When someone has proven to you that he is neither ethical nor trustworthy... don't expect him then to be ethical and trustworthy in future dealings.

Likewise, when someone has proven themselves incapable and ineffective, don't expect him to be capable and effective in the future.

And beware anyone who suggests otherwise on either count.

For a bit a concept has rolled around in my head; I've tried to share it with certain friends, but the words don't do justice to the ennui in my heart. This morning on the way to work, a selection from The Moth painted it in bright Technicolor.

Todd Hanson, writer for The Onion, started in on a piece about "A slacker details his relationship with depression… and couches." The Moth delights more often than not; inciting raucous laughter, or unavoidable sobbing. Initially, Hanson's piece really failed to connect for me. More than once I almost flipped to the next podcast awaiting me. For some reason my hand was stayed, despite being way more irritated and un-entertained than usually tolerated.

But soon, the reason I stayed with it was made clear. He talked of stumbling upon a copy of Dante's Inferno that had been kicked under the couch, only because he had exhausted every diversion present in the living room in which his couch resides. (He'd watched all the DVDs, finished all the video games, consumed all the porn.) In the preface to this masterpiece, he was slapped in the face with the concept of acedia: the profound sense of emptiness that comes from not believing in anything.

Acedia was felt to be "a sin of the worst kind, for it was specifically the sin of the failure to pursue god; a lack of making the effort necessary to seek out the joy of god, or of more generally of creation."

While I don't suffer from this sin fully, I've gotten whiffs of its pain in part due to a lack of understanding how some of my interests, pursuits and methods fit into a paradigm where they are not all disheveled, unrelated, and without merit; quite the opposite: putting the pieces together, they form a very coherent and compelling picture puzzle. Complete in its complexity, and not lacking. Click all the pieces together and the machine starts to hum; leave them scattered about and each is less than its consummate part of the whole.

I've long sought something which I had all the time; at times I recognize it, but at some point I'll "lose" it again, only to overlook it day in and day out until some strange cosmic alignment makes it stand out again.

Moments of clarity. I can only hope for more.

The brain has the ability to create worlds so real that upon waking it takes a moment to sort out whether you are now awake... or are you now asleep, and were then awake? The accurate recreation of visceral experiences -- fear, flight, falling, orgasm -- are they reactions of the limbic system to thoughts, sights and sounds created by the brain, or vice versa? Does the limbic system fire and the brain throws together a story to coincide?

And to think: this is possible using but a small portion of our brain's power. What are we truly capable of?

For years I've toyed with the idea of picking up an instrument again. Went into the music store, asked to sit with a sax, the task of sucking on a reed (taste, feel, habit) stirring up all manner of emotions in me. Rented it, but it sat unused in the case for a few months. (The clerk hung around and listened, and was surprised when I told him I hadn't touched one in 20 years. I'll admit, so was I.)

Recently I downloaded a finger piano for the iPhone and plunking out the simplest of things almost brought me to tears.

I tinker with the djembe that's sat in the dining room for some time. I need a class, and a drum group.

It needs to happen. But, I need to find a way to work it into my life, my habits, my goals. Practice, especially as one gets back into the swing, is best a solitary task. But then, I'll need musical companionship, for both joy and growth. Luckily there are a number of local bands. The time commitment will be the biggest issue, but really, I will simply trade some of my current downtime doing things which are less enjoyable, less rewarding.

As I'm trying to limit outflow of $$$ that isn't necessary right now, I can't just run out and buy a keyboard. Getting creative, I made a Craigslist post offering trade of creative services in exchange for a used keyboard.

Keeping my fingers crossed.

I'm going to play with Blogger for a while, so tune into Dogs and Dragonflies. The layout is stock for now, but I'll be working on it.

A friend went fishing yesterday on the coast. His party caught their limit, and as a result had more than they knew what to do with since they don't have a freezer. As a result, Scot was gifted with sides of rockfish and cabezone, along with three very good sized Dungeness crabs.

We took our bounty over to Leah's, and invaded her kitchen. With no fillet skills, I did my best to debone, and then dipped the fillets into beer batter (using Rogue's American Amber) and fried them up in a pan. Fresh fish is a beautiful thing; you are close enough to the reality that something has given its life for you that it's a sobering experience to prepare it. The flesh of rockfish is substantial and firm, and fresh fish has no "fishy" smell, and the texture is squick-free. The only smell you can catch is a slight whiff of saltwater. Perhaps it helps that many of these fish don't have scales, for I remember the fishing of my youth (bass, etc. in Indiana) to be much more fishy.

The results after a quick bath in hot oil was buttery fish that fell apart, with a firm texture and sweet taste -- just how I like my fish! A light crunchy batter only accented it.

One would swear the boil used by our benefactors was pure butter, as the crabs were rich and sweet. They were boiled but not cleaned, so Scot went to that work, and showed Leah how to do it. I did my part by standing in close and watching. I can do it, but I tend to pull off the shell and then turn my head away, blindly pushing stuff off and flinging the crab around, spraying who knows what who knows where.

None of us have sets of proper tools for eating crab. When we last had Alaskan King Crab legs, we used a meat mallet to break them. They got out a pair of wide nosed pliers to act as a cracker, and we used fondue forks to break/reach inside.

This lead to the unexpected; one leg exploded in my hand, spraying us all with crab. Dan had some smack in the middle of his forehead.

They live out in the middle of nowhere, but I'm sure the closest neighbor heard us laughing.

Some jackass punched the locks on Scot's truck sometime between Tuesday and Wednesday. What did they get away with?

$6.

There were some spare ones in coffee cash stashed in the center console (hidden from view, of course--I have no idea what encouraged them to go for this vehicle for it isn't flashy). Luckily, they took no interest in the stereo, and missed the $100 sunglasses stored overhead. And it's no surprise, but no one cared for his musical selections, either. ;-)

After new locks for the truck, it'll also get an alarm. Joy. So someone's $6 gain will cost us about $600.

That makes a lot of sense. Ah, but we'll stimulate the local economy! My car was not touched (despite having various things visible; noting of value, but more than $6 worth for sure. It does have a factory alarm, however).

I'm trying to be Zen, really. Maybe someone was driven to such depraved lengths because they have a beloved child to feed. Or a sick Grandmother who needs medicine. Maybe they needed that $6 more than I need the $600.

I cling to that because the likely truth is much more disheartening. Regardless, I believe in karma, and payback is a bitch.

So I get my trash/recycling bill. I just called and left the following message:

"Hello, my name is Amy and my account number is XXX. I received my bill the other day, and there must be a mistake. You did not credit my account for the week in December that you did not provide your service.



Given that you nickel and dime the shit out of your customers, such as charging an extra fee if the trash or recycling bin lid is even so much as raised by 3 inches, I have no intention of paying for a week of service that you did not provide. If there is any problem with this request, please call me at xxx-xxx-xxxx between the hours of 8a and 10p."

Robbers.

When I was a child, we'd travel now and then to an old iron town on the Ohio river. Not-so-creatively named Ironton, it was full of neighborhoods with amazing Second Empire and Queen Anne architecture. Back in the 70's and 80's, many lay in waste, and their decaying radiance no doubt lay at the foundation of my fascination with both architecture and the macabre beauty of its decay.

The reason for our trips were visits to my Aunt Ellen (my mother's father's brother's wife; I don't remember my Uncle Ray, I believe he passed before I was born). She was a fantastic, traditional hostess; she would sleep in the spare bedroom with me, for my parents got her master bedroom. I remember her as a fairly "formal" lady compared to others in our family; I remember fairly strict routines, slippers, robes, never going anywhere without her makeup. She had a gentle demeanor, which made it all the more hilarious when she was bawdy or excited.

She cooked wonderful meals for us, and those visits are among some of my fondest childhood memories. I adored her house, with it's old charm and style so different from what I was used to. We lived in a rural area, she lived where there were sidewalks to roam and blocks to traverse.

About the only part of her that remains with me, aside from the memories, is a recipe for a spaghetti sauce that is so easy it's ridiculous, and so odd that no one I've ever mentioned it to doesn't laugh. But Scot and I love love love it, and we enjoyed it tonight on top of some very al dente campanelle and thick fluffy slices of garlic bread made from the leftovers of a home-made loaf of bread I made this weekend.

Great way to start the weekend. Not much relaxing to do, as there's an oodle of freelance work to do, and prep for Mom's visit.

Couldn't resist the reviews and caught Slumdog Millionaire at Salem Cinema this weekend with Leah. A beautiful film, powerful and startling for its imagery and it's contrasts of poverty and wealth. All in all a good story, too; the type of timeline mash-up they use often doesn't sit well with me, but it was a perfect track for this story.

I had heard the occasional news story about the level of poverty in the mega slums of the world, and this movie caused me to do a little research and learn a bit more. That's a powerful thing to say, that a movie urged one to learn more.

There was something amazing about seeing children laugh amidst such poverty. While it is a movie, I'm sure that happens naturally, as well, reminding us that some of the most important things in life (love and laughter, in my view) shine through whatever hardship arises.

One of the previews was for Waltz with Bashir. My reaction was interesting, telling more about the film's purpose than perhaps anything else. Why use animation as the vehicle for a documentary, especially one about war and death? What is gained? Especially animation techniques that depend upon live action origins. To me, the methods are more distracting and detracting than enhancing; I find humanity is lost in the telling, and the mind constantly distracted from the story by the delivery method.

Just the trailer made me uncomfortable enough that I think I need to see the movie, though. Maybe I'll feel differently by the end.

And overall, support Salem Cinema. I know a lot of people who don't go. True, their offerings are not mainstream -- that's the whole point. But there are non-mainstream movies which have great appeal, so if you don't go to Salem Cinema, keep an eye out to what is playing and make a point to go if they do carry something you are interested in. Sign up for their mailing list to get a weekly mailing with what's playing.

Support local business, especially those that value the arts. A life without them would be rife with poverty, indeed.