Once Bitten

I was bitten by a raccoon last week. When the subject comes up, people inevitably say "attacked," and I'm always quick to correct them ― I don't feel as though I was attacked. It was just a nip, on my right arm, a few inches above the wrist, from a familiar raccoon that was just a bit too eager to get to the food I had.

You could probably say I deserved it ― I've become comfortable around the raccoons, and I haven't exactly been discouraging them (by which you might also say "I've been encouraging them"). This one in particular has become very, very comfortable around me, and so at ease with the peace and quiet and the leisurely pace here that she often turns up in midday, while any potential competition is still comfortably snoozing away. It's better that way, before my son is home from school later in the afternoon, and everything becomes more hectic.

(And before you ask, no, that behavior in and of itself is not necessarily an indication of rabies.)

In fact, she behaves more or less the same as any other raccoon I've ever known (I've been watching them here for many years), so I wasn't terribly concerned that she may be rabid. There was still a chance she could be carrying the disease, though, so while there really was no choice for me but to seek treatment, that presented a terrible moral dilemma. The only way to confirm rabies in an animal is to ― well, I'll spare you the gruesome details, but she would have had to have been trapped and killed, and I was horrified by that possibility, even if it might spare me a course of treatment. She's a nuisance, yes, but she's a nuisance mostly of my own making, and I don't consider her to be a danger. I would be devastated if I were responsible for her needless death.

As it turns out, though, the authorities didn't seem concerned enough to take such action, which was a big relief (albeit a big surprise). If you've managed to trap or kill the animal that bit you, they'll gladly oblige you in testing it for rabies ― but apart from that, you're on your own. They'll treat your illness, though.

As to that course of treatment? You know, it wasn't nearly as awful as I was expecting. I already knew that the barbaric days of a series of very, very painful injections to the abdomen (it was necessary to have a large muscle group that could withstand so many) had long past, but I still had to have several the following day ― five or six of them, I think, in various parts of my body. And then one today, another later this week, and another next week. And a Tetanus Shot, just to be sure.

I haven't had a shot since ― you know, I can't even remember the last time I'd had a shot. (I've had some blood drawn over the past year or so, but that's it.) It hasn't been nearly as painful as I had expected ― that might have been because I did not look. I do not like needles. Needles make me very anxious. I remembered the time, ages ago, when my then-girlfriend was being treated for Lyme Disease, and we somehow arrived at this idea that I could give her a series of weekly injections of antibiotics (or whatever it was). But when the time came, I couldn't do it. I just could not do it.

We've been trying to discourage this raccoon ― or rather, encourage her to fend for herself. Maybe even sleep in a bit. This habit she has of turning up during the day has already attracted some attention, and I'm concerned that it might become her undoing.

If This then That

Despite appearances to the contrary (and the turbulence and that chaos that often lingers beneath the surface) I tend to be an organized, even methodical person.

I spent a day or two this week setting up some automated functions for InDesign, repetitive tasks that could be done for me, much more quickly. (I don't know why I didn't do this ages ago.) This involves writing what amounts to rudimentary computer programs in AppleScript, though not so much with computer code as a series of mostly familiar words and phrases (tell, repeat, if, then, of, else, end, that sort of thing). The phrasing is key, though, and the pieces do need to be organized in a specific way for the scripts to do anything useful.

I've dabbled in AppleScript off and on through the years — enough to be familiar with the structure, less so with the details. But I understand enough to get by, and I know enough to be able to pull bits of code from here and there to build what I want.

Many people would find it all maddening, even though AppleScript is designed to be as accessible as possible. I enjoy the complexity. It's all just the pieces of a puzzle, everything has to fit together in a particular way, or none of it makes sense.

I've often thought of trying my hand at more complex programming projects. I started reading up on C many, many years ago, but I never found the time to pursue it (and I've long since forgotten anything I might have learned). It's been on my mind off and on for several months, and I want to try again — if for no other reason than to convince myself that my mind is still dexterous at 45.

I can't help but think that most of the world will lose at least three minutes of productivity today.

Seperate and Distinct

My seven-year-old has a life all his own now — or at least, a part of his life — apart from me. He has encounters I cannot share, and he experiences his world in ways I can no longer completely control. I can't say I'm completely comfortable with this, though I have become resigned to it. I'm also intrigued.

I've had the slightly unsettling notion, once or twice over the past several months, learning of experiences he's had in school that I knew nothing about. (Often these will come up in conferences with his Teacher.) Not because they were embarrassing, or anything he'd have reason to conceal, they're just — I suppose they were simply overlooked.

And from time to time he'll say something, or make passing reference to something, or ask a question about something, and leave me completely flummoxed, wondering "Where could he have heard that?"

Today, for example, was a big question, a very big question — about religion. I've been very impressed with the range of material they're covering in his Second Grade class (even envious, as I remember my experience to have been rather dull by comparison), but somehow I don't think the subject has come up there. (At least, I can't say I've noticed it in his homework.) And I wouldn't expect a discussion of the existence or non-existence of God to be a common topic among the other seven-year-olds. (But you never know.)

I don't mind answering — or, at least, trying to answer — these questions. I don't even mind being drawn into a discussion with my seven-year-old that I wouldn't have expected to have for a few more years. But I wish I could somehow learn more about the ways he learns about his world.

Questions

I made a comment recently to someone about the difficulty I thought I might have explaining something to my seven-year-old, who tends to be very, very inquisitive. Follow-up questions are just about inevitable.

"See that's what happens when you are a good parent and teach your child to question the world around them." was the response, with a knowing smile.

I'll often get a question first thing in the morning (really) before I'm even properly awake. My son will come in, only moments after having gotten out of bed, to ask me about whatever is on his mind, or how something works, or to solve a math problem (usually something I'd need pencil and paper to sort out even if I were thinking more coherently). Sometimes he'll ask the same question more than once, or when he knows the answer (and I know he knows the answer), but I suppose that's all a part of learning.

And I don't mind. And I'm glad I don't always have the answers for him — I think he'll be more inclined to keep asking questions that way.

Hidden

The details of my life seem to be reasonably well hidden — at least so far as Google is aware of them. All of which suits me very well, thank you.

Mind you, I'm not completely invisible, if you put enough effort into the endeavor, you could probably work out where I live, and find my small publishing business. But I've been careful to keep most of my interests and activities — good and somewhat less than good — separate from my name. Even this blog is written anonymously, though it wouldn't take much to put the pieces together.

And it turns out I have a surprisingly common name. I wouldn't have thought so, growing up — I never really liked my name, I always felt awkward about it, somehow. But it's turned out to be something I share with a marxist, a gun enthusiast, several authors, and someone with a Facebook page, none of whom are me. This quite nicely confuses the issue. (I was fifteen pages into a Google search of my name before I found a link that I spotted as recognizably mine.)

I enjoy my anonymity. I like being hidden. I don't want to be found so easily.

The Fact of Fiction

I envy the way my seven-year-old can be carried away and completely lose himself in fiction, while at the same time be aware that it is. I can still do that, kind of, sort of, but — nah, who am I kidding, it just isn't the same for me. I only wish that it were.