this night.

I live in a ghost town. This is temporary. It's the night tonight: Bellefonte will resurrect itself by morning.

It's a charmed night, in a not-so-charming way.

Let me preface this. This story needs a context.

Let me also state for the record that it's been a weird, weird, weird, weird night. The style of this post will probably reflect that.

I started out today unable to turn over and go back to sleep, despite having granted myself permission to sleep in. Eight hours after I went to sleep, almost on the dot. It's been this way for awhile. Can't get more than eight. Often get less, but that's due to my weekday alarm.

So today, unlike most, I was horribly unable to focus. I had a to-do list as long as my leg, but managed to get all of one thing on it done, and that not even properly so.

As interruptus, in the present there's something in here with me that's whistling, and I don't know what it is. I'm strangely not unnerved by this. The rest of the night has reassured me that nothing else out of the ordinary can happen.

And this won't be all of it. As another interruptus, something in the sink shifted: knife sliding off a plate and clinking against the aluminum sink wall, I imagine, but again, strangely not startling to me.

If this shifting of scene seems like a dream, you're with me. Yes. Stay with me.

I have the day off tomorrow, giving me leeway to get this all down. Thankfully. I'd hate to lose it. Despite being weird, weird, weird, this ending is strange and beautiful. I love it. I want to go outside and drink it. And bottle some to save for later.

Back to this afternoon. No focus, constant interruptions (don't apologize, dear other J--I was thankful for yours, short as they were), frustration of each and every thing I started or wished to have started. I got some photos uploaded and laundry started. That's about the limit of my productivity.

Wait. Untrue. I did take care of L's kitties, last-minute. And a guest cat, who was a real handful. But! that was my limit.

And it was this way--knowing I was wasting time, but unable to do anything about it--until I had to leave for the club job.

Or thought I did. I ended up on the road early and got there a good twenty minutes before I needed to be. And realized this nearing town, but it wasn't worth the time to turn back.

I knew this. I knew this, I knew this. And this entire night, almost everything was full of this crystal awareness of the situation, but complete giving-over of myself to it, unable to struggle against its tides. And it was frustrating to watch, but impossible to fight.

So I got into town. My usual lot was full. I moved to the next-handiest street and parked comfortably. I got out to greet the night air, oppressive with humidity and frustrated potential. I shook my head even then, with the premonition of the weird wyrd ahead. (That may sound redundant, but it's not. Trust.)

I spent the twenty or so picking up some coffee for my late evening, sitting down with it on a big leather couch there, taking the time to squeeze in some reading. Reading was a perfect task for today, but I hadn't managed to tear myself away from trying to get things done, despite the futility.

And the realization of the futility. That's what kills me. The awareness tonight. I knew it all. I just couldn't do anything about it.

[For those who understand the reference, this night is so House of Leaves, minus the terror. There's no fear here, only mazes and knowing and realizations.]

{And maybe I should blame my perfume. Wearing Lune Noire on a full moon, the brightest I've seen in months, perhaps was not the best of plans. But it did start before that, this day.}

So it was that I was ducking in and out between the humidity of outside to air conditioning in my car to humid to coffee shop AC to outside oppression to coolness of the club when empty. And my allergies had been set off by L's cats.

And as soon as I arrived, total tragedy. We couldn't get the Steelers game on any of the monitors, no matter how many of us tried. Manager of the club? No luck. And this was tragic to the folks who needed (needed!) to see it (mostly staff).

The club opened with the majority of the monitors black, and us still struggling to fix the issue. Nothing I did had any effect. I tried every trick I had. All had turned against me.

Eventually, my manager (of our company, not the club's staff) managed to get it worked out, by manually switching every monitor in the place, almost. And this a temporary fix.

Tonight was the first night I'd worked after the recent change-over to being smoke-free. And I was asked to remind folks, and I did. And next had an assistant manager of the club rush over to add an addendum: folks could only smoke out the front of the club, not the back. They'd be locked out. Again, announced.

From the previous week, we'd had some issues with two of the speakers on the dancefloor, so we had turned down the highs in such a fashion that we were having trouble hearing the microphone inside the booth, so I stepped outside it to make the announcement. My co-pilot stayed in the booth.

Later, he stepped out for a cigarette. It was only after he'd made it out of eyeshot (and let's not even talk about earshot) that I realized he'd headed to the back, not having heard my announcement (though I had mentioned the fact to him).

I ran out to prop the door for him. He rushed to join me at the door, thinking something was wrong. I kicked the prop down and he misunderstood me. And then couldn't hear me due to the exhaust fans. And so forth.

The whole night, I'd been feeling strange. Off. I kept stretching, trying to work out odd sensations in my limbs and joints. Wondering if my co-pilot would take the movements amiss. Never occurred to me to address them with him.

We've had an odd relationship, he and I. On-again, off-again friendship-slash-something-else. Undefined, of course. But there's static there somewhere. Nothing enough to put a finger on, mind. We discussed it once, both at the time not entirely ourselves, and managed to leave the conversation entirely in the same place we'd started it, other than the fact that it occurred, and fallen back to amicability as a default, no deeper on any level. Which is fine, and may not change. Also fine. Though change would likely also be fine. I'm too flexible for my own good sometimes.

I've been having several online conversations in the past few days. One handles on masculinity and what it means, calling to mind my old Men's Studies class and conversations for that class with my father. The other about images of me online and my resistance to them, calling to mind my divorce and the aftermath of that initial split, as well as a ton of self-esteem garbage. Both had turned terribly unpleasant for me, and distasteful, though only in the very last exchange before I'd gone to work.

While at the club, I received the most recent responses from both. One was entirely more open than I'd expected of a response, which made me smile as I was perusing it on my iPhone during the breakdown of a song. And the other--the other was magic. The person I'm chatting with about it is a terrible, wonderful person for sending me the exact right response to my concerns. Exact. I love her and hate her for it, because she's going to get exactly what she wanted, and I know I'm being manipulated, but damn is she good at it. And I can't not respect that. And I almost resent it. But it is beautiful in its execution.

beautiful.

And I know me. And I know I wasn't shuttering my face, my response. I had no reason to, there. And I know he probably saw me bite my lip, smile in that bemused half-way that I have when I'm being viciously charmed, turn my head to consider, and put down my phone. And stare at it. And pick it up. And read her message again. And smile and bite my lip again. And put the phone down. And look at it. And try to open my book. And shut it. And distract myself with the music change and changing the video and lights. And stare unseeing at the dancefloor. And look at the phone again.

Or he may have missed it. Also fine.

But I wonder what he thought if he caught it. Though not enough to ask.

So stretching. Simple standing yoga poses. And then he complained of a headache. And joint pain. Which, along with the minor power flickers (and worry about more major outages, of course) and reminder of the arms of Ike passing through with wind and stormage and pressure changes, finally brought me to what today's whole problem may have been.

Major storm front. Full moon. Winds. Celestials whirling.

I had my answer. My two and two finally didn't add up to 3.78 billion. They became four and an eighth, roundabout. Not too badly off.

And because I have tomorrow off, and the buses don't run on Sundays and he didn't have his usual ride and doesn't drive himself, I drove him home. With a pause outside my car so he could have a cigarette.

And we talked about the moon. His experience seeing it rise brilliant over the ocean in the northeast, my experience seeing it rise huge over the desert in the southwest. Lying under it, thinking it was pre-dawn and wondering why my camp-mates weren't stirring. Watching it rise, taking up a good eighth of the horizon, every pockmark on its surface etched as if in crystal. Like the bowl on the dining room table at home that my grandmother had brought over from Denmark. The bowl round, its surface grooved.

I didn't draw that comparison then. I'm glad I didn't: he might've thought me entirely moon-mad.

And maybe I am. It'll be short-lived. It's just the night tonight.

So I drove him home, and we made plans that I half-expect to fall through just like so many other times we've tried to make plans. Something comes up, and it ends up just as well for both of us in the end. No skin off anyone's nose. And really, I'm pretty ligeglad (literally "like glad" in Danish--ambivalence in the way people abuse it in English, basically) about it each time. Which may say something. May not.

And then I drove home, leaving him to corral the trash that had been blown halfway down their yard.

I'd seen debris on the road as we drove, mostly branches and bunches of leaves. Saw more as I headed to the bypass towards Bellefonte. But upon arriving in Bellefonte, I saw things were much worse there.

Two intersections with lights out and police actually directing traffic with lights like those landing guys at airports. A truck in the middle of the second intersection, headlights beaming into my eyes, as they tried to fix things. Propped-up stop signs by other lights-out intersections. A bewildering sense of things-not-right-here. But also an innate reassurance that all will be right by morning.

My car, gliding through downtown Bellefonte like the only thing alive, like some dark ghost, saw no other movement than those men. Even the trees were silent. No waving in the breeze. Just their detritus on the ground. Unanswering.

What happened here? I wondered, but knew the answer. Darkened windows yawned at me from every building surrounding me, and I was reminded of my visit to New Orleans after Katrina. The ghost-town suburbs we slid through to catch my early-morning flight home. Desolate due to low population, doubly so due to the hour, and then the mist rising from the low-lying areas. Which was everywhere, there.

The space was potential, but also ghostly. I waited for the rise of the supernatural.

And so it was on my way home tonight. But I turned onto my street and found, to my surprise, that my side of the street had power. The other side had none.

I parked, got out, gathered my things, locked my doors. Turned to face the lit side of the street. And turned my back to it to face the unlit houses, to drink in the moonlight for a moment. The oppressive humidity had broken, granting us the clear night sky, the crickets and night-insects of a dying summer. I listened, and felt the night connect to me. Then I trudged inside to survey the damage.

I found my usually-touchy stove clock un-reset, not flashing, and had a hope for my computer, which I'd foolishly left on. I found that it, though, had restarted. And worse, my keyboard was disabled. I restarted properly, super-sensitive for any bad signs, and checked and re-checked that it was on a surge protector. Yes. No problem. Should be unharmed, right?

And interruptus: my computer, as I'm typing this into my blog platform, informs me I have an IP conflict with another computer. There should be nothing else on this network: I'm password-protected and don't broadcast my network name, at the very least. But there it is. Might be my iPhone. I'll investigate later: it seems to not be doing me harm.

So I restarted, and was concerned by my boot time, and I started to remember all I'd done, created, saved but not backed up since my last big back-up project. Half of my Hawaii photo originals could go poof, I realized. But I was being over-sensitive. It was fine, and all was in order when it restarted.

And that leads us to--well, right about now.

And a way-fuller understanding of this evening of mine than you probably wanted. And it's tl;dr to most of you, I'm sure.

Mercury retro? Full moon antics? Storm blowing through, causing associated discomfort? A combination? That's where I've settled. I'm going to sleep now, and I'll drift off half-wishing the universe into righting itself by the time I wake, and half-hoping some of the disjointed madness can stay with me, so I can keep this out-of-time-and-reality pseudo-madness in a back pocket, to pull out when my life gets too normal.

And leave you wishing you'd had a taste of your own tonight. Perhaps.

rural/urban: an unusual request

So this afternoon, an unusual request sent me down a rabbit hole.

A colleague over in ITS asked me what seemed on the surface a relatively simple question: how many students that enroll come from rural environments within Pennsylvania?

During the course of the conversation, I expanded that to include those who visit our website but might not end up enrolling who were from Pennsylvania, since a lot of Penn State's services also assist those outside of the officially-affiliated Penn State community.  Not to mention that was an easier number to come by, relatively speaking.

To that end, I went to our web analytics and expanded to look over the course of a year. Just on the high end of traffic, it was pretty easy to see the major population centers in the commonwealth. Likewise, by going to the low end of traffic, you could see the less densely populated areas, though this was less accurate. But here we run into the problem that folks from rural environments may not be online, and thus not even making it onto this count.

So what about our enrollment numbers? There's no checkmark (rural/urban) for us to bounce against, thus the Penn State Fact Book doesn't list it, nor have we ever run these numbers before. After talking to one of my data-minded colleagues, our best solution was to tap into our sociology folks at the university for a list of "rural" zip codes: once we had that, from there we could run these numbers with some degree of accuracy. Problem is, even a ballpark was tough to come by until we had some definitions like this.

Simple question, yes? Not so very.

update for the update-impaired

Here's a bit more complete an update:

Health-wise, my allergist has figured out that I have what basically amounts to a chronic sinus infection. Three rounds of seriously stupid antibiotics and anti-inflammatories and expectorants and nasal sprays planned: if these don't work, they're talking surgery. In a lot of ways I don't expect them to, since the first one did not (though did improve matters for a time) and this round seems to be making things worse, not better. Tea with honey is my friend currently.

Work-wise, my patience is running on the thin side. Stress-wise, I'm rather through the roof, since I'm also taking a class this semester and it's consuming a large portion of the time I'd otherwise get to unwind during.

Personally, despite all this, I'm doing okay. I'm starting to make plans to move at the end of May, though whether that's local or away from the area is still up in the air. It's about time I had my own space. Part of what makes J such a great roommate is that we stay out of each other's way well, generally, but that has started to degrade over time and is no longer fully the case, enough so that I'm ready to be done. We're still good friends, nothing's changed on that end--it's just time.

To that end, I'm eyeing all my belongings, readying for a purge. Though there's a lot I don't want to lose, just put away so I don't have to move it two or three times, potentially (one or two local moves, then a longer one).

A lot of things are coming to a head in the next three months or less. I'm just hoping against hope that the timing all works out well.

yoga, summers, water, mountains, Seattle, work. in (not-so) brief.

I headed out of yoga last night, chatting with S. all the way, after she kindly waited while I talked to our teacher for a bit. She's refreshing: we should talk more, hang out more, but neither of us seem to be able to find the time.

The first bits of a thunderstorm were letting loose: I offered to drive her over to her car, parked about a block away, but she declined since she likes having the walk after yoga. Wish I could think like that, but for me, it's all I can do to get there on time. Stupid work getting in the way of my yoga. ;)

While driving home, I watched the rain evaporate off the blacktop as mist from the heat of the day, and when safely ensconced at home, enjoyed the thunder accompaniment. I love summer thunderstorms. It's foggy this morning, and cool, following the storm. I'm enjoying it very much.

There's a summer dish I've been craving since Monday that Dad used to make every once in awhile: a (from memory) really simple cucumber-and-vinegar dish. I meant to call and ask him about it on Monday, but got sidetracked with mom and planning for a trip we've just scheduled for November. Very exciting stuff, but I'm not going to trust that it's real until I'm on the plane. It's that surreal.

The Google (ha) isn't helping me with the recipe either: all of them have either mayo and sour cream, and I don't remember that at all. Dad, check me on this: it's just thinly sliced cucumber in white vinegar with sugar stirred in, right? And then chilled? Is it that simple, or is my memory just failing me?

Summers are always more than a bit nuts for me: you'd think it would be our down time here in Admissions, but it's not. It's cleanup time for some things, plus Spend a Summer Day prep and the six days themselves, plus the new web app going up each year.

That said, I wish I could get some time away to go see the boats my Dad's captaining these days. Take the new Black Point tour, perhaps. That's one thing this area is lacking: I love the mountains, but the lack of large bodies of water is something I miss pretty regularly. We've got streams, occasional rivers, but no convenient ponds or lakes. But maybe I just got spoiled with that big pond at the last place mom and I lived in Woodstock, then the Mississippi in St. Paul, then of course Lake Geneva.

Water's calming, stilling. The soft grandeur of the mountains here have a similar effect, but it's entirely different in feel. Seattle's were much more imposing, but distant. But their water was much more immediate. The Sound, Lake Washington, Lake Union, Green Lake: I saw almost every one of these regularly while I was there, most of them daily. They're spoiled with water and mountains.

I really need to make a fuller entry and notes about my visit there: I've just been so pushed for time lately, and I keep pushing off commitments, which is a problem. I'm not even finished with crunching the photos from the trip. But I took 3,700 shots, so that's kind of understandable. What I've put up so far you can see here. Oh, and Dad? Check out the Ballard and Nordic Heritage Museum sets. Ballard was originally settled by Scandinavian immigrants, so they have events like "Tivoli Viking Days" (I'm not making this up), and they have an actual, honest-to-goodness and still owned by the family Danish bakery and a bunch of Scandinavian foodstuff grocers, plus a bunch of retirement homes that are named for the groups they were either founded by, or primarily serve--all Scandinavian-based names. And you'll see some familiar items in the museum set. ;)

It's really as if Seattle was making a serious play for my attention: the seafood was exquisite, the sushi was the best I've ever had in my life, plus all this Danish heritage stuff? Sold. Y'know? That's another thing I've missed here: there's a lot of Dutch, a lot of German, a lot of miscellaneous Eastern European, in terms of original settlers, but not much Scandinavian stuff at all. Minor complaints, it might sound, but for someone who wants to keep connected to that community, keep the language I learned in good speaking shape, that's a powerful lack. And a powerful selling point for a place that has it.

Now, I'm not going anywhere for a year at least (I'm in a lease, if nothing else), but I have given it some thought, though not anywhere approaching serious, "how would I do this"-type thought. I've got time enough for that. But even aside from all the college friends who moved out there, I also know a couple that recently moved out there from Madison, so I should have all the practical advice on how to do it right and well if I should need it.

And I have friends there. Not only the college clan, but folks I'd known before only online, who I met when I went and spent two pretty full days with and became almost immediate fast friends. They're some of the most immediately awesome people I've ever met. You know how you start liking people more the more you get to know them? Not these folks. Right off the bat, they were far too cool to be true. But enough raving about them. The point is that making new friends is one of the most scary parts about moving. With Seattle, at least, it wouldn't be as much of a concern for me.

Done raving about Seattle. Dax and L. keep teasing me that everything's better in Seattle, since I keep naming things that are. I've had to chastise them that no, not everything is (I can name a couple things off the top of my head that are distinctly better here: traffic being a big one), it's just that the things I remember best and thus talk about are.

Back to the here and now. I smell like peaches this morning, due to my peachy BPAL Chaos Theory I got last year at this time. I'm really glad I put it on this morning. I tossed on my off-white cardigan, and the danger of leaving cardigans in my office for when I need them is that they start to smell like my office. But that's been the case with every office building I've ever known: they have a building smell, and after all day in it, that building smell will cling. But maybe I just have a sensitive nose.

Yesterday was a day-long meeting about this year's budget proposal. Let me repeat: Day. Long. Meeting. Wasn't as painful as I thought it would be, though. Though I drank far more coffee than I usually do (the usual amount being zero).

I was also by far the youngest one there. I noted it and thought it was weird, but I don't think anyone else noticed. Except for at lunch, where I had mentioned yoga, and then everyone at my table leapt in to describe their various back problems, sciatica, neck injuries, etc. One guy's back had seized and he had collapsed while walking up his block, just laying there until some stranger helped him. Carried him to his truck, drove him to his house, deposited him in his bed. When he still couldn't move, he eventually called 911. Bizarre. Makes me none too keen to get older. ;) But I guess that's a good reason to be starting yoga before I need it for physical therapy or some such.

I'm debating going to classes three times a week rather than my current two. I love it, it makes me feel awesome and I can tell I'm making progress. I'm still amazed at a few things I can do that I certainly wouldn't have been able to before starting (or when I was in that down time before I picked it back up again). It's just a time issue. As is everything, it seems.

Speaking of which, I should really get to it.