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death by mucus is no honorable death at all.
Apr. 3rd, 2007
so, the heart monitor. it's a clunky piece of technology, like a pager from the early 90's. It has two modes- in one, you can hold it to your chest and hit record. in the other- loop mode- you hook up electrodes and wear it constantly. when you hit record, it saves to memory the previous minute of monitoring, and the next 30 seconds. this is so that even transient arrhythmias can be captured- even if you hit the record button as your heart has just gone back to normal.
of course, if you are moving at all, the recording is compromised. which rather reduces the utility of the thing.
to top it off, it only has memory for one recording. recordings are transmitted via a speaker over the phone, and can't be transmitted over cellphones, as it is frequency-dependent. (none of this was mentioned at the doctor's office, of course.)
the end result is that I take a recording, and find a quiet land-line a day or two later, and get told "the recording has too much noise".
bloody useless, really.
---
the casualties of war. Freight tracks run next to the metrorail in college park. A mile-long convoy of the broken and beaten trudged south as I waited for a train the other week. Humvees, nose to tail- full of holes, broken axles, crumpled armor. Jeeps, trucks, turrets and transport. The faded desert camouflage stood out against the lush spring vegetation, a winding ribbon of sadness.
Maybe they were going to get patched up. Where is the hospital for the machinery?
--
I worked with my hands for a few hours last night, setting stiches in rippling silk. I rarely enjoy using a sewing machine, but I do like the feel of fabric in my hands- rolling it or folding it and piercing it rhythmically. The fabric knows where it wants to go; it will talk to you if you linger over it. The blinding pace of a machine just feels like it rips through the heart of the fabric and pummels it where the machine wants it to go- the delicate song of the weave trampled by metal toothed feet.
of course, if you are moving at all, the recording is compromised. which rather reduces the utility of the thing.
to top it off, it only has memory for one recording. recordings are transmitted via a speaker over the phone, and can't be transmitted over cellphones, as it is frequency-dependent. (none of this was mentioned at the doctor's office, of course.)
the end result is that I take a recording, and find a quiet land-line a day or two later, and get told "the recording has too much noise".
bloody useless, really.
---
the casualties of war. Freight tracks run next to the metrorail in college park. A mile-long convoy of the broken and beaten trudged south as I waited for a train the other week. Humvees, nose to tail- full of holes, broken axles, crumpled armor. Jeeps, trucks, turrets and transport. The faded desert camouflage stood out against the lush spring vegetation, a winding ribbon of sadness.
Maybe they were going to get patched up. Where is the hospital for the machinery?
--
I worked with my hands for a few hours last night, setting stiches in rippling silk. I rarely enjoy using a sewing machine, but I do like the feel of fabric in my hands- rolling it or folding it and piercing it rhythmically. The fabric knows where it wants to go; it will talk to you if you linger over it. The blinding pace of a machine just feels like it rips through the heart of the fabric and pummels it where the machine wants it to go- the delicate song of the weave trampled by metal toothed feet.