Chest Pains? Don't hesitate. Get to an Emergency Room.

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A few days ago, I sent a text message to my fiancee while at work, and just happened to mention that I was experiencing "chest pain". That choice of words is very important. I didn't say indigestion, or heartburn, because, well, I simply don't get them all that often. What followed was a blinding panic, of which the details have now become incredibly hazy, and to most of which I was completely oblivious. I simply walked over to the first aid cabinet, took myself an antacid, sat down, and continued to work. I proceeded to make my scheduled phone call and carried on as if nothing untoward was happening. I sent what I thought was a reassuring text message to say that I was OK, it was nothing, and it would pass. Yes, I agreed, this probably was the worst case of heartburn I'd ever experienced, and yes, I was a little surprised that it had pretty much been with me all day, actually, now I think about it, maybe it started last night, and nothing had shifted it. But I was OK, absolutely, and with that supposedly-reassuring message, I continued with my work day.

I've only recently joined the ranks of millions of people "my age" who have to take medications to manage their health. For far too long, I've been of the opinion that, if I don't feel good, I should simply take a tylenol and just "get on with it". Anything more serious than that, well, that's what sick days are for. Up until this year, I can't even remember the last time I went for a routine doctor visit, or a check-up. It was quite possibly back when I was under the protection of Britain's National Health Service, and I haven't lived there for fifteen years. Doctor visits have been something only "sick" people do. Perhaps then, I was overdue for an awakening. Of course, I have far too many risk factors. I'm overweight, I was a heavy smoker since being a teenager, I have a family history of high blood pressure. It turned out, in fact, that wasn't the whole picture. My triglycerides were astronomically high; so high, in fact, that my cholesterol readings wouldn't even show up through them, and no lifestyle changes could possibly bring them down rapidly enough. My doctor promptly put me on medication for the trigs, and pointed out that just because my blood pressure was the same as I'd ever seen it, that didn't mean it was "normal". Even considering all these risk factors and my new medication regime, I still didn't find any reason to be perturbed that afternoon.

My work day certainly was not going to continue as normal. As I continued with my scheduled phone call, other calls were incoming. I must admit, I have probably had about three incoming calls in the past three months. Three within a few minutes seemed, well, a little unusual. Never mind; they could leave a voice mail - I'll pick it up later. Next, instant messages. One from a contact in the process department. "Are you there?" - what's this? Did I not fill out my forms correctly? "Please, answer me." Yes, I'm here, I'm fine. What is all this fuss about? Another IM, this time from HR. "Do you need us to call you an ambulance?" Of course not. I'm just a little uncomfortable, that's all. The facilities coordinator walked into my cube to "check" on me. Yes, I'm here. Oh yes, I'm fine. Nothing to worry about. Erm, what's going on? "Your fiancee called the front desk, distraught that she couldn't get a hold of you." I looked at the blinking light on my phone handset. "She's left work and she's on her way here. Since you won't take an ambulance, she's going to take you to the ER herself."

I sighed in complete disbelief. I'm fine, this is nothing. The phone rings, one more time, and this time I answer it. It's C, driving up the interstate, absolutely frantic with worry, crying. Once again, I'm trying to explain. I'm OK. This is nothing. It can't be anything serious...

Can it?

Or is it?

I must point out, I've been in "emergency" rooms a lot, lately, and it's always seemed like something of an oxymoron. You go in there and register, which involves sitting in the waiting room and filling out paperwork, which you duly hand in, to be told to sit back down. Perhaps what seems like an hour might pass, before you go into the little entrance room, get your vitals taken and an initial assessment, and if it's apparent you're not in any immediate danger, then it's back to the waiting room again. Eventually they take you back to an exam room, where you may eventually get seen, and, more than likely, depending on what other poor souls are in that night, it may be a couple more hours before you might get some pretty ordinary pain medications, perhaps some cursory first aid, and then you're sent home.

Not this time. My feet didn't touch the ground.

My vitals were taken the moment I walked in the door. Before I knew it, I was swept into an examining room where a huge number of sticky electrodes were waiting for me. I needed to use the restroom, desperately. "I have to go", I pleaded, only to be told, no, let us do this first. The electrodes were stuck on me, in places I'd expect, and other places I never thought. My ankles? Why are they putting electrodes on my ankles? Suddenly, I felt considerably less confident than I did earlier that this was nothing serious. Can I go to the restroom now? Please? Paperwork swept under my nose, quickly and efficiently. "Do you have a religious preference?". Oh my God. Suddenly, it seems perhaps I do. Not tonight God, please, not tonight. Restroom, now, quickly. I believe it might have been a few seconds too late, but any embarrassment for that seemed irrelevant now. More staff awaiting for me, seemingly right outside the restroom door. Shirt off, arms above head, two chest x-rays, one from the front, one from the side, don't even bother getting dressed. Slip on this very fetching hospital gown, and straight to an exam room, covered in sticky monitor pads. Oh no, not a needle. A blood sample drawn. I must have encountered fifteen different members of hospital staff in the space of a few minutes. Results, back already. EKG appears normal; chest x-ray is clear. Troponin levels OK. Troponin. A substance measured in nanograms, that's capable of determining whether there has been any cardiac muscle damage. Not just to show whether you're having a heart attack, but maybe even if you've already had one. For the first time, that possibility struck me. The damage could have already been done; and, of course, I broke down and cried.

The emotions of the experience were thoroughly draining; finding out that I was indeed OK had an effect on me I didn't expect. I became indignant, upset, even angry at all the fuss. Over "nothing, nothing at all". It all gushed out of me later that evening, in a fit of unexpected and unjustified rage, one that, for the second time in a day, brought C to tears. Once spent, once exhausted, I finally took the time to sit up and listen, to see what had just happened from her perspective. Then, and only then, did it completely sink in just what had happened; more importantly, what could have happened. After waiting too long to find each other, one of us could simply have disappeared; the two of us could very easily have become just the one of us, just the one, in a blink of an eye. Every second mattered; every moment; that's why there was no delay, no hesitation from the wonderful staff at El Camino Hospital. And yet, for several thousand seconds before that, I had dismissed it all as nothing important, nothing significant - yet, very easily, there could have been nothing left at all.

What have I learned from this experience? Two things - first of all, if ever your partner is getting frantic, and desperately telling you what you need to do, listen. Listen very carefully. Think exactly why they're saying these things. Don't be selfish, because if you don't take notice, that's exactly what you're being. They know exactly what they're talking about, whether they happen to be a nurse or not. But, more importantly, if you feel a pain in your chest, then don't hesitate. Don't brush it off as "just indigestion". It could so easily be something far more serious. It took my emergency room experience to appreciate that.

This has been a public service announcement.

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It's No New Year's Resolution, It's More Than That

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Oh, there were so many blog posts to read in my reading list yesterday, all with so many familiar titles. It doesn't matter the style of the blog; the commercial, the personal, the fiction writers; one subject dominated over and above anything else yesterday. New Year's Resolutions.

I suppose I ought to get one thing straight before marching on. I'm all for any exhibition of resolve, a commitment on the part of the individual to achieve something, ambitions, affirmations. By all means, make promises to yourself for the coming year, and if January 1 is the trigger that's needed to make that happen, so be it. But there's an implicit assumption in that "New Year's Resolution" phrase; The whole concept is weighted down by the cynicism that, in all honesty, the resolution won't be kept. There are plenty of statistics to bear this out; about one-fourth of the resolutions are broken within the first week, and over half don't make it past the first six months. On the plus side, it's generally considered better to try and fail; going through the motions of setting a resolution does improve your chances of achieving something; setting concrete, measurable goals (such as an amount of weight to lose by a given time) makes success far more likely as well.

I haven't made resolutions officially for many years; not since I was a child. The nearest I got to a resolution was a commitment to keep the diary filled out that my grandmother had given me for Christmas. The realization that my twelve-year old life wasn't all that exciting meant this was one of those resolutions destined not to make it past the first week. This year, I did toy with the idea of resolving to update my blog daily. It's now January 2. Whoops. The important part though about a resolution shouldn't be whether it's tied to a date; it's something you can choose to do, any time. I chose to stop smoking, and that had nothing to do with the calendar. I chose a gym membership and I chose to go there and exercise. (I have also chosen not to go there on many, many mornings). The element of choice is important. Even when circumstances seem beyond your control or are outside your sphere of influence, you do have a choice whether you wish things to stay that way.

Originally, the purpose of this series of blog posts was to track significant changes in my life, opinions, and environment, to see how they affected me personally and professionally. I'm just beginning the third year of that change; I could never have foreseen any of this. It started in 2009 with a commitment to expand my horizons; push myself professionally; try some new ventures; start writing and blogging the way always said I would; meet some new people. It was all a question of outlook; diverting my gaze somewhere other than the navel I'd been focused on, seemingly for years. I didn't commit to any particular change, but change did indeed happen. There were professional successes, and more than one or two destabilizing events at work. There was a fair amount of self-improvement; I read more, I studied more, I played more, and, quite unexpectedly, my world changed virtually overnight as my partner and I found each other. 2010 began with promises to each other; dedication to face the hardships and obstacles ahead, to get through them together, to make the journey next to each other and to experience so many 'firsts' together; birthdays, Christmas, and New Years.

And now, 2011. There are still challenges to be faced. These are new challenges brought upon by these still recent, astonishing changes; few of them have been easy, some have been painful, and others are accompanied by hostility. On more than one occasion, and from more than one direction, we have felt ill at ease; believing that forces outside us were at work, pushing against us, putting our resolve to the limits, and sometimes leading to disagreements. We never thought we would be immune from argument, but were resolved to keep communicating. Between ourselves, we manage just fine. When it comes to others, it is more difficult. We discussed this in detail yesterday morning. No matter what darkness, what wickedness, or what other feelings of opposition get sent our way, we will send them back. With love.

It's no New Year's Resolution. It's more than that.

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Writing Workshop - Red

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Josie over at Sleep is For the Weak put forward a set of writing prompts based on movie titles - I'm choosing Red as my prompt.

I paused for breath, and kidded myself that the air was getting thinner. It really wasn't that hard of a climb, and the altitude could not possibly be that great, but the side of the hill was steep and the first snowfall of the winter was making it treacherous underfoot. As I rounded the corner onto the final climb of the trail, I look across at the skylift that had been out of operation now for the past six weeks. Anyone who wanted to get to the top of the hill would have to come up the same way I was struggling with. I wondered how many people would try it at this time of year; there were certainly no others to be seen. Not so long ago, there would be people milling in all directions here, but at that moment it seemed I was the only human being for miles around. My fingers and toes were growing numb, the cold was beginning to make its way through the rest of the layers that swaddled me from head to toe. I stamped my feet to dispel some of the numbness, exaggeratedly clapped my hands, and took a slow, deep breath, exhaling, seeing my spirit floating in the air in front of me, until a cutting wind bit across my face, blew the breath away, and started one of the skylift chairs swinging. The creak of the swinging chair broke the silence; in the stillness I heard the sounds of birds who had elected to stay through the winter, scared out of their hiding places by the sound of dislodged snow. A tiny piece of bare metal showed through, painted red.

The natural bridge loomed above me, somewhat intimidating. I still had the most difficult part of the climb to go; the steepest part of the rocks, the most difficult place to find a footing, and a tight squeeze through the crevice between the stone walls. A long time ago, this was the only way up here. There were no steps carved into the rock back then; no cast-iron railings along the side of the path which admittedly still required a significant amount of fitness on the climbers' part. The sight at the top was seen by precious few, but it was not long after those first explorers described what they saw that a way was found to open up that vista to all. I would guess it was the description of the sky bridge colors in the fall that motivated them to create the other way up, so everyone, from the smallest of children to the frail and elderly could take in the view, provided they could overcome any fear of heights they might have. In September and October it was at its most spectacular, all golden yellows and oranges and reds. Yes, the reds.

I had made it to the top, and stood precariously near the edge, next to a tree stripped bare of its leaves. Last time I was here, this tree was aflame. Now it stood here, seemingly lifeless, symbolic of everything that had passed in the two months since the last visit. Two months to the day, apparently. I had not even realized that until this moment. Just two months before, the outlook was incredibly different; breathtaking, vivacious; everything now was sullen in comparison. I trudged onward, more and more dispirited. I paused at that branch. Do you remember the one? Of course you do; it struck us both that day how red that leaf was, the leaf that wouldn't keep quiet and insisted you took its picture? That photograph made the perfect last shot in the photo album, didn't it? No, that's right. The last but one shot. But there was no red leaf there any longer. Anything red on this hillside has long gone. The little red car is not in the parking lot at the foot of the hill; I remember how enthusiastically we had agreed on the color at the rental desk. That little red car, or that little red leaf, or that little hint of red in our cheeks; they simply weren't there any more.

The experience was meant to be cathartic. I had planned to come up here and see that tree, that branch; look down on that parking lot, that skylift, stand where we stood, and bury the past once and for all. Things had indeed changed, just as surely as time had passed. The red that was there was long gone, and seeing this would surely purge those scarlet memories? I must admit, it was hardly the greatest of ideas. The color had indeed disappeared; the first snow had injected some additional finality into the picture, but it was far from final. The tree on the top of the bridge knew all this, and had known it year in, year out. It only seemed to be lifeless; a mere charade, just enough to get it through the darkest of moments. It would survive, awaiting for the return of the warmth, when it would stretch, imperceptibly, absorb every caress of the sun's rays, thrive once more through a spring and summer, and, when the fall colors returned, it would be red once more. Underneath that mantle of snow and ice, the certain processes of life were continuing; underneath the layers protecting me from the cold, a heart was still beating, a heart that knew that not only would it heal with time, but somehow would once again experience joy. At that moment, I knew I would experience the red again, and next winter, it would not fade.

Why not go ahead and join in? Check the prompt page for instructions, and remember to add your link on Thursday.

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How To Get A Head In Blogging

He's about sixteen inches tall. He weighs about sixty pounds. And he's an original; the prototype, from which my dear friend Chuck created the mold. He is, at this precise moment in time, homeless, kicked out of my old office 2200 miles away. I'm not sure exactly how I am going to get him here, if I am going to get him here at all.

Chuck was always a bit of a polymath; a software engineer who was also an artist? Unheard of, surely? But Chuck was all this and more. He'd even attained something akin to notoriety; his work featured in the local paper's art competition seeking an inventive portrait of nudes. His kids suggested that would be "dirty", so he used this theme to make a sculpture of a nude with a toilet seat and two plungers. His prize was to be pictured in the Sunday supplement with his award-winning piece, naked of course, but oh-so-tastefully done. If he would sit still for long enough, he'd tell you about his next project, before he moved on to something else. I was revving up to do the voice-over for an animated feature he was about to create; I'd be playing a narcileptic rooster named Colin. With a British accent, for some reason. I think there might be a joke in there somewhere at my expense, I'm not sure.

Then, there was the Moai head. I'm not sure what was the initial motivation to start making them; but I do know he did intend to produce one at full scale. I'm not sure how well that would go down with his local neighborhood of curtain-twitchers; they were the kind of folks who required planning permission for you to paint your front door. This guy here is about one-sixth of full scale, which means a full-sized one would have ended up weighing something like seven tons. That was the point where Chuck concluded that, if he wanted a real one, he'd have to make it hollow. Meanwhile, he geared up to make the miniatures; from this original came the mold, and from the mold would come a whole army of them, setting solid on his garage floor while, in that great American tradition, his motor vehicle sat out in the driveway.

Chuck moved on, and we lost touch. The last I heard, he was working in Louisville. And, just like the countless times I've done this before, I remained confident that we shared enough common acquaintances to remain in touch, and, somehow, I ended up with my not-so-little friend here, complete with Chuck's signature on the bottom. Of course, the remaining in touch never happened; and now, I've moved a rather long way away. My former office neighbor Dan contacted me this morning. There's been a bit of office musical chairs going on, and my concrete buddy is now outside in the hallway, seeking a new home. What on earth am I going to do with him?

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The Story Of Our Miracle Rose

The picture accompanying this blog post shows two new roses with a remarkable tale to tell. At least, it's remarkable for us. It just goes to illustrate the sort of things that happen to us on a regular basis; sometimes, it seems our lives are filled with the most unusual and yes absolutely unlikely events. I'm not sure if there's any explanation for this; the best one that we have come up with is the smaller rose is, quite simply, a miracle. The larger rose, is, in fact, the younger sibling. Here's their story.

One of the first things we did once we started living together was go out and buy some roses. C has always had some impressive roses in her garden; mine, well, less so; but between the two of us, we wanted to have some significant new rose bushes in the back yard. We had a mooch round the nursery, agreeing what we wanted were roses that were fragrant. All too often, particularly with modern hybrid roses, they are grown for looks but it seems they are bland, if they have any fragrance at all. In addition, roses have caught our eye by name. We picked up a "Lasting Love", a fragrant medium-sized red rose; "Midnight Blue", tiny purple blooms that had a spicy scent; and one other. The names certainly were important to us, but something happened with the third one. The name was on a nursery sign which we had to leave there once we checked out, and, by the time we had got home, the name was forgotten. I have a funny feeling it may have been "What a Peach" - that was a name that caught our eye - but that rose never turned out that way. It produces large yellow flowers with a very fruity fragrance, so we've decided to name it "Lemon Pudding".

We cleared spaces in the flowerbed for these three new bushes, and, after some initial shock, they've been doing very well. 'Lasting Love" tends to peek one bloom or two regularly into our bedroom window, while "Midnight Blue" often explodes into dozens of tiny flowers. "Lemon Pudding" often catches us unawares; it seems yellow roses come and go quite quickly. One day, there's not even a bud. The next day, it's in full bloom, and a day later, it's gone. I've been doing my best through the rainless summer season keeping them watered and trimmed, and they're doing well, but we were still missing the rose we wanted; something fragrant, something orange, and something "peachy".

We scanned some online catalogs to see what was available, and one promising location caught our eye; a family-run rose garden, relatively nearby, one that would make a pleasant afternoon drive. We set out to check the roses out, excited at the prospect of a grower who was interested in raising traditional roses rather than more modern hybrids. The route twisted and turned, climbing up into the hills, narrowing, through beautiful redwood scenery, and we found ourselves at the bottom of a steep drive. At the top, it seemed there was nobody to be found. The house was perched on the top of a hill; quiet. It seemed like the home of a recluse. A simple sign posted on the gate told us that the garden worked on an honor system. If you call ahead and ask for what you want, it should be here. Take it, leave your details in a drop box by the picnic table, and leave. We began to feel a little uneasy. As we walked around the garden, it gave us the unnerving feeling that it was abandoned. It did not seem well taken care of. There were roses that needed watering, treating, trimming. Another patron turned up, as mystified by the whole setup as we were. Disappointed, we turned to leave.

We weren't going to be thwarted quite so easily, so we started reading and researching. I found out a lot about yellow and orange roses. Apparently, the first attempts to produce them were not entirely successful. The color was not too difficult to produce, but often, the scents were unappealing, in fact, some early yellow roses were said to have a scent resembling... well, rotting flesh. As I began looking for traditional roses, I was somewhat surprised to find I had a namesake, Mr Nash, which was, indeed, a yellow rose. We've added that to our list of roses to find at some point, but still, the perfect orange rose seemed like it would be quite a search. C began to look for growers further north, Oregon, Washington. Perhaps their cooler summers might yield us a rose that we'd be able to keep going, with a little TLC. Again, it seems, coincidence struck again. A company called Heirloom had a rose that sounded exactly like what we were after, called "Fragrant Cloud", with a color and scent that was described as "apricot". I doubt I'll ever get the name of this thing right. Every time I think of it, I get confused with the heirloom tomatoes and the Apricot Cloud breakfast treats that we've been picking up at the Hollister Farmers' Market all summer. Our order went in, and the nursery told us to wait around three weeks for delivery. We received confirmation it would be dispatched on July 28, and we just needed to wait for the UPS man to deliver it.

A couple of weeks passed, and there was no rose; and, were it not for far too much crazy Real Life Stuff going on, we would have followed up on it sooner. Towards the end of August, it was evident that the rose was not going to arrive. C contacted the nursery again and asked for the status of our order. They confirmed it had indeed been sent, UPS, on July 28, and, seeing as it hadn't arrived, it had evidently been lost or destroyed in transit. After a little bit of back-and-forth it was agreed the only thing they could do was dispatch another, and told us to watch carefully for deliveries. It must have been left out on the doorstep one day when everyone was busy; August was, for one reason or another, a stressful month for us. Almost by accident, we spotted a box about a foot long and a few inches square tucked under the doormat; that wasn't what we expected. The timing was absolutely awful, coinciding with perhaps the most stressful experience of our lives together to date. Opening this box and seeing a tiny seeding rather than the established bush we were expecting did nothing to improve our demeanour. We gave the poor thing a good soak after its obviously tortured journey in the back of a sticky UPS truck, and planned to put it in good soil and a pot the next morning. It would be some months before it would establish, surely? It turned out, though, the plant has been remarkably robust, and indeed is already well over a foot tall and beginning to bush out. Our initial disappointment hasn't held water; it looks like this will be a wonderful rose to add to our garden and will bloom beautifully next season.

That, though, is not the remarkable part of the story...

The end of September saw a significant anniversary for us; one which we were hoping we could celebrate, at least modestly, for we have several things we need to save for. There have been a few other significant life events to mark in September, and, one day, a package appeared on the table by the front door, seemingly from nowhere. We hadn't ordered anything, but there it was, another box, about a foot long and a few inches square. It seemed that the first rose had finally got to its final destination. Tracking had told us that it had made it to the UPS depot in the town twenty minutes away immediately after its dispatch. We could only guess that for the past two months this poor thing had been lost in a sweltering warehouse, or rolling around, unnoticed, in the back of a van or underneath the driver's seat. The mystery was solved. All that remained for us was to unpack it from the box and give it its last rites. As we opened the box, dry soil, desiccated, began to tumble out of the tiny pot. We caught a glimpse of the stalk, wilted, pathetic.

And one, green, leaf. Somehow, incredibly, it was still alive. We hurriedly ran outside and placed it next to its older sibling, and gave it a drink that it had evidently been waiting for two months to get. Over the past two weeks, the new growth on this plant has been nothing short of miraculous, It's been facing a miniature heatwave, an Indian summer on California's Central Coast, but that's OK. Roses love the heat and the sun, provided they can get enough water (but, they don't like their roots constantly soaked, either). There's no smoke and mirrors involved here; the invoice and the packing materials said, sure enough, that the rose had left the nursery on July 28. We're keeping the invoice as a memento, and the rose is growing from strength to strength. It's something of a miracle, along with the events it commemorates.

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Losing Momentum in Fitness and Blogging

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It was exceptionally tough this morning, pedaling that stationary bike. I'd watch the display in front of me, the terrain scrolling towards me like some slow-motion version of Scramble. Random hills proceed across the screen, every once in a while, one reaches right to the top of the display, an absolute skyscraper to pedal over. Getting over these is a question of mind over matter, because the display scrolls every ten seconds anyway; it doesn't matter if I pedal harder or faster; it doesn't matter if I stop pedaling completely; I'll get over this hill. However, if I don't keep my momentum going, it won't do me any good. Why are things so tough for me this morning?

Because I didn't go to the gym yesterday. We took our first day off yesterday morning; we had lots of reasons, lots of justifications. We deserved it. We needed snuggles. J had a hairdresser's appointment. We had a couple of errands to run. We had to go see a friend in the hospital later that evening. We quite simply didn't feel like going, and we paid the penalty for it today. There's a discipline involved, particularly at this early stage. It doesn't matter how often I weigh myself, or measure my waist. At the moment the biggest difference I'm going to see is whether I get on the scales before or after I visit the toilet. I've got to keep focused, keep going, because if I don't keep going, then C won't keep going, and if C doesn't keep going, I won't end up going, either.

But I've got to get through today, get through this thirty minutes. I'm visualizing what's going on inside this machine, a machine full of flywheels and magnetic resistance and belts and pulleys and all sorts of other junk. I just have to keep it moving. I have to keep going. If I can do that, then I'll make it; and I have to make it, I owe it to myself to do so. Another skyscraper left behind; there's another on the distant horizon, approaching. Let's cross that one when I get to it. Let's keep this exercise routine going. There's no sense for one day to derail the whole thing. And I'll know about it; I'll ache all day today, I'll feel the strain just like I did the first day I came to the gym after all those days off before.

OK, now the evening comes, and the blogging rituals. I created me a page over the weekend, listing my routine, the order I should do things in, how best to stay focused, how to keep up with my reading lists, comment on friends' pages, get some views, check out some stats. I haven't written a post since Sunday; the difficult one, the anniversary post. It seems like I've lost subscribers. It seems like I've only had about three page views today. What's happening? I've lost momentum here, too. I haven't been keeping up with my posts. I wrote an opinion piece; those are always good for traffic; and then a personal piece; those are always very satisfying. But then, nothing at all. I took some time off over the last couple of days; I had lots of reasons, lots of justifications. Appointments and errands and lack of computer time and I quite simply didn't feel like it. There's a discipline involved, particularly at this early stage, and it doesn't matter how many times I look at my traffic stats they are not going to radically change unless I keep producing content. I've got to keep focused, keep going, because if I don't keep going, then the chances of C and I actually settling down to write our novel will be pretty slim.

So I've got to put up a post today, get through this case of not knowing what to write about. I just have to keep it moving. And I'll know about it; I'll ache for quite a while over this post, and I'll feel the strain just like I did when I first began these pages. Let's get moving again.

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?

Getting serious about fitness... this time

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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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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.

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.

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.