Oh, thank the people sane enough not to vote for Mittens.
The lead image at barackobama.com. That smile on his face? There’s one like it on mine, too. Whew!
You know what, he’s not perfect, and he’s practically a Republican (the sort of Republican you might have found in the mainstream before Republicans lost their shit), but fuck it. Compared to the batshit bizarre fuckknobs now infesting the Con party, and the magic-underwear-wearing psychopath that is Romney, I’ll take him. Hells to the yes, I’ll take him. With utmost pleasure.
I’d like to extend hearty congratulations to probable Governor Jay Inslee. Woot!
I’m pretty proud of my state right now.
And I’m proud of the majority of my country. A bare majority, mind you, but still a majority.
(As for those of you who voted for Mittens, until you’ve perfected the “I’m sorry I was so stupid, and I’ll never be that stupid ever again” speech, you can kindly never speak to me again.)
My uterus and I are going to attempt to concentrate on Mount St. Helens research now. It’s hard – we’re both grinning like idiots and a bit bouncy. It’s just damned nice to know that we’ll be employed, have health care, and won’t have Cons poking about our persons. Huzzah!
Francesco Sinibaldi left a lovely poem in reply to my own geopoem on Rosetta Stones. I know it’s lovely because it’s in French, and therefore by default is beautiful. I also speak just about enough French to be able to tell when the words sound good together, and these do.
Of course, I only speak enough French to translate one word out of three, so I had to turn to translation programs. Google Translate made a dog’s breakfast of it, but Bing did an adequate job, and I can sort of put in the articles it missed. Thus, the literal translation according to the least worst automated translator:
Now, translation is an art, which the online translators don’t have. And my French is atrocious. Je parle un peu français, très mal. The only thing worse than my French is my Spanish, and the only thing worse than my Spanish is all the other languages I speak only a few words of. Point being, I’m not confident enough with those words to translate it beautifully. So someone who speaks reasonable French should head on over there and have a go at it. And if the original poet wants to translate, why, that would be most excellent.
This is one of the reasons I blog, people. So many of you surprise me with interesting and beautiful things. Thank you!
This is a common little flower, and I don’t imagine it will tax your powers of identification overmuch. And it’s not like I haven’t got a great many flower photos featuring much more spectacular flora. But this single, simple blossom down by the Marys River is one of my favorites.
Mystery Flora I
I must have seen these a thousand times. But I’ve never really stopped for them before. I didn’t even see this one, but Lockwood did, and mentioned it, and there’s just something about this half-hidden bloom, a solitary survivor at the end of summer. It was nestled calmly amongst dying plants and brambles. It looks completely unconcerned about the coming winter.
And it’s unremarkable, as I said. Thousands like them every year. They’re ubiquitous, so common you don’t really notice them. Not until they’re the only flower left on a riverbank. Then you stop for a closer look. Let’s zoom in. Continue reading “Mystery Flora: Purple Pinwheel”→
I’ll tell you the moment I realized I’m a raging ignoramus when it comes to rivers, and that I really needed to educate myself. It was when Lockwood and I were mooching about Avery Park.
We’d just had a nice dabble down by the Marys River.
Lockwood and I went to Avery Park for the geology, but stayed for the rose garden. I’ll have a full bouquet of roses for you sometime in the nearish future, plus one of the best bee photos I’ve ever taken. But for now, I wanted to share one very meaningful rose. Continue reading “For Nicole”→
I was a Christian for only a few years, and a super-duper Bible-believing church-going God-is-an-awesome-God-and-Jesus-is-Awesome (yeah, they were heavy on the awesomes) Christian for only a few intense months. I loved Jesus a lot. Hoo boy, did I! I went around clutching my Bible like a promise ring, and I couldn’t think of anything else but him. I’d get all giddy whenever he was mentioned, and I’d get all mushy-gushy when I ran across others who loved him, too. I babbled about him to everyone. I went everywhere with him, and loved our super-special times together in church, where everybody seemed to love him just as much as I did. We were going steady. I thought he was The One. I wanted to spend my whole life with him.
But you know what? You’re right. I didn’t love him enough. I realize that now.
I didn’t love him enough to shut down my critical thinking when it came to him.
I didn’t love him enough to follow blindly, all the while pretending my eyes were open.
I didn’t love him enough to make excuses for him.*
I didn’t love him enough to stay in an abusive relationship.**
I didn’t love him enough to believe he’s real despite increasing evidence to the contrary.
I didn’t love him enough to accept his constant silence.
Yes, obviously, I didn’t love Jesus enough. Bet that means I wasn’t ever a “true” Christain all those months and years too, eh? I’m okay with that. Really – I’m better off never having truly loved a sick fuck whose requirements for love are so pathological. I mean, seriously. He used to come across as a severely bipolar cult leader, and it bothered me, but I loved him anyway because I knew from experience with my mother that a person’s not unlovable because of their disease. But then I started researching forensic psychology and recognized all the sociopathic, serial killer, abusive spouse, and dangerous stalker tendencies in God/Jesus. Holy shit. Yeah, if you want to love that, it’s your business, but I’d prefer healthier relationships with less fucked up imaginary friends. Also, I’ve already got one psychopath in my life.
My homicidal felid, preparing to attack. Her love is contingent upon receiving the appropriate demonstrations of adoration, worship, and sacrifice. You can do everything exactly right, yet she will still visit wrath upon you without warning. The difference between her and God is that she cuddles on cold nights, purrs, and undeniably exists.
One unbalanced entity who demands my unconditional servitude and visits arbitrary destruction upon me without warning is quite enough. Also, mine is cuter, and less non-existent. I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can love that God of yours anymore. It’s kind of comforting to be told I never really did. So, thanks!
But you may want to think twice before questioning the love of those who poured their whole hearts into Jesus, and did it far longer than I did, before painfully extracting themselves from the relationship. They might become very upset with you – and rightfully so. Also, they may have a dangerous suggestion for you:
Why don’t you, dear Christian, for once in your life, question your own goddamn intellectual conscience instead of other people’s commitments to Jesus.
But you’d never do that if you love Jesus enough, because that might lead you to a place where, to those still trapped deep in the abusive relationship, it would look like you never actually loved him at all. Amirite?
* Theodicy pretty much got me in the end: I never have found anything that squares an omniscient, omnipotent, omnibenevolent god with the horrors of this world. Apologetics ring hollow to me, and I can’t engage in liberal Christian handwaving that poofs all the bad bits of the Bible away. (Also, other religions had cooler gods. But I apparently didn’t love them enough, either.)
** I realized that if God/Jesus was directing the course of my life, he’s responsible for the bad just as much as the good – and what’s with this love-me-or-suffer-eternal-torment schtick? The more I looked at it, the more it looked suspiciously like the kind of relationship professionals advise you to get the hell out of. If I wouldn’t accept this treatment from a human, I sure as shit wasn’t going to take it from a god.
Right. That’s us up to date, then, and if I don’t get waylaid by more unexpected projects, I should have something explosive up at Rosetta Stones for you by the end of the week.
The following is a guest post from Karen Locke, one of my most cherished readers (although you know I love you all, right?). She’s submitting this for the Accretionary Wedge #51. I’m two days late posting it. Whoops. But do enjoy whilst I go off and beg Matt to slip this in anyway.
Vaughn Gulch: Devonian Limestone*
by Karen Locke
Up the bajada from Lone Pine, canyon mouths come ever closer;
we gun it to jump a gulch (the tallest students hit their heads) and then
we’re there. Three dusty Suburbans disgorge a tired crew.
Pink granite boulders, ancient Volkswagens, scattered in the canyon mouth.
This isn’t what it’s supposed to be
but there are pink granite Volkswagens, or perhaps some giant child’s marbles
“come on that isn’t what we’re here to see.”
We pick our way through purple flowers, round the boulders, up the canyon,
fold seems to leap out of the wall.
Higher than any two of us, it is incongruous; soft or hard deformation? that’s the key
we listen to our leaders, who tell conflicting stories, and I understand suddenly
it doesn’t matter. It’s a minor mystery in the Greater Story.
Farther up the canyon: corals! Students race to get one of their own.
I do not have the right tool, nor the balance for the tricky rocks.
I watch and sigh as the resource dwindles down.
And another off-topic; but I know this is the place for mystery stuff to get a positive ID!
Any Herpers here? Found this sunning itself, completely oblivious to the killer kittehs prowling about, in my driveway this morning (central Mississippi) About 10-11″ long. Pretty sure it’s Storeria dekayi – DeKay’s Brown Snake – but would like to be sure before I let it chew on my fingers.
I’ve no idea meself. I can identify garter snakes, and rattlesnakes, and if I see it move, I can tell you a sidewinder from a normal slitherer. But this, no. And someone’s fingers are at stake. Also, they go by the handle Comfychair, which is a name to warm the heart of any Doctor Who fan. So, my darlings, can you help?
After having seen our ranks decimated* by your network, we here at Freethought Blogs have finally recovered enough to add two excellent new bloggers: Avicenna and NonStampCollector. You probably noticed them the instant they appeared, but for the edification of others, I shall proceed to say a bit about them anyway.
NonStampCollector is a superbly talented Australian living in Japan whose YouTube videos helped preserve my sanity during costume-sewing madness. He made me laugh hard enough to stab myself with a needle more than once. I now have an arsenal of videos for lobbing at literalists. Here is one:
