Karl T.

If you're thinking of using your personal friendship with me to obtain not-yet-published information about events I'm associated with, then you don't know me as well as you think you do. And it says entirely too much about what you think of me that you would try.

Short version: We're OK, we're uphill and upwind of the fire, we have not been evacuated.

That said, it was less than 1500 metres away, just across Skyline Boulevard, and the fireball was terrifying. Getting into and out of the neighbourhood is going to be a bit tricky until they get this thing all the way out.

I'll post a FAQ here sometime today, but for now please accept our thanks for all the good wishes and offers of places to come and stay.

We love you all.

Holy Mother, where did all of this energy come from? I've made the most serious run at our kitchen that I've attempted in months, and put a huge dent in the Laundry Monster.

Don't get me wrong, the upside of the roller-coaster has its advantages, but if there's a crash coming, I had better hold on for dear life. This isn't just spring fever; it's an unholy combination of work stress, shifting relationships, oncoming BayCon, and the stupid cocktail of drugs that keeps me breathing as normally as I can, given 40 years of asthma and related ailments.

Not in a place where I can write deliberately or even particularly coherently, but I wanted to capture the moment so that if there /is/ a crash following, I can make an approximation of the timetable.

I am profoundly uncomfortable with the notion of trying to map my own neurochemistry at nearly forty-five years of age. But if that's what it takes, that's what it takes.

The discussion on hugging and personal space this morning on b.org caused me to do some fairly serious thinking about a subject that has come up quite a few times in my life, all the way from early adolescence through the present time:

Why am I so attached to the act of hugging, even in the face of the social perils (and occasional disapprobation) that it brings in its wake?

Background first. My immediate family-by-birth are not terribly physically demonstrative -- not precisely repressed, but not given to displays of affectionate enthusiasm, either. I am clearly an outlier in that context, and it's been noticed and remarked upon throughout my life. I am an only child, and while I did not lack for affection growing up, I did feel that I was 'snugglier' than most of the adults around me were quite comfortable with. I was not, as far as I know, prematurely sexualised -- I was not looking for erotic gratification, but simple closeness, and an expression of something more than simple affection ... call it joyful enthusiasm. I am fairly certain that this behaviour read as developing-sexuality to most of the adults around me, and held all of the squicks and 'danger-signs' associated with teaching an adolescent which forms of expression are acceptable and which are not. I know that it made several adults in my extended family curious, if not outright uncomfortable, and they said things to my mother which she passed on to me. She was generally as gentle as she could be about it, but I still vividly remember the sensation of rejection, especially from family. But my mother explained that it was important to take other people's comfort into account, as well, and I did my best to not offend anyone.

With my peers, I was an outlier in a different way. I tried to smooch my next-door neighbour when I was five (she was six), as little boys will do, and she whapped me with her jacket and caught my lip on the zipper, quite accidentally. She was very apologetic, but quite firm in her resolve not to be smooched. And when we became good friends a few years later, we did not engage in rough-housing or much other play that involved physical contact. When I was introduced to the playground 'chasing and kissing game' at age eight, I didn't see the point of running away, really. I wasn't very good at running (the asthma was a bit limiting), and I didn't see the point in trying to smooch someone who didn't want to be smooched, having internalised that first lesson entirely.

I got through elementary school (ages 5 to 12 for non-North American folks) with the usual number of deeply-felt childhood crushes, both on my peers and on the adults around me. I got teased about a number of them, but the adult recipients were generally very sensitive about respecting my dignity. There was one incident (in grade 6 - I was 11) in which I came home crying after a teacher had teased me about having a crush on a classmate, and my mother had a very simple suggestion: Tell the teacher that she had hurt your feelings. It was stunning in its simplicity, and I had profound doubts that it would do any good. But when it happened again, I walked up to the teacher's desk and asked to have a word with her. Doing my best to hold back tears, I told her that the teasing hurt my feelings, and asked her how she would feel if she liked someone and I made fun of her for it? And a truly amazing thing happened. She took me seriously, and apologised to me. Not teacher to student, but human being to human being. And a whole raft of troubles that I had been having that year got a whole lot easier. When I went home and told my mother about it, she held me in her arms while I cried with relief.

What does that have to do with hugging? Not so much on the surface -- but I was taught from an early age to express myself when I was hurt, rather than to shut down -- and 'boys don't cry' was something I just completely didn't understand. When someone was crying, you didn't ever /make fun/ of them, you did what you could to help, no matter whether they were male or female, adult or child.

And from that day to this, that's what I associate the feeling of a genuine, heartfelt hug with -- keeping each other safe and comforted in a world that too often wants to make fun of us for being who we are. And if I can keep that in balance with the knowledge that not everyone interprets hugs in the same way, and pay enough attention to other people's sensitivities and preferences that I don't offer comfort where it's not wanted/needed, I think I may be able to do my small part to make the world a better place.

OK, here's the deal: For the last few birthdays, I haven't felt much like celebrating. Blame it on the Bush years, the fact that I felt my age catching up with me, or whatever.

But this year we have a new president. Sure, he's not everything we might want him to be, but he's a decided improvement. And he's sane.

In the spirit of solidarity that I have expressed in several posts in this LJ, I would like to celebrate Labour Day as workers around the world celebrate it. We may not throw a parade, but we will sit around the table, eat well, tell each other tales of struggle and of victory, keep each other company and lift each other's spirits. And for many religions, the beginning of May is the start of a sacred season of celebration and feasting, love and fellowship.

Mara's birthday is in late April; mine's in early May. We both have far too many friends we don't see enough of. What more reason do we need to throw a party?

So, the details:

If you can see this post, you're invited. If you want to come and don't have my address, follow this link for more information and directions to the house. Also, please leave a comment here or drop a note to (mayday at gigdrag dot net) to let us know how many of you are coming.

The main body of the party will be on Saturday the 2nd of May, 2009, from about 3pm until we don't want to party any more.

I invite people of a leftist and/or labour-friendly bent to come to the house the previous night, Friday the 1st, and tell stories and share their experiences with Labour Day in other countries, if they have them. Anybody who wants to stay over on Friday night is welcome to do so, provided they are willing to help the housemates and me set up for the Saturday party. I expect the Friday night gathering will be smallish (10-12 people at most), but am willing to be surprised.

On Saturday people are encouraged to show up any time after noon if they are willing to help set up; there will be general milling around and conversation. Folks who don't want to help set up should arrive after 3pm; we'll keep going as long as people want to stay, but Cindy will go to bed around midnight and we should probably keep the noise down after then.

On Sunday, of course, there is a BayCon meeting. Those of you on BayCon staff are welcome to carpool with us to the meeting; we can whomp up breakfast to fortify us for the ordeal. Those who want to stay behind and help the housemates clean up will be forever blessed and your names will be honoured in the House of the Holy Donut.

Presents are emphatically not required; I'm at the age where more stuff is a nuisance rather than a pleasure. Bring me a good story or a heartfelt hug.

Go now, bring your friends who are also our friends (and even a few new folks you think we'd like), and be excellent to one another.

Build the road of peace before us,
Build it wide and deep and long.
Speed the slow, remind the eager,
Help the weak and guide the strong.

None shall push aside another,
None shall let another fall.
Work beside me, sisters and brothers,
All for one and one for all.

(Emphasis mine. Yes, I've quoted this song before. But it best sums up what I see in front of us.)

May we strive to see the best in others, and strive to live up to the best that others see in us. And bless each other with our love, as much and as often as we can.

If you're reading this, I'm thankful for your presence in my life.

And sylvan? I love you, too.

The euphoria at feeling like we've finally gotten out from under the oppression of the last eight years of being ashamed of ourselves and our country. The outrage in the midst of that victory, that so-called 'Christians' could spend millions of dollars to 'protect' their institutions by denying recognition to a whole segment of society. My first physical exam in over a decade, and the growing realisation that not only am I not immortal, I have entered into middle age.

This has been what I used to euphemistically call 'an experientially-dense week.'

I have kept my head down for the past year and change for many reasons -- my creative energy has been at a low ebb, I have been wary of speaking out politically in a society that seems obsessed with wiretapping and privacy invasion, and I have felt that I didn't have much to add to a world in which every dingbat with an opinion has a blog. I'm also wrestling with the question of how much of my writing/data to keep on other people's servers (my mail has lived on Google's servers for over a year now, and I'm still not sure how I feel about that), and how much time I have to devote to my own personal computing infrastructure. Being my own sysadmin used to be fun; now it feels entirely too much like work.

There's also some perfectionism involved -- I didn't want to clutter my livejournal with memes and LOLcats and 'trivia,' but I'm beginning to realise that writing for livejournal is a very, very different thing from writing for publication, even when it's self-publication. It seemed obvious to me at one time that there are some things I write that should be hosted on my own hardware, and some that belonged out where my friends could see it easily, and I think I had some vain hope that RSS/Atom aggregation was going to save the day. But re-inventing infrastructure is so very 1990. And perhaps most important of all, it doesn't matter what you're using to publish if there isn't any content.

So I am punting the infrastructure question by the simple expedient of copy-and-paste, and folks who read me on LJ can comment there, and folks who have subscribed to Dragons and Elegance can comment there, and we'll take it as it comes. Because, after all, if I'm the only one reading this stuff, it makes no difference whatsoever. But if you have an opinion, please, share it and be welcome.

Every period of writing activity starts with a single post. This one may not be polished, or even particularly coherent, but it means I showed up to the page. Or at least to the Emacs buffer.

Be excellent and loving to one another, my friends. We've got a lot of work in front of us, but we don't have to do it alone.

... I think I can safely say that I have read the most beautiful use of rhetoric that we will see in this presidential campaign, and possibly the best use of political oratory this decade.

( If you only read one political speech in this interminable presidential campaign, please, please, read this one. )

Hat tip to Mark Kleiman.

THE RULES:
1. Leave me a comment saying anything random, like your favorite lyric to your current favorite song. Or your favorite kind of sandwich. Something random. Whatever you like.
2. I respond by asking you five personal questions so I can get to know you better.
3. Update your LJ with the answers to the questions.
4. Include this explanation and offer to ask someone else in the post.
5. When others comment asking to be asked, you will ask them five questions.

arliss asked me:

1. You suddenly acquire an income more than adequate to meet your needs. Liberated from the need to earn a living, what profession or avocation do you pursue?

2. You spent part of your childhood in the south. What makes you nostalgic? What are you glad you escaped?

3. You're having a celebration. How large a party is it, and who do you invite? Do you include people from work and the neighborhood and the grocer from the corner store? I don't need a guest list, just an idea of how large or small your celebration would be.

4. If you could change one national government policy, what would it be?

5. One week with unlimited funds; what do you do?

And I answered:

1. The answer to this one terrifies me with how easily it slipped into my mind: I start a church. I turn no one away: no denominational requirements. I invite pastors, priests, rabbis, imams, bodhisattvas, anyone who will help. And we preach love, forgiveness, love, resistance to evil, love, mindfulness, love, tolerance, and a bit more love. Until they came to take us away.

2. What makes me nostalgic: The sounds of thunder in the summertime (rare out here, but much more common there). The sound of a young black waitress asking an older white man in a wheelchair, "What can I get you, baby?" (I do not know whether they were previously acquainted -- I've been away too long to differentiate the 'baby' one uses with strangers from the one used with friends and family.) Talking to you; hearing the softness of those North Carolina vowels, coupled with the natural warmth of your voice. The sight of fireflies, so common in the east Tennessee summers, unheard of in my portion of California.

What I'm glad I escaped: The almost-ritualised homophobia, and the air of casual menace that Southern males project towards people they see as interlopers. The deep mistrust of intellectual pursuits, although there's quite a bit of that out here in supposedly-enlightened California as well. The 95F/95% humidity summers. The American exceptionalism, the feeling that somehow the landed white males are superior to everyone else by God's grace.

3. The door is open, and all are welcome. But I've only invited about a dozen people. If the grocer happens by, we'll greet her from the porch and invite her and her kids in for a bite. I live in a household of five, so we can switch off the hosting duties -- I can go hide in the back room as it's necessary, without fear that people will feel unwelcomed.

4. Universal health care. Right bloody now. Emphatically including medical and psychiatric care for the veterans and victims of this clusterfuck of a war. As important as it is to end the war, and as much as I'd like to do it, this trumps it by a long way.

5. Unlimited? Pay off a staggering number of bills. Contribute another staggering amount to the bank accounts of various charities and associates (friends in the fannish community, Buffistas, etc.) anonymously if possible. Rent a truly silly minivan and drive my entire household and their mates up to Harbin Hot Springs and laze around for a week. Wire money to any of my far-flung family-by-choice (Buffistas and otherwise) who want to join us. Give my mother enough money that she can retire comfortably.


Go nuts, y'all.