white noise

Jon and I are on our way to Reno this month for a short visit with friends and family. I get to meet my nieces for the first time. I’m looking forward to seeing all of them and getting an infusion of desert life again. Having been here in Virginia for 3 years (almost to the day), it’s strange to admit that I miss the desert landscape.

In other news, I’m sure every one is aware that the Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin passed away last Monday, September 4th. There are few celebrity deaths that shock me or have a last influence, but his is one of them. I can’t claim I was a huge fan. On the contrary, I often thought he was cracked; he seemed either manic or just another adrenaline junky. Yet, I can’t deny that he made an impression. My view of wildlife, especially crocodiles, changed because of exposure to the creatures I got through watching the Crocodile Hunter on Animal Planet. I certainly haven’t lived my life hanging by his every word, but his devotion and enthusiasm were contagious.

I am sad for his family, for the grief they must now suffer and that shall linger a lifetime. I am sad for the loss of a good man and for the animals whose cause he championed. Sometimes when a person is larger than life or we think of him or her as heroic, we forget they are also human and just as fragile as the rest of us. Steve Irwin knew the danger in the risks he took and he took them anyhow. He wasn’t above emotion, wasn’t beyond the reach of stupidity, and sometimes he got bit. Still, he made me want to be more thoughtful, more considerate of my surroundings and more mindful to how I affect the environment. I think he accomplished his goal; he made me want to do more and be better. I carry a deep respect for him.

It troubles me to think, to believe that for one to succeed at anything and get any where in this world one must be willing to lie outright or at the very least manipulate the truth. I live by my honesty and always have. Today, however, I come think that my unwillingness to barter with the truth may be why I often fail to get to where I want to be.

I wanted the opportunity to sell handmade items at local arts and crafts fairs, but many of those fairs require that I possess a business license in order to register and attend. My first attempt to secure a business license failed. Why? Because I was honest about what materials I might use now or in the future. These included household quantities of solvent based products such as mineral spirits, paint thinner, or varnish. If I were to continue my crafting endeavors as a hobby, use of these products would be acceptable. However, using them exactly the same way in terms of home occupation subjects them to new rules and regulations. Which means I can’t use them.

The solution to my problem seems easy enough. I simply won’t offer refinishing/refurbishing services in my business. Nor will I conduct any workshops here on the premises. Hopefully this will tip the scale in my favor. Even so, I doubt myself. I wrestle with the idea that in order to get what I want I have to be willing to compromise my truth and play some manipulative, kiss-ass game with all the powers that be and I’m not partial to feeling like some grease-dipped weasel.

Jon tells me I get too discouraged and give up too easily. I think he’s right. I’ve lost the will to stand up for myself and fight; it tires me very quickly these days. I must have froze to death before reaching the peak at Mt. Everest.

So, everyone knows the more time we spend in the sun, the lighter our hair becomes, right? For me, this usually means more pronounced red highlights. I think I liked this color — once — when I was 17.

Assertion on the box of L’Oréal #6A “Light Ash Brown”: This shade has a cooler tone that will help minimize red/orange tones.

You guessed it: my hair is now a lovely shade of auburn. That’ll learn me. What the hell, I’m going purple!

The Sage of Age

It has never been my intent
to evade the encroaching gray,
but to tame the youthful flames.
Certainly everyone must know
as time unwinds for one, for all,
that silver has more class than brass.

Last evening, I went with Jon to help one of his co-workers to bring in a new crop of freshly baled hay. Before-hand, I loaded up on a double dose of Naprosyn and afterwards took Darvocet. This morning I took Darvocet right after breakfast. Other than feeling a wee bit woozy and having (normal?) stiff muscles in my forearms and shoulders, I feel okay. I wouldn’t want to go dashing out to do it all again tonight and I usually don’t get bombed until the second or third day, but I think my overall health is indeed improving.

I’m still not consistent with pacing, but I am getting better. In the last few months I worked to switch my focus from trying to work a full week to working fully for a part-time week. I still suck at including things such as being on the computer writing or working on the website because they just don’t equate to my idea of “activity”, but when I do include them, I feel I am way more productive. So, for 20 hours a week, I am a fully functioning human being. Outside that 20-hour window, don’t bug me. You’ll find I’m a crabby, can’t remember shit kinda Breece. Crabby Breeces need sleep.

I’m working my way through a stack of The Voice papers that Bill was kind enough to send me. They feature chapters from his Archie Cleebo saga. From what I’ve gleaned so far, Archie is a young boy growing up with all the young-boy concerns. It seems for young Archie, this centers on girls. :) I’ll report more later.

I’m also enthralled with the paper itself. It’s small, maybe 10 to 12 pages, and printed on regular newsprint. Lake Puett publishes and distributes The Voice quarterly (it was monthly prior to 2006). Anyone interested in subscribing should send $28 to 8906 N. Aubrey L. White Parkway, Nine Mile Falls, Washington 99026. Be sure to include your name and a mailing address. The View features stories, poetry, and art by new and up-and-coming writers or artists. There appears to be no payment (perhaps copies?), but if you’re looking for exposure or a chance to break into print, don’t poo-poo the small press!

Sierra seems to be back on her feet 100%. I haven’t heard from my folks since Barbie called to say she’d done a full turn around. As my parents’ motto has always been “no news is good news,” I feel relatively secure in saying she’s fine.

Yay!

So … my dad called today while Jon and I were out. My mare, Sierra, is lame in both front feet and he thought she was foundering. The good news, after having called him back tonight, is that it’s possible she’s just lame from being too long in the hoof. Either way, I’d ask any one who is inclined to send thoughts of love and peace her way. Yes, she’s just a horse, but for all the years I was in high school, and the few years she was mine before Tommy was put to sleep and Barbie began racing on her, she was my closest companion. I couldn’t have asked for a better friend.

Sierra’s story isn’t short. By our best guesses, she’s now about 27 years old. In horse life, that’s a good chunk of time. She’s in my dad’s care right now, and honestly, I can’t think of better hands for her to be in, except perhaps God’s; I know she’s in his hands, too.

She might be a senior citizen, but she’s still a rapscallion; she steals Alex’s Yukon Jack when he’s not looking and knocks over the wheelbarrow while dad is cleaning her corral. I’ve loved her as wholly as anyone and have since the day dad told me she was mine. They’d bought her from Coreen to replace Grace, the mare a friend gave me for my sixteenth birthday. Grace twisted a gut a few months later and had to be put down.

Come to think of it now, Sierra has been a part our lives almost as long as my sister. She and Grace shared similar personalities (okay, disposition for you stuffy folks who think animals aren’t human, too). The one huge difference between them was that Grace was “quiet-spoken” … I wouldn’t call her timid or even shy, she just never got overly excited about anything. Sierra, on the other hand, can be the epitome of the stereo-typical blond: ditzy, excitable, and yes, she loves men. On pack trips, she never understood why she couldn’t stay in camp with all the people. After all, she’s people, too!

As I write this, Sierra seems to be doing better. Living 2,500 miles away, I feel terribly helpless to do anything for her except pray for the best possible outcome. I want her to be all right, but more importantly, I want her to be safe, loved, and comfortable; misery free.

She’s earned it.