Charli

I uncovered Charli this morning and was dismayed to see about 40-50 down feathers on the bottom grate. Charli was in her Hide 'n Sleep, acting afraid.

I got her out and she seemed to be coming out of that poicephalus freeze I imagine she had been in. It scared me to death.

She's had night frights and been afraid before but she's never pulled out feathers. She just finished a big molt so the feathers weren't coming from molting.

She just has a well-bird exam last week and passed with flying colors -- as usual. About a year ago Dr. Z and I noticed Charli was chewing on her little legs. We don't know why; Dr. Z said it could be habit or anxiety and recommended lots of foraging for her. Many of the feathers on the floor of the cage this morning were those small leg feathers.

Last night I found some old treats she loves -- little balls made of strips of white stuff wrapped around a seed ball. It takes a lot of effort to get the strips off and get to the seed inside, but Charli is always up for the challenge. I thought maybe she was having a reaction to it, and that was causing the feather loss. So they went in the trash.

She soon came around to her normal self -- trying to chew up the table, climb everywhere, eat my important papers, and so on. She's fine now, or seems to be.

I baked a big batch of Harrison's Birdy Bread, which is always a hit. And every birdy in the house seemed to enjoy it.

Autumn seems to be here already. I'm not ready. But things are beautiful here in teh fall.

At chorus rehearsal tonight, O and I made arrangements to get back to my piano lessons. I'm meeting her at 5:30 on Tuesday -- I haven't practiced in so long I'm not even sure where middle C is!

Waiting

Things have been relatively quiet lately. All is quiet with the neighbors. A never-ending stream of those awful political ads for senator of our state. Got a haircut today, too short, like a man's haircut -- but it'll grow out soon enough (I hope). Got a pedicure and manicure today. Got a full tank of gas and enough food and supplies to keep me for a month if necessary, and enough bird foods for a month or so.

Not that I'm paranoid, you understand. If this sort of thing interests you, just Google for October 7, 2008 and/or for web bot project. Two other sites are urbansurvival.com and halfpasthuman.com.

I have no doubt we're on the verge of an economic collapse. We can't keep living on credit the way we have been (businesses, government, individuals) without paying the price -- so to speak.

If there's any doubt among my two or three readers -- I'm voting Obama. I cannot abide the thought of another four years of Bush in the guise of McCain. Several of my friends and I have been having a wonderful time exchanging links about Palin and the October 7 "event" and the economy. Things can look so bad you have to laugh or lose your mind.

My little birds are perfect, as always. Nicholas makes kissy noises after bedtime -- I think he's fussing at me for staying up past his bedtime. I've been keeping Sugar Franklin out longer than usual and giving her more scritches -- she's been short-tempered with me lately and I think maybe she's been shortchanged (or believes she's been shortchanged) on attention from me. She's responded well to this extra attention, though she still bites my ear once in awhile just because.

Neighbors (again)

Let's see -- the young black woman hasn't been seen in several weeks, but the young Asian looking woman has evidently taken up residence.

A month or so ago an older white woman was visiting or staying there, and there was a big metal milk crate full of gray puppies, all squeezed in there together. It was hot, and they had no water or food -- just sitting out in the front yard, yelping like puppies do.

A couple of times I've seen the Asian woman with one or two of the puppies (now nearly grown, though I don't know the breed) out in the side yard. When we make eye contact I always smile, but we rarely make eye contact. In fact, it seems to me she gathers up the dog(s) and puts them inside when she sees me, but that could be my imagination.

The dog, Champ, who gets loose all the time is generally kept in the house, and barks a lot when he's in the backyard.

When I got home from work the copper colored truck had all its doors opened. There were two toddlers in the back seat and the man who lives there had one of the gray dogs, but I didn't stop to see if he took it in or put it in the truck. He closed the back doors, climbed into the driver's seat, and the Asian woman locked the front door and got in the passenger side of the truck. And off they went.

I don't know if they're breeding dogs or what. And I don't much care.

Work was fine until the Evil Committee -- I've made it clear to my supervisor that I want a transfer. She's promised to help, if anything comes up on the job sheet. I'm also requesting a job reclassification in order to get some more money; if I have to put up with certain people on a regular basis and can't get transferred, I deserve a hell of a lot more money than I'm getting now.

This weekend I added my name to Google Alerts, just in case someone out there is using my name in vain. I have a name that is not very popular or common, so I've only gotten three or four alerts -- all obituaries.

Charli and Sugar Franklin are having snits now. I had them both out for awhile until the pizza arrived. So I put them back so they could have some crust with me. Now, neither one wants to come out and let me scritch their head. Even the Bobbsey Twins are ignoring me.

Charli is due for her annual well-bird exam next Tuesday.

Wonder if my babies have forgiven me yet . . . .

Update: Little Flash just flew over to me from his cage, unbidden. I picked him up and gave him my daily little kiss and thanked him for coming over and cheering me up. I'm a lucky girl.

Thursday Blues

Between dying cockatiels and the black hole of despair at work I'm starting to get depressed.

Luckily, coming home and scritching birds helps lower my blood pressure. I was thinking perhaps I should go down to the crossroads at midnight, like Robert Johnson, and sell my soul to the devil. But what would I ask for since he's already got the lock on the blues?

I watched Charlie Gibson's interview with Sarah Palin on ABC News tonight. She had the audacity to twist Lincoln's words to explain her statement that the war was a "task from God" in her church. Lincoln must be turning in his grave. When asked what she thought of Bush's doctrine, she stopped dead and then, recalling her obvious coaching, said, "What aspect of it?" Translation: She had no clue what he was talking about.

God help us, every one.

Tweety

Only people who live with parrots can understand why this is such an endearing picture. There's nothing much cuter than a really wet parrot.

This is Tweety, who owned Jenn, for 13 years. Tweety died after a long illness on Monday, September 8.

People who have never lived with parrots cannot understand. Yes, it's devastating to lose a loved pet, but parrots are different. Parrots are not like dogs or cats or reptiles or rabbits or guinea pigs. Parrots are mostly smarter than we are. They're the descendants of dinosaurs. They teach us to play complex games with them. They talk to us in our language. They scheme for ways to trick us and amuse us. They fly. Mostly, they're the magic we deserve to have in our lives.

Nearly everyone on Tiel Talk cried with and encouraged Jenn through Tweety's illness and trips to the vet, and we rejoiced when Tweety improved and became her mischievous self again. We understand because we live with parrots, too.

Jenn was so lucky to have Tweety for so long, and Tweety was so lucky to have Jenn for so long. Jenn is a better person for having had Tweety. And I imagine Tweety was a better bird because of Jenn.

Jenn's house is silent now, that awful terrible silence left behind when the magic goes away.

But Jenn will always have some of that magic in her heart in a special light place, even though she can't see it right now or even comprehend that she'll survive the grief.

Those of us who share our lives with parrots have all been given great gifts of magic and wonder. And even though the loss is unbearable what remains is a gift of love, a connection to nature and to the higher parts of ourselves. It is an honor and a blessing to live with parrots, no matter how short the time seems.

Rest in peace, little Tweety. We loved you well.

Sunday/Monday

I'm scheduled to report for jury duty at 9:00 a.m. Monday.

This morning I woke up at 7:38, and realized I'd overslept and would barely barely be able to get downtown in time. So I raced through a shower and went into the bedroom to throw on my clothes -- and then stopped. The radio, which I keep tuned to NPR, was playing a little tune they only play for a Sunday morning program.

Sunday? I thought back to last night -- I'd fallen asleep waiting for Mad TV, which comes on Saturday night. I checked the date on my computer. Yes! And to be 100 percent sure, I opened my front door and found the big Sunday paper awaiting me. It was Sunday and I didn't have to be anywhere.

Whew!

So I did a piece of writing I hope sells. I've been playing with birds, and reading some essays. And had a nice, well-earned nap.

Charli and Sugar Franklin both are molting -- green and yellow feathers all over the place, and those little wisps of white down feathers occasionally floating through the air.

A bit too hot to be out much today, but I'm perfectly happy the way I am. Chorus rehearsal is at six, so I'll go to that. A bunch of us will probably go out to eat afterward -- a perfect ending to a perfect Sunday.

Feathers

Day before yesterday a distraught man wrote into Tiel Talk; his little male cockatiel (a new daddy) was gasping and acting weakened. The area was in the middle of a storm and most of the town had evacuated. He called vets as far as three hours away -- none of them treated birds or had already evacuated. Then the power went out. All day yesterday and last night all of us worried about that poor little bird.

This morning I see he wrote in to say he hadn't been able to find a vet and that the bird had died gasping for breath. He said he dug a hole to bury the little thing, and cried like a baby. As far as I can tell, the hen is okay.

I tell you, if one of my birds was sick or died, I'd just have to lay down and die myself. I do not think I could bear it. I am so lucky that one of the region's best (if not THE best) avian vets is right here in town, and she knows me and my birds.

So let this be a lesson for you readers out there -- if you don't have an avian vet, go find one now.

Most vets study chickens in vet school, and parrots are not chickens. Which is to say that most vets don't handle birds in their practice, or worse, are willing to "practice" on birds brought to them without the necessary training and education. Take your parrots now to an avian vet so there's a history and a file on them -- if/when there's an emergency your bird probably won't have time to wait while you go searching for an avian vet.

On a more positive note, sort of, I trimmed everyone's feathers last night. All the birds are quite angry with that white dishcloth that "trapped" them so I could do the deed.

I need to take more pictures, especially of Flash. He has the longest crest I've ever seen, and it curls right at the top. Too cute for words. I read somewhere that cockatiels are inordinately proud of their crests -- I think they're inordinately proud of everything about themselves.

And that's as it should be.

Aftermath

The "employee satisfaction" survey was, of course, a joke. The interviewer said it came as a directive from the big dude, then tried to change it to saying it came from the semi-big dude. Either way, it was a waste of time. The interviewer said they understood that happy employees produced more and better work. She kept her face as hard as a mask through the whole thing. I told her I'd been trying to transfer for 13 friggin' years and she just looked at me, as if I was exaggerating. She knows as well as I do that the entire HR system is set up against employees, not for them.

B and I think it might be an excuse for a reorganization. Or, my personal favorite, making everyone apply for their current jobs and then finding out they're "not qualified."

Thank god I'm a union member in good standing. Just in case.

O hurt her back so between my trip and her back I haven't had a piano lesson in four weeks. This is okay with me since I haven't practiced in four weeks. She even left chorus practice early last night.

Got a note from Avian Publications last night. He said because of the economy he's holding off on publishing the brown-head book until next year. Damn it.

The birds were all frantically chirping this morning when I left for work, and they went crazy when I got home from chorus practice last night. Maybe they think I'm going away again, even though I told them I couldn't afford to go anywhere except to work and rehearsals.

Monday's Survey Interview

Had a nice quiet uneventful weekend. Friday my physical therapist worked my arm mostly to death, but it's feeling better and I'm doing more of the right things so it will continue to feel better.

Saturday R and I went to see Bottle Shock, which was excellent. I sort of intended to see Gonzo on Sunday but I was too lazy to go out. So I stayed home and played with the birds all day. Or rather, let them out so they could play on their own. I did go over my poetry manuscript and changed a few things, but not as much as I feared I'd have to do. I can let it go today if I needed to, so I feel pretty good about that.

Charli wasn't very perky yesterday and took a lot of naps -- which isn't like her, so I'm going to keep an eye on her. She even refused orange juice, which she loves.

I chatted with B a little bit about this new "interview with HR person" thing at work. Some level of management is having a poor innocent soul from HR interview all of us in this department to see how things are. My "survey interview" is this afternoon, and the more I think about it the madder I get. By the time I got to work this morning I was furious, and I imagine my blood pressure was sky high. I fully intend to speak my mind about the crap that goes on around here: how only a select few get big raises in the middle of the year, how certain managers are incompetent, how I and some others feel it's a waste of time to talk to any of the managers or administrators (based on past experience), the blatant favoritism that goes on around here, etc. ad nauseum. It's supposed to be confidential, but I don't believe that mine will be. My job is too different from the others to blend in with everyone else's. And if it's noted that I seem to have a "bad attitude," well, I've certainly earned it.

But in my heart I know none of this will do any good. I've worked here for 24 years and endured all manner of interviews and surveys and questionnaires -- and nothing ever changes. I can tell by her voice that the HR person I'm meeting is young and is most likely new to the place -- she probably believes what she's doing makes a difference. I don't want to be the one to disillusion her -- somebody else will do that soon enough.

Flash's Story

I deliberately went to the local bird club's bird fair with only a debit card and maybe $15 in cash. It was maybe four or five years ago. I had two birds: Sugar Franklin and Charli. I wasn't going to let myself become a victim of MBS (multiple bird syndrome).

It was a great day -- lots of beautiful parrots and toys and cages and toys and treats and toys. Baby parrots, breeder parrots, pet parrots.

I stopped by a cage full of baby cockatiels. The birds, the man at the table told me, were from a friend who had died. He raised English budgies and didn't know much about cockatiels.

He pointed out one of the babies and praised the bird for playing with toys and climbing all over the cage. "He's like that all the time," the man said. "My niece feeds him Cheerio's through the cage every day. He likes Cheerios's."

I listened politely and said I wasn't going to buy any birds, and then I turned away.

"I'm willing to come down on the price," he called.

I lifted my hand in farewell and went on to admire the parrots at the next table.

Later as I walked back by the man and his cockatiels, he stopped me and said he'd sell him to me for only $50. I stood at the cage for a long time and watched the bird interact with his cagemates. He was pretty active, I thought. But I summoned up all my strength and again said no, I already had all the birds I could handle.

I walked away, feeling very good about myself. I went outside to get some fresh air and thought about the little cockatiel the man was willing to sell for only $50.

A little later I went back inside to pick up some more toys, and I had to pass the man and his cockatiels.

"Here he is!" the man said. "Just $50." I shook my head. I glanced at the cage. He really was a cute cockatiel.

I went on and the man followed me. "I really need to sell these cockatiels and I won't take him home with me." I couldn't imagine what he would do if he didn't sell the bird.

"I only have $5 on me," I said. "Sorry."

"I'll take it," he exclaimed. "I'll give you my card and you can just mail me the rest."

Before I could say no again, I was holding a ragged box with the baby cockatiel in it.

I had an extra cage at home, so I got things set up quickly and turned the bird loose in it. I placed the cage in my study for quarantine, then called Dr. Z for a baby bird check. He was about 6 months old.

He was such a sweet baby bird -- hungry for scritches and curious. He had, I saw for the first time, a crooked beak. But he didn't seem to have trouble eating.

I watched him for a few days before naming him. At one point he was out of the cage and flew over to the table with the play stand. It happened in a flash, so that's what I named him.

Dr. Z gave me the bad news -- Flash tested positive for pssiticosis (I know I'm spelling that wrong) and he would have to receive treatment. Because all my birds shared the same air system the other two would have to be treated, too.

I called the man to tell him that his entire flock was probably infected, but he said his birds were healthy, nothing wrong with them. I explained that pssiticosis could be passed to humans, but he was "sure" his birds were fine. He hung up on me.

Flash was maybe a year or two old when Nicholas came into the house, and that was about the time Flash decided he didn't like being touched and liked me even less. He wasn't impressed with Nicholas either, despite Nicholas' joy at being with other cockatiels. Flash was and still is very interested in Sugar Franklin, but she thinks she's human and doesn't like any other birds (I blame myself).

So that's where things stand with Flash these days. He refuses to let me touch him and hisses mightily if I get too near. Everyday I "force" him to step up and take him to the basket stand or the study to be with Nicholas and Sugar Franklin, which he tolerates so he can get out of his cage. But he almost always makes heart wings at me when I'm near the cage, protected by the bars, and will often come to the bars to listen to me telling him what a big boy he is, if I'm a safe enough distance away.

I love Flash in a special way, even though he'll probably never really warm up to me.

Sometimes I offer him a Cheerio through the cage bars.

Last Vacation Day

Last vacation day for awhile. Tomorrow I have to go back to that Evil Place and shuffle papers. Oh well, things could be worse.

I feel a lot better than I did earlier. Just needed more sleep, I guess.

Heard from DF today; haven't heard from him in a long time. He's doing well, and we both promised we'd do better about staying connected. The sad thing is that we both really, really mean it.

I thought I heard the dog next door barking Thursday night, when I got home, but I haven't heard it since. Or seen it. I hope they're keeping it inside, not letting it run loose in hopes it'll run away and no longer be a problem for them. Maybe they don't know what happens when a dog ends up in the pound. Cute dog, too; kinda boxer and mutt mix -- loud bark but very friendly. People who don't take care of their animals are not people I want to know.

Finished maybe half of The Gift, and I highly recommend it to anyone with any amount of creativity whatsoever -- which means everyone. It's about, as Baron put it, the anthropology of poetry, but it's about more than that. It's a way of understanding and learning to live with what is valued in our society and what is not -- without diminishing the two.

And I am still trudging through The Art of the Personal Essay by Philip Lopate. It's in choronological order, and around about RL Stevenson I skipped ahead. The language in the earlier English stuff is too ornate for me, though I appreciate its value within its own time. I liked Seneca and the early Greek works.

I dread going back to work and seeing the English language butchered by people who truly believe themselves to be great editors and writers. When in reality they don't have a clue. Take capitalization, for example. The title of a job is NOT capitalized unless it's directly attached to the person holding that job. Chief medical officer is not capitalized unless it's Alice Doe, Chief Medical Officer. Yet these poor souls capitalize stuff like that repeatedly. More suck-up value. They don't capitalize nurse or technician or manager (and consistency is the first thing you learn as an editor). And when I refuse to capitalize non-proper nouns I get told I'm wrong and don't know what I'm talking about and to just do what the ignorant tell me to do. I refer them to any book on basic grammar, but of course, they already know everything and don't need to look it up.

I've heard people say that any noun preceded by "the" is automatically a proper noun and should be capitalized. And any title is a proper noun. Where on earth do people get this stuff?

A lot of it is stylistic, based on who makes the most money. Nurse isn't capitalized because they're mostly women and don't make as much as the male chief medical officer. It's as simple as that.

Earlier this year I came across a blog about Humphrey the parrot. His last entry was about being moved from England to America, and about being sick after quarantine. At least once every week or so I'd check on the blog to see how he was doing, but there were never any updates. The latest issue of Bird Talk reprinted some correspondence about a woman adopting a special needs bird of the same species as her parrot Humphrey, who had died six days after the last date of the blog. I wrote Bird Talk to forward a note to her. It was obvious from the blogs how loved and cherished Humphrey was, and when the owner said he was the light of her life and that his death devastated her, I knew she wasn't exaggerating. I'll take his blog off my bookmark list now.

I decided, at 10:47 am, to go to the movies today. It always feels so decadent to go to the movies during a work day. I went to see Brideshead Revisited, which I haven't seen in decades -- so long ago with Jeremy Irons that I'd forgotten what it's about.

Why is it that great literary works of art nearly always involve dysfunctional families?

Home Again, Home Again

I unlocked the front door and took a few steps into the front hall. "Is anybody home?" I asked, as I often do.

Silence.

I took a few more steps into the living room and looked at the cages. "Isn't anybody here?"

Stunned silence for maybe a full 20 seconds, then an alarming amount of chirping and calling.

I made a big fuss over seeing them, then went out to the car to get the rest of my stuff. They called after me, loudly, as if I might not come back.

Charli, I think, has been most affected. She's been watching me and hanging upside down, and also making a big show of eating a grape. She'll stop whatever she's doing once in awhile and just stare at me with those big dark liquid eyes.

Sugar keeps looking at me and chirping, while running back and forth.

The Bobbsey Twins, though chirping, don't seem to care one way or the other.

Got the shuttle yesterday morning at six; Leslie Ullman and another woman were passengers,too, so we talked about living in Taos, this other woman retiring as a physician, and me as a parrot behavior consultant.

The airline trip home was the usual wretched experience, but all the flights were on time.

Stopped by Wal-Mart this morning to do the one-hour photo delivery (I slept a good solid twelve hours last night), but their machine is broken and it may be a day or more. Then I went to one of my favorite breakfast places for an omelet. Instead of the usual home fries, I substituted fruit -- which turned out to be a bowl of red grapes (which I don't care for) and two tiny scraps of pineapple and three tiny chips of cantelope. I insisted on a better balance of fruits, and got it.

Had my first iced tea, unsweetened, no lemon in seven days. My life can continue now.

Stopped at Kroger's. Got a box of pre-washed mixed lettuces, some carrots, broccoli, cauliflower, apples, mushrooms, and grapes for me and the birds. Got some fresh blueberries, raspberries, and strawberry halves for Charli -- she loves fruit and the more expensive the better.

During one of my calls back home to L, she said the humane society left a big red warning tag on my door about my dog being unlicensed and wandering around the neighborhood, that a complaint had been filed about it.

I don't have a dog.

I knew, of course, it was meant for the neighbors. Their dog got out once and I told the young black woman who lives there; she apologized. I said I wasn't complaining, but I was sure she didn't want him running all over the place.

So when I got home yesterday, I marked through my house number and wrote in theirs. I rang the bell once since the big copper-colored truck was in the drive, but no one answered. So I left it hanging on the door handle. About an hour later I noticed it was gone. This morning there are two new cars in the drive. What on earth goes on over there?

Gotta go start dealing with all this dirty laundry!

Homesick

We took Baron out to dinner tonight. We laughed a lot, everyone with their own peculiar sense of humor. I stayed for Leslie Ullman's poetry reading (which left me exactly as I was when she began) and then went back for the "farewell reception." I talked with Pam for a bit. I said, "I guess there's no point in saying keep in touch, huh?" But she said yes, that she was good about that sort of thing. Baron stopped by to say goodbye, then Pam and I talked a bit about her poetry.

Naturally I've been feeling nostalgic and sad all evening -- exorcising ghosts always leaves some emptiness behind. But at least I'm not a crying mess about leaving the way I was in January of 1989.

I realize I have to rework some of the poems in the middle section of my book, based on Baron's workshop, before Charlie goes to press with it. Luckily, he gave me until the end of the year.

Then I called L to check on the birds and the state of things at home, and when I hung up I realized I was homesick. I miss my birds. I miss my little house and its little piles of clutter, my Irish shamrock plant, my keyboard and music books, my piles of books. I miss my mother calling and talking forever about her sisters and her church and the neighbors. But most especially I miss my birds. I want to kiss little Sugar Franklin's yellow breast feathers, which she pretends to hate; I want to feel Charli jump onto my shoulder from the back of the couch; I want to watch Nicholas and Flash scurry from the basket stand to get to Sugar's cage so they can eat her food and play with her toys (all exactly like the food and toys in their cage, but still).

The shuttle will be picking me up at six tomorrow morning to take me to the Burlington airport and, if the airline gods are smiling, I'll be home by two.

Homesick. As simple and profound as that.

Last Day

I was sitting outside the Stone Science building, watching a far-off soccer game on the quad and the occasional person walking down the sidewalk. So many of these people seem so close and intimate yet I'll forget their names in a few days, forget what they looked like, what we talked about. Six such intense days. Even if we stay in touch, as we say we will, it will all be different.

Baron was, as always, wonderful in our last workshop. I asked if you shouldn't "know" what a poem was about, the subject matter of it. Just like JBH, he said no. That was the thing about art; it isn't necessary to "know" or to figure out the "meaning." He said in his two books on writing poetry the word "mean" does not appear; it isn't important. Just like JBH always kept telling me and I keep forgetting. Open yourself to the experience without judgement; that's how you grow. To search for meaning is reductive, Baron said. To be open is expansive.

I asked him how to know when a piece of writing is an essay or a poem, and he said it would become obvious the more I wrote.

I can't get over how much like JBH he is. They laugh in the same places of discussion, they both come from the same sensibilities.

When will I learn and remember that things fall into place in their own time? Baron came, completely unexpected and unplanned, at just the perfect time.

As I expected, he said to unpack the poem "Return," and to write more about the last two stanzas of "River Blues." And here I was certain that "River Blues" was finished. But I can see his point and even see now where I could expand it to make it more powerful.

Write more, he told me during our conference. He said what marked the professional from the amateur was the use of big words like "time," "world," "justice," "we." That amateurs indicated, filled in the blanks, used a kind of shorthand rather than delving deeper into the language. I swear I learned more this week than I did in one whole semester getting my MFA. And that's saying a lot.

He lives here in Vermont, in a round house. He said it made him more aware of the space around him. And that he only does these types of workshops once or twice a year, so it doesn't get boring.

A beautiful day today, sunny. Last night I went to the ice cream social. Yep, they served Ben & Jerry's. I got some butter pecan and walked back to Dewey Hall with Cathy. Everyone was going to tell ghost stories, but I didn't want to stay and listen. I figured if they told a ghost story about Dewey Hall I'd lay awake all night thinking about it. Instead I started packing.

Last night I got online and ordered $71.00 worth of Nutriberries and those little chew toys the cockatiels like, especially Flash. sigh . . . .

Baron Wormser

Though I imagined he might have a royal emblem stitched on his shirts or something, he turns out to be a nice, intense middle-aged man.

He doesn't use the usual Iowa Model in the workshops. Instead, he has someone else read your poem, then he asks questions of the class (you have to be silent, of course). Where is the narrator in this poem and what, if anything, has happened to the narrator. Why is this a poem and not an essay? Where in the poem does the ending begin? And so on. Very intense and articulate. The class responds to this very well, though occasionally someone will slip back into "Well, I feel the image in this line should . . . "

I like his style.

We're doing one poem of each member each day. He said my poem of the day was more expository writing and that I should reconsider it as an essay. I was stunned because I would never have thought of that in a million years. It was not a criticism of my language or skill but just a different perspective. I can't wait to see what happens with tomorrow's poem (which is a poem and not an essay. I think).

Even though our poems are for workshop I've been surprised at some of the work. Some people simply cannot get to the heart of the poem, are not skilled enough in the use of language to make it say what you think you're trying to say. JBH always said you have to risk something in your work -- if you're not risking something don't bother writing. This is far, far easier said than done, but at least it's the right direction. But so many people use clever language and turns of phrases to skate over the emotion in the poem, as if language was a way to avoid any risk whatsoever.

And what can you say to those people? We all have our defenses and our own good reasons for staying out of those dark risky places -- but I don't think you can ever do good work, especially in poetry, if you don't get down to those dark and risky places. The skill in using the language is crucial, of course, but secondary to the risk.

Of course, I've had two whiskey and waters and can expound all night about poetry as if I were some sort of expert in all matters of art.

It's a beautiful night here, chilly with a half moon hanging in the sky.

My birds are at home, asleep by now. I wonder if they miss me -- there's not really any way to make a pet understand that you'll return to them when you have to go. They become accustomed to the daily absences, I think, but when a flock member "disappears" what is the parrot to think? In the wild, a disappearance means that the flock member is dead, lost, gone, never to return.

And what must they think when you return -- out of nowhere -- as if nothing has happened? It must be a shock, and good reason for the punishment they mete out on you. I wish I knew some way to make them understand.

Well, I think the thing to do now is go back to my room and have another drink.

Learning Something New Every Day

I've often wondered about parrots being used as service animals; now my questions are answered! I'm going to send this to my friend who runs PEAC, too.

http://aunaturalbirdnotes.blogspot.com/2008/08/of-pampered-parrot-rescue-and-parrot.html

Arrival in Vermont

Second day at Vermont College of Fine Arts in Montpelier, and it's cold! Here I packed nothing but tee-shirts and shorts and insisted on a fan in my room (dorms are not air conditioned) because it was supposed to be hot, and it's been raining and cold.

Not too much has changed in the 19 years I've been gone. Same beautiful town, dorms are in Dewey Hall instead of Noble, and the food is infinitely better.

Baron Wormser will, I think, turn out to be a good instructor. He said last night we weren't going to follow the typical Iowa model but would be using a more Socratic method, and that another classmate would read our poems out loud -- we wouldn't be reading our own work. I think these are excellent ideas and I'm looking forward to it.

Called L last night -- she got into the house okay and said she stayed about an hour. She said Charli bit her and Nicholas (probably) bit her. I apologized as if they were my children and hadn't been raised to be polite. Lord. She kindly reminded me that she has cockatiels and works as a vet tech and knows perfectly well that birds bite strangers -- that I needn't apologize. She's birdsat for me before, so she isn't exactly a stranger, but I'm sure they also remember her from the vet's.

I'm planning to sneak off after lunch, get a cab, and go downtown. They're not serving wine at the evening readings like they used to, and I could use a drink after a full day of this stuff, which means going to the state-operated liquor store. I'll miss a couple of lectures, but they're ones I'm not interested in anyway.

Rare St. Vincent Amazon Parrot Born At Houston Zoo

http://birdchannel.com/bird-news/2008/08/01/st-vincent-amazon-birth.aspx

Miracle in the Suburbs

Another so-so day at work.

Last night there were two extra cars in the neighbor's driveway. Either visitors or mourners; I hadn't seen the man (father) since he was driven away by EMS.

This afternoon there were three cars in the driveway and out on the street. I pulled my garbage container from my backyard to the curb (Fridays are garbage pick-up days). As I walked back to my porch, I heard, "Ma'am?"

I looked up and it was the young woman who'd made the long-distance call. She said, "My mama said she'd pay for the call."

"That's fine, " I said, "but I won't know how much it is until the bill comes in."

"And I can take your garbage out to the curb," she offered. "It comes tomorrow, right?"

"You don't have to do that," I pointed to the curb. "I've already taken it out."

"Oh."

"Well, when the bill comes in I'll bring it over to your dad." (She doesn't live there.)

"Okay."

"Is he doing okay," I asked.

"Oh yeah."

"He's home now?"

She nodded, and I smiled and said, "That's good."

She went back to her house and I unlocked my door and went in to greet my birds.

She was so polite I'm tempted to let the bill go! There may be hope for the next generation after all.

Then I decided it was a good day for bird torture. That's right -- I took each bird into the bathroom and gave each of them a spray bath. There was much fussing and struggling, but the deed is done and now I have four little wet birds preening their beautiful feathers.

PDD Update

Public release date: 29-Jul-2008
[ Print Article | E-mail Article | Close Window ]

Contact: Kristen Bole
kbole@pubaff.ucsf.edu
415-476-2557
University of California - San Francisco
UCSF researchers identify virus behind mysterious parrot disease

Researchers at the University of California, San Francisco, have identified a virus behind the mysterious infectious disease that has been killing parrots and exotic birds for more than 30 years.

The team, led by UCSF professors Joseph DeRisi, PhD, and Don Ganem, MD, also has developed a diagnostic test for the virus linked to Proventricular Dilation Disease, or PDD, which will enable veterinarians worldwide to control the spread of the virus.

Results of the study will be published in Virology Journal and will appear online in August. The findings also will be presented in full at the August 11 annual meeting of the Association of Avian Veterinarians, in Savannah, GA.

The new virus, which the team named Avian Bornavirus (ABV), is a member of the bornavirus family, whose other members cause encephalitis in horses and livestock. Working with veterinarians on two continents, the group isolated this virus in 71 percent of the samples from infected birds, but none of the healthy individuals.

"This discovery has potentially solved a mystery that has been plaguing the avian veterinary community since the 1970s," said DeRisi, a molecular biologist whose laboratory aided in the 2003 discovery of the virus causing Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, or SARS, in humans. "These results clearly reveal the existence of an avian reservoir of remarkably diverse bornaviruses that are dramatically different from anything seen in other animals."

The discovery could have profound consequences on both domesticated parrots and in the conservation of endangered species, according to DeRisi and Ganem, both Howard Hughes Medical Investigators at UCSF. Those species include the Spix's Macaw, currently one of the most endangered birds in the world, whose number has dwindled to roughly 100 worldwide and whose continued existence is threatened by PDD.

The research was spearheaded by Amy Kistler, a postdoctoral fellow in the DeRisi and Ganem labs. Together with veterinarians Susan Clubb, in the United States, and Ady Gancz in Israel, Kistler analyzed affected birds using UCSF's patented ViroChip technology.

The ViroChip, which DeRisi and Ganem developed, is a high-throughput screening technology that uses a DNA microarray to test viral samples. The team was able to recover virus sequence from a total of 16 diseased birds from two different continents. The complete genome sequence of one isolate was captured using ultra deep sequencing.

The virus they identified is highly divergent from all previously identified members of the Bornaviridae family and represents the first full-length bornavirus genome ever cloned directly from avian tissue. Analysis of the Avian Bornavirus genome revealed at least five distinct varieties.

PDD is a fatal disease that causes nervous system disorders in both domesticated and wild birds in the psittacine, or parrot, family worldwide. The disease has been found in 50 different species of parrots, as well as five other orders of birds, and is widely considered to be the greatest threat to captive breeding of birds in this family, the researchers said.

The disorder often leads to the birds' inability to swallow and digest food, with resulting wasting; many birds also suffer from neurologic symptoms such as imbalance and lack of coordination. Regardless of the clinical course the disease takes, it is often fatal.

Scientists have theorized for decades that a viral pathogen was the source of the disease, but until now, no one had been able to identify the likely culprit.

"This provides a very compelling lead in the long-standing search for a viral cause of PDD," Ganem said. "With the development of molecular clones and diagnostic tests for ABV, we can now begin to explore both the epidemiology of the virus and how it is linked to the disease state."

###

Co-authors on the paper include Amy L. Kistler, Peter Skewes-Cox, Kael Fisher, Katherine Sorber, Charles Y. Chiu and Alexander Greninger, from the Howard Hughes Medical Institute and Department of Biochemistry, Microbiology and Medicine at UCSF; Ady Gancz, from The Exotic Clinic, Herzlyia, Israel; Susan Clubb, Rainforest Clinic for Birds and Exotics, Loxahatchee, Fla.; Avishai Lublin, Sara Mechani and Yigal Farnoushi, of the Division of Avian and Fish Diseases, Kimron Veterinary Institute, bet Dagan, Israel; and Scott B. Karlene, of the Lahser Interspecies Research Foundation, Bloomfield Hills, MI.

The research was supported by funding to DeRisi and Ganem from the Howard Hughes Medical Institute and the Doris Duke Charitable Foundation. Funding for US specimen collection and veterinary care was provided by the Lahser Interspecies Research Foundation

The DeRisi Laboratory is part of the California Institute for Quantitative Biosciences, known as QB3, a cooperative effort among private industry and more than 180 scientists at UCSF, UC Berkeley and UC Santa Cruz. The collaboration harnesses the quantitative sciences to integrate and enhance scientific understanding of biological systems at all levels, enabling scientists to tackle problems that have been previously unapproachable.

UCSF is a leading university dedicated to promoting health worldwide through advanced biomedical research, graduate-level education in the life sciences and health professions, and excellence in patient care. For further information, please visit www.ucsf.edu.

The Law

Spent over half an hour on hold yesterday trying to speak to an IRS agent, to find out why I haven't received my incentive check. I'm so not looking forward to calling again.

Got a summons today for jury duty. I don't mind jury duty that much; I really do think it's my responsibility as a citizen. Old-fashioned, I know.

And, of course, spent nearly half an hour on the phone with GoDaddy this morning. Perhaps I should just move there.

The Evil Committee began its down-hill slide yesterday; some things got done incorrectly and there was confusion so we left early. I haven't figured out a way to smuggle whiskey into the meeting room, though. Which is probably for the best.

Sugar Franklin was perkier than usual yesterday, running back and forth in her cage until I brought her out where she proceeded to run back and forth on the coffee table and on me.

I love the way parrots (and I guess other pets) just assume possession of a human's body. Charli will move from the back of the couch by hopping onto my shoulder (without asking, of course) and then scoot herself to my chest so that she's in perfect position to be scritched and then to take a nap. Like I was put on earth to meet her needs and wishes, and that I wouldn't dare move lest I inconvenience her. My parrots have claimed my shoulders, my back, my knees, my chest, and my lap, and sometimes my feet -- though my feet are loudly proclaimed by Sugar Franklin to be Evil and in dire need of hissing at.

What I wouldn't give to know what they think.

Birds and Mother and Saturday

I swear, I wouldn't recommend GoDaddy to my worst enemy. I've transferred my domain names from them to a new provider and GoDaddy won't let go of them. My sites are not showing up because "transfer is denied," because it's "registered," it's "private," I need to log onto this and click that and then log in over here and click that other button. This has been going on all damn week. So if you tried to access my blog and couldn't, it's because GoDaddy wouldn't release the domain name.

The other situation with GoDaddy is so convoluted it would take me months to explain it due to the impossible happening for three friggin' years. I'll have another site set up later. Even the most advanced tech person I know said it was "possible but highly unlikely," which from him means "impossible." sigh . . . .

I've been on the phone almost all morning to powweb.com, trying to get through to tech support and then trying to make myself understood by the folks in India.

Sugar Franklin was declared okay -- Thursday's gram stain only showed one little yeast thing, so she's okay. I put her water bottle back in place, and I suspect she's glad to taste "normal" water again.

My physical therapist is from South Africa, which explains her accent. We talked for a few minutes about apartheid; she said she and her family left in the mid-80s because of apartheid (she's white and didn't want her family living in that kind of environment). She said it's all open now except that there are no jobs any more for whites, and that Indian women get first pick as doctors. I think it's fascinating to talk to someone who lived there during apartheid, but we didn't have time and I don't exactly know her well.

She did some ultrasound on my shoulder then I did some arm rotations on a machine like a bicycle, then she gave me more exercises to do. Because of vacations I won't see her again until mid-August. My shoulder didn't feel good after the session like last week.

My mom came to town today (she lives about 60 miles away) and I took her out to lunch. She makes beautiful, award-winning quilts, and she wanted to go to one of the fabric stores here. She seemed a bit more calm today, thank goodness.

Charli bit me last night. I had her out for over two hours, giving her scritches, letting her nap on my chest, and even letting her chew up safe things on the coffee table. And then the phone rang.

Charli cannot abide the phone or for me to use it. I've learned to either put her down or hold her far away from me when I have to answer the phone, and that's always worked. But last night she bit my hand several times and wouldn't let go. I had to shake her off, which wasn't good for either of us. It was a terrible way to end such a nice time we had had, and I feel awful about it. I got her in her cage and gave her a good lecture then ran ice cold water over my hand to stop the bleeding. I gave her some more scritches later in the evening to show I forgave her; this morning she's fine and back to her normal sweet self.

I think I deserve a nap.

Good News

I took Sugar Franklin in for her follow-up on the yeast thing. I should know soon.

While I was there I asked Dr. Z if she knew about my deceased friend's birds. It turns out that my ex-friend (who took the birds in) did not give one of the birds to the woman who mistreats her birds! And that she wouldn't even consider doing so. I cannot express how relieved I am. It was incomprehensible to me that my ex-friend would do such a thing, but people change and I haven't talked to her in over a year. But the birds are safe!

My friend J called late last night and left a message. His brown-headed parrot had bitten his hand several times and I could tell he needed to talk about behavior issues. The bird is 3 years old and has never bitten him before.

I chatted with him via e-mail today. From what I can make out, the bird was doing the skirt dance and J interrupted her a bit too abruptly. And took her to the cage when she wasn't ready to go. I think. It's impossible to know for sure. Anyway, I told him it's important for the bird to feel it has some control over its environment, that next time ask her to step up and if she refuses, go away and do something else for a few minutes. Then ask again; the odds are good the bird will be more than happy to step up because it will be her choice. And that he must watch her body language at all times -- 99.99 percent of the time a parrot will warn you when it's going to bite.

People who own parrots must be insane. I know I am.

In Anticipation of Rain

The weather people are promising thunderstorms today, and I hope they're right. I could use a big ole' thunderstorm about now -- lots of lightning and thunder and pounding rain that rushes into the street and down the sewers.

The Evil Committee was its usual evil self yesterday. It's what you'd imagine a committee in Hell would be like -- a little conference room with a white screen and no windows, tables in a square formation with little chairs around them. The tables have dried rings on them from countless wet glasses and cups. Pictures of males on the walls along with plaques for excellence in employee satisfaction or housekeeping or softball -- all slightly crooked. Extra chairs and odd broken pieces of equipment piled in the corners, so there's really not much space to move around in. The computer only shows half of the document on the screen, and everyone peers at it and then someone will ask about a particular word, then someone else will chime in about that word and another word. T will write everything down on her copy, L will bring up something that has no relation whatsoever to the subject at hand, A will address L's comment, so that P and M have to express their opinion on the matter. Then C will jangle her bracelets and state her views, causing T to mark out what she'd written and write something else down. The room and meeting are all self-contained, with no escape. I drink my tea or water very, very slowly and wonder why I'm even there and how I'm going to survive another one.

Our summer chorus taper rehearsals have been moved to Mondays instead of Sundays, and the place we normally meet at has broken air conditioning so we're now meeting in a big church basement. Last night's rehearsal went pretty well, all things considered.

Got my Vermont workshop workbook yesterday, and it's about what I expected. Some writers included stuff that's simply incomprehensible to me, others included respectable work. Maybe it's just because I'm older but I strongly believe a poem should be about something recognizable, notwithstanding "language" poems, which I look at as exercises rather than poems. I'm concerned that my instructor is not Bruce Weigl, who I signed up for, but someone named Baron Wormser. Never heard of him (her), and I don't appreciate the switch with no explanation. I wrote Louise to see what was going on, and she said Bruce had health problems and then Jack bailed. I hadn't gotten the e-mail about Bruce, so it was all a surprise to me.

No meetings today, so I can deal with this pile of work without having to leave my office right in the middle of it. I had a lot of phone calls yesterday, so I may just let the system take messages today.

Sugar Franklin has been drinking her special water more and more, without a problem. Seems to me she's a bit perkier, but that could be my imagination. We go back for a gram stain on Thursday.

Charli has taken to sleeping on the other side of her cage, on top of a half-chewed toy. Parrots can sleep in the oddest places in the most contorted postures; clearly they don't have arthritis, or at least they don't have it yet.

On the drive to work this morning, I heard on NPR that McCain's latest commercial blames Obama for the increase in gasoline prices. There is no twisted form of logic or madness available to me that would make that make any sense whatsoever.

Blogs and Politics

At 9 am it's already 90 degrees. I managed to haul myself out of bed early enough to go have breakfast at one of my favorite places before the pre-church crowd wandered in. I was thinking that maybe the art of blogging is just translating the more literate stuff that rolls around in your head -- of course, some blogs are commercial or deliberately political, but I'm talking about the casual blog. Like this. I know I have the most perfect wonderful charming entrancing parrots in the world, but I can see how someone else could get bored hearing about them.

I took all 20 pounds of the Sunday paper to the restaurant with me, of course. And there on the local section's front page are pictures of yet another funeral of yet another poor kid killed in Iraq. What angers me is how the friends and some relatives will stand around and say, with true heartfelt sincerity, that "he died so those people could be free," or "he gave his life to keep us all safe." I can understand how the immediate relatives may be forced to say and believe such things in order to keep their sanity, but no one else believes that stuff. There is no doubt in my mind that Bush stole both elections and that he went into the White House determined to wage war against Iraq.

And meanwhile, Osama bin Laden is still out there. And we're throwing away our citizens over there -- for what?

I am registered independent, and in this state independents can't vote in the primary unless an independent candidate is running. But if I were registered Democrat, I would have voted for Hilary. I just don't think Obama is seasoned enough to handle it.

But I'm voting for him in November, and he can damned well learn. He's a lot wiser than Bush was/is. McCain gets up there and talks just like Bush -- who among us wants another four years of Bush-ism?

sigh . . . don't get me started.

The birds were beside themselves when I got home; calling at the top of their voices and running back and forth. I think Charli is over her hormonal surges -- she's happily been sitting on my knee and climbing to the back of the couch to chew up a fresh roll of adding machine tape -- no interest at all in the coffee table.

The Virtue of Salads

I don't have a thing I have to do until rehearsal tomorrow evening, though there are zillions of things I should do.

I finaly braved the 90-plus heat and went over to Texas Roadhouse for a late lunch. Now I know that some Texas Roadhouses are not excellent, but this one is. I've never had a messed up order or bad dish and the service is always excellent. My only complaint is that it's so crowded after 5 and on weekends. I love their little sirloins, ribs, mashed potatoes with brown gravy, baked beans, fresh baked rolls with honey and cinnamon butter, and salads.

Rather than my usual 6 ounce sirloin I had their veggie plate: mashed potatoes with brown gravy, apple sauce, baked beans, iced tea unsweetened, and a salad.

I love a good basic garden salad, though I don't know why. One of my grandfathers ate nothing but eggs and meat (he died of a stroke; they didn't know the connection back then). My other grandfather was almost as bad and died of heart failure. My dad rarely ate veggies and had a heart attack (he died of Alzheimer's though). My mom will eat a vegetable if I fuss at her long enough. So my love of salads is certainly not genetic.

I've had lots of bad salads and lots of superb salads -- I'm talking garden or side salads here; no Jell-o salads or weird stuff people like to bring to potlucks. The ones I like are about like the one I had today. Cold variety of dark leafy lettuces; a little iceberg is okay as long as it's not the bulk of the salad. A sliver or two of red cabbage, some shredded cheddar cheese, croutons that break easily with a fork, some hard boiled egg (both white and yolk), lots and lots of fresh cut tomatoes, maybe some shredded carrots. Mushrooms and a sprinkle of crisp crumbled bacon are welcome additions, as are thinly sliced cucumbers. No onions. My favorite dressing is lime and honey, but not many restaurants serve that. So I end up with french or sun-dried tomato or thousand island on the side. I also like O'Charley's Black and Blue salad, which comes with cooked sirloin strips and bits of blue cheese and all the other salad things I like. Ditto for the Southern Chicken salad they have: crisp tender bits of chicken breast.

On my way home from lunch there was a bad wreck; maybe three cars. The police hadn't arrived yet. One car was hit front driver's side so badly ain't nobody gonna ever drive that car again. There were maybe eight cars pulled off to the side and maybe 12 people standing around. Beside the totaled car a woman was laying on the hot asphalt, moaning, while a couple of people talked to her. I hate it when people stop and gawk at wrecks, though I myself always slow down just a little bit, even though I think it's rude. If I'm not involved and the police or some kind of help is there, it's none of my business, and the best thing I (anyone) can do is get out of the way.

I stopped at the little convenience store in my neighborhood to get my lottery tickets and one of those huge colas for 69 cents. I love Pepsi in bottles or cans, but for fountain drinks nothing beats a Coke.

I had all the birds out earlier, except Charli. She's awfully hormonal or something these past few days. I bring her out and scritch her little head, then she decides she wants to chew everything on the coffee table. I pick her up, she goes back and hangs upsidedown and climbs down to the shelf of the coffee table and proceeds to chew everything there. I pick her up and she nips me and tries to get to the coffee table again. I give her a couple of her favorite toys to chew on and she's destroyed one of my crossword puzzle books, but no -- it must be the coffee table. Sugar's cage is next to the coffee table, and Charli also likes to climb on top -- which Sugar certainly does not appreciate.

So Charli comes out separately so I can keep dragging her away from the coffee table.

And Nicholas is in full voice today. I swear he hasn't stopped calling and chirping at the top of his lungs all day. I may have to take some aspirin.

Unrequited Love

Flash and Sugar Franklin are both on the back of the couch. Flash has moved to about 8 inches of Sugar. Any closer and she hisses and snaps at his tail. Sugar thinks she's a human and doesn't want to be bothered by some "bird." Poor Flash. She's just snapped at him so hard he flew off to stand on her cage with Nicholas. Even from there he watches her.

Nicholas is a different story. When I first saw Nicholas he was in the lobby cage at the avian vet's office. He looked like no cockatiel I'd ever seen -- grey with all his feathers curled up, and he was very thin. But with bright eyes and a lot of energy. I asked what was wrong with him and everyone said they couldn't find anything wrong with him, and I knew my vet wouldn't put him in the lobby if he was sick.

He always shrieked at Sugar Franklin, and when we would leave the clinic I would hear him call after us in the parking lot. Poor thing was in love with Sugar, I thought.

A year or so later one of the vets asked if I wanted him. His curled feathers had molted out to be replaced with a sleek soft plumage, and he still proclaimed his love for Sugar loudly. She, of course, ignored him.

The vet assured me there was nothing chronically wrong with him; he'd been through all the tests. He was thought to be 13 to 15 years old. One of the vets had rescued him from a woman who bred cocktiels but never cleaned cages and smoked two or three packs of cigarettes a day and kept him on a seed-only diet. Poor thing should have been dead. He weighed about 68 grams.

So I took him home in his old ratty cage, which I threw out as soon as I got him settled in one of my nicer ones.

Once he realized Sugar was "not interested" he eased up on the shrieking, and just a few months ago I learned he was given to me because he shrieked at everybody. And here I thought it was because he loved Sugar.

He always calls a different call when someone pulls into the driveway or steps onto the porch, even if I can't hear him. He's better than a dog about that. He's up to 78 grams now and is still bright-eyed and rarely stands still. I've had him several years now, and I love him dearly for his enthusiasm and optimism. He has loud calls and moderate calls; he loves to do the wolf whistle, only he messes up the first two notes. Charli doesn't like Nicholas' loud calls, and she'll chirp loudly at Nicholas to shut him up. Which rarely works.

Sugar Franklin, by the way, is drinking her special water but only when she's so thirsty she can't avoid it. She'll take a drink, look up at me, and then back away from the dish. Poor baby. I tasted the water and there is a very, very slight trace of vinegar.

I'm sure Flash would rescue her from water with vinegar and honey in it, if only she'd let him.globe_blogs.gif

Monday, Monday

I took off Thursday so naturally I had to pay for it today. I walk into my office and there are 9 pieces of work that had been faxed to me (four of which have already been taken care of and are duplicates but no one knows why they were resent to me, and three of them were filled with scrawls no one is able to decipher), a stack of mail, about 30 e-mails, and a subpoena for some documents.

Got the subpoena dealt with, then slogged through the rest of it. Then it was time for The Retreat.

I work for a hospital, shuffling papers for administration. I do not come within five miles of a patient and maybe talk to a physician once every other month or so. My office is three miles off-site. I deal in language; I do not comprehend data collection and core measures and quality indicators and percentages and so on that goes on in any medical organization. So naturally, The Retreat was all about quality indicators and core measures and how we're all a "team." There have been some reorganizations (surprise; they only reorganize once a year), so we got to see the new "organ" charts so we would know who is most important this week. My favorite part was one of the administrators saying how important it is to motivate and appreciate staff. Right.

Mr. Perky (not his real name, of course) was there. I call him Mr. Perky because he's always upbeat and happy and full of positive thinking. He's one of the lower level administrators and since he makes over $100,000 a year I guess he's got a right to be perky. I bet he feels appreciated and motivated.

They encouraged us to voice our concerns and ask questions, so several people mentioned that we need more staff and more cooperation from the clinical folks. Don't worry, said the administrators, we're going to take care of it. Interpretation: We will continue to need more staff and cooperation from the clinical folks (who also need more help).

The Retreat was supposed to be over at 5, but of course the administrators kept talking until 5:20, at which point I just got up and left with a couple of other folks. There was absolutely no reason for me to be there. None. But I can't say so lest people think I have a "bad" attitude. $100,000 a year would help my attitude a whole lot.

I had to stop at Wal-Mart where they didn't have the frame I was looking for, so I got dinner to go from Subway. My parrots like the bread and lettuce and cheese (in teeny tiny amounts) from Subway. It's Monday, which means House is on so all is not lost!

Hmmm . . . wonder what House would have done in today's retreat . . . .