Here are some other things:
Inspired by Jenny's blog, I would like to add the following things: hibiscus, peanut butter, photocopiers, double Mondays on Tuesday (I've been walking into everything today), sleeping kittens, long evening phone calls.
I have a new friend. 3 new friends in 4 months. I feel very odd about this. not the person, mind, Just the whole thing where I'm meeting people and then they are my friends - I take a while, I always have - it just doesn't happen that quickly - Ula and I sniffed around each other for like 6 months before we got comfortable - is anyone else having the most deeply layered deja vu ever in the history of ever? Or is that just me. Yeah, this train of thought is annoying me. I have a new friend. It is happy-making, not the kind of thing that should be weird-making.
Sounds like I get to go see King Lear this week. Woot. I lurv Shakespeare performed. Even if it's performed badly - there is nothing to beat live entertainment. 'specially when it's in a cemetery.
Have begun the habit of words again. Enjoying the dopamine rush after writing. I am truly upset about the reality of the idea that it is difficult to create anything worthwhile in a time of happiness. Although, as was once pointed out to me by someone else, I am fueled by angst. my angst tends to be of the shallow variety - while being very sweetly kissed in my dream by a married man (inaccessible and Not In My Goddamn Space All the Time are simply not the same thing. for one, it is much easier to yell the latter and the former is too associated with personal problems.) I suffer because I want to say spam. Yes. Yes. Although it's better than the half-awake rage fueled by the thought of "you fucked her IN MY BED!!!!" stupid half-awake rage. Odd way to begin the day. And I got sleep and everything (whine whine whine).
There is much to be thought about and experienced and spoken of, but for now, these are the ramblings:
I am remembering. I remember now. The stillness of mind, the feel of the pen in my hand, the rhythms of words sprung with an energy that never fails to catch me off my guard and shock me to my core months and years later.
I remember thinking and seeing at once, as if the acts were never separated or unbalanced. The leaves on the tree in the yard out font. The storm whose beginning was the single crack of thunder from somewhere just above my head. The slow smile of acknowledgment - the rain begins.
I remember now that staring at one rain-soaked leaf for 10 seconds becomes an eternity of sound, color, movement, with me, the observer, the speaker, the seer, watching it all - the drops of water leaving themselves spread ever thinner on the veined bit of growth; the gold of the street light and the silver of the lightning; the fine lines of tiny raindrops heavier than mist; and the wind, the blessed wind again, calling me, bending the cobwebs and blowing the dust further away from the bits that once knew this path well. Gears of a sort, levers and firing mechanisms and something like a quiet pulsing metronome that had studied and understood the inherent value of variation.
I remember the language I never fully spoke, never wanted to claim as my own. A language trapped in words, fed in sound, sight, touch, taste, smell.
I remember a walk with a poet. On the way to lunch, across a street and a hole in the sidewalk surrounded by orange cones and yellow tape, guarded by a machine with a name.
"There's a poem right there," he said.
It is that poem. That is what I remember now.
Tuesday, 25 September 2007
Sunday, 23 September 2007
Weekend in the country
The morning glories, the gorgeous little blooms of solid pink or purple or white that have resisted blooming all summer long from their perch wrapped about the cottonwood tree which grows so close to the patio outside the back door of my parents' house, have finally decided to show off.
Junior, one of the feral cats that got fixed and gets fed by my mother, is still not quite certain what to do with me. She crouches low and watched with sea-green eyes, careful lest I get too close to my mother, her source of love and affection and lap and food. The three cats who spend much time around the house range all around the out buildings and walk long yards to the patio for food every day.
The wind is blowing like mad today, sending the sunlight scattering all over the blue walls of the living room where I slept, curled up in my father's chair, for most of the early afternoon, done in by a good book.
I slept well when I slept. Dreamt of an orange carpet found under layers and layers of gray disgusting foot traffic.
I have burnt my bagel bites, but my mother is taking me in to town to shop for groceries for the week. There must be milk. And meat. And cereal. And cheese. It is what must happen for life to continue and to grow and to become something other than what it is now. Patience is not my strong suit, but I will get over it and remember that after 34 years of life, I do have the ability to see things from something like a rational perspective.
Junior, one of the feral cats that got fixed and gets fed by my mother, is still not quite certain what to do with me. She crouches low and watched with sea-green eyes, careful lest I get too close to my mother, her source of love and affection and lap and food. The three cats who spend much time around the house range all around the out buildings and walk long yards to the patio for food every day.
The wind is blowing like mad today, sending the sunlight scattering all over the blue walls of the living room where I slept, curled up in my father's chair, for most of the early afternoon, done in by a good book.
I slept well when I slept. Dreamt of an orange carpet found under layers and layers of gray disgusting foot traffic.
I have burnt my bagel bites, but my mother is taking me in to town to shop for groceries for the week. There must be milk. And meat. And cereal. And cheese. It is what must happen for life to continue and to grow and to become something other than what it is now. Patience is not my strong suit, but I will get over it and remember that after 34 years of life, I do have the ability to see things from something like a rational perspective.
Saturday, 22 September 2007
The obligatory blog about cats
Since I live in a house with five cats, it had to happen at some point. Words must be written about them. Here it is:
Day before yesterday, I walked into my room to see Street curled up on my bed. It is not unusual for there to be a cat curled up on my bed, but things have been odd lately and the adult cats have been avoiding me, so seeing one of them making herself comfortable in my room was a nice surprise. I turned on the light and realized why she was there.
The look of death on her face should have been enough, but then I saw her tail. Still wet from the flea dip. And the giggling started. She was not pleased with me and trounced out of the room throwing me a nasty glare over her shoulder as if to say that she was not speaking at me anymore ever. The insult was somewhat mitigated by the presence of Ethel crashed out on the blue down throw, looking for all the world like a very fuzzy dead weevil larva (of the rhinocilus persuasion)(which are just cute) and snoring. She snores. At three months.
I went down to the kitchen to find some high calorie gut-fill and found Street on the bottom step, watching me very carefully. I know that it's been some months since her dad had to bathe her to get all of the alley grease off of her loveliness and fur, and I think she was hoping she could forget it forever. I picked her up and we sat down and she chirped and balanced on her paws, refusing to get comfortable and shaking. She left my lap shortly thereafter and I suggested that she go pout somewhere else. (We haven't spoken much since then. Some quick morning rubs, but nothing lasting.)
Ethel sleeps like the dead and takes very long naps. With my food in hand, I shut my bedroom door, turned off the lights and prepared to commit to my daily afternoon rest period (still a must-do after everything. not so bad, but somewhat annoying). She rolled around some, stopped snoring for a minute, sort of opened her eyes and then burrowed back down, nose in paws, back feet curled, tail all kinds of everywhere, giving off the faint odor of flea dip.
I ate and snuggled into my sheets for my nap when there came the sound of someone else snuggling in somewhere. Looking over at the source of the sound, I noticed a bulge in the blanket that is draped over the folding chair in the corner. The bulge was on the floor and very small and moving slightly. My eyesight likes to make things move when they oughtn't, but not that much, so I investigated and found a damp, sleeping Novice.
Novice doesn't sleep as long or as hard as Ethel does, so her time on the blue down blanket was restful, but hardly the repose her sibling got. She slept nearer to my knees and watched every movement Ethey made as she snored and rolled and stretched and dreamt and snored some more. Novice and I are finally developing a relationship with purring, so I tend to leave her be mostly and let her come to me as she is comfortable (not including the requisite kitten-grabbing attacks, of course).
By the time it was time to go out that evening, they were both sound asleep, Novice in a gray and white ball of mostly dry fluff, Ethel under the throw, front leg stretched out, holding the blanket to her.
I caught sight of Wigs on Anne's bed, licking at her tail. I didn't see Boris at all until last night. I have decided to call him Boris. Now he is called Booger, so I don't think it will be all that difficult a transition for him as he likely reacts mostly to the "b" sound. He didn't seem all that affected by the bathing process, but if you had your own balls to lick all day long, would you?
Day before yesterday, I walked into my room to see Street curled up on my bed. It is not unusual for there to be a cat curled up on my bed, but things have been odd lately and the adult cats have been avoiding me, so seeing one of them making herself comfortable in my room was a nice surprise. I turned on the light and realized why she was there.
The look of death on her face should have been enough, but then I saw her tail. Still wet from the flea dip. And the giggling started. She was not pleased with me and trounced out of the room throwing me a nasty glare over her shoulder as if to say that she was not speaking at me anymore ever. The insult was somewhat mitigated by the presence of Ethel crashed out on the blue down throw, looking for all the world like a very fuzzy dead weevil larva (of the rhinocilus persuasion)(which are just cute) and snoring. She snores. At three months.
I went down to the kitchen to find some high calorie gut-fill and found Street on the bottom step, watching me very carefully. I know that it's been some months since her dad had to bathe her to get all of the alley grease off of her loveliness and fur, and I think she was hoping she could forget it forever. I picked her up and we sat down and she chirped and balanced on her paws, refusing to get comfortable and shaking. She left my lap shortly thereafter and I suggested that she go pout somewhere else. (We haven't spoken much since then. Some quick morning rubs, but nothing lasting.)
Ethel sleeps like the dead and takes very long naps. With my food in hand, I shut my bedroom door, turned off the lights and prepared to commit to my daily afternoon rest period (still a must-do after everything. not so bad, but somewhat annoying). She rolled around some, stopped snoring for a minute, sort of opened her eyes and then burrowed back down, nose in paws, back feet curled, tail all kinds of everywhere, giving off the faint odor of flea dip.
I ate and snuggled into my sheets for my nap when there came the sound of someone else snuggling in somewhere. Looking over at the source of the sound, I noticed a bulge in the blanket that is draped over the folding chair in the corner. The bulge was on the floor and very small and moving slightly. My eyesight likes to make things move when they oughtn't, but not that much, so I investigated and found a damp, sleeping Novice.
Novice doesn't sleep as long or as hard as Ethel does, so her time on the blue down blanket was restful, but hardly the repose her sibling got. She slept nearer to my knees and watched every movement Ethey made as she snored and rolled and stretched and dreamt and snored some more. Novice and I are finally developing a relationship with purring, so I tend to leave her be mostly and let her come to me as she is comfortable (not including the requisite kitten-grabbing attacks, of course).
By the time it was time to go out that evening, they were both sound asleep, Novice in a gray and white ball of mostly dry fluff, Ethel under the throw, front leg stretched out, holding the blanket to her.
I caught sight of Wigs on Anne's bed, licking at her tail. I didn't see Boris at all until last night. I have decided to call him Boris. Now he is called Booger, so I don't think it will be all that difficult a transition for him as he likely reacts mostly to the "b" sound. He didn't seem all that affected by the bathing process, but if you had your own balls to lick all day long, would you?
Thursday, 20 September 2007
Ah, the joys of being on campus
Got to go to a lecture yesterday. One of those pesky revisionist type things. You know the ones. The kind where some hotshot University Professor thinks that doing research based on historical record is going to give a more accurate picture of the past than Hollywood movies or newspapers or dime novels. Who the hell do these people think that they are anyway?
The Oregon Trail. Dooom Doooom.
Not the site of so many massacres that no movie studio could ever keep up with it. At least not between 1840 and 1869. Do tell. Well, apparently, the two Big massacres that have been passed down from generation to generation where big bad Indians killed frail helpless white settlers by the hundreds - the Doniphan and Almo Massacres, if you're keeping track - were made up. Fabricated. Invented. To sell papers in the former case and to increase tourism in the latter.
Seriously. He said so. And he wrote a book about it, and other human interest concerns (trading, medicine, starvation, people shooting themselves in the face accidentally because guns were designed less with safety in mind back then). And the book won him an award. And I believe him. Why? Not because of any particular guilt I have left over, but because the story that he tells makes more sense. Living on the plains now is difficult enough. It is important to know who your neighbors are and how to live in the winter and such and such. Can you imagine what it was before all of that? There were guide books to the Trail, but still. Human interaction works best when it is not defined by conflict (trust me on this one, I know of what I speak). So why turn the prairie into a place of perpetual warfare? I know, I know, that's what it became, and this is dealing with a very specific place (the Oregon Trail) during a very specific time frame (1840-1869). That is important to remember.
People are stupid. We are born stupid. We die stupid. We can learn to be not so stupid, but it is very easy to go back to stupid ways. All we need are enough drink, drugs, sex or sensationalism and boom, the brain is gone.
So the newspapers sold stories. Stories of vicious attacks by savage people. They got folk to leave their homes and head West, looking to kill injuns or have the grand adventure on the high plains, since going by sea would have defeated the whole purpose.
Go back to Little House on the Prairie or Caddie Woodlawn. Tell me what you find and then look at what the adults buy and tell me we deserve to maintain as a species.
Also there was some very bad art hanging on the walls, and some woman asked if I had anything hanging there and then proceeded to talk at me about the colors in an odious landscape.
Can someone please explain to me what exactly is the value of dropping my "get the fuck away from me" vibe if it's just going to encourage bad conversation? Ug.
The Oregon Trail. Dooom Doooom.
Not the site of so many massacres that no movie studio could ever keep up with it. At least not between 1840 and 1869. Do tell. Well, apparently, the two Big massacres that have been passed down from generation to generation where big bad Indians killed frail helpless white settlers by the hundreds - the Doniphan and Almo Massacres, if you're keeping track - were made up. Fabricated. Invented. To sell papers in the former case and to increase tourism in the latter.
Seriously. He said so. And he wrote a book about it, and other human interest concerns (trading, medicine, starvation, people shooting themselves in the face accidentally because guns were designed less with safety in mind back then). And the book won him an award. And I believe him. Why? Not because of any particular guilt I have left over, but because the story that he tells makes more sense. Living on the plains now is difficult enough. It is important to know who your neighbors are and how to live in the winter and such and such. Can you imagine what it was before all of that? There were guide books to the Trail, but still. Human interaction works best when it is not defined by conflict (trust me on this one, I know of what I speak). So why turn the prairie into a place of perpetual warfare? I know, I know, that's what it became, and this is dealing with a very specific place (the Oregon Trail) during a very specific time frame (1840-1869). That is important to remember.
People are stupid. We are born stupid. We die stupid. We can learn to be not so stupid, but it is very easy to go back to stupid ways. All we need are enough drink, drugs, sex or sensationalism and boom, the brain is gone.
So the newspapers sold stories. Stories of vicious attacks by savage people. They got folk to leave their homes and head West, looking to kill injuns or have the grand adventure on the high plains, since going by sea would have defeated the whole purpose.
Go back to Little House on the Prairie or Caddie Woodlawn. Tell me what you find and then look at what the adults buy and tell me we deserve to maintain as a species.
Also there was some very bad art hanging on the walls, and some woman asked if I had anything hanging there and then proceeded to talk at me about the colors in an odious landscape.
Can someone please explain to me what exactly is the value of dropping my "get the fuck away from me" vibe if it's just going to encourage bad conversation? Ug.
Wednesday, 19 September 2007
"Act your age"
I find that statement problematic. I do not deny that part of the problem lies in my own desire not to be categorized or put in a pigeon-hole. But the big question that I've always had, ever since the first time I heard someone (likely my parents, not their fault) say that to me, is: "What does that mean?" "How do I find out what that means?" "Who decides if I am or am not 'acting my age' according to whose definition?"
Is there some behavioral rubric that is used to determine specific age-related personality traits? Am I just supposed to look around at all of the other schlebs in my age range and compare? Do I get to include life experience in with age range? And who does decide, anyway? Why should it not be me? What is so wrong with not acting like a cynical 30-something on the other side of her first mid-life crisis? Is it so wrong that I have no desire to pretend that I am comfortable with the behavior patterns of many people who are 5-10 years younger than me?
Many many questions which will stop now as they become whiny and self-serving or bitchy after a while, and I have better things to do today.
Yesterday morning as I was waiting in the drips coming from windblown leaves by my bus stop, I watched the pups in the yard at hand and wanted nothing more than to go to them and rub my hands and face in their rain covered fur. The smell of wet dog would have stayed all day long, calming me out of my anger and rage and sense of displacement. Taken me back to my childhood and the heavy smell of the large red dog without whom I have no memory before the age of 15. Reminded me of where it is safe, where it is always warm, even under the sheets of rain that came down last night and threatened to drown me walking from the backdoor to the driveway. They sat there, the pups, wagging their tails, ears down, noses pointed in my direction as if smelling my desire to walk over and scratch their backs, and their thick ears, rub their faces and get fur down my sleeves.
I waited. And stood. And, eventually, the bus came.
Is there some behavioral rubric that is used to determine specific age-related personality traits? Am I just supposed to look around at all of the other schlebs in my age range and compare? Do I get to include life experience in with age range? And who does decide, anyway? Why should it not be me? What is so wrong with not acting like a cynical 30-something on the other side of her first mid-life crisis? Is it so wrong that I have no desire to pretend that I am comfortable with the behavior patterns of many people who are 5-10 years younger than me?
Many many questions which will stop now as they become whiny and self-serving or bitchy after a while, and I have better things to do today.
Yesterday morning as I was waiting in the drips coming from windblown leaves by my bus stop, I watched the pups in the yard at hand and wanted nothing more than to go to them and rub my hands and face in their rain covered fur. The smell of wet dog would have stayed all day long, calming me out of my anger and rage and sense of displacement. Taken me back to my childhood and the heavy smell of the large red dog without whom I have no memory before the age of 15. Reminded me of where it is safe, where it is always warm, even under the sheets of rain that came down last night and threatened to drown me walking from the backdoor to the driveway. They sat there, the pups, wagging their tails, ears down, noses pointed in my direction as if smelling my desire to walk over and scratch their backs, and their thick ears, rub their faces and get fur down my sleeves.
I waited. And stood. And, eventually, the bus came.
Monday, 17 September 2007
New Normal Afternoon
I am writing while waiting for the other computer to decide to function and produce the information I require. It is a day of prisoner references. So I get to be that much more aware of my heartbreak. Oh, the joy of melodrama. The ear plugs only block out so much.
It is a lovely gray day and I am pleased that I have brought my bright blue rain poncho. Its presence makes it that much more difficult for people to believe that I have crossed the 30 year mark.
There are windows in my office that show me students lined up like so much cattle waiting for buses and cars and friends. I see the clouds over campus. I love days like this. It is a bit too warm for the weather, but I don't really care. Makes the chore of walking that much less awful.
Transparency is a highly under-rated virtue. No one believes it anyway. My ulterior motives are blindingly obvious, if you know what to look for. And if you bother to listen. It all breaks down very clearly.
Reminds me that there is no such thing as an underground anymore - we keep allowing the media to dredge it to the surface.
Lots of random thoughts today. Trying to get organized, I have a letter to write this evening. This will help me focus.
Well, the other computer is done, so I will get started.
It is a lovely gray day and I am pleased that I have brought my bright blue rain poncho. Its presence makes it that much more difficult for people to believe that I have crossed the 30 year mark.
There are windows in my office that show me students lined up like so much cattle waiting for buses and cars and friends. I see the clouds over campus. I love days like this. It is a bit too warm for the weather, but I don't really care. Makes the chore of walking that much less awful.
Transparency is a highly under-rated virtue. No one believes it anyway. My ulterior motives are blindingly obvious, if you know what to look for. And if you bother to listen. It all breaks down very clearly.
Reminds me that there is no such thing as an underground anymore - we keep allowing the media to dredge it to the surface.
Lots of random thoughts today. Trying to get organized, I have a letter to write this evening. This will help me focus.
Well, the other computer is done, so I will get started.
Wednesday, 12 September 2007
I always forget until I am reminded
"mouth-breather"
It's one of those unspoken universal "things" that mark a person as a complete fool, unable to commit the most basic of unconscious activities without mucking it up. I love this insult
not as much as 'goat-fucker' though.
I had a whole long essay-type thing about bodily functions, but the meds have kicked in, so you all are just going to have to wait in suspense.
The kitten crashed with me last night. I felt special.
It's one of those unspoken universal "things" that mark a person as a complete fool, unable to commit the most basic of unconscious activities without mucking it up. I love this insult
not as much as 'goat-fucker' though.
I had a whole long essay-type thing about bodily functions, but the meds have kicked in, so you all are just going to have to wait in suspense.
The kitten crashed with me last night. I felt special.
Tuesday, 11 September 2007
I have had to quit smoking
and I don't know when I'll be able to go back to it. It upsets my stomach too much. I am sad. I miss it.
The nurse at my surgeon's office (her name is Colleen) tells me that it could be up to a year before my body is done recovering from the anesthetic and the surgery, assuming I quit pushing it too far.
Taking things slowly is something which is an ideal for me, rarely realized as my own impatience has been conditioned by years of discomfort at intensity or building tension (yes, I am blaming my ex's, I learned it from them and their inability to function around me)(also, yes, I do get that I am the only common denominator in all of my relationships, that does not make it my fault that most of the men in my life have had no ability to let a moment happen or be without fucking it up or making a joke or breaking the tension and then apologizing lamely). It's a Pavlovian response and will take time to be unlearned.
It's funny, when I got the call that Joe was in jail and began the single oddest and most fucked up summer of my life, I knew that things were different, but I had no idea how different they really were, how much went away that night, how easily lost everything was. And I was nuts, drinking whiskey, sleeping with boys who had girlfriends, not sleeping at all, wearing really odd clothing and hanging out with some of the most disrespectful unethical people (okay, person) I have ever met. (I blame the whisky myself. tequila leaves my discriminating tastes in tact.) I don't hang out with her anymore.
Point is, it took a while for me to realize that I was nuts and why.
This time it's a little less difficult to follow given the straight line leading 3 1/2 inches down from my belly button.
Everything is different. It's just that way. There's nothing I can do about it. My body needs to recover from the sickness from before surgery and then the surgery and the anesthetic and the drugs after the anesthetic and the antibiotics and probably the world's worst cottage cheese, as well.
I am separated from the two people I love most in the world (outside of my parents, of course) because I have no idea "where I'm at" and will likely not have a clue for quite some time. which wouldn't be that big of a deal except that we live in the same house. It is too much to listen to the constant whining of a reformed martyr.
I know to walk. To get into the sun. To eat. To rest. To sleep. To not lift anything for a while (ug). To pet the kitten (I adopted one, she is called Ethel Katherine Humphries. I call her Ethey). To read. To make lists. To learn. To work at my jobs to the best of my abilities. To do some dishes when I can. To clean the litter boxes at least once a week.
"Master, how do I follow The Way?"
"Did you have breakfast this morning?"
"Yes."
"Did you wash your bowl when you were done eating?"
"Yes."
"Well, then."
The nurse at my surgeon's office (her name is Colleen) tells me that it could be up to a year before my body is done recovering from the anesthetic and the surgery, assuming I quit pushing it too far.
Taking things slowly is something which is an ideal for me, rarely realized as my own impatience has been conditioned by years of discomfort at intensity or building tension (yes, I am blaming my ex's, I learned it from them and their inability to function around me)(also, yes, I do get that I am the only common denominator in all of my relationships, that does not make it my fault that most of the men in my life have had no ability to let a moment happen or be without fucking it up or making a joke or breaking the tension and then apologizing lamely). It's a Pavlovian response and will take time to be unlearned.
It's funny, when I got the call that Joe was in jail and began the single oddest and most fucked up summer of my life, I knew that things were different, but I had no idea how different they really were, how much went away that night, how easily lost everything was. And I was nuts, drinking whiskey, sleeping with boys who had girlfriends, not sleeping at all, wearing really odd clothing and hanging out with some of the most disrespectful unethical people (okay, person) I have ever met. (I blame the whisky myself. tequila leaves my discriminating tastes in tact.) I don't hang out with her anymore.
Point is, it took a while for me to realize that I was nuts and why.
This time it's a little less difficult to follow given the straight line leading 3 1/2 inches down from my belly button.
Everything is different. It's just that way. There's nothing I can do about it. My body needs to recover from the sickness from before surgery and then the surgery and the anesthetic and the drugs after the anesthetic and the antibiotics and probably the world's worst cottage cheese, as well.
I am separated from the two people I love most in the world (outside of my parents, of course) because I have no idea "where I'm at" and will likely not have a clue for quite some time. which wouldn't be that big of a deal except that we live in the same house. It is too much to listen to the constant whining of a reformed martyr.
I know to walk. To get into the sun. To eat. To rest. To sleep. To not lift anything for a while (ug). To pet the kitten (I adopted one, she is called Ethel Katherine Humphries. I call her Ethey). To read. To make lists. To learn. To work at my jobs to the best of my abilities. To do some dishes when I can. To clean the litter boxes at least once a week.
"Master, how do I follow The Way?"
"Did you have breakfast this morning?"
"Yes."
"Did you wash your bowl when you were done eating?"
"Yes."
"Well, then."
Thursday, 30 August 2007
Personality tests results - for Aubrey and John
Idealists, as a temperament, are passionately concerned with personal growth and development. Idealists strive to discover who they are and how they can become their best possible self -- always this quest for self-knowledge and self-improvement drives their imagination. And they want to help others make the journey. Idealists are naturally drawn to working with people, and whether in education or counseling, in social services or personnel work, in journalism or the ministry, they are gifted at helping others find their way in life, often inspiring them to grow as individuals and to fulfill their potentials.
Idealists are sure that friendly cooperation is the best way for people to achieve their goals. Conflict and confrontation upset them because they seem to put up angry barriers between people. Idealists dream of creating harmonious, even caring personal relations, and they have a unique talent for helping people get along with each other and work together for the good of all. Such interpersonal harmony might be a romantic ideal, but then Idealists are incurable romantics who prefer to focus on what might be, rather than what is. The real, practical world is only a starting place for Idealists; they believe that life is filled with possibilities waiting to be realized, rich with meanings calling out to be understood. This idea of a mystical or spiritual dimension to life, the "not visible" or the "not yet" that can only be known through intuition or by a leap of faith, is far more important to Idealists than the world of material things.
Highly ethical in their actions, Idealists hold themselves to a strict standard of personal integrity. They must be true to themselves and to others, and they can be quite hard on themselves when they are dishonest, or when they are false or insincere. More often, however, Idealists are the very soul of kindness. Particularly in their personal relationships, Idealists are without question filled with love and good will. They believe in giving of themselves to help others; they cherish a few warm, sensitive friendships; they strive for a special rapport with their children; and in marriage they wish to find a "soulmate," someone with whom they can bond emotionally and spiritually, sharing their deepest feelings and their complex inner worlds.
Idealists are rare, making up between 20 and 25 percent of the population. But their ability to inspire people with their enthusiasm and their idealism has given them influence far beyond their numbers.
The Four types of Idealists are:
Healers (INFP) | Counselors (INFJ) | Champions (ENFP) | Teachers (ENFJ)
And, yep, Aubrey - INFP alright. At least today. Everything's in flux cuz of the recent life-fuck, but I felt comfortable with those answers, so I'll take them.
Also, apparently, I care not who reads this, but I have no idea how to put the links in for anyone else - Aubrey, help!
Idealists are sure that friendly cooperation is the best way for people to achieve their goals. Conflict and confrontation upset them because they seem to put up angry barriers between people. Idealists dream of creating harmonious, even caring personal relations, and they have a unique talent for helping people get along with each other and work together for the good of all. Such interpersonal harmony might be a romantic ideal, but then Idealists are incurable romantics who prefer to focus on what might be, rather than what is. The real, practical world is only a starting place for Idealists; they believe that life is filled with possibilities waiting to be realized, rich with meanings calling out to be understood. This idea of a mystical or spiritual dimension to life, the "not visible" or the "not yet" that can only be known through intuition or by a leap of faith, is far more important to Idealists than the world of material things.
Highly ethical in their actions, Idealists hold themselves to a strict standard of personal integrity. They must be true to themselves and to others, and they can be quite hard on themselves when they are dishonest, or when they are false or insincere. More often, however, Idealists are the very soul of kindness. Particularly in their personal relationships, Idealists are without question filled with love and good will. They believe in giving of themselves to help others; they cherish a few warm, sensitive friendships; they strive for a special rapport with their children; and in marriage they wish to find a "soulmate," someone with whom they can bond emotionally and spiritually, sharing their deepest feelings and their complex inner worlds.
Idealists are rare, making up between 20 and 25 percent of the population. But their ability to inspire people with their enthusiasm and their idealism has given them influence far beyond their numbers.
The Four types of Idealists are:
Healers (INFP) | Counselors (INFJ) | Champions (ENFP) | Teachers (ENFJ)
And, yep, Aubrey - INFP alright. At least today. Everything's in flux cuz of the recent life-fuck, but I felt comfortable with those answers, so I'll take them.
Also, apparently, I care not who reads this, but I have no idea how to put the links in for anyone else - Aubrey, help!
Tuesday, 28 August 2007
Facing the future
It is almost impossible to think of tomorrow while stretched out on a hammock feeling the sun like a blanket and the breeze from all sides. It has been a lovely respite from attempting the impossible, being here. My mother mows in a straw hat with a black band around the crown. She has cleared something like 4 acres of yard and mows it in sections as often as she can. My father has potted plants and planted flowers all around the house. He bought mums for the pots on either side of the driveway. The cats give love and chats with very little meaning to me or any other human. The feral cats adore my mother and her gentle voice and manner. They stand still and let her pet them, rubbing against her ankles and throwing me dirty looks.
I walked out into the world of the trees last evening and watched the clouds rush in, changing and growing and billowing and going gray and white. The sound of the rain and the flashes of lightning filled the room in which I sleep. It is the room in which I slept when I lived here so many years ago. I thought it was green, maybe it was, now it is tan and the bed is much smaller and while I am not sure how well I will take to being in the world again, I miss my bed and my room.
I am dreaming oddly, the hospital dreams have stopped, but there are more people than I am accustomed to and last night there was a man on my arm, and it was good. And Brad was stocking up on water cooler jugs filled with wine and there were smoked turkeys and platters of fruit and I asked if he was throwing a party and said if he was I'd like to know so that I could not be there and he said something about how O'Neill was always saying how if anyone's hungry he's the one to feed them and Brad was pissed and decided he would feed the hungry for a while and see how O'Neill liked it. I thought he meant Thanksgiving and was even more confused as it is not yet September. Upon waking, I thought I would have to remember to ask Brad if he was talking about Jack O'Neill from Stargate or someone that I've never met. Then I fully woke up and realized that wouldn't make any sense at all.
As a younger person I always resented the reality of chores, the day-to-day crap of job and laundry and dishes and cleaning my room. Now it is going to be my life line. I do not know what has happened to my brain, but something is different, bound to show up at some point on the scanner. I have a guess, but I know too much about electrons to believe it can be all true.
Have decided to cut back on the ibuprofen. It works to cut my pain, but my pain is no longer great. I am tired and somewhat more stiff than I would like, but in no way incapacitated or stalled. The only real issue with me being tired is that I am now much more emotional than I am used to being. Still fragile. Not in the mood to fight it anymore.
It is odd to think that today next week I will be thinking of different things, sitting in a different place, using a different computer, reading different books (okay, maybe not), facing the future as me, still, but differently. Why that strikes me today so much more strongly than it has struck me in the past is quite beyond my comprehension, but then, right, there are many things which are.
I am looking forward to the world and the me that I am become, mostly because that's the way my feet are headed.
I walked out into the world of the trees last evening and watched the clouds rush in, changing and growing and billowing and going gray and white. The sound of the rain and the flashes of lightning filled the room in which I sleep. It is the room in which I slept when I lived here so many years ago. I thought it was green, maybe it was, now it is tan and the bed is much smaller and while I am not sure how well I will take to being in the world again, I miss my bed and my room.
I am dreaming oddly, the hospital dreams have stopped, but there are more people than I am accustomed to and last night there was a man on my arm, and it was good. And Brad was stocking up on water cooler jugs filled with wine and there were smoked turkeys and platters of fruit and I asked if he was throwing a party and said if he was I'd like to know so that I could not be there and he said something about how O'Neill was always saying how if anyone's hungry he's the one to feed them and Brad was pissed and decided he would feed the hungry for a while and see how O'Neill liked it. I thought he meant Thanksgiving and was even more confused as it is not yet September. Upon waking, I thought I would have to remember to ask Brad if he was talking about Jack O'Neill from Stargate or someone that I've never met. Then I fully woke up and realized that wouldn't make any sense at all.
As a younger person I always resented the reality of chores, the day-to-day crap of job and laundry and dishes and cleaning my room. Now it is going to be my life line. I do not know what has happened to my brain, but something is different, bound to show up at some point on the scanner. I have a guess, but I know too much about electrons to believe it can be all true.
Have decided to cut back on the ibuprofen. It works to cut my pain, but my pain is no longer great. I am tired and somewhat more stiff than I would like, but in no way incapacitated or stalled. The only real issue with me being tired is that I am now much more emotional than I am used to being. Still fragile. Not in the mood to fight it anymore.
It is odd to think that today next week I will be thinking of different things, sitting in a different place, using a different computer, reading different books (okay, maybe not), facing the future as me, still, but differently. Why that strikes me today so much more strongly than it has struck me in the past is quite beyond my comprehension, but then, right, there are many things which are.
I am looking forward to the world and the me that I am become, mostly because that's the way my feet are headed.
Monday, 27 August 2007
In honor of today’s adventures...
Old Style does go skunky. I know, I know, it seems a statement of the obvious condition of Old Style, but trust me, I know of what I speak.
After days of spending time wandering like Horace from one soft place to sit and read to another, finding the hammock again, getting run into by grasshoppers mistaking my skull for a bouncing board (maybe not mistaken, who knows?) and having quiet moments with the deer just beyond the fence, I ventured today into town with my mother. The objectives were simple enough: lunch with friends and then to the house to take care of some potentially loose ends in preparation for my eventual return.
Lunch was accomplished with grace and style and good conversation, followed immediately by plans for world domination and cheesecake. One of our number is not of age yet, so there was no rampant drinking to celebrate the event. Though we have been promised a Part II. I am hopeful. Full of hope.
Given my need to go to places I enjoy with frequency, I was fortunate to run into two of my acquaintance whereupon I was given hugs. I enjoy hugs from friends and will accept them with very little chagrin (most of the time) especially now as I have a reason to be hugged with abandon.
The time at spent at the library was filled with pleasant conversation with understanding folks. It's always a crapshoot when you go to the library hoping to see certain people, because you never know who will or won't be on the schedule for that day. Much like Lincoln bar life. There are certain people who are always out. And then there are the people you want to see. It's a crapshoot. Opportunities abound and it pays to listen to the people who know what and where they are. Received a gift of unexpected kindness. Still reeling from that, but I will recover.
And then there was the adventure of the key. I now have a copy of the key to the back door of the house. I am pleased about this on many levels. Except. The part where my mother's car decided that it didn't want to let her turn the key in the ignition. Many many phone calls were made. And then: the mechanic at the service station suggested that she hit the key with a shoe.
You can imagine the mirth. Particularly because it worked. The Shoe Solution.
The end of the day involved a trip to the grocery store for wine and garlic (mother outside with the car running. just in case) and now the wait as meat and potatoes cook and we drink well-earned glasses of wine after a day that will be followed by two days of rest and light reading.
I define light reading as The Muqaddimah by Ibn Kahldun. An Introduction to History. He likes Bedouins. I do, too.
After days of spending time wandering like Horace from one soft place to sit and read to another, finding the hammock again, getting run into by grasshoppers mistaking my skull for a bouncing board (maybe not mistaken, who knows?) and having quiet moments with the deer just beyond the fence, I ventured today into town with my mother. The objectives were simple enough: lunch with friends and then to the house to take care of some potentially loose ends in preparation for my eventual return.
Lunch was accomplished with grace and style and good conversation, followed immediately by plans for world domination and cheesecake. One of our number is not of age yet, so there was no rampant drinking to celebrate the event. Though we have been promised a Part II. I am hopeful. Full of hope.
Given my need to go to places I enjoy with frequency, I was fortunate to run into two of my acquaintance whereupon I was given hugs. I enjoy hugs from friends and will accept them with very little chagrin (most of the time) especially now as I have a reason to be hugged with abandon.
The time at spent at the library was filled with pleasant conversation with understanding folks. It's always a crapshoot when you go to the library hoping to see certain people, because you never know who will or won't be on the schedule for that day. Much like Lincoln bar life. There are certain people who are always out. And then there are the people you want to see. It's a crapshoot. Opportunities abound and it pays to listen to the people who know what and where they are. Received a gift of unexpected kindness. Still reeling from that, but I will recover.
And then there was the adventure of the key. I now have a copy of the key to the back door of the house. I am pleased about this on many levels. Except. The part where my mother's car decided that it didn't want to let her turn the key in the ignition. Many many phone calls were made. And then: the mechanic at the service station suggested that she hit the key with a shoe.
You can imagine the mirth. Particularly because it worked. The Shoe Solution.
The end of the day involved a trip to the grocery store for wine and garlic (mother outside with the car running. just in case) and now the wait as meat and potatoes cook and we drink well-earned glasses of wine after a day that will be followed by two days of rest and light reading.
I define light reading as The Muqaddimah by Ibn Kahldun. An Introduction to History. He likes Bedouins. I do, too.
Saturday, 25 August 2007
Morning in Crete
The coffee I had this morning is all that's keeping me awake right now. I am not moving much - typing is not an intensive exersize (sp?)(Learning French totally screwed me up on that word - I haven't been able to spell it in any language since I was eleven. My second grade teacher couldn't spell spaghetti. She was okay with it. She had a home and a family and a career. It didn't ruin her forever, it was just something she had to admit to herself and everyone else. Forever. I think she must have been happy when we all started eating pasta.).
I was not all that familiar with Crete when I lived here, oh, 9 years ago, but I did shop in town and go to the movie theatre (alone! shock of shocks!) and ate at the local diner (PK Bach's, no longer extant) and drove around a lot. I had a car back then. It's the only car I've ever owned. Someday I will have to remedy that.
9 years ago the downtown area was losing businesses left and right, there were more empty store fronts than not, and the little 'mall' across from the library was empty but for one take-out Chinese place that I never tried.
It was kind of depressing to drive through.
Now it is a different town. Every store front along the main street is filled, and almost every store front on the streets crossing that one is filled also. There are people downtown, driving and walking around. Which creates no end of chaos as there is one stop light with no turn arrow and one 4-way stop sign and the rest is pretty much luck of the draw. Glad it's not me driving.
My mother knows everyone who works anywhere that she and my father spend money. Everyone. She knows about their kids and their vacation plans. We went to breakfast at the 9th Street Grill (assuming it's on 9th street, although lately my assumptions have been way off, so who knows? I blame the drugs, and the tireds, etc.) and she knew who was working and who was on vacation and why. It was a beautiful thing. She was explaining to us why there were only 2 people on as my father went up to grab our menu. I don't think they would have batted an eye if he'd got my cup of coffee at the time, but I didn't say anything. Didn't want folks thinking I was desperate for it, even though it had been over 2 weeks.
Been 2 weeks since I smoked, as well. I'm healing. I haven't quit. Don't go there with me.
Shopping with my parents was more than entertaining. Particularly the parts that involved driving across the street to go to the Pamida (boycott Wal-Mart) and then driving across the street to go to the Sun-Mart. We repeated the less than a block long drive from the post office to the gas station (that one I get) to the library, which has redone itself in the last 9 years and is much less standoffish than the one that I remember. To be honest, I don't think I could've made it, not after all that food in the morning time and then missing my 11 o'clock nap.
The library did not have the Bourne Identity, though it did have the Bourne Supremacy, and as I am feeling the need for espionage/spy type stuff, I went for it. Diving into the Ludlum. Save me from Tristram Shandy for a few hours!
Crete wouldn't be a bad town to live in, really. Particularly if they can keep Wal-Mart at bay and on the outskirts and maybe even gone away for lack of profit. I hope that they can, it's a nice little town that seems to be taking care of itself.
It does need a coffee shop.
I was not all that familiar with Crete when I lived here, oh, 9 years ago, but I did shop in town and go to the movie theatre (alone! shock of shocks!) and ate at the local diner (PK Bach's, no longer extant) and drove around a lot. I had a car back then. It's the only car I've ever owned. Someday I will have to remedy that.
9 years ago the downtown area was losing businesses left and right, there were more empty store fronts than not, and the little 'mall' across from the library was empty but for one take-out Chinese place that I never tried.
It was kind of depressing to drive through.
Now it is a different town. Every store front along the main street is filled, and almost every store front on the streets crossing that one is filled also. There are people downtown, driving and walking around. Which creates no end of chaos as there is one stop light with no turn arrow and one 4-way stop sign and the rest is pretty much luck of the draw. Glad it's not me driving.
My mother knows everyone who works anywhere that she and my father spend money. Everyone. She knows about their kids and their vacation plans. We went to breakfast at the 9th Street Grill (assuming it's on 9th street, although lately my assumptions have been way off, so who knows? I blame the drugs, and the tireds, etc.) and she knew who was working and who was on vacation and why. It was a beautiful thing. She was explaining to us why there were only 2 people on as my father went up to grab our menu. I don't think they would have batted an eye if he'd got my cup of coffee at the time, but I didn't say anything. Didn't want folks thinking I was desperate for it, even though it had been over 2 weeks.
Been 2 weeks since I smoked, as well. I'm healing. I haven't quit. Don't go there with me.
Shopping with my parents was more than entertaining. Particularly the parts that involved driving across the street to go to the Pamida (boycott Wal-Mart) and then driving across the street to go to the Sun-Mart. We repeated the less than a block long drive from the post office to the gas station (that one I get) to the library, which has redone itself in the last 9 years and is much less standoffish than the one that I remember. To be honest, I don't think I could've made it, not after all that food in the morning time and then missing my 11 o'clock nap.
The library did not have the Bourne Identity, though it did have the Bourne Supremacy, and as I am feeling the need for espionage/spy type stuff, I went for it. Diving into the Ludlum. Save me from Tristram Shandy for a few hours!
Crete wouldn't be a bad town to live in, really. Particularly if they can keep Wal-Mart at bay and on the outskirts and maybe even gone away for lack of profit. I hope that they can, it's a nice little town that seems to be taking care of itself.
It does need a coffee shop.
Thursday, 23 August 2007
What the Dr. Said
My incision is healing just fine, I get to take the tapes off as they start curling up. My scar will be very neat and tidy, I think, with a little tear drop at the bottom.
I am very tired, which is what my life will be for the next 5 weeks, I am told. Particularly given "what you went through." There are only so many times a person can hear that from members of the medical profession before wondering just how bad things were that I am not expected to be fully recuperated a week and a half after surgery - it's just an appendix, right? So, I asked:
"How bad was it?" (this from me)
(my doctor said) "It was bad. If you'd waited any longer, you might not have survived the surgery."
I keep remembering that the important thing is that I'm alive, and that everyone involved in making me not die was good at their job and available at the time. However: I'm an emotional, mental, spiritual and physical shadow of my former self, I cry at the drop of a hat, my temper is shorter than a bald man's hair and I miss my cat.
Today is one of those days when I really wanted a sweetie, someone to tell me that the important thing is that I'm still alive and loved. Just to keep me from dwelling on the melodrama of "how close was it?" you know.
I am told that this all takes time. I am unused to allowing for time. I nap all day and find that eating takes more energy than it gives. I feel that this is become whining, it is all new to me, I am uncomfortable with my present state.
I am allowed to go back to work in about a week. I will have to start looking for jobs again.
My father, the person to whom I am listening for the first time in my life, suggests that it is more important to focus on healing than on anything else. He offered me the chance to come out here to rest and recuperate in safety and relative silence. I think it didn't hurt that I was bawling at the time and needed more than I could articulate.
This is just not my way. I need to be taken care of. Not emotionally supported, not believed in, not anything nice and intangible and cheap like having people around who have faith in me. I mean actually taken care of, with the laundry and food and reminders to bathe and a room in which I can sleep that is removed from the rest of the house and gentle conversation and time, lots of time.
I don't need to tell you that I am reminded of the people in this world who do not have the friends and family that I do who have been available and who have been gentle with me and given me space and safety and silence. I cannot imagine what the lives of people who do not have time to recover from something like this must be, how tired and worn down they must feel. The bills will be bad enough, at least my day-to-day isn't piling up on me as well.
I am alive to complain and hurt and read and feel. One of these days it will sink in and then my temper will explode and the rest of my life with it.
I am very tired, which is what my life will be for the next 5 weeks, I am told. Particularly given "what you went through." There are only so many times a person can hear that from members of the medical profession before wondering just how bad things were that I am not expected to be fully recuperated a week and a half after surgery - it's just an appendix, right? So, I asked:
"How bad was it?" (this from me)
(my doctor said) "It was bad. If you'd waited any longer, you might not have survived the surgery."
I keep remembering that the important thing is that I'm alive, and that everyone involved in making me not die was good at their job and available at the time. However: I'm an emotional, mental, spiritual and physical shadow of my former self, I cry at the drop of a hat, my temper is shorter than a bald man's hair and I miss my cat.
Today is one of those days when I really wanted a sweetie, someone to tell me that the important thing is that I'm still alive and loved. Just to keep me from dwelling on the melodrama of "how close was it?" you know.
I am told that this all takes time. I am unused to allowing for time. I nap all day and find that eating takes more energy than it gives. I feel that this is become whining, it is all new to me, I am uncomfortable with my present state.
I am allowed to go back to work in about a week. I will have to start looking for jobs again.
My father, the person to whom I am listening for the first time in my life, suggests that it is more important to focus on healing than on anything else. He offered me the chance to come out here to rest and recuperate in safety and relative silence. I think it didn't hurt that I was bawling at the time and needed more than I could articulate.
This is just not my way. I need to be taken care of. Not emotionally supported, not believed in, not anything nice and intangible and cheap like having people around who have faith in me. I mean actually taken care of, with the laundry and food and reminders to bathe and a room in which I can sleep that is removed from the rest of the house and gentle conversation and time, lots of time.
I don't need to tell you that I am reminded of the people in this world who do not have the friends and family that I do who have been available and who have been gentle with me and given me space and safety and silence. I cannot imagine what the lives of people who do not have time to recover from something like this must be, how tired and worn down they must feel. The bills will be bad enough, at least my day-to-day isn't piling up on me as well.
I am alive to complain and hurt and read and feel. One of these days it will sink in and then my temper will explode and the rest of my life with it.
Monday, 20 August 2007
well, i’m home again
Before anyone asks - I thought it was gas. How often does an appendix burst in a person in one lifetime anyway? Once. Max. Scared the fuck out of me and not looking forward to doing it again. Ever. Hospital food sucks. Except for the Jello. I love Jello.
Doctors were nice. The ER doc was impressed that I had held out against the pain for so long. Go me for being stubborn and cheap.
Spent 4 nights in hospital. Then 3 nights at UlaRobie's. Now am home. Pushed myself too far yesterday in a fit of being really pissed off and not wanting to be anywhere near this place. Today I am tired and frustrated that there was so little sleep in the night times.
Now there is a lovely feline on my lap. She is confused about why I keep moving her paws from certain places. She has grown into such a lovely cat, 'specially now that her face has lost its kitten roundness. I enjoy that she's as demanding about pets as she is some days. Truly cat-like behavior. The other adult cat is crashed out on the landing upstairs. She's back to looking like a snake with no scales. She's mostly crashed out all the time, unless she's meowling for no good reason.
I was going to head down to the library today (bus passes make us happy) but I am tired and would rather stay home and play with fabric and lie about and try to remember why I wanted to come back here in the first place.
Doctors were nice. The ER doc was impressed that I had held out against the pain for so long. Go me for being stubborn and cheap.
Spent 4 nights in hospital. Then 3 nights at UlaRobie's. Now am home. Pushed myself too far yesterday in a fit of being really pissed off and not wanting to be anywhere near this place. Today I am tired and frustrated that there was so little sleep in the night times.
Now there is a lovely feline on my lap. She is confused about why I keep moving her paws from certain places. She has grown into such a lovely cat, 'specially now that her face has lost its kitten roundness. I enjoy that she's as demanding about pets as she is some days. Truly cat-like behavior. The other adult cat is crashed out on the landing upstairs. She's back to looking like a snake with no scales. She's mostly crashed out all the time, unless she's meowling for no good reason.
I was going to head down to the library today (bus passes make us happy) but I am tired and would rather stay home and play with fabric and lie about and try to remember why I wanted to come back here in the first place.
Saturday, 11 August 2007
because i’m thinking about it
Why are some people so fucking blind to what's in front of them? Myself included, I guess, although, I have no desire to be corrected, thank you very fucking much.
Disrespect seems to come in waves, yes?
Still can't sneeze. Muscles won't let me. It would hurt them too much. Last time I couldn't sneeze, it took like three weeks.
Want to commit act of anger. Really do. Not sure what it oughta be. Not very good at outward anger (as has been posted before).
Don't like being all stooped over and tired and blah and blech. Don't like it at all.
Disrespect seems to come in waves, yes?
Still can't sneeze. Muscles won't let me. It would hurt them too much. Last time I couldn't sneeze, it took like three weeks.
Want to commit act of anger. Really do. Not sure what it oughta be. Not very good at outward anger (as has been posted before).
Don't like being all stooped over and tired and blah and blech. Don't like it at all.
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
rainy rainy morning
Not having the best of luck with early mornings this week. Today the fun started at 4:15 with monster cramps. Some ibuprofen and cuddles with a heating pad helped, but I still didn't get up until after 8.
Stupidly read my horoscope. Bad dumb horoscope. No coffee yet and the mail isn't here. Theoretically, I have nothing to do. Fortunately, I know better and can find plenty of trouble to get myself into. Moving of bound volumes. ooooo. Yeah, don't ask, it's a library thing.
No coffee. This is a problem. The Coffee House isn't far away, but still. It's outside. Which means walking. No. No. I have no need to walk.
Oh, yeah, I forgot - Ribfest is this weekend. Or, as one of my co-workers put it: Porkapalooza. This makes me happy.
Odd odd dreams. Wondering at the significance of the number of espionage related dreams I have, especially considering my lack of understanding of all things spy.
The mail was hiding in the elevator. Wish someone had told me it was a game of hide and seek. I would have run home and found a nice spot under my bed. No one would ever find me there.
Stupidly read my horoscope. Bad dumb horoscope. No coffee yet and the mail isn't here. Theoretically, I have nothing to do. Fortunately, I know better and can find plenty of trouble to get myself into. Moving of bound volumes. ooooo. Yeah, don't ask, it's a library thing.
No coffee. This is a problem. The Coffee House isn't far away, but still. It's outside. Which means walking. No. No. I have no need to walk.
Oh, yeah, I forgot - Ribfest is this weekend. Or, as one of my co-workers put it: Porkapalooza. This makes me happy.
Odd odd dreams. Wondering at the significance of the number of espionage related dreams I have, especially considering my lack of understanding of all things spy.
The mail was hiding in the elevator. Wish someone had told me it was a game of hide and seek. I would have run home and found a nice spot under my bed. No one would ever find me there.
Tuesday, 7 August 2007
ug and unh
I am finally beginning to feel rested, although I have been having very vivid and not entirely peaceful dreams. I would blame the novels I've been reading, but that would be a lie, and I'm feeling deceitful enough lately.
How could that be?
Well, because I find that not expressing anger, particularly at the person who behaved stupidly (no, not anyone who works for the city, never), is not honest. While I have no real compunction to obsessive honesty, I do have a need to behave genuinely. There is no room on my sleeve to display my heart - I like a neon sign, or tangible vibe. I do not want there to be a question. It's a thing. I don't like deceptive people. I do not particularly enjoy being deceptive. It makes my tummy icky and my mouth all bleckgue.
At the same time, I'm lazy. I don't really want to be the Person Who Does Stuff unless it has very minimal consequences that can be readily ignored by later generations. Only, my life sucks when I don't speak up. Trust me. And then I get angry. Only my anger tends to be directed at myself as I am not used to be angry out loud at people - are you seeing a pattern? I am. The emotion is there, only because it's not being directed where I believe that it belongs, it's getting directed at me, which leads to drinking and pathetic behavior and never getting around to telling someone how much what they are doing is accomplishing nothing good. Then it's back to being the Person Who Never Does Anything. Which is far worse.
Whine moan groan complain.
Please tell me that someone else is having this day?
Gotta be something going around, can't be just me.
Light at the end of the tunnel moment: kitten chasing tail, getting distracted by her shadow. Best part of the morning. Until I realized that I had enough punches on the cards for a free frou-frou drink at the Coffee House this morning. Good things still happen, and they just won't stop, no matter what I do. Sigh.
How could that be?
Well, because I find that not expressing anger, particularly at the person who behaved stupidly (no, not anyone who works for the city, never), is not honest. While I have no real compunction to obsessive honesty, I do have a need to behave genuinely. There is no room on my sleeve to display my heart - I like a neon sign, or tangible vibe. I do not want there to be a question. It's a thing. I don't like deceptive people. I do not particularly enjoy being deceptive. It makes my tummy icky and my mouth all bleckgue.
At the same time, I'm lazy. I don't really want to be the Person Who Does Stuff unless it has very minimal consequences that can be readily ignored by later generations. Only, my life sucks when I don't speak up. Trust me. And then I get angry. Only my anger tends to be directed at myself as I am not used to be angry out loud at people - are you seeing a pattern? I am. The emotion is there, only because it's not being directed where I believe that it belongs, it's getting directed at me, which leads to drinking and pathetic behavior and never getting around to telling someone how much what they are doing is accomplishing nothing good. Then it's back to being the Person Who Never Does Anything. Which is far worse.
Whine moan groan complain.
Please tell me that someone else is having this day?
Gotta be something going around, can't be just me.
Light at the end of the tunnel moment: kitten chasing tail, getting distracted by her shadow. Best part of the morning. Until I realized that I had enough punches on the cards for a free frou-frou drink at the Coffee House this morning. Good things still happen, and they just won't stop, no matter what I do. Sigh.
Saturday, 4 August 2007
Good, long morning
The phenomenon of all three of us being up and relatively active before 10 on a Saturday morning has me smiling and wanting to hide in my room to read and write and make lists and pray and ponder and plan.
The kittens are being very adorable and running all about like the small bundles of barely confined energy that they are. The constant distractions of little grown-ups. And Anne moved the microwave.
Caved in and checked out yet another book before leaving work yesterday. I am reading through our collection of Jose Saramago. The libraries have only the novels that have been translated into English. I am pleased that there are about 10 of them, but am discovering that I would rather read them in the Portuguese. The story isn't hampered by the translation, at least it reads clearly and well, but the language is so specific that I wonder how much of the poetry is lost. I suspect that my feeling is mostly inspired by my desire to learn another language. The motivation to travel frequently brings this need or desire to the fore of my thinking.
Today is a good day. I am glad to be in it.
The kittens are being very adorable and running all about like the small bundles of barely confined energy that they are. The constant distractions of little grown-ups. And Anne moved the microwave.
Caved in and checked out yet another book before leaving work yesterday. I am reading through our collection of Jose Saramago. The libraries have only the novels that have been translated into English. I am pleased that there are about 10 of them, but am discovering that I would rather read them in the Portuguese. The story isn't hampered by the translation, at least it reads clearly and well, but the language is so specific that I wonder how much of the poetry is lost. I suspect that my feeling is mostly inspired by my desire to learn another language. The motivation to travel frequently brings this need or desire to the fore of my thinking.
Today is a good day. I am glad to be in it.
Wednesday, 25 July 2007
Beautiful little story
In the midst of my recovery from The Book, I found a little small book by Jose Saramago and fell in love with it as I knelt in the aisle between the shelves not concerned with the other patrons, not feeling the need to take the little book out of the library with me, but feeling the need to finish the lovely tale before my dishy lunch with Andy.
The Tale of the Unknown Island.
It starts with a man petitioning the king for a boat.
Writing that could break through the fog that I'd walked in for two days, the beauty of it was stunning. It's a fairly quick read. A nice stop on the way to whatever else sucks.
The Tale of the Unknown Island.
It starts with a man petitioning the king for a boat.
Writing that could break through the fog that I'd walked in for two days, the beauty of it was stunning. It's a fairly quick read. A nice stop on the way to whatever else sucks.
Sunday, 22 July 2007
Well, of course I was right
The Book is read from cover to cover. In that order. Was informed last night that there is to be a gathering of folk to discuss on Friday, therefore a gag order is in place until then.
Not surprisingly, I am still recovering, after spending six hours at the Coffee House, barely moving, nose in book, almost totally unaware of anything going on around me - with the minor exception of the young woman who had picked up her copy, read the first page or so and then immediately got on her cell phone to call people and tell them she was reading it (hunh?!), and the man who sat down across the end table from me who was startled every time I giggled out loud. I do that. It happies me that I do it, but I can understand how it would be startling.
Anne has it right now, and I'm doing my best not to bombard her with questions. Failing miserably, of course. So, where are you in the book? Are you liking it? Etc.
I will not go on to drop hints or give spoilers or anything. I am not that person.
I am satisfied. And I was right. It is done.
Not surprisingly, I am still recovering, after spending six hours at the Coffee House, barely moving, nose in book, almost totally unaware of anything going on around me - with the minor exception of the young woman who had picked up her copy, read the first page or so and then immediately got on her cell phone to call people and tell them she was reading it (hunh?!), and the man who sat down across the end table from me who was startled every time I giggled out loud. I do that. It happies me that I do it, but I can understand how it would be startling.
Anne has it right now, and I'm doing my best not to bombard her with questions. Failing miserably, of course. So, where are you in the book? Are you liking it? Etc.
I will not go on to drop hints or give spoilers or anything. I am not that person.
I am satisfied. And I was right. It is done.
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