My daughter almost killed me in my sleep (‘night terror’)

 My daughter almost killed me in my sleep the other day.

However I may never know how close I actually was. At the time though, it felt like I was a goner.

If you ever had what’s referred to as a “night terror”, it was a similar experience, and I’ve only ever had one. It’s a feeling of being in an unconscious state between dreaming and waking, where you are perfectly aware of what’s going on around you, and you want to wake up or do something, but you can’t, and you keep thinking about it, but you still can’t. The one previous time it did happen to me I was sleeping in the back of a van while on a road trip, I could hear all my buddies yakking and I wanted to get up, but I COULD NOT.  

Parasomnia, as it's otherwise known, is a cousin of sleepwalking, and for some reason, the authors here don't recommend waking up someone in this or that state.  (Why the hell not?)

The setting: Lazy weekend afternoon, watching retro cartoons on YouTube with my young daughter who came into the room after I had just started dozing off.

I was sleeping on my left side, facing the wall, under a big down comforter and the phone was not far from my arm with all the retro cartoons playing quietly. (Laser blast sounds and robots hurling threats at each other.)

She thought it would be comfortable, I guess, to rest her head and chin in the valley across my neck for ideal viewing, and I can’t be sure for how long she was there.

I suppose I was happy she had visited but I became aware that something was very wrong as well. I could feel the pressure on my neck and in that dreamlike state where you don’t really know what is what, I thought that I needed to take conscious action to tell her to move or just to move myself. And with each passing moment I felt like my ability to communicate, to return through the tunnel to the world of the awake was slipping.

Could I just utter the word “Stop!” or “Move!” or “Help!” And that weight became heavier and heavier and I wasn't sure if I’d ever make it out. In fact, I am not sure if this was a real emergency, or I was just dreaming that it was, but I assure you that at the time I couldn't tell the difference.  I did some reading up on asphyxia and the arteries in the sides of the neck, and the pillow side had a support hump in it, and of course her weight was adding pressure to both sides.  

After a few long, terrifyingly helpless moments of this, I just thought, “Let go, there’s nothing that can be done.”

Then I immediately woke up and said, "No." She got off.  And I lived to see another day.

"Idea sandwich"

 I entered the dim room, curtains drawn, just before lunch and sat near the wooden conference table, more an observer than participant.  It was still morning and nobody seemed awake, so I was glad nobody turned on the glaring fluorescent overhead lights. The boss, whose presence alone commanded your attention, begrudgingly squeezed us into his schedule for a few precious moments before he would get underway for a more important meeting, with "more important people" from some external entity.   

One of the younger staff members had a notion to prepare all the information we would give into an idea sandwich. That way, the boss could quickly scarf down the sum of all its parts and begone with no questions and no need for ponderous idle time. We didn't so much agree as we avoided dissent. There were only ten minutes left, and as the saying goes, "If you're late, you're dead." Conveniently there was a small galley a.k.a. coffee mess adjoining the room, and we went to work with hands flying and butter knives slapping on the sauce.

The boss came in, sat down at the head of the table, took one look at his sandwich and removed the carefully wrapped plastic cover (it was in some sort of convoluted layered triangular plastic sleeve) , lifted off the top slice of whitebread, glanced at the heavy mayo and loosely assembled shredded vegetables, closed it, and paused.

With his hands together and his brow furrowing he asked, "Was all this really necessary? You could have just told me what you wanted to say."

Quotes from Youth, by Joseph Conrad

Stark, terrible, descriptive, wonderful was how I thought of Joseph Conrad's Youth when I first read the short story.  Full text available at http://www.gutenberg.org/files/525/525-h/525-h.htm .

 

 

Between the darkness of earth and heaven she was burning fiercely upon a disc of purple sea shot by the blood-red play of gleams; upon a disc of water glittering and sinister. A high, clear flame, an immense and lonely flame, ascended from the ocean, and from its summit the black smoke poured continuously at the sky. She burned furiously, mournful and imposing like a funeral pile kindled in the night, surrounded by the sea, watched over by the stars. A magnificent death had come like a grace, like a gift, like a reward to that old ship at the end of her laborious days. The surrender of her weary ghost to the keeping of stars and sea was stirring like the sight of a glorious triumph. The masts fell just before daybreak, and for a moment there was a burst and turmoil of sparks that seemed to fill with flying fire the night patient and watchful, the vast night lying silent upon the sea. At daylight she was only a charred shell, floating still under a cloud of smoke and bearing a glowing mass of coal within. And this is how I see the East. I have seen its secret places and have looked into its very soul; but now I see it always from a small boat, a high outline of mountains, blue and afar in the morning; like faint mist at noon; a jagged wall of purple at sunset. I have the feel of the oar in my hand, the vision of a scorching blue sea in my eyes. And I see a bay, a wide bay, smooth as glass and polished like ice, shimmering in the dark. A red light burns far off upon the gloom of the land, and the night is soft and warm. We drag at the oars with aching arms, and suddenly a puff of wind, a puff faint and tepid and laden with strange odors of blossoms, of aromatic wood, comes out of the still night—the first sigh of the East on my face. That I can never forget. It was impalpable and enslaving, like a charm, like a whispered promise of mysterious delight. O youth! The strength of it, the faith of it, the imagination of it! To me she was not an old rattle-trap carting about the world a lot of coal for a freight—to me she was the endeavour, the test, the trial of life. I think of her with pleasure, with affection, with regret—as you would think of someone dead you have loved. I shall never forget her.... Pass the bottle.

QOTD

If you have someone close to you, make sure you take a minute to show them an extra appreciation tonight/this weekend. It will mean something to you later, no matter how small it is.

Photo purge VI

Glenmorangie 1977 -
Saving it for a once per year dram



Some Japanese Zippos I'd like to own



More postcards by Cagey - the author loves something about the art of flashback and relics



A train engine on display with the enigmatic
Burlington Route emblem my pop used to wear
on his jacket



A story about a "scorched earth" battle between lawyers
who were formerly friends - a sign of the times



Strength

The most difficult thing I ever had to do? Being the guy who never won in "tag", I used to think it was making the soccer team, and wanting to quit everyday after practice but not following through. Never having had the pleasure of having to run very far, we did these brutal things called "120s" in which we'd sprint to one end of the field (120 yds.) and then jog back, rest a few seconds, and do it again. Exhausted and dehydrated, we'd go to 7-11 after and load up on Snapples, Gatorades, and chug-a-lug. --- However, no, I think one of the tough things was listening to a tape of my late pa, who with me presumably on his knee at the time said, "We'll never abandon you." That tape sat on my desk for months since the first time I tried to listen to it, the second wasn't so bad. I guess I have never had a good sense for time, how it heals and restores. History has always seemed so abstract to me outside of the moment. Five years ago, ten years ago, the 200+ years of the U.S. I read about in books (just finished reading about President Hamilton's and Vice President Burr's pistol duel - Good Heavens, how does time obscure these things?) and the 2,000+ years A.D. Abstract, but all very real, the sum of those events ending in today. Just some half-finished thoughts, but I promised myself I'd get this put down, and what I set out to say is buried somewhere in the middle.

Logophiles, unite!

Why do people ask, "Can I be honest with you?" when it's much better to ask, "May I be candid?" or "May I be frank?" or "May I speak to you without inhibitions?"

~~~

So, I found this note, written to myself, on my desktop today:

"Every wave, an impetus to move,"

Puzzling at first, but I think this was something about the relative suckitude of the greater Mudville area. Not sure if I was thinking about crime waves, waves of pain, social change, or etc. What's clear is that I need to move soon in order to grow.  Any interpretations?

[Update, 11 OCT:  The wave represents the months Jan.-Dec., which listed from top to bottom, resemble a wave, and too many months of me slogging down in Mudville.]

The dichotomous key and leaf identification

Soon the leaves will make their way softly to the ground making their crackly carpet, a grand reminder of the circle of life. If only I could remember the name... "dichotomous key"!  That's it.  I was trying to help the neighbor kid with his fall science project and remembered this tool for leaf detectives.  I also finally found the name of the big tree on the terrace, by the lake.  It's an American Basswood.  Very climb-worthy, I just haven't taken myself up yet.  Should probably wood-burn a calling card and tie it up to the top limb, like I'd always planned, but never gotten around to.

The names of trees, as those of friends, should be learned and used when you talk about them. Names are convenient handles by which we designate a particular object. Until we know the names of trees, our interest and appreciation for these beautiful and majestic plants is truly hampered. The information here is designed to help you learn to identify "your trees."

http://www.ag.ndsu.edu/pubs/plantsci/trees/f436-1.htm#The

VJ Day, Honolulu Hawaii, August 14, 1945

VJ Day, Honolulu Hawaii, August 14, 1945 from Richard Sullivan on Vimeo.

"The Giving Tree" by Shel Silverstein

Fell off my bike, and loved it!

"It's about time for me to grow as everyone else does. I want to be a real person rather than a wooden boy."

- Pinnochio

I've spent a lot of time in political fora lately, and not here where I belong.  But I at least owed you as much to tell you that I went flying off my bike today.  Tried to turn in front of a car that was blocking the ramp to the curb and boom. 

"Are you o.k.?"

"Yeahhh."

"Your quarter's over there."

"Thanks, I was looking for that."

I have been off of bikes for a number of years, but it all changed when I bought a beautiful, used mountain bike.  18 gears, shocks, lightweight; a completely different way of seeing the world than from the enclosed capsule of a car.  It seems a lot higher off the ground than it used to, the pavement and skinned knees and cracked noggins much greaterer deterrents than in Gen X's heyday.  The other day I walked through a bunch of BMX ramps in a forest and wondered if I could get the speed to go through them.  Like Excitebike, rally-style racing, those kids have to be 90 lbs. or less I imagine, or the risk for broken limbs goes up exponentially.

Yeah, so I wondered what it'd be like to take a spill again.  A very clean, quick test of body and mind.  There was this full page ad I remember from school, "Your grandma wants you to grow a backbone."  Kind of lame in comparison, thinking about what football players go through, or soldiers diving in dirt.  Just skinned my hands and knees on concrete, no big deal.  Lessons in all things. 

Canada nmeonic

Barren and snowbound,
men on quiet near
nocticlucent plains,
yearning, now
- never - nowhere at last.

British Columbia, Alberta, Saskatchewan, Manitoba, Ontario, Québec, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island

Yukon, Northwest Territories, Nunavut, Newfoundland and Labrador

by Cagey

The commencement gown

   For your review today is a quick human interest story on a young man just graduating from university, with a little twist in that he gained approval to wear a sentimental robe that has been in his family some 100 years.

  What are your first and second-order throughts on this?  "Why bother? Who would want to wear a robe that your great-great grandma crocheted?"   

   Why you should read this story: They say people don't appreciate history, right?  Sewn within are the names and universities of his predecessors, and in this ceremony, tangible history emerges.  As the young man feels honored to do this, he is honoring their legacies.  These kinds of traditions that take place during -commencement- are always salient, indelible touchstones.  What do you emulate?  What memories motivate you to make your imprint on blank pages? 

Story:  http://fairfaxtimes.com/cms/story.php?id=1494

Thank you for this miracle.

It will do its job some 2.6B (2,600,000,000) times in your time, delivering the equivalent of over 212M L of life through your veins, ordinarily without missing a beat.  In religion, the pantheon of mythology, in common relationships, it is representative of love, existence, spirit, soul, being. 

Being.

A.M. radio blaring, windows down, traffic was stuck on the bridge, sweltering heat, broken A.C., and a haze covering everything in the bay. I ran late in what's ordinarily a 45 min. drive because of traffic, so I called ahead, and when I arrived they were waiting.  Moving about 10 m.p.h., the heat was memorable in its scintillating from the asphalt, and I wondered if I should pay to get the A.C. fixed.  Air rushing around, my place was secure in the world, a non-motorcyclist's quick moment of zen.  I was only about 15 minutes late. Finally, I was ushered off to a dark room and the lady put a few of those sticky electrodes on me and - good to go. 

In a routine exam today, I saw it.  I looked at the screen and asked, "Is that a sonogram?  Is that my...?"

Since I showed interest, from that point on, I was given the VIP tour.  "How much does that machine cost?"

"More than my house."

She continued to explain how the chambers opened and closed, asking here and there that I take a deep breath and hold.  I told her I'd have to reward it with a big steak for doing such a great job.  I asked about the patches of red and blue on the screen, and whether she'd seen her own before.  "It's different when you see your own," she said. 

I wasn't sure whether to keep looking or not.  Chances are I wouldn't see it (like this) again, I mean I've seen this sort of thing in books or on t.v., but seeing my own was disconcerting.  But I stole a few moments and did.  I let my guard down too, which felt not only good, but right.  This was a rare moment to be appreciate my own mortality and our gifts, so many which are intangible as ideas or simply because they are beyond reach.  I let myself be moved.  My eyes watered up.  It was unforgettable.

"O.k., now you're going to hear some amplified sound that sounds like a washing machine."  Ka-woosh, ka-woosh, ka-woosh.

She continued her explanation of ventricles, aortae, chambers and the like and said, "You're probably just like 'Whatever'." 

I told her that I wasn't in the least.

Potpourri

CAGEY'S READING:

Navy pilot's last act: saving 3 crew mates This story, one of tragic bravery, makes me feel so much admiration for how great a real man can be.  I heard about this story in local news and then in the following day or two the leader of a large church in town surprised many by revealing the rumor that LT Zilberman had selflessly kept the plane steady so that his mates could bail out.  Please pray for LT Zilberman's family and for all our fighting men.

Obama Can Remove Jihad From the National Security Strategy Document, But Can He Remove It From Islam?  A horse is a horse, a spade is a spade, and a violent Islamic extremist terrorist is a...  "bad guy"?

Obama seeks to 'reconnect...young people, African-Americans, Latinos, and women' for 2010 What happened to "uniting the country"?

CAGEY'S PLANNING:

A trip to the bayou.  It's official. After long deliberation on what would be the next best trip, somehow the convergence of sense experience and the cultural terrain I rumble along have led me to favor this mystic environs!  Grimm's Ghost Stories, Live and Let Die (1978, Roger Moore), fan boats whooshing through swamp grass on Miami Vice, and Frankenfish (the movie) all come to mind.  So maybe I can go do some of my being introverted down there, on one of those cool pontoon houses, drinking some Blackened Voodoo beer and fishing.

QUOTE OF THE DAY:

"We protect the borders of other nations better than our own."         - Congressman Ted Poe, R-Texas.


FOLLOW-UP:

On the Mojave cross (Original story here: http://makalakapisei.blogspot.com/2009/10/follow-up-supreme-court-on-mojave.html).  The SCROTUS barely decided to allow the cross to remain, ruling that the district court's opinion did not constitute that cross as a "religious symbol"

Washington Post:  "The Supreme Court on Wednesday said a lower federal court was wrong to order the removal of a lone cross on government land in the middle of the Mojave Desert, and said separation of church and state 'does not require eradication of all religious symbols in the public realm.' "

"How did I know that the wise Latina n00b would add her God/America hating ideology to the dissent? Good choice, Obama."  - Found on the web. 

Thank you!

THE TOP ULTIMATE POWER COOLEST INVENTION OF ALL TIME:

The escalator!  I just had this epiphany today.

PERSONAL:

An old friend, Don, rang me up late last Saturday night.  I have a small family.  Mom, me, and the dog.  Mostly I'm in the mood to answer the phone when a friend calls. You know the feeling; sometimes you're up to switching gears and engaging with an old bud, the information age seems to make it a lot more common.  Other times it can be hard,  I'm not a great conversationalist, and how do you carry on with someone from back then like normal?  Really, it's important not to neglect these relationships because of their mutual benefit.  I'm learning about myself in talking with you.  Sense of community is important.  Sense of camaraderie is important.  Being neighborly,  being human.  Being childlike, in a way.  Being a good citizen.

This guy - same college I went to, married, child. He is raising a family in an idyllic little German community. Enchanting (by most any definition) just entering the place. You take an old metal bridge and cross to the other side of a big river.  He was completely soused which is a surrounding circumstance, but so what?  It did not limit the depth of communication we had from my p.o.v.  He was very complimentary ("I love you man" kinda stuff).  That felt really good, you don't get that often.  In vino, veritas.  What a nice guy, but I'm surprised when some of the things he's wrangling with in his subconcious bubble to the surface.  "I live in a small town.  This is boring.  My job.  Etc."  He has so much and he doesn't even realize it.  (In Swingers lingo: "You're so 4%^* money and you don't even know it.")  Often times you can't bring out these truths without exploring them with someone else.

The awkward moment:  Nobody really knows what to say to people that offer gratitude for your past or present because in truth, everyone goes through unique and even devastating hardships.  I'm talking about personal and military ones.  I am one of the lucky, (relatively) unscathed ones.  I have different scars than others.  O.k., if all of this just sounds like a lot of pomposity, it's not meant to be. I'm just trying to relate that words are valuable; deeds are valuable; as the saying goes, "At the end of the day, I hope most of us are the same."  Anyway, thank you for acknowledging me, but I am more moved by your ability to open yourself. 

Lao Tzu: "Thus also is the man of calling:  He knows himself, but does not want to shine.  He loves himself but does not seek honor for himself.  He removes the other and takes this.
I continue to realize that most of us never know how much a simple kind word or deed will inspire.  Another pal, a big joker with a heart of gold, (now in Afghanistan) recently reminded me how he'd saved my bacon in a scrap in college, something I'd long forgotten.  Fast-forward a few days.  Half-humorously, mostly serious,  I thanked him for it and said, "Rich, you're a good man."  He replied, "Cagey, you're a great man." This, a moment of utter humility for me,  a guy stumbling a bit trying to build a new life's plan.  So I tried to share Rich's same sentiment with Don.  After hanging up, I found my favorite realization is a reaffirmation that: My friends are my family. 

Dramatis Personae

I always met storied gentlemen abroad. I walked outside. After my eyes adjusted, my eyes wandered along the piers. Then, I was reminded of this letter:

Dear Cagey,

If we do not have a chance to speak before Hawaii, as seems likely, I wanted to thank you first of all for your indefatigable companionship on numerous occasions. You are a wonderful person to talk to, you have remarkable interests, and, last but not least, you have a great sense of humor. Good luck in all your future ventures!

And then, as with before, the moment crystallized and I put it away. 

The cognitive domain: Where do you feel you operate?

I'm a huge fan of this model of thought created by David Bloom in the 1950s.  In early grade school, maybe 5th grade, I remember being introduced to this concept with a stack of multi-colored cards cut out to resemble Pac-Man, bound together by string.  The most basic level, "knowledge" i.e. learning facts, is the easiest, maybe most comfortable level in which to operate.  In school, we are/were routinely learning facts, but also working at the highest levels, whether we were more given toward analyzing, synthesizing or evaluating ("highest level of thought") is up for debate.  During the course of higher education, our main focus areas may be raising a family, going to work, putting out routine fires.  We get to feeling a little rusty (so many mechanical analogies)! 

When we must look far inward and summon the guts to put pen to paper for class, well,  it takes momentum and warming up to operate there - the usual manual transmission analogies.  Once you've been there for awhile though and can "flow," it can be very satisfying.  (See my first post!) Maybe we operate at top gear more often that I think - in a multitude of ways - but as I sat surfing Fark before writing my last test, I thought about this model and how a runner trains.  Reading, like regular p.t. to physical fitness, builds the mental sort of discipline you want to easier slip into higher gears.  And not waiting until the last minute helps too.  I understand that David Bloom found that students operated at the knowledge level most often - regurgitating information.  So summer's coming, we have stacks of books begging to be read and plans to make, let's turn off the computer and get to it!

Do you feel you're primed to operate in top gear with only little warming up needed?  If so, well done!

Here's to the barbers...

Culture is the social transmission of norms, values, and ideas. The barber is a crossroads of oral tradition, and therefore close to my heart. At the barber, I can always close my eyes and truly relax in the chair.

Two days ago, on one t.v., "Gunsmoke" is playing, cowboys are having a shootout somewhere in the desert. On the other t.v., a b-ball game concludes dramatically in the final tenths of a second by a half-court shot.

A former barber (Sherri) rubbed my shoulders in the chair, sent me off with a hug and candy. VIPs used to come through, the wall is riddled with signed portraits hanging slightly askew, Sanford & Son used to come on, Joe would talk for hours, I read Field & Stream magazine.

A much earlier barber of mine, one 80-something barber in middle-America, Charlie, opened up at 6 a.m. everyday regardless his age, charged only $6, and kept a loaded .357 Magnum in his drawer.

One outside Baltimore comes to mind, a twenty-something's dream complete with pool tables and boxing matches. Me as always, the only minority in the room.

One with leather chairs, some with ashtrays in the seats, memories of Hank Ketcham writing about Dennis the Menance getting a free barber school cut.

Thank you barbers, for keeping it real.

The grey complex: a follow-up

Tireless searching yielded a new candidate to be the grey complex.

Dull concrete, crisp air.

Its face is so plain, but I shouldn't personify it. I don't know what it is, don't ask what it does. Just know that I've seen it before and it still exists.

Original poetry

Untitled

I’ve been at this for so long
It can hardly be conceived
Why the holder of a key
Is unusually aggrieved

But I’d rather come up wrong
Than never be believed
For a fear of being right
Is worse than foolishly perceived

I’d rather be right than wrong
Than be wrong and well-believed
Because so long as you choose unaware
Then undoing is what you weave

And it wouldn’t be very long
Until your undoing you’ve achieved.

- by Cagey
from a dream