"But I stood my ground and I’ll fly once more,
It’s the last oath that I ever swore.

"Take my love, take my land
Take me where I cannot stand
I don't care, I'm still free
You can't take the sky from me
Take me out to the black
Tell them I ain't comin' back
Burn the land and boil the sea
You can't take the sky from me
There's no place I can be
Since I found Serenity
But you can't take the sky from me...

"When you see a man and he’s standing alone,
Well you might just take him for an easy mark.
And there’s many a man as tried his hand,
And there’s worse than wolves in the borderland dark.

"From the savage men to the government hounds
Try to take what’s yours and tear you through.
Ah, but them that run with me’s got my back.
It’s a fool don’t know that his family’s his crew.

"Don’t you tell me what I cannot do.
Don’t you think I’ve got to run from you."



-- From "Mal's Song" performed by Escape Key with chorus by Joss Whedon

This journal is literally friends only. If you want to read the journal, you will first have to read the disclaimer and my user information. If you agree abide by those terms, please drop me an e-mail or leave a comment explaining the following:

• who you are


• how you know me or how you found the journal


• why you want to read my journal

I reserve the right to refuse to add you. Adding you does not mean I will be reading your journal in return. It simply means that you have access to my journal. If we have friends in common and you know someone who doesn't have access to this journal, please do not tell them where it is. Generally there's a reason why I do not want the person knowing what goes on here.

Some entries are public so it isn't necessary to friend me in order to see entries from therealljidol or brigits_flame.

o/` "t's never gonna be
Normal, you and me
What you're signing on for
Is a storm at sea

"So if you think you're tough
Give me all your love
And I'll give you every little piece of me o/`

-- "The Pageant of the Bizarre" performed by Zero 7

I'll update this (it's stickied) as I have more time and more photos or inked portraits. For now, this will do.

I figured it's about time to write something which gives readers a basic overview of the grand and lovely poly-mess we call a family. First of all, in case you didn't catch it: the lot of us are polyamorous. The word, from the ancient Greek, means "many loves". If you're hoping for the sordid details of sexual gymnastics involving multiple partners or looking for a peek into the seamy underbelly of lying, cheating, back stabbing relationships then you've not only completely gotten the wrong idea but you've also walked in on the wrong family! Love forms different connections, the intensity of which varies between the various people involved. Suffice it to say that we're dedicated to one another and our children. Oh, you're worried about the children? You shouldn't be; aside from the fact that it's really none of your business (we will never tell you how to take care of your family and I hope you will be courteous enough to do the same for us) being polyamorous (not to mention by virtue of that connection being part of a large clan of French Cajuns from Louisiana, which I will talk more about in a moment) means that those children never lack for a loving adult or any one of many traditional and non-traditional role models. The nuclear family simply doesn't work for us and so we simply don't try approximating it.

Where possible, I have provided recent photographs. For some family members owing to security concerns (please read my profile or continue reading if you desire further explanation) that simply isn't possible. I am allowed by diagenou's employer to post court reporter-style sketches of him, the men assigned for our protection, and his children. These, of course, do not completely resemble the persons whom they are intended to represent but they bear sufficient resemblance to give the reader a visual image to go with descriptions when I talk about them. Some photographs have anthropomorphic portraits with them; these family members engage therianthropy (a set of shamanistic practices in which the individual involved believes him or herself to have the soul of an animal). If you didn't catch that either from the public entries, I'll elaborate: we're a multi-belief household when it comes to religion. Some folk are agnostic or atheist, some are Catholic, some practice various forms of Neopaganism, and some have eclectic practices. We're tolerant as long as you can be the same --- no conversions, no derisive attitudes, and we'll get along just fine.

One final note: this is not a multiple system. Each of these people exists in his or her own right as an individual human being present in this reality. Please treat me accordingly. While I do have friends with multiplicity, I am not myself a multiple and there is no 'system' or 'main body' in control here. You're stuck with me, the de facto matriarch of this happily dysfunctional little clan. Some family members do have their own journals and I will list those with their portraits and descriptions but most of them aren't as social as I am. I will generally add someone after getting to know the person a bit and assuring myself that the person in question will not hurt me or my family in any way or otherwise go crazy.


Persona au Gratin

Yes, it's a cheesy pun...but then this is a family who loves both cheese and word play. Deal with it.

Sketches were done by our own Dorie, pshaw_raven


Diagenou Marouche (diagenou): Family calls him Dee; most of the folks from work call him by his last name only. I don't think he would say he has many (any?) friends. My SO works for the federal government as a behavioral analyst; his primary specialty is adult crimes but he's occasionally called upon to deal with crimes against minors because of the ferocity with which he pursues the case and his compassion for the victims. Dee and I have known each other about thirty years. I met him when I was ten years old and he was fifteen; my Pa, who served in the army, had been stationed in what was then West Germany. We both attended the same Department of Defense boarding school but Dee had more freedom and privileges since his father served in the diplomatic ranks. He was my first crush, my first love, and the sole reason I survived my experiences there. When my father died, we lost touch for several years and then I met him again on a band trip to the Air Force Academy at Colorado Springs where he was enrolled. We corresponded until I married my first husband, an abusive man who ordered all contact be cut. We met again several years ago under less than ideal circumstances, patched things up, and have been together ever since.

Dee comes from a prominent French Cajun family in Louisiana whose primary holdings stretch from Thibideaux to Cut Off. He's a less-than-devout Catholic: we attend Easter and Christmas Mass and sometimes other masses, usually at the basilica in St. Augustine because he likes the privilege of attending church at the United States' oldest. The work he does gives him a cynical edge which cuts until you get to know him; then the wry humor and dry irony I fell in love with shines through. He's good with children and animals but liable to burst out in blistering four letter descriptions when faced with willful ignorance or human stupidity. Since he was shot in the line of duty two years ago, he's been semi-retired but recently regained enough health to pass his physical and his firearms qualifications so that he could return to work full time.

Isadora Raven (pshaw_raven): We call her Dorie but yes...she does have another name which is currently her legal one. When she worked for the HUD we had to use a pseudonym whenever I mentioned her because our relationship might have cost her the job and she needed it. Later, I found out she actually hates her given name. Eventually it will be legally changed so she can be our Dorie in fact but for now...we're waiting on divorce papers and it could be a long wait.

Dorie is Dee's half sister (they share a father). Dorie's biological mother became pregnant while still a teen and then left with the baby to live with her parents in Tennessee. Dorie was raised by her maternal grandparents, who considered themselves too old to parent another child and who, in their efforts to ensure that she did not turn out like her mother, severely damaged her self esteem. Dee and Dorie did not find one another until they were adults; when Dee's father died, the existence of the child and her subsequent adoption by her maternal grandparents was revealed in a set of legal correspondences locked in a safe deposit box. Dee spent a considerable amount of time and money finding her. Dorie, meanwhile, had been married to a man nearly twice her age who further abused her verbally and psychologically.

I met Dorie through a mutual interest in the anthropomorphic fandom. A mutual friend introduced us and we discovered a strong attraction between us (I admit it --- I wanted to make love to her the first time I saw her sitting on the double bed in our hotel!). Over the years she has become my lover, my girlfriend, my best friend, my heart's match, my soul's companion. Two years ago, while I was still in hospital recovering from surgery, Dee came to visit and revealed his worry about her sanity. Believing Dorie might actually kill herself if something wasn't done, my husband and I returned to Louisiana with her brother, packed up her things in our pick-up and a UHaul, and then brought her home to live with us.

She meshes an eclectic blend of Buddhism, New Orleans Voodoo, bayou folklore, pagan practices, and healthy skepticism. Her totem is the raven. Any or all of these influences, along with a quirky and occasionally dark sense of humor, might find their way into her artwork. She likes her comforts: good wine, good company, good books...and all the spray paint you can press upon her. Trips to the hardware store often become impromptu art supply hauls. Don't shake hands with her! You just might find yourself covered with some sort of industrial adhesive and involuntarily one half of a very embarrassing conversation with the product hot line.

Dorie is my co-wife; I share my husband with her in all areas which you might expect for any traditional marriage save for it being a commitment of choice; we cannot, of course, marry her legally or we would have. I might be the blabbermouth for the family, but she's the true heart of our home. Dorie sees to the comfort and wellbeing of everyone from plants to pets. Without her we would all be hungry, dirty, and lonely.

Mr. Shapeshifter (simtra): My lawfully wedded husband of twelve years at the end of November this year. Quite an accomplishment when the odds are currently against most marriages making it past the seventh year and quite a few don't even last that long! We met in 1997 through the anthropomorphic fandom. A mutual acquaintance introduced us and we began conversing via the 'net. Our mutual friend, with whom I was sharing an apartment, had a wedding to attend in the Orlando area and we couldn't afford a hotel. Generous and gentle soul that he is, Mr. Shapeshifter invited us to stay with him in his apartment in Jacksonville. He'd told me he was a computer programmer for a large company which handled better known companies' employee health benefits and I pictured him as a mild mannered, harmless balding businessman. Meanwhile, I left nothing to the imagination; he knew he was getting a fat, dumpy, stubborn, loudmouthed redhead.

Imagine my surprise at being met by a slender, barefoot boy-child in shorts and a tee shirt! Love at first sight is rarely romantic. My first thought, since I didn't know just how important he was to his employers, was, "This poor kid is going to have to eat ramen for months to pay for all the activities we've planned!" His thought: "Oh, wow, she really is fat. I hope she doesn't break the couch." (I did, but that was later, and I had some help.) Since I wasn't invited to the wedding as a guest --- I was only present because my roommate needed my vehicle and no other drivers were authorized --- I didn't exactly have many assets or resources. Mr. Shapeshifter paid my entry into all the theme parks, took me to dinner, and paid for my other meals. My roommate, who was best man at the wedding, had other things to occupy him and so Mr. Shapeshifter (also not invited) and I had plenty of time to talk. He promised to come see me in September.

He did so, though under vastly different circumstances than I would have liked. I was literally dying by the time he told work to shove it, hopped on the next flight, and came up to Massachusetts to rescue me. Next thing I know, I'm on a plane to Florida. The rest, as they say, is history. We've had a grand total of fifteen wonderful years together and I hope for many more.

A lapsed Catholic, Mr. Shapeshifter identifies himself as agnostic but still retains many of the Catholic values and morals with which he grew up. He treats Dorie as a second wife and Dee as a good friend.

Kitty: Friends and family call me Kitty; most others know me as Fran or Walker and a few old pagan friends still remember me as TygerMoon Foxx. Yes, the red hair is natural --- not one single damned bit of dye applied to it, ever. I do use henna on it to brighten it up because the chemotherapy causes it to have a limp, greasy, dark purple tint which I hate. Yes, the wave is also natural; if I were, for some insane reason, to cut it short I would have quarter inch long ringlets. At one point in the not-too-distant past, I was far more active than I am now and therefore a little less heavy. It started with a game of chase with a puppy and a bad landing on the other side of a two foot wide, one foot long ditch. I complained about the pain in my hips and back, but when you're already fat you don't often get good medical attention. I used a cane for as long as I could get away with it and then reluctantly traded it for a pair of crutches. Finally, in 2009, I admitted defeat and asked my primary care physician to evaluate me for a wheelchair. I demanded a manual one so that I could still get around by myself but the wear and tear on my joints proved too much. I now use a power chair for day trips and long distances, but I can still stand for a few minutes and I can walk very short distances. The house isn't handicapped accessible and, since it's a manufactured home, it isn't likely to ever be completely accessible without a renovation which would cost more than the entire place is worth. We make do. See? This is where having more than one partner comes in handy. I'm never alone and there is always someone to help. Thanks to Dee and Dorie, Mr. Shapeshifter never had to make the painful decision we were discussing: removing me from my beloved home and putting me in a hospice because he could no longer care for me by himself and could not leave me in the house unattended.

Unless you've been asleep at the computer monitor, you've already figured out that I'm broken in multiple places and on multiple levels. I take well over twenty medications in order to keep me alive and functional and I'm undergoing a chemotherapy regimen for autoimmune issues.. I'm okay with that, are you? It doesn't stop me from living my life to the fullest extent possible, enjoying the little things, and savoring each day I'm given. On a good day, I'm able to sit at the big computer in my office. This allows me to work on my various web projects and writings as well as visit with distant friends and family. On bad days, I don't get out of bed; I spend the day tucked under the blankets with my legs elevated alternating between reading, poking the iPad, and watching the world go by outside my window. (Did I mention that I have one of the best views in the household? It looks straight out over the deck into the forest and I see the moon rise and set every night if I decide to do so!) On really bad days, I'm unconscious (those days are hopefully few and far between). On really good days, I'm out in the yard or the garden or jaunting about the surrounding counties geocaching and hunting antiques.

I'm a Georgian priestess, initiated to the third degree, and our family (the adults, anyway --- I don't teach minors) constitutes a provisional learning coven. I learned frontier remedies and southwestern herbs while growing up in the Four Corners area of Colorado; I learned southern and bayou remedies from Ygraine, Dee's significant other. Most of the gods and goddesses to whom I've been called deal in healing and its opposite, the death process. It's my job to heal what I can, to comfort those who remain behind, and to make the loved one's transition as easy as possible when asked to do so. I was granted through sacred circumstances which I prefer not to share not one but two totems: coyote and cougar. These two animals have been with me for most of my life and will probably follow me into death. I have other relationships and associations with animals but these two alone have remained consistently by my side.


Alexa "Lix" Marouche: Lix, as she prefers to be called, is Dee's youngest full sister. The fact that she was Illyria's last child and that there's almost a thirty year gap between the two of them may explain the hard life she's had. Although she's biologically sixteen years old, Lix's personality and emotional development more closely approximates that of an eleven or twelve year old girl. Lix and Dee's father died soon after she was born and her mother simply could not cope with a baby on her own. A proud woman, she refused all help the family offered. Lix grew up emotionally starved, neglected, and isolated. Until Dee and his brother attained joint custody two years ago, Lix had spent most of her life in a single set of rooms in the old house under the watchful eye of a 'tutor' who periodically molested her.

Now she divides her time between living here and with her uncle Callistus in New Orleans. Lix exhibits the characteristics of a child with oppositional defiant disorder and has received a diagnosis from a qualified professional to that effect. She also has signs of disinhibited attachment disorder, which means she has a tendency to interact in an inappropriate manner with complete strangers and that this behavior often has a sexual component. Because of these issues, we have elected to home school her. At this time, we --- those who parent her --- simply do not feel that she would fare well in the standard public school system nor would she adapt or accept the more rigid structure of a private school system. She's progressing well with therapy and we're hopeful that maybe next year she can attend the public high school part time.

Disabilities and disadvantages aside, Lix is a loving child with a sharp mind. Mechanical items and the inner workings of nature and ecology fascinate her equally. She reads avidly, though we have not yet been able to convince her that sometimes she needs to read things which do not specifically interest her. She loves her cousins and will take good care of them though we have elected not to leave her with them unsupervised. Lix is really good with animals and it's not unusual to find her outside surrounded by all manner of wild things (the deer here will eat out of her --- and only her --- hands and the humming birds will also take nectar from her). I think that, given this loving environment, she'll eventually begin to heal and will be able to enter the adult world as a productive and healthy member of society.

Callistus Marouche: Dee and Callistus were raised as brothers since they were only a few months apart in age after Callistus' parents both died in an accident. He strongly resembles Illyria --- Dee is a throwback, more representative of his father who had the same flaming red hair and pale complexion --- with his curly dark hair, amber eyes, and olive complexion made darker by the long hours he spends in the sun. The two are complete opposites: Callistus enjoys socializing and loves nothing better than a good party with lots of food and wine. Until he got married recently, he was also somewhat of a womanizer. I'd imagine half the brothels between New Orleans and Nevada are missing his patronage!

Callistus works for the Corps of Engineers and his primary duties concern keeping the city of New Orleans and its outlying suburbs above water. You'd be wise never to get him started when it comes to what happened during Katrina; not only will you not be able to shut him up, you'll also be treated to everything you never wanted to know about the internal political workings of state and federal government. Mention FEMA and he just might have a stroke! In his spare time, he's fond of tinkering with household appliances or building gadgets of his own. Unfortunately, these often literally blow up. Callistus, as I have mentioned, really enjoys his food but we have banned him from the kitchen. Not only can he not cook, but he tends to make the most awful messes and even worse food. If it doesn't eat through the cookware, it's just as likely to send the unfortunate dinner guests to the ER with food poisoning.

The boys are very close and when Callistus visits, you can be assured that there will be a continual good natured verbal shit storm interspersed with boyish pranks and outright immature conversations. I don't know that he brings out the best in Dee, but at least Callistus has a calming influence which allows De to relax and unwind a bit.

Illyria Marouche: She can be rather difficult to deal with, and that's putting it politely. Fiercely protective of her family and its assets, she often comes across as coniving, manipulative, and cold hearted. Illyria lost her husband Leshan soon after Lix's birth. She genuinely loved the man and failed to cope with the devastating loss and the addition of a new infant. I try very hard, for Dee's sake, not to hold the manner with which she dealt with her youngest child against her. Illyria does possess amazing organizational skills and in a crisis she's the one you want at your side. Usually she and the brothers are engaged in knock down, drag out arguments about everything from dinner menus to medical treatments but she does love her children and she's particularly fond of Dee, though she has a strange way of showing it sometimes.

She spends most of her time in Thibideaux, where what remains of the family plantation is located (a rather large antebellum mansion, several outbuildings, and acre upon acre of sugar cane, in case you're curious). The maintenance of the family fish camp is left to the boys and their wives, as Illyria refuses to do without her little luxuries. As I mentioned, she's very cunning with finances and the plantation turns a profit every year. Illyria invests those earnings in such a manner that the family will always be provided for and the remainder she distributes to charitable projects throughout the area. Unlike her sons, Illyria is a devout Catholic.

Illyria is the plague of my life and drives me stark raving crazy, but I've come to feel compassion for the terrible hardships she's endured and I've gotten rather fond of her. The same cannot exactly be said of her feelings for me; she would, of course, rather that Dee had married a suitable Cajun woman whose body was whole and who could have given him children. Even so, she respects me for his sake. That's about all I can ask, given the terrible luck I have with in-laws.

o/~ "Once I Knew A Percher, Preached THe Bible Thru And Thru
He Went Sown To Deep Elem, Now His Preaching Days Are Thru

When You Go Down To Deep Elem To Have A Little Fun,
Have Your Ten Dollars Ready When The Police Man Comes" o/~

-- "Deep Elem Blues" performed by The Grateful Dead

Dorie and I are both crafters and whenever we go on vacation, we make certain to visit any unusual hobby suppliers we can't find in Florida. Since childhood, one of my favorites has been Tandy Leather Factory. My grandfather had employed leather working as a hobby. I could remember many satisfying summers spent holding watching him tapping at the leather with a die and hammer until he created something beautiful. Once or twice, his big work worn hands held mine steady as I struck the final marks in the design. For a time after he passed away, I had custody of those tools. They were eventually given to a male cousin. I'd not replaced them --- yet --- but I figured I might as well do so and if I were going to do so, the tools ought to come from one of the best known leather companies. Besides, who could possibly resist rifling through a store containing endless shiny bits and entire cow hides?

That's the persuasion I used to get Dorie out of her comfort zone, anyhow. Neither Dee nor Mr. Shapeshifter had been able to accompany us on this adventure out west and navigation just wasn't my strong suit. Oh, we would be perfectly fine on major thoroughfares or in cities I'd visited within the last ten years (provided I had driven around, of course) but neither of us could get successfully from one address to another.

"Don't worry about it," Mr. Shapeshifter had airily assured us as we pulled away from FoxHeart Acres. You've got Siri on your iPhone. What could possibly go wrong?"

Somewhere between Houma and dallas, we realized he'd removed all our paper maps when he had cleaned the truck up. Siri did all right guiding us to the hotel in Garland so I let down my guard. We usually stay in the DFW metroplex a few days to take in the museums and, as I mentioned previously, do some shopping. DFW also happens to be the headquarters store for Tandy Leather.

I don't type well on mobile media. After several abortive attempts to pull up the address and get the map software to give us step by step directions, Dorie sighed and said, "Just talk to the damned thing and let Siri read the directions."

The circuitous route took us over the expressway, through several neighborhoods which had evidently seen better days, and then directed us into a grubby parking lot supposedly placed there free of charge for public convenience. In light traffic, it takes about two hours to transverse the metroplex and then make your way into downtown Dallas. We'd been on and off the expressway so many times I felt dizzy. In the dusty late afternoon sunlight it looked as though all the storefronts had either closed up for the day or were not yet open for business. Some street musicians could be heard tuning up around the corner; immediately to my right and across the lot squatted a dilapidated trailer which proclaimed itself to be a bar.

"I don't think this is the right area," I said doubtfully. The store in front of us had hookah pipes and other head shop paraphernalia in its window display. The business next to it was probably a gentleman's club judging from the clientele lined up outside and the scantily clad women going into the building via a side entrance.

Dorie's mouth had dropped open. "I guess not," she sputtered. "Those ladies didn't look like crafters."

I was already scrabbling for the passenger lock and slouching down the seat. "I don't think those are ladies."

"Awww, crap!" She snatched the iPhone from me and then, speechless with rage, held it in front of me.

I looked around to confirm our location and caught an unfortunate glimpse of a man wearing ass-less chaps disappearing into a store with a glaring neon pink sign declaring its name.

Siri, in her infinite wisdom, had sent us to Candy's Leather!

Author's note: I linked to this particular lyrics site because it so aptly demonstrates the topic. Also, Deep Ellum itself suffers from a similar issue. The true name of the neighborhood is Deep Elm, truncated variously to Deep Ellem, Elem, or Deep Ellum. It is listed on most maps with the last designation.

o/` "I can't help you fix yourself
But at least I can say I tried
I'm sorry but I gotta move on with my own life
I can't help you fix yourself
But at least I can say I tried
I'm sorry but I gotta move on with my own life" o/`

-- "Scars" performed by Papa Roach

You can't 'fix' someone.

Unlike a 'handyman's special', bought in disrepair with the prospect of being restored to a semblance of its former glory by the loving hand of the property owner, the effort you put into it is only half of the equasion. The person in question has free will and can choose not to repair what is broken or to replace unhealthy prospects with healthier pursuits. In some cases, one wonders if the person offering such succor isn't the one in need of help. Does the issue really need addressed? Or is it a matter of the other wanting you to become something you're not, never have been, and do not wish to become?

I am, by nature, someone who wants to help. By misfortune, I attract folk who either want to 'fix' me or drain me of all useful resources before casting me aside.

There was Suzi, a single young mother going to the local university, who professed to need me as a teacher and role model in the magickal arts. She had always been somewhat arrogant, convinced like most of those new to paganism that she had superior and special powers if only they could be unlocked. Ordained in those arts and (so I thought at the time), unable to refuse when a seeker should come to me for teaching, I did my best to show her those things which I was not oathbound to keep secret. For almost a year, we held between us a kind of mother-daughter bond and shared meals, potions, herbal remedies...and nearly my husband. By then I'd become aware that she used what she learned to attract and manipulate others but I still hoped by showing her other means, however slower to give satisfaction they might be, she'd make better choices.

She repaid me one night by literally edging me off of the couch while the three of us watched movies, and then putting poor Mr. Shapeshifter in a most difficult position. He and I had always had boundaries for this kind of relationship, should it ever come to pass. Suzi broke them all in one night, including a rule I had which was non-negotiable: anyone getting involved with my husband had to at least maintain a close friendship with me. Her actions made it plain that she and she only would be the woman of the house. The next morning, I politely told her that I thought I had taught her all I could and we would be better off not meeting again.

Witch wars are so ugly, especially when the only defense is truth and speaking the truth get you labeled a sociopath.

There was Drake, referred to me for teaching by my old high priestess. In theory, he already had his first degree initiation into our shared Tradition but when he presented me with the Book of Shadows all neophytes are required to keep, I found it to be little more than a disturbing mix of DJ Conway's Dancing With Dragons, pieces taken from Gary Gygax's Dungeons & Dragons gaming manuals, and some material genuinely derived from Wicca. I told him from the get-go that he would have to become a seeker again and work his way through the initiatory degrees with me. Drake, of course, didn't want to learn how to properly handle material that in an inexperienced person's hands could create a helluva mess for someone (probably me, since no one else lived in proximity) to clean up. Eventually I learned that he too wanted something I couldn't give: initiation consecutively in all three degrees, recognition as a high priest, and leave to teach his own 'family' of six.

I became an uncooperative sociopath, someone hungry for power who didn't want anyone else to learn the Tradition.

There was Trey, who thought he was --- no kidding! --- the ghost of a Texas Ranger and wanted my help getting back into the Rangers. He was so certain that he needed only a priestess' blessing to accomplish this act. In his rantings and ravings (most of which barely touched on history and more often sounded like one of those dreadful penny novels of the era) he managed to alienate everyone who dined with us that night. Denied as gently as possible the magickal help he thought he needed, I suggested medical intervention. We could, I assured him, talk over his spiritual inclinations once he had his psychological issues in hand. It's unfortunate convention security didn't take me seriously when I reported the incident. Mr. Shapeshifter and I came back to our hotel room from a late visitation with friends to find our roommate disappeared and Trey, dressed in jeans and black buckskin with a wolf tail attached to the belt, informing us she wouldn't be our guest for the rest of the weekend.

Great. Now I'm an uncooperative sociopath who could have helped her friend and didn't follow through. You're supposed to know when someone has used a glamour on you (yes, they do exist, they just don't work as most people think they do) especially if you've been a priestess as long as I have.

There were others down through the years and I had pretty much the same results.

It's only now occurring to me that their problems were theirs, mine are mine, and never the twain shall meet. I am not the world's savior and I am not responsible for 'fixing' those around me. I can point the way, I can give instructions, but I can't 'fix' them any more than you can fix history. It's simply not mine to fix and it's not even fair of them to ask.

I don't need fixing because I'm not broken. If they need fixing, they need to do it themselves. I am neither the answer nor the cure. I'm just a fellow traveler through life.

o/` "Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting
Those kicks were fast as lightning
In fact, it was a little bit frightening
But they fought with expert timing o/`

-- "Kung Foo Fighting" performed by Carl Douglas

I don't have many memories of my Pa. I would suppose it's partially because he died so young, but when he was alive he wasn't home often. His nominal designation in the US Army would have been E-6, medical corps; that, like everything else about the man, only tells half the truth. Whether you use the word spook or agent or "army intelligence", it all amounts to the same thing: a father gone from home at odd intervals to odd places. Sometimes I knew where he had been. After all, it's not difficult to figure out Pa had been to Cuba when I was helping Ma fish him out of a lagoon off the Panama Canal after a "fishing trip". Just one problem: you don't fish for marlin or tarpon during that time of year and you don't use a dinghy. I mentioned it --- I would eventually learn not to point out contradictions for any reason whatsoever --- and while Ma, white faced, was still trying to shut me up, my Pa slapped me. You just don't know who might be watching or listening, he'd explained.

Most of the time when Pa disappeared I at least had no bloody clue where he'd gone or what he would be doing. Occasionally, my Ma would drop a hint: watch the news, read this newspaper article. I learned to always keep an eye on the politics of the Middle East, North and South Korea, and certain countries in Central and South America. Even amid chaos, Pa's vanishing acts had a pattern: pack up our things and put most of them in storage; pack separate bags for Ma, myself, and my baby sister; Pa, in dress uniform, gets dropped off at a major civilian airport; we make our way via whatever transportation might be available (I'd been there via bus, airplane, troop transport, and train) to my mother's parents who lived in a small rural town at the base of the Rockies.

One time he was gone so long I no longer recognized him when my Ma picked him up from one of these jaunts. I remember an impression of great physical power and a pair of faded Levis and a mustard colored western cut coat lined with real sheepskin. He stood alone, ostracized by the small crowd for reasons I, at the age of six, couldn't understand. To me, wherever my Pa had been, he was a hero. Later I learned that he'd changed into civilian attire because people were accosting him between plane changes and calling him nasty names like "baby killer". I might not have been able to stop calling him "Grandpa" by mistake, but I didn't want that big man alone among all the ugly people. I put my hand in his and he squeezed, hard but without hurting.

We never talked much since his time with me was always so short. Instead, he took me to the park. Pa had a forest green jogging suit with some sort of foreign logo on the back of it. The velvety black belt didn't seem made to hold up those pants, but he always wore it on these outings. I wore plaid pants and turtlenecks, just like every other kid my age. Always tubby and never graceful, I avoided parks with play sets. If I didn't, I usually ended up knocked over and my shoes dangling out of reach on either the monkey bars or the swings. This particular park, on the north side of town next to a creek, didn't offer much beyond some concrete pipes over which had been piled random boulders and a large pile of black sand boxed in with old railroad ties. Ancient sycamore, maple, and aspen grew throughout the park.

My Ma and grandma searched industriously for hidden books before I left with him. Otherwise, I tended to curl up somewhere and read (if you could even get me out of the car) instead of exercising. As soon as we'd pulled away from the house, however, my Pa would smile and pat my head. I knew then I still had at least one book stashed somewhere and he would give it to me when we got there. Once at the park, he'd see me safely perched on a bench or a swing and then he'd begin his own routine.

Sweep. Kick. Punch. Sweep. Kick. Punch. He carefully executed each move with a swift gracefulness I wished intensely I'd inherited. The content of each move varied but he always did the same number of repetitions each time. The fists frightened me because they made an audible smacking followed by forceful air as they flashed by but the kicks fascinated me. The book would fall open, forgotten at my side, as I watched. Now dancing, now standing in place, he seemed more like a delicate dragonfly than a two hundred pound man executing deadly martial arts moves.

With my accursed red hair and fair skin, I burnt easily, so we moved with the sun into the shade of the trees. I got down on hands and knees, book tucked into my waistband to guard it against mishap, so that I could crawl through the maze of concrete tubes. At the center, where four tubes meet, the rocks were tilted and piled around to form a narrow chimney with a window to the sky. Here at this junction, I sat to watch the show. My favorite part of Pa's routine was coming up.

He'd stand alone atop the highest part of the rocks, barefoot now and precariously balanced, as he sent each kick high in a controlled arc. The force behind the foot would have easily destroyed an opponent's face if he didn't duck fast enough.
When he'd finished, I'd crawl out and we'd both sit on a large boulder off to one side. Made of sandstone, not granite, it had an indentation perfect for the purpose. We sat together, a child too intelligent for her years and a man who knew far more than he wanted about things no one else had to worry about, as the breeze lifted the black locks dried in curls across his forehead. Once, I broke the silence with a simple question.

"Do you beat people up?"

"No."

"It looks kinda mean."

"It's Taikwon-do. It allows me to control my temper so I don't have to hurt people when I don't need to do so."

I nodded, satisfied. "There's peanut butter and homemade jam in grandma's fridge. Let's go!"

o/` "Music makes pictures and often tells stories
All of it magic and all of it true" o/`

-- "The Music is You" performed by John Denver

As a small child, I watched Donald Duck in Mathemagic Land. I paid rapt attention as the film explained the relationship between the Golden Mean, the proportions of nature, and their relationship to the musical scale. Musical interest already ran strongly in the family. My father used to hold me in the rocker while he played records of music representing cultures and styles from around the world; my mother liked to talk about her time spent playing in the high school marching band. Naturally I grew up with music as a constant confessor and companion.

As I explained in a prior entry, I'm a synesthete. For someone who feels colors, smells textures, and tastes sounds --- and there are infinite overlapping combinations, no two the same, although the sensation for a particular thing tends to remain standard --- music often became my ideal vehicle of expressing thoughts and nurturing creativity. We didn't really have the ability to create play lists back then (unless you count things like mix tapes, which I do not). It's the single innovation of modern technology for which I am most grateful.

My play lists don't just carry songs I enjoy hearing; they contain, even if you're not a synesthete, a vivid description of who I am as an individual.

Every play list begins with compelling lyrics. Often it's just a fragment heard on a television show or a radio segment. Perhaps the lyrics are part of someone else's story and invoke thoughts about new directions in which to take my own writing. Maybe the lyrics paint a picture, a quick splash of color or a brief image, which I'll transfer to my sketchbook. Most often words speak deeply to my own psyche. I've been there, they might say, and you're not alone. They might be more direct: Just how long has it been since you called your mother? Pick up the phone....

I've compiled personal play lists for each family member. The songs contained therein reflect anything from traits I associate with that person to personal history to shared experiences. For example:

Children's Work, performed by Dessa, belongs to Dee. The song describes quite well the relationship he has with his brother Callistus and how it developed.

Coffee Girl, performed by Tragically Hip, belongs to Dorrie. This one describes her work and life before she came to live with us.

Just You and Me performed by Tracy Lawrence belongs to Mr. Shapeshifter. It tells the age old story of a wounded woman and a man who wouldn't dream of ever hurting her. We saw the artist perform this one at our local agricultural fair.

The Night Comes On, performed by Leonard Cohen, belongs to our little H.G. (short for Household Ghost and, for those of you not familiar with Broadway, a play on one of the songs in Andrew Lloyd Weber's Phantom of the Opera). It's self explanatory if you've been able, over the years, to divine the identity of H.G. and if not, the story isn't mine to tell.

The songs which typify me change with my circumstances. It's fairly obvious I'm no longer the broken woman Mr. Shapeshifter found and put back together, but the fact remains that I'm still an anachronism --- wrong time, wrong place --- and I shortened my life to be with him. The one song which never changes is Coyotes, performed by Don Edwards.

Of course, the family has its own play list. These songs overlap personalities or apply to more than one person. Since putting them in more than one play list causes multiple copies of the tune to load onto an iPod, I simply made them a place of their own independent of the individuals whom they represent. If I had to pick just one which represented the family, it would have to be Pageant of the Bizarre as performed by Zero 7.

Asked once if I'd rather go blind or deaf, I used to think I could deal with silence better than never seeing anything again.

I would have been totally wrong; it's the music which drives my heart and soul and without that I really am in trouble.

o/` "With rattlesnakes and keepsakes
Old boxes of cornflakes
gramophones and gemstones
and three unclaimed door frames
and bleached bones and rocks by the ton" o/`

-- "Goodbye, Old Desert Rat" performed by Michael Martin Murphey

My family comes from pioneer stock and, as such, I grew up in a thrifty environment. The practical items of every day living had to be durable because not many could pay for a second...or a third...or a fourth...if the first item broke. Most, because we had to look at and use them every day, also constituted items of beauty. The best things --- the earthenware dishes made by my great grandmother from the clay deposits on the banks of the river edging their homestead; the cast iron pots and baking pans (still in use in my kitchen, incidentally, and not as a decoration); the quilts and aprons cobbled together from generations of family clothing too far gone to wear; and, of course, the furniture --- had a special kind of beauty.

People die and families grow apart or move away. When my grandmother died, all those things went with her. The other family members, thinking to find wealth and never realizing the real treasures, fought over her belongings. A few items survived their penury but my own Ma keeps them in trust for me. When she passes, if I do not predecease her. they will become part of my home. My little ones may not be mine by blood, but they'll have a heritage and they'll see to it that these things stay in the family for as long as they last.

Lacking such items does not alleviate the desire to have them. In these modern times, I could not at reasonable cost simply commission a woodworker to create such finely crafted furniture nor could I go to the store and buy the cast iron and other utensils. I did eventually learn how to craft my own quilts and crochet my own household items. As for the rest....

I became an avid antique hunter. Most of the old kitchenware works just fine once you gently strip it of its rust and oil it. The dresser, my favorite piece of furniture in our home today, came with my husband. His parents also had an interest in antiques. True, it had been more of a "Martha Stewart meets Southern Country magazine" type of thing but they did manage to pick up a few nice pieces. When their son moved away to make his own home, the dresser came with him and, through him, to our home.

This particular dresser, so old no one could estimate the date of its creation, had been put together from heavy hand sanded pieces of mahogany. I don't think anything other than a light protective stain had ever graced the natural wood; over the decades, skin oils from generations of hands had lightened and polished the wood in places so that it shown gold and satin when the sun chanced to illuminate it. At the enter of the thickest pieces, the true dark red to near black features of the wood grain became visible. No matter how many times I stopped in the course of my day to admire the set of drawers, I always found new colors and patterns. It lent a quiet, solid dignity to a bedroom filled with all manner of books, stuffed animals, jewelry, and cat toys.

A thing need not be perfect to retain beauty. The top left edge of the piece bore a beveled gouge, as though a tired or inexperienced hand had slipped when planing the dresser top. The same side has two sets of tiny claw marks running the entire length of that panel. The marks were made by a small kitty, dearly loved and long since passed, who enjoyed sliding down waxed surfaces. We never managed to find time to sand them out, we loved her so. The front right leg has an odd set of scratch patterns reminiscent of rope fibers. Our old dog Anubis sleeps chained to the bureau at night because if he's let to roam the house, he gets lost and howls pitifully until we go and get him. We'd tried crating him but he seemed terrified of that as well and only the mahogany dresser had enough mass to keep the shepherd/lab mix in place.

One might be tempted to consider the angles too blunt were it not for the unexpected curves built into the design. The legs on this piece of furniture predate the clubbed feet of the Victorian era. Composed of a thick oval atop a perfectly carved ring and round, it more resembles the type of work you would expect to see on a four poster bed of the same era. The same creator carefully carved the large round knobs on each of the four drawers as well. These feel good in even the most arthritic of hands and yet they're small enough for a child to use. The top drawer had a hand forged brass lock, large enough for one skeleton key. The lock long ago seized some time in the dresser's illustrious history so we don't use it; the large matching key, another flea market find, is just for decoration. Each drawer has hand carved dovetails to fit them together; no two alike and slightly rounded!

Recently, my husband measured the dresser top for a doily I wished to tat in order to protect the top. To our surprise, we found that its measurements were perfectly symmetrical --- 50mm across by 150mm long!

I wonder what else this marvelous piece might reveal in time. I'm certain it has secrets yet to tell.

o/` "We all come from the Goddess
And to her we shall return
Like a drop of rain
Flowing to the ocean." </b>o/`

-- Attributed to Z Budapest

o/` "It's the blood of the ancients
That runs through our veins
And the forms pass
But the circle of life remains."

-- Attributed to Starhawk

Author's Note: Please note that there are no links to the chants quoted. They have been transcribed from cassette tapes, extant in my own collection, recorded at various festivals throughout the decades.

My Pa built the rudiments of a scholarly mind but his sudden death cut my training short. It was he who taught me that the mountains had their own voices and showed me how to learn their language. When he died, the training he'd begun became nothing more than a distant ember, the last spark of a great fire, waiting for the right person to cross paths and continue what he'd begun.

I grew up going to a Methodist Church. I went through the motions, doing all I was supposed to do, but it quickly became meaningless routine and the occasional wild flare-up of insight suggested I needed to look elsewhere.

Dr. Lillian Lang walked --- or rather, crashed --- into my life during my first semester of college at Fort Lewis. I had to meet my assigned adviser and the English department offices were clear across campus exactly opposite married housing. Most students used a bicycle and took the paved paths, but mine hadn't yet arrived; my Ma had promised to ship it to me since it wouldn't fit in the Corolla Tercel. Consequently, I nearly always showed up for class and meetings on that side of campus late. I'd also just come from the campus book store and could just barely see over the stack of books and supplies I carried....which is why I ran directly into her.

I fell over backwards and, books and belongings scattered around me like a scholastic Stonehenge, stared into the face of the woman bending over me. She looked like Angela Landsbury, all flaming red hair standing out in frizzled wisps, but she held an ebony cane with some sort of knot work on the staff and a European dragon with emerald eyes acting as the handle. "I beg your pardon!" she admonished, laying about with the cane. It didn't hurt but it did clue me in to the fact that I'd just bowled over someone important. "Do you not watch where you are going, child?"

I levered myself up on my elbows and glared but couldn't think of a smart retort. It didn't matter anyway; I had to be somewhere and it would take time to gather up the mess.

"I'm late!" we said in unison.

She offered a surprisingly strong hand and helped me into a standing position. I saw the books she was carrying, including what looked like a Pelican Shakespeare and a curious leather bound volume with a title which looked familiar but didn't seem to be in any recognizable language I knew. Oh, SHIT! The Shakespeare...the red hair...that cane.....

"Dr. Lillian Butler Lang," she introduced herself and her face split into a mischievous grin. "I presume you're my afternoon appointment?"



Dr. Lang stayed my adviser through my senior year and her office became my favorite place to be. Slightly larger than the other offices (because she had tenure, I suppose), hers had a large window overlooking the mesa above the college. All sorts of plants --- spider plants, exotic succulents, spiny cacti, Swedish ivy --- and stones crowded the window sill. In one corner there might have been a built in desk but I couldn't tell because the rest of the place held nothing but books. She drank tea and kept a small porcelain tea set with an extra cup for guests. I could also count on her to produce homemade scones or other delights. It goes without saying that she was a marvelous academic adviser, but I didn't love her for just that.

She occasionally invited students to her home. I would go over there to help her shelve books, to do some simple cleaning, to walk her three poodles, or to play with the giant white shepherd who reigned over the back yard. The house, like her office, seemed held up by books and a plethora of plants. As she got older, it got more difficult for her to get around and she decided to rent a part of the house. She had a new wing built on the house in the shape of a tower. I helped break down and carry the bedstead and other furniture up to her new suite. The bedstead, a four poster affair of dark mahogany, had knot work, green men, and other creatures of Celtic mythology carved into the posts. What shook me to my foundation, however, were the titles of the book. They were all about witchcraft, paganism, and Wicca.

The ember flickered and became a flame. Anyone who knows me now can see just how much of the material used to bring that ember forth into the priestess before you today will know that she had the kindling my fires of faith needed.

o/` "I've got the brains, you've got the looks
Let's make lots of money
You've got the brawn, I've got the brains
Let's make lots of -" o/`

-- "Opportunities (Let's Make Lots of Money)" performed by Pet Shop Boys

When I'm too sick to do anything else, I recline on the couch and watch television. Most of the shows I do like are documentaries on obscure channels. That means I'm unlikely to run into commercials of any kind unless they're advertising another obscure channel's offerings or a different documentary. When Dee and Mr. Shapeshifter are at work, I watch crime dramas. My favorites are those which stick mostly to the case presented and steer clear of the politics: the early episodes of Law & Order and its cousin Law & Order SVU; NCIS; Criminal Minds. Unfortunately our aged DVR doesn't always assimilate the latest updates from DirecTV and that, combined with these shows being aired on more mainstream channels, means I will not always be able to fast forward through the commercials.

I particularly hate those which air between the midmorning and late afternoon. They're aimed at people like me --- the stay-at-home spouse, the chronically ill and disabled, the out of work and down on their luck crowd. These commercials hawk everything from losing those pounds to get a new man to a chance at a new reality through lawsuits which pay out enough for a lifetime of comfort. One of these commercials makes me see red every...single...damned...time.

They're not exactly selling lies, but the commercials don't give you the full truth either. I guess most Americans are inclined to believe something if it comes from a celebrity. I am not one of those because I have the disease for which they're advertising miracle cures.

I have severe inverse and plaque psoriasis with spondylitis and enthesitis (inflammation of the spine and of the tendons and ligaments connecting to the bones). Most people think of particularly heavy dandruff upon hearing the first but those plaques are a symptom of something much more sinister. The development of psoriasis is partially genetic but also involves other triggers such as stress and injury to the skin. Since I also have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (a genetic disease which impacts collagen tissues throughout the body especially skin), that's probably how my case evolved. The actual cause is unknown but seems related to the T cells in the immune system. Normally these cells would be fighting off foreign substances such as viruses, but mine got confused and attacked my own skin, tendons, and ligaments.

I went through the whole repertoire of topical treatment options and then moved on to oral medications. I take a medication normally used to treat cancer which destroys cells throughout the body --- all the symptoms of cancer treatment without the compassion or empathy. I've heard plenty of "Ew, go take a bath!" and "Look, a zombie" but never once did anyone say, "Shut up, she's taking chemotherapy." When the chemo wasn't enough, my doctor recommended biologicals. These types of treatments are the frontier in cancer and autoimmune treatment. The older ones impact all of the autoimmune cells; the newer therapies can be calibrated to a patient's weight for more effective dosage and can target just those naughty T cells. It's still chemotherapy but you have a better chance of remission and survival.

But they don't tell you that in the Enbrel commercial.

Phil Mickelson looks wonderfully healthy as he opens a jar without help in his parents' kitchen. He mentions having psoriatic arthritis and then talk to his rheumatologist about treating it with Enbrel. The tiny white print beneath him shaking hands with a smiling, compassionate doctor has probably been missed by most viewers: actor portrayal. That's not a real doctor, it's an actor who knows nothing about psoriasis, psoriatic arthritis, its treatments, or Enbrel. Reality looks like this: you've probably spent the last year or so in so much pain that sometimes all you can do is curl in the fetal position and cry. When you tell your family doctor about it, he tells you to do more exercise and eat healthier foods and lose weight. It doesn't help. The next doctor tells you to wash your dirty skin more often and prescribes a caustic pumice filled soap which tears the skin and does nothing for the flaking skin or the swollen, throbbing joints. When you finally do obtain help, it's from a dermatologist who gives you the treatment only because he can see the skin lesions. He doesn't like looking at or touching you. He signs orders and his nurse is the one who fills the order.

More tiny print flies by while the actor solumnly tells you the medication relieves pain and stiffness and will allow you to get back to your normal activities immediately. That small print, however, tells at least part of the truth if you can read it at all. The medication is effective for only 50% of patients over a period of six months and results may vary. I was one of the ones for whom the immune system was too far gone for this medication to work. Symptoms would appear to be receding for a few weeks and then would come back with a vengeance. I hadn't expected complete clearance but I had expected the medication to work for longer than that!

Yet again with the small print! The don't mention it until much later in the commercial, but the medicine is given by weekly injection. While glossing over the potentially debilitating and fatal effects, the viewer is distracted by inspiring clips of Mickelson on the course and the same movements translating into private life. They never once mention that it hurts like a bastard every time you inject it. It feels like someone has set your blood vessels on fire. Muscles jerk and spasm for hours afterward. You spend the next three or four days worshiping the Porcelain Goddess with both ends. By the time you feel well enough to wish you were dead, it's time for another injection. That's far from the healthy Mickelson going along a line at a golf course fist bumping after having played a round. It's not even close to the benevolent doctor actor stating within weeks you'll have your old life back.

Phil Mickelson, it turns out, really does have psoriatic arthritis and psoriasis. However, he was diagnosed early because he demanded a second opinion at a major medical center and got it. A specialist was able to determine from the onset, the type of psoriasis, and degree of pain what it was and treat it immediately with a biological. Even so, in the an article from the Arthritis Foundation both Mickelson and the expert doctor interviewed admitted that they don't know if he'll be able to play regularly or even dress himself in the coming years. They admit his results are not typical owing to his prior fitness level before diagnosis. In another article, Mickelson admitted he had regained only 20% of his strength and mobility in the affected joints.

I want my Phil Mickelson ending!

It's not going to happen but I'm a pariah because they've made too many people think it will.

o/` "No difference in art and life
Just what we say
And the order the words go" o/`

-- "Syntax Lies" performed by The Faint

His essay had more quotes in it than an inaugural acceptance speech and made about as much sense.

"Hey, George, you got a minute?" I asked as the final bell of the day rang. I waved the paper he'd handed in earlier. "I'd like to discuss a few things with you."

Accompanied by a chorus of catcalls and hoots, the kid approached my desk a little too eagerly. He was one of those kids who usually operated just under the radar; didn't cause trouble, average achiever, average appearance. Inside that average kid, however, burned an intense interest in journalism and a potentially brilliant writer.

Usually.

I couldn't exactly call this particular offering brilliant. In fact, he'd utilized one of the most inappropriate grammatical tools available.

A broad grin lit his freckled face and, making no effort to betray his enthusiasm, he shifted his balance from foot to foot. "My latest effort," he announced proudly. "Do you like it? I think it's brilliant myself, just like a real journalist."

He made me want to twitch and I wished I had a cup of coffee. "George. Quit dancing around and take a seat." I slid the paper in front of him. Every set of quotes which didn't denote an an actual quoted resource had been circled in red ink. There were at least fourteen of them. I'd lost track of them after the second page of the five page assignment. George liked to write his assignments by hand and generally fitted two sentences for each ruled line. He used narrow ruled paper and tended to write the maximum for each assignment. "Can you tell me what's wrong with your work?"

The grin faded a bit. "You mean, other than the correction marks all over it? I was just trying to emphasize my thesis. You know, make people think about the topic and call into question some of the things they've heard."

"This isn't how you do it. George, do you know what scare quotes are?"

"Sure. Any good English student knows that one." He folded his hands in front of him and recited, "Scare quotes are the latest way to indicate irony or skepticism in writing. It also keeps you from being sued because no one can prove you called the other person a liar."

Oh, brother. I knew in this day and age the concept of personal integrity had gone the way of the dinosaur when it came to journalism. It had been replaced by the concept of getting the story at any cost and usurping as many egos as possible while doing so. However, George wasn't a journalist yet and this was still my classroom. "Scare quotes are nothing more than a way to confuse the issue and mislead the reader. Most of the time they imply a lie or an exaggeration designed to frighten people into compliance or make them think an event is more worrisome than it ought to be. It's one of the worst forms of yellow journalism and muckraking."

He knew what those terms meant; we'd covered them in the first nine weeks of the class. "That's not what I meant to do. I just want people to know the truth and think about what they're reading."

"Scare quotes amount to lies. If you want to be a real journalist, stick to the facts. Research your sources and find other legitimate sources to support them. Lay out what you're reporting as plainly and succinctly as possible so that your readers can verify the truth and then make up their minds regarding how they feel about an issue without your influence. That, George, is what good journalists do."