A new year.

The beginning of November feels like a new year for me.

A lot has happened in my life since I have been writing steadily.

We moved. We moved into a bigger house, and the space for my computer moved to a central spot. More exposed to the entire house. And writing, even these dumb blog posts, seems like such a private and personal act, it felt so odd to have my space be in the middle of my family's living space. And so, I stopped writing. The time was never right, or the desk became a landing zone for mail that built up and built up, or. Or I had so many excuses at the ready.

A very dear friend moved back to the area. A very dear friend who means a great deal to me.
I am not ready to write about that.

Spring came. It was marvelous and rocky and harrowing and fun and crazy-making. So, normal.
Summer was good. And marvelous and rocky and harrowing and fun and crazy-making. Also normal.
And then my cat was injured. And never fully recovered. He died in my arms, a Monday night at the end of August. He wasted away to nothing but skin and bones. As he rattled out his last breath, I was in the arms of someone who cared for me. In a house with a solid roof and food and heat and toys and computers and clothes. I can count all of these things, yes. I am lucky. I am so lucky. And my darling little cat still wasted away to nothing but fur and skin and bones and I did not do enough, spend enough money to save his short life.

That night the three of us buried him in the back yard. Nick managed to find a place clear enough for a little grave, and by torchlight, I let go of my little black cat for the last time. Limp and dead in my arms, and I did not want to believe that he was really gone. I wanted to think that he was just asleep, and have it be true. I wanted him to wake up when I shoveled the first bit of dirt and sand on top of him, and be angry with us and go sulk on the fence.

Wanting a thing will not make it so. No matter how hard or fiercely you want a thing.

The three of us sat around the fire pit, and mourned the cat's death. Comfort through beer and fire and a certain kind of closeness that only happens around a small fire at night.

A week later, I found out about a friend's passing. The following week, a family member went into hospice.

I cried a little for my cat. I cried a lot for my friend. I did not cry for my grandfather.

I broke. I broke into many little pieces, over and over again. I could not stop breaking, and I could barely find enough hands to hold all the pieces. So, I gathered them up as best I could, and I contracted. Into my shell, me and my pieces. I hid them away, hid myself away, and I think that the wounds have scabbed over now. I am not healed, I am not better. But my armor is returning.

Happy new year.

I'm still here.

I thought I was going to sleep, but I had a thought. I wanted to say that I'm still here, and hoo boy, do I have a doozy. I'm not going into it now, but I'm still here.

<3

Gender Performance II: This time we mean business

Last time, I pretty much just stuck with my past experiences, and how I came around to my understanding of gender performance—maybe not even that far. Well, let’s do that now.

(A disclaimer—I don’t have any education in this area. All of the following comes from my own experiences and reflection on those experiences. Please excuse any ignorance that may be apparent.)

What is my understanding of gender performance? To me, it’s really all about communication—when it is all boiled down, clothing really is the first and most immediate form of communication, albeit one-sided communication. I have to fess up and acknowledge that this has really come into focus thanks to television—namely the shows What Not To Wear and RuPaul’s Drag Race. For serious. With What Not to Wear, the stylists stress the importance of acknowledging that clothing is communication—how quicker to communicate what you value than through your choice in clothing? Nearly everything about a person could be known by careful examination of one’s garb—with a fair amount of assumption.

When watching Drag Race, or really, any amount of drag entertainment, I found myself really thinking about what traits of general female gender performance were chosen to perform, what traits were heighten, and why those traits were chosen above others. In all honesty, the after I watched my first season (which was the second season) of Drag Race, I had a small existential crisis—these men were better at being a woman than I was. What did that say about me? What kind of woman did I want to be? What kind of woman did I want others to see? What happens when you dress the outside to reflect what’s on the inside? Turns out, dressing the outside like the inside feels is rather freeing. I’ve written about this before, but I’ve had an uneasy relationship with my body, and really, not until I encountered this show and had a small crisis of identity, did I really come around to wanting to love my body. I’ve always known that I’ve needed to love my body, but there can be an immense chasm between knowing that one should do something and doing that thing. And, in the words of the wise RuPaul, “if you don’t love yourself, how in the hell you gonna love somebody else?”

So. Connecting these dots, knowing that gender is a performance leads to self love? Well, yes, that can be true. And knowledge is power. And in a society that is set up to systematically marginalize women who don’t make a concerted effort to fight back, I want to equip my daughter with as much power as I can.

When my Darling Monster was first learning body parts, I thought about what to teach her about her genitalia. After waffling a bit with euphemisms, we settled on the correct anatomical names. Vulva, vagina. At bath time, she washes her own vulva--Mom and Dad make sure that she is the one in control when it comes to regular maintenance. We say, often, that it’s okay to play with your vulva! When navigating this idea with my husband, I wanted desperately to get across was that my daughter, at the tender age of three, needs to know that her body is her own, because my fear is that if she doesn't have ownership of her body, someone else could.

So. Two fundamental basics: a person must take ownership of their body, if only at least to prevent others from doing so, and any body is amazing and worthy of love. A good foundation for life, let alone learning how one can express one's self.

How do I tie that in with gender performance? Gently, I believe. Here's something to start, at the very, very least:

To my Darling Monster,
It's vital to dress and behave in a way that makes you happy, and that doesn't hurt others around you. Everyone has a right to feel happy and safe, especially you. It is also important to understand what ideas one communicates thought one's clothing. People will always make decisions about how they can and can't treat you based on your appearance, and it's important to understand what your appearance says to other people. It's more important that you are happy and safe. If you choose to dress or behave in a way that will illicit a certain type of response, it's important that you are prepared for it. You can change how you look and you can change how you act, and you can even change what may or may not affect you on the surface, but you can't ever change another person. I want to protect and shelter you for your whole life, but I can't do that. I can help you to be confident in who you are and confident in the world around you, and I can hope that that is enough.
     XOXO
        Your Darling Mother


I may refine this a bit before we dive in.

Girl, you'll be a woman soon.

Well, not that soon. Also, that song is freakin' creep-tastic.

I've been thinking on how to explain gender and gender performance to my darling Monster. She came at me with 'boys say "poop"; girls don't say "poop"' in the car on the way home from school the other day. We then had a conversation consisting nearly entirely of the word poop, and how yes, girls can say poop, and how really, as long as one is reasonably polite and well-informed, one should be able to say what one would like. The conversation turned to the subject of snacks before we really had a chance to delve.

I've been personally contemplating gender and gender performance lately, as well. I came of age in the 'Grrls ruuule!" time, which really seems to be a backlash against the hyper-femininity of the eighties, which came as a backlash against the androgyny of the seventies, which arose out of the women's movement in backlash to the sudden change in the social dynamic when the boys came home from WW2 and the women had to move on over, Johnny here needs that job. So get back in the kitchen, and look, Hollywood will make it all look fabulous. In a nutshell. It really seems that attitudes towards women and the roles that women play (painting large strokes here, I know) are all reaction to what transpired the generation before.

Anyhow, I seemed to go off on a tangent. I was saying that I came of age in the 90s and for much of my teenage years (oh gawd, teenage years) both tried to eschew and embrace all things feminine and girly. To paint a clearer picture, the icon that I looked up to was Marilyn Manson. Makeup wise, as well. (Yes, I looked ridiculous.)

I didn't really have an understanding of gender performance. I sort of thought that you were what you displayed--there was no option for playing a part. Also, my passions and hobbies all required a certain style of dress--paint clothes! Jeans and work boots! Getting dirty clothes! I wore those clothes for so long, I think I had forgotten that I could dress any other way, and I think that I came to view dressing "girly" was a sign of weakness. I needed to communicate my strength and ability to everyone, in as plain a way as possible, and that did not involve skirts. Or heels.

Heels. That's another tangent, and we are exploring that one. I'm tall. Just kissing six feet. My best friends in school were 5' 8" at best, putting me a good 2 or three inches above most everyone--and let me tell you, that when you're a teenager who wants nothing more than to be able to fit  in to a group, always looming above anyone doesn't do a whole lot for self-confidence. A good portion of the crushes I had were on people who were merely taller than I, and height isn't the best indicator of what kind of a person someone is. Hence, I stayed away from heels, mostly. I'd wear a pair or two, and feel super awkward, and then retreat to my work boots or sneakers until the next blue moon. I have just now discovered that I can wear heels that are "comfortable" (come on, what heel is actually comfortable?) and that I feel secure in holding the perceived power that comes with added stature.

Due to the nature of where I work now--a relaxed office environment--I've now really started branching out. I've always admired styles or trends, while not really changing what my personal style is. I've sort of had the 'well, that looks great, but I couldn't wear that because I'm too big/tall/whathaveyou" mentality. I've just now empowered myself to change how I present myself to reflect what I want to communicate.

And that brings me back: how do I teach my darling Monster about communication through gender performance? I guess, in a word: carefully.

Candy Crush is killing my creativity.

I get sucked into Candy Crush, that addictive little match-three Facebook game. Well, Candy Crush, and the rest of the internet. I get home, feed the Monster, (usually) clean the dishes (and if I'm really gung-ho, some other chores as well, but only once in a great while, I will readily admit), and do bedtime stuff--bathing, teeth brushing, hair braiding--with the Monster. Then the real fun of Let's See How Many Books Mom Can Read and Still Maintain Patience and Sanity Before the Monster Falls Asleep begins. Seriously, I've been reading for an hour before the little terror darling child will go to sleep. When I finally emerge, the glorious victor, there is nothing I want more than flashing lights and rewarding little melodies to lull me into a sense of accomplishment, all while enjoying the singular joy of only being concerned about how I am going to wipe out that stupid chocolate that's taking up all my moves, dammit.

I would love nothing more than to move on with all these projects in my head. I have some really neat ideas, but my only problem is that of time. Boo hoo, everyone has a time crunch, everyone has responsibilities, everyone has to negotiate limited time and limited resources--is what I think when I start feeling down about it. Which, if anyone out there has dealt with depression just a teeny tiny bit, knows that that's the kind of thinking that really doesn't help to motivate. At least, not in my case. Boo hoo, I'm not a special case, I might as well give up. And then I click the little pink 'try again' button, and the board fills up with those cute little candies.

I would love to be productive in my creativity. I would love to add more to my 'done' stack. And this is a running theme in this blog. My struggles with time, creative space, mothering, and basically, living as an adult. WAH.

I think I just need to go on a Candy Crush diet. Not cold turkey, mind you. Sometimes mama needs a little sugar. Er, aesthetically pleasing, sugar-themed match three game, that is. But I think I need to make my limited time on the internet more limited, and definitely more meaningful. Plenty of people are consuming awesome content--someone else can take my place there. I need to spend more time creating general awesome.

Seeing some changes

Not big changes, but noticeable changes. Like, the towel that I take to the gym: it used to just barely overlap--just enough overlap so I wouldn't be parading my rolls all over the changing room. Yesterday, I noticed that it overlapped a bit more, and all the way down, over my hips. My winter jacket had been edging toward a tad snug, over my hips again, and now there's a lot more room when I close it.

I've tried to make changes to my body before, but something just wouldn't work out, and back to the old habits I'd go, gleefully at times. Something's different this time. Aside from the odd moment few and far between, I haven't felt ashamed to be eating something. I can't say why I've been ashamed, or why I don't feel that way now, but why ask why? At this stage, I'll be glad to feel good, and feel good about feeling good.

I've spent some time thinking about why I've wanted to make these changes, and this time it's different from before (which may be why the changes are sticking a bit better). When feeling uncomfortable in my body, I've asked why, and kept asking why: I want to wear a thing, but I can't. Why do I want to wear that thing? Because this thing looks like how I feel inside (cute, flirty, silly, sexy, or what-have-you). Why can't I wear it? Because I don't feel comfortable in it. Why don't I feel comfortable. Because I don't like the way that I look. Why don't I like it? Because I don't think that I look attractive. Who don't I look attractive to? Myself. Does that mean that I'm not attractive? No. Can I change how I feel about myself? Yes, with work. Can I change how I look? Yes, with work. Can I love myself, no matter what I look like? Absolutely. Do I love myself, no matter what I look like? I try, and I think I'm getting there.

Why am I trying to change how I look? Because I want to look good.What does good look like? What metric will I use to determine good?

We shall see.

Small struggles

Stop.

Why are you eating? Are you hungry, or are you bored? Are you lonely? Are you sad? Are you happy? Are you angry? Are you angry because you keep eating? Which ones are reasons to eat?

What are you eating? Are you going to secretly wish that you could throw up after eating that because whatever you've decided to eat is terrible? When you feel shame looking at food that you really shouldn't eat, why do you eat it? Because of the shame?

If it's a problem, can you recognize it as a problem?

Yes.

Are you powerless to stop yourself?

No.

Will you change this behavior?

I will try.

One down...

And seventy million to go. Not really. Really, it's more like hundreds. Projects. That pattern that I was working on (and whining about) the other day is corrected and submitted! I rewarded myself with some knitting and period British soaps.

alright. I've finished something by deadline and written a (token) post about it.

Holiday Cookies!

I am a lucky lady, and I was able to get myself a pretty neato camera for myself for my birthday, back in November. It's not terribly fancy, but I like it. I've been trying to document happenings and whatnot, for me, for photo albums, and for the blog. Well, now that I have a minute really should be sleeping, I thought I would get a start on uploading the photos.

Before Christmas/Isaac Newton's Birthday, the Monster and I made my favorite holiday treat, Candy Cane Chocolate Chip Cookies!

Jump for photos!

Quiet

when the tv is hushed
and the dryer is done
the kitchen clock keeps time in quartz
and,
above the rustle of my hair on my pillow
above the hum of the ceiling fan in the next room
above the drone of the fridge
above my heart, beating in my ears,
there is
an ocean
drumming out of time
onto the sand

Math isn't hard

...but working out what you were thinking over a year ago when you probably weren't getting enough sleep to properly express a thought, and now you certainly don't have enough brain power left at the end of the day to suss out what your sleep-deprived brain was thinking--that is hard.

I have a knitting pattern that I am writing for (how exciting) publication in a book being produced by my LYS, and I am thisclose to being done with it, but for those niggling little errors. Ack. Thanks be to the wonderful tech editor who's catching all the errors, but mother of purl, I want to be done. This will be my first pattern, and I don't want ANY errata associated with any of my knitting patterns (it happens, I know, but let's not on the first go), and I know that the LYS also is not a fan of errata. So, that's what I'm doing.

Pacing myself. This is what this looks like. I'm going to go to bed before I get in too deep and screw it all up. I have time set aside to work on this tomorrow.

A Snail's Pace

Holy mother of pearl, what the what.

Oh, I've been neglecting the blog dreadfully. I've been composing a photo-dump post, in my head, and I even found the cable thingy and attached the camera, and installed Picasa, and, well, that's as far as I got. 

I have about a million zillion projects that I've been trying to finish up--only recently did I manage to finish hemming a pair of pants for the Nick, a pair of pants that he asked me to hem (and got stashed on my sewing desk) before Halloween. This past weekend, I had whatever bug was going around, and was knocked flat on my kiester. For one day, when Grandma was able to hang out with the Monster, I even got to rest for a bit. (After dropping the lovely Monster off at Grandma's house, I stopped by the drugstore to pick up some necessities, and holy mackerel, don't try to go shopping when you are sick. That is one of the worst times for decision-making, and staring at a shelf full of granola bars while a dial tone goes off in your head, well, that's just a terrible idea.) I did rest. I frogged a baby sweater that wasn't ever going to get finished, and frankly, is too small for the recipient, and in between episodes of my favorite British murder and sci-fi shows that I dozed off to, I thought about my creative self. (The sewing desk was right in my eyeline, so that might have helped a bit.) This is what I came up with:

I can be crafty, but I must not expect anything faster than a snail's pace.

WHAT? I'll never get anything done at that pace!

Yes you will; you aren't the knitting Xeno.

You mean the Greek philosopher who stated that one cannot get from point A to point B because first, one must cross half the distance between the two points, and first half that distance, and the first half that distance and so on?

Yes, shut up, we all knew that because we are all educated here.

What do you mean, expect no more than a snail's pace?

I mean that I don't have time to screw off with, and also expect to accomplish anything. My time is now finite, and little. You know that.

Yes, that's true. There's not so much now.

And rather than be disappointed when I don't accomplish the impossible, I should expect the possible.

That's crazy talk!

Shut your face! You're the crazy one, talking to yourself all the time.

Yep, I'm the crazy one. I would roll my eyes at you, but there isn't a mirror handy.

Anyhow, snail's pace. I can accomplish a lot, but only a bit at a time.

So, you're giving yourself permission to pace yourself?

Essentially, yes, that's what I'm doing.

You picked an odd way to deliver that revelation. Seriously, this is pretty anti-climatic.

No it's not, and critiquing a work in the middle of a work isn't meta. It's annoying, and hackneyed, really.

Your face is hackneyed.

~~~

So. I can travel at a snail's pace, and it's okay. I'll get to where I need to go, and in the time that I have. I will work on my ADOS (Attention Deficit--ooh, shiny! as my sister jokes) and document my ideas when I get them. The thing is, I get excited about a thing, and want to do the thing OMG right then and drop everything else. So, I'll endeavor to document my ideas as I get them, and hopefully be able to organize them, and be able to come back to them when both the idea and myself are ready,

Foul, non sequitur*

So, I guess I wasn't quite back on the horse. This post will be a bit disjointed.

So sorry, Gentle Readers, to leave you hanging with no new writings. I've had some things to process, and then a holiday happened, and then another holiday happened, and well, I am a master procrastinator. But I'll tell you about that later.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There's an amazing amount of depressive procrastination that can set in when a project ends. It is rather amazing. It's almost like a post-partum of sorts (I have lady bits and manufactured a human with them, so I can say that). I devote so much of my time, energy, sanity and whole self to one thing for a certain amount of time, that when that thing is done or over, I almost don't know what to do with myself after that. I guess that it's a good thing that I can immerse myself into a project, and do it to the very best of my ability, but it gets exhausting. And then I need to work a full day, and care for the aforementioned small human. Who is bright and completely awesome, but still exhausting all on her own. Maybe I should start getting weekly lottery tickets.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

One of the things that I am paying the piper for now is that I never really had a career path, not a 'practical' career path. I went to a vocational theater school, and then took accounting adult ed classes after getting laid off from a retail job, and cobbled together a bookkeeping background by working for my husband's family in their various ventures. Now I have all these ideas for things to do that I am passionate about, but I don't have any time at all to do them in, so I just have to hope that I want to work on them when the time is available. Inspiration doesn't have a long shelf life. I don't know that this creative frustration is a product of not having a piece of paper, or just a product of being a functioning adult who is contributing to society. Either way, creatively frustrated, and blaming it on lack of time to devote to all the ideas that are cropping up.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Gah. Am writing this in a coffee shop--typical, I know, shut up--and my table is facing a table where there are couple of young kids studying. I've been staring over the top of my laptop screen while thinking, but it looks like I'm staring at them, and now I'm pretty sure that they think I'm a creeper. And I can't approach them and say 'hey, I totally wasn't staring at you, I'm just staring into space, and you happen to be right above my laptop screen, and I'm really not a creeper. Am I concerned because there is someone in this room who might not like me? Does it matter if a complete stranger, who I may never cross paths with again, has a less than stellar opinion of me, a complete stranger? This sounds like normal human stuff. I'll chalk it up to normal human stuff.

Also, IT'S FREEZING IN HERE. FREEZING. So, with that, until next time, Gentle Readers.

*If you didn't get this reference, please find Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead, the play by Tom Stoppard in either written or film form. As of this post publishing, the 1990 film is on Netflix. Seriously, go watch it.

Blarg

I've been composing a blog post for a few days. Maybe this little blip will kickstart this process.

Haven't given up the ghost completely...

...yet.

Hello again, gently readers.

I've been composing this post in my head for the past few days, and have been thinking about my poor, abandoned blog for even longer. I'll admit it, I was slightly embarrassed that after all my bluster that I had to let go of not one, but two projects. Boo hoo. Only not really.

So, a bit of a recap: there was a trash-fashion show that I competed in--I've been participating every year since it started, but this was the first one where I modeled.

bad cell phone photo

another bad photo of sleeves!

bustle!

And here's the finished outfit!

The first photos are poor quality, yes, but you get the gist, and this was the only photo I got of my complete outfit! I did not plan for documentation. Bad one on my part. Anyhow, the top is a bra with bottle caps (from across the country!), the corsety-bustier thing is out of heat-treated potato bags, and the skirt, bustle, veil,  and sleeves are made from onion bags.

I had been working away on this project despite my body deciding to not play fair: the week before I had some close contact with dogs that I don't know, I'm quite allergic to dogs and paid the price for that; and the week leading up to the show a cold decided that it was the perfect time to wage war. Side note: though zinc-heavy remedies can be super awesome, they make you feel fun-kay. Blech. That's why I hadn't been posting in the blog as much--I have super limited time after the monster goes to bed, and between allergic reations, colds, trashion shows, and, well, cats on the internet, I hadn't had a lot of time for blogging. Boo.

Now that the trashion show is over, I have been re-thinking my projects. I have a few irons in the fire, just in regular life, and I have been having doubts as far as adding another one to the pile. Of iron. So, I'm not. Adding one. To the fire. I've decided to not participate in NaNoWriMo.

What? you ask.  But you've been talking about that in your blog for a long time!

That's true. I have.

Are you the type of gal to string a reader on?

Maybe, but I don't try to be.

Why drop this one, and not one of the other 'irons' in your 'fire?' Hmm?

Well, a) I don't appreciate the tone you're taking with the quotes there, buddy. Watch it , or I might not let you ask any more questions.

Noted.

And b) it's more of a last in, first out kind of order. NaNoWriMo is the youngest project, so it can chill. I didn't register as a participant, so I'm not dragging down the success rate of the project. There are plenty of other people who will start and not finish.

You mentioned that you had let go of two projects, but you have more. Do you want to elaborate?

Not yet--some I can't expand on yet (SQUEE), and some I will, but in future posts. I can't blow my wad all at once--gotta keep it going for a little while, eh?

What does abandoning projects that you speak about publicly do to your reputation on your blog?

Nuthin. Key phrase is 'your blog.' (How do you like them quotes now?) My blog, my rules. This interview is OVER.

Don't worry, gentle reader: since this exchange happened in my head, I totally flipped over the imaginary table. That's the only way to end an interview like that.

And that's the end of my post. Only time will tell if I'm actually back on the horse.

An Apology to Froderick.

I broke up with my best friend. Nearly five years ago, and holy fuck, was I an idiot. Had I known that it's nearly impossible to replace the kind of relationship that we had, I might have thought, for a half a second, about what I was doing, and how that would impact both our lives.

Of course, I can't really remember what was such a goddamned big deal that I thought it best to break it off with her. For ease, I'll call her Froderick. There was some sort of drama in our little circle of friends, but I can't remember what it was. How stupid to throw away such an intense friendship over something that I can't remember.

I've been thinking about her more and more lately. I've half-heartedly reached out a couple of times in the past few years, hoping to, I don't know, patch things up? Maybe. Apologize? Yes, especially now.

This past week, a friend passed away. He was a friend of my husband's, since their awkward high school days. I met him in the halcyon days of the coffee shop, where I met my husband, and would while away hours with Froderick, doing crossword puzzles together, drinking lots of coffee and smoking lots of cigarettes. He was a good one. He shouldn't have died. He should still be here.

He had moved out of the area, and after the move, I hadn't seen him at all, save for just this past August, on a random trip to the grocery store, one of the few times that I had my Monster in tow. He was up visiting, with his two children, and the three kids played for the few minutes that we were chatting, playing a quick set of Catch-Up. I was in a hurry to do something, I don't remember what it was now. And now, in the blink of an eye, he's gone forever.

What do you do after someone goes before their time? You hold those close to you, in my case, mandate that no one you love is allowed to travel in any method that does not involve them being on the inside of a steel cage, and mourn. His passing has brought those coffee shop days back to mind, and with them, Froderick too. I miss her even more, and perhaps more because part of me is pretty sure that we'll never get to be friends again. I don't want that to be the case, but that's not how things go in this world. All I can do is apologize, and wish her well.

Froderick, if you are reading this: I'm so sorry, from the bottom of my heart. I miss you terribly, and I was a colossal idiot to be so mean. I hope you can forgive me, a little bit, at least.

Things early on a Monday

1. The internet is working again (no thanks to the provider, it seems), yet I am on my phone again. Glutton for punishment?

2. I an up early.

3. I dropped off on running, but I am going out today.

4. It's nearly officially fire-in-the-woodstove season.

Just a quick little post

...while I take my lunch break at work.

Some way or other, I have managed to get my personal project stack sky-high again. I recently cleaned out my projects and commitments, and whoosh, there they go again. Albeit this time, the only projects that I have on a deadline are few, and those deadlines are up before Christmas. the rest are work-on-them-when-I-want-to projects, thankfully.

I guess I need to be creating something. My mediums have changed throughout the years, and as they change, I am getting to be more and more central to the art. I don't know about that. Growing up, I kind of dreamed a bit of being famous, but I really don't want to be noticed, a lot of the time. PARADOX, NO?

Gah. Don't really have time to delve into this, dear readers. That's your little tidbit for now. Maybe the internets will be fixed at home, but I'm not holding my breath.

Ta-ta, dahlings.

The internet

...if being a jerk. A jerky jerkface jerk. I'm composing this from my phone, so please excuse any silly typos. Also, in the future, we write things ON OUR PHONES. THAT AREN'T ATTACHED TO A WIRE. ooooOOOOO.

There's a project I've started to dream up, one that I am hoping to work out a bit with NaNoWriMo, and I can't do research at home, because of our internet woes. We've talked to the internet company, ads were blown off. Gah. And I don't have time to just stop by a coffee shack and hang out whenever I want. Gah. I guess I'll have to make notes and get information from books. Like it's the 20th century or something.

Okay. I have to sleep, and this kind of input is killing my wrist, oddly enough. Think speedy internet thoughts for me. Because the internet runs on MIND POWER. (With mind bullets!)

Cleaning up the joint!

I live in this little, teeny, tiny 'town,' which is more accurately described as a place where a bunch of people built a bunch of houses a hundred years ago (yes, on a dune,) so that they would have a workforce that didn't have any excuse for not showing up to the mill on time. I live in a former company town. The local industrial history is a story for another time, but there is a story there, so remind me about that one later, gentle readers.

Anyhow, this teeny tiny company town had been pretty much derelict and neglected by the property managers or owners or whoever until a local group of property developers, builders and managers bought the whole town, kit and kaboodle. They got rid of (most of) the meth kitchens and pot grows, fixed up the houses so that they could be habitable, and started renting them out, with an eye toward building more housing, and a business park, as well as a park. Yay, rescuing historical places! The neat thing is that they have educated their workforce on historical restoration, and have been working toward fixing up the whole town. Which is a slow-going process. And in the meantime, the economy kind of took a nosedive. I don't know what this means for their long-term plans, but we are getting off on a tangent.

So, my street. When we moved in, we thought that the neighbors were a little bit on the crazy side, but after clicking around on YouTube, I have decided that my neighbors are complete angels. (There are some real assholes out there, and they don't live next door to me. Thanks be to the Flying Spaghetti Monster.) Then the Young Bucks moved in at the top of my street. Some of the Young Bucks have ladies and babies running around (two of the ladies were engaged in fisticuffs the other day), but they all want to hang out with their cheap beer and naked babies in the middle of the road. The narrow, one-way road. Thanks, neighbors. The Young Bucks have a couple of cars that I am pretty certain are non-op, hanging out, full of junk, in their driveways. Their beer-can collection is in the front of the house. And, it's the first thing folks see when they come to my house. Thanks, neighbors, for that first impression of blight-ishness. That's priceless.

So, the other day, I got a form letter from the property management company, telling the tenants that, hey, dudes, there's a bunch of junk and stuff lying around, so ya'll had better get that shit taken care of, or we'll take care of it, and charge the lazy jerkwads for the trouble. (I may be paraphrasing.) This letter made my little heart sing. The abandoned vehicles? Getting towed! The funky yards? Getting mowed! The crazy amount of toys cluttering up the street? Getting stowed!

Now, if they would just finish painting the house that they had started on before I moved out here. Two years ago.

Alrighty, it's time for me to do nighttime stuff. Like sleeping.
Bon nuit, mes petites choux.