tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-221392742024-03-18T20:32:23.275-07:00100 words on...Repository for "100 words on..." jottings.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.comBlogger68125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-60517507114462105642007-05-04T12:10:00.000-07:002008-12-09T08:07:39.070-08:00A feeling<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7p4pfmUGgo19hjmSBHYvXX0y9CBRIxM0sjdVn8SN4K5C-bZz3QMLLX6x3soJ8urfEaiMpV6VgUDrjKPFhMCx84f71YbqmcTrne9FH8turRMFMeB8Ycj6a9Onzw3Yw7tzK6cznrA/s1600-h/nausea.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7p4pfmUGgo19hjmSBHYvXX0y9CBRIxM0sjdVn8SN4K5C-bZz3QMLLX6x3soJ8urfEaiMpV6VgUDrjKPFhMCx84f71YbqmcTrne9FH8turRMFMeB8Ycj6a9Onzw3Yw7tzK6cznrA/s320/nausea.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5060785503132326034" border="0" /></a><br />It's that special feeling. The one that wakes you in the middle of the night, the feeling that sets you sweating, that reminds you yet again of how the essence of your humanity is the body, and not any thoughts<br /><br />Now the thoughts simply won't come clear through the shaking and spasms.<br /><br />You know the feeling.<br /><br />You've had the chills. You've shaken hard. You've hit your head. Your muscles have tired and tightened.<br /><br /><br />Your vision has blurred.<br /><br />The furniture circles you ominously, the ceiling mists up and drifts away.<br /><br />Can you maintain yourself long enough for relief?<br /><br />Nausea's a bitch.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-46120064786864017552006-10-31T12:53:00.000-08:002006-10-31T12:56:40.786-08:00Even<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.biologie.uni-hamburg.de/b-online/fo04/2kutikul.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px;" src="http://www.biologie.uni-hamburg.de/b-online/fo04/2kutikul.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />The nails were still neat. She rubbed the middle finger and then the thumb against edge of her forefinger.<br /><br />Smooth nail.<br /><br />Broken skin.<br /><br />Rough cuticles.<br /><br />Smooth nail.<br /><br />Broken skin.<br /><br />Rough cuticles.<br /><br />Ring finger to pinkie. This cuticle was worse -- ragged.<br /><br />She became more anxious. Surely there was something smooth. <br /><br />Her right hand pinched her left big toe. <br /><br />For a moment peace wafted down -- the pedicure was still gleaming and cool, enamel melting into flesh. Then she felt the callous on the sole and was immediately tense.<br /><br />All these flaws scream for immediate removal. Teeth? Claws? How to eradicate the imperfections!Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-16769803589127567762006-09-19T13:13:00.000-07:002006-09-19T13:16:12.955-07:00Healing - time changes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/1600/aclrec.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/320/aclrec.png" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />After twenty-five we don't heal as quickly. Yet it's not really noticable until thirty-five or so. A slice of a finger, a scab on the knee: they used to be gone in a few days or a week, tops, but after thirty-five - damn, it could be a month before the scarring is gone.<br /><br />The joints and muscles are suddenly slow healing too.<br /><br />When we're young we get in the habit of expecting damage to disappear quickly. We hurt ourselves more than necessary, and rest less than we should. <br /><br />We've all heard it: "if youth only knew, if age only could".Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-2434682650926616332006-09-14T06:26:00.000-07:002006-09-14T06:32:39.203-07:00Center - focus<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/1600/Wall%20Street%20with%20Washington%20Statue.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/320/Wall%20Street%20with%20Washington%20Statue.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />What's central to your life? <br /><br />Which people?<br /><br />How did you determine this?<br /><br />Or them?<br /><br />In this culture, by which I mean New York, the central focus should be your job, your children, or your significant other. Pretty much everything else won't fly.<br /><br />It can't be friendship. Friendship isn't romantic, and it's not acceptable to priviledge a relationship that's neither sexual nor parental.<br /><br />Being single isn't really accepted either. We might say single blessedness, but certainly don't mean it.<br /><br />Most of us don't really trust art or artists.<br /><br />Hobbies can't be the focus, because this is New York, and money rules.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-60385594549608012032006-09-06T16:30:00.000-07:002006-09-06T16:52:12.397-07:00Passion - solo practice<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/1600/or_mae-ukemi.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/320/or_mae-ukemi.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Each "roll" is actually two - there and back.<br /><br />Twenty rolls - forward.<br /><br />Twenty rolls - back.<br /><br />Twenty falls, not quite rolls.<br /><br />Bend and kick over.<br /><br />Push off from the wall.<br /><br />Kick up, land on the shoulder. Roll over.<br /><br />Again.<br /><br />Again.<br /><br />If a fifteen year old can do it, so can you.<br /><br />Again.<br /><br />Once more.<br /><br />It's much more interesting than the next exercise. <br /><br /><br /><br />Five hundred cuts, please.<br /><br />Fifty right, one handed.<br /><br />Fifty left.<br /><br />Fifty right, shomen.<br /><br />Fifty left.<br /><br />Again.<br /><br />How many? Ah two hundred twice.<br /><br />Fifty right, yokomen.<br /><br />Fifty left.<br /><br />A reward! Kata. Slowly. Slowly.<br /><br />It ends where it starts.<br /><br />Switch sides.<br /><br />AgainMrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-6399928901476969992006-09-06T13:14:00.000-07:002006-09-06T13:35:53.457-07:00Passion - bear it<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/1600/arm.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/320/arm.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br />All physical expression is emotional. <br /><br />No part of the body is dull. All fascinate.<br /><br />The other imbues the daily round and shines through each object.<br /><br />Actions - all of them - are feelings. Every action embodies aspects of us both.<br /><br />The scent of the elbow, the taste of hair, the sight of any bend or bulge, the curl of the ear, the color of the skin between the toes. The sound of the breath, the limbs moving, the knuckles cracking.<br /><br />List each nerve and sinew.<br /><br /><br />How to express a range of feeling, engendered by the other's presence, in words that aren't hackneyed.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-56915044672127440902006-09-06T12:43:00.000-07:002006-09-06T12:45:59.231-07:00Passion - overwhelms<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/1600/cmp10640.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/320/cmp10640.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Someone writes "I have a passion for..."<br /><br />Really?<br /><br />Does the writer suffer for whatever it is?<br /><br />Does the writer form a life based on passion? <br /><br />When you encounter such a passion it's not much like the passion described in a resumé. Rather, it's anti-social. Following it centers and fills and consumes. The life of a person held in passion's gtip appears arid to those who aren't. <br /><br />We accecpt some overwhelming forces such as love or art. Yet passions we can't share either personally or as part of the cultural norm leave us befuddled, and pitying or contemptuous of, the sufferer.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-64001191535816152792006-09-03T17:29:00.000-07:002006-09-03T17:31:53.999-07:00Death - Minna<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/1600/beds_solo_lg.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/320/beds_solo_lg.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Minna died slowly. Joe had a stroke, he recovered a tiny bit,enough so that it was noticable six months later when he had another. And another. And died. He was 81<br /><br />Minna had seemed fine until then. Soon her hearing became iffy. Next, she'd loop around and around repeating herself, yet clearly trying to impart something different.<br /><br />The next step was anger.<br /><br />"Where's Joe?" was more a cry of anguish than a question.<br /><br />Eventually she lost language entirely.<br /><br />Yet her rage at the world and her situation shone through every movement.<br /><br />She lost motion.<br /><br />After ten years, she died.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-66816805677803623442006-08-30T19:30:00.000-07:002006-08-30T19:32:53.423-07:00Confidence - stories<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/1600/.lets-keep-this-a-secret-scaled.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/320/.lets-keep-this-a-secret-scaled.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />A zillion years ago a friend told me of a dilemma she had that concerned a friend. How should she handle the situation? Should she tell the friend? She told me to keep the story under my hat.<br /><br />I kept shtum.<br /><br />Soon after, the friend began reciting the tale at the drop of a hat. <br /><br />The odd thing isn't that she changed her mind about openness. It came out that she'd told half a dozen (or more) people her troubles. She'd sworn us all to secrecy.<br /><br />I sometimes wonder what triggered both the repetition (sub rosa) and the sudden openness.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-10614418672724492332006-08-29T04:47:00.000-07:002006-08-29T04:48:26.972-07:00Observation - accents<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/1600/argot-top2.gif"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger2/4490/2702/320/argot-top2.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />One of his virtues has always been that he picked up accents. As a result, he speaks both a fairly elegant French (no doubt the "pure Touraine"), and Argot. When he lived in England he switched from standard American speech to more or less standard British speech to thick Fen speech with no effort. His voice aped those he spoke with.<br /><br />When he came back from England he shifted away from the English accent, though he can do it on command.<br /><br />Now though,his accent is more New York - more nasal, sans R-coloring. Perhaps he's around too many New YorkersMrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1156828341885657262006-08-28T22:10:00.000-07:002006-08-28T22:12:21.896-07:00Observation - alert<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/83horatio.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/83horatio.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />One night when I was walking the dogs I noticed that they were completely alert. Now it`s not as though they tended to ignore their surroundings. As a general rule however, their interests were the smells of the ground or trees, especially traces of other dogs.<br /><br />That night their heads were up, their ears cocked forward.<br /><br />I looked around. Three men had made awide triangle around us. One in front, two behind on either side of the street.<br /><br />Once they realized I`d seen them, they and their formation faded away, after a final clash against a car door.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1155870552043189052006-08-17T20:05:00.000-07:002006-08-17T20:26:02.636-07:00Patience - planning<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/gina2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/gina2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />An aquaintance is a genuine risk taker. She was a dancer, a chef, a restauranteur, a martial artist.<br /><br />In her mid forties she decided to become a doctor.<br /><br />Remember, she was a dancer originally, so her college course work was not only twenty years out of date, but completely unscientific.<br /><br />She took two years of college level science courses before the tests previous to medical school.<br /><br />She went to the school that took her (and it wasn't easy to find one fairly local).<br /><br />She changed her entire life.<br /><br />That's a real willingness to commit.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/doctor.1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/doctor.1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />She's a resident now.<br /><br />She'll practice.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1155159130085740072006-08-09T14:27:00.000-07:002006-08-09T14:36:31.403-07:00Summer of love - togetherness<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/max_retro%20II%20love.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/max_retro%20II%20love.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Why are things sometimes so difficult?<br /><br />Best laid (pun intended) plans ...<br /><br />The strain mounts as things go off kilter.<br /><br />Each of us has demons, they all conspire to blindside us.<br /><br />Forgetting to trust.<br /><br />Forgetting to sleep.<br /><br />Forgetting to eat.<br /><br />But oh! The moments when you peer at me and smile. <br /><br />Sensuous and sensual memories demand my attention when you stretch out your leg or turn towards me.<br /><br />There are times we both chortle over the turn of phrase as you say something clever.<br /><br />Your sudden kindness.<br /><br />Summer seeps into us. Joy suffuses us. Peace steals over us. Love is easy. .Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1155158294460050392006-08-09T14:15:00.000-07:002006-08-09T14:42:27.976-07:00Summer of love - camp!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/middleaged.0.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/middleaged.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />This is the second or third summer that they sent the children to camp . The kids enjoy it. They're with each other and friends.<br /><br />The parents have a chance to spend two weeks exploring each other or going off together.<br /><br />They take long weekends away, sometimes they lounge around the house doing no chores at all. They're out later, no need for a sitter.<br /><br />The time together gives the couple something, maybe many somethings. Perhaps relaxation, maybe renewal of their marriage. Clearly it's not just sex.<br /><br />They're happy when the kids are back yet wistful that they're no longer alone.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1154362113391263812006-07-31T09:05:00.000-07:002006-07-31T09:08:33.403-07:00Heat - wet what?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/DogDaysatWashingtonSqFountain1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/DogDaysatWashingtonSqFountain1.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />The asphalt melts.<br /><br />You search for sprinklers. You plan walks based on shade.<br /><br />Sunscreen drips off your face.<br />Foundation doesn't last. You sport a more natural look.<br /><br />White cotton! Thank god. Handkerchief weight skirts and dresses.<br /><br />You note the tan lines on flip-flop shod feet.<br /><br />Adults with prickly heat. Sores from scratched bites.<br /><br />You'd know you love your friends, because you don't mind their smells. You're surrounded.<br /><br />Walk through a park and contemplate the fountain. Should you wish? Or rather, should you jump?<br /><br />There's salsa and hip hop blaring through windows, cars, apartments, whirring noises and a beat.<br /><br />Dog days.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1153859027347598972006-07-25T13:12:00.000-07:002006-07-25T13:23:47.360-07:00Trust - the unexpected can work<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/basketball.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/basketball.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />My father loved watching the basketball players on 4th street. He'd take me with him, particularly on Saturday mornings. He'd watch the games, leaving me to the various and sundry park denizens.<br /><br />New York was considerably more dangerous in the 1960s than it is today, making his an apparently foolish choice.<br /><br />Nonetheless, every Saturday (other days too) the four year old me would chatter and play with middle aged homeless men.<br /><br />Oddly enough,he was(and is) a fairly suspicious person, and yet -! He trusted that his child would be safe left to play with bums, and he was right.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1152920582605404362006-07-14T16:32:00.000-07:002006-07-14T16:43:02.616-07:00Dirt - variable<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/12000dustsm.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/12000dustsm.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />We all find different things filthy. We all notice the filth others leave while willfully ignoring our own. I, for example, clean the toilet at least once every day, yet I rarely do the mirror.<br /><br />Then there are the floors. How do we clean them? How often? Some people vacuum. Others swiffer.<br /><br />Other people think we are pigs. To us, the pile of clothes is temporary. The books on the floor will be given away. We will dust tomorrow, today's doesn't count. The dishes in the living room will go into the dishwasher. The pristine picture we retain isn't sullied.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1152843397382986922006-07-13T19:15:00.000-07:002006-07-13T19:16:37.400-07:00Anger - forgiveness?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/lethe.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/lethe.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />We're told to forgive and forget.<br /><br />Most of the time we do. Or, at least we forgive.<br /><br />A while ago I realized that sometimes I don't. I forget but don't forgive.<br /><br />That is, when I really do get angry at someone, I retain a niggling sense of how dreadfully that someone behaved long after I've lost the details. It's not necessary that I remain angry -- often enough I'm merely aware of some sort of -- well, of what?<br /><br />Is it a betrayal?<br /><br />Disappointment?<br /><br />I don't really know.<br /><br />Once I'm that angry it's a while until things to subside, and even so - !Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1152711154271108412006-07-12T06:25:00.000-07:002006-07-12T06:41:04.163-07:00Anger -- why<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/anger.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/anger.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Several years ago I described an unhappy situation to a friend, who went on at length giving untenable suggestions. Eventually I quietly told her to stop talking. Later I told another friend how I had nearly lost it, and described the interaction. She knew precisely what I meant.<br /><br />Why is it that some people Oh So Easily read us, and others completely miss even our most obvious emotional brou-ha-has? I'm as guilty as the next person, of course. So, here's what interests me. What are the cues? What do we pick up or miss? Why this stuff and not others?Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1151420210166689502006-06-27T07:46:00.000-07:002006-06-27T07:59:41.186-07:00Act<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/africangray500pix.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/africangray500pix.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A while ago I desperately wanted to get away. At the same time, a friend desperately wanted someone to teach for him. Voilà ! I was in El Paso Texas for a few days.<br /><br />What it took was putting together enough courage to ask him. That is, to act on what I suspected would work for us both, He'd already said he needed time off, I already knew I wanted out of NYC. In the event, asking him also gave me a chance to discover that I like African Gray Parrots.<br /><br />All in all, a decent act, and everyone well served.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1151058315850988982006-06-23T03:22:00.000-07:002006-06-23T03:25:15.866-07:00ambiguity - a job<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/ambiguity.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/ambiguity.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />An aquaintance had hired a friend to perform errands and secretarial duties. She's gotten more frail however, and realizes that she needs someone live-in who'll also do housework.<br /><br />Her friend is not a suitable cleaner, although he is perfect as a walker or other escort.<br /><br />She told him she'd hire the live-in person in September.<br /><br />He heard "You're fired".<br /><br />She's convinced she merely pointed out that his job might change.<br /><br />He's no longer as responsive if she tries to call him early (8am or before) or late (8pm or after). She wonders why, and no amount of explanation will suffice.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1150462988011226482006-06-16T06:00:00.000-07:002006-06-16T06:03:08.023-07:00Love and Romance<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/heart2r.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/heart2r.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I hate the part where anxiety hits and your throat contracts each time you say the beloved's name.<br /><br /><br />You know, the "in love" part.<br /><br />Yet people proclaim it - endlessly.<br /><br />Six months later though, you can relax into each other. You have a history together. You have a shared language and jokes.<br /><br />Ah... that's a delight.<br /><br />Day to day life, waking up together and complaining about whose turn it is to unload the dishwasher, or make the coffee.<br /><br />Love experienced and expanded through performing loving acts. On going caring.<br /><br />Oh so preferable to the aching sensitivity of the first few months.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1149848961634864032006-06-09T03:23:00.000-07:002006-06-09T03:29:21.646-07:00Water - a ship...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/france.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/france.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />We lived in England from June 1968 until September 1969. In that far off time it was prohibitively expensive to fly transatlantic (or so the parents told us) so we sailed (or rather, took transatlantic cruise ships)<br /><br />We took the France home.<br /><br />Apparently it was the largest, most stable, most marvelous boat available, with the shortest transatlantic crossing. So stable that no one could get sea sick.<br /><br />The food was lovely. (Not that I could keep it down) <br /><br />My stomach was tolerable only in the pool, feeling the salt water shift from side to side, and from 6 to 12 feet.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1149000607820430992006-05-30T07:48:00.000-07:002006-05-30T07:50:07.836-07:00Music - Christmas Carols<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/carols.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/carols.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />There was minimal sound proofing in a four-cube square. You could hear your direct neighbors, but the cube diagnally across from you was (almost) inaudible.<br /><br />One Christmas this anomaly of sound led to a horror. John and Bruce both wanted to play Christmas carols, and were on the diagnal - they couldn't hear each other's choices. The two on the other diagnal however, could easily tell that they had the same taste: The Little Drummer Boy, and What Child Is This?<br /><br />That's only minorly dreadful, but when you add that the one of them lagged behind the other by five minutes -!Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22139274.post-1148480341726663302006-05-24T07:16:00.000-07:002006-05-25T08:08:22.703-07:00Innocence - whodunnit ?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/1600/pups.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1413/1845/320/pups.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />She was three months older than he. While that's not very significant for adult dogs, the three months, combined with her earlier tenure with us, played an important role for the two of them. The hierarchy their age difference established remained throughout their lives.<br /><br />He was obedient and listened to me, but he also responded to her cues.<br /><br /><br />"Chi, sit"<br /><br />She continued to stand but turned her head and stared at him, hard.<br /><br />Certain he'd missed something, he looked at me and anxiously wagged his tail.<br /><br />Then oh-so-slowly he sat, convinced that she was transmitting a command meant for him.Mrs Morleyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16152547432000949417noreply@blogger.com0