Category: Burningbird

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Just Shelley

Rocks

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

As some of you know, I collect rare minerals, in traditional crystalline habit, thumbnail sized, and with matrix.

All of which is just a fancy way of saying that I collect crystals.

I started the collection years and years ago with a watermelon tourmaline cross-section, soon joined by dioptase, azurite, rhodochrosite, barite, cinnabar, and so on. I now have what is a fairly impressive collection for an amateur.

Barite

Now collecting crystals isn’t as easy as it might sound; the crystal collector is faced with two major obstacles – the Rip-off Artist and the Mystic.

The RO-Artist is the person who solemnly assures you that Herkimer Diamonds are the Real Thing, when you know that they are nothing more than a commonly occurring variety of quartz. They’ll sell you glass and call it topaz, or push lab-grown crystals as natural.

Azurite

My favorite RO-Artist experience was at the 2001 Tucson Gem & Mineral show. I forayed into the small sideshows held in the motels throughout town, an experience not for the neophyte collector as anything goes — anything — in the sideshows.

In one motel room, I was negotiating for a nice rhodonite crystal when a man appeared in the doorway with a small micro-mount containing, as he assured one and all, a piece of the Moon. He then entered into spirited negotiations with mine host of the rhodonite for the price of the specimen.

Apophyllite

After a bit of haggling back and forth, mine host had to decline the $1500.00 asking price with a sad comment about “…it being worth ten times the price”. At which point both gentlemen fell into an expectant and hopeful silence.

Excuse me, but do I have rube printed in big bold letters across my back? I bought the rhodonite and left.

Fluorite

Of course, I wasn’t always the victor in these little encounters, and I have several specimens of dubious heritage in my collection. However, I’m particularly fond of these little mistakes, because each is a celebration of my willingness to take a chance, to explore outside the safe confines of the main show – to risk possible failure in the hopes of finding that one special gem, that one important piece.

If the RO-Artist is a unique and interesting challenge, they at least entertain rather than irritate, and that brings me to the Mystic.

In one rock shop, I was examining a lovely rose quartz cluster when a woman next to me started telling me about the mystical powers associated with rose quartz.

“Rose quartz will strengthen the bonds of love.”

It’s a rock.

“Rose quartz also has healing energies, particularly if your illness results from a loss or special sadness in your life.”

It’s a rock.

“I have a special rose quartz crystal that I keep beside my bed at night.”

It’s a …. lady, you need to get a life.

Rose Quartz

For the most part, I tolerated the Mystic because they had the best intentions at heart, however there was one encounter with a Mystic that left me cold.

A friend of mine, Joan, was (and is) into every New Age gimmick in the world – crystals, astral photography, pyramids, the whole bit. Because she is my friend, I also supported her in these little adventures because they were harmless and brought her joy. What’s a little mystical power of crystals between friends?

However, several years ago, events took a darker turn when Joan was diagnosed with breast cancer.

In the midst of her traditional medical treatment, including chemo-therapy and surgery, Joan discovered a Mystic who recommended a retreat, fasting, and several unusual and potentially dangerous sounding treatments. In alarm, I insisted on going with my friend the next time she met with this “miracle worker”.

The Mystic seemed ordinary enough and at first she didn’t say anything unusual or harmful – the necessity of peaceful surroundings, extra sleep, spring water, eating more of certain types of foods known to be high in anti-oxidants. However, as the conversation progressed, she started getting into the need for Joan to undergo unusual procedures such as daily colonics, week-long fastings to achieve a “pure” state, and so on. At that point, I intervened.

“Why must Joan fast for a week?”

She must rid her body of the pollutants that are interfering with her healing process.

“Isn’t it dangerous for Joan, already in a weakened state, to go without food of any form for a week?”

She would be given herbal teas, and participate in group meditation, which would give her strength.

“What’s contained in the teas?”

Various healing and soothing herbs.

“What herbs, and how will the group meditation give her strength?”

At this point, the Mystic, sensing an unbeliever answered with the response all charlatans have used since the dawn of time: the experience is spiritual one and I, as an outsider, couldn’t possibly understand.

I pulled an Older Sister/Close Friend routine and got my friend the hell out of there. When I got home, I took my favorite dioptase crystal – the beauty of my collection and my pride and joy – and put it into a small, hand-painted wooden box lined with cotton. Giving it to Joan, I told her that this crystal had special powers. In the darkest moments of fear, I told her to take the crystal out of the box and to hold it tight and remember that it represented the most healing power of all – love.

Several months later Joan gave me back the dioptase, telling me that she no longer needed it. She was going to be just fine.

Dioptase

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Just Shelley

Earthlink DSL

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

After a week of trying to get DSL setup and having it work for exactly one day; and after a week of Earthlink not returning calls or following through on promised actions, I’m throwing in the towel. Unfortunately, it doesn’t look as if any other DSL carriers serve my particular area, though I’ll call Southwest Bell/SBC tomorrow and hope for the best.

I guess the next step is to check out cable modems.

On the bright side, the complex where the townhouse is located has a lovely group of white-tailed bunnies, racoons that get stuck in the dumpsters – and a rabid, vicious cricket that trapped me in the laundry room today.

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Just Shelley

More angry voices

From the archives, Wayback Machine has an entry including comments from 2002

Interesting comments on the Value of Anger posting. As I expected, this is not a subject that people tread lightly. However, I was surprised at how personally some people took this posting.

For instance, Dave Rogers disagrees, strongly, with the concept of “healthy anger”, writing:

Anger isn’t some transcendent experience. It’s a temporary (hopefully) abnormal condition. Let it go.

Frank Paynter was actually “pissed” because Mike Golby and I talked about the healing power of anger. He wrote:

Anger is a bad thing. It comes from fear, and it inspires fear. Fear has a proximate cause. Root out the cause, displace the anger. Anger sucks. Angry people rationalize inhuman behavior. Angry people foster hostility and resentment in others. Angry people haven’t learned a loving acceptance that transcends helpless acceptance. Angry people are stunted in their personal development.

And both Jonathon and Dorothea saw themselves as “gently melancholic and intellectually pessimistic”, taking exception to the line If it’s angry people that forge a new society, it’s the gently melancholic, the intellectually pessimistic, and the complacent and indifferent people that destroy it.

Considering that I was wrote this line after reading a book based on a period of time 1000 years ago, I wasn’t expecting immediate identification. However, this shouldn’t be surprising. No matter how technologically advanced we get, no matter how we see ourselves advancing as a species, we’re still nothing more than humans experiencing human emotions. Love. Hate. Joy. Compassion. And Anger.

Anger is a part of us. It’s been a part of us before we ever attached a name to the emotion so that we could discuss it rather than act it out. To deny anger is to deny ourselves. Might as well deny love – it, too, can lead to destructive actions.

I don’t know about anyone else, but I have no interest in being a saint. And I have no interest in denying my capability for love or anger. I would hope that I expend my love on those that return it – to do otherwise leads to a great deal of pain. And I hope that I can control my anger and use the energy it generates for something productive, such as fighting the current political administration.

Mike had it right – anger is sharing.

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Just Shelley

Burningbugs

Today was hot and humid, which meant the fireflies were out, in force, at dusk. One particularly frisky little bug hovered in front of the living room window, seemingly infatuated with the magnificant glow of the small light by the window. Zzz. It said. Zzz. Zzz. Callous light just glowed steadily, ignoring the little critter.

How sad, this lost moment
and the love that was not meant to be;
The little burningbug
who lusted after electricity.

I didn’t see my first firefly until I moved to a house on Grande Isle in Vermont several years ago. The place was surrounded by fields, high up on a hill overlooking the lake, the closest neighbor hid by a bank of trees.

During the summer, thunderstorms would roll through, magnificent expositions of lightening and rain. And at dusk, in the cooling moisture, bright lights would begin to appear. A shy glimmer here, a quite moment of luminosity there, until the field was aglow with the delicate white lights, dancing in and among the plants.

Was this was my most perfect moment in Vermont? Or would it be held by that winter day, when the sun fell coldly on pure white snow, brilliant blue sky overhead reflected in the ice on the lake. And across the unmarked white field in front of the house hopped a red fox.

Later that night, we threw the switch that lit the lights on a tall evergreen far out in the field. The tree lights reflected on the snow, like fireflies flying about in the cooling mist of a summer night.

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Diversity Just Shelley

Older, Taller, Richer, Wiser

Recovered from the Wayback Machine.

My divorce has been final for over a year, which means I feel that it’s now “safe” for me to consider dating again. And as much as I think my weblogging male friends are the most wonderful, sexiest, interesting people in the world, I don’t want to snuggle up to a warm monitor on a Saturday night.

Dating again – this is something I haven’t done since I was in my 20’s, and I’m not sure what’s changed since then and now. What are the rules today? Do women ask men out? Who pays? Is the first date too soon for…

…holding hands?

(What did you think I’d say, you nasty minded folk.)

Years ago it was all so much less complicated – women simply followed the older, taller, richer, and wiser rule.

Men are Older

If you’re in a heterosexual relationship, who’s the older – the woman or man? Chances are very good that the man is the older, a trend that transcends cultures.

Back in olden times, the rule of the man being older than the woman made sense; after all, women tended to die younger due to childbirth and attendant complications. Additionally, men were considered unstable when they were younger, and women wanted a man who had “sown the oats” – was ready to settle down and be a good provider, father, and mate.

However, today, women have more control over childbirth and statistically have a longer lifespan than men. In addition, women come into their peak sexually at an older age, men at a younger age.

So, based on these considerations, should I be dating a younger man? Or should I continue with the tried but true older man? How about a man exactly my age?

(Scratch the last one – limiting myself to men who are exactly my age is going to decrease the available selection rather harshly, and being a woman in my 40’s already makes me more likely to be hit by a meteor than to meet someone more intelligent than an amoeba.)

I’m not interested in dating men who are ready to retire to the rocking chair; however, the thought of dating someone much younger leaves me cold. What’s a fair age difference today – plus or minus ten years? Twenty? Should I just be happy that they’re still breathing?

Of course once the issue of age is resolved, next comes…

Men are Taller

As far back as recorded history, men have historically been taller than women – at least within western civilization. Genectic selectivity most likely ensured this as women looked for men who are physically capable of protecting them as well as performing the manual toil necessary to support them.

Of course, as with the issue of age, men being taller – or stronger – than a woman is no longer the necessity it once was. Who needs protection through a man when one has a warm gun, to quote the Beatles. Still, old habits die hard.

Now, height isn’t necessarily as much of an issue as age because the average height of a woman is 5’8″ tall, the average height of a man is 5’10”. However, this is changing. Over the last two generations the average height for men has remained relatively stable while women’s has been increasing. The Age of the Amazon is upon us.

Of course, with me, the Age of the Amazon is already here – I’m 5’11” tall. In other words, I’m taller than the average guy. (Please, no jokes such as, “How’s the rain up there” – I’ve been known to spit on people and say “Not bad. How is it down there?”)

Rather than lurking about professional Basketball player locker rooms, I decided to do away with the “man must be taller” years ago. Just too many interesting guys who were shorter than me. Of course, the gentleman in question must also be beyond worries and considerations of being shorter than the woman – I wonder if this is more likely than me being hit by a meteor?

Men are Richer

When I was younger, the thing among us young babes was to marry a “successful” young man someday, have 2 kids, station wagon, dogs, the whole bit. Then we got older, and a hell of a lot smarter, but the image of “marrying success” still seems to linger here and there in and amidst different cultures.

The necessity of marrying well is very understandable when you consider that in the US, as with most countries, women were restricted in regards to profession as well as ownership of property. For the most part, women worked as teachers, maids, or prostitutes. Additionally, women were considered property of father, brother, or husband. If a woman had wealth through her father, it became the property of her husband when they married, or was managed by a male relative if the woman was single.

The best a woman could hope for was marrying a man who didn’t beat her, who could support her and the children, and didn’t screw around in front of her.

As the song says, the times they are a changing. Now both men and women look to marry well so that they can have twin BMWs parked in the driveway to impress the neighbors.

For myself, I’d rather date a man who’s interesting and fun to talk to than one who’s rich. And I’m more than willing to pay my own way on a date – as long as the guy assures me that we won’t be hit by a meteor while we’re out and about.

Men are Wiser

Discussing the classic work, The Tale of Genji, Jonathon writes:

Genji’s friend To-no-Chujo tells of a lover who bore him a daughter but who, ironically, lost his affection through being too meek and accommodating. The ideal woman, they conclude, “does not try to display her scanty knowledge in full,” nor does she “scribble off Chinese characters,” rather she shows taste and restraint and is prepared to “feign a little ignorance.”

A thousand years later, and not a lot has changed – the concept of dumbing down in order to attract guys was far too common when I was in school; the fact that women are disproportionally under-represented in the hard sciences today leads me to believe that this nasty little rule still lurks about.

Frankly, I’d rather curl up against a warm monitor for the rest of my life than to dumb down to attract a guy. End of story on this one.

So…

Since the reliable older, taller, richer, and wiser rule just doesn’t work for me, I guess I’ll have to settle for dating people because of who they are rather than what category they fall into. It may not be as simple, but at least it promises not to be boring.

Of course, I could always get hit by a meteor, first.