wordweaverlynn: PTSD: Not all wounds are visible (PTSD)
Seventy-five years ago, the Nazis invaded Poland. It was the beginning of World War II.
still applies, unfortunately )
wordweaverlynn: (Default)
I understand your desire to get the most possible money for your used computer. But $625 for a Mac G5 desktop? Even with two Mac monitors -- presumably of the same ancient vintage (well, ancient in computer years), this is ridiculous.

You say, 'It has been in storage for all except first year of its life. That is why I am calling this "new." '

Sweetheart, time passes even in storage units. This computer is somewhere between nine and eleven years old. That's elderly even for a Mac. Furthermore, this is an outdated Mac. It's running on a PowerPC processor. You cannot upgrade this machine to the current OS. In fact, it won't run anything past OS 10.5.8. That's if you're lucky. Older G5s are stuck at 10.3.9.

For less than the price you're asking, other Craigslist sellers are offering much better bargains: a three-year-old MacBook Pro running OS 10.9.4 with Office 2011; a four-year-old i7 Mac Mini server with display, keyboard, and mouse; even a Mac Pro Tower, which is a fearsome beast. All have far more speed, power, RAM, and storage than your G5.

On the other hand, you're not the only person selling a G5 on Craigslist. The other ads are asking anywhere from $50 to $350 for these systems. (The $350 system seems overpriced, but it's bigger and faster than yours.)

I've loved every Mac I ever had. I loved and used my Apple IIe for eight and a half years -- not occasionally, but for five to ten hours a day -- and I was deeply disappointed when it couldn't be fixed. But a touch of realism, please. The G5 just isn't worth that much.

*Not linking out of mercy.

So why am I looking at Mac ads on Craigslist?

Because my much-loved MacBook Pro has finally succumbed. Anybody got a used Mac for sale? Desktop preferred, which basically means a Mini, probably.
wordweaverlynn: (rilke)
I felt an earthquake about ten minutes ago. (Yes, I'm awake.) I've been busy since then reporting it on the USGS "Did You Feel It?" site.

So how are you?

Update

May. 20th, 2014 02:52 pm
wordweaverlynn: (Default)
Gabriel had feline infectious peritonitis. Cat owners: a swollen belly is a medical emergency for a cat. If it's not FIP, it can be several other unpleasant things.

FIP is lethal and incurable. She was suffering. And it was dangerous for the other cats. Goodbye, dear kitty.

I'm glad it moved fast; she had only one bad day.

Practically her last act was to walk repeatedly over the vet's keyboard, entering her own password onto his computer screen. Many of you have had her secret messages typed into chats. Recently she typed "loki," and on several occasions managed to change the computer's settings.

Despite her technological savvy, she stayed a wild animal to the end: a feral cat who nevertheless loved me and permitted herself to be loved. In these past few years she grew to love [personal profile] housepet and [personal profile] gramina, or at least be willing to cuddle or even sleep with them.

She was always a climbing cat -- she used to leap to the top of my 7-foot bookcases from the 3-foot ones, then to the top of the open door. Then to the top of the armoire, 8 and a half feet above the floor. When she was done napping up there, she would spread herself out like a flying squirrel and glide down to the floor.

Now she has gone to the great woods with all the other cats: Targy and Possum, Mad Max (Beyond Thunderpurr), Marlowe and Eqypt, Pyewacket the polydactyl.


The Heaven of Animals
By James L. Dickey
Here they are. The soft eyes open.
If they have lived in a wood
It is a wood.
If they have lived on plains
It is grass rolling
Under their feet forever.

Having no souls, they have come,
Anyway, beyond their knowing.
Their instincts wholly bloom
And they rise.
The soft eyes open.

To match them, the landscape flowers,
Outdoing, desperately
Outdoing what is required:
The richest wood,
The deepest field.

For some of these,
It could not be the place
It is, without blood.
These hunt, as they have done,
But with claws and teeth grown perfect,

More deadly than they can believe.
They stalk more silently,
And crouch on the limbs of trees,
And their descent
Upon the bright backs of their prey

May take years
In a sovereign floating of joy.
And those that are hunted
Know this as their life,
Their reward: to walk

Under such trees in full knowledge
Of what is in glory above them,
And to feel no fear,
But acceptance, compliance.
Fulfilling themselves without pain

At the cycle’s center,
They tremble, they walk
Under the tree,
They fall, they are torn,
They rise, they walk again.

James Dickey, “The Heaven of Animals” from The Whole Motion: Collected Poems 1945-1992. Copyright © 1992 by James Dickey.
wordweaverlynn: (walk away)
I've just been pinning Dr Who/cat images to Pinterest. Today I'm thinking about regeneration and many lives.

Gabriel will be 16 in September, and she's used up a lot of lives. She was a feral kitten; I got her when she was 8 weeks old. When she was six months old, someone tried to strangle or hang her; the vet found distinct ligature marks. Once she managed to get trapped in the cellar with no food or water for nearly a week. (To be fair, I looked down there early in the week, and she wasn't there. When I checked again, the board blocking the cellar window had been pushed in, and Gabriel was calmly awaiting me on the floor, nine feet below the window level.) And of course there was the move west: she protested continuously for 3,000 miles.

A few years ago, she disappeared for more than three weeks and came back gaunt, dehydrated, and bedraggled. My best guess, and the vet's, was that she'd gotten into a moving van that was in the neighborhood and made her way back, or else she'd been trapped in a garage while someone was away.

I left Gabriel at the vet this morning with a very swollen tummy and a lot of discomfort. The best possibility is constipation or an intestinal blockage. The worst is that she's used up her ninth life. My greatly loved Possum presented with the same symptom when she had untreatable liver cancer.

They couldn't even get Gabriel out of the carrier, she's so annoyed. She has hated the vet ever since the strangling incident. (I can't be there, I'm working.) Sedation, blood work, and X-rays. I'm waiting for news.

My poor beautiful Gabriel.
wordweaverlynn: (rilke)
I'm thinking of posting blog entries to my own site at http://lynnkendall.com and cross-posting them here ("Here" being Dreamwidth and LJ). There seem to be several options; how do other people do this?
wordweaverlynn: (Default)
Saturday, April 26, the Shotgun Players did a marathon production of Tom Stoppard's trilogy, The Coast of Utopia. The three plays -- Voyage, Shipwreck, and Salvage -- follow a group of (mostly) Russian revolutionaries from their idealistic youth in the 1830s to old age. I was lucky enough to attend as a guest of [personal profile] wild_irises and [personal profile] pokershaman.

As in many Stoppard plays, the characters are actual historical people, albeit ones you may not have heard of. I'm fairly well up on nineteenth-century revolutions, and there were plenty of people I didn't know. If you do decide to go, it's worth reading a little background on a few prominent characters, particularly the anarchist Mikhail Bakunin, the radical and journalist Alexander Herzen, the literary critic Vissarion Belinsky, and the novelist Ivan Turgenev. Or you can just read Stoppard's own essay on the origin of the plays.

Also like many Stoppard plays, the trilogy presents compelling drama from material that doesn't necessarily seem especially dramatic at first blush. Stoppard conveys the gist of complex ideas in humorous dialogue, and he punctures self-contradictions with glee.

Bakunin: Left to themselves people are noble, generous, uncorrupted, they'd create a completely new kind of society if only people weren't so blind, stupid and selfish.
Herzen: Is that the same people or different people?

But it's not all comedy. Radicals, even wealthy ones in exile, far from the oppressive government they're protesting, suffer the usual issues of ordinary life: illness, unwise romantic entanglements, loss.

Many trilogies are strongest in their first and last parts, but to me Shipwreck was more powerful, more unified, more intense than the other two plays. Voyage is lighter and perhaps sillier, which makes sense: it focuses on the young Bakunin, whose anarchism started out as hero-worship of Shelley, then Fichte, then Hegel. By the time of Salvage, a new generation has come along and made Herzen irrelevant. But maybe my reaction is colored by being in my Shipwreck middle years myself.

Herzen:  Because children grow up, we think a child's purpose is to grow up. But a child's purpose is to be a child. Nature doesn't disdain what lives only for a day. It pours the whole of itself into the each moment. We don't value the lily less for not being made of flint and built to last. Life's bounty is in its flow, later is too late. Where is the song when it's been sung? The dance when it's been danced? It's only we humans who want to own the future, too. We persuade ourselves that the universe is modestly employed in unfolding our destination. We note the haphazard chaos of history by the day, by the hour, but there is something wrong with the picture. Where is the unity, the meaning, of nature's highest creation? Surely those millions of little streams of accident and wilfulness have their correction in the vast underground river which, without a doubt, is carrying us to the place where we're expected! But there is no such place, that's why it's called utopia. The death of a child has no more meaning than the death of armies, of nations. Was the child happy while he lived? That is a proper question, the only question. If we can't arrange our own happiness, it's a conceit beyond vulgarity to arrange the happiness of those who come after us.

How did I prepare for nine hours of Tom Stoppard plays? A good night's sleep, layered dressing, good friends, and a picnic for the break. Picnic: Homemade sourdough bread, artisan cheese, asparagus with two dipping sauces, roasted chicken, and strawberries in balsamic vinegar, eaten at a concrete picnic table at the nearby Malcolm X schoolyard.

The marathon will be repeated next Sunday, May 4, and Shipwreck is still in repertory this week.

What have you seen or read lately that inspires you?
wordweaverlynn: (Default)
But do you have to be the one to give it to them?

When Elder Care Hurts: Caring for Elders who have been Abusive or Neglectful.

I know from my own experience that the final illness and death of the abuser is a wrenching process, no matter how much healing you've done.
wordweaverlynn: (Default)
City

The catalogue of forms is endless:
until every shape has found its city,
new cities will continue to be born.
―Italo Calvino

Was it impossible to love the city
in which it happened?
City of unfinished structure,
city of developing forms.
Where the red crane against the blue sky
guided the calculated geometry of steel
through the delineating space.
The church sent blessings
and a parcel of its adjacent heaven.
The community assembled
a collective will of iron.
The courage to build slowly
in the determined Roman way—
to knock off at sundown,
return the next day and the next,
thermos of coffee snapped under
the metal dome of a lunch kit.
Already the neighbors’ eyes
climbed like elevators,
passing the three floors of infancy,
ten of childhood, how many
teenaged stories . . .
Out of the great blasted hole—
which had shaken their bearing walls,
which had drilled them from sleep—
it reached, square upon square,
where all that could happen would happen,
faithful to the blueprint.
Ceilings, floors, membranes of the common walls.
Even feelings seemed less abstract
once the concrete was poured.
Rooms where they lost, pined, brooded,
listened to wonderful music,
wrote letters, washed,
concocted recipes of deficiency
or excess, shifted photos
of the living with the dead.
When had they moved in?
To what lease had they signed their assent?
Now, making out envelopes, they didn’t
hesitate, writing the return address
as though it had always existed.
What began with desire, the girder,
the rising silhouette at twilight—
shape of things to come.

--Jeanne Marie Beaumont from Placebo Effects (W.W. Norton & Co.) © 1997. All rights reserved.
wordweaverlynn: (Default)
The good news; she is amazingly healthy for a cat who is 15 and a half years old. She is a bit hyperthyroid, and she has been on meds for that for a few years. We'll be raising the dose a little and monitoring her progress.

The bad news is that her fur -- which can be as long as four inches -- got matted and tangled over the winter. She is not the sort of cat who permits anyone to brush her -- not without shoulder-length leather gauntlets and tranquilizers for two. Ordinarily she keeps it in good shape herself, but dry winters encourage matting. (Maybe I need to find a kitty-fur conditioner. Olive oil might work.) Once it starts to mat, that's it -- she'll need a shave.

So for the second time in her life, Gabriel is shaved down to the skin. She had to be tranquilized into sleep before the vet could do it. My poor sweet fuzzcat. Under the luxurious coat of black fur, she's a skinny pale-gray appaloosa spotted with black. And she is seriously embarrassed by her furless condition.

Last time this happened, about 10 years ago, her whole coat seized up at once into a solid piece of felt. The visiting groomer was able to cut it off like a blanket. The other cats sniffed the pelt with interest. Looked like poor Gabriel was gone, leaving only her fur behind. Then she appeared. Little Bit took one look and bolted. A ghost! Gabriel was a ghost!

So I have a question for other cat people and/or scientists. I know that Gabriel's long black fur is "smoke" -- black on the ends, pale next to the skin. What I don't understand is how that can be. Does the fur grow from the tip?

Any explanations? Thoughts? Similar experiences? Cat stories?
wordweaverlynn: (walk away)
Remorse is memory awake,
Her companies astir,---
A presence of departed acts
At window and at door.

It's past set down before the soul,
And lighted with a match,
Perusal to facilitate
Of its condensed despatch.

Remorse is cureless,---the disease
Not even God can heal;
For 't is his institution,---
The complement of hell.

--Emily Dickinson

This is the edited version that first appeared in 1896.
wordweaverlynn: from http://www.fanpop.com/spots/shakespeare-in-love/links/883128 (Shakespeare)
Celebrating the silliness of April Fool, the seriousness of poetry, and the silly seriousness of baseball, I present an Ogden Nash poem on the national pastime.

You Can't Kill an Oriole

Wee Willie Keeler
Runs through the town,
All along Charles Street,
In his nightgown.
Belling like a hound dog,
Gathering the pack:
Hey, Wilbert Robinson,
The Orioles are back!
Hey, Hughie Jennings!
Hey, John McGraw!
I got fire in my eye
And tobacco in my jaw!
Hughie, hold my halo.
I'm sick of being a saint:
Got to teach youngsters
To hit 'em where they ain't.

--Ogden Nash
wordweaverlynn: from http://www.fanpop.com/spots/shakespeare-in-love/links/883128 (Will)
[personal profile] gramina: I don't worship authors. I've known too many of them.

I casually flip her the bird.

[personal profile] gramina: I never thought you'd enjoy being worshiped. Do you?

Me: No, it's too much bother to have worshippers. I just want everyone to recognize that I deserve it.

What do you deserve that you're not getting?

(And no, I didn't manipulate the music for this. I've been reading Life, the Keith Richards autobiography, so I'm listening to a lot of the Stones lately.)
wordweaverlynn: (Default)
So, who else is going to FOGcon? March 7-9 at the Walnut Creek Marriott. Theme: Secrets. Honored Guests: Seanan McGuire/Mira Grant, Tim Powers, and the late James Tiptree, Jr. It's going to be a great con.

I'll be on the Invisible Disabilities panel Friday afternoon 4:30-5:45. And of course I have a story to read Saturday night at 9:30 in the Santa Rosa room, along with Allison Moon and Steven Schwartz. At 11PM we'll move down to the bar for the traditional YKIOK meetup.
wordweaverlynn: (Default)
As the poets have mournfully sung,
Death takes the innocent young,
The rolling-in-money,
The screamingly-funny,
And those who are very well hung.
--W. H. Auden

Weird as it sounds, Ghostbusters changed my life. I was all art movies until then. But when Bill Murray pulled the tablecloth from under the table set with china and crystal, I learned to love anarchic comedy. I even loved Animal House, which had struck me at first as sheer vulgarity -- nothing more than vomit humor. It's actually a lot more than that.

Later, with movies like Analyze This and Groundhog Day, Ramis explored deeper, more spiritually significant themes. But he always remained hilarious. Groundhog Day may well be his masterpiece, but I also loved the sly, wicked humor -- and psychological insight -- of Analyze This.

See you on the other side, Harold.

New Yorker profile
wordweaverlynn: (Default)
Bluebeard

This door you might not open, and you did;
So enter now, and see for what slight thing
You are betrayed... Here is no treasure hid,
No cauldron, no clear crystal mirroring
The sought-for truth, no heads of women slain
For greed like yours, no writhings of distress,
But only what you see... Look yet again—
An empty room, cobwebbed and comfortless.
Yet this alone out of my life I kept
Unto myself, lest any know me quite;
And you did so profane me when you crept
Unto the threshold of this room to-night
That I must never more behold your face.
This now is yours. I seek another place.
--Edna St. Vincent Millay
wordweaverlynn: (Default)
Trash hasn't picked up the broken (wooden) futon frame. How and where do I get rid of it?

Thanks!

Diane

Feb. 8th, 2014 02:58 pm
wordweaverlynn: (Default)
She was so vigorously alive, intelligent, funny, with coltish legs and a beautiful singing voice. And then she was gone.

Diane Michelle Thompson, July 10, 1974 - February 8, 1997
wordweaverlynn: (Default)
[personal profile] stonebender gave me W.

Something I hate: War

Something I love: Weather. Much as I love Northern California, I miss the extreme weather back home. Thunderstorms, blizzards, the occasional nor'easter.

Somewhere I have been: Washington, DC. I love the Smithsonian with a deep, strong love.

Somewhere I would like to go: Washington State. I've never been, and I hear it's beautiful.

Someone I know: I think the only W I know was my college boyfriend.

Best movie: Witness. Lyrical, beautifully photographed, with a tense, suspenseful plot contrasting with the serenity of the Pennsylvania countryside. How did Peter Weir, an Australian, so perfectly capture the look and feel and almost smell of PA? Kelly McGillis as the Amish widow whose small son (Lukas Haas, age about 6) witnesses a murder in Philadelphia's 30th Street Station. Harrison Ford and Danny Glover as good cops; Josef Sommer, Alexander Godunov, and Viggo Mortensen in his first screen role as Amish farmers. Also, you get to see Harrison Ford, a professional carpenter, actually working with wood. Cinematography by John Seale, who was also responsible for the beautiful images of The English Patient (and whose eye for light was the best thing about the very disappointing Dead Poets' Society). And a great soundtrack by Maurice Jarre.

[personal profile] nanila gave me F.

Something I hate: Flash-animated websites. If HTML was good enough for Alexander Graham Bell, it's good enough for me. (That's a joke, son.)

Something I love: FOGcon! Also fiction, fairs, freedom, fast cars, fossils, friends, family.

Somewhere I have been: Forest City, PA.

Somewhere I would like to go: Fairbanks, Alaska. I'd like to see the interior before I die. Or any of it, really.

Someone I know: I have a great-aunt whose name starts with F.

Best movie: Fantasia and Fantasia 2000.

Profile

wordweaverlynn: (Default)
wordweaverlynn

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