My life with Isi

This first installment of what I have to expect will be an unceasing source of amusement and complaint, will the called: "This is Why We Can't Have Nice Things".

I should probably begin at the beginning and tell you about Isi, or as I carefully and thoughtfully named her Isilien, or as I call her after having carefully thoughtfully named her, Isi. I have to admit to being completely shallow and irresponsible where it comes to how Isi came into my life. Todd (one of my closest, dearest, old schooliest friends) had a neighbor, who had a dog, and who also had medical issues. Todd's neighbor had purchase Isi (who was at that time known as Soix, but I had to change the name. I was ill prepared to deal with the kind of issues that came along with a "Dog named Soix") and could not take care of her. I really didn't need another dog, but she satisfies several irresistible requirements.

• She is (was gonna be) a big dog. After 15 years of cocker spaniels I want and deserve a dog sized dog, not that I don't love the little guys, but I love a big dog.
• She is (was) young. I don't mind taking someone else's dog, and I've adopted adult dogs before, but you are always taking on someone else's issues. When I bring up a dog they behave.
• She is a beauty. Ever since I was five years old I wanted a wolf for a friend (it is of course is wildly impractical to allow a five year old child to own a wolf, so I never got one), but by some roll of the genetic dice Isi looks like a wolf.

I didn't need another dog. I needed Isi, and now I pay the price.

As I said this installment is called This is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, and now I will get to why. Isi is a puppy. 8 months old now. Puppies like any babies need to put everything in their mouths. Isi puts everything in her mouth. We have already gone the mundane rout of: Shoes, boots, brushes, all manner of fruits and vegetables, the other dogs, and rolls of paper towels. This last entry on this list is particularly interesting because it results in what I like to call "Puppy Confetti" (picture roll of paper towels ripped into dime to dollar bill sized shreds. At least it's absorbent.)

But, of course that is not enough for Isi. Isi also eats several things not on the regular diet of canine destruct-o-maniacs.
She ate my cell phone, which does not make for an excuse that anyone is inclined to believe when you want to explain that you never got their call... "my dog ate my phone." it sounds too much like a joke to be believable, yet, here we are.

Isi is also a bit of a goat. Not a real goat. I have never seen a real goat eat a tin can, but I have seen Isi completely enjoy a tin can stolen from the sink. When she is done with it it is a little wad of perforated steel (or tin or whatever they make cans out of)

But oh, where miss Isilien really shines is in the realm of home destruction. I have speculated, but I cannot say what it is that lead Isi to sneak into the basement. I can imagine that once down there many things sparked her over grown curiosity, and one of those things was the Phurrrrrrrrrrrrrr........ of the sump pump. I can only speculate because I was not there. I don't know what possessed her to pull on the pump until it was unplugged, but then not chew it into oblivion. I am grateful to whatever higher power or whims of chance allowed me to solve this problem by plugging the sump pump back into the electric outlet and watching the 8 inches of water in my basement slowly recede. It's Isi, that I know for sure, and if she does nothing else for me she at least will keep me awake.

Cthulhu is Weeding the WildFlowers (workshop essay)

        I have recently been rereading The House of Seven Gables, and every time I read this book I am more amazed at how delightfully snarkey Nathaniel Hawthorne can be (over the past year or so he and I have become very close). I think every time I re-read one of his books, I know him a little better. I know the way he writes his men: weak, selfish, frail creatures; I'll know the kind of girl he falls for every time: strong, pretty, perfect in too many ways. I forgive Nate his failings for a chance to step into his mind, to see his America. I feel like his weird friend who stands in the corner and stares at people. No one talks to me, except Nate, who is there, whispering in my ear.
         If you have read The Scarlet Letter at some point during your high school career you may have developed the opinion that Hawthorne (in the way he writes his characters) is trying to show us the wages of sin. Oh, if only it was that simple. Did you believe that Hawthorne believed that for Hester Prynn and Rev. Dinsdale there should be no path, but degradation and destruction for their sin? That is, as I understand it, the way Nate wants you to feel initially, but in his perfect world, Hester and the Rev live happily ever after (at least that's what he told me). We imagine them in heaven, after all, at the final trumpet. It's the town's people that finally kill Rev. Dinsdale. He can't face the shame and judgment in their eyes, not God's eyes, their eyes. Trust me, Nate wants you to caste yourself as one of the town's people and he wants you to judge Hester and the Rev. and he wants you to feel terrible at the end of the book when you find out what a tool you have been. How could you feel that way? What kind of a world is it we live in? ...seriously. It's the same for the Blithedale Romance, but it's The House of Seven Gables when Nate gets subtle and maybe a bit too smart for the casual reader.
         I think sometimes it is tempting to not think very closely about art and the message any artist might be trying to convey. There is a temptation to think that things are best enjoyed peripherally. Why should something have to make you think? Why can't it be enjoyed on it's surface level? Well, I think my personal need to examine stories stems from a feeling of alien-nation-hood. That is to say I feel like an alien, like I'm from another world. I often don't understand you all, but I want to. You are all, after all, quite fascinating. I think examining literature is a way to understand human nature, not the human nature that they want you to understand, but the real human nature: where the rubber meets the road. Ol Nate and I, we're like two sides of the same coin. I am afraid of humanity because I don't understand, so it seems like a wild unpredictable animal; Nate is afraid because he understands you all too well. He know what you're capable of.

Nate does not believe you can think for yourself; he has no faith whatever in society as a whole. To him, you all are lazy dangerous people, but at least he feels like he can use your best fault against you, and make you feel the way he wants you to feel. (I want to say I don't feel this way, in general, but we were talking about Nate.) The problem comes when you all refuse to look beyond the surface story. Nate sees this as inconceivable (I keep telling him I don't think he is using that word correctly in that context.)
          The House of Seven Gables does the same thing as The Scarlet Letter, but instead of of ill fated Hester and Rev. Dimsdale going to a fate that Nate thinks they don't deserve, it is a monster hidden inside all societies tropes for beauty and desirability. Penelope. I was looking at my notes (I write them in the book as I read) from the last time I read 7 Gables, here is what I said about Phoebe: GOD enough about Phoebe. Phoebe is a house and Clifford want to come inside her... I get it. Phoebe is just so perfect isn't she? She whisks into 7 Gables, re-arranges the furniture, puts a few violets in a vase and Hey Presto! All the Pynchon's problems are on their way to being solved -- as long as we pay attention-- and follow orders. Judge Pynchon has to wait until Phoebe has left to go home visiting her family before he can enter 7 gables, and even then it finally kills him.
           Holgrave is perhaps one of the most appealing men Nate has ever written. His friends are revolutionaries and freethinkers. He practices mesmerism, and is currently making his money taking daguerreotypes (photographs) of people and studying how sunlight brings forward the truth in them. For a 19^th century man Holgrave is pretty fantastic. He is an artist, a free-thinker, and a mystic, and he gives it all up to marry Phoebe, who “can't stand a mystery”. The right kinda woman can really suck the wizard out of a man.
           In Phoebe, Nate has created his most destructive terrifying monster yet. He describes exactly how psychological death can (and usually does ) come in the most appealing form. I could imagine Holgrave, 5 years down the road, wistfully watching as the parade of abolitionists, comeouters, community men, poets and artists march by his door. He used to be an artist, he used to contact spirits. How he would love to join his voice to the singing throng, but Phoebe does not appreciate that kind of behavior. Those are unsavory types. She could not stomach them in her life. Scarey... Nate's got horror down, that's for sure. His monsters at ten times more terrifying than his almost contemporary H.P. Lovecraft's.

Probably a picture of Cthulhu, although, if your not insane... it might not be accurate.

           H.P. Lovecraft (if you have no heard of him) wrote horror that expressed man's inability to comprehend the entire scope of his world. To comprehend the world as it was would drive a mortal mind insane. Lovecraft imagined (or so we are reassured, although it is a matter of debate) the world that we perceive as a hollow crust barely containing: elder gods whose names have been forgotten for eons, blurred lines between mankind and his animal nature, and intelligences so vast that our mind could not comprehend them. His fiction is full of howling voids, alien dimensions, and protagonists that will be forever scared by what they have experienced, but for me Hawthorne's Phoebe will always hold more horror than anything Lovecraft could imagine. Phoebe, in a field of wildflowers, would be diligently weeding with no idea or desire to know which were the flowers or which were the weeds.

Also probably Cthulhu, but again...

While Lovecraft's unholy god's can only be unleashed when the stars are right, and can be banished from the world of sanity and daylight, Nate's monster's are sitting next to you at the DMV, they are making cookies for the church bake sale, they are picketing gay soldiers funerals and bombing abortion clinics, all in the guise of pleasant gentile femininity: unimpeachable, attractive, pillars of society.

So if your not a fan of horror, you can keep reading Nathaniel Hawthorn's stories on their surface, and never realize what he really wants you to see, or as I prefer (on this beautiful October day) you can revel in the horror of soccer moms as depicted in Nathaniel Hawthorne's The House of Seven Gables.

Yoggsogoth is Weeding the Wildflowers

    I have recently been rereading The House of Seven Gables, and every time I read this book I am more amazed at how delightfully snarkey Nathaniel Hawthorne can be (he has become a close friend of mine). Some scholars may disagree with me on this point, but I assure you there are some that would agree.
    If you have read The Scarlet Letter at some point during your high school career you may have developed the opinion that Hawthorne (in the way he writes his characters) is trying to show us the wages of sin. You might believe that Hawthorne believed that for Hester Prynn and Rev. Dinsdale there was no path, but degradation and destruction for their sins. I think Nate wants you to feel that way initially, but I think, in his perfect world, Hester and the Rev live happily ever after (at least that's what he told me). We imagine them in heaven, after all, at the final trumpet. It's the town's people that finally kill Rev. Dinsdale. He can't face the shame and judgement in their eyes, not God's eyes, their eyes. Trust me, Nate wants you to caste yourself as one of the town's people and he wants you to judge Hester and the Rev. and he wants you to feel terrible at the end of the book when you find out what a tool you have been. It's the same for the Blithedale Romance, but it's The House of Seven Gables when Nate gets subtle and maybe a bit too smart for the casual reader.
    I think sometimes I am tempted to not think very closely about art and the message any artist might be trying to convey. There is a temptation to think that things are best enjoyed peripherally. Why should something have to make you think? Why can't it be enjoyed on it's surface level? I think, I think this way when I am bowing to the rather frightening "anti-intellectual" sentiments that are quite popular today. (they'll try to make you feel "not cool", but to hell with them anyway..)
    If you try that with Nate he is going to make you out to be a big shallow tool, (and he will be sitting in that chair of his with that smug expression on his face cause he knew all along how to jerk your chains, he is such a pain in the ass when he gets like this). Nate does not believe you can think for yourself; he has no faith whatever in society as a whole. To him, you all are lazy dangerous people, but at least he feels like he can use your best fault against you, and make you feel the way he wants you to feel. The problem comes when you all reuse to look beyond the surface story. Nate sees this as inconceivable (I keep telling him I don't think he is using that word correctly in that context.)
    The House of Seven Gables does the same thing as The Scarlet Letter, but instead of of ill fated Hester and Rev. Dimsdale going to a fate that Nate thinks they don't deserve, it is a monster hidden inside all societies tropes for beauty and desirability. Penelope. I was looking at my notes (I write them in the book as I read) from the last time I read 7 Gables, here is what I said about Penelope: GOD enough about Pheobe. Pheobe is a house and Clifford want to come inside her... I get it. It's when Nate is hitting his slow readers over the head that I get impatient with him, but it's worth the wait, cause he gets ya so good at the end.
    At the end of 7 Gables, Pheobe marries the Daguerreotypist  Holgrave and Holgrave gives up his adventuresome traveling life of taking "magical pictures of things using nature's own sunlight" to be Pheobe's husband, and to live of the Pynchon fortune instead of working to create and contribute to the good in the world. The right kinda woman can really suck the wizard out of a man.
    You might be tempted on reading 7 Gables to think that Pheobe saves the day, but I assure you if you will look close enough you will see that Nate has created his most destructive terrifying monster yet. Nate's got horror down and his monsters at ten times more terrifying than his contemporary Good Old H.P. Lovecraft's, because while Lovecraft's unholy god's can only be unleashed when the stars are right and can be banished from the world of sanity and daylight, Nate's monster's are sitting next to you at the DMV, they are making cookies for the church bake sale, they are picketing gay soldiers funerals and bombing abortion clinics (god, you know Pheobe would bomb and abortion clinic). So if your not a fan of horror, you can keep reading Nathaniel Hawthorn's stories on their surface, and never realize what he really wants you to see, or as I prefer (on this beautiful October day) you can revel in the horror of soccer moms as depicted in Nathaniel Hawthorne's The House of Seven Gables.

A New Day

    For the first thirteen years I owned my horse I kept him at a barn that belonged to friends of mine. I have to say without their sponsorship in this sense I never would have been able to afford my own horse. Keeping a horse is an expensive prospect, and these friends allowed me to keep my horse with their horses and as long as I paid for my own feed (hay and grain) and kept the barn and fences in good repair and helped take care of their horses, they didn't charge me any money... not that their wasn't a cost.
    When I first got Fauxie he was a mess. I was working at the humane society and Fauxie had been seized in a neglect case. He was about as thin as a horse can get without being dead, but that was only the beginning of the abuse he had suffered. Fauxie had had some rough handling. He had anxiety. If you disciplined him he would panic, thinking that their was no end to the pain that had begun. He would run sideways down the road. He would wring his neck and tense so he felt like a rocketship about to take off. I work for years to form a relationship with Fauxie. We have come a long way.
    The hardest obstacle I had to over come with Fauxie has only recently been made clear to me. It was huge, and this obstacle kept Fauxie and I from enjoying each other as we really could. I was the negative attitudes of my friends.
     I was indebted to my friends for making it possible for me to have a horse, but when ever I went to ride I received such criticism that I began to doubt myself. Riding a panicy horse is dangerous. It is an act of faith. It is an act of faith in yourself. You must believe that you can stick in that saddle. You must believe that you can make a difference. You must believe that if you are quite and paitent and consistent you will make headway and it will not always be such a melodramatic horror show. Real injury and death awaits the faint of heart.
   By the time I moved my horse to my friend Cathy's this fall, I was riding for a half hour at a time and I never left the riding ring. I was undone by a negativity that made my death defying efforts impossible.
    Today I went for an hour and a half trail ride with my friend Cathy. She never judges. She asks me how she can help me and never questions my methods. I love my old friends, but they crippled my relationship with my horse (they are not internet savvy so there is little chance they would read this, thank God. I would never want to hurt them.) Negativity is so destructive. I wish I could purge it from my life. I guess my next lesson is to learn how to deal with people who insist on being horrible destructive negative people without letting it make me want to give up.