Wednesday, January 21, 2009

no.77 - The Blood Demon

Any day that blood comes out of my body is a bad day. I do not like it. Whether it is a beagle tearing into my face with it's rotten gnashing teeth, or the needle end of a blood drive, I am unnerved.

My luck in these cases has been especially poor. Obviously anytime an accident results in spilled blood is unlucky, but more to the point, even those times when I have volunteered my blood have been terrible.

Some examples?

1.) At the age of eight, a blood test was ordered to determine if my behavioral issues were the result of hyperactivity or boredom. This test inexplicably require two bags of blood to be taken, one from each arm. Perhaps the concern was that only one side of my body was a "spaz case" as my classmates put it. Whatever the case, the elderly nurse left the room while my life's fluid drained away and she forgot to return, removing far more than she should have, leaving me faint, nauseous and about a quart low.

2.) In high school my biology teacher insisted we all prick our fingers and bleed into a tube to learn about blood type. When I explained that I could not (owing to a phobia stemming from the above experience) he asked if I was a fag or a girl, but relented upon seeing the unique shade of green I turned when he brought the needle close to do the job himself.

3.) Despite a lingering phobia about giving blood, at 18 I decided to donate blood as I understood it was a benefit to my fellow man. I explained my fear to the phlebotomist and all went well until she removed the needle and somehow the tube connected to the blood bag popped loose splattering her, me and the wall with my blood.

Me: "Can you still use that?"

Phlebotomist: "Yeah, sure." - as she hurries off to find the nearest A.I.D.S. test.

4.) In the late 90's I was given a routine blood test and results came back that I had no blood phosphorous. Low blood phosphorous can be a sign of cancer, but no phosphorous is impossible unless you are so malnourished as to be on the brink of death. While I do not eat enough vegetables, I have yet to avoid salad to such a degree as to cause myself imminent harm. The test was re-ordered and I endured another blood letting, which the lab promptly lost.

5.) My current doctors office, unable to locate my blood work or medical records, meant that I could not parent teach this morning as I was unable to provide proof of immunizations etc. required by law. This made my daughter cry as she had been extremely excited and proud that her daddy was going to be the parent teacher. But, here I am blogging to you with a new hole in my arm and a little less blood.



Even now, looking up synonyms for blood on thesaurus.com, rather than getting a list of alternatives, I recieve an error: Safari can’t open the page “http://thesaurus.reference.com/browse/blood”. The error was: “bad server response” (NSURLErrorDomain:-1011) Please choose Report Bugs to Apple from the Safari menu, note the error number, and describe what you did before you saw this message.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

no.76 - Bush et al

As the present regime ticks out its final hours, I can only hope that their legacy drags out the door behind them like the five thousand pound turd that it is.

Thursday, January 8, 2009

no.75 - Oil Paints

The smell of oil paints fills me with longing. The last time I used them it was twenty years ago. My "intermediate painting" teacher brought us outside for our final class - a Springtime treat.

Before that, my work had been clumsy and hesitant and indoors. I always had trouble with yellows despite, or because of, a previous teacher's obsession with yellow ochre. But this painting, the grey and brown chiseled facade of a chapel, was better. It was confident, carefree, weighty.

When I brought it back to my own school (my school did not offer "intermediate painting" but nonetheless required it for advanced painting) my adviser, also a painting teacher, declared it a breakthrough.

Pleased with myself and with the painting, I set it in the art building to dry. Sometime over that weekend, it was stolen.

Was it really that good? Whoever took it left everything else — the dull still lifes and awkward self-portraits including the one which inspired my yellow-ochre-obsessed-professor to say; "That doesn't look like your hair, it looks more like a lump of shit on your head." It was a harsh, but not inaccurate description. She may have also suggested that yellow ochre would make it look less turdish.

Whoever stole my breakthrough left the shit-hair painting for me to keep.

Where did the stolen oil painting go? Did the thief hang it on the wall? Did he or she claim it as his or her own in an art class faraway? (What kind of plan is that?) Did an unknown enemy toss it in a dumpster? Is it hanging somewhere right now? If I saw it now, would I recognize it? Would I be disappointed?

I probably would. In my head it is a small masterpiece. Not a Rembrandt, but perhaps worthy of John Singer Sargent on an off-day. My "intermediate" teacher thought that perhaps architectural painting might be my calling.

"It's really fantastic." she said, as I removed it from my easel and put the paints away.

Perhaps she was the thief?

I have not painted with oils since. I loved oils best, but they are expensive and require excellent ventilation. Besides, with this blog and my photography and my other blog and my movie and my music, where would I find the time?

Besides, I have a novel to write!

Why I have pictured the thief here in Victorian garb with the face of a troll? I do not know. Who is to say I am wrong?

Monday, January 5, 2009

no.74 - The Snow Bunny

This morning my daughter arrived at school without "New Bunny," her chosen cuddle toy for the day.

"Where's New Bunny?" I asked, seeing she did not have it. Her face a crinkled into a "I'm-not-going-to-cry" frown as she realized that she may have dropped bunny on our walk to school and that she might never see him again. This has happened before.

"I'll look for her on the way home," I said, hoping not to sound harsh, but we both knew the prospects were not good. New Bunny is off-white, the same color as the melting slush and snow, scattered in New Bunny-size patches between school and home.

I began the walk back, lamenting that I have little talent for spotting things and because of this, I went half-speed over the ice, the crunching sidewalk salt and the melting slush of snow.

Compounding my problem was the possibly that someone had found New Bunny and placed her up on a fence or rail or steps in order to be helpful. While I appreciate this effort and have done it myself for the lost toys of others, it still doubled the number of places I needed to look.

What I hate most about a task like this is that it is one of dwindling hope. While the odds are just as likely that New Bunny could be on our doorstep as ten feet from the school, each location I look removes another possibility that New Bunny will be found. By the time I arrived home, only two hopes remained.

One hope was that I failed to recognize New Bunny, the cream color of old snow, lying in old snow the color of gritty cream. She might be found later as her camouflage melted away. This hope is most troublesome, for it never ends but only becomes ever more unlikely. I still hold out a sliver of hope that I will find the Mad magazine I left in a Lum's Restaurant when I was seven. That precious old copy was purchased at great personal expense (two dollars) and was never found even though we returned within a few minutes, searched our booth, the counter, the kitchen and trash. (But that is a demon for another day.)

The second hope was that New Bunny had remained in our home, never having left her cozy place on our couch.

Fortunately, the later hope prevailed and New Bunny is safe and sound.

"New Bunny" derives her name from another bunny, also named "New Bunny," who belongs to a very good friend of my daughter who has two bunnies, one older than the other.