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Archive for the ‘Biography’ Category

Diary #812

Axel is definitely settling into life at Sunset.  As I’ve written before, I’ve been reducing his medication by 50mg/day every week, and now we’re down to 100mg/day.  Last week I tried to give that to him in one bedtime dose rather than splitting it into two 50 mg doses at bedtime & midday, but that left him a bit too exuberant in the afternoon and evening, and he tried to chase Speck a couple of times.  He immediately stops when I say “Leave it!” but I want to get him to the point where he doesn’t chase her at all, so for right now I’m going to hold him at 50mg twice daily until the end of January, then I’ll try to nudge it down by 25 daily mg a month until we can get him off of it completely.  On at least 5 or 6 occasions in the past week Speck has trotted through the living room right in front of him with no reaction beyond his perking up a bit, even without my saying anything, so I think we’re on the right track.  I think it helps that Trip, whom he seems to look to for guidance, does not have any issue with cats, but we’ll see; unfortunately, Trip has this weird habit of occasionally running up to Jonathan and barking at him for no apparent reason, and as of Sunday Axel seems to have picked up that habit from him.  I’m not too worried because Jonathan just stands there and looks at him like, “What the hell are you on about, dog?” and he’s much too big for the dogs to hurt.  So one thing at a time: “Don’t chase things smaller than you” is much more important than “Don’t irritate things big enough to stomp on you”, because the latter tends to be self-reinforcing.

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We’re now employing people who are not equipped to tie their own shoelaces.

I can’t think of a more appropriate sendoff for Bob Weir than this one.  The links above it were provided by Popehat; Brooke Magnanti and Jesse Walker; The Onion; Phoenix Calida; IncarcerNation; and Walter Olson, in that order.

From the Archives

I find paywalls distasteful, and so many people find this blog valuable as a resource I just can’t bring myself to install one.  Furthermore, I find ad delivery services (whose content I have no say over) even more distasteful.  But as I’m now semi-retired from sex work, I can’t self-sponsor this blog by myself any longer.  So if you value my writing enough that you would pay to see it if it were paywalled, please consider subscribing; there are four different levels to fit all budgets.  Or if that doesn’t work for you, please consider showing your generosity with a one-time donation; you can Paypal to maggiemcneill@earthlink.net or else email me at the same address to make other arrangements.  Thanks so much!

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Diary #811

Unless there is some compelling reason to do otherwise, I always take down my Christmas tree on King Day, January 6th.  This year was not an exception, but it was raining so hard I had no desire to drag the tree across the muddy paddock to the fence line, especially because I don’t actually get dressed in the wintertime except on days when I need to go somewhere.  So I put it outside, but it has been a week and I just haven’t felt like moving it yet.  Though there’s no real danger of my becoming a recluse, I’m beginning to understand the mindset of elderly ladies in Gothic novels; I have a routine that I am comfortable with and prefer to maintain, so I tend to grumble when I have to break it to go to Aberdeen for some reason like groceries, and I really grumble when I need to drive to Seattle, especially in rainy weather.  And if I were wealthy, I probably would have a handyman nearly as old as I am who does those chores for me.   I wonder how much it would cost to have a manicurist come to me instead of vice-versa?  Alas, too much.  But it’s nice to think about, at least in monsoon season.

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There’s a bear under my house, and there’s nothing I can do about it!  –  Ken Johnson

I think my old friend Terry would’ve loved this video, provided by Mike Masnick; he also provided the first link above it, and those after that were provided by Jason Kuznicki, Nun Ya, Jesse Walker, The Onion, and Popehat, in that order.

From the Archives

I find paywalls distasteful, and so many people find this blog valuable as a resource I just can’t bring myself to install one.  Furthermore, I find ad delivery services (whose content I have no say over) even more distasteful.  But as I’m now semi-retired from sex work, I can’t self-sponsor this blog by myself any longer.  So if you value my writing enough that you would pay to see it if it were paywalled, please consider subscribing; there are four different levels to fit all budgets.  Or if that doesn’t work for you, please consider showing your generosity with a one-time donation; you can Paypal to maggiemcneill@earthlink.net or else email me at the same address to make other arrangements.  Thanks so much!

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I have often written about the fallacy that romantic love is superior to other forms of love:

I honestly feel sorry for those who truly believe that the best way to “connect” with other people is by boinking them, and the notion that people must boink to feel “connected” is a tragedy.  Sexual relationships are held up as the pinnacle of human interaction, but they’re not even close; they’re in fact nearer the bottom because they’re extremely conditional.

I have always felt very strongly about this, ever since I first started really thinking about the matter before I was out of my teens.  Part of the fallacy holds that romantic love is somehow intrinsically different from other kinds of love, but I don’t think that’s true either.  Take “love at first sight”, for example; we only ever hear the term applied to romantic love, even though the idea that it represents something other than plain animal lust in that context is highly dubious.  And yet there are certainly cases in which another kind of love manifests itself at first meeting.  The very first time I really thought of that was in a fictional context: in the movie The Emerald Forest, a tribal chief in the Amazon abducts the son of an engineer surveying for a dam project, and years later he explains to the father that he had fallen in paternal love with the boy at first sight, and could not bear to see him go back to “The Dead World” of concrete and steel which the natives feared and hated.

Over the next several decades I saw other examples in both fiction and real life, culminating in one I experienced myself.  In November of 1997 I met Grace at a party and she gave me a ride home; we hit it off immediately, and within weeks I’d received an actual paper letter from her in the mail.  After a few more letters were exchanged, she told me she wanted to move down to New Orleans from her father’s place in Monroe, Louisiana, where she currently lived; I invited her to move in with me, and she never moved out.  From that very first meeting she was as devoted to me as any sister; there was never any sexual chemistry, and in any case Grace was only sexually interested in men.  But looking back to those times, I have no better term for the rapid bonding she experienced and demonstrated than “love at first sight”.  And it would be wrong to pretend otherwise merely because it was not romantic love.

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If you think I’m going to let the people who aided and abetted the most violent and widespread campaign of persecution against sex workers in American history get away with pretending they were on the side of truth all along, you must not have read very much of my work.
–  “New Year’s Eve 2021

People would be a lot happier if they could truly learn the difference between “I want” and “I reasonably expect to get in the actual world that exists”.  –  “Life As It Is

In the big picture, any order we manage to impose on the universe is as ephemeral as a sand castle, and will soon be obliterated by time and tide.  –  “The Big Picture

The moral panic is over, but its rotten fruit have burst, spewing xenophobic, anti-sex, authoritarian poison all over American society.  –  “New Year’s Eve 2024

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Diary #810

Normally, my internet works just fine. Whenever we have a power outage the internet usually goes off in tandem and returns in tandem, because the local substation draws power from the same local power grid Sunset does.  But last December an internet outage lasted a full three weeks, during which time I was stuck using my phone’s hotspot.  I had hoped that was a fluke which wouldn’t be repeated, but a few weeks ago we had a 3-day outage, and since the 29th it has been going on and off unpredictably.  The light on the repeater is much easier to see from my table than the tiny little globe symbol on the router, and it generally turns red when there’s no internet.  But this time even that’s undependable; as I type this (on Saturday afternoon) the light is red, but I was able to save this column with no problem, and at other times I’ll have no connection despite the light being blue.  They tell me it’s a problem with the lines near my house, which will be fixed on the 15th; however, that’s what they said last December when the problem was eventually fixed remotely with nary a technician in sight (or on-site), so I’m not exactly disposed to believing them even though this looks like a local problem (in my limited understanding of their network) to me as well.  And I’ve already got a promise to get a billing credit for weeks of undependable service, but as you can probably guess I don’t believe that, either.

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The heads came off and…the bodies kept marching in place.

It’s rare to see a new, original, Gothic horror video online, with nary a jump-scare in sight!  And I found it just in time to sneak it in before the end of Christmas.  The links above it were provided by Franklin Harris, Jesse Walker, Lucy Steigerwald, Nun Ya, and IncarcerNation (x2), in that order.

From the Archives

I find paywalls distasteful, and so many people find this blog valuable as a resource I just can’t bring myself to install one.  Furthermore, I find ad delivery services (whose content I have no say over) even more distasteful.  But as I’m now semi-retired from sex work, I can’t self-sponsor this blog by myself any longer.  So if you value my writing enough that you would pay to see it if it were paywalled, please consider subscribing; there are four different levels to fit all budgets.  Or if that doesn’t work for you, please consider showing your generosity with a one-time donation; you can Paypal to maggiemcneill@earthlink.net or else email me at the same address to make other arrangements.  Thanks so much!

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On this day two years ago, I wrote:  “I’ve gradually come to the realization that I’m happier now than I’ve ever been for any extended period in my entire life…but having a realistic view of the world requires accepting that it and everything it contains is impermanent.”  Then almost a year ago, the truth of that was slammed home when I lost my best friend to cancer, and just like that the only extended period of happiness I’ve ever enjoyed in this Vale of Tears was snatched from me, never to return.  I’m not saying I’m constantly miserable now, nor that I was prior to my retirement in 2021, but previous periods of happiness were both shorter and far more conditional than that four-year stretch of peace and content.  My readers needn’t worry about me; pain and melancholy have been familiar features of my life for almost as long as I can remember, and decades of experience have taught me the alchemy of turning that darkness into beauty.  In the past year I’ve written more fiction than I have in any year since 2016, including my first novella (which looks like it will turn into my first major series of tales).  This is not in spite of the darkness but because of it; ever since I was a child, the monsters have been the constant attendants of my Muse of Fiction, and it seems foolish to expect that it will be any different in the time I have left.  Creative writing is, in a sense, a form of exorcism, draining off the energy of my inner demons to drive the mills of my art.  The process, however, is never so efficient as to completely dry out that black wellspring, and though I don’t cry for Grace every day any more, in any given week the tearful days still outnumber the drier ones.  As a friend told me soon after she died, the waves of grief never stop coming, they just get farther apart.  And as I’ve said many times in the last year; it’s not that I feel any sense that she died too young or too soon, or that her death was somehow unfair; it’s just that I miss a beloved friend who was a constant presence in my life for twenty-seven years, and whose departure has left a very large hole.

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Diary #809

Several of y’all have asked me to keep y’all up to date on how Axel is adjusting to life at Sunset; here’s a picture I took on Christmas day before most of the guests arrived.  Axel is in late middle age at 9, but he’s actually the youngest of this pack: Trip, to viewer left, is 12, and Hallie, to viewer right, is about 11.  She’s my friend Sophie’s dog, so she’s a frequent visitor and mostly knows how to behave herself at Sunset.  Axel is no longer a nervous wreck; he’s largely pretty calm, and seems quite happy most of the time.  The shelter vet sent him home with a bottle of 100 mg trazodone tablets and some rather vague directions regarding dosage, but I quickly found about 400 mg a day worked well.  I’ve been weaning him off of them at 50 daily mg/week, so as of Saturday we’re now down to 200 mg (one pill at bedtime and one in the early afternoon) with no noticeable effect on his behavior.  He even did well on Christmas day with all the company, though people did feed him too many treats so he had an upset tummy that night (the trazodone may aggravate that).  The only behavioral problem that is still a major issue is his tendency to chase cats; if I’m in the room a quick “leave it!” command works to stop him, but when I’m not in the room he will still do it (as I discovered to my great irritation when I was rudely awakened at 2 AM on Christmas Eve and had to clean up cat piss and cat shit from the kitchen, where they were literally scared out of Speck when he attacked).  She was not hurt, but since I can’t ensure that will be true next time I’ve moved her food, water fountain and litterbox into Grace’s room, where Speck enjoys spending time anyway; at night I can close the door to protect her.  But I’m working on breaking the bad habit (which his first owner either allowed or actively encouraged, as some sociopaths are wont to do), and given that he’s an extremely intelligent dog (dramatically more so than poor Trip, who is a low-watt bulb), I have confidence he will eventually learn that attacking his fellow-residents is not cool.

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