tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1131445522115560042024-02-21T09:00:13.986-08:00Lyme StoryAbout Lyme Disease, getting better, and coping with chronic illness.greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.comBlogger219125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-62498953650015003372017-08-07T17:54:00.002-07:002017-08-13T22:22:15.692-07:00GAME CHANGERS POST #2 ANTIBIOTICS<div class="MsoNormal">
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I am not writing these posts in any particular order. If I
were, this post would be number one. The #1 game changer in my treatment has been
antibiotics.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Please, Lymies, I beg you, <i>take your antibiotics! </i>Every article I’ve read, and every story I’ve been told of people recovering from Lyme
has included antibiotics. At this point, the consensus from doctors on the front
lines seems to be antibiotics are crucial, and if the diagnosis is at all delayed, then more than the standard 21 to 30 day course is necessary.<o:p></o:p><br />
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(Some tags for this post: biaxin, clarithromycin, metronidazole, amoxicillin, doxycycline, bicillin, rocephin. plaquenil, success stories, how long do I have to take antibiotics for Lyme)</div>
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The problem with antibiotics: They are not fun. A lot of patients stop taking them.<br />
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Yes, I know you will feel worse when you start on these meds: this is called
the Herxheimer reaction. Yes, the herx can be gnarly, but hang tough. Be strong, take your meds.<br />
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You can do it, I know you can! I’m rooting for you,
Lymies! Once you get through it, you’ll feel better.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I had to dig deep into my old boxes of medication to find<br />
this long-ago expired bottle. Why? Because I don't take abx<br />
anymore. You'll need these nasty meds, Lymies, <br />
but fear not, they're not forever. </td></tr>
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LET'S GO INTO DETAIL</div>
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<i>This was going to be a short-and-sweet post, but—well, I tend to write a lot.... Read on if want more on my personal experience, or if you’re still in doubt about taking antibiotics. Or if
you want reassurance and bucking up that it's really worth it.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Once I was diagnosed, I myself wasn’t sure if it
was the right treatment route for me. I talked to as many people as I could about it, and hindsight I'm very glad I chose antibiotics. In hindsight, it seems like a no-brainer. At the start, I had a lot of doubts. This is natural.<br />
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Doubt can come from some deep part of our brain that does not want to be sick. Just getting to acceptance that this is happening can be hard. From there, i<br />
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I saw this in pattern in a woman who showed up at a Lyme support meeting. This woman had been diagnosed within a few months of the onset of her
symptoms, she'd been taking antibiotics for two weeks, but was ready to quit. Everyone at the
meeting was telling the woman she needed to stick with the antibiotics, that they
would work. But this woman kept saying no, she was feeling so much worse on the antibiotics, she thought it just wasn't worth it. (Yes, easier to tell yourself it's not such a big problem. Maybe you should just take some vitamins and work on positive thinking.)<br />
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Also at this meeting were people in wheelchairs, people who had
been so unfortunate as to have gone far too many years without a diagnosis, or without the correct treatment. Yes, if Lyme goes untreated on for too long, it can get you to the point where you can't walk. The people in wheelchairs were telling the woman to take her meds and stick with them, before it got really bad, but the woman in doubt seemed incapable of putting it all together. </div>
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The longer you wait and delay treatment, the harder
it is to beat the illness back. Given time, the Lyme bacteria
has a way of rooting itself into places the medication can’t get to. (Not yet, anyway. This is something researchers are working on.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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The woman in doubt didn’t understand how lucky she was. I wanted to
pick her up and shake her and tell her how blind she was to the tremendous luck
she’d had. She’d walked into a standard doctor’s office and gotten a diagnosis
right off the bat, with the Elisa test! I would have given anything to be able
to turn back time to the early months of my illness, to have had that early test come out positive instead of the false negative I got. Give me a time travel
machine, and this is the first thing I’d do: Get myself diagnosed on time, and give myself early treatment. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I went eight years
without a diagnosis, with the illness slowly, steadily progressing. Meanwhile, based on incorrect medical information (that I didn't have Lyme disease) I
went on an endless quest from one doctor to another in search of a reason for why I was so sick. If
I’d had a timely diagnosis, I would have gotten a decade of my life back.<br />
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<u>GOING DOWN A RABBIT-HOLE</u></div>
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I hardly ever think along these lines, because I have an incredibly good life right now. but I’m going to lay it out, in case you’re someone who’s in the early stages of infection. In case you're someone who feels a little run-down, has some weird symptoms (like trouble sleeping,
mixing up words when you speak, sensitivity to noise, trouble concentrating), and you're wondering if this
Lyme diagnosis is worth it. </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVvw-sE8PpIo2y1_ru0RSjhJ4LrXn1Hflh6i_HUGdgNu0pZ17FEaVXV7pKvN5Ww-vPAXc2M3tVALyOG80Zh3vWah7M8YxIrUwB0qkXyGzzXpao3i91xRGHBU0acJAt54f78vFzMt18yZCb/s1600/Sir_John_Lavery%252C_The_Green_Sofa+1903.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1118" data-original-width="1600" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVvw-sE8PpIo2y1_ru0RSjhJ4LrXn1Hflh6i_HUGdgNu0pZ17FEaVXV7pKvN5Ww-vPAXc2M3tVALyOG80Zh3vWah7M8YxIrUwB0qkXyGzzXpao3i91xRGHBU0acJAt54f78vFzMt18yZCb/s320/Sir_John_Lavery%252C_The_Green_Sofa+1903.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feeling like hell, but looking fabulous (as everyone told me).<br />
Groan--that was a bad insider joke for the chronically ill.</td></tr>
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<o:p></o:p><br />
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Here’s what probably would have happened in my life in that decade, but didn’t, because I had Lyme that went undiagnosed and untreated:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<u>THINGS THAT DIDN’T HAPPEN TO DUE LYME<o:p></o:p></u></div>
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-Continuing my job/career<o:p></o:p></div>
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-Going to graduate school<o:p></o:p></div>
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-Getting married<o:p></o:p></div>
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-Having children<o:p></o:p></div>
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-Continuing to live independently (i.e. not at my parents’
house)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Instead I was having Lyme. Yes,
in my parents’ house, dependent on them to do <i>everything</i> for me. And yes, at the start, like this woman at the
support group, I wasn’t bedridden. I limped along through work, exhausted but
getting by. I could still read, I went on short walks, but going running was leaving
me wiped out and things were getting worse. In time they were a nightmare.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If this woman would stick with the antibiotics, she could
knock the bacteria out of her body before it took root. She’d likely go on to have a
healthy, normal life. An entire room of people were telling her this, but she was having a very hard time hearing it.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP13TUAHWoQ_Pghg5who3iPY1PjqV5bSt-vmUZoeo6yDgu10PyPqdqgXY28gAUAIyCqS_J5QtqJL0-5fZ-varZR04DhfKSPDw9-gH5GKXinSmVF9_LIGLiSvZvBXOJHGfss_YOOvtk6Qt4/s1600/flaming+car+crash+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP13TUAHWoQ_Pghg5who3iPY1PjqV5bSt-vmUZoeo6yDgu10PyPqdqgXY28gAUAIyCqS_J5QtqJL0-5fZ-varZR04DhfKSPDw9-gH5GKXinSmVF9_LIGLiSvZvBXOJHGfss_YOOvtk6Qt4/s320/flaming+car+crash+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why not turn around <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">if you see this up ahead?</span></td></tr>
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It was as if she was driving along the highway,
saw a giant conflagration of a ten-car pile-up in front of her, and decided to
keep driving her car straight into the wreck, because 1) it was going to be
really inconvenient to turn the car around and find a different route, and 2) she
wasn’t feeling all that bad right now.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Please, people, take your antibiotics!<o:p></o:p></div>
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This is how a lot of medicine works: Medicine it is short-term inconvenient, but in the long-term, it's extremely convenient.</div>
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If you were diagnosed with cancer, would you skip chemo because it makes you feel bad? <o:p></o:p></div>
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I understand how hard it is to come to terms with having a difficult illness and a difficult treatment. I hope this was all this poor doubting woman was going through. She just needed time to get her head around it. I hope she went home and gave it some thought, and the message from the support group got through to her, and she stuck with her medication.<br />
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<u>MORE ON MY STORY, ANTIBIOTICS-WISE</u><br />
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I was at last diagnosed with Lyme in 2007 (my symptoms started 1998 and became overwhelming in 1999). I’d finally found a great
doctor (Marty Ross) and I also have had wonderful naturopaths helping me through. (Amy Derksen and Nesreen Medina, and Carolyn Humphreys.) I took heavy-duty antibiotics for three and a half years. If I’d started the treatment at the onset of my illness,
no doubt I would not have needed quite so many years of antibiotics. If it had been caught right away, I might have only needed a few months of medication. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My doctor, Marty Ross, worked with me to ramp up each new antibiotic,
so that the herx was what I could manage. He also explained very clearly that
the improvement I’d see wasn’t from day to day or even from month to month. The
change would be gradual. After the first six months, he told me, I should look
back to where I’d been at the start and see if there was a change.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yes, he was right. At six months I wasn’t cured, but I could
easily walk for a couple of miles. That had been impossible half a year
earlier. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Rinse and repeat.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIB5DEeydF7d0Cj5PGug4zf6SrAsrSkVJ6Eryp9ib20WLOcX1JmP9djT4v6Pt_IMopNfkXcVxaOeE-92byqFvdYEq9hevefwMhP-vnCI93z-HrH_b6LVc_J3ZSf4-PiMStCkxCkUaGZQHi/s1600/IMG_2102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIB5DEeydF7d0Cj5PGug4zf6SrAsrSkVJ6Eryp9ib20WLOcX1JmP9djT4v6Pt_IMopNfkXcVxaOeE-92byqFvdYEq9hevefwMhP-vnCI93z-HrH_b6LVc_J3ZSf4-PiMStCkxCkUaGZQHi/s320/IMG_2102.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is me on top of a mountain. I climbed it myself.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkgfZkHnnRxcgRuuQAibCs71BiQFtgqb_Uu5faLFhvbyZkvW3hh7w43qX2C1UNtF5nqj4nWMSFgBltwVuL2iv2osUEksW1-EeMDzIratC9dAazApNhvKNdb0bAnN1qbATg405mYeHhAgK7/s1600/cleo+on+hike+Spring+2016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkgfZkHnnRxcgRuuQAibCs71BiQFtgqb_Uu5faLFhvbyZkvW3hh7w43qX2C1UNtF5nqj4nWMSFgBltwVuL2iv2osUEksW1-EeMDzIratC9dAazApNhvKNdb0bAnN1qbATg405mYeHhAgK7/s400/cleo+on+hike+Spring+2016.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So eventually you might be hiking on snowy mountain tops,<br />
and your dog will come too.</td></tr>
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<u>HANGING TOUGH</u><br />
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Yes, at one point I gave myself my own giant, painful shots
in the butt for some of the antibiotics. The first was for an antibiotic called
Bicillin. I thought I could never manage it, but I did. (<a href="http://lymestories.blogspot.com/2008/10/dying-in-middle-of-night.html">A little more about that here.</a>)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Rocephin is the antibiotic that seems to help people the
most—the famous IV antibiotic. Because I have chemical sensitivity, when it
came to Rocephin—I couldn’t have the plastic IV line in my body, so I did a
daily shot of Rocephin as well. In that form, the needle is wide and the antibiotic
is like sludge, which meant I couldn’t do the injection myself. I had my
boyfriend and family give it to me. We went to the doctor’s office and had the
nurse teach my boyfriend how to do it. It hurt like hell, each time. I did the
shots for 11 months, and at the end of the time I was running and swimming
again. It was, literally, a miracle.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFeOMYTS9-iSCn5I622LCFkdjTvY1aJKWLWiag6qCvaGPXxdKO_FDKJ5HzErpvCsL6r_KVUPyNR_mM3CGFkqr3Dpo5jlgdJz6im3ru_spY7OzFqP5_Tjj-8L2U7b0ByFJXHvc0sE48-XI7/s1600/Cleo+swimming.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFeOMYTS9-iSCn5I622LCFkdjTvY1aJKWLWiag6qCvaGPXxdKO_FDKJ5HzErpvCsL6r_KVUPyNR_mM3CGFkqr3Dpo5jlgdJz6im3ru_spY7OzFqP5_Tjj-8L2U7b0ByFJXHvc0sE48-XI7/s320/Cleo+swimming.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thumbs up for another cute dog picture: Cleopatra<br />
swims with me, too. Part of the miracle!</td></tr>
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However bad the antibiotics make you feel, remember it’s not
forever. You’ll get better and you’ll get off them. I’ve been off antibiotics
since 2011, and I’m doing fine. I’m on <a href="http://lymestories.blogspot.com/2015/06/adventures-in-herbal-treatment-for-lyme.html">an herbal protocol</a> to
keep the Lyme in check. Keeping myself healthy is not always simple, but my life is a world away from what it once was.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On more note on Marty Ross’s “gradual ramp up” approach: I
know doctors believe in pulsing, and I’ve read this is also very effective, but
yes, the herx can be rough. Whatever your choice, please Lymies, TAKE YOUR ABX!
Keep taking them until you feel the change! Don’t expect the change to come
quickly. Have faith that it will come. It will.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Do your best to patiently explain to friends and family what
you’re going through. It might help to have articles printed out to hand them to friends and family,
so you don’t exhaust yourself talking about it. <a href="http://lymedisease.org/">Lymedisease.org</a> is a good place for that information. And don't hesitate to ask people to support you,
especially in specific ways—small things that have beginning and an end. Like
bringing you dinner, or picking up some groceries for you, or coming over to
watch a TV show with you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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If you want to do rife, homeopathy, herbs, supplements,
acupuncture—yes, go for it. But don’t skip your antibiotics. Apart from rife, I’ve
done all these things, and while they have been helpful, my experience has been that they
aren’t a substitute for antibiotics. TAKE YOUR ANTIBIOTICS!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-7425991998239891472017-07-29T16:00:00.002-07:002017-07-31T14:52:50.031-07:00NEW SERIES: GAME CHANGERS. POST #1<span style="background-color: white; color: #212121; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; color: #212121; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; color: #212121; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I've been slacking in the medical tips department, but I'm resolved to do better! My plan is to be more systematic, writing about one medication per post.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhukjSz4HLu6EAx5VSP2-WkGXFOzDCdsXf_UiYp6iJIaR6B1PMnapK5AYmF7I4JUcas2cQPnVhD7Jqo4qAePxJvtiMCyqh0zrVMMMPsKcbxFrqScsVupJVUNeHNxDAs4G_MD0sOUXNQsWgP/s1600/Princess+bride+miracle+rush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="962" data-original-width="588" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhukjSz4HLu6EAx5VSP2-WkGXFOzDCdsXf_UiYp6iJIaR6B1PMnapK5AYmF7I4JUcas2cQPnVhD7Jqo4qAePxJvtiMCyqh0zrVMMMPsKcbxFrqScsVupJVUNeHNxDAs4G_MD0sOUXNQsWgP/s400/Princess+bride+miracle+rush.jpg" width="243" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We all remember Miracle Max,<br />from <i>The Princess Bride</i>.<br />He was right, miracles take time.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #212121;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: #eeeeee; color: #212121;">This series is about <i>what works for me</i>. (This is basically a re-branding of posts with that tag. You can find these very practical posts in the word cloud to the left.) I wish I could say I've found the low-cost, one-single-pill, covered-by-insurance cure for Chronic Lyme. That is not so. Some of these things will be covered by insurance, others not. In addition, what works for me is a multi-step process throughout the day.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee; color: #212121;">And yet, I've been reminded recently that my life is now unbelievably good compared to what it used to be. I've come to this point after years of trial and error, and with input from several good doctors. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #212121;"><br /></span>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee; color: #212121;">I wish, for the sake of everyone reading this, that things were simpler, medication-wise. But the human body is complex, illness is complex, and medicine is therefore complex. Stay strong, Lymies!</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee; color: #212121;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee; color: #212121;">(And remember, medical researchers are working hard. Find more on that front at <a href="https://www.lymedisease.org/">lymedisease.org</a>.)</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee; color: #212121; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: #eeeeee; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #212121; font-family: , "segoe ui" , "segoe wp" , "tahoma" , "arial" , sans-serif , serif , "emojifont";"><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"><br /></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I take this every morning, right before
I get out of bed, and again at approx 12:30 /1 pm. This is to support my
adrenal glands, which do not function well due to damage from Lyme. (For the record, I’m not advertising for Thorne Adrenal Cortex. It happens to be the brand I take but another brand would probably work just as well.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Low adrenal function was the first clear medical diagnosis
I got on the road to recovery. This was in the year 2001, a couple of years after I’d
been knocked down by something mysterious, an illness that showed up on exactly zero medical tests. It
would still be many years before my Lyme diagnosis in 2007. So the adrenal diagnosis
was all I had for the interim. It was the first scrap of evidence that it was not all in my head,
as so many doctors had been telling me. It was a small clue, but an important one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The adrenal glands are glands located on top of the kidneys. They are, as a doctor once told me, the spark plugs of your body. They
produce cortisone and cortisol, which are crucial biochemicals in the endocrine
system. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Over the years, I've tried many things to support my adrenal
glands, hydrocortisone, the pharmaceutical
usually prescribed for adrenal insufficiency. (Prescribed an endocrinologist, in my case.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The prescription hydrocortisone did very little for me. Likewise, other natural supplements touted to help the adrenals did not help me. Again,
this is my individual, personal experience. I have no preference
or belief about natural vs. allopathic medicine. I only care about what works. This type of naturopathic adrenal cortex was a game changer. It has made all the difference
in my life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was the difference between being able to get up and walk,
or not. When I started on adrenal cortex, it was many years after the diagnosis of low adrenal function. By then I was seeing a doctor who had figured out my blood was too thick and put
me on blood thinners, which allowed me to be a little more active, enough to be
able to walk about three blocks. That seemed like a giant break-through, but it was still impossible to build up my strength beyond that. At that time I was on hydrocortisone.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Once I stopped the hydrocortisone and switched to adrenal cortex, in a matter of days I was able walk eight blocks and build from that, walking further and more quickly as the months
went by.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I made the shift to adrenal cortex in 2007, not long before
I started my antibiotics for Lyme. It was in combination with the antibiotics, blood
thinners, and quite a few other supplements, that I got my physical strength
back. Like I said, things are complex.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This supplement is not vegan, or even vegetarian. Thorne
Adrenal Cortex is taken from bovine adrenal glands.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I guess this makes me part cow. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Adrenal cortex a medicine. Yes, you can buy it over the counter, but I repeat, it is a medicine. It treats
a real medical condition. Your endocrine system is a complicated and delicately
balanced network! Meaning, don’t do this on your own at home, kids!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A doctor can run a test for adrenal function if you are
experiencing severe fatigue. Please, go to a doctor for help with this. It
is A-Okay to be a pro-active patient who brings suggestions to your doctor,
especially suggestions from other patients who are posting about them because
they work. Be polite, be concise, but ask. A good doctor will be open to your
suggestions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><u>An Additional Note on Fatigue</u>: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I get very frustrated with the word fatigue. For me, fatigue meant feeling
all day long like my body was made out of some impossibly heavy substance, along the lines of concrete mixed with lead, making it all but impossible to stand up or move
around. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Walking
to the end of the block and back (which I stubbornly did from time to time) left
me aching all over and unable to function for days and days.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If this sounds like what you’re going through, and you’ve
been told you have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, please consider that CFS is not a
very useful diagnosis, or truly a diagnosis at all. Consider that you might have
Lyme or another infectious disease, even if you've had a test for Lyme. The standard test for Lyme most internists will give you is wildly inaccurate. Check with an LLMD.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Have hope. I am now running five miles a few
times a week, and (as readers of the blog know) spending a lot of time dancing. And getting around Seattle by bike. Things get better if you stick with your medication.</span><br />
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greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-87667859836156939692017-06-28T12:16:00.002-07:002017-06-28T12:23:46.399-07:00DAY TRIP<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvkMz2wZuZ1QuyslQ_3qk7bAyJW7Uc9T_ZPFdrGNj6kfmOaqOa9_ZH2F3fkqi2xJ85O3MNAg3d1_X5hIDOkiJN5h9bPfOHutAtJJ5yOpRYsI3VT5If1sFQlr8vSDIADB9msVIeYWds_ig9/s1600/Young+Hare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="497" data-original-width="450" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvkMz2wZuZ1QuyslQ_3qk7bAyJW7Uc9T_ZPFdrGNj6kfmOaqOa9_ZH2F3fkqi2xJ85O3MNAg3d1_X5hIDOkiJN5h9bPfOHutAtJJ5yOpRYsI3VT5If1sFQlr8vSDIADB9msVIeYWds_ig9/s400/Young+Hare.jpg" width="361" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Young Hare by Albrech Durer</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;">My short story, published by Hunger Mountain, is now online. It's called <a href="http://hungermtn.org/day-trip/" target="_blank">"Day Trip." </a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> And it's also reviewed on the </span><a href="http://blog.pshares.org/index.php/the-best-short-story-i-read-in-a-lit-mag-this-week-day-trip-by-noelle-catharine-allen/" style="font-size: x-large;" target="_blank">ploughshares website</a><span style="font-size: large;">.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-62589492925272402362017-06-18T14:29:00.001-07:002017-07-29T21:35:41.254-07:00THE EXUBERANT STAYCATION<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">June, 2017. Is it OK to have fun on this blog? This a post entirely about an orange dancing-girl costume.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis7LKPJoXfTlVD_JMV7R00lJCSuUPtRNFvDKGnPjJNiSInpef2-dWT3PeKRq3lsmE1h_f0NRa6jeHJjk5U6wmvQ7om_KG4MfvmLMw7xfKKc0GiS1iBzZOWfq4M2cUEfcEOUAiqyDcYSTdk/s1600/IMG_2830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis7LKPJoXfTlVD_JMV7R00lJCSuUPtRNFvDKGnPjJNiSInpef2-dWT3PeKRq3lsmE1h_f0NRa6jeHJjk5U6wmvQ7om_KG4MfvmLMw7xfKKc0GiS1iBzZOWfq4M2cUEfcEOUAiqyDcYSTdk/s640/IMG_2830.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Home-made headdresses, past and present.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Here in Seattle, I tend to hold fast to my daily routine, even on weekends. Feeling good means being faithful to what keeps my
symptoms in check, and that allows me to do as much as possible in the place where
I live. Yes, as has been noted before on the blog, travel is difficult, except for car camping. And yet, can I complain? I live a full, rich life.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But this week, I’m declaring a vacation. It’s that
beautiful, dance-filled time of year. When May and June roll around, my samba
group is all about preparing for the wonderful, goofball, homespun Fremont
Solstice Parade. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The parade is about homegrown creativity, and it's very much a neighborhood tradition. Over the years, I’ve seen some amazing art in motion on the streets of my neighborhood. I’ve also had moments at the parade,
when I’ve looked around and it’s all been so goofy that I’ve thought—<i>really, we’re doing this?</i>—but then it
seems half the city has crammed the sidewalks to watch. It's one of my
favorite days of the year, and the preparation is half the fun.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">People make amazing art for my neighborhood parade.<br />
June is time to go all out!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ86izhA-HlthrS6-8WIsIKpQEipD4uvEeY0TuyFo_7HGQjJzckzd57Kzx1xKlS9iiKRM10x4PkRBgk-3Ybj3O2Ey42TJHIBZJoj2pCuH3Zl76t3tyn7vZCExny9R1j5RCdI1EVHYJiPs7/s1600/IMG_2806.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ86izhA-HlthrS6-8WIsIKpQEipD4uvEeY0TuyFo_7HGQjJzckzd57Kzx1xKlS9iiKRM10x4PkRBgk-3Ybj3O2Ey42TJHIBZJoj2pCuH3Zl76t3tyn7vZCExny9R1j5RCdI1EVHYJiPs7/s320/IMG_2806.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My classic tomato pin cushion, a gift from my sister-in-law.<br />
Other dancers glue their costumes with a glue-gun, but the fumes<br />
make me sick, so I make mine the old-fashioned way, by sewing.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For my dance group, preparing means making costumes, and extra hours learning choreography. It can come down the wire, and people often stay up late to get things done. But since I can’t skip sleep... well, I’ve decided to do something radical and </span><i style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">give up writing for a few days</i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">. Usually I hate anything that stops me from writing. Nonetheless, with a few days to go, I’m taking time off to get my costume done. I am declaring a vacation!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3wZkMiWzxoy0m4qARLigUIZH5nD8LwLUt60gkTxK1ZWVE9xSBPFaOEorWJa3ZTKLB2fxjBAFq3V72n_hyphenhyphenjJAz0Du-TYF4xIWM4LwGniiX5P7v2JE1moDk3Wyk_6XpZoVp-cqAPpd-iN1Y/s1600/IMG_2738.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3wZkMiWzxoy0m4qARLigUIZH5nD8LwLUt60gkTxK1ZWVE9xSBPFaOEorWJa3ZTKLB2fxjBAFq3V72n_hyphenhyphenjJAz0Du-TYF4xIWM4LwGniiX5P7v2JE1moDk3Wyk_6XpZoVp-cqAPpd-iN1Y/s400/IMG_2738.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our group did color blocks this year. I was in the red/orange block.<br />
These are my "raw materials": red bra, rolls of feathers.<br />
I bought red dance shorts, too. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObbFiiESEOs25oIbh3fj9KwRChX7Bau-rvEVfDkOxF_-taHCkrfuOlTA8uZJRyER-ONC772MvZubYhT_TOaSTSGGNf_OwO_53z2f14H1rqnGDLYY45M51h7K6W1cT9lEMVG3-iaK9Vjpg/s1600/IMG_2743.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhObbFiiESEOs25oIbh3fj9KwRChX7Bau-rvEVfDkOxF_-taHCkrfuOlTA8uZJRyER-ONC772MvZubYhT_TOaSTSGGNf_OwO_53z2f14H1rqnGDLYY45M51h7K6W1cT9lEMVG3-iaK9Vjpg/s320/IMG_2743.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">To make my headdress I started by wrapping a frame from floral/millinery wire.<br />
See below for how the frame looked on my head. (Held in place with strap!)</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXN8Srm4S13stv_VqFLS7pQ8zqp-eTp62ElWZr7AYDK_vn3vEH56fhrAH5-bDVc0jYAp4lJRLsjkCt63oDe8RkgCzFxzVesUU6_U_fEBJgHM3YtERgKNh5b32G42NP4f_2bS0jUYBZI3ry/s1600/IMG_2734.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXN8Srm4S13stv_VqFLS7pQ8zqp-eTp62ElWZr7AYDK_vn3vEH56fhrAH5-bDVc0jYAp4lJRLsjkCt63oDe8RkgCzFxzVesUU6_U_fEBJgHM3YtERgKNh5b32G42NP4f_2bS0jUYBZI3ry/s320/IMG_2734.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPOEAOaEvM8lM7rmJKIsx3I8Bp3i6R6CQVvBpWCARTuNe57HIvTjF_9yL-1yaSiZAvLj-gIz5uonfXYeCelI0wIdUnfVp5wCy9q9GC2tDlCfInQfVVHNuKEexqQVeg_lh3J__QmzgLw60A/s1600/IMG_2725.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPOEAOaEvM8lM7rmJKIsx3I8Bp3i6R6CQVvBpWCARTuNe57HIvTjF_9yL-1yaSiZAvLj-gIz5uonfXYeCelI0wIdUnfVp5wCy9q9GC2tDlCfInQfVVHNuKEexqQVeg_lh3J__QmzgLw60A/s320/IMG_2725.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One more shot of the frame. I'm ready for communications<br />
from the space aliens!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjZcBrcB3ZKIeqN3dqJM5Fx-PMGIx2l4KlkR2kcz3nMqRniTeTUzieaOElm04pxFsnC2wfWDJwrw0nPtTtVgyBxujWLPLd7GZ3Bovwc553xs4e5d6VcVTAjmiy0UqKL3IILKKaSY__PY00/s1600/IMG_2757.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjZcBrcB3ZKIeqN3dqJM5Fx-PMGIx2l4KlkR2kcz3nMqRniTeTUzieaOElm04pxFsnC2wfWDJwrw0nPtTtVgyBxujWLPLd7GZ3Bovwc553xs4e5d6VcVTAjmiy0UqKL3IILKKaSY__PY00/s400/IMG_2757.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">But actually, not that interested in talking to E.T.s, so I sewed on feathers.<br />
(Selfie in the bathroom mirror.)<br />
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The costume making continues....<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwZ4_g0X-meKnpam73goqaUZBxOuqJjlFkHSdH4XIx0m3JGkT8MNWFFVnmoVkvNrCjCMk_EAxqj94XYuovokyROoj-zyTeWM1cWNxTAdmRT38KSg-eIiy9Wdg96j1IjRRtYK0Lc2n_vFKR/s1600/IMG_2770.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwZ4_g0X-meKnpam73goqaUZBxOuqJjlFkHSdH4XIx0m3JGkT8MNWFFVnmoVkvNrCjCMk_EAxqj94XYuovokyROoj-zyTeWM1cWNxTAdmRT38KSg-eIiy9Wdg96j1IjRRtYK0Lc2n_vFKR/s320/IMG_2770.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My outdoor workspace later in the week<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiISWjH64EBgi2wuLC7H_JrvwXLs72bQmOLgBWgKeW_YRjjf2fLcXtGqRLbA706ZPHG8ErqEVttrM4K-A9Jsn9EJa1L70TNfmkxX3gpmsxPMupnEx0QG5alwP9F2yHeS_aOhoMPGaF2Vep_/s1600/IMG_2804.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiISWjH64EBgi2wuLC7H_JrvwXLs72bQmOLgBWgKeW_YRjjf2fLcXtGqRLbA706ZPHG8ErqEVttrM4K-A9Jsn9EJa1L70TNfmkxX3gpmsxPMupnEx0QG5alwP9F2yHeS_aOhoMPGaF2Vep_/s320/IMG_2804.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The corset top in progress. I cut up an orange<br />
dress I found at the thrift store. Added some gold adornment.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsLhH4VRj6IYRC71S0bvjR5OfGBvtHpO27sG7XgRrBHocJRksPV-2y2jPgXrgwO-jI7aROYAuFjcS7p0EsscAN5GIGQtEkRPQ8MvP8cJCqoK8-l_dly1-n5OGxR6s5lrYpARnZ5m7MhgOc/s1600/IMG_2812.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsLhH4VRj6IYRC71S0bvjR5OfGBvtHpO27sG7XgRrBHocJRksPV-2y2jPgXrgwO-jI7aROYAuFjcS7p0EsscAN5GIGQtEkRPQ8MvP8cJCqoK8-l_dly1-n5OGxR6s5lrYpARnZ5m7MhgOc/s320/IMG_2812.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sewing the corset top of the dress onto the red bra, including cutting down <br />
the back dress straps to fit, and sewing on hooks. Plus some more gold.</td></tr>
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Almost ready...</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja_Je4RUsOha8bh5Opna-8aWfj3xtQvafJ5k4FeziVs0_fgMc5JPos8xQiyQVusXcAg_qiqX4sywOzveEma90kYjGOiPxDNMSHO5Q0O8s0pBv1W7__6Rka4-zKxrMRKXWEimk0-mYnWUpm/s1600/IMG_2831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja_Je4RUsOha8bh5Opna-8aWfj3xtQvafJ5k4FeziVs0_fgMc5JPos8xQiyQVusXcAg_qiqX4sywOzveEma90kYjGOiPxDNMSHO5Q0O8s0pBv1W7__6Rka4-zKxrMRKXWEimk0-mYnWUpm/s320/IMG_2831.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Secret ingredient. Yes, all the gold on my outfit is gold duct tape. </td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">JUNE 17, 2017:</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdi07yvvPdNI7Hny6y0sAeBWPbXfsk9xO6sKRDWKvsx8_NR7PFy2qpHMitYbrVOAz15g-fBeeLpbSGruc91eviXjtXkEoZ7-KUIDegUwrl85XqhmVX3m9NVfq1Bfz2_5mv3LYCzAcxmllf/s1600/IMG_2815.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdi07yvvPdNI7Hny6y0sAeBWPbXfsk9xO6sKRDWKvsx8_NR7PFy2qpHMitYbrVOAz15g-fBeeLpbSGruc91eviXjtXkEoZ7-KUIDegUwrl85XqhmVX3m9NVfq1Bfz2_5mv3LYCzAcxmllf/s400/IMG_2815.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Headdress, wings, plus orange dress transformed into dancing-girl costume.</td></tr>
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Out with friends...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJyimC4iDqeaxA77VMGqQkH16P46tTbBghKTLEAZKIgaab2W66RCN_DPcMUshmE6PrX7e6JoWgZVg635_As3_cEQBAL09tTFu-pL0FDyywTK6m5fmH1nonmWo11yR8FC88TuVTfKNCcfyC/s1600/Solstice+2017+9.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJyimC4iDqeaxA77VMGqQkH16P46tTbBghKTLEAZKIgaab2W66RCN_DPcMUshmE6PrX7e6JoWgZVg635_As3_cEQBAL09tTFu-pL0FDyywTK6m5fmH1nonmWo11yR8FC88TuVTfKNCcfyC/s400/Solstice+2017+9.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvNHTYRlcQZ_B05CT5zi-uSn1COoUAVJww2ujh13hbRWYmRG6dpQkU1Ad7mXZrYXc_BXoxBCYaCbcTx_LqvN4oPSqb1EpGqbVzz4jZRK_wln3JDlWGhxCCPp2rRjZHJSNvuHNtMAd5V_NS/s1600/Solstice+2017+10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="853" data-original-width="1280" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvNHTYRlcQZ_B05CT5zi-uSn1COoUAVJww2ujh13hbRWYmRG6dpQkU1Ad7mXZrYXc_BXoxBCYaCbcTx_LqvN4oPSqb1EpGqbVzz4jZRK_wln3JDlWGhxCCPp2rRjZHJSNvuHNtMAd5V_NS/s400/Solstice+2017+10.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photos by Raul Campoverde</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orange is the new orange.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdHBenWi3zFt_XtHsfzS1XIghLisv6kEjdBEt7ipQQL5fU1fq2hSAMwd9pioJ_MurWH5s09vtapqEMyM344tt6LA4e8OQBqkttLBRwddKDGIBoNgRO7lHhcrQ8HEnDn33nrQ0H9emBSkcs/s1600/19122015_1977651329130337_672985087104516096_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdHBenWi3zFt_XtHsfzS1XIghLisv6kEjdBEt7ipQQL5fU1fq2hSAMwd9pioJ_MurWH5s09vtapqEMyM344tt6LA4e8OQBqkttLBRwddKDGIBoNgRO7lHhcrQ8HEnDn33nrQ0H9emBSkcs/s400/19122015_1977651329130337_672985087104516096_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Ashley, next to me in the parade and she's totally upstaging me<br />
(and rightly so), but stop looking at her for a second! Look to the right of the photo.<br />
Yup, that's me, from the back. (Nice gold sunbursts!)<br />
And Marian is behind me, in magenta. So much fun!</td></tr>
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greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-4727374476476095232017-03-02T17:24:00.001-08:002017-03-02T17:29:27.338-08:00MORE COMING SOONIn my last blog posts, in December, I promised an update on the blog's favorite heroine, the Chronic Princess. Unfortunately, that post isn't here yet...but in the meantime, who doesn't love a good podcast? I have recently become a big fan of Reply All. Sruthi Pinnamaneni is an excellent reporter, and she'd done some very good posts on illness and medicine. Below are links to episodes that feature her stories. What stood out for me in first one (Second Language) is the journey of acceptance. The second one (Boy Wonder) has quite a few parallels for Lyme patients who have suffered through mis-diagnosis and late-diagnosis. At the end, a Yale doctor, Lisa Sanders, speaks intelligently and unconventionally about the difficulties of diagnosis. Thank you, Dr. Sanders, for speaking to us all like we're adults! <br />
<br />
<a href="https://gimletmedia.com/episode/88-second-language/">https://gimletmedia.com/episode/88-second-language/</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://gimletmedia.com/episode/75-boy-wonder/">https://gimletmedia.com/episode/75-boy-wonder/</a><br />
<br />
<br />greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-55977343385651011002016-12-11T11:12:00.000-08:002016-12-14T17:56:26.736-08:00HAS THE PRINCESS FOUND TRUE LOVE? Part 2<div style="text-align: right;">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXFRWyG4JprsV7w-aPXD0qF6wcdaCgWu-5ouGNqfZmXfcgTxBzspqHO9gQBdXYxpg7HTEKpAIIiL3ba_hwar66GU5jSCaAfbw-8Rr2L3knpzqG-p9Gd6DSEQ6Pg84hf-Z7WzMc0bXT_eAj/s1600/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+366.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXFRWyG4JprsV7w-aPXD0qF6wcdaCgWu-5ouGNqfZmXfcgTxBzspqHO9gQBdXYxpg7HTEKpAIIiL3ba_hwar66GU5jSCaAfbw-8Rr2L3knpzqG-p9Gd6DSEQ6Pg84hf-Z7WzMc0bXT_eAj/s320/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+366.JPG" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">The Princess and a smidge of the Squire. This </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">was </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">the first hike they took together. Right </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">after they </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">snapped this photo, the Princess</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> had to take a </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">magic pill, and the Squire </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">asked the Princess </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">a few questions about </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">the Spell. She explained </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">about </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">some </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">of her magic pills, and that she would </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">be trapped in the Spell her whole life.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In<a href="http://lymestories.blogspot.com/2016/12/has-princess-found-true-love-part-1.html" target="_blank"> Part 1</a>, the Chronic Princess, living
under a Nasty Spell, longed for true love. Although life under the Spell
was very complicated, and she was afraid of rejection, she went Speed Dating, and met the
Groovy Squire, who slowly but surely won her love and her trust. For the first
year, the Princess was very happy, but by the second summer of their
relationship, the Princess was having a hard time, becoming ever more trapped under the Spell.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This was largely the fault of the Evil
Sorcerer Jeff Bezos, who was plotting to Take Over the World, and had filled the
air in Seattle with traffic and construction fumes. This made the Princess weak
even while walking around her own neighborhood. The fumes and the Spell
combined to make her suffer Neurological Episodes, when her hands shook and she
felt her brain was on fire. The Squire continued to support the Chronic Princess
through this difficult time, taking her on a beautiful camping trip where the
air was clear. Although at times she felt he did not entirely understand the
extent of her suffering, she cherished the Groovy Squire’s unfailing kindness
and affection. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinmDoisIT_YkZLHrA3tlk2jclnakL4FfHDxataFTL9USRhoS6Px6VkYRcXcsbJeYSiGrYJmU7w214GVmXIqOIz8-ssskvJ_kyTR9G4mZBPYaEf7fuuJVNh1gHpgUGiSkNE-VaooYpOz_dk/s1600/Cleo+gets+flea+bath+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinmDoisIT_YkZLHrA3tlk2jclnakL4FfHDxataFTL9USRhoS6Px6VkYRcXcsbJeYSiGrYJmU7w214GVmXIqOIz8-ssskvJ_kyTR9G4mZBPYaEf7fuuJVNh1gHpgUGiSkNE-VaooYpOz_dk/s200/Cleo+gets+flea+bath+2.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cleo gets a flea bath</td></tr>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And—oh yes, the dog Cleopatra had a bad case
of the fleas. The Squire helped out. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">At the end of Part 1, the Squire has told
the Princess he wants to be her partner, to be with her in the good times
(hiking and camping) and the bad (fleas). The Princess is touched, but also
skeptical, due to the following backstory:<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">NUANCES
OF THE BACK STORY, INCLUDING LIVING ARRANGEMENTS</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not long after
the Groovy Squire and Chronic Princess met, she asked him what he was hoping
for in a relationship—not with her specifically, which would have been far too
forward at that early stage, but in general. They had met Speed Dating instead
of Internet Dating, so there had not been any long questionnaire of boxes to
check, such as: </span></div>
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<ul>
<li><i style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">casual </span></i></li>
<li><i style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">leisurely</span></i></li>
<li><i style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">head-long-up-in-flames</span></i></li>
<li><i style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">friends plus activities</span></i></li>
<li><i style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">secondary</span></i></li>
<li><i style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">tertiary </span></i></li>
<li><i style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">not-open-but-not-closed </span></i></li>
<li><i style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">short-term</span></i></li>
<li><i style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">long-term until something goes wrong</span></i></li>
<li><i style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">long-term-in-separate-houses-but-owning-the-same-cat</span></i></li>
<li><i style="text-indent: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">long-term-eventually-living-together</span></i></li>
</ul>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Such lists being found on most online dating websites. The Princess, having a practical
streak, wanted to be sure she and Squire were at least hoping for same thing,
romance-wise. The Squire said he hoped to eventually find a
long-term-living-together-committed relationship, with no desire for cats and with no additional children (the Squire
was older than the Princess and his children were grown, the Princess
could not have any children due to the Spell). The Princess told the Squire she was looking for the same
thing, so this was good. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXLSk4uSAWvOkKl4XwvTfC50ra-3QsVBOqk6ZIilZ3iruzxEjgyI4Hy7VCv-hNeU9cxZAaONPKic6ck0_CBwdJ376rhfe0cR-d_EoJwEqHAl25TL6L0b93lzYc_MNxcqt3NN8EoXjPSBfE/s1600/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+486.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXLSk4uSAWvOkKl4XwvTfC50ra-3QsVBOqk6ZIilZ3iruzxEjgyI4Hy7VCv-hNeU9cxZAaONPKic6ck0_CBwdJ376rhfe0cR-d_EoJwEqHAl25TL6L0b93lzYc_MNxcqt3NN8EoXjPSBfE/s320/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+486.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">their feet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmlBDbw7JmuReThtPt4UyGq_tNPl0z_G02FF-SwRMILtdr-IGLR5YBm_HcMAvpc4XR7WsQg1pLH9hPsp8C2ooZWs8Xi-A4J-UlI6wF6xb3YpjPf1pc386Lb4px4E5bHi_sp4NCFM2tRpx/s1600/poppies+at+3610+Ashworth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmlBDbw7JmuReThtPt4UyGq_tNPl0z_G02FF-SwRMILtdr-IGLR5YBm_HcMAvpc4XR7WsQg1pLH9hPsp8C2ooZWs8Xi-A4J-UlI6wF6xb3YpjPf1pc386Lb4px4E5bHi_sp4NCFM2tRpx/s200/poppies+at+3610+Ashworth.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Flowers in the Tower's garden</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not too long after, in the Summer of 2015, the Squire told the Princess he loved her, and she, overcome with emotion, told him she loved him too. In the Fall of 2015, the Squire began dropping hints
to her, such as ‘I’d like to live in your neighborhood, it seems like such a
nice place to be,’ and, “it would be so wonderful to live at your house, and if
I did, I could help you more with your trees and your garden.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He had looked
into buying an old-run down palace around the corner from the Princess, as an
investment, the type of palace that needs remodeling (as was all the rage in
the neighborhood, as previously mentioned). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">When the Princess
asked, “Well, what if, in the worst case, things don’t work out between us,
would you want to own a palace so close by?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYp6cLxHuDMsgmm4QArdepVLUv-hPGwPExIGJ3UlymGBIN66Hkxa4knKXJIHPV7iG7aDRylubPNF_XHhPZ32Cl6A4AL-oEl7tygSYiGY-cxb0Z2oGa2iJjRxgwCj2i5REtL9EHuofja36Q/s1600/old+house+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYp6cLxHuDMsgmm4QArdepVLUv-hPGwPExIGJ3UlymGBIN66Hkxa4knKXJIHPV7iG7aDRylubPNF_XHhPZ32Cl6A4AL-oEl7tygSYiGY-cxb0Z2oGa2iJjRxgwCj2i5REtL9EHuofja36Q/s200/old+house+1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The type of old house in the Princess's<br />
neighborhood the Squire almost bought,<br />
but didn't. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Squire said,
“I’m not worried about that at all.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But the
real-estate prices in Princess’s neighborhood were now ridiculous (the Princess’s
taxes were going up and up) and so the Squire hadn’t bought the fixer-upper
palace after all, and he had seemed disappointed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That December,
the Princess’s roommate, the Lady Christiana, was thinking of finding her own place, and so the Princess, asked the
Squire if he would like to live with her once Lady C moved out. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Squire at
first said he needed to think it over. Soon, he told the Princess would like
to live with her eventually, but he couldn’t yet, because his work required him
to stay in his own little palace, where he also had his office, and where soon
he would add apartments to the building, as an investment. (Yes, if you hadn’t
noticed, the Squire was also caught up in the real estate craze.) He needed to
be on hand to supervise construction, he explained. The Princess, having
remodeled her own Tower, knew it was invaluable to have someone living on site,
because inevitably problems and questions came up, and they came up at odd
hours. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY0Ypz-DzCA7njdYqgaYZz0YRQ34q1qRy02hS5yK6WMqQ7VBlS8Vr2jt4k0CR6p3kweYGnNy7WJIQnzT6n61SkhfpEsUYRSNRSVOHoDMEEVVNqupOWJcQ193V9_AbOjwIZpgiTl5sGi9Wj/s1600/IMG_1856.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY0Ypz-DzCA7njdYqgaYZz0YRQ34q1qRy02hS5yK6WMqQ7VBlS8Vr2jt4k0CR6p3kweYGnNy7WJIQnzT6n61SkhfpEsUYRSNRSVOHoDMEEVVNqupOWJcQ193V9_AbOjwIZpgiTl5sGi9Wj/s320/IMG_1856.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">hmmmmmmmmm</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not to mention
that in the days before and after the Squire told her this, he
showered her with affection, more than he ever had, and so the Princess did not
doubt that he continued to love her. The Princess told the Squire she
understood about his not moving in. She also thought to herself that until the
Squire moved in with her, his talk about having a commitment or a life with
her, a long-term, living-together relationship—well, it was only talk and she tried
not get too swept up in it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She saw that the
Squire was someone who clearly felt very romantically towards her on one hand,
but also moved slowly on these questions. Although it had been many years ago,
he had been through a bad divorce, the Princess knew. And so his hesitancy was understandable. People have
mixed emotions, especially when it comes to romantic love. We want things, and
yet we feel hesitant. There is hope and there is baggage. Baggage takes time, the Princess thought. She wasn't in a rush.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7H9g6PCwdJLmu1yL5yahBddJ3k5A8RUJLcAUE01EB8EctNNmEYaMaQU_WbekYtdnkgndWryK7cigVK0i50Z0m6GhvGrNyaPgDZ3ZBht9RxnndQAMo-ljjC9wyTkXht0ukx2RvWVRg-jnh/s1600/baggage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7H9g6PCwdJLmu1yL5yahBddJ3k5A8RUJLcAUE01EB8EctNNmEYaMaQU_WbekYtdnkgndWryK7cigVK0i50Z0m6GhvGrNyaPgDZ3ZBht9RxnndQAMo-ljjC9wyTkXht0ukx2RvWVRg-jnh/s320/baggage.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Baggage slows you down!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Lady
Christiana, on the other hand, decided not to move out after all, which made
the Princess happy, since the Princess was a big fan of the Lady Christiana’s
and they got along well. So the question of whether the Squire
lived with the Princess was postponed. Months and more months passed, the
Squire came to visit often enough that the Princess felt very close to him.
Everything was at a good balance, sleeping-arrangements-wise. At some point, the
Princess knew, when the Lady Christiana would be ready to move out for real, the question of the Squire living in the Tower would come up again, and she might have to apply
pressure. But for now, she tucked her skepticism into a corner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One day that
fall, after the air around the Tower had cleared, and the fleas were killed and
the Princess was feeling happy and strong again, the Squire, who had been away
a with his daughter for a few days, came back to Seattle. Although it was late
and he had been driving for a long time, he came straight to the Princess’s
Tower and told her he felt the Tower was his home, and this made the Princess happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGaUdyuujegidf2EA4sMoPEFnmnqhmVvPoi-C1QVs303ITfDsrw5uhIE4MTA44C4zgk4RVaBCYN3zJV5eUjwXNmvWZEb1a3o2FonaGSXZmoGTc2WECPJKrHpk1-xDpup25qzVvdeM9QSWR/s1600/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+320.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGaUdyuujegidf2EA4sMoPEFnmnqhmVvPoi-C1QVs303ITfDsrw5uhIE4MTA44C4zgk4RVaBCYN3zJV5eUjwXNmvWZEb1a3o2FonaGSXZmoGTc2WECPJKrHpk1-xDpup25qzVvdeM9QSWR/s320/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+320.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tower from the back yard</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">COUNTING
OUT SPARKLY BLESSINGS</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And so, despite
all her troubles that year, the Princess took comfort from a few things: that
she still had her writing and her dancing, and her friends, and the Squire was
proving to be such a kind, affectionate, caring boyfriend. She still felt very
lucky. If the Groovy Squire had some small flaws, such as not quite getting how
very devoted the Princess was to her writing and forgetting details about what
she was writing and when (although she told him these things often), such as
never remembering that the Princess always went to Samba dance on Monday
nights, such as not quite understanding the darkest side of the Spell even
though the Princess had attempted often to explain—well, she thought on the whole
these were small things. She had her own flaws, she knew, and he was more than
patient with them. No one is ever perfect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ON
THE SUBJECT OF MOJO AND WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A PRINCESS</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqBvGCuhKNjv1mkwUaTAYFvtynwOf2w740AVzDk99-hC4UGydn_XA1f89QDdoS1dnP1zUtNQLDE0DrN3BWcheDG37UhNSD3HZVCcMgeuWsKuvtsxaabH-O83owZ9P_CefADZbrnBautg4K/s1600/IMG_1571.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqBvGCuhKNjv1mkwUaTAYFvtynwOf2w740AVzDk99-hC4UGydn_XA1f89QDdoS1dnP1zUtNQLDE0DrN3BWcheDG37UhNSD3HZVCcMgeuWsKuvtsxaabH-O83owZ9P_CefADZbrnBautg4K/s320/IMG_1571.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fall on the Princess's block</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Early fall turned to late fall. The
leaves were golden and red, and the Princess seemed to have put the Neurological
Episodes behind her. She no longer needed the extra magic pills, she felt less
dizzy, and more herself. You might say she had found her mojo again. Now it
just so happened that an opportunity came for her to use some that mojo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">(This
was a good plan. Mojo, if you don’t use it, will shrivel and die, but if you do
use it, it will grow.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Her friend Amanda,
who ran the center for Syrian refugees, was visiting Seattle, and had asked if
the Princess could help her connect to people. The Princess decided to give a
party for Amanda, to help her raise funds and make connections. It was true
that the party would temporarily tire the Princess out, but she was also
concerned about refugees, and the general political climate (it was October of
2016, and there was an Ogre stomping around the country. Although no one imagined that Ogre could become President, the vile
things the Ogre said at a furious rate, including about refugees, horrified
the Princess). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Yes, I will be
tired for two or three days after the party, but what does that matter,
compared to what good it will do?" the Princess thought. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhPKIuk1aUEfYSt_d1B2-SOUbxX_jJhHHiXnpe_pioqPFCBYfZuzT64h-NDdJ4rJTz9AgmCuNcnfK-bb9N-sFImnXg1MsxO8FdoNfUnGW-n5UMilKMDwKJrnW4-xgp0LzA8CrapwALvgrP/s1600/CRP+photo.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhPKIuk1aUEfYSt_d1B2-SOUbxX_jJhHHiXnpe_pioqPFCBYfZuzT64h-NDdJ4rJTz9AgmCuNcnfK-bb9N-sFImnXg1MsxO8FdoNfUnGW-n5UMilKMDwKJrnW4-xgp0LzA8CrapwALvgrP/s320/CRP+photo.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Refugees needing help, photo from CRP refugee center</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">For all that the Princess struggled with the
Spell, she also knew, in the big picture, that she was a Princess, meaning she
was lucky enough to have the magical pills and potions she needed to fend off the Spell,
and to eat the magical foods that made her feel well, not to mention the fact
that she had a roof over head and lived in a largely peaceful country. Many other
people in the world, whether under Spells or not, were not nearly so privileged.
Who was she to decide not to give a fundraising party because she might be
tired for three whole days?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2H8-1DMaoGfX0rZoznY-2Jf0Str4mhoug4qX7khtSDOWRISI3CVU-8UOPGLdnTCOvJyIsk7BwX0WxKNKnkqcxrc7bm7sNX5Z4DIEsYc6UKR0UoV4A7kvpeb_ZKKK0CuIAu2xS4-o4yLo/s1600/ogre+trump.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj2H8-1DMaoGfX0rZoznY-2Jf0Str4mhoug4qX7khtSDOWRISI3CVU-8UOPGLdnTCOvJyIsk7BwX0WxKNKnkqcxrc7bm7sNX5Z4DIEsYc6UKR0UoV4A7kvpeb_ZKKK0CuIAu2xS4-o4yLo/s200/ogre+trump.jpg" width="136" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Princess threw
the party, she made flyers and sent emails and spent time of social media
promoting the party. There was a bigger turnout than the Princess had hoped, and
Amanda gave an inspiring talk, leaving everyone feeling good for a change,
instead of annoyed at the Ogre who was stomping his way around the country. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Squire had
been, as usual, wonderfully helpful, perhaps more helpful than he had ever been.
When the night was over, they counted the donations and gave them to Amanda, and
said goodbye to their friend. Then the Squire took the Princess in his arms and
said more things to her about how much he loved her, and she also felt how much
she loved him, too. She felt very grateful for him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> The Princess went to bed late, then
didn’t sleep well. That Nasty Old Spell, that kept her from sleeping from time
to time. Not a big deal. She got up the next morning, tired as was to be
expected. As she took Cleo on her morning walk, she saw there was a painter
outside the house next door, preparing to paint. </span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZvXuuOjgb5Hz__B_B16YPAAvvDMCQABcPJksVH_NhTI5QhJ_PfT4wb6qP_OV7doxH3L-u_GaPc5bkAkDVCoiyym-1D_VT65Y5bRQCG9Z8AYItMt0QU-1aFm1I5ueftJkgO5FkH_ky18m9/s1600/exterior-house-paint.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZvXuuOjgb5Hz__B_B16YPAAvvDMCQABcPJksVH_NhTI5QhJ_PfT4wb6qP_OV7doxH3L-u_GaPc5bkAkDVCoiyym-1D_VT65Y5bRQCG9Z8AYItMt0QU-1aFm1I5ueftJkgO5FkH_ky18m9/s200/exterior-house-paint.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It would make the Princess feel terrible</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />She was sure to have another Neurological Episode if she stayed in her house. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Princess
rushed to her car and drove away to the Co-op, where she bought an apple to eat
for breakfast, and did her work in the seating area. The air there was cleaner,
but it was difficult to close her eyes and rest when she needed to (it’s hard
to rest sitting at an outdoor table). When she saw her friends and roommates
that afternoon, everyone was talking about the Ogre, who had bragged about
assaulting women. All the women the Princess knew, including herself, were very
shaken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She went through her
day having a series of mishaps, such as her battery dying. Things that are
small, but when you are tired can make you even more tired.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">THE
GIANT QUESTION</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Meanwhile, the
Princess was worried about what was becoming a Giant Question: could she keep
living in the Tower, if living there was no longer restful, if living there made
the Spell get Nastier? She had poured money and energy into remodeling the
Tower and making it healthy, including a special HVAC system, and sealing the
basement foundation to prevent mold; she has spent extra money on special paint
and floor sealants that wouldn’t make her sick, and still she had become very
weak during the remodeling, back in 2013. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now she worried
that, given the Evil Sorcerer, the construction in her neighborhood, although
better these past few weeks, could go on and on for years. She had not crystal
ball to show her if this were so. She longed for a crystal ball. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwZhL8LGjo9xAPwvRtiZFNusQSrrYDVzHe1ZFm4hI9uxAzC2kXSkeeKHPysfM0KcSTjUDu3heslcZHg87h6nkUZMhtIcGJmSZahz7hUjKFXcAkv0XSHhENat0utGqs5yAjgzJv79g9S1fs/s1600/Seattle+construction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwZhL8LGjo9xAPwvRtiZFNusQSrrYDVzHe1ZFm4hI9uxAzC2kXSkeeKHPysfM0KcSTjUDu3heslcZHg87h6nkUZMhtIcGJmSZahz7hUjKFXcAkv0XSHhENat0utGqs5yAjgzJv79g9S1fs/s1600/Seattle+construction.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Problem with Air in Seattle, vs Flowers <br />
in the Tower's Backyard. What to do?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmlBDbw7JmuReThtPt4UyGq_tNPl0z_G02FF-SwRMILtdr-IGLR5YBm_HcMAvpc4XR7WsQg1pLH9hPsp8C2ooZWs8Xi-A4J-UlI6wF6xb3YpjPf1pc386Lb4px4E5bHi_sp4NCFM2tRpx/s1600/poppies+at+3610+Ashworth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmlBDbw7JmuReThtPt4UyGq_tNPl0z_G02FF-SwRMILtdr-IGLR5YBm_HcMAvpc4XR7WsQg1pLH9hPsp8C2ooZWs8Xi-A4J-UlI6wF6xb3YpjPf1pc386Lb4px4E5bHi_sp4NCFM2tRpx/s200/poppies+at+3610+Ashworth.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But she told
herself not to worry, as she walked back to the Tower (leaving her car in the
spot where the battery had died). In time she would figure things out. Not to
mention the Squire was always helpful in this area. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The next day, saw
to her relief her neighbor had finished painting, and she set about dealing
with the car battery and doing all the chores that she had neglected while she
was planning the party. She was still tired from the Party, but not as
profoundly tired as before. Then she called her mother, who lived in
Washington, DC. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWuVNGenASFeqHFBnTGPL4TUi-Ki1BCl9sB3XdbOwgxTQlL-nOaXPcaEOi431-zYe0TwLkyIhQz9vZbffbHSRpg3g0TuG1jSvuDiXch-uDmH11mufnPftuvl7UPB7oHPnJuDVPXv2RNimC/s1600/IMG_1513.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWuVNGenASFeqHFBnTGPL4TUi-Ki1BCl9sB3XdbOwgxTQlL-nOaXPcaEOi431-zYe0TwLkyIhQz9vZbffbHSRpg3g0TuG1jSvuDiXch-uDmH11mufnPftuvl7UPB7oHPnJuDVPXv2RNimC/s320/IMG_1513.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Her Parents' palace in DC (the middle palace on the block)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Princess’s
mother was very dear to her, as she had helped her through the worst years of
the Spell, and the palace where her parents lived always meant home to the
Princess in the deepest sense of the word. The Princess had lived there for
years when she was trapped entirely by the Nasty Spell, and she still went back to
recover her strength, in order to keep fighting the Spell day and night as she
must. Her parents, it almost goes without saying, never brought any Toxic Chemicals into their palace.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">MORE ABOUT HER HOME IN DC</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Logistically
speaking—given the aforementioned Giant Question about the Tower, and the fact
that the Squire was about to start construction on his own residence—well, it
all came down to this: her parents’ palace in DC was one place left in the
world where the Princess could go and know she would not grow weaker from the
Spell and not have Neurological Episodes. Yes, she would have to get on
airplane, and that was always exhausting, but she could go there if she needed
to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> It just so happened however, that in that
phone call, two days after the party, the Princess’s mother had some news. She and
the Princess’s father would soon be moving out of their palace in Washington. They
would give it over to the Princess’s brother, and so keep the palace in the
family, her mother said. The Princess’s brother and his wife had two wonderful
children; everyone knew they needed more spaced and would make good use the
palace. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And this was all
well and fine, but can you blame the Princess when she immediately thought: Will
there be anywhere in the world left that is safe for me? Where will I live if I
am entirely trapped by the Spell again? Too upset to keep talking, she told her
mother she needed to hang up the phone. She hung up. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0L5gRMlXOOtng_SW6EIaVPWr2pNEacKI4Imd5FgBvXBLnXiQ8LFw2YM4Up1l-J1IZtgYsjMwXGVDZHxah6BA64Ier8QRwKCHlwqtq3aXFaAPCJLTrFyLXv1c7IQm4kYaccp8cbF0yFyl3/s1600/phone+hang+up.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0L5gRMlXOOtng_SW6EIaVPWr2pNEacKI4Imd5FgBvXBLnXiQ8LFw2YM4Up1l-J1IZtgYsjMwXGVDZHxah6BA64Ier8QRwKCHlwqtq3aXFaAPCJLTrFyLXv1c7IQm4kYaccp8cbF0yFyl3/s1600/phone+hang+up.png" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She felt as lost as she
had ever felt in her life.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Squire
called. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWyq-e4EeDI8jpb6ogQvigDDa6R2NcgpWhopzx63TwmcnNHyy1bW96MQ-C4DXSfo2oiLunLgeB3fhyphenhyphen12p6YsF1FZs-kmroL8zpu0tVc2F9Ud_RGETRNfHBYG0SneGHeJfn2NaQq6n_idF/s1600/phone+answer+2.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXWyq-e4EeDI8jpb6ogQvigDDa6R2NcgpWhopzx63TwmcnNHyy1bW96MQ-C4DXSfo2oiLunLgeB3fhyphenhyphen12p6YsF1FZs-kmroL8zpu0tVc2F9Ud_RGETRNfHBYG0SneGHeJfn2NaQq6n_idF/s200/phone+answer+2.png" width="200" /></a></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">WHAT’S
UP WITH THESE PHONE CALLS?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now the Princess
was not in the habit of blurting her raw emotions out to Squire. Perhaps it was
because she had been alone for so many years, and having lived under the Spell
for years, she could be very stoic. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2bBepIrShEPxALDqgD9gdJSijZLc7Zt_qgLTyIxhlzAaa6DLZ9laFgwqRcyt56t50JddzkP8CPlcuulLDFkwiqwhGyDT5YHU8pM49iKc7DZ4h2RzEHZ7jJmERTOLy2EEceNvtHLSvIPz/s1600/baggage+trunk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw2bBepIrShEPxALDqgD9gdJSijZLc7Zt_qgLTyIxhlzAaa6DLZ9laFgwqRcyt56t50JddzkP8CPlcuulLDFkwiqwhGyDT5YHU8pM49iKc7DZ4h2RzEHZ7jJmERTOLy2EEceNvtHLSvIPz/s320/baggage+trunk.jpg" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Could she open up to him?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Perhaps it was also because the Princess
had some of her own baggage, making it hard to show her emotions. But we have
seen how little by little she had opened up to the Squire, and how slowly she
had come to trust him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">So the Princess
told her boyfriend how lost she felt. She was in tears, he seemed to listen,
but then he said a series of things that made the Princess realize he did not
understand at all. Such as, if the Princess couldn’t stay with her parents
anymore, she could always get a on a plane and fly instead to Hawaii—although this
of course involved a very long flight and staying in a hotel or other such
place guaranteed to make the Princess sick.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizdcZG9P6tiobGUC6az49LhAvfUYTmS2F3BEQGz4aZnta8Pt8MXXAFWKs4TyHYsEaIiFdlEw_e-cEhyphenhyphenGA967gtvlK3TkOLaIZRFTBQNpsgpmxI3nBdLb5EBuUKnF0U_W5bBJUgRFuaqDkH/s1600/Hawaii.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizdcZG9P6tiobGUC6az49LhAvfUYTmS2F3BEQGz4aZnta8Pt8MXXAFWKs4TyHYsEaIiFdlEw_e-cEhyphenhyphenGA967gtvlK3TkOLaIZRFTBQNpsgpmxI3nBdLb5EBuUKnF0U_W5bBJUgRFuaqDkH/s1600/Hawaii.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exactly what the Princess couldn't do</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He also suggested
she find a new Medical Witch. Didn’t the Squire know she had spent eight years
searching for the Medical Witch she now had? She knew she'd told him that. Hadn’t she also told him this type of magic was extremely complicated and specialized? Did he expect her to spend years searching for a new Witch, going through the trials
and errors of magic (i.e. getting trapped in the Spell again and then beating
it back) all in order see if whatever new Witch she found was any good? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But at least he
understood she was upset and he was trying help. She told him this, and said she
needed to rest. She hung up. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As we have said,
the Princess had often noticed how forgetful the Squire could be about certain
things, and she had accepted it, but now as she made her magical dinner of kale
salad and organic sprouts, she thought: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“If the Squire is
going to be my one True Love, it is my responsibility to ask him to pay more
attention, especially when the subject is important to me. The Squire is such a
good person, I’m sure if I talk to him gently, and tell him more clearly how
important it is to me to feel understood, he’ll listen and understand me
better.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She sent the
Squire a text message, saying she wanted to talk to clear up the
misunderstandings. She included lots of heart emojis to reassure the Squire (he
liked heart emojis). <span style="font-size: x-large;">💖💗💞👫💕💟<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="font-size: small;">He texted back that he wanted very much to talk and he would come to her Tower the next evening to talk. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">AN
EMOTIONAL RISK</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The next evening,
the Princess and the Squire sat down at her kitchen table, and she explained to
him, very gently, things she knew she had explained before, but always only in
short bursts, because the Squire (being more visually creative and less verbal
than the Princess) was not one for long, detailed stories. But now the Princess
must face the topic head-on, as nervous as it made her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She explained,
and he listened, and it seemed that all those times before when the Princess
had explained her symptoms and her illness to the Squire had somehow,
mysteriously, scarcely happened at all. At least, for the Squire they had
turned into a haze. He said things about her illness and that made her think he
hadn’t every been paying too much attention. This was unsettling, to say the
least, but the Princess pressed on, while remaining as kind and gentle as
possible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTuj9_d38PNGnRb_9O_are2Mw99mTN5VvOWYpeLQAhwldOukzDEF3c5418mwuG3LLK9TEMdwmyF7_43R3ydkFSWw3t4kxmC12F6s3PAt23dh7da-OsLHRB4htpZt0pL4-rL2yUFYR1ONia/s1600/Goya+sueno+de+la+razon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTuj9_d38PNGnRb_9O_are2Mw99mTN5VvOWYpeLQAhwldOukzDEF3c5418mwuG3LLK9TEMdwmyF7_43R3ydkFSWw3t4kxmC12F6s3PAt23dh7da-OsLHRB4htpZt0pL4-rL2yUFYR1ONia/s200/Goya+sueno+de+la+razon.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She sometimes felt this way, due to<br />
the Nasty Spell<br />
('El sueno de la razon produce <br />
monstruos' by Goya)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She needed, once
and for all, to tell the Squire how very terrible her Neurological Episodes
were, so he wouldn’t keep saying things to her like, “just hop on a plane and
go to Hawaii,” or “maybe you could remodel another house.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She explained in
detail everything she felt, the strange and disturbing things that happened in
her body and her brain. She felt extremely vulnerable, telling the Squire what
it really felt like to be inside a Neurological Episode, how frightening and
disorienting it was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She had to
connect back to those sensations a bit as she explained them, and her fear
spilled over into the unwelcome thought that the Squire might tell her she was
crazy. She felt as though she had climbed out to the very end of a tree limb,
and was now balancing up in the air, on her tippy toes, on a very slender branch. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJCpaicfXGlPL7r0wlezmxeknXbtSTtuwf4zCUVcfBjj8Y6cKFWlsGQqi9GlfSxh0Rv-tOx-z13zaqnXi8FB7ehkDvBFRbVO_Q1YrYBTXQvtl7HSeP8oPeVka7brLbkk_9EglccSIuEcXA/s1600/Egon_Schiele_-_Small_Tree_in_Late_Autumn_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJCpaicfXGlPL7r0wlezmxeknXbtSTtuwf4zCUVcfBjj8Y6cKFWlsGQqi9GlfSxh0Rv-tOx-z13zaqnXi8FB7ehkDvBFRbVO_Q1YrYBTXQvtl7HSeP8oPeVka7brLbkk_9EglccSIuEcXA/s400/Egon_Schiele_-_Small_Tree_in_Late_Autumn_-_Google_Art_Project.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Small Tree in Late Autumn' by Egon Schiele</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Still, the Squire
seemed confused. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Not knowing what
else to say, the Princess acknowledged the Spell had grown stronger from when
they had started out, when they met at Speed Dating. She had been healthier
then, but now, against her will, she was in some ways worse, and her life was
more limited, for example travelling, which had been limited before, was now
going to be even more limited for her. She said she was sorry about that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">WHAT
HAPPENED NEXT?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All that needed
to happen, all that Princess hoped and expected would happen, was that the Squire
would take her in his arms, and tell her he loved her and that he was upset by
how painful things had been for her that summer, now that he understood more
thoroughly was she had gone through. He would say something reassuring, and
that he since he cared so much for her, the last thing he wanted was for her to
risk her health by doing things that might make her worse. And then the
Princess would thank him, and move on to making plans about the Squire’s birthday,
which was a couple days away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That was all that
needed to happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitFQ4NT42vDdERVGVPJ8axfoZHwh1VVgoo20L-OWV1sXWM5IqK3-60NkzHC1F5tCABaAAhWb_AOKcTWi3umpQNGKE6AmLsqmlVE373L-6-rfqWl6iQj1Bs6modLBXk2m0wmFXwbIoK4ID5/s1600/autumn+sun+and+trees+by+Egon+Schiele.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitFQ4NT42vDdERVGVPJ8axfoZHwh1VVgoo20L-OWV1sXWM5IqK3-60NkzHC1F5tCABaAAhWb_AOKcTWi3umpQNGKE6AmLsqmlVE373L-6-rfqWl6iQj1Bs6modLBXk2m0wmFXwbIoK4ID5/s400/autumn+sun+and+trees+by+Egon+Schiele.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Autumn Sun and Trees' by Egon Schiele</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But that was not the way it went. Instead
the Squire said: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I just want you
to know that I have far too many doubts about your illness for me to ever
consider having a long-term relationship with you.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And then he looked at her
with an easy-going smile. The Princess must have looked dumbfounded, because he too, for one moment, looked confused. Then he said:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“In the past, other women I’ve dated have gotten the wrong idea,
that I wanted to be with them long-term, and I don’t want to do that with you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Princess felt the limb she was standing tippy-toe on snap, and then the ground below her spinning and dropping away, in a way that was almost more unsettling than if she had met the ground with a painful crash. </span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ0cffHOLzbYjYWQXHukxhnbDAMe2DoKCOs4_P6mEnlFtTtec3V3JhsWpPLAO5ww2wuXV5L-fAZmEPb4IBkTb4_xon0im3GF92c_IUXETiibWPcipEOXopH5XOSvbm9gJFXYkkOPt7JcUN/s1600/Leonara+Carrington+%2527Sanctuary+for+Furies%2527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ0cffHOLzbYjYWQXHukxhnbDAMe2DoKCOs4_P6mEnlFtTtec3V3JhsWpPLAO5ww2wuXV5L-fAZmEPb4IBkTb4_xon0im3GF92c_IUXETiibWPcipEOXopH5XOSvbm9gJFXYkkOPt7JcUN/s400/Leonara+Carrington+%2527Sanctuary+for+Furies%2527.jpg" width="356" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Princess felt like she was floating and the ground was spinning away<br />
(painting by Leonora Carrington)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He spoke to her in the strangest of
tones, as if he and the Princess were choosing between pleasant things: it was
up to the Princess to choose between being under the Spell or not being under it, while the
Squire, for his part, would choose—or had already chosen, it wasn’t quite clear—between
whether he wanted to be with Princess or not. But whatever choice each one
made, it would all be very pleasant all around. As if they were deciding between
Vikram or Hatha yoga, a tango or a waltz. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And now he was
saying, “I couldn’t imagine having a future with you, because of your illness.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He looked at her
with a pleasant smile, as if expecting her to discuss very kindly with him his
decision not to be with her, given that her illness was complicated, was possibly
getting worse, and would probably never go away. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As she looked
into the Groovy Squire’s gee-wiz eyes, she felt endlessly, unnervingly suspended
in air. She tried to shake away this feeling, that there was nothing solid to
stand on, the thought of her parents’ palace in DC flitted into her mind, for
an instant, making her want to laugh, but then the room seemed to rock a little bit, the way it had when
she’d once been in an earthquake. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She focused back
on the Squire, on the fact that the Squire had actually said what he had said. But now he
was saying more, an extensive list of all the complicated things about
Princess’s illness—</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>YES, WE JUST READ THE WORD "ILLNESS" </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8XaS0U5g2sXEQwAbABBto5KqR-3Gfr4WuM31VNc8EqDNogSqZgKp5v20Soh7oXqOUKjiAhiXy-hiNAsz0gjGm7WJxl_0PEoB1AG-mYWu8CTjrGK7LeKN1U0SPTJnHWJpAwAUY0RNRK9az/s1600/lyme+borrelia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8XaS0U5g2sXEQwAbABBto5KqR-3Gfr4WuM31VNc8EqDNogSqZgKp5v20Soh7oXqOUKjiAhiXy-hiNAsz0gjGm7WJxl_0PEoB1AG-mYWu8CTjrGK7LeKN1U0SPTJnHWJpAwAUY0RNRK9az/s320/lyme+borrelia.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beautiful, terrible Lyme bacteria</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">That word has slipped into the story, even a few paragraphs back. So let’s
pause here, and acknowledge what the Nasty Spell was. It was not something in a
fairy tale. It was a bacteria, a tenacious illness called Lyme Disease, that
was very good at taking up residence in every corner of people’s bodies, and particularly
at burrowing its way into their nervous systems and yes, even into their
brains, where medicine did not easily reach, where it caused all sorts
troubling symptoms, such as panic attacks. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The bacteria was
not the Princess’s friend, and yet it was in some ways her most intimate relationship,
another creature living inside her body night and day. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was an illness
she would probably have, in some shape or form, for the rest of her life. If
she stopped taking all her complicated medicine, her symptoms were immediate,
and severe. And on top of it was her Chemical Sensitivity, which worked in
tandem with Lyme, making things just that much more complicated. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">None of it was by
choice. If ever there were any choice about it, obviously the Princess would
choose not to be sick. This is part of the very definition of sickness. It’s
not fun, and you don’t choose it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But the Squire
did not seem to understand that at all. Which brings us back to our story, the
Princess and Groovy Squire, having their talk. The Squire was saying:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“The magical food!
The medicine around the clock! All the things you can’t do! All of it so
complicated!” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">(His sentiment seemed to be, ‘complicated <i>for me</i>.’ He was not concerned about her, he had expressed no
concern for her in all of this. Not about the Neurological Episodes or how
worried she might be, not about how she might feel about what he was saying
now. Not a word.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then he said:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“I know the real reason
I didn’t move in with you was because of your illness. It didn’t have to do
with my work,” he said. “I realize I could have moved into the Tower if I
wanted, but I didn’t because of your illness.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To this the
Princess said nothing, only stared, dumbfounded. It had occurred to the
Princess she had misheard him the first time, and that he had misspoken the
second time. By now, however, she had found her feet, and was walking around
the kitchen, starting to put this and that away, to help calm herself, while
she listened, trying to understand. But she failed to finish even the little
tasks in the kitchen, because they felt impossible. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He was now
saying, “But I like coming over to spend the night with you a few days a week,
the way I do now…the way things are right now—well, can’t we just keep it that
way for now?” And quite confusingly, in all of this, he threw in, “But I love
you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To all this the
Princess said nothing, or next to nothing, she was in too much shock. She
managed to say, “I can’t be in the same room with you anymore.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Squire looked
surprised. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Are you asking
me to leave?” he asked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Princess said
No. Telling someone to leave a place he had come to think of as a home, she
knew, was a very big deal, a drastic thing. She was not ready to say that to him. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Perhaps her heart had not caught up to
reality yet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“No, I’m not
asking you to go,” she said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was she supposed, a way to give him a second, or
fifth, chance. “You don’t need to leave,” she said, “But I’m going into my
bedroom so I’m not in the same room with you.” (She noticed how what had once
been ‘<i>the bedroom</i>,’ where the two of
them slept several nights a week, had now turned into ‘<i>my bedroom</i>.’)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As the Princess
turned to go to her bedroom, she said, in her utterly confused state, “Well, I
thought you were happy with me. You’d said all along you were happy. But if you
want someone to travel around the world with you, I can’t do that.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Wow, you make
what I want sound so superficial,” the Squire said. The Princess shrugged. She
was too confused to sort out what was superficial and what wasn’t. She went
into the other room.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">After a few
minutes the Squire knocked on the door of her bedroom, and told the Princess he
had decided to leave. He would call her the next day, he said, if that were OK
with her. He didn’t ask her if she was OK, or express any concern for her, or
express any remorse. The Princess nodded. She wasn’t able to think straight yet.
She turned away. She heard the front door close.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In a daze, she
got up and did the rest of the Hundred Magical Things she needed to do before
bed. All of it so long and complicated, as a Hundred Magical Things inevitably
are, and tonight, she seemed to do them all in slow motion. At last she got in
bed and lay down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-7i1djGOKq5Fhm4nKatp4YtE1pTtJg6d-eAh8UclX12azUYg9H2-E_4bHSO_d8gE8e1vnJPp1gku_ON1CNvaQt-Cjzw8cLh5Im6SJ6Lydsr3CBI1wvoz8sDO649GTk8R6LOLs4bJ5Ai1y/s1600/bedroom+1.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-7i1djGOKq5Fhm4nKatp4YtE1pTtJg6d-eAh8UclX12azUYg9H2-E_4bHSO_d8gE8e1vnJPp1gku_ON1CNvaQt-Cjzw8cLh5Im6SJ6Lydsr3CBI1wvoz8sDO649GTk8R6LOLs4bJ5Ai1y/s200/bedroom+1.png" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Princess's bedroom </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As you may have
guessed, she didn’t sleep. She lay awake, counting her breath, doing the
meditative exercises she had practiced over many years, knowing this might be
as close as she would get to sleep that night. She told herself she had to accept
reality. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Even if he had misspoken entirely--well, even that line of thinking didn't get her very far. He had hit her hard exactly where she was most vulnerable, with no word of concern for her, and then he had left.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She knew from experience that just because one or two, or up to ten
bad things had happened to her in her life or in the past few months—and she’d tried to bare them out with patience
and as much humor as she could muster—it didn’t mean another bad thing couldn’t
happen. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Q0phpdr9SrLAYeHmU8ZKuZzgseOYEJ0V4B5h_WijCgJFF71w40yIE9F1YGufkCPyCe_T8gP7HkyZca__iS5wT1NDN_e9OKve31D2sCLT8UMZLFwfREynrC7o2SDr4p0XOFBqz4WmZ9Xn/s1600/IMG_2501.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5Q0phpdr9SrLAYeHmU8ZKuZzgseOYEJ0V4B5h_WijCgJFF71w40yIE9F1YGufkCPyCe_T8gP7HkyZca__iS5wT1NDN_e9OKve31D2sCLT8UMZLFwfREynrC7o2SDr4p0XOFBqz4WmZ9Xn/s320/IMG_2501.PNG" width="256" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In time the
morning came.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Squire texted
her about 10 a.m. and asked if he could come over to talk to her that evening,
after he was finished with his work day—just a simple little text, no alarm
bells or regrets, no phone call, no rushing back to her with
immediate urgency now that he had realized how terribly he had misspoken the
night before. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She replied that
he could not come over. By the time she had brushed her teeth that morning, she
had already come to her decision. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It was the decision that all the different
ways of looking at her situation invariably lead her to, the way all the twigs
and limbs and branches of a tree, when traced backwards, return to the same
trunk. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEeEr9Amnn7MGvW3ins7QAgYA6ZCfj_NqoFjXxFIU8JO264viv07z65ILjoALdXZBxvHfcl5PPHnaUsJrrQKZoyLIWZEKB_j_COKWOa8kIpBau38JyVrdosoViqhL0zdh5g1Oqfk2o1ugn/s1600/Apple+tree+in+winter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEeEr9Amnn7MGvW3ins7QAgYA6ZCfj_NqoFjXxFIU8JO264viv07z65ILjoALdXZBxvHfcl5PPHnaUsJrrQKZoyLIWZEKB_j_COKWOa8kIpBau38JyVrdosoViqhL0zdh5g1Oqfk2o1ugn/s320/Apple+tree+in+winter.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Just to be sure she wasn’t rushing her decision, she spoke on the phone
with her mother and her friend the Duchess of Ravenna, and talked about it
with the Lady Christiana. All she had to do now was carry her decision out. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She called the
Squire at the end of the day, when he would be available, and said: “This is
the break-up phone call. It would be more respectful to do it in person, but
you don’t deserve that. I never want to see your face again.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She then
unleashed a torrent of fury—logical, eloquent fury, such as a Princess who
happens to be the daughter of two lawyers is capable of, and might, in certain
well-deserved circumstances, unleash. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">To her surprise,
the Squire seemed genuinely surprised. She didn’t know if this was bad or good.
In the end, it didn’t matter. </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXQvMBWpH57g-rqKU-xV0w2d5-H4lP_ldwsIOymELp793qFihJ2BWYCHjVzI8CKX1t4EZr8VJ2iW67ixjaT3wwlqZxjqCrn5PDUtbPqbOp6H7AS4_7ivUbajhHipztfK3T36tMvcfoe_ed/s1600/phone+hang+up.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXQvMBWpH57g-rqKU-xV0w2d5-H4lP_ldwsIOymELp793qFihJ2BWYCHjVzI8CKX1t4EZr8VJ2iW67ixjaT3wwlqZxjqCrn5PDUtbPqbOp6H7AS4_7ivUbajhHipztfK3T36tMvcfoe_ed/s1600/phone+hang+up.png" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrFguUgyQxdLCCWGtGH03LS2A_zHw-iWjgVJvwBOLuUIsfuwZjKHU7fIwmsaCAvLMRrmhro5cL9ib9eoK2a4Bf2QtsVR5eq4gf0dD46BsbyVhxX3dgPlb677b3_VJrAy_-jZoTZQUTlA6/s1600/kiki+smith+drawing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="419" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrFguUgyQxdLCCWGtGH03LS2A_zHw-iWjgVJvwBOLuUIsfuwZjKHU7fIwmsaCAvLMRrmhro5cL9ib9eoK2a4Bf2QtsVR5eq4gf0dD46BsbyVhxX3dgPlb677b3_VJrAy_-jZoTZQUTlA6/s640/kiki+smith+drawing.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drawing by Kiki Smith<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">PLEASE LEARN ABOUT AMANDA'S ORGANIZATION FOR REFUGEES AND CONSIDER MAKING A DONATION:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.collateralrepairproject.org/" target="_blank">https://www.collateralrepairproject.org/</a></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-63423920290837301972016-12-09T09:33:00.002-08:002017-06-19T11:42:33.186-07:00HAS THE PRINCESS FOUND TRUE LOVE? PART 1 <span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Note: This post is about what it's like to start a relationship when you have a complex chronic illness.(For more practical posts about medication, etc, look at the word cloud on the right.) In the spirit of previous posts, I'm am writing about my alter-ego, the Princess. Let's call her the Chronic Princess for good measure.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I found this very nice definition on Wikipedia:</span></i></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525;"><i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Alter-ego (literary): "a fictional character whose behavior, speech or thoughts intentionally represent those of the author" </span></i></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx39jldcmRWbRfaKQCwiuBqyR47NYWuUyPSI1dXGM8VrKHELUZahgIY_p0M9W8rLnW1TUK5JXdymqyHp9qA-amXIAS1Qqdmpb9ySRUQESKT2IKR1YGqF06hpOVLpczdqc_WueM8VmHfFPU/s1600/stock-footage-rainbow-in-the-sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx39jldcmRWbRfaKQCwiuBqyR47NYWuUyPSI1dXGM8VrKHELUZahgIY_p0M9W8rLnW1TUK5JXdymqyHp9qA-amXIAS1Qqdmpb9ySRUQESKT2IKR1YGqF06hpOVLpczdqc_WueM8VmHfFPU/s320/stock-footage-rainbow-in-the-sky.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In a world of nimbus clouds and Rainbows, <br />
the Chronic Princess longed for love</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Once upon a time
in Seattle, there was a Princess who lived under a Nasty Spell. She had been
under this spell almost her entire adult life. When was twenty-six, she had
fallen down suddenly, and could not get up again. For the next ten years, the
Princess felt as if she weighed five thousand pounds (when, according to any
scale, she still weighed one hundred and twenty-five), it was only with
tremendous effort that she could get out of bed, and she could not think well enough
to read or write (which was her profession). Although crushed beneath this invisible
weight, she often could not sleep, had terrible headaches, and loud noises were
agony to her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Year after year, the
Princess and her mother searched the country for a Witch or a Magician who
could counteract the Spell. At long last, they found both a Magician and Good Medical
Witch who understood how to fight the Nasty Spell, and these two Magical
Experts worked with the Princess to undo the spell as best they could. For four
years, with the Princess working night and day, they fought the Spell off well
enough that the Princess could now get out of bed with ease. She could walk around
as if it were normal, and even go for runs, and read and write, and do so many
other things she couldn’t do before that, such as grocery shopping and washing
the dishes—things that are so very wonderful if they have been impossible for
more than ten years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> However, the Spell was not entirely gone. The
Princess still needed to take magical pills and potions eight or nine times a
day, and to eat magical food, to rest often, to do special exercises…. and on the
list went, adding up to a Hundred Magical Things Each Day, and yet it was worth
it. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4jTLW_gOL3vBcfmoR_ivBC9qO8bW-XrPLqK2ihaMWUod80DNoj-5-Ga1hPA9VHZTpFBJEsHX98zWnnxKhG8PDnqDuYzyOeFkTb_0QebNjao3TC1A4MfxypwLh9wrQtRcjLkh2Gp-HOrLz/s1600/woman-writing-a-letter-gerard-terborch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4jTLW_gOL3vBcfmoR_ivBC9qO8bW-XrPLqK2ihaMWUod80DNoj-5-Ga1hPA9VHZTpFBJEsHX98zWnnxKhG8PDnqDuYzyOeFkTb_0QebNjao3TC1A4MfxypwLh9wrQtRcjLkh2Gp-HOrLz/s200/woman-writing-a-letter-gerard-terborch.jpg" width="146" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And yet it was worth it, because <br />
now the Princess could write!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxGjrqs4YdWW1EJFwvB6hhv25_MzIX6Bb_vycaokLYiWvemH6_zUxiVLZo0qWVCf4vfQznMT3nfAIuEbWKMBDupaUjgCk9WVOIDH4u90Ow0YzaZVUxxz_Qjr8jKG_9MEIpfjZ5jZCJ39Zx/s1600/Haka+Samba+3.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxGjrqs4YdWW1EJFwvB6hhv25_MzIX6Bb_vycaokLYiWvemH6_zUxiVLZo0qWVCf4vfQznMT3nfAIuEbWKMBDupaUjgCk9WVOIDH4u90Ow0YzaZVUxxz_Qjr8jKG_9MEIpfjZ5jZCJ39Zx/s320/Haka+Samba+3.png" width="186" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And because <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">now the </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Princess could dance!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">NOT TO MENTION</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Let's make that a Hundred and One Things, because the
Princess needed to avoid being around the Evil Substances that are generally called
chemicals—being in the presence of cologne or perfume, or hair spray
or fresh paint—all these things took a toll on the Princess’s weakened body,
and could make the Princess fall back under the Spell. As a result, the
Princess spent most of her time in her Tower and her garden, where
she allowed no chemicals. When she left the Tower, she went
places where she knew she would be well, such as the organic co-op, and the Century Ballroom.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In all of this,
years had passed. Sixteen, to be precise. By the time she was forty-two, the
Princess was living quite happily in her Tower, with her dog Cleopatra, and her
roommate and her basement tenant—smart, generous, funny women who were good
company and helped the Princess pay the mortgage on the Tower. She also had dear friends in her neighborhood, and her writing was going very well. And yet
the Princess felt lonely from time to time, and this is where our story begins.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZqocRqaZSF7JKYutmQmCZq__7eVRLTdWgh1a-GcF-AFratPU80Gt5QuoPZratjSMa7IIEX2X7z8yb0zD9GhRx5mFE7-y30QEJ2MY22LqY2DJEYi_zppUOs9XV7YX5md-rbglAm4qviQA8/s1600/front+of+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZqocRqaZSF7JKYutmQmCZq__7eVRLTdWgh1a-GcF-AFratPU80Gt5QuoPZratjSMa7IIEX2X7z8yb0zD9GhRx5mFE7-y30QEJ2MY22LqY2DJEYi_zppUOs9XV7YX5md-rbglAm4qviQA8/s320/front+of+house.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Tower <br />
(looks suspiciously like a house!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />A
NIGHT OUT<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Is it March of
2015, a sunny afternoon, and the Princess is standing on the front porch of the
Tower. It is unseasonably warm, and the golden sunlight is shining down on her
and her friend Deepa, and the two women are discussing the Princess’s plans to
go Speed Dating that night. In fact, Deepa is giving the Princess a pep talk,
because the Princess is nervous. Like anyone else, she would like to find
love—at times she even longs for it—and yet she is afraid that the Spell, being
so cumbersome and complicated, will be a big problem. Men do not shy away from
her initially (when she is out dancing, quite a few men ask her on dates),
because the Spell is invisible, but once a man expresses interest in the Princess
and wants to spend time with her, she knows she will have to explain the Spell,
all the things she can’t do, and can’t eat, and all the magical food, the other
hand that she has to eat... it was all so very <i>Chronic</i>. Not to mention she does not have a job besides her
writing (which scarcely pays her anything at all) and she will also need to ask
him if he would please never wear cologne, and on and on…. In short, the
Hundred Magical Things will become a big drag.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjY4iS0oiJQ0CLmbU8R5y64X7g2fIJqzUKg-1yC59zLgMGxDhfuqUsEiwluG9VujFt_d-vpECazBgCVtdyfyMEol7WSQG_iPhByrmJvKlVm_A8stS5hhXArFK9CKR5h5yQTMqO80DniXe2/s1600/flower+salad.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="128" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjY4iS0oiJQ0CLmbU8R5y64X7g2fIJqzUKg-1yC59zLgMGxDhfuqUsEiwluG9VujFt_d-vpECazBgCVtdyfyMEol7WSQG_iPhByrmJvKlVm_A8stS5hhXArFK9CKR5h5yQTMqO80DniXe2/s200/flower+salad.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Magical Foods<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr-bN08Zi11FgUzBlyBW_asBLdXOditg-zlv_xxVBLV3WJbGSMvlPyQdIczlfmca1b1iZi5JSUzs7dHZpPAded5J8dXl9X9vLXCcRCSuk_GJ2tpECpV0g4y5LISq1v97bjFNNpVeD_aU7a/s1600/tunisian+hummus.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr-bN08Zi11FgUzBlyBW_asBLdXOditg-zlv_xxVBLV3WJbGSMvlPyQdIczlfmca1b1iZi5JSUzs7dHZpPAded5J8dXl9X9vLXCcRCSuk_GJ2tpECpV0g4y5LISq1v97bjFNNpVeD_aU7a/s200/tunisian+hummus.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But Deepa is
wonderful at boosting the Princess’s confidence, telling her she has a lot
going for her, and many men would be psyched to be with her, she has a happy disposition
and kind spirit, and in addition is a creative person, which many men find very
attractive. Deepa tells the Princess everyone feels insecure about something
when they date. She shouldn’t worry too much. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And so the Chronic Princess, feeling pepped-up, went Speed Dating. She did up her hair and put on
her best jeans and a sparkly top, and that night she met a man who was very
charming, and had many interests in common with the Princess. Let’s call this
man the Groovy Squire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Groovy Squire
also lived in Seattle, on the other side of the bridge in a neighborhood next
to Capitol Hill, called Squire Park (a real place: look it up if you don’t
believe me). In the five minutes the Princess was allotted to talk to the
Squire during their Speed Date, he told her he earned his living by designing
palaces for people, and the thing he cared most about was
creativity. He painted pictures, and made costumes for the summer
Solstice Parade.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLoNh1ah-M1I_1jz86EfaNf7XmROyCNmP42Hk09tOXzX5kDB7DNPgjvPWRx7DfZggPiJyd0zfnq4Ce8vHENgjVot6tm-H9kbvCFfyDnWXAuySwkxya7enxmdwjVRxLIA4wd_6VuDHV-TBc/s1600/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLoNh1ah-M1I_1jz86EfaNf7XmROyCNmP42Hk09tOXzX5kDB7DNPgjvPWRx7DfZggPiJyd0zfnq4Ce8vHENgjVot6tm-H9kbvCFfyDnWXAuySwkxya7enxmdwjVRxLIA4wd_6VuDHV-TBc/s320/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+372.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A Parade headdress the Princess made from recycled necklaces <br />
and fabrics-- work in progress (above), and finished (below)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_hTETeCU2nE76RK13Vqpb_5g6aH6rLnL5Y1fuEzPPb5OTE4nl40iWK4pM7ZHZCfsKlrwtcoIcEeQqSB-bAynr8HdydXJoLrF_0J6W6FZzOOaOhaaa1-gdt7n5dFpg3lZwG807kk5iNBM/s1600/IMG_0987.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH_hTETeCU2nE76RK13Vqpb_5g6aH6rLnL5Y1fuEzPPb5OTE4nl40iWK4pM7ZHZCfsKlrwtcoIcEeQqSB-bAynr8HdydXJoLrF_0J6W6FZzOOaOhaaa1-gdt7n5dFpg3lZwG807kk5iNBM/s320/IMG_0987.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now this was a great coincidence because the Princess always
danced in the Solstice Parade, with her samba troupe. (The Solstice Parade was
for Seattle, like Carnaval for Brazil—half the city came out to watch it,
everyone cheering and dressed up and jubilant.) The Princess put the Squire's name down
on the Speed Dating website as a potential match. A day later he emailed her, asking her if she would like to see him again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAeJd5rjE1SJq7XrXcn_tvWJn8B8Yx2pI90tsLIf98BbbCt7OOGvKSI-hqIFqwBrEG94KqRJ45udp7LgAzzlSp-qL3Q3UFJwr4reE3y8-PvVVIWr44l2ihlV_5Lg4DTokxY19tZIqN86gL/s1600/IMG_1856.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAeJd5rjE1SJq7XrXcn_tvWJn8B8Yx2pI90tsLIf98BbbCt7OOGvKSI-hqIFqwBrEG94KqRJ45udp7LgAzzlSp-qL3Q3UFJwr4reE3y8-PvVVIWr44l2ihlV_5Lg4DTokxY19tZIqN86gL/s320/IMG_1856.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Soon the two were
dating, and feeling wonderfully happy in each other’s company. Not to mention,
the Groovy Squire did not wear cologne, and was into non-toxic cleaning
products, and was generally an earthy-crunchy co-op shopper, and this made
things very easy for the Princess.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A
SWEETHEART OF A MAN<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Squire liked
to hike, and she decided,
that May, to take a giant risk by leaving her Tower for a full day in order to
go hiking up a mountain with him. She had to pack all her counter spells and
potions in her backpack, her magical foods and magical pills, and felt very
nervous lest anything go wrong. She was particularly worried about whether she
would be able to rest while they were on the hike—the Princess could sometimes
be suddenly hit by exhaustion when she didn’t expect it, and always after
several hours of anything, she needed to lie down and rest. But the Squire was
so kind and understanding towards the Princess in general that she thought
things just might be OK, even if something went wrong. She told him it was a
risk, and he said not to worry, he would help her if necessary. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW9lO48wwKn7jABVzyaUC9reaEHjiERAe4z3nBZoUVAP3YG9qfw0Ju6YjtoyclVKzjCpisp-yPSlsAVdrRZHFgoocYRekePZK693j8P4VsWgmxW-q6F5thKvoSSDqRl-zaGjI5oBLHnE9i/s1600/taking+nap+at+edge+of+WA+State.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW9lO48wwKn7jABVzyaUC9reaEHjiERAe4z3nBZoUVAP3YG9qfw0Ju6YjtoyclVKzjCpisp-yPSlsAVdrRZHFgoocYRekePZK693j8P4VsWgmxW-q6F5thKvoSSDqRl-zaGjI5oBLHnE9i/s320/taking+nap+at+edge+of+WA+State.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Taking a nap on hike</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But in fact, the
hike went well. The mountain was beautiful and she found it very easy to stop
and find a place to lie down and close her eyes when she needed to, on the side
of the trail. When the Princess got up from her nap on the mountain, the Squire
asked if he could call her his girlfriend, and she said yes, and that she would
call him her boyfriend. Very happily, the Princess had discovered hiking was
one more thing she could do and enjoy, despite the Nasty Spell, and she went
hiking with the Squire many times after that.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAG6WnTMw0KFQqvP-7wUe8GJ4t59dXZ1mO3Cdu_AcAbmRVyxsOIV3SNazibb_bTWzAgpEY-FVoqldLvSMNkhlRS611P3iA3jbFARueKC6qFDq5IV9Ghqaub56BSsKUymZD4lVX7v2R2iHW/s1600/cleo+on+hike+Spring+2016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAG6WnTMw0KFQqvP-7wUe8GJ4t59dXZ1mO3Cdu_AcAbmRVyxsOIV3SNazibb_bTWzAgpEY-FVoqldLvSMNkhlRS611P3iA3jbFARueKC6qFDq5IV9Ghqaub56BSsKUymZD4lVX7v2R2iHW/s640/cleo+on+hike+Spring+2016.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cleo goes hiking, too! Spring 2016</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> The Squire was very good at logistics and
equipment, such as pitching tents and stringing up outdoor lights, and he
helped the Princess when she threw parties at her Tower, which she did from
time to time, to raise funds for her dance troupe and for a refugee center, run
by a friend of the Princess’s, in the Middle East. The Princess would ask
people to donate artwork or desserts and she would raffle them off at the party
in return for donations to the cause, and she found she could raise quite a bit
of money this way. The Squire helped out, making decorations and helping
organize everything beforehand.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-56UQvaPRPRqis_85vkvQ_fR-sAVdtEZuO2K0qIm7-jY7eF5-rbY40fjj521EdZseHaXsyCd2owbeykxdHi7ZCd4FIU7L1R-06aURplVWv8BuwyX0L12TMvf77wl9Rm8rorls_JB35A2/s1600/120808_11191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD-56UQvaPRPRqis_85vkvQ_fR-sAVdtEZuO2K0qIm7-jY7eF5-rbY40fjj521EdZseHaXsyCd2owbeykxdHi7ZCd4FIU7L1R-06aURplVWv8BuwyX0L12TMvf77wl9Rm8rorls_JB35A2/s320/120808_11191.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Princess's magical pills, organized for the week.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In addition,
together the two made costumes for Solstice Parade, and went to museums, and cooked,
and even—although it was very Big Deal for the Princess—went on a few trips away
from the city. These trips were a strain for the Princess, but in the end worth
it, in no small part because the Groovy Squire was so very patient and gentle
with her. Despite the Hundred Magical Things Each Day, which she had to pack up
wherever she went, despite her nervousness about the Spell and how much worse
it could get when she travelled, and despite her self-consciousness about
needing to have everything just so, and to needing to constantly explain to the
Squire all the requirements of her daily life—despite it all, the Squire was
unwavering. He said how happy he was to be with the Princess, and they had a
lovely time. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Indeed, the
Squire often said to the Princess that he didn’t mind about the Spell at
all—only to the extent that he saw how it hurt the Princess, but apart from
that, he told the Princess she was so nice to around that it didn’t mean
anything to him that they might have to spend extra time packing her special
things into the car when they went away for a weekend, or that he might have to
wait while she took a nap or did her exercises.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A
DELICATE BALANCE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As the months
went by, the Princess came to trust the Groovy Squire more and more. One of the
things the Princess liked about the Squire was that he did not, as other men
had, think of her as only Someone Trapped in a Spell. She spoke about the Spell
when she needed to, but mostly they spoke of other things. She did, however,
make it clear to the Groovy Squire that it was a Chronic Nasty Spell, and the
most she could hope for was a tiny bit more freedom from it, from time to time,
but never to be truly free, unless there were some very large advances in
magic—something that no one who had any sense would ever counted on. </span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFVK2MfN-n3wk8wShAiFrl1PjgImwgPDU3tTs9KKMZ0KBfA6w8cOsWVU6yWlltFNt3nde37p2aZyz7bFfaWrJX7jo2zOeWhuh_csM5Jsppcez25Cd1BUAeFi_FlfKLhR1b3tKEtJ6WucBm/s1600/120808_11161.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFVK2MfN-n3wk8wShAiFrl1PjgImwgPDU3tTs9KKMZ0KBfA6w8cOsWVU6yWlltFNt3nde37p2aZyz7bFfaWrJX7jo2zOeWhuh_csM5Jsppcez25Cd1BUAeFi_FlfKLhR1b3tKEtJ6WucBm/s320/120808_11161.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Princess knew
from experience she needed to be clear with the Squire about what she could and
could not do under the Spell, but also she was wary of talking about it too
much, because once the subject was open it could become endless, and she ran
the risk of the Squire thinking of her only as helpless. On top of that was the
risk of talking about a Downer Topic far too much, until the Princess herself
could start to feel down. A balance had to be struck, and the Princess did her
best to stick to what she thought was the right balance, above all one that
made her feel OK. Because otherwise, if having a boyfriend made her feel worse
about the Spell, what was the point of having a boyfriend after all? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">(And to all you
normal people out there reading this, if the above paragraph seems
obsessive—well, actually, these are the types of things people under Nasty
Spells fret about. The Princess has a good friend, let’s call her the Duchess
of Ravenna, who also lives under a Spell, and whose daughter, unfortunately,
lives under a different, equally difficult black magic. The Duchess and the
Princess go for long walks and discuss whether they should mention to their
husbands and boyfriends the constant disagreeable sensations and symptoms they
live with, or not. If they mention these things, they are in fact, complaining,
which as a result would make the Duchess and the Princess unhappy, and also the
people around them unhappy. However if they don’t mention these things, the
people around them have no idea different life is for the Princess and the
Duchess, and then expect them to act like normal human beings, something that is
impossible. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4tnEHwkSWa0MQECZJBiQZFaELvDkYEsOx2x2TVoFesbInyfT5ZkUBteapE9UeE9nlFg0KMv-HGzHZzmZDoX_28udPas9eJMqhyAS6y0Lj3Ggj7jcKBi0psGCw77FB70buV-57L6xDAnvr/s1600/IMG_0425.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4tnEHwkSWa0MQECZJBiQZFaELvDkYEsOx2x2TVoFesbInyfT5ZkUBteapE9UeE9nlFg0KMv-HGzHZzmZDoX_28udPas9eJMqhyAS6y0Lj3Ggj7jcKBi0psGCw77FB70buV-57L6xDAnvr/s320/IMG_0425.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Princess's friends the Duchess and daughter <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">enjoy a moment </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">of orange and upside-down-ness on the Princess's Tippy Chair</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Princess, for
her part, tries to avoid complaining at all costs, even to herself. When she
feels overcome by the Spell, and cannot sleep, or think straight, or needs to
lie down and do nothing but feel awful, she simply tells herself this is the
nature of Nasty Spells, that they aren’t called Nasty for nothing, and she
simply has to accept whatever unpleasantness has come her way.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And so the year
2015 came to a close, and the year 2016 began. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A
COMPLICATED YEAR<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">2016 was not such
a wonderful year for the Princess. She had some setbacks with her writing
career, which her agent told her were temporary, and yet it took mental
fortitude to keep writing. She did, though, because she is a writer and writers
must write lest they shrivel up and die. She also learned an old friend of hers
was now Fighting a Dragon (translation: cancer), and this made her sad and
worried. Also, the Spell, instead of weakening as it had in 2015, grew stronger
and stronger. There were plenty of days when Princess was not feeling well,
some days when she felt as if she weighed five thousand pounds again...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4VPG_bPhcUZZY3kM_YLhnz5AdFeF3GSMwY9Jj-ezMV3DqSg3OgvxK9Gz22akixn4kKPky8WsCTsu3ZX_Tne2HCEGDSYXo5vDrq6GURyqYCy_Xq8ht3X7cfwTxcDmiEfCgG5lHUcF5Zq-/s1600/Goya+sueno+de+la+razon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR4VPG_bPhcUZZY3kM_YLhnz5AdFeF3GSMwY9Jj-ezMV3DqSg3OgvxK9Gz22akixn4kKPky8WsCTsu3ZX_Tne2HCEGDSYXo5vDrq6GURyqYCy_Xq8ht3X7cfwTxcDmiEfCgG5lHUcF5Zq-/s320/Goya+sueno+de+la+razon.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At times she felt like the person in Goya's painting</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">.... and days when
she woke up and got out of bed that her body and brain ached, and it seemed
that hidden in the sunshine of the summer mornings were cruel beasts, trolls
and harpies, whispering vile things to her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But the Princess was, above all,
scrappy, and she forged on through the mornings, and after an hour or two, as
she took the first several steps of her routine of the Hundred Magical Things,
and took care of Cleopatra, and then sat down to write, the malicious beasts
fell silent.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRsnmtif9XAvnieF3ggNOOIK4Es5qwnDXrXAN-fsxLbFCnp4PwyFZooivDdfiam0Kxdx9DBQ7BrYO48gXfDwlOqsk22JdPzQ01R2Mgg_ycuFuh8_d6jBd6WGI8eGa0SAahIzzFJerk7jPi/s1600/IMG_2249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRsnmtif9XAvnieF3ggNOOIK4Es5qwnDXrXAN-fsxLbFCnp4PwyFZooivDdfiam0Kxdx9DBQ7BrYO48gXfDwlOqsk22JdPzQ01R2Mgg_ycuFuh8_d6jBd6WGI8eGa0SAahIzzFJerk7jPi/s320/IMG_2249.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Practicing for the next Solstice Parade</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_WyLX2M0Us8XL_-EMm1Aqo29pF1C8xGeWFyRglK9CPitUs5fWqdTJ5_f4lg_mguh4gxkKuDpbX0NbtT00_5ibqSaIEg0kbSysky6x7IdaFvvT0JOmUm0VwmtDObPyNWdI6H9e0DDcLrJK/s1600/IMG_1637.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_WyLX2M0Us8XL_-EMm1Aqo29pF1C8xGeWFyRglK9CPitUs5fWqdTJ5_f4lg_mguh4gxkKuDpbX0NbtT00_5ibqSaIEg0kbSysky6x7IdaFvvT0JOmUm0VwmtDObPyNWdI6H9e0DDcLrJK/s320/IMG_1637.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
That summer, sometimes things were great, sometimes they were very unpleasant.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuP9fArcFhZNkeh9wGjR7RXPfL2rdkP2_0ximm5eJSN1Ko3QvtEtktYQaWA4RoBYYVjUzugEtrYqhZFGlbF5vAJA6mac9xzNP3jgOIR-uaRf0LLtUM6Fmg4i8RDz5uvE3gYt374atQuYe2/s1600/poppies+at+3610+Ashworth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9rCYVdsw9fbDfCx7EkO_3YP8VPJV49H9xm37btw7CqXROlqGDClS4jtYGeTs-IR7_DEEcXT30ObdIxvDfOI1L2PduMjw4HN8mz2Fa4DAGv9V5vo2DN0fk-JR_hJTdqXz_SgRWg6CjMfU/s1600/the+scream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9rCYVdsw9fbDfCx7EkO_3YP8VPJV49H9xm37btw7CqXROlqGDClS4jtYGeTs-IR7_DEEcXT30ObdIxvDfOI1L2PduMjw4HN8mz2Fa4DAGv9V5vo2DN0fk-JR_hJTdqXz_SgRWg6CjMfU/s1600/the+scream.jpg" /></a><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuP9fArcFhZNkeh9wGjR7RXPfL2rdkP2_0ximm5eJSN1Ko3QvtEtktYQaWA4RoBYYVjUzugEtrYqhZFGlbF5vAJA6mac9xzNP3jgOIR-uaRf0LLtUM6Fmg4i8RDz5uvE3gYt374atQuYe2/s320/poppies+at+3610+Ashworth.jpg" width="320" /><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYVgK8i8WtyaUINxP9l-m2FfIGcF5OZeTfgnzEcS8MZ5P8-wWyGHoKk4rdZRJXgC8PaOY-QqtgT-iLQOlYbFr1glLRqP5UzsV7G_-uhacvQD2VE6jU__R7tl49EocG4Luy-zZ4lIJdTeef/s1600/IMG_2102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYVgK8i8WtyaUINxP9l-m2FfIGcF5OZeTfgnzEcS8MZ5P8-wWyGHoKk4rdZRJXgC8PaOY-QqtgT-iLQOlYbFr1glLRqP5UzsV7G_-uhacvQD2VE6jU__R7tl49EocG4Luy-zZ4lIJdTeef/s320/IMG_2102.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Why had the Spell
had grown Nastier? There probably many reasons. A very likely one was the
little trips the Princess took with the Squire, exposing to her to too many
Toxic Things, such as car exhaust on the highway, and Toxic Cleaning Products
in the places they stayed. These things, in miniscule amounts on rare occasions,
might be OK, but as the Princess was careless and exposed herself to more of
these things, she inevitably grew worse. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">In addition, the
Princess’s basement tenant—called Downstairs Rachel—made the mistake of buying
laundry detergent that was labeled with such words and “Natural” and “Gentle”
and “Eco-Friendly” when in fact these detergents were anything but what the
label said. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc6QjMpRAm1WDL_OXElhQd_QDVoYYSW0D2dPGqGatzfOWxIVFbNcSaXc8E6KB58LK_PuuWJEEnL1MZq5AMylACT_I-v-1IkB8CsVDn7PPBWHbhfX9WJewPMtv9USqbLPEKc_MSpG_uZizs/s1600/tide+fake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc6QjMpRAm1WDL_OXElhQd_QDVoYYSW0D2dPGqGatzfOWxIVFbNcSaXc8E6KB58LK_PuuWJEEnL1MZq5AMylACT_I-v-1IkB8CsVDn7PPBWHbhfX9WJewPMtv9USqbLPEKc_MSpG_uZizs/s320/tide+fake.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">FAKE FAKE FAKE! Will make you sick <br />
if you have Chemical Sensitivity!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Downstairs
Rachel one day did laundry all day long, filling the house with the smell of
the detergent, making the Princess sick. When the Princess read the tiny
writing on the back of the detergent bottle, she saw it was full of exactly the
harsh chemicals that helped the Spell get the upper hand. But downstairs
Rachel, immediately seeing her mistake, took the bottle of safe detergent the
Princess gave her, and got rid of the nasty stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJAiYR7A2nshK3miH9gn9re8JHxyXiCAsiPruG4vdnnkaNYbyBokwDBUazn2l_6G1im_F9h-nXbMTjhbWBKHmf6jpF_E91r26IkJ8sybDxBkIYq82Erl7c3XHPGQsN7EwT5aJ10CNXAdw/s1600/Arm+and+Hammer.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHJAiYR7A2nshK3miH9gn9re8JHxyXiCAsiPruG4vdnnkaNYbyBokwDBUazn2l_6G1im_F9h-nXbMTjhbWBKHmf6jpF_E91r26IkJ8sybDxBkIYq82Erl7c3XHPGQsN7EwT5aJ10CNXAdw/s200/Arm+and+Hammer.png" width="126" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Also FAKE! Full of <br />
Noxious Chemicals</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Squire also
bought a similar detergent by accident, and had washed sheets in it that he
packed when they went on one of their trips, and so the Princess had spent a
night exposed again to these Toxic Substances (when she realized what had
happened, she pushed the sheets aside, and covered herself with her coat, but
seeing as there was nowhere else to sleep and she wasn’t thinking clearly, she
simply tried to sleep with the noxious chemical scent around her), and she grew
even weaker. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">These problems
were corrected, and yet the Princess felt sick again because a block away people were building a giant building, using paint and adhesives and laying down asphalt. She choked on the fumes in the air.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> She couldn't help but think—is life really this niggly and
complicated? Are there traps everywhere for me? Am I crazy?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">IS
THE PRINCESS CRAZY?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">All this stuff, about laying down asphalt a block away, and the sheets and the fine print on the detergent bottle, it’s
enough for someone to ask the question, is she crazy? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Things that were tiny to everyone
else were huge monsters for her, and can you blame her if she walked through the world
wondering if this could really be reality—that is to say, real reality, vs. her
personal reality? Or better put, could her own personal reality exist as a
valid microcosm inside of the larger reality, which was clearly different for
everyone else around her? </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">How could she be getting sick from these things when
the Groovy Squire, lying next to her on the same sheets, was perfectly fine, and Downstairs
Rachel was as peppy as ever? And there was someone jogging by breathing in the
fumes that were making the Princess feel as if she might die? Was it then all
in her head? <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvMDU5mOjGoPlKjw5O6AH16wJBhgH-gMaEr2LJNTEhRp8Uuu-r_jh-bvpw_VFwmq9e6obK0kdIiA-aDPE-C8po13dVW8q4gyWtnuh5q2IxVZPBG4ZBZEhwRWmeZfs7odd3l1R5NtMRGnZN/s1600/the+scream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvMDU5mOjGoPlKjw5O6AH16wJBhgH-gMaEr2LJNTEhRp8Uuu-r_jh-bvpw_VFwmq9e6obK0kdIiA-aDPE-C8po13dVW8q4gyWtnuh5q2IxVZPBG4ZBZEhwRWmeZfs7odd3l1R5NtMRGnZN/s1600/the+scream.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edvard Munch's famous painting</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> The answer was no, it was not in her
head. Both the Magician and the Medical Witch had run diagnostic tests
that showed the Princess’s liver, which was determined by her genes, did not
work the same way other people’s livers did. It did not work very
well at all. In medical terms, it was a crap liver. This meant that when the Nasty Spell had come along she had been predisposed to getting trapped in it. She
was an outlier, that person for whom things are different. Like it or not, she was stuck being a Princess, and the world of modern chemicals was her Pea. The devil was, in
fact, in the fine print on a detergent bottle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> Now let’s get on with the story,
which is about the Princess and True Love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">ON
WITH THE STORY<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Despite throwing
away the devilish detergent, the Princess continued to have very bad days,
going through Neurological Episodes that were very, very, very, very, very challenging for her. Her
hands shook and her teeth chattered, tears poured from her eyes and her brain
felt like it was on fire. She stayed in her Tower more, rested more, had many
appointments with her Wise Medical Witch, and still the Spell grew Nastier. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKwggbbpvGvlkdycrBz8zIRIcly84ze0DHowC8xPc0ORLGUrsRrH2qXYx0iUlwxhLTrv1kA13nPLXEqoQRgK2yVmzQlNwGEUjz005UpH3vnos-9bb30ucRLMNuUhdbBVP9GwEexSJ_MvWw/s1600/Sir_John_Lavery%252C_The_Green_Sofa+1903.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKwggbbpvGvlkdycrBz8zIRIcly84ze0DHowC8xPc0ORLGUrsRrH2qXYx0iUlwxhLTrv1kA13nPLXEqoQRgK2yVmzQlNwGEUjz005UpH3vnos-9bb30ucRLMNuUhdbBVP9GwEexSJ_MvWw/s320/Sir_John_Lavery%252C_The_Green_Sofa+1903.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She rested and rested, but did not get better</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now the Squire
never asked if the Princess was crazy. He knew by some good instinct that she
wasn’t, and he respected her, and recognized her as a Princess. And yet, the Chronic Princess
did all she could to stay away from the Squire when she was at her worst—she
did not want him to see her in this state, with her hands shaking and her brain
on fire, lest it grow tiresome for him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She tried a few
times to explain, without complaining too much, what she went through, but he
did not seem to understand thoroughly the depths of her symptoms, and, given her
reservations about downer topics, she decided that on the whole it was better
if she was alone when she faced the worst of it. She was, after all, used to
that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">THE
NECROMANCER<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">By the summer,
the Princess realized part of her problem was something she had no control
over: the Evil Sorcerer. Yes, there was an Evil Sorcerer in Seattle, by the name
of Jeff Bezos. He had a laboratory was in downtown Seattle, and a plan to Take
Over the World. As part of his plan, the E.S. was hiring more and more
assistants—by the tens of thousands!—which in turn was causing a real estate
boom in Seattle, since the assistants all needed places to live. All around the
Princess’s Tower, there were giant condos and monstrous houses being built at a
furious rate, activities that put swamps of poisonous fumes into the air, such
a paint, solvents, floor varnish, and tarring. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSvVEtIBVrpoaE-b9oVKFxTHDnils0B2OhSTucgM4GWGLmL3az6cuWM2MbvxeZES8JZ2ddjhNRlLir_ekkl0Oc3dTN5IWaXtB7gjlQQwBRszWoHUBR9t3Maqss4LZOlynMnpoptr6tMGsY/s1600/bezos+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSvVEtIBVrpoaE-b9oVKFxTHDnils0B2OhSTucgM4GWGLmL3az6cuWM2MbvxeZES8JZ2ddjhNRlLir_ekkl0Oc3dTN5IWaXtB7gjlQQwBRszWoHUBR9t3Maqss4LZOlynMnpoptr6tMGsY/s1600/bezos+4.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Evil Sorcerer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirFIgOdCsDGdFleH9czdQayHZVbkfZCALhyphenhyphenagCaGSTIze0ZHhSbuULOwRJ_siBInWkkBG6XnhTHsKeI9oiKf-BP7GX3M-qisAePH8KhgfP8ge68Sa5vokrwnJYarNgtewFZtcKtp7vRvm2/s1600/Seattle+construction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirFIgOdCsDGdFleH9czdQayHZVbkfZCALhyphenhyphenagCaGSTIze0ZHhSbuULOwRJ_siBInWkkBG6XnhTHsKeI9oiKf-BP7GX3M-qisAePH8KhgfP8ge68Sa5vokrwnJYarNgtewFZtcKtp7vRvm2/s1600/Seattle+construction.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seattle these days</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Yes, normal
people are perhaps OK with these things, but as we have established, the
Princess was not a normal person, and with
four construction projects on her block, and several more behemoth ones in her
neighborhood, the air outside her Tower was making her sick—not always but at odd hours, suddenly and unexpectedly, depending on what
chemical substance nearby workers were using. It was hard to know what to do.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">And yet in all of
this, there was the Squire, who kept showing up, and telling the Princess he
loved her, and being kind to her, and doing things with that helped her feel
better, such as going to the lake and swimming, or going on long walks, or
helping the Princess make her costume for the Parade, which rolled around again
that June. These were lovely times, especially the day of the Parade. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5tcoTuNiXvtoDX2BUTks8e7qAJfFFRRcAQ1yIeTwy3kc9Q0tWe95zbozncjNecWQ9rM3pCjl2-lCLhUaa35-LVhVBzknIxWxVFCUFJOSO3eN4eMp9FDGUPRaRQ5GPPnhMLrgCIVwQ_AtJ/s1600/Parade+2016+with+Estela+and+Marian.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5tcoTuNiXvtoDX2BUTks8e7qAJfFFRRcAQ1yIeTwy3kc9Q0tWe95zbozncjNecWQ9rM3pCjl2-lCLhUaa35-LVhVBzknIxWxVFCUFJOSO3eN4eMp9FDGUPRaRQ5GPPnhMLrgCIVwQ_AtJ/s320/Parade+2016+with+Estela+and+Marian.jpg" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parade Day, 2016 (Princess on Right)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCqBpZCbLsBX0m5HyUML_axOPnCnDprImN95t34rsp_rmgnZ5D2zO3F8sSOGKBrLC2VkW9eIdTMhwbFO1Ve4cSU0wGTVO9f4-syvRodHiWuznUq_PkeE-Utylfi9lNmef913LEbenjIIPp/s1600/Cleo+swimming.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCqBpZCbLsBX0m5HyUML_axOPnCnDprImN95t34rsp_rmgnZ5D2zO3F8sSOGKBrLC2VkW9eIdTMhwbFO1Ve4cSU0wGTVO9f4-syvRodHiWuznUq_PkeE-Utylfi9lNmef913LEbenjIIPp/s320/Cleo+swimming.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYAkROYgahlkYIrVMy0Or61lnXMJOS2WvswuuyevSfvRjnHy5UYOAWbzZjgrdiZTEjrrF8icFgDBk7_pVznLgluUFyujQ23jw3HfyFgWoMH9GJrGsO6AgiwwH6kuVv2oAEQuR3x4boa4Qv/s1600/camping+at+Dungeness+Spit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYAkROYgahlkYIrVMy0Or61lnXMJOS2WvswuuyevSfvRjnHy5UYOAWbzZjgrdiZTEjrrF8icFgDBk7_pVznLgluUFyujQ23jw3HfyFgWoMH9GJrGsO6AgiwwH6kuVv2oAEQuR3x4boa4Qv/s320/camping+at+Dungeness+Spit.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Cleo swims with the Princess, and photos from camping on the Olympic Peninsula<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFxUiFomUs9WSHbZouslVunlR-L9orrY30IVN-91Vl_zb66z-K0ZygF9XHK3Feux5bfpllk9PmV-RY595A4uEKXFrPhz7sD2qAPrFoeyenjdSBVNOOY8t7Lzjq3-zpey6mvUFlKtSkiiS/s1600/Camping+on+Indian+Reservation+WA+State.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpFxUiFomUs9WSHbZouslVunlR-L9orrY30IVN-91Vl_zb66z-K0ZygF9XHK3Feux5bfpllk9PmV-RY595A4uEKXFrPhz7sD2qAPrFoeyenjdSBVNOOY8t7Lzjq3-zpey6mvUFlKtSkiiS/s320/Camping+on+Indian+Reservation+WA+State.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As the Princess’s
neighborhood grew worse, she stayed at the Squire’s house for a month, and they planned a vacation so that
Princess would not be exposed to toxic fumes. They drove to the wilderness of Olympic
Peninsula and stayed in a tent, and spent each day hiking on remote trails and
taking in beautiful scenery. That trip was very special to the Princess,
because she had never done anything like it before, and she was very happy to
be sharing it with the Squire.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Squire said many things that, despite the Princess’s worry about the Spell,
made it clear he still loved her very much, and when it came to the Spell, he
said often he admired how brave and creative she was about living under it, how
he liked that she managed to be happy despite everything, and he was happy, too.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">She sometimes
felt frustrated he didn’t understand what she actually experienced during the
Neurological Episodes, but she reasoned, it must be so far from anything he has
been through in his life that he couldn’t imagine it. It just se</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">emed so very
hard, almost impossible, get the words out and say them in the right way that
he would understand. There were moments when it seemed he understood, but then the next day he would seem to not understand—he
understood she was sick, but not what that actually </span><i style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">meant, </i><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">how when her hands shook and her brain felt like it was on
fire, the most worm-like, internet-troll-like thoughts poured through the
Princess’s head. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9rCYVdsw9fbDfCx7EkO_3YP8VPJV49H9xm37btw7CqXROlqGDClS4jtYGeTs-IR7_DEEcXT30ObdIxvDfOI1L2PduMjw4HN8mz2Fa4DAGv9V5vo2DN0fk-JR_hJTdqXz_SgRWg6CjMfU/s1600/the+scream.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG9rCYVdsw9fbDfCx7EkO_3YP8VPJV49H9xm37btw7CqXROlqGDClS4jtYGeTs-IR7_DEEcXT30ObdIxvDfOI1L2PduMjw4HN8mz2Fa4DAGv9V5vo2DN0fk-JR_hJTdqXz_SgRWg6CjMfU/s1600/the+scream.jpg" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">These types of
depressive thoughts were due to the above-mentioned crappiness of Princess’s
liver, which in turn caused a neurological reaction as the chemicals entered her nervous system, as the Medical Witch and
another scientist friend explained to the Princess. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">(In much the way people say
‘depression is a chemical imbalance,’ so exposure to toxins created this acute
kind of depression in the Princess. It might not seem to make sense, but consider that LSD, which has profound effects on the brain for hours, is measures in millionths of a gram, and that people inhale many substances deliberately, with just a couple of tokes changing how they feel. It's not that difficult to believe that the Chronic Princess, inhaling chemicals in the air around her house all day, might go on a bad trip, so to speak.) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Well, if the Squire didn’t seem to
understand this easily, she decided it was best not to burden him with it. What
was the point? It was more important to put her efforts into getting better. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On the advice of
the Good Medical Witch, the Princess added three more magical potions to her routine, to counteract the toxic fumes created by the Evil Sorcerer.
The potions helped her liver, but made the Princess dizzy, so that
it was hard to write. She told herself these things were temporary, and she
carried scrappily on. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As the summer
days shortened and cooled towards fall, she did, in fact, feel a little
stronger. Many of the construction projects next to the Tower wrapped up. The
Princess invited neighbors over for a barbecue, she laughed with her friends,
and when it turned out Cleopatra, the dog, had a terrible case of fleas, she
and the Groovy Squire and her roommates all pitched in to take care of the
problem, laughing as much as they could through endless rounds of dog washing
and vacuuming and internet research on non-toxic methods of killing fleas. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRi7_uLsoD8r2ZyxWpXrOE0lpgl6Wws_JIqB-YwSDZimJ3aJN8Stp6dbzn5W6v3iCwqjYxHgG8e1buf6_P6fny9pOn0zgB3TlLOCWMKmr2NaEEm9ORxzZzN9sBg06dq-dKitw6BlUZq_1k/s1600/Cleo+gets+a+flea+bath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRi7_uLsoD8r2ZyxWpXrOE0lpgl6Wws_JIqB-YwSDZimJ3aJN8Stp6dbzn5W6v3iCwqjYxHgG8e1buf6_P6fny9pOn0zgB3TlLOCWMKmr2NaEEm9ORxzZzN9sBg06dq-dKitw6BlUZq_1k/s320/Cleo+gets+a+flea+bath.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cleo gets a flea bath</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">One day, the day
they declared the fleas were all gone, the Princess thanked the Squire for his
help. He smiled and took the Princess in his arms and told her he liked to
think of her as his Partner. And when she said, “but—” he said he hoped someday
soon they might call each other that, because Partners helped each other
through the bad times (such as fleas) as well as the fun times (such as
throwing parties). <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8qmEU7yOhm3da7h0qoeYASqZeoYOxMTSg7_xbauvpQPGviY4hXxmG3ycp-PoGMdQOFbuyHQWUhBjRJhhDQPKfx5VUtU1VFaX8R9ARHxoxrCazKfBJ-PujTVlHT0iAKySorqUvChN5_iaN/s1600/IMG_1855.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8qmEU7yOhm3da7h0qoeYASqZeoYOxMTSg7_xbauvpQPGviY4hXxmG3ycp-PoGMdQOFbuyHQWUhBjRJhhDQPKfx5VUtU1VFaX8R9ARHxoxrCazKfBJ-PujTVlHT0iAKySorqUvChN5_iaN/s200/IMG_1855.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Will the Squire walk his talk?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Princess felt
touched, but also a bit skeptical. The Squire from time to time said things
like this. However, as the Princess told him, with a gentle laugh, “I don’t
think you can be my Partner if we’re not living under the same roof,” and he
said that might be true, but it was how he felt.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Later, she said, “I’m
sorry, I didn’t mean to brush you off, when you said that thing about Partners.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“That’s OK,” he
said, “I realize it wasn’t good bring it up that way, it’s a separate
conversation.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-top: 12.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Yes,” she said. But
for some reason, like someone’s phone ringing just at that moment, they didn’t have the
conversation that day.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><a href="http://lymestories.blogspot.com/2016/12/has-princess-found-true-love-part-2.html" target="_blank">To be continued...</a>.</i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-4449156287775836902016-05-27T12:49:00.002-07:002016-05-27T12:54:41.794-07:00ONCE UPON A TIME<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I have been postponing
writing about some difficult issues. These are posts I need to write, however
hard. I’ve found it easier if I write in the third person. And so, bring on the
alter-ego. Introducing the Princess of Lyme Disease.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHAjPvqwLnYvmpAuiizEmS28DDTVW1UHEfvi4zjdCE55CzpsuGOE2v_aW13ib6kCCmlPRrjjgKl20Z6YirzENEzQqhVLrNESlGn0r8gSHX522hYhnuvmEJdNNMvROcrr-gW9qRXiQ6kVX0/s1600/IMG_1556+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHAjPvqwLnYvmpAuiizEmS28DDTVW1UHEfvi4zjdCE55CzpsuGOE2v_aW13ib6kCCmlPRrjjgKl20Z6YirzENEzQqhVLrNESlGn0r8gSHX522hYhnuvmEJdNNMvROcrr-gW9qRXiQ6kVX0/s400/IMG_1556+%25281%2529.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Princess, on the left, wearing a costume she made out of paper bags. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the city
of <st1:city w:st="on">Seattle</st1:city>
there lives a princess. This particular princess is fond of writing and
dancing, making costumes and headdresses, and growing nasturtiums and pea-vines her garden. She likes to go out
to the Century Ballroom for swing dance nights, and to the Green Lake to walk
along the path with her friends or to swim with her faithful companion, Cleopatra.
Mostly, however, the Princess stays at home, in a very special tower where she
knows that nothing will do her harm. In the world outside her
tower, things are quite different. This is because of the List of Things That
Make the Princess Feel Terrible. This List is part of the spell that traps the
Princess.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
THE LIST OF THINGS THAT MAKE THE
PRINCESS FEEL TERRIBLE: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
car exhaust</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
tar and asphalt fumes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
adhesives, such as liquid nails
used in construction, and glue guns</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
new construction materials, in
general</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
paint, even the ‘non-toxic’ kind</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
new furniture</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Sharpie markers</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
tap water</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
tap water that has been through a
Brita filter</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
tap water that has been through the
supposedly wonderful Custom Pure filter at grocery co-op</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
many brands of bottled water</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
body care products (except for one
or two brands that are truly chemical-free)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
cologne, perfume, and body spray</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
the hand soap in public bathrooms</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
almost all brands of laundry detergent</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
cleaning products, almost all
brands</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
air fresheners </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
sugar</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
food preservatives and additives,
including ‘natural flavoring’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
most of the food in the <st1:country-region w:st="on">United States of America</st1:country-region>,
because it contains the previous items</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
jet fumes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
the air at the airport, which is
filled with jet fumes</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
(As per these last items, the
Princess finds it extremely difficult to travel by airplane. Indeed, before she
figured out the importance of securing a seat in front of the wing (the
Princess always flies economy, because it’s the only way to go), so that she
would not be breathing the exhaust that slips into the cabin from the engines located
on the plane’s wings, the princess usually came down with splitting headaches
and vomiting from airplane travel. Now she simply feels worn out, light-headed,
and extremely vulnerable to panic attacks. (As for panic attacks, we will
address them anon.) And so she takes an airplane trip only once or twice a
year.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Come to think of it, there is one
last item on the List of Things That Make the Princess Feel Terrible:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Mold! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in;">
Mold is found in:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
basements</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
all air
conditioning</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
all automobile
air conditioning</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
damp houses</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
old books</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
blue cheese</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.0in; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The Princess does not live in dread
of blue cheese—she finds it easy enough not to buy it when she sees at the
grocery co-op, and to say ‘No, thank you,’ when it is offered to her by a
friend, but she does live in dread of air conditioning, and visiting other
people’s houses, and driving with other people in hot weather, because of the
question of air conditioning. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In general, given The List, you
might say that this princess’s situation is much like the one of another
princess, the Princess and the Pea. For this princess, however, the pea is not a
tiny vegetable tucked under a pile of mattresses. For our Princess, almost the
Entire World is her Pea. Whenever the Princess leaves her home (where she has
taken great care to be sure it contains none of the things on The List) she
runs the risk of coming into contact with the things on The List and feeling
extremely unwell.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
THE PRINCESS’S BACKSTORY</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But who is this Princess? She was
not always such a special person trapped in a tower. As a child and a teenager, she was a typical
over-achieving member of the upper-middle class. She grew up in Washington,
D.C., zooming her way through private elementary and high schools on her way to
a prestigious, you might even say snotty, college, where she was always engaged
in some sort of high-energy, creative pursuit, not to mention studying for her
classes with a fervor that was a like a religion for her. She wrote poetry and
spoke foreign languages; she wrote long term-papers female scientists, and magical
realist novels, she played rugby; she volunteered with the homeless and taught
English to immigrants, and, well—you get the picture. She had a lot of Energy
and liked Going Places. When she graduated from college, she worked as a
newspaper reporter in foreign lands, and fell in love with a charming young man
in one of those lands, and thought she might live abroad as and lead an
interesting, bi-national life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Suddenly, however, she came under a
spell and was left without the strength to walk, or stand on her two feet, or
read, or some days even to watch TV. She lay in bed, sewing quilts by hand,
which was the only pass-time left for her. Helpless as she was, she moved back
to live with her parents’ (the King and Queen of Kindness and Equanimity). The
years went by and the Princess sewed many quilts. She also went to doctor after
doctor, for years—eight years—but none could lift the spell. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
At last she found a doctor who,
although he could not lift the spell, could name it. It was called Lyme
Disease, and this doctor partially beat back the spell by giving the Princess
an infinite number of magical herbs and potions. Although the Princess hoped
she would be cured, alas it was not so. The spell was far too strong for even
this doctor, and other doctors who she has turned to for additional advice. She
still has to ingest her potions every day, at precise hours, following an
infinitely complex pattern that is always shifting slightly from week to week
and month to month. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
If the Princess follows the advice
her doctors, on most days she has the strength stand on her own two feet and
walk, indeed she can run and dance, and create dancing girl costumes, and cook
for herself and wash the dishes, and take care of her faithful companion,
Cleopatra.</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTmevlWGQY05y_IxrC-juBhMgxpFvSut2k06rNhKetEAaRNgxdsiT6NhbTXA8hZEiwJur0TATN-WTQ4M-XTnwj8-QvLwPOE4hNqlMrbxOajYbk4GI_zaJuDM6kFYkcC6_k1VdCeDznGwRi/s1600/IMG_0827.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTmevlWGQY05y_IxrC-juBhMgxpFvSut2k06rNhKetEAaRNgxdsiT6NhbTXA8hZEiwJur0TATN-WTQ4M-XTnwj8-QvLwPOE4hNqlMrbxOajYbk4GI_zaJuDM6kFYkcC6_k1VdCeDznGwRi/s320/IMG_0827.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside the tower, with Cleopatra</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUDbXBWUhopujSbk_oRqs15dZyFyr6eT3-LCWcP3YGxAMsY8-_fcLQqCeS1C5hqUypNOo8_15KiPfMZAR1TPHEjQKZhwXWmydS8LPYW9vepAyIRv4i34JIFjU2w29GAuFopJ378AL5qzz2/s1600/1208121210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUDbXBWUhopujSbk_oRqs15dZyFyr6eT3-LCWcP3YGxAMsY8-_fcLQqCeS1C5hqUypNOo8_15KiPfMZAR1TPHEjQKZhwXWmydS8LPYW9vepAyIRv4i34JIFjU2w29GAuFopJ378AL5qzz2/s400/1208121210.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cleopatra</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But do not be mistaken. The
Princess is still living under the spell which, despite all her efforts, as of
now has not been broken. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
COMING TO TERMS WITH BEING A PRINCESS</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
At first the Princess thought she
was, despite the spell, simply a woman with a chronic illness, in essence just
another member of the over-achieving, upper-middle class (although now a
woefully under-achieving over-achiever, due to the Spell of Lyme Disease). The
Princess operated under this illusion for quite some time. Meanwhile, while she
was still searching for the magical doctor, the Princess had traveled to <st1:city w:st="on">Seattle</st1:city>. When she found
the miraculous doctor in this far-flung city of lakes and bridges and beautiful
gardens, she decided it was best that she stay there and adopt it as her home. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Unfortunately, as the Princess grew
physically stronger she also became romantically involved with a man who was
fond of removing the Princess’s soul and shattering it, leaving the Princess to
put her soul back together as best she could. She would then hide it away from
this man, until the next time the man ferreted out her soul and put his
destructive hands on it—until at last the Princess found the strength to end
this unhealthy relationship. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
After that, she had spent several
years alone, turning down the suitors who came her way for one reason or
another, until she happened to meet a suitor who was kind and intelligent, and
had a sweet nature. Or, to use a word that might not be as flashy as the words
‘wonderful’ and ‘amazing’ that get tossed around so much on social media these
days, but a word that is perhaps more meaningful than those words, the princess
found this suitor <i>worthwhile</i>. This
man was worth the Princess's time and attention. The Princess became
more and more fond of this man as the weeks of 2015 went by. <br />
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><br /></span>
<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">A SUDDEN PERSPECTIVE</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As she spent more time with her
suitor, however, she found herself continually explaining to him all the tiny
requirements of her life: how her food and pills and potions, and her exercise
routine had to be just so, lest she come entirely under the power of the spell.
She explained how, despite appearances of health and vigor, she always needed
to take care of her delicate nature, including stopping everything in the middle of the afternoon to take a nap. She could not go certain places or do certain
things, particularly she had to avoid things on the List of Terrible Things. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And then there was the question of
mornings. The mornings were when the spell had her almost entirely in its grip,
and it was very hard to do things that most people took for granted, like
talking. As the words of explanation flew from the Princess’s lips, she realized
that all of these things, while absolutely essential to her well-being, sounded
quite princess-like.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
MORE THINGS THE PRINCESS HAD TO EXPLAIN</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The Princess explained that she had
a good witch (a naturopath) who helped her with her magic potions, and also a
woman (a lady in waiting?) who came once or twice a week to help her with the
time-consuming tasks of her life, such a picking up medicine and helping out
with cleaning, so that the princess could better fend off the spell every day. And
also there was the most embarrassing part of the Princess’s existence, that she
did not have a job—not one that earned her any money—this was something that
made the Princess feel extremely self-conscious, when she met new people and
they asked her about herself. Although anyone who knew her well could not see
this as a shortcoming, given her burden of living under the Spell. On the other
hand, she did have her ‘work,’ which was writing magical stories and taking
classes in how to get better at writing these stories. (Due to her lack of a
job, the Princess was on a tight budget, but she took good care of her tower
and rented out rooms in it, and so she got by.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
As she explained all these things
to her suitor, the Princess realized that if she sounded so much like a
princess then it was likely that she was, in fact, a princess. This was quite a
realization for her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Given all her experience fighting
off the spell, she also realized it was not likely she would ever have the
privilege of being a normal woman again. And so she reluctantly accepted her
fate of being a princess.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFAQWeG1DQrxqAZiX1_8KXJ0S-MoPfqbKC1u5_8rrNU30QkBcFNQztzuMKFhTvJL5oKFImbHV9TphWtwLGXXY0ylqQKgXqO3P6SoLUDaJp14zIt-_jbhJHkosYb09qkthcyjvNlQoixpxG/s1600/IMG_1393.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFAQWeG1DQrxqAZiX1_8KXJ0S-MoPfqbKC1u5_8rrNU30QkBcFNQztzuMKFhTvJL5oKFImbHV9TphWtwLGXXY0ylqQKgXqO3P6SoLUDaJp14zIt-_jbhJHkosYb09qkthcyjvNlQoixpxG/s400/IMG_1393.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Princess and her BF after a long day at a parade.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
THE PRINCESS’S TOWER</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
The Princess lives in a periwinkle
colored house—that is, <i>ahem</i>, a tower.
A tower which the previous owner covered in aluminum siding, which siding the
princess has left intact, although she has painted it with low-toxicity paint
in a very agreeable color. The tower is in a pretty little neighborhood called <st1:city w:st="on">Wallingford</st1:city>, full of
jubilantly-growing gardens, and where real estate prices are skyrocketing due
to Jeff Bezos’s manic expansion of his company called Amazon. The Princess
shares her tower with two other ladies—smart, creative, strong women who
understand the spell and are considerate of the Princess’s requirements, and
sometimes stop to listen to her tales of encountering People Wearing Too Much Perfume,
but mostly these two women just get on with admirable their lives.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
THE DAILY ROUTINE OF A PRINCESS</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Before the Princess gets out of bed
every morning, she takes some pills that replace parts of her endocrine system,
which the Spell of Lyme Disease has permanently damaged, she waits twenty
minutes, then gets up and goes for a short walk with her faithful companion,
Cleopatra. On the walk she reminds her self that this is the worst part of the
day and that she will feel better soon. She does deep breathing. When she is
back home, she slices up an apple and makes herself a cup of coffee and sits
down at her computer to write her stories. S<span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">he takes a break for a walk and
lunch, and then she takes her nap. After her nap she works again—either at her stories, or taking care of
her tower or her healthcare—seeing her doctor, paying bills, organizing her potions, answering emails, or preparing her special food. At about 5 pm she does
her exercise: swimming, running, or dancing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Throughout the day, the Princess
takes her potions—some on an empty stomach, some after her meals, some when she
lies down to sleep. The Princess thinks a lot about her potions and pills,
partly because they are so complicated that she has to always be paying attention in order to take everything at the right time. But she also thinks
things like, who am I? Am I myself, the Princess, or am I this compilation of endocrine supplements, hibiscus flower tea, B vitamins and little pills
called Heart Gems? And if these things suddenly are no longer available, then
what? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But it is no use worrying about
such things. For now she is grateful for the potions. Although they have not cured her or freed her from her tower
or naps or the List, they have at least freed her from lying in bed all day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
There were times when her doctors,
despite their best efforts, gave the Princess the wrong powders and pills—times
when her hair got so thin she could see her scalp, or she lost far too much weight,
or felt so sad that she had to sing songs to herself in order find the will
power to simply get up. There was also a time when the Princess tried stopping
all her potions, and the results were also extremely unpleasant. Now she feels that
the potions, though more complicated than she would like, are doing a good job.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
All in all, it is a beautiful life
the Princess leads. Relative to how she has felt in the past, relative to other
people she knows who are suffering under similar spells, the Princess realizes she
is fortunate. That is, as long as she follows her routine and stays in her
tower, occasionally leaving to visit the places she knows are safe for her,
places where she is not likely to encounter anything on The List.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The next post will be about chemical sensitivity, or </i><i>The List of
Things That Make the Princess Feel Terrible.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-35301840553958366642016-01-01T16:53:00.000-08:002016-01-02T09:53:22.601-08:00LOOKING BACK AT 42, or THE YEAR I DIDN'T WRITE A NOVEL<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In January 2015 I got off the wait-list to take a class on novel-writing with
the beloved <st1:city w:st="on">Seattle</st1:city>
novelist and best-selling author Maria Semple. I’d tried to sign up for the
class some four months before, in 2014, but it was filled within the first hour
of class registration. At that time I had yet to even try to write novel. When I suddenly
learned I was off the waitlist, I still had not done any novel writing, not even in
the slightest, not part of a first draft. I’d written many short stories and a memoir
(an autobiographical book that reads like a novel). I was, in January of 2015, searching for an
agent for the memoir. I'd had some modest success at publishing my short stories,
enough think I wasn’t entirely crazy to keep working at my life goal of
becoming a writer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was both elated and apprehensive as I did last-minute preparations for the class. It would met from 9 a.m. to 2 p.m. for four days in a row—more than I’d done in terms of
being away from my house, in social and work setting, among ‘normal’ people,
since I came down with Lyme disease in 1999. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not to mention the other students had all written first
drafts of novels and were submitting the first ten pages to the class, while I,
with only a few days’ notice, managed to edit the first pages of a half-written
short story, thinking I might be able to turn it into a novel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The class was indeed a stretch, given the way Lyme limits my stamina. By 2 pm each day my head was
exploding, while my body craved both sleep and exercise at the same time. I
drove home in a daze to find my spastic dog was bouncing off the walls from
spending so many hours alone. The delicate balance of my well-being seemed to
have been put through the shredded-wheat machine, and yet the week-long class
was entirely worth it. I’d learned more than I'd imagined and had been infused with Maria
Semple’s boundless energy. I was determined to write a novel.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<span style="background: rgb(246, 246, 246); font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 10.5pt;">If nothing else wonderful or even particularly
good happens to me this year, I won't mind, because I took Maria Semple's
writing class,” </span>I wrote in a post on this blog a few weeks after the
class. I’d been working on my novel every day since, I noted, and would keep
writing until it was done. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Looking back at this I have to laugh. I notice the date of
that post is February 14, Valentine’s Day. That day I was feeling particularly
down about being single, and I resolved to get back on the dating scene. And so
the next week I went to speed dating at a bar on Capitol Hill. I met a really
cute, smart, creative guy who soon became my boyfriend.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Starting a new relationship is fun and wonderful, but I imagine for even normal people it can sometimes feel like it takes a lot of energy. Starting a relationship while you have a serious chronic illness
is fun and wonderful, but can feel like it takes a supernatural amount of
energy. Thankfully I'd found someone who didn't seem to mind at all that I needed to take a nap every day or pause every so often to take pills, and didn't have any particular interest in staying up late into the night. Still, I was going lots more places than usual, and each time I leave my house I need to be extremely organized, packing all my supplies, medicine, water, and food so I can stay on my diet. It took time, and I sacrificed a little writing time for this. I figured it was worth it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFNpt9_KZd6FS7IZBcqXD9e89VvO57YP1SpveOxczsFqFmTDcKk0l1GeguUl3cb53V1RfOolGOoJXafOxb53QL_E1Pk771EY8lMIsPoId_2bedAoUPU5eZSG6zDUwQCQlANBf03f61Z-TI/s1600/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFNpt9_KZd6FS7IZBcqXD9e89VvO57YP1SpveOxczsFqFmTDcKk0l1GeguUl3cb53V1RfOolGOoJXafOxb53QL_E1Pk771EY8lMIsPoId_2bedAoUPU5eZSG6zDUwQCQlANBf03f61Z-TI/s400/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+333.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">From a weekend in May in Washington's apple country (my boyfriend, an architect, designed the house).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK1_O7SkeucBM9ViAceNxAGxo9jBBcAxDoqTe8YqwsS7Lg7NZPF6AjdL1DN5Yc6D34DS-hxdMqLg7NYjq7x1Taf81L-XI-jH7i6zYB_AL8t0Z1reemfWMt2OLZEkQq-WRBBmrZcTT5IvJh/s1600/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+446.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK1_O7SkeucBM9ViAceNxAGxo9jBBcAxDoqTe8YqwsS7Lg7NZPF6AjdL1DN5Yc6D34DS-hxdMqLg7NYjq7x1Taf81L-XI-jH7i6zYB_AL8t0Z1reemfWMt2OLZEkQq-WRBBmrZcTT5IvJh/s400/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+446.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fourth of July Weekend on Puget Sound</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>GOOD THINGS PILE UP</u><br />
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, I’d volunteered to be the treasurer for my dance group
as we prepared to perform in the city’s annual summer solstice parade. Clearly
someone needed to do it, and I figured I had the extra couple hours per week
that many other dancers didn’t have. I'd be selfish not to pitch in.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soon after parade rehearsals started, the director asked me
if I would be one of the lead dancers. This was a dream come true for me—a mini
dream, dance dream, but still a dream. I was elated. I was also one more time
commitment, one of many that were adding up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not many weeks after that, one of the letters I’d sent out
to literary agents in <st1:state w:st="on">New York</st1:state>
got a response. The agent was reading my memoir at a breakneck pace. She loved
my book. We talked on the phone. A few days later I was signing a contract.
This was a giant dream come true: I had an agent at a prestigious agency, meaning
my book was on its way to finding a publisher. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Things ensued from there: final edits of my book, dance
rehearsals, making my costume for the parade, organizing a fundraiser for our
dance group, meeting my boyfriend’s friends and family, weekend trips with my
boyfriend, the parade day itself. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcSo7hNGnf6LD1xYTWXqYolYxBllFc1RJ4PIEXOmn52eGgiSzqJQPFqjQV1yNHfPBMZZoo2OL0x8gCfJ1B2UlEiKKs4M9TSMnv-FKswN14pM8Umf4si9-KjpZzPiyEI2P3DQwlRuHNHxBo/s400/IMG_1398.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="266" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The day of the Solstice Parade</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZd2VWVvr1TdC04ZXc91Rn5ba-E7Ooxr8VeEmQLztKfYqMXmkuhQ_-bH0CVS498nejcrzvp7PkXOi6G5FCUXPLVCosxH_UmnX3qirnul6GLacQIGid0vt8WdcpG60V0D8hEJY6rfsESTwp/s1600/IMG_1400.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZd2VWVvr1TdC04ZXc91Rn5ba-E7Ooxr8VeEmQLztKfYqMXmkuhQ_-bH0CVS498nejcrzvp7PkXOi6G5FCUXPLVCosxH_UmnX3qirnul6GLacQIGid0vt8WdcpG60V0D8hEJY6rfsESTwp/s400/IMG_1400.JPG" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dancing with the very talented Mona Owens</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB81m_yATVfU6rXz1jzZH1cAT6MlTXeGif9HLHC3sJBss_BupQ5E5M-x22uHtL9hlWcHp5MVpmc9E3fh71zaVbP57XYOiC7EsLP3oPWBWelDmnTw-sojkKQ1R1oKtkFgbLZuQdZJEfn1ZP/s1600/IMG_1393.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB81m_yATVfU6rXz1jzZH1cAT6MlTXeGif9HLHC3sJBss_BupQ5E5M-x22uHtL9hlWcHp5MVpmc9E3fh71zaVbP57XYOiC7EsLP3oPWBWelDmnTw-sojkKQ1R1oKtkFgbLZuQdZJEfn1ZP/s320/IMG_1393.JPG" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exhausted at Parade's end</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcSo7hNGnf6LD1xYTWXqYolYxBllFc1RJ4PIEXOmn52eGgiSzqJQPFqjQV1yNHfPBMZZoo2OL0x8gCfJ1B2UlEiKKs4M9TSMnv-FKswN14pM8Umf4si9-KjpZzPiyEI2P3DQwlRuHNHxBo/s1600/IMG_1398.JPG" imageanchor="1"></a><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In all of this my roommate moved out to live with her boyfriend. So I was looking for a new roommate,
which is in itself like dating. When the right roommate responded to my
craigslist ad, she turned out to be a summer intern who would need furniture,
so I found myself with a drill in hand, following IKEA instruction manuals. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6BWaptTX-SEGj1lMvKVdY3tgIQ0qfb8M5tg3yOq0BRPd_Xn82BrtZMaeVHm7zTgdTLeFIVWrM7beQcUBdV-9JGLXhXz90b58IgLd980X50a4UDB-rHwFF6z7DfW02C6Wx6oHZ3Kgi3qml/s1600/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+338.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6BWaptTX-SEGj1lMvKVdY3tgIQ0qfb8M5tg3yOq0BRPd_Xn82BrtZMaeVHm7zTgdTLeFIVWrM7beQcUBdV-9JGLXhXz90b58IgLd980X50a4UDB-rHwFF6z7DfW02C6Wx6oHZ3Kgi3qml/s400/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+338.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next thing I knew I was devising a system to keep my
medicine and supplements cool and dry in the desert without refrigeration (a
combination of picnic coolers, ice, and vacuum-seal tupperwares), because my
boyfriend asked me to go to Burning Man, and I figured why not just give it a
try? It was a rare chance to do something different. After that my boyfriend had his first art show (watercolors) and then I
flew home to visit my parents whom I dearly missed in all this hubbub of
meeting people. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUHt8IVeU0Cm6eIWE6f0nAXfQA05l-wYDtRc-lQDfZ6lPdjOwP5mbdHlcJeM3GjTy3HB495HN8PpW_rcBUolPcRazAaU9yLI30NO4zYsn3G0wb9BP4doBWwzHw2CXijp5uwmBCj_ic3uB5/s1600/IMG_3204.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUHt8IVeU0Cm6eIWE6f0nAXfQA05l-wYDtRc-lQDfZ6lPdjOwP5mbdHlcJeM3GjTy3HB495HN8PpW_rcBUolPcRazAaU9yLI30NO4zYsn3G0wb9BP4doBWwzHw2CXijp5uwmBCj_ic3uB5/s320/IMG_3204.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hiking on the way back from Burning Man</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By then it was October, the summer intern had come and gone,
I had a new roommate (third of the year) sharing my house, the extremely
likeable Christiana. I threw a welcoming barbeque for her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I rounded out year with another fundraiser, this one for my
friend Amanda’s organization that helps refugees from <st1:country-region w:st="on">Syria</st1:country-region> and <st1:country-region w:st="on">Iraq</st1:country-region>. (It seems this year I’ve hit
on a good formula for raising money for non-profits out of my home, which
includes having a potluck dinner and combining it with a raffle of artwork and
services that friends donate. It’s a lot of fun, but it also takes quite a bit
of organization.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8VywrdQm-s-XVrIyyC4zhcDAWCemWeqFLmo1tvaIJ8FJqABvEVf5f0IKMBbAMxPA4MG5WZXCYxWXSwCnncxpLEQpbNObO6A25JdXO7bnWhTb4vk2yOeoMpAhnKqLSdXVktJaqF6s6gyty/s1600/IMG_1586.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8VywrdQm-s-XVrIyyC4zhcDAWCemWeqFLmo1tvaIJ8FJqABvEVf5f0IKMBbAMxPA4MG5WZXCYxWXSwCnncxpLEQpbNObO6A25JdXO7bnWhTb4vk2yOeoMpAhnKqLSdXVktJaqF6s6gyty/s640/IMG_1586.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This fabulous print of Amman, Jordan, made by Samer Kurdi, was one of the items we raffled at the fundraiser for Syrian refugees. We raised $2,500 from the party.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the onslaught of all these very wonderful, very social
and energy-intensive things, something had to give. I put the novel on hold and never got back to it. I worked with my agent editing my memoir and worked on short stories. I was still writing every day, but not as many hours as I liked, and
it seemed there was always something interrupting my writing time. I kept
thinking I’d get back to the novel as soon as things settled down….</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And meanwhile I was waiting to hear from my agent, who was
waiting to hear from publishers about my memoir.<br />
<br />
<u>42: A MAGIC NUMBER?</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It also happened that 2015 was the year I was 42, or at
least 42 for 359 days of the year. I am not a believer in magical numbers, but for
all those nerdy or even slightly nerdy people of my generation, 42 is
significant. If you read Douglas Adams’s <i>Hitchhiker’s
Guide to the Galaxy </i>series even half the times I have, then you’ll recall
that the number 42 is the answer to the question of Life, the Universe, and Everything.
I couldn’t help but connect the mystique of this number to all the amazing
things that were coming my way in 2015, and yet I often I felt like I was on an
iridescent, flying dragon—way up in the sky, riding bareback, blinded by the shimmering
scales and wings surrounding me, and holding on for dear life. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFWYPilc6uDgNDqjJHWlBaOzzhgTl80HQW1iUbks1o5dDXKA_H4LboJh4QahT3BZ5OWWoxBlRcT_f9g9ylqiyX0urdu1r_5KYruNy5m-FK4bkPK48FQXCQpdgur00b5z2cBdo96dP1q-v2/s1600/IMG_1407.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFWYPilc6uDgNDqjJHWlBaOzzhgTl80HQW1iUbks1o5dDXKA_H4LboJh4QahT3BZ5OWWoxBlRcT_f9g9ylqiyX0urdu1r_5KYruNy5m-FK4bkPK48FQXCQpdgur00b5z2cBdo96dP1q-v2/s400/IMG_1407.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inspired by the summer parade, I made headdresses for other Fremont Arts Council events and costume parties. This one I made from tissue paper, branches and a headlamp.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6I7Ws7STydoy82vJJhpALEoy-pKJhhQg03hXfembVUqqfez286rrHPmcpTz2WKjNESddtcNW5bBbCh0lPzZkKLrNQUf_RfimrJxBEj5PKl6Q8bUthOZDw8SeS_ykNiSGY7LrcSkS-rt5y/s1600/IMG_1556.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6I7Ws7STydoy82vJJhpALEoy-pKJhhQg03hXfembVUqqfez286rrHPmcpTz2WKjNESddtcNW5bBbCh0lPzZkKLrNQUf_RfimrJxBEj5PKl6Q8bUthOZDw8SeS_ykNiSGY7LrcSkS-rt5y/s400/IMG_1556.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A dancing girl costume at another party. I made it out paper bags, with some help from my talented BF. Rebecca Maxim, a friend from Burning Man, is on the right, looking amazing as usual.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
As the weeks slipped by, there were a few times I longed for the dragon ride to end. I missed the quiet and sustained creativity that was mine when my life was more solitary, the times I was working on my memoir, or able to focus without any interruptions on short stories. The weeks and months when I devoted four or five hours a day to writing were when I felt, despite a certain loneliness, that the greater part of my spirit was in balance. I went to bed with a deep sense of peace and woke up feeling the same. But this year, most days I managed to write only two or three hours, and even that between a series of interruptions, with an octopus-like to-do list waving its tentacles from beside my computer.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At moments I found myself more agitated than I liked. Yes, Lyme can make your heart race uncomfortably and bring on a sense of panic for no particular reason, and I've learned to ride these times out. But sometimes I felt there was more to the panic, that I simply needed more down time.<br />
<br />
And yes, there were all sorts of wonderful things happening, or things I was helping to make happen, things I felt I couldn’t say no to, and yet the one thing I longed for was simply to write more.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9bBCVq0XCDfN9yxsZNHFNRMVxZ4D7WznvhFgpsFSwiihfqWltYHowE8T1qvXBZTCVq2NjkImSnDBll9XlVT_tS6TLTgzWHP-zT-0Ktmuu9xFJYzA1cOLpfebyjhP-0OOC4tldxQnkZqCZ/s1600/IMG_1577.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9bBCVq0XCDfN9yxsZNHFNRMVxZ4D7WznvhFgpsFSwiihfqWltYHowE8T1qvXBZTCVq2NjkImSnDBll9XlVT_tS6TLTgzWHP-zT-0Ktmuu9xFJYzA1cOLpfebyjhP-0OOC4tldxQnkZqCZ/s320/IMG_1577.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yet another headdress in progress. Not a way to write a novel.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As my days as a forty-two-year old dwindled I tried to keep
at bay the uneasy idea that my run of good things was sure to come to an end,
and probably before I turned forty-three. Because if there is one thing Life,
the Universe, and Everything have taught me in my forty-two years, it is that
Life, the Universe, and Everything are not about having an endless string of
wonderful things happen to you. (And when the non-wonderful things come your
way, be grateful for the things that are still good. Also, as a general rule,
focus on the stuff you can change and do your best to accept the stuff that
sucks, not to mention to thine own self be true, &c, &c, &c.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjWcvPnC636PhDm2XmLL6zxBsolEHqhVEJETO6jSvEff3eDnhV1s0F2wDApLc6nTIB5mivu-_1kSWy9JrdvCKlP2Ak6cyk-Ch0wbxp4V9Y5ctoGjeYE2OxdXmG2oWxdbMkGBbHLvY4WMH/s1600/IMG_1620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjWcvPnC636PhDm2XmLL6zxBsolEHqhVEJETO6jSvEff3eDnhV1s0F2wDApLc6nTIB5mivu-_1kSWy9JrdvCKlP2Ak6cyk-Ch0wbxp4V9Y5ctoGjeYE2OxdXmG2oWxdbMkGBbHLvY4WMH/s400/IMG_1620.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wearing the last headdress of the year, with my pal Marian at the Winter Solstice Feast.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Each time I thought of the lack of news from my agent, this
thought about Life, the Universe, Etc. returned. At last I sent my agent an
email and got her reply containing the disappointing news. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My book had received a myriad of complements from editors
but no one wanted to take it on. It just happened that a well-established
writer would be coming out with a similar book at the very same time that mine
would be published, if anyone were willing to publish it, which they weren’t
because this writer, who’s been given a fellowship at Radcliffe (aka Harvard) to write her book, would
have every publicity outlet tied up. If my book were to be bought at this
moment in the publishing cycle, it would be guaranteed not to sell.
Basically it came down to extremely bad timing, and there was nothing to be done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My agent was very, very nice to me when she told me this. We
talked it over and decided our best strategy for my memoir was to wait and try
again when it seemed right, perhaps a few years from now. Meanwhile, she said,
it would be good to get a book of fiction out. Essentially my agent was
asking me if I had a novel handy, and my answer to that was no. (No matter that I have completed a book of short stories. Short fiction is not marketable, despite quite a few of the stories having won awards or made the final round of contests. Short stories are simply not money-makers.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had an idea for a novel, the first hundred blundering
pages of a first draft, and a spark I’d kept cupped from the wind since taking
Maria Semple’s class last January. That class now seemed a universe ago,
although little more than ten months had gone by. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so the year came to its close. The dragon did a final loop-de-loop and came in for its bumpy landing. Since
the first week of December I’ve been working again on the first draft of a novel
I set aside last spring. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That same first week of December I felt very, very sad for my
memoir that didn’t find a publisher in 2015. Yes, I knew I should be grateful for
everything good in my life—including healthcare, food, a cozy house, friends at
arm’s reach, the ability to dance and run, a super new guy in my life, not to
mention overall life circumstances that allow me to write in the first place. I know, I know, my life is really good right now. So good that sometimes I think about renaming this blog The Princess of Lyme Disease. And yet I couldn’t help but feel really down. I’d lost my chutzpah, I didn’t
try to find it. I just cleaned up from the last party of the year, the
fundraiser for refugees, and made sure nothing interrupted my writing time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few weeks later and I’m feeling a mix of happy relief to have
this giant writing assignment. That is to say, <i>not</i> throwing parties no matter how good the cause, <i>not </i>meeting
new people, <i>not </i>making more
headdresses, nor going on adventures, but instead retreating into my quiet
house and being the invisible person I love to be. This is all I care about for
2016: staying home and having a long, complicated, introvert’s journey, a
literary adventure of my own making. Other things will happen, I'm sure, but this year writing time will come first.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Resolution. Gratitude. Peace.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-46427148288498525182015-10-08T20:35:00.000-07:002015-10-09T13:00:19.531-07:00BEAUTY AT BURNING MAN, AND CAROLYN REMEMBERED<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Although it was a month ago, I'm still posting about Burning Man. It was a stretch for me to go with Lyme disease, but it was one of the most fascinating trips I've ever taken.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ34OlWi-mdLoku_KvRURWbQhAhsUeSGEr8qm279PuVD6keePK1rRyHN4CgUdyRqgQzdLxeRIoucNScjBzorY1c3x5mMm1dJrb_5RVKdbJBRbaQycKqNPQTZkHuoSs-K2dgPJNc4C-ZPPe/s1600/IMG_3094.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ34OlWi-mdLoku_KvRURWbQhAhsUeSGEr8qm279PuVD6keePK1rRyHN4CgUdyRqgQzdLxeRIoucNScjBzorY1c3x5mMm1dJrb_5RVKdbJBRbaQycKqNPQTZkHuoSs-K2dgPJNc4C-ZPPe/s640/IMG_3094.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of our neighbors, across G Street, who lived in tepee tents for the week</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMNs_hg4n6ouozoAUElRpqEapJLZQ1lLuCcjc0PbQ7eqkVym7KonxNtY5heWInfJYAvKpCmS3aL8TWbeIOXtPhjmJrbzDILHp2WNHTUIgy0658xleCuaJw_rj8HUc6TizkoM1QYwaNsR0W/s1600/IMG_2885.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMNs_hg4n6ouozoAUElRpqEapJLZQ1lLuCcjc0PbQ7eqkVym7KonxNtY5heWInfJYAvKpCmS3aL8TWbeIOXtPhjmJrbzDILHp2WNHTUIgy0658xleCuaJw_rj8HUc6TizkoM1QYwaNsR0W/s640/IMG_2885.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On my first excursion to see art work, with my hair and face covered with scarves and goggles to protect from dust. I'm getting water from my pack before I check out the giant squid.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>***</i></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was Tuesday, my second morning at Burning Man, and due to
the shock of adjusting to my surroundings, plus some exhaustion from the trip
down, I hadn’t done much the first day. The second morning I woke up feeling
better. I had the intention of further regaining my balance by finding somewhere
quiet to read and write in my notebook out for a few hours before I worked up
the energy to explore my surroundings. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDtQMeyhuiGv3Qk7h8SYPZr72sUQUxSKiz1tHL21_zwwuRrllwTkIu-WrkjuinucCFhKwXFBmjgjPXV_9yuK4xHEHShMxnngwTNYsSp36IyJ7fMYQTWkSYJnNsZGrwNjYBJJNT9kKj0TRM/s1600/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+325.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDtQMeyhuiGv3Qk7h8SYPZr72sUQUxSKiz1tHL21_zwwuRrllwTkIu-WrkjuinucCFhKwXFBmjgjPXV_9yuK4xHEHShMxnngwTNYsSp36IyJ7fMYQTWkSYJnNsZGrwNjYBJJNT9kKj0TRM/s320/phone+backup+through+Aug+2015+325.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My quiet house in Seattle, <br />
where I can be a hermit</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Normally, I don’t like to do anything that isn’t reading or
writing before 12 noon or longer if I can get away with it, especially not anything that involves being around
people, or actually <i>talking</i>. Mornings
are rough for me. I feel slow and achy and my brain and body need to go at
their own pace. Therefore, I stay in my very quiet house in my quiet
neighborhood in <st1:city w:st="on">Seattle</st1:city>,
and I write. I am grateful to be making some sort of a career out this, because
it is exactly what I need and want to be doing, pretty much every morning,
every day of the year.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That Tuesday morning at Burning Man, my boyfriend wanted to
go on an art tour. He’d mentioned this tour a couple times on the drive down,
and on Monday. My vague idea was that I would let him go do that, and we’d find
each other when the tour was over. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn’t expect to do any writing at Burning Man, and so I
brought two books, thinking I’d read in some quiet spot in the mornings, and
this would be my alone time, my sanity time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I did not understand Burning Man at all. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Here’s the way Burning Man works:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1) There is no quiet spot. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
2) You’re way too stimulated and tired at the same time from
all the loud thumping music to anything like <i>read</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
3) The morning is the best time to get out and see things,
because by 12 noon it’s blazing hot, the wind has picked up, and the air is
full of dust blowing continually from south to north, covering everything and
making it hard to breathe. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was why my boyfriend, when I told him I didn’t think
I’d go on the art tour, gave me a look like I was crazy. I’d never gotten that
look from him before. He is one the most laid-back, take-things-as-they-come
people I know, so when he looked at me like that, I got a clue. I changed my
mind and decided to go with him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE8Emb0e5TKldSjUeXYlY-bHKe_nqBfQmVZlFyq82SaaPlWPmJ7yUAYrbH02VL-tQqzHzzd7LRScdNe4x4TXt3YMRw9-AzulktcNAT9rObRPMqwXxh-ZsG2Ui7yRakiZxjBvH5GDR2gwB3/s1600/IMG_2843.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE8Emb0e5TKldSjUeXYlY-bHKe_nqBfQmVZlFyq82SaaPlWPmJ7yUAYrbH02VL-tQqzHzzd7LRScdNe4x4TXt3YMRw9-AzulktcNAT9rObRPMqwXxh-ZsG2Ui7yRakiZxjBvH5GDR2gwB3/s320/IMG_2843.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside the kitchen tent, where I made coffee<br />
while fellow campers talked about how lucky<br />
we were to have found a quiet spot, which<br />
blew my mind because this was the loudest<br />
place I'd ever been. (<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=113144552211556004#editor/target=post;postID=6355148109061208678;onPublishedMenu=posts;onClosedMenu=posts;postNum=1;src=postname" target="_blank">See previous post</a>!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The tour was leaving in 15 minutes. I had just enough time
to make coffee, which I poured into our thermoses, and pack a couple of apples.
We hustled over to VW bus camp across the street, the starting point of the
tour, where we joined a line to climb onto the tour vehicle: a double-decker bus
built in the shape of a VW microbus. It was soon crowded with burners (or
Burning Man attendees), mostly from the VW Bus Camp itself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5qc7BlExVNZOauHOt5NHl26CBN5WhlELQ-Nen56PpIcSmB1jIzbXxBCOC4bpUi3YUH_PflEC9O8ZsILizuCXmHnfshIhwZr-kPQUIvYfV4SXrIAEiGKCESbawKQRauJkHA2mVas-k0lS/s1600/Walter+VW+Bus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig5qc7BlExVNZOauHOt5NHl26CBN5WhlELQ-Nen56PpIcSmB1jIzbXxBCOC4bpUi3YUH_PflEC9O8ZsILizuCXmHnfshIhwZr-kPQUIvYfV4SXrIAEiGKCESbawKQRauJkHA2mVas-k0lS/s640/Walter+VW+Bus.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thank you, Phil Berg, who took this picture of "Walter" the VW Bus Art Car.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
BACK GROUND ABOUT BURNING MAN (skip this if you like) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Burning Man is a temporary city set up in a remote part of
the <st1:state w:st="on">Nevada</st1:state>
desert. The organizers of the gathering lay out streets in a clock-shaped grid,
and most burners arrive in small groups of friends, in cars or RVs, and find
any empty spot on the grid to camp in. Some people organize themselves well
enough to have what are called ‘theme camps,’ which offer workshops, classes,
open bars, or parties throughout the week. My friend Rose was a member of <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placetype w:st="on">Camp</st1:placetype> <st1:placename w:st="on">CuriOdyssey</st1:placename></st1:place>,
which threw some big parties. My fellow dancer Cameron stayed at Camp 11:11 (‘Camp
Eleven Eleven’) which has an art car and bar. There is Contra Dance camp, and
Chakralicious Camp, and the Alternative Energy Zone. VW Bus camp was for people
who loved their VW buses enough to drive them to Burning Man and spend the
week living out of them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggEk_HblKzj53YVoTSdZOP0wbCCtW3L-Ewm3NvJCrxQad8IaDs1xPGdvHwB1FuFgtsdAwJzRrXtbwh0JTmlZ0q0IFWP9B8PY6vtpJvWWqzVh8lWYBRiFfLb70L4R5rQX2A46z7nO3-tuUj/s1600/IMG_2974.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggEk_HblKzj53YVoTSdZOP0wbCCtW3L-Ewm3NvJCrxQad8IaDs1xPGdvHwB1FuFgtsdAwJzRrXtbwh0JTmlZ0q0IFWP9B8PY6vtpJvWWqzVh8lWYBRiFfLb70L4R5rQX2A46z7nO3-tuUj/s400/IMG_2974.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our camp at our evening dinner gathering, close to sunset</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some of the members of our camp had once been part
of VW Camp, but due to a small disagreement about what’s the best way to keep
clean at Burning Man while having the least environmental impact (shower
vs. baby wipes), our camp split off from VW. This disagreement was very
friendly, so we camped nearby. Our smaller camp of 16 included engineers, doctors,
nurses, architects, and teachers, one accountant, and one writer. Quite a few
people in our camp were also artists in their free time. We ranged in age from
early 60s to mid-twenties and were mostly from <st1:city w:st="on">Seattle</st1:city>
or <st1:city w:st="on">Portland</st1:city>. </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
BACK TO THE TOUR</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My boyfriend and I climbed onto the giant VW bus for what we
thought would be a guided tour, with information about the art. But like many
things listed in the official guidebook at Burning Man, some of the details
were off. It was an art tour without the
guide part: simply a ride out to the art installations on the desert, with
stops for people to get off and look for a few minutes, then get back on the
bus. All the bus was blasting music and people were sharing drinks. (Blasting music
and sharing drinks seeming to be the baseline for most everything at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Burning</st1:city> <st1:state w:st="on">Man.</st1:state></st1:place>)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You can imagine that the VWers were not the techno crowd. The
music they played was enjoyable (Bob Marley, Natalie Merchant, Talking Heads),
although louder than I would have liked. I put in my earplugs, and then did
some polite-but-assertive angling to find somewhere to sit. The bus designed
for standing room only, with a few ledges where you could sit comfortably. It
was also packed, making me self-conscious about insisting on a seat. Anyone
going by outward appearances would assume that I’m healthy and have no
need to sit down, but I knew that if I stood up for an hour, especially in the
morning, it would kill me for the rest of the day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the tour, suddenly I understood why people drive from all
over the country to camp out in the blowing dust and the heat. At Burning Man
you see things and experience them in ways you simply won’t anywhere else. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzd6bEgNfamJLC_QkPsD7lyxrHL-el-itsYUlxBSdJHpOiAQWtOCVFVONCRIc0ofd8dhzKHE8c7Took-CwbESv4TztFJuO9n4N04-1KgyOw6AVO4xaYALX56n7cxMzcckXfaj9QH-4ZGEI/s1600/IMG_2983.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzd6bEgNfamJLC_QkPsD7lyxrHL-el-itsYUlxBSdJHpOiAQWtOCVFVONCRIc0ofd8dhzKHE8c7Took-CwbESv4TztFJuO9n4N04-1KgyOw6AVO4xaYALX56n7cxMzcckXfaj9QH-4ZGEI/s640/IMG_2983.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDxTACHMNJYpp9SevLm56DMMdglAZwDF55uh6HoEefSB9_E85HTyM1ZqrYM_r7Ecagf3E65_-kWJ0TPQPMnyZ4HzwRy8PpHdXjjQPop74BZSP87iroi6j86QHZXKs90qraDpb9Dp1GWUkS/s1600/IMG_2998.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDxTACHMNJYpp9SevLm56DMMdglAZwDF55uh6HoEefSB9_E85HTyM1ZqrYM_r7Ecagf3E65_-kWJ0TPQPMnyZ4HzwRy8PpHdXjjQPop74BZSP87iroi6j86QHZXKs90qraDpb9Dp1GWUkS/s640/IMG_2998.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the art I saw at Burning Man. True confessions: these pictures are of things I saw Weds, because I put most of my Tuesday pictures in the<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=113144552211556004#editor/target=post;postID=6355148109061208678;onPublishedMenu=posts;onClosedMenu=posts;postNum=1;src=postname" target="_blank"> previous post</a>. (Which you should read if you haven't yet!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijSL-ifgFK8t4UkDUczxAu1xE9O6pdcBwGbgM7WCyA0DDSQdtHjfwkG6-ImAkLeFQyAsRH5Ro6fQZpDEszSG2Ojf5kmHtlwGFwNtK9f7i6iqwLYxXmmujEXtmMCc1nPe8cb3iCJBFDjjWS/s1600/IMG_3002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijSL-ifgFK8t4UkDUczxAu1xE9O6pdcBwGbgM7WCyA0DDSQdtHjfwkG6-ImAkLeFQyAsRH5Ro6fQZpDEszSG2Ojf5kmHtlwGFwNtK9f7i6iqwLYxXmmujEXtmMCc1nPe8cb3iCJBFDjjWS/s400/IMG_3002.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This 'Church'...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioj76XcD2VnkkGsl1SfP9i9VcnbSU81BiqIC-NGKNcUaGx_QzT3J8Zmn31JucGJK4K4aXAt1bAeCGETTMZcAx50Tp2CYJfjf9XRa7jxL1mMHjkBFhC80CqZJQign_cItX-yFOlxl-nERDl/s1600/IMG_3004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioj76XcD2VnkkGsl1SfP9i9VcnbSU81BiqIC-NGKNcUaGx_QzT3J8Zmn31JucGJK4K4aXAt1bAeCGETTMZcAx50Tp2CYJfjf9XRa7jxL1mMHjkBFhC80CqZJQign_cItX-yFOlxl-nERDl/s640/IMG_3004.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...had this amazing organ inside. One of my favorite installations.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wrqdGK6Vn6SqxKvc-Mc6KjA9wIGeCT3XmFo1UPPSJf-4E_9n1rseUzCu_EB8OZfbro1mVqfgep15v6eMUHptbF2cZ2szyUhWXf9sgWY7sm8yKP9lm7xjsPLW05K2_17f2yxKcxUUEUUI/s1600/IMG_3008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wrqdGK6Vn6SqxKvc-Mc6KjA9wIGeCT3XmFo1UPPSJf-4E_9n1rseUzCu_EB8OZfbro1mVqfgep15v6eMUHptbF2cZ2szyUhWXf9sgWY7sm8yKP9lm7xjsPLW05K2_17f2yxKcxUUEUUI/s640/IMG_3008.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail of the carved skull hanging above the organ</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7tTYKW0gWf0UnRGNeCZfdeUQWnKOfF6xaiMYmroJrxIZyTg5kx4T8auvRgx1NUfszRV59CZ-ikae68Bg_KGm690iGbmibwiw5nYNOyymIF7wm1rzUUGmvPHFS43X7ju7ArPFmZRV7w28h/s1600/IMG_3013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7tTYKW0gWf0UnRGNeCZfdeUQWnKOfF6xaiMYmroJrxIZyTg5kx4T8auvRgx1NUfszRV59CZ-ikae68Bg_KGm690iGbmibwiw5nYNOyymIF7wm1rzUUGmvPHFS43X7ju7ArPFmZRV7w28h/s640/IMG_3013.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This sculpture was really cool...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-OsnJ-o4to8IoJbC_UvrurrvKEzmCOsU3QnXc-z7bG5E2Vr6xJ41_athch8IulhrHvz7LjAsOAerWIcBmItQ3ikw087S-UaGNryyUEOCQCoA7trJbgNyQNkeZdXSpVIDPHaGYO21y4xIZ/s1600/IMG_3012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-OsnJ-o4to8IoJbC_UvrurrvKEzmCOsU3QnXc-z7bG5E2Vr6xJ41_athch8IulhrHvz7LjAsOAerWIcBmItQ3ikw087S-UaGNryyUEOCQCoA7trJbgNyQNkeZdXSpVIDPHaGYO21y4xIZ/s640/IMG_3012.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and a nice way to take a self-portrait without using the selfie button.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
***</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I deliberately didn’t read too much about Burning Man
beforehand, because I wanted things to come as a surprise. I researched just
enough to know if I there would be coffee, that I wouldn’t be entirely roughing
it in terms of the bathrooms, that there would be a way to bring my medicine
and my own food, and what to wear. Beyond that, I wanted to experience it when
I got there, without too many preconceptions. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF8xSU2LbdIBSyEbPCvzXupzFynje2VqHarUfcuyvrQQbqBUtLVzVU4epYUMXVPMqXbz6ylG8BYfRbH-4FpEOIHADDljrd3LTqqSSQX4Q1-1C6Ie9wqbnbEHbXgOtW00g3BIm4YlPkyhhw/s1600/IMG_2850.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF8xSU2LbdIBSyEbPCvzXupzFynje2VqHarUfcuyvrQQbqBUtLVzVU4epYUMXVPMqXbz6ylG8BYfRbH-4FpEOIHADDljrd3LTqqSSQX4Q1-1C6Ie9wqbnbEHbXgOtW00g3BIm4YlPkyhhw/s640/IMG_2850.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Temple at Burning Man. Thank you to the BF, who took this photo and most of the pictures on this post. (He chooses to remain anonymous.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was why when the tour came to the <st1:place w:st="on">Temple</st1:place>, I had no idea what it was. The <st1:city w:st="on">Temple</st1:city> is an important
part of the gathering, perhaps more important than the Man itself.
Built deliberately to be burned down on the very last day of the week, it’s
made out of plywood. It pertains to no particular religion, or to all
religions. Throughout the week, people write the names of friends and family
who have died on its walls, and they bring items that are tributes to the
deceased and leave them inside. All the tributes will be burned when the temple
is set on fire.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My boyfriend explained this to me as we walked towards the <st1:city w:st="on">Temple</st1:city>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is there someone you’d like to remember?” he asked me as we
came up to the entrance.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes,” I said, thinking of my doctor and friend who died in
2014, Carolyn Humphreys.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He somehow produced a Sharpie and handed it to me, and then
I lost him in the crowd as I walked through the silent temple, looking at all
the names on the walls, wanting to find a good spot for Carolyn’s name. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8PwK5-EBCCeGS08nmHMGMA-WvdxLdlcPF3MmEyaILfd2oEmNNXLuproeWGSRy3SNOd4alLN9jdgxgva31M_Sjm3xDK4Qv7CAQHiJiZfgDRI2BS2sFUKmQUrYbkCSp1GmGgleTV-h1IX1/s1600/IMG_2851.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh8PwK5-EBCCeGS08nmHMGMA-WvdxLdlcPF3MmEyaILfd2oEmNNXLuproeWGSRy3SNOd4alLN9jdgxgva31M_Sjm3xDK4Qv7CAQHiJiZfgDRI2BS2sFUKmQUrYbkCSp1GmGgleTV-h1IX1/s320/IMG_2851.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside the Temple</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found myself crying deep, overwhelming tears, while I
walked. There were so many names, names everywhere, and posters people had made
with photos of their loved ones. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw a photo of a young woman with a cat, which reminded me
of Carolyn. Next to it someone had put up another poster, for a sister, her
head bald from chemo. FUCK CANCER! the
poster read. I cried for this young woman who died, but I didn’t want to write
Carolyn’s name next to FUCK CANCER! That kind of anger was not like her. I
walked on, reading more and more names and crying harder.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw a bench with two people sitting cross-legged, holding
hands and meditating in the silence. This took me utterly by surprise. In the
middle of all that that pain and grief they looked so calm, and there calm was
also such a contrast to the drinks and blasting music on the bus I’d just been
riding.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The meditators reminded me of Carolyn. Everything seemed to
remind me of Carolyn. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She had been so important in my life. She was <i>the doctor. </i>She pulled my life out of
the trash can. Although she didn’t officially diagnose me with Lyme, she
essentially did, saying ‘this is what I think you have,’ and sending me to the
Lyme expert who put me on antibiotics. And then with her wonderful naturopathic
expertise, her caring spirit and her laughter, she got me through those first
grueling years of antibiotic treatment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is now impossible for me to think about Carolyn without a
sense of awe that she got me to where I am now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The years since my diagnosis have not always been easy, and
even now every day I am constantly preoccupied with how I feel physically,
negotiating my way through little blips of brain fog and drops in my energy and
blood circulation, worried that I won’t sleep at night if I don’t get the
balance of exercise and medication just right. And yet I am doing so many
things that for a decade of my life I wondered if I would ever be able to do
again—such as walk down the street on my own two feet, live in a house that is
not my parents’, write, read, and in general spend the day actually <i>doing things</i> instead
of lying in bed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every time I think of Carolyn, I am filled with gratitude
for this. Every time I think of her, it seemed impossible to me that I am here
and she is gone. And now here I was at Burning Man—<i>Burning Man</i>, of all places!—going through this wave of emotions for
Carolyn, one more time, in this strange place, and still feeling bewildered by my grief.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How could someone so powerful, so vibrant, die so suddenly? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had walked the length of the <st1:city w:st="on">Temple</st1:city> when my boyfriend found me. The wind
was picking up and the dust was starting to blow. It was time to go back to the
bus. I looked for a spot for Carolyn’s name and finally found one, and wrote some words that were far from adequate. “Thank you
for getting me here. You’re with me always. I miss you,” I wrote. “Be in peace,
Carolyn.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I left the Sharpie for someone else to use, and we turned
back towards the bus.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtDt45Q9eymkCZUT8IswefAGRbGvgyOplNdqlsDy57JC_65z3bRlcRecjQ72CxWpzPMZqnMY0asod1mAa7zGGOppsJoHbv0YAtPWOB7I-VYixaqNuiQesGwtHYJ9PAx9vcM1tLUssIWJy/s1600/Carolyn+Humphreys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtDt45Q9eymkCZUT8IswefAGRbGvgyOplNdqlsDy57JC_65z3bRlcRecjQ72CxWpzPMZqnMY0asod1mAa7zGGOppsJoHbv0YAtPWOB7I-VYixaqNuiQesGwtHYJ9PAx9vcM1tLUssIWJy/s1600/Carolyn+Humphreys.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carolyn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-63551481090612086782015-09-22T12:06:00.001-07:002015-09-22T12:53:08.009-07:00THE SOUND OF BURNING MAN<br />
<br />
Picture me in a tent in the <st1:state w:st="on">Nevada</st1:state>
desert, the night I first arrived at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Burning</st1:city>
<st1:state w:st="on">Man.</st1:state></st1:place> I am alone and I am not happy.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the two previous days I’d been on the longest road trip
of my life, over sixteen hours in the car, the last three of which were in both a dust
storm and a broiling traffic jam—the bottleneck at the single-lane entrance the Black Rock Desert, where Burning Man is held. I had loved the road trip, and hadn't minded the traffic jam. It was all part of this very different vacation I was taking with my boyfriend, whom I'd met speed dating six months before.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy49liBR2Ml0lMjw-Sb7x-4fmx5ZdqOqTPpeojzgY_dq22W0PPLdVa3SFViCyJ6BsxD5FvwsYWtGNDcMbp6bwQe_E0YyoutgIXGkUfinDusij9EYSXr8ufBcKPZkSXcKnRsYuG5UeLWROd/s1600/IMG_1161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy49liBR2Ml0lMjw-Sb7x-4fmx5ZdqOqTPpeojzgY_dq22W0PPLdVa3SFViCyJ6BsxD5FvwsYWtGNDcMbp6bwQe_E0YyoutgIXGkUfinDusij9EYSXr8ufBcKPZkSXcKnRsYuG5UeLWROd/s640/IMG_1161.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our tent at 2:45 and G on the Burning Man grid, with the Cascadia Flag.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Once through the traffic jam, my boyfriend and I found our way to our campsite (an empty spot on a largely empty block, since it was the first day of the festival). We immediately got to work pitching tents and helping set up a shower as the sun
blazed hotter and hotter. We were two of the first four to arrive at a campsite that would eventually have sixteen residents, and we worked steadily to get everything done before
sunset. Without a kitchen, I sun-brewed coffee on the dashboard of the car,
gratefully drinking it down and setting up a second round. I was short of sleep
even when we left <st1:city w:st="on">Seattle</st1:city>,
and that coffee was the only means to keep myself going.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEndO4j73QSDjinn09EsJ2dLfbdH9XImDzduUqGh6KNi9ImE-NcatDu9SY2NtUiYDwLtxK6IR8Lz3slg9BPLm6e-fwcuseo_0mFmi7qiXEeUC-lgvEonZMmBZUBFT9OcOUYmy-rSHzd9lE/s1600/IMG_1151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEndO4j73QSDjinn09EsJ2dLfbdH9XImDzduUqGh6KNi9ImE-NcatDu9SY2NtUiYDwLtxK6IR8Lz3slg9BPLm6e-fwcuseo_0mFmi7qiXEeUC-lgvEonZMmBZUBFT9OcOUYmy-rSHzd9lE/s400/IMG_1151.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first thing I saw when we arrived was part of the shower <br />
system, an 'evap pond,' to prevent the graywater from draining <br />
into the desert ground. Nothing else at our camp was up yet.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
As we worked we listened to James Brown, not by choice. A
block away a group of twenty-something men were building a Geodesic dome, and
they had chosen the music—not a few songs, but the sex-machine’s entire
repertoire. It was a lot of James Brown, and loud enough that I considered
getting out my earplugs. As the Geodesic dome grew and the soundtrack switched
to electronic music, I found my earplugs and put them in, which only cut the
sound by a fraction. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sun blazed on. We helped put up the giant kitchen tent
that would serve our whole camp, unfolded chairs and a table, and a camp mate
produced cookstoves and kitchen gear. Suddenly things were civilized. We ate
dinner as the sun set and the techno beat drummed on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg83Odt7XcBc0oiM0ngalw3iou0gKAGdaXH7Uuwja0IZrIq15mpE3SG3ZzPWwtt0lWbl0mdO9kQ87iJDFtpxcPP1D5MW1kDhrJ7Kktu8Ua1Y2tRig4omAU2JXd3jkOp2epH80MKTW0YrVgj/s1600/IMG_2827.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg83Odt7XcBc0oiM0ngalw3iou0gKAGdaXH7Uuwja0IZrIq15mpE3SG3ZzPWwtt0lWbl0mdO9kQ87iJDFtpxcPP1D5MW1kDhrJ7Kktu8Ua1Y2tRig4omAU2JXd3jkOp2epH80MKTW0YrVgj/s320/IMG_2827.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The kitchen tent at the end of the day</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioNldGqb6ZEa0Y2dM5Hx1v6briZ9zglmHEFyjraMezo_lLbbTia0yZKsNm29tNnIgm-3NyQ1GUCsnKj5aoy0QggPXO5p-h4cKg2examAragYr52lzpRU64reVWP6qDwd50ghZtqtrq8RoV/s1600/IMG_2832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioNldGqb6ZEa0Y2dM5Hx1v6briZ9zglmHEFyjraMezo_lLbbTia0yZKsNm29tNnIgm-3NyQ1GUCsnKj5aoy0QggPXO5p-h4cKg2examAragYr52lzpRU64reVWP6qDwd50ghZtqtrq8RoV/s400/IMG_2832.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our neighbors with the Geodesic dome,<br />
and non-stop electronic music</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br />
After dinner I started to walk out with others to the playa,
the center of Burning Man, but I turned back before I made it there. I was so
tired I could barely think straight or walk straight, and realized I wasn’t up
for seeing anything spectacular, so I walked back to the tent by myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Picture me an hour later, in the tent alone. I’ve put on my
pajamas and spent 45 minutes going through my nighttime medical routine, taking
everything out of the half-sized cooler which I’d carefully transported from <st1:city w:st="on">Seattle</st1:city> with a bag of ice
so my medication wouldn’t be ruined by the heat. Lyme-fighting routine done, I
lay down, although I had little hope that I would sleep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I closed my eyes, they filled with tears—because there
were three different tracks of electronically generated music blasting into the
tent from three different directions. It was so loud I couldn’t hear my own
breath. My heartbeat involuntarily accelerated to the competing, frantic, synthetic beats. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Among the many things I had bought to prepare for Burning
Man were both earplugs and construction worker’s earmuffs. I had understood
there would possibly be unceasing music, and there would definitely be loud
music. (“That thumping techno beat,” said a friend who had been to a regional
Burning Man event, “it’s going to always be in the background and you won’t be
able to get away from it.”) But the truth was I had no idea what I was in for. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While getting ready for bed I had put in my earplugs and
over them the earmuffs and I still heard and <i>felt</i> the music, blasting into my ears, through my veins and
bones. Desperate, I tried playing a
white noise track I had on my own MP3 device, of waves crashing on a beach.
Instead of drowning out the techno, it only sounded as if someone had setup an
obnoxious, thunderous techno party at the beach. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If the music weren’t so inescapable and exhausting, if my
nerves hadn’t felt so shattered, this would have been funny.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was music transformed, remade into a destroyer god—if
this electronic stuff, pure repetitive, aggravating beats, could even
be called music.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
BRAIN-BODY CONNECTION</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was once in a yoga class when the teacher said, “Now that
we’re in pigeon position, see if you can reach your right hand back to grasp
your right leg at the ankle or the calf, and from there hook your heel into the
crook of your elbow to stretch your ribs.” (or some such complex, yogic
pretzel-ish move) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m not quite picturing how to do that,” one of the
students said. “Can you demonstrate it so I can see what to do?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Actually,” the teacher said, “if your brain can’t follow
the description, it’s a good indication that your body isn’t ready to do it
yet. So just stay in the pose you’re in.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your brain cannot conceive of what the body cannot handle, or
what the brain itself cannot handle, not until it encounters these things in
real life. Before that moment in the tent at Burning Man, I had not been able
to conceive that this assault on my nervous system could possibly happen,
precisely because it was far too much for my nervous system to handle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I lay on the air mattress and cried, and I understood that
coming to Burning Man had been a giant mistake. It occurred to me that I had
written two fantastical/sci-fi short stories about women who are driven almost crazy by ceaseless
music (one of them you can read <a href="http://www.phoebejournal.com/the-dancer-and-the-demigods/" target="_blank">here</a>)—and even those stories the music never reached this pitch. I had willingly walked straight into a nightmare beyond my imagination.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmAAXgZviNbFaHpccL1bhhKuyvtH3cFoNc9wCRIRuiApe3pfgGj9smRC1dZEhm3QEN4_NXmTEHzv-rCX5JhPlggU4WKg8aQ5pn1-KUlK37GgBU_QrkOWE6R4DXVZQaqAQLfUqoEunbdD0v/s1600/IMG_2935.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmAAXgZviNbFaHpccL1bhhKuyvtH3cFoNc9wCRIRuiApe3pfgGj9smRC1dZEhm3QEN4_NXmTEHzv-rCX5JhPlggU4WKg8aQ5pn1-KUlK37GgBU_QrkOWE6R4DXVZQaqAQLfUqoEunbdD0v/s400/IMG_2935.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What I was missing: night scenes from the Burning Man playa</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitoy8NforW8F93hku0LLIzyDsI47wU_z9VH01B5GI-AL6BFXoQ-BhqWqsQCGFMcRPvWowyxVu6M2W_FqrSLn4FREQlN3H9fbY7Rb3IqAR44XPLDHyFPleD_G4ug41J-218nPwpD2LDpH6/s1600/IMG_3156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjitoy8NforW8F93hku0LLIzyDsI47wU_z9VH01B5GI-AL6BFXoQ-BhqWqsQCGFMcRPvWowyxVu6M2W_FqrSLn4FREQlN3H9fbY7Rb3IqAR44XPLDHyFPleD_G4ug41J-218nPwpD2LDpH6/s400/IMG_3156.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNUTZWxC3k28n2QdAD8PD1NgeD9nKpD3ShiLVNDfAxuZsO2vl0vnNWK9WkO7XL8eU6j52l8zgpPLgou_cjjBA24UOVS66EzJSVwd-9iJsX5JkMFw31rG2yyvnqKGW-V1kQyNmVrWzVhLfy/s1600/IMG_2833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNUTZWxC3k28n2QdAD8PD1NgeD9nKpD3ShiLVNDfAxuZsO2vl0vnNWK9WkO7XL8eU6j52l8zgpPLgou_cjjBA24UOVS66EzJSVwd-9iJsX5JkMFw31rG2yyvnqKGW-V1kQyNmVrWzVhLfy/s400/IMG_2833.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At 11:30 pm, my boyfriend, who had walked out with the
others to the playa, came back our tent. I turned away as he unzipped the door
and came in. I didn’t particularly want to see him at that moment--or rather, I didn't want him to see me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had come to Burning Man because several months before my
boyfriend had asked me if I wanted to go.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My boyfriend had not asked me to come with him to Burning
Man, he had asked me <i>if</i> I wanted to
go, and this was an important difference. That past winter, before he met me,
he had decided to go because a group of his close friends were going back that year. When
he asked me if I wanted to go, he had said something along the lines of, “I
don’t want to influence your decision. I won’t like you any less if you don’t
go. Burning Man isn’t the center of my universe and you should only do it if
you want to.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I decided that this was an opportunity to go somewhere and
do something new, which is rare for me, because of Lyme disease and chemical
sensitivy. I was motivated by curiosity, and by a sense of challenge. (Could I
actually manage Burning Man while also managing Lyme?) And let’s be honest, I
was also motivated because I wanted to do this with my boyfriend. I wanted to
go on what amounted to an adventure with him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It would have been very easy at that moment to blame my
boyfriend for the shape I was in, but I couldn’t. This was my own mistake, from start to finish.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re not asleep?” he asked now, when he saw me shift in
the bed. I shook my head. I tried not to show him I was crying. In a few minutes
he figured it out anyway. He put his arms around me and said things intended to
comfort me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s just so loud,” I said through my tears. “I didn’t know
it would be this loud.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said more things that under normal circumstances would
have comforted me, but the music was still happening, and my body was still in
shock. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the same time, I was trying to understand how my
boyfriend could think this was an OK place to be, not just for me, but for <i>him</i>,
a place that was worth driving twelve hours to get to. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What had I seen so far of this man that would have given me
a clue? The way he doesn’t like loud restaurants? The hours he spends tending
his garden and hiking? Or quietly, deftly turning out watercolor paintings? The way he talks
about the importance of getting out into nature, away from electrical devices and the
electrical grid? Or that he decided against buying a piano in part because
playing it would bother his neighbors?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know it’s loud,” he now said. “I remember the first time
I came and I was trying to go to sleep and it felt so confusing, all this music
coming at you from different directions, but then you just close your eyes and fall
asleep.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was then that I understood that my boyfriend, as gentle
and calm and tuned in to music as he is, has a nervous system work that works
entirely differently from mine. That was why he hadn’t warned me clearly about
the electronic dance music. He has the ability to simply block the music out, and so he assumed that I did too. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Soon this gentle, thoughtful man fell asleep in the middle
of the maelstrom. I lay next to him, not asleep. I tried paying attention to my
body. I sought out my breath. Yes, it was still there, if I concentrated I
could feel it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is the oldest meditation technique in the world,
literally: paying attention to your breath. My breath felt like a battle, but I
told myself that as long as I could I feel it, it was some minuscule benefit to
me and I could therefore make it through the night, sleep or no sleep.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This must have done some good because eventually I remembered
there was one last herbal medication I could take, a tincture (called NT Detox)
which I reserve it for when I absolutely can’t sleep. I found it in my medicine
cooler at the end of the bed and used a flashlight to open the little bottle
and take one drop, which is all I usually need to knock me out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lay back down and put my pillow over my head instead of
under it. It didn’t muffle the music, but it was comforting. I found my breath
again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I must have fallen asleep because I woke at 4 a.m. The music
was still blasting from all directions. I fell back asleep and woke again at
7:30. The music was still blasting. The fact that I had slept, however, seemed
like a miracle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got up and found my shoes and started on the two blocks to
the port-a-potty, knowing I’d been a dufus to come to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Burning</st1:city> <st1:state w:st="on">Man.</st1:state></st1:place>
The only thing to do was to get on a bus to <st1:city w:st="on">Reno</st1:city>
and then fly back to <st1:city w:st="on">Seattle</st1:city>.
I would figure out how to do that after breakfast. As I walked, the music faded
away behind me and other sound systems from other camps took over. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The bright glow of sunlight across my face distracted me from my
thoughts, and I looked up from my feet. I took in my surroundings. I was in one
of the most visually stunning places I’ve ever seen.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The morning light across the desert was a fresh, yellow-gold hue. There were breathtaking mountains spiking across the horizon, in browns and russets.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiax95OI4SOa3NjsbZkdXh8sDpGztAGr_Bt8pAx5IyLf_rcTUiH7lYWbvV8u56umErFJk94CGhFkFO5G-S25V5PNP88hzkc46ofhwMNpj8vkSoX09qXpBqlTYzTFScWU6d7LV0SJluI0zD8/s1600/IMG_1157+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiax95OI4SOa3NjsbZkdXh8sDpGztAGr_Bt8pAx5IyLf_rcTUiH7lYWbvV8u56umErFJk94CGhFkFO5G-S25V5PNP88hzkc46ofhwMNpj8vkSoX09qXpBqlTYzTFScWU6d7LV0SJluI0zD8/s640/IMG_1157+%25281%2529.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A corner of Black Rock City in the morning. My iPhone photography skills don't do it justice.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The camp-city around me was a variety of tents and hexi-yurts, which
are yurt-like structures made out of silver-sided, insulated sheeting. The
hexi-yurts looked both ancient and futuristic at the same time. People were
also putting up lace-like netting for shade, and building towers that would be
the markers for their camps. I saw bikes tricked out to look like animals, and people
wearing playful, elaborate clothing it was joy to see. Everything looked as if
I’d stepped onto one of the best sci-fi movie sets imaginable.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsYJo7XF231Keqa03YCBoA3TEtleTkJ-v-D1iXM9G-e0iCxvZBlAmmdzRCUtnOEuLWCoqwXpfQ-w_2FFov3arvedkBggQPE9QGpMlVnNPVmtq4kulhUSZKyqcEWkSx8y63TOjnTHBoXbPW/s1600/IMG_1284.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsYJo7XF231Keqa03YCBoA3TEtleTkJ-v-D1iXM9G-e0iCxvZBlAmmdzRCUtnOEuLWCoqwXpfQ-w_2FFov3arvedkBggQPE9QGpMlVnNPVmtq4kulhUSZKyqcEWkSx8y63TOjnTHBoXbPW/s400/IMG_1284.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A neighboring camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdnAvhR74tTbHl8PCqRzw6cUsDwEYskFXbdZbmqnkTexX2mZITJ7THf5q4qnPDxfz1h5qU01plqg1oISLvU58yXpK8wilQo_GeiTYzb-fmNUqYXLideqQuSeve3I2AHdw9uoBzn8sHxM5t/s1600/IMG_1287.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdnAvhR74tTbHl8PCqRzw6cUsDwEYskFXbdZbmqnkTexX2mZITJ7THf5q4qnPDxfz1h5qU01plqg1oISLvU58yXpK8wilQo_GeiTYzb-fmNUqYXLideqQuSeve3I2AHdw9uoBzn8sHxM5t/s400/IMG_1287.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A steam bath other neighbors set up, with evap pond</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqSyMaTstKFMNg8QzbFCXGGpuDkAGl82nSJzYedcVkSnyRYJshDbEDhHFCy-PT9RXk_V1Vtd1tP96dY1NdgvPqsTotDI_Fv7xoZOZlZ2ZJhiYb5923aHcBdUEt2kWSdxRmIzMhNnFoM8Oo/s1600/IMG_1291.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqSyMaTstKFMNg8QzbFCXGGpuDkAGl82nSJzYedcVkSnyRYJshDbEDhHFCy-PT9RXk_V1Vtd1tP96dY1NdgvPqsTotDI_Fv7xoZOZlZ2ZJhiYb5923aHcBdUEt2kWSdxRmIzMhNnFoM8Oo/s400/IMG_1291.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another nearby tent</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the far side of the port-a-potties there was no blasting
music. I walked on in that direction just for the sake of the quiet. Someone
was building a giant golden dragon on wheels, the size of a city bus—one of the
art cars I’d heard about. In the far distance was a bright red satin tent that
looked as if it came out of fairytale. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwePfUlvDgFUjUFCcY5Iyr5KSg5CekLffwuPUvHEWcuIySilolu3tf1hB9qseDh6oApot8lPMGZjYvr5_iqhMhy6t8SBFp7EROQ7ZgbI4OLBehyphenhyphenPpN6J8JlaMd0gpKACuEK4__c0Yj3gtr/s1600/Golden+Dragon+2+B.+Man+2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwePfUlvDgFUjUFCcY5Iyr5KSg5CekLffwuPUvHEWcuIySilolu3tf1hB9qseDh6oApot8lPMGZjYvr5_iqhMhy6t8SBFp7EROQ7ZgbI4OLBehyphenhyphenPpN6J8JlaMd0gpKACuEK4__c0Yj3gtr/s400/Golden+Dragon+2+B.+Man+2015.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The golden dragon: when it wasn't touring around Black Rock<br />
City, it rested a few blocks from our camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I drew closer it seemed it was just someone’s tent. I
suddenly felt hungry. Needing breakfast and coffee, I reluctantly turned back
to our camp. When I arrived, the EDM was still blasting and my body and brain
returned to their state of shock.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is the wrenching contradiction of Burning Man. Visually,
it was wonderful. People often compare Burning Man to the movie Mad Max, and
this is partly true. I would say it’s Wes Anderson mixed with Mad Max, mixed
with Steampunk, mixed with Traveling Circus. If you want to be endlessly amazed
visually, go <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Burning</st1:city> <st1:state w:st="on">Man.</st1:state></st1:place> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when it comes to the auditory side of Burning Man, it’s
a disaster. It is entirely acceptable that anyone can blast any kind of music,
most often the worst kind, at the highest decibels possible. People who return
to Burning Man year after year are those who either like electronic music or
have the ability to tune it out, no matter how loud. Even with earplugs,
Burning Man is a recipe for going deaf young.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
THE PRINCESS AND THE MUSICAL PEA<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not able to tune out music. In normal life, I get worn
out by the music playing in so many places. I once felt myself growing
exhausted because a cellist was playing Bach at an outside seating area where I
was having a conversation with a friend—I couldn’t handle both at once. <st1:city w:st="on">Reading</st1:city> or writing while
there’s music is impossible for me. This is the primary reason I don’t ever
spend time in cafes: there’s always music, and it’s always loud. I’ve had
moments when I’ve struggled to finish grocery shopping because of the background
music in the store. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How is that possible?” someone once asked me. “You dance
all the time.” True, I am a dedicated dancer, taking classes and three times a
week and practicing at home. And yet there’s no contradiction. I am all for
listening, actually <i>listening,</i> to
good music and connecting with it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I can’t do is shut it out, which is an ability most
people take for granted. Since I came down with Lyme, this has been impossible.
I remember playing John Coltrane while I wrote my college thesis, and spending
tons of time in coffee shops writing and reading before I got Lyme. Now,
however, I listen to music only while I’m moving to it or doing repetitive
tasks like cooking. (And cooking and music is not the best combination, because
I end up dancing instead of making dinner.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that I am living with Lyme, my brain does one thing at a
time only, and silence is essential for my well-being.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, back at our camp at Burning Man that morning: I did not
figure out how to get on the bus to <st1:city w:st="on">Reno</st1:city>.
I managed to get dressed, brush my teeth, and make breakfast while the multiple
techno played, although all this felt like scaling a climbing wall. I had some
vague thoughts about finding the bus, but it was something that would require
me to pack up my things, dividing them from my boyfriend’s, and then get down
to Center Camp, a place I hadn’t been yet, and navigate through the noise I
imagined would be there as well, to find information on buses. This series of
tasks, by no means challenges under normal circumstances, seemed impossible in
the face of the EDM.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFiVpqEHWgHBFPUDNPDKRgtMRWqIUtQtItPenwuganqRbrJd-rb2MLsPxRp8fFpDIsQmV9e0-d8aqKVZGmLTLmFZYu6_X3mwYgoBMF9BGAMjmnTt8KtNGex-4wOb7z4ZgUl89Bl77ihVtI/s1600/IMG_2839.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFiVpqEHWgHBFPUDNPDKRgtMRWqIUtQtItPenwuganqRbrJd-rb2MLsPxRp8fFpDIsQmV9e0-d8aqKVZGmLTLmFZYu6_X3mwYgoBMF9BGAMjmnTt8KtNGex-4wOb7z4ZgUl89Bl77ihVtI/s400/IMG_2839.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More camp members arrived Monday, and we helped them<br />
put up their hexi-yurts while I contemplated leaving.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so I stayed at Burning Man because my brain was too
paralyzed that first day to leave. And because, despite how tormented I was, I didn't quite want to admit defeat. Not yet. To escape the little musical hell of our camp, I walked
around our section of the city, in and out of zones of blasting music. I went
to a figure drawing session that was in a blessed pocket of silence, and walked
out into the desert for silence. Every time I came back to our tent there was
the music, leaving me feeling like a deer in headlights. Still, I managed to
fall asleep again Monday night. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And something utterly surprising happened Tuesday. That
morning, my boyfriend coaxed me out of the state of shock for for an art tour.
This was my first encounter with the Burning Man’s giant art installations. I
was enchanted and moved and felt utter awe. It made sense for the first time
that I’d come to this place. We rode the oversized VW bus (which, by the way,
was also blasting music, but good music) until we were tired of it and decided
to walk the mile back to our neighborhood, stopping to see friends from <st1:city w:st="on">Seattle</st1:city> on the way. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-pFbWfwddiek8ajH63O3o7xMXXD3iyOZOfdzWbgJ542TOLwa2fCT1awJUmDvyE_VWR_tUnzEZkl-9B_xmTc5JJP3B9UswHcndmW6DGCV4OB8GVDLKd_q2pkC_ulA-mBbJMmtOd9DoiLnu/s1600/IMG_2869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-pFbWfwddiek8ajH63O3o7xMXXD3iyOZOfdzWbgJ542TOLwa2fCT1awJUmDvyE_VWR_tUnzEZkl-9B_xmTc5JJP3B9UswHcndmW6DGCV4OB8GVDLKd_q2pkC_ulA-mBbJMmtOd9DoiLnu/s640/IMG_2869.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An example of the art we saw Tuesday morning</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZYCY81KYGuh-MPAFBpLKM0_dPyMKtt3tSaMEDMmCiYwigOMJljgODXxiRTL_GryqHBJ3XrysNZSzW33A4t9b5rkEIx4VPngE7dLo496W0PxVPlgqKOcAf2m_HeDQvUPmjJcB0fiyeISzm/s640/IMG_2880.JPG" width="480" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The Totem of Confessions from inside (above) and outside (below).</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjua9ubuZbuN5x6k-o_bb9tyj0GzK0B6_uhxZz5wqTSeiFxOao3O5wxHIjoiV8uu-mLUetn-ViPTdGw-81pHXmSeg3oK0MqLO0JgvuH4dQvwEFAlSLD4WwDyZKTpIuHyPOnSQ15w4T2uD8/s1600/IMG_2884.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjua9ubuZbuN5x6k-o_bb9tyj0GzK0B6_uhxZz5wqTSeiFxOao3O5wxHIjoiV8uu-mLUetn-ViPTdGw-81pHXmSeg3oK0MqLO0JgvuH4dQvwEFAlSLD4WwDyZKTpIuHyPOnSQ15w4T2uD8/s400/IMG_2884.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
*<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlymJRLb0seZtIu5RtXVMuaCpzPCd73lK-qzxDmZki-A3Hr8MOhbi39ip6bygLwZ00q9nkUKUJhoZBxknc0YTjST74So1hyphenhyphendLi8c1HxiobSaUZUF_yfXAElVhHSaiZ5biZO3Cee9KcZigN/s1600/IMG_3015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlymJRLb0seZtIu5RtXVMuaCpzPCd73lK-qzxDmZki-A3Hr8MOhbi39ip6bygLwZ00q9nkUKUJhoZBxknc0YTjST74So1hyphenhyphendLi8c1HxiobSaUZUF_yfXAElVhHSaiZ5biZO3Cee9KcZigN/s400/IMG_3015.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">An entrance to the art and activities at the base of the Man (above) and an organ created for Burning Man (below)</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtG2X6oUpC9XVxerEsgKFvyNXPxlWWFktXf10mjUxXBeYRmDAn8Bqc16zNtdgxTcVoqR3Jf9y_mTodTe5c82Pm5L205gcBGDJ7nCIcpdTUWSrW6KrRaH_WZrBmo6k7vXxyYqehaIzjbsOm/s1600/IMG_2861.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtG2X6oUpC9XVxerEsgKFvyNXPxlWWFktXf10mjUxXBeYRmDAn8Bqc16zNtdgxTcVoqR3Jf9y_mTodTe5c82Pm5L205gcBGDJ7nCIcpdTUWSrW6KrRaH_WZrBmo6k7vXxyYqehaIzjbsOm/s640/IMG_2861.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp51XnaW22Io6m45vX5eRHqJEFjwoAavvDd3RgCkJH2tVU72Ukbrf4V8dHd7AGRS0SnC-7dJl45jb6XDkWqGkXTv8LLoamDoRqMWT_a2PB2GrRDu7CviiF9PEsHisYdWsxVNricfMKEiSC/s1600/IMG_2877.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp51XnaW22Io6m45vX5eRHqJEFjwoAavvDd3RgCkJH2tVU72Ukbrf4V8dHd7AGRS0SnC-7dJl45jb6XDkWqGkXTv8LLoamDoRqMWT_a2PB2GrRDu7CviiF9PEsHisYdWsxVNricfMKEiSC/s640/IMG_2877.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
The stained glass ceiling from inside the Totem of Confessions, </div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
and a giant sculpture of a woman.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYxWA1Zm_NoeIQgHeArD9dcycY4y0lCNdlkm9Pxt1LkMLHSBIRK3Zf603mYr5gq-5-phzKS0fgL1AhMYfMYYV-dbc0mreLP7yOrr0aw_Q1FA7gcZM-lzhwRlYEX_qiwmuqnNrQLWtkz3jb/s1600/IMG_2847.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYxWA1Zm_NoeIQgHeArD9dcycY4y0lCNdlkm9Pxt1LkMLHSBIRK3Zf603mYr5gq-5-phzKS0fgL1AhMYfMYYV-dbc0mreLP7yOrr0aw_Q1FA7gcZM-lzhwRlYEX_qiwmuqnNrQLWtkz3jb/s640/IMG_2847.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix80u7z8FxyxVu9fXnIGM_04jJ897jw4VJhyphenhyphenms-oRV6bRlrl6PTcd4I-cgwHYy5sWBq91YDH_SoZb6azI3Pk6SrvPv4ODH-PnU7UGDZle9HrqALuUPDs_qqQg9BdbBo7sXfRLdph-fxXX2/s1600/IMG_2864.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix80u7z8FxyxVu9fXnIGM_04jJ897jw4VJhyphenhyphenms-oRV6bRlrl6PTcd4I-cgwHYy5sWBq91YDH_SoZb6azI3Pk6SrvPv4ODH-PnU7UGDZle9HrqALuUPDs_qqQg9BdbBo7sXfRLdph-fxXX2/s640/IMG_2864.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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A mosaic, altar-like installation at the feet of the Man</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjKrp9WdCVb1tMilBlDAtF1ULHtcUEVhf3mCghZWztz37HUsiOAdx5x7TRQkZ6DpVNJfhFqa6Ies6qLRP1UeoIN4Q5i6lhZdo991pX2OO-dtv87ZCMe60-tPoTxdPqN5LZKFXmELgLB3h/s1600/IMG_2862.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicjKrp9WdCVb1tMilBlDAtF1ULHtcUEVhf3mCghZWztz37HUsiOAdx5x7TRQkZ6DpVNJfhFqa6Ies6qLRP1UeoIN4Q5i6lhZdo991pX2OO-dtv87ZCMe60-tPoTxdPqN5LZKFXmELgLB3h/s640/IMG_2862.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1dHnmbXYul7HssQoCZkWwkuXInFgrXjt-mbnpp0K_QBBlzbayuKxptNFDNsTt14D3HgorH14R6xThtRe6PsvGf1Lp8NXAVUKy7ib-xqo5xlMSJMvi6NZOpGhYxgh8zY_bfCEJdhE_SREE/s1600/IMG_2872.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1dHnmbXYul7HssQoCZkWwkuXInFgrXjt-mbnpp0K_QBBlzbayuKxptNFDNsTt14D3HgorH14R6xThtRe6PsvGf1Lp8NXAVUKy7ib-xqo5xlMSJMvi6NZOpGhYxgh8zY_bfCEJdhE_SREE/s320/IMG_2872.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside the ever-present port-a-potties, the dust was picking up</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVa7NXi2BJtHl2sHXBaUeAAxuZO8I5AEAiOeYF6NIkMd2lO3jxRKKqMIOOqR2NGYa4dozngqRAFPf17RyMJ1FRZPGdwJ2GsHulr8qzwCDuqZFKrZcpatz10X6u6K2DyTFscvMH9TFlVD8y/s1600/IMG_1170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVa7NXi2BJtHl2sHXBaUeAAxuZO8I5AEAiOeYF6NIkMd2lO3jxRKKqMIOOqR2NGYa4dozngqRAFPf17RyMJ1FRZPGdwJ2GsHulr8qzwCDuqZFKrZcpatz10X6u6K2DyTFscvMH9TFlVD8y/s320/IMG_1170.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back our camp, neighbors with assembled hexi-yurt</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
When we got back to our camp and the inevitable techno, I
found I didn’t mind so much. I had adjusted enough that it didn’t seem worth
taking the bus to <st1:city w:st="on">Reno</st1:city>.
I would stay at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Burning</st1:city> <st1:state w:st="on">Man.</st1:state></st1:place> For the rest of the week, the EDM kept
playing, but my brain managed by and large to put it in the background.<br />
<br />
<br />
As the
days passed, I encountered a few pockets of electronic music that was actually good:
creative, melodious, joyful, and energetic. Music it was a pleasure to dance
to, and so I danced. (This, however, was the exception.)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOnfjSF0O6yQMBQBHh5mHDojXZtq7aud28B887yqOj68URV8nNpwK-Dc4pIjb5lSlELhh7wCjZsrB6ahsMyg0hVwNwuKgzHHWSLiP_b4DX9Fhyaexn3dZdHTGR0TuQmNoW7tWKu68QnXx8/s1600/IMG_3110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOnfjSF0O6yQMBQBHh5mHDojXZtq7aud28B887yqOj68URV8nNpwK-Dc4pIjb5lSlELhh7wCjZsrB6ahsMyg0hVwNwuKgzHHWSLiP_b4DX9Fhyaexn3dZdHTGR0TuQmNoW7tWKu68QnXx8/s640/IMG_3110.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All dressed up on Saturday night, when they burn the Man. It was cold, so we wore our jackets.<br />
(I'm in the middle, wearing a headdress I made, with my fellow campers Jan and Rebecca.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<br />
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<br />
I also managed to sleep around seven hours a night most of
the week, but I never truly rested. How restful can sleep be under those
circumstances? As the week wrapped up, a sense of <i>just not being well</i> crept into my body. Much as I had loved being
there, had loved doing and seeing things I couldn’t have anywhere else, I
needed to go home. I needed to rest.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCmLb9my32Pb5n6JUGDDfs-C17IYHBkJv2zxd6Rbo4JcK7kOlxI1PF-Wx1F8hh6_sG-Mr6MFz1r-tTtNJzamltnseaov19TFh8EfhFNyMc7FGy1yImC2PovCBUPdYGxVJZeq4P4_n12YS/s1600/IMG_3171.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLCmLb9my32Pb5n6JUGDDfs-C17IYHBkJv2zxd6Rbo4JcK7kOlxI1PF-Wx1F8hh6_sG-Mr6MFz1r-tTtNJzamltnseaov19TFh8EfhFNyMc7FGy1yImC2PovCBUPdYGxVJZeq4P4_n12YS/s320/IMG_3171.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVAKcORz937TgtMxY5k8BJlV_CLFaAz6VRC8RA9Eg3JD-e51sUEmf_8pjLpqTIgNM5pY6eJbjIh-0-PIfWAWq1OhdENm9b7fWYgH3mL0lcero4fDZDXONUdqdEUvbto03Hf2cqTQD_JFqi/s1600/IMG_3172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVAKcORz937TgtMxY5k8BJlV_CLFaAz6VRC8RA9Eg3JD-e51sUEmf_8pjLpqTIgNM5pY6eJbjIh-0-PIfWAWq1OhdENm9b7fWYgH3mL0lcero4fDZDXONUdqdEUvbto03Hf2cqTQD_JFqi/s320/IMG_3172.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We had to organize and dust off all our gear clothes <br />
before we packed the car, but finally we got it done!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
As we drove out of Burning Man and I heard true silence for
the first time in eight days—pure, gentle, comforting silence—my body went limp.
I simply could not move. Or talk, or do anything. Fortunately, my boyfriend was
driving and I lolled my head against the passenger-side window. I felt the
profundity of my exhaustion. I felt, finally, at peace.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7Bb9USwB8SzxOfiydQxB7sk-M5Vo9W98CZyCNOpNc0PG36MTKUxj4OpmPEbqwKrF5kaZjkuZ9O7Vi7qkd_hX7Uc7L6yh8tlHVcbDpC4jCbtmdvdGjoFD5KUfZDelUeKYaK0x_39aatxg/s1600/IMG_3210.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh7Bb9USwB8SzxOfiydQxB7sk-M5Vo9W98CZyCNOpNc0PG36MTKUxj4OpmPEbqwKrF5kaZjkuZ9O7Vi7qkd_hX7Uc7L6yh8tlHVcbDpC4jCbtmdvdGjoFD5KUfZDelUeKYaK0x_39aatxg/s200/IMG_3210.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The road home</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-64370643556641974442015-09-11T12:46:00.000-07:002015-09-22T12:49:21.836-07:00BACK FROM THE STRANGEST TRIP I’VE EVER TAKEN<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve done quite bit of travelling in my life, but Burning
Man was hands down the weirdest trip I've taken. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, it’s practically a tautology to say Burning Man is
weird. Burning Man—the gathering, festival, temporary city, giant party, make-shift religion—is <i>supposed </i>to
be weird, and also wonderful and blow your mind, and that it did (although not
in the way you think, dear reader). So that part of the strangeness was in fact not a surprise, not all that strange. For me the weird surprise was the entire trip--the process, from its start weeks before I left home, to its finish, which is
still underway (I'm still washing the desert dust out of my clothes). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8uPeCj9QyzEfu_h5t3skouySdf4_k1168npP1bniqDtp03jd5IQ68QNYLl43LkUDFJNRp4_cex2hygPx5V5V6_jLxF5okFhN6ittqtm1bbFoqgeP8A9MlxijijlRuChbzUDpomtvkhlEr/s1600/IMG_1314.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8uPeCj9QyzEfu_h5t3skouySdf4_k1168npP1bniqDtp03jd5IQ68QNYLl43LkUDFJNRp4_cex2hygPx5V5V6_jLxF5okFhN6ittqtm1bbFoqgeP8A9MlxijijlRuChbzUDpomtvkhlEr/s320/IMG_1314.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">PaleoGreens & coffee making equipment in my food bag</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But let’s back it up and say:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I DID IT. I was on the road
and in the desert for ten days. I carried my medicine in coolers, which I kept
cold by changing the ice daily. I did my injection in a tent, I translated my
special diet to dried food (Paleo Greens powder, anyone?) and raw foods that
would keep in a cooler (fortunately I’m already fond of sugar snap peas and red cabbage). I exposed
my nervous system to far more stimulation than was good for it, and somehow zen-improvised
my way through. I cried a every other day, rarely got a full night’s sleep, and
for the first 48 hours I was back in <st1:city w:st="on">Seattle</st1:city>
I felt like my body was made out of lead. (I'm now feeling better.) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was complicated, sure, but I’m glad
I went. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw art that was wonderful and inspiring, and I took in as
much as I could of the detailed visual cacophony that was everywhere I turned. I
got caught in outside in the dust storm that made national news, cooked dinner
in a smaller dust storm that didn’t make national news, danced a lot but far
from enough, met interesting people I wish I could have gotten to know better,
and heard far far far too much really bad music (more on that in the next post). I took away some
valuable lessons about taking care of myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivZQ99XscnvWpXAlwTJfVBEIxGGMFgVYVbT8_Sl3Nhe-o9elm007mTknlNo_EWTJsWg_MgnpmcTwUZ_R4QKr7B3e3XLRCoV33hSeibLyHwdeeppbUf7J5wLuHFBHyu4KcUFiQKbqlWNX8B/s1600/IMG_1244.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivZQ99XscnvWpXAlwTJfVBEIxGGMFgVYVbT8_Sl3Nhe-o9elm007mTknlNo_EWTJsWg_MgnpmcTwUZ_R4QKr7B3e3XLRCoV33hSeibLyHwdeeppbUf7J5wLuHFBHyu4KcUFiQKbqlWNX8B/s400/IMG_1244.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A participant who made his bike into a moving fish sculpture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All of that, plus a surplus of love and support, were part of the weird journey.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
WHAT’S WEIRD ABOUT WEIRD?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not the weirdness itself that makes Burning Man strange.
No, that’s far too easy. What made Burning Man so crazy for me, what kept me
marveling every day (besides the amazing visual artistry) was
the effort-to-benefit ratio.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In normal life, the effort-to-benefit ratio at least 1-1, if
not less. For example, by working 40 hours, people have the means to sustain myself
and members of my family the entire week. We make cars on production lines in a
matter of days that people drive safely for years. <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on"><i>Casablanca</i></st1:place></st1:city><i>, </i>shot over the course of several weeks,
became a motion picture people watch for decades. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When it comes to Burning Man, this ratio is inverted. On a personal
scale, my boyfriend and I spent weeks planning, shopping, altering tents,
finding bikes and special lighting, making headdresses (ok, that was just me), then
devoted five days to driving there and back, in addition to hours packing and
unpacking the car (we spent six hours packing up on the day we left, in the
blazing desert sun)—all of it to be there for seven days. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6NCh8SNpbXCgiUcqxgPsNX1wQKVqFCU4Jl9A4cpycsfzCNYF6Rd8LeqFeeEDaBL6HgAa4XRjCCaXLmz9qa8mosuqU0w3GTKHfxvbpw5C0apI-z-28v0XKgLgquhlBQcmZdt6XAvqLwog/s1600/IMG_1380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6NCh8SNpbXCgiUcqxgPsNX1wQKVqFCU4Jl9A4cpycsfzCNYF6Rd8LeqFeeEDaBL6HgAa4XRjCCaXLmz9qa8mosuqU0w3GTKHfxvbpw5C0apI-z-28v0XKgLgquhlBQcmZdt6XAvqLwog/s400/IMG_1380.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the smaller headdresses I wore in the desert</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While we were there, we could easily spend a morning
sweeping dust out of the tent, shaking dust off our bedding, buying ice for the
coolers and pouring the previous day’s melted ice out of the coolers, putting
water into our solar shower bags to we could wash in the evening, etc. The
bathroom (port-a-potties) was several minutes walk away. If you had to pee, it
took ten minutes. I was constantly applying sunscreen and moisturizer. This
also took time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For Burning Man, the norm is to spend a couple days setting
up a camp that will last a week, a camp that somehow contributes to the
gathering itself, by being artistic or quirky, or having a bar open with free
drinks for passersby. Our neighbor arrived and spent two days building a giant,
iridescent octopus that enveloped his jeep. He drove it around the city three
times, then he took it apart before he drove home, <i>to <st1:state w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Alaska</st1:place></st1:state>.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The gold standard is a team spending months building a
four-story tall, heart-breakingly beautiful work of art that is a tower, a
temple, a church and a photography exhibit all at once, and will exist for only
a week out in the middle of the desert—before the same people burn the thing
down, dousing it with fossil fuels so the conflagration will be all the more
dramatic. (Yes, this is terrible on many levels.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDFDVcsIOoQ_EpLrUx5ucezVh5f7GxL9npdMm4vJPjEtyyuZ9ahO3wGKw4SaeFVGcQliZ97rZrkyWSt480ZfaN-OkdwvR0fntRJWj4syMGxTap4yRrFMqtmYkNX0zX0jwW1uRtEvuTvMQc/s1600/IMG_1233.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDFDVcsIOoQ_EpLrUx5ucezVh5f7GxL9npdMm4vJPjEtyyuZ9ahO3wGKw4SaeFVGcQliZ97rZrkyWSt480ZfaN-OkdwvR0fntRJWj4syMGxTap4yRrFMqtmYkNX0zX0jwW1uRtEvuTvMQc/s640/IMG_1233.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Totem of Confessions, my favorite work of art at Burning Man. It no longer exists.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suppose this fleeting quality is what makes Burning Man so
special and so frustrating. There is so much, and you can’t get to it all, and
you make such a colossal effort to be there and to see and participate as much
as you can, and you know that if you could do and see it all your brain would
explode anyway. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet, the effort itself <i>is </i>play and <i>is</i> love.
Although part of the planning and packing and pitching tents was hard and felt
like work, I loved much of it. The drive down and back were part of the
adventure, the hours in the car with my boyfriend were some of my favorite
parts of the trip. Going to the Goodwill to find the most dramatic clothing I
could—it was not a hardship. But then I altered some of that clothing in ways
that make it extremely unlikely I will ever wear it anywhere besides <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Burning</st1:city> <st1:state w:st="on">Man.</st1:state></st1:place>
And it’s extremely unlikely I will ever go back, despite the wondrous
weirdness. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-eF29U6is8UKhlBeSR6GqCpk-nwSd3lVtB3d3c5vXGUpRFfCJssQhxK4N70-jGNIGh6y0zS_DRNEnK4ViMq0jdXW_olaCWw39JLlNtXfhavPMIYiF6beUDd4_9ceCll6gMpXvLtPdPSk/s1600/IMG_1164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF-eF29U6is8UKhlBeSR6GqCpk-nwSd3lVtB3d3c5vXGUpRFfCJssQhxK4N70-jGNIGh6y0zS_DRNEnK4ViMq0jdXW_olaCWw39JLlNtXfhavPMIYiF6beUDd4_9ceCll6gMpXvLtPdPSk/s200/IMG_1164.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Neighbors, with pig</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>More on Burning Man,
including notes from my</i><i> journal, in upcoming posts. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
But this post is mostly going to be about the noise at <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Burning</st1:city> <st1:state w:st="on">Man.</st1:state></st1:place><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span>greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-69308618985838342392015-08-27T12:14:00.001-07:002015-09-22T12:49:10.990-07:00I AM GOING SOMEWHERE!<div class="MsoNormal">
For the past sixteen years, I’ve basically been one of two
places: Seattle and <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Washington</st1:city>
<st1:state w:st="on">DC</st1:state></st1:place>. That’s to say, at my house or
my parents’ house. And that’s it. There’ve been a few exceptions, brief trips
to visit friends in Brooklyn or to car camp outside <st1:city w:st="on">Seattle</st1:city>, once a year at the most, nothing
compared to how I once traveled, studied, and worked in foreign countries--but that was before I came down with Lyme.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For me, part of having Lyme is having chemical sensitivity, sometimes called environmental illness. Going anywhere if you have chemical sensitivity can
be daunting. Just walking into a building where there’s fresh paint can make
you feel sick. Long distance travel can feel like an exercise in self-destruction. At the airport,
you will breathe in massive quantities of jet fume. On the plane, you can get
trapped sitting next to someone bathed in perfume. If you choose the wrong seat
when you buy your ticket, you will inhale even more jet fume while in the air.
(So here's the itp of the day. WHERE TO SIT ON AN AIRPLANE IF YOU HAVE CHEMICAL
SENSITIVITY: anywhere in front of the wing. Yes, if you sit towards the front
you’re more likely to die in the <i>unlikely</i>
event of a crash, but if you sit towards the back, behind the engines on the
wings, you are guaranteed to inhale quite a lot of exhaust.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Staying in hotels is also troublesome. It means calling
ahead to request they don’t use air fresheners in the room, and also bringing
your own sheets in case you’re allergic to the detergent they’ve used on the hotel
sheets. And after all that, you still might be allergic to the carpet. Then
there’s all that medicine to organize and pack up. And don’t get me started on at eating
out at standard restaurants when you’re on the anti-inflammatory diet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When going to visit friends, this whole
princess-and-the-toxic-chemical-special-diets-pea routine is the perfect recipe for being an
annoying house guest. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s no wonder that on my own momentum I ping-pong back and
forth the between two houses I know are healthy for me, my own and my parents’.
It’s far easier to stay home, find interesting things to do in the city where I
live, and invite people over to my place.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then this past March I went speed dating. I met a guy who
was artistic and creative, <i>and</i>
into eating healthy food and avoiding the toxic chemicals. (A man who uses Dr. Brommer’s soap gets a million
bonus points from me!) When I first walked into his house I felt a wave of relief and happiness. I wasn’t allergic to anything! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few months ago, this guy asked me if I wanted to go to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Burning</st1:city> <st1:state w:st="on">Man.</st1:state></st1:place>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, of course not. I can’t go anywhere,” was my brain’s
automatic reaction, but I kept that reaction to myself. Because there was also another part of me, the part that was once a journalist, driven by curiosity. That part was someone who once, long ago, could throw a few changes of clothes, a notebook, and
a mini-tape recorder in a backpack, and go anywhere. I lived in
downtown <st1:city w:st="on">Buenos Aires</st1:city> and flew to rural regions
of <st1:country-region w:st="on">Argentina</st1:country-region> to report on protests
along the Bolivian border, I tracked down the historical traces of Che Guevera
in <st1:city w:st="on">Mexico City</st1:city>, and wrote about the homeless squatting in ecological reserves. I tried working on a farm in <st1:country-region w:st="on">France</st1:country-region>, and camped
on remote Mexican beaches for vacation. That part of me apparently hadn’t disappeared
completely, because I found myself saying, “Burning Man? Maybe. Tell me about it.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps I just wanted to dream for a little bit that I could
go somewhere radically different again. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, as I’ve been spending more time with the speed-dating guy,
I’ve taken the leap and done some travelling with him in small doses. We’ve taken a trip
to <st1:placename w:st="on">Kittitas</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">County</st1:placetype>
(apple country) and some trips to a house on <st1:place w:st="on">Puget Sound</st1:place>,
about 90 minutes away, but this was the sort of travel where we packed our own
sheets and food, and everything went off without a hitch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Burning Man is also the kind of travel where you bring your
own sheets and food, and tents and other gear for living in the desert. The desert camping part sounded daunting. So I read a few things on the internet about <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Burning</st1:city> <st1:state w:st="on">Man.</st1:state></st1:place>
It didn’t seem that I’d be roughing it beyond my capacity. I had a long
conversation with my naturopath about it. Her husband has gone to Burning Man,
so she had some ideas for me. We strategized about what I could eat and how I
could take care of my medicine and supplements in the desert. It seemed
possible. Or I should say, it seemed like it might be possible. It seemed worth
the gamble. <br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGC3LuyrIfATh7mxP2ZHInP62vdvPkESmRQDmQi8lHgVxGWW_KdOgHDdDvhEUG6Ua0BGRntfF441_O2RYqmdIpu6WJc56TiHyUxy1fELbiW8U-DLoxYqMf5v6MTyXVUfDKIxYQFTJ4TqjI/s1600/IMG_1129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGC3LuyrIfATh7mxP2ZHInP62vdvPkESmRQDmQi8lHgVxGWW_KdOgHDdDvhEUG6Ua0BGRntfF441_O2RYqmdIpu6WJc56TiHyUxy1fELbiW8U-DLoxYqMf5v6MTyXVUfDKIxYQFTJ4TqjI/s640/IMG_1129.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm making stuff to wear at Burning Man.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I said yes, I’d go to Burning Man. I’ve been doing a lot
of planning and packing and ordering special items in the past few weeks. And now
Burning Man is just a couple days away. I am a little scared. There will be generators and loud music, lots of flashing lights and people everywhere, plus dust storms and heat--any number of things could go wrong, including sensory overload. I'm as prepared as I can be for that.<br />
<br />
But there will also be a temporary Utopia of art, dance, yoga, lectures, acceptance, and (I'm told) everything you can imagine. Plus I can wear the costumes I made for the Seattle Solstice Parade, and all the other glittery clothes I own. (And some that I don't own, thank you, generous friends!)<br />
<br />
So mostly, I'm excited. I may love it, I may hate it. I may do both. I might go home early on a bus if it doesn't work out, but I'm planning to explore and have fun annd leave after seven days. We'll see what happens!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3-zOfqrfTui512q1HZMHTBrnNbgOEeUgRDPwWc4UGsUayTomdQEq3tWoye5VEC94yQ2O7HUtc3ETxaCDtEdCEBbNEwpyeSU7TXQIF727SdGxLa26FCGobdTkcjymCyDvEADSDR2DmR7Ip/s1600/IMG_1123.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3-zOfqrfTui512q1HZMHTBrnNbgOEeUgRDPwWc4UGsUayTomdQEq3tWoye5VEC94yQ2O7HUtc3ETxaCDtEdCEBbNEwpyeSU7TXQIF727SdGxLa26FCGobdTkcjymCyDvEADSDR2DmR7Ip/s200/IMG_1123.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Goggles--ready for desert dust storms!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
</div>
greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-49303446759095474292015-08-20T22:20:00.001-07:002015-09-24T15:29:27.995-07:00GOING TO ELEVEN<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaK9GWttFJYCKGVs7rZGGYTKRJftdi4WKue66XnvcvJ04jNxXSWr5uD4Hp8Qcs2yPHEnoYgl0-iL3Gi1qBwyAepJ4Y0g-gpiY0PIs2lJI0gEdr2EqSqbXZiuEtEXkmviIISUbn8nt5-J3V/s1600/photo+1+%25281%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaK9GWttFJYCKGVs7rZGGYTKRJftdi4WKue66XnvcvJ04jNxXSWr5uD4Hp8Qcs2yPHEnoYgl0-iL3Gi1qBwyAepJ4Y0g-gpiY0PIs2lJI0gEdr2EqSqbXZiuEtEXkmviIISUbn8nt5-J3V/s400/photo+1+%25281%2529.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The backyard, a place for yoga and in general doing things slowly</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i>A
week ago I had a day that didn’t go as planned, thanks to Lyme, but I managed
to jot down these thoughts in the evening. So here’s another post, a bit
overdue!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i> </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i>From
Weds August 12:<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I pulled myself
out of bed this morning feeling far too spaced out—not the regular morning
aches, but a floating, almost loopy feeling that I recognized. It’s my brain’s
way of disconnecting from how at the bottom of it all, there’s something
crummy going on. Although it was a weekday, my boyfriend had spent the night
because he was going away in the afternoon, and we’d both been hoping for a bit of connection in the morning. Knowing I wasn’t capable of even a
few minutes meaningful of conversation, I encouraged him to get an earlier
start on his trip than he’d planned. It didn't make any sense for him to hang around, with the way I was feeling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Alone, it was a
little easier to face the complicated tasks that lay ahead—picking
up the dog’s leash, for example, and putting it on the dog; pulling the door key from my pocket,
inserting it in the front door and turning, then walking out to the sidewalk
with the dog. These things are not hard, but this morning they seemed far too
much for my brain and body. It was as if my surroundings were a giant boulder and I’d
woken up as Sisyphus—yes, again, this morning, <i>again. </i>My soul and the world were not one.<i> </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
It
was a day for doing everything slowly. After I managed by a small godsend to make
myself coffee, I opened the story I was working on and wrote at a meandering
pace while I ate an apple, setting aside the goals I’d had for getting certain
things written. An hour or two passed while I inched along like a sloth, and I
dropped my plans of doing errands. It wasn’t that I was tired so much as it
felt like my brain was living in one world and my body in another, and how was
I to get the two of them together into the car, and after that go shopping?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
do a kind of mind-body therapy called Self Regulation Therapy (SRT), and my angel
of a therapist calls this feeling dissociation. When we reach the point of
dissociation, the brain is simply overwhelmed with whatever’s going on in the body,
and often vice-versa. Which brings us to the question of why. Why today, in
particular, was I feeling what I was feeling? I had some suspicions. My Lyme
meds probably needed readjusting, for one. I don’t sleep well if I don’t have
enough Lyme medication in my body, and over the weekend I found myself wide awake at 3
a.m. <span style="line-height: 200%;">I’d scaled up on one herbal tincture perhaps a little too much in order to get to sleep, s</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">o I probably now had an excess of toxins from dead Lyme bacteria in my body,
more than I could comfortably handle.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
That might answer the question on the technical level, the Lyme disease level, but these
technicalities usually just leave me feeling rotten for a day or two. Why the
dissociation? At another level I knew it was my body’s reaction to too much stuff
going on--meaning not enough attention to the illness I’m
living with.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I tend to be reclusive, spending my days at home where I can write and at the same time hide
from all the loud noise and toxic fumes and demanding social interactions of
the greater world. At the end of the day, I usually come out of my turtle shell
and go for a long walk or swim with a friend, or to dance class. Then I come
home and eat insanely healthy food for dinner, followed by a 40 minute medical
routine that includes counting out three or four different herbal tinctures
drop by drop, mixing up powdered supplements, some in water, some in juice, taking a wide array of pills, making herbal teas that I will drink during the night, and finally giving myself
an injection. (Yes, it all seems crazy to me too, and I do it because it works and keeps me off antibiotics.) After all that medical stuff, I'm exhausted, so I go to bed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
But this year (the
year I am 42, for all the Douglas Adams fans reading this) the Universe has been
throwing me a few loops. The Universe has been coming on strong, messing with
my hermit-writer-chronic-illness-management routine. The Universe has been
asking me a lot of questions that have only one answer: Yes.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i>Would you like to take a week long, all day
writing class with one of your favorite authors?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i style="line-height: 200%;">Would you like to date an extremely cute,
intelligent, and interesting guy?</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i> Would you like to get a literary
agent?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<i> Would you like to be one of the lead
dancers at the start of the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Fremont</st1:place></st1:city>
Solstice Parade? (For non-Seattlites, that’s the city’s big, annual arts
parade.) <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>And make your own dancing girl costume, with
feather headdress? <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Would you like a visit from one of your
dearest friends that same weekend?<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; tab-stops: .5in 1.0in 1.5in center 3.0in;">
<i> </i>Yes
yes yes yes yes<i>.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The
Universe threw in a few other socially demanding activities, like changing
roommates and hosting a fundraising party for said Solstice Parade—and then
just when it seemed things would chill out for the 4<sup>th</sup> of July,
instead I spent the holiday meeting many of the cute guy’s numerous relatives—well,
none of it’s been bad. In fact it’s all been pretty wonderful. It’s also quite a
lot for a quiet, reclusive, writerly-type.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
It’s been as if Nigel
(to use another mythic number from pop-culture) has just cranked his
custom-made amplifier all the way to eleven and has kept it at eleven for
months and months. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
It
was almost inevitable that one day I was going to wake up feeling dizzy. Instead
of errands, I had to slow things down, and do something that would allow my mind to reconnect with my body. I set my timer for thirty minutes
and did yoga at a lingering pace. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Calves-hips-breath-brain.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Brain-breath-torso-toes.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<i>Brain, say hello
to Body. Body, say hello to Brain. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
Inhale-exhale, bend
and straighten, and over again, as slowly as I needed. And then it came, the
connection. Everything felt awful. My brain hurt and my body felt like it was
made out of gray, murky, unpleasant muck. The dizziness was gone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
So why do it? Why
not just stay dissociated? Spaced out and dizzy isn’t so bad, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I know from
experience that no good will come of it. The spaced-out feeling only gets
bigger, until everything seems impossible, including all-important dancing and
writing, and the paramount of activities, sleep. And the reconnect, when it
does come, feels like Armageddon. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
The reconnect
today was unpleasant, but only about a four on the scale of unpleasantness. Four,
you might ask, out of what? Well, I’m realizing I don’t know. The scale of unpleasantness
might go to eleven, or eleventy-one, or one thousand and eleventy-one. But I do
know that a four on the unpleasantness scale isn’t so bad. There was still plenty
of goodness around, and I was thanking it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I thanked goodness
for the dishwasher—most beautiful invention!—and I thanked goodness for my own
particular dishwasher because it needed unloading, a realistic goal at that
moment, hard but not impossible. I thanked goodness for having a life that
allowed me to go at the slowest pace on days like these, plate by plate and
spoon by spoon. I thanked goodness for the dog, who keeps me company when it’s
too much to have people around, and soon I thanked goodness again for the dog,
who requires me to get up and walk a little bit every few hours, no matter
what. I thanked goodness for my house that can sometimes look a little disorganized
and shabby, but is always bright with daylight.<br />
<br />
I thanked goodness for the
backyard, full of things that grow, quiet and green. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br />
And I thanked goodness that I’ve been through days like these enough times to have faith it would
get better. So I made my way through the next few hours, until it was time to
rest. I lay down on the bed and listened to someone on a podcast read Michael
Cunningham’s story, “White Angel,” and I marveled at Cunningham’s beautiful
sentences. Before the story could come to its sad ending, I fell asleep—the
kind of sleep that overtakes you with indomitable force, the kind of sleep that
feels as heavy as iron dragged from earth’s core. I woke out of that deep
blackness, realizing oh so gradually that I was myself: I was Noelle. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
I was in my own
bed. I could feel the bed beneath me. (I think this is called coming to your
senses.) I didn’t even have to remind myself to be thankful for the bed. I just
was. I felt the thanks and the goodness throughout my body, a feeling of peace
and comfort between my body, my brain, and my surroundings. This is why it’s
important to slow things down, as hard as it can be sometimes--because there is simply no substitute for it, and because it makes all the difference. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-41844019502949929282015-07-13T13:45:00.000-07:002015-09-24T15:30:15.056-07:00GREAT PODCAST ABOUT LYME. THANKS, DIANE!<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302947998px; line-height: 17.563634872436523px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Diane Rehm has been great about covering Lyme disease, and getting the full story out there about diagnosis and treatment. In this show she does have a doctor on there who says there's no such thing as Chronic Lyme (makes my blood boil) but she also has a couple doctors on there giving the opposite POV--that is to say, the POV that corresponds to the experience of so many Lyme patients out there!</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302947998px; line-height: 17.563634872436523px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<a href="https://thedianerehmshow.org/shows/2015-07-08/its-lyme-disease-season-what-to-know-about-contracting-diagnosing-and-treating-the-disease" rel="nofollow" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">https://thedianerehmshow.org/…/its-lyme-disease-season-what…</a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302947998px; line-height: 17.563634872436523px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Let your friends an<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">d family know about this podcast.</span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.63636302947998px; line-height: 17.563634872436523px;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
Also, regarding the Lyme/tick/mouse cycle mentioned on the program, my family has been using Daminix tick tubes to help stop it.<a href="http://www.ticktubes.com/index.html" rel="nofollow" style="color: #3b5998; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://www.ticktubes.com/index.html</a></div>
</div>
greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-76747137751926528182015-06-07T11:26:00.001-07:002015-06-10T10:43:55.273-07:00ADVENTURES in HERBAL TREATMENT FOR LYME<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve received requests from readers
for more updates on the combination of Lyme-killing herbs I take, and I’ve finally gotten around to
it. This going to be a spare-no-details-nitty-gritty medical post, so
non-Lymies, you might want to look away!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3qpZ3fVrAPt7Ixo4067_OwlEtMbyK1JiYuKS5qLJjYfOE4KtBvfhKxYan4NrpF15KahyphenhyphenAIDc0thWBdYahoIMGzIOtFnG30lAoQsl38ZO85iBsX_8SLFnLFytXxBio7qBJUZdJ3eb0HQMI/s1600/Dipsacus-sylvestris+teasel+19th+century+illustration.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3qpZ3fVrAPt7Ixo4067_OwlEtMbyK1JiYuKS5qLJjYfOE4KtBvfhKxYan4NrpF15KahyphenhyphenAIDc0thWBdYahoIMGzIOtFnG30lAoQsl38ZO85iBsX_8SLFnLFytXxBio7qBJUZdJ3eb0HQMI/s400/Dipsacus-sylvestris+teasel+19th+century+illustration.jpg" width="276" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dipsacus Sylvestris, or teasel, one of the herbs I take<br />19th century illustration, anonymous</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u>
<u><br /></u>
<u>BACKGROUND (skippable if you’ve read the blog before)</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spent eight years of my adult life (age 26-34) scarcely
able to stand up or walk, or read or write, due to an illness doctors could not
diagnose, and which many people told me was all in my head. Once Dr. Marty Ross
diagnosed me with Lyme, I took antibiotics for the better part of five years,
and they brought about a miraculous change for me. Heavy-duty antibiotics got
me up on my feet, walking for miles, then running for miles, and learning swing
and Afro-Brazilian dance. Most importantly, I was able to read and write again.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Writing again does not mean charging around foreign cities
working as a journalist, which was my job before I got sick. I work at home,
writing short stories and this blog, taking little naps, and following a strict
diet and a complicated medical routine, because I still have Lyme. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So the miracle of the antibiotics was not a 100% cure, but
to it’s best not to get nit-picky about miracles. From bed-ridden to running
five miles is still a miracle, even if, confusingly, you can’t get through the
day without a nap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Five years on antibiotics was enough, however. In 2013, I
decided to stop pharmaceuticals and shift to herbs. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>THE REASON FOR TAKING HERBS</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before I started this particular combination of herbs, called the Samento Banderol Protocol, my treatment
approach had been ‘War on Lyme’: fight as hard as I can now (no matter what the
side effects of antibiotics), in exchange for feeling better down the road.
This was the right decision at the time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Years and years of a full-scale war inside your body, no
matter how miraculous, ends up wearing down your soul. When I decided to switch
to the Samento-Banderol protocol, I was not expecting to get stronger or reduce
my lingering Lyme symptoms. I was essentially calling a truce. A truce meant
ceding a certain amount of territory to the enemy. I was willing to give <i>borrelia burgdorferi </i>(aka the Lyme bacteria)<i> </i>30-40% of my time/energy/mental space,
in exchange for having the rest of my life for myself. To extend the war metaphor,
I would need some serious border patrol to keep my enemy on its side of the
line. That’s where the herbs came in. Medicinal herbs = border patrol. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>WHAT I LOVE ABOUT SAMENTO-BANDEROL</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first thing I love: there are scientists researching
this herbal combination. In lab experiments, Samento-Banderol compares
favorably to antibiotics, especially on one of the big Lyme issues, biofilms.
Thank you, Dr. Eva Sapi, for spearheading this research and breaking new ground
on Lyme and biofilms. You are one of my heroes!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The second thing I love about Samento-Banderol: It works.
The past year in particular, I have been feeling really good, albeit by ‘I-still-have-Lyme’
standards. The progress I’ve made while taking the herbs is not a giant change,
but it’s noticeable. To my surprise, I’m finding I’m more energetic and have
more mental clarity than a couple years ago. I’m sleeping better, running
further, getting to dance class more consistently and hence dancing better,
which makes me so very happy. (Have I mentioned before, in this blog and
elsewhere, <a href="http://lymestories.blogspot.com/2013/05/hurrah-for-dancing.html" target="_blank">how happy dancing makes people</a>?) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>MY MODIFICATIONS TO THE PROTOCOL</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First modification: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The herbs Samento and Banderol come in tinctures (made by Nutramedix and readily available on Amazon, but not at many other places). When Dr.
Marty Ross started me on the protocol, he prescribed two doses per day, of 10
drops each of the herbs, working my way up to 25 drops each. I took a dose at
bedtime and it helped me sleep through the night. I took a dose after breakfast
and it helped me go back to sleep after breakfast, something I was not planning
on. In fact, it knocked me out for rest of the morning.<br />
<br />
This was not the aim of taking herbs! I had enough of having
half my day wiped out when I was on antibiotics. I switched the second dose to after lunch (nap time) and the
rest of the day was shot. What to do? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I’ve never been one for following rules if they don’t
make sense, so I tried scaling back the nap-time dose, while increasing the
bedtime dose. This gave me more productive daytime hours, and I was sleeping
better at night. Finally I scaled the nap time dose down so much I was taking
one drop, and then I thought, <i>why bother</i>?
I gave up on taking the daytime dose and packed everything into one giant hit
at night. (I ran this change by Dr. Ross and he said it was fine.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
FUTHER MODIFICATIONS</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJ9ZsmB-ibnUa9iwpjGFNQPTmh4ZahoWFAmIY3F6UMNNVRE-CK_viqghr_HnlpVUcrqDUqlUMSg4wnzMRyRyM8wrQFeYlWl8yP9-wa6_9wxxJ9Bxm7rCjrYPxVC5Ph7B4o5lUe2C_4cN3/s1600/IMG_0883.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGJ9ZsmB-ibnUa9iwpjGFNQPTmh4ZahoWFAmIY3F6UMNNVRE-CK_viqghr_HnlpVUcrqDUqlUMSg4wnzMRyRyM8wrQFeYlWl8yP9-wa6_9wxxJ9Bxm7rCjrYPxVC5Ph7B4o5lUe2C_4cN3/s640/IMG_0883.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The herbs in question, hanging out with some fresh mint in my kitchen</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My personal protocol, which has evolved over a couple of years, should really be
called the Samento-Banderol-Teasel-Pau D-Arco protocol. I’ve added these last
two herbs in at the suggestion of my naturopath, Nesreen Medina. They have
greatly reduced some additional symptoms. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The herbs (like antibiotics) are more effective when
rotated. Cumanda is another herb I rotate in, often dropping out Banderol.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For those who aren’t on blood thinners: I found taking these
herbs in conjunction with blood thinners is important. (I’m on Heparin and
Lumbrokinase.) At least according to my schematic understanding of Eva Sapi’s
research, these herbs and Chronic Lyme are all about biofilms, which are the biological chain mail <i>borrelia burgdorferi</i> weaves around itself. Blood thinners assist in breaking
down and clearing out biofilms. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stay tuned. More on my implementation of the Samento-Banderol
protocol soon!</div>
greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-74154652227920497272015-04-24T10:42:00.001-07:002015-09-24T15:32:00.129-07:00THE PUNK SINGER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAWuZ135U_5pxQmo8PIbgv0gKQoDm8xCC_SL8stKluCWpuhdzNE0KJvsjqAmQZPf6PpFK5nSAVmR6crdPfWJiv9YUEhVlii5RE2oNI7Rl7PDqXN80BX83KaQH2z2JSGRZ_hWmWkImLqLM4/s1600/The+Punk+Singer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAWuZ135U_5pxQmo8PIbgv0gKQoDm8xCC_SL8stKluCWpuhdzNE0KJvsjqAmQZPf6PpFK5nSAVmR6crdPfWJiv9YUEhVlii5RE2oNI7Rl7PDqXN80BX83KaQH2z2JSGRZ_hWmWkImLqLM4/s1600/The+Punk+Singer.jpg" width="282" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The musician Kathleen Hanna is coming to <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Seattle</st1:place></st1:city> next week, a good
inspiration to get this written and up on the blog!<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Warning, this post is a SPOILER for </span></i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The Punk Singer. <i>If you haven’t seen the movie, go watch it now, then come back here and
read.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">*<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Last summer, the movie <i>The
Punk Singer </i>was chasing me down. In June, Beth, from my dance group, told
me I should watch a movie she’d just seen<i>,<span class="apple-converted-space">
</span></i><span class="apple-converted-space">a documentary about the lead singer from Bikini Kill. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">“You know,
Kathleen Hanna?” Beth said. “She had Lyme disease and she had to stop singing.”
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I smiled and
nodded at Beth and thought to myself, ‘Nope, I’m never going to watch that
movie.’ <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">A couple weeks
later, my friend Lynn told me I should watch <i>The Punk Singer.</i> Again, I
thought, ‘Nuh-uh.’ <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">A few days later
my new roommate, Jessica, told me I should watch <i>The Punk Singer. <o:p></o:p></i></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Given the way
it was chasing me down, this movie might as well have been green eggs and ham. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And I did not
like it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Why the Sam-I-Amitude? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">It’s not that
I’m against punk music. To the contrary, my feet have spent their share of time
in Doc Marten’s, and I still have The Clash and The Ramones in my playlists,
although I’d never heard of Bikini Kill (they were a few years after my punk
days, it turns out).<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">No, it was the
thought of a movie about someone with Lyme disease that turned me off. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I devote too
much brain space to Lyme as it is. All day long I’ve got Lyme threaded through
my thoughts and in my peripheral vision. The one time I am reliably <i>not</i>
thinking about Lyme is when I’m reading or watching a movie. I didn’t want the
damn disease invading that corner of my life too.</span></span><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">On the other
hand, I maintain the policy that when the universe shoves something at me three
times, I should give it some consideration.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Filled with doubt, I found <i>The
Punk Singer </i>on Netflix and started streaming.<i> </i>‘Just the first ten minutes,’ I told myself, ‘and if I don’t like
it I’ll watch something else.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I watched through to the end and never once thought about turning
it off. Kathleen Hanna is a force to behold, one of those people you’re ready
to worship for her sheer energy and creativity and the positive impact she had
in the world. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I was out of the country in the late 90s, when the riot grrls were
happening, so the movie filled me in on that later wave of punk music and
feminism. The documentary also covers Kathleen Hanna’s second band, Le Tigre
(post-punk electronica) whose music is fantastic. (I’ve been listening to Le
Tigre non-stop since I saw <i>The Punk
Singer</i>.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">And there was one more remarkable thing about this documentary. An
hour into it, I was sobbing. Because, yes, this is also a movie about Lyme. I
was experiencing text-book catharsis thanks to <i>The Punk Singer. </i>The tears washed through me with a momentum of
their own, tapping into a sadness I’m usually quite good at ignoring. I felt
release, and connection, and that I wasn’t alone in my daily battle with this
alien thing in my body. I felt (and this to me makes no sense, but I felt it so
I’m going to say it) that if someone as amazing as Kathleen Hanna had Lyme,
then it wasn’t quite so bad that I had it too.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">The moral of the story: I was wrong not to want to watch a movie
about Lyme. Far from being a drag, it was a good thing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">In fact, <i>The Punk Singer</i>
beats out all the other movies I’ve seen about Lyme. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I acknowledge that ‘Movies about Lyme Disease’ is not a big
category. OK, this is a category contains two movies as far as I know, and <i>The Punk Singer </i>is one of them. So I
might as well just say it: I prefer <i>The
Punk Singer</i> to <i>Under Our Skin</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Why? Because <i>The Punk Singer
</i>is a movie about Lyme, but first it’s a movie about a remarkable person, someone
intelligent, headstrong, talented, and putting that talent to good use. It’s
about a woman determined to change the world, who was moving people with her
music, inspiring younger women to stand up for themselves, and bringing a
much-needed dialogue about sexism back into the national conversation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Just when the world was saying feminism was a washed up remnant of
the past, Kathleen Hanna brought feminism back by bringing punk rock to
feminism—<i>how cool is that</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Then Lyme crashes in and knocks her to the ground. Kathleen stops
singing. She disappears from the music scene and no one knows why. She goes
years without a diagnosis. (Is this sounding familiar, my fellow Lymies?) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Once she’s diagnosed, Kathleen bravely lets the documentary film
makers record her struggle with her Lyme meds, including some not so flattering
moments. The camera follows her as she later makes her way back into the greater
world, still giving herself injections, managing to keep Lyme at bay so she can
take the stage again; but the movie leaves us with indications that Lyme might
always be a struggle for her, and that she’s now negotiating her way through
life on radically different terms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Do you want your friends and family to understand what Lyme is
like? Tell them to watch <i>The Punk Singer.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-22301533197656822532015-03-09T14:17:00.002-07:002015-09-24T15:30:39.564-07:00REMEMBERING CAROLYNOne of the dearest people in the world to me, Carolyn Humphreys, passed away just about a year ago. Carolyn was the doctor who got me out of the hole of Lyme. She was also an angel of a person. I describe her in <a href="http://www.lymestories.blogspot.com/2014/03/the-saddest-news.html" target="_blank">the post I wrote a year ago</a>.<br />
<br />
I have text book on human anatomy, her old text book that she gave me when I wanted to understand my treatment better. It's become a treasured object. I see it on the shelf and think of her. A I needed to look up the endocrine system, so I took the book from the shelf and turned to several pages that she'd highlighted and made notes on. Seeing the writing that had come straight from her hand made me cry again.<br />
<br />
I have been thinking of Carolyn more in the past weeks, as the crocuses come up, and the sight of them reminds me how I struggled to comprehend her death at this time last year. I can't help wishing she were still alive.<br />
<br />greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-74652358617407423712015-02-14T13:56:00.000-08:002015-02-14T17:04:39.324-08:00AFTER THE WRITING CLASSIf nothing else wonderful or even particularly good happens to me this year, I won't mind, because I took Maria Semple's writing class. (My last post on January 26th was the night before the class started, and I apologize for this late follow-up). <br />
<br />
Maria Semple's hilarious and smart novel <i>Where'd You Go, Bernadette? </i>has been close to my heart ever since I read it 2013. I was excited to see she was teaching a class at Hugo House, the writing center here in Seattle. I've been taking classes for there for past four years in a sort of do-it-yourself writing education.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaR2V2mjFVotw_BDWMUrXP-MG8bKsDxfhofFpBo8Z5Gf2i4Jaqpz3KTgzBo-R_2m2WFvid5ik8YlO-jOvT9vGuFeg7rn1Xzb0Zd3ytDCtkx7UMRRyzJYbY7EDw1uB03-6cnlNi2trddAzF/s1600/bernadette.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaR2V2mjFVotw_BDWMUrXP-MG8bKsDxfhofFpBo8Z5Gf2i4Jaqpz3KTgzBo-R_2m2WFvid5ik8YlO-jOvT9vGuFeg7rn1Xzb0Zd3ytDCtkx7UMRRyzJYbY7EDw1uB03-6cnlNi2trddAzF/s1600/bernadette.jpg" height="400" width="261" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm reading it again and it's still super</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
The intensive novel-writing class sold out in a blink and I ended up on the wait list. I was lucky to get a spot in the class five days before it started. I managed to get through a giant stack of reading in those five days, and then I managed to be in the class Tues-Friday from 9:30 to 3. It was no small feat for me. In fact, it was the biggest schedule commitment I've had since coming down with Lyme.<br />
<br />
Yes, I was a puddle by the time I made it home at 3:30. It was all I could manage to take care of my dog Cleo and get myself turned around to be ready for the next day. It took me the rest of following weekend to get my body back in balance.<br />
<br />
It was worth all of it, and then some. Maria filled the room with her giant, generous, funny personality. That alone would have made it worth it, but she was also an excellent teacher. She also knew her writing craft backwards and forwards. I learned more than I imagined I ever would in four days.<br />
<br />
I feel like I should somehow go on for the rest of this blog post with endless superlatives about Maria and her class but it's enough to say that, given how Lyme puts limits on what I can do and where I can travel (meaning, mostly nowhere), the class turned out to be one of those once-in-a-lifetime things. Despite how crummy I was feeling the Saturday after the class, I managed to sit down for a couple hours to start my novel. I've been working on it every day since, as I'm sure I will be for quite some time to come. It's making me tremendously happy.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-28035853580896801142015-01-26T17:04:00.001-08:002015-01-26T17:04:48.499-08:00LITERARY MARATHON<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDSSHAsZXUobwj6z3UhgYyUiWC1gGEABPcF36kuVkgDAsax9RLzc6wPWwqpEaBFMCGaXlBEuOtQS6sx-JWCYjKOAsNR9HKSETgipcKg4-pcbzGW50LmiYbqvfBC4E8FVYYUxVjqZpJQ_hV/s1600/photo+(7).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDSSHAsZXUobwj6z3UhgYyUiWC1gGEABPcF36kuVkgDAsax9RLzc6wPWwqpEaBFMCGaXlBEuOtQS6sx-JWCYjKOAsNR9HKSETgipcKg4-pcbzGW50LmiYbqvfBC4E8FVYYUxVjqZpJQ_hV/s1600/photo+(7).JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
In December I tried to sign up for a writing class with beloved Seattle author Maria Semple, only to be waitlisted. The first fifteen spots were gone in the first hour of class registration at Hugo House (the city's literary center). So I signed up for the waiting list.<br />
<br />
I learned last Wednesday that a spot opened up. I could take the class after all! The class starts tomorrow, Tuesday. Last Friday all the reading for the class came spewing into my inbox. Some 200 pages. Ten pages from the 14 other students in the class, requiring my constructive comments, and a sample of other writing selected by our teacher. I had three days.<br />
<br />
I never thought I'd read it all, but I finished in time. This morning, actually. I felt triumphant! This afternoon I had to take a longer nap than usual.<br />
<br />
Now comes the bigger challenge: being at class from 9:30 to 2:30 or later, four days in a row. This is the absolute biggest thing I've done, in terms of continuous time commitment, since I came down with Lyme. I am a little apprehensive, but mostly excited. Will keep the blog posted!greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-57519224378203204422014-12-28T20:18:00.000-08:002014-12-28T20:25:25.213-08:00EVERYONE TAKING CARE OF EVERYONE<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqTm5XEEimqIKHvRiH4yqE1-t87Kd2RCmm3H9wpuyeDDTizvbtWA0Cy1bGqG7ep3TxtR_0lV-xkDRzPUJLaqHTA2VTS04sb76ZIT7aKNITFDptaq_0cm0b60DpuK518FHYnqciCukxKaaN/s1600/the+invalid+Wolfgang+Heimbach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqTm5XEEimqIKHvRiH4yqE1-t87Kd2RCmm3H9wpuyeDDTizvbtWA0Cy1bGqG7ep3TxtR_0lV-xkDRzPUJLaqHTA2VTS04sb76ZIT7aKNITFDptaq_0cm0b60DpuK518FHYnqciCukxKaaN/s1600/the+invalid+Wolfgang+Heimbach.jpg" height="400" width="315" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Invalid, Wolfgang Heimbach</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I am home in DC visiting my parents over Christmas and New Year's, an extended visit of a few weeks. My father's recently had a major operation (the Whipple surgery) because he was high-risk for pancreatic cancer. The recovery is harrowing. He's in pain, it's hard for him to eat, he's lost wait to point of looking like an entirely different person.<br />
<br />
Still, it was a good Christmas, with my young nieces and nephew cavorting through the house, and the grown-ups lingering in conversation at the dinner table, and my dad cheering up considerably as the days went by.<br />
<br />
Now the rest of the family's departed, leaving me and my parents, and some extra germs. My mom and I have both come down with a nasty bug my niece and sister-in-law were just getting over when they arrived.<br />
<br />
Also there are the two dogs: high energy Cleo and aging Kramer, who is quickly coming un-house-broken. Among this group of humans and animals, we all (except for perhaps Cleo) need some kind of special help.<br />
<br />
So we're making each other cups of tea, cooking up chicken stock, encouraging each other to take naps, and discussing which nutritional supplements are the most palatable. My father bravely endures an episode of pain while I, still a little flu-ish, load the dogs into the car and take them to the dog park so my mom can get a break from taking Kramer out. None of us wants more pee on the carpet.<br />
<br />
When my dad's not in pain, he tidies up the kitchen and takes Kramer on short walks. My mom does the laundry, because my mold allergy is too severe for me to go into the basement laundry room. I do as many dishes as possible, thinking always of the countless dishes my parents did when I lived here, during the endless years (in reality five) I lay in bed with undiagnosed Lyme disease. (I can never do enough dishes to repay them for all they did for me.)<br />
<br />
My father seems to almost prefer getting through his periodic bouts of pain on his own, but afterwards he wants to talk about what's happening to him, how he's juggling tiny meals and antibiotics and oxycodone (which he hates taking), not to mention a drainage tube sticking out of his side to help clear a post-surgical infection. So I sit and listen, wishing there were more I could do.<br />
<br />
We all help Kramer get up and down the stairs. She <i>wants </i>to go up and down the stairs, far more than we want her to, because she gets confused and stops halfway up or down, unable to take another step and squeaking in senile distress. Someone walking alongside her solves this. We trudge up and down the stairs with her, giving her words of encouragement. And when Kramer has an accident despite all the trips outside, my mom patiently cleans the carpet.<br />
<br />
<i>Life is suffering, </i>I can't help thinking. Maybe not all the time, the way Buddha declared, but a large part of it. Samsara slapstick. And when another day of samsara is done we sit down to dinner, transported to another, more glamorous world of suffering, a film noir starring Bogart and Bacall.<br />
<br />
<br />greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-79016261385065247902014-11-19T15:33:00.001-08:002014-11-19T15:33:28.938-08:00WILLY BURGDORFER PASSES AWAYBefore Willy Burgdorfer identified the Lyme bacteria, the cause of the illness was unknown. He was a great scientist, an expert in spirochetes, and made treatment of Lyme disease possible for hundreds of thousands of sufferers. He passed away this week. Read more and see a video interview with him at lymedisease.org:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://lymedisease.org/news/lyme_disease_views/news-remembering-willy-burgdorfer-1925-2014.html?utm_source=Willy+B+%26+other+news&utm_campaign=willy&utm_medium=email">http://lymedisease.org/news/lyme_disease_views/news-remembering-willy-burgdorfer-1925-2014.html?utm_source=Willy+B+%26+other+news&utm_campaign=willy&utm_medium=email</a>greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-44811003811300535282014-11-18T19:58:00.001-08:002014-11-19T15:40:52.624-08:00ANOTHER LYME PATIENT ON THE MEND and MORE TREATMENT OPTIONS<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15.199999809265137px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px;">
<br /></div>
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For this post I'd like to share a recent email exchange. Mimi asked for a Lyme doctor referral years ago. I was delighted to get an message from her a few weeks ago, and to read she's now doing very well. She's taken a different route with her treatment than mine, so I thought this would be a good way to share some of her tips--straight from her own keyboard!</div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15.199999809265137px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm9bF-GDv4lMZn2aXJ51TxEoh6te9pZCZYMJREexfdC8ycuxwSOqHNJvX00RerJ_JuyAgxRDLCCUK3yvMkq7ILwiFwzJShLWXaoaykB9ElExF6r_AdGr04tCxJJ9MggUB2JnaQ2ZzYobhJ/s1600/Giovanna+Garzoni+(Italian%2BBaroque%2BEra%2BPainter%2C%2B1600-1670)%2BPlate%2Bof%2BAsparagus%2Bwith%2BCarnations%2Band%2Ba%2BGrasshopper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm9bF-GDv4lMZn2aXJ51TxEoh6te9pZCZYMJREexfdC8ycuxwSOqHNJvX00RerJ_JuyAgxRDLCCUK3yvMkq7ILwiFwzJShLWXaoaykB9ElExF6r_AdGr04tCxJJ9MggUB2JnaQ2ZzYobhJ/s1600/Giovanna+Garzoni+(Italian%2BBaroque%2BEra%2BPainter%2C%2B1600-1670)%2BPlate%2Bof%2BAsparagus%2Bwith%2BCarnations%2Band%2Ba%2BGrasshopper.jpg" height="420" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Beautiful vegetables! For both me and Mimi, diet has been a big part of our treatment plan. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">(Painting: 'Plate of Asparagus with Carnations and Grasshopper' by Giovanna Garzoni, 1600-1670)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 15.199999809265137px; line-height: 21.299999237060547px;">
Hi Noelle,<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Remember me? I feel like I've been meaning to email you for years to thank you and I am dreadfully sorry that it has taken me so long. You helped me so immensely during what was the worst time in my life and I just wanted you to know that I did and still do appreciate your support during my Lyme treatment.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I hope you are doing well and healthy. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thank you,</div>
<div>
Mimi</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
***</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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Hi Mimi! </div>
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Thank you for the thank-you! Yes, I remember you! It sounds from your email like you're doing a lot better. Don't think I deserve too much credit, just referred you to the right people, but I'm sooo happy if it helped.<br />
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I am doing much better, too. </div>
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Best,</div>
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Noelle</div>
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*****</div>
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Hi Noelle,</div>
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I'm definitely doing better than I was back then. I hope to never feel that terrible again, but I'm glad I went through it now. I ended up stopping antibiotic treatment at 16 months because, I couldn't digest food or absorb nutrients and I couldn't function in my daily life. The GAPS diet gave me back my life and helped heal my gut significantly. Somatic Experiencing therapy has also greatly decreased the emotional load on my system and improved my resiliency. Years ago, Dr. Nesreen Medina recommended me to an SE therapist who was also on of their Lyme patients and I still see her today.<br />
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I have never really stopped treating, I just switched to natural treatments (acupuncture, herbs, plant stem cells, essential oils) and found that I respond better when I'm not at war with my microbes. I was able to get pregnant again and found that I am one of those lucky people whose immune system actually does better while pregnant so I felt better than I had in years. Too bad I can't stay pregnant.</div>
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My daughter is 1 1/2 now and healthy as a horse and so far my 6 year old son doesn't show any symptoms either. </div>
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I'm still symptomatic, but certainly functional. A few months ago I added Doterra essential oils into my protocol after watching a cool webinar where a woman healed herself from Lyme using only the antimicrobial oils. Cool stuff! I'm also working on re-programming myself and telling my 70 trillion cells that we don't have Lyme anymore. So the journey continues, but in the end it is all positive improvements so I keep working on it. </div>
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Thank you again and I wish you good health!!</div>
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Mimi<br />
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Hi Mimi:<br />
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This is all wonderful to read! I am wondering you would mind if I put your email on my blog? (It's a blog about recovering from Lyme.) </div>
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Recently I've received requests from Lyme patients for information about my medical plan (i.e. what works) and I have resolved to get more positive and practical info up on my blog. I had been neglecting it because I was feeling better and not thinking about Lyme so much! </div>
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I've ended up doing something similar to you (minus the pregnancy). I stopped antibiotics and switched to herbs and recently the anti-inflammatory diet. My quality of life is much better, I have less brain fog and more stamina on Samento/Banderol/Teasel. But I also think having done a few years of antibiotics helped. I don't think I'd be as strong as I am now if I had done the herbs alone. I'm curious about the GAPS diet and some of the other things you mentioned. I'll look them up! </div>
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Best,</div>
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Noelle</div>
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Hi Noelle:</div>
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Of course you can include anything you would like to. I love spreading the word about treatment options. You can slice and dice whatever I wrote and in case you want to include some links....<br />
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Here is a link to the Woman's webinar who used the Doterra Oils and another link I found just browsing:<br />
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<a href="http://aishaharley.me/tag/doterra-lyme/" style="color: #0068cf; cursor: pointer; font-weight: inherit;" target="_blank">http://aishaharley.me/tag/doterra-lyme/</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.faithfulwellness.org/lyme/" style="color: #0068cf; cursor: pointer; font-weight: inherit;" target="_blank">http://www.faithfulwellness.org/lyme/</a></div>
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Here is an overview on the Somatic Experiencing therapy which helped me miles beyond what standard talk therapy was able to achieve. It has shown me that many of my symptoms are actually psychologicial and I have had sessions where I walked in feeling like I needed to crawl back in bed and walked out feeling energized with my symptoms alleviated (nausea, headaches, brain fog, pain <a href="http://www.traumahealing.com/somatic-experiencing/" style="color: #0068cf; cursor: pointer; font-weight: inherit;" target="_blank">http://www.traumahealing.com/somatic-experiencing/</a></div>
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The Gaps Diet (Gut and Psychology Syndrome) is all about healing and sealing the gut with bone broths and fermented foods and within 6 weeks on the Intro Diet, I gained a much-needed 6 pounds, could digest food again, tolerate dairy, absorb nutrients, my spring allergy headaches were almost nonexistent and I wasn't starving all the time anymore. Plus my anxiety was gone. I felt stronger and was able to get pregnant 3 months later. Since then I have done the GAPS Intro diet 3 times and my body goes into serious healing mode each time. I usually experience extreme fatigue and some die off in the first week and I sleep my best while on the Intro diet. It is an amazingly balancing diet. You will either gain or lose weight depending on what your body needs. I have proof of that because I gained when I was gaunt and then I did the Intro again after pregnancy and lost a few extra pounds I didn't need. I have never been able to stick to the full GAPS diet for the recommended 2 years for someone like me, but I still get great benefits from the Intro and have incorporated parts of it in my ongoing diet. </div>
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Links:</div>
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Author's site: <a href="http://www.gapsdiet.com/" style="color: #0068cf; cursor: pointer; font-weight: inherit;" target="_blank">http://www.gapsdiet.com/</a></div>
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<a href="http://primaldocs.com/opinion/lyme-disease/" style="color: #0068cf; cursor: pointer; font-weight: inherit;" target="_blank">http://primaldocs.com/opinion/lyme-disease/</a></div>
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<a href="http://www.lovingourguts.com/what-is-gaps-2/" style="color: #0068cf; cursor: pointer; font-weight: inherit;" target="_blank">http://www.lovingourguts.com/what-is-gaps-2/</a></div>
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Dr. Elizabeth Hesse Sheehan is my primary (currently on maternity leave) and although I have had infrequent visits, she is the one who recommended GAPS, Plant Stem Cells and Doterra Oils. <a href="http://www.experiencehealth.info/default.html" style="color: #0068cf; cursor: pointer; font-weight: inherit;" target="_blank">http://www.experiencehealth.info/default.html</a></div>
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Cheers,</div>
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Mimi</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9F4w0iQbjKFBZkacMxs1y0JMyUi5RUPSyqM0wzcecjDDGrUfD7DnjPlsZPTinlLiSuKHuu-QGceZ5fDM1vPJZqYei-tYtSVXlsqCXMqHiwj1Ma5aBZPdgjKKbDX12jPUFh_pv7zFCy2V1/s1600/Giovanna+Garzoni+(Italian%2BBaroque%2BEra%2BPainter%2C%2B1600-1670)%2BChinese%2BBowl%2Bwith%2BFigs%2C%2BCherries%2C%2Band%2Ba%2BBird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9F4w0iQbjKFBZkacMxs1y0JMyUi5RUPSyqM0wzcecjDDGrUfD7DnjPlsZPTinlLiSuKHuu-QGceZ5fDM1vPJZqYei-tYtSVXlsqCXMqHiwj1Ma5aBZPdgjKKbDX12jPUFh_pv7zFCy2V1/s1600/Giovanna+Garzoni+(Italian%2BBaroque%2BEra%2BPainter%2C%2B1600-1670)%2BChinese%2BBowl%2Bwith%2BFigs%2C%2BCherries%2C%2Band%2Ba%2BBird.jpg" height="458" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another painting by Giovanna Garzoni: Chinese Bowl with Figs, Cherries, and Bird</td></tr>
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greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-15647793830042706342014-11-08T16:54:00.002-08:002014-11-09T12:26:26.738-08:00BE A STATISTIC! IMPORTANT SURVEY FOR LYMIES!<br />
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Lymedisease.org has a new survey, pertinent to possible changes in how Lyme testing in regulated. Here's the link:<br />
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<a href="http://lymedisease.org/research/surveys.html" target="_blank">SURVEY</a><br />
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It only takes ten minutes! Lymies, please take the survey so researchers, doctors, and lawmakers can take our real experiences into account, and we can make progress in diagnosing and treating this disease.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5wBmNs0AsmyWSvyQSLRp9qjc-EEWGOLjAU986LZ78ozBPJcf8xASVQ4WZ-Yivs6yTPSeALeRtflHIza-U_bd20fPXcwPFxbI_cEZnyRAMYOirJZACPZrw-V4qdm6MQD0AGWU4RR3uVF-t/s1600/Woman-and-man-jumping-for-joy_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5wBmNs0AsmyWSvyQSLRp9qjc-EEWGOLjAU986LZ78ozBPJcf8xASVQ4WZ-Yivs6yTPSeALeRtflHIza-U_bd20fPXcwPFxbI_cEZnyRAMYOirJZACPZrw-V4qdm6MQD0AGWU4RR3uVF-t/s1600/Woman-and-man-jumping-for-joy_1.jpg" height="384" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You will feel this good after you take the survey!</td></tr>
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<br />greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-113144552211556004.post-60551931872052763662014-10-28T15:19:00.000-07:002014-10-28T15:20:33.459-07:00Dancers and DemigodsHere's a link to my most recently published story. Many thanks to Phoebe Journal, Alex Henderson, and Ah-reum Han, who did a wonderful job editing!<br />
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<a href="http://www.phoebejournal.com/the-dancer-and-the-demigods/" target="_blank">http://www.phoebejournal.com/the-dancer-and-the-demigods/</a><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7eN5Cxc4Svrc-4WMuKaP7kUYnNBxm6jr5s1OXiB7KRa2ZlAJEf-vSwzdCItkYlV4RcRqw9J9V85Lz2MTR3fDLlvZt2Taz6mDq_6Ry5rrLvN6_sszoZlMDW6_u7X1PqgaoVT0YjZu5wB0-/s1600/terpischore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7eN5Cxc4Svrc-4WMuKaP7kUYnNBxm6jr5s1OXiB7KRa2ZlAJEf-vSwzdCItkYlV4RcRqw9J9V85Lz2MTR3fDLlvZt2Taz6mDq_6Ry5rrLvN6_sszoZlMDW6_u7X1PqgaoVT0YjZu5wB0-/s1600/terpischore.jpg" height="640" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Muse of dance and music</td></tr>
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<br />greeneoisiehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17428608862378844856noreply@blogger.com0