On survival at all costs

I have always been fascinated by survival, stories of survival, the dynamics of survival and the psychology in small groups of survivors.
 
And, of course, I've always wondered if I would be one to survive or one to die. I don't know how strong my survival instinct is. Not very, I would think, but a) I might be surprised and b) it's become much stronger with the arrival of my son.

At twelve and thirteen, I was already writing stories about death and survival (I still have some of them) so you can say it has been a lifelong fascination.

The best three books I've read about it, although I'm sure there are countless more out there, are "Into thin air", "Adrift" and "Alive!"

"Alive!", which recounts the ordeal of the Uruguyan rugby team crashed in the Andes, is the most stunning and the most gruesome. The grizzly details defy the mind. So does the feat of Parrado and Canessa's hike to get help.

I read it over this week and it leaves me with countless questions. Would I eat the dead bodies of friends? Is surviving really worth the horror? How much can the body take? And mostly, surviving so incredibly, what does it all prove, what does it change?

This is one story where the survivors went on to lead their ordinary lives. Some refused to be defined by that experience. But so if you can endure the grief, the pain, the horror, the fear, all to go on and live an ordinary life, what's the meaning of it all? What's the point? What's the epiphany? Is life so precious in itself, that it's worth all this?

Passers-by, feel free to tell me what you think.

Anarchy or Utopia?

So what do we do with an aborted seaside vacation?

This week has been declared Vacation Week. Next week I go back to work and Yannick starts summer camp. This week is our Freedom Week, meaning most of the rules are on vacation as well.
Yannick is allowed to stay on the computer until his brains liquefy. Housecleaning is kept to a bare minimum. Showers and baths are suggested but not mandatory. Food is mostly healthy but meal times are optional. Naps are encouraged. Reading becomes a main activity. Every morning there is a lounge-around lesson from the cats. Dress code goes from mostly nudity (Yannick) to T-shirt and shorts (me). Lopez' "Let's get loud" cranks through the house. Physical activity is purely discretionary, which means Yannick does none and I take one or two classes a day. Bed time has become flexible.

I'm not sure it is a great idea and I'm not sure how much resistance I will meet when the rules are reinstated. But in the meantime, everybody being free to do what they want, never has the house been so harmonious and so free of conflict. Oh well, a week out of fifty-two, why the hell not?

Tale of a very short trip

The US border officer asks me a few curt questions and then, looking at
Yannick: "Where's Dad?"
"Oh Geez" I think, "do you REALLY want to know? How much time have you got?" But I simply answer: "There is no dad."
I just told him that Yannick is the fruit of my union with the Holy Spirit but he seems to consider that a valid answer and coldly waves us into the United States of America. Yannick is back in the country where he was born.

One hour before getting to Rockport, it starts raining. We are Saturday, 2 PM. It rains non-stop until Monday 1 pm.

Everything is damp. Clothes are damp, sheets are damp, towels are damp, paper curls on itself. Skin develops a permanent stickiness to it. There's more water than air in the mixture we breathe. A thick grey fog hides any scenery. The ambience is dismal.

It's not a completely wasted trip. I renew my supply of T-shirts. Yannick renews his supply of salt-water taffees. My car renews its alternator. Yellow Tail Shiraz is only $ 6.99 a bottle.


In spite of the sound of the breaking surf just under my window, I sleep badly both nights; haunted sleep, bad dreams and nightmares.

On Monday, after watching Australia lose to Italy at the last minute because of a stupid penalty, and after thoroughly studying the perfectly gloomy weather forecast, we call it a trip.

Between 1 pm and 4 pm that afternoon, the sun shines. A strong wind blows from the sea, the air is cool. I read in the sun for forty minutes, not even thinking about sunblock, and in that interval my forearms and legs get a first degree burn.

The drive back is under pouring rain from start to finish, about 500 miles. Through the mountains of Vermont, the rain is so bad I can barely see anything at all. My hands never leave the wheel, I know I'm going too fast for that kind of weather and I stay totally focused.

And then we're home and oh, so happy to be. The cats are pissed off but not to the point of not curling up with me for the night. Bob Marley blares through the house while I unpack the suitcases. All is well. No regrets.

Vacation Day II

This man just cuts right in front of me with his car.
"You're a f*** a*** !" I exclaim, feeling free to curse since my son doesn't speak English.
This juvenile voice comes from the back seat:
"What did you say Mommy?" he asks in French.
"Oh nothing, just bad words."
"You're a f*** a***" repeats the little voice in perfect English.
Oups. I guess he has done great progress in his English pronunciation. Now watch him quote this at the worse possible moment. Bad Mommy.



Caught on camera: do I look like a cat who just got the cream? No! I look like someone who knows she's heading for the ocean!

If I feel like writing, I'll back date posts when I get back. If not, I'll just wrap it in one summary.

Take care all of you! Massachussetts, here we come!

Vacation Day I

I woke up sort of late. It's raining. I'm sorry but Bob Marley and rain? It doesn't float. Bob Marley swims like a rock.
Yannick is in full noisy mode. Mother is in full busily efficient mode (the scariest). I just want to find a cave and get out of the way.

I'm sore all over from working out too hard yesterday under the guidance of J.

So I try to remind myself that I'm not really on vacation yet. I'm in detox. I'm in the decompression chamber that will bring me from the highly pressurized daily atmosphere to the low pressure breeze of vacation. And EVERYBODY knows that when you lower the pressure in a chamber, everything becomes moist and humid, so the rain is fitting after all. I'm expecting to remain in the chamber from 36 to 48 hours.

Breathe in, breathe out. Man, the pressure of having to relax is just stressing me out!

My own flowers from my own garden.

Stir it up, little darling

At 16h30 this afternoon, I will be facing eleven work-free days. I need to start relaxing now because by experience, it always takes me a couple of days before the tight rope of working life slackens to a relaxed, vacation, reggae beat. It’s amazing and sad how different the frame of mind needs to be.

Stop wearing a watch. Throw away make-up. Feel leisurely. Wake up with nowhere to run to. Go to bed as late or early as you want. Be barefoot all the time. Enjoy coffee. Ignore the news. Wear as little as possible. Take naps. Feel no pressure bigger than deciding whether you’re going for a swim now or in thirty minutes. See Yannick blow up over a trifle and be contented just to raise an eyebrow over your lemonade and placidly agree with him. And throughout, hear Bob Marley in your head singing: “One Love…”

Ghosts

Last year around this time, I was going through one of the most difficult experiences of my life. I lived through it; I came out older, wiser, humbled, but also scarred and sadder.

A year later, I still regularly dream, as this morning, about the two people involved. My mind is probably trying to bring closure to a situation that never got any.

If we cannot make peace, let me at least forget you. Go away, you two, stop haunting me. Let me be.

Snapshots

Soccer: the players are so young that they still follow the ball in a tight group, like bees to honey. No, wait! A single player emerges from the mass, and as the ball and all the others move towards the goal on the left, this brave individual is running as fast as he can towards the goal on the right, lonely figure in the large field. His purpose is… very mysterious, since all the action is on the other side. Maybe he’s just running away from the ball. Oh, wait, I know this hair…it’s my son.

A few minutes later, he trips and falls in the middle of the field. He rolls on his back and suddenly sees the sky. He stretches comfortably, legs crossed, and hands behind his head and gazes upward, superbly oblivious to the thick pack of red-faced little boys running just past him with that stupid ball…

Horseback riding: perched on an English saddle, with a helmet that doubles the volume of his head and large green gardening boots, my son is riding that horse with the relaxed composure of an old cowboy. No, his position is reminiscent of something else…let me see… Legs extended forward, back slightly rounded, arms extended higher…I got it!  My son distinctly rides a horse like a Harley.

Tennis: children try to send balls back and forth. A little boy stands there expectantly... But my son is currently experimenting with the pull of gravity when one holds the ball up by nothing but the short yellow fur on it. Apparently, gravity is stronger then the short fuzz and the ball falls, but he doesn’t get discouraged and keeps trying with remarkable tenacity, while his opponent looks lonely and bored.

The coach makes a slow demonstration of the forehand movement. His back to him, my son is giving the (silent) show of a lifetime, dancing and jabbing away on his racquet-turned-guitar, in the best rock concert tradition.

You know, JUST because he vaguely looks like me doesn’t mean they didn’t make a mistake at the maternity ward.

Homo sum

My mood today:

Homo sum, et humani nihil a me alienum pluto.




Fatso's mood today:
Carpe diem also know in cat as: LIFE. IS. GOOOOOOOOD.

Daddy

To present fathers. To involved fathers. To caring fathers. To loving fathers who express their love. To tender fathers. To fathers who play with their children. To fathers who strengthen their children instead of crippling them for life.

To Daniel who is the best father I know.
To Wyatt C. for the father he was.

God bless you all
Happy Fathers’ Day

Roatan Adventures

I had several episodes of the brush-with-the-famous variety...
Movie-wise, I once worked on the set of a made-for-TV film called "The Bermuda Triangle". It was mostly shot on the Honduran island of Roatan, because there were open ocean trained dolphins there. My husband was the consultant trainer and I was the safety coordinator. It was not a very good script, I'm sorry to say, and clichés and implausibilities abounded.
 
There was, of course, the "young and handsome male hero" and of course the "pretty young female" and, you guessed it, they ended up together. The pretty young female was played by a somewhat obscure Australian (read: still affordable) named… Naomi Watts. And frankly, I don't have any juicy anecdotes about her because she was extremely reserved. She didn't mingle, she read quietly until it was her time to shoot. Very low profile. But she was extremely pretty in a brittle sort of way. I promptly forgot her after the shoot, but she sure made her way up. Are you impressed? I'm not.



Anthony’s Key Resort, Roatan. Photo Credit: unknown

On a funnier note, funnier for the others that is, on one shoot (I worked on several there and I hardly remember which was which) we decided on the first night to play a game of beach volleyball. I came from Freeport where I was used to just dive for the ball, because it was all thick soft sand. I did the same at the Roatan resort...except there, it was a very shallow layer of sand covering old coral. I dove for the ball twice before I realized it was a truly bad idea. Too late: both knees and both top of my feet were raw and bleeding freely, incrusted with gritty sand. (And I'm the safety coordinator: brilliant!) It really needed to be cleaned up so I went to the "doctor's” little clinic. This clinic was sort of improvised and held the island's recompression chamber. The "doctor" was the island's Methodist pastor and...veterinarian! He cleaned my wounds so heartily and enthusiastically that it took me everything not to scream. At least he didn't pat me on the head at the end.
 
For the rest of the week, I had to get in the very salty ocean four and five times a day (anybody who's tried open wounds in salt water knows what it feels like). The crew would see the respected, competent safety coordinator blanch every time she had to literally peel her wetsuit on and off raw knees (because no bandage would stick) and with huge, evil, sadistic grins would say: "Ouch, that looks so painful!" Bastards! :)
 
This all reminds me of a friend of my husband's, in the Bahamas. He was a conchie Joe fisherman (conchie Joe means white Bahamian) who owned dozens of cats, a kind but rather primitive sort of chap. He showed up one day with his arm in a sling and proceeded to tell us what had happen to him. With a perfectly straight face, he explained how he had gone to see his vet and his vet had set the arm and told him how to take care of it. I had to walk away to hide my giggles. Bless his fisherman heart, when he got hurt, he went and consulted his vet!
 
All right, enough memories for today. My garden calls.

Friday!

I’m starting to get what karate is about…it seemed easy…but it takes so much coordination!
Try having your arms do fast simultaneous different and precise movements repeatedly. It’s like playing the piano, with the two sides doing complex different moves…a capacity I had NOT developed so far.
On top of it, all these moves have names and all these names are called out in Japanese. So the sensei goes “sanko maegeri! kuritsu ichiwa!”* and vroom, all the class falls into new positions like a well drilled battalion. But when each and every name is perfect Chinese to me (get it) needless to say I am utterly lost. My brain feels as drained as my body after every class. No matter, it remains fun for now.

The weekend is (nearly) here! Now if I can just escape from having to sit through the atrocious French-Canadian translation of Garfield’s latest movie, it might even be good! (getting out and sharpening my papou-directed negotiating tools) The English title is: A Tail of Two Kitties. Who woulda thunk, as Eminem would say, that Dickens would influence Garfield! I think that’s what Brando was thinking about when he whispered: “The horror! The horror!”

Have a grrrreat weekend everybody!

* not real words

Blog blues

This is my small home office also known as "the blue room".
This is the Mac this blog is written on.
This was Bondi's favorite couch.
And all this is solely to bring a little color to this blog because i was bored with lots of text. More inspiring pictures of the Massachussetts seaside coming up in a couple of weeks!

Keith

He was a fellow dive instructor at the resort where I worked, in the Bahamas.
I was friendly, brilliant, naïve, calculating, selfish, helpful, competent and endearing. It was impossible not to like him and he was hugely popular with the staff and the tourists. He was blond and baby-faced, with a tiny moustache without which he would have looked all of fourteen.

He was twenty-one and although as strong as an ox, he had an odd, overweight body that did much harm to his success with girls.

I can still hear his funny giggle, his eyes bright and laughing.
He was young, reckless, at an age where one’s own mortality is as foreign a notion as Mandarin.
He and I had a friendly competition going on between us: which would freedive the deepest. We were both fish, lacking only gills. We were doing 100 feet then, a feat I’ve never done before or since.

Anderson often mentions how it can be hard to remember someone for his life and not for his death. He refers to his brother’s suicide. It’s very true. When I think of Keith, some 15 years later, I still mostly remember the anguish, the pain, the loss, the shock and throughout, the unwavering Bahamian sunshine.

One Halloween night, a friend of ours, dressed horribly, went to Keith's place to give him a good fright. He succeeded and Keith, who was no coward, jumped out of his skin, the "fight response" in high gear, ready to beat the creature to a pulp. We had such a laugh about it the next morning while Keith was telling the tale. It was the last laugh Keith and we had at his expense.

Later that morning, he took a boat out with his two best friends and Jacques Mayol. They anchored on Theo's wreck, which top lies at about 100 feet. The freiter was sunk just on the edge of the continental ledge. Beyond it, the slope gently descends to about 2000 feet and the aqua of the water turns into a darker navy shade.

While Mayol was getting ready, Master Keith decided to jump in ahead and freedive Theo's. His two best friends were dive instructors as well. We were trained to be responsible for anybody that hit the water…we forgot ourselves. It was not in our mentality. In the South, instructors neglected (and likely still do) the sacrosanct buddy-system because the truth is, we were our own best help in case of an emergency. The water was a second home. We were competent and comfortable.

However, the laws of physics and physiology rule even the best of instructors. Keith never came back up, was never seen again. His twenty-second birthday was two weeks away.

It was so brutal, so unexpected, so out of character that it took me months to recover and years to heal. I told his story over and over, as if telling it would make it tangible or believable.

Hey Keith, what's up mon?

People

Anderson Cooper: young, rich, famous, good-looking heir, he could have been another P. H. (I won’t spell her name because I’m afraid people Googling her would end up on my page: THE INDIGNITY!)

He’s meeting throngs of gushing fans and he manages to stay gracious, friendly, simple and amicable. HOW DOES HE DO IT?

I hat… highly dislike crowds, I don’t like the public, and I don’t enjoy strangers. I hope I never become famous because being always surrounded by eager crowds would be enough, I believe, to make me depart from my lovely, friendly self. So I’m truly in awe of people who handle it graciously.

P. H.: This is one broad who, as far as I know, didn’t exist until a few years ago. She’s probably a plant by Al Qaeda to bring our culture to its knees. She’s everything the really good families raise their heirs no to be (point in case, AC above): spoiled, flashy, dumb, full of herself, arrogant, selfish and totally useless. Can someone PLEASE make her disappear from…everywhere I turn?

Angelina Jolie: I want her as my mother, I want to marry her, or I want to be her. Whichever. I don’t mind.

Ann Coulter: She has a lot in common with Bin Laden: they have throngs of followers although most people with any common sense see them as evil extremists; they believe they, and only they, hold the only truth, and that their religion is the only legitimate one; they believe in radical solutions; they are closed-minded, hateful and abhorrent. While one is wanted dead or alive by the US, the other is maintained in the lap of luxury by the US. Does it make sense to you? Because it doesn’t to me.

I have only one response to Ann Coulter: total and absolute boycott.

I'm really happy for y'all that I could provide you with those useless insights about my stand on these celebrities, especially my many Southern Chinese readers who otherwise don't get much in terms of REAL news. What can I say: I am once again selflessly putting myself to use for the common good of the community. I'm a living and breathing example of life. (Respectful bowing would be appropriate here - feel free.)

Gaijin says

After my second karate class, here are the gaijin's comments:

The second class was less intense than the first because this time, it wasn't a mix of beginners and advanced, we were all beginners. So I might survive after all.

In the so-called warm-up, we do excruciating stretches on cold leg muscles…??? This does not feel good and once or twice, I felt a shooting burning sensation that speaks more of injury then stretching. I really don't get this.

We practiced self-defence moves. Cool! I enjoyed it.

I find myself once again in a class full of... healthy young men. I must have done something right in another life! They all use the "vous/usted" polite form with me though, which I hate -err, excuse me John- highly dislike.

The dojo is something of a farce, a smallish, dingy space in a commercial building, with low suspended ceilings in bad shape and walls not much better. Only the tatami is good quality. All around the room are framed pictures of old Kyokushin masters. From what I can see from the pictures and the sensei, in order to become a master in Kyokushin karate, you must be stocky and develop a solidly rotund belly. Even at my son's school, all the black belts have a rotund belly. May be I won't stick with karate after all.

Stay tuned!

LOST- Long Overdue Stimulating Television

So I work for this huge firm, which kindly provides money in return. I call it “the Company” but any similarity to a well-known sinister organization across the border is just because they stole it from me.

This Young and Well Respected Director works for the Company also. We call him the YWRD, because we’re very fond of acronyms at the Company. We think it looks cool and mysterious. Plus it makes for great lunch debates about what the letters originally stood for.

This particular YWRD has a work blog on which he tries to spread relevent information as well as keep his staff up to date on key current issues.

Here is his May 31, 2006 entry:

----------------------------------------------------------------
LOST

Okay, like the season finale of LOST was today and no one wrote to share their theories with me? Man, you people are missing the best television out there. See you in another life brother.
----------------------------------------------------------------

And THIS! is one of the overwhelming reasons why I like this YWRD. See, laughter and humor have a preponderant place in each and every “health and well-being in the workplace” manual the Company owns. In real life life, however, humor is much frowned upon and most people won’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.

Thus, hence and therefore: Long lives this YWRD!

(Ok, so if I start watching LOST, is that sucking up to the boss?)

* I’d like to point out that I quote from his blog with no proper permission or authorization whatsoever. If you come across this, YWRD, and object to my making you famous, you know where to reach me to voice your objections which will be given absolute and abject consideration.

A Whale of Improvement

I’m too busy to write long diatribes about anything so I’ll stick to… short ones:

- I’ve been on a medication for the last 3 months (and I have to tell you, ever since, not ONE pink elephant around!). Recently, it felt like my clothes were tighter than they used to be, so I weighed myself… ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! The freaking substance slows metabolism, which means that, for the same diet, I’m going have to kick three times as hard in my karate classes to jump start my metabolism back up, and/or lift weights. Great. Just plain great. Anybody wants to gain weight, I’ve got JUST the medication for you. Give me a call. Bloody hell. I might rather have the pink elephants back.

- The whales are on a losing streak. Pro-whaling countries seem to outnumber anti-whaling ones, for the first time in years. This could mean a return to many more dead whales (and dolphins, many cetaceans really) and a slacking of the killing methods regulations. I am against the hunting of the largest intelligent mammals on earth. It comes down to, of course, money. Pro-whalers see dollar signs. I don’t even know where Canada stands on the issue but I’m pessimistic. We’re going backwards, folks, how encouraging is that?


Image: Kyodo/PPP

- Finally…that’s it.

Never on Sunday

And on the sixth day, she rose again.

I know, I know, it's been a while.

The harmony in the home has been shaken. The winds of change are blowing. They bring storms and showers. It’s hurricane season.

I’m reading once more Alexandre Dumas’ 8 or so volumes about the French revolution. It makes for very grim reading. Before I decry the savagery in African countries, I can look at our own past. We were just as bloodthirsty and ugly. As for Dumas’ books, they are impossibly gloom: everybody dies. But then, isn’t that a summary of life anyway?

After much irony and jesting from everybody about my taking up karate, I had my first lesson last week. Tell me this: how can you look around with a detached and satirical eye when you’re busy trying to keep up with the continual esoteric commands shouted in Japanese, with legs shaking like leaves from the strain, trying hard not to pass out from the heat and the fact that your heart wants to break free from your chest a la Alien? Not to mention a slight wardrobe miscalculation that had me showing much cleavage when none was intended?  ‘Nough said. Nothing to jest about right now except my own inadequacy, which could take volumes.
Very nice people in the class.

- Insert a pause here, as Fatso is having a fit of affection and needs to actively remind me how I’m the only human for him. This is not a lawn mower you’re hearing, it’s him purring. Back to the blog, with a lot more hair on the keyboard, but a small token of his undying love. Thanks, Fatso, I love you too. -

What else? Fed up with my own gym, I started taking aerobic classes in another. It makes for a nice change. I rediscovered countless muscles I had NO IDEA were still around.

The seaside vacation is looming. I’m looking forward to it with equal anticipation and dread. Will the storms from home follow us there? Will the sound of the surf be sufficient for a cease-fire?

I haven’t read a news site in a week, I’ve no idea if the earth has stopped spinning yet. I’ve got a lot to catch up with. I’m back.

A world of pain

I have just finished Anderson Cooper's "Dispatches From the Edge".
It is the story of how a little boy's heart broke, so that he decided to bury the pain deep within. Little did he know that you cannot bury one feeling without burying most others as well. Carrying this well of pent-up emotions, feeling cut off, he spent years going to the worse places on earth, hoping to learn how other people dealt with overwhelming pain, and how they survived it. He frantically ran away from his internal demons by facing death and loss in their worse forms, and only the most extreme conditions made him feel alive.
In 2005, the dam finally broke. The long denied pain came seeping out, then rushing out, and the man finally reconnected with his emotions and himself, in an excruciating but life-saving hurricane of grief.

Anderson is very candid in giving us access to the pain he kept repressing. He explains how he had compartmentalized his life in order to handle it. But the truth is, we can't help but feel he has opened but one compartment in this book. The box "loss, death and grief" is generously shared. But it is not enough because we guess there is a lot more to Anderson than what is revealed there. We never get a sense of who he really is, what makes him get up in the morning, what he loves and hates. This book is a splendid display of opening up while at the same time keeping a huge part hidden. And Anderson fails to ever rise high above his experiences in order to view them in an all-encompassing perspective. Perhaps it is because, as he says, "he doesn't wear his opinions on his sleeve", but what better place than this book to have and express one's opinions? If he has developed mottos, convictions, a philosophy of life, after all he has seen, he doesn't share them.

What's more, for those who have followed his career closely, the book offers little new material. Between the segments on his show, the Details articles, the interviews and articles published about him, and his parent's books, most of what's in "Dispatches" has already been published or aired. However, there's probably only a minority of people who followed him this closely. It is very well written and twice, his narrative reaches literature level.

We close the book full of compassion for him, and hoping he has finally come full circle, that his life will now be different and he might no longer have the compulsion to cover the worst disasters our world has to offer.
Still, while seemingly baring it all, Anderson manages to keep us at arm length.

Cas raté

My son, after five months of karate, has decided I ought to do some as well.  He probably came up with that conclusion because I’m proficient in each sport he tried before, tennis, swimming, horse-back riding etc. He’s sort of used to mom being good at it, whatever it is, so with karate, I’m sadly behind.

Karate? I raised my left eyebrow, assumed my most reasonable motherly tone and said….: “Well son…Why not?”

Two days later I was signed up. Now, my son’s school, Yoseikan Budo, breaks for summer. Since I wanted to get some basics under my belt (get it?) I signed up with what was available, Kiokushin. My sources indicate that Kiokushin is the most violent and full contact of karate’s methods and that is not necessarily what appeals to me. But like I always say, I’ll try everything once. The training is supposed to be hard so it can only do me good. If I hate it, I’ll fold my karate-gi until fall and wait for my son’s school to re-open.

This being my very first incursion into that world, I’m very curious, and I very much intend to cast a keen/satirical eye about me. If there’s any material for the blog, you can be sure you’ll hear all about it. Karate, as taught in North America, as practiced in small suburban schools, as seen by a gaijin…

The end of today as we know it

In the news, some are comparing the killing in Haditha, Iraq, to the My Lai massacre. If it should turn out to be similar, it would be very sad indeed. My Lai was not only shameful for what took place in the village but also for the absolute impunity that sheltered the perpretators. Soldiers from any country WILL act as beasts if given a chance. I don't know if it is avoidable, however I believe they should be held accountable for it. If Haditha turns out like My Lai, no one will suffer any sanction worst than a slap on the wrist for killing innocent civilians. I hope that's not what happens.

So, how much fun is social interaction with loved ones? It is sometimes rewarding. And often difficult as hell, and complex and frustrating and angering. Can you sense my frustration and anger? Y'all are so perceptive! Give yourself a big hug for being so clever.

What I'm reading: Marie-Antoinette, by Simone Bertière, my second Marie-Antoinette biography but not my favorite one. The more I read about her, the more the sad truth seems to be that she was only a spoiled air-head. Sort of like Jenna Morasca. It really diminishes my interest in her (I should read Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun's Mémoires instead).
From what I hear, Coppola's film about her is equally shallow and frivolous. Disappointing if true, I trusted Sophia to dig a little deeper!