A sign of spring, downtown, yesterday!
For Cee’s Flower of the Day.
A sign of spring, downtown, yesterday!
For Cee’s Flower of the Day.
I am looking through photographs looking for a Satyr. Or Satyrs. I know that I have Fauns on a frieze in a very peculiar old repurposed Elks Club in Portland, but Fauns are not quite Satyrs. And satirical is from a different origin than Satyr.
Really, though, I am surprised that no one was dressed as a Satyr at the Great Port Townsend Kinetic Sculpture Race.

The costumes are always amazing.
Here is a sculpture with the rider. A Satyr or not?

This is the day before the race, with the parade and the brake test and the water test. The water is in the 40s or low 50s.
What do we call a female Satyr?

No, surely she is not one. Will the Judges permit Satyrs?

It does not appear that they will.
The cover picture is most satirical to me: the joyful silliness of the human powered race, on land, on sea and through mud, with a sailboat race in the background and Indian Island, with a crane and a military presence. Let’s have more more more joyful silliness.
___________________________________
The Great Port Townsend Bay Kinetic Sculpture Race: https://www.ptkineticrace.org/
This is the 2018 Race.
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: Satyr.
“amongst those who treat addicts of any kind generally agree that anger and shame help no one and is actively counter-productive.”*
Wait.
I have to think about that statement.
I do not agree at all.
Ok, for the physician/ARNP/PAC, anger at the patient and shaming the patient are not good practice, don’t work, and could make them worse. BUT anger and shame come up.
In many patients.
Sometimes it goes like this with opioid overuse: the person shows up, gets on buprenorphine, and is clean.
It may be a long time since they have been “clean”.
One young man wants to know WHY I am treating him as an opioid overuse patient. “Why are you treating me like an addict?”
I try to be patient. I recommended that he go inpatient, because I don’t think we will cut through the denial outpatient. Very high risk of relapse. “You have been buying oxycodone on the street for more than ten years.”
“I’ve been buying it for back pain, not to party.”
“Did you ever see a doctor about the back pain?”
“Well, no.”
“Buying it illegally is one of the criteria of opiate overuse.”
“But I’m not an addict! I’ve never tried heroin! I have never used needles!”
“We can go through the criteria again.”
He shakes his head.
He is in denial. He is fine. He doesn’t need inpatient. He is super confident, gets work again, is super proud.
And then angry. “My family still won’t talk to me!”
“Um, yes.”
“I’m clean. I’m going to the stupid AA/NA groups! Though I don’t need to. I’m fine!”
“What have you noticed at the groups?”
“What a bunch of liars!” he says, angry. “There are people court ordered there and they are still using! I can tell. They are lying through their teeth!”
“Obvious, huh?”
“Yeah!”
“Did you ever lie while you were taking the oxycodone?”
Now he ducks his head and looks down. “Well, maybe. A little.”
“Do you think your family and friends could tell?”
He glances up at me and away. “Maybe.”
“Your family may be angry and may have trouble trusting you for a while.”
“But I’ve been clean for four months!”
“How many years did you tell untruths?”
“Well.”
Shame and anger. Anger from the family and old friends, who have heard the story before, who are not inclined to trust, who are hurt and sad. The first hurdle is getting clean, but that is only the first one. Repairing relationships takes time and some people may refuse and they have that right! Sometimes patients are shocked that now that they are clean, a relationship can’t be repaired. Or that it may take years to repair. My overuse folks are not exactly used to being patient. And sometimes as they realize how upset the family and friends are, they are very ashamed. And some are very sad, at years lost, and friendships, and loved ones. I have had at least one person disappear, to relapse, after describing introducing someone else to heroin. He died about two years later, in his forties.
Shame and anger definitely come up in overuse illness.
The above is not a single patient, but cobbled together from more than one.
______________________
*from an essay titled “F—ing yes, I’m a fatphobe” on everything2.com. Today there are two with that title. The quotation is from the second essay.
Disarmed
unarmed
armless
without my right hand
unhandy
unable to shoulder much
diminished
injured
wounded
tendonitis
inflamed
irritated
limited
reduced range of motion
careful
out of reach
guarded dancing
sinister takes over
left fills in
ow
______________
I am going through physical therapy for a right biceps tendonitis. I have to pay attention not to make it worse, all that automatic reaching for things. I wrote this thinking about the word disarmed.
I am listening to Chess Blues vol. 4 1960-1967.
After the sunset, taken from North Beach.
For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: sunset.
It was cold and raining yesterday, but I have purple flowers in the grass, hoping for some sun. It sleeted too.
For Cee’s Flower of the Day.
Taken yesterday, for Cee’s Flower of the Day.
Qia is three. She is scared.
“Don’t be scared or go to your room.”
Qia wants help. She is scared of the monster, FEAR, the giant monster, but her father won’t listen. She sniffles and tries, but she can’t stop crying. She goes to her room, because her father has turned his back. Her mother is drawing. They are busy. They don’t like it when she is scared.
FEAR is enormous and pushes into the room with her. She cries harder in her room with the door closed. No one can hear her now except FEAR. FEAR is large and has horrible drippy teeth and too many arms and keeps swatting at her. Qia gives up and lets FEAR swat her. She sits on the bed with her knees up and puts her head on her arms.
FEAR rages around her room.
After a while Qia is tired of crying. She lifts her head off her arms.
FEAR is smaller. Still bigger than her father, bigger than her mother, but just standing and looking at her. FEAR looks tired too.
Qia pats the bed beside her. FEAR hesitates and looks scared. Qia waits. FEAR shuffles over and sits beside her on the bed.
The room is very quiet. Qia finds a scrap of tissue and blows her nose. She looks sideways at FEAR.
FEAR’s head is down and FEAR seems to be crying. Qia reaches out and takes FEAR’s paw. One of the paws. There are a lot.
FEAR holds her hand tightly and then leans against her. Qia wiggles over a bit more to give FEAR room. FEAR sighs and then snuggles down onto the bed, massive drippy toothy head in Qia’s lap.
Qia strokes FEAR’s fur. It is very soft and dark purple.
FEAR is the first monster that Qia makes friends with. There are many more.
_________________
I was thinking about this story even before the Ragtag Daily Prompt: bugbear.
It’s time to write an ending to a story.
Let go of those calling me word twister.
The ending is dark, sad, devoid of glory.
The one who named me twister was my sister.
She has been dead a decade. I still miss her
except for the calls of money gone awry.
The cousins whitewash her and call me twister;
past time for me to gently say goodbye.
The small bird of hope has sung for ten long years.
She lives even on crumbs of cruel spite.
She sings in spite of no respite from tears.
Quietly in day or night, in dark or light.
The hope bird flutters: she’s waited years.
I release her now and I drink a soup of tears.
Home to the Longette!
Intelligence that is not artificial: we are real.
BLIND WILDERNESS
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