angst on the planks

So it was a pretty bad weekend for the depression, and I'm trying to think of how to prevent it from becoming a pretty bad week. A job offer would surely help, but I'd settle from a massive influx of cash from a long lost uncle or forgotten lottery ticket. I think that a shopping spree and perhaps a quick adventure would do wonders towards cheering me up.

In other worlds I think that everyone should develop a system of hand signals for communication in busy places. Like, beyond the panicked "get me out of this conversation / place in general" esp that couples have. To me, having a set of unique gestures brings a certain panache to every day coversation, don't you agree? If you could find someone to document you using them in black and white photos, perhaps while wearing cool vintage clothing, all the better.

If Thursdays were like underpants

So now that we're officially not going home for the holidays, I'm trying to figure out what a SoCal Christmas looks like.

Metaphorically, dumbass - I know that the streets will be mostly empty except for legions of Family Trucksters loaded up with kids and gifts and reindeer sweater clad parents and that it will probably be warm and sunny (though you'd never know it considering the rain of the last few days) and that there will be lights and trees and the smell of turkey will resonate from beneath kitchen doors.

Metaphorically. Who will we see? Will we have fun? Will it be kinda sad and lonely?

I've started making some plans - we're having dinner xmas eve with the architect's aunt & uncle (will they let me bring tourtiere? I must!) and we have a pajama brunch planned for the day of. We've also started trying to figure out how to video conference present opening with the family back home.

The alternative plan is for me to drink till I pass out and spend the entire season in an alcoholic stupor. I have to tell you - right now I'm seriously leaning toward that option. Oh and I'm starting tonight. I am going to champagne happy hour with some folks.

Into the Infinite

RIP David Foster Wallace, dead from an apparent suicide at his home this past Friday. He was, arguably, the premier essayist of the postmodern era - surpassing (in my opinion) even David Sedaris and Hunter Thompson. His distinctive style - rambling prose, lush facts, and deliciously tangential footnotes - made him both a pleasure and a challenge to read.

I would like to say that I practice the sincerest form of flattery when I make my meagre attempts to construct creative non fiction, and that I model my work after his, but I have neither the talent nor the innate intelligence to do so. The man was a walking encyclopedia of fact and somehow managed to be the Cliff Claven of our generation without being annoying or pedantic. Moreover, what he didn't know, he researched - exhaustively. For example, a footnote to this article on the Maine Lobster Festival includes an apology to the readers of Gourmet Magazine (the article's first publication point) for missing the opportunity to interview the sole member of PETA present at the fest, for the purposes of adding an alternative viewpoint to the narrative.

I respect that.

I respect and relate to the urge to learn *everything* about a topic; the urge to immerse yourself completely in the archane minutiae of a subject matter and burst forth from the other side perhaps not smarter, but infinitely richer than you were a short while previous.

I know nothing about DFW's personal life. I don't know if he suffered from depression, addiction, or societal malaise. I know only that I hope he's now sitting with Damiel and Cassiel, listening in on the words and thoughts and dreams of the world for, if ever there was a sentiment that personified DFW's work, it is "I want to know everything".

no title

we found out yesterday that our diggity has lymphatic cancer. it's in her blood, and they think it's already moving into her lungs, because her breathing is becoming laboured and she has no energy.

there are three options.

1) chemo. the vet doesn't recommend this - she's 12, and isn't the most healthy of dogs to begin with. it's an awful process, is extremely expensive, and very few dogs survive. in fact, the vet said she's never seen a dog pull through after chemo.

2) steroids. the vet could inject her full of steroids, but it would just buy her around 2 months during which time she'd become more and more uncomfortable.

3) put her down.

my sister asked the vet what she'd do if it were her dog. the vet recommended option 3. she's an old dog, and she's not comfortable. she's not really eating (except for swedish meatballs from ikea, baked and fed to her one by one like treats), and watching her climb the stairs at my parents' place last night nearly broke my heart.

when i look at her, or at these photos of her (both taken in the last year or so), i can't put them together with the idea that she is getting weaker and weaker - that she is dying. in my head she's still the dog that hiked 30KM with me on a day when the temperature reached 32deg and was still running laps around the car at the end of it, wondering why we'd stopped. she's still the dog who i took up bobtail mountain. she's still the dog who hopped up onto the garage roof to break out of my parents' backyard and took herself on a walk to visit me a few KM and a very busy road away.

everybody in my family is pretty broken up. my brother is (un)fortunately home to attend a wedding, so he at least has the chance to say goodbye. i'm by no means a 'dog' person, but this puppy has so much personality - she's always happy, always friendly, always has a wagging tail, a big smile, and a shoe in her mouth. she's part of our family and i will miss her.