The Journal of Michael Merriam

I broke a door off a cabinet yesterday. I was putting a new trash bag in the trash can, and one of the doors of the free standing cabinet I keep spices and liquor in popped open slightly, probably from me bumping the cabinet. Of course, this was under my rather narrow field of vision, so…

Yeah, smashed into it, hurt my knee and tore the door up. careswen assured me that we can take the other door off and she can make a curtain to cover the contents, which will be fine, but it kind of threw me into a downward spiral. Sure, it's a stupid free standing cabinet I bought at Target, and I could replace it easy enough. It's not a big deal. Except that it is. Sometimes this blind thing gets really tiring, the more so when I'm destroying my own possessions by accident because of it.

Gaming went okay last night. It could have used a little more action, I think, but my players aren't ready to depose me as GM just yet.

I love the fact that we all (the gamers in our group) bring food for sharing with the rest of the group, and the wraps we made last night from the various goodies people brought were tasty. That said, I shouldn't have eaten any red onion, because I've been slightly sick to my stomach all morning, and the red onion is the obvious culprit.

I have the Twin Cities Speculative Writers Fiction Network Meeting at noon. I'm looking forward to seeing everyone, and since I'm one of the actual speakers on this month's topic, (Publishing 101) I need to make sure I show up on time.

I'm in the process of writing a Publishing 101 essay, which I may use as a handout at CONvergence this year.

I started reading Rudy Rucker's The Fourth Dimension: A Guided Tour of the Higher Universes in preparation of writing "Fourth Dimensional Pony in the Concourse of the Lost." My poor brain.

More good movement on Rija's Tale yesterday and this morning. I might take tomorrow off from working on it in order to complete some other writing projects.

Rija's Tale

Today:

I knocked an unidentified something off the Bakers Rack. I heard it hit the floor with a plastic thump. I wasn't too concerned about breakage, but when I went to look for whatever I knocked onto the floor, I then knocked the scissors off the Bakers Rack. I jumped to get away from the scissors and my foot came down in the middle of some leftover dessert, which had popped out of the plastic container that fell to the floor. I made a big squishy pile of chocolate and caramel and whatever else was in it on the floor and on the bottom of my foot.

And:

When I brought the groceries in from the garage, I left my cart on the patio, went inside, kicked off my shoes, hung up my coat, and quickly changed from jeans in to pajama pants. When I pulled open the blinds on the patio door, a large, fat, gray squirrel was pawing through my groceries. He looked up at me, surprised, and then vanished like a fuzzy-tailed ninja.

Some days.

I talked to my mother tonight. Her surgery is tomorrow morning. I'll be waiting for word from Oklahoma tomorrow while trying not to drink too much coffee (which is what mmerriam's do when nervous or stressed).

David Patterson will be New York's new Governor next week.

Patterson, an African-American man, is blind.

...can't do all the things you do?

Pak!

Then look down and read what Kurtz wrote about how the strip came about!

To the outside world, I don't always "present" as blind. For instance, when I'm visiting the homes of my friends, I rarely use my cane to navigate, at least after the first couple of visits. Once I've spent some time at their homes, I usually have it memorized and can move about without too much difficulty. I just need to be alert for small moving objects such as children and pets as I walk slowly and carefully.

In public it is another matter. I need to be highly aware of my surroundings, keep my senses alert, and use the cane. Maintaining any semblance of independence depends on my using my training constantly. If I want any freedom in my life, at least when dealing with the outside world, I have to work at it.

Sometimes it's not enough.

Last week I was in the grocery store in downtown Hopkins. I kept veering off into things and one point there was a small collision with an end-cap that resulted in it tipping precariously. Fortunately, nothing was knocked over and nothing was broken. The end result was me standing there, frozen in place.

I could have asked for help. The store is required to provide me with assistance if I need it, but I hate asking. I admit that I'm one of those people who, if you found me at the bottom of a well, my arm caught in a bear-trap, sinking in quicksand, I'd tell you I'm fine. I hate asking for help.

Instead, the floor manager came over and asked if I needed any help. There was nothing for it: I did, and that was that. I ended up with a nice young lady--who turned out to be the manager's daughter--helping me find my groceries. She was good about it, friendly and funny, and helped me find everything I needed. She even helped me find a couple of things I wanted and didn't know they had, like hushpuppy mix.

On the one hand, it was nice to have the help, to have someone go around with me and find the items I needed and to, well, make sure I didn't wreck the store. There was, truthfully, a bit of relief involved.

On the other hand, it was another piece of lost independence. It was another thing I have to let go. It was another adjustment, one I'm not sure how I feel about.

In Peace,
Michael

One of the things you have to do when you find yourself losing your vision is keep careful track of your surroundings.

I've been having a bit of trouble with this the last few days.

For openers, I've been experiencing instances of seeing things that obviously are not there. I suspect this is my brain trying really hard to fill in the blanks, but still, penciling in a squirrel climbing up the wall inside the coffee shop, that's not helping. And the whatever it was my brain was trying to fill in that startled me enough to make me start batting at thin air in my own kitchen? That was just plain old mean of my brain to do. I have enough trouble without seeing things that aren't really there (or are they?). Weird movements, human shaped forms, odd shadows, and fast moving unidentifiable whattsits. It's a bit like having your own personal haunted house that follows you around.

I've also been getting disoriented spatially for the last couple of weeks. I'm having a terrible time judging distances and depth, and so I keep hitting the end of cabinets and the hood of the range and other such things with my hands and clipping the corners of doorways and furniture with my shoulders, legs, and feet. When I'm on the stairs I just close my eyes, because they're lying to me anyway.

Walking home from downtown Hopkins I slammed my shoulder into the fire hydrant valve that sticks out from the wall of a building. I really thought I was: a) far enough to the right and b) not that close to it anyway. I hit it with my left shoulder at full walking speed. Care to guess which one gave?

Not fun. Not fun at all.

I need to slow my pace down and be more deliberate in my movements, I guess.

In Peace,
Michael

The Number Six bus deposits me outside of the shiny, slightly unattractive, brand new downtown central library in Minneapolis. I step off the bus and gather my wits and bearings, spending a moment re-aligning myself to the world. I orient myself and turn left, heading for the intersection and my connection to yet another bus, this one destined for the U of M campus. I take a deep breath and start walking, sorting all the information being fed to me by my failing eyes, my ears, my nose, the air currents on my slightly sweaty skin. Downtown is always a bit of a challenge with its loud noises, interesting smells, winds whipping between tall buildings, and erratic traffic. I need to be alert.

She steps into my field of vision an instant latter, emerging from the grey-black nothing a dozen feet before me. I stop moving, surprised by her appearance.

She is small, little more than five feet tall would be my guess, and slender of build. She is dressed in full Victorian mourning garb. The dull black dress is unadorned, the weeping veil hung from her bonnet and pulled over her face. She carries a black parasol in gloved hands. As she slowly walks past me, her eyes and face downcast, I see through the veil that she is perhaps in her mid-twenties and blonde. Her pretty face is set in a grim frown and she seems unaware of the world around her.

She walks past, missing me by bare inches. She acknowledges neither me nor the white cane I bear. I, by turn, appear to be the only pedestrian in downtown Minneapolis interested in her appearance. I turn, following her progress with my fading eyesight. I wait to see if she goes into the library, thinking perhaps she is part of a presentation. She walks past the modern structure without a glance, never breaking her slow, stately stride. She continues toward the river and eventually passes out of my range of vision, fading from view as quickly as she appeared.

It is then I realize I heard no noise from her. There was no clicking of boots or shoes on the sidewalk, no rustle of crepe or other fabrics, no sounds of mourning. Nothing. No smell of perfume or soap came from her; no residual scent of her last meal reached my nose as she passed within inches of me. I am unsure if I noticed a change in air currents as she passed by: this is the hardest sensation for me to detect and interpret.

Had I not been pressed for time, had I not an appointment which could not be broken, I would have turned and followed. I would have let curiosity get the better of me, though you could say that to do so would be either a terrible breach of her privacy or, if you are inclined to such things, foolishness on my part, because we have all seen the horror movies and read the ghost stories.

But still, I'm left to wonder...

j_cheney asked me about this the other day, so...

I just wanted to mention that, should one of you have a question about Retinitis Pigmentosa or living with a degenerative eye disease and blindness in general, whether for personal or professional (say, writing) reasons, feel free to ask me.

Seriously, I don't mind answering questions and talking about the strange hand life dealt me. I'm a good resource: use me!

And a couple of recent publications:

"Nor to the Strong" in Ray Gun Revival

Red for Revenge in Afterburn SF

Ta!

I woke up this morning and realized I am an overweight, blind, 42 year-old small press speculative fiction writer who runs an office for singing puppets.

o_0

The National Library Service for the Blind and Physically Handicapped (NLS) sent me a newsletter detailing their newest services in the works (self-playing digital audio books in 2008 and a Google Search Site for the Blind).

They also listed the newest magazine you can subscribe to in audio format: Playboy.

That's okay, I'm good with Asimov's and Analog, thanks.

ETA:

From the Playboy faq:

Does anybody really read Playboy for the articles?

The articles may not be the first part of the magazine most readers turn to, but judging from the letters we get, millions of Playboy readers also enjoy our award-winning journalism, humor and fiction. The only people who can rightfully claim to read it solely for the articles are the thousands of blind readers who peruse our Braille edition, which has been distributed by the Library of Congress since 1970.

And this From the NY Times:

House Cuts Off Fund For Playboy in Braille

UPI
Published: July 20, 1985
The House of Representatives says it will no longer pay for Braille editions of Playboy magazine stocked at the Library of Congress.

Rejecting warnings about censorship, the House decided to strip the library of the $103,000 it spends on producing Braille editions of the publication.

Representative Chalmers P. Wylie, Republican of Ohio, introduced an amendment Thursday to cut the money from the library's budget, questioning the ''literary merit'' of the bawdy magazine.

Mr. Wylie said the Library of Congress produced Braille editions of 36 magazines, including Popular Mechanics and Good Housekeeping, all chosen by blind readers.

The magazines are usually selected for their literary merit, but he added, "I do not feel that Playboy meets those standards."