My grandfather had a box of photos and old albums in his bedroom. In them, we found pictures dating back to times when photography was still a new concept. He’s not much of a memento keeper, though, and was ready to throw them all out in the quest for more closet space. Gran and I salvaged them and spent most of the day sorting through memories, mostly made between 1930 and the times of the Korean War. Gran is in the process now of buying many, many multi-picture collaging frames. While she was distracted, I stole a trio of photos to make a collage of my own. I’ve decided to share them.

The first is of my grandfather, taken at a bar in Japan while he was stationed overseas during the Korean War. At the time of the photograph, he was physically ill from too much sake the night before. Understandably, he was not very happy about having his picture taken.

The second is of Gran and my mother, Earlene, taken at a photo booth at a mall in New Jersey back in the mid 70s, when mom was still in her early teens. I love this photograph immeasurably. My mother was always loathe to have her picture taken, and very few photographs exist of her. Today was the first time I got to see my mother as a teenager, wearing a goofy floppy hat that was at one time considered in style, with my grandmother dressed almost identically. I feel a connection to them both through this picture, spent most of today thinking about the stupid things mom and I used to do together, which never included dashing into a photo booth for some pictures to laugh at on down the line. I’ve been thinking that I wish I had more photographs to fill the gaps in my memories, most of which I’ve chosen to forget in order to make staying sane a possibility. Six and a half years after I buried her, I’m only now allowing myself to start really thinking about my mother again, because I’m tired of trying to live with the memories of a mauve casket draped in roses.

The last picture is of me. This is the three surviving generations of my family, grandparents, their only child, and their daughter’s only child.

   

Mood:   Creative
Now Playing:  Ordinary by Train
Now Writing:  Chapter something-or-another of Bound 
Swear Words Spoken:  less than five

Writing on this novel seems to inspire my poetry.  I blame Vienne entirely and am thinking of making her write greeting cards  as a profession for spite.

I need salvation from this world of my design

Before I’m shattered by the weight of unmet expectations

An escape beyond all constraints of space and time

Realms that gods have long forsaken

Across the stars and all these miles apart

I yearn to be filled by you

 

Consumed by your desires made mine, consummated in our souls

Enraptured by your fingertips as they trace upon my skin

Drowning in the rhythm of your pulse

Seeking haven amid the chaos of destruction

Building towards ecstasy as mountains crumble

The Mindhump:

Was a set of miniature windchimes I purchased for four dollars from Wal-Mart.

In a similar vein, the Lyrics from a few entries ago are as follows:

1.)  So-Called Chaos by Alanis Morrisette
2.) Suede by Tori Amos
3.) Dixie Chicken by Garth Brooks
4.) Don't Let it Bring You Down by Neill Young
5.) Hey Pretty by Poe

I warn you now, not all stories have happy endings.  Or, as I have learned, any sense of closure whatsoever.  I went to the pound last Friday, bright and early, as promised, and spoke to a congenial enough young man who was feeding the dogs.  One dog visibly missing was a cute little yellow gal with pointy ears and white feet.  I asked if Oli had come through at all, gave him a description of her.  He shook his head sadly and said no dog like that had been through the pound.  Then, seeing my confusions, asked me if I was the dog’s owner.  I said yes, hoping for a lead to her potential whereabouts or some leverage, and he asked me where the pooch had come from.  I explained the story of Oli’s abduction by the local Game Warden, which was met with an even more dismal face in response.  The man again told me she had never been to the pound, of that much she was certain.  He spoke with a saddened voice that said she had probably never made it to the pound.

 

I am without a yellow dog to curl up in my lap, and I feel like a failure for letting this happen.  The guilt led to a wonderfully heated discussion with my grandfather, who didn’t seem to give a damn that he was no better than the people he had said should be imprisoned for setting her on the side of the road.  At least they didn’t have her killed.  I told him as much.  He didn’t seem to like it.  Just as well, I have no real interest in talking to him for the rest of the foreseeable future, and have lost most of the little respect I used to have for him.

Today is Typewriter Day.  In honor of the first patent on the typewriter ... wait, what's a typewriter?  Is that anything like a keyboard?  Okay, now we're talking.  Using the letters K-E-Y-B-O-A-R-D tell us something about your blog or your blogging habits.

K – Keyboarding.  I do it strangely.  With the fingers poised far above the keyboard, hitting down on the keys themselves with the tips of my fingers one at a time.  It is an odd little typing dance I do, but it drastically cuts down on spelling errors from doing it the right way.  People like to laugh at the way I type.

E – Eating.  I am almost always munching on something while I type.

Y – Yahoo-ooooo.  Specifically Launch.  It’s an invaluable source of mediocore tuneage to help break the silence on long, particularly useless nights.

B – Blog has become my primary source of communicating information to the outside world (anyone who exists in it besides me).  My human-to-human interactions have been drastically cut in half since I found this place—not that that in any way should be considered a compaint.

O – Occasional.  It’s the name of the blog for a reason.  I either make 3-4 entries a day, or none for days at a time.

A – Always procrastinating.  I keep saying I shall write on my novels.  Instead, I blog.  Tis a never-ending, vicious cycle.

R – Really shiny, new Compaq Presario.  My new baby, love of my life. I shall be doing many, many blog entires on that oddball keyboard.

D – During my work shift is the most common time that I blog.  There is a nice lull in business after midnight, which explain why most of my entries are made between 1 and 3 in the morning.

This week's hump -- an even dozen of "I say ___, you think ___"

01.  stroke: Dirty songs by Clarence Carter.
02.  sketch: My soon-to-be more publicized “Draw My Characters” Campaign.  Watch this blog for details.
03.  poke: what Luna always does on messenger to get my attention.
04.  doh: D’oh, a deer (Homer Simpson musical tune)
05.  tongue: this book I just finished reading which involved tongues being cut out so the victims wouldn’t talk.  Disgusting stuff.  I bet you’re glad I shared.
06.  post: Post office.  I desperately need to check my mail.
07.  twirl: twizzlers.  Don’t know why.
08.  fore: Horrendous netspeak.  Bfore U go, meh peep…..  Man, it’s been a long time since I did a grammar rant.  I should think of one.
09.  cup: coffee.  Need coffee.  In a cup.  Cups are what coffee is for.
10.  curly: What I wish my hair did naturally.
11.  swim: what the fish do, for lack of other modes of transportation.
12.  snooze: Naps are gooood.

For extra fun, hump this:

Think of an item ... 

 ...don't tell us what the item is.  Now, describe that item in brief paragrah (the size, the color, etc) but don't give it away.  Okay, now you're ready to hump it up.  Replace the name of the item with the word "hump".  Other players will come to your blog and try to guess what your hump is.  Tomorrow morning, add the answer to your hump and for big fun add a picture.  If you don't have a camera do a Google image search.

My hump is held up by a black string and a copper hook.  The hump has thin, hollow, metal reeds hanging down from a wooden support.  The hump is mesmerizing everyone who walks by my cubicle and plays with it.  The hump makes wonderfully soothing music.

 

I find myself in a state of semi-fuckedupeddness. The laptop is finally dead, Odin rest its weary soul, and I am now $`,300 short in my Vegas Vacation fund. The newest arrival into my household is yet another Compaq Presario laptop (may it serve me better than its predecessor) a nice little wide-screened deal I got for a massive discount because it was the store’s display unit. I’ve spent most of my morning going through the hard drive, removing other people’s downloads and spy ware (seriously, why download MP3s in Circuit City--it’s not like you can use them.) This should also explain why I dropped off the face of the planet around Friday night. New computer killed out then and, after spending a weekend camping in the mountains of Virginia (where I happen to live, so big freaking deal), I had to come home and find a way to replace the old laptop. So now there is this monstrosity, and I do mean monstrosity. I haven’t seen a laptop of this width since they came into vogue in the early 90s. The screen is bright enough to catch some serious rays from, despite my best efforts to dim it. And all my data is still on the old computer, which refuses to acknowledge my existence.

This is, ladies and gentlemen, my fatal flaw. I am She Who Forgets to Back Up Her Data. I have most of my 15 gigs of amassed stuff accounted for. Problem is, I have this nasty little habit of forgetting to back up my novels more than once or twice a year. Everything I have written since January still sits on the old hard drive, which refuses to go past the sign-in screen. I have tried to slave the old computer onto this one and thus acquire my data, but no luck thus far. I am planning to turn the matter over to some hacker friends of mine who should, hopefully, fix the issue in no time. Barring that, I suppose salvaging this data is worth paying for a call to good old Microsoft Tech Support.

I also kind of forgot to back up the 500-odd fonts I have accumulated over the years. This, for some reason, is irking me worse than the loss of data. I have amassed these fonts from the web, other people, odd cds I no longer have and so many other sources that I lost track years ago. These were the fancy, beautiful fonts I was using for titles and letterheads of my books, scripts that will be impossible to track down again now that they are lost. I hold out hope of salvaging the old hard drive long enough to back up a copy, and to update my literary works.

On the remarkably bright side, though, this new, pretty version of Microsoft Works (not Word, thank you God) is compatible with my older version, which dates back to the glory days of Windows 95, and which all of my novels have been written on. The files I salvaged opened upon command, and promptly went ballistic. Another of the downsides, I am learning, is the need to re-program your spellchecker to recognize words like Aleczicandre and Amon as real things and not some gross user input error. The poor auto-correct doesn’t even know where to start.

I am also discovering as I type this entry, the first thing of any length I’ve done on the new computer, that some of the keys are in the most inconceivable of places. The Windows key is hidden in the top-right corner, where the Home, End, and Page keys are also crammed. I am going to be doing a lot of accidental backspacing before I get the hang of the new layout. The Control and Function keys are also completely reversed from what I’m used to. I think I shall have a nervous breakdown along with my poor spellchecker before things are said and done. I am learning, also, that this keyboard is just a fraction of an inch wider than my previous one, which is also aiding to the already impending nervous breakdown of my new spell-checker. The mouse is in precisely the right spot to scroll to other points of the document at random, input the cursor, and start my typing amid something already completed. This is definitely going to take some getting ased to, though I think I just found a fantastically magical button that disables the mouse altogether. Odin be praised. This thing also makes some delightfully cool noises. It purrs like a velociraptor while dialing up to my ISP. Creepy, as I have this paranoia about velociraptors coming to kill me while I sleep, but cool nonetheless.s

So, aside from being out 500+ irretrievable fonts, my copy of Photoshop, three or four dozen “acquired” MP3s, all the templates for my web page and about 100-odd pages of randomly written material including a few half-finished chapters I was hoping to turn into fully-finished chapters before week’s end, the new setup is going smoothly so far. This computer, who needs a name (the old one was Alec, go figure) is proving to be much faster and efficient than its predecessor, stupid user input problems aside.

On a closing note, I leave myself with the following words of advice: next time, back it up.

The beast is conquered.  The demon has been slain.  I rejoice on a field of victory amid much wine and dancing and revelry.

Odin be praised.

Mood:  Anticipatory
Now Playing:  So-Called Chaos by Alanis Morrisette
Swear Words Spoken Today: 0

I have fallen victim to the ever-popular song meme.  Below are lines from five songs. I want titles and artists.  No googling, as that takes all the fun out of it.  First person to answer correctly gets a prize of some form.

1.  "I want to be naked, running thorugh the streets"
2.  "Anybody knows you can conjure anything by the dark of the moon"
3.  "She took me to the river where she cast her spell"
4.  "Blue moon sinking from the weight of the load"
5.  "Well I've got a mind full of wicked designs"

Leave your answers as a comment.

And, as part of back-to-back Meme madness, here's a completed book meme that I stole from Xaos who stole it from the Angry Alchemist, who stole it from someone else.

1. Take five books off your bookshelf.
   Obsidian Butterly by Laurell K. Hamilton
   The Third Option by Vince Flynn
   Sharpe's Escape by Bernard Cornwell
   The Confusion by Neal Stephenson
   Song of Susannah by Stephen King
 
2. Book #1 -- First sentence.
I was covered in blood, but it wasn't mine, so it was okay.

3. Book #2 -- Last sentence on page fifty.
What are you still doing here?

4. Book #3 -- Second sentence on page one hundred.
God damn it, he thought, but he would make Lavisser pay.

5. Book #4 -- Next to the last sentence on page one hundred fifty.
He did not fight so much anymore, as his style was one that relied upon speed and acute vision.
 
6. Book #5 -- Final sentence of the book.
King's family, which had gathered in part to celebrate Father's Day, is in seclusion tonight.

7. Make the five sentences into a paragraph.
I was covered in blood, but it wasn't mine, so it was okay. He did not fight so much anymore, as his style was one that relied upon speed and acute vision. God damn it, he thought, but he would make Lavisser pay.  King's family, which had gathered in part to celebrate Father's Day, is in seclusion tonight..... What are you still doing here?

I called the pound today,, spoke with a grouchy and generally disgruntled sounding older man.  I asked about the hours of operation for tomorrow, and was told they are only open from the hours of 12-4 because, for the rest of the day, they would be “working with the animals.”  I am assuming this means injecting them with chemicals that cause them to stop breathing and their hearts to stop beating. 

 

I asked this same disgruntled man, very nicely and very specifically if there was a yellow dog that had been brought in on Monday, one who had a white streak on her face, a white underbelly and two white back paws.  I mentioned she was probably a whiner.  His answer was to tell me gruffly that they were open from noon until 4pm and to come by then.  He slammed the phone down on me.

 

I am not optimistic at this point that Oli will find her way back to me, but I am getting up early in the morning to drive up to the pound so that I will be there just as they open.  Hopefully, she will still be waiting for me.

I’ve been needing to write this entry for a while now, but have neglected it since Monday afternoon due to emotional strain. I have a story to tell. A true story, or a story that is mostly true. The fabricated parts have been left to my imagination, thusly noted, and probably exaggerated. However, all those I have told this story to agree that, considering the circumstances, I am probably not exaggerating nearly as much as I wish I were.

Over the weekend, my grandmother took my car without asking. This is a normal occurrence and, while a mild annoyance, nothing I care to cause a rucus about, as I am usually asleep when the Morning Person does her errands. Saturday afternoon, as she was returning home, a yellow dog with floppy ears and white paws saw her driving towards the turnoff for our driveway and decided to chase her home. This nameless, short-legged dog, the proceeded to spend the next few hours sitting on our front porch, by the door, whining pitifully, and making my own dog a barking neurotic mess. Not wanting to deal with either the new dog or our own poor man’s burglar alarm, I deposited Sadie outside to either make friends with or chase off the new dog so I could get back to sleep. When I finally came to my senses a few hours later, my dog and New Dog were on the porch, curled up with one another, asleep. Sadie is as anti-social as I am, s I was immediately curious. My presence at the door woke up New Dog, which woke up Sadie, so I went outside to investigate our new arrival. She wore no collar or tags, and tried desperately to slip into the house and make herself at home. When I prevented this from happening, New Dog started whining frantically to the point of making herself shake, and tried to jump on me the way dogs do when they desperately crave attention. Cautious of New Dog, as I did not know her history or disposition or what might provoke her, I decided along the safe course of food and water. New Dog wanted neither, but she was panicking quickly. I sat down on the porch and tried to calm the poor thing down before she made herself sick. New Dog, who I decided to call Olidamarra, after the D&D god of rogues and revelry, quickly calmed down with a little affection and promptly fell asleep in my lap. Every time I tried to move, she would panic, as though the thought of being alone was terribly frightening. I spent most of my weekend outside, where I learned several things about Oli. She is fully trained and obeys basic commands without as much as a look of defiance. She is not afraid of people, save for a healthy respect for my grandfather, and she has very, very recently had a batch of puppies.

Oli is not an old dog. I doubt she’s barely a year old, and I have no doubt that her panicked disposition was due to the loss of her offspring, who couldn’t have been old enough to be weaned. The simple fact of the matter is that someone set this recent mother out on the side of the road. What happened to her puppies is a cause of much speculation, and the potentially fictionalized part of this tale, but I doubt quite sincerely that these young pups have been given kind and loving homes if their mother was dumped on the side of the road to fend for herself. My guess, and the guess of most of those I have run this theory past, is that the puppies are in a dumpster somewhere, and probably not alive. As far as I was concerned, Oli had suffered enough and, unbeknownst to my grandfather, Gran snuck her in and let her spend her first night with us indoors. She lay by the rug in front of the front door and never disturbed a soul.

I am not a person who believes that all things happen for a reason and some things are meant to be. I don’t believe in fate or destiny. Yet I am absolutely and completely convinced that this sweet, loving dog was meant to show up at our door so that she could finally get some peace in her tumultuous, tragic life. She had suffered enough, and chose to follow my truck home, to two people who instantly fell in love wit her. She followed me to and from my travels, going as far as the side of the highway but never attempting to venture into the traffic. She helped my grandmother hang laundry.

My grandfather, however, was insistent that the dog was not to stay. His sole reason and rationalization was she was female, and he refused to hear all arguments pertaining to spaying, and conveniently forgot and refused to be reminded that our other dog is also of the not-male persuasion. He insisted that Oli was going.

Rather than let her hang around for a few days while I tried to suitably relocate the poor girl or, God forbid, try to change his mind and let her stay, he placed a call to his friend the Game Warded Monday morning while I was asleep. By the time I awakened, Oli had been wrangled, manhandled into a cage, and was on her way to the pound.

I did some research into our pound, thinking she would have at least 1-2 weeks before being put to sleep, and was confident that a dog of her personality would be placed with a family. However, I have since learned that Oli has 5 days left to live, if there is no intervention. Five days in a cage with minimal human contact, alone, frightened, and destined to be put down because no one wanted her.

The kicker is this: the man who called the game warden is the same one who said that people who do things like kick dogs to the side of the road to die should be shot or jailed for life. The hypocritical bastard has her hauled to the pound, as though his alternative is somehow more humane.

I cannot accept this. I have shed tears over this dog, more than I can imagine myself shedding over the two animals I own. She has suffered enough, endured enough. She does not deserve to be confined and killed for no reason other than because her previous owner did not want her. I feel responsible. Too responsible, and I’m tearing myself up over thinking of what she must be going through.

On Friday morning, I am driving to the pound. If she is still there, I am paying whatever fees are necessary and taking her home. I am going to make damned sure that I have paperwork proving that she is my dog. If my grandfather says one word, or tries to have her removed from our premises, I’ll call his own brother the town chief of police policeman to come arrest him. I am ready to go to war over this dog, and war is exactly what it will be. I am utterly convinced that, as long as Oli is safe, any damage done to my relationship with him is irrelevant. I am planning to move out shortly and, if Tara’s willing, Oli will come and live in her yard.

I don’t believe in fate, but I believe strongly that there has to be a limit to what someone should be made to suffer, and that if that suffering can be alleviated, it should. And I think that losing your children and your home for no reason, being wrangled into a cage, and being sentenced to die in a small town where too many animals are put down every week is unacceptable.

Born to a world where nobody cared
Hungry for anything, nobody shared
Hit by a nobody driving four wheels
Who drove on and left him
Nobody feels
Nobody’s worry, nobody’s goad
Nobody’s pain by the side of the road
Nobody bled, nobody cried
Nobody’s pet
Nobody died.

I don’t know who wrote that poem. I read it almost 12 or 13 years ago in a magazine and it’s stuck with me ever since. I’ve been completely unable to get it out of my head these past few days.

I love this dog.;; She deserves better than what I’ve been able to give her so far. I hope to make amends for my previous failures of being able to protect her.

I’ve also joined the ASPCA as a monthly contributor to their funds, aiding their efforts to rescue animals in similar situations as Oli’s. There is a link to their site on this journal, just below my picture and biography. Please stop by and leave them a few dollars.;; These animals deserve better than what some people give them.

And I need some serious input.; Is an animal I've known for two days worth potentially destroying my family over?; You've read the story, and I'm not exactly the best person to pass judgment.; All thoughts are appreciated.