Typed up a day or so ago.


I managed to get to Mackinac Island 8/18, fortunately enough, since the weather took a nasty turn the night after with rain pouring down all night. My urine hasn't been acting up terribly for weeks, which is a nice and deserved change of pace, but also a worrisome one since that extra fluid has to be accumulating somewhere. I decided to go the week before my period since that's when I tend to let out the least fluid, so I kept that week clear, meaning putting off my next-to-last bladder instill (that's a depressing topic for another entry, only two of them left, no improvement so far), but wouldn't you know it...the very night before I decided to go, I didn't get to sleep until around three as my urine started to act up. Wonderful. It let up, but then started up again THE VERY MOMENT I AWOKE to get ready to leave. Fortunately, it just as quickly let up again, and remained low to regular the rest of the trip, so although I was tempted at one point I didn't have to go in the woods.

Which was just as well as IT WAS SO FRIGGING BUSY! I've been there around this late in the year before and enjoyed it since most of the tourists are done by then, but not so this year. I honestly didn't think I'd even get a ride on the current ferry, the Captain Shepler, when I got there, the line was so huge. It was mostly annoying old women who didn't know where they were going. There was even a huge lineup in the restroom. Cripes. If I'd waited a half hour for the next ferry, I could have gone under the Mackinac Bridge, since the ten o'clock ferry (I believe it is) does that, but it takes a bit longer to get to the island and I didn't feel like waiting, so I decided to take the current one. There was an old man ahead of me who had his ticket torn, then returned and asked for the stub back so he could catch the ten o'clock ferry and see the bridge. Fft. I sat on the proper side to see the bridge well this year (for some reason I always sit on the wrong side), though it's not very good for taking pictures from the ferry, plus somebody had really scratched up the panel of glass in my window.

For some reason the time stamp on all my pictures is an hour off. I set the clock in accordance with the time change, so I have no clue why it's wrong. Dumb thing. Plus there's some sort of little obstruction or flaw inside the lens now and it shows up in some pictures--so annoying. Weirdly, it doesn't show up in all of them, but it does show up in some, especially toward the end. I tried wiping and cleaning the lens but it seems to be inside the camera. Grrr. It started out at the very bottom edge but moved its way up a bit and looks like a little stick or hair in the shots. Stupid thing. It was never there before so I don't know what caused it; I'm terribly careful with the camera and cards. Psychologist had asked me, "Will you take 500 pictures this year?" (she'd been in disbelief when I'd said I take that many photos as a matter of course); I'd replied, "Probably not THAT many," since I felt my walk would be rather short. I ended up taking over 700. x_x

I had wanted to visit Cave of the Woods, but that would entail walking way out to British Landing to use their bathroom, and I really didn't have the heart. I was so terribly anxious about going this year; I'm always terrified of going EVERY year, which may sound weird considering how much I love the place, but I have this recurring dream that I'm on the island and suddenly realize I forgot my map, and my camera, and various other necessities, and it totally ruins the trip. I've had plenty of bad experiences with digital cameras before (accidentally erased all my UAW photos from the old Polaroid, dropped it and the old Canon in the lake, inexplicably lost some photos from the old Canon on my Georgia trip though I recovered them mostly intact from Yahoo! Photos), so that plays a big part in it. Plus there was the bladder issue--that made me feel even worse. So yes, every year before I go to the island, in the days leading up to it I'll be thinking, "I don't want to go! I don't want to go! I just want to stay home!!" That's how used I am to routine.

I compromised and decided not to visit the cave after all (I haven't been out there since...2006, my photos say...cripes, that long, really?), but instead to stick closer to restroom areas; since I dread Fort Street so much, I would instead take Crow's Nest Trail to reach the top of the bluff, head up Garrison Road past the Turtle's Back, explore Lost Bear Trail since I've passed it many times but have never looked at it despite its intriguing name, take that to Cliffview and then to Morning Snack Trail (remember it from my 2007 trip?) and hope that I could tolerate the heights, maybe pass by Fort Holmes, maybe not, take the steps down from Point Lookout past Sugar Loaf, then take one of the bicycle trails to Rifle Range Road and get to Arch Rock to use the restroom; then to take Arch Rock Road to explore Winnebago Trail, which I've never seen before, then Pottawatomie Road (ditto), and get back down Crow's Nest Trail into the park, the end. Just browse around the Turtle's Back and the East Bluff a little. Plus what I knew of Morning Snack and Cliffview Trails told me they were pretty secluded so if I had to go, well...

The trip wasn't terribly eventful but I did end up enjoying it, and of course taking too many photos. I got a new 2gb card (the largest they offer in SD cards, apparently a camera as old as ours won't take high-def SD cards in larger sizes) while they're still making them since they'll probably phase them out soon, and really did need it. I haven't cleared off the previous card or the one before that, I'm just so paranoid of losing my Mackinac Island pics.

I skirted the crowds after arriving and headed for the public restroom, noticing that the Haunted Theater was closed--if I had time, I really wanted to check it out since I haven't been there in years--though I recalled it was closed this early the last time I'd seen it, and it opened up later, so perhaps it would be so when I returned. Then headed into Marquette Park. I had irrational fears that Crow's Nest Trail would be closed or some such, it happens, but there it was, this stairway tucked away, just about hidden in the back corner of the park. I took more photos of the limestone formations and the bizarre cedar growing there (last photographed in 2007, and prior to that, 2005); it seems to lose more limbs every year, another large hunk had broken loose, but is still hanging on. Annoyingly, a person or two passed me on my way up, so even this little-used trail wasn't as empty as I'd thought it would be. The height of the trail made me terribly nervous. At the top, I as usual got a bit turned around, but managed to find Garrison Road. There was an old woman on a bicycle, riding with her younger relatives--a daughter or daughter-in-law, I presume, and her own kids--and they kept yelling at her to shift gears or speeds or whatever. I have no idea how such bikes work, the last one I had had one speed--as fast as you could pedal it--and foot brakes, so I'd probably kill myself on a more newfangled bike. I passed behind the fort, spotting some Canada geese resting on the lawn, and it was here that I first noticed that annoying flaw in the camera lens. Worried that I'd be accused of trespassing or something, I hurried on, pleased to recognize some boulders that I'd last photographed in 2007, as well as the little fire hydrant in the woods (ditto; it must have been repainted, as it's shockingly red in the new photo, compared to the older one). I admired the various hillocks and hollows, myrtle fields, and tree stumps that I passed. And of course took way too many photos of them.

I didn't stay long at Skull Cave since it's fenced off and has been photographed before, though I did zoom in to check out the interior. A carriage tour passed by, the driver chattering about Alexander Henry, then as I turned to leave, another carriage passed by, another driver chattering about Alexander Henry. I wonder if they ever get tired of telling the same stories so many times to gawking tourists who probably forget all about them as soon as they're back home. I also passed rather quickly by Ste. Anne's Cemetery (though I had to shoot its lovely gate), but loitered a bit longer near the Post Cemetery, since it's so scenic. There was a guy or two there and I felt they were staring at me as if wondering what I was doing, though that was probably just me, since I'm sure I look just as touristy as everybody else.

The batteries in the camera ran low here, just as back in 2006, but that year taught me my lesson and I carry nothing but Duracell now, so I stopped at the cemetery wall to change them and continued on my way. One of the cemeteries, the Mackinac Island one I think, has this crazy-looking dead tree in it, branches going every which way, so I had to photograph that.

I reached Lost Bear Trail almost before I knew it, and headed down. As I said, I've passed this numerous times but have never explored it--it always seemed vaguely mysterious and secluded under heavy tree cover. Unfortunately, it wasn't as secretive and mysterious as I'd hoped, maybe due to the sunshine; the tree cover was mostly younger trees. Oh well. I just hoped it wasn't a horse trail, as I discovered Swamp Trail is. One thing I'd love to do on the island is take along my CD player and listen to it as I walk, since I tend to associate music with the places or scenes where I listened to it (for years I associated Enigma's "Silence Must Be Heard" with a hot, hazy Straits of Mackinac, since I'd been listening to that song when my brother, sister-in-law, and mother drove back from the 2001 trip, I believe it was; and I associated Adiemus's "In Caelum Fero" with thunderstorms, as I'd been listening to it on the drive from my brother's and sister-in-law's place to the airport during the beginning of a stupendous-looking show of clouds in the sky; and I unfortunately associated Crowded House's "Don't Dream It's Over" with dead bodies, as that song was playing during such a scene in The Stand), but I know that if I did, I would end up trampled by a horse or run over by a bike. So, no music for me. I did keep playing ES Posthumus tunes in my head as I walked, though, in particular "Nolitus/Nolitus Pi" and especially "Selisona Pi," I adore that song.

I had to keep reminding myself to look up at the treetops every so often. Looking up is something I so rarely do, and I'm quite short, so I miss a lot that's higher than five feet. I'm used to seeing everything at eye level and below. I never knew the conical shape of cedars as I just never looked up past their lower branches, for example. So that was something I worked on this year, particularly along Winnebago Trail, to come later.

I paused to examine a tree whose trunk had been formed into a sort of whorled fingerprint pattern, maybe by worm activity. Somewhere along the way, a woman walking two dogs overtook me, greeting me with a hello before vanishing further into the woods, so I realized this trail wasn't totally deserted. I saw how the land rose into the bluff of the Turtle's Back off to my right, since Lost Bear Trail runs parallel to Cliffview Trail, which I intended to reach next. Limestone cropped out here and there.

I was then overtaken by a few people on horseback just as I reached what must be Cliffview Trail, and stepped aside to let them past up the bluff, feeling vaguely annoyed to be running into so many people out in the middle of nowhere. I got briefly confused, since there was a junction of what looked to be three trails, not the two I had expected, but I figured the third was just the continuation of Lost Bear Trail and, not wanting anyone to see me perusing my map too long lest they offer unwanted advice (recall "You're almost to British Laaaaandiiiiinnng," from 2004?), I went up in the same direction as the horses--"It doubles back a bit, that's how you know it's the right way," I told myself, and sure enough, the trail rose and then doubled back a bit. Then voila, I reached Morning Snack Trail. Just as steep as I'd remembered it. I can go up better than I can get down, and I'd managed it once before, so I carefully picked my way up, though I did put the camera in my purse and held onto roots and such on the way. At the top I of course took a picture similar to one back in 2007, to congratulate myself on making it up. I did hope nobody was lurking about to see my tentative progress and wonder what was wrong with me.

So, now I was atop the Turtle's Back, the Ancient Island, the oldest part of Mackinac Island. Just as my last time here, the wind gusted in the trees and I imagined it was the waters of Glacial Lake Algonquin smashing the shore and creating sea caves. I also heard the drone of planes leaving the airport now and then. I spotted a large tree tumor or burl I'd photographed the last time, and a fallen log with a split in it, and a charred-looking stump rising from the ground like a bad tooth, and a crazy-looking fallen tree's root system, and an equally crazy-looking fallen tree with branches going out every which way, and a tree with a dark gash in its side, and a lovely myrtle field, all of which I'd photographed the last time, so it was a delight to recognize all these signs after all this time. I also found a pile of broken branches and sticks piled neatly at the base of a tree, perhaps removed from the trail, and wondered who could have put them there in so orderly a fashion.

Up here, the woods were relatively open and easy to traverse beyond the trail, little undergrowth, as I could easily step into them onto the leaf-covered ground to take a photo. The corpses of long-dead trees littered the ground like a graveyard. One spot in the trail was so rutted and muddy that the sticks that had been laid over it to facilitate travel were long dislodged and sinking everywhere, but the mud was hard enough that I could pick my way across carefully. A bicyclist passed me going the opposite way, telling me good morning, which I found odd as it felt later than that. Someplace up here I had to stop and change the batteries again. On Morning Snack Trail I had been tempted to go in the woods, but told myself to hold it in since it wasn't distressing and I should really learn to hold it in better when it's just a niggle. So far I was holding up, which was good, seeing all these people I kept running across in the most out-of-the-way places! I admired a view of a vast hollow off to the right, and wondered what geological formation it might have represented.

I finally reached Fort Holmes Road. I had kind of wanted to visit the fort since I haven't been there in quite a while, but there isn't much to see aside from the nice view, and I was getting kind of tired; plus I could hear a lot of people ahead and knew from all my run-ins already that it was likely loaded with fudgies. So I decided to skip it and head straight to Point Lookout. Annoyingly, there was a guy there sitting at the little table under the shade, just staring off into space; it seems every time I show up at Point Lookout there's somebody monopolizing the table. So I ignored him and went up the little set of steps to the side to see the view overlooking Sugar Loaf and Lake Huron and all the woods in between. Off to the side I spotted what I believe is the same largely debranched dead tree I photographed back in 2005, plus the same mini caves in the breccia bluff on my way down the stairs. They were bigger than the photos made them look; the large one in my pics in reality looked almost big enough for a person to curl up in. They would be fantastic places to stash things, like for geocaching, if one could reach them without either breaking park rules or killing themselves. As I took photos down here I could just see the edge of the lookout's roof several feet above, and wondered if the guy up there could hear my camera clicking. Again the height of the stairs unnerved me and I had to be careful not to pay too much attention to the spaces between them. There are little benches set on landings here and there along the taller stairways such as here and on Crow's Nest Trail, and one looked particularly nice for a photo; however, I now noticed a family with their little kids working their way up toward me. Ugh. The boy exclaimed, "There's a bench, let's sit on it!" but the dad kept them moving and they went up past me. The boy was gasping and huffing and panting already--I suspect he was doing it just to be funny, but if he was genuinely tired, I told myself, there was no way he'd make it to the top of the bluff since they'd just started!

While high up I'd been startled to think I saw a person perched on the very top of Sugar Loaf, then let out my breath to realize it was just a tree or shrub.

The bottom step, from the wooden stairs to the ground, was rather steep and I had to jump down. Weird. The little dirt trail here was lined with roots. I paused only briefly at Sugar Loaf Rock as I have plenty of pictures of it, though I did notice an odd little wood sculpture I'd never seen before, sitting beside a log I assume was meant to be a bench. The "sculpture" was merely part of a tree's twisted root system, with a hunk of rock or cement stuck between them, a lot like the tortuous tree on the bluff along Crow's Nest Trail. Sugar Loaf Road, AKA the North Bicycle Trail, forms a long U around Sugar Loaf, so I was perplexed for a moment trying to determine which way to go, but at last figured it out. (What's doubly confusing is that there is also a Former North Bicycle Trail running parallel to it.) As I walked along I admired the way the sun struck the ground brightly between dark trees, and again had to remind myself to look up; the sun backlights the leaves in beautiful ways. I found a stand of very young new-growth trees, almost forming a lacy curtain in the woods.

As I walked in solitude, I heard little rustling noises coming from the woods to my right. I slowed down and peered into the undergrowth to see it moving here and there; I suspected the culprit, but it wasn't until I saw stripes that I realized I was right; a chipmunk was foraging in the leaves just off the road. As I watched, he crept out and came right up to my feet, sniffing my shoes. This amazed me so much that I carefully got the camera out and zoomed in on him to get the closest shot I could, but it was too close, so I zoomed out a bit, but just then he must have realized I didn't have any food to offer him, so he turned and went back into the woods. So I missed that shot, though I did get a picture of his back as he sat among the leaves. A moment later, I heard rustling off to my other side; the chipmunk I'd just seen scurried out across the road ahead of me, then the one that had been rustling on the side opposite raced out into the road, they chased each other in a circle, then vanished. Somebody must have been feeding the little boogers, for them to be so bold.

I then reached Rifle Range Road and headed east. I passed Oneota Trail, which I've never taken before, and paused there, but my map said it went meandering off the way I wasn't going, so I passed it up. As I paused to look at some wildflowers, a tour carriage went by, the driver chattering now about how the island was little more than a great hunk of limestone coated with a thin layer of topsoil--"The soil is only about two or three feet thick, in some places four at the most, but no deeper..." That carriage passed, then another one came in its place, the driver chattering as if taking up where the other had left off, "...When the British soldiers came here, they knew this, so they cut down all the trees and used that limestone to build Fort Mackinac. When crushed and mixed with water it forms a kind of slurry, and they used that to whitewash the walls, so that's why the fort is white..."

I had read before about the island being basically a limestone hunk covered in dirt, but I was impressed anew by this information. I also hadn't been aware that they covered such topics on the carriage tours; I figured it was all the most basic stuff. Like Alexander Henry in Skull Cave.

I passed Sugar Loaf Road again--the road I had just left. I already mentioned how it forms a sort of U; this was the other end of the road. Either way I'd gone, I would have reached Rifle Range Road, but this way had been shorter. I think. I'm not good at measuring distances on windy trails.

I passed the same grouping of boulders I'd passed and photographed in 2006. How lame is it that I recognize these things when half the time I wouldn't even remember what I did yesterday if I didn't do the same thing every day? Weird. I just now noticed this time, however, that there was a space under one of the rocks, just perfect to hide a message or something; I hadn't prepared such a message this year, though, so left none. Maybe another time. I keep hoping somebody as fanatical about the island as I am will come across one of the messages I leave but so far no luck. Oh well. There probably isn't anybody as fanatical as me. I mean, look, here I am photographing the same trees and clumps of rocks year after year like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. *shrug*

I found a child's abandoned sippy cup lying in the road. I'm constantly annoyed by the sight of generic trash even in the most out-of-the-way places, like a Starbucks cup or a water bottle, but every so often you get a more obscure piece of litter that just seems puzzling or eerie, such as the time I found a torn length of electrical cord with a plug on the end trampled way out in the middle of State Road (2004, no photo available). I wondered whose child had dropped this and why no one had picked it up.

I passed familiar Leslie Avenue and took a photo nearly identical to one from 2006 except back then it was overcast and this year it was sunny. Amazing what a difference in appearance such a small thing can make. I've found that I like wooded photos taken in overcast lighting better than those taken in bright sunlight; the contrasts aren't as shocking, and there's more subtlety and nuance of color. The drawback is such photos often come out blurrier due to the low light. In any case, the older photo strikes me as more attractive than the new one with its glary beams of sunlight and shadow and the way the light makes the trees look so stark.

The number of carriages passing me only increased the closer I got to Arch Rock. There was a lot of activity and I feared that there would be nowhere for me to sit and eat in peace, stupid fudgies being here so late in the year! I used the bathroom (I think it had been about 3.5hrs since I last went, not too bad), where the floors were hideously wet, then was fortunate enough to locate an empty picnic table under the trees next to a family of a mother and two or three young girls. I didn't even bother to go take a shot of the Arch, for the same reasons I passed on Fort Holmes and Sugar Loaf. I drank some of my water, then took out the croissant sandwich Ma had bought me that morning at Mickey's Mini Mart ("It won't take as long as at Subway since they're already made, plus they're really good"), but it was just as I'd told her would happen, the lettuce and tomato on it had soaked through the bread and cheese, making it slimy and unpalatable. I lost my appetite almost immediately, I managed to make it through about half of the soggy thing before giving up and wrapping it and sticking it in the plastic zip bag I'd brought along for the camera in case it rained. Yuck, yuck, yuck. I knew I should have gotten a Subway sandwich, without lettuce or tomatoes; they get flat, but at least they stay edible. So I didn't get to eat very much and just drank some more of my water and watched a man fill up bucket after bucket with water and hold them under the noses of the carriage horses (in teams of three) for them to drink, the horses spilling a good deal of the water when they stuck their noses in; as each new carriage arrived the process was repeated, and now I know why the ground is always so wet at Arch Rock. I pitied the thirsty horses for I knew how they felt.

The eldest of the three girls, returning from the direction of the bathrooms, stopped suddenly several yards away and commenced hacking and choking, bending over as if ready to throw up. She at last recovered and returned to her table, still coughing. I could tell most of it was just melodrama (she looked to be around twelve or thirteen, just right for that behavior); a little bit later, at the table, she repeated this behavior and then spat on the ground. So disgusting! Even her mother exclaimed for her to shut her mouth, and asked if she'd swallowed another bug--the girl said no, I didn't hear her excuse, but cripes, get over it. Don't go hacking and spitting on the ground in front of other people trying to eat their lunch! So rude. That, added to my slimy sandwich (I was tempted to throw it away, but I try to bring all my trash home with me as the island has limited dumping space and recycling is strongly encouraged), made me feel rather ill, though my stomach was still half empty. Oh well. There was nothing to be done for it. I used the bathroom once more, then headed off again, this time taking Arch Rock Road to Winnebago Trail.

Yet again, due to the twisty and doubling-back nature of so many of the trails, I wasn't sure where to head, but the directions righted themselves soon enough and I was on my way for the second leg of my trip. I admit I felt rather pleased with myself for making it this far without much trouble; the next part should be a breeze, since both the Arch Rock restrooms and the public ones in town were within no great distance. And all the walking around for hours made me have to pee less; I had heard on TV recently how much water the body uses up walking in hot weather, but I forgot how many quarts the guy said, and how long spent walking. Surely I'd burned up the amount I typically drink daily, by now. I told myself this to allay my guilt at already having drunk half my 20oz bottle of water when I'd told myself I would drink as little as I possibly could; on previous trips, I'd brought much bigger bottles of water and had refilled them when possible, but not so this time.

The number of cedars increased in this area, some growing in huge clusters which I found fascinating. It wasn't long before I arrived at Winnebago Trail, which cuts through what is (at least, according to my map) an otherwise empty area of the East Bluff, a big wide triangle of nothingness wedged between Arch Rock, Robinson's Folly, and the Cass Memorial (Francois's cabin and the Dupries house are probably situated somewhere around in there, in my stories), so I did hope it would be nice and private. A great number of the photos I ended up taking were from this part of the trip.

Winnebago Trail was pretty uneventful; although I heard people on nearby trails/roads, I met nobody, and after a while the noises faded into just those of birdsong and very distant town noises like ferry horns or something down on the lake. All that there was to be found along the way was cedar woods, cedar woods, cedar woods, their roots twisting and knobbing across the dirt trail, which itself sometimes split into two and then merged back into one again, always with cedars everywhere. I had to remind myself to look up. And I was in heaven.

Nothing really happened here but it was the best part of the trip. I loved that trail so much, it was so peaceful and beautiful. All the cedars and the silence and the lovely roots and you could see way off to the sides into yet more cedars. The sun had mainly disappeared behind the gathering clouds by now, so most of the shots I took at this time are in low, overcast light, the colors washed out into cool shades, which is better than they would have looked in bright sunlight, but the camera still did not do it justice. I loved how still and peaceful the soft light made it all. The landscape seemed so vast and empty. I passed more graveyards of dead fallen trees and even they were beautiful.

I came to a steep dip in the trail where it vanished into a dark cavern of overhanging branches. I hadn't expected this; the map doesn't show the trail descending any part of the bluff. I didn't care; I'd handled Morning Snack Trail so this should be easy enough, plus the sheer beauty of the place somewhat inured me to my acrophobia. I carefully picked my way down, taking many photos of the process. A few times the sun peeked out, but I preferred it to remain hidden, and just hoped I would not get rained on. I handled a few more dips here and there, just meandering along staring at the seemingly endless landscape of cedars.

At one point I got an eerie feeling that I was the only person here, in a total wilderness, and it was just by chance that I was on something that functioned as a trail; everything seemed so quiet and untouched that it was easy to believe nobody had ever been here before, or at least, nobody had done anything to alter the environment and nobody had ever stayed long. I felt I was several hundred years in the past, and someplace completely different. The feeling was such that I had to stop and look around myself as if to make sure this was the same place I knew so well, since the landscape was so foreign to me and the feeling so strange. Especially after all the people I'd been running into all day, to suddenly be so alone was eerie. I had to keep walking. The feeling wasn't a completely unpleasant one, almost dissociative.

I was surprised, thus, to come across what looked to be rudimentary benches situated to the left--I found them amusing, what were these tottery primitive benches doing way out here in the middle of nowhere, where obviously nobody came walking enough to require a seat to rest upon? Why did they form three sides, as if with the intent to hold an audience, when all there was to observe was the woods? Yet there they were; I photographed them. Despite being a sign of the civilization I was now reluctant to return to, they were charming, in their own way. It looked like one more snowy winter and rainy spring was all that was required to make them give in and topple over and like the graveyards of trees become just another part of the landscape.

The scenery here, like further north along the East Bluff, was full of hillocks and hollows, mainly representing the holes left behind by toppled trees, though I like to imagine at least a few such hollows are the result of collapsed underground caves. It's plausible; I believe Stanley posits this in Prehistoric Mackinac Island. I reminded myself to look up, and thought back to a similar moment in 2007 when not far from this area I paused to rest and look up into the treetops, enjoying them despite my exhaustion.

I had planned to turn onto Pottawatomie Road, which runs along behind the East Bluff cottages, parallel to Huron Road which goes out front of them, but when I reached where Winnebago Trail intersected with it I got nervous. There were trimmed, shaped bushes here, both along the continuation of the trail and along to the right where I'd planned to head, so I had the feeling tourists weren't meant to wander around here, so close to the private cottages. I'm almost positive it's a public road, the map says so, but I was too nervous of a repeat of 2004's trip, so decided I would continue to the end of Winnebago Trail and just take Huron Road back to my starting point. I shot a few furtive photos of the nice shrubbery and a nice fenced-in yard (something around here smelled oddly "chemically") before sneaking along and creeping out into the road to head past the cottages.

I was back in familiar territory now, but no less nervous, since it's so close to the cottages and just seems like a private area; I'm always afraid of getting in trouble trespassing. There weren't many people around and for some reason I got the distinct feeling that those who were there weren't tourists like me, though I had nothing on which to base that, they acted touristy enough. I took a few shots of the painted ladies, but only a couple in fullview; the trees and gardens out front were just as interesting, so I tried framing my shots to include those and part of the houses behind. The steeple of Ste. Anne's was visible above the harbor and there was a great view of sailboats anchored in the water, and kites dipping in the distance, so I couldn't get enough shots of all this. A group of people stood at an overlook admiring this view while a crew of men worked at trimming trees alongside the road. I felt uncomfortable as I passed them, taking pictures of the houses, since I just hate being seen as the typical fudgie thinking "OH pretty houses!" I also wonder if the cottage owners get irritated with all the people pausing to photograph their homes. Probably not, but I know such a thing would irritate me, so I tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, quickly framing shots, taking them, and hurrying on. I saw a little boy meandering boredly through the side yard of one cottage and it surprised me, since it's hard to keep in mind that people actually live there at least part of the year.

I was now back where I'd started, Crow's Nest Trail, and I took this back down to the park below, where there were now children playing at the little play area beside the base of the steps. In the park I took a few more shots of the scenery and the harbor, and a stereotypical one of the fort, before putting the camera away. I didn't take any more photographs in town since it's so crowded, merely stopping to take one photo can jam up the flow of people in an irritating fashion and I don't want to contribute to that. This didn't stop other people from pausing to take photos, but I was done doing so as far as I was concerned.

It was a little after three. I still had plenty of time. After stopping by the bathroom and pausing to finish my water (*sigh*) and drink some more from the fountain (*double sigh*), and snatching a map from the tourism booth to check later and see if it's the same as the detailed one I printed out, I headed for the Island Bookstore, as usual. It was just as crowded as everyplace else and it was so annoying to have to keep scootching aside or ducking in and out of the narrow aisles to let others through. I swear the same two girls squeezed past me in the same aisle twice. I ended up buying a book about the U of M Biological Station not too far from Cheboygan, a book about Michigan reptiles and amphibians (since I recently captured an odd little gray frog with bright yellow on its legs and wondered what it was, I believe it was a gray tree frog), and the latest issue of Traverse magazine. At the checkout I noticed these adorable little turtle...I don't know what to call them, they weren't beanies, they were much smaller, but they were made of stuffed fabric like lame (that's with an accent, la-MAY, not lame as in stupid), two of them in different colors, and they were so cute, but they probably cost an absurd amount and I'd already made my purchase, I didn't have a huge amount of money on me anyway, plus I wasn't sure how much it cost to get into the Haunted Theater if I could work up the guts to try it.

I left with my purchases and located the Haunted Theater. It was open, but the ticket booth is at the top of some steps and so far up you can't read the prices or anything on it unless you go right up to it, and I was shy of doing so. I got out an amount of money I figured must surely be enough to cover a reasonable charge, but loitered at the bottom of the steps. Oddly, these steps seem to be a popular place for people to loiter, since people were sitting around the place but nobody was going in. The steps were painted black with white skeleton footprints on them. I noticed that the old photographs of some of the displays, such as Ocryx, Angelique, the GeeBee, Mitchi Manitou, and the lost spirit on Arch Rock, with their explanatory captions, were now gone and had been replaced by a detailed ink drawing of a skeleton-faced man (it was actually pretty good) with baleful eyes, and a sign telling that this was a wax museum, it took about ten minutes to go through, and they could tailor the tour based on the age of the people entering so it was a family-friendly establishment since 1974. Perhaps so, but maybe it's just me, skeleton people and cannibals and demonic wolf-things hardly seem appropriate for, say, toddlers. Then again, my first experiences with the Haunted Theater must have been when I was under the age of ten, and the only impression it left on me was it gradually got me fascinated by native lore. So who knows, maybe some other little kid passing through might feel the same way. And it's really not that scary. I stood there indecisively, hoping I just looked like I was waiting for someone or something. Across the street, an elderly man was framing photos with an expensive camera, and a Mennonite family, women in plain dresses and white bonnets and man in suspenders, beard, and black wide-brimmed hat, was getting ice cream or some such before going on their way.

I chickened out of going in. Returned to the bathroom, then sat on one of the benches out front for a bit, pondering whether I should relax and read a little or what, then told myself that I would go wait out front to see if anybody else entered the Theater, and then if anyone did, I would go in myself. Not because I was scared of the displays--they are beyond cheesy--but because I was scared that maybe there was nobody up running the ticket booth, and I'd be stuck standing up there like a moron, or I'd be the only person entering the place and would also look like a moron.

I stationed myself at the corner next to the steps and waited. Lots of people passed by the place, exclaiming, "Look, a haunted theater!" or "Look, the Haunted Theater!" or "Ooh, a haunted theater, scary!" or "Hey, there's the Haunted Theater, remember that?" A few people, mainly kids, claimed they wanted to check it out. But nobody went in. I stood there for like ten or fifteen minutes and all kinds of people looked at it but nobody went in! That was pretty much a shame. Like I said, the place is just beyond cheesy, not scary at all, but I feel indebted to them for spurring my interest in the area and the folklore. So I'll defend them no matter what their cheesiness, as long as they don't sue me or something for appropriating their Ocryx for my stories.

At last a few people in a family went inside, so I knew the place was actually open. Still I hesitated, for there was a mother and a couple of kids and others waiting at the bottom trying to decide to go in; the mother eventually left, replaced by a grandfather, and he and the kids went to the top but didn't buy tickets, just wandered back and forth looking at the Phantom of the Opera guy playing the organ and the photographs on the wall and whatnot. They did this for a good ten minutes or so, long enough for the little boy, who must have been under eight, to discover that the Phantom was really a robot. Kids must be much more sophisticated these days. A few times I saw somebody go in the exit, so they must have been employees. I finally summoned up the courage to go up the steps and to the ticket booth, where an elderly lady cheerfully greeted me. $6.50 a ticket, she said.

"Are you going in on your own?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Just so you know, all the displays are machines and nothing in here is real, okay?"

I felt like laughing at that. "I know, I used to come in here all the time when I was little," I said.

"Oh! Well isn't that nice!" She tore off a ticket and I went through the turnstile. God, I hate turnstiles, they're just as bad as revolving doors and escalators. I was in such a hurry to sneak my way in that I didn't even look at the Phantom or the pictures (wish I had, just to see what they were), and almost didn't drop my ticket in the ticket container, not that the couple of Theater employees sitting there chattering would have noticed. I followed the big white arrow pointing the way and went inside.

The Theater was just as I remembered it. The walls in the narrow hallways are painted black, and the lighting is so dim that at times you can't even see the white arrows that point the correct way to go (since there are emergency exits and places where the hall turns at a right angle so you're not sure if it goes left or right, it's so dark); I kept my right hand on the wall the entire time just to trace my way, and whenever I came to turns I would palpate the wall on the other side to make sure there were no hidden doors. I could hear a few people laughing and screaming ahead of me so there was somebody else in there. The displays were the same; the giant rat man, the corpses in the movie theater, "Mother" in her coffin, the fly baby, Angelique (she still didn't turn away from her mirror, she never seems to be functioning when I'm there, lazy Angelique ), the flashing lights room, the moving ledge, the room with the alcoves full of skeletons and bones, the doors room (I picked the right door on the first try, so, just out of scientific curiosity, I tried the others--one opened up onto a giant praying mantis, three let out blaring alarm noises that made me cringe, and one didn't open at all), a Frankenstein-type monster on a table, the Arch Rock lost soul (he's perched on a sort of pedestal now and not Arch Rock, so the story is lost in translation), the gathering of the animals (I call it this though I can't recall what it represents--there's a big mantis-type monster, a little rubbery bug-eyed thing, a bug-eyed deer with fangs, maybe something else, and a sort of satyr with a goat's head and legs and man's torso), a few other things I forget, and my perennial favorites, the GeeBee, Mitchi Manitou, and Ocryx with his book and the little rubbery monster at his feet. I paused to examine these ones in detail. For ages I've longed to know what that book on the stand in front of Ocryx actually says; I had to stretch myself up on tiptoe. I could see a Roman numeral, VII or VIII, and a word in large ornate calligraphy; I believe it was "Asmodai." I couldn't read the rest. There was a sort of pentagram above it, so apparently it was made to look like some kind of occult tome. Interesting. Ocryx's display room is in a "cave" with other little caves opening in the sides, and these other cave openings are in fact tiny windows so as you walk past him you can look in at him from different sides, which I did. I realized that the book was in fact fake, likely made of wood, just with some tabs on the edges to make it look like it has pages. Oh well. I moved past Ocryx to the next display, I can't recall what it was, but I saw that the tip of Ocryx's outspread wing extended into it. You know, it really bugs me that I can't remember what display that was. Anyway. A few times noises came from behind the walls, probably employees rapping on them and such, and at one point a compartment opened and somebody snarled at me, and in one part the floor vibrated, but I was more curious than anything and every time something happened I would just pause and stare in its direction and then move on.

There's one display that has been there for ages, I've seen it before--I believe I made reference to an evil-looking crane in an old Manitou Island story of mine way back when--but I never knew what it represented until now. The display is a crane or heron with wings spread and an evil leer on its face, overlooking a skull with filaments springing from its head; at the end of each filament is an evil-looking fish. These are plunging down toward a spring which is trickling down from the right-hand side. The entire display is lit with black light so it has an eerie glow. It's quite odd and inexplicable if you don't know the story behind it, but now I do--I was surprised because it's a myth I read long ago in the first book I bought about such things, Dirk Gringhuis's Lore Of The Great Turtle. It's the story of the whitefish. I can't recall the details, but I think there were these two kids trying to escape their evil stepmother or something, and they had to cross a body of water. They begged a nearby heron for help. "I'll carry you across if you don't touch the sore spot on the back of my head," the heron said, and they agreed and were carried safely to the other side. Then the wicked woman came along and demanded that the heron carry her across. "I'll carry you across if you don't touch the sore spot on the back of my head," the heron said, and she agreed and it started to carry her across. However, partway across, she touched the sore spot, and the heron tossed her off into the water. Her head smashed against the rocks and split open, spilling out her brains, which then turned into...you guessed it, the first whitefish. So that's where whitefish came from. At least that's how I recall it, I could be getting something wrong but am too lazy to look it up. Anyway, now that display makes a whole lot more sense, whereas if you don't know the story it seems rather psychotic and nonsensical.

One thing I find a shame is the little signs explaining the displays are no longer there. I'm pretty sure most of the exhibits used to have these little placards or signs which told what they were about, e. g., Ocryx is the one who brought all the displays to life with his magic, Mitchi Manitou arose from Devil's Lake at Ocryx's command, the GeeBee was a cannibal who lived in Devil's Kitchen, Angelique was way too vain about her beauty, some spirits that didn't manage to cross over Arch Rock merged together, etc. etc. So unless you're familiar with the place, these displays don't make too much sense. Perhaps the notes are on the photos out front, like they used to be on the (now replaced) signs along the steps, but I'm not sure, they should really put them back in with the displays so people can enjoy the experience more. I probably wouldn't have gotten as interested in all these stories if those notes hadn't been there to tell me what the hell I was looking at.

Around the time of the doors room I heard people laughing and screaming behind me--"The floor is vibrating!"--so hurried onward to avoid meeting up. The exit from the Theater is anticlimactic, you just follow the white arrow out the hall. (It's kind of funny that near the beginning of the tour, there's an alternate exit provided saying it's your "last chance" to chicken out and turn back, when the place really is not scary enough to do so.) I'd rather wished there was a bit more, that maybe they'd added something, but it was nice to revisit all my old favorites. And I have to admit, the dustiness of the old displays, and the terribly dim lighting, are mildly creepy in their own way. (The rat man display had a picture on the wall behind him and the lighting was too dim for me to make it out. That niggled at me, I wanted to see what it was! It also added to the mystery.) I exited with a wistful smile on my face and paused to glance at a roll of stickers off to the side. "Go ahead, take one," the elderly lady at the ticket booth said, so I tore one off. It's a big red round sticker with a bat on it, proclaiming the Haunted Theater's 35th anniversary. On the steps out front I tucked it into the book I had in my purse, along with my Shepler's ticket so I wouldn't bend or lose them, and now it was just before five so I figured I could catch the five o'clock ferry after all and Ma would probably be there waiting for me.

I visited the restrooms one last time, then headed for Shepler's. The two long lines for Mackinaw City and St. Ignace were kind of merged together so it was hard to be sure I was in the right place. It wasn't a long wait; I again went belowdeck and sat on the proper side to observe the bridge, and tried numerous times to photograph it, the island, the water, anything coherent, but the spray was so strong and the ride so bumpy that only about one photo, of the water, turned out, the rest are big sprays of mist. *LOL* I just could not time it right. The water was exceptionally choppy and a few times the ferry bobbed way up into the air and way back down, causing everyone on board to cry, "Whoooooo!" I rather liked the up-and-down motion; I wonder if I would be the type to get seasick or if I'd enjoy that kind of thing, I found it soothing, like being on a swing. *shrug*

Once back at Shepler's I sat down at one of the tables to wait since Ma wasn't there as far as I could see. It was around 5:25; she gets out of work at five so I figured she'd be there soon. I waited, and waited, and waited, and started to grow worried. Even the weird little brown birds hopping about the steps seeking food couldn't distract me from wondering what was taking her so long. By now, there were very few people about, no more lines, and I never did see another ferry come by on the half hour, which was odd, since there should have been one. Aside from the employees and a few random passersby here and there the place was almost deserted. I feared I might get thrown out for loitering or something. I do have a lot of unreasonable fears, yes.

It wasn't until after six or six-thirty that I heard a call from behind me, near the restrooms, and there she was, gesturing. I used the bathroom once more. "Don't you ever check the parking lot?" she exclaimed, and I said no, it's a lot easier and quicker for her to check the tables since there are just a few of them, than it is for me to check the parking lot as there are so many cars and I'm terrible at telling which is which and I'd feel terribly embarrassed to be looking if she's not even there. I'm not sure how long she was waiting for me, every other time she came to fetch me directly. *shrug* I told her that next year, we are definitely getting a Subway sandwich, and that was about the end of my trip this year. My left foot and shoulder ached especially, the latter due to my purse, the former, I'm not sure why.

I forgot to toss out the rancid sandwich until the next night, ew. Nevertheless, something came along during the night and made off with it. Perhaps the most recent unusual visitor to our porch. Some nights ago I flicked on the porch light to see what was out there and was surprised by a small doggish face peering back up at me; before I could say a word, it turned and slipped away into the darkness. A fox! A little red fox! It was so small and thin, its back fur was grayish, I didn't even notice the tail, I'd been so surprised by that little angular face looking back at me. It must have been mousing. My dad is always talking about all the foxes he sees out at work but I have never seen a fox before in my life. It was so adorable. I keep hoping to see it again, but I doubt I will. Just the usual creatures; one night there were two skunks out there, a bigger one with almost all white on its back eating off the ground, and a smaller one, barely more than a baby, with just a white cap and a white poof on the end of its tail, eating off the porch. And the next night, almost before I could see it, a tiny mouse, leaping off the iron railing and into the bush. No more foxes. You don't know what a fox really looks like until you've seen one in person. It was nothing like all the photos I've seen. So small and angular and cute, not quite red and not quite gray but somehow a little of both, not quite cat and not quite dog but somehow a little of both.

I am seriously considering shooting this frigging bluejay that insists on screaming to wake me up every other morning and now even interrupts my attempts at naps. And some of the grackles insist on sticking around. When they see me at the door, they sneak off into the bamboo as if hoping I won't see them. Grrr.

A stupid guy on a tractor ripped out our cable line today (8/21)! I was fortunate enough to be outside with the cat later than I'd intended since an unexpected thunderstorm had passed through earlier, when a huge tractor thing pulling this weird, tall thresher-type contraption came chugging up the side road. He did slow down and glance over his shoulder to see if he was making it under the lines, but then he turned back around, and didn't seem to notice when the contraption snagged one of the lines and yanked it right out of the pole, just kept on his merry way, trailing it along after him! I doubt there is any way he could have not seen that; Dad says he or another guy working the same field did the same thing some years ago only going the opposite way. Jackasses with no judgement of heights. I thought he'd carried the line away with him since I didn't see anything hanging; I thought of flagging the moron down, but there was nothing he could do about it except listen to me rail at him, so I hurried into the house to see what was knocked out. The power and phone were still on, good; when I turned on the TV, all the channels were out. Crud. Charter has like a hundred different numbers in the phone book and it doesn't say which is for what; I called the first one and got their stupid automated system with this woman's voice who tries to sound caring and considerate like a real person, she even says something like "Hm, let's see," seriously. She puts you through this spiel of answering question after question after question before letting you talk to an actual person; I knew I had to talk to an actual person since this wasn't the typical outage. For months, Charter has had the same prerecorded message saying they're aware of certain channel outages in the area and are working on fixing them--for months. Some time back we lost the TV Guide Channel and it has never come back, for example. I really doubt anyone is "working on it."

"Does that answer your question?" the friendly voice asked after this message, and I snapped, "No." Partway through the interrogation she interrupted herself to say, "Remember, at any time if you feel I'm not answering your questions and you wish to speak to a representative, just say, 'Agent.'" That was new to me. So I immediately snapped, "Agent!"

"All right, I'll patch you through to one of our agents," the voice said cheerfully, and I was put on hold, though not for too long. Told the guy about the tractor. He said they would send somebody out THE NEXT DAY between ten and noon! "Is that a good time for you?" I was so pissed off. My brother works for a (different) cable company down south and I remember him getting called away at all hours of the day and night to fix things, and I'm always seeing Charter vehicles driving around, why would it take until the next frigging DAY to fix this? It wasn't the typical outage, it was a torn-out line. And it was only around 1:30PM. Nevertheless, I agreed and steamed silently, hanging up. (Though not before the guy informed me that we have a "nice-looking account" (i. e., the bill is paid on time), would I be interested in upgrading to Charter Digital for a dollar more, or subscribing to another one of their services such as phone or Internet, was that something I'd be interested in?--"Not at this time," I answered wearily but as diplomatically as I could.) Then went out to inspect the damage further. And was surprised to realize that the line was in fact still there and mainly intact, still attached to our house, but it had been pulled free of the pole, and was now trailing along the edge of the road. Surely a downed line was a safety hazard? Maybe if I informed them of this, they'd get out here a little sooner. So I went back in and called them again. As soon as the friendly automated lady asked what my problem was, I snapped, "Agent!!"

"Okay, I can patch you through to an agent," she said, sounding (strangely enough) somewhat apologetic, "but first, could you tell me what your problem is with...?" So I still had to answer a few questions, grrr. But at least now I know how to get past the annoying wench.

I was patched through to another guy and apologized, telling him I'd just reported a downed line, but now I saw that it really was a downed line and it was in the road, did that make any difference? "Is it out in the middle of the road?" he asked, and I said no, it was mostly just along the edge, but part of it was sticking out a bit and there was a metal plug or prong or something on the end. "Okay, that is considered a risk," he said, "so I'll have them step up your complaint and try to get somebody out there today, though I can't guarantee it'll be fixed immediately. And if you think the line might be dangerous, you should call your gas or power company to report it."

Why would I do that, I wondered?--it was their line, not the power company's. Plus if I called the power company, they'd probably remove the entire line, leaving the cable company nothing to replace and thus making it take longer to get fixed. So I did not want to call anyone else. (I handled the phone pretty well this time, considering, probably due to all my righteous anger. Righteous anger makes a lot of things much easier to handle. I should be righteously angry more often.) At least this guy did not try to sell me Charter Digital or Internet or whatnot. After hanging up, I went back out to again inspect the line, which was taut from our house to a tree it was wrapped half around, then draped over a few branches and sagged down into the road, running almost to its end. The end with the metal part stuck out a bit, but a bush of ours sticks out into the road a bit at the same spot, so cars probably would not run over that part. Yet a coil somewhat further along worried me. I wanted to poke it back a bit but knew better; I stood there as a van pulled in and passed by so they wouldn't hit it, but I could hardly stand there in the road all day directing traffic.

I then remembered, didn't we once have an orange safety cone...? I could swear we had--I think I had found it abandoned and slightly damaged in the road once after some work and had retrieved it to keep--but I didn't know what had become of it. With my luck it had been tossed out. It was likely either in the basement or garage, so I went into the garage to look. There it was, right inside the entrance, its top cracked and its formerly bright orange now quite smudged and dull, but it was better than nothing. I carried it out to the coil of line in the road and set it in front, facing the highway, so anybody pulling in on that side would miss driving over it, since people drive like maniacs on this little side road for some reason. And hoped that what I was doing wasn't illegal or something. I retreated to the porch and saw several cars go by in both directions without incident, so it must be safe; when I'd finished with the Puffball's outdoor time we went back inside and I waited for the phone to ring in case Charter needed to confirm the appointment or whatever. (The last time I called them for an appointment, I ended up calling them to cancel, and was told they weren't even scheduled to come out at that time, which was wrong; then we got a call to confirm our appointment at a completely different time and day that I had not agreed upon. I didn't call back to confirm or cancel, since I'd already cancelled an appointment we apparently didn't have, and nobody came out. So you see how it goes.)

I waited and waited. The first call was blank, probably a telemarketer. The second call, the guy said something like, "Hi, this is Steve with AT&T, how are you?"--and I immediately hung up--I pay the frigging bill on time, I have no other reason to talk with you guys, so no thanks. Finally, around a quarter to four, the confirmation call came--a technician would be out around 3:45-4:45 and somebody eighteen or older had to be there to meet them. A mere moment or so later, three Charter vans pulled up on the side road. ("That shows they have nothing better to do," Dad said later.) I loitered on the porch and peered out, waiting for someone to come and address me, but nobody ever did. I wandered back and forth between both doors, feeding the birds out front and worrying that the guys would come to speak to me out back and find nobody there. The technicians inspected the downed line--I heard one of them say, after picking it up, "This cable is really bad"--I had noticed earlier that part of it seemed to be spliced together and tied around with wire--so they apparently removed the entire cable from our house and replaced it with a new one. The entire process couldn't have taken more than about five minutes. They chattered with each other a bit about the condition of their vans' tires, then departed, and that was it. And that first representative was going to make me wait until tomorrow morning for that. Cripes.

A while later the friendly automated Charter lady called to request I participate in a customer satisfaction survey--I was ready to answer her automated questions, until she said I would need to call them back to take the survey, and that's just way too much effort for somebody who hates phones, so I declined.

I'm rather glad that surprise thunderstorm struck this morning and made it too cold for the Cheesebug and me to hang out earlier in the day, so I happened to be outside when that dumbass tractor driver went by, and that I thought the prospect of a line down in the road might get them out here a little faster. I hate when I have no nice crime show with a nice murder or something to watch in the evenings. No murder makes me very testy.

I've started a paper journal-type thing that I think I might actually stick to. It's based on the concept of HP Lovecraft's Commonplace Book, a book in which he jotted down bits and pieces and notes of story ideas he hoped to develop later on; I've seen only snippets of it since the book itself costs a lot, but apparently August Derleth and some others have taken some of the jotted ideas and used them themselves; I think this is where the plot of The Lurker At The Threshold in fact came from. That sounded fascinating. I have SLEWS of story ideas in my head, the only difference being I never jot mine down because I have no fear of forgetting them, I just let them percolate indefinitely. But that's just it, it's indefinite, and many of them may never see the light of day. So I took a composition book and started jotting down bits of conversations I imagine my characters having in stories I haven't written yet and probably won't get to write for ages, if ever. Then remembered that years ago I'd created a mockup "TV guide" of "movies" of my different childhood stories, where was it?--just where I'd thought it would be, and it's filled with little summaries of old stories of mine, including some I honestly don't remember, most of them very cheesy. So also in this book of mine I can describe all the stories I meant to write or still mean to write, what I know or recall of them, and their prospects of actually getting written ("Not too likely," most of these older ones go, but you never know). I'm enjoying revisiting and explaining, even if only to myself, these old stories of mine that I haven't worked on in ages. I will probably get around to newer, more promising stories in there too, e. g., the humongous D4D series. Perhaps someday I'll post some of this "Commonplace Book" of my own to the Net just for anyone's curiosity, akin to the childhood writing on my Google Site. I'm over thirty pages through the composition book so far so bought a few more to keep this up since it's so much fun. I can describe old stories, potential stories, characters, plot ideas, dialogue snatches, whatever I want, stuff that floats around in my head 24/7 but never gets written down because I haven't gotten around to those stories yet. It's like releasing a pressure valve somewhat to let off some creative steam. Or something. It's turning out a lot more promising than my other attempts to keep paper journals in the past, probably because I hardly need to whine and cry in a paper journal when I do that just fine online.

I just Googled "commonplace book" and it's an actual generic term. Interesting.

Such books were essentially scrapbooks filled with items of every kind: medical recipes, quotes, letters, poems, tables of weights and measures, proverbs, prayers, legal formulas. Commonplaces were used by readers, writers, students, and humanists as an aid for remembering useful concepts or facts they had learned. Each commonplace book was unique to its creator's particular interests.

--http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Commonplace_book

I've probably gone on long enough in this entry and have surely forgotten something but this is enough for now, I guess. I went over my Mackinac trip, which was the important part, at least. So tar.

 

Don't even feel like typing up journal entries anymore but I haven't anywhere or anyone else with whom to talk. My urologist is about to wash his hands of me. The biweekly instills weren't doing anything as far as I could tell, so I asked on the interstitial cystitis forum and the people there were surprised I was waiting so long between them, so we upped them to once weekly. I had the first yesterday. That makes it the fifth instill, total. I didn't know how long I'm supposed to keep this up before maybe getting any results; yesterday as I went in, the nurse said the doctor had scheduled me for merely four as "He doesn't want this to be a long-term treatment." So I can safely assume that means once these four--now three--instills are over, that's it, he's through. Because he refuses to try anything else.

I asked about upping the oral dosage and he said no since there are side effects and he doesn't want to go over the recommended 300mg dosage. But I'm the one taking the stuff. I have no problem with trying 400 since I've had no side effects on the 300. If I had bad side effects, I'd go back to 300. But no, he refused.

Ma had asked him, last time, about the ulcer, if this medication helps treat that. He avoided the question yet again and said sometimes they treat ulcers by cutting or burning them out--something I'd found out on my own, months ago--but he didn't recommend that since in his opinion that would just make it worse. (He won't even say if the ulcer is contributing to the problem or not. Just won't answer direct questions.) So no, he refuses that (as if he does bladder surgery anyway, which he doesn't).

There's another medication they can instill into the bladder, he'd mentioned it before, but it's known to be far more painful and irritating than the Elmiron, so no, he didn't recommend that.

And apparently three more lousy instills is all he will agree to do. (And he's not even the one doing them so why the f**k he cares if this is "long term" or not is beyond me.) When the people on the IC forum told me some of them have to have them daily, and some have been getting them for years. One woman on a drug other than Elmiron said it took her twelve instills before she felt any improvement.

I'm to have eight instills total, five of which I've already had. Eight months so far on the oral medications. No improvement.

The urologist has flatly said he believes surgery is the only thing that will help me. He doesn't do surgery. I'd have to travel like 6-8hrs for that.

Washing his hands of me.

I've put up with this for a year, all sorts of people poking and prodding me and putting things in me and telling me to do this and do that and take this and take that, and I've done everything they've said, because they're doctors and doctors are supposed to make you feel better. I went through all this in the belief that these people would actually mean what they say for once in my life when they said they'd help me. And yet again they're getting ready to give up, drop the ball, leave me hanging. This is the only treatment I've ever gotten throughout my entire life--people promise they'll help me if I'll only help myself too, which I do, only for them to just shrug and give up and leave me hanging on my own. Friends, therapists, doctors, they're all the same. They all insist I'm worth the trouble, they'll do all they can if I try as hard as I can, I try, then they leave me hanging. Oh well, sorry, bye-bye.

How come I'm always the one told that I give up too easily? I've been holding on over thirty years now with no real reason to keep doing so. I'm tired of holding on for nothing. Psychologist was so worried about me she had me see the psychiatrist who put me on Wellbutrin, not that it seems to be doing any good, as always. I've sat here crying all night and day. I held the Elmiron in my bladder 2:45hrs last night, the longest ever, though it drove me crazy and there ended up being 5.5oz in there; the last time I spoke to him the urologist actually seemed to smirk when I asked about the effects of the meds on the bladder once it's urinated out, saying, "It's not going to be doing much good if you can only hold like 1.5oz." Smirked. Like I'm peeing every hour just to be annoying. Look at this stupid girl, she actually thinks this medication will help her when she can't keep it in there longer than an hour or so. How funny. I think a mere eight instills, and his refusal to up my oral dosage, based on comments in the IC forum, is unreasonable, but now even the people in the forum won't reply to me, even they're tired of me so I have nobody I can ask for help or recommendations. I want to boot his f**king ass, get a recommendation to another urologist, who probably won't be able to do much good either but who might at least GIVE A CRAP that I'm suffering, and not smirk or shrug and wash their hands of me just like that.

How many doctors try a few standard treatments, then shrug and tell you to go for the most dangerous and invasive treatment there is, the end, bye? Isn't that negligent? I really had more faith in doctors before now. My primary care physician, my gynecologist, my psychologist and psychiatrist, they all seem more understanding than my f**king so-called urologist, but none of them are qualified to help with this. He's the supposed "expert." What do you do when the expert just doesn't care?

I don't know if I'm to put my foot down with him, demand a referral, or just give up. People tell me not to give up. Why not? Everyone else gives up on me. AN ENTIRE YEAR I have been putting up with this, trusting in these people to help me, doing everything they say, and they're still going to just give up. They won't lose any sleep at night. My life has no meaning to them. I can't find any meaning in it myself. What meaning does my suffering have? It's doing nobody any good whatsoever; in fact, it's just bothering them. I can't even say, well, maybe somebody else who's suffering will come across this and take comfort, because that's assigning my life an importance it does not have. I'm just basing this on a lifetime of experience. I'm tired of holding on if this is all there's ever going to be. Sheer habit gets me out of bed in the morning. OCD. Must get up and follow my routine like every other day. Remove the compulsion, my reasons for holding on are gone. That's all that's keeping me going anymore. Compulsions. And even they're wearing pretty thin. Habit can get you only so far. My habit of trusting people's word has gotten me nowhere in life except miserable and let down and alone.

I want somebody to actually mean it when they say they'll go to the ends of the earth for me, they'll do all they can to help me because I'm "worth it." Maybe I would believe I'm worth it, if somebody would actually mean it when they say that. I would go to the ends of the earth for somebody if they'd f**king do it for me. But nobody needs me to do that for them, so why should they do it for me? There's one word for me. Superfluous.

There's the part of me that cries and just wishes it was over and insists none of this is worth it, I'm not worth it, and there's the part of me that gets pissed off and screams and is sick and tired of the letdowns and wants everyone to know about it because I'm through with it, I'm tired of being life's doormat, I deserve SOMETHING good after all the shit I've been through and how good I've tried to be all my life. But the former part seems to win out every time. Wouldn't I have something good in my life by now if I was meant to? Since all it's been is disappointment and misery, doesn't that rather point at that being all there is for me?

Someone (who has probably forgotten my existence by now) once told me that maybe my purpose in life is to find out what my purpose is at age 45. The exact age doesn't matter, the idea is the same. But it's a big fat maybe. I've been grasping at maybes throughout this whole treatment. Maybe this sensitivity is a good sign that it's healing. Maybe this discomfort will be gone tomorrow. Maybe the meds will finally kick in today. Maybe I'll be able to sleep tonight. Maybe I'll get better. Maybe maybe maybe. And none of it ever pans out. Just one letdown after another. Maybe my purpose in life is to find out, at age 45, that there just is no purpose. You see it works either way. It all goes on faith and look where faith has gotten me. Nowhere. Who am I to presume my life has a great purpose? The past 33 years (I'm not even sure of my age anymore, I stopped keeping track long ago) haven't had any purpose, why should the next 33?

God I hope there's no next 33.

Got a case manager to at least drive me to my appointments. Psychologist said she's not a taxi service but it's her job to help people like me, so I resolved to just have her get me to my appointments and that's it, I hate putting people out. When I talked with her, she seemed surprised that that was all I was seeking. She could help me with housing, job seeking, shopping, food, all of that, she said; she could even just take me out for ice cream or a walk or bowling because "Everybody needs to get out sometimes." I declined. She's not a taxi service, and she's not a friend. She brought it up again when she drove me to my last appointment, since she knows I pretty much just hang out around my house all day, every day. I don't want to bother anyone, I told her. She insisted it's her job and she loves doing it, and left the offer open. I won't take her up on it even though it makes me cry. Because I need more than just getting out of the house. I need a friend to get out of here with. She's not a friend, just somebody whose job this is. I need too much she could never give.

I want to call somebody and ask for help, advice, what to do, somebody to convince me there's a point in holding on, but even when people tell me that, life just shows me soon enough that it's wrong. And I don't really have anybody to call. Not for any reason great enough. I'm just sitting here crying, same as every other day after day, not holding razors to my wrists. I just somehow never reach that point where I'm holding razors to my wrists, though I wish I would, to just get it over with already. Crying day after day is no cause for an emergency, even if it hurts inside just as much as razors do outside. Psychologist and Psychiatrist and Case Manager all insisted on me calling them if I find myself getting worse. I always mumble I'll try. But by now I don't know where the point is when you find yourself getting worse enough to bother calling. All my life seems to have is worse. Never better. I never call because how can I know it won't be even worse tomorrow? And it always is, day after day, I have no idea where or what the bottom is, so I never call because I don't want to be that person who's always calling and calling. The thing is, my life has been like this for so long, and will be like this for quite a while if not always, that I always need somebody there. I just need too much that nobody else can give. If I called once, I'd be calling forever. I don't want to be that person. I don't want to bother people anymore. There was a time I thought my life was worth it, but that time is past. I want help, but I don't want to bother anyone. If I can't make somebody else happy or contribute anything to the world, the least I could do is leave everybody alone and not bother anybody since that's what people seem to want from me anyway. That's what I was trying to do before this issue started up. And take a look, even when I do manage to ask for help, I just end up going through all this to get brushed off and left hanging in the end anyway. Effort is not worth it. I'm not worth it. So I don't call anyone. Even posting here isn't really worth the effort, it's just the angry part of me that insists on holding on and speaking up because, as that dwindling voice insists, I am worth it. It never wins out for long.

Yesterday morning my bladder was surprisingly unsensitive. I got up to 2oz and it felt like only one. Today, it seems even more sensitive than ever. A lousy ounce irritates me. What are signs that this treatment might be starting to work? I kept asking on the forum, but all they'd ever tell me is it could take a year or more for significant improvement. What about for just plain improvement, any improvement at all? Shouldn't I have felt something by now? Nobody will tell me what it will feel like if it starts working. Nobody will even tell me if the urologist is being unreasonable and if it's time for me to try something else. I went to the bathroom 17 minutes ago and feel like I have to go again even though I know there's practically nothing in there. I just feel worse. I wish I would get better, but I never do, physically or mentally. I'm tired of hoping that I will, then waking up (if I manage to get to sleep) to the same old misery.

The other day it kept me awake well into the night, then when I finally got to sleep, all I kept dreaming was that I couldn't get to sleep, so it was like I didn't sleep at all. That's what my entire life now feels like. Waking up from a lousy dream, into a lousy life, going back to sleep into a lousy dream. Repeat. Endlessly.

I'm tired of there being no point to all this. Maybe if I knew there was a point, I could tolerate it, but I honestly don't see one.

 

Typed up earlier.

Now we have gotten up to three juvenile red squirrels sharing the feeder all at once. I attempted getting pictures of them, though I'm afraid they're blurry, and with the speed at which I upload stuff, they'll likely never see the light of the Internet. That's amazing though. THREE reds in one spot, eating peacefully.

I now know for a fact that raccoon (one of them, at least) I've been shooing from the feeder is a nursing female.

Last night I went to look on the front porch and see what might be lurking without. I flicked on the light and my brain did that weird little thing it does; I think I have some sort of glitch in how my brain perceives things visually. Sometimes when I look at something, at first I can only see the individual parts that make up the whole, and not a coherent whole itself. For example, once when I saw a rabbit on the porch, first I saw the color brown, and the texture of fur, and the shape of a large dark eye. All at once, but separately. Then after a tiny delay my brain processed all these individual parts into the whole of a rabbit. It took less than a second, but it's almost like I had to blink and look again in order to figure out what I was seeing. I first noticed this happening to me in dreams on occasion, but now it happens in real life. It's not disturbing, just rather odd. Like I have some sort of visual dyslexia or something. I know there must be a name for that, seeing the individual parts of something and not the whole, since it sounds familiar from a psych class or something, but I can't recall it. This happens most often when I look out on the porch, especially at night.

Anyway, at first when I flicked on the light, all I saw was the color gray-brown, and shapes. Lots of shapes. My brain did its little visual stumble trying to figure out what I was seeing--then it registered and I murmured, "Oh my frickin' God." Then, louder, "Oh my frickin' God." Then, nearly a shout--"Oh my frickin' GOD!"

On the porch were





FOUR





FRIGGING





RACCOONS!!





My exclamation startled them and the four roundish gray-brown shapes lifted their heads. Four sets of little black eyes in little black masks peered up at me, then they turned and started hurrying off the porch, four little ringed tails following. A cat-sized one--the mother--and three babies, the size of large, well-fed kittens. I immediately felt a pang at scaring them off like that but--FOUR FRIGGING RACCOONS?!?

There might be even more, as later on I checked the standing side feeder and had to shoo out what looked like the youngish one of before, too big to be the babies, then after a pause I went to the porch and found the mother and her three pups (cubs?--coonlings?) there again, so there could in fact be at least five. This time I stood and watched them eat the birdseed off the porch. They moved about and fed quite oddly, barely lifting their heads, really intent on what they were doing. One of the pups clambered up onto the porch and I saw how it would feel around with its front paws and put food to its mouth. At least twice as it searched the seeds, an insect or bug of some sort fluttered into its space, and it stopped to consume that as well. At one point, the mother and two pups ambled off up the sidewalk into the darkness, leaving this one behind, but then they returned, and then the pups all slipped off the porch into the bush. The mother kept looking up longingly at the stool where in the daytime I put the pie tin of seeds but have taken to bringing inside for just such occasions, since the raccoons will knock it over and in general be quite annoying about it all. I had to admit, they were adorable. Too bad they're such frigging annoying verminous virus-filled pests.

At bedtime I returned to shine the light on the standing feeder, thinking I'd be scaring away the youngish one again, so I was rather shocked to find two of the pups up there instead! One in the plate, the other standing on the side "branch" and leaning upright against the chimney stack, peering at its sibling over its shoulder as if awaiting its turn. My jaw dropped and I immediately waved the light at them and tapped the window, thinking they would flee, but they just turned and looked in at me as if to ask what I wanted!

I opened up the window--that always manages to startle the raccoons from the plate, though lately they've taken to climbing just a bit down, then casting me gloomy looks as if hoping I'll leave before they do. "Go on! Shoo!" I whispered. The pups just looked at me, though they did start fidgeting. At first I thought they were hissing at me and that made me terribly nervous, since they were mere inches away from me behind nothing but a screen, but then I realized they were sniffing. And they kept letting out these little inquisitive mewling noises. OMFG. ;_; I kept tapping the window, scratching the screen, whispering at them to leave, and making hissing noises of my own since experience has taught me the raiding animals dislike the hissing spitting noises the most, but they were a long time in clambering their way down. They didn't act scared in the least. The one in the plate managed to crawl out and climb awkwardly down the post, but the one on the branch wasn't so lucky. It tried the chimney, couldn't get a hold, so tried to go down, and ended up hanging from the branch by one hind foot, braced against the chimney with nowhere to go. At last it fell to the ground with a thud. There's a metal crate down there, so it probably hit that. ;_; Ugh, ugh, ugh. I shined the light all over but saw no trace of any more raccoons so they must have departed after that. Good Lord, how much more flustering can this get. A frigging litter of raccoon babies in my feeder. URGH.

I have some little sandwichey things I forgot about and which have probably turned over by now, I was considering tossing those outside yesterday; probably should have. I guess they'll go out tonight. I'm not going to be eating them. I do hate feeding these admittedly adorable pests, especially since I hate how comfortable this entire family looked with the mother apparently teaching them to raid our birdseed, how dependent they could become on us, but there's nothing really to be done aside from not feeding the birds anymore. *sigh* Stupid raccoons. I wonder where the heck they all live. The woods around here seem a bit too open for an entire family of them. Well, at least that's one thing not living in our attic.

Our stupid power bill keeps going up. The month before last it was like $40, then last month it was around $43, now this month it's around $44. Shouldn't it be getting lower? All we have are fans, no air conditioning, and it didn't act like this last year. Stupid utilities, ripping us off.

Also bothersome, yesterday I received Chaosium's Necronomicon, and some of the text is missing!! At the very bottom of one page it just ends in midsentence! No pages are missing, and according to the TOC it's all in place--I briefly wondered if, like so much Lovecraftian stuff, it was supposed to end in the middle of things?--but somebody on the Yog-Sothoth forum informed me about five lines are probably missing. How the heck did that happen?? On Chaosium's site they have a section called "Boo-Boo Books," where you can buy misprinted and shopworn books for a discount, but there's no mention of any Necronomicon misprints, and, unlike the only other misprint listed there (which is a misprinted cover, not text), this is a REALLY big booboo. Mine can't be the ONLY one out there. Unfortunately the person at the forum hasn't gotten back to me yet with the missing lines, I hope they do so I can fill them in. I e-mailed Chaosium to inform them of the error, though I doubt they can replace my book since I bought it through Amazon (seriously, the nasty S&H through their site makes me balk at buying through them again). How irritating, how come nobody else has noticed something so big and obvious? I hope that's the only misprint in the book, I have no way of knowing if there's more.

Somebody else on the Yog-Sothoth forum mentioned a book called House Of Leaves, non-Lovecraft, but it looked interesting enough for me to want to look into it. Supposedly the Blair Witch Project of books. *has never seen The Blair Witch Project so really couldn't judge*

I've had trouble getting to sleep the past two nights. Not from the urination for once, stupidly enough, I just can't get to sleep as easily as I usually do. I just feel wide awake and squirmy. It's not the heat, I've slept okay in hot weather before. I just feel...uncomfortable all the time. Even during the day. I thought it was the couch, since we have a really stupid couch, and I just cannot get comfortable on it anymore, but that can't be it, since I feel like this everywhere, like I just can't get comfortable, and it's annoying. Why am I so wide awake at bedtime when I take sleeping pills like always?? I told myself if whatever this is keeps me up one more night (I've lost only maybe an hour of sleep both nights, not too bad, but still), I'll double the stupid pills, though I doubt I'll do that. It's just irritating. Go figure that when my urine doesn't keep me awake, something else does! The past two days I also haven't felt quite as tired during the day, but maybe that's just me, seeing as I can't get comfortable enough to really doze off like I usually do. Just all sorts of squirmy and whatnot. I'd love to sit down and read, read, read my slews of books but I can't seem to focus on things, either. I just feel like fidgeting and pacing. It's strange. And I know I way overused the word "just" in this paragraph, but I can't think of another qualifier or whatever that suits.

I wonder when that case manager or whatever is supposed to call me? I thought they were supposed to get in touch before the 12th as that's when I thought I was to see the psychiatrist, but it's now the 8th and no calls. The phone is tied up in the mornings but I stay off in the afternoons, just in case. I hope I don't have an appointment set up and then nobody ends up calling me to give me a ride and then I get a letter asking me to let them know in advance before missing my appointments, that's incredibly irritating.

The weather doesn't know what it wants to do today. Rain, sun, rain, sun, clouds, sun, clouds, sun. That, too, for some reason is irritating me. Make up your frigging mind, nature. Everything feels niggly, no clue why.

At least the second seller I've tried purchasing The Xothic Legend Cycle from says they've shipped it, meaning it must have been in stock, though it remains to be seen whether it ARRIVES or not. Never did get that book from that other seller, and have yet to hear back for a refund. They better frigging be on vacation. >:/

I discovered a curious-looking spider in the outside doorway today, with pinkish, spiky, dark-ringed legs--it curled in on itself at first when I poked it, clasping a bit of leaf to its belly as if in protection, so I thought it was dying, but when I scooped it up in a little spade it stretched itself out and came back to life. It obligingly sat on a tree stump while I hurried inside for my spider book and came back out to peruse it; the closest I could find is a furrow spider, though I couldn't get it to show me the identifying marks on its belly, it kept scurrying about and wedging itself into small spots like a frightened mouse so I decided to let it be. Very odd-looking spider, though, I've never seen one quite like it before.

All day I've felt like I have lip balm on. I don't wear lip balm. I hate it. Why do my lips feel balmy? That's irritating and niggly. So is my stupid hair, ever since Pantene "changed and improved" their wonderful old Smooth & Sleek shampoo/conditioner into the Frizzy To Smooth crap it is now, that's all it is, is total crap, so they've lost a longtime customer. I was so mad I left them a bad review at Amazon, so suck it, Pantene, should've left well enough alone. But even the Herbal Essences and Suave aren't helping me lately. Ugh, stupid hair.

Anyway, I need to drink my stupid Activia, another niggly thing, so I guess I'll be going now, tar.

 

I had a whole entry typed up regarding a review I recently received, followed by regular entry-type stuff, but a reply from the reviewer in question makes me glad I didn't post the entry when I planned since I think it was mainly a lapse in communication on my part. So, since I'm so horrible at discarding anything I write, no matter how outdated, I couldn't figure out what to do with the entry since I did make some salient points in all my ranting, regarding my opinions on reviewing and writing and all that jazz, but again, I wrote it in a rather snarky tone which is no longer fitting. Plus it's whiny. So I've decided to omit that whole section and just post the rest of the entry with possible updates since it too is outdated (it says the file was last modified 6/19/10), while keeping my eyes open to cut out other references to the review which I really should not post now.

*sigh*

Firstly follows the "rest" of the original entry sans all the review commentary.


The second procedure was a while back now since I'm slow at updating, blame both my eternal tiredness (all I ever do anymore is read and sleep, often both at the same time) and the shitty Internet connection. (Today (6/16, I'm writing this over a period of several days, of course) it kicked me off after working fine at 48kbps for an hour, then after trouble reconnected me at a TWELVE. I'm not even kidding, a TWELVE. The stupid thing is, the twelve actually worked, though that was surely a fluke, a frigging 28kbps never works at any other time.) It took the nurse three tries just to find my urethra this time; the first time she inserted the catheter, I thought, wow, that wasn't nearly as bad as the first time!, but she couldn't drain any urine, so it obviously wasn't going into the urethra. So rather than pull it out and put it back in and probably give me a UTI she threw it away and tried a new one, and again couldn't find the right opening. So she had to throw it away and use a smaller one and finally got it. I didn't mind that, such stuff happens, but again, I hated the sensation of it going in, and the fact that the urethra is so hard to find is troubling. She was pleased to hear that I'd held the medicine in not only a half hour last time but an hour, so said, "This time the goal is to hold it for two hours!" Ugh, I have trouble holding anything for two hours even WITHOUT medicine in there! So I told myself it was unlikely. I held it in for about two hours anyway; again, could have held it longer, but my urination was elevated due to water loss, so I really had to go, REALLY, not just feeling like I had to. If she says the next time the goal is three hours, I will have to tell her sorry, she was lucky to get two hours out of me on a good day.

An update to that, I've since had the third procedure, and managed to hold it in about 1:45min. And still no improvement. I have only one instill left and there's virtually no chance of it doing me any good. -_- I asked about this again in the IC forum since I'm so terribly disappointed in my lack of ANY progress whatsoever and the people there expressed surprise that I'm having so few procedures done over such a long period of time, meaning I should probably be having this done more frequently; they recommended what I think was the other medication the urologist mentioned, one of them said she has to give herself (give herself) DAILY instills to keep things manageable , and they urged me to seek a second opinion before doing something as drastic as surgery. I just noticed this time in the forum that all the treatments I've been undergoing are recommended for MILD IC. I'm pretty sure mine is beyond mild, but the other procedures listed, for moderate to severe IC, aren't totally approved and I don't believe ANY are done in the northern Michigan area, since I recall Psychologist, in one of our meetings, calling Petoskey to ask what treatments they have for IC and Hunner's ulcers and they mentioned hydrodistension and medication instills--both of which I've already tried--and the people there had never even HEARD of bladder ulcers! So even if I were to get a second opinion from another urologist, so what?--nobody in the northern Michigan area seems to do anything other than the stupid useless procedures I've already tried. Just my luck. (My mother recently mentioned outpatient surgery a relative of hers had, for nothing related to IC but it couldn't have been drastic if it was outpatient, and it cost like $30,000. -_- ) One of the other sufferers said she had to get twelve instills (of that other medication, I forget its name, not Elmiron) before noticing improvement, and they again said the Elmiron can take over a year to work (I've been on it about seven months or more now, not even the slightest improvement yet), especially after the dosage is upped. I thought 300mg was the highest dosage you could take, since that's what it says in the handout, but people on the forum mentioned going up from 400-600mg. So I think the next time I see the stupid useless urologist I should request a tentative upping of the dosage, since I haven't noticed any of the unpleasant side effects Elmiron is known for (digestive issues and hair loss), and perhaps an increase in the frequency of the instills, even though when I suggested this latter to my mother she snorted and said, "No," meaning she doesn't want to have to drive me there weekly. *sigh*

No improvement yet. What's more, I've been losing excessive amounts of fluid for THREE WEEKS STRAIGHT now. At first there would be a day here and there when it would be normal, but for the majority of the past three weeks, I've been overurinating almost every day. What's worse, yesterday and the day before, it was CONSTANT, every hour, not "flares" as I call them (3oz or more in an hour) but urination elevated enough to be bothersome and interfere with sleep, comfort, and functioning. FORTY-EIGHT HOURS STRAIGHT. I lost about 55oz yesterday when I drink only about 30oz a day. It finally let up around bedtime last night so I could sleep, and I thought, thank God, FINALLY it's ending, but then it flared up again this morning for about four hours, then let up for about seven hours, and again I thought, thank God, but then it flared up again and is currently still flaring as of shortly before bedtime, so I can't even say anymore. My body plays such tricks on me, getting my hopes up that MAYBE now it's finally over with and I can get some peace, but that lasts only long enough for me to hope it's over, then it comes right back. It's acting just as bad as it did last summer WHEN I WAS DRINKING NORMALLY. I've been drinking around only 30oz a day SINCE NOVEMBER now, and I have NEVER had a flare this bad. NEVER. At most it would act up perhaps a week, with water weight loss, which this must surely be since I feel thinner (too chicken to weigh myself), but why the f**k would I be losing one lousy month's worth of water weight over a period of NEARLY A MONTH? It has NEVER taken that long to come out before! It's been acting up since around 5/28! My period starts in about a week--I should be RETAINING water now, not LOSING it, but I've been losing it like crazy for three weeks. With no end in sight yet. It makes absolutely no sense. It's not physically possible. But I'm doing it. Just because.

The only thing I can think of is how badly I've bloated and/or put on weight since this really started to act up. I know I've gained at least ten pounds, maybe more, and had no real idea why, I just know I started bloating last year when the urination began to get bad and the bloat never really went away like it used to. So I wondered if this condition is having some effect on my metabolism or something too. I don't know why it would--the only REAL issue is in my bladder, not in my urination, at least, it USED to be!--but it felt like I put on water and put on water and kept it on no matter how much I kept letting out and how little I drank. Is this three weeks of hell all that water coming off at last? Why would it have been put on and not let out, why would it decide to come out now, and what's taking it so f**king long? Why doesn't it just do like it used to and gush out 11oz in one hour, or even 5-8oz over three hours or so, and then let up the rest of the day so I can function and get some peace? What's with this letting out just enough every single damn hour so I can't rest or do anything? For FORTY-EIGHT HOURS straight and at least once, more often twice or even three times a day for THREE WEEKS? I'm so sick and tired. I want my life to return to tolerable, if not good. Just tolerable would do, until they fix this stupid bladder. Now I don't even deserve tolerable. I must be a very lousy person, if I don't even deserve tolerable.

I tell myself to be grateful for every rare night of uninterrupted sleep or every day I can function without problems but you know what?--I shouldn't HAVE to feel grateful for things everyone else can take for granted. These things should be NORMAL for me, like they used to be. It should be NORMAL for me to sleep uninterrupted every night. It should be NORMAL for me to handle a two-hour car ride or go for a walk without problems. It used to be normal, so it should be now. I want to be grateful for things that are out of the norm. I don't want to be grateful for things I used to have and for whatever stupid reason have now had taken away. You know what, I'm starting to seriously suspect it was that f**king Lexapro that caused this problem in the first place. My bladder was just fine before I went on that stupid useless medication. It made me pack on weight, who knows what else it did to me? The timing is about right. I was just starting to take it when I went to visit my brother's family in Georgia in 2006, I believe it was. Imagine me handling a plane flight down there NOW. I wouldn't be surprised if the Lexapro is what ruined my bladder.

And I'm incredibly angry that this stupid Elmiron, which is SUCH a Godsend to all those other people suffering from this, is doing absolutely squat for me. The nurse asked the doctor, after I said the first treatment had resulted in no improvement, how long it could be expected to take, and he'd replied that change shouldn't be expected with just one treatment, for some people it took a month--which, since I'm getting treated every two weeks, would be two treatments. Two treatments later, nada. No improvement whatsoever. And I think I'm going to have to postpone/reschedule the next treatment since I'll likely be on my period and I doubt they'll treat me then. So that delays it even more. (An update, they don't mind doing it during your period if you're comfortable, so it's good that I recently switched to tampons because I really did NOT want to reschedule that. I wasn't going to say this in my journal since it's one of those things you just really shouldn't talk about publicly, so I'll just say, after using them for the first time in my life at the age of 33, tampons are God's gift to women, and I'll leave it at that.) I wish they'd scheduled me to be treated every week since there are no adverse effects to speak of. Step it up. Not that I think it'll work, but I'm so desperate for SOMETHING. Every time I feel a twinge down there I wish, "If only that's what 2-4oz felt like, like it does for normal people," but it's always nothing more than like an ounce, and when my bladder feels irritated beyond measure it's a lousy 2.5oz or some such. God, by now I'd be happy if my bladder functioned at merely twice what it does now, even though on average I think it's only at 1/3 its regular capacity.

An update, this had been acting up for a MONTH STRAIGHT--it let up for two lousy days during my period, then recommenced (sic?) flaring like crazy. I got fed up and started talking instant-release pamabrom (a diuretic) twice daily, when I awake and six hours later as indicated, every damn day just to try to control when this stupid crap comes out of me, just so I could get some SLEEP for a change. EVERY DAMN DAY. The box says to take with a full glass of water and to drink 6-8 glasses a day, BULLSHIT on that, kind of does away with the whole purpose. I noticed my urine output increased after I took it, but then it decreased at night, when I wasn't taking it, and at last I was able to sleep uninterrupted, for the most part (did have a mild flare that woke me up early the other night but at least I got back to sleep), so at last most of the urine came out during the day. Not the ideal solution, but I'm just so desperate for a semblance of normal, to just break even and let out as much as I put in. You're not even supposed to let out 100% of the fluid you take in, some has to be used for other things like sweat and tears and blood! I drink so little, it's been so damn hot, I even have the occasional bout of diarrhea (another thing I should not mention in my journal, apologies), I should be frigging dehydrated by now. I can feel on my waist that I've lost weight there. This must be the weight I put on over the autumn and winter for whatever inexplicable reason. I want it ALL OUT OF ME NOW. I'd rather just be peeing NORMALLY, including during the daytime since I'd like to go places, but by now I want sleep most of all. So, I told myself, I don't give a rat's ass if I frigging dehydrate, if that's what it takes. My desperation was such that during my last meeting with Psychologist she expressed the concern that she really felt she should have me hospitalized psychiatrically. I told her, in a way, I would LIKE to be hospitalized, but I didn't get to elaborate, if it meant they would just FIX MY BLADDER ALREADY. If getting dehydrated is what it would take for them to fix me, then I would do it. But I know that's not the type of hospitalization I would receive. I cried quite a lot but probably not for the reasons she thought. I was just overwhelmed that somebody would find me important enough to have me hospitalized. For the most part, nobody around me cares enough about me to do anything other than tell me, whenever I'm upset, to get over it, or stop complaining, or tell me that other people have worse problems so I should be grateful, or, usually, they just ignore me. Even when I wanted to see a doctor for the first time, the response around me was to just wait and see if it gets worse, then even after I saw doctors and a genuine physical problem was revealed, the response around me was, stop whining, there's nothing we can do, we don't want to hear it, just deal with it. I'm not used to anybody being concerned enough about me to think about my wellbeing to such an extent that they think I should be emergency hospitalized for my own good. I've just never been important enough for that. Nobody's ever cared. So while the thought of being psychiatrically hospitalized is a scary one, in a way it was comforting because it's probably the first time anyone's ever expressed such a concern for me. I'm not used to that. By now, I figured I didn't even deserve it. After all, why save somebody who's not worth saving? I've never exactly contributed anything worthwhile to the world. (Psychologist recently called me to tell me that native lady would still like to hear from me, my thought was, if she really meant it she could just have replied to the other two mails I sent her, but I mailed her again just to be sure, haven't heard back. Another example of my unimportance in the world.)

I opposed hospitalization, and was too scared of the fallout for her to tell my mother of her concerns regarding my current mental and physical state, but we settled on me going to see the psychiatrist again for possible medication--I am going to oppose any SSRIs/SNRIs or their derivatives, I no longer trust those--and on the assigning of a "case manager" to help me get to my appointments since I hate so much how my mother always has to take time off work just to drive me places. I think the case manager is all Psychologist mentioned to my mother since I told her not to tell her anything that would "make waves," like pending hospitalization might--I want the people around me to be concerned about me, but I don't want them freaking out, and in truth, the people around me always think I'm exaggerating everything, it'd probably be the same here; they don't believe that there are times I would honestly feel better off dead. My mother said, "You know, I really don't mind driving you to your appointments," but I know she does. And it's about a lot more than just that. I have to receive a phone call from this case manager to set things up and that has me dreadfully anxious, having to get rides from a total stranger, I hate putting people out so, plus other people's cars make me feel skeevy, but there's nothing else to be done. So that's how things currently stand on that. Strangely, however, I seem to have been underurinating all day today--I haven't let out all the fluid I took in yesterday, despite still taking the diuretics, and that worries me that what I thought was the diuretic actually working might in fact be just my urine "naturally" acting up and it's going to hit me again when I'm trying to sleep. I'm just so tired of all this. I want to break even. If I'm going to have to be so damn thirsty all the time, I could at least have the near-empty bladder to go along with it.

So that's the current state of things--a few decent nights of sleep so far, very few fluids taken in despite the sweltering weather and excessive thirst, and diuretics. I feel like I've become bulimic, just with fluids instead of food. Psychologist worried that my obsession with my bladder--I mentioned to her that by now, I agonize over every swallow of fluid I take, wondering when it's going to interfere with my daily functioning, to the point that I'm afraid of drinking now even though I know I have to--is overwhelming all logic, but my logic is still there, I'm just too fed up to listen to it anymore. If I get sick, I get sick. At least I'll get sleep out of it. I hope. Probably not.

An update to that update since now I'm updating this the day after that, it still hasn't flared up, so I slept, though it's a bit higher today than yesterday. Remains to be seen what will become of it all. It's incredibly hot again.

I get so fed up whenever I say I'm so thirsty and my mother always replies, "Well, why don't you start drinking normally again?" or "I really think you should drink normally"--I always tell her, "Imagine YOU were the one who hasn't gotten a decent night of sleep in weeks, and imagine you couldn't handle the car ride to the casino every week, or even GO to the casino because you'd be running away from the machine to the bathroom every ten minutes, you'd be willing to do just about anything for some peace, too," but I guess she can't empathize with me like that. I don't know why not, my comparisons are sound.

And I hate how unproductive I've become. I told myself once I would get back to work when I was "better." But by now it seems like I never will be better. Not that I can convince myself the world will miss my work, but I hate calling myself a writer when I no longer even write. Everything just seems like too much effort. I hate awakening in the morning feeling like I didn't even sleep, no matter how well or not I did sleep, dragging myself out of bed just wishing I could go back to sleep and not wake up again, struggling to connect to the Internet and do the very minimum of things since doing enjoyable things became impossible long ago and I'm lucky just to get the minimum things done in three hours (update to that, it kicked me offline THREE TIMES this morning), logging off and slumping onto the couch to read and doze for the rest of the day, in between watching the birds and squirrels (I haven't seen a chickadee in ages...I feel like they don't need me anymore (update to that, they seem to be returning, perhaps they were away nesting?)). I just haven't any strength or motivation anymore. Everything feels pointless. I do get scraps of imagination and whatnot drifting through my head, but by the time I work up the effort to get around to them, I've lost all interest so I do nothing. I just return to reading and dozing. Is there ever going to be a point when I'm "better" or at least feel like doing something moderately, or even marginally (since how important is my work, anyway), useful?

I don't even know why I'm so tired. I swear, the nights when my urination doesn't keep me up half the night, I awaken even MORE tired, like I didn't sleep at all. There's just barely anything left to me. It's probably best it's been cold and rainy lately, else I'd feel even worse about not going out; the other day I took the cat out, but shortly after brought him back in, as I just hadn't the energy to chase him every time he went off after a chipmunk. He shouldn't suffer because I am. I wish I had what little bit of a life I used to have before all this. I wish I was just better again. -_-

An update to all that, the tiredness persists. I barely managed to summon the strength to vacuum the other day despite how filthy the rug has become, and even then could do just the living room, never mind the rest. In summer, when it was warm, I used to become so energized I would even cook my own dinners and cook for Ma if she wanted it; now I can barely manage to make a sandwich. Today when I took the cat out it was much more sweltery than I expected but I doubt that mattered much; I had to literally drag myself around after him, picking up my camp chair and setting it back down again and sinking into it whenever he moved around, I was just so dead weary. I then came in and dozed fitfully and then abruptly fell asleep until fifteen minutes past when I wanted to wake up. And immediately felt dead tired again. *sigh*

It seems that with every year that passes, I look back and always think, I didn't realize how lucky I was back then. Which is really pathetic, seeing as I've never been really lucky at all, but what little bits of okayness I used to have just keep eroding and eroding away. I didn't know how lucky I was last summer when it only flared up every other day. I didn't know how lucky I was the year before that when I had just my loneliness and depression to contend with and not a physical problem too. I didn't know how lucky I was when I was in touch with a few people online and somebody who shall remain nameless because he proved himself a total asshole was still my "friend." Etc. etc. etc. At the end of each year, I can't count my blessings or achievements, all I can do is lament the ones I've lost, the ones I didn't even know I had until they were gone.

THIS is why I hate being grateful, because whenever I am, the thing I'm grateful for is gone. I shouldn't have to be grateful for what used to be the norm for me, especially when it feels like Life takes things away just out of spite. I don't even know what I've done to deserve such crap since I've been a lot nicer than many other people who have it a lot better.

My neck/throat hurts like there's something wrong with my glands. (Update on that, it doesn't hurt anymore, but my throat is phlegmy and my voice hoarse like I'm losing it, for some odd reason.) You know there are times I WISH I had a bad thyroid or diabetes?--because at least those are HIGHLY TREATABLE. But no, no such luck. I just have a stupid shitty bladder that refuses to respond to medication and I don't even know how it got this way. Yes, it's sad when you'd consider it lucky to have diabetes. That's how crappy my life has become. I know, lots of people have it a lot worse, but they're better able to deal with it. I can't handle stuff like this, not for long. Another 24 hours straight of this, I would love to just take my entire bottle of pills and sleep. It seems so much easier that way.

Continued yet again on another night. God, this is driving me crazy. I slept okay last night, but had a moderate flare (which I categorize as 5-6oz per hour) late this morning; I assumed that since that happened, I wouldn't have the even more annoying elevated urination all day, and it finally let up and it was so wonderful for approximately two hours. Then it got elevated. Then let up. Then elevated. Then let up. It's been doing that all frigging day. One hour I'll have 1.5oz or under and it's so wonderful and I keep praying and praying it'll stay that way for at least the next couple of weeks since I'm now entering my FOURTH WEEK of this acting up, then the next hour there'll be over 2oz, which doesn't sound like much but drives me crazy. Now even a bout of gushing out fluid for a few hours isn't enough to deter it from still coming out of me the rest of the day! WHERE IS IT ALL COMING FROM?? I drink a lousy 30oz a day and this is the fourth day in a row I've let out significantly more than that; and the ninth day out of ten; I lose track, let me see.

Here are my records since 5/28, when it started to feel like I was losing water weight. Fluid lost? Remember I drink only around 30oz a day, once in a while somewhat more (perhaps around 45oz at most), once in a while a bit less):

5/28--31.5-32oz or more, slight sleep interference
5/29--around 36.5oz, slight sleep interference
5/30--around 34.5-35.5oz, slight sleep interference
5/31--34oz, no acting up
6/1--38oz
6/2--around 29.5oz
6/3--around 48oz, sleep interference
6/4--around or slightly over 30.5oz, no acting up
6/5--around 49oz, sleep interference
6/6--43.5oz
6/7--around 30oz, no acting up
6/8--42oz, slight sleep interference
6/9--over 41.5oz, sleep interference
6/10--around 45.5oz, slight sleep interference
6/11--around 39-39.5oz, sleep interference
6/12--around 49oz, sleep interference
6/13--around 29-29.5oz, no acting up
6/14--around 38.5oz
6/15--54.5oz, sleep interference
6/16--47.5oz, slight sleep interference
6/17--around 52.5oz, slight sleep interference

(Update to the above, I had particularly lousy days 6/26-27 and 6/29-30--ALL FOUR of those days, not just the period between them--that was when I got fed up and started the diuretics.)

Take note I'm only mentioning sleep interference there, on many of those days there were daytime flares in addition which interfered with activity and rest. It's like I'm not allowed to sleep decently at night, nor am I allowed to catch up on rest during the day. Considering how little I drink and how thirsty I get and how much I still let out, and have been letting out for THREE WEEKS now going into the fourth, you see why I'm at the end of my rope?

Picking up later again. It hasn't acted up today (with the exception of a bit last night, I've become resigned to not even going to bed properly, to instead sitting upright and trying to doze for an hour or so until I'm sure it's not acting up and I can properly go to sleep, so I sometimes end up doing this even if it doesn't act up at night), but it's almost midnight and it feels twingey (sic?) a lot, that 48 hours of low-level acting up has made me so sensitive to any little bit that I'm bladder-panicky. I just want it to stay below 2oz, preferably at 1.5oz or less, an hour, for maybe a couple of weeks, just to give me a break from all this. I really do feel thinner. And seriously, isn't three weeks of this enough? How much more can I put out? I'm just so tired of this every damn day. I feel bad just saying that it didn't act up because the moment I do, it's sure to start again. -_- In fact it feels like it now, and it's almost midnight, close to bedtime. *sigh*

We've had a fresh hatch of red squirrels this year again, though I haven't seen any adorable babies like the one which hobbled down the chimney last year (see the 5/13/09 entries); instead there are at least three juveniles, plus various adults. The juveniles are so adorable, I wish they'd stay that small forever. They're also a bit more lenient, less territorial, than the adults. Red squirrels are not social like gray squirrels. You'll see a bunch of gray squirrels hanging about peacefully, but red squirrels can't stand each other; if two approach the same small space, a fight breaks out, with lots of really loud chattering and tussling. Whenever two adults arrive at the side feeder at once, I swear that more seed ends up on the ground than in the feeder. >:/ I've taken to trying to prevent these fights before they start, just to spare the food. The other morning I heard incessant chattering while I was on the computer, and got ready to scare off both squirrels, only to see two juveniles sharing the same dish. Granted, they weren't very happy about it, and kept chattering and feinting and casting each other evil looks the entire time, but they were sharing the food, and that amazed me. Since then they've done it frequently--again, usually borderline unwillingly, but they still share. I'll look out and see them sitting butt-to-butt as if trying to ignore each other, or right side by side like little buddies, and by now they usually don't chew each other out, though there's still tension; one time in between mouthfuls they kept "tackling" each other, one pouncing on the other by splaying its front legs over the other's shoulders and shoving it down into the plate, then backing off, then resuming eating, chattering all the while. But they seem to have grown mostly used to it. I attribute this odd behavior to the fact that they're yet juveniles and haven't grown up into that nasty adult stage. But just this evening, an adult squirrel sat in the feeder chasing off a juvenile which kept trying to poke its head in and ended up sprawled out on the protruding branch, looking like it was sobbing to be let up to eat some food, it looked so sad I chased the adult off and tried to get the juvenile to return. A while later, I returned to see both adult and juvenile seated side by side, eating. Perhaps that adult happens to be the mother, is my theory, so she's(?) willing to put up with the juvenile's presence for a bit, but when everyone is all growed up I expect this companionship to go out the window. Still, it's quite cute to see two little reds seated side by side in the feeder eating peacefully. I'm just so used to them doing nothing but squabble.

Hallowell's Contributions To Ojibwe Studies finally came out in print, something I wasn't expecting until August. I was surprised to see a copy available on my Amazon wishlist and went to investigate. The product page said "Only 1 left in stock--order soon"--there was no parenthetical "more on the way," which they usually have up there when they intend to get more books in stock later, which made me think this would be the only copy available for quite a while--they did the same thing back when I ordered Honoring Elders, got like ONE copy in stock and didn't look like they planned to get more immediately, so I hurried and snatched that up while I could. Anyway, I did the same this time, hurried and snatched it up, and as soon as I did, the description on the page changed to "This title has not yet been released"! How weird! I took that as confirmation that my copy had been the only one they had in stock and intended to have for a while; maybe it was an advance copy or something, I dunno. But the very next day the description had changed yet again to "In stock," which is even weirder, seeing as the release date is still given as August 2010. *shrug* In any event, I only just tonight noticed that much of the contents appear in an older book I got on eBay a while back, Culture & Experience, I had no idea there was such great overlap between the two. But there looks to be a bit of material in the older book which isn't in the newer one, so it isn't a total wash. I had no way of knowing. *shrug* It's like over 600 pages of Ojibwa anthropology! No, I won't get to read it for ages, since I'm going through my Lovecraft phase, but still, it's a nice addition. I love good meaty books.

Continued again the next night. Yesterday's reprieve from all the urinating was just temporary, yet again. -_- It started to act up RIGHT at bedtime, not even an hour or so before, and I couldn't even doze upright waiting for it to pass since my feet kept falling asleep. So I didn't get to sleep until around three. Then another mild flare late in the morning. It's subsided since then, but as of 11PM I've already let out more than I drank yesterday, and there are still two hours to bedtime in which it can choose to act up YET AGAIN, heading well into the fourth week. I'm due to start my period around Monday, I believe. I should be retaining water. I've even started taking Pamprin daily--I used to only take it once or twice AFTER starting, to get rid of back pain--to try to keep myself from putting on water weight just so I won't have to go through a week of letting it out when this time, it's been almost a MONTH so far of me letting it out! (The Pamprin is not the cause of all this peeing. I've only been taking it less than a week. And I never remember it making me feel like I had to pee any more than usual in the past.) I'm getting so desperate I even looked for some heavy-duty diuretics at Wal-Mart because it'd be good to take something and just flush out my entire system all at once, get it the hell over with, but all they had was something with immediate-release pamabrom in it, which is the same thing in Pamprin, just not immediate-release, so I guess I'll stick to the Pamprin. Take note it STILL acted up on the one day in the past week when I DIDN'T take Pamprin...which I guess would be yesterday, Friday.

(You know the updates to all that.)

I'm so tired.

We passed my old high school art teacher in Washington Park today at the crafts show, selling metal stick-figure men with clay flowerpot heads called "Potheads." She didn't remember my name (which is odd, since teachers always seem to remember my name, which is even odder, how can they among all those students?--I never exactly stood out), but did remember who I was. There was the always awkward question "So what have you been doing?" to which I always answer, "Oh, nothing," like I'm doing something, just nothing worth noting, when the truth is, I really AM doing nothing, at least, nothing of any importance. Seriously, people really do not want to ask you, years after they've last seen you, "So what have you been doing?" and hear in return, "Oh, I'm on disability for anxiety, and I have interstitial cystitis, and I still like to write but barely anybody reads it and I'm too chicken to get it published, so I just sit at home alone and sleep and read and cry most days, what are you doing lately?" I'm always so embarrassed when people ask me what I've been doing lately or if I have a job. I'm such a loser. -_- I can sense the disappointment in teachers especially, since for some reason they expected me to become a great artist or writer; I don't know what gave them the idea, since while I could draw pictures decently, I could not make real art, and while I could write, nobody, not even the teachers, was interested in reading it, so why did they expect I would make something great of myself? You have to DO something great to BECOME great. I've always been way too chicken, and face it, not nearly talented enough.

She remembered I'd been interested in Egyptian mythology and asked if I was doing any art. I wonder what had given her an impression I was an artist? I did very well in that class, but again, I was by no means an artist, I was just artistic; there's a difference. I said no, I just write. "Oh," she said, and I sensed that disappointment, then she added, "Well, writing is an art, too!" Which it is, but not nearly the same kind of art I learned in art class. What do I write about? "I'm mainly interested in Ojibwa mythology now, so I write about that a lot," I said, to which she asked if I had any of that in my heritage, to which I replied I might, I might not, who knows, to which my mother said, "She's skeptical"--well, there's no proof, so I won't go claiming ancestry I can't positively say I have. Then came the Other Dreaded Question--"Are you trying to get published?"

I really, really hate that question. (Update, this was the topic of much of the deleted part of the entry. Perhaps another time when I have the energy to rewrite it so it's not a rant aimed at the poor reviewer.) I kept my eyes downcast and shook my head no and there came the expected followup, an incredulous "Why not?"--my college Women's Lit instructor, on meeting me in the market several years back, had exclaimed the same thing, which I found just as odd back then, since she'd never read any of my fiction, only my essays and test answers. Really, just because you can write a journal entry or answer an essay question nicely doesn't mean you can write great, publishable fiction, so why do they expect that I can? Anyway I can't even remember the reason I gave, just hemmed and hawed. The main reasons are so obvious--1. not talented enough; 2. it's all too long; 3. too chicken; 4. hate other people telling me how to fix/redo my work. But that's way too much explanation for somebody really not interested in long explanations, so I just shrugged and shook my head. My mother then said, "She posts it online"--ugh. -_- My teacher wanted to know the URL, which for whatever stupid reason I could not remember! So I had to tell her to Google "manitou island tehuti" and look for the site hosted on Google Sites, which, to somebody not very Net savvy, is a lot to ask, so I have no clue if she'll ever find her way to it. I'm not worried about her not finding it, because chances are almost certain she'll never even go looking; that's why I hate handing out my URL to people IRL, nobody ever wants to look at any of it. Don't say you want to know my site if you're not going to visit it, seriously. I'm more worried that she'll click the wrong link and find this blog or, worse yet, find more info on TAC than is posted on the Google Site! Nobody I know from real life is aware of that side of me, well, except for Psychologist, just a tad. I kept what I posted to the Google Site as tame as possible, but just the words "graphic sexuality" and whatnot make me cringe badly enough. Plus, the other day, out of boredom, I Googled "tehuti_88" and "tehuti88" and came across SO MUCH STUFF I have posted online at various places over the years in various forums that it's just creepy, how easy it is to follow me around the Net. No, I don't regret the stuff I've posted in widely different places, I just regret that Google makes it so easy for somebody to find it ALL in one location. It's really quite creepy.

So I've edited my blog to put in the "Please stop reading if you know me IRL" disclaimer, not that that will stop somebody who's snoopy, but if somebody decides to snoop into something they very well know they might not like, and then gets pissed about it, well, it's nobody's fault but their own. I can say with 100% honesty that if I stumbled upon the detailed personal blog of a relative or somebody I knew from real life, I would have NO interest whatsoever in reading it, and would quickly back out and never return to that page, because I do not WANT to know their innermost thoughts, especially not if they're about me...but that's just me, and I've learned most other people really are that snoopy, and really do get that self-righteously pissed when they read something they don't like. It's like, "Well, what did you expect to find in a personal journal?? Endless praise?" Good Lord, I almost typed "they're own." I must be tired.

My computer tells me this entry is running nigh on 40kb now. I probably had other stuff to say but should really finish this and post it sometime before it becomes even more horribly outdated, so I guess that's enough for now. Tar.


And that is the end of the oudated original entry.

More issues with the annoying raccoons. I think the one that keeps raiding the standing feeder is a nursing mother, for obvious reasons, but maybe not, if she's the same as the one that visits the porch; there's one that's rather small, the size of our cat, and its fur is just so gorgeously groomed that it looks just like a little pet. Like I should put a collar on it and lug it inside to play with it. "Please come snuggles with Mama!" like in the commercial with the nearsighted lady calling her cat. The other night both it and a skunk were on the porch at once; when the skunk attempted climbing up a step, its body was set so low to the ground it actually got hung up on it and had to struggle its way up. It stopped just a few inches behind the eating raccoon. Then the raccoon decided it wanted to turn around, and that of course brought it face-to-face with the skunk. The skunk bared its teeth and raised its tail but fortunately it was just a warning, the raccoon understood and hurried down the steps while the skunk slipped into the bush and vanished. Tense moment there. I know that if the skunk sprayed on our porch, I would be the one blamed for it.

Yesterday after putting food in the standing feeder I passed it and noticed the food seemed oddly low despite there being no squirrels all day, and that perplexed me, was a chipmunk making off with it all? When I looked again shortly after, there was the culprit, a tiny chipmunk shoveling food into its cheeks. "I KNEW IT!!" I yelled, and flung open the window with a shout of "You little--!" but before I could get the words out, the chipmunk had done a startled somersault off the tray and plummeted to the plants below. It was so funny it made it all worth it. Unfortunately none of them were nearly as startled afterwards, annoying little boogers.

And I've noticed the grosbeaks starting to return, frigging gargantuan glorified finches. >:/

I'm trying to collect most of Chaosium's "Call Of Cthulhu Fiction" books, but it's rather difficult, seeing as most are out of print and there are so many. Plus a few have gone through more than one edition so it was complicated telling if I was getting an edition that was fully updated or not. I bought Cthulhu's Dark Cults straight through Chaosium's site as they take PayPal (or Innsmouth gold!--well, they say you can pay with that) and I thought Amazon wasn't going to get it in stock, but ugh, right after I did, they did, and I really do not want to buy straight through Chaosium again if I can help it, they seriously gouge you on shipping. Honestly. Before I signed up, I put the book in my cart and when they thought I was located in California, I think, by default, S&H was like $6. That was pricey, but tolerable. Then I signed up and told them I was in Michigan and S&H went to over $10! WTF?? Why does it cost more to ship to Michigan than to California?? And there's no WAY in hell one little book costs over $10 to ship! That's over half the price of the book itself! I balked, but resigned myself since I thought Amazon wouldn't get it in. Then of course, when the book arrived, I look at the label and see that Chaosium only paid somewhat over $4 for shipping. Talk about a ripoff! I know they're struggling for money, but they could at least just tack that extra $6 onto the price of the book, rather than gouging you on shipping. Anyway, I'll try to get things through Amazon whenever possible, now.

I was really interested in The Xothic Legend Cycle but there were two printings about ten years apart, and the newer edition, the one I'd prefer, has a starting price of around $70. Ugh. (It's OOP, BTW.) So I asked at the Temple Of Dagon forum if there was a difference in the two printings. No response. Then I found the Yog-Sothoth forums and tried there. I wasn't expecting an answer since who would be so anal as to know something like that? But I immediately got replies not only informing me that the two printings were likely the same in content (so the cheaper, earlier printing is probably just as good), but also giving me a complete listing of the books in the series (turns out I had already compiled them all, but hadn't been aware of it since new editions are assigned new item numbers, thus making it look like there are more books than there really are). The people on the Yog-Sothoth forum were so very helpful! I never did get a reply at the Temple Of Dagon. I also learned what became of a book that was supposed to be in the series but was dropped and published by another company, and various other details. So I think I know where I'll ask such questions in the future. Ia! Yog-Sothoth!

Unfortunately, the first copy of Xothic Legend I tried to buy "couldn't be found" by the seller (grrrrr), so I had to try again. UGH. With my luck I'll just get the same result. I bought a used Disciples Of Cthulhu II back on 6/9 but it never arrived so, noticing that Amazon had acquired a few copies, I bought one of those and asked the seller for a refund since the book was obviously lost in the mail. Haven't heard back yet. I'll give them the benefit of the doubt of the holiday weekend before trying again. I'd hate to have to file a complaint through Amazon. I wouldn't have these problems if Chaosium would just keep their books in print. I know, it's the economy, but still.

I'm currently reading Tales Of The Lovecraft Mythos, still working my way through the Del Rey editions. I'm enjoying these stories very much. Most of them, anyway. I've read nothing but praise for Zelazny's "24 Views Of Mt. Fuji, By Hokusai," but I thought it was dreadfully dull, vague, and not Mythos at all, myself. (Oh look! He shoehorned in a mention of the Deep Ones! Big whoop. What's this story doing in this collection?? And I know it's in a more formal setting but the dialogue is just atrocious.) And I didn't really care for the Neil Gaiman story I read, either (oh look, a werewolf in Innsmouth, how quaint), though I know people love Neil Gaiman and I thought I would too. Go figure. It always seems like the more famous and beloved a writer is, the more I can't stand their work. I adore the more pastichey-type works, which I know other Lovecraft fans loathe. I can't help it, I find pastiche (the mimicking kind, not the mocking kind) fun. I know for sure the two stories I have posted are nothing but pastiche; I would never write something like "Curse it, Officer!" in my normal stories. Despite that, I just can't bring myself to write a serious story which ends with the narrator writing something like "My God! It's at the door! It's broken in! It has my leg and is dragging me away! Can't--write--more..." because honestly, if some monster is dragging you away, are you going to be hanging on struggling to write the last sentence?

We're receiving a Spam call about credit--"We've tried contacting you numerous times and this WILL be our last attempt." Awwww! How can you say that when you don't mean it? Lying sacks of crap.

I'm consuming so much pudding and applesauce lately just to stave off the thirst, *sigh.* When I came into the room the other day with my third and fourth container of applesauce my mother expressed consternation, then said, "Well, at least you're taking in fluids." With how dreadfully hot it is, I sometimes feel like eating nothing BUT applesauce. I think I would get sick, though. I really wish this stupid bladder would get fixed. I would love drinking those shakes for breakfast rather than eating crackers or chips because I have no energy to make something real to eat. -_-

ZOMG BIG HORNETLIKE THING LANDED ON THE MONITOR.

I think I've run out of things to say, which is probably for the best. Now to see if I can get this to post; as I already mentioned, I was kicked off THREE F**KING TIMES this morning alone.

Tar...

 

Around 1:45PM today as I sat on the couch reading I started to notice a tiny tap-tap-tapping noise coming from near the TV; it sounded like the noise the cat makes when washing himself, so I looked back, but he wasn't there. The noise seemed to emanate from the closed cabinet along the wall. Puzzled, I got up to go listen to it, and tapped it once or twice; it was like a death watch beetle was in there or something. Then I heard a similar noise coming from the dining room and went out to look. A glass ornament with a bluebird on it, hanging from the window, was gently tapping against the glass, and the rod to close the blinds was swaying too, as if some heavy traffic had just gone by, but aside from this all was still. Odd.

I listened carefully but there were no large trucks in the area, which often make the house shake when they pass. No traffic at all. The tiny movements kept up for about a minute or so; I at last pressed my finger to the ornament to stop its movements, and it did so.

"I wonder if we had an earth tremor," I mused aloud, not daring to glorify the tiny movements with the title "earthquake"; I turned on the TV and briefly searched the channels, but had no idea where to look, so gave up and returned to reading since I had a phone call to wait for and an appointment later on. I did take note of the time, as I often do when, say, I hear something that sounds like a gunshot but is likely just a car backfiring, in case police should happen along and ask what time we heard the shots. (Too much Law & Order.)

In the urologist's waiting room, I said to Ma, "I think we had an earth tremor today," and described what had happened. Then when I was in with the nurse for my procedure, she said, "I heard they had an earthquake in Canada." That's all I let her get out, for I clapped a hand to my head and cried, "Oh my God, I think I felt it!"

Or rather our house did, since I can't honestly claim I felt anything, but I sure heard something. Ma arrived home tonight and said her boss claimed she'd felt it and thought she was going crazy. The thought had briefly crossed my mind, too.

I logged on tonight and browsed Yahoo!'s main page for the local news; wonder of wonders, our usually useless and typo-ridden local paper carried a tiny article.

Ontario quake shakes the Straits

By Staff reports
Cheboygan Daily Tribune
Posted Jun 23, 2010 @ 02:33 PM

Cheboygan, Mich. — That rumbling felt around the Straits Area just after lunchtime Wednesday wasn't thunder, or a really large truck.

The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation reported a 5.5-magnitude earthquake hit Ontario at 1:40 p.m. Wednesday. Tribune readers reported gentle tremors in Cheboygan, Black Lake and several other spots around the Tip of the Mitt. Similar reports came from around the state, as far south as Detroit.

"Earthquakes across eastern Canada are definitely rare but we do have them," said Johanna Wagstaffe, a CBC seismologist and meteorologist. "There are small fault lines along Lake Erie and Lake Ontario. There is a relatively active fault line that runs parallel to the St. Lawrence Valley. It's about 1,000 kilometres long." The last major earthquake we saw on that fault line was a 5.4 magnitude earthquake in 1998, she said.

Copyright 2010 Cheboygan Daily Tribune. Some rights reserved

http://www.cheboygannews.com/news/x383301146/Ontario-quake-shakes-the-Straits

So this is my first ever firsthand experience with a real live earthquake. Interesting.

 

Typed up over the past week. I've been disconnected twice so far this morning.


Sorry for the belatedness, but the Internet connection just gets worse and worse so all I ever feel like doing is hurrying up and getting through my eBay searches (which, on a GOOD day, takes a little over an hour) and my Amazon and whatnot and then logging off before I get too hysterical. God, it just makes me so mad. I'll connect without any trouble and then promptly get disconnected, I'll try to reconnect and fail or else get a busy signal (???--it's not the phone line, that's clear, so it must be the ISP, not that they'll own up to it!), I'll connect at an atrocious speed, it'll make horrific noises while trying (and failing) to connect like there's something wrong with the line, I'll successfully connect at even a really fast speed and it will move like molasses, etc. etc. etc. Even on days when I'll connect just fine and go an hour or so just fine, it can just bam, disconnect me for no reason whatsoever, and it's been doing it frequently. So I'm very pissed off by this, because it's the exact same as last summer, only even worse, and I fail to understand why an ISP will act so atrociously during the summer months and they can't even admit they're having problems. And I just got an Amazon order on an OOP book cancelled because it wasn't in stock even though IT WAS LISTED AS IN STOCK ON AT LEAST TWO DIFFERENT SITES. I realize such things happen but UGH would sellers stop being so frigging lazy and update their listings?? Took them two days to tell me they don't have the book. At least be prompt. Jackasses.

And my bladder (or more like the urine) has been flaring so that and that and this all together just UGH UGH UGH!!

Speaking of, I never described how the first Elmiron instill treatment went. It went. That's pretty much all to say. It was a nurse who performed it, not the urologist--big surprise that he doesn't do yet another procedure, but I preferred a nurse since they actually treat you like you have a brain and feelings. I got in there in decent time, but she wanted the doctor to check my urine sample, and go figure he was being chatty with some other people so I had to wait on this table thingie half-covered with a sheet for like fifteen minutes until she could make sure I didn't have an infection or something. We asked and answered a few questions for each other and she even attempted some smalltalk. (I'm not averse to listening to other people's smalltalk, I just rarely have anything of my own to contribute--with smalltalk I'm more of a listener than a contributor--so I often feel people will think I'm not interested or don't want them to talk when in fact I don't mind.) She said that the goal is to hold the medicine in the bladder for at least a half hour, though some people can't handle it that long because of the irritation, so if I couldn't make it a half hour, "It's not the end of the world." The urologist had warned the same thing, so I had this fear that the procedure, the Elmiron being directly in the bladder, might irritate it even worse, so I was quite anxious about this. She explained that she'd chosen the smallest catheter she could find since I've never had this done before, and took my pill (I had to bring my own) and mixed it with saline solution and lidocaine, I believe, to make the pain tolerable; she said the procedure shouldn't even take ten minutes, which was good, so she first used the lidocaine or whatever and then put in the stuff. It was over with fast, at least, and there was no pain because of the lidocaine being put in the bladder, but there was great discomfort when the catheter was inserted, and that makes me unhappy. My mother told me it does NOT feel like you have to pee with a catheter, it's just awkward, but I guess her idea of "discomfort" is different from mine, because it REALLY feels like I have to pee whenever something presses on the urethra and that includes inserting a catheter. I was willing to put up with catheters the rest of my life, if need be, as long as I don't always feel like I have to pee, but after this procedure, and knowing what they feel like at last, that option seems out, I would be in pure misery all the time. So I really hope so much that either this procedure or augmentation surgery works.

Went home. I managed to hold the medication in not just a half hour, but slightly over an hour, and that short a time only because by then the lidocaine had started to wear off at last and it felt like I had to pee a lot more than I really had to, like after the cystoscopy only not nearly as bad. When I went, it again bled and burned like crazy, but again, not so bad as before, presumably because the catheter was much smaller than the scope.

Hold on, must scare off a raccoon.

Okay, back. More on them later. Anyway, the irritation didn't last nearly as long as with the cystoscopy either, which was a relief...and the putting of the Elmiron directly into the bladder didn't irritate it any either. I was rather puzzled since they'd made it seem like it would be very irritating when in fact it felt no different from having anything else in my bladder. Almost two weeks later, I feel no difference at all. No worsening, thank goodness, but also no improvement. I realize one shouldn't expect real improvement with just one treatment, but I'm only scheduled for four of them, and there's just no change whatsoever at all, so I don't see how or why it works. The urine is flaring up at the moment (it seems to prefer flaring just after I get to bed but lately the flares have been moderately mild so I've slept through the bulk of them and/or gotten back to sleep quickly, but last night it acted up badly enough to keep me awake until around three again) so, like doing the 32oz test, I sat and tried to hold it as long as I could and ended up letting out 4.5oz--I could have held a tad more but it was already terribly stressful, I hurried from the room and the Cozbug insisted on getting right in front of me so I picked him up bodily and set him aside, why must cats always do that??--so that just shows there is no improvement yet since that's as much as I've held before. 3-4oz tends to awaken me from sleep; I haven't had another 6oz success recently like I had a couple of times in the past. So I don't know what to say or think. I want to hope for this to work, but nothing else ever has. I have never gotten any significant, lasting benefit from ANY prescription drug in my life. I keep hoping I will, but I never do. Antidepressants just make me apathetic and fat. Not exactly my idea of being better. All my life I've been so hopeful of SOME medication doing something wonderful for me, but nothing ever has, so even when Psychologist urges me to try something like Wellbutrin so I don't stress so much, all I can do is nudge the suggestion aside. I don't want to rule such things out, since I'd love a drug that makes me feel better, but none of them ever have, and in fact they usually just make me worse (I'm seriously wondering if it was the Lexapro that made me get this interstitial cystitis??), so of course by now I'm jaded.

I have the second treatment this upcoming week. *sigh* I wonder why they wait two weeks between treatments when I notice no improvement or even irritation at all? The nurse said some people have the procedure done every week or twice a week, some do it every two weeks like mine, it depends on how much irritation there is, but when there's no irritation at all, what is to stop one from having it done more frequently? The better to more quickly heal the ulcer or whatever? I'm just so impatient to be better. IF that can even happen.

The raccoons have become so bothersome, ugh. There are at least two, possibly siblings since they tend to show up together. They hang out below the porch, under the standing feeder in the yard or on the sidewalk near it, eating up stray seed, or else raid the standing feeder near the dining room window. I am constantly shooing them away from the latter at night; I'll shine out the light and see either little flying squirrels darting about, in which case I withdraw as unobtrusively as I can, or else a fat startled raccoon staring back in at me, in which case I angrily get rid of it. But they're losing their fear of me, if they ever even had it. Their hurried climbs back down the feeder made it tilt dangerously so Dad pushed it around so the projecting "branch" under the plate is braced against the chimney; the other night when I flicked on the light, a raccoon was reclining upon this branch with its head in the feeder as if it were Cleopatra eating grapes! Damn things! When I just shooed it away again moments ago, it actually stood there staring at me and reaching again for the seed as if hoping I would just go away--I had to knock on the window repeatedly and at last open it to shoo it away. UGH!

Continued the next day. Some nights ago I kept alternating between shooing one away from this feeder and from the porch (the porch is pretty much a lost cause by now); when I saw one down by the bushes, I opened the door and yelled and swung the broom and it crept out of sight so I waited a moment, as I suspect they do. I thought I saw something in the bush itself and drew back fearfully, then swung at the bush and hit it again a few times, and then this raccoon just came strolling around it and into the yard as if it owned the place!! Totally unafraid! I shooed at it and saw something go scurrying away but that really freaked me out that they're so cavalier. Then, I returned to the standing feeder near the window. I got it in my head to make them nervous since they make me so nervous. Every time I shined the light out I'd startle this raccoon either in the tray or making its way up toward the tray. Kitty watched. At one point I turned on the light to find the raccoon halfway up the pole, and he then crept his way back down and vanished. Ten or fifteen minutes later I tried again and there was this masked face just peering over the feeding tray, and it slowly sank down out of sight. That made me laugh. Several nights later, after logging off, I went out to stand on the front porch and cry and huff a little because of the stupid Internet, and I just stared and listened to the wind gusting in the leaves for a while since it was nice out and I found that soothing. (I really would like a nice CD featuring merely the sound of wind in leaves, with maybe crickets in the background, but mainly just wind in leaves. No goofy New Age music or birds chirping or anything. Just wind in leaves. Any recording companies out there willing?) I shut my eyes and imagined that it was completely dark (since it was still dim out, being not quite ten o'clock), and thought of when I'd done similar on Mackinac Island, imagining the shushing leaves were Lake Algonquin. Then when I lowered my head and opened my eyes I just happened to glimpse a shape sneaking from the direction of the highway and into our yard. Its hind legs were longer than its front ones and it just kind of ambled along in this really furtive, sneaky manner. "I SEE YOU!!" I yelled at it, and it hastened (though quite nonchalantly) down the driveway and out of my sight. I grabbed the broom and went down the steps and after it in my bare feet, which was hard as the driveway is gravel, but I hung back somewhat since I thought it might jump out and bite me. I caught sight of it turning the corner of the house toward Dad's vehicle. "You BETTER not go to the feeder!" I snapped after it. I started in the same direction, but going between the house and Dad's vehicle unnerved me too much, since it was such a narrow space and it could be hiding under the SUV, so I went the other way, between the vehicle and the garage, because even though it could be hiding in the garage, the space was bigger and more open and I could better keep watch of both sides. Jeez, I sound like I have PTSD or something. Anyway I peered under the vehicle, and swung the broom at the garage, but there was nothing there, and when I went into the short driveway to look around the corner toward the standing feeder, I saw nothing there either, so it must have gone off some other way, or else passed back through the yard ahead of me. I threatened it again before turning and hastening back to the front porch since Criminal Intent was about to start and it just scared the bejesus out of me being out in the dark like that. I thought it might have circled back to the front porch and could even now be waiting for me, but the porch was clear (I struck the bush and the bamboo with the broom just to make sure), so I darted back inside and locked the door. Then missed perhaps a good ten minutes toward the end of my show as I grew preoccupied trying to figure out what this moving shape was outside the window below the feeder, when in fact I believe it was just leaves. Ugh, so annoying. They gobble up so much food and what they don't gobble, they tend to spill as they hurry out of the feeder, and it's such a waste. Plus there are the frigging chipmunks to contend with, and they're basically tiny but efficient vacuum cleaners with fur. Plus the red squirrels are getting more voracious and I actually found one on the yard feeder this morning!! That thing is supposed to be squirrel proof, it has a baffle and everything!! I mean, yes, I did find a black squirrel on it once, but just once, and I figured it was a fluke, but today there was a red squirrel and it should be even harder for them to get up it! I hoped again it was a fluke since that feeder has been there for like two years now and this is only the second time a squirrel has been on it, but when I got to the porch to put out more food, I found him on the pole, reaching for the baffle, trying to climb up again!! The little turd! I haven't seen one on it since but they've been squabbling at the other feeder (when they squabble, they spill food, the little...well, turds) and gobbling stuff from the porch which I intended for the sparrows so...again, UGH. Too many frigging hungry mouths around this place! I barely see the chickadees lately, I wish I knew where they've gone, and the sparrows have grown shy too. I have more than enough squirrels.

Oh my goodness, as I type this there's a red squirrel eating in the nearby feeder and he's soaking wet! His fur is sticking out every which way! Poor little bedraggled thing.

Ma and I have gone to eat at the casino in St. Ignace a couple of times lately, as they have an excellent buffet, and yesterday (Thursday) her mother accompanied us. I do not care for casinos as, as I told my grandmother, I'm immune to gambling. I just don't see the point or allure. Not only is it dreadfully boring, but my philosophy is, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, or a dollar in the hand is worth two in the slot machine, or, as I say it without metaphors, "I'd rather use the money I already have to buy something, like a book, than spend it on the SLIGHT POSSIBILITY of getting MORE money!" Seriously. If I have $20, I'm going to buy a book with it, not put it in a machine and hope I get back $50 when chances are I'll spend an hour getting back maybe $5, if anything. Stupid.

So while they gambled (just so Ma could get back the fare she'd spent getting across the bridge, seriously, it's just $7 total, is it REALLY worth it?--still, since she goes there so much she gets comped on pretty much everything, including our lunch), I was far more interested in examining the fountain cascading down the wall, or the numerous cameras set in the ceiling, or the security guard wandering about and then opening a machine and giving some people their winnings, or the way wooden poles had been carved and "bound" around a supporting pillar to look like a bunch of reeds. Even the flashing lights and noises get tiresome eventually. There will be like five machines in a row, each with completely different names and themes, but the games on them are basically the same, just that one is Egyptian while one is Wild West and one is an Aztec temple or something, so I decry the lack of originality there. And I fail to see why in the hierarchy of fictional prizes on the Aztec machine, the big ruby is valued as much more than the golden statue, it seriously seems it should be the other way around.

The lobby of the casino, on the other hand, is gorgeous. It has a very, very high vaulted ceiling with wooden crossbars and such which I believe is meant to mimic the interior of a longhouse or some such, while there's a huge window and seating area overlooking the lake, and set in the floor is a giant mosaic of variously colored mica in the design of Michigan and the Great Lakes, and situated over the Straits area is a silhouette of the Great Turtle. Surrounding the whole is a design of Ojibwa-style flowers. I never tire of going to stand on and look at this. The lighter mica making up the Great Lakes glimmers blue in places when the light hits it right. The area where I live is covered up by the Great Turtle's long tail. While my mother and grandmother gambled a bit more as they hadn't quite covered the bridge fare yet, I returned to look down at this and an older man saw me and approached, asking, "Do you know what that is?"

I nodded and pointed at the turtle. "The Great Turtle."

I don't know if he heard me, for he said, "The Great Lakes," and gestured at the mica design. "That's how Mackinac Island got its name, did you know that--?" he started to say, pointing at the turtle himself, but I was already nodding. "You know all this already?" he added, and I said yes, because I found it rather funny that this guy was telling me this as if it were new, which to most people it would be, whereas it's something I'm not only intensely interested in but have been reading about for years. Go figure he'd pick the probably one person in the place who's read as much on it as I have.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said as he turned to walk away, and I said, yes, the colors of the rock were lovely. I hoped I didn't give him the impression of "Good Lord, why are you talking to me??--do I look like I want to chatter about a stupid mosaic?" My vehement nodding might have made it look like such, like I was trying to get rid of him, and that saddens me, that something that indicates an acute interest in chattering about something could be mistaken for a brushoff. I just don't know how to communicate with people properly. I know, he probably wandered off merely because that was the extent of what he had to say, but still, that's the kind of situation I always dream of happening, somebody "in the know" approaching me and opening up a conversation I really COULD participate in. You have to admit, the overwhelming majority of people really don't want to make smalltalk about Great Turtles and whatnot.

Today as I sat huddled on the couch (since it's again cold and wet outside, so much for the nice weather) and got to thinking about how lonely I am, I again got to thinking about the impressions people make on each other. I'm always thinking about people who've made impressions on me, however tiny, and wondering if I've made any on anyone else, though I have little reason to believe I have. I've realized that I don't remember people by their faces or names, as evidenced by the sheer number of people who cross me in public and say, "Hi, Rachel!" and I have no idea who the hell they are, even if I happen to glance at their face or they tell me their name. It's embarrassing. Half the people, surely old classmates, who have friended me on Facebook, including the few who bother to say, "Hi, Rach!", I have no idea who they are, or, if I know them only by name, I wonder why they've even friended me or how they even know me because we never shared even one word in school together. Seriously. They're mostly people I never, ever once talked to so I find myself wondering, how the heck do they know me? Is it just the same and they know me only by name? I'm the kind of person who sees no point in friending somebody if you know them only by name, so that might be the total of it there, I'm just weird that way and am putting way too much thought into something that's a null point. But it still puzzles me. I know Oprah Winfrey by name but I'm not going to go friending her like we're buddies. Ditto with my entire graduating class.

Anyway, though, as I said, I don't remember people by faces or names. I remember people by their actions. If somebody were to come up to me and say, "Hi, Rach, it's Chris, remember me?" I'll probably be like, "Er, no" (though I'll be too embarrassed to say it aloud, my lack of reply gives me away), but if he were to say, "I'm the one who left those weird notes in your textbook in literature class, remember?" I would be like, "Oh, NOW I remember you!" I associate names and faces with people, for the most part, only AFTER they've done something that makes them memorable to me as an individual. This probably comes from me putting so much emphasis on people meaning what they say, why I get so angry when people promise to do things and then don't. Despite being a writer I put a lot more stress on actions over words. Anybody can say, "Hi, remember me?" but few people can actually do something worth remembering. I don't look at faces, and names mean little to me without anything to go along with them, so until somebody does something memorable, they're just a faceless name to me. When you get as little out of life as I do, however, somebody else doesn't have to do something monumental to be remembered. I often remember people because of the tiniest things that they've probably long forgotten by now.

Seeing how almost all the people I really knew in real life have let me down over the years, I find it's easier to place faith in the people I know I have little chance, if any, of ever meeting again. Somebody can't let you down if you'll never see them again, if the total of your interactions with them are limited to just one point in time. I had the idea once, actually, to write imaginary letters to my old, long-lost friend Mya, because I valued our childhood friendship, I was lonely and wanted to chatter with somebody over old times, and I figured I stood little chance of ever meeting her again. Then lo and behold, she contacts me on Facebook and proves she no longer gives a crap about me, so that pretty much ruins those good memories. Most of the people I was once friends with have done this by now so I have few good memories left that aren't tainted by the fear that my friendship never meant much to these people at all. Seriously, if somebody's friendship meant as much to me as these people's did, I would not forget or brush them off so easily as they've done to me, so that rather tells me I didn't make nearly as much of a lasting impression on them as they did on me, and that hurts. It makes me wonder if we were ever really friends at all, since IMO, real friends don't just forget each other that way. They always leave SOME kind of permanent impression.

It seems the only people I can rely on never to let me down as all my friends have are those I met only once, briefly, and of course, I have no way of knowing if the impression they made on me went both ways. I often find myself wondering about these people who probably don't even remember me. The turtle girl is the one I think about the most. I wonder, what became of that little girl I befriended and played with for one afternoon out at the Black Lake campground, who I helped catch a snapping turtle in a net, which we then proudly paraded around? Does she remember me or ever think of me? What became of the man who, as I stood crying outside Wal-Mart following an argument with my mother, stopped long enough to murmur to me, "God loves you"? What became of the EMT-in-training from Dearborn who took my vital signs in Big Boy? What of the man talking to his friend about Glacial Lake Algonquin on my trip to Mackinac Island? What of the man who asked me about the Great Turtle in the casino lobby? Do any of these people remember me the way I remember them, do they ever wonder what became of that girl who helped them catch the turtle, who was crying outside Wal-Mart, who passed out in the restaurant, who knew about the glacial lake, who was standing looking down at the mosaic? Did I make a lasting impression on them as they made on me, or was I barely a temporary blip they've already forgotten? Do they sometimes wonder if I'm still out there and how I'm doing, or even who I am or what I'm like, what led up to the situations they met me in? Do they ever wonder if there's a way we could get in touch somehow, or would they even want to?

Once a long while back, I stupidly tried Googling such phrases as "black lake," "campground," and "snapping turtle" all at once in the dim hopes of finding, say, a blog entry posted by the girl who caught the snapping turtle while childhood camping with her family at Black Lake, to see if maybe she remembers me and wonders what became of that other girl. Of course, I found nothing. I wondered if the EMT-in-training had, perhaps, Twittered or Facebooked something about the girl whose vital signs he took in Big Boy, though I honestly have no way of knowing. And why would any of these people find these incidents to be worth remembering or commenting on? They all probably have much fuller lives than I do, so such incidents should be quite small and unimportant in the bigger scheme of things, but my life is quite small and unimportant, so I notice such small things, and have a lot of time in which to think about them. When you have very little in your life, of course you notice small things, and they seem much bigger than they seem to other people with bigger lives. (Hence why a failure to connect to the Internet will make most people grumble in irritation, whereas it'll make me scream and cry and will ruin the rest of my night and will lead to me dwelling on every other letdown in my entire life.) When your life is small, everything is magnified. Great importance is attached to things that most people would dismiss as trivial. Thus you're seen as histrionic, overly dramatic, making mountains out of molehills, but when your existence and importance is the size of a mole, can you really be faulted for seeing a molehill as anything lesser than a mountain?

Hence why my wondering over the impression I've made on people I've known for all of a few minutes, or an hour or so at most, strikes me as silly, a bunch of futile fantasizing about my (lack of) importance in others' lives. Why SHOULD any of these people think of or remember me by my actions? People who've known me for far longer forget about me pretty fast. I, however, remember them. And do keep hoping that somewhere out there there's somebody who, even though (especially though) they're no longer in touch with me, thinks about me and wonders who and how I am. I want somebody to remember me for what I've done. If it's somebody I'm in no way in touch with, then their interest in me is all the more sincere, since I'm not there to nag and nag and nag at them to think about me, the way I feel like I do with the people I am occasionally in touch with. I want people to think about me because they want to, not because I guilt them into it. Unfortunately, all I have to do is send a note saying, "Hi, I hope you're doing okay" and I feel like I've overdone it since of course I do that when I haven't heard from somebody in ages and I'm worrying that they've forgotten about me and that's the politest way to ask if that's so. I'm terribly manipulative, and I hate that I'm that way, but I know no other way to keep in touch with people. Probably why I never manage to stay in touch with people. People really don't like staying in touch if they get the feeling you're trying to guilt them into doing so. It just seems easier, even if lonelier, to simply keep to myself rather than try to be friends with people when all I ever feel is that I'm annoying them. That's it, what I'm trying to say in all these words. Just being friends with people feels like I'm being manipulative, since I feel that my presence and need for friendship is burdensome (and has been proven so by countless people in the past, if their silence and/or angry outbursts are any indication). I don't know how to be friends without being annoying, since every single thing about me is annoying, so I never have any clue what to do. Like nodding vehemently at the man in the casino lobby, hoping he'll take it as a sign of interest, fearing he's just taken it as a sign of irritation. I can't read people because I fear they can't read me.

Continued several days later. I can't even remember what I've already typed up. I have to confess, I set Hodgson aside because I want to read Lovecraftian fiction so much, so now I'm reading Tales Of The Cthulhu Mythos and skipping any stories written by Lovecraft himself because I've read them before and intend to read them at some point in the future, it's time to see the stuff I haven't read yet. I think I now have all the Del Rey trade paperback editions of these works. Chaosium has an awful lot of books out though, many of them out of print and rather pricey, so that will take me quite a while. Right now I'm reading "The Shadow From The Steeple" by Robert Bloch, which was written as a followup to Lovecraft's "The Haunter Of The Dark," which was written as a followup to Bloch's "The Shambler From The Stars." Recall how I mentioned before how these writers formed a sort of "circle" (called the Lovecraft Circle, in this case) of people who corresponded regularly and swapped and used each other's characters and even wrote fictional versions of each other in their stories (both Lovecraft and Bloch in effect killed each other off in their respective stories). I never knew before recently just how much Lovecraft borrowed from these people he was in touch with. I haven't read much about Lovecraft's personal life, and feel I should refrain from doing so, for learning a lot about him as a person might spoil some of the enjoyment (I know he was incredibly racist, for one thing), so what I do know about him could be flawed; from what I've read here and there, though, he wasn't terribly social, but had this incredible network of friends he kept in touch with through the mail--he wrote thousands of letters--and I envy that so much. I read that only four people attended his funeral--I'm guessing relatives--but I believe this was because his friends didn't know about his illness so didn't have time to gather for something so sudden. One member of the circle, Bloch perhaps, maybe someone else, said something like, "After he died it kind of took the fun out of the whole thing," and went on to writing other types of stories. Bloch later became famous for Psycho, I believe.

So even though he obviously had a lot of friends and influence while alive, it looks like most of Lovecraft's popularity was achieved after he died. Witness Chaosium alone, for one thing.

That would be a dream come true, to be part of a "circle" devoted not to PUBLISH PUBLISH PUBLISH but just corresponding, sharing characters and stories and having fun. Most of the Lovecraft fiction I've read isn't high art but I get the sense the writers had lots of fun writing it and being part of that circle. It hasn't happened for me though, and not for a lack of trying. I guess my work just isn't captivating enough. By now I'm surprised when I can interest one person in reading more than one story of mine, much less in keeping anyone interested long term, at which I always fail. At least, if anyone does show more interest, they aren't that interested in keeping in touch--face it, how many people want to really correspond with somebody just because they enjoy their work? People would rather read and say nothing nowadays, if that. Even I've become this way, but not out of unwillingness to communicate--just out of being bitten too many times. I adored the early Egyptian work of that one girl online, but we lost touch, and by the time I tried to get back in touch, she was so busy she and her girlfriend both chewed me out (I kid you not, her GF butted in where she was totally ignorant of the situation, tore me a new one, and the girl I'd been writing to did nothing to clear things up or tell her it was none of her business, really mature to sic your significant other on somebody who was just trying to be friends!) for presuming to think I was so important as to be kept in touch with, so that really put a damper on me trying again. And that was one of the few times people bothered to reply, usually they don't. By now whenever I come across somebody's work and I really like it, I don't even bother contacting them, I just remind myself of the times I tried and tell myself to move on. So no circle is formed. A circle implies they'd have to be interested in my work in return anyway, which they usually aren't.

By now I've become almost too leery of talking about my work with anyone anyway, no matter how willing they seem, because it always seems to be the people who appear most interested in my work who lose interest the fastest. I can't count how many times somebody has contacted me and they were so effusive in their praise and interest, I could tell from their comments that they'd really read indepth, and it felt so good and I loved replying to them, but now I feel I have to make a point not to talk about my writing to anyone for fear of boring them off, even if they bring it up first. None of those effusive people stayed in touch more than a few e-mails. In fact almost every one of them, the last thing I heard was, "I'll write back soon, I can't wait to hear from you again!"...and that was it. I guess they could wait. Enough times of that happening and you kind of take the hint. Lovecraft must have gotten that now and again but he sure didn't get it EVERY time. It looks like he cultivated lots of literary friendships. Don't people do that anymore? Or is everyone too busy with themselves? All somebody on WDC has to do is become a moderator to forget I exist so I know I would never be in touch with anyone published. Not that I care about that--people not seeking publication are easier for me to chatter with--but just to be in a circle of likeminded people who are interested in me and I'm interested in them, and we play with each other's work, would be such fun. I wonder if anyone does that anymore or if you have to be famous for it to happen. Anyway, chattering about my work seems to be the common denominator in losing touch with people, so it's better not to do it, though that too puts a damper on communication since that's what I like to chatter about most.

All I can do is think that maybe when I'm dead, somebody will discover my work, and people will enjoy it then and make their own circle, maybe. All the easier since I'm not getting published so copyright wouldn't be as big a problem. The thing is, even Lovecraft was noticed in his time. I haven't really been noticed yet; who is there to notice me once I'm gone? I'm not exactly trumpeting my work anymore; gave that up long ago. Nobody seems to stumble upon things by chance anymore so I can't imagine anyone finding my work and making enough of a to-do about it that people finally notice. I've been posting it online for a decade now without luck, why should my death help matters? So...it was nice to hope that maybe once I'm gone, I'll at last be noticed, but that puts a damper on that hope. A decade without finding a lasting audience. I know my grammar and I know how to string a plot together but it can't be that wonderful after all. That's understandable, but I don't understand why people who write so much lousier, and who are so much more ungrateful to their readers, DO get all the attention they could hope for.

I've become so used to keeping my mouth shut that even if I did get the audience I've longed for, by now I have no idea what to say to them. Every time I got my hopes up in the past they were shattered, so what's the difference now? All those other people who said they loved my work and they hoped to hear from me sounded sincere, but apparently weren't, or at least my work wasn't as captivating as they said it was.

*Two people who were in semi-regular correspondence with me and even started fanfics of my work, both disappeared and ignored me when they did briefly show up again.

*Two people who read and enjoyed my work and even drew art for it, one vanished without a trace, the other is the girl mentioned above who pretty much told me she was too busy and I am of no importance to her anymore and was stupid for thinking I was (that after she clearly promised to reply to me, then publicly posted to her journal that she was so lonely and bored, wouldn't people please mail her?).

*One guy who said my work "changed his life," even linking to it on his MySpace, and who wrote out a detailed "dream" he'd had about it (in reality probably a disguised fanfic), last I heard gave me a vague promise to reply and then never did. I believe he long ago removed the link, so much for changing his life.

*Another guy who did artwork inspired by my stories and really wanted to correspond about the subject matter, lost interest and disappeared. Friended me on Facebook but showed no interest in getting back in touch.

*At least one, probably more, people who replied to the sad note I'd appended to Part 100 of RTMI, claiming the story was great, and promised to get back to me with more, never did.

*Various people who were regularly or semi-regularly commenting on various stories of mine here at WDC, all of whom vanished (some are still onsite, just not interested anymore); once in a blue moon I'll get a comment from one along the lines of "I sure miss reading your work," and I think, "Well, it's STILL THERE, what's keeping you from reading it??" But I never bother replying anymore. One of them, too, friended me on Facebook, but seeing as she could never be bothered to actually correspond, I gave up. I'm tired of all the effort.

That's just the tip of it. There are many more I'm not mentioning, for that very reason, there are just so many I can't keep track of them anymore. And of course it gets so discouraging running down the sheer numbers of people I've bored off, not that much is ENcouraging nowadays, for every compliment I get promising to return to read more of my work all I can ever think anymore is, "Yeah, whatever, that's what everyone else has been saying the past decade, too." I really hate it when people promise to come read more of my work. Because I keep hoping they mean it, but they never do.

I'm nowhere near Lovecraft, but I know I'm capable of writing at least decently, better than many people who have legions of followers. I'm not keeping my work entirely to myself or where nobody can find it whatsoever. I finish a few things I start. I'm no literary giant but a lot of people have told me my work at least interests or entertains them. So I don't understand why it can't KEEP interesting them, or at least why I can't interest them, too. I get people who say they're interested in me, just not my work; and I'm betting there are some people who are interested in my work, just not in me; I wish I could find the ones who are interested in both. They seem to be mutually exclusive. OR...my work really is that boring, and people just think it looks good until they really get into it, so that's why I never hear from them again. I really can't think my writing is that good if nobody else thinks so. I'm tired of people telling me it's really good when they just lose interest a moment later. That's not good writing; good writing doesn't make you lose interest. I certainly wouldn't call somebody a really great writer if they kept me entertained for all of ten minutes. Why do other people do that?

I hate all this whining which always leads to the same spot--nowhere, with me feeling horrible that I've been so whiny--and I can't think of a decent way to segue out of it so I guess that's it. I've just gotten so sad and envious reading about this "Lovecraft Circle" that sounds like it would have been fabulous to take part in, and wish my own work could inspire people that way, even if only after my death. But it's bigheaded to think it would.

I have seen chickadees at last three times today, so that was nice.

My second procedure is scheduled for tomorrow (Wednesday), I believe; I wish I could hope it would help, but there has been absolutely no improvement since the last one. I don't see what good this medication is, how come it seems to help so many other people? All I feel is dreadfully tired all the time. I have no energy anymore. It's getting late and I should go and do some actual reading (because I see little point in actual writing lately), so I guess that's all, my apologies for the whining. Tar.

 

Typed up last night and the previous nights.

I haven't had the heart lately to describe how my last visit with the urologist went. I've decided he's useless as a doctor; I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, and think that maybe he just had bad bedside manner, but after the last meeting, I find him a lousy doctor as well, and unable to help me whatsoever. He started out by asking me if the hydrodistension had worked. ! He'd only put like seven frigging ounces in there! My mother had apparently misunderstood most of what he'd told her, which is one big reason why I wish he'd waited for me to wake up and had then told ME how things had gone--he never even showed me the pictures of the ulcer during the meeting. I said well, it hadn't helped any, I hadn't even thought that was considered a hydrodistension. I thought the whole frigging point of hydrodistension was to STRETCH THE BLADDER BEYOND ITS CURRENT CAPACITY AND BACK TO ITS NORMAL CAPACITY, not to just fill it up as much as it can currently hold and then give up! I could have told him it could only hold at maximum around six ounces! And now he's asking me if it helped? I tried to ask him if he hadn't filled it further because of the ulcer but he kept interrupting me and brushing me off so that was never answered, to this moment I don't know why he didn't stretch it out more, he just said my bladder has gotten very small over the years and probably the only thing that could fix it is bladder augmentation surgery...which he doesn't do. Apparently, places where they do this are rare, and the nearest one...is in Ann Arbor. Way downstate. In short, the place he tried to shuttle me off to months ago when I insisted on his help.

What is the f**king use of this so-called doctor if he doesn't even do bladder surgery? Doesn't even do a real hydrodistension?

I started crying at this point, right in front of him, I was so angry and frustrated. He didn't even notice or care. He mentioned (only because my mother brought it up) the option of bladder instills--putting medication directly into the bladder, because only like 2% of Elmiron gets metabolized by the body into the bladder, no wonder the f**king stuff isn't working. I've been on it only FIVE OR SIX FRIGGING MONTHS now. No change. He said this is a procedure he can do (oh, you mean he actually does some procedures?--amazing)--then he said, "We'll just keep you on the medication and schedule you to see me again in another three months to see if it's changed any."

No F**KING way!

I spoke up--or at least, tried to. Told him I really wanted my bladder to hold more fluid. I even said, "I read that Elmiron doesn't get rid of ulcers, it just helps prevent them," which I had read at Wikipedia, but he brushed that off with "Well, that's not really true," but didn't bother elaborating, yet when my mother asked where we could find more info on interstitial cystitis (because apparently, it's too much effort for HIM to explain it to us), he said we could look online! Can you believe it? But that was exactly what Wikipedia said about Hunner's ulcers, that bladder instills were just for pain management, and Elmiron coats the bladder wall to help PREVENT them, but to get rid of them, you need to cut or burn them out (and since that would involve effort, I doubt he does that, despite being a UROLOGIST). Remember I was still assuming the ulcer was the reason he refused to distend my bladder because he wasn't exactly giving me the reason. In any case, I tearfully said I want my bladder to hold more fluid.

I kept trying to speak up and say I wanted to take the next step, the bladder instills or whatever--cripes, I would go straight to the surgery, because I tried to ask him, "Is there any chance the medication will help my bladder hold more fluid?"--recall in my earlier entries that he himself had claimed it WOULD, but here he was saying that apparently, no, it won't, only surgery would help! But he never answered this question, just kept brushing it off and interrupting me. Seriously, I tried like two or three times to tell him I wanted to try something else, and he kept interrupting me obliviously with, "I'll see you in another three months to see if there's any improvement, and you can think about what you want to do in the meantime."

I was ready to scream, "I DON'T NEED TO F**KING THINK ABOUT IT!! I can barely sleep, barely go places, barely drink, barely function, I'm f**king ready to get my f**king BLADDER TAKEN OUT if need be, just to FIX THIS!!" Seriously, if HE were the one who can't sleep half the time without bathroom trips every ten minutes, who can't go on a long drive (and he does lots of procedures out of town from what I hear, I wonder if THEY'RE any use to their patients) or a trip or even go to see a movie, who can't drink more than 30oz of fluid a day no matter how thirsty he is and even that is too much half of the time, who can't even sit comfortably for over a half hour, and oh yeah, who LOSES LOTS OF FLUID ONCE A MONTH, would he be so blase (accent over the e, look it up) about "waiting another three months and thinking about it"?

He even had the gall--get this--to pretty much tell me I'm well off compared to others. He had asked me how my symptoms had been doing lately and, since I hadn't been losing much water, I said I was able to go a half hour to an hour without using the bathroom. Remember, that's how I had been doing lately--and it was a deterioration over how I was when this started, when I could easily go an hour. My bladder has been very sensitive lately. Toward the end of the meeting, he said that I was actually pretty well off compared to other people with this disorder because I could hold my urine in for an hour! Never mind that when I lose water weight, or drink more than a tiny bit, or heck, even for no real reason whatsoever most of the time, pee a "normal" amount, I CAN BARELY EVEN MAKE IT TEN MINUTES! Stupid jackass HAS my records of the past HALF YEAR of me telling him all this, he has my urine output log, he knows I can only hold 4-6oz, so yeah, when I'm letting out more than 2oz an hour it drives me crazy, and he's telling me I'm pretty well off? I'd like to see if YOU were pretty well off if you had to stop someplace and pee every 7-10 minutes on one of your 2-hour drives out of town for your procedures elsewhere.

I at last got him to shut up long enough in his interruptions and brush-offs to say I would do the stupid bladder instills, though they will do me no good based on his own comment that only surgery will help, so I don't even know why he suggested them. But I guess I have to cover every base. Apparently they instill Elmiron (you have to provide your own pill) and some other things into the bladder and you try to hold it in for a half hour, though it could be too painful or irritating to do so, and you return to have it done two weeks later, for four treatments, which I guess means an eight-week course of therapy. Two months. Taking me well through the summer. I can only guess that I'll have to put up with having yet another summer ruined, an entire sweltering summer of drinking next to nothing and probably ending up going next to nowhere, before likely ending up needing surgery in autumn, IF I'm lucky. My mother said my first trip to Ann Arbor (no clue how I'm going to get there yet, of course), they won't do the procedure, it'll just be info gathering. I want to demand of the urologist or whoever when this gets scheduled that I am only going down to Ann Arbor FOR THE ACTUAL PROCEDURE and if they need my frigging blood pressure and pulse and all that junk they can do it here or someplace closer to home, I CANNOT AFFORD TO GO ALL THE WAY DOWN THERE JUST TO BE TOLD THEY'LL SCHEDULE MY SURGERY ANOTHER DAY. Seriously, all I have is my parents, who both work fulltime--my dad would probably have to stay home to care for the cat, that's a thought that concerns me the most, I can't leave him on his own for who knows how long--so that leaves my mother and her trashy little car which is on its last legs. They would have us drive like six or eight hours or so just to take my pulse and blood pressure and say, "Well, we'll fit you in next month"? Hell no. If they themselves really must get that info in person they can just do it the same day as the procedure. That's not too damn much to ask of them, considering how much is being asked of ME. But I know my luck, and of COURSE we'll probably have to make two or more trips down there for stupid shit they could just as easily get done up here. That's just the way my life goes, isn't it?

My first procedure is scheduled for Monday and I dread it so much--no general anesthesia this time, just a local, and based on my last experience with something being stuck up my urethra, it's going to be horrible for at least a day or so. I have no idea if this will worsen it or not. I'm not counting on it helping at all. Just on worsening or doing nothing. With my luck it will worsen things. I keep trying to boost myself, saying, maybe I will luck out enough to go to the island or someplace else on a rare day when my urination is low, and walking around will keep it at bay even longer, and if it really gets bad I can try to find a private spot in the woods since there are many such spots on the island (though nowhere else, I'm afraid), but then reality hits again, I've just been disappointed so many times, by now I just want my bladder out and a catheter put in, just to be able to go through a day without feeling like I have to pee every few minutes. I bet you feel like you have to pee even WITH a catheter. That will be my luck, ending up with a cystectomy and a catheter and still feeling this misery. If that's so, I really think I want that to be the end of it all. I'm tired of suffering. I would far rather have pain than this. I can handle some pain.

So that's why I've determined my urologist is absolutely useless as a doctor. Even if he couldn't do anything to help me, he could at least act like he cares that I'm suffering so much, but he can barely even give me the time of day, can barely even answer a question, just keeps brushing me off as if he can't get rid of me fast enough. You know, even that's an overstatement. Wanting to get rid of me fast would imply that he cares on some level, to get rid of me. All I sense is utter indifference. Like I'm barely even there. Like he thinks he's talking to an imbecile so nothing he says will be processed so why even bother. I might be ignorant, but I'm not an imbecile. I've actually tried to learn a bit about this, to help in my own treatment. I believe in doing that. Apparently he doesn't think I'm capable of such thought. So not only is he bad with bedside manner, but he's utterly useless as a doctor. Probably the very best and most useful thing I could ever get out of him is a referral elsewhere.

I've started walking around all the nearby blocks of the area to see how long it takes me and how I tolerated it. Most walks seem to take slightly over an hour, oddly. The walk down the highway, then up G. Road and then the side road back to home takes only fifteen minutes, since it's just a little sliver of land between roads, the corner of which at which we live (that's very bad phrasing, apologies), but the other routes are longer. I finally walked down the side road and northward along G. Road, which I haven't taken in years, not since I used to ride my bicycle (I would pretend I was Gold Rat, zooming down the hill on his motorcycle), and it was strange to see what was the same and what had changed. It's very peaceful back there, flat and open for the most part, farmland with houses along the road and some trees here and there, and easier to walk than the dirt road to the tracks since it's paved. The walk to the junction with SR Road and back home takes about 45 minutes. I then walked all the way to the end of G. Road, past the junction, to the dead end (most roads around here seem to be dead ends, symbolically enough), since I used to bicycle down there past a cow pasture and I recalled a distant grove of trees that was so charming looking to me, but the cows were no longer about--it looked like perhaps the field had been converted to crops though I'm not sure--and the distant grove wasn't the same, and the land was so very flat and wide and lonely that I didn't like this part of the route. The wind was blowing--it was warm but all I could think of was what it must be like way out here in winter. It's not too far from my own home but it seemed like I was on the Plains or something, it must be absolutely dismal in winter. Plus, as I passed one house set far back from the road, a man standing in the yard started walking quickly toward the road in my direction, and that made me terribly anxious, especially seeing as there seemed to be nobody out here for miles around. I walked faster to the end, trying to look unconcerned, and spotted a house under construction with a couple of guys hammering on the boards, so I told myself that if I had to scream, perhaps those two would hear me, but still, I didn't feel at ease until I had turned around, passed that guy (who was out of sight by the time I passed again), and had made it back past the junction and to civilization. I kept peering surreptitiously over my shoulder, fearing he would be right behind me, but no such thing occurred. I decided to omit the far end of G. Road from future travels. That walk took about 1:20 minutes or so.

On one of my walks along G. Road, a truck slowed down to accost me and an old couple within asked if I could give them directions; in dismay I told them I'm awful with directions, but that didn't convince them and they asked if I could point them out to some nearby restaurant or inn whose name I didn't recognize. I said sorry, I had no idea, and they drove off to the end of G. Road. I would have explained to them that I only lived just around the block and don't drive or travel anywhere and this was the furthest I'd walked from home for quite a while, etc. etc., but of course people don't wish to hear such drivel. When I told Dad this story later on he said the location in question had changed names and was nowhere nearby so these people were way out of their range. I don't know if they ever found it. I wish people would not ask me for directions.

The walk down G. Road, to the junction, then turning west up SR Road and taking that to the highway and back home took about 1:10 minutes. I could have sworn I'd taken this route perhaps once by bike years ago since I recalled going on the highway once that way (never did again, the cars speeding by my bike made me too nervous), but the landscape along SR Road was totally unfamiliar to me. More open farmland and distant houses, then trees such as those that grow near water--willows and such, since the river wasn't too distant--then I arrived at the highway and that was the only familiar part, since we always pass SR Road on the way into town. SR Road was moderately peaceful to look at, but had more traffic than I'd expected.

A long while back I walked down the dead-end dirt road past the tracks, to where it ends and meets some other, paved, road, then walked back; this walk took about 45 minutes. On a second attempt, around noon, I passed an old woman going out to her mailbox wearing only a robe. She laughed and said, "Nobody ever comes down here, so I'm not even dressed!" at which I hurriedly apologized. That's just the sort of luck I have, to embarrass this poor lady when I was just out for a walk. I guess that just shows how isolated it is down there.

I walked down the dirt road to the tracks and headed on my old route north, then, instead of continuing to the railroad bridge of my D Is For Damien stories, turned onto SR Road (which intersects the tracks as well as G. Road); just as I was reaching it, I was surprised by an elderly man walking toward me, also out enjoying the nice weather, though I was highly anxious that, like the man out on G. Road, he would pounce on me once we passed. He smiled and said hello and continued on his way. I've never met anyone else on that trail so that's why it shocked me so much. I kept peering back at him over my shoulder till I reached SR Road and turned toward the highway; as soon as I reached it, a female walker approaching along that road nodded and greeted me as well and we both passed on our way. This was before the trees were in bloom; it hadn't rained in ages and was very dry, yet the soil along the tracks was damp enough for my feet to sink, and the swampland surrounding the trail was full of odd sights and sounds I'd never noticed before, so strange. That walk took about an hour and a half.

Most recently I took the dirt road to the tracks then headed south rather than north, where I recalled the land falls away so the tracks form a sort of bluff through the landscape, and it's so very isolated it's almost like being on the island aside from hearing the dull distant roar of traffic on the highway. It was so peaceful and sunny, and the mosquitoes weren't out yet to torment me like they did the last time I attempted to head this way. The land was level at first and the woods were full of birdsong of all kinds; then I reached the "bluffs" leading down into swampland on the left and pine woods on the right, then the land leveled out more and I was surprised to hear gurgling water, like a spring, so stopped to peer into the pine woods and saw a stream coming out from under the path. That hadn't been there, or else I hadn't noticed it, my last time this way. It was just runoff from the opposite side, but still, it was peaceful, and I did wish I could get a better look at it. But everything beyond the trail is trespassing, unfortunately. Then I at last passed a few houses and reached OB Road and took it back to the highway--the tracks in fact continued on the other side, but I sadly eschewed them as I always have, especially now that my bladder is so small, and headed back to familiar ground and took the highway back home. That tiny glimpse of the wooded track on the other side was so enticing. *sigh* That walk took about 1:10 minutes, yet again.

So I've been around all the blocks lately out of sheer boredom and loneliness and whatnot. On my walk along G. Road and up SR Road to the highway I passed two people, a woman checking her mail (actually she was mowing her lawn, and just HAD to cross the road and stand waiting for me to hurry past before opening the box, the moment I arrived), and a man trimming his lawn (he, too, stopped trimming and waited for me to hurry past), and neither said hello, which I found odd. I long to take SR Road east where it intersects with G. Road, as I've never gone that way; or to explore SA Road, a dirt track along G. Road which I know from a bike ride years ago goes way out into the country to a corner store I once knew; or to explore the tracks beyond OB Road; but I just don't have it in me. My legs could tolerate it just fine; but not my bladder. I'm confined to this small parcel of land.

Continued the next night. Complained to Psychologist (after the usual near-hour spent talking about the bladder, as always, I'm so sick of this bladder taking up all my waking thoughts) about the lack of response from the person she thought might get in touch with me; she said this person has been having extreme difficulties with life lately, which made me feel very bad yet still frustrated--I try to be the good person and sympathize, and I really do, but still, it frustrates me. I'm so used to people insisting to me that they'd LOVE to keep in touch but OH they're just so busy with other things, then I see them frittering away time doing trivial things when they could just as easily be writing to me. (And that's when they even bother to let me know they can't keep writing to me, most people just start ignoring me.) I've spent my life giving other people the benefit of the doubt, and I always end up being made the fool because of it, because I've learned that the majority of people don't deserve the benefit of the doubt; at least, I've had the luck to deal with the ones who don't. Deal with nine people who say they'd LOVE to keep in touch with you but they're SO dreadfully busy, and then see them chattering away and gaming cheerfully online for weeks on end, then of course you're hardly going to believe the tenth person who says they'd love to keep in touch but they're so busy, and it turns out they honestly are. It's not that tenth person's fault, but it's not the first person's fault either for coming to believe as they do. It's those other nine people who don't know how to just be honest and say, no, they really don't want to keep in touch, they're sorry they got in touch in the first place. It's easier to just lie, and then avoid dealing with the person you've lied to. You'd think they'd at least have the decency to PRETEND they're busy, and not play and chatter around with other people right in front of me like I'm an idiot, but that would involve effort, and I'm not worth that effort. Like with the urologist. See now why I believe I'm so insignificant.

Sorry about that, I'm just so incredibly sore about it all. I hate coming across as so selfish and uncaring and bitter. I hate that people like that helped make me this way. I want to be the nice caring person who gives others the benefit of the doubt, and doesn't come across as clingy and demanding and ungrateful, I want to be the caring person that others really DO want to turn to, but I just no longer know how. Or rather, I've grown too used to being hurt, so it's easier to just be selfish and ungrateful, because maybe then these people won't get in touch with me unless they really mean it. I think of snapping turtles. They have their hard shell and they can draw partly into it and bite off the fingers of anyone who pokes too close, but they have very soft bellies underneath all that. The only disadvantage is, when you've learned to put up an unwelcoming shell around yourself as much as I've done, and to snap at anyone who approaches, eventually even the people who do care will stop trying.

The young raccoon who poked about our porch returned, again in the light of evening, and I chased him into the tree in the front yard, standing helplessly below as he crawled his way up and wedged himself in a fork high above me. He stayed there for quite a while, just a round furry ball with a striped tail visible way up in the tree; when he at last started to crawl back down, I was watching him through the living room window and went to fetch the camera since he looked so funny coming back down, all furtive like, and Dad watched while I took pictures. Halfway down he spotted me and grew very still, staring back; I waved, and he furtively crawled his way partly back up. Then climbed all the way down a while later while I took more pictures, and started creeping across the yard. I waved at him again to warn him away from the porch and he did this weird...little thief dance-type thing, sneaking sideways and keeping his face toward me as he crept out of sight. It was so weird. He tried to approach the porch again and I had to go out and shoo him away into the woods. He returned repeatedly the next evening; I ran out to yell at him, and waved the broom, but he merely retreated to the sidewalk several yards away and then turned and stared at me blankly. It was so infuriating! I'm used to animals running when you yell and wave things at them, but he didn't budge an inch! I advanced on him and he retreated, but again just a bit, and again turned back to stare at me. I wondered if he were sick, so was careful shooing him off into the woods, but Dad told me that's how raccoons are, they will just stop and stare at you as if hoping you'll leave them alone, or as if to reproach you for daring to scare them away. When he approached the porch once more that evening I hurled myself outside with a bellowing "YAAAGGHHAAAA!!" which made my mother laugh and he hurried away and I saw no more of him until after dark, when I again shooed him away and that was that. He hasn't been back since, which I find strange. Today (Friday) my mother and I passed a dead raccoon, belly up, along the highway, but Dad says it was too far away to be "our raccoon." I wonder if he was an orphan since he was only smallish and on his own and seemed quite reproachful and self-righteous about being chased away. Dad did toss out an old bagel (which I moved across the driveway, not wanting to tempt the raccoon into coming back to the porch), which went missing the next day, so somebody made off with it.

From what I've only recently learned (apparently it was quite abrupt) my beloved Law & Order, after this Monday's episode, will be no more. Stupid Dick Wolf, that's the last time I defend you. The only non-reason I saw for the "cancellation" (I'd more likely call it retirement, can you really call it cancellation when it's been on like twenty years?) was that the New York setting has gotten too overdone and old hat, so they're going to restart it in LA. What a stupid-ass reason. The show isn't totally about the location, it's about the CRIMES taking place in that location--a murder is a murder whether it's in NY or LA so why does a change of venue (and a complete change of cast, I'm going to miss Sam Waterston and Linus Roache and Alana De La Garza and Jeremy Sisto, mostly Jeremy Sisto (I had a nice dream about him once), I've long grown tired of S. Epatha Merkerson and her melodramatic offtopic cancer subplot) make them think this will boost ratings any? Need I mention L&O: Crime & Punishment or Trial By Jury? Even I hated those bombs. Plus I'm sick and tired of all the shows that have to set themselves either in Miami or someplace out west where it NEVER FRIGGING SNOWS OR EVEN RAINS, seriously, they MUST get snow or even merely lousy weather (and I do NOT mean hurricanes, or tsunamis, or wildfires, or all those other stupid things CSI: Miami keeps pulling out) there ONCE in a blue moon, but you'd never know it from watching TV. At least NY is more realistic and relatable to Midwesterners like me. PLUS, I see the tendency of lots of such crime shows lately to make location TOO MUCH a part of the plot, like the CSI programs (which I gave up on long ago, they got way too stupid, see the above re: hurricanes/tsunamis/wildfires), so actual plot is sacrificed while they focus on OH LOOK PRETTY WATER! and look somebody died in a totally outlandish way, only in Miami/LA/wherever! Gag. I saw the first advertisement for L&O:LA yesterday, I think, but was still hoping for the original to stick around since they kept referring to it as the season finale and not the series finale, but today they showed an ad proclaiming it merely "the finale," so I guess that's it. Stupid Dick Wolf and his non-reasons. Yeah I'll tune in to L&O:LA but only to fill in the void. Meanwhile, USA has yet to renew L&O: Criminal Intent from what I've heard (is it just me or is Jeff Goldblum capable of playing only one character and the same character in everything he acts in??) and TNT has yet to renew to keep showing the L&O reruns. And Universal or whatever is too stupid to release all the existing seasons of the original series to DVD just yet. Seriously, I went looking for them hopefully at Amazon and they have released only Seasons 1-7 and 14 or some such. Stupid asses all around. Me going through all this crap already and now no more L&O to top it off.

Continued the next night. Ugh, just chased off that damn raccoon again so I guess he isn't out of the picture yet. Annoying thing.

I know I had a lot more things to at least touch on but can't recall them now that I've taken the time to actually write an entry. I'm still jonesing heavily for Lovecraftian fiction and am trying to collect a few books, mainly Chaosium's, but am currently starting on William Hope Hodgson's (I can never be sure if I'm spelling his name correctly) collected works. I read his "The House On The Borderland" a long while back at Project Gutenberg. I recall it was terribly fascinating and bizarre, but then it just...ended. And I was so furious. The story is told in "discovered manuscript" format, as far as I recall, so on the one hand, the lack of an ending fits in, but on the other, he spent all this time and energy building up to this really bizarre finale that just didn't happen. For example I vaguely recall the narrator, while dwelling in the mysterious house in question, sees this valley or something with these giant figures in it, one of which somewhat resembles the god Set or some such, but it's never explained just WHAT these beings are, or what all is going on throughout the entire story. No explanation. Just lots of really weird scenery and happenings. And that royally pissed me off. At least Lovecraft, for example, gives you some idea of the reasoning behind things in his stories, even if not the ENTIRE story. Anyway, I'm currently reading another work of Hodgson's, "The Boats Of The Glen Carrig," and although fascinating, I'm getting the strong feeling it's going to be much like the other story in that it details a lot of weird happenings but then never really explains exactly what's going on. I guess I'll just have to see.

I finished Arthur Machen's "best of" works by Chaosium prior to this; I'm a bit iffy on him. On the one hand, he has the most gorgeous descriptions of the Welsh countryside with the limestone hills and deep woods and hidden springs and whatnot, and his earlier (I think) "little people" stories are really quite interesting, but on the other hand, like Hodgson, he often tends to suffer from underexplanation, just having something weird happen and then leaving it at that. That might make for interesting nonfiction but it doesn't work so well for fiction. The introductions to his books explained why he was like this--he was more of a religious, mystical person and despised science and its tendency to break everything down into its component parts--but still, when reading a story, it's frustrating for there to be so little...what's the word I'm looking for? Not climax, nor denouement ("denouement: final revelation: a final part of a story or drama in which everything is made clear and no questions or surprises remain," from the MS Works dictionary), though the latter might come close. No tying together of loose ends. Even in a story where he did explain everything--it was about a guy's doppelganger appearing to a group of people far away investigating a haunted house--there was still the question, "Well, that might be what happened, but why did it happen?"--seriously, the only reason it was explained at all was because one character talked to the guy in question and pretty much explained it all to him in a straightforward, rather infodumpy manner. "You know, Sir So-&-So, you may have experienced what's known as a 'phantasm of the living,' here is a summary of various other known cases of such, bla bla bla..." Not making for really great storytelling. Not really HORRIBLE, but not really great, either. In his earlier stories like "The Great God Pan" and "The White People" he was frustratingly vague and left too much open ended, IMO, but at least it made more sense in that context, and more was explained so it made for better stories. I get the feeling from a lot of his works that he started out wanting to tell a story but got tired of the traditional story format so just kind of told some random events (seriously, he often derails in the middle of his stories to tell other stories that have no actual connection to the current plot, and sometimes forgets to return to the original story) and then got tired even of that so stuck on a "The end." So some of his work is really good but it's also really frustrating and unsatisfying in many ways. Oh, he also terribly relies on coincidence of the most outlandish sort in some of his stories, too. It's amazing how he'll have all these characters randomly meeting in a huge city like London and it turns out they're all connected to the same case. I was willing to overlook that if the story was interesting enough (as in "The Three Impostors"), but still, it was goofy. And I'm still wondering what the heck all the stories-within-stories in "The Three Impostors," while quite entertaining, had to do with anything.

I wonder why Del Rey has not issued a reprint of Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth seeing as they did a reprint of Shadows Over Innsmouth, which is itself already out of print so I had to obtain used. The Wikipedia page on this book has no info about the reprint; I should leave a note on the talk page requesting that. Not terribly motivated though.

I just realized I made a big error in my earlier entry regarding the game Alone In The Dark. Firstly, I think the computer game (the most recent one which I thought was based on the movie) was released BEFORE the movie, but it's hard for me to tell since I'm familiar only with the ORIGINAL game, which had nothing to do with the movie but for the title and the main character's name. Secondly, while browsing around at Wikipedia recently, I saw the title Shadow Of The Comet and, reminded of that review I'd read for what I'd thought was Alone In The Dark, which had mentioned a guy going crazy after seeing a comet, I only just remembered tonight to look that up. It turns out THAT was the game I saw reviewed, not Alone In The Dark, BUT, in my defense, 1. they're both based on works by Lovecraft, 2. apparently events in Shadow Of The Comet are referenced in Alone In The Dark, because 3. both games were put out by the same company. I do seem to very faintly recall reading the references to Lord Boleskine or whoever from Shadow Of The Comet (which I've never played) in the various reading materials provided in Alone In The Dark (I remember I copied all the reading material from the game because it was so interesting, but I forgot where I put it, fooey), so that's probably why I thought they were the same game. To this day, I don't know why Lord Boleskine or whoever went mad on seeing the comet. If anybody out there by any chance has ever played Shadow Of The Comet and knows, please inform. I'm guessing it had something to do with some nasty cosmic alien-god or something but that's just based on how such things usually go.

Good Lord, the article had a screen capture from the game and do I miss those days. I have fond memories of Alone In The Dark. Running into this room so full of spiders that I kicked them like crazy and they blocked my path and my character ended up doing this weird helpless turn and cancanning out of the room; playing a record on a gramophone to get these dancing ghosts out of my way; putting up mirrors so some faceless night-gaunts would see themselves and freeze so I could get down the stairs; foraging around for useful stuff and weapons; listening to giant rats make popping noises as I tried to kill them; going into a bathroom and confronting this nasty worm thing in a tub snarling at me and then hurrying back out...good times. I tried playing the sequel but it was too memory intensive for our computer so I never got very far, it was so woefully boggy, plus it didn't really have anything to do with Lovecraft anymore--something about a pirate, I dunno--so I lost interest. I read in the Wikipedia article that there were even Deep Ones in that game. I don't recall them. I don't even really recall the zombies it says the game had, huh. I just know those spiders, and this humongous worm monster thing I encountered while trying to make my way down a tunnel (finding my way past its bulky body was what frustrating me badly enough to write to the game company for help, I figured it out before receiving their response which advised the same technique), were really frigging annoying. And I vaguely recall the image of the tree (which is kind of explained in the article, until now I wasn't aware of the actual plot of the game, shows how ignorant I was back then) and the names Derceto and Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young. No, none of it made the slightest sense to me back then but it was still fun. Then when I solved the game, every single monster vanished and I wandered my way back up through the tunnels and into the house and outside, it was so eerily empty, then that cab driver laughed at me evilly and that was the end, ha.

Good Lord I bet none of that made the slightest bit of sense to anyone who may have read this far.

I found a site called the "Innsmouth Free Press" which is dedicated to fiction and whatnot about that lovely coastal town, ha. My only real issue is their "Walking Guide To Innsmouth." It outlines the various landmarks and locations in the town, but they're not canon to Lovecraft's original story. There are obvious additions, such as a high-tech company (!), that Lovecraft obviously never wrote about or created or even envisioned. Plus it says the population is 40,000 (!!!). Certainly not the updates I envisioned myself for the Innsmouth of canon. For example, when I started my "New Innsmouth" fiction, I imagined that the original town still existed, but was greatly fallen into ruin, just this tiny little rathole with maybe a few hundred inhabitants and dilapidated buildings, really gone to seed, really backwards and unwelcoming; meanwhile a newer and more successful and populous settlement, "New Innsmouth" (as opposed to "Old Innsmouth"), has sprung up nearby, still with a small permanent population perhaps only in the hundreds, but very quaint and charming and catering mainly to tourists, you know, like Mackinac Island. Whatever the case, the original Innsmouth still exists in my mind but is just really, really dumpy and forbidding. This vision of it all revamped and heavily populated (40,000??--Cheboygan city has only 5000!) and even with a high-tech company of its own is just...way too weird for me. Not in keeping with how I picture it at all. My issue isn't with somebody picturing it that way--seeing things our own way and contributing our own, often differing views is the whole point of fanfiction--but with presenting this as if it's canon. The "Walking Guide" seems to be there for anyone wishing to write fiction set in Innsmouth to submit to the site (I think it even mentions that near the link). I think it's rather misleading since people not intimate with the original story might think that, say, this high-tech company is original to the place, and won't even be aware that Lovecraft had nothing to do with that.

Long story short, I think the "Walking Guide" should have been written strictly according to canon, or, at the very least, should have made it clear somewhere in the article that most of the information provided was not created by the original writer and was in fact contributed by So-&-So (the creator of these new locations is not named in the article, so far as I can tell--I really think they should be).

Still, an interesting site with some interesting fiction. I downloaded the PDFs, at least. Now if only the background image didn't take so dreadfully long to load.

Oh, that's another thing. The stupid Internet seems to be returning to the state it was in all last summer, having trouble connecting, giving me shitty speeds, then refusing to go anywhere even if I do successfully connect--sometimes even kicking me off right after I connect. This pisses me off so much. It's the EXACT SAME THING as all last summer. The thought that I have ANOTHER ENTIRE SUMMER of this to look forward to infuriates me. I wish I had a way to tell whether it's the phone or the ISP so I could call them out on it and demand answers, but whenever I complain, they always blame the other party. Nobody's willing to admit when they're to blame anymore.

And get this, two of the channels in our cable lineup were messed up--USA Network was broadcasting Game Show Network, and Comedy Central was broadcasting Speed--one of my fave channels, and one of Dad's fave channels, broadcasting channels we aren't even supposed to have (well, we're SUPPOSED to have Speed, it's on the lineup they sent us, but they seem to have dropped it long ago). We called them to complain and they said they would send a technician to check it out and if he had to come into the house there would be an extra $35 fee! Now WTF would they expect to find at OUR house? What, do we have their satellite sitting in our back yard so we can directly change what channels are broadcasting?? Seriously, that's the only thing that could have happened, a mixup with their satellite, a problem on THEIR end. How the hell could we get USA Network to broadcast GSN?? Yet that's what they told us, they'd send somebody to check it out. Naturally, they said for us to be there and wait for them to call within like a five-hour window of time (because everybody's schedule falls right in line with the cable company's and we live to wait for them to arrive any time between noon and five) and Dad refused to do so (and I am the one called avoidant), so we had to call to reschedule. They were going to come on Saturday (today); they rescheduled for Wednesday. Quite a delay there, Charter! How did your Monday and Tuesday fill up so fast?? USA and Comedy Central, meanwhile, seem to have returned to broadcasting their actual channels. WOW, Charter, how did you do that without even entering our house?? Amazing! I'll wait and see if it stays this way, then call to cancel (though then there'll probably be another problem, that's how it always goes). Wish I were snarky enough to tell the tech support guy, "And seeing as we made no change to our TV or cable setup, this rather proves the error was on YOUR end, so the next time such happens, we'd thank you to look for problems on YOUR end and not insist on sending somebody out here to charge us an unnecessary fee."

Ma said the man was very nice when she called to reschedule, and asked if we'd considered cable Internet. Cripes already. Yeah, guys, maybe when you drop it to below your starting fee of around $60 a month? Like, to less than 1/3 that? And while you're at it, fix the Weather Channel. The last time you changed your lineup, TWC stopped giving us our local Cheboygan forecast and now seems to think we live in Harbor Springs, an hour's drive away. "Well, that's TWC's problem, not ours," Charter insists, but why would TWC change the location they broadcast to us the moment Charter changes their channel lineup? At least take blame when it's due, Charter, and perhaps people would take you more seriously.

Continued the next night, though I haven't really anything to continue. Just chased off that damn raccoon yet again. Last night there was awful screaming in the woods that I can only assume was him and perhaps another raccoon, annoying pests. Tomorrow (Monday) is the procedure. I know it won't help, I'm just hoping against hope that at the very least it doesn't make it worse. Posting this before I forget, wish me luck since I could use it, tar.

 

Found on the Net:

Selections From H.P. Lovecraft's Brief Tenure as a Whitman's Sampler Copywriter

Samples:

Caramel Chew

There is a dimension ruled by a blind caramel God-King who sits on a vast, cyclopean milk-chocolate throne while his mindless, gooey followers dance to the piping of crazed flutes. It is said that there are gateways in our world that lead to this caramel hell-planet. The delectable Caramel Chew may be one such portal.

Toffee Nugget

Few men dare ask the question "What is toffee, exactly?" All those who have investigated this substance are now either dead or insane.

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2008/8/15burns.html

 

Typed up earlier.

Oddly, my sudden interest in Gothic literature led me into an interest in early fantastic literature such as Arthur Machen and William Hope Hodgson, which led me right back to my old friend Lovecraft, and now I'm all interested in him again. I've already read just about all of his fiction (i. e., the fiction I'd be interested in reading) and own most of it, plus his collaborations and August Derleth's work which is credited as his, and Lovecraft is long dead, so it's not like he's putting out anything new. Still, every few years, it seems, I feel like rereading his stories; I just never tire of them. I've never been too interested in reading any of the derivative fiction based on his works (aside from Derleth's, which is okay but not as good as the original thing), but I'm currently reading a three-volume set of Machen's works, by Chaosium, the people who put out the "Call Of Cthulhu" games and books, and they list some of their other publications in the back material. Turns out they only have a few books still in print but I went looking anyway at Amazon and added them all to my wish list to work my way through eventually, with hope. The good thing with Lovecraft is so very many people, SCADS of people, have written scads of works based on his material. The bad thing with Lovecraft is so very many people, SCADS of people, have written scads of works based on his material. I added just the books put out by Chaosium--and this after buying a few more Del Rey editions I had previously overlooked since they're derivative and not Lovecraft's own work. There's still a slew of stuff out there. I've barely scratched the surface. Like I said, I prefer Lovecraft's work, but I find his ideas so interesting, maybe these other people have done something decent with it.

I have to admit I prefer derivative works written in Lovecraft's own style. Honestly, his style is incredibly purple and overwrought. But that's what makes it fun. I adore how he wrote a lot of stories like they WEREN'T stories--like they were factual accounts, with snippets of diaries and news articles and transcripts and all. That just makes it all so much creepier and realistic. A lot of people writing Lovecraftian fiction use his themes but write in a more fictional style and it just doesn't translate as well IMO. The authenticity isn't there. I think this is why I liked Machen's The Three Impostors, a "novel" which in the end really did not tie together that well nor make much sense. It was told as stories within stories, people recounting stories, snippets of stories here and there, told like people are relating facts. Making a lot of it seem more like a factual account than a novel. I did the same thing when I tried my hand at Lovecraft fanfiction--including diary transcripts and whatnot. I adore the feeling of "finding" some lost manuscript and taking a peek at it. Strangely, this is a big theme in Gothic fiction too (the "discovered manuscript"), so was perhaps one reason why I was drawn to it (but have lost a bit of interest since Lovecraft and Machen and whatnot have distracted me).

On looking up all these Lovecraft-inspired books I learned a bit more about his writing process and how very much writers borrowed from and collaborated with each other back then. Lovecraft, for example, took some ideas from Robert W. Chambers, who in turn had taken some ideas from Ambrose Bierce; then August Derleth took those ideas from Lovecraft (and even used Bierce's name in his work). Lovecraft wrote and dedicated a story to Robert Bloch, renaming him in the story "Robert Blake" (I was too dense to realize this when I read that particular story, despite it even being dedicated to Bloch), then Bloch wrote a story with a character based on Lovecraft. I never even knew that Lovecraft's character the Comte d'Erlette was just a pseudonym or fictional version of Derleth, but take a look at the name and you'll see it plain as day. (Some tiny part of my brain insists that I DID once notice the similarity, and wondered--since I had long ago realized that Derleth often based his own characters' names, e. g., Ward Phillips (sic?), on Lovecraft--but if I did, I forgot it.) In short, all these big tangled webs of writers interacting and writing back and forth and everything. A lot of things I thought were Lovecraft's, such as Tsathoggua and Hastur and De Vermis Mysteriis, were in fact created by his fellow writers. Everybody borrowed from everybody else and then gave back with ease. All this time I had considered Lovecraft to be relatively forgotten and unpopular, so I was rather surprised. I wish I could have that kind of relationship with other writers, but nobody's interested enough in my work to read an entire series, much less want to write anything based on it (the three people who did start fanfics of my work quickly lost interest in that and in me and forgot I exist, as always), so that will never happen. I rather envy Lovecraft even if he was purple and overwrought and aside from an admittedly strong cult following isn't regarded very highly today.

I'd love to do more fiction based on his work--the two stories I completed based on it ("The Prisoner Of The Glass" and "The Stone From The Sea," they're both onsite as far as I know) are probably the only serious attempt I've ever made at fanfiction, since for the most part I despise writing stuff based on others' work unless it's mythology--but am always paranoid of getting things wrong, even if I'm making it up. Despite having read his stories numerous times I just can't retain information properly...probably one reason why I can read his stories repeatedly without getting bored, my memory sucks so much. I would hate using Yog-Sothoth incorrectly for example and being called out on it by somebody far more rabid than I am. It once occurred to me to take notes, but that seems like too much work, I can't even keep notes on my own work straight (hence the current Ameni Chronicles debacle) and I haven't even been working on my own stories, so I guess the point is moot. Still, it would be great fun to try it again, even loosely. I started a third story more recently in which I combined Lovecraft's ideas with the native mythology of this area and that was quite interesting. (The uncompleted story, "From The Silver Car," is on my Google Site.) A diary-type story would be most fun.

The very way in which I became interested in Lovecraft was rather odd and synchronistic. I still recall it clearly. Years and years ago I read a review of a computer game in a magazine and it described a scenario involving an astronomer or some such who looked at an approaching comet or something and promptly went mad. Naturally, the reviewer didn't say WHY he went mad, and I was quite curious, wondering, "What was it that drove him mad?" But I didn't play many computer games and had no reason to believe I'd ever play that one, whose name I didn't even take note of, so it was a moot point.

Some time later I acquired the computer game Alone In The Dark and had quite an interesting and frustrating time playing it (I recall writing to the game company for a hint once for a particularly irksome part of the game); partway through game play I realized that this was in fact the very game I had seen reviewed. It was apparently written for people who already knew about Lovecraft's works so much of it, while fascinating, didn't make too much sense to me out of context, even though I ended up completing it (at the very end, I got out of the evil house, got into a cab, and the driver turned to me with a skull face and laughed evilly and that was the end, so I guess despite winning I probably died anyway!).

Later, in high school art class, students were allowed to paint various things on the bricks of the wall, and I came across the phrase "That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange eons even death may die," and, finding the student who had painted it, I exclaimed, "That was in this computer game I played!" I believe he gave me a very brief explanation of where the saying had come from and what it meant, though it still meant little to me. It didn't occur to me to look into it further.

Even still later, in college, while browsing the city library shelves, I came across a little book called The Lurker At The Threshold and, intrigued, checked it out and quickly devoured it. I remember sitting on the heater at home while it was cold out, just reading and reading. I didn't know at the time that this book was written primarily by Derleth and not Lovecraft, but it was written very much in Lovecraft's style, and I was hooked anyway.

Even later I bought a copy of that book, and some more books, and eventually read almost all of Lovecraft's fiction (the fiction that matters, at least). What is weird is that honestly, none of these events led directly to the next. The computer game review did not make me go out and buy the game. Playing the game did not make me check out Derleth's work from the library, and checking out the book did not immediately make me buy Lovecraft's works. Everything just seemed to happen on its own, one thing after another, building off of the last. Like perhaps some great cosmic force was influencing me, insidiously and unconsciously compelling me to follow this eldritch trail to its DREADFUL AND HIDEOUS SOURCE BEYOND TIME AND REASON!! Okay, kidding. When you read Lovecraft you have to write things like that sometimes. But the point is the same. It makes me think of what happened with the game Alone In The Dark, in fact. It was a computer game based on Lovecraft's works. Then they made a movie supposedly based on the computer game, though the only similarities were the title and the main character's name, Edward Carnby. Then they went and released ANOTHER computer game based on the movie Alone In The Dark which had nothing really to do with the ORIGINAL Alone In The Dark. I wonder how many people know about this connection? When I first heard of the movie I got excited thinking it was based on the game, then learned that it really wasn't, so my interest died there. (Though I did buy the soundtrack to the computer game based on the movie based on the computer game, because it had the Bulgarian Women's Choir (I think) and I liked them in Brother Bear, but it wasn't as good as I'd hoped. Good Lord this all is confusing.)

Ha, I read in the intro to one of the Chaosium books about how to title a Lovecraft-inspired book--first you start with a noun like "Horror," "Lurker," "Haunter," "Whisperer," "Color," "Shadow," "Dweller," or "Inhabitant," then you add an "At," "On," "Over," "Under," "Out Of," or "In," then a creepy or cosmic location such as "Red Hook," "Warrendown," "The Graveyard," "Time," "Space," "The Ages," "The Aeons," "Darkness," "The Dark," "The Threshold," "The Tomb," "The Lake," "Innsmouth" (my particular favorite, I just adore Innsmouth and the Deep Ones), or "The Gulf," and presto, you're a Mythos writer. And it is so true! Plus I've learned you must use words such as "cyclopean" and "eldritch" as much as possible, ha.

I think all this worked its way into my brain as, even though I haven't had a Lovecraft dream yet (pity), a couple of nights ago, in my output log, where I should have written the time I had instead half-sleepingly written (and misspelled) "Dunwhich" (Dunwich). WTF was going through my mind on that bathroom trip? An iridescent congeries of globes?

I wish I could find photographs of the Welsh landscape that Machen writes about so often with the limestone hills and formations. It sounds so beautiful. I think it must be based on scenery in reality, but I couldn't find an equivalent when I searched briefly online. His descriptions of settings are gorgeous; he really dwells on that limestone. It sounds like a karst landscape. The reality, if there is one, probably isn't as pretty as the mental image I've formed. I might borrow the image I've formed of this in my mind for the Underisland (and no, I'm not going into detail on what that is, you'll just have to start reading my stuff).

The frigging raccoons are starting up again, annoying pests, squabbling on the porch, showing up in the daytime (ugh), clearing out the bird feeders. A day or so ago I had to twice shoo off one who insisted on approaching the porch in broad daylight, and that freaked me out, he had no business being out in the daytime; then last night I huffed and yelled at TWO of them, one of whom insisted on scooping up another mouthful of bird seed before furtively following his companion off into the dark. They had somehow almost cleared out the tin plate I have set on the stool out there for the chickadees, without knocking it over. All this time I had thought squirrels responsible for the missing food. Then all night I dreamed I was chasing away raccoons. Frigging raccoons. It's too early in the year for this crap.

Once in a while I hear the flying squirrels chirping faintly in the dark, and the chipping sparrows have returned for the summer. They're so adorable with their little red caps. The sunflower seeds seem to give their tiny beaks trouble so I went looking for sparrow-friendly bird seed, but could find none; everything seems geared toward finches, or colorful songbirds, or chickadees and nuthatches, or squirrels. I seriously do not want a food geared toward finches, so plain old mixed food was the only thing I could find. It's been my experience that the only part of mixed food that ever gets eaten is the sunflower seeds, so that's why I switched to just getting sunflower seeds, but I bought two small cheap bags of mix anyway, telling myself I'll do it just for the summer, see if the sparrows like it. Just after I tossed some out and went back to look, I saw five or six sparrows littering the porch, munching away, so maybe they do like it, though I'm not sure if they were eating it or sunflower seeds; I hadn't thrown out very much, so felt kind of bad, but I already know they'll eat sunflower seeds if they must, so I guess they'll just have to make do. They sell shelled sunflower seeds, but they are incredibly expensive, and I know that they would just get eaten up in a heartbeat by the chickadees and squirrels, and that would kind of miss the point of making it easier on the poor sparrows. Yes, the chickadees are "my" birds, but they have beaks specialized to crack open sunflower seeds, so I really do not need to make that any easier for them. Why is there no sparrow-specific food? They may not be too colorful but they sing nicely.

The white-throated sparrow and song sparrow often sing incredibly loudly from the bush right near the window and I love their songs so much, I wish they'd all stick around, I adore the sparrows. It's the frigging finches that bug me. And the robins toss the dead leaves around like crazy seeking worms and make quite a mess on the sidewalk. Hard to believe one little bird can be so messy. At least they don't bother the feeders any.

Some days ago when it was warmer, while looking over the junk beside the garage I spotted what looked like a little worn-out bicycle tire tread lying in the leaves; puzzled, I followed it to its source to find a head with tiny glittering eyes sticking up out of the leaves where a little garter snake was sunning itself. Oddly my first instinct was to grab it up and wrap it around my fingers, but I refrained, and went and got the camera to take some pictures instead. It stood perfectly still until an ant crawled on it and made it twitch and slide further away. I spotted it or another snake the next day under one of the lilac bushes but it's quite cold now and even snowed yesterday so I imagine they're lying low. Dad said they caught a big snapping turtle out where he works. I can't imagine I'll ever spot one of those wandering around our property, I would probably freak out if I did.

I just saw in the latest issue of Traverse that the rail trail nearest our house has been renamed from the Gaylord To Mackinaw City Trail or whatever to the North Central Rail Trail or some such, too lazy to look it up. That's a surprise to me, the signs along it haven't been changed. The article says it's like over sixty miles long! If only I had more endurance to walk. I. e., a bigger frigging bladder. It's also supposed to be covered with crushed limestone. I imagine they've done that only in certain areas since it's not covered in my area, it's just a rutted dirt trail with some rocks. I have to wonder where the limestone came from. Not landmarks, I hope. I keep having thoughts of writing something up, putting it in a waterproof container, and hiding it somewhere along the trail to maybe be found or maybe not like I do on the island. I doubt it would ever be found, though I did cross another walker the last time I went along the trail, surprisingly enough; that was near the bridge and crossroad so perhaps that explains it. It's just not used that much except by snowmobilers, although horses must traverse it now and then since I occasionally see their hoofprints, but aside from this once I have never met anybody along my tiny stretch of it. It's very desolate out there, woods and hills and swampland; if not for the highway being within hearing distance, with the dim roar of cars almost constant, you'd think you're in the middle of nowhere.

I finally invested in a 4" memory foam topper for my bed since I liked the 1.5" one so much and they don't seem to sell the 8" ones anymore, and put it on the old spring mattress and the 1.5" one atop it, I didn't even bother trying to put the included cover on it since putting on the covers drives me screaming insane and I am not pleasant when I'm screaming insane and I really did not want to put myself in a foul mood the rest of the evening over a stupid mattress topper. I'm used to doing a little hop (not a jump, just a hop, I catch my weight with my arm) into my bed every time I return from the bathroom and there's always a little bit of bounce because of the underlying spring mattress, but now with the new memory foam topper, I hop into the bed and just land motionless and it's rather unsettling so that and the feeling of it will take some getting used to; it's much mooshier feeling than I'd expected. I slept last night, at least, so I guess that's what counts. Plus it has made my bed much taller (I keep hitting the side of it rather than landing in it when I hop, I imagine I'd be quite amusing to watch were I to try sliding over the hood of a car like they do in movies), so that's a rather weird feeling too, almost like I'm in a different (but equally messy) bedroom. Strange.

Apologies to anyone who feels I may be ignoring them, I'm honestly not.

I have to go and eat now and can think of little else to say, so tar.

 

Conversation between my mother and me last night:


Ma: (showing me a gemstone pendant) I need some advice on what to do with this. I have no idea why I bought it. It's so ugly. It looks like vomit! What was I thinking when I bought it?

Me: (taking the pendant, ready to defend its beauty since I can often see the beauty in even the ugliest things) (taking a serious look at it) Oh my God.

Ma: I know, right?

Me: I was going to defend it, but... (long pause) It looks like ham with pickles!

Ma: (laughing)

Me: (grimacing) It looks like Spam with pickles. It...ew, it looks like Spam with boogers on it!! (both of us laughing and gagging) Why did you have to give this to me after I just ate??

Ma: (trying to breathe) What should I do with it?

Me: Put it in a dark room where nobody can see it!

Ma: I can't even remember why I bought it. (taking it back) I think I'm going to puke.

Me: That couldn't possibly make it any worse. (making waving gestures) Put it away somewhere and forget about it!

Ma: I can't! I have to bead it and give it away to somebody!!

Me: Then bead around it completely. Cover it. The whole thing. Completely.

Ma: (laughing) (long pause) Yeah.

Me: Completely.


Seriously, this gemstone looks like pink regurgitated Spam, or the inside of the human stomach or something, with little yellowy-green blotches that look like boogers or mold or...moldy boogers or booger-mold. It must be some sort of Boogerspam Agate or something. Ew ew vomit.