thanks so much for the encouraging and inquiring comments!!  I have been extremely waylaid with professional, personal and existential issues of late (even loading trucks last night for Katrina victims...what back pain today!!).  I will be back in the saddle within a matter of days.  From a literary sense. I am sorry for the "left hanging" sense that some have expressed.  I am left flattered, yet appalled with my own inability to follow through, even in my own element.

A appreciate my blog friends so...there is no adequate way for me to express it.

Everyday was the same except that she would have surgery this day.  She didn’t even open her favorite fourth grade student’s letters.  Surely they wished her well, Henry and Austin.  They were the only ones that would write when anyone “was sick anyway”, she thought.  Yet she clutched those letters before they took her into surgery this day.

“Can we take those?” the circulating nurse said firmly.

“Yes you may and they must make it to my waiting entourage!!”  The operating room erupted into a rare laughter; this early… this early before so many listed cases.  O’Toole laughed. So did Andersen.  They were wise to making a patient comfortable before surgery and “hadn’t they read of many an outcome” being favorable with a good attitude going into surgery?  The vague thought echoed the attending surgeon’s mantra: “Be happy” (almost Bobby Ferrin in tone), the rest (i.e. clinical outcomes) will follow!! So said the great Dr. Jarett.  It was enough.  It was enough to be in this great surgical fellowship under such a great teacher.

Jane Seton was asleep now.  The brusk insertion of the endotrachial tube was complete, she would never know, she was not meant to know that a tube would keep her alive for 55 minutes, give or take, and she would not be reminded of such.

An incision was made by O’Toole in the standard way for any “lap Chole”- one incision two inches below the ziphoid (bottom of the sternum), one incision through the “belly button” and a third incision through the right lower quadrant for any emergency suction or evacuation.

The camera-surgically capable-probe entered the peritoneal cavity.  It was 7:58 am.  O’Toole had done this 39 times before in his career.  He was so self assured.  His protégé, Andersen, a third year resident was in charge of the evacuator.

It was a nice start to an eventful day.  Surgeons do not like eventful days.

Sister Seton got to the office on time.  Dr. Jarett saw her 2 1/2 hours later.  Yes, he had his international liver cancer teleconference go over its allotted time.  He scrubbed in a little late in the morning (7:30 am) as a result.   The teleconference had started at 4:30 am to include a prominent French surgeon and he lamented that the point of teleconferencing was …well, it was what it was: a two-time-a-week occasion for him.  He was worrying about his wife who was about to have a baby anyway.  Sister Seton’s appointment was 4:30 pm and, as always, she was 20 minutes early.  Especially this time.

Jane Seton wondered why doctors never saw her on time.  She would “offer it up” nonetheless but she thought, that well, “healthcare could use a tongue lashing from our Jesuit Provincial!!”.  Sisters of Charity were always working closely with the Jesuits and she thought, she thought…she didn’t have a clue in all of her training as a teacher and a nun, “why was there an affinity of the Sisters of Charity to the Jesuits?”.  She’d been with the order 45 years.  The Provincial had arranged this acute medical visit with Dr. Jarret himself.  The Catholic Church can move mountains.  Especially with friends of the Jesuits like Dr. Jarett.

“I’m afraid that the tumor is inoperable Sister”, his tone was tentative yet encouraging.  He was catching his breath from running to the office to meet patients.  His secretary had told him that his wife was “OK”, but that his afternoon patients were “anxious”.  Sister Seton was the first afternoon patient.

“What I would like to do is an exploratory laparotomy, sort of, an ‘exploratory look’…to see what we are up against”. He explained that a mastocytoma was a soft tumor that did not respond to surgical dissection, radiotherapy, chemo-reactive therapy or any known intervention at the current time.  Especially in the mesenteric area of the pancreas…a location that was confirmed by PET (positron emission tomography).

Yet she was running out of time.  Her surgeon knew it.  Her tumor would create life threatening situations by what it did well, simply, without reasoning: anaphylactic reactions to a myriad of antigens, that is,  Jane Seton’s world was an invader, her body – fighting against any insult at all cost.  A mastocytoma creates mast cells.  Mast cells promote the immune response, so much so, that any life particle in Jane’s world is potentially life threatening.  Her body was the opposite of a protracted AIDS patients who had no immune response.  She would carry the requisite epinephrin pens, sometimes three at a time every other day would “fend off an attack”.

She agreed to the exploratory surgery.  It was scheduled for “first start”, in other words “7:30 am” the next morning.

To be continued

I've been wondering about this blog thing.  I have others stories that are gestating, just trying to be born.  But do I write them to get praise?  Am I disingenuous for asking...or do I talk to myself in here?  Do I write for myself, as it should be?  My friend post started the whole "friend meme" thing between my cyber acquaintances and I learned vicariously that they knew how to en masse tend and nurture friendships better than I do.  My eyes welled up when tblog friend talked about her special family outings (growing up) to McDonalds, how they would share a "small fries".  I just commented badly on how Orthodox Jewish males and women were equally as bad driving.  I wondered how my new "friend" could ever scold or detract from the experience that is "Home Depot".  I was elated that a new apartment was afforded to someone I know here...someone that I worry about yet I wonder if I could ever be as strong at heart as he is.

I am jealous of a tblog art gallery curator (why couldn’t I have done that!!??) and a graphic designer who instills html jealousy when I visit his site.  I am jealous of a tblogger who has stimulated my thinking and my wherewithal and how could she be more socially conscious than me?  I worry about my younger tblog friends, that is, highschoolers and college bound...please do not make my mistakes.

All in all, a good tblog day!!

Before afterthoughts, before insight, this pool existed.  The air was so saturated with moisture that the edge of water and heavy vapor seemed indistinguishable.  Along this edge of water-state danced swirling transition streams of visible vapor trails...appearing briefly, then disappearing like the surface of boiling caldron .  Far from boiling, the water was tepid in a constant flux with the cycle of temperature exchange.

As ill defined as the water boundaries between heavy air and liquid, the salamander laid motionless.  Visible light could reveal a brown and languid purple pattern on it’s skin but this creature belonged in the water.  Visible light was perceived differently under the surface and the terrestrial impression of color was wholly different.  The salamander’s blotchy pattern of dull colors, out of harmony above the surface, appeared to blend into a spectrum of gray and green.

Laying motionless for a meal.  Laying motionless was mere instinctive programming and assured a savage attack on an unsuspecting lobe-finned fish.  So savage were the salamander’s attacks that the periods of wait, intervals between quiet ambush, were lengthy.  The whole pool was disrupted…even from that of slow ripples that lapped slow moving and unsuspecting fish.  The continuum, the balance of the lazy home to so many small denizens, was periodically reminded that a very large predator was lurking.  A very large predator at 6 feet long, but flat, like a cooled, liquid lava deposit, the salamander’s mouth was very wide.  Yet the mouth opened at a destructive moment and it seemed four times as large, inhaling prey in a vortex of negative pressure.

So the waiting continued.  Nothing before or after, just waiting.  Repetitive ambushing was what it was- instinctive survival.  There was no imagining of change, in morphology, in learning process or evolution.  No legacy but a slice in time that would not even record an impression of the salamander’s fragile skeleton.  A small brain poised for such growth, from an evolutionary standpoint, to that of a mammal.  Some mammals would be endowed with being able to pose questions and worry about offspring, plan on things and become rogues out of the safety of a pack.  But there were no afterthoughts, no insight…just reflexive waiting today.  Waiting to consume energy, an adaptation and a portal to the future, the salamander neither cared nor worried.  Consuming energy…leaving little trace of it’s existence except in the echoes of savage examples of life.  It would wait.

Piercing noise….beeper set on vibrate and ring.  The shock of alerting, the nervous energy, the “engaging” response…all were hers, this night any way.  Move to…move, and hope for 30 seconds, maybe she could buy 30 seconds of twilight sleep.  That would be enough!  Perhaps they would think she was tied up in the ER.  Who would know what time it was.  She didn’t even care. Who would…

Blaring ring AND vibrate.

“Ahhhh—rrrrrg!!!”, she muttered in her half conscious state.  Then it was apparent.  She couldn’t hold her neck up!!  The PAIN…was an injury?  Did she encounter a psych patient?  No, that was last rotation.  She was hovering in pediatric neurology, a rotation she loathed.  She had thought of having a family even before entering medicine, even before indulging a worthy man.  Pediatric neurology was full of “chronic” patients…devastated kids….poor prognosis.  This didn’t remind her of having a family…it reminded her that other children were of such need, in need of her.

“I can’t fricken believe…”.  Her neck was throbbing, it hurt so much.  “When will I be out of here?” she thought, maybe even muttered.  Her head was hyperextended so much during her rare two hour slumber that her neck muscles convulsed in pain.  “Bunk beds in a ward call room, in a fricken new children’s hospital?  They could do better!!” she said to an empty call room.  She didn’t even care that the interns, residents and fellows were all engaged in patient issues…and she was talking in the dark.

“Chancelor here, ummm, returning a page, Pediatric Neurology service”.  She found the number on her beeper, Pod C. Epilepsy. Oh!!  Her friend was there! No, it wasn’t Kenny!  Ummm…”is there anything wrong with the patient in 5752?”

“Nooo” the nurse answered sarcastically, “the IV nurse is paging you to help for 5752 but there isn’t anything wrong with him”.  Chancelor’s first impression might have been “why does an IV nurse need my help at 4 in the morning?”.  No, she rearranged her scrubs, fumbled for her glasses and was ready in seconds.  Her fondness was apparent for Kenny, who she just met days earlier.  He had an ominous diagnosis of Rasmussan’s Encephalitis and was scheduled for surgery in a matter of days.  The algorithm to remove half of his brain was working its way to completion…through medical and family decision making.  His seizures were so severe as to demand such intervention.  He was playing basketball for a traveling team ten months ago.  He was the quarterback for his flag football team…hoping to play tackle football in the fall.  He was 11 years old.  His constant seizures left him in constant convulsions, bed ridden yet sparring his consciousness of a hell that he had no reference for…for any eleven year old.

Chancelor rushed down three flights of stairs and up the back part of a closed ward, a way she discovered cut her transit time in half for that part of the hospital.  Security had failed to lock doors.

She arrived to room 5752, not even checking in at the desk.  There he was, the IV nurse hovering over him.  “He wouldn’t let me place the IV without you”, the IV nurse said.  “Where is mom?”, Chancelor asked…in her muffled way so as not to make Kenny miss her.  “I don’t know, I haven’t seen her all..”, the IV nurse blarred out.

“OK!! OK!!”  Kenny’s mother was missing in action…why did she even bother asking.  “OK, Kenny you really need this…”

“I know Angie”, he said.  He was unusually self conscious for an eleven year old- his continual seizures, rippling muscles, and flailing left arm bothered him.  The surgeons would be removing the right hemisphere of his brain.  “I was just hoping that you would be up to see how strong I am”.

The fondness that she had for this patient was not reportable, that is, in a way that was anything like she was unaware of “boundaries”, thus compromising her ability to care for her patients. 

The IV nurse proceeded, having laid a field of dressings, transparent bandages and covered needles beside his writhing body.  “It’s only going to sting a little”.  Chancelor had never seen Kenny cry and she held his flailing left hand as the IV nurse worked.  Kenny starred into Chancelor’s eyes, he knew she knew he was strong.

“Here goes”.  Kenny starred at Chancelor, gathering strength, a strength he did not know to explain.  Starring…”there we go!!, the IV nurse said,  Kenny starred at Chancelor.  His eyes were moist, welling up, tears dripping.  He wouldn't allow anyone to see him crying.  But he starred.  Chancelor knew her part…and yet she would never forget this moment.  Her strength was his...yet she could only think about getting away at that moment.  Overwhelmed with his courage, touched by how she was so close to this little boy,  and yet she had to get away.

“All done!!” the IV nurse said as he bolted to the next assignment.  “That was OK, right” Chancelor said and it was all she could summon.  Kenny nodded, “You can sleep Angie, right?”.  “Of course!!” she said, and with that, covered him up.  He was restful now.

She ran out to her secret stairway, looking away from the nurse’s station.  There, the tears, the letting go- she cried uncontrollably.  She was understanding now, she was learning from his strength, not the other way around.  She knew her family would happen, in the future…and she might be able to talk about her young friend one day.  She could cry now though.

What??  "what"?

Guinness was the favorite rite of, well, a rewarding job well done.  And a day's worth of neurosurgery was reward enough!!  YES!!  yes indeed.  Who cares if he was "post call"?  Every third night of coverage was taxing ...but it's what he signed up for...his whole life was culminating in his professional moment: chief neurosurgery resident at an internationally acclaimed hospital and training program.  Who cares if he was yearning for something else, something private?  Neurosurgery residents are allowed to feel special...warmed to someone, warm to the feeling of soft touch.

"it's just not right" she said...louder.  OK, OK...she was allowed to raise her voice with the imbided, the libated crowd.  It was a nice place they landed...around the corner from Gibney's in Queens.  Extra soft pillows that were really couches that swallowed patrons, no smoke (the city commisioners disallowed smoking), a plus he thought, and well, there was his lively date.  She was chosen and reminded him of wholesome girls back home.  Blue, doe eyes, the blond hair he had always said was essential and an athletic build.  He wondered when he'd worked out...did the other residents have time to work out?  Certainly not on his time!  Who cares, she was gorgeous...and a nurse!  Convenient.

"It's just not right", she said in a muffled, uncharacteristic tone.  What tone wasn't pleasant now...even post call?  She made the head sign as if to say awkwardly "RIGHT NEXT TO ME"!!

"What", what?  He gazed next to her.  She just sat down with a full beer, sallying with conviction, from the ready bar keep near by.  She looked beautiful.  He wondered why blond hair so beautiful.  Her body was so nice...he indulged the thoughts, she had to be near him, in this moment, in this life...plus, she was from Texas.

"It's just not right...you know, he's white". 

Sleep deprivation plays tricks...adding Guinness, worrying about scheduling all the residents in the program, unpaid cable bill after thoughts and the attending on this rotation- he'd better be sharp.  But this was his time, his choice, his liberty.

He glanced over and saw a couple in deep conversation.  He looked around for the "white guy".  There were many white guys in this bar, this night, during his liberty.  What was she talking about?  He knew.  A delayed reaction...yes, beer, sleep..yes..no it is. He was looking, he starred ...not worrying, not worrying if the couple next to them glanced back.

The white guy was with the black girl. The black girl.  Oh, it was so obvious, yes, to say things...to feel sick from Guinness?  No!!! It was a great moment to encourage her to steal him back to her apartment.  He knew it was around the corner.  The night was beautiful.  But..the sudden nausea...oh, it was a post call thing, he had to rationalize something, he really felt "sick".  And yet, the smooth skin as her cheek glanced his...the pulling close...the sharing of softness, so overlooked...so under experienced.

"I'm sorry, I have to go now...the early schedule well get the best of me".  She understood.  She cared for him.  She thought that she could look after him. 

there was the intensity...lacking.  There was the despiriting, dull, damp longing.  Despite such a brilliant career in psychiatry, talking, sharing.  What happened?  "When you need it most" pervaded her thought heirarchy, bullied submissive thoughts that were important to her.

How could it come to this??  With the world in a holy war and the papers telling of overarching holy need, how could she rationalize the death of a relationship?  World needs were important...human needs were important...and men were replaceable.  Even a man that helped create a family...helped her through residency...soothed her soul.  But what of her precious little "sorrow".  Who would care if she really didn't have acts of intimacy in five years...except her over-sexed sister?  Her survival was assured...her thriving was not.

Pride would have its day.  Her patients would have their doctor.  And there would be no crying for yesterday.

so I've heard it on radioplay, actually heard it verbatim from a love interest once (I won't tell you who loved one another more).  But do we go about our lives loving our partners MORE or Less...or is it defined by the ORB of DOUBT??  Or that SPHERE of SELF-DOUBT???

This ain't no metro-sexual talkin'

Sorry...thought I could get more blog traffic with this subject.

shameless...I know.

No....not Shirley Manson...or that most excellent band.

No...but the real thing.  The 40 ton elephant in the room that no one talks about.  I mean, NYC pays neighboring metropolitan areas to accept its refuse, tens of thousands of metric tons daily.  And thank goodness, Great Kills Land Fill is closed in Staten Island!!  Now we can ship our garbage and folks are willing to be paid for it!!  Is this a great country or what??!!

What I'm worried about is my to only read book reviews...that's right, my feverish hunger to consume the NYT Book Review (every Sunday) without HAVING TO READ ANY BOOK!!  I sound like I read books but I really don't!!!  You know, that sorta thing: 

 http://www.nytimes.com/2005/07/15/books/15bo ok.html" title="http://www.nytimes.com/2005/07/15/books/15bo ok.html" target="_blank"http://www.nytimes.com/2005/0...?

Any hoo...

This one kills me...I mean KIIILLLLSSSS me.  It smacks a nail, dead on, with my thumb on top of the nail!!!

The author has an agenda. It should be our agenda.  But it's not.  At least I think so.  I have an almost primordial fear about where all my trash is going.  Where exactly does it go?  Why do I pay for someone to take it away?  Where does my human refuse go?  What makes so accepting of being so sure that my city government is handling all of my recycled refuse so, well, recycleable?  Should I worry that it's not being recycled?  What about the world that my kids will....or whatever.

The above talks about a trash stalker...to our benefit?  I think so.  She's written about many environmental issues and lieft me wanting for more information.  And she ain't no tree hugger...she incisive, well written.  Not as much emotion as Cutter but the import is just as sound:  what is our legacy?  And will it, quite frankly, kill us with a slow kind of death?

I am a fisherman...and I apologize to all the PETA members that assault me daily in emails that think I "maim and kill animals".  I am a coastal and marine activist, trying to protect the habitat of animals that I "kill".  But one thing that I have discovered is how rapid our trash effects our marine waters: sewage spill off, dumping, chemicals and the endless goes on and on.

My organization is actually fighting to NOT allow the dredging of the Hudson River to remove PCBs placed long ago (and over long periods of time by GE).  Wildlife is thriving, striped bass are coming back, water clarity is returing and is tested regularly for the compound.  Dredging up chemical waste that is so far deemed "dormant" would be foolhardy.

But what of our legacy?  The very book that the author requested be at least 80% recycled paper was balked at by the publisher...it is 50 % recycled...yet she signed off on its shipment.

My bottom line, I'm extremely worried about how we treat trash, refuse and chemical waste especially with this administration (sorry, I had to get the truth in).  And I'm worried how I treat the thought of garbage...

if talking about it will make it better, for you, for me, others...certainly talking about carnage, what's inevitably "in store for us" will make things, well, more focused.  Right?

Perhaps I could lament that the wacko righty-talking heads are reporting that the "left" has been saying that it's Bush's "fault for going into Iraq", that's what got us to London...pfffttt.

Maybe I could report oblique commentaries of gum-smacking valley girls and their vapid speech patterns as they remotely allude to strife abroad...nope.

Could I relate first hand what fear is out there and thereby ameliorate any preconceived fears that might gestate more fear?  Maybe not.

There are two choices (especially for blog traffic watchers, nefarious or otherwise) that are omnipresent, over-arching, undeniable:

1) resist or

2) suffer abuse

To distill out emotion is unhuman... yet what is taking innocent life if not a call to prepare against such action??

As Louisvillians, we called it "E-town".  Of course the rest of Kentucky didn't really claim Louisville anyway- "big-town attitude peddlers" we were called by the rest of KY (Louisville only has 2.5 million in it's metropolitan area).  But the new film (yet to be released) is "dead on" central Kentucky affect, starring Orlando Bloom, Susan Sarandon and Kirsten Dunst.  It is the first movie that renders Louisville's correct pronuncation "LOU-ah-vul", not "Lewis-ville" or "Louie-ville" or other abominations.  To get it really correct, practice the pronunciation with several sharp stones in your mouth.  You will gain rapid acceptance (initially) by the inhabitants of this brilliant, small-yet-not-so-small town's and lovely people they are.

So...a Britisher (Bloom) is getting away with playing a displaced Kentuckian?  Kate Blanchett ("The Gift" and British) had the best regional, deep south accent that I've heard in a long time.  I have a distant family relationship with an Oscar winner that played a southern lawyer in a seminal movie about the South- his accent was best.  But Jude Law (British) and Nicole Kidman (Australian) did important work in "Cold Mountain".  Kidman's inflection and tonality was better than Law's but the rendition of Southern colloquial intonation was very good. The "Color Purple" was just a work of genius: indigenous inflection and frighteningly familiar enough to make me homesick for a very long time- but these were "indigenous" actors and actresses.  One of my favorite actors, Kenneth Branaugh (British) attempted southern speak and failed miserably in "Gingerbread Man"...you have to get it right!!

As a transplanted New Yorker, I've been told that my accent comes back after 2 bourbons.

Movie's out this October, check the website though: http://www.elizabethtown.com/" title="http://www.elizabethtown.com/" target="_blank"http://www.elizabethtown.com/...

"wouldn't do to bury him where any Yankee stands"...Elton John

so to speak...err...to quote our commander-in-chief tonight.

So...yes, he is afforded to title and all the trappings.  He does deserve the benefit of the doubt,  He's OUR leader...and yep, we deserve a progress report, even if it's self serving, we deserve a progress report.  If onlt to ammeliorate any mother's grief, to contain a public's distrust of any engagement in Iraq, to, well now, get a country to believe in the "right: thing to do, annex states- secure oil production, install democracy (not necessarily in that order) but we have so much momentum goin' fer us...why stop?

What the hell is blind hatred?  Why the hell do we have to fight against it?

What compells us to nation build and to put our military at risk?? To fund Halibuton's coufers?  To test Lockheed's unmaned drones?  To distract a public from failed policy?

FLASH...''...

.

.

.

oh god, my mother; I haven't heard from her

I didn't, maybe.....Oh god I wish she WAS HERE, right NOW!!  WHY ISN"T SHE here damn it!!!  DAMN IT!!  oh damn it...

why isn't...I love you mother, I love everything about you mother, OH I LOVE YOU!!

love you........my love is...

is.....

tripping across my Replacements mp3s, I rediscovered my disenfranchised, white boys' angst anthem "I'll be you".  Who would think such great rock band could emanate from Minnesota??  Ha!! Course, there was Husker Du...any who.

but the Replacements are still as meaningful in my forties as they were way back when...especially this track: fatalistic, hopeful and little regard for convention or psycho game playing-  just like life!!

And if we took a day to reverse roles, trade roles with someone else...would that be such a bad thing (as the song implies)??  In fact, wouldn't take care of a full half of the world's psychological baggage that everyone's packing...myself included??  How would you approach changes roles with someone?  Good for a laugh and maybe world detente.

Course, I would not change roles with certain people...ever (the short list includes Donald Rumsfeld and Tom DeLay).  My bad, shortcoming....whatever, but I'm not going there until I have each in a room for an unforced confessional.

I wish I could write more at any given time like my friend lindy...I'm working on it.  Plus, no one's told me to shut up yet...

The pungent gasoline smells that were consistently overwhelming me were...who cares, well I was getting used to them...like a chemical plant worker must accomodate his livelyhood.  It was a British car.  A car that made feel confident on dates.  It consistently (weekly) broke down.  My liver was certainly at risk for smelling gasoline rather than alcohol intake at the local bar.

5:30 am, driving to my job - pulling blood out of interned childrens' arms with thick plungers in dim light, at the local hospital.  It was a job that looked good for banal pre-med automatons that had figured medicine was a career path, the only path...for biology majors that is.

Then...the lights and sirens shock my mirrors, seem to fill my toy car, momentarily stunning me.  My stomach was sick...not from the fear of being pulled over by the police...but from too much beer the night before.  I remember it like that for once...the fear of police sirens still strangles my gut though- consistently,  however rare.

"PULL OVER TO THE SIDE OF THE ROAD PLEASE" on the callous megaphone.  I guess that the offending horns are under the cruiser's hood.  I was fearing that the sleepy German neighborhood would rise out of their beds in some fantastical pedestrian rubber-necking assembly...at 5:30 am this morning.

The fever soaked my white jacket, sweat mixing with gasoline odors...I had worried that that $25.00 bounced check had pissed off the grocery store owner so much that he had called his family posse member...someone who might be on the police force.  I WASN'T DRUNK!!  All beer was thoroughly metabolized I thought and extra brushing with two doses of mouth wash was mandatory in the hospital industry anyway.  Perhaps the gasoline smells would cover any hint...oh, whatever...I WAS ON MY WAY TO THE HOSPITAL AND MY SHIFT WAS STARTING IN 4 MINUTES!!

It was taking too long!!  I must have seemed angry, maybe assaultive, unfolding out of my MGB-  "STAY IN YOUR CAR".

Another bloated segment of wasted time passed.  My lab jacket sleeve was saturated from my wet brow.

...piercing light, the light that's shined in your eyes...surely to check pupil dilitation or response...any suspicious response!!  "MAY I SEE YOUR DRIVER"S LICENSE PLEASE".  This would be my opportuinity to tell him I was a skilled health care worker at the local hospital and that my rounds started 15 minutes ago with sick children...that is, after I would give him my readily supplied driver's license!!

My wallet was taken and bathed in a revealing light...the kind from flashlight attached to a baton that was certainly used to beat people senselessly....for a moment.

"PLEASE STEP OUT OF THE CAR...PUT YOUR HANDS ON THE REAR OF THE CAR AND SPREAD YOUR LEGS PLEASE".

general moping, drudgery, fatigue...nothing could change the fact that her eyes were sapphire blue.  Exciting to peer in, to peer into her eyes...despite an awkwardness and fleeting behavior as she rushed to get home.  A long shift.

But if the experience was enough for half a second, having seen her eyes...then that would seal it, make you want to glance all the more...next time.  Maybe she would linger over some feigned request on your part...maybe you would catch her talking to her friend and some animated way.  You would only be interested in her eyes as a muffled exchange was meaningless. 

Others must be attracted to her, her eyes first, then her body...that is, the way men see her.  Women must be jealous, that is the way men must feel.  That women must be jealous of her eyes.

If one were to worry about hurting, say, hurting others....all the time...would the cumulative effect be overwhelming?  Days, years, decades of neglecting others feelings...holding out that you are simply too damaged to rectify things...some forced preoccupation with one's self, a likely cause.  Neglecting others by reflex.

When is the harm too much for others bear?  Or is it some contrived self indulgence in realizing that others would come to such harm..."they should know enough to protect themselves from me!!"