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March 28, 2003
Secret Message #7: Knot So Secret
I feel generous tonight. You already know what the secret message is, and you know it has something to do with that other entry. So rather than just hide the Cracker Jack prize as an Easter Egg that may or may not be found, I'm posting this as a free-for-all. If you use Illustrator or Freehand, this one's for you:
Illustrator (.ai) files of a few celtic knots that I created when I got bored.
Why am I giving these away, original vector-based files and all? Because I've done so many of these now that I can do them in my sleep. These few designs are just a drop in the bucket for me, so dig in. My treat.
By the way, if you change the fill color to black and the stroke color to white, they make great tattoo designs as well. Play around with them. If you do anything neat with them, let me know. I'd love to see.
.
In other news: If you're a regular visitor at Davezilla, Freak Watcher's Textbook, and Fucked Weblog, you'll soon notice that the sites are all down. Dave's ISP gave new meaning to incompetence, so he's shopping for a new ISP and planning on getting back online in a week. As it happens, Leaking Brain Fluid and Tamityville are down too, since Nikki and Tami Jo were on the same server. So... Murphy Days abound in Netville. In the meantime, you might actually have to go outside and get a little sun. 'Bout time anyway; you're looking a little pale.
Posted by April at 07:51 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 25, 2003
It Kind of Grows on You
When I first posted about possibly getting a haircut, I never imagined that people would even think twice about it. I mean it's hair, and unless your armpits never had a hair follicle I'm sure you understand how very commonplace it is. Yet here I am, writing about it again, because months later people are still leaving comments about it—asking questions, sharing opinions and dispensing advice. I've also been getting e-mail about it, and backstage, half my search referrals and Greymatter search requests are about hair—short, long, thick, chopped, healthy, you name it.
So I have no choice but to address the topic again, answer any questions still outstanding and post photos of the hair that everyone is so evidently trying to picture.
To my dismay, however, I discovered how very few photos I have of me and my vaunted hair. That's what I get for not having a camera. A crapera, I have; a camera, I don't have. Bear with me as I try my best to describe my locks.
First of all, my driver's license claims that my hair is black. Minnie uses the more poetic "raven" to describe my hair, but if you want to get technical, it's somewhat black. It's the same color as my black cat's hair, which actually looks a bit like very dark reddish brown in the bright sunlight, like chocolate; but for all intents and purposes, it's black.
Second, it's thick. Practically everyone else in my family has thin hair, but for some strange reason, I have thick hair. My Aunt "G" also has thick hair, and how we got to be the black sheep, I'll never know.
Third, it's straight. Depressingly straight. I believe it actually cries out in pain when I put a curling iron to it, it's so straight. Even my eyelashes, long as they are, are straight. My sister was lucky to have a little curl in her hair, but me, my hair is so straight, you will never see wild and sexy hair-on-hair action—nope, not even a hint of bisexuality in my hair whatsoever. None. It only has a bit of curl in it after it's been in a braid for a while.
Fourth, it grows like crazy. If I were a guy, I'd get five o'clock shadow before noon; it's that fast. This is part of the reason I don't usually get my hair cut in trendy styles; it outgrows the style quickly and requires constant trimming. This is not to say that I never get my hair styled. I do on occasion, whether it's short or long. For example:
So right now it's long, and it's cut straight across, nothing fancy. It reaches down to my butt when unbound, and when I shed it never goes unnoticed. In fact, we at the gem residence like to joke about some pony leaving behind its strands of tail hair on the bathroom floor. Funny, but when my hair is short, one would think I never shed at all. Speaking of which, here are photos of the shortest and the longest that I've had my hair... actually, my hair has been and is much, much longer than in the second photo, but that's the longest ever captured on film.
Fifth, it's strong and healthy. I've actually had brushes fall apart on me after a few months, bristles falling out like teeth from an nonagenarian. Currently, I use two brushes—one to get the tangles out and one to get the hair all nice and smooth. Both have plastic ball-end bristles that massage my scalp as I brush. For those who are curious, I use cheap Suave shampoo and conditioner, currently the mountain strawberry variety. I have sometimes used the green apple one, sometimes the plain strawberry one. I've gotten so accustomed to using these products that I don't smell them any more, but people seem to really like the way my hair smells. You might want to give the shampoo a try.
Six, it's a nuisance. I discovered early on why my mother liked to keep my hair short or bound. It's all over the place otherwise. Below are photos of me as a child—with short hair, getting a perm, and with bound hair. I never actually got to have shoulder-length hair until I was about 12 years old.
And below are photos of my flyaway hair and my bound (at yellow arrows) hair.
So what's it like getting my hair cut? It's like this:
But, since we're on the topic now, I don't know if I'll be cutting my hair any time soon. Unbound and flowing, brushing softly against the flesh, it's kind of a turn-on behind the bedroom door. I just pray it doesn't get caught in the ceiling fan, you know? It's quite handy for tying people up, though.
Ahem. Just kidding!
Seriously, though... there are a lot of uses for hair this long, especially in a braid. It's only a matter of time before someone at the DOD contacts me about using me as their new secret weapon. Behold the various uses:
So... if you have any more questions about the hair, fire away. This post is probably going to be the last time I talk about it for a long, long while. Rest assured that if I cut my hair, I'll post a before-and-after photo. It's too dramatic a change not to, and I know that many of you want to see it.
By the way... here's the scan of the four braids in the Ziploc bag, each braid over a foot long and 2-3 inches wide:
Hair's looking at you, kid.
Posted by April at 11:39 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 23, 2003
Tonight's Entry's Different. Reader's Mission: Compose Proper Response Within Comments Section
Writing weblog entries wielding gimmicks displays hard-core patience—massive amounts thereof—proving April's crazy, truly wacky, insane. Any person reading tonight surely believes above statement without question.
Explain away? Trying vainly, subtley.
Asking's always helpful. Although, readers checking archives shouldn't ever worry about asking, shouldn't ever wonder about writing. Reason? Nothing modern, nothing shiny, nothing mankind hasn't witnessed exists under mother Gaia's famous solar body; Sungod's sunny visage witnessed entire shebang. Capiche?
Except... older entry, fewer rhythms; newer entry, tougher moments.
Daring others mimic April's crazy, wacky, stupid minute-wasting habits. Uh-huh. Accept April's harder, tougher writing challenge. Prizes offered. Deadline exists. Really, truly easy. Proceed!
[Note Bene: Entry about "hairy" topic coming Tuesday. Promise! Tony's topsy turvy portrait, maybe later. Iraq? April detests hubris, avoids fighting, welcomes peaceful outcome. Finis. Writing instead about other subjects. Okay? Okay.]
Posted by April at 11:45 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 22, 2003
All I Really Need To Know...
In the course of my searching for my old hair photos and then catching up on at least six months worth of check balancing, a disturbing little thought came to me:
I use very little of what I learned in school.
I've spent over half my life in classes, from pre-kindergarten to a bachelor's degree, and I've learned everything from the story of Beowulf to finding eigenvalues for a matrix. Yet here I am doing "research" for my "report" on hair and doing basic addition and subtraction to keep my check register up to date with all my bank statements. How sad.
At least H.E. was able to use some calculus when he worked as a navigator, and doctors use their knowledge of anatomy all the time. But me? I've read practically all kinds of literature, studied math higher than I can see, and learned the names of the three basic codons that make up the sequences in genetic code, and what do I do for a living? I lay text and images out for catalogs, brochures, web sites, and whatnot.
The irony isn't lost on me.
So now I'm trying to decide, of all the things I learned in school, what is the most useless? I'd venture a guess, but first I'd have to figure out all the things I've forgotten before I can make a fair decision.
And if all that stuff is useless anyway, I'd rather not spend the time recalling all that knowledge.
Posted by April at 11:05 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 20, 2003
The Queen of the Darkling Elves, by Rob Hanshaw
War. Yes I have an opinion on it, and no I won't share it. I only bring it up because a friend of mine is out there, and I hope he comes home completely unharmed. He has to. He simply has to... because he and Laurie need to start a basketball team and because he's far too good a writer to waste. It's true. He wrote the following story, and I'm posting it with his permission so you can read the tale that inspired this artwork.
With no further ado, here is Rob Hanshaw's "The Queen of the Darkling Elves..."
I met the Queen of the Darkling Elves at a party in Albuquerque, on Locust. I smiled. She smiled. I wondered, as we sometimes allow ourselves to do when first meeting someone, if our children would have her long, pointed ears that nearly reached to the back of her skull, or the curved, cultish blades she had for fingernails. I told her I was having a beer from the keg outside, and would she like one? She replied that her drink was mare's blood. I asked for her phone number.
Our first date (along with all subsequent dates) was scheduled for midnight. I met her at an old, deserted crossroads just about in the middle of nowhere, its lanes heavy with encroaching trees and unknowns. She'd turned down dinner at a little Italian restaurant I knew of in favor of threatening lonely travellers until the sun came up. Her favorite thing to do was whisper unseen to passing, unlucky hitchhikers, slowly driving them mad to the point of racing through the brush and perhaps off a cliff or into a lake, her voice vague and unfathomable in their ears. Her other favorite thing to do was to link the road to the ethereal path to the darkling realms, so that drivers would eventually have to wonder why they never came to their destination, or why they hadn't seen the sun in a few days, or why every change in direction only seemed to draw them deeper and deeper into a land where leaves glistened in the dark like glass; a land where small men raced next to the road, twisted daggers in hand, waiting to peel a traveller's flesh and steal his goods. Her children were always hungry, the Queen said. I mentioned that she was very cute when she was totally immoral. She held my hand, caressed me with impossibly long fingers as we walked down one road or another like grade school sweethearts. I was in love.
Things started to get shaky right after we got married. Where would we live? I'd been looking for maybe a two-bedroom apartment downtown somewhere, or a condo. She insisted that I rule by her side from Peloponnesus (the center of the darkling realms), on a throne the color of night in mid-winter; a throne which, prior to our discussion, she'd had made and set in place beside, and a trifle below, her own. I began to suspect that she had control issues. We spoke, my pale-blushing bride and I, of other pressing matters:
"Children?"
"You will give me an heir and four daughters, one to wed each of the elementals."
"Transportation?"
"For you a stallion, black as pitch. For myself, an onyx chariot pulled by six baying hounds. You will sell the Honda."
"Pets?"
"Cats."
Shit.
After a few years monotony began to set in. I'd spend a few hours every Saturday at a local pool hall and b.s. with my friend Bob from work. It was one Saturday that Bob had to stay home and nurse a hangover, and one Saturday that I had the eight-ball perfectly lined up for a side pocket (typical), that all the lights in the pool hall went out, room temperature dropped fifty degrees, and the air took on the biting scent of earth. "Great," I thought. The voice of my bride, my queen, the heart of my heart resonated: "Tell me who is the she-wolf that has stolen you from me!!"
"What?"
Her voice was more shrill than usual. "You rendezvous here every 6th day, the day of Saturn. Do you deny it!!??"
"Oh, no sweetheart. I play pool here with Bob from work. You met Bob."
The room went immediately back to normal. The proprietor threatened to ban me from his establishment if my wife kept coming in and messing with the electricity. I began to suspect that she had deep-seated insecurity issues.
That night she was aloof from me, reading her Necronomicon quietly to herself. My tickles found unfeeling flesh. My sweet nothings fell on long, deaf ears.
The next Monday I swung by Bob's cubicle and found a darkling elf, all sharp nose and curled shoes, gnawing on a Bob-size femur. I called the divorce lawyer.
So take heed, young sir or madam. If ever you find yourself at a party on Locust, and the Queen of the Darkling Elves gives you that come-hither look, pass by, because she is one cast-iron bitch.
copyright © 2000 by Rob Hanshaw, posted with permission
Posted by April at 07:06 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 18, 2003
Wherefore Art Thou, My Art
Griff's recent post about theft of his artwork made me think of the one and only time I ever took an art class. It was back in the 7th grade, and it was a quarter-long course, part of what was then called the wheel program... in which you were made to take four electives you would have otherwise never chosen for yourself.
I was by that time already doodling little toons on every available blank piece of paper, a habit that had started since the day I was born. People already seemed to like my drawings, so I thought the class would be easy for me, and considering how basic it was (how to shade circles so they look like spheres, etc.), it should have been easy. But it wasn't.
I wanted to draw cute and funny cartoons. The teacher wanted me to draw boring and realistic still-lifes. I wanted to use bright colors in my paintings. The teacher kept insisting that tree trunks were gray.
It was a wonder that I even managed to get a B for that class, the lowest grade I ever got that year; I could have sworn that the teacher hated my work. All I got from him was criticism. I never heard any praise. After a while, I started to hate my work, too.
There was, however, one piece I worked on that really made me proud. The piece was for the class lettering project.
Today we have computers to do our lettering for us. We choose a font face and size, adjust the leading and kerning, and boom, perfectly lined and aligned instant lettering. Back then, though, it was all done by hand.
I remember that we were given reference sheets with the entire alphabet on them in various font faces. We were supposed to take a blank sheet or canvas, carefully plan out our copy, and lightly sketch in custom grids with our rulers, laying out the lining and spacing of the letters, etc.
I knew exactly how I wanted mine—blue and white speckled Old English letters reading "I BRAKE FOR CUTE BOYS"—and it was the best work I ever did. Everything was perfectly centered, both vertically and horizontally. The letters were consistent, clean, and evenly spaced, and even with the random white speckles the blue color made the copy jump out on the light background.
It was definitely grade A work from my point of view. I gazed at it proudly before stowing it away in my art drawer for the next day.
*Sigh* Big mistake.
When I opened up the drawer to get it out again, it was gone. Stolen. Totally taken away. I imagined that some girl in another class period found it by chance, took a fancy to it, and promptly whisked it away to be posted on her bedroom wall or something. Never mind that it was my property, my creative work. Never mind that I'd be frantic, looking for it all over the class, opening everyone else's art drawers, hoping to find that my artwork was merely misplaced.
I never got it back; I never found out who took it; and I never saw it since. I'm still bitter about it, and you can tell; I never took an art class again.
Nowadays, only copies of my work can be stolen. That's just how digital works. It still bothers me, though, when people take without asking. It reminds me too much of my little art drawer and the silly little sign that I made:
"I BRAKE FOR CUTE BOYS."
Years later, I still wonder where it is.
Posted by April at 07:51 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 16, 2003
By the Way...
First person to guess what I'm making on the calendar gets to be in a topsy turvy toon.
Posted by April at 09:34 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 15, 2003
Celtic Nut
I have a new obsession: celtic knots. The Celts were tall, vain, and prone to drinking. The Greek geographer Strabo once wrote of them:
"To the frankness and high spiritedness of their temperament must be added the traits of childish boastfulness and love of decoration. They wear ornaments of gold, torgques on their necks, and bracelets on their arms and wrists, while people of high rank wear dyed garments besprinkeld with gold. It is this vanity which makes them unbearable in victory and so completely downcast in defeat."
The Irish are descended from the Celts, and they've inherited the love of drink and song from them. St. Patrick's Day is coming up soon, and it usually involves a lot of drinking and singing.
Perhaps this is why I had the urge to create my own celtic knot today. Or perhaps I'm descended from Celts too.
Hey, don't scoff. It could happen.
H.E., who is Irish, says that Filipinos are Irish too, in a way. Instead of potatoes the much shorter Filipinos eat rice, but like the Irish we are often poor, oppressed, and a bit downtrodden. We flee our home country and take refuge in America, and with our Catholic ways we buck like funny rabbits, populate entire cities, take civil jobs, and work very hard.
I can't imagine going to a pub, drinking green beer, and shouting "Kiss me, I'm Filipina!" But celtic knots? Yes, I can do those—and very well, I might add. I mean, just look:
How much more perfect can my celtic knots be, huh?
Hm... will you look at that? I've just done a bit of boasting... like the Celts.
See? I told you. I have celtic roots.
Posted by April at 10:20 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 13, 2003
Work in Progress
I wanted to post something about an old post of mine still getting comments, but I can't find the fauxtos photos I want to post with it. So, for now it remains a work in progress.
In the meantime:
I spent about two years hanging out in many of the digital artist communities on the net, so I have a rather bad habit of being nosey about other artist's techniques. It's rude, I know it, but I can't help it; I'm so used to swapping tips and tricks that I'm always curious about the process behind another person's artwork.
Within communities like Renderosity, In Depth Discussions, and 3D Commune that's expected so it's no big deal, but in the "blogging" world it seems a little bit out of place. In IMs I've asked Dave about his Illustrator files and Suzanne about her Illustrator and Photoshop techniques. I've openly speculated about Dooce's photo-manipulation process, and I've both privately and publicly asked Claire about the software she uses for her art.
Am I asking too much, I wonder? Am I not giving back enough? I've given glimpses of how I work to Tony and Broch, but just glimpses it seems, and how can these glimpses possibly satisfy anyone's curiousity? All I know is that it wouldn't satisy my own.
So, in one handy dandy place, I'm publicly sharing a few of my tips and tricks. Feel free to ask if you have any questions.
- Princess and the Pea, a work in progress from beginning to end
- The Edge, a work in progress from beginning to end, using a different technique
- Close Your Eyes, a screenshot of a work in progress in Photoshop
- Rendered in Photoshop, a faux screenshot of a Photoshop render in process (a glimpse into the before and after of my post-render work)
What I wrote to go with it when I first posted this:
Some people render in Bryce, some in Poser. My Poser renders aren't great because I'm lousy with textures and there's no such thing as "clothes" in Poser 3,.. so I do my rendering in Photoshop. It's great for renders, actually -- it takes a while, but it takes care of lighting, clothes, hair, and textures. I highly recommend it! :) - Dodge and Burn, a tutorial
May someone out there find these useful. Happy doodling! :)
Update (2003-03-14): Doh! After checking my links on another computer, I realized that the screenshot images (which are hosted elsewhere) don't show up for anyone not already a member of the Renderosity. I've changed the links, so they should be okay now.
Posted by April at 11:40 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 10, 2003
Fauxtography 101
All of last week I had bright yellow daffodils blooming by my bathroom sink. I wanted more than anything to take a photograph of them and then post it online, but I never did receive the digital camera I was hoping to get for Christmas. It's a shame, too. I've wanted to start a little photoblog of sorts, most especially after the coming and going of the Photobloggies.
So this weekend, I finally caved in and got myself a Cantoff PS6 digital crapera. I spent all of Sunday afternoon taking pictures of the world around me and even managed to play with some of the photos fauxtos in Photoshop... you know, to make them a little artsy-fartsy in the same way a lot of people make their photos. I also took some fauxtos for the various photo memes I've noticed on the net, just for the heck of it.
Anyway, without further ado, here are some of my best shots so far:
- Candid Shot - This is a shot of me and a friend at a diner somewhere in my friend's neighborhood. I had no idea what he was doing behind my back.
Here's the artsy-fartsy version. - Kitty Porn - I apologize for adding to the internet's mega-collection of kitty porn, but this is Cat. She has this odd tendency of sticking out her tongue, and I'm not sure why.
Here's the artsy-fartsy version. - Mirror Project - What's a gallery of fauxtos without a little something for the mirror project? Nothing, that's what.
Here's the artsy-fartsy version.
- Shadow Project - This is a shot of my shadow on the grass, perfect for the shadow project.
Here's the artsy-fartsy version. - Hi, Bob! - This one's for Sour Bob's little project. Sorry... no artsy-fartsy version; it's perfect the way it is.
- Enchanted Ceiling - This was the perfect opportunity for me to try out the panoramic feature on my new digital crapera. Enchanted Ceiling was the motivation for this shot, which was taken at planet Gastro, just above the very famous alien castle. Pretty sky, isn't it?
Here's the artsy-fartsy version.
Well, that's about it for my first few fauxtos. If you have tips and tricks on how I can take better shots, or if you know of any other photo memes I should consider for my next fauxto shoots, please share them with me. Also, if any of you are thinking of getting the Cantoff PS6 digital crapera, I highly recommend it.
Thanks for viewing!
Posted by April at 09:54 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 08, 2003
The Geek Shall Inherit the Earth
I've never really considered myself a geek. I know too many people who have so much more technical knowledge than I do. I never did audio/video in school, never took a programming class, and never put together my own super computer entirely from scratch. I don't own a PDA, a laptop, a cellphone, or an iPod, and though I drool over computer catalogs almost daily and work on various computers and operating systems both at work and at home, I have never actually bought my own computer; my salary has simply never been at that high geek level which allows all geeks to buy such luxurious toys.
No, I've never really considered myself a geek, which is why my money went to groceries and rent instead of to registration and travel costs to that geek event happening this weekend.
But when Human Encyclopedia's computer started displaying symptoms of Alzheimer's disease, such that he had to get a brand-spanking new one from that techie Xanadu we call Fry's, I got a really good look at my geek potential.
H.E. wanted to allow his two computers to talk, you know, so the old computer could bring the new one up to speed on all the work H.E. has to do—kind of like an on-the-job training with and tutelage under the employee being replaced—except that H.E. couldn't figure out how to get the two talking.
"Hold on," I told him. "I've got a spare hub and some ethernet cables. Let me go get them." And I dug into my big box of goodies filled with power strips, broadband and cat-5 cables, power adapters, routers, and various other odds and ends for computers and networking, all the while explaining computer naming, file sharing and my assumptions on how Windows XP (which I've never actually worked on, being a Windows 98 and Mac OS 9 kind of girl) works.
"Whoa," H.E. said as he gazed at all the gadgets I handed him, "you're like a portable Fry's. You've got everything!" What he said between those lines was: April, you're a geek!
Now, I'm the sort of person who gives people the benefit of the doubt, and I doubt that H.E. meant any insult by it. I know for a fact that he didn't mean to call me a geek in the sense of the first definition: a carnival performer often billed as a wild man whose act usually includes biting the head off a live chicken or snake.
Um, yeah. For one thing, I've never worked at a carnival.
Still, it was kind of a revelation for me when H.E. said what he said. It made me think, Oh, maybe I am a geek! Heck, maybe I've been a geek all this time and just didn't know it. Hmm.
Suddenly I feel like coding.
Posted by April at 08:48 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 06, 2003
Enough To Drive You Sick
My recent posts finally caught up with me. The bad karma came back and hit me upside the head. I meant to post something much more fun and meaningful tonight, but due to the circumstances I think I'll give my brain a rest and post a mundane "Here's what happened to me today" entry.
The cold poem? I guess I must have been a little arrogant towards the end of that post, stating that though my friends were sick I myself was feeling fine. Well... on my way to work this morning, I nearly threw up and passed out when some kind of flu bug decided to deal me a swift hard kick to the arse.
A couple of the awesome people I work with drove me back home, and I spent most of the day in bed, completely exhausted but unable to sleep. It was the most frustrating, uneventful, bedridden day I've ever had. I was too sleepy to read but too sick to sleep. My limbs were heavy and unmoving, as though in sleep paralysis; my eyes were full of "sand," as though I'd been sleeping for years; my ears blocked out all external sound, as though I were dreaming... but I couldn't dream because I couldn't sleep. Pissed me off. Quite literally.
And I mean that. I was dehydrated (still am), so I kept drinking. I took that "Drink plenty of fluids" directive to heart. I had about three full bottles of water, two full bottles of juice and a big bowl of soup, and I kept having to get up to pee about every 20 minutes or so, maybe 10.
Later, when I felt a little more awake and energetic, H.E. decided to cheer me up by getting me a USB hub for my computer. The damn thing made my USB system controller go AWOL, and I spent the rest of the evening wailing and whining at the world as I tried to reinstall the drivers again and again and again.
Yeah. Totally cheered me up to think that the use of my tablet, scanner, and CD burner were lost to me forever. I mean, imagine it; if it weren't for these three babies of mine, I couldn't make new topsy turvy images! All this... on top of the fact that I lost my cable connection a couple of days ago when the outlet decided to stop sending the broadband signal to my cable modem. Not to mention my sickness. The whole Murphy day made me, well, sick... and I was ready to cry.
But, whew! After hours of swearing at my computer and my various installation disks, I managed to make everything work again, and the clouds cleared out, letting the sun shine through as the choir of angels was cued and my body got better. I still have no cable, though (cable guy's coming tomorrow), but everything else is back to normal.
So as soon as I get my wits again, we'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Posted by April at 11:51 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 04, 2003
The Fight or Flight Club
If I seem a little quiet, you can thank my day job. Looming deadlines at work have petrified me, and I mean rendered me so wooden that a karate-chopping H.E., a jackhammer, and the combined mass of both aren't enough to relax the rope-tight muscles in my back. I used to take my breaks regularly to loosen up a little, but since one of us left the fold to work at a job where you're forced to attend the Grammies in New York and take pictures of celebrities, the rest of us here haven't been taking our breaks regularly.
During one of the few times that I have taken a walk, one of the women who went with me brought up a topic very near and dear to my heart, as well as my lungs and surrounding arteries. I'm not sure how to explain it. I suppose I could call it Death Gasps, but no one reading this would understand what I mean.
Okay, have you heard of the universal fight or flight instinct? When death looks us in the eye, adrenaline rushes in our veins and pushes us to either fight or flee. This was all developed and discovered before the emergency phone number 9-1-1, else there'd be a third option to go with those two, I'm sure, but as it stands when it comes to instinct there are just those two.
H.E. swears that I do neither. When danger looms, I suck in all the oxygen on earth and produce a high and keening primal sound that runs a chill down his spine; in other words, I gasp like an industrial-strength Hoover vacuum cleaner.
H.E. can't stand when I do that. If I see a car on a collision course with us, and it's in his blind spot, I'll gasp like it's the last breath I'll ever take, my eyes as large as saucers and my mouth gaping open for all the bugs to fly in. It's not intentional; it just happens, an instinct. Yet H.E. can't stand it because it makes his hair stand on end and because he knows there's danger but can't tell from where. All he knows is that something bad is about to happen and that all of the oxygen in the car somehow made its way into my lungs.
"Why can't you say, 'There's a car coming in behind us to your right!'?" H.E. always asks, and I always have to explain that all of those words are too much of a mouthful and that the gasp is much more succinct. He doesn't like that excuse, but really what does he know? In the same situation, he always says, "Watch your back!" and I can never tell if that means I should stay still or move out of the way, and if so, to the front, to the side or to the back? Of course we all know that he doesn't literally mean "watch your back" or I'd have a broken neck right now from trying.
Well, anyway, I found out that I'm not the only one who does those death gasps. One of the women I walk with revealed to me that she does that, something she—to her chagrin—has inherited from her mother. We are not proud of the fact that we gasp uselessly in the face of death, but we aren't ashamed to admit it either. But it did make me wonder...
When faced with danger what do you, dear reader, do instinctively?
Posted by April at 08:28 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
March 02, 2003
Bad [Doggerel] From My Writing Past #5: My Cold?
I got it from someone who,
When they touched the doorknob,
I did, too.
The virus went from nose to hand,
And by the doorknob, hand to hand.
From my hand up to my nose
Went the virus. There it goes,
Through my nose and down my throat.
I started talking like a goat,
Coughing, sneezing, aching, wheezing.
Please don't joke; I hate the teasing,
Runny nose and gooey phlegm,
Great ACHOO and small AHEM.
I can't wait to get much better.
Meanwhile, hanky's getting wetter.
[N.B.—I'm not feeling sick, but quite a few of my friends are or have been just recently, so I thought I'd dig this out and dedicate it to them. I first wrote this back in August 1991, and it's clear to me now that while growing up I read far too much Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein. Yes, yes, I know I have to break the cycle of abuse. When I have children, I'll read them Shakespeare instead of Where the Sidewalk Ends. I promise.]
Posted by April at 01:24 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack