I'm going to start writing about the previous two years and the last three weeks leading up to my trip to Montreal. Please let me know if you'd like to be added to the list of people who can read about it.
Actually, you deserve a better reply than the one I just offered, and I'll start by recommending a book to you:
The Fountain Of Age, by Betty Friedan (yes, that very one Betty Friedan who wrote The Feminine Mystique), 1993, Simon & Schuster. ISBN 0-671-40027-4. We found our copy at The Book Barn over in Niantic (on the Gold Coast of CT, I rather suspect you've been there once or twice yourself), for two dollars. It's all over the place at second-hand.
I recommend it because you are about to enter an interesting world. Learning how to find, and claim, your personal power in that milieu, well, there's a bigger adventure for you than any trip to the province next door.
Use your own wise judgement about whether you want me on a particular filter in your journal. I would like to be supportive; on the other hand, my insights are those of history, not the present day, and the world I live in is quite remote from anything you're likely to experience in the next few months.
Oh, I have some wicked bad stories to tell you of hung roofs (massive sandstone over several hectares) followed by caving and air-blasts which took out all the stoppings. Had filled water-drums as blast-seals -- which worked about as poorly as expected. Several shifts to clean it all up.
Never had a hoist cable fall on me. Did have a near-miss with a dropped torque-wrench once: thing came 2200 feet down the air-shaft at Jim Walter, down south. Buried up to the handle in the concrete onsets, when it hit.
Got tired of having white hair, so opted for Clairol-san the last time I had a few spare hours in Narita. Picture taken in the pod cabin of an AC trans-Pacific people-freighter. Finally got to be one of the pod people, for $Christ_only_knows_what_the_company_paid.
Edited to note: they threw in the Carol Channing 'do for free.
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The Fountain Of Age, by Betty Friedan (yes, that very one Betty Friedan who wrote The Feminine Mystique), 1993, Simon & Schuster. ISBN 0-671-40027-4. We found our copy at The Book Barn over in Niantic (on the Gold Coast of CT, I rather suspect you've been there once or twice yourself), for two dollars. It's all over the place at second-hand.
I recommend it because you are about to enter an interesting world. Learning how to find, and claim, your personal power in that milieu, well, there's a bigger adventure for you than any trip to the province next door.
Use your own wise judgement about whether you want me on a particular filter in your journal. I would like to be supportive; on the other hand, my insights are those of history, not the present day, and the world I live in is quite remote from anything you're likely to experience in the next few months.
**Hugs** in any case. Ò lüran azürimi veþolfi.
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-- always run away from the pinging noise in the roof and the ribs.
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Never had a hoist cable fall on me. Did have a near-miss with a dropped torque-wrench once: thing came 2200 feet down the air-shaft at Jim Walter, down south. Buried up to the handle in the concrete onsets, when it hit.
Nang.
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Edited to note: they threw in the Carol Channing 'do for free.
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