My Father Is Not The Man He Used to Be

But then, who is?

There was a time when, if I heard that my father no longer enjoyed reading science fiction, that he now found bizarre images and concepts disturbing, I would have said that this man simply couldn't be my father. But I have learned to be more tolerant of the idea that people do change, and not always for the worse. Or anyway, not entirely for the worse.

The other day, I sat with him while Mom was out with her sister, and he stared out the window at the clouds. I had noticed him commenting on clouds quite often lately, but hadn't really paid it much attention. But as I listened to his continued and attentive description of the clouds as they rolled by, I understood that he had an appreciation for the patterns they formed and re-formed which most people never have the patience to develop.

It reminded me, in fact, of a scene I had read in a story years ago, in which a man sees what the reader is clearly meant to recognize as the Beatific Vision, although the culture he comes from doesn't have that concept. The man was entranced by the ever-changing image (which, again, the reader will understand better than the character, because his culture also doesn't have the technology to create false-color images of the photosphere of the Sun), but eventually becomes just a tiny bit bored. It is a tribute to the writer's skill that it is clear that the fault lies with the viewer and not with the vision -- if his mind were better prepared, it is implied, he would be content to gaze upon that ever-changing sight eternally.

So, in spite of the pain and tragedy of my father's decline, and in spite of the inconvenience and heartache that the entire family is feeling, there are some bright spots, good experiences that he could not have had otherwise. No, it doesn't make up for what he has lost, not even close. But he is as he is, and things are as they are, and the wise thing to do is to take things as we find them and appreciate the good things when we see them.

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Once a man was being chased through a forest by a tiger, and scrambled up a sheer cliff to try to escape. As he reached the top, he saw above him a second tiger. He looked at the tiger above him, and the tiger below him, and then he felt the root he was clinging to begin to give way. Then he looked to his right and saw, clinging to the cliff, a strawberry bush, with a single ripe strawberry growing on it. He reached out and picked the berry and ate it, and said, 'Oh. That's delicious'."\\

Nora Ree Gror?

When my father and his siblings were little, they invented their own language, or anyway their own vocabulary (the grammar was, AIUI, German, as were any words they needed to complete a sentence which they hadn't made up), as well as a history for the country where it was spoken, the prehistoric civilization of Gror, which perished in a terrible war with the Rontrunes.

Anyway, the other day I saw an e-mail from my aunt Anne, and figured it was high time that Grorian had its presence online, no matter how small it might be.

Arseela: Fascist
Baen: No
Banya: To hate
Geen: to engage in reproductive activity
Gern Vasha: to like (Grordeutsch corruption)
Glind: Genius
Gnool: Mother
Grorian: An extinct civilzation
Ir: Yes
Lehr: Red
Na: Me
Naesor: to be
Ngosee: George Burt
Niklava: New
Nora: to like or desire
Nosan: to kill
Nosan ree: Go kill yourself
Ree: You
Ree naesor slorn: You are an idiot
Reesan: Communist
Rezh: Father
Rontrune: Cornishman
Sheel: Mother
Shula: Light
Slorn: Idiot
Vasha: to have

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Nora ree geen?"\\

We Aren't Going to OryCon

Kathe and I went to last year's OryCon, but various circumstances have led us to decide not to go.

Sometime before the end of the year, we expect to visit Portland, though, and see some people, and like that.

Just no OryCon. Oh, well.

//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "Do what you can and leave the rest."\\

I Don't Blog About Work

I have worked as a massage therapist since 1985, with more or less success. To supplement my income, I have also worked as a nurse's aide, and I am currently training as a phlebotomist.

The most hours of work I do, and the most money I earn, are both under the auspices of Home Care and Elder Services, giving in-home care to the elderly and the incapacitated. I really appreciate the honesty and consideration I have received over the years from Kathy, Deborah, Anna and now Tia.

There are often times I would like to make a post about an interaction I've had with one of the office staff, or one of my fellow caregivers, or a client. These are all things that really would not be embarrassing or invade anyone's privacy or betray any secrets. But if I started doing that, sooner or later I would inadvertantly post something I shouldn't. And even if I never did, the staff or the clients who knew I was blogging would wonder if I might.

So I just don't blog about work, or anyhow not in that way.

But it's not because I am ashamed of my work, or find it boring, and not because I don't appreciate the people I work with. Quite the contrary, I am trying to spare them worry and possible embarrassment.

And anyway, work is hardly the only aspect of my life that I don't write about here.

//The Magic Eight-Ball sasy, "Walk with caution."\\

Last Friday

Kathe and I went to the Old World Center to see the annual Halloween performance by the Corvallis Belly Dance Performance Guild. As usual, the dancers were skillful and (mostly) well-practiced, and as in previous years, their Halloween-themed costumes and routines were impressive and/or amusing.
I ran into someone I wasn't expecting to see, didn't know she was a belly dancer. It was a bit odd to see her in such a different setting, and very differently dressed. But that's Corvallis for you.
Anyway, we had a good time. We don't have enough of those lately.
Maybe we'll go to more of their Wednesday night performances, the way we used to.
//The Magic Eight-Ball says, "You will have a good time."\\

Remember the Dead

[Recycled from 09:54, 31 October 2004, and from 31 October 2005, and 2006]

This evening, we will be giving out what we usually give on Halloween: a plastic bag containing a comic book, a small toy, a piece or two of candy, and this card:

Remember the Dead

This is the night when the ancestors return to receive the hospitality of the living.

If we show them proper courtesy, with gifts and food, we will have their blessing through the coming year. As long as we honor the dead, they remain with us. Of coruse, if we fail to welcome them with proper courtesy, things may not go so well . . . especially tonight.

It is all too easy to ignore death and pretend it doesn't happen. But hiding from our fear will only make it greater. Better to choose a time to face our mortality -- and defy it.

So to memorialize the departed, and to confront our own fear of death, throw wide your doors tonight, and heed well the words of the evening's honored visitors:

"Trick or Treat!"

//The Magic 8-Ball says, "Have a mini-Snickers, Grandpa."\\

War of the Worlds

[Recycled from 11:57, 30 October 2004, and from 30 October 2005]

Not nearly enough people saw the excellent film The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai: Across the 8th Dimension, but those who did were treated to Buck's stunned realization that all of the members of the conspiracy he had uncovered had registered for Social Security cards in Grover's Mill, New Jersey, on November 1st, 1938 -- the day after the supposed "Martian invasion" hoax!

I sat there in the theater, thinking, "That's not right -- although Orson Welles' War of the Worlds broadcast was intended as a Halloween fright, it actually went out on October 30th, the regularly scheduled night for the Mercury Radio Theater show. But since that was a Saturday show, November 1st would have been the next business day, so he's right after all."

My next thought was, "Good grief, I know all that stuff!"

What can I say? I'm very fond of the story, both the novel and the radio show. One of my great pleasures over the years has been tuning in repeats of the original broacast every Halloween. Alas, radio stations are now a bit reluctant to put voices on the air decribing the devastation of New York -- one more thing to tax Osama bin Laden with -- but the tapes are still there, and so is the book (the 1953 film and the 1987 TV series I never cared for all that much).

[Update, 2005: Twisting the dial on Halloween this year, I brought in part of a CBC broadcast of the Martian invasion of Ontario -- what fun! I also didn't think much of the 2004 Spielberg film, I'm afraid.]

//The Magic 8-Ball says, "Across the gulfs of space, intellects vast, cool and unsympathetic regarded our Earth with envious eyes and slowly, surely, drew their plans against us . . . ."\\