay, this was a special building in our village--a converted warehouse, that was set up as a training facility for the mentally retarded. My mum got quite upset and angry by the question--I was merely confused and humiliated. I never told mum that I had heard what was said--I was, indeed, a "slow" student--we didn't know then about my dyscalculia or the possible brain injury. It hurt, hearing that. It always has. And for years, I questioned myself.

Is it my slowness, that puts people off? Sometimes my mind wanders unexpectedly--I've since become self-aware of that trait and try to stay on top of it. Also I can act like I'm in a fog, sometimes--again, the brain injury thing, apparently. Some people have genuinely thought me stoned--tho' I've never taken drugs in my life, except when sick or injured, or as a regular treatment for a medical condition. I'm not into that sort of thing--I can have a perfectly good time by myself--I don't need drugs or alcohol to help me. If other people want to, fine, just leave me out of the mix. I think it's rather stupid, myself--I've enough problems to cope with--why add drugs or alcohol into the equation?

My memory is really lousy--but I have since learned ways to cope with that, and improve it--tho' lately I've been a bet frightened, because out of the blue, I suddenly am finding myself unable to spell words I never had a problem with spelling ever before--ever. It's just since the accident, tho', to that may have something to do with it--I don't know.

Maybe my slowness is why some people stay away--people are put off by that, over here. If you aren't "normal," you aren't human. It really is that simple, in America. I was an embarrasment to my dad, for years.

I was an outcast, and outsider. And, the fact that for years, I liked to dress like a cowgirl, I suppose didn't help things any. I often didn't like the same things my classmates did--had no interest in drinking or drugs, hanging out at the mall or whatever. Liked different music, mostly, stuff like that. Maybe that's what makes people shy away from me.

I don't care much--well, I do moreso, now--about my looks. Why? No one wanted to be around me as myself, why make myself nice just to attract a bunch of phonies? Well, I've changed that attitude pretty much now--but it's hard to care about yourself, when you feel no one else much cares--or, people tell you to improve your looks--well meaning, I suppose, but still--they make you feel like they hate you because you don't--or cant afford to--dress or look the way they think you should--makes you feel like total rubbish, when people do that to you...and that's often makes you feel even smaller and lonelier when that happens.

I'm not sure. Maybe it's my personality? I am naturally a quiet person--but, I am alone so much that once I do get talking--you can't shut me up. And I always feel awkward when I speak--the only time I actually am confidant when speaking is when I have to stand up and give a speech, or a reading or something--then, piece of cake. But conversations, social settings--meh. No. Oh, I can mingle, I can carry on a reasonably (or so I'd like to think) intelligent conversation...but it feels so incredibly uncomfortably--tho' I do my best to hide my discomfort. But...I don't know.

I'm not sure why people don't like talking with me, hanging with me--my looks, my mannerisms, my personality? No idea. It's like being with my dad--I know he loved me, but I genuinely embarassed him, sometimes--do I do that to other people, as well?

Maybe It's right, that I be alone. Still, I have to often face the harsh question, these days--what if I never find anyone? What if I never have anyone in my life, ever I again?

Honestly, I've been wishing for years, that politicians would just for one week--one week--try to live on a food stamp budget--and one did!

But, these people (upper class & upper middle class white Americans) are soooo-clueless! It makes me so sick to my stomach, to hear some well-fed, overpaid yuppie princess government social worker say that people on food stamps should buy only "healthy" food. Ha! "Healthy" food is EXPENSIVE!

It's not been unheard of, for me to have a weekly food budget of 15 to 25 dollars--and I'm not on food stamps! But, I do it.

FACT: IN NEW YORK STATE IN THE YEAR 2000, THE NUMBER OF FOOD STAMP RECIPIENTS WAS OVER 654,000. THE NUMBER OF RECIPIENTS IN 2005 WAS OVER 911,000.

Here's what I often buy: I can get a bag of stew veggies (2 carrots, 1 parsnip, 1 turnip, one tiny piece of leek, and some sprigs of dill) for $1.79 (halve prices, roughly, to convert to pounds), and a package of lamb neck bones for a bit over one dollar--put it in the slow cooker with some water, ketchup, and Worcestershire sauce and make stew--and, with some bread and butter to supplement, there's two meals. Sometimes I can get a package of chicken legs and make my own homemade BBQ sauce with catsup and other ingredients I MAY have on hand. Sometimes they have these little thin flank steaks--3 or 4 (thin as in an 8th of an inch) for less than 2 dollars--which I use for meals of steak and eggs. Tastes and chews a bit like old shoe leather, but with lots of seasoning, it does make for a change.

LOTS of 50 cent boxes of macaroni and cheese mix, Ramen noodles, beans on toast, cheap 1 dollar packages of hot dogs, instant (Cup O Soup) soup, 50 cent cans of mushy tuna fish, the dreaded peanut butter and jelly and the store brand of boxed cereal, eggs--lots of eggs, cheap packages of frozen French fries (chips), instant drink mixes for beverages, to supplement the milk so you don't use too much--or 50 or 75 cent 2 liter bottles of store brand soda--forget juice, even the cheap apple juice is over budget--and things like margarine and mayonnaise are luxury items.

Thankfully, at the moment, my food budget isn't too bad--30 to 40 dollars a week, which is average. Ideally, for one person, in this part of the country to eat "well," the food budget should be about 50 to 55 dollars (costs are swiftly going up)--if you go to a regular market. The low cost markets, such as Aldi's, Save-a-Lot, and Price-Rite, offer (usually) cheaper food--but the quality is not always great.

What I find slightly troubling, is the sudden influx of upper-middle class and wealthy customers in stores that used to almost solely cater to the blue collar (chav) city and rural poor crowds--very strange to see well-dressed women in perfectly coiffed hair driving Mercedes, shopping alongside welfare parents, with faded clothes and bad hair cuts (we have to frequently cut our own hair to save money) and 15 year old cars held together with duct tape and a prayer. Not sure what's up with that--but makes me a bit sick to see some rich lady, giving snotty looks to some poor welfare mum--who's only crime is to either be unemployed or underemployed--while this rich person could shop at the very posh Price Chopper right up the road--the one with the sushi bar and hot and cold buffet and pizzaria and chippy, plus a full-service butcher's and seafood shop, cheese shop, organic food section, gourmet section, coffee bar, and huge fruit and veggie section. But now, the posh people are cheapskates and shop at Price-Rite and look down their noses at the people who shop there--these people who literally cannot afford to go anywhere else. Makes me ill, to see that, it does. Makes me ashamed to call myself "American." I don't mean I'm against the well-off shopping at the cheap chav stores--just hate to see so many of them with bad attitudes towards the poorer shoppers. It's just not right, not right at all.

Yeah, I get a bit steamed, I must say, when I read foreigners calling Americans "obese" or "overfed." Yeah? Well, starchy food is CHEAP. Slimming food is EXPENSIVE. It's as simple as that, for millions of us. (Okay, I admit, Americans are very lazy--don't like to walk--oh, unless they are trendy and think "power walking" makes them look cool and fit.) I've seen American women in excerze (sorry can't spell that word) suits, fresh from the gym, fight to get a parking space close to the front of the store--oh, the irony!

But, really, it seriously ticks me off when so very many people--far too many in this country--are so utterly obtuse about American poverty.

All Americans rich? Ha! Get real! That's the dumbest statement on the planet--anyone who thinks all Americans are rich is, quite frankly, either blatantly ignorant or a hopeless idiot.

(Again, when reading the article below, halve the dollar amount(s) to convert to UK pounds)

HERE'S THE ARTICLE ABOUT THE POLITICIAN WHO ACTUALLY TRIED TO LIVE OFF FOOD STAMPS FOR A WEEK--IF IT WASN'T SO PATHETICALLY TRUE, IT'D BE FUNNY:

ALEM, Ore. - If Gov. Ted Kulongoski seems a little sluggish this week, he's got an excuse: he couldn't afford coffee.
ADVERTISEMENT

"I don't care what they call it, if this is what it takes to get the word out," Kulongoski said, in response to questions about whether the food stamp challenge was no more than a publicity stunt. "This is an issue every citizen in this state should be aware of."

NOTE: FROM DECEMBER OF 2005 TO FEB. OF 2006, MY MONTHLY INCOME WAS 700 DOLLARS--MY HOUSEHOLD BILLS (MORTGAGE/MOBLIE HOME (CARAVAN) LOT RENT, ELECTRIC, CAR PAYMENT/INSURANCE, PHONE AND INTERNET SERVICE (NEEDED FOR JOB SEARCHES) WAS ABOUT 950 DOLLARS--HENCE THE LOSS OF MY HOME) MY FOOD STAMPS: 120 DOLLARS FOR THE ENTIRE MONTH. That's 30 dollars (15 pounds) a week--I was luckier than many, in that respect.

The news has been rather interesting of late. Seems a geologist was checking out some new stuff found in Sibera, and when he Googled it or whatever, the only listing he found online, that had all the minerals contained in his sample: the Kryptonite in one of the Superman movies. Seems whoever wrote, in the Superman script, the minerals contained in a "museum sample" of Kryptonite in the film, just happened to list the exact same compounds found in this brand new mineral from Siberia. What are the chances of that, ey? But, scientists, apparently, having no sense of humor, aren't going to name it Kryptonite, but some really boring name, it seems. Unlike the film version, the real stuff is a white powdery substance.

And, it seems, that astronomers think they've found a distant planet that may in fact, support life. It seems it's near a red dwarf, and possibly has earth-like temperatures. It's similar in size to earth, and may have a crucial element for supporting life: water. The red dwarf star is much cooler than our sun. The planet has been given the rather dull name of "581C" Tho' it's similar in size to our planet, it's about 5 times heavier, and may be, possibly, one and a half times bigger than earth. But don't book a starship or a Tardis trip there yet: scientists say that if the atmosphere is too thick, the planet will likely be too hot to be habitable for humans.

In a coal mine in the American Midwest, miners have discovered an entire prehistoric rain forest. Mining operation have reveled an entire swath of prehistoric rain forest, over the roof of a mine--in a 40 square-mile swath. Unlike other fossilized remains, this layer fell into the mud over a period of months, not years, and is nearly perfectly preserved--all the plants that grew in that region over a specific period of time. This is virtually unheard of, as most fossils come from layers of sediment. It's basically like a snapshot of a specific period in earth's history, preserved for all time in a North American coal mine.

I got a message from someone, wanting to know why I haven't posted chapter 6 of my Dr Who short story. That sort of raised an eyebrow here.

Is anyone actually reading that stuff? Seriously, I was just using it as "filler" when my blog site was acting up--and also, when I simply had writer's block, or nothing of interest to say. Sort of like what I did with those cartoons, this morning. I try have a least one or two posts per day, but sometimes, the muse takes a holiday in the Bahamas or wherever, and I'm at a loss as to what to post--I value words enough, that I hate posting meaningless drivel...but then, like most writers, I hate white space, as well. So...

You folks get, sometimes, video clips, cartoons, my silly photo captions, and the occasional Dr Who short story.

But, really, I'd only planned to post four or five chapters. However, if I get any more messages, I'll bite the bullet (it's rather a long short story and was never properly edited or written--just something I literally wrote off the cuff, as is)...but really, as far as I'm concerned Chapter 5 was plenty.

Where are we, as a nation, as a people, going? Where are we headed?

It used to be, that men took pride in educating themselves. They took pride in doing. It used to be that future generations of leaders were carefully guided towards thinking, learning, listening...understanding.

They studied the likes of Plutarch, Plato and Homer. Emerson, Voltarie and the greatest writer of the language, Shakespeare. They took delight in new discovery, in making things better--not just for themselves, but for all the people. Or, at least, ideally, that was the notion. But, somewhere, here in America, we slipped up.

Who do our future leaders take their cues from now?

Most young people--and unfortunately, many adults--could tell you who Homer Simpson is, but how many Americans even know who Homer was, let alone what his teaching were about?

With the likes of The Simpson's, Howard Stern, Rush Limbaugh, Fox News and, worst of them all, George W. Bush--who's actions (the Iraq war, the stripping down of environmental standards to save big business money, the reduction of Medicare benefits, ets.) have caused more deaths--and will continue to kill people--than were ever killed by the 9/11 terrorists. And let's not forget organizations like The NRA (Natl. Rifle Assn.) who's partly to blame for killing (pun intended) gun control in America, and the wonderful Heritage Foundation, an influential, politically motivated, primarily rich white republican "think" tank (quotes used because the term "think" is rather a subjective term with them) who's philosophies and ideals more closely echo those of Hitler and Stalin, then those of Jefferson and Lincoln.

With the likes of the above as role models, leadership in a positive and upward direction is pretty much a pipe dream (marajuana, anyone? )

Where is our nation heading, with this sort of mindless puree of bat guano?

No time to blog this morning, so I'm leaving you with something that will (I hope) make you smile:

I sat here, tonight, beside my open window. The unusually hot summer-like day had mellowed as the afternoon waned, and the evening was lovely. It began as a soft, warm, breezy night...pearl gray clouds, people out and about on the streets, after the long bitter winter, playing with frisbees, hanging out with their friends, going for an evening stroll...

Then, around 10.0pm the storm came. The streets were quickly deserted as high winds dashed the rain against my windows, and the trees groaned with the effort to stay rooted. And, just as soon as it came--it went. The air cooled and fresh, pleasant breezes returned.

I sat by my window and felt life's rhythms stirring around me: the faint stirring of the softening wind, the wheels swishing by on the rain slick streets, the intermittent dripping from the eaves of the roof over my balcony, the rhythmic sound of Charlie--who was stretched out sleeping, in the middle of the room--snoring. I felt the rhythm of my heartbeat, the frantic heavy footsteps (I swear he's hyperactive and wears cement shoes) of the guy downstairs. All the music of living, the concert of life.

When you tell your wife that you prefer a six pack to her cooking

When you really do hear a pint calling to you

When you actually start believing the beer ads are true

When your boss gets you to crawl to him on your hands and knees by dangling a bottle of beer in front of you

When you ask the fortune teller at the carnival if there’s any beer in your future

So, for months now, one of the big issues burning up the Doctor Who fan forums, is the Face of Boe’s very enigmatic statement to the Doctor: “You are not alone.”

Which, we found in Gridlock, had our good ol’ Doc taken aback a bit, and, I think, reinforced his denial, as well.

Right now, I’d say, at least 90% of the fans--especially the younger viewers--are totally convinced that Boe was referring to mysterious Mr. Saxon (played by a gent named Sims), whom, these fans say with utmost certainty, is really The Master.

About 5% of the fans think that Boe is referring to the Doctor’s son--and fewer still think Saxon is really the Doctor’s son.

I dunno’ tho’. Is it going to really be as straightforward as all that. How disappointing that would be. Oh, bringing back the Master would be great, certainly.

Speculation went on for months, what old Classic series monster/villan was being brought back--and amid suggestions (some people were, again, adamant about their choices) that is was the Sontarans, the Ice Warriors, the Zygons, the Drasig, what-have-you…and it turned out to be the Macra from the long lost episode, The Macra Terror…and not one person that I know of, even guessed that one.

So, Who knows--and I think, at this point, DT is one of the few Whovians who really do know. I rather like the idea of Rassilon, myself. I mean, he was sort of this supernatural being, wasn’t he? Dead but still alive, sort of…ah well. For all I know, it probably is the Master--or then again, it might be that the Doctor was a bit like Casanova, got randy with one of his companions and winds up having to drag his illegitimate brat all over the galaxy with him.

"Ohhhh--knew I shouldn't have had the curried eel kebabs last night!"

I had dreams last night. I dreamed I was helping out at the library--not mum’s some other library that my imagination dreamt up in my subconscious. I dreamed there was a book sale and I was getting all sorts of neat books--mainly horse books. I have this dream, once in a while--a secret wish transferred into a bedtime dream--all the books I want, and cheap, as well, ha-ha.

I also dreamed I was a kid again, playing with my cowboys and knights on horseback toys (probably because I’d stopped to look at the Schliech toy knights in Target’s toy department, Friday night), then, I dreamed I was playing with my toy cars. Then…I woke up. Strange to dream of one’s childhood--something I don’t think I’ve done before--at least, not that I remember.

We kids used to play with our toy cars and trucks quite a lot--being a country-like setting where we lived, there was loads of dirt around. I remember, we used to get together, some of us kids, and make whole towns out of dirt and sticks and pebbles. Most of the girls made up whole families for their homes--usually little bits of twig serving as the people--varying in size according to whether they were the mum and dad or the kids…but, I don’t recall ever inventing a family. I usually was more interested in building the house, and driving my truck (I had a little metal Tootsie toy pick up truck, I was rather fond of) around on roads that I’d make, planting fake “trees” (twigs with bits of leaves attached, and loading the back of my pick up with stuff--mostly, I think pebbles and grass. But I wonder--even then, at 9 or 10 years of age, did I have an inkling of my future--that I’d be the old maid I am today? Is that why, perhaps, I so seldom invented a “family” to inhabit the mound of dirt I called a “home?” Guess I’ll never know.

MINE WAS BLUE

Haviing had an experience simlar to the one in this commerical (don’t ask--please, don’t.) I wanted to share this with my blog friends:

What a day! I am so utterly knackered by now! Today’s the first day since my accident several weeks ago, that I walked on my own two feet to work--took more than double the usual amount of time, but I did it. Took a cab home, but I was happy to be able to walk--tho’ yes, it did hurt quite a bit, by the time I got to the office. But I think now, I can handle walking one-way, this week, which will save me 15 dollars in cab fare, this week alone.

Met my cubicle mate coming in. He’s a bit…odd. A highly educated liberal gent--we have the same mind on some things--but he’s been known to contradict the very things he preaches to me about--will say he’s for this or against that, and then, later, turn around and say or do something that’s the opposite of his alleged point of view. And, he’s a bit of a bitter old snob. I mean, he’s a bit like me, in the respect that we both are a little bitter over our lot in life--spending hours getting an “advanced” education, and having naught whatsoever to show for our efforts. But he has made it clear that he has a higher education than I, and I think he feels I’m too chav for him--or at least, that’s the way he treats me, sometimes.

We’re both slightly disabled, both having a hard time paying bills and keeping food on the table--he’s got the additional burden of a young wife and son--so you’d think he and I would get along great. But the man doesn’t like me. As a matter of fact, he often treats me like I’ve just drooled over my keyboard. I waved at him as he was waiting to cross the street, and he just ignored me. Walked behind me and said “hi” and kept on going, ignoring me again. Oh, he’s usually civil enough--barely. But I don’t talk to him much any longer. Well, one other thing is that he doesn’t have much in the way of a sense of humor, mores the pity.

A sense of humor is what’s kept me going, month after month--not hope. Oh, I used to be big on hope. I loved hope. It was one thing that kept me focused, through both good times and bad. But last year, it died inside me. I would love to get it back, but…it’s gone now. I don’t know if I can ever dare to hope again--all hoping has got me since mum died, was more pain and problems and rejection. It’s why I don’t pray much, any more. I prayed and prayed when mum was dying--and not only did nothing come of it, things just starting getting more and more hopeless, worse and worse and worse. Life in 2005/2006, just crushed the hell of any hope that was left in me.

But I kept my sense of humor--although, it’s not nearly as strong as it used to be--which I feel is reflected in my writing--my writing, plays and essays and whatnot, isn’t nearly so mild and lighthearted as is was three or four or five years ago. My last 10-minute play, “The Boardwalk,” had very little in the way of humor--I mean, if there was anything humorous in there, then, quite frankly, I really just got lucky. Oh, I may not think much of hope any longer--but the day I lose my sense of humor--well, someone might as well put a gun to my head and shoot me.

AND I BET YOU THOUGHT THIS WAS PHYSICALLY IMPOSSIBLE!

Speaking of humor--today was not one of those days, at work. More than half of my calls in a five hour period were screamers. No, really. My blinking ear hurts. One guy, after I said who I was and why I was calling, screamed “F__k off!” and slammed the phone in my ear--went downhill from there. I did manage to collect from 9 people, but had a record number of “refused to pay” calls. Never had so many as I’ve had today, in the entire 6 months I’ve worked for this company. Ah well. I try not to take it personally.

I got this one guy who began this long rant against me, the company I worked for, the company that he owed the debt to…heaven knows what else--I punched the “mute” button and just sat there, sticking out my tongue at the phone and blowing raspberries and giving him the American equivalent to the old two-finger salute, while he ranted--and when he stopped, I merely took him off hold, said, “Thank you sir, I’m make a note of your comments in my records,” rang off, and toggled the “refused to pay” button. Meh, what’do I care? I get paid whether I listen to these people (and actually, if they’re civil, usually I try to) or not.

However, my last call was the strangest I’ve had in a while. Called a man in the ultra-trendy area of Sante Fe, New Mexico. I was calling to collect a debt for a hunting club, and the man launched into this long tirade against hunting, “I wear Birkenstocks, I’m a vegetarian, I hate people who shoot cute fuzzy little animals….” Okay, that was verbatim--seriously, that’s EXACTLY what the guy said to me. And, the cruel irony of this is, that it was a WRONG number! Gah! Yuppies! Yech!!!

Chapter 5: The Vicar and The Watcher

The Doctor walked up to the door of the chapel, which stood open. He went inside, peering around in the dim light, not sure himself, just what he was hoping to find. “Hello? Anyone home?” Like his footsteps, his voice also echoed off the stone walls. But the Doctor received no answer. He shrugged. “Bit damp and musty in here,” he muttered to himself, “what this place needs in some good central heating. No wonder it’s empty.”

Above her, the harsh booming call of a raven startled Martha. She looked up, annoyed. When she returned her gaze to the person, she saw the tall man, standing directly behind the mourner. Before she could call out a warning, the skeletal man pointed his finger at the person’s back. A glowing green mist slowly formed around the mourner. The person stood upright, stiffened and screamed horribly as the body slowly disintegrated into the earth. As Martha slunk further behind the tree, she heard a ghastly laugh issue forth from the tall man. But he wasn’t finished. He raised his arm and lowered it towards the mound of fresh earth. Slowly, the earth moved, and a coffin appeared from beneath the dirt.

You know, I sort of feel sorry for people who’ve never known the joy of pet ownership. Tho’, to be perfectly honest, there’s some people totally unsuited for it--I especially wince when I see someone who owns a “trophy” pet--or a “trophy” kid, for that matter--a status symbol, nothing more than a living piece of bric-a-brac. Shame, that.

Because pets give us so much: If you love your cat or dog, truly love it, chances are that it will love you back--totally, unconditionally, 110%. How many humans can we say that about, that we’ve known? Our mum’s if we’re lucky, our dad’s too, if one is very lucky--if one is quite exceptional, then one might even say that about a partner or the person you are married to--or even a close friend. But with a bet, unconditional love is nearly a certain thing--if you give, they will give and give and give, in return.

Had a funny thing happen, this morning, after I’d opened the window to the mini-balcony. I’d put a chair in front of it, and the cats do indeed take turns looking out and sniffing the air, watching all the activity--keeping an eye peeled for birds, of course.

Well, it was Boot’s turn. He was looking down out of the window, when he sat up straight. He suddenly turned his head towards me and let loose with an excited yowl. I went over to see what had caused his sudden excitement--well…Boots may be neutered, but, he’s still a “ladies man.” There on the front lawn next door, was the calico from next door. (Calicos cats by some genetic mutation thingy, are nearly always female.) Oh, doesn’t old Bootsie have the hots for her, now! Whoo-hoo--va-va-va-voom! Well, she does have a nice figure and a lovely shiny coat, he-he. He may be neutered, but he’s not dead!

Well, I finally figured out how to get around the dodgy old cursor problem--without having to go to the bother of getting rid of Firefox to see if that’s the problem--from here on in, I’ll just open Word, type what I have to say, then cut and paste it. Bit of a bother, because I prefer to just plunge right into my blog and just write off the cuff, but, it’s either cut and paste or completely eliminate my blog.

I couldn’t believe that cursor! I mean, if I were typing this on my blog? My cursor would still be typing the word, “dodgy” right now, and I wouldn’t be able to make changes/corrections, or use my mouse, or much of anything--until the cursor stopped tying everything….a very long wait indeed, yesterday. And it only occurred on the UK blog, when I wanted to write--didn’t happen in the comments box, or anywhere else, just the place where you post new entries. Not good.

Anyway, it’s gone from snowstorms and below freezing temps that we had for the last two weeks, on past spring, and straight into summer! Yeah, it’s going to be in the mid-70’s F, today, and nearly 80, tomorrow. Right now, it’s nearly 10.00 in the morning over here, and it’s already 53 degrees F (12 C)!

Knowing how hot it’s going to be for the next couple of days, I looked over my summer wear--and hung my head in shame. OMG!! Only four tee shirts out of over a dozen weren’t stained, holey or badly faded. Ah well. Chav is as chav wears. I have a chav apartment, work in chav jobs, might as well go all the way, ey? There’s worse things than being a chav, I suppose--I could be a..(gasp)..a yuppie….or worse, a redneck.

I heard a nice bit of music the other day, by some group called, I think, the Pet Shop Boys. Never heard of them--the store was playing it--an album or song or whatever, called, “Minimal.” Not bad, rather liked it. Can’t buy it, but, I liked listening to it, anyhow.

Well, off to do the morning washing up, finish sorting the still-mountain-sized pile of washing. It’ costs too much right now to make more than one trip a week to the Laundromat--I had to buy a new mouse at the mall, Friday, because mine wasn’t working properly--and it costs 10 dollars round trip to the mall. I was able to buy some groceries, as there’s a department store there, with a small grocery section, as well as a pet food section, so I’ll be okay for the week--but only have about 25 dollars left until Friday--so while I was hoping to make a second trip to the laundry this week (suddenly, my Word programme wants to capitalize “Laundromat.” Why? Is that a brand name or something? like “Scotch Tape” or “Coke?” Guess it must be. Odd--never knew that…) anyway, begging off on the laundry, this week.

I’m thinking tho’ with the warmer weather, that I’ll have to put a fan or two on layaway at the WalMarts--I couldn’t take my small air conditioner with me, as I simply wasn’t physically able to lift it when I moved myself, last November. I’m going to miss that. There is, actually, a big air conditioner stuck in the closet of my apartment--no idea if it works, or where one would even put it--It weighs probably, about 75 pounds--it’s too heavy for me to even shift a half-inch!
I confess, too, I’d gotten a small commission bonus in my check--30 dollars, and I took half and indulged myself---I was so very exhausted Friday, to be quite honest--and went to a restaurant in the mall and had a real sit-down dinner…my first in months. Oh, I’ve gotten Burger King and Chinese takeaway, from time to time--not often, but sometimes--but I’d not had a sit-down meal in a real proper restaurant in months. In light of my recent ordeal with the injury, I decided I deserved this….of course, the prices gave me a bit of indigestion, ha-ha. But, by opting not to go for dessert and coffee after, with the tip, the bill fell right exactly within my budget. And, I had enough left over to take home for seconds, later that night! Still feel a bit guilty, tho'.

As I wrote to someone recently how bad TV is, not just here in the states, but everywhere across the globe. All this money floating about---funny, but shows made in the 70's seem to be more popular than ever--yet they had much lower budgets--but then, the writing was much better--more imaginative, I think. And, over here--we only had three stations to choose from! 200 channels, and TV from the 3 channel era is better, mostly--what's that say about us?

I jumped in my trusty Tardis--mine's stuck in the shape of a 1984 Ford Escort--and brought back two videos of future television programmes. Enjoy:

Here's some more gay Dalek videos:

Oh wait, that first one isn't a gay Dalek, it's just French. Sorry.

Well, since my cursor deosn't want to work properly on BLOG UK, so I can write and edit in a timely fashion, I'm afraid that you are stuck with chapter four of my Dr Who story, sorry.

CHAPTER FOUR: The Watchers

When Martha came to again she found that she was on the bench, leaning in the Doctor’s arms with his coat wrapped around her. She was shivering violently and felt quite weak. She looked up at the Doctor groggily. “Wh--what happened?” He stroked her hair and whispered, “Post-traumatic psychic shock syndrome. Just try to relax and breathe slowly. Your body is having a physical reaction to psychic trauma. It will pass in a bit. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” She grimaced. “That’s easy for you to say. I’ve had bad hangovers that felt better than this.” She was nauseous and had a splitting headache. Still, she managed a weak grin. “Doctor, sometimes traveling with you is no picnic.”

The Doctor crouched down beside her. “Ah.,’ he grinned boyishly, “That’s just a little gadget I was fiddling with a while back. It’s a personal force field. Just like the one around the Tardis. Merely push the button, and you’re home free.” She sighed and took it from him. She really didn’t have a choice. Martha felt weak as a new born kitten. “And where will you be?” The Doctor looked at the chapel. “Thought I’d take a stroll over to the church, see if anyone’s about. Maybe I can find a few answers.” Meanwhile, unknown to the two time-travelers, the vicar stood beside a tall stone cross eyeing the pair. Beside him was the tall gaunt man in the frock coat. The vicar nodded once to the tall man. The man smiled gruesomely and vanished into the mist.

Mum and I actually played a small part in the placing of this state marker--we helped a state historian with some of her research when the cemetery was first targeted for historical status in 1979. Working with her is what first got me interested in doing my own research on the cemetery--which lasted, as my hobby, for over three years.

So, I'm presently showing just a few chapters of one of my Doctor Who stories, which I titled, strictly out of whimsy, "The Bodysnatchers". I know it's already been used in a movie, but I just wanted to try my hand at incorporating a bit of old-fashioned
Gothic horror into a Doctor Who story, and the title seemed sort of, well...very horror-like, I suppose is the word I'd use--I was just writing, having a lark, and wasn't really taking this story very seriously, I'm afraid. Although I certainly do not consider this one my best, by any means, I do love this story. That it because it was simply something new and fun for me to write--tho', to be quite honest, although technically it's completed--it isn't really finished. I was never really satisfied as to where I took this story, where it ended up. I may, some day, re-write it on a whim. Then again, I may not.

But there is a back story to this piece, as well, which I'm admitting to here, rather reluctantly.

As some of you who've read my blog for awhile may know, I grew up next to three cemeteries--one very old, by American standards, housing everyone from a US president and and also a signer of our US Constitution, politicians, artists, actors and musicians, to slaves, and paupers, a Souix Indian, a famous 19th century boxer, and the first man in our state to be condemned to death in the electric chair.

I'd grown up hanging out there. Mum used to take us on picnics at the cemetery pond--used to fish in there, as well--they had the big carp we called "giant goldfish." I did extensive historical research in there, in my early 20's, and tagged along with mum when she did her genealogy research. I went hiking in there (this particular cemetery is 367 acres, some of it quite wild, in parts--or, at least it was in the late 70's and early 80's), walking the rutted tracks and paved roads every single Sunday morning--and sometimes other days, as well. I was as at home in there, as I was in my own room in the house I grew up in.
ALBANY RURAL CEMETERY, LATE AUTUMN

Well...you can believe this or not, your choice, but truth to tell, I had two very spooky experiences--okay, one one downright terrifying--in there. Didn't stop me from going back, time after time, but let me tell you...it did sometimes--only sometimes--give me pause.

And it's partly my experiences in the Albany Rural Cemetery, that inspired me to write The Bodysnatchers.

That scene, at the very end of chapter one, where Martha sees this man standing nearby--silently staring at her, and she turns away--for just the wink of an eye--to ask the Doctor, "Who's that?" Then Martha looks back and the guy in somber clothes is gone? Okay, that's not really completely fictional--that was based on a very real experience I had--my first encounter with the lady ghost that haunted my mum's old library. That happened. I looked up, saw the woman in the dark dress standing behind the old glass door of the upper floor (the library reception area)--staring at me--through me. And I did just as Martha did in the story, and what happened to Martha, is what happened to me. However, Martha probably handled it better, I'd like to think--she's a really cool and spirited young lady--still, it creeped Martha out a bit, same as it did me--or at least, that's what I hope I conveyed in the story.

But, yes--I've actually picnicked in the cemetery, in the rain--tho, truthfully, my cemetery has a couple of covered post-Victorian pavilions with benches.

The sense of evil--oh yes. That's the terrifying bit. I was out for my usual Sunday hike, picnic lunch and a book--usually either poetry, a play, or Emerson's Essays--tucked away in my little rucksack. My rucksack had a little bell attached to it--a whimsy of mine--I just liked the sound it made--a distinctive little jangling, in time to the rhythm of my strides--, and if I got tired of it, I just unzipped my bag, shoved it inside and walked in relative silence.

Without going into too much detail, one Sunday morning--perfectly normal morning hike, nothing untoward or unusual happening--I had just gone no more than a couple of hundred feet into the cemetery--when I was stopped cold. I was literally bashed in the gut by this terrible, overpowering, overwhelming feeling of oppression--of impending disaster, of, yes, I will say it--evil. It was a sunny summer day, I'd even been singing as I'd set out, happy as a lark--walked through the cemetery gates, past the office, then...BAM! It was just...well, it was horrible. I tried for 20 minutes to convince myself I was imagining things--even to the point of defiantly unpacking my lunch and eating it then and there. Nope. Didn't work--in fact, the overpowering feeling of impending doom actually intensified--so I packed up and left--still defiantly following the fenceline, hoping the weirdness would pass. It didn't--actually, the longer I lingered, the worse it got--I actually ran home--and I weighed, at the time, over 150 pounds. Running wasn't something I did lightly, ha-ha.

So, I decided to incorporate my experiences into this story--also, I took some of my inspiration from the likes of Poe and Balzac. And The Bodysnatchers was the result. Yes, I freely admit that it's pretty well, as such stories go, total rubbish, and that's fine. I wrote it for fun, and that really was the whole point of doing it. I've not decided whether I'm going to post all the chapters...MAY do one or two more, but I don't feel I've really got the audience to justify doing every chapter--there's quite a few of them.

I LEARNED TO DRIVE ON THESE ROADS!

THE BODYSNATCHERS

Chapter 3: Smoke Gets in Her Eyes

A feeling of deep-seated oppressive evil seemed to crush her very soul down into the ground. It was as if a million shards of ice were sitting in the pit of her stomach. Despite this, Martha couldn’t stop herself. She looked up into the trees, seeing nothing at first. Then, slowly, inexorably, pale green smoke began billowing from out of nowhere, wreathing the treetops.

She opened her eyes and saw him there, hovering over her. She was confused, until she realized that she was lying on the ground. The Doctor looked both relieved and worried. She tried to sit upright, the Doctor helping her. “Are you alright?” He asked with intense concern. “I--I think so. What was that thing?” The Doctor looked at her strangely. “I wish I could tell you, but I couldn’t see a thing.” Martha stared at her friend and managed a weak grin. “What? I thought you Time Lord’s were supposed to know nearly everything.” The Doctor smiled, then looked up at the treetops apprehensively. “I didn’t see it, but I’ll tell you what,” he murmured. “I certainly could feel it.” He looked back at her and said reassuringly. “You weren’t imagining things. Whatever it was, it was quite real--and, quite deadly.” Then, he flashed an impulsive grin at her. “Right then, are you up for a little stroll around the grounds?” He held out his hand to her. “Oh, why not?” She said, then fainted dead away.

I've the window open, on this nice spring day (at last). I was startled, just now, to hear the bell of the Presbyterian church, ringing repeatedly at noon today. Just found out it is in remembrance of the dead at Virginia Tech--There was a national call for Friday to be a day of remembrance. Traffic did not stop, no one paused on the street below me, it was only just me, listening to the strangely timid church bell, standing at the open window, saying a prayer--and hoping it's enough. I must give the bell ringer credit, for getting it right.

I lived in one town, once, where a similar thing was done for a different national tragedy, and the bell was peeled with gusto, like for Sunday service, and that just seemed...not quite right, to me.

IN THE NEWS HEREABOUTS:

The state senate of Vermont voted to impeach Bush and Cheney! Hoo-ray for the great state of Vermont! It was approved 16-9 without debate--with every republican and three democrats against it.

The resolution says Bush and Cheney's actions in the U.S. and abroad, including in Iraq, "raise serious questions of constitutionality, statutory legality, and abuse of the public trust."

Also included was a demand for immediate troop withdrawl.

I read in another blog that the BBC America is pulling it's wonderful older shows, such as Keeping Up Appearances and Are You Being Served?

What a shame! Shows like that may be old, but they bring laughter to people over here, who often don't have much reason to laugh. My mum was DYING, and shows like AYBS and KUA made her smile, they made her burst out in gales of laughter! What the heck is wrong with that? So the shows are "old Britain," so what??

Old Britain, new Britain--does it matter so much, if these shows still bring joy to those who watch it?

We've an old 70's series here, All in the Family, that though it no longer reflects what (most of) America is in the 21st century, it still brings laughter to those of us who, again, have precious little to laugh about, in our lives.

And isn't that more important than some uptight narrow view of political correctness? But maybe some Brits don't think so. In any case, glad I opted out of getting the highly expensive premium cable package so I could get BBC America--if they are going to get all snobby and yank the very shows that made me come to love Brit-coms in the first place, to heck with that! I'll save my cash and buy the DVD's.

I'd like to think I'm intelligent enough to understand that these older shows don't represent the current British culture--once again, it seems the BBC and people overseas are playing to the stereotype that all Americans are stupid. Not all of us--but maybe some Brits need to reexamine their own points of view?

My impression, is that this whole thing centres on ome sort of mass national insecurity about one's 21st century British identity--which is, from my observation, is what this is really all about, should not be used to prevent Americans from enjoying the very shows, that got them watching the BBC in the first place. I think that attitude, quite frankly, is patiently stupid.

Well, I had a bit of a time, yesterday--which is why I've been semi-awake since half-past four in the morning. My foot is giving me more grief than I'd like it to. So, spent most of yesterday afternoon crutchless, doing several loads of washing, and tho' I was a bit tired in the process, it wasn't 'till I attempted to bring it all upstairs, that I'd realized I'd way overdid things. At first, I couldn't even get upstairs. I mean, I felt exactly like some flippin' little old lady! Legs went all wonky--but, in the end, I got 'er done. No choice, really, was there? Couldn't spend my life on those nasty naff old stairs--I'm not exactly living in the Ritz hotel. The light at the top of the stairs--which are a reverse L shape, has been out for three weeks now--and me with marginal night blindness, it's a slight challenge just finding the lock so I can stick my key in it--trying to negotiate the stairs with a mess of clean laundry--very tricky proposition. Naturally, the only one who can replace the light (it's up too high, above the staircase) is the landlord, who's absentee--only around when there's money involved.

Got out of work, needed some little things from the store--okay, well, I was simply way to exhausted to make myself anything to eat, so I bought a sandwich and a tin of microwaveable soup. Rang up a cab--waited nearly 15 minutes, cab finally shows up--only the cabbie is clueless, says the dispatcher didn't put out any calls for a pick up at my location! I had him check--no. Got seriously ticked off and told the cabbie to tell dispatch to cancel--I mean, here the guy was, empty cab, and I'm only going 4 very short blocks--he can't take me? Cabbie told me he couldn't take me without checking first--I was too tired to mess about with blatant American stupidity, so muttering words I can't print here, under my breath, I walked home. Took about twice the normal time, but I made it. But, I'm afraid I've set my foot back by about a week, today. Oh well. I have the next two days off, it seems--don't start back on day shift until Monday--Sunday the usual time, 2-7pm, then Monday, I'm off nights and back on days at 10am sharp.

When I got home tonight, someone had e-mailed me a link to some Casanova episodes--not bad...not crazy about all the switching back and forth, but really, it was quite good.

Only one thing tho', that gave me a slight bit of pause:

I found Tennant's Casanova bore surprising similarities to his Doctor Who. Just a wee bit of a minor disappointment there, I'm afraid. Oh, not being a critic--who am I to do that? I couldn't act to save my life--and yes, I've tried--and failed miserably on opening night--just four feet away from my dad. So, no, not being critical--but yes, slightly, albeit only very slightly, unhappy to learn this. My opinion of Tennant's acting is not swayed--still think he's a brilliantly talented young man--and it probably won't mess with my suspension of disbelief when watching Dr Who, still...watching Casanova, I see so many of the exact same mannerisms and speech patterns--it's a bit of a surprise. Perhaps the fact that Russell T. Davies also did this series has something to do with it--or perhaps Tennnat is just stuck in a rut with the English accent characters? No clue. I understand he's done some Shakespeare, and I saw a ten-minute clip once from a movie he did called "Recovery,"--from that little bit, I came away very impressed indeed. And yes, I still think he's got wonderful range and depth--but comparing Casanova with Dr Who, I am sorry to admit that now my view of his acting abilities has narrowed somewhat. No, Dr Who/Casanova is no Derek Jacobi.

DOCTOR: Do you get YouTube on this thing? I missed the final episode of Life on Mars."

So, laundry's done--just in time for me to relax about 20 minutes. I had to spend my cabfare home from work tonight, on a slice of pizza and a soda, because I knew if I didn't there'd be no way I'd be eating until 10pm tonight--I'm just too exhausted right now to even write anything sensible or even terribly interesting. I am positively knackered--and my foot is killing me...but hey, I have clean laundry!--well, about one tenth of it is, anyway...still have a rather full closet to deal with, soon.

But my legs are actually trembling with the unaccustomed exertion. I couldn't take my crutch with me, so that added a bit to the strain, I reckon...and getting everything up 2 flights of stairs...loads of fun, there. I used to be quite fit, for my size ( heavy weight), last autumn--after spending much of the summer walking 3 miles to work, carting groceries nearly a mile uphill from town--got to be very fit, indeed. But, a winter of ice-covered sidewalks, sub-zero wind chills and injuries has messed up a little with my fitness...okay, a lot.

Have plunge into work again this evening, five o'clock sharp. More rednecks--oh what a wonderful joy my job is--sometimes, though the pay was lousy and the benefits nil--well, no benefits on my present job, either--I sort of sometimes miss working at the Travelodge laundry--the peace and quiet, I mean. Working for God (my very white, often thick, KGB-like nosy, ultra-conservative, rude, bad kind of born-again Christian, Texan lady boss at the motel), I could do without, tho'.

Oh, rednecks can be nice--but it's really like talking to an alien species, sometimes--and I've had REAL in-bred hillbilly's for neighbours--no really, I'm 110% serious about that--, here in the Adirondacks--but southern rednecks are a breed all to themselves, let me tell you. Now I know why the Tardis never lands in Georgia or Alabama.

Anyway, I know I'm calling a redneck when they believe...

The Nutcracker is a pro-wrestling move

Iraq is a part of Dolly Parton's anatomy

food stamps are something you use to mail someone a packet of venison jerky

a goat makes a great lawn mower

a non-working lawn mower makes a great lawn ornament

that George W. Bush is real smart because he can shoot quail and spit at the same time

that a pick up truck's security system should consist of 3 things: a hound dog, a Smith & Wesson and a steel chain and padlock.

So, in a little while, I'll be off out in the nice spring weather--to the post office and the laundromat on Broad Street--if I can scape up the cab fare for all of this, that is. Meanwhile, I'm having a late breakfast of honey-nut cream cheese on a cinnamon bagel, and, between bites, humming along with the Dr Who soundtrack CD--which was well worth the three month wait to get, let me tell you. It's brilliant!

So, I won't be online much today. Here's more "filler," chapter two of that horribly naff story I wrote last year. Really sorry--I'm just not a fiction writer, I'm afraid.

CHAPTER 2: Don't Look Up

Martha grabbed the Doctor’s arm. “Doctor, I don’t want you to think I’m scared of a cemetery, but to be quite honest, this place really does give me the creeps.” Doctor looked at her skeptically. “Oh, come on! You’ve been watching too many Vincent Price and Hammer horror movies. It’s just a nice place that happens to be home to a lot of dead people.” He looked at her and made a scary face, and said in a mocking voice “Beware of the walking dead…oooahh-ha-ha-ha! Now come on, let’s find a dry spot and eat. I’m a bit hungry myself.”

The Doctor didn’t have a clue what she was driving at. “People will think what?” “That I’ve had an…accident.” The Doctor had to think about that one. “Oh. I see. I think. Well, I can remedy that.” With that, he took off his coat with a flourish and laid it on the bench. “Little trick Sir Walter Raleigh taught me.” He said with a smile. She shook her head and laughed. Martha was about to sit down, when she saw the strange man again. He stared at her--through her. Then he raised his finger and pointed upwards. Mesmerized, unable to stop herself, Martha looked up into the tree branches.

SPRING FIELD, BETHEL, VERMONT (Town named after one of my former professor's great-grandfather.)

Well, it was quite lovely out, last night, I must say. It was a balmy 47 degrees F, which is the warmest it's been at night, round these parts, in months. Today, is equally as lovely, with a near-cobalt blue sky, and above freezing temps. And, thankfully, yours truly is feeling much better. My temperature is nearly back to normal, I got a (mostly) good night's sleep for a change, no weird or bad dreams, marginal stomach stress...and the cat's were actually quiet, for a change.

At work, spent Monday working on a new calling programme, doing college surveys. Tuesday the programme hit a glitch, so we did some training on different script programme, and were sent home early. So, last night, a brand new (sort of) script and yet another new (sort of) programme--collections, but with a twist...before, we were collecting back payments for items ordered, this time we're collecting overdue payments for an automatic book club--they get sent the stuff, whether they want it or not. Yeah, that's fun. Not.

I STILL hate calling Kentucky! Here's an example of a Kentucky call, last night. "What do ya'll want? Oh, he's not here. Yer from the _______? Oh, wait a minute, I'll go get him."

And don't get me started on southern women. Way I figure it, southern women go through three or four different stages in life:

STAGE ONE--childhood to age 35: The namby-pamby, fluffly-frilly "Barbie" doll stage.

STAGE TWO--age 35 to age 65: The pitbull/barracuda stage. I mean these gals are mean. They make their men-folk seem positively (forgive me, gents of that persuasion) gay. Southern women have PMS (or, I think PMT in the UK) 24/7/365. They're like a human Dalek--"EXTERMINATE--YA'LL!"

STAGE THREE A---age 66 and up: Feisty is the word for some southern oldster's. The meanness has mellowed, but they still aren't taking nonsense from ANYONE.

STAGE THREE B--age 66 and up: The meanness has vanished, replaced by the charm and grace that supposedly most southern women should have had, all along. (RARE TYPE)

Afraid my creative juices just aren't flowing today. Seems I've caught that virus that's been going 'round the office, in the last week or so. Not deathly ill, thankfully, just pretty much, "bleh," that's all.

In light of that, I'm posting "filler" in my blog today: chapter one of another fan fiction short story I wrote, last summer. It's not my best, and even the title is lame. It's, I think, just about the last completed short story I've written--think it was done late August or very early September. And it's rubbish. Sorry.

DOCTOR WHO: The Body Snatchers

CHAPTER ONE: Picnic

The woman in black was seated in the pew of a small stone chapel, weeping like her heart was breaking--and it was. The Vicar was beside her, doing his best to console her. “Oh vicar,” she wept, “’e were so young, my Tom. And now my Ned as well…both in a fortnight. What am I to do, how shall I go on without my ‘usband and son? It ain’t fair! To have ‘em both die that way, bodies torn asunder…” As the gruesome memory took hold of her, she began wailing anew.

Standing under the pine tree holding a green and navy tartan umbrella, the Doctor looked up at the lowering grey sky. “It’s Cathays Cemetery, near Cardiff.” Martha said nothing, but the look on her face spoke volumes. Just then, she spied a tall cadaverous figure in a long-tailed black frock coat standing by a headstone, staring at her. “Who’s that?” She looked at the Doctor. “Who’s what?” He asked absently. She looked towards the field where she’d seen the man. He was gone. Vanished into thin air. The hairs on the back of her neck started crawling.

Ah well...had a mess of chores to do, today, even woke early to get an early start...yeah. Seems my body had other plans. Around 10, started to get massive stomach cramps, then, the race to the ol' loo began. (Huge sigh.) Still have to do the post office thing, today, before work, to get the rent cheque sent off. Thankfully, the other day, I washed out some extra work duds in the kitchen sink...bit wrinkled, so I'll still have some ironing to do, today.

I've not done laundry for nearly 3 weeks, since my accident. My laundry pile has got to be 4 feet high, at least--and to make matters worse, while I had my head in the closet sorting, little Flame got in there, and tipped stuff over, and she promptly got buried--I had to scramble to pull everything--dirtys, empty boxes, extra linens and quilt--everything, out of the closet onto my bedroom floor, to rescue her--and then, she has the gall to be all miffed at ME! She stalked off under the dresser and wouldn't come near me for half an hour! Cats! Ha!

Boots is all agitated today...he's so frustrated, poor baby. So many birds out there, and he can't get at 'em! He keeps coming up to me and complaining about it. One sits right on the bare vine attached to the front window--like 2 inches from the glass, and the cats are like--"damn! So close yet so far!"

Sadly, I seem to have lost my long-time nature "bible" (Handbook to North American Wildlife), that I've owned since I was about 13 or 14 years old. I'm so sad about that...it must have gotten lost in the last move. I'm honestly devastated! I could look up what birds these are--think they're finches--but with my failing eyesight, they could be female cardinals, for all I can tell. I used to birdwatch a lot, as a teen--in my old hometown we had dozens and dozens of birds and some raptors, as well--everything Chickadees to Great Blue Herons. We used to have an enormous Pileated Woodpecker out back, used to hang out in a long-dead elm tree. Man, those things sure make a racket when they start hammering a dead tree trunk with their bills. Like a bloomin' machine gun!

Awww--two birds are setting' there on a branch, grooming each other, how sweet is that? He-he, looks almost like they're making out--get a room, kids!

I heard my first Whipoorwill, in the summer of 2005, but strangely enough, I've never seen or heard the state bird, the Bluebird. Odd, that.

I've been having some massively odd dreams of late. Last night, I also had a terrible nightmare, in the middle of an otherwise benevolent dream.

In one dream, earlier this week, I was with my archeology professor, and we were on the dock of some port somewhere, checking out this Egyptian mummy's sarcophogus (or however one spells that).

I dreamed I was in the woods, digging up treasure.

Recently, I dreamed that I had taken over a small old-fashioned diner--tho' I was in my dream completely broke--and the lady in charge was making all kinds of pastries, and all they wanted to serve was pastries and sandwiches, to a bunch of elderly people. That was really an odd dream--I seldom eat pastries. I prefer Starbucks ice cream, myself.

I had a horrible nightmare, where--out of nowhere in the middle of a perfectly benign dream, suddenly, mum appeared--we were walking down a rutted country track--when I tornado popped up in front of us--on a sunny day! Stranger still, in the dream--tho' we were in the middle of nowhere in the country--and my aunt's house was supposedly just down the way (tho' it couldn't be seen in the dream)--but the tornado was between us and safety--so I dived into a hollow--- a hollow made of grass, like a hole in the earth--and mum dived in after me--and the tornado was on top of us, you could hear it screaming, and the grass was all bent down, and we were yelling and grabbing the earth, but the tornado was sucking us in...woke up in a cold sweat, and couldn't sleep again for nearly a half hour, after---had this terrible premonition that something truly horrible is going to happen to me, sometime soon--very, very disturbing dream.

Shortly before the tornado dream, I dreamed I was in some school auditorium, watching a concert--sort of like the old Lawrence Welk show--a bunch of namby-pamby fluffly/frilly girls on stage, singing campy old songs.

Honestly, I'd be happy if I never had dreams at night. Got enough weirdness and bad vibes in my life, personally speaking.

Sometimes--well, lots of times, lately, I feel like I'm just a fallen leaf, floating along on the currents of life, forced to follow whatever direction the currents choose to take me in--powerless, drifting, striving to stay afloat, and not get stuck in life's gutter with the rest of the flotsam.

No matter how hard, it seems, I've tried to change my direction towards the positive, it's like life just insists on pushing me back towards the negative--and at this stage of the game, quite frankly, I'm pretty much worn down with trying to fight it.

And there's been, most recently, a nasty side-effect to this wearing down of my spirit--I'm becoming a recluse. I am getting so, I don't even want to leave the house to go shopping or to do laundry or much of anything. I find that a bit daunting, realizing that. I need a catalyst to get me out of this deep well I'm plunging into, but...I'm at a loss as to how--I've been so incredibly beaten back by life in the past year--and it's catching up to me, now, I think, and I'm not handling it as well as I should. I think this latest injury has done far more harm to my weary soul, than it ever physically harmed my foot. I am shutting myself away, cloistering myself behind four walls--even the internet is losing its attraction to me, reading, probably Dr Who as well, soon...and it has me flattened--I don't know how to get myself awake and feeling alive again. Just don't know...

I like this photo. It bears a remarkable resemblance to one of the fields near my childhood home--minus the mountains in the background. We lived in the Upper Hudson Valley, about a 15 or 20 minute drive from the heart of the capital city of Albany.

One gets impatient, this time of year, for true spring to begin in earnest. It's difficult to find the beauty, when the world still seems to be bare and stark with winter colours.

But truly, at least in nature, beauty is everywhere, for those who choose to see it.

Even here in the city, right now, I look out my window at the winter-dreary landscape, and see things to admire--the way the barren branches of the tree outside my window bob and sway in the wind, the reddening tips of the just-now budding branches, contrasting with the bright green fungus and dark moss on the gray and silver trunk...oh and the wooly stormy clouds, being chased by the quickening west wind, across the tall Victorian house-tops, over the needle-like spire of the Presbyterian cathedral down the way, finding their path to the nearby mountain tops...

VERMONT SPRING BY ERIC SLOAN

Well, it's half past five in the morning, and I can't sleep. Between the pain in my foot and my fever (I seem to have picked up some sort of minor illness), I just can't sleep to save my life--so, I decided sitting at my computer is more productive than spending yet another hour tossing and turning. Mind you, I really don't mind, usually, being up at half-past five, heaven knows I've done it often enough in my life--even earlier, for some jobs I've had--for my brief stint as a breakfast chef for the local Holiday Inn, I had to be to work by four in the morning, as a stablehand, my day began promptly a six, in winter, seven in summer. At the Saratoga casino/racetrack, one day a week I had to start at half past six, and of course, when we lived up in Lake Luzerne, to get to my morning class at my four-year college, fifty plus miles away in Vermont, I had to leave by 6.30. And I also had to drive my late mum down the mountain to the dialysis centre by half past six in the morning, Saturdays during the school year, and three days a week during summer break. When I was a teen, during the summer months, I often got up a 4am, just to watch the gorgeous sunrise, over the hills on the other side of the Hudson River--not all the time, mind you, mostly in early summer. I've gotten up at the crack of dawn to go hiking or fishing, or for traveling (road trip) as well.

Even now, I'm sitting here, watching the western sky turn from black to a pale blueish gray. I can now make out the outlines of the trees lining the street--maple, pine, oak, ash. The crows are cawing, sometimes. Funny, this part of the city seems to have far more crows than pigeons.

I've been doing, starting last night, a phone survey for a college, and I realized, sitting there in my cubicle, how sorely I miss the classroom--each day was a new adventure, to me...well, mostly. Gotta' admit, computer class was a bit of a trial, to me. But I do miss it a great deal. I miss having a hobby, miss having someone to talk to or go somewhere with, miss going on drives or to yard sales and auctions, miss my extremely dysfunctional family. I miss the cats I had to put to sleep in November--especially my Red--he was my very best animal friend for over 17 years, putting him down still isn't sitting well with me, months later.

I try hard not to think about all the loss I've suffered, try everyday just to keep going on with my life, try to bury the pain, to pretend it happened--continues to happen--to someone else, that I'm just the same person that I ever was--but, I'm not. Some days the facade slips woefully, and the pain inside nearly overwhelms me, doubles me over with grief and bitterness and sheer sorrow. Most days, these last few months though, I'm just numb.

Well, going to make an attempt to go back to bed for an hour or so. One of the advantages of working nights, is that I can sleep in without guilt.

MOON OVER INDIAN LAKE, ADIRONDACK MTNS, NEW YORK

Well, the end of a long night. Listening, alternately, to The Proclaimers, the Doctor Who Soundtrack, and The Music of The Great Smokey Mountains. Got Boots lying across the back of the chair, with my shoulders holding his rather broad backsides in place--makes me a bit nervous, that--'cause should I lean forward suddenly, he sometimes slips and grabs the first thing handy: my shoulders!

Arghh!!! The drunk across the hall is trying to make his dog "sing" again...every flipping night at midnight--damn, this is getting old. The guy thinks it's cute...I like dogs, but I really hate this nonsense of barking, singing elderly Bassett hound every flippin' night. I once said this guy's a few fries short of a Happy Meal--make that missing a hamburger, sometimes, as well.

Gah! Got an e-mail tonight in my box, when I came home. It was from a "visitor" to my website, chastising me thoroughly for "being mean" to David Tennant! Oh yeah, yours truly got taken to task for my Dr Who jokes and joshing about Mr "Teninch." I was told that "David would be very hurt when he reads..." (my blog entries pertaining to him), and I should "be very ashamed" (that I'm "being mean.")!

Wha???? Is there a full moon over there in the U.K.? I happen to think he's a lovely actor, honestly, truly I do. I'm just kidding around. And besides, David Tennant, in a zillion years, is NEVER going to read my blog, so what the heck difference does it make to him what I write?

I imagine the man has a very full life, and has better things to do than read some 46 year old, old-maid American chav's blog, ey? I mean, if it were otherwise, I'd be truly flummoxed and gobsmacked. I doubt even his dentists secretary's second-cousin would read my blog...My word, what planet this "visitor" hail from, Planet Nutso? Don't get me wrong, I think it's nice to be read--what amateur writer doesn't? But for pity's sake, get some perspective!

Back in the summer, on a now-defunct blog, I was getting some guy, actually claiming to BE David Tennant--and the language on him! I know a guy in a nearby small town, who used to be a merchant marine, didn't use the language this ersatz Tennant person used! Wow--that was a trip! Finally managed to block his e-mails after about a month or two. I eventually abandoned that blog partly because of this guy, or teenager, or whatever. The weird thing is, at the time, I'd only mentioned Tennant maybe twice, briefly. Oh, I've had other odd responses, from time to time--mostly rugrats looking for the wrong kind of attention--but that fake actor, that was a bit too..odd, for my tastes.

So, I left a "time-call" with Tri-County cabs at quarter past nine, for a 10 pm pick up at my office building--they were a no-show...I called at eight after ten, and got, "He's not there yet?" Ummm--DOH...no, I've left my cab waiting outside the building so I could limp, back inside to the security desk, to ring you back up and tell you that he's not there. Told him to cancel. Hobbled across the street to the little store, and rang up the rival cab company--they were there in 5 minutes. Cripe! I could've hobbled home on my crutch faster than the blinkin' cab! Would've done, too, if my foot wasn't so dang sore. My life sucks, don't it tho'?

I'm thinking Flame is going into heat--she's been super friendly and happy-skippy all day--and while she's loving at times, and playful--mostly she's pretty aloof. Some days, she's just happy, seemingly for no reason as well, tho',--so, no idea. She's rolling around on her back in front of the big cast iron radiator under the front windows, right now.

RED TAIL HAWK

I've seen two people today, carting pussy-willows about, so despite the snowy, wintry weather, spring is struggling to make itself known--more robins showing up, and surprisingly, I actually heard a red-winged blackbird, today...strange, because they tend to prefer marshy places in the country, and I'm only 4 blocks from the city's downtown. The nearest water is about a half-mile south--the Hudson River--, and about a quarter mile north is the small pond in the city's Crandall Park, and there's remnants of the old Feeder Canal, here and there in the city--but not really a place one expects to hear a marsh bird--but then, I've seen a red-tail hawk and a turkey buzzaard soaring over the city, as well--we're only a few miles from the mountains, so it's not that unusual, I suppose. I've seen whitetail deer and wild turkeys, less than 3 miles from the city line. Seeing the hawk was great--even if it was for only the wink of an eye--how I love them! Can't tell you how many countless hours I spent, as a young teen-into my 20's, watching red tail hawks soar over my little part of the Upper Hudson Valley--beautiful!

So, a cold wet rainy night, but it's reasonably warm in here. Time for me to feed the cats, turn out the lights and hit the hay. Cheers!

NIGHT SKY, SPRINGFIELD, VERMONT

Someone who knows how desperately moi needs her Dr Who "fix," kindly found me a link to a couple of clips from the latest episode.

Gah--I do love Who. I know it sounds pretty daft, but I watch it, and for the brief space of time, I forget my emptiness, my pain and loneliness, I forget the horrors of the past year or so--and I smile, I laugh with joy. I know it's just a TV show--but for me, it's so much more. It's a lifeline, a thread--not unlike this blog--that helps me get through just one more day, one more month of my life. Naff as it is, I suppose, it's my only "escape" in this life.

But this last clip-even tho' is pure fiction--was honestly, a little hard to watch. The actor may have just been reading lines written by someone else--but the feelings conveyed in the script, in the actor's performance--they so very much mirror my own experience.

Tho' I do still have a sister and nephew, a few aunts, uncles and cousins--none of whom I ever see--a few, my sister and one cousin on mum's side, will contact me every three or four months--but in-between, there's no one here. Oh, as I've mentioned, I've internet friends, whom I cherish--and friends abroad whom I've never met, but whom I love dearly, and are my best friends--but here, no. There's just the cats. Even at work, surrounded by coworkers, I'm often alone. And now that I'm stuck in the city, I don't even have much in the way of nature, for my comfort any longer.

Yes, the Doctor's little speech, it really hits much too much close to home:

My life: pictures speaking louder than words--

I can't get those images of David Tennant naked out of my head--especially the one where he's wearing nothin' but the helment, his little ding-dong out there, swaying in the breeze...(shudder)...I keep wanting to shout, "DON'T LOOK ETHEL!!!"

Yeah, ever since I've seen those piccys, I can't get that old 1970's song, The Streak, out of my head:

(Ray Stevens)

Hello everybody, this is your action news reporter
With all the news that is news across the nation
On the scene at the super market
There seems to have been some disturbance here
Pardon me sir, did you see what happened?
Yeh, I did...I was standing over there by the tomatoes
And here he come
Running thru the pole beans, thru the fruits and vegetables
Naked as a jay-bird
And I hollered over at Ethel...Isaid don't look Ethel
It was too late, she'd already been incensed...

Ethel, where you going?
Ethel, you shameless hussy
Say it isn't so Ethel
Ethel..................

There are moments, these days, when my life becomes so still, so stagnated, that it feels almost like I'm already in the grave.

I look out these windows, and watch the remnants of the nor'easter's weirdly formed wind-whipped clouds getting chased through clearing skies, by vicious winds, those raging winter zephyrs that have ice in their teeth and refuse to let go.

There was a time, I'd be out there. I'd be standing on a hill or beside the water, just looking, feeling, letting the sheer freedom of the wind and the sharp cold air tear through my soul and cleanse away my doubts and sorrows.

But no more. So often these days, my life feels like a book whose pages have turned blank and meaningless halfway through. I was asked, recently, what dreams I had. Used to be, I had a ready answer--but no more. I woke up this morning, and came to the unpleasant conclusion that my dreams have all died--withered away. I'm not sure when that happened. I wish I could find myself again, for I seem to have become lost. I'm like a person who's stuck in a lift in a deserted building--can't go up, can't go down--just...stuck. And, quite frankly, after all that has happened this last year and a half or so, I've not the energy to find my out, anymore.

Actor David Tennant in the new reality programme, "Strip Ten Pin Bowling"--obviously he lost this round.

So, so far I've had no less than nine requests for photos of Scots actor David Tennant, naked. Okay, not something that I keep lying around--except in my recycle bin...but, what the heck. Personally, I think he looks about ten times better with his clothes on--providing he's shaved and combed, that is.

You know, tho', the man might have his uses, rude. I mean, if a lighthouse goes out on the Scottish coast, they could always pay him to stand his way-too-white body on the edge of cliff and shine a spotlight on him.

"I'm telling you again, Russell, I'm not doing a rude version of Dr Who!"

It's sometimes quite hard, being alone. You do your best to cope, to not think too much about one's lack of human contact.

Still, there are some places inside you, some moments in the quiet time, in the evening when the dark dripping world outside is still, and the four white walls of your room seem as sterile and lifeless as a sheet over a corpse.

And you realize, sitting there in your chair, looking out at the blackness of night, and you see past the darkness into the empty void of your own heart. You start to question who you are, where you are going. You begin to question your own reality, as it were.

Your past--the great joys and the plain vanilla moments of simple pleasures that you so often took for granted--you know they are gone, pretty much forever. And sometimes it can seem as if it had all been some distant dream, something that had happen to someone else, perhaps.

When I sit here, alone in my room, knowing the hard fact that if I should not wake in the morning--no one would know. No one would come to check on me. Even at work, surrounded by other employees, I actually do sit alone, most days. Only rarely do they speak to me. I hear them laughing and kidding around amongst themselves--and I feel like I'm an invisible wraith--someone who's there, but not there. And it has often been this way. I won't varnish myself, I'm not much of a person, I suppose. Sometimes I'm lead to wonder if that nicely scented body spray that I use, is in reality, a human being repellent--well, it is the cheap stuff.

And, being alone has its plus sides: I can walk around with nothing but my nightshirt on and no one will tell me to put some jeans on. I can make dinner at one in the morning, or stay up all night and write, or sleep late. I can watch or listen to, whatever I want. After having had my mum living with me in close quarters for over ten years, I'm almost ashamed to admit, that sometimes it's nice not having to wake at 5am on a Saturday to drive mum down to the dialysis centre at half past six in the morning, or to have her nag me to pick my shoes up off the floor, or get cross with me for staying up all night writing or studying. Still...I sorely miss her. I miss sharing a laugh, cooking for her, taking about politics, a movie or even just the crazy weather. I miss the kiss goodnight on the cheek, the hug when I'm sad, the smile--that lovely, brilliant smile--to encourage me through a hardship, or when I've accomplished something. I don't miss, however, being told to clean my room--nag, nag, nag, ha-ha.

But, jokes aside, sometimes, like when I am alone with nature, or merely sitting up in bed in the quiet wee hours reading a good book-- the landscape that is my life, is beautiful in it's loneliness. But more often than not, of late, the landscape that is my life seems cold and bitter and made of clay and autumn weeds and storm-tossed clouds.

CHAPTER 7: Stuffed and Mounted?

The Doctor looked at the Dalek with repugnance. “What are you staring at? Fat lot of good you are.” He muttered, as he flopped down on the sofa and decided to take a nap. He may be on display, but he wasn’t about to show off for a bunch of Snoddish tourists. A young girl in a pink toga came up to the glass and tapped on it. The Doctor turned and smiled at her, only to have a flash go off in his face. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his sunglasses and put them on. "No autographs, thanks." The Doctor muttered. Yawning, he stretched out on the sofa, hands behind his head. In seconds, he was snoring.

I was kidding around on a Who fan website, about the fact that makeup seemed to have put lipstick on David Tennant, and then I had added that while I can get used to all the weirdness that's cropped up since the eighties: ladies tattoos, male earrings and "man purses," that I am old fashioned, and still think it's the guy who should come home with lipstick on his collar, and not us women.

So, I get a query from one of the adult forum members, "what's a man purse?"

So, from a whimsical discussion on Doctor Who's lovely shade of lipstick, the topic degenerated into a discussion of "man purses."

Seems a lot of people had never heard of "man purses." So I actually had to go and explain what a man purse was. But a certain party is--while a super nice person--literally a bit...well..thick, This person often gets their mind stuck on one thing, and repeatedly asks the same question--despite being repeatedly given the answer--very annoying!) So I had to go in and give examples and illustrations. Geez--I hate it when you are having a light discussion, and one person pops into it and starts taking one thing you said seriously--and gets into 20 questions about something trivial that really doesn't matter one whit, and basically takes all the fun out of the whole thing, with their one-track-mindset seriousness. Don't get me wrong, like the person--but , gah! This person honestly drives me bonkers with their rather blatant refusal to move on with the conversation. It's like when one of my vinyl records gets a scratch in it--plays the same notes over and over? Gah!

Oh, it's such a delight, living in northeastern New York--the weather is so lovely here!
After all, it's spring, right? Right? Ummm--maybe not.

LOCAL WEATHER FORECAST FOR SUNDAY AND MONDAY, 15TH & 16TH OF APRIL (I'm in the "Adirondack" part, by the way.):

Cloudy Skies, Some Light Rain or Snow Showers Overnight

Now the heavy rain will mix with and switch over to wet snow along with more sleet Sunday evening into Sunday night. This will be caused by colder air being funnelled into the region with a strong northerly wind, which at times could gust up over 40 mph. The combination of heavy precipiation and very gusty winds will make travel difficult on the roads and at the airports. Where heavy wet snow does fall, the weight of it combined with the wind could bring down some power lines.

ISN'T NEW YORK STATE LOVELY IN APRIL?

Next-to-last chapter of my Dr Who short story

CHAPTER 6: What's in a Name?

The Doctor was not impressed. “Ohh--now who’s being,” he made quotes in the air with his fingers, “theatrical?” He paced in front of the tall man. “The thing is, you see, I figure if you don’t want me to know your name, you must have a very strong reason for that, ey? What is it then? Planetary authorities don’t know about your little hobby? Bet they wouldn’t like that, no siree-bob, I just bet they wouldn’t. Shut you down, maybe even toss you in your own little cage…” He turned and stood in front of the man. “You can tell me, I’m right, aren’t I? Huh? Huh?” The Doctor noted the frown on his captor’s face with an inner satisfaction. “Aww--I can see I am.” He shrugged, “Then again, I’m almost always right. After all, as you say, I am a Time Lord.”

The sign on the fish and chip shop today, made me think of how bad the human race's communications skills can truly be, sometimes.

Here's some signs from both the UK and USA:

* n a Birmingham department store: Bargain basement upstairs.
* In a Norwich office: Would the person who took the step ladder yesterday please bring it back Or further steps will be taken.
* In an Swindon office: After tea break staff should empty the teapot and stand upside down on The draining board.
* Outside a Chester secondhand shop: We exchange anything - bicycles, washing machines, etc. why not bring Your wife along and get a wonderful bargain?
* In a Leicester laundromat: (on the washing machines) please remove all your clothes when the Light Goes out.
* Spotted in a Longleat safari park: Elephants! Please stay in your car.
* Seen during a Blackpool conference: For anyone who has children and doesn't know it, there is a day care on The first floor.
* Notice in a field in Wiltshire: The farmer allows walkers to cross the field for free, but the bull Charges.
* Message on a leaflet in reading: If you cannot read, this leaflet will tell you how to get lessons.
* On a repair shop door in Newcastle-on-Tyne: We can repair anything. (please knock hard on the door - the bell Doesn't work.
* On a Loo door: Toilet doesn't work, use the floor downstairs.

In the USA:

In a hospital cafe: Hospital Policy is to refuse service to hospital patients.
n church marquee: Honey I Shrunk the Sermon
On door of small restaurant: Out to lunch
Sign in front of bankrupt store: We Undersold Everybody.
In a tailor shop: For quick alterations, drop your trousers here.
At a motel: Our housekeeper will give you quick service
In a US government safety brochure: If you have set yourself on fire, do not run!
On a businesses broken door: Door will not open. It is locked.
A sign on former chruch mission window: We've Moved! We are now located near the corner of Seaman and Cumming streets.
A sign in front of a barber shop: Do not park here. The last guy who did is now bald.
In a hospital maternity ward: No children allowed
In a funeral palor's casket room: Ask about our layaway plan.
At a mortgage brokers: Ask about our plans to own your own home
In the window of a store: Why go anywhere else and be cheated, when you can come here?
On a restaurant sign: Open 7 days and weekends too
In a cemetery: Persons are prohibited from picking flowers on anything but their own graves.

ONLY IN AMERICA:

I've a cold coming on, and felt a bit out of sorts, today--to prove my point, I saw a co-worker in the grocers and asked, "Did you work today?" DOH! She not only worked today, she sits two seats down from me! Time to go home, have my dinner and Starbuck's mocha frappachino ice cream bar, chat with my DW frineds, have a nice cup of my favourite lemon tea--and go to bed! We've a huge storm that's going to be stalled over us for a couple of days--snow, sleet, freezing rain and just plain pouring rain--good time to start a cold, ey? Ah well..I'm back to working nights this week, my three main bills--phone, internet and Natl Grid gas/electric are paid for another month--found a tee shirt on sale today for half price--6 dollars. It's nice too, beige cowboy tee, with wild horse running across it. Went through my summer wardrobe while laid up--not thrilled.

I'm down to about 3 or 4 decent tees--most of my tees are 2 to 7 years old, and stained or holey or just plain faded and threadbare, so I am keeping my eye peeled for bargains this spring. Can't afford much--but I just got the last of my tax refunds, yesterday, and I put aside 25 percent of this last small refund for clothing--the rest going into my emergency fund--thankfully that puts my fund back up to a nice level (it was down to 70 dollars, because of my medical expenses with the two falls recently), so that's a huge relief. So far, I've been cautious with the clothes money--I got a pair of cheap jeans for 16 dollars, the cowboy tee for 6 at the local farm store, and a plain red ladies tee for 5 dollars at WalMart, and a pair of brown ladies dress socks for 1 dollar--and I treated myself to some Chinese takeaway the other night, because my foot for some reason, was too swollen for me to stand and cook. I have 19 dollars left, but I'm putting it in a drawer for safekeeping--save it for the end of next month, when the Memorial Day sales are on.

Well, I'm told that my income dropped, so I can keep my April disability cheque. So the rent's paid for, as well. Which is a huge weight off my mind--I won't get much pay, next week, as I worked less then 20 hours, due to my injury. This is the first time, since 1991, that I'd taken more than 2 days off from work for an injury. Not even last year, when on this same foot, I'd sprained my ankle and fractured my metatarsil, did I take more than 2 days off--and I was working on my feet all night! (Well, since I was the casino complex's only office cleaner, I was told that if I took more than a couple of days off, I'd be replaced--so I didn't exactly have a choice, did I?)

Well, off to bed in another half-hour. I'm frightfully tired, not sure why. I slept very late this morning--nearly to 10.00 am! I don't like oversleeping, I'd rather go to bed early than sleep late...but I have to admit, I love it when I don't have to set my alarm in the morning--feel like I'm indulging myself, ha-ha.

Doctor Who short story:

CHAPTER 5: The Doctor Sings

As promised, the Doctor’s suit was delivered to him after only a few minutes had passed. A tall slinky female in a very brief lavender toga came to his cage, attended by a guard wearing a black tunic and an elaborate gold armored breastplate and gold helmet. He was also carrying a very lethal looking blaster in his hand. The two newcomers stood waiting outside the box. The Doctor decided to ignore them, and started singing instead.

The Doctor made a face. “Trophy? Trophy? Waal--I’ve been called a lot of things before, but a trophy? That sounds so…cheap. By the way, do you have a name--or shall I just start calling you, ‘hey you,’ or ‘zookeeper’ or ‘that guy with the bad haircut?’ leaning in closer he whispered, “Or perhaps there’s a reason to keep your name a secret, hmmm--?” The Doctor noted that he’d finally seemed to have pushed the man’s buttons. “You don’t need to know my name, Time Lord, because you’re never going to leave here…not even in death!”

Okay, Glens Falls, New York is a bit--well, too American. I mean, not a lot of intellectuals here (Most Americans abhor "culture")--not being insulting at all, just...realistic.

Here's a prime example of a typical Glens Falls "DOH" moment:

As the cab I was in was driving past the city's one and only chippy (Pictured above), I noticed something in the window--a huge white poster--took up a big section of the middle of the front window--and lettered in big black letters, was the message: "CLOSED DUE TO SICKNESS."

I mean, is that really a sign a restaurant owner wants to post in his front windows?

Actually, I've eaten there, worst fish fry joint in all of upstate New York--and I've eaten in a lot of them in a lot of places.

It's Saturday. Yippee. I have to work today, but only 2 hours, and I can go in whenever I want--in this case 1 or 2 pm.

My schedule--ha, like I've ever been able to do all I need to--taxi's service sucks in this city, usually, and it can be upwards of 30 to 45 minutes, just to get a cab to where you want to go--and if that's more than one place, like today--good luck with that!

So, today--have to go to Tractor Supply to get some flea stuff for the cats--found a flea one, a couple of days ago.

Next, the one-dollar store.

Next (If I've time) Price-chopper supermarket to pay the cable, electric and phone bills, and get cat food and a couple of groceries.

Next, back up to rush and change (if I'm very lucky)--and/or off to work.

Very exciting Saturday, yes?

Doesn't sound like much--and with your own transport, it's not, really--but those stinking cabs--they take forever...and sometimes the drivers are a bit thick, and don't even see you waving your arms like an idiot to get their attention--and they drive right on past you, or park far away from where you are actually waiting. And, many of them are quite rude, as well.

Last night, I got charged double fare!!! This under the premise that I had a stop in the opposite direction of where I was going...Bull!!! Just two weeks ago, I got out of work, went to the drug store (chemists) ALSO in the "opposite" direction, and was only charged 75 cents extra! What a load of horse pucky! So, I'm going to mention that as well, when I see the mayor--that's just not right. I was quite angry...the driver got all defensive--and I told him outright that it wasn't his fault, but the driver kept going on at me, for being upset--so I'm thinking, maybe, the driver knew I was getting screwed over as well.

Well, no more business for Tri-county cabs from me, then--diddle me once, and I'll be damned if I'm going to bend over and say, "Hey do that again, will you?"

My typing's been awful, lately! It's driving me nuts, making so many stupid mistakes. I know it's partly that I can't see what I'm typing (no computer desk--the keyboard's in my lap, and the screen is more than 2 feet away, sitting up on a small antique dresser--and with my very poor eyesight, can't hardly see the screen---plus this lousy Firefox can't seem to keep up with my typing! Arrgh!! I hate that!!!! It's a MAJOR FLAW with Firefox, as far as writing's concerned. The stinking cursor just doesn't work well-and I'd get rid of this lousy Firefox--but IE is much, much worse, in that it keeps kicking me out of the internet. Firefox does, too, sometimes, but only once in a rare while.

Poet Lorna Greene's beloved Mt. Ascutney, in Reading, Vermont.

When she was just 4 years old, a young girl named Lorna Greene penned her first poem (according to a note by her mother):

Doggie sat in bow of boat;
Captin telled him to stare.
Doggie said, How you say vat--
W'en I know po-wite-te-ness?

Lorna was a well-traveled young woman--grew up on the Jersey shore in the post-Victorian era. Spent many happy hours at her family's farm in Vermont, traveled to London and other parts of Europe. Lorna adored her life in Vermont--riding, driving about in her trusty Austin, hiking, farm chores...she loved, as well, traveling to New York City, London, and other world cities. She loved classical music, but most of all--she loved poetry--spending hours labouring over choosing just the right word for one of her poems.

She died young--in her early 20's, just after graduating college, in a tragic car wreck, while journeying with some friends through her beloved Vermont mountains, in 1927--my mum was 1 year old, then. Strangely enough, Lorna--I swear--looks remarkably like--me. There's a picture of her, in the book: same hairstyle, similar eyeglasses, pose, similar dress...it's a bit uncanny, actually...tho' the resemblance isn't that strong.

There were less than a 100 copies of this book ever printed--a year following her death--and as far as I know, there are less than 10 still in existence...I feel honored to have mine--which was found at a local yard sale, many years ago.

Without ado, the works of young Lorna Greene:

A MOMENT IN LIFE

Dim mountains laid on sky,
Ascutney bold of outline against the drifting clouds,
Soft folds of yellow hill lapping into woods;
A cloud shadow carelessly blackening mellow valleys---
Nature in one touch reveled her wonder,
A whitethroat sang his ode!

I dedicate this poem that I am about to publish on my blog to a certain very special friend--you know who you are, dear friend (I've come to cherish you in these last 7 months or so)--this one's for you!

UNBEKNOWN ( To M. W. M.)

You never knew what delight
You gave a lonely heart that day.
You were tired and worn with the cares of this world,
Yet you opened your doors to me and talked---
Talked as if I was a person of importance.
You took me from my morbid troubles,
You lifted me to the heights,
And all the time you knew it not.

Flower of modesty that you are,
You never guessed what pleasure
The soft green folds of your gown,
With its slender graceful lines,
Gave to me who was so hungry
For the graces and the willowy pleasures of life.
Your eyes filled with understanding sympathy
Stirred my soul from its world of work and longing.

Shelburne, Vermont--a scene pretty much today, as Lorna would have seen it.

Here's a personal favourite (I have several):

FAMILIAR PLACES

The sleet against the window-pane,
The howling of the wind around the corners--
How I love to sit on my hill
And watch the storm across the valley.

There is no place a storm makes so sweet
As my house with its own familiar view.
If I am in unknown land in a storm
I long to get beyond those eclipsing curtains.

I want to see the far-off horizon,
And all that the eye can picture.
A storm sweeping against strange tree-tops
Brings no thrill to me with its beauty.

But when I see the dooryard cherry trees
And the line of wall struggling up the hill,
When I know each hollow and every stream
Between me and the last hill, then I am content.

I HAVE GONE

I have gone, I have gone
To the sky,
And all the world
Laughs with me in trembling
Ecstasy.
I float on rose-capped peaks;
The mutter of thunder below,
But above is the blue and love,
And I shall soar there,
Until those mounting purple clouds
Cover me again in gloom.

TRANSLUCENT

Down, down, through the waves of sleep
I dropped into caves of slumber.
A cloak of dreamland slipped over me,
I was gone from the vicissitudes of life,
I was in a land of color.
The flickery firelight faded
Into nothingness.
In my head
The purr of the cat, hanging on a thread,
Snapped.
I was free.

A rattle of wood on brick roused me,
Smoke filled my eyes,
Hot leather made a stench in my nostrils.
A blazing log was at my feet.
Gone were my visions;
The room, the cat the tumbled fire
Brought me to the material,
Which I had dreamed was so far away.

C'EST MOI

Dark, empty, stupid--
Tall, that's me.
Hair slicked back like an onion
Just out of the garden.

Always fishing,
Always hoping,
Always receiving,
Never deserving,
That's me.

What do I do?
Nothing!
Except talk,
Eat, and spin satire.
What a life--
with hair four feet long.

Pumpkin Field, Fort Ann, NY

My soul was rent with discord and hurry,
My heart by an appeal
Unanswerable
Because it concerned the mind of another.
I cursed myself,
The world,
And the fact of life.

Then I climbed a hill.
The sun
Showered a spray of gold
Through yellow-leaved trees
Into the valley below.
It dipped behind blue hills.

I woke from my bitterness.
I chided myself for my gloom.
As the last light from the sun
Gave way to purple shadows on earth,
His gold was in my heart.

Another dear favourite of mine--I took this book to the Netherlands with me. On my last night there, while waiting for my dinner to arrive in a nice little place called "The Laughing Cow," I read this poem. For the first time, the words--the sounds of the words, the mood--struck a real chord with me, as I remembered my childhood home in my own valley--and how I used to dream of going to foreign countries...but loved my own land and home, most of all. (Though I'd in reality, not lived in my childhood home, at the time, for 19 years--and yes, my house was on a hill, of sorts)

MY GRAY HOUSE

Not even the zest of
Exploring foreign lands,
Not even the sea itself,
Huge and blue and sparkling,
Can smear the smart
In my heart
When I think of my house
On the hill.

I want to go,
I want to stay--
The house never says no,
It sits on its hill,
And the pink flowers flutter
Over its old gray sides.

MUSIC AND WATER

The silver Thames flickered
Shadow and sun-color
Outside my window.
A tree flung its leaves
In flowering patterns
Ont he gleaming surface
Of river and sky.

Chopin's fluttering notes
from below
Sent my emotions dancing
Like the leaves of the tree.
Swans making endless movement
On the flapping water,
Bobbled over the light and dark
Of the sheeny river.
And all the time
Music cast its spell over me
Like the tide rushing on the mud flats.

The quick pant of the thing kept on,
The river had changed to ominous lead;
And I was blown on a torrent
Of rushing notes
Like swans by the tide
Of the river of mystery.

This is another favourite--one I've read many times.

SPLENDORS THAT FADED

A burst of sun-glory
that made pink magic
of soft-topped woods,
And torches of their trunks;

The sun, worn with his day,
Dipped behind a cloud--
The woods were drab and bare!
Like the heart,
When after a great moment
One stands once more
Up to the drudgeries of life,
And wonders, with a sigh,
How this soul,
Concerned with dish-washing,
Could lift itself to rose-capped peaks.

CHAPTER 4: The Zoo

The Doctor backed away from the glass, the cold sweat of pure fear beading his brow. Dimly, through the glass, he heard the familiar word. “EXTERMINATE! EXTERMINATE!” The creature raised its gun and…nothing. Nothing happened, but that the Dalek bumped ineffectually up against the see-through wall. Realizing that the Dalek was unarmed, the Doctor grinned ruefully. He stalked up to the glass, leaned in and pressed both hands against it, coming literally nose to nose with his most frightening enemy. Imitating a certain American movie idol, he said, “Go ahead Dalek. Make my day.” He laughed and skipped backwards. “Ha!” He chanted like a young child, “I’m in here, and you’re in there, and you can’t touch me! Ha-ha-ha, ha-ha-ha!”

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “So, what you’re saying is, I’m in a private zoo?” “In a manner of speaking, Doctor. Although, I wouldn’t be so crude as to call it that.” The man turned and walked away. “I’ll have one of the guards give you back your attire momentarily. Feeding time is in one hour.” Staring at the ceiling, the Doctor asked, “Is it chips? I love chips.” “Chips? Oh, yes, an ancient earth food. I suppose that could be managed.” Before going through the door, he turned and faced the doctor. “Oh, and I wouldn’t try to escape, if I were you. The glass is pressure sensitive. Too much pressure against it and a particle beam is discharged. I’d hate to lose another specimen, especially the last of a species.” The Doctor’s face retained the bored look, but his eyes darkened with anger. The man inserted a card in a slot by the doorway. The door slid open and closed behind him. The Doctor sighed. He had to get out of here…but how?

I try not to let things in the outside world (meaning, things not directing effecting my life--or only marginally effecting it) get to me, too much. After all, I'm one person, without any financial means to speak of, no "connections," no standing in my community, whatsoever. I'm just..no one.

But I have a mind, I have a heart, I have..a vocabulary.

I gotta' say tho', that I really find it quite irksome, the way people outside this country, think we're all fat, smug, rich Americans. Yeah--only about half--the other half are struggling just to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads.

In America, you don't have to be poor to be hungry. 45 percent of households reporting hunger, had incomes OVER the poverty level.

The social system in the USA is badly broken--and rather than fix it, the Bush administration has done nothing but weaken it--this from a president who claims to be devoutly Christian. Sure, he put in more funding for the homeless--but took away a greater amount of funding from food assistance, job training and low-income housing programmes. So, the poor are still losing ground.

If we're so fabulously rich, folks, why are the thousands of free food pantries--run by towns, churches and community agencies, here in New York state, having such a hard time keeping up with demand-some limit access to one or two bags of groceries per month--some, in bigger towns, limiting access to free food pantries to once ever two or three months? Because, the demand for food by families, seniors and the disabled is too great.

In America, you don't have to be jobless to live at or below the poverty line. I worked full=time last year--worked hard, was bent over double in pain some nights--but, due to the huge cost of housing/transport to and from work--(public transport is not something the US has a lot of)--laundromat, utilities...there wasn't always enough left over for food--some weeks, I very much went hungry, or at best, had less then nutritious food to eat.

A lot of Americans are fat--because they are poor, and cheap food here is starchy, sugary and fatty. Healthy food--expensive. Fresh veggies, even in summer, can be quite high.

35 MILLION PLUS AMERICANS LIVE AT OR BELOW THE POVERTY LEVEL. Those are just the one's that are even counted.

40 MILLION PLUS AMERICANS HAVE NO HEALTHCARE. Many Americans--mostly the elderly and disabled, often much choose--LITERALLY--between eating and buying medicine they need for their illnesses.

April 3rd, 2007 by Dr. Amy K. Glasmeier

Recently released data from the Internal Revenue Service on income for 2005 show a significant rise at the upper end of the income distribution. In 2005 there was a very large increase in income concentration: the top 1% gained 14% in real terms from 2004 while the bottom 99% gained less than 1% (when including capital gains). Of particular interest, other than the top 1%, the rate of change for the rest of the nation’s income earners stagnated. It appears only the super rich continued to experience a growth in income between 2004 and 2005.

Recent Census estimates reveal that the population percentage considered severely poor has reached a 32-year high. Between 2000 and 2005, the percent living at half of poverty-level income increased by 26%. The descent into destitution spares no community or group in society. America’s urban, suburban and rural communities are all witnesses to the growth of what adds up to the “abject poor.”

No region is untouched by this growth in the number of truly poor. The 15.89 million abjectly poor Americans live predominantly in the South (6.5 million) followed by the West and the Midwest (3.5 and 3.1 million, respectively). States with the highest share of abjectly poor have historically had high poverty levels (e.g., the Delta, Appalachia and the U.S.-Mexico Border). The largest totals are, not surprisingly, in the biggest states, although Georgia and North Carolina are also a part of this august group. States with the fastest rate of growth are some unlikely places––Minnesota, New Hampshire, Idaho, Maine, Michigan, Nevada and Wisconsin. Previously these states escaped the ranks of the worst in terms of social ills due to progressive policies, investments in education, and tolerant societies. Now even they must question their own policies toward the poor.

There is an American 'think tank" white neo-conservative borderline Nazi-ish organization , known as "The Heritage Foundation," who twists poverty around, denying its existance. A so-called "man" with a PhD saying that most "poor" Americans own their own homes, have air conditioners, cars, and live in bigger spaces than the average Londoner or Parisian. Makes it sound like we're living it up, ey? Yeah, well the foreclosure rate on homes is at an all-time hight, the cost of transport to jobs is at an all-time high, and basically, low income wages are in the crapper--not keeping up with inflation--and, Londoners and Parisians have NHS--we have to PAY for our healthcare--large sums--hundreds and thousands--I'm still getting medical bills in the mail for my late mum! Last one was for 1,786 dollars--for ONE hospital test (she had hundreds in the course of the year)--and that's with the government paying for 3/4 of the bill! The Heritage Foundation very much views America's poor--very much so--the way the Nazi's viewed the Jews--and they use guys with PhD's to try to legitimize their viewpoints--the Heritage Foundation, by the way, has the strong support of George W. Bush--and is one of his main supporters, in turn.

Anyway, if I were rich? I would set up my own private food pantry--and let those whose needs are genuine, use it whenever they want. Of course, that will never happen, but hey, one can dream. And, I'd have the added knowledge of what to stock the pantry with--too many are run by well-meaning yuppies who stock their pantries with impractical items--hand out tuna but now bread, or spaghetti without spaghetti sauce, or boxed meals that require butter or milk to make it with--and often the recipient has no butter or milk. I've seen it lots of times--handing out food that's expired over 2 years ago--they don't check expiration dates--and neither do some of the well-intentioned people who, cleaning out a cupboard, just thoughtlessly give the stuff to the poor--without checking to see if the food is actually still edible! I once opened a jar and the food inside was so old, it had basically fossilized!

But, I'm not rich, and I won't be running any food pantries--and like the rest of the world, most of America is blind to the reality of American poverty--so, who cares, right?

I do. But...doesn't mean much, in the end, does it?

Well, I came home today, thought I'd relax, have a sandwich for lunch--tough day at the office, we're in the dregs of the collections call list, and people are really getting their collective danders up--my ear very much still hurts, from getting whistles blown in it, screamers--oh, lots of screamers, and phones slammed down hard.

Read some poetry out loud to the cats, from a rare book I have by a 1920's young Vermont poet--Boot's passed out unconcious on the radiator. Everyone's a critic!

By the way, I left additional comments on the BBC issue, under "Comments." Said mostly what I had to say, on the issue, but felt some additional comments were warranted, so if you want to hear more, just check out my last comments on the "King BBC" post. Thanks, cheers!

I don't believe this!!!

I'm a telemarketer, right? So, just a little past 9 the morning I get...a telemarketing call! And it's a wrong number!!! No, not that, anything but that, I'll talk!! )

Oh, I suppose it's poetic justice, ey?

At least I wasn't like this guy I got yesterday, who was foaming at the mouth like a human Cujo--"I am NOT _________! How dare you call me! Stop calling me...blah-blah-blah. When he finally ran out of steam, I calmly, in my most posh snobby voice (oh, yes, I can do posh snob every bit as well as redneck chav) "I do think sir, that a simple 'sorry wrong number' would have sufficed.--which left a bit of silence on the end--followed by my posher, "tho I've not actually phoned this number before, I will note that it is wrong, good day." These chav boors really get flummoxed by over-the-top polite snobbery, let me tell you--it's great fun--oh, I can be a little stinker, he-he.

Anyway, again the phone rings--twice in the same day? That's gotta' be a first--no really I've never had the phone ring, the whole time I've lived here, twice in the same day--let alone the same half-hour. But--after only a couple of rings, they hung up, so I guess it wasn't very important, ey? Probably another telemarketer/wrong number.

So, the big scuttlebutt burning up the Who forums is a tie between whether Dr Who gets married, and the Master returning.

Someone wrote to me the other day,"isn't it exciting that the Master's coming back?" I asked how she knew, she said, "Because."

Oh, that Mr. or Mrs. Because, surely gets around, ey? It seems this "Because" is the ultimate source of fact in the universe.

Ah, well. Let's just take the suspense out of everything. Personally, for all I know, this mysterious Mr. Saxon (oh gawd, yes, the "Saxon spotters" are out in full force, as well) may well be the Doctor's ex-wife's son's ex-lover's second-cousin by marriage, ey?

Well, BBC has been busy, not just on YouTube, but on their own Doctor Who site, as well, banning us Americans for seeing The Doctor, right, left and centre.

It's not just that we have to wait to see Dr Who in the USA, longer than nearly everyone else, it's more than that, much more. You folks in the UK, even Canada, are immersed in Dr Who. There's not just the New Dr Who series--there's Totally Dr Who (which I've never seen), Dr Who Confidential, Video Diaries, specials and fundraisers...maybe even things I not nothing about--outside of the main series, shown very late (Series 2 wasn't seen until last autumn, here), we get nothing. Even merchandise is withheld from us--either with a long delay, or not sent to us at all. If you are very lucky, you may find a couple of the novelizations in Borders bookstore, or maybe a local comic store might have a magazine...but for the most part, we're out in the cold--and the BBC could care not one whit. American Who fans are the BBC's rubbish, apparently.

Basically, when it comes to American fans, the BBC is like some great pompous overfed king, doling out crumbs from his beard to the starving masses.

So, radio talk show host Don Imus (who's show I've only heard once--and that was once too much) has been fired. His calling a ladies college basketball team, a bunch of "nappy-headed 'ho's," wasn't taken very well by many people. Do'ya think? Yeah, I wonder why.

What saddens and sickens me, it that many Americans--mostly men--think that what Imus said was perfectly okay, becauxe "he wasn't being serious."

Right. Correct me if I am wrong, but isn't calling any woman a whore--who isn't actually one--a terrible insult?

Okay, this is what one supervisor said to me yesterday--who, until now, I thought was a really nice young man---"Well, they call women ho's in rap music all the time." Yeah, which is why it's okay? I told him that calling any woman a whore is totally disrespectful, and just because it's in a rap song, does not justify the act. They talk about killing cops in rap songs, as well--does that make it okay to murder policemen?

Quite honestly, if any man, ANY man, ever called me a "ho,"--even in jest-- I would very much slap him upside the head--no hesitation. It is NOT okay, is was NEVER okay, and it will never be okay.

There is little American pride any more, for without honor, there can be no pride--and no honor without respect--they are all connected, regardless of whatever lame excuse these American boys may make, nowadays. And, most importantly--if you do not have at least some sense of respect for others--how can you truly have respect for yourself?

When did it become acceptable in this country to be totally disrepectful to total strangers? When will people wake up and realize, that if Americans have no respect for each other, they can never have respect from anyone else on the planet? When will enough be enough?

Here's the next chapter of a Dr Who short story written late last summer.

CHAPTER THREE: The Box

He awoke in near total darkness. The only light seemed to come from the bottom of a door far down a long hallway. Slowly a hand fumbled for his chest. Felt over one heart, then the other. “Well…both beating,” he muttered, “so I guess I’m not dead.” He felt his pockets for his sonic screwdriver, but his pockets were empty--in fact, he didn’t have pockets. A tactile inspection of his clothing confirmed that he seemed to be wearing something very much like a set of pyjamas. “Oh not again!” He moaned. He made a double check of his new wardrobe “What? Not even a Satsuma? How disappointing. Well…at least I’m not naked. Not like that time on Metabelis Three. Then again…I should have known better than to go to a cocktail party with triplets from Quixotica. ”

One of the Delaware & Hudson (D & H) trains that used travel the tracks, just down the hill from street I lived on for the first 23 years of my life. This one may well have rumbled past me, as I stood next to the tracks, you never know. It was an awesome thing, standing just a few feet from one of these big engines, waving at the engineer. Loved it--loved them. They're mostly gone now, went out of business in the 80's, just a few engines left on a few short scenic railways set up 'round here, for the tourist trade. Very sad--felt like I lost so much, in the 80's--not nearly as much as I lost in '05 and '06, certainly...but... In the 80's, Some of our neighbours moved, Montgomery Wards--who was a major employer in our village,as we had one of the largest stores on the eastern US coast there--they went under, as did the other two department stores in the village, my parents got divorced, our pets all died, my best friend died, and, of course, mum, because of lack of funds, was forced to sell my childhood home and I found myself living in a dead-ugly crowded suburb 15 miles away, in a whole other county--no, the early 80's were not kind to me. But every once in a while, I hear the diesel horn of a train engine--and it brings back such golden memories--and it momentarily drowns out the unhappy recollections with its harsh bellow.

Geez, I'm getting old, I swear. For the second night in a row, I came home from work, grabbed a packet of ice out of the freezer, and lay down on the bed with my foot up, to get the swelling down--and fell asleep.

So, while I was laid up, over the weekend and in the past week, with this wonky foot, I began the tedious and labour-intensive task of going through my late mum's genealogy papers--not of which are even in order anymore--and some things, sadly, are lost forever.

Wow, what an undertaking--not sure I'm up to the task, quite frankly--there are so many, many names. Mum came from a huge family, a very, very old New York state family--some of the first settlers in the United States, as a matter of fact. And some of these people had 10 or more children...it's just so...daunting. Mum spent something like 30 years, fidddling about with this thing...wow. I am not sure I can even do this--well, for one thing, I really don't know, entirely, who's who, quite frankly. I was told that I'm directly descended from the three gentlemen pictured above, and I know some of the stories (mum's early family were quite active, politically and commercially and otherwise...I know there was a poet in her family, but I've no clue who it was. I know that later in life, there were canal boatmen, a butcher and a blacksmith. That my grandfather and great-grandad on mum's side, where newspaper pressmen--that great-grandad at one time, was also a policeman...and had worked (or was it her father?) near the very cemetery, near the very street I grew up on--before mum was born--as a headstone cutter--mum has no idea why her grandfather had come to Albany from Hudson, NY and why they moved back to Hudson again.

I know I had an ancestor with Morgan's riflemen at the battle of Saratoga. That one of my other ancestors was a tory--converted to a patriot by having a pitchfork shoved in his bum, while hiding in a hayloft. Another--very distant--relation, a cousin of some sort, served on a whaling ship out of Hudson, NY and was shipwrecked at sea, and later eaten (after he'd died).

But I don't bloody well know how to sort all these literally hundreds of names and just as many hundreds of pages of notes out!

If I was rich, I could hire a professional genealogist--but, I'm quite poor, and libable to be in that state for a very long time to come--so...I'm a bit...flummoxed. At least for the moment.

A MODERN RE-ENACTOR, PORTRAYING A MEMBER OF MORGAN'S RIFLEMEN, AT SARATOGA NATIONAL HISTORICAL PARK (SARATOGA BATTLEFIELD, STILLWATER NY)

Okay, I posed this same query on a certain Whovian website, and most of them agreed with me.

I'm not saying that he's not some kind of Scottish he-man (but then again...) But really, look at the photo, David Tennant is wearing a lovely shade of lipstick here, is he not?

I mean, get a load of those luscious lips! He looks like he had a really GOOD time, the night before, ey? I bet those lips have every fangirl in England--and half the gays in Scotland, positively drooling.

I remember reading something someone sent me, last summer, about the rumor that Tennant likes to wear red, lacy knickers...hmmm--maybe?

YES!!! I'm looking at the snow falling on the upper branches of the tree outside my front windows--and two robins were flying around, chasing each other! Despite the wintry weather, the robins are back. It is now, officially, (to my mind) spring!!!

Gah! I was in a foul mood, when I got to work this morning! I was mad as an grumpy old bear with a bad tooth. First, I try to get out of my apartment building--only to find the landlord, who's a "flatlander" from down New York City way, took the snow shovels. What that means is, all that heavy wet snow that landed on the old slate roof of our building, when temps warmed up to just a smidgeon about freezing, slid down the roof and landed on the steps of the front porch--meaning, I couldn't even SEE the front steps! Me, with my "frankenshoe" and crutch--it was honestly like trying to walk down Mt. Everestt without a clue.

Then, I can hear the cabbie cursing me, then, I slip and turn my ankle--the one on the sprained foot--sideways--then, I finally make it to the cab--who parked as far away as he could, naturally--only to find the SOB parked right in a deep pile of snow and slush! Then, the miserable sod of a cabbie, says, once I get in the cab, "Took you long enough!" The bastard. We finally get to my building, and the jerk parks--not only in a small snowbank, but so close to the kerb, I can hardly get out of the cab! The louse--the guy was a total jerk. American manly pride? Ha! BS! No to tip for that rotten little F____. I was honestly ready to choke the lazy chav adolecent jackass. On top of that, I got a good-sized chunk of snow between my sock and the bottom of my open-toed medical show.

I was grumbling under my breath at the cab guy, going into my office building. The two people standing around, smoking outside, must've thought I was off my ever-lovin' nut.

I got into a much better mood, later, and shared some playful banter with some of my cubicle-mates. So, it kind of evened out, in the end. We had a lot of nutters on the phones today--and I rang up some places with odd names--a place in Georgia called "Buster Brown." Only in Georgia would they name a place after a brand of shoes. And I called a town called Wahzoo--which was in the northern mid-west. Gives a new meaning to the slang term, "up the old Wahzoo." If you've never heard that one....think about it...you'll probably figure it out.

Well, my last entry was a bit boring, wasn't it? More about the city of Glens Falls than anyone would ever would want--or perhaps, should want--to know. Sorry about that. I was bored. Dull people sometimes do dull things, can't be helped.

I was going to work late--but no work from 3 to 5, and I didn't feel like hanging about the office for 2 hours with naught to do. So, here I am. Normally--when I could actually walk on my own two feet--I'd walk home, have a leisurely lunch, and come back to work...but not practical, when round trip cab fare runs 6 to 7 dollars, depending on the cab company.

Still snowing here, unfortunately. Not much going on today, other than I'm going to attempt to finish cleaning the kitchen, and then watch...what else? Dr. Who! Dull, dull, dull...well, all except for Dr Who, of course.

I'll have a Big Mac, Fries, and a Coke--and, Supersize it.

BBC BARRISTER: "I'm afraid that you didn't read though your contract very well. It does say on page 15, paragraph 9, clause 6, that for that extra half-million pounds a year, you also have to clean the BBC's sewers every three months." DAVID: "Oh Shit!! BARRISTER: "Precisely, Mr. Tennant."

Well, back to work today. Another work slow down next week--more hours cut, and possibly a 7 day work week looming ahead for awhile, to make up for the loss--working 10 to at least 6pm, tomorrow--maybe later, dunno'. Need the money, but don't know if they'll be enough work.

I'm feeling a little better--still tire very easy, though, which is not fun. But I'm down to 400mg of Motrin per day, which is good. Hopefully in a few more days, I'll only need to take one pill.

I took a shower tonight, and Flame decided afterwards, that I also needed a cat bath...can't decide if she likes my lavender soap or just thinks I smell better with cat slobber all over my arms.

Nice spring evening, for a change--'tho more snow on the way for tomorrow--but, the totals have changed. Tuesday they said up to 6 inches, now it's going to mix with rain and sleet, so the totals have dropped to 2 to 4 inches of snow. It was rather chilly this morning, in the mid-20's outside (about --8 C). It's been blinking freezing for over a week now, and I think we're all getting rather tired of seeing snow--except for maybe, West Mountain, the ski area about 10 or 12 minutes from the city's downtown.

View from West Mountain, West Glens Falls/Queensbury, NY

Here's Chapter Two of my Dr Who short story, "The Menagerie."

II: SURPRISE

The musical chime on the door sounded as the Doctor entered the shop. A hefty female in a crisp, flowing indigo and teal toga approached him, smiling pleasantly. She was of average height, and had an air of grace and dignity about her. “Good afternoon sir. How may I assist you today?” The Doctor returned her smile warily, remembering the model in the window. “Ummm--Forgive the odd question, but you’re not going remove any bits of clothing, are you?”

Today, the cat's seemed supremely happy, whether it's the new food I've been feeding them (all natural dry food with chicken and veggies), the fact that I'm home more, or the birds suddenly roosting in the eaves out the window--dunno'--but gosh, ain't they happy little campers: running around the apartment, chattering away, playing with their toys, the throw rugs, my foot bandage...the toilet paper roll, again. Much more of that, and it'll be like wiping myself with confettii. Happy New Year! No. I think not. Maybe I should buy and extra roll, just for them?

Flame kissed me today. First, we touched noses--then, she started licking me on the lips a wee bit. At first I thought, "Awww--isn't that sweet?" Then, my next thought was, "God, I hope she wasn't just drinking from the toilet."

So, tonight, coming back from the store--I needed a cheap haircut fast, and WalMart's is the only place I can afford to go--well, for a bad cheap haircut, anyway--but who's complaining, ey? At least now when I go to meet the mayor, he won't mistake me for a two-legged uncurried Fell pony.

So, coming in, I grabbed the mail--oh boy! A letter from a magazine publisher! I'd submitted an article to a small horse publication, back in early August of last year--and I figured, if it took this long to respond--well, what would you think?

I opened it with anticipation--they pay was a good 300 dollars, if published, which certainly would come in handy, most certainly.

It read:

"Dear Miss _________, Thank you for submitting your article on ____________. Unfortunately, our editor has decided that it is not suitable for our publication at this time. While the article was well written, and did fall within our guidelines, the subject matter, our editor felt, was handled a little too briefly to be of use to our readership. We do thank you for your submission. Sincerely, _______________."

Okay, I wrote it to the length required, followed all the guidelines submitted to me--the subject was "too brief?" What the heck does that mean? They only gave me X number of words to write, AND specificly asked that the article NOT be "too advanced" for their readership. So, what the hell do they mean by it was "too brief?" I don't get it.

I mean, I'd rather get criticized than have silence--but vague critiques are almost as bad as silence--oh, I hate that. It's the worst thing, silence. I hate it when either, I've read an essay out loud to the class, given a speech, performed an acting excercise, read a poem, whatever--I hate it when no one says anything! I mean, what you can imagine, sometimes, I think, is far worse than what anyone says to you. And I also feel sort of the same way about vague remarks--it leaves me in the dark--good or rather, constructive criticism, is helpful--it makes you aware of gaps in your knowledge, weaknesses in your performance, what-have-you. But when someone is too broad or too vague in their remarks--it's nearly the same--to me, anyway--as saying nothing at all. It's not helpful, at any rate.

So, while I am only (honest) a little disappointed in my rejection--I'm more upset about the vague reason behind the rejection.

I feel a bit like Bernard from "Black Books"---well, only a bit.

Well, not punching the air, but am relieved. I won't be getting an operation.

The doctor looked at my foot and said, "Oh geez...it is swollen and bruised, isn't it?" Duh. Do'ya think, doc? And then he proceeded to clamp his thumb down on THE most tender spot on my foot--and, as I let out a startled yelp, said, "It hurts bad right there? That's good." I'm serious! That's exactly what he said. Fabulous. Lovin' this guy.

But...no surgery--that's only because what's wrong with my foot--and, apparently, that's quite a lot--is not operable--in other words, I'm screwed.

Well, after much painful poking and prodding, more X-rays and etc... it's been decided that I have:

A. The worst possible sprain one can have (already knew that)

B. A slight tear of the ligament--too small to fix.

C. A hairline fracture of the footbone--again, too small to do anything about.

D. A "very badly" bruised bone--which the doc says is probably what is causing all the massive bruising throughout my foot.

It will--if I stay off my foot as much as possible and continually keep it elevated whenever it swells--I may be back on my feet by early to mid-June. Well, that's not too bad, I guess. Beats having to go the whole summer on crutches.

MONTAGE: TRAVELING NORTHEASTERN NEW YORK'S BACKROADS

I must say, I surely do miss just jumping in my car and going for a ride somewhere. There's something about traveling an open, winding country road, good tunes playing, fantastic scenery...the freedom, the joy...you can just relax and unwind and enjoy the day.

I've had a lot of cars and trucks over the years--only one new, and that was a clunker as it turned out. I think of them all--though my old Dodge 3-speed (leave it to me to learn to drive standard with an on the steering column 3-speed) slant 6 pickup, had a fantastic engine--it was literally falling apart--as in you could see the pavement through the floorboards. My favourite was my old 5-speed Ford Ranger. I've had the big old Dodge, and an old Chevy Suburban, an automatic Chevy S-10 pick up, and my first pick up, the automatic GMC S-15--comfy to drive and a fantastic heater that literally saved me from hypothermia once-- but the engine was total crap. I really loved my old 87 Ranger. I bought it for cash in 2002. The engine quit in the summer of 2003--but while I had it, it was great! Drove like a dream and was fantastic on gas. It I'd had the cash to replace the engine, I would have kept it--oh, it looked like rubbish (similar truck above) on the outside, but it was a really great truck, and to this day, I still miss it dearly. I used to dream of fixing it up and even re-painting it, maybe something funky, like teal or even purple. 'Course, that was just a passing fancy. After the engine basically blew up on me, I was talked into putting a down payment on a new Neon--worst move I ever made! Hated that thing! But...that's another story.

But yeah, love driving in the country--especially on a new or particularly scenic road. It's always nice to share the ride with someone--but even alone, it's really lovely. A real joy, for me. Like I've said, I'm a simple person. I treasure simple pleasures highly.

Oh, and by the way, it's snowing a bit again, outside my window. No spring for us then, any time soon, I guess.

I suppose, in a way, when I set foot into the woods, so many years ago, I was escaping...from my everyday life, from truths I did not want to face or could not comprehend, from pain or fear or other negative emotions. But, often enough, I would find myself changing my feelings, once I step foot into forest and field.

Things would take on a whole other perspective--and things that seemed such a burden to my soul in my ordinary life, in the woods, seemed trivial to me. A concrete problem or issue, weighing down my heart and mind, soon became as light as the air, like sunlight parting the shadows of the forest...what once seemed an insurmountable burden became merely a new problem to be tackled and put in its proper prospective.

I was often then--as now--very lonely, very much alone (tho' not nearly as alone, physically, as I am now, of course)---but when out in my woods and fields, I was never alone. Oh, I always had this deep-seated longing to share my experiences with others, but I was never truly alone, out there. I had the entire universe as my companion. Each day or night was a shining jewel, a rose without thorns, to be enjoyed and cherished while it lasted...and remember long into the dark days to come.

Well, I guess, unknowingly, on a Dr Who forum--in a sort of free-for-all section for topics mostly unrelated to Who, there was one thoughtful young man from Scotland, who is a staunch supporter for independence--not only for Scotland, but for Ireland and Wales, as well.

He asked for opinions, after thinking about it for a day or two, I threw my hat into the opinion ring--and got shouted down for my efforts! I mean, people thought I was being insulting--or demanded to know who's side I was on! (Nobody's--I don't live in the UK) I was just giving my honest thoughts, opinions and observations--was I being insulting? I didn't feel so. Was this aimed at a particular party or parties? No. But, man, did I take some flak! No more political commentary for me--from now on, when I go on the DW website--I'm sticking to pure "fluff" subjects...screw this serious stuff. Not worth losing friends over or getting into it with overly sensitive people, over what I thought were just a few straightforward remarks.

Here's what I wrote:

Very complicated issue. It's really not as simple as just mere independence--which is important, of course--it's more serious issues of health care, money, taxes, military and police, voting, etc. You can't rightly and intelligently speak of independence, without taking first into consideration the CONSEQUENCES of that state--how will you support the people? Just declaring it, won't solve anything, if the state/country doesn't first lay a solid groundwork of legislation, social support and internal infrastructure plans in place, as well.

That should be very telling, to anyone who wants an independent state.

It really, seriously troubles me, that people found my remarks insulting. Maybe I am being a jerk? Now I have more things to hate about myself--I don't want to give opinions if I'm going to sound like a moron or like I'm being petty and insulting--gah! Screw this! I miss the days when I was a "wallflower" and kept my mouth shut most of the time...things were so much easier, then. Sometimes I'm sorry I ever went to college.

Well, I was searching for something amusing, to while the rest of the night away--and since I seem to be thinking of, and talking about, Shakespeare lately--thought I'd share this little short with you.

It's Hamlet--sort of-- for cats! Cool! (With apologies to Mr. Shakespeare, who must be rolling over in his grave). If you can get past the "distractions," (you'll see what I mean) the dialog is quite funny--in it's delivery, I mean.

On a more sober note, when I first studied Hamlet, in World Lit, back in the summer of 2004, I became well familiar with that famous scene from act one: "To be or not to be..."
But until that terrible year of 2006, I truly did not appreciate the serious meaning behind those words. But as summer fell away into winter, more and more I asked myself-albeit worded not so intelligently or beautifully--that very same question...and, sorry to say, to a smaller extent, sometimes still do...

I have been trying to finish a couple of unfinished Who stories--without much success, today--maybe later...for some reason, seem to do my best (well, most inspired) writing in the pocket-sized hours of the morning.

Well, since I've nothing new to add, thought that once a week, just for the heck of it, I'd publish a chapter from a previously written--and mostly completed--fan fiction story.

So here's chapter one of a short story I wrote in, I think, end of August of last year? It's a 10th Doctor story---sans Martha. At the time, I didn't know a thing about Martha, so I sort of (forgive me Freema) wrote her out of it. It's not great writing, but I sort of had fun with it. I do wish I'd enrolled in a fiction course while at college tho', as it's very mildly frustrating, knowing nothing about fiction writing--and trying to write it, anyway.

So, without further ado, here's chapter one of a story I titled, "The Menagerie."

One: Shopping Spree

Just then, he spied a little shop around the corner that looked interesting. The store windows were small round panes of glass, and each pane held a different trinket. The gifts ranged from a comic statue of a fat man on a toilet, to spun glass swan-like creatures, to miniature dragons that moved their wings and roared, to souvenir beverage beakers. What caught the Doctor’s eye though, was an elaborately enameled box. It could almost have come out of Earth’s Tsarist Russia, but for the holographic ballerina on the lid. Opening the door, he entered the shop. The man who’d been shadowing the Doctor, a thin male in a somewhat soiled gold toga, reached into the pouch cinched to his waist and pulled out a communication device.

I sometimes think, with all this bad stuff that life keeps heaping upon me, "What'd I do, to have all this continual cycle of "bad stuff" going on and on in my life?"

I have an old book, that I've read here and there, on occasion, called "Shakespeare as Dramatic Artist." I got it at a library used book sale, years ago. Bit of a dry read, but interesting, nonetheless.

In one of the first chapters, it discusses the artistic concept of "nemesis."

In this case, "nemesis" refers to the concept of excess and its resulting reaction--or, in the more prosaic Victorian idea, moral backsliding and its consequences. At least, that's my take on it--never formally studied this stuff, so sometimes I do find later, that I, in my simplicity, have gotten things/ideas a bit wrong.

In Greek mythology, I think Nemesis went hand-in-hand with Fortune, if memory serves me. And I am left wondering, why I seem to lead such a up and down existence. I've been blessed with good fortune at times, certainly. But, like a bad melodrama, my fortune seems to reverse itself rather quickly and horribly.

I'm like a reverse damsel in distress: I get rescued by the knight in shining armor, then get eaten by the dragon.

Well...not a good start to the week. Doctor just rang me up--they think they've found something on the X-Rays that they might have missed, and I'm under strict orders to stay completely off my feet--as much as humanly possible--until I see the doctor Tuesday--he stressed that I stay home with my foot iced and elevated. Damn.

Easy for these rich doctors to say! There goes nearly two entire week's pay, straight down the old loo. I'm screwed, no matter which way I turn, it seems to me. He won't say what he sees in the X-Ray...my gosh, they've taken something like eight or nine of them, and had over a week to check them over thoroughly--what the blazes? High quality American medicine--yeah, maybe if you're a celebrity, politician, or just plain well-off. Folks like me, we get stuck at the back of the que--and treated like that, believe me!

Damn. Okay, so the cats'll be happy, at any rate. They hate it when I leave. I'm so sick of this apartment--it's like a prison cell--albeit, one that's decorated to my tastes...and what the hell am I supposed to do about the garbage piled up in my foyer--the kid I "hired" to take it out for me, never showed, never called me on the phone--now my apartment is really starting to smell bad. I'd call the landlord up, but he hasn't even shown up to replace the hall light--the important one at the top of the staircase--, that blew out two weeks ago.

I'm trying not to fall into depression--but how the heck can I not? I just really don't feel very good about myself--or my life--right now. I daydream about the times when I could just get in my car or truck, and just go off for a drive in the country--gah! That seems so long ago now--like it was someone else's life, not mine. It feels that way, when I remember growing up--my hometown, home, family--it seems like it was something that was dreamed, and not real--like these people who claim to have lived past lives. Everything, ever day, every breath I take, sometimes feels so meaningless to me...sometimes. Like today, I suppose. I'm just going to have to sit here and rot my life away, until Tuesday.

So then, another day dawns on my side of the big pond. Cottonball clouds floating through an azure sky, barren tree limbs outside my window, bobbing and swaying in a brisk wind, that still holds the bitter breath of winter in its teeth.

Collections calls today, for me. Politely asking people--most of whom are broke--to shell out money...and in some cases, sadly, to shell out money for stuff they never got from the business in the first place--it hurts me to work for a shady company--well, to work for a company that works for a shady company. Still--nothing better is going to offer itself to me. I mean, afterall, this is Glens Falls, not downtown Manhattan. There's not exactly a load of high-paying jobs here, not unless you're a doctor or lawyer, or are some butch redneck, working in the paper mill.

Nope, I just have to face it: I was born to chav labor, and that's all I'm fit for. I'm lucky just to have a telemarketing job. I'm so far behind the times, I can't even work as a receptionist, any longer--everything's compuuters and money--and those two things are my arch enemies, ha-ha.

Anyway, I'm off to work, in a bit, to the big old sterile white building that sticks out like a sore thumb over it's mostly-Industrial-age neighbours. Be a nice morning--albeit a cold one--for a walk to work, but alas, with this stinking foot, I must take one of my city's less-than-reliable cabs.

Ah well, such is my life.

MONTAGE OF DOWNTOWN SARATOGA SPRINGS, NY & HISTORIC CONGRESS PARK

So, I've had my Easter dinner--with enough left over for a whole other meal, later in the week. Now, for some reason, I'm rather tired. I shouldn't be--I've slept a good portion of the weekend away, and outside of the cooking and washing up, haven't done much else. No idea why I feel so knackered, all of the sudden. I'm getting used to the pain, now--so no idea why I feel so weary. Depression? Or maybe the injury's taken more from me than I realize--not getting any younger--but I've been hurt loads of times--six months plus with a back injury, when I was 31. It's true, I've not been eating much, until today. Standing around the cooker was not really an option, the last week or so. Still...it's troubling to me, to be so tired from just an injury.

Well, no bank holidays here in the states, off to work again, tomorrow morning, 10 am sharp. Going to be a long day, but I am glad to be getting out of the apartment, no matter what the reason.

Snowed a bit today, but then it's tried to clear up--well, was going to go to bed, the chav brats have cranked up their stereo again--that deep bass is a bit like having a lorry driving through your room. I wish I could hire a stereo hit man--sneak into their apartment and put a couple of slugs through their speakers. I mean, I certainly can live with a sort-of loud stereo--but this isn't loud--it's just plain obnoxious--it's not even music, just a dull vibrating constant booming. They're on the other side of the building, and I can feel it through the floor--and my chair.

I guess I could play some online cribbage or something, 'till they stop. I'm playing The Proclaimers and I've got this beat from across the way, playing over them, and it's really distracting. Shame. Kids--there's a reason to keep abortions legal, ha-ha.

Ah--stopped--for a while, anyway. People yell at them--and they turn it down for a few hours or days--then they're back at it, again...short attention spans. So, maybe it's off to bed. Gah--I can remember when mum made us go to bed before ten--against our eternal protests, and here I am, a bit under 40 years later, doing it voluntarily. Oi! When did I get so old? Ah well--I still have Dr who re-runs (huge sigh).

Unaware cameras were rolling, David Tennant relaxes before a big scene by picking his nose.

Just a wish that all of you had a nice and pleasant Easter Sunday, hopefully with your families or someone special. Cheers!

Since I can't see Doctor Who's Shakespeare Code, I thought I'd make up a story of my own out of screen caps--my captions will be a bit lame, but hey, with the chav rugrats blasting their stereo upstairs--'boom-boom', boom-boom, boom-boom' for hours on end... (and me with a headache, may they rot in hell), and my pain killers making me a bit dopey, I'm not in much of a reflective or thinking mode, today. City living totally sucks, by the way.

Hang on, what's a panto cow doing in Hamlet?

It wasn't me that time, honest--must've been one of the crew!

DAVID: "Ewwwww!" FREEMA: "See? I can funnel 'em out even better than you and John Barrowman!"

Noth, Fwreema, I didn'th eath yer th'Snickereth barth

RUSSELL (off camera): "Oh, David's great to work with--he's never a prima-donna." DAVID: I ordered TWO sugars in my coffee--and I wanted Starbucks! Not this lousy BBC canteen stuff, ya' flippin moron!"

I hate working with actors who spit when they talk!

"Hey Shakespeare! Yer play is Bollocks!"

Okay then, Freema. This is how I prepare for a scene, I just funnel one out like so---"

"She's calling me 'David Three-inch? Gawd! I miss Billie!"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MWz9pB3FqfU

Well, I sort of chickened out of publishing my writing, yesterday. That last 10-minute play I wrote, it really is bloody awful. And don't even get me started on what pure rubbish my poetry is.

My first poetry class in my two-year college, just up the road here, well, that was...different. My professor was not only a Buddhist, but a real poet and...a shrink, as well. So, his class could sometimes be a bit...different.
I'm basically just your simple basic small-town tomboy/country bumpkin type, so learning to think abstractly was a bit of a challenge for me--but, I like a challenge.

It's like when I first found myself unexpectedly enrolled in an acting class (I needed to have an "emphasis" for my Liberal Arts/Humanities major, and theater classes were the only one's available, at the time), so I had to totally come out of my shell in a matter of what seemed to me to be, an instant. I had to think differently, behave differently--and really start re-thinking how I interact with others, and dig a bit deeper into who I am, as a person.

And it was sort of like that in my free-verse poetry class. Oh, I resisted a bit, at first--I think that's only natural, when one is shoved into a situation that is completely foreign to them.

But then...I rather started to like it. It could be a bit frustrating tho', my small-town nature-girl little common sense, trying to embrace ideas that were enormous--universally broad, and yet, quite intimate, at the same time--if that makes any sense to you. And, frequently, it was still slightly beyond my ken.

I remember being shown a picture of this painting--an eyeball in the middle of a slice of ham. Okay, that was...a bit too weird, for my taste. But, I looked and looked at it--and then, I laughed. I think my prof was a bit disappointed that I found it so hilarious--but that's what I finally wrote my stupid little poem about--about how daft I thought this painting was to me. Well,it was--hey, I am just not ever going to be a sophisticated person. Not gonna' happen.

Anyway, my second poetry class, in my four-year college in Vermont--now that was a nightmare. I have a severe math learning disability--means, that not only does my mind not like doing long problems (it tends to unknowingly drop something in mid-problem), I can't do reverse--whether simple subtraction or backing up my car, doesn't matter--I really have to concentrate to do anything in reverse--it's very frustrating. Memory--my memory sucks--which is why I only actually performed in one play, in my two years of minoring in theater--I have things I do that help--like memorizing 10 min. before a performance or a test--tests, ugh! And there are other tricks I've learned to help me, as well-but it's very hard and terribly frustrating. They say I had a head injury that went untreated, when I was young--whether it happened at birth (I was a premie), or from an illness (I had scarlet fever as a baby), or from the time I was hit on the head by a metal swing when I was 4 or 5, and had my head cut open--there's no knowing. Back then, they didn't have the technology, they have now.

I also have a horrible time, learning music--and proper poetry, well...I, to my eternal sorrow, found that for me, it was like a cross between math and music. And, I lost my love of writing poetry, rather quickly.

You see, most people don't have any grasp of what it's like to have a math learning disability. And on top of that, I have numerophobia, as well--numbers literally scare me. I get really angry and frustrated, sometimes--not just with my own stupidity, but with other people as well--you've no idea how bad people can treat you. The first thing I always encounter, is that I "don't want to learn." That's so unfair! I love learning! Then, it's the old, "you're not trying hard enough." Yeah, love that one--I always try--it's just no one notices, they just think I'm being lazy, 'cause sometimes I can't cope with feeling stupid, so I just shut down. And then, there's the truly awful, "you're stupid, retarded, etc." My 8th grade (year) maths teacher, my dad...it hurts...makes me feel like rubbish inside....and I do, eventually just quit trying. Sometimes, it got so, I would decide that if I was trying my damnest--all out trying, and people still thought I wasn't trying at all--I'd just quit, eventually. So, I never got very good grades, not until I was in my early 40's, anyway.

Of course, I did flunk out my first time at college--when I was 19. And nearly again, when I ws 39. Almost didn't make it past the first semester--then, a professor, my archeology professor, showed my how to study, so I got much better at it--and then, by 2001-2002, I was, for the first time in my life, getting straight-A's--even won a small scholarship and was invited to be in the national honors society--Phi Theta Kappa. Of course, I had to take maths about 5 or 6 times, to pass so I could graduate. Fortunately, by then, my disability was noticed by one of my maths professors--bless her, who specialized in working, in her free time, with learning disabled kids. I finally passed math, by working one-on-one with my professor for hours on end--and getting a special waiver, which allowed me to write a math-related essay, rather than take the final exam. (Got an A+ on the essay, too!).

But then, I graduated with an A.A. degree at my 2 year college, and transfered to the four-year college (to get my B.A. degree) an hour away across the state line, in Vermont. And...I had to go through this whole process, all over again. I choose this college because they had a programme that specialized in helping learning disabled students--but they were never much help to me, sadly. They were more geared towards the reading and writing disabled--and that was certainly not a problem with me--despite not literally not knowing a verb from a pronoun, I still turned in near-perfect copy when it came to essays and other papers. And I am a voracious reader. So, no one there knew how to help me, with my math disability--they didn't even know that music was a problem, as well as.

So, my second poetry class--didn't do so well. I went back to that shut-down mode, where the teacher made me feel stupid...and treated me like I was an idiot, because I couldn't grasp the complicated rhyming stuff. And when she took me into her office (oh, how I hate hearing the old, "we need to talk"--makes me wince)...she seemed much more embarrassed than understanding. And my prof--ever watch the Brit-com, "Keeping Up Appearences?" Well, Hyacinth Bucket's voice....my teacher had it--that high-pitched shrill one could hear for miles! Man, did I have a lot of headaches in that class!

So, while I learned a lot about sonnets and quatrains and stuff--It was THE most miserable hour and a half I'd ever spent in my life! And now, while I still enjoy reading poetry--and certainly understand it much better--I don't like writing it, much, anymore.

I used to be such a bold writer--just tell me what to write, and I'd grab the bit in my teeth and race off to get her done...now, it's gone. I've lost my confidence--I just think I'm average--and that's okay---but the feeling of power that I had, the feeling that I could do anything (within reason), if given half a chance--especially if it was an essay or some play dialog, or a news story---that feeling now...it's just...gone. It makes me very sad, knowing this. But it's gone, and I don't see it ever returning again--my chance at continuing my education is lost forever, and so is my last real true dream.

Okay, unlike that West Wing episode where the guy gets on the clerk's case about being a trekkie--and calls her hobby a "fetish," I am hoping I haven't sunk quite that low--or have I?

Today, I got a request for a copy of a photo of David Tennant naked, that a young fan e-mailed me a while back (Why? Who the hell knows?) Okay--it's gone, alright? It's in my recycle bin and it's staying there. And I'm not going there, again. Call me old fashioned, but I rather prefer my Doctor's with their clothes on.

Did Tom Baker have to go though this?

Anyway, slept most of Saturday away, thanks to the pain killer. I detest taking them, but my foot, at times, feels exactly like it has been attacked by a swarm of yellow jackets (I've had that experience, when I was 19--got nailed about a dozen times in the upper arm by those vicious wild bees--never even saw or heard them...'till they began chasing me into the house. I've not let out a scream like that, before or since.)...so yeah, it feels like a massive bunch of bee stings, and the only way to deal with it, is to take some meds and sleep it off.

I'm worried about Tuesday--that's when supposedly I find out whether I am to have my foot operated on, or not. It'll mean more loss of income--no work, no income, simple as that--no holiday or sick pay, where I work. My pay cheque next week will be virtually non-existent, as it is.

Well, I'm getting an enforced holiday, whether I want one or not--I suppose I could imagine I'm somewhere else--like Iceland?

Actually, I had rather a lot of fun, my two days in Iceland, back in 2001.

Checked my e-mail a little while ago--someone sent me an ad about movers who specialize in moves from North America to the UK---does someone know something I don't? That's weird. Yes, I've certainly had a wish to move there--but come on, I'd literally have to be a millionare to do that! I can't even blinking afford to get a bus to Saratoga Springs, 30 some odd miles away! Get real!!

I wrote a complaint about the poor quality of bus service and dangerous pedestrian crossings in the city, over the winter, to the Mayor's office--not at all expecting any sort of response--other than the usual form letter, that is..."thank you for your comments, blah-blah-blah..."

I just got an e-mail from the Mayor of the city of Glens Falls, asking me to schedule an appointment with his secretary to meet with him! How cool is that?

DOWNTOWN GLENS FALLS, NY--LOOKING SOUTH TOWARDS THE COOPER'S CAVE BRIDGE.

I'm stuck at home today--which normally wouldn't be great on a nice sunny Saturday--but I have the consolation that it's figgin' cold outside, and it's warm in here.

But...oh yeah, I'm really bored. I tried writing, but have a bit of writer's block this afternoon.

I did make a Doctor Who slideshow on Photobucket, tho'. Yippee, right? Yeah. Whoo-hoo, I lead such an exciting life.

I've been sort of secretly dreaming, these last several months, of getting to go somewhere for the day--not anywhere great, like Manhattan or Cambridge, Mass, or someplace like that--or even Albany...just like maybe down to downtown Saratoga Springs, to stroll along Broadway, or something like that. I still haven't really been out of the city since November--and it totally sucks, now, because without a wheelchair or a car, I ain't going noplace, anytime soon. 'Cept to work and grocery shopping and the laundromat, I suppose. Ah well, another "dream" bites the dust.

Okay, it's a lovely sunny Saturday morning--and it's flipping 17 degrees outside!!! (That's MINUS 8 C, for my UK/EU readers).

Well, I know it's nearly 8am--every morning, a pick up truck drives by, with a big tan dog barking out of the open passenger window--no matter what the weather--, every inch of the way--ten of eight, like clockwork, except on Sundays.

Haven't decided if I am working this afternoon--it's not required, and I"m not actually on the schedule, but I could use the extra hours--sadly, my foot seems to have its own ideas, of when it wants to do stuff and when it doesn't--last night was rough, again. So, I'll stay off of it for the morning, and we'll see if I can actually walk on it, later. I suppose it's my fault it's worse--I simply was too exhausted to cart three bags of groceries and stuff, plus my crutches, up two flights of stairs--so left the crutches behind. Yes, went upstairs on my own two feet last night--no hopping, not with groceries...and paid for it...my foot is stiff as a board this morning--and feels like it's made of wood, as well. Stupid. That'd be me, then. I'm afraid that I'm not only stubborn, I'm rather obstinate as well.

Well...they did indeed put me on collections calls today. Much easier than selling--but gah....you do get some really naff, daft people on the other end of the phone: "Who? Dave? Oh sure, hang on....hello? What? no, I'm not David...you want David? Okay, wait a minute...Hello? No, I'm not Dave, hang on, I'll get him...." E-gads! It's about this point one is sorely temped to bang the receiver on the desk and scream into it: "D-A-V-E you stupid bunch of cows! What do you think I'm saying? I mean really--what else does "Dave" sound like? I didn't have a bad connection--at least not with the phone--the family on the other end, however...eh.

And that was just the first call--there was--oh God, I do hate calling Kentucky-- the slightly in-bred sounding (not being insulting, but quite serious) redneck woman, who screamed every syllable at me--apparently, she didn't want to turn her shower off (not the first time I've talked to someone in the shower--I recently sold a life membership plan to someone taking a bath)...so she screamed at the top of her lungs, "Pop! POP!! POPPY!!!! Stupid deaf ol man ! Telephone! You'll have to come in here to pick it up!" (at which point I distinctly heard her let rip with a fart--there then ensued a lot of grumbling on old "Pop's" part, about getting wet--and at this point I heard her say, "dad."--okay not a pretty picture there, then. I heard a lot more grumbling and a lot of whining on the woman's part, before ol' "pop" picked up the phone to speak to me---yeah--and it turns out, he'd already paid his bill...(huge sigh).

And then I got a feisty old woman in Maine who kept yelling at me to, "keep your shirt on! I'm an old woman!" every bleedin' time I asked her a question--but, she actually was nice, turns out she was looking for her hearing aid--and she had a good sense of humor--if a bit...odd. We settled up and then she even invited me to come visit her in the backwoods of Maine--not the first time a person has done that (not that I ever would--against company policy to interact with consumers beyond the call)...still, I can't say I've had anyone yell at me to "keep my shirt on," in years--it was sort of funny, coming from a little old lady.

I had to put a woman on hold while I did something to verify her checking account information--got back on the phone with her--and got the theme song to the "Jepordy!" TV quiz show---the stupid annoying tune that plays while the contestants are busy writing down their wagers and answers--- "dee-dee-dee-da,-dee-dee-dee...de-da-de-de,-DEE-da-de-de..., DA-da-de-de, de-de-de." Apparently she was watching the show and had put the receiver down next to the TV set--and I had to wait for her to come back on--at the exact same time the tune stopped playing--for those of you familiar with the show, you know what I mean. It was quite funny. "I'll take annoying people for $100, Alex. --My answer is: What is a telemarker?"

And then I called, Missouri. Or, Miz-oor-ah, as a native I used to know, pronounced it.

Okay, folks in that state, seem pretty nice--from a telemarketers point of view..but it takes about 10 or 15 minutes longer to talk to them, to to anyone else in the USA. I mean, maple syrup in January, pours out faster than a Misourian's conversation. They tend to take long pauses between each word.

Just to have one say, "Good Morning." could take about five minutes, while the greeter says, "Good"---pauses to scratch, sip some coffee, glance out the window to see if the mule they use for coon hunting has eaten all his morning hay, then, maybe if you're really lucky...I mean, if you're really, really lucky...the person may take a breath and say, "moring."

Instead of the "Show Me" state, they should re-name it, the "slow me"state. Or better yet, the "Slooow (long pause) me (longer pause) state."

HOW TO SPOT A TELEMARKETING SCAM IN THREE EASY LESSONS:

3.They start off with friendly small talk like, "Hi, Mrs. Jones, how is your money today?"

A friend turned me on to some show called "Graham Norton." The gentleman (very funny guy) apparently, had David Tennant on, that night.

Well...who hasn't wondered about whether the Doctor uses the loo or farts in the Tardis? Come on, be honest with me....anybody?

Okay then...here's your answer...I normally shun crude humor--outgrew it at 10 or 12 years old--but, that said, I have to admit--I, quite frankly, couldn't stop laughing! You have to wait a bit to get to the good parts, but it's worth it...I think--tho' honestly, I can now say that I know far more about David Tennant than I think I ever wanted to...it does make one wonder--if he farts to release tension before performing--does he fart after he's had sex, as well?

I was bored last autumn, and wrote a series of short fan fiction stories, that put Dr Who into another established TV series. It features the 9th Doctor, and his most formidable foe yet--Hyacinth Bucket...erm...Bouquet.

Keeping Up the Doctor

Gah, I'm tired--I was so tired, when I got home from work, that at first, I couldn't figure out why I was so hungry--till I remembered that I'd not had any lunch! Had to shop for some things I needed, after work--and now, with my foot throbbing nastily, I'm just plain knackered. So, after writing this, I'm taking some pain killer and off to bed for a few hours--maybe the rest of the night, dunno'.

Well, it's Good Friday, apparently--I wouldn't have known, but they were talking about it at work today. I keep forgetting it's Easter, Sunday. What with the return to the depths of winter here, you'd never know it. It's been spitting out snow at us, on and off, all day, with a bitter wind blowing, besides.

Not a single sign of a spring bird or bud or green shoot anywhere. That said, the sparrows are coming out in droves, lately--much to Boot's delight. He spends all his spare time now, looking out the big front windows, nattering away at the birds out on the eaves, and swishing his tail in agitation. If I walk up to him, while he's watching his birds, he'll even start chattering excitedly at me, as if to say, "Wow! There's birds outside, and I am going to GET THEM ma, I really am!" He's a funny, funny cat...typical big dopey guy. Mind you, he's afraid of his own shadow--loud noises scare the pants off of him--well they would if he wore pants, that is.

The good news for me today, being, I won a 20 dollar gift voucher to Price Chopper supermarket--so no Franks and beans for Easter, but a proper meal--in this case pork and bread stuffing and brussell sprouts--the stuffing being the boxed instant kind, and the brussell sprouts being of the frozen food department variety, but still, I am not a fan of franks and beans, so that's a relief then.

Actually, I've not observed Easter in a couple of years. Church just isn't the same, when you're alone--I've tried, really I have--but...it's hard to explain--it just...hurts. And, I really feel like an outcast--most especially at the big church down the street--I always went to small town Presbyterian churches--small and intimate--and this thing down the street--TWO organs?? It's enormous in there! And everyone is really, really rich, that goes there--and I don't even own a proper dress coat. And they always expect you to shell out for this fund and pledge your tithes and etc. I just plain haven't got it, more often than not--and say what they like, most Americans are really thick when it comes to poverty in their own backyards. Nah, chruch is just too...intimidating, for me right now. Heck, there've been times I couldn't even put 50 cents in the plate--I put a roll of pennies in there once, and you should'a seen the eyebrows that were raised--I felt like sliding down the bench and crawling out the door on the floor. It was bad.

Oh, most folks in church are really very kind, but there's some---not sure what they're there for--last time I went, the the big Presbyterian cathedral down the way, the guy in front of me spent the entire service--I mean ALL of it--rubbing and cuddling his girlfriend or whatever she was (from his behaviour, I'm not ruling out a prostitute )
Geez---! There's a time and a place, ya'know what I mean? So, no. Not going back to church, any time soon. I like church--but...just not the same, anymore. I may be a liberal in my mind and heart--but when it comes to worship--and I am open-minded to a point, but really--jeans and ratty old shirts do not belong in church and neither does snogging.

Town of Waites River, Vermont, USA

"I make a million pounds a year, and what do they give me to wear? A cheap tie from Primark!"

Well, the Great Doctor Who-less experiment was a bust. Couldn't make myself go one lousy day without Dr Who. I think I have an addiction to the Doctor.

Ah, well. I was home all day with naught to do but keep my foot propped up. Maybe I should pick a day to try this when I'm feeling--at least physically--a bit better.

I'm a little worried, about myself tho'. In regards to my iffy future, and my dire financial circumstances--I've suddenly developed a bad case of apathy. I'm not a person that likes apathy--in myself, least of all.

Well, maybe I can shake myself out of this, I don't know. I hate mass uncertainty, and that seems to be all I've got, in my life at the moment. Ah well.

It's a sunny morning--tho' is freezing cold--25 degrees Farenheight, and still snow on the ground--guess it's back to winter sweaters for a while. I'm off to Glens Fall's one and only skyscraper, for another day of telemarketing to people who don't want what I'm selling, from blinking coast to blinking coast. Maybe they'll put me on collections, soon--that's easy: "Give us your stinkin' money or else!"--said in the nicest possible way, of course.

Ralph Waldo Emerson believed that all living things in our universe are connected. That when you are walking through wood or field, you aren't just an observer--but a part of the very landscape, the very air, around you.

The universe isn't just out in space: it's in the air we breathe, in the lives we live, in the life around us--all that is and was.

The perpetual dance of life is the essence of the universe, a joining of the life around us, with our heart and spirit and soul. And, once joined, they are forever intertwined.

Emerson felt that each day was a treasure--new and fresh, an open book--and each minute, every second, is a new page to be read and turned--forever turned, never-ending.

I think that's why I came to value Emerson's words so much. For me, every time I stepped foot outdoors, into my woods and fields--it was like stepping into a new universe each day--no two days were ever the same. There was always--is always, in nature--something new to see, to feel, to smell, to touch and to hear. The woods and fields, an open country road, a sunrise, a starry night, freshly fallen snow, a quiet moment, shared with a friend--or a hour in solitude--all done without deliberate thought or action...one absorbs, becomes, is an unwitting partner in the universal dance of life and living.

So, having gone the day with virtually no Doctor Who for the first time since July, I'm feeling sort of...lost. Weird, huh? I keep saying to myself, "it's just a TV show for crying out loud..." but it's not really working.

Still, the experiment goes on...

My first car--same colour and everything--'cept mine was a bit on in years by then, of course.

One of my co-workers, who works night shift, 5 to 9, is taking her roadtest today, up at the municipal center in Lake George. She's 17 and quite nervous. I was too, as I recall.

Ironically--because now I love to drive, and have driven many thousands of miles in my life--I was terrified of driving. No, really. Positively petrified.

But, mom--rightly so--was tired of driving me around and I was tired of walking and taking the bus, anytime I wanted to go anywhere (our street was a good 15 or 20 minutes fast walking to the nearest public transit stop, and going any distance often meant loads of transfer stubs to catch other buses, and lots of waiting on cold and windy street corners.

So, first I needed a car. As it happened, mum's "crazy" (there's another story altogether) Aunt Mary was going blind, and she gave us her car--which she'd bought new--an old 1968 AMC Rambler. (Similar car pictured above). We had to drive an hour to Pittsfield, Mass. to get it--taking a commercial bus over across the border, so we could drive the car back.

Not the best car to be learning to drive. It had no power steering, so drove like a Mack truck.

It had a MANUAL choke, that...usually...worked. Sometimes you had to mess about with it, to get the car to start. Bit like a ratty old lawnmower I used to have. Didn't have a radio or air conditioning, or a working heater--basically, it was a tin can with wheels and an engine. But it usually ran really well-so quiet, you didn't always know if you'd turned the key--which probably wasn't good for the starter.

I was about 20 when I learned to drive. But not in the Rambler--mum thought I'd be more comfy in her '76 Buick Skylark--great car, very comfy to drive. So, starting in summer of 1979, I began learning how to drive. I'd just graduated high school, and was preparing to enter college for the first time (yet another story).

First, mum took me to the the Capital District Regional Farmer's Market. It was located in our village, and had this huge, huge car park--one that could house the dozens and dozens of big rig tractor trailers that delivered the region's fruits and vegetables daily to the numerous warehouses lodged there.

I drove back and forth through the car park, learning to parallel park, and stuff like that, drove a lot of circles, parked in the parking spaces, just got a feel for it--later, in the spring of 1980 when I uhhh--okay, flunked out of college (not one of my prouder moments), she handed me the keys to the Mack truck--ummm-Rambler, and off we went to the Albany Rural Cemetery.

By now I had taken the pre-driving test--passed on the second go. Gah! I was so devastated when I didn't pass the first time--anyway, drive the thing up to the cemetery and began learning to drive on--sort of--proper roads.

Of course, the thing about learning to drive in a cemetery, is that you don't have the worry about running over someone--everybody's already dead.

Albany Rural Cemetery dates back to 1841, and the roads--though some are well-paved, if narrow, are extensive. In the Victorian era, there were some 32 miles of roads in there. I learned first, on the straight roads--then graduated to the twisty-winding one's and finally, to the rutted dirt tracks--to this day, I adore a winding country road, and perhaps that is why, dunno'.

There was this one double curve--a very tight "S" curve on a hill--that has a blind spot. I started to get a bit cocky with this one, and it almost proved my undoing! I took the curve at speed (I was by myself that day, having dropped mum off at the cemetery office so she could do some genealogy research--a good portion of her family was buried there, dating to the 1700's). So, I took the hill--and came face to face with a REAL Mack truck--a dump truck!

So, I wound up on the grassy shoulder--just missed driving down into a creek--and he passed by with a blow of his air hooter and a shake of his head--and I became a lot more careful driver--still probably too cocky for my own good, but I learned the lesson of hooting my horn on a blind curve--and, slowing down!

Nothing much to write today, I'm afraid.

Have to lose another day's pay--the pain was distracting the heck out of my at work last night--and I can work phone's in my sleep--in fact I frequently pitch the script with my eyes closed, so when I have a hard time concentrating, that's really saying something--so anyway, I left an hour early--and this morning the pain's really wicked, so I'm losing yet another's day pay--my check next week will be less than 125 dollars, I suspect--will pay for the internet/phone--but the rent's in doubt, and my food's cupboard's looking to be a bit bare this month--no Easter dinner for me then, ey? Ah well. Franks and beans for Easter, yummy.

My swelling's down, but the bruising is actually getting worse. The doctor thinks it's a bad tear, and an operation isn't being ruled out--but can't get another appointment until the 10th, so it's just a wait and see game--at least, being home, I can take the stronger pain killer...I hate the way I feel after--all groggy and grumpy--but, no choice.

Well, it snowed like crazy, last night...typical heavy wet snow we tend to get in early spring...only about 3 inches or so, no big deal--roads are clear, and it's starting to fall off the trees and eaves, and is melting a bit already. Lost power for all of 5 minutes last night--much better than when I lived in Lake George, where the power went out at least once a month--sometimes in dry weather--for hours on end. I and many other New Yorkers, really miss Niagara Mohawk Power---National Grid totally sucks. Nobody likes National Grid--except maybe the people who work for them.

Anyhow, Not much more to say. I wish I had something positive to write--but, I'm sad and miserable and afraid for my existence (I don't like the word "future" any longer), and there's no hiding it today. My life is rubbish, at the moment. As my late mum used to say, "there's no joy in mudville."

Casey at the Bat
by Ernest Lawrence Thayer

Empire State Plaza, NY state capital building (background), my birth city of Albany, NY

Hi,

Just to let you know what's going on with the foot thing--it's less swollen today--last night I was actually able to walk downstairs under my own feet--sort of a hop-step thing, but it really, really beats getting rug burns on one's bum.

The pain is still there--but more manageable, thank goodness. I'm down to 400mg of Motrin, instead of 600. No vicodin, either, thankfully. But it's still rotten--ever have a totally bruised foot? It's hell, let me tell you.

One of the younger co-workers, a blond-- , she kept making faces at my badly bruised foot (wearing a sock over the bruises is not something I'm really wanting to do--it's bad enough with a bandage), and she kept making faces at me, and cutting remarks behind my back, the little snit.

But, remarkably, many of my co-workers have been really very kind--except at quitting time at 10pm---yikes! Every person for themselves! I've almost been knocked down and trampled on, once or twice, in the past two days--now I know what the Titanic must have been like, when it was sinking!

So, ringing up my taxi in a moment, then off to pitch club memberships to people who hate the club---till' 10pm--what a joy, my job is--but hell, at least I'm not cleaning loo's!

With the sounds of Letter from America by The Proclaimers ringing in my ears, I'm off to another night of "Stop calling me!!!"

Adirondack Mountains, 32 mile long Lake George ("Queen of the American Lakes") Northeastern New York state.
(One hour north of the capital of Albany)

"Forget the Plasma-thingys, this is what I really came here for--check out the knockers on that nurse!"

Well, maybe the Beebs sudden anti-American Whovian crackdown, isn't entirely a bad thing. I'ts made me re-think my fan status.

Don't get me wrong--I've been in love with the show from the first time I saw, in '83 or thereabouts, and will always have a fond place in my heart for Doctor Who.

But, maybe I need to step away from it, for awhile. I cannot tell you how disturbing it was to me, to be crying profusely over a TV show. I always knew I was a serious fan, but I never really thought of myself as obsessed. I mean, if I had some sort of involvement in it--if I worked on the show, or for something related to the show, or even was an officer again, in a local fan club--there might be some justification for it...but...

...I'm nobody. I don't even get (can't afford it) the Sci-fi channel or BBC America. I only own eight Dr Who books, a 5 yr. old 3rd Doc tee shirt, a couple of audio books, some DVD's that were sent to me, and an old Tom Baker/Target Books poster...and that's pretty much it...but, that said, I think about Dr Who a lot, I--when time and emotions allow--write fan fiction, surf DW sites, and was watching it--either my few DVD's, or on the internet--every single day, pretty much---is that obsessed? I'm thinking, maybe, yes. I even log on to my favourite DW website, during my 10 min breaks at work. I think, if I were well heeled and had the money to throw around, I'd probably own tons o fDW stuff--and would have hopped a jet long ago, to Merry ol' England to do a Dr Who tour.

Yeah, I probably am rather obsessed, and I'm wondering if it's healthy. I don't know. I won't shut it out of my life completely--the show really does bring me so much joy, and I've so little left to feel happy about--but...I just don't know what to make of it, anymore...maybe the mean ol' BBC is doing me a favour...

"You Sun photographers will do anything for a story--can't a man enjoy his fetishes in peace?"

Rain, late April, Northeast Kingdom region of Vermont.

Rainy day, today, mixed with a bit of snow.

The lowering gray sky touches the not-so-distant mountain tops, trying to smother them.

But rather than seeming depressing, the rain can bring its measure of calmness, warmth and contentment. Rain has its own measure of beauty.

It can calm us, when we lie abed, listening to the sound of the falling rain, the slick "whissk" of tyres as they pass by on the road outside, the dripping off of the eaves.

It can bring us a contented warmth to our soul, as we step inside from a cold rain, to the heat of our homes (hopefully), a warm robe, a comfy chair and a hot cup of something nice.

And rain can bring out colours we might not normally notice: bright green lichen on a rain-darkened tree trunk, crystal drops hanging from branches tipped with reddening buds, browns become browner, greens, greener--gray and silver and green and maroon.

Flowers seem brighter, new grass seems greener...everything comes into sharper focus, in the rain--if you take the time to notice.

Well, came out of the bedroom this morning, to use the loo, and lo and behold, there was my TP roll on the bathroom floor--all shredded to bits. Thank goodness I'd bought extra, last week, on sale!

Why, when they have no less than four balls and two "wands" to play with--which they do indeed play with---do they pick on my toilet paper??/

Well, after a long and arduous search (actually, I Googled it in a matter of minutes), Eureaka! I found my answer:

There was a period in ancient Egyptian history when the entire civilization nearly collapsed due to the bullying and interference of evil sorcerers refered to in the Bible as chartumei mitzrayim. These men used black magics and necromancy to create significant fear, and were thereby able to intimidate others into doing their will. They were not only greedy and malicious, but supernaturally resistant to earthly weapons and poisons, invariably living long, healthy lives.

And this is why your cat attacks paper towels.

"Who, me??"

What in the billy blue blaze??!!?? (Which is much more polite, don't you think, than saying "What the fu_k???")

Okay. American Social Security. I get, or rather was getting, a disability cheque from the federal government. Which they told me would stop in Nov. of '06...and I didn't get a checque in November--I got a Nov. cheque in Dec. AND a Dec. cheque, as well!

So, I went to their office and after being giving the runaround, was told--"Oh yes, you're entititled to checks, still." And, that I'd get cheques for Jan and Feb. Wow. Cool. I was actually able to live a reasonably "normal" life for 2 mos. Far-out. Yeah, not quite.

So, I went to report my hours were being cut, and told--"oh no probs, Nance ol' gal, you'll get a checque for March, too!" "I can? I can spend that cheque, and everything?" "Oh sure," they said, "No probs." (I'm paraphasing here). Probs.

I get a letter, around 2 1/2 weeks ago, stating that I WAS NOT supposed to get checks for 2007, AT ALL! And, I'd have to pay them back!!!! (The Jan-March checks!!!) $681 per mo., times 3 mos.!!!! And my weekly income's been under 200 dollars!!!

I've been sleepless and depressed to the max, over this...

And now, boys and girls, ladies and gents, in my mailbox today I get...(imaginary drum roll).....

A Social Security Disability check!!!

Sweet Moses on a bicycle!!! And people want to know why I don't want to live in America, anymore???

(Well, that, and people like those mean and hateful anti-gay Baptist weirdos, that go 'round protesting at dead soldiers and miner's funerals)

I'm stuck home yet again, today--I seriously need to go shopping, but my foot is having other ideas--it's even prettier today than yesterday--the colours are all the way up to the ankle now, and the toes, as well....oh well, maybe after work tonight...I just tried tidying the kitchen--ouch! Almost had another blinking fall! Well, I'll keep trying...as usual, no one else is going to do it, so if I don't, it won't happen at all..and I can't stand living in a pigsty--well, for more than a few days, at any rate.

So, I'm just bored, and before I hobble back to bed, thought I'd throw a few things at you...truth to tell, it's older stuff, so you probably won't find it of much interest. My writing skills aren't exactly sharp as a tack, today, hence, my giving you old stuff to read. Sorry.

Loss

Short Essay about a visit to an opening at a modern art gallery:

My eyes roam around the neutral walls, and the first thing that draws them in is the colors. It looks like a display of art by some exotic tribsewoman. My mind whirls. A myriad of wall hangings positively spews the full spectrum of color. Quilted fabrics intermingle like the patrons who are viewing them. Looking at the single inch of the stitching patterns, is like trying to focus the eye on a lone butterfly in the middle of Times Square. The various fabrics and the multitude of textures and patterns, runs crazily together like a swarm of mad bees. No rhyme or reason prevails. It’s as if some mad quilt lady was doing to fabric, what Frankenstein did to his monster. The difference being, she makes this work.

A sharp contrast could be found on the opposite wall of the gallery. Here, a few pieces of art are displayed, which are the essesence of simplicity. They are meant, is seems to me, to calm the soul. Off-white, cloud-like images of marshes and other natural scenes, soothe the mind like spring sunshine after a harsh winter. I look at the one titled: “Redwing.” It stirs up memories of contentment and childhood. A song floats through my head, the song of the redwing blackbird, sitting on a dead cat-tail in the marsh below the highway. A flash of black wing smeared with red and yellow, the bend of the cattails on the wind, the musty smell of the ditch. I pause a moment longer, not wanting to break the spell, then I walk away, a mixture of sad and happiness in me.

Journal Entry from the early 1980's:

While out on one of my Sunday hikes, I paused beneath a stately spruce tree. I stood there silently in the dappled sunlight, in total awe of the way the sun reflected so brilliantly off the waving boughs, like a million white jewels. I swear that I fancied that I could almost hear the sun's laughter, as the branches swayed and rocked in the gentle breeze. The sun danced with the indivdual needles, sending down shadows to play around my booted feet. Long ago, Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote of his time with nature, that he was "happy to the brink of fear." That is true. But it goes beyond that even still. It's a moment that can almost stop time, and perhaps, in a way, it does. Because when I'm in that moment, that instant when I feel a genuine balance, a harmony with nature, I capture that moment within my heart and mind and soul forever. It never leaves me. I know that twently years from now, perhaps I won't have these experiences any longer...but, I have that one microcosm in time inside me. All I'll have to do, is remember, and the feelings will be as real and vivid to me, as the first time. The sunshine and shadows live on inside me forever.

Partial skit written as an exercise for a college class: (only found the first few pages)--it's stupid, but the project was ungraded so I don't think I spent much time on this, as I recall...

"Weather or Not"

The action of the skit takes place in the National Weather Center, located somewhere in the Mid-Western United States.

CHARACTERS:

MR. PRESIDENT: ........a distinguished gentleman, who's wallet is bigger than his brain.

RANDY:…..the weatherman in charge of a tornado study program. He’s an overly enthusiastic overachiever.

MARGO:….RANDY’S adoring assistant. She’s got more air in her head than a weather balloon.

CLYDE:…..MR. PRESIDENT’S Secret Service man. He gaily goes about the task of watching the president’s backsides.

FRANCINE:…..She’s just someone who was walking by. She’s a very nosy know-it-all.

SETTING: The “war room” of the tornado storm watch center. A computer sits on a desk, charting the track of a large severe thunderstorm. It is dimly lit, until MR. PRESIDENT and CLYDE walk onstage from stage right. The lights go up. They are followed by RANDY and MARGO, who hovers over RANDY’S shoulder.

RANDY; (Proudly) … Mr. President, here in the tornado storm watch center, I--that is to say, we, can track any severe weather that breaks out in the Mid-western United States right from that computer over there. If we think there’s a tornado, I simply push a red button and the alarm goes out instantly. This is what we at the National Weather Center refer to as the “war room.”

MR. PRESIDENT: (Stalks importantly around the room, followed closely by CLYDE.) We’re at war with the weather now? By gosh, my Homeland Security really gets around. Well, why not? If we can make a perpetual fight with terrorists…hmmm…not bad, not bad at all..but can we make any money from it? Well done, Randy…and..and..

MARGO: Margo, Mr. President, I’m his assistant, remember? We met two minutes ago…

CLYDE: (Towrds the end of MARGO’S line, RANDY Leans into the president) Psst--I think, in this case sir, that the term “war room’ is just an expression.

MR. PRESIDENT: (Momentarily dumbstruck. Whispers loudly to CLYDE) Huh? Wha? Oh…hrumph…uh yes, yes, Clyde..I know that! I was just tryin’ to sound…(gropes for word, lights up.)To sound..enthusiastic for these young people. (Conspiritorily) Not much of a room, is it?

(CLYDE looks around the room, tilting his head in appraisal)

CLYDE: Oh, sir, but it’s a cute little space, even if it doesn’t have any windows in it…with a little fixing up, the right color and furniture combinations, we could turn it into a den or a nice sitting room…

MR. PRESIDENT: Not now, Clyde.

CLYDE: Yes sir.

RANDY walks up to MR. PRESIDENT and guides him over to the computer. MARGO faithfully follows RANDY, almost tripping into CLYDE.

RANDY: If you’ll come this way sir, I’ll introduce you to ROCKY.

MR. PRESIDENT: Slyvester Stallone’s here? Hot-dang! Now there’s a guy who can fight terrorists!

RANDY: Uh--no, sir. ROCKY stands for the R-K 2000, the world’s most advanced weather supercomputer.

MR. PRESIDENT: Huh? Wha? Hrummph…Uh, oh yeah, I knew that…

MARGO: (Edging over to MR. PRESIDENT) Gee, Mr. President, can I just say how proud my boss and I are to have you here? I mean, it’s such an honor to have you here! For the last two weeks that’s all the office staff was talking about, having you here! And most of them didn’t even vote for you…except the guy from Florida…but he doesn’t count.

RANDY: Uh..Margo,

MARGO: All week long, It was the president this, the president that…and it was mostly all good stuff, for a change…

RANDY: Uh…that’s good, Margo. Why don’t you see if any new data has come in?

MARGO: Okay. (She walks offstage.)

RANDY: You see, Mr. President, ROCKY is the best weather forecast system in history.

See that big black button? Push that button, and you can instantly see where the most likely trouble spots are, anywhere in seven states. Go ahead, turn him on.

CLYDE: Ooo--that’s a job I’d like.

MR. PRESIDENT: Shut up, Clyde.

CLYDE: Yes, sir.

MR. PRESIDENT: Now, which button do I press?

RANDY: The big black one that says “on,’ sir.

MR. PRESIDENT: Hrrumph…uh, umm…oh yes. (He stares at the screen, puzzled.) Randy, what’s all of those there, big lines on the screen? They look like big squares, but they’re not all the same size or shape…

RANDY: Those are states, sir. The little lines are the borders…see, here’s where we are, Iowa, and there’s Illinois, Minnesota, Wisconson, Missouri, Oklahoma…

MR. PRESIDENT: I see. And what’s all of that there red, blue and green and purple stuff, covering up the states? All them colors is real pretty…

CLYDE: Oh, yes, they are pretty, Mr. President…

MR. PRESIDENT: Not now, clyde.

CLYDE: Yes, sir.

(FRANCINE enters from stage left, wanders around the “room,” looking around.)

RANDY: That’s weather being pickup up by our super-duper-doppleganger radar, sir. I can just look at it and issue an alert to all effected states in less than a second. Cool, huh?

MR. PRESIDENT: Did Homeland Security come up with that? The weather can be evil, and we hav’ta keep alert against evil…the weather is part of the Axis of Evil! I bet you didn't know that, Clyde, did you?

DAVID "Teninch" TENNANT: "Oh no! Not more screaming fan girls!?!...and they're carrying tape measures? I have to get a new nickname!"

Well, I know it was stupid bawling over a TV show, last night. Maybe I should forget about Dr Who for awhile...maybe I am getting too obsessed with it--I've never cried over not seeing a TV show before...how shallow is that?

Anyhow, I was really tired, depressed and in tremendous pain, last night. Might have had something to do with it, I suppose. First night back to work and all. Really hurt having to lose more than 2 days pay--at a time when I can least afford to. But, that's the way things are with me--when I'm down, life seems to delight in pounding me down some more. Life is a really nasty bully, the bastard.

I'm sitting here trying to figure out how the hell I'm going to manage taking out the rubbish today...and tidy the apartment--looks like a hurricane blew through here--and, I've no clean trousers to wear, as I was so tired last night, I clean forgot to wash out a pair in the kitchen sink, before retiring. Ah, well, dirty trousers for me, then, today. At least my knickers are clean.

My sister called today. First time since New Year's. Seems my nephew is going to a home for delinquent boys (ASBO type kids) for his schooling, now. Sis is staying home until her SUV is roadworthy again--partner doesn't like her taking his car, well--that, and her partner is a neanderthal redneck, the type that likes his woman barefoot and pregnant, as they say. He made her get a boob job, for pity's sake! He said he didn't like her tits the way they were--and I should go 'round looking for a guy like that? No. I made the right decision, I'm thinking, to be an old maid.

Anyway, yeah, I'm not giving up Who completely, but I do think I"m going to back off--it's just a TV show, and love it or not, I shouldn't be obsessing over some British TV show--unless I was British, of course. I mean, it's not like I can do anything positive with DR Who, just watch it, and maybe talk about it sometimes--well, not now, as I won't be seeing any of the new stuff. But I can still talk about some of the old stuff, sometimes, as well. But really, getting all heartbroken over a TV show...not like me. Always adored the show, but...I don't know. I was really bawling over it, last night...that's not something I've ever done before.

So, (sort of)...goodbye Dr Who, I suppose.

What happened after actor David Tennant sniffed the insides of his trainers.

Okay, well, no more Dr Who for me then.

Auntie Beeb has flexed her arrogant chav-snob muscles yet again, and banned us Yanks from watching Smith & Jones. Ah, well. I suppose I understand...but still...I hate life. I really hate this.

Every time I find a bit of happiness--it gets yanked away from me. I'm crying right now, I really am ashamed to admit it, but I am. I'm so very tired.

Someone said something nice to me, the other day, unexpectedly. A compliment about my writing from someone I don't even know. And, for my ego, that's nice. But it also makes me even more sad--what good is it? I'm average, okay? I've studied writing, I know what it takes to get published: Image. I don't have "image," or rather, I've the wrong image.

What the hell good is it to dream? It's fine if you have some practical basis for it...but me...no way. I can't. My dreams are dead, every last one. I can't be a writer. I just am really not good enough--I know nothing of fiction writing, and my journalism skills--not good enough. And, quite frankly, I just don't have the spirit or the strength, anymore, to dream about nonsense. I just want to not be homeless or lose my cats--that's my dream.

But, this thing with the stinking cruel bastards at the BBC, it really discourages me. I realize that nothing is ever really going to be good for me again. I'm lost my dreams, my hope, my future, some of my frineds..now I'm losing Dr Who, as well.

Sometimes I really do envy my late mum. Live is so incredibly mean, sometimes.

I'm still quite chuffed over having been able to see Smith and Jones, yesterday. Quite frankly, it had been adding to my depression, not knowing whether I was ever going to see it or not. I really needed the lift that gave me, yesterday--as much as I've ever needed anything.

I've been so down--for good reason. And I'm so depressed over my totally uncertain future. I know that if I can get through another year of my life without winding up homeless, or losing my cats--my family, as it were, I will be very lucky, indeed. Still trying to reach the advocates office. Even if they can, by some miracle, save me from Social Security taking me to the cleaners, I don't know if anyone can save me from my student lenders, who will surely ruin me.

Anyway, I felt so much better, yesterday, after seeing Smith and Jones. I even didn't mind having to sit in the waiting room of Emergency for an hour, my throbbing foot propped up on a chair. I didn't mind being wheeled to wait for yet more x-rays, seated next to the kid who, apparently, had been barfing his guts out for the past five days. Or even having a toddler, who thought it'd be fun walk up behind me, and violently shake my wheelchair like it was a Fischer Price toy (ouch). I just pulled my baseball cap over my eyes (it was raining and me with no umbrella), closed my eyes, and thought about Smith and Jones.

Ah, Tennant was, indeed, brilliant! Such energy! I really would love to see the man on stage--I bet his performance would be positively magnetic. And Ms. Agyeman! She has quite a lot of energy as well--tho' completely different from Mr. Tennant, of course.

The two of them promise to make quite a team, I'm thinking. Looks like we fans may be in for quite a lovely treat for Series 3.

As for Tennant leaving or staying--hey, it's his life/career. I hope he stays for a good long while--but, if he needs to move on, good for him. But I suppose only he knows *(well, and the producers), when that will be, and I get a bit irritated by all this leaving or staying nonsense--just enjoy it while it lasts, for pity's sake! I for one, know all too well, that nothing lasts forever.

Well, just a quick note in passing.

Just returned from the ER--again. Lost the feeling in my foot--not good. Turns out, they don't know what's causing the massive bruising and swelling--but, it's not broken for sure. They took about half a dozen more x=rays of the foot, just to be certain. They don't know why the entire foot is bruising like it is--they say the numbness is from the swelling--and the elevating of the foot is aggravating it--but I have to keep the foot elevated to stem the swelling--a lose-lose situation, as far as feeling my feet are concerned. Oh well, less sensation means less pain.

The soles, sides, top and heel of my foot look like Easter egg pastels...with a some really lovely shades of deep purple thrown in, here and there, for good measure. And the foot looks like it's an inflatable. All the nurses look at it, and to a one go, "Oh my!"

Okay, that's not good.

So, let's make a count, shall we?

Sprain #1, sprained left foot--stepped into a rabbit hole in my back yard when I was 14, I think.

#2. Sprained right foot. Slipped on a hidden patch of ice while snowshoeing down a short slope...now that's embarrassing---who but me would have a snowshoeing accident? Unless you're racing---which I never did--snowshoeing is one of the most sedate sports going! I was about 15 or 16, as I recall.

#3. Sprained right foot. Riding accident--dumb thing--my saddle slipped in horsemanship class in college, in the winter of '80--dumb because at that time I was actually majoring in horsemanship, and I did in fact know better--always check your cinch or girth for tightness before you get on--lesson number one a good instructor teaches you...(cinch is the western term, girth is used for the flat saddles, like for jumping)--it's what goes under the horses belly that keeps the saddle on, and stupid me forgot to re-check mine.

Yeah, stupid's the word. As I was mounting, the saddle slipped under the horses belly, and took me with it, spraining my ankle in the process--kept riding anyway.

About two months later, I was bucked off during a lesson--by this same horse (I've got this bad vibe--I swear it's true--with horses named "Bert"), and I unknowingly fractured my right knee real good--finally had to have a piece of it removed about 25 years later. Did the trick, too...mostly.

#4. Slipped on ice in car park and got very bad sprain--nearly a grade 3--on right ankle--permanent damage. 1996.

#5. Post-riding accident, after an especially tough lesson at college, I was really stiff, and my left ankle gave out while walking down some stairs. Moderate sprain. Autumn of 2003.

#6. Tired from working as a cleaner at the local harness track/slot casino, and while pumping gas after work, tripped on a big crack in the pavement and sprained my right ankle and fractured my metatarsil bone. May of 2005.

#7. Slipped on ice under snow in blizzard on 16th March of this year, mild sprains to both left knee and ankle.

#8. Slipped on wet kitchen floor Friday. Serious sprain of foot, possible torn ligaments and/or tendons.

Oh, and I got my left foot nearly crushed, back when I was 20, when holding the front hoof of a race horse being treated by the vet--and the horse suddenly leaned all 800 pounds of his weight on me, and I naturally let go of the foot and stepped back--only to have all 800 pounds on the hoof, come crashing down on my left foot--I was wearing thick steel-toed workboots, at the time, and the steel was dented and my foot was fractured...had I been wearing my trainers, I was later told, the foot would have been crushed--always wear heavy boots around horses!!!

And had a 3 inch thick fossil rock dropped on my toe while worm hunting--took the toenail off...don't ask. I'm the only one on the planet who's had a "worm digging" injury!

And that's just the feet!!!

ADDENDUM:

Finally figured out what's happening with Flame--she's been at me--pawing and mewling and being attentive and wanting extra attention---ever since Friday, especially--she must smell the hospital on me! Mum--between dialysis 3X a week, and frequent hospital stays, must've reeked of hospital--I'll bet Flame is remembering--that's why she's so distressed--poor babe! I will have to work extra hard to reassure her, now.

Oh, and the "For Sale" Sign that was gone--is back up again...weird. Maybe one was stolen. They will do that, here, sometimes. Glens Falls is a pretty dull little city, most of the time.

NOTICE TO MY FRIENDS:

My depressing posts are mostly ending now...I realize that no one really wants to hear it, and I seem to be attracting a few fake visitors, besides with them, which is a shame--for them and me--but, from now on in, I'm doing my best to change the subject whenever possible, and talk about some other aspect(s) of my past and present life.

Just a warning, about his post though...

This gets a bit..intimate, for me, so to avoid embarrassment, if that sort of thing makes you uncomfortable, you might want to skip this one.

Well, I don't generally go 'round advertising this, ya' know.

Especially not in this day and age, ey? I mean, a 46 year old virgin--who's not a nun? Actually, I used to be Catholic--even worked in a convent for two years (shudders)--that was...an experience.

Being Catholic wasn't my idea, mind. It was my dad's--who wasn't even a devout Catholic--but to whom image was everything. He refused to let mum go to church with us on Sundays, as she was Lutheran and he was ashamed of that, for some reason. But then, that was normal for dad--if anyone didn't fit his idea of "image," even his own family members, that person was either dismissed from his presence or verbally put down. So, mum was excluded from church--mostly because she was protestant, but also, I think, 'cause she was fat. She didn't used to be, but being around dad was a bit of a bummer, so mum put on more and more weight as time went on. And dad hated fat people, as well. Blacks, fat people, foreigners, poor people---and educated people intimidated him (including me, after I went to college.) He loved rich people, though--virtually worshiped the ground rich people walked on. Dad may have been catholic, but money was his God--tho' truth to tell, he was never able to get himself out of the lower middle class (ie: blue collar/ chav) though, sadly for him.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I positively hated being Catholic--not meaning to offend any Catholics out there, I do really have a lot of respect for the religion, but it just didn't suit me, personally--what I believe and how I prefer to worship and such--well, that and being traumatized at the tender age of 12, by a priest almost literally foaming at the mouth at me in confessional, for not remembering how to say confession properly. Kind of killed the brotherly love aspect for me. So no, I was NEVER a nun!

But I am a virgin yes. There's several reasons for that, a dark reason that I cannot discuss here and also a couple of lesser reasons.

I've never been kissed on the lips--not sure how I'd take that, now, in my "old age." I've not dated in over 10 years...and I've never dated the same guy more than a handful of times. Without exception, in the end, all my dates ever wanted from me, was either sex, or to use me to show off to his ex. I've dated guys that have told me outright, that they had other girlfrieds--really tacky, guys, to say to a gal on a date. Before you make the date, maybe--but on the date itself? Yeah, that went over well. I remember one guy virtually bragging to me--on my date--how many girlfriends he had, and how many times he was shagging them every week. So...dating. Forget it. Not worth it. Had a guy tell me--again, on the first date--that he couldn't "get serious" with me, if I didn't convert to his born-again Christian religion.
Okay, then. Check please!

oh and the last guy, I met online through an historical hobby message board. We'd be writing each other for months, and he said he was coming to my area. Asked if we could meet over coffee. Sure, why not--public place what could happen? Yeah. Well, seems he also wanted me to show him some of the historic sites--couldn't find how to get to Fort Ticonderoga. So, okay. We meet in the local diner in my town. Now, he wrote me that he was 55--I was 35 at the time, and I may be an old maid--but I'm an open-minded one, and don't care about age differences--up to a point, anyway. Well...Mr X exceeded that point---turns out, he was exactly my mum's age! She was, I think, 70 at the time. Yeah--I may have dyscalculia (math disability)...but even I know... 55 and 70--they don't add up. But he seemed genuine--said he didn't think I'd want to see him or write to him, if I thought he was that old--didn't buy that 100 percent...but I was willing to give him some leeway. Bad move. So, we drove out to Fort Ti---it was a hot day, did he offer to buy me a cold drink? No. In fact, he never even offered to pay for my coffee...I don't mind Dutch treat at all--I've paid my own tab more times than not, but an offer would have been the gentlemanly thing to do...at least, that's my thinking. Okay, so we get to ticonderoga--but not without him going on about what "a nice motel room" he had. (Hint-hint, wink and a nudge)...oh yeah, that was subtle.

Well, we got to Fort Ticonderoga--and he was all miffed at me, because I didn't have any admission price for the fort tour on me--well, I hadn't planned on going to the blinkin' historic site, had I? I'd just gone out with coffee money, and pocket change for a phone call, if need be. (I've been naive--but not totally daft.) I mean, you could still walk the grounds for free--you just couldn't go inside, or go on the guided tour with the costumed guide, that's all. But, he got all put out and drove me home---via the town where he was staying--which was about 20 miles south of where I lived--and we were 40 miles or so to the north, of my town, at the historic site. So, bit of a detour then--and I was NOT amused!

He insisted I go inside to "see" (wink-nudge, know-what-I-mean) his room. I poked my head in---yeah, it's a room, thanks for the tour, bye. I wound up bumming a ride home from a neighbour who worked at a restaurant near the old fart's hotel. The old fart started calling my home and bugging my mum all night--so I threated to tell his wife about us---oh, didn't mention that did I? He'd also written me that he was divorced. He wasn't. Yeah---Like a nun, I made a vow that night---NEVER AGAIN. And, like a nun, I've kept my vows...I have not, and never ever will, date a guy ever again. No. And if I was a lesbian--I wouldn't date a girl, either!

So, I'm alone.

Actually, those are the lighter reasons. The other two reasons are much more complicated and a lot tougher to talk about. And I've never really done that, in my life, and may never be able to--don't know.

But, I don't relate really, to love stories. I've never been in love--and no guy has ever loved me. And I doubt very much any guy ever will. No guy has ever wanted me--for just...me. I wish that weren't true, but it is, and it's always going to be that way. No avoiding the truth...I'm just not a very lovable person, I guess. I mean, what guy wants to date a woman who can't have sex? No guys that I know of--'least not in America.

To my fake "visitors" from Culiot or whereever:

I'm sorry your life is so dull, that the only fun you can find is to annoy innocent people by posting stupid Russian proverbs.

Come on--it's a big world out there, a huge universe of interesting things--books, plants, animals, space, people, things...is this all you can find to do, bother people who are suffering with nonsensical proverbs and fake blog addresses? What a waste of the birth process--and I thought I had no life--you make my existence seem downright exciting, I'll give you that...at least I've not been reduced to what you're doing, for "fun."

How old are you? I'm guessing about 9 or 10?

Heads up mum and dad--this is why junior shouldn't be allowed near a computer until he's at least 17 years of age!

Well, another sunny day, Sunday morning. Have to work today. Bleh. And I have to take the rubbish bags downstairs to the dumpster in the rear car park. Double bleh. I've come to the definite conclusion that being an impoverished chav old maid, isn't exactly a barrel of laughs.

I have to take something for the pain, to keep me going--but what really got me charged--well, as upbeat as I can be, given the crappy circumstances--is that Smith and Jones was on YouTube this morning.

That put a me in a much better mood....Doctor Who is absolutely the best anti-depressant ever made--and there's no side effect--except maybe for that big smile on my face, as the end credits rolled by, of course.

Man, I swear I could live and breath Dr Who for the rest of my life and be happy--strange, used to feel that way about horses and being outdoors--guess people change, when they get older--of course, I don't have horses or the outdoors any longer--I'm blessed to even have Dr Who---and bless the person that put it on the internet--with all my heart. It's exactly the thing I needed today. Bless them.

The dim reflection of the sun weakly shines in the early day. Grey winter winds chill the bones of weary travelers, as they stumble up stony dunes of sand. The pyramid of ancient stone juts out of the desert, like Gulliver standing before the Lilliputians. Mammoth khaki-colored blocks the size of a Greyhound bus, do their best to blot out the alabaster sky. The unique unfinished burial place of King Sneferu, is now reduced to a tourist attraction. Sharp gasps and quiet exclamations resound off of the weathered stone. Cameras click and scenes are recorded on miniature picture screens, as necks tilt back to see the crumbling summit.

Step by cautious step, the travelers weave like a disjointed snake up the dusty path. Shoe color quickly becomes anonymous in the desert. Pausing halfway up; one looks down on endless dirty grey and tan sand, blowing litter, a winding gravel road. The chiming laughter of school children away from their classrooms drifts upward. Black uniformed cops on camels cradle their machine guns like tender mothers. They pause to share a joke and a cigarette with a sweater-clad bus driver, all the while keeping a watchful eye on Egypt’s bread and butter. The tourists breathe heavily in the thin air as they approach the top. A yawning black hole opens from a narrow doorway, one that was no doubt wide to the ancient builders. Humid air rises like a rotting corpse, as the meager ship-like passage almost vertically descends into the bowels of the tomb.

A long tortuous journey is completed. The musty odor of decay assails the nostrils, and distant curses in French drift down the shaft from an irate tour guide above. The fifteen-minute trip cumulates in the dim view of a large empty sepulcher of red stone. In the long climb back, legs tremble and breath becomes labored. Rude French tourists step on toes and impatiently elbow their way downward. One gratefully emerges into bright daylight, because the desert weather changes like a fickle lover. The lowering skies have cleared. Now the day is spring-like, and an azure sky greets the noon sunshine. The lion-like winds have become a lamb. They bring an untainted breeze up the valley from the distant Nile.

Taken from Sketchweasel's blog:

OK, the good and magical fairy Fantasmagoria has granted you three wishes.

Your third wish can be about anything not related to the first two wishes but is not allowed to be more wishes And your wishes have to be personal to you.

1. That my friend overseas will feel better.

2. Easy. I'd give anything to live in the UK

3. That I would never have to worry about losing my home, pets, possessions or going hungry ever again, and that I not be alone anymore.