Science Marches On

Uptick

Uptick!

Uptick. Okay, that's overkill but I think that "uptick" is a funny word. I wrote that because I'm feeling a bit uptickish myself lately. Maybe it's because I didn't get that job that looked burdensome. Maybe it's because I've had a few days in a row with decently oiled body parts. Maybe it's because my shiny bike is back from the shop. Maybe it's because I saw a raving foreigner whirling down the street shouting, "America BIG!"

Maybe it's more like I've got a metaphorical cat nuzzled in the pit of my arm as I read, with his paws on my chest. Here's how I imagine that gift cat would look.

Bury Me Not on the Lone Prairie

Here's just a couple of things happening, macro, micro, on the lone prairie known as Glacial Heritage Preserve in Thurston County, near Littlerock, WA. I am always happy to see pretty flowers.
I'm even happier to see the resident fauna. This creepy yellow spider is just doing its job, I know. But jeez, one of my few irrational phobias (hey, many are good and worthwhile), is getting a fatal bite from a spider hiding in banana bunches. Now that I know there's a sinister yellow spidy around, Dole has lost a customer for the forseeable future.

The purpose of gathering on the prairie was to draw, paint or photo it into submission. You know, the normal function of Art. After making a horrifying landscape, I muddled through with a pen drawing, none of which I'm sharing! Ideally, the best instrument to capture the place would have been Willa Cather. She didn't fit into my backpack so I had to make due. The best work I did was to lay back and watch the clouds go by.

Drought

My Cat is Sniffing My Mouse. So it goes in post-modern life. My cat, Emmitt, was making it difficult to scroll. A molecule must have lodged itself deep into my finger during my bike ride this afternoon. In his brother's absence, E's adopted many of Atwood's habits, Molecule Sniffing being one of them. This is his way, I guess, of keeping family dynamics in place. If sniffing the computer mouse wasn't enough, he stopped worrying the molecule and went off to beat up his furry mouse after hopping off the desk.

You may have noticed that there's been a long blog drought (Long Blog Drought: one of Dave Egger's pirate names); Fish, apparently, don't gotta blog. The Drafts never made it to Post. I've been considering killing this thing along with the idea of writing altogether. This is a dance that I do every so often but now than before. My strong suspicion is that, sure, I can write some, but I'm not a writer. I'm more interested in the fantasy of writing and calling myself a writer. Babies, I can dither with the best of them.

If I'm going to struggle, I want to tussle with what helps me along. Drop anything that just weighs me down. I've written about my growing regard for process and this is just a part of that. I have to ask the question, What happens when I give something up, like the idea of being a writer, and leave it behind? If it continues to haunt me, do I have a false attachment or a real need?

The things that we need do not always bring pleasure. For instance, as I pushed myself up the ridiculous grade on my bike, I wondered which would happen first: would my heart expode or would my brain stroke out? Surprised that I reached the top of the hill. Good option. The outcome, expected, is that my dodgy knee feels stronger, springier. It will as long as I push it like this. When I leave it be, it starts to feel like a brittle Slinky. How does discomfort trade itself for comfort?

Lots of questions lately. Questions have done me little good. My new equation, my new hope, questions + time = answers is a bit more grimy, painful and plodding. It's almost like I ask the question but then can't answer it with words. I have to stall my impulsive ability to imagine an answer since I'm constitutionally oriented toward believing the Blurt. The deep answer is usually never the first one with me. That's not the least bit unusual for anyone. But I am gullible, easily deflected so I'm working on killing the glib, distracting answers. It's like putting blinders on a horse if you need the nag to get you home.