baby photo steps

Ahh the stapes, incus and malleus. Taken by some enterprising folks on a real 'Fantastic Voyage"

Green

First of all, I'm upset with the lack of photo-ness on my blog. I got as far as the downloading of the photo-doohicky that allows you to upload pics from your computer. But I still haven't installed my scanner software into my new frankensteinian computer. (My old computer, Edith* was euthanized and then reborn into new form. Nice trick. She is now split into neat Freudian categories: the Superego, affectionately known as "Mutt," the id, "Edith Jr." and the ego, "Jeff." This brings me to a brief but hopefully pithy aside about my own love of naming inanimate objects. I'm the embarassing type of person who searches for just the right name for a car. I mean it--it might take days to hit just the right name. Now, you can argue that it's related to some squishy feminine trait, as in, real men would never name a mere machine. I'll ignore you, but you can argue, if you like. And yes, as a matter of fact, I do like quiche, you must be right. Or we can get metaphysical about the attempt to humanize the increasingly mechanized and isolating technological world. Hard to beat that theory. I guess sometimes I'd just call it whimsy. A superstitious but {mostly}amusing whimsy. And sometimes I think it's because it's hard to curse well at something without a name. But there's something decidedly satisfying about finding just the right name. Something about the power of names, maybe, as in the old wizardry of true naming begetting power over a thing; something about the richness that comes with charactering our lives with certain personalities we ourselves create; something about the power of belief. I mean, have you ever named something by accident? That name just stuck. And it comes to mean something to you, the way Jennifer will always mean that girl you hated in elementary school, or how you always find yourself attracted to men named "Chris" {which stinks for you, since that name's awfully common}. Woe betide you if the personality you've accidently created comes to mean inconsistency, or maliganancy--that lemon of a car, or that evil computer--for in these cases you are making your own destiny. That is, if you are the type of person to name inanimate objects.)

Anyway, I was going to say that I'm green with envy over my dear friend's recent travels and housey projects. Recently I have begun longing for a more settled sort of spot, without projected life upheaveals. I can't say I'm unhappy with school. Today, for example, was a great day. And yet...and yet. I have felt so unfinished for so long. I know this desire for "finish" for the compelling illusion it is, but the definition of compelling illustrates the problem. Maybe it's only the Mass disatisfaction kicking in harder. Maybe only the ticking of that infamous bioligical clock (talk about the power of naming--what might we look like as a nation without that cultural mythos?). Maybe it's related to ice cream for lunch (yesterday) and chocolate pecan pie for dinner (today). Maybe spring fever? Are all of these on your current rule-out list? Treatment: supportive care, make-up to conceal that fresh grass cast to the skin, a bolus of see-how-much-fun-vet school can be? We'll have to wait and see how she does...

*I swear to you, the first day I started my computer, the computer icon or some welcome screen said something about my computer, Edith. No, I don't partake of the things you suggest, nor have I ever been hospitalized. For anything. Her name was just Edith. Why do you find this hard to believe?

other things I'd rather

In other words, I'm typing to that infamous muse, the reader, instead of thinking of good probing questions to ask the dairy farmer tomorrow. We have a herd project (heard of what?) for this rotation, where we look at different aspects of a dairy and try to figure out areas of improvement. And because I imagine that one of the edifying thing about reading blogs is that you get a glimpse of a truly different daily life, here's a doozy for you. You are running a dairy, milking about 300 head, mostly Holsteins (what most people picture when you say "cow"). This means you get up pretty early, milk for 4 to 5 hours, take an hour break to clean the parlour, and then start up all over again. Not to mention that you need to feed the cows, watch them for signs of heat, lameness, general badness, and scrape the barn (a true necessity, if you know cows). The coolest thing about dairymen is that they can tell you what cow it is by looking at them, often only looking from the feet and udder perspective (most parlors being sunk low in the floor). I wish I was as good at names, only I guess most people'd look at you a bit sidelong if you stared at their feet and crotch before you said hello ("Oh, HI Madge, didn't recognize you at first--sitting behind that desk and all."). But to prove a point that was long ago proven, all specialties have their lingo, and dairy farming is no exception. So I'm trying to look cool, here (can't help it, you would too---do you like to look like an idiot? I didn't think so), and come up with some real professional questions. OK, you internet dairyman/woman you, so tell me: TMR or component feeding? How's your average calving interval? What's your cull rate, and from what? LDAs/RDAs common? Ketosis/milk fever/fat cow syndrome (you heard me, fat cow syndrome)? See, you hadn't ever really thought about it, have you? Every subject only becomes infinitely more complicated when you delve into it--could you run a dairy farm? Maybe you already do. But I bet most of you couldn't. This infinite complication fractal-like theory is why I'm a splitter, not a lumper, but that's a different blog. Later.

The other thing I wanted to mention is that I was stuck with talk radio again today, and I could barely stand it. (Do you think I'd fail the rotation if I accidentally pulled out a few crucial wires?) So in self-defense, and to rid my brain of that nasty talk radio aftertaste, I thought it was poem time. And this time I was kind to any poetry haters out there, 'cause I waited till the end. This is one of my favorites, but it really should be read aloud. Don't be shy, unless you're in one of those internet cafe things, in which case, go ahead and be shy. This is why I despair of modern vocabulary. We just don't get to roll our tongue about words the way we used to. I'll admit, for some this one may need an intro: it's about a lovely wet spot, somewhere wild, with a brook ripping through it. Would that today's environmentalists could be so eloquent.

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–89). Poems. 1918.

33. Inversnaid

THIS darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.
A windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth	5
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.
Degged with dew, dappled with dew
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,	10
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.
What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;	15
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

You go, Gerard.

am-bu-la-to-ry

Am' bye le tor i adj., n, pl. -ries. --adj 1. pertaining to or capable of walking. 2. adapted for walking, as in the limbs of many animals. 3. moving about; not stationary. 4. Med. not confined to bed: ambulatory patient. 5. Law. not fixed; alterable or revocable: ambulatory will. --n. 6. Archit. a place for walking: a. the side aisle suurounding the choir or chancel of a church. b. the arcaded walk around a cloister.

Which may mean only that I love my father's old American College Dictionary from 1956 (beat that, you stupid definition websites, who seem to think that ambulatory only means "able to walk" --of course it's simple for your immediate needs, but who can beat the feeling of that thin, fragile paper as it slips between your fingers, and those delicious indentations as your fingers search the alphabet!), and it does indeed have fun illustrations (one of these days I'll scan in the illustration I just passed, the alpaca, which seems more relevant to my life than it used to), but if you're getting the hang of this, you'll guess there's another reason for the definition. You are so smart, my dear. But first, I must still praise the multitudes of definitions provided by my dear dictionary. Can't you imagine? The silent monks thoughtfully contemplating their way around the ambulatory? And I'm afraid I will not be able to go through tomorrow without thinking, "where there's an ambulatory will, there's a way." This is sort of a bad joke, as you will see.

Anyhoo, I've currently just started my ambulatory rotation (A-HA), meaning I drive an hour south every day to ride with many vets to go see many cows, horses, sheep, goats and alpacas (and mules and so forth). And we do some ambulating, but mostly we drive. It has been refreshing to see the back pockets of CT looking so lovely (though I have NO idea what the point of having a small model light house in your yard is, or why this is a common lawn ornament here--do you worry about driving your lawnmower into the rocks while you cut your grass in those stormy CT waters?). And really, this ambulatory thing was only a big lead in to the fact that I am in the car a lot and one of the vets listens to a little talk radio now and again (for me, an awful lot like the mysterious light house lawn ornament question, but hey, at least in this case I know the person in question has a pretty good sense of the ridiculous during these times) and I got to thinking about how the country, and maybe even the world is a lot like vet school social life.

Let me explain. You see, in vet school you are sitting in a classroom with about 80 other people. Not once in a while, but all day. Every day. And when you go home, well, most of the time you can't go run about with your non-vet school friends who might give you some refreshing sense of reality. So it gets pretty incestuously small town gossip around there. As in, the person who you aren't mad at but thought perhaps you needed to discuss something with is pretty sure you're mad five minutes before you mention to another completely different person that you need to talk to the original someone. It's not just the smallness of the fishbowl, it's the twisting of the intent. And hey, unfortunately, people have a little nasty side that loves to speculate and talk. And lately I think that TV news and talk radio are simply big, bored vet students, who are sitting next to you in class, or on your couch, and saying "hey, didja hear about so and so? I hear she/he..." I listened to one radio jock decide that, on pure speculation, that there must be another man involved in some romance scandal. And then everyone who called in was equally convinced. Quite astonishing, in a crap-I-can't believe-the-power-of suggestion-really-works way. But man, are we nosey creatures in this country. And any silence is simply something hidden that we're pretty sure we know about. And you people think your teenage girls are bad, the way they talk about boys!

Slippery words, how we twist you and claim ignorance. And that dictionary seemed so innocent about 20 minutes ago...

bring back the sing along

The dog chewed up my passport. It actually happened last week, but it was only today that that fact became relevant. What fascinates me is how there really is no physical person I can blame for my morning, and yet, three reasonable human beings (I'm making assumptions, probably even about myself) could not actually follow the dictates of common logic. Let me backtrack. First of all, I'm nearing the end of my third year of vet school. Trust me, it's relevant. These days I've finally been allowed out of the classroom and around some honest to goodness animals, clients and diagnostics. But what things like post offices don't know is that, well, all day, every weekday (and some weekends), I'm really not going to be allowed to jaunt off to the PO for a visit. So today I get the opportunity to go get my passport renewed, which is good because it expired in January, and I'm off to the Dominican Republic in November, which is also good. The fact that my passport was in a plastic sandwich baggie to keep all the pieces together was...hmmmm...not so good.

Now. It's one thing, I suppose, if the dog had made it through that laminated page with my photo and relevant stats. But those things are nice and tough, made to withstand the rigors of sweaty tourist next-to-your-skin paranoia wallets. So you can clearly tell, yes, this is a US passport, yes, that's me, yes, yes, probably a good chance it used to be legal before the mistaken dog toy identity thing. But because of the dog damage, it's no longer legal proof of my citizenship.

OK. First of all, chances are good that because I've had two passports issued to me in my lifetime, I haven't fooled anyone into thinking I might be from Swaziland. But, alright, they don't know that I haven't been over to the consulate and demanded citizenship from that country over my own, I guess I can give them that. But I'm really having trouble wrapping my mind around the fact that in one form, a little blue booklet with my photo has great meaning and import, and voila, it becomes--becomes, mind you, as in your seat cushion becomes a water floatation device--something altogether other, magically devoid of meaning, somehow inactivated, but still with my photo on it. And people scoff at the notion of amulets. And you can't yell at the post office guy (well, you could, but you would be an asshole), he's just doing his job. You can even tell he thinks it's stupid. And you can't yell at the lady at the passport offfice, because for one, you can't reach the phone, and for two, she even would probably agree. And yet, no passport for me, until my mother unearths my birth certificate from some drawer many states away from here.

The truth is, I've angered some postal god(ess?) somewhere, proabably for parking in front of my mailbox and making my postal guy get out of his truck to deliver my mail, or by sending something bookrate that wasn't actually books (you've all done it), or maybe for even greater messaging infractions for which I am unaware. Because the insult to my injury (and do you have any idea when I can predict my next opportunity for the post office will be? Guess. Don't pick any date in the month of May.) is the fact that I was given the webaddress for some website who wanted me to pay 30 dollars for the birth certificate, and then 25 dollars for the Fed Ex shipping. And the drop down menu implying all the while that maybe I'll get some other shipping option. Let's see--what delusional mind headlock do they think I'm in? Last time I checked, the post office was still doing its other job OK. I get it. Time to burn expensive stamps and buy one of those stupid framed commemorative coin things, and light candles under it. Or just wait for my mother to unearth the thing--right.

Anyway, this story has nothing to do with the title of the post, because that was from the end of the day. Tonight was the every-so-often coffee house at school, where some of us prove that once we had other lives besides veterinary texts and exams. And traditionally, we end with a good old fashioned sing along, campfire style (though campus police really put the stop to the campfire idea). But tonight everyone scattered to the winds. I don't know, I guess I'm one of those isn't this egalitarian what-a-shame-people-don't-feel-free-enough-to-add- their-voice-even-if-it-sucks-because-you-know-in-a-sing-along-you'll-
be-drowned-out-nicely-but-end-up- having-fun-without-punishing-others people. Next time--NO break before the sing along, people. We're wise to your tricks.

one of us, one of us, ooh goo ga ga...*

I'm surprised to find myself here. I have a few friends that post regularly (by few I mean, well, two) on their own eblog sites, and I'd never have guessed that I was going to join them. Some inner prompting sent me here, at my computer when I should be in bed, writing to some vaporous and hypothetical electric audience. I was always the type to start a journal and then find it a year later, with several dutiful dated pages and then nothing. This could easily be the latest version. But I have found some comfort in checking in with my friends while they weren't actually looking--like some window onto their daily life distinctly different than one I might glimpse on the phone.

I don't go out and read random blogs, or spend time browsing the weird or wacky (and then emailing them to others--do we all have friends that do that? I'm not complaining, mind you, I just don't do it myself), for me the internet is functional with a few frills. I'm sure I have some mistaken unreal notion of what it means to identify one's self as a "blogger," brought on by NPR stories of the new "is it journalism" debate. And I don't really feel like that "blogger" thing has anything to do with me. Yet here I am, typing away, and I bet anything that the first thing most people do is write a nice little blog about blogging, whatever that gerund means to them. Perhaps it's tedious to my imagined jaded and experienced blogophiles--"not metablog," they sigh, "again?" (This begins to sound like Monty Python--I'll have blog, blog, blog, blog, blog and eggs and blog.) Tough. I like meta. In small doses. Which is why I forsee copious use of parentheses in future posts, if I ever get that far. Be warned.

Did I also mention the wandering train of thought? Right. I guess I've been busy enough for three years straight (more on that later, I'm sure), to give my inner voice pause. It says--"right, and where are you again exactly? Perhaps you ought to be checking on that a bit more frequently." So maybe a little technological journaling is in order. As well as forcing poems on the unsuspecting populace (warned again), because of all the poetry books on my shelves which grow dusty and wan (OK, maybe not wan) from disuse. And besides, besides meta, I like poetry. So when I get tired of myself and my own unique mundanity, I'll post poems instead. And if you've read this far you are obviously not simply the 5 second American I thought you might be. In that case, welcome. *