Qualitative Methods and Quality of Life
I feel like my life is a constant tug of war with me on one side, with my silly dreams of gardens and organic farming and creating a demonstration community/school where people could learn both practical real life skills for living more lightly on the planet and also give themselves time to dream and scheme about what living well looks like, and a full-on army of well-muscled people pulling in the other directions with their concerns about replicability and publication records and their ill-concealed preference for people who fit in boxes on the other side. I am exhausted by this fight.
I dreamt last night. First, a small frog, about the size of a regular tree frog, was in the honey light of an early morning in an attic apartment. I lived there, in my dream, but it was not a familar space. The frog was neon green, red, with Africa yellow stripes down the side of its small body. I caught it, seeing that it did not belong in my apartment, grasping its fragile body behind the front legs so that its limbs were free to continue swimming in the air. I released it, not outside, but in another room, where for some reason I felt it would be safe. I turned around to see that there were five more, with a very large one addressing the other four like a principal looking over errant students. Only they were all very attentive and I felt that I could almost understand what the large frog was saying. Charging in, though, I picked up the large frog as I had its smaller cousin, to move it as I had the first one. Deliberately, he wrapped the toes of his front foot around my index finger, turned his head, and bit me. I dropped him. I woke up with a sore finger, but there was no frog in sight.
I dreamt last night. First, a small frog, about the size of a regular tree frog, was in the honey light of an early morning in an attic apartment. I lived there, in my dream, but it was not a familar space. The frog was neon green, red, with Africa yellow stripes down the side of its small body. I caught it, seeing that it did not belong in my apartment, grasping its fragile body behind the front legs so that its limbs were free to continue swimming in the air. I released it, not outside, but in another room, where for some reason I felt it would be safe. I turned around to see that there were five more, with a very large one addressing the other four like a principal looking over errant students. Only they were all very attentive and I felt that I could almost understand what the large frog was saying. Charging in, though, I picked up the large frog as I had its smaller cousin, to move it as I had the first one. Deliberately, he wrapped the toes of his front foot around my index finger, turned his head, and bit me. I dropped him. I woke up with a sore finger, but there was no frog in sight.
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