this post would be much better with a clever title

As I was working on learning the Russian alphabet today, I noticed that the Russian word for I (Я) is pronounced "ya" and the Russian world for yes (дa) is pronounced "da." The image that immediately came to mind was a Russian bride and groom at the altar during their wedding vows answering -- "ya da, ya da, ya da."
and yes, I realize that that's not at all accurate and so on, but I thought it was hilarious. Hopefully I'm not the only one.

Suicide Base Jumping

So Mattface were on the roof of our 8 story building smoking a cigarette on the deck when we noticed a man on the roof of the building next door with his leg up on the ledge, peering contemplatively over the edge. Having put much discussion into the eminence of certain death (or probability thereof), we were vaguely concerned by this sight. So I yelled across, "Don't do it, buddy! We can talk this out!!" Sadly, either he ignored me or my sound waves were washed away in the chaotic confusion of construction work being done across the street.

Oh well.

Biting Gum

So one of my Dementors bit me this morning. I still have a mark HOURS later. I mean, I know she's usually unpleasant in the morning (an unfortunate side-effect of her dementia), but seriously, I did NOT see that one coming. I was helping her get dressed and she just CHOMPED down on me with no warning, and HARD. I was so suprised I was laughing before I even managed to get her to release her bite. I'm sure part of that was being surprised, but I think the main reason was because of this stupid "Orbit Gum" commercial...

... All I could think about was targeting those deep dark fears of the baby boomers, "For stronger teeth, so you can better fend for yourself when your friends are dead, your children have abandoned you, and you're all alone in a nursing home!"

I know, pretty terrible. And it's REALLY not that bad. But you know the stereotypes. And exploiting the fears based on shaky stereotypes (are there any other kind?) can be oh-so-entertaining... entertaining enough to mask the pain of a set of dentures chomping down full-force on your wrist, even...

Mentoring

Earlier this week I got to play mentor when a 14 year old boy named Demetrius escaped from a group home for boys and was outside knocking on my resident's windows while I was performing cares. I went out to investigate and he made these weird animal clawing/waving motions in the air at me from his little spot in the bushes. So I said, "Hey, woah there! How 'bout you come inside and have some juice and crackers and we talk about it." I'm not sure what possessed me, exactly (seeing as how I was at work and all and he was clearly a delinquent and MUCH taller than me, etc.), but I think I was subconsciously inspired by a short story by Willa Cather I'd read recently about a country school teacher who was only 14 years old teaching all these kids bigger and older than her.

At any rate, the juice and graham crackers seemed to have a calming effect on young Demetrius, so we got to talking about how he'd busted out of the group home. Apparently they had confiscated his PS2 because of some disciplinary issues. I wasn't sure exactly what a PS2 was, but I suspected/gathered it was some sort of video game type deal. He was pretty upset about it. So then I asked how his nose got all messed up, cuz it was red and had abrasions... turns out it was a severe rug burn from a restraint they had put him in during the PS2 confiscation ordeal... they'd forced him down to the ground and told him they weren't going to give it back even unless he worked out his behavioral problems. I didn't bother asking what those were. Anyways, we kept talking. Well, he kept talking, I just listened... until we got to the part where he explained how his PS2 was so important because it was HIS, and because it made it easier to be there without being there. Now THAT I understood. I asked him how he felt about reading and I think was piquing his curiosity on that one as a readily available (and effective) pastime.... and then a couple of cops showed up in the lobby where we were chatting. Demetrius bolted. Seriously, he was just GONE, in a flash, down the halls of the nursing home. The cops took off after him (trying to retrieve him for the group home), but they weren't particularly motivated. A few minutes later an alarm went off as he found his escape out an alternative exit on the opposite side of the building.

Two hours later the cops were outside again. They said that apparently he'd liked whatever I'd said to him cuz he came back again, and that's when they nabbed him. Poor Demetrius. So desperate for someone, anyone, to listen to him over some juice and graham crackers. I wish I'd have thought to have given him my book, but he took off so quick when the cops showed up. Maybe some literature would help him escape into a more pleasant and inspiring world and ease the loss of his PS2... his only distraction from reality. Buuut I didn't, and it was Phil's book anyway (though I'm thinking he'd have empathized with the cause), so I guess I'm just gonna have to hope that our chat and the suggestion were enough to get him to pursue it on his own... seriously, I pray he does. I never met anyone so unknowingly starved for the fruits of good literature before...

Groping for what cannot be touched

Like the man who, having lost his sight, moves to a new home.
He becomes familiar with the objects that surround him - learning their shape, their place, their function. But he cannot know them by these alone. Images of his former life cannot be forgotten, though he may often try. He imagines a darkness that is bearable because it never knew light, but imagination is not so easily turned to his own ends. The memories force themselves into his new world and demand their former places. He is certain that the bed on which he lies looks nothing like the phantasm he has unwillingly created, but finds rest impossible until he allows himself to see it. So the things that are his only comfort become his great torment as he gives them colors which he knows they are not in his broken mind.

    and the deep crimson stain that grows, creeping across his sheets will not be seen by any other