Connectedness, one year ago today

I wasn't sure whether I'd slept or not. I just knew I'd been tossing and turning for the past few hours, and it was far too hot and sticky to get any sleep. I'd be glad when the summer humidity gave way to the fall not-quite-so-humidity; there'd at least be some respite. It must have been somewhere around three a.m., and just lying here in the dark wondering if I would ever go to sleep or not wouldn't do me any good. Maybe I could go downstairs for a while, find something to occupy my mind. I just needed to make sure I didn't put too much weight on that creaky stair. I unplugged my little e-mail device from the wall charger, automatically, without thinking, cradled it gently in my hands like a treasured possession, and headed for the kitchen. I placed my elbows on the kitchen counter and stared at the coffee pot. I'm quite sure that was the last thing I wanted.

Right at that moment, for some reason, you sent me a message.

Somehow, this didn't seem all that unexpected, even though it made no sense. Three hours separated us; we both knew it was an ungodly hour for me; the chances were I wouldn't see that message until the morning. I've had to grapple with this ever since; I've had to recognize that my beliefs have had to change considerably since that night. This was not chance. There was something intended about it all. You wrote to me, no doubt without expecting me to read and reply. I replied, no doubt expecting you had gone on to bed. There was something more going on. You'd checked into that hotel room to escape the heat; a hotel with a pool, a room with air conditioning, a chance to get the sleep you needed to catch up on after four days of seasonal but soaring temperatures. A chance to finally get comfortable; but comfortable is far from what you were. You had an emergency to deal with; people were as usual reaching out, dependent on you, reliant on your strength, your courage, your resolve to get them out of the most difficult of situations. I thought that night, as I'd long thought; who do you turn to when you need someone? You're vulnerable, too. I'd never dared think, up to that moment, that you'd turn to me.

I sent you a reply, letting you know that yes, I was still awake, and yes, I was available to listen to what was going on, whatever use that would be to you.

Somehow, it didn't seem like enough. I wished so much, so very much, that I could do more than just offer mere words of comfort through something as impersonal as an e-mail message. Nevertheless, that was precisely the medium we had at that moment. Just words; just a connection, cold, electronic, but yet so precious; a chance for us to share words, to share messages, to communicate. Already it had been so much more than that for us; it had been the way we had met, got to know each other; became friends. Purely a vehicle for the simplest of messages, good wishes, digital hugs, moments of humor. words of encouragement. A song, a little over a month ago, a birthday present. Technology had made these things possible; but it was nothing more, simply technology. The radio waves, the wires, pumped no blood. The silicon hearts contained no warmth.

Another reply, more lengthy this time, more detailed, more impassioned, more you, making it clear what you needed most at that moment was to be hugged, to be held closely, to feel the comfort of another.

I found myself saying it, writing it, feeling it, even without as much as a thought. I'm with you, I wrote. Feel me with you. Let me hold you. I disbelieved myself as I wrote those words. What I wrote wasn't possible. What I wrote was at best comforting, at most a charming thought, but quite simply not something I could admit to. At that moment, however, I wanted nothing more than to try. I didn't try to concentrate, no scrunching up of eyelids, no clenching of fists. I had no idea what to do; how to do; whether I even could do. There was no embarrassment, nobody there to see me, as I tried, body, mind, heart, and soul, to reach out for you, across the miles, across the ether, across the universe. All I did was relaxed, and let it happen.

There you were.

I felt you with me, as real as you were here, as real as I were there. No, more than that. You were here. I was there. I held you close, and slipped my arms around you, placing your head on my chest, running my fingers through your hair. I sensed you with everything of my being, real, physical, close to me; your scent, your breath, nuzzling your soft shoulder, holding you close, gentle, warm, comforting. I had never experienced anything like this before; as I dared to think about it, I realized I could quite easily convince myself this was not happening. I let reason take a break for once, and concentrated on you, on feeling you close to me. I gently brushed your cheek, and whispered calmly, It'll be all right. I'm here. Closer, closer, as I listened to you breathe, watching over you, letting you relax, willing you to fall asleep, calm, gentle, and in my embrace for the first time that night. The next day, nothing would ever be the same again... neither of us could even predict what the next month would bring. Today, here we are. It's the next year, celebrating yet another of our anniversaries, darling. We have quite a story to share. Could anyone connect like this?

Bubbalon: Social Ratings, Awful or Awesome?

Parents of kids of a certain age (and teenagers, for some strange reason) might be familiar with the Cartoon Network show Foster's Home For Imaginary Friends. One of the most memorable characters - and, let's face it, when it comes to kids' shows, "memorable" quite often means incredibly obnoxious - and a firm fan favorite is Cheese, who follows the main protagonists around constantly declaring "I like chocolate milk. I like potatoes. I like cereal" over and over and over again; something which kids will quite happily imitate, over and over and over again themselves.

This connects me, eventually, to Bubbalon, a site that I learnt about earlier today from a follow on Twitter, and, being in an unusually-receptive Follow Friday mood, I decided to take a look at the site, see what it was all about, and even suggested that after checking it out I might like to write a review. Bubbalon touts itself as a "Social Rating website". Yes, I can't believe they had the nerve to say that too. Apparently you can attach the word social in front of anything these days. Now, this is nothing new. I remember being involved in the beta program for Likaholix (now called mylikes), and at the time it was apparent that sites that allowed you to express opinions on products and services were, in fact, likely to be a way of gathering free market research - an advertiser's nirvana. Now I must admit, while I'm not quite fond of the idea that things like store loyalty cards may be used to gather data about my purchasing habits, subject it to statistical analysis, throw it into some huge data mining application and, apocryphally, mean that beer gets put on the grocery store shelves near the diapers, I don't mind feeding these sorts of services if I get something in return. This, after all, is why Google is so successful; their services become such an integral part of my online activity that I don't ever dream to think what it would be like without them, so, who cares if they slip in the odd ad or two? In the Likaholix beta, one appealing thing I discovered was, the more I liked, the more it tuned its recommendations to things it expected I would like, as well. I managed to discover (and indeed, rediscover) some exceptionally good music and video games as a result. The beta was interesting, although I must admit I got very fidgety when the sponsors and advertisers moved in.

What about Bubbalon? What's their vision? Well, direct from their FAQ, we have

Imagine this: your expressed views could influence the way our current social models work. We are standing on the brink of massive cultural and social changes, and Bubbalon is there to make that leap with you. The old world is based on dictatorship, non-transparency, rigidity and social divide. The new world that we are building on Bubbalon, is a total, complete opposite of that. Each Bubbalonian stands firmly for positive evolution, good social merit, total freedom, responsibility for one's actions, transparency and balance. We are working to make your views MATTER.

Sure. Right. Truthfully, I don't think there's a single Internet user who genuinely cares about this kind of nonsense about "social models", they're interested in what's in it for them, if they take part. Bubbalon's mechanism is simple. Either through search or through a cloud of suggested objects and ideas to rate, the user can pick, with a slider an accompanying smiley, their reaction on each object in Bubbalon's database from 0 to 100. More specific comments can be added in the form of a mini-review, which, guess what, is up to 140 characters in length. As an incentive to keep rating and commenting, each rating or comment awards the user karma points, with more karma being awarded if another user finds the comment helpful. The more karma points awarded, the more that can be done on the site, such as adding new objects to the system or even modifying existing ones. In the same way Likaholix suggested, the system is somewhat self-governing, because the best quality objects and entries "bubble" to the top, hence the site's name.

So, what is the reward, for this constant rating of objects and writing micro-reviews of such concepts as Starbucks, or "Ridiculous Article Titles?". Here, essentially, is the place where things fall apart for me. Bubbalon does not use my ratings to suggest other objects to me, in the same way Likaholix did, but to suggest users. This seems, on the surface, utterly bizarre, wanting me to construct yet another follower/following network on yet another site based solely on whether we share opinions of things? Call me old-fashioned, but I have been perfectly capable of meeting people my entire life - yes, even on social networks - without agreeing with them on what I think of Shakira. The whole site is based on the idea of what opinions people have in common. This information is evidently more useful to an advertiser scanning groups and demographics, than it is to the individuals involved. Even the suggestion mechanism is flawed. For example, the "smart connect" portion of the site discovers people I may be interested in following, because I have a 100% rating match with them. After close inspection, it turns out the two of us have, in fact, only rated one object in common - a low-hanging fruit such as Google, or Twitter. That doesn't seem like a very good algorithm. If a little more evidence as to where this data is going were needed, a closer look at a more detailed ratings page might give a clue. The page gives average ratings throughout the Bubbalon world, but also categorized by user groups and, yes, by the most polarizing of all demographics, gender. I am quite suspicious about a site that is using gender as a statistic-collating process. Expect to see dating ads very shortly. And, just in case anyone was wondering, liking the same things isn't necessarily a successful basis of a relationship, either...

If I already wasn't impressed by Bubbalon, what it had craftily done during my initial signup was the final straw. It's all too common for these sorts of sites to connect with, for example, Facebook or Twitter, retrieve your friends list, and look for them on the site. That's something I have more or less gotten used to, and am quite happy to accept the OAuth disclaimer that the site is going to access my Twitter feeds, followers, and following lists. What is inexcusable, however, is the default behavior of Bubbalon after connecting is to tweet every rating as and when you declare it. It did not offer that configuration option before dropping me into the site, and it took some finding once I realized that it had already sent thirty or forty tweets on my behalf. I took a look at my Twitter timeline and I did indeed look like Cheese from the Foster's show, particularly as the site will send multiple tweets if you have a bit of a shaky mouse hand and jiggle the sliders. After a couple of concerned followers drew my attention to this apparent lapse, I was livid, and spent quite a while cleaning up the mess. Not only had, in my opinion, the site little to offer me, but it had committed what I consider a grave sin. If you do go to Bubbalon, make sure you find these options and disable them. Otherwise, you too might end up sounding just like Cheese, whose immortal words might just sum up what i thought of Bubbalon:

I pooted.

Book Review: A Spy At Home by Joseph Rinaldo

Try to put yourself in the position of a retired CIA operative, returning home to his wife and son with Down syndrome (resulting in early-onset Alzheimer's), endeavoring to do his best to look after them and ensure they are provided for. Now, just to make things a little more difficult, imagine our retired spy has managed to embezzle a little under ten million dollars from his employer. Such is the premise of A Spy at Home, the first novel by Joseph Rinaldo, already published as an eBook. Mr Rinaldo explains how he is uniquely qualified to write this book, raising a daughter with Down syndrome and witnessing the effect of Alzheimer's on a family member, and indeed cryptically states that he'd prefer not to disclose the sources of his espionage-related knowledge. This intriguing combination of plot and story sounded unique and intriguing to me, so I happily accepted the author's offer to write a review.

The juxtaposition of a "tough guy" job with the emotional concerns attached with mental disability made me immediately think of Regarding Henry, penned by writer J. J. Abrams in a dim and distant era long before Lost. It's not a common combination of subjects, and surely presents the author with some difficult challenges. The author deals with these issues very well by writing the book as our retired operative's memoirs, only to be released to be read in the event of his death. In the preface, the narrator tells us that, yes, he is dead; yes, his son was a surprise; and yes, he's the one that killed his own wife. With those revelations out of the way, the book proceeds in whydunnit style, with the narrator telling us about events as and when he remembers them, indeed apologizing for his lack of strict chronology very early in the book. It's a very stark contrast between the strict mental conditioning required for his day job, and the day-to-day stresses and strains of looking after his son, whose welfare becomes more and more of a challenge as their lives go on.

The book does not go in for large amounts of descriptive passages; it is indeed intended as a memoir rather than a flowery novel, which can at times leave a very dry delivery but does, for the most part, definitely give a realistic feel and a feeling that perhaps some of the events reported have their basis in fact, written precisely as our narrator would report them, grappling with his own emotional detachment due to his job. This does result in a couple of areas where things are ambiguous; for example, it is apparent that some time passes through the story as the child Noah grows up, gets a job and goes to work, although I never quite felt sure exactly how old he was. Likewise, exactly when the story takes place seems a little unclear, although it is evidently in a near present due to the computer hackers that form an integral part of the espionage side of the story. That part of the story was also delivered in a gritty way - there was no attempt to picture the spy business as anything glamorous as in the movies, rather a day job whose employees have the same concerns as most of us, such as whether their families are eligible for benefits. The lack of description does make it a little difficult to feel for the characters; we only get to experience their situation. There are a couple of inclusions in the book which I felt did detract from the overall story. There are a few very awkward sex scenes; nothing particularly explicit, but extremely clumsy and they do not add anything to the tale - excluding them would have left the book accessible to a young teen audience which would be just as interested in the novel's parallel subjects. There are a couple of places as well where I feel the author slipped out of character for a moment and managed to let his own political viewpoint slip out, albeit briefly. I can't help feeling it is a line an editor would have removed before going to press. Overall, the writing and copy seemed good with only a couple of minor errors. I must admit, I was somewhat surprised at the pricing of the book ($9.95) on amazon.com for a first-time author.

The book does indeed raise some difficult ethical questions; we find ourselves wondering whether any amount of money would make a difference in this situation, and we are sympathizing very much with a father who, while he may be used to overthrowing foreign regimes and all sorts of covert operations, finds it ever more difficult to look after a son who recognizes him less and less and is constantly worried exactly how he will be cared for once the father passes on. Watching the story unfold as one tragedy follows another, all against the backdrop of possible discovery of the theft of the money and trying to find ways to put the money to work without raising suspicions, one feels the greatest sympathy for the characters, although curiously it is not so much for Noah and his condition, but for his father, for whom no amount of training could prepare him for the trials and tribulations he is to face as a spy, at home. It's a good story whose major strength to me is the realism of the characters dealing with very real lives without expecting the plot to magically resolve itself in the closing chapters. Mr Rinaldo's own experiences evidently do show through in the writing here.

A Spy at Home is available from amazon.com in eBook format. Mr Rinaldo has plans to release several more eBooks in the near future.

(The author offered a free copy of the book in return for this review)

Getting serious about fitness... this time

Image via Wikipedia

Whatever you do, don't tell my Mom. She'll have an apoplexy. I've just purchased a gym membership. For the two of us, of course. There's no way I'd be going to the gym alone, and a big part of the reason why I'm there is moral support for C, as well. So far, it's not doing too badly. We've been there three days in a row. This is the biggest commitment to fitness I've made in my entire life.

The two of us have known each other for quite a while now, and seen each other in quite a selection of states of fitness. I grimace when I think of the first photograph C ever saw of me. I was packing on the pounds quite ridiculously back then, with a kisser that was more reminiscent of Alfred Hitchcock than anyone else. I managed, not through design, but through the sheer stress of living, to shed a little bit here and there. By the time C and I met, I was one pants size down from that; by the time I moved out to California, well, better make that two. A few months of sustenance living on bachelor chow while going through stressful situations will do that to you. Gleefully, I can remember not even bothering to pack my fat pants. I'd never need those again.

And then, well, California... joys such as that raspberry pudding at Phil's Fish Market that made our eyes roll into the back of our head, the fruits I'd never even heard of, let alone eaten (a pluot? What on earth is a pluot?), the wonderfully sweet produce that's all around us in this valley, and of course, that Central Coast region specialty, the tri-tip. I bragged at one point that I'd never had a poor meal all the time I'd been here. I think that still holds true. But all of this comes with a price. Those two sizes smaller pants that I delighted in getting myself in? Well, I can't get in them any more; the next size up is hardly comfortable, either. By rights I ought to be back in the fat pants size; and, once upon a time, I would have simply gone out and bought me some more that fit. Not this time. This time, we've got the mutual support system to get it right. It's in both of our best interests to make sure each other stays as healthy as possible.

We've done a couple of pair excursions on the stationary bikes before now; odd days, here and there, where our schedules permitted it. I remember, several months ago, promising to deliver the motivation for us to get each other going; to get each other exercising; to look after those recurring issues we each have with our knees, to provide strength as a partnership - to be a team. You know exactly where good intentions always end up leading. We did have plenty of fun; ironically, one of the big draws for these outings was the wonderful fish restaurant on our way home, and - yes! - I did finally experience the euphoria, the adrenalin rush of the aftermath of exercising, when I bit into a Subway tuna sandwich after exercising and discovered it was quite simply ambrosia, the nectar of the gods. We both felt better for it; we knew it, and we both knew we needed to keep it up, regularly continue to pursue it. There's a stationary bike in the family room; we can't of course both ride it at the same time, though, and that eliminates that competitiveness component that's possibly a huge amount of what pushes us both. You can't let me pedal further than you, because, well, you've been doing this exercising lark a lot longer than I have. And I can't let you pedal further than me, because, well, you're a girl.

So here we are, we've been to the gym three days a row, and hit those stationary bikes with the recumbent chairs. Thankfully. Those hard saddles on the uprights were the most uncomfortable things I'd ever felt, and they weren't a great motivator. The first day, the bike seemed too easy for me, so I pushed that level selector up. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. OK, now I'm feeling some resistance. No trouble, no difficulty, no sweat... of course, by that time I'd barely been going for sixty seconds. Twenty-five minutes or so later, it was quite a different matter, it was absolutely pouring out of me. The heart rate indicator was showing 151. The little picture on the side of the machine that shows where your heart rate should be puts 151 pretty much at the upper limit for cardio. Slow down, slow down. I wondered whether I'd make it to the end of the course; one more skyscraper-like peak of hard work appears on the screen showing the random course we'd selected, and then, after that... oh give thanks! The last couple of minutes are relatively flat and low-impact. I think I can do this, I know I can do this. Total distance covered - 10.80 miles? How did you do, darling?

Day Two wasn't as easy. I picked up where we left off, on Level Nine, and got myself quickly to that upper limit on the heart rate graph. I saw the way you were looking at me, this couldn't be good. Perhaps you should turn it down a notch. I turned it down to level 8, and my heart rate settled down again, just where it should be. There's no sense in over-exerting it; it's pretty obvious this thing is doing you some good, just feel all this stuff pouring out of you. I want to go a bit further today, let's make it 11 miles. Let's absorb all the numbers on this display in front of me into my mathematical brain, keep constantly recalculating how much harder I'm going to have to work to manage that, push it some more, push it some more. The flat bit of the course is in front of us, OK, I'm going to push it for this last two minutes, 10.78, 10.79, 10.80 miles again? You too?

Day Three. We said we weren't necessarily going to push it, but, you know what? I feel up to it this morning, let's go ahead and do it one more time. No, I don't think walking to the gym is a good idea today; let's drive it. I'm going to do it again, pick up where I left off, and push it, push it, push it, it can't possibly be that much extra effort to make eleven miles, I must be able to do it, I must be getting better at this.

10.80 miles again? You're kidding me.

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Nerdy Number Corner: Perfectly Amicable

*Another one of the irregular breaks from the personal drama... it's a math
post, this time around. Have fun!*

You may perhaps have heard of the concept of a *perfect number*. Put simply,
a number is called perfect if it is equal to the sum of its own proper
divisors, in other words, all the numbers that divide into it exactly,
including one, but excluding the number itself. For example, the number 6
has divisors 1, 2, 3. 1+2+3=6, so 6 is the smallest perfect number. The next
one after that is 28. A long time ago, a proof was found that every
*even *perfect
number must equal a Mersenne prime, multiplied by the power of 2 smaller
than it. 28, for instance, is equal to (2^2)*(2^3-1), where 2^3-1 = 7 is a
Mersenne prime. At the time of writing there are 47 known Mersenne primes;
hence 47 known perfect numbers, the largest of which having almost *26
million digits*. If even perfect numbers seem rare, it is still not even
known if an *odd *perfect number exists or not, although the many theorems
constructed about its existence suggest that, should one exist it would be
very large and of a very special form indeed.

It seems one might construct a little game when it comes to this magical
"sum of proper divisors" function. Starting with any number, we could take
the sum of its proper divisors; then continue with that number; then
continue with that number, and so on. Who knows, perhaps this way we might
accidentally stumble on a perfect number, or perhaps something else. Perhaps
it is best to illustrate by an example. Let us start with the number 20. Its
proper divisors are 1, 2, 4, 5, 10, with sum 22. We will call a number like
20, whose divisor sum is larger, an *abundant number*. 22's divisors are
just 1, 2, and 11, with divisor sum 14. We will call a number like 22, whose
divisor sum is smaller, a *deficient number*. Perfect numbers exist
somewhere between these two extremes. Let's carry on. 14's divisors are 1,
2, and 7, with sum 10. 10's divisors are 1, 2, and 5, with sum 8. 8's
divisors are 1, 2, and 4, with sum 7. And 7's only divisor is 1. End of the
road - 1 doesn't have any divisors except for itself.

It takes a little to prove an *iterative* process like the one above,
applying the same function over and over again, has only a limited number of
outcomes. The sequence may stop, such as when it reaches a number which we
can no longer apply, such as 1; the sequence may eventually repeat, looping
over the same numbers again and again in a cycle; or the sequence may go on
forever, never revisiting any previous entries and inevitably visiting
numbers that grow ever larger. It is intriguing to see if there are other
possibilities other than numbers immediately repeating, such as the perfect
numbers, or numbers ending in 1. Perhaps, even if the perfect numbers are
rare, this little trick has something else to offer.

220 is an interesting number. Its sum of divisors is 284, and... perhaps
you've guessed it, summing the divisors of 284 gets us back to 220. Such a
pair is called an *amicable pair* - almost like best friends of numbers,
perhaps? While not easy to find, they are certainly more common than perfect
numbers, and many impressive examples are known to
exist.
220, 284 is merely the smallest such pair, and was known to our old friend
Pythagoras. Discoverers range from Euler and Fermat of years gone by, to
researchers right up to the present day. One helpful thing about amicable
pairs is there is a handy formula for finding the sum of all divisors of a
number (including the number itself), provided you know the number's prime
factorization. Replace each term *p^a* in the number's factorization with *
(p^(a+1))/(p-1)*, and the product now gives the sum of all divisors. An
amicable pair is two numbers *a* and *b*, both of whom have the same sum of
all divisors, *a+b*. In the example, the all-divisors sum of 220 and 284 are
both equal to 504. This concept can be even extended further, you can find
amicable triplets, whose all-divisor sums are equal to the sum of all three
numbers, and so on.

Going back to the idea of iterating the sum of proper divisors function over
and over, it turns out we can find some remarkable numbers which eventually
cycle back to themselves in an *amicable chain*. Beginning with 12496, for
example, takes us through 14288, 15472, 14536, 14264 before returning to
12496 on the fifth step. Starting with 14316, it takes 28 steps before we
get back to the original number. Are there any longer chains than that? And,
even if you do not find a chain, are there really any numbers for which the
sequence would go on forever? It's conjectured there are none.

Three Blogging Services That Impressed Me Lately

A little while ago, I ran into this blog about the 5 stages of a blogger's life. I must admit, at the time, I wondered if I'd ever make it out of level 1, in fact, I'm still wondering about that, Shortly afterwards, a follow-up post appeared with a theory about why people stop blogging. To put it simply, it becomes necessary to become a part of a community, to flourish, to realize that the words are not simply being sounded out in an echo chamber. There's plenty of services out there that are chasing you down, offering to help publicize, to link you, to connect you with the rest of the blogging world; however, it might be worth pausing there for a moment. Recently I have tried a couple of services whose initial impressions on me were not good; these are quite well-known services, and among those that spring immediately to mind when you consider blog promotion. Perhaps it was only to be expected that my experience would be unsatisfactory. It occurred to me that the problem with these services was that they were gaining more from me being a member than I was from them; they were getting advertising views for teeth whitening and online gambling venues, while I was getting little or nothing in return except for a great deal of frustration.

Fortunately, there are some impressive services out there. In stark contrast to the big guys, the heavy hitters, I've recently had some excellent experiences with three much smaller communities that I will quite happily recommend. Perhaps it is due to the community size. Perhaps it is something to do with me being closer to their membership, perhaps in terms of experience or familiarity with the issues that are being discussed; although, perhaps when you read about these three services, you might be quickly able to identify what it is about them that singles them out.

• I first heard about Blogger Talk when Rose DesRochers tweeted a link to an article I had written for syndication, reposted on the Blogger Talk site. This was my first experience with article republishing and introduced me to what I discovered was a very strong and healthy blogger community of discussion forums, support, downloads and assistance. The atmosphere is close and friendly; I'll always have Rose to thank for a boost in getting targeted readers to that article and shown me what a difference exposure to the right audience can make.
• Expose Your Blog is in fact a service I discovered while on Blogger Talk. Don Bell was introducing himself in the forums, and Don impressed me immediately with his combination of sincerity and general goodwill to the entire  blogging community. Don's site came about after several former members of Blog Explosion were dissatisfied after that site apparently... erm... imploded. Expose Your Blog is reminiscent of the older traffic exchanges where sites are viewed in rotation in exchange for page views on your own site. I must admit I was somewhat dubious about the effectiveness of this, but I have found myself reading and commenting on several of the sites and having that favor likewise returned, so the concept definitely works. if that is not enough, EYB boasts a gorgeous forum and, believe it or not, an online radio station...
• Blogger Luv is a blogger community site in every sense of the word, offering friends and followers like the many social networking sites out there, all with a blogging angle. Bloggers are encouraged to share their sites and experiences from day one, the atmosphere is friendly and good-naturedly competitive, mainly because of the infectious enthusiasm of John Sullivan. If John doesn't poke you in the ribs within the first day of your membership, I'd be surprised. The site's own blog offers interesting stories and articles, but the most fascinating area for me has been the community pages, where links can be offered and voted up much in the way of StumbleUpon or Reddit. This way the community decides for themselves which articles are worthy of sharing, and the articles I have found there have been most useful.

Did you figure out what it was that these three services offered that made them stand out from the rest? It's right there; each of them is represented by a real person; has presented a personal angle, a very human aspect, in a real community. That is the important thing, none of us is doing any of this in a vacuum. We depend on each other, rely on each other, to grow, to learn, to thrive, to share a little bit of "luv" every once in a while. Without it, we are not likely to get very far; the community aspect is important for any of us to survive. Let us make the most of each other's company.

Darling, I miss you - day 3

Darling, I miss you. Don't worry, it's a short one today. Actually it probably won't get sent today; I may have to finish it tomorrow. My appointment is early in the morning, but I don't know how long I'll be stuck there, so I'll have to check out of the hotel first thing in the morning before I leave. And then, after that, I don't know how much I'll be able to be in touch for the rest of the day. The parking lot is underground; I won't be able to get a signal. More than that, my batteries have to last the rest of the day. I won't get a chance to recharge them after I leave the room. I forgot the cable that let me charge the phone off the computer; I'm not exactly a well-seasoned business traveler, I don't know all the tricks. I've got to let you know what happens with the plane flight tonight; whether I get a seat with my standby ticket. If I don't, I won't be home until tomorrow. And if I do, well, I have to let you know to meet me at the airport. It seems everyone wants to call me on the 'phone and ask what's going on this morning. At this rate, the battery isn't going to last.

I have no idea what you're thinking right now about this appointment. I'm hoping, three hours behind, you're actually still asleep and won't be thinking about it at all, but somehow I know that's not going to happen. Don't worry, it'll all be all right. Once this bit is done, there shouldn't be any more of these details to get in the way of the things we want to do. I've been thinking about this a lot. It's taken years to get this done. In fact, for years it has seemed almost impossible to get done at all. And yet, ever since meeting you, I've had the intent, the focus, the motivation to complete this process, to have all the credentials in place, for us. Only a few days ago, it seemed that we were in an impossible bind, yet somehow, together, we managed to make this trip happen.

I'm out of the appointment now. It went well; I went down to the cafeteria and grabbed a wholesome breakfast of sausage and eggs, about the most flavorful thing I've had all the time I've been gone. The staff eventually understood all the paperwork I'd brought with me; I feel good about that. The technician wasn't so fond of me, I'm afraid. She called me uncooperative. If she only knew how much effort I've been through to be this cooperative; traveling all the way across the country at a moment's notice. It took me a while to spiral out of the underground parking lot; spiral ever further out of the one-way system; spiral further and further out of the town itself, trying to reach escape velocity. The problem is, it'll be almost eleven hours before I have a chance of getting on a flight. What can I do for eleven hours? Shopping. Shopping and shopping and more shopping. I need to find a thank-you card for L. It would be really nice if they made a thank-you card that expressed the sentiment the way I'd like to express it; I don't want thanks for condolences, I want thanks for help and support. There's a Half Price Books in this strip mall over here. You have no idea how much I miss seeing those; this used to be my favorite place to shop. They have a paperback that I've been looking for, seemingly for years. I'll buy it with the loose change I have in my pocket. Yes, that's right. I need to get rid of that loose change anyway. It'll make it easier to get through airport security. Yes, absolutely, that's the only reason I'm buying this book.

The food never got any better, I'm afraid. My stomach has been nervous the entire time I've been here. Half the time I've been starving, the other half, I've felt deathly ill and over full. I'm eating but only for survival reasons. I'm not hungry at this moment, but I had better eat lunch, just in case I don't get a good dinner in the airport. I might have to camp out in the airport overnight if I can't get a flight, and there might not be a great selection of food that late. Yuck. Ouch. It hurts. It's getting hot and humid, the temperature is building, the humidity is rising. it's the middle of the day; I'd love to take a nap. But where? Those couches in the corner of Buns and Noodles look exceptionally inviting. I wonder if they'd mind if I brought my own book in. OK, it's about time I admitted it to myself. I've had far too much fun today. I've still got several hours to go, but I've got nothing else I can do with my time. I can read my books in the airport. I may as well just check in, and wait. And wait. And wait. And, if I get disappointed, wait some more.

OK, I'm in the airport now. It seems they have the full body scanners in place here; that was a terrifyingly Orwellian experience. Apparently they saw a problem; a 'shadow' in the vicinity of my left calf. No, I don't possibly know what it could be, perhaps some scar tissue from an accident over thirty years ago, that's all I could think of. So I ended up being examined the old-fashioned way. It's a frightening array of technology; run from a console the size of Jean-Luc Picard's bridge. It seems the security staff in this airport outnumber the passengers. Hardly anyone is here, and I've still got many hours to go. I'm exhausted, I keep dozing off, but not for significant amounts of time. I wake and check the time again; only a few more minutes have elapsed. I'm trying to ration my battery on the 'phone. Only one and a half bars, now. I have to have enough to let you know if there's a free seat on the flight; and that's a long time away. Oh. That half bar just disappeared. I'm on the last one now, and it's yellow. I'm turning it off, going incommunicado for a few hours. I'm not going to like that; being away from you is one thing; being disconnected from you is something else. I can scrunch up my eyeballs and think of you, send you a message that way. We used to have to do that all the time.

The flight is coming in from Orlando, no doubt absolutely full of people wearing Mickey ears. It seems the airport has suddenly got busy; not so long ago the place seemed deserted; now, as the flight approaches, of course it's packed. I have no idea whether or not there'll be a seat available. I'm getting nervous about whether I'll be able to send you a message. I fidget and wander over to one of those recharging stations; three dollars for a 50% charge in 30 minutes. That sounds like a deal I can handle; and I've got precisely 30 minutes until the incoming flight arrives. Hmmm. This isn't working right. The charge light is barely glowing. I'll try to turn the phone on; yep, there's a lightning bolt there, it's supposed to be doing something. No bar. I'll look again in five minutes, just a peek, is this some sort of Schrödinger's Cat thing; a watched pot that never boils? Still no change. Five more minutes. Five more. Five more. Still no change. Hanging on, looking down towards the gate. There seems to be a sea of people approaching. Are they from Florida? Do they look like they're from Florida? What a silly question. I'll take my chances, unplug the 'phone, and run.

It was a gorgeous sight; my name is already up there as a passenger allocated a seat; once again, I've managed to get out on the first flight possible. I thank L again, I thank God, I thank you. I send you that message, I managed to get half a bar of battery back, after all. I'm going to be doing a lot of sleeping the next five hours. Not good sleep; I've realized, these past few days, that good sleep is only possible when it's next to you. This is just simply blacking-out sleep, exhausted, collapsing, until I get home. I was right. I didn't finish the post until two days later, still recovering, still getting used to be back home with you. Here I am, darling, all ready home to you, giving you all my attention, realizing just how much that means while I've been away from you. I never would take that for granted anyway; but being gone has made me feel that all the deeper. I won't miss a single moment with you. Just let me finish writing this first.

Another...

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Darling, I miss you - day 2

Darling, I miss you. We've only been apart one day, and there's at least one more night to go. I'm not even halfway there. And today is going to be a difficult one; I have a difficult meeting this morning, I am not sure what the outcome is going to be. It could mean this entire journey has been wasted; it could mean I might have to go ahead and do something else I don't want to do in order to get everything finished. I didn't sleep last night; didn't sleep much at all. My skin crept, fidgety, a touch of the nerves; more than once I wondered if there were bedbugs in this hotel bed, but I'm pretty sure that wasn't it. Just nerves, just not having your soft shoulder to nuzzle. The room's not co-operating much, either. The fridge seems to have frozen up and is dripping, drip, drip, drip, a twentieth-century variant of water torture. The toilet's got a leak, I think. I best not try to put a plug in the sink again, it took me twenty minutes with a car key last night to pry it back out to let the water drain.

I was good this morning, you would be proud of me. I got up early, by myself, I didn't grumble, I didn't complain. I made my 'phone call, bright and early. I took my joint health pills, all part of you taking care of me even when you're not right there with me, I guess. Ironic, that. You packed me an extra day's worth, just in case. I did take them yesterday before I left, didn't I? I can't remember much about yesterday morning, actually. Something makes me think I'd rather not. I wish this guy would hurry up and return my call. I want to know what I've got to be doing the rest of the day. It's a question of hurry up and wait. I might have a lot to do, and not much time to do it in, or I might be able to delight in il dolce far niente. The sweetness of doing nothing. It could go either way. Wait, the phone's ringing. It's him, he wants me in his office right now... oh wait, now I've got another call waiting. It's you? Go back to sleep darling, it's still ridiculously early for you... if you slept. I didn't sleep much, did I already tell you that? Yes of course I'll let you know as soon as I know something. Of course. Of course. Oh, for some reason I just remembered. I have to call Mom. She is going to be madder than a wet hen about me not calling her for her birthday yesterday.

OK, this town is ludicrous. I'm a mathematician; some things are invertible, reversible, but not driving in this town. Don't even think you can get from A to B by reversing the driving directions from B to A. It's all one way systems, all convoluted. My best bet to get from one place in this town to another is cross the river, drive along the riverfront to where I need to be, then cross back over. It's imperative that I either cross the river or the levee at least six times in any journey I make, like it's some kind of superstition the town planner had, requiring every motorist to cross themselves and genuflect their vehicles in some bizarre ritual of calling quarters. I'm going to be late for this appointment; I'm going to swing the vehicle in a wide arc, escape this town completely and take another shot at it from the outside. Bullseye.

It went well. It went better than well. It went incredibly well. I'm going to have to write it all down in an email to you, I think. It's going to be too easy for me to miss something important when I'm on the 'phone. We did the right thing, sending me here at a moment's notice. It seems we have saved the system a whole lot of trouble. Touch wood, everything should go very smoothly tomorrow. I just have to make sure I tell them everything, give them everything, explain everything. I've got copies of everything. And this really, truly, genuinely is it. I won't have to do this again. I guess that's what's been the hard thing for me to deal with; I said we would never have to do this, we'd never have to be apart again; we both said that, we thought this part was long over, and here we are, again, one more time. It's always one more time. But no more times after this one more time. OK?

So it's the sweetness of doing nothing, nothing to do, no-one to do it to - and I've been advised not to do that other thing we talked about, either. Not until everything is done, everything else. It's OK, you know I don't multitask well, I have to focus on one thing at a time. I'm smiling right now. Thinking of you in the kitchen. I've seen you sweeping or mopping with one hand while holding the little baby in the other arm and with all four burners running on the stove, while dancing and singling Walking On Sunshine. It takes me every brain cell in supreme synchronized concentration to make sure I don't trip over my own feet. I'm amazed at the way you juggled things; you found a way to make this happen, even though you knew it would be a rough couple of days for us, you focused on what had to be done. I'd already fallen apart. I've done it again. I did the meeting this morning, and right now I'm thinking about you, and that's got me fully occupied. I don't have the multitasking chromosomes. XX, XY, that's why it's you and me. I've done it again. I've somehow managed to forget to eat with all these other things I've had to do. I am feeling faint. What time is it, anyway. Is it breakfast time? Or lunch? You're eating what on waffles?

Sorry. Yes, I was eating, yes, I know. Thanks for the pictures, so you saw the lemons on our tree? I thought he just needed a bit of encouragement this year; I don't know why you didn't have any luck with him last year. Why are they blacktopping everything? You know, these pictures are making me feel extremely homesick. I can't wait to make it home. I'll let you know as soon as I get out tomorrow, and I'll have to gamble with the return flight again. One way or another I'll get back. Where was I? You'll never believe me. I got called on my accent. Interesting gentleman, he records his own music, He sounds like he has the same sort of equipment I used to use when I played. That reminds me, I need to start doing that again. We talked about the Beatles and chord progressions; and how you can play a C major and you can layer an A minor or an E minor on top of it and you can pick out whatever note in the triad you feel like in the bass part, I must admit, I really wasn't following a lot of it. I'm out of practice, you see. I mentioned you once or twice, I think. It's hard not to mention you, isn't it? He was amused by that story about the Ed Sullivan show. You know the one. He asked me to look him up. And here's his original song on YouTube. Pay him a visit, give him a comment, would you?

I never bothered resetting my clock, you know. It's still three hours back, for you it's still yesterday. For me it's already tomorrow. You must be finishing up at work, because I haven't heard from you for oh, at least two minutes. Drive safely darling, it should be just tonight, just one more night, and then it's back home. Oh darling I wouldn't have believed I'd miss you like this.

In three YouTube videos?

Darling, I miss you - day 1

I love you, darling, I mouthed the words silently, as I zigzagged my way ever closer to the security checkpoint, cordoned off by the cloth rails. I can't help but remember the first time we queued like this; beside each other, waiting to board one rollercoaster after another, seeking thrills at the theme park, early last fall. The biggest thrills we experienced that day were the joy at how something as simple as queueing together was a sheer delight. I'm British. I know how to queue. But that day was something else entirely. We'd be lost in one another, and forget to move forward until an insistent harumph behind us reminded us exactly where we were. There's a picture of that day, packed in my suitcase. I'm wearing the shirt. Today, you're wearing it. Today is something different for both of us. We've each seen the other arrive at an airport. For the first time today, one of us gets to see the other leave.

I zigzagged away from you, looked over my shoulder, and saw you still there, still watching, still whispering sweet everythings, while the gap opened up in front of me again. I rounded the corner of the corral; facing you yet again. I love you so very much. I'll be home soon. This time, it wasn't just mouthing the words, I voiced them quietly, somehow expecting them to carry across the crowded airport. The lady in the couple in front turns to her companion. "What did you say?" she asked. He grunted noncommittally, seemingly they'd long abandoned saying that kind of thing to each other. You shuffled a little further down the arrivals lane, still able to watch me make my way, ever closer to the event horizon, beyond which you wouldn't be able to see me any more. We managed to stretch this part of the morning as much as we dared this way; a peculiar morning, one that saw us mutually rely on each other. You had managed to get me to this point, through focus, commitment to action, all those skills you've cultivated in your career, the half of you that everybody sees, expects, time and time again, while I virtually collapse under it all. Now it was up to me to do what has to be done, and, now I needed to act, I could be the strong one, and held you, comforted you, the half of you that I saw so long ago, the delicate, vulnerable side of you that I promised to treasure; the whole of you that I fell in love with.

The TSA member gestured to me to show my boarding pass and my ID; a cursory inspection, and he ushered me towards the plastic boxes, ready for the inspection. Jacket, shoes, laptop, baggie of toiletries, contents of pockets, emptied into the plastic box; shuffling, head down, ready to be frisked. The gentleman in front of me panicked a little as he approached the metal detector; he had an artificial hip. The female TSA staff member running the metal detector radioed for male assistance to perform the frisk the old-fashioned way; the pause was just long enough for me to glance over my shoulder and catch a glimpse of you; shirt stripey, hair fiery, evaporating into the crowd, out of sight. I walked through the portal, no turning back now, and hurriedly gathered up my belongings. The standby boarding pass, pocketbook, Blackberry, Nintendo DS, and the heart of gold. It felt warm to the touch, exceptionally warm, somehow embodying our connectedness, seeing you safely back to the car, seeing me heading towards the gate, where the board looks like it is summarizing odds for a race meet. There I was, in starting gate number 5 in the Standby Handicap; with three other runners, currently with six seats left open to claim. Better make that five; oh wait, the screen changes again, to those without seat allocations, those looking for an upgrade to Business class; names bounce and reorganize alphabetically from one display to the other; the free seats in first class dwindle down to zero; four remained in coach. The gate staff announced the inbound flight had only just landed; it would take a few more minutes to clean and prepare the flight to leave; a twenty minute delay, safe to take another potty stop, it seems I've been going more often than a five-year-old on a road trip. Nerves. Another sigh over the odds of getting a seat standby; if I missed out on this one, then I'd find myself having to find a spot around the gate to curl up and snooze for the next twelve hours and hopefully, nay, surely, clinch a spot on the red-eye. This is why standby isn't for everyone; these are the risks you have to take; it was a godsend for us. L, you are an absolute angel. It must run in the family. And then, I hear my name... there it is. 11B. Can you assist in the event of an emergency? Of course, just get me on that plane.

Flying. I don't enjoy it; I've been so out of practice at it; what's it been, eight years? Nine? I honestly can't remember. And yet, here I was, about to notch up another 5000-odd air miles in the space of a couple of days to add to those a little earlier in the year, and still outshone by a little stuffed animal who has managed one more jaunt than I have as she made her way to me on Valentine's Day, to sing I'll Be There. CB gets fussy; she has to travel in checked luggage, because I'm not keen on her facing all sorts of inappropriate examination at the gate, but she at least doesn't have to worry about occupying herself for the duration of the flight. For me, it's a matter of calculation; fidgeting, working out how much of the flight has gone, how much of it remains, and how agonizing the remaining time is going to be compared to what I've already had to put up with. At least there's legroom on an Airbus. Read some emails; write some responses, they'll send when the plane lands. Another potty stop, another. A bit of fidgety Nintendo. A quick nap. How much time has passed since I last looked? Just five minutes, it felt like an hour. There's the book I should be reading, the book C packed for me, it's in the overhead compartment. Traveling has always struck me like the famous quote about Wagner's music; some wonderful moments, and some dreadful hours. Best to skip the dreadful hours, and on to the frenzied activity on arrival.

And now the frenzy, the busy-ness of business, the getting all the ducks in a row. A rental car, first, no wait, that's not first at all; baggage claim, waiting, watching, wondering whether CB made it too. There she is, get her out, a quick photo op, Now, the rental car, follow the signs, follow the signs... wait, what's going on? I just left the airport, where's the kiosk? There isn't one. The rental car place is offsite, I have to wait for a shuttle bus; another passenger waits, I seem to recognize him, and he's carrying a laptop sack from a company very near where I used to work before I started telecommuting. Too much to do, too much to do, I think as I ride the bus. Have to get the car, have to find the hotel, have to get this all together, it's so humid, I can't breathe, I used to live near here, now it feels like I'm swimming in it, the sun is about to set and I'm unbearably hot. Secure the car, seem somehow to have charmed my way to an upgrade, it's a nice car, it's another photo op for CB. As I take the picture I catch sight of the sky; it's unusual for this area, clouds in mare's tails, it looks like I've brought a California sunset with me. Four more shots, north, east, south, west. More things to do; CB is getting impatient, wanting to navigate me to the hotel, but there's one more to-do on the list first. I need to eat. I haven't eaten all day, I've only just realized that; it's going to be junk food I'm afraid. It seems tasteless, not a patch on the food I've been used to at home. It should be the same, make the meat taste of nothing and standardize on the sauces, right? It isn't, I must quite simply be homesick. Devour it, take it for nutritional value alone, and move on, up the interstate, into the city. It's dark now, and it's still eighty degrees, still swimming in the humidity, still unbearable. I enjoy this part of the trip, it's been a while since I've done it. Cincinnati is peculiar, as you approach it from the interstate you see nothing, you see nothing, and then you round a corner at the top of the hill, and.... there it is, like the Emerald City, glowing on the opposite side of the river, worth a cheap blurry shot with the Blackberry through the windshield at 65 miles per hour. Our hotel is just off Pete Rose; the city forgives him, at least; past the ballpark where the Reds are playing the Marlins, the town is swarming with fans, what a time to arrive. Ironically, after crossing the bridge to enter the town, to leave Kentucky and enter Ohio, the GPS suggests a sharp right, and we're crossing another bridge, back out of Ohio, if the swarm of Reds fans will let us. There's the hotel, and check-in, it's a smoking room. Yuck. Reformed smokers are the worst, you know, but there's no other free option, here it is, our lodging for the next two nights. Two nights. Two nights away from home, away from you.

It just needs a few homely touches, right? I empty my bags; CB makes herself comfortable on the bed and begins to sing I'll Be There. All your memorabilia laid out on the bedside table; your cards, your words, the heart of gold. The picture of that day, the day that I was wearing the stripey shirt. I'm not busy any more; I made it here, well begun is half done, and in two days, I'll be home again. I take a moment and breathe, and realize for the first time in the past few hours, I have nothing to do right this moment. Nothing, that is, except burst into uncontrollable tears, for yet another of several times over the past few days.

Darling, I miss you. Even though I feel you right here, with me right now. Always and all ways.

See and download the full gallery on posterous

Friday The Thirteenth

For many years, my closest friend at work appeared, by all accounts, to be a wise, pragmatic and altogether unsuperstitious gentleman, afraid of nothing. With one exception. He always took a vacation day or a sick day every Friday the thirteenth. More than that; at the beginning of the year, once new vacation time was available, the first thing he'd do would be to consult the calendar, look for any Friday the thirteenths in that year, and book those vacation days up right away, before anything else. (I believe there's alweays at least one every year, and there can be as many as three, like in 2009). It turns out he'd had a bad experience on one such occurrence; on his way to work, several bizarre and unusual events had marked his journey, culminating in a piece of lawn furniture flying over a garden wall and hitting his windshield while he waited at a stop light. After that, no more. No risking journeying to work on the fateful day. Friggatriskaidekaphobia, indeed. To be rational about it one might suggest that, were any bad luck to occur to him on that day, it could happen to him around the house, perhaps a misplaced roller-skate on the stairs, or accidentally leaving a spoon in a bowl reheating in the microwave; but the argument does not hold water; he took his day off work, whether his boss liked it or not. Lat year, an emergency got him called in on one of the fated days. He came, but on one condition - someone who had already made it safely to work, thus somehow proving they were exempt from the curse, would have to drive out to his house and pick him up.

For us, plans for this weekend were nothing special; it's the weekend where I'm gritting my teeth waiting for the next paycheck; it's the weekend that C has to work, so there would be no extravagances; a bit of housework here and there, a few simple heat-and-eat meals to get me through, perhaps a bit of blogging, a bit of messing around on the computer. The first weekend of the English Premier League, that would be something. A bit of reading. Nothing too exciting, and sometimes, no excitement is a good thing. It's been obvious for quite a few days that things weren't going to turn out that way. Two of C's sisters were in hospital; all the other sisters are scattered all over the country, and keeping in touch at times like this requires more than Facebook, but real words, real comfort, with a real voice on the other end of a 'phone. My father went for a check-up as well, an MRA, I hadn't heard of that before, but it's A for angiogram, another word I've added to my dictionary of words I need to know since my father's seizure. Some little things; a little embarrassment at the gym yesterday; later on, dropping chocolate-covered acai berries all over the floor at the checkout at the grocery store. Shaking off the small things as part of life's rich tapestry; taking care of the important things, the health of our families, the things that matter. Perhaps the little mishaps stumble upon us as we're preoccupied with the larger ones. Then this morning, discovering that I need to be 2000 miles away for legal reasons. In four days' time. No excuses. It's enlightening to see how the two of us handle this news. I panic, I throw my hands up in desperation, I surrender. She is deliberate, clear-thinking, absolute, focused. She's what I need. Somehow, she manages to see a way to get me there. I can't even imagine how I've managed the past almost forty years on this planet without this person. I now know for certain, I wouldn't be able to make it a single day on my own.

Is Friday the thirteenth really unlucky? Surely, to admit to that, you have to at least accept that a concept such as luck exists at all; otherwise, good luck and bad luck likewise can't possibly exist. The analytical sides of our brains surely tell us that luck is just an artifact of our brains attempting to find patterns in the patternless; it's not that things like trouble happen in threes; they happen in ones, with a couple of short gaps between them. Even the most hardwired scientific of us though will close our eyes when rolling the dice during that big backgammon finish, where, while we're quite happy to attribute our wins to skill, our losses are "bad luck". We try to encourage ourselves with glib soundbites, claiming that "we make our own luck", refusing to let ourselves be drawn into possibilities that the cards have been decided upfront, that we have complete free will, and more control than we actually do. We can't, for instance, blame ourselves, or blame luck, for the action or inaction of others. The world is a chaotic system, in the new-agey-cagey, fashionable-mathematical-scientific, hand-wavey-obscure sense of the word, the sort of thing that Jeff Goldblum can explain in 30 seconds in Jurassic Park. There are just too many moving parts; as a result, the outcomes are far from predictable. That's what we live and breathe for, after all. If we knew where we were all going, we wouldn't be so thrilled by the journey.

A few days ago, a commenter told me that I was coming up smelling like a rose, to keep my chin up, and all would be fine. We weather life's ups and downs, and should strive to make sure that the ups are as up as we can make them, while the downs are shallow and short-lived. I'm reminded of something my partner told me, shortly after we met. We made promises to each other, including that we would stick by each other, even when things are difficult, I said. I was quickly corrected. Especially when things are difficult, C told me. Indeed, we have already been through difficulties which would seem insurmountable to many, and have had each other to lean on to get through them. This is just another one of those. Normal service will be resumed shortly.

Verifying, verifying, verifying...

With all these blogging community sites appearing, the constant verification business is getting a bit tiresome. I'll probably have quite a few more verifications to do, so for right now, I'm going to stick them all right here!

Verifying, verifying, verifying...

With all these blogging community sites appearing, the constant verification business is getting a bit tiresome. I'll probably have quite a few more verifications to do, so for right now, I'm going to stick them all right here!

A Blaze In The Fireplace

The flames are roaring in the fireplace, consuming the firewood at a terrific rate. It's necessary, I need to keep warm. I'm shivering this morning. It's about 55 degrees outside; but that's 55 degrees without any blanket of humidity to take the edge of it. It feels more like forty. Or thirty. Or some other meaningless number. It doesn't feel like a number at all. What it feels like is cold. I'm wearing thick socks and house shoes; I'm thinking about putting another pair of socks on. I'm still wearing my flannel pyjamas. On top of those; I'm wearing the most snuggly shirt I've got; one that had served me well protecting me from a howling wind 315 feet off the ground in a theme park in Ohio. In October. I throw on another piece of firewood; I have to keep this going. The laptop is living up to its name, trying to keep my legs warm with it. I shiver again, and put the kettle on for something warm, comforting, some tea with something spicy in it, maybe some ginger. I might even be talked into a cocoa.

Welcome to California's Central Coast. In August. It's been one of the coolest summers on record. And no, Mark Twain never said that.

Antiques Fair In San Juan Bautista

Sunday afternoon, and our regular afternoon trip out to San Juan Bautista beckons; a long-standing date for an ice cream at Margot's ice cream parlor, every other Sunday, since C works one weekend off, one weekend on. We pick a new flavor every time we go; we'll see what we get to pick this week. First, however, it's time for a late lunch at JJ's Homemade Burgers. It's the Dino Burger for me this week; topped with guacamole, mushrooms, and onions; an absolute feast. San Juan Bautista is swarming today, busy with an antiques fair, perhaps all the more startling since pretty much every other store on the main street is an antiques store. Heaven only knows where the bikers will end up parking this week.

San Juan Bautista is curious; curiously recognizable. Pretty much everything lies on the main street; a collection of strange bars in aged buildings and antique stores. Chickens wander up and down the main street; clothing stores don't resist the opportunity to sell T-shirts emblazoned with inevitable cock jokes. The Mission of Saint John The Baptist, after whom the town is named, looks very familiar indeed; it's the scene where James Stewart and Kim Novak proceed towards the finale of Vertigo, possibly my favorite Hitchcock movie, but with one major exception. The bell tower that features so prominently in the movie is not there. It never was. That's a bit of movie magic, constructed on a Paramount studio lot. The mission itself is the largest in California, and, perhaps it's because of the movie connection, walking through the mission courtyard is bewitching. There's a huge cactus leering over the wall of the San Juan Bautista park; a sign announces movies in the part on the last Saturday of every month in summer 2010. I think it is Shane this month; the season finishes in September, almost predictably, with Vertigo.

The buildings along the main street are curious mixes of period wooden and brick buildings, redecorated, reconstructed, and, just as often, thoroughly re-envisioned. La Casa Rosa is painted bright pink; next door, Jardines has an upstairs balcony that would rival a Western saloon; further up the road, Mom and Pop's Saloon outdoes them both, with the strains of Woolly Bully pounding out from the inside, a bar that is already packed and throbbing at four o'clock in the afternoon. The antiques stands are set up in force; everyone today seemingly has everything possible to sell; movie collectibles, metal signs from a bygone era. One gentleman over here is selling a box of piano rolls. $15, he'd rather someone took the box with them than have to return home with it. They might be worth a fortune, or legally embroiled.

We made it to Margot's, and picked our flavors out. Hana Road for her today; rich chocolate ice cream, nuts, marshmallows; Rocky Road by another name, but forget what you have ever tasted at a Baskin Robbins. Mine is a blueberry cheesecake swirl, rich, fruity, tart, sweet, heavenly. Difficult to walk with and eat at the same time, so we continue to merely saunter. There's no hurry today, we don't have much money to spend, it's up to us to make it last. This gentleman here has a bizarre machine; seemingly, it's a John Deere tractor, resplendent in green and yellow. It looks like a sausage grinder. He explains how it's a lawn sprinkler. The little tractor follows the hosepipe round the lawn, while the spray rotates on the top. It's been a long day, apparently; he's unenthusiastic, no doubt because he has to pack all of this stuff into the back of his truck soon. The man in the next stand with the wooden birdhouses has already started packing; almost throwing his wares straight into the back of a Dodge Ram.

We reach the end of the street, marked by a pepper tree, gnarled, seemingly ancient. We could carry on, but from here it is pretty much like falling out of town, our tour ends here. We turn and notice something strange out of the corner of our eyes; the word London, in San Juan Bautista of all places. We take a closer look; a reproduction of a few pages of the Illustrated London News, dated February 5, 1863. Reports from the "war in America" from "our correspondent", accompanied with sketches and a handful of words to convey the story, in a nice but weathered frame, no glass, five bucks. C begins to haggle, and we acquire the item for two bucks plus some change, the lady takes whatever we have, we take the item. "It'll be just the thing to go in the front room, when that becomes your home office, someday".

Someday.

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Honor Love's Coming

This post took several attempts to write over the past two months. I think it's time I just posted it and got it out there.

This post will very likely wander, mainly because this day (two months ago!) has also wandered, bordering on the surreal at times. A friend from 'before' got in touch today, and was "glad to read the move went well". There's not much written here so far. Not much as far as the details go, some of which are incredibly unpleasant and difficult to resolve. I'm not trying to give the impression here that everything is sweetness and light; some things are, quite simply, altogether overwhelmingly difficult. Yes, by far, the balance of things is definitely in the positive; I live, I love. I enjoy my new home, the delights of this new place to live. I am always thoroughly amazed at the partner I have now found; one that has taught me so much about what I have settled for in the past, and as to what it feels like to be genuinely coupled with another human being. But these things came at a cost. Yes, the move went well - but it was never as easy as those words might make it sound. There's still plenty of work to do and things to finish up, and that's always going to mean dealing with a fair share of human ugliness.

Most of us have a desire to be loved; of course, but looking back in retrospect, it appears that isn't most people's daily, overriding concern. Most of us simply strive to get by, to make it through the day, to keep our head down in our jobs, in our relationships, to stay out of trouble, to take the rough with the smooth (as smoothly as we can make it) and barely achieve more than just survive. For a lot of us, that's enough. It gives us plenty to keep us busy, and takes more than enough of our energy, A desire to be loved is quite secondary compared to the desperate need to avoid being disliked. Several months ago, a dear friend of ours told us something which underlined the conclusion that we'd already come to; that non-confrontational philosophy wasn't enough for us. I have learned not to worry about love, she told us, but to honor its coming and going with all my heart. Where there is love, there is life and when life ends, love remains. Those words, put together, were delivered in the middle of a particularly tumultuous time of instability and uncertainly. They resounded very deeply with me, exceptionally profoundly. They pointed out to me something which, up until that point, I'd never been able to fully experience. To love and to be loved is remarkable enough; however, to live in a way that honors that completely is an entirely different matter.

I would hope almost everybody reading this has - more than likely, more than once - experienced an emotion which they would, for want of a better name,. call "love". Whether for a partner, for family, for a friend, even for a pet, it comes in many shapes and forms. It's not necessarily the stuff of romantic tragedies; we can't all be Romeo and Juliet, and let's not forget, it didn't turn out too well for them. A lot of us are fortunate; it can be rather convenient. My parents' mothers lived two doors apart; it was only a matter of time before they met. For some of us, it can be more than tough; often enough, it's tough on others. In many, many ways, the story that C and I have to tell is one of those markedly different ones. We have jested, time and time again, how our story is unique; how it would make a thundering novel, a blockbuster movie, how we must make sure that we keep the casting privileges, how we want control over who gets to play each of us. We nervously joke about it because the truth doesn't slip by us; actually sitting down, actually getting to write our story, is going to be one of the most difficult experiences we will face. We'll end up having to face some of the most agonizingly painful, darkest moments we went through, all over again. I've wanted to start trying to do that in this blog, and already, I'm discovering how difficult it is going to be. Blogging here, about this new life and these new experiences, certainly isn't an activity fueled with confidence. There is plenty of support for us, but there are plenty of reservations as well. There will be some who will find some aspects of our story difficult to handle. There will be some who will have deep-seated predispositions about the subjects we'll encounter. We've already both lost touch with close friends who knew a little of what we were going through, and seemingly drew their own conclusions. We've heard nothing from them since. For every dear friend who is cheering us on with the difficulties we face, there are likely to be several who'll disapprove. None of this inspires confidence. It's making writing this blog very, very difficult indeed. I've been deliberately vague about everything so far; there are perhaps a few readers out there who can fill in the blanks; who can read between the lines. But finding the confidence to speak out and say it, and write it, without a vast support group, without a huge readership sharing our experiences, and possibly with considerable opposition, is going to be difficult. At some point I'm going to have to bite the bullet; stop beating around the bush; and say what needs to be said. it won't go down well with everybody. We're not going to have a huge supply of confidence to tap.

It's been a difficult restart, this blog. I've been thinking back to where things were, about a year ago. It seemed back then, everything was rapidly accelerating. I was able to sit down and write blog posts, shooting from the hip; I felt comfortable with them, I felt they were well-written. They included those qualities that distinguished my own writing; they were a reflection of me. I thought they were worth posting; which hopefully translates into the thought that someone else thought they were worth reading. This time around, it seems things haven't been so easy.

We have each other, though.