{"id":60,"date":"2008-07-14T22:20:57","date_gmt":"2008-07-15T02:20:57","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blogs.elsweb.org\/nsftmfx\/?p=60"},"modified":"2008-07-14T22:20:57","modified_gmt":"2008-07-15T02:20:57","slug":"ezekiel-88","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blogs.elsweb.org\/nsftmfx\/2008\/07\/14\/ezekiel-88\/","title":{"rendered":"Ezekiel 8:8"},"content":{"rendered":"

He said to me, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Son of man, now dig through the wall.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d So I dug through the wall, and behold, an entrance.<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

Upstairs, in the living room with wide windows overlooking the overgrown weeping beech, William tells me about Japanese crickets. <\/span>If there would be someone right now, this summer, at this minute, to mention Japanese crickets under their breath & without mind, it would be William. <\/span>William has Shirley Temple curls & a receding hairline, & his glasses automatically tint in the sunlight. <\/span>When he is listening to someone speak, he uses three methods to show attention:<\/p>\n

1. <\/strong>The Hands Clasped Loosely Across His Stomach, Smiling Method.<\/p>\n

2. <\/strong>The Hands Clasped Tightly Behind His Back, Smiling Method.<\/p>\n

3. <\/strong>The Hands On His Hips, Eyebrows Raised, Lips Pursed, Quizzical Method.<\/p>\n

William & I, we are putting an air conditioner into one of the wide windows. <\/span>It is the end of the day, & it has been a long day. <\/span>We are being rough with the air conditioner, sealing everything around it with duct tape & saying things like, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Good enough\u00e2\u20ac\u009d & \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Whatever.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/span>There is a cardinal on the weeping beech, pointed crest & dark red. <\/span>I do not remember what the males & females look like, but at the time I am not thinking about that. <\/span>William whistles at the cardinal, feigning bird noises to garner attention. <\/span>The bird\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s attention or my attention, I am not sure. <\/span>But attention nonetheless.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Hey, I think it hears you.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Yeh. <\/span>Like the Japanese & their crickets.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Ha. <\/span>What?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t know about the Japanese & their crickets?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

This is the kind of question William always asks when I say \u00e2\u20ac\u0153What.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/span>It is the kind of question that is able to both make me feel stupid & make me curious at the same exact second. <\/span>In a way, it is an ingenious question.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153In Japan, they keep a cricket in a box by their front door. <\/span>If the cricket stops making noise, it means someone\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s come into their house. <\/span>It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s like a watchdog.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

Oh, I get it. <\/span>It is like a watchdog. <\/span>I make a mental note to put a cricket by my door tonight. <\/span>I will not, but I make a mental note to write down that I have made the mental note to do so anyway, because that will add to the story.<\/p>\n

William has lived in this area his whole life, & he says words like \u00e2\u20ac\u0153warsh\u00e2\u20ac\u009d & \u00e2\u20ac\u0153idear.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/span>There was a day last week when William & I drove fifteen minutes away in the pick-up to load a refrigerator into the hatch & deliver it back to work because someone was donating it. <\/span>It had not been an overly difficult task, but we both acted like it had been. <\/span>William treated us to breakfast at a local coffee shop in his town. <\/span>There were flamingos everywhere. <\/span>There were flamingos hanging from the ceiling, inflated, & there were stuffed flamingos sitting on stools in the corners. <\/span>I had not understood the theme. <\/span>I had not asked. <\/span>It was a free breakfast. <\/span>William swore to the blueberry pancakes, he had said they were the most amazing blueberry pancakes on the east coast. <\/span>We ate two each, & bacon & coffee, & we drove the refrigerator back to work. <\/span>He had been right, the pancakes had been unbelievable. <\/span>I could not believe those pancakes, at the time. <\/span>I do not know if food is a very interesting thing to read about, but if you go to The Coffee Break in Clinton, Connecticut then you will understand.<\/p>\n

At work, because this is a retreat center for old women seeking the spiritual, everyone is in slow motion in the hallways. <\/span>Because I am too young for this job, far too young & far too remarkably spry, this slow motion does not work. <\/span>The women wear their hair in one of two very distinct, old styles. <\/span>There is the proud hairsprayed puff & the sad, lonely mat. <\/span>In the first of these two hairstyle choices, the hair is injected with hairspray & it responds by puffing out like cotton candy. <\/span>This could involve tight curls or loose curls. <\/span>The second of these two choices involves not bothering with one\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s hair after one wakes up. <\/span>This insures a very sad look for the old woman, whose hair remains matted to her scalp. <\/span>In this case, the hair is usually kept very short. <\/span>These women most times look like they are dying, & to them I must be like the New Years Eve Baby. <\/span>Out with the old, in with the new, & all that.<\/p>\n

I learn to walk through the hallways quietly when the summer season kicks into full gear. <\/span>The summer season kicking into full gear means that the week-long silent retreats have started, programs in which women rounding life\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s final bend take a vow of silence & probably cry alone in their rooms at night. <\/span>Maybe I am unfairly guessing about that. <\/span>In any case, they give the appearance of women who would fear death & in fearing death, cry alone in their rooms at night. <\/span>My heart is strong, though, my veins prominent but not in the way varicose veins are. <\/span>They are the veins of someone who will never see Social Security or the eight-track tape coming back in style. <\/span>They pump the blood of someone with an over-abundance of healthy blood to pump. <\/span>I may not do everything with ideal thought given to my health, but I do not cry alone in my room most nights. <\/span>The old women want to be me, & I would let them have their wish at the drop of a hat. <\/span>I would let them be me if it would mean I would not have to silently nod at them in the hallways, silent because they are silent, despairing because I can read the despair in their eyes.<\/p>\n

Marina is not at work today. <\/span>William says her uncle died apparently, only he puts \u00e2\u20ac\u0153apparently\u00e2\u20ac\u009d first & says it as if it is a question.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Apparently, now her uncle died?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Jesus. <\/span>I can\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t believe her luck.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Yeh. <\/span>Either that, or some people just like to make drama.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

I will write down that he said this not because I want to exploit it, but because I am not sure whether he is right or wrong.<\/p>\n

~~<\/p>\n

Tonight there are fireworks. <\/span>Independence Day is one day away, but tonight there will be fireworks regardless. <\/span>Work sits along one thousand feet of private beach, the Long Island Sound restless & silent, the water no different than bathwater, were one to enjoy cold baths. <\/span>On the eastern end of the one thousand feet there is a chain link fence stuck firmly into a collection of large rocks placed there by Man\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s hands. <\/span>On the western end, there is the same thing. <\/span>Directly in front, the Sound spills into a sky that changes daily, blue to gray to blue to gray. <\/span>On blue days, I watch Long Island\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s interminable skyline. <\/span>I watch Faulkner\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s Island & I wonder if the lighthouse there is still being used. <\/span>I make a mental note to buy the lighthouse & live there one day. <\/span>On gray days, the Sound never ends. <\/span>For all I know, on gray days Long Island & its inhabitants don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t exist. <\/span>Long Island has never existed. <\/span>When the Sound never ends, its Island never began. <\/span>I think about how meaningless this all is, how poetic it will all sound. <\/span>I think about why things sound poetic even if they are written down, unspoken. <\/span>Perhaps this will read poetic. <\/span>This will read poetic until it is spoken. <\/span>Then it will sound poetic.<\/p>\n

~~<\/p>\n

But tonight there are fireworks. <\/span>They are scheduled to begin at nine o\u00e2\u20ac\u2122clock, & William has said that from the beach at work, if you are facing southeast, you can watch them. <\/span>The sound will be off, the explosions slightly delayed due to distance. <\/span>But they are fireworks regardless.<\/p>\n

At ten minutes to nine, I stop writing & I put on a clean shirt. <\/span>I walk out of my room & down the hall, through the courtyard & out the other end, behind the building where the pointed white gazebo sits. <\/span>From the top of the steps that lead to the beach, I can see William walking on the sand, holding hands with a woman who I assume to be his Sicilian girlfriend. <\/span>His daughter is thirteen & is going to be good looking when she gets older, & she is walking twenty paces ahead of her father with a friend of hers. <\/span>As I watch, the two girls wander farther up the beach until they reach the next set of stairs over from mine. <\/span>As they wander up them, I look towards the sky. <\/span>It is starting to get darker out, & if I stand perfectly still for too long the insects think I am perhaps a tree to burrow into. <\/span>I am never still for long.<\/p>\n

I am not certain if they live in a tree on our property, but I have seen a flock of lime green birds flying overheard during the day. <\/span>Before flight, if I am rearranging the wicker furniture under the gazebo\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s pointed top or combing the beach for litter, I can hear them. <\/span>There is a shrieking noise, collectively rising & falling in a syncopated avian rhythm, & they take sudden flight at an unlikely speed. <\/span>It is almost beautiful to watch, but nothing that lasts as quickly as their flight is beautiful to me. <\/span>Perhaps instead it is only striking. <\/span>A bright green streak, wings tilting to allow the sun to glance sharply off of, then noise & disappearance. <\/span>I do not know where they come from, & how they came to live in Connecticut is too much for me to think about.<\/p>\n

William\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s daughter Molly calls out to me from a distance, & I shield my eyes with my hand even though it is getting to be dark out. <\/span>This must have become the universal sign for \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I can\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t see you\u00e2\u20ac\u009d somewhere along the way, rather than \u00e2\u20ac\u0153The sun is in my eyes.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You got a new hat!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153What?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Your hat!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Oh yea, this is just another one I have. <\/span>I still have the other one, too.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I like the other one better.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Heh. <\/span>Yea, well. <\/span>Fair enough.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

In ten minutes\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 time, I will leave before the fireworks have started. <\/span>The bugs will become too much for me to stand. <\/span>In my room, I can hear the blasts as if they are happening directly over my head. <\/span>After about an hour, there is a series of shorter explosions, brightly colored & accented sharply. <\/span>There are soaring crescendos, a dive-bomb denouement. <\/span>The finale. <\/span>A Laurie Anderson song comes into my head without me noticing, its lyrics disgustingly poignant:<\/p>\n

I.<\/p>\n

I feel.<\/p>\n

Feel like.<\/p>\n

I am.<\/p>\n

In a burning building.<\/p>\n

& I gotta go.<\/p>\n

~~<\/p>\n

On Friday, on July Fourth, I am asked to play housekeeper. <\/span>Marina does not come to work, & because Fridays are the days each guest room is cleaned & each bed re-made, & because without Marina there are only two housekeepers, reinforcements are called in. <\/span>Reinforcements, I discover, are me.<\/p>\n

~~<\/p>\n

A short & unexpected series of anecdotes concerning the housekeepers:<\/p>\n

(a.) <\/strong>At the annual picnic for staff & board members, in which the rain & thunder has driven everyone inside except for William & Gail & myself, the three of us sit under the gazebo\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s pointed roof grilling hamburgers & something called \u00e2\u20ac\u0153red hots.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/span>When I bite into one, I learn that a red hot is essentially a very spicy hot dog. <\/span>Gail is the head housekeeper, & although she has only had one or two plastic cups of white wine, she is teetering very close at the edge of tipsy, ready to fall into drunk. <\/span>Gail has hair the unnatural red of a very pigmented rose, scarlet & full. <\/span>She wears glasses & complains loudly about how slow the retreatants walk through the hallways. <\/span>At the grill, under the gazebo, Gail sits on a wicker rocking chair with her legs crossed, both hands all bone & taut skin gripping her cup with the grip of a vice. <\/span>She turns to me, sitting in a chair next to her, & tells me that she was not always a housekeeper. <\/span>She tells me she has been to college, was once a twentysomething, once had passions & interests beyond a dust rag.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I have a degree in education, you know. <\/span>And I have a Masters in art. <\/span>I had my own business once, did you know that? <\/span>Yeah, I created & ran my own business. <\/span>I have two degrees & I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve lived my life, & I decided that really what I want to do, is I want to clean toilets for a living. <\/span>All I want to do after all these years is clean up other peoples\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 shit!\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

(b.)<\/strong> Georgeta is Romanian, & is blonde with bangs, a waif in the same way Audrey Hepburn was described as a waif. <\/span>Her voice is deep & it stretches wide when she speaks, her syllables sometimes rolling into each other clumsily. <\/span>Georgeta is, I think, thirty years old, the permanent worker who is closest to my own age here. <\/span>At thirty, she has just escaped her twenties. <\/span>I have known countless people who are thirtysomething. <\/span>I can relate to Georgeta, maybe she & I will know something of the same generation, can speak of the same topics. <\/span>But she is Romanian, does not know very much of this historical culture, does not always understand references, pop culture, or the like. <\/span>In the break room one morning, we are eating crackers with peanut butter & drinking coffee & Georgeta is talking about her dreams. <\/span>Her English is understandable, but comically incorrect, the tenses mixed & the ends of sentences sometimes rising, as if she were asking a question. <\/span>\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Last night I dream I was in Romania? <\/span>And I was running in the street where I used to live before I move to America, & there is a house on my street that is on fire. <\/span>I mean, it is a very big, big fire. <\/span>And there are people in the street, everywhere they are screaming. <\/span>And I am stand in front of the house? <\/span>And I know that I am about to run inside, but then just before I do, I am waking up. <\/span>Will told me I am shouting in my sleep.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d <\/span>We all laugh a little because we do not know really how to respond to a story like that. <\/span>But we are eating & we have the day ahead of us & so we laugh a little bit.<\/p>\n

(c.) <\/strong>There is also the time Gail was showing me where all the freshly washed linens go, & we exchanged medical horror stories. <\/span>We had not known each other very well, but as we walked she described breaking her wrist on the job. <\/span>Her story is non-descript, & she is walking to a steady, incredibly quick beat that no one else hears but her. <\/span>The way she tells it, the hardest thing to do as a housekeeper with a broken wrist is put a pillow inside a pillowcase. <\/span>You have to stuff the pillow inside & shake it down all with one hand, is what Gail tells me. <\/span>She is able to laugh at it now, but I doubt she was able to laugh so readily then. <\/span>Naturally, I describe in detail for the one millionth time in the past fourteen months the way my left lung spontaneously shrunk in on itself my freshman year of college. <\/span>I describe the hospital room, the color & weight I lost, the way my mother had had to scrub my knotted & scabbed head in the bathroom sink. <\/span>I describe the way it feels to have your lung collapse two times in two weeks with no rhyme or reason. <\/span>Right when I am telling Gail the part about the staples inside my body & the incisions & the scars & how it feels to spend Valentine\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s Day in a hospital bed, I think that maybe Gail is wishing she had told a better story. <\/span>I consider giving her a second chance, but by then we are finished walking & we go our separate ways.<\/p>\n

~~<\/p>\n

Playing housekeeper yields no great obstacles or triumphs. <\/span>I clean the rooms better & quicker than even I was expecting, but it is a one-day deal & at lunch Gail tells me I might as well finish the room I am doing & head home early. <\/span>I do not finish my lunch I am so pleased by this idea of Gail\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s.<\/p>\n

~~<\/p>\n

Quickly, a side road to provide balance to my story & introduce possible new themes<\/em>:<\/p>\n

<\/span>Some days I discover a self-satisfying tendency to slip into the bedroom they keep for me here just to listen to a song that has been stuck in my head all day. <\/span>Some days I discover this song is something I can stand just singing to myself as I work without having to listen to the actual song itself, but some days I discover my work suffers to an unnecessary degree unless I just listen to the damn thing once & get it over with. <\/span>Most days I discover this song is either \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Carrying the Banner\u00e2\u20ac\u009d from the musical Newsies<\/em> or \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Three to Get Ready\u00e2\u20ac\u009d by the Dave Brubeck Quartet, which is kind of funny because the latter is a jazz song. <\/span>The way this one usually works is that the opening piano line, the one the rest of the song plays off of in alternating improvisations & linear patterns, is one that I whistle everywhere I go, at all times. <\/span><\/p>\n

In May, almost two months ago, I had volunteered for a week at Mar-Lu-Ridge, a summer camp in Maryland, where I had been employed as a photographer last year & where one of my equally newest & closest friends Andrew works as Associate Director. <\/span>Each day I would do various jobs of mid-level physical labor. <\/span>These jobs included but were in no way limited to mowing the grass, edging the grass, & blowing leaves off of the grass. <\/span>At night, Andrew & I would meet up & go out on the town to partake in various activities of low-level importance or energy. <\/span>These nights included but were in no way limited to going to a church barbecue for \u00e2\u20ac\u0153young families & singles,\u00e2\u20ac\u009d eating Mexican food on Cinco de Mayo, & playing an exhausting, giddy game of tag with the Executive Director, his wife, & his two young daughters.<\/p>\n

Because Andrew is twenty-four & not in his forties, fifties, or sixties, & because he watches movies & is good at video games & has a cat named Tom Clancy & eagerly swaps music with me, he is a breath of fresh air even in memory. <\/span>Andrew\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s beard is full but patchy, his house is a mess, & his iPod plays \u00e2\u20ac\u0153It Was a Good Day\u00e2\u20ac\u009d at top volume. <\/span>For all these reasons, I know that Andrew\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s generation is the generation I belong to, the generation of smilers & laughers & book readers & thinkers thinking thoughts besides those of skirts or what is underneath them. <\/span><\/p>\n

During the week when I worked at camp last May, there is a night Andrew & I go to a minor league baseball game. <\/span>The game is supposed to be a sure thing, & the home team is so confident that tonight is their night that they assure their audience that each ticket can be re-used at a later date if at the end of the night they have not won. <\/span>Whether or not they win (they do not) does not matter so much as the game I play with Andrew as we watch the baseball fly here & there with only half interest. <\/span>The game goes like this:<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153DA. <\/span>Da-da-da-da. <\/span>Da-da-da-da. <\/span>Da-da-da-da\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6dadadadada.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153AC\/DC \u00e2\u20ac\u201c \u00e2\u20ac\u02dcBack in Black!\u00e2\u20ac\u2122\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Yea! <\/span>Nice. <\/span>Okay, your turn.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Duh duh duh duh duh duh<\/em> duh duh DUH.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Wait wait\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6shit I know this one. <\/span>Um\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6wait, shit. <\/span>Iron Butterfly is the band. <\/span>Um\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6Oh duh. <\/span>\u00e2\u20ac\u02dcIn-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.\u00e2\u20ac\u2122\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You got it you got it.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Okay wait these are too easy. <\/span>Try this one: deh deh deh deh DUH duh duh deh deh duh deh duh duh da<\/em>.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Those<\/em> were too easy? <\/span>Dude. <\/span>\u00e2\u20ac\u02dcSuperstition,\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 Stevie Wonder.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

We then proceed to play air drums & sing the song at top volume, intoning the trumpet parts where necessary, our hands splayed out in front of our faces in full air trumpet formation. <\/span>This is our game & though it is not too hard we are still champions. <\/span>Until:<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Wait, what\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s that really famous Brubeck song?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153\u00e2\u20ac\u02dcTake Five.\u00e2\u20ac\u2122\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Yea right right right. <\/span>How does that go again? <\/span>Shit.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

We both think about it, riding the same wavelength with the same song one half of a centimeter off of the tips of our tongues. <\/span>We know there is a long drum solo. <\/span>We know it starts with the piano, then the clarinet comes in. <\/span>We know how it goes. <\/span>We just have no clue how it goes<\/em>. <\/span>You would think if you saw us, me with my hands over my face, pushing the heels into my eyes & Andrew stroking his full patchy beard, eyebrows dipping low in the middle, you would think we were fascinated by the ball game. <\/span>But if you know how a song goes, but have no clue how it really goes<\/em>, could not remember how it really goes <\/em>if someone had a gun to your head, then you know what it is like.<\/p>\n

After the baseball game we go to Wal-Mart because I have already stopped caring about the trend to boycott Wal-Mart & am in desperate need of Hot Pockets for tomorrow\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s lunch, & the next day\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s. <\/span>Andrew disappears somewhere while I peruse possible potato chip options. <\/span>In the check-out line, my food is being scanned by the blip-blip-blip machine, & Andrew re-appears from behind the row of candy bars, in the adjoining lane.<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Da da, da da, da <\/em>da. <\/span>Da da, da da, da <\/em>da.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

\u00e2\u20ac\u0153YES! <\/span>Aaaaah, yessss.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n

I come in with the clarinet part, resisting the urge to put my hands down by my ribcage in full air clarinet position. <\/span>Soon enough, Andrew & I are basking in the glory of remembering a single song as if it were a long-winded memory of a childhood we never shared. <\/span>Andrew & I, we are young & lively, we are twentysomethings in a Wal-Mart check-out lane reenacting, to the extreme awe of anyone & everyone around, the entire Dave Brubeck Quartet. <\/span>Between the two of us, we are far too much for the world to take, & oh my God<\/em> don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t we know it.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

He said to me, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Son of man, now dig through the wall.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d So I dug through the wall, and behold, an entrance. Upstairs, in the living room with wide windows overlooking the overgrown weeping beech, William tells me about Japanese … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":8,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-60","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.elsweb.org\/nsftmfx\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/60","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.elsweb.org\/nsftmfx\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.elsweb.org\/nsftmfx\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.elsweb.org\/nsftmfx\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/8"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.elsweb.org\/nsftmfx\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=60"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.elsweb.org\/nsftmfx\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/60\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/blogs.elsweb.org\/nsftmfx\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=60"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.elsweb.org\/nsftmfx\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=60"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/blogs.elsweb.org\/nsftmfx\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=60"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}