Fruit Punch Moments.
I can't work. Not this week. Two things I'm in the middle of are roadblocked, and I'm just . . . tired. Not physically, I'm actually restless and bored, just . . . emotionally, creatively. Yeah, there's this wellspring and yadda yadda yadda, and someday it'll all come gushing back, and there will be wine and roses and kittens romping in the
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You don't want cyber hugs; if you did I'd try to construct a really creative one - yanno, with graphics and everything - to try to reflect back what you've given me, without knowing it, with your creativity, for over a year now.
I'm not going to bang on about my mother, or any of that, because it always used to irritate the hell out of me when people did that about their own losses. It can only ever be sympathy - for true emapthy I'd have to be you and know everything your mother meant to you. Like you I still call my parental house 'home' and struggled with the grammar.
The dreams, however, often had a very British tinge to them. Other family representatives and I would gather in corners and murmur to each other: Erm, does she know she's dead? Gosh, how does one broach the subject? I don't remember us ever telling her - for the most part at first she seemed a pretty happy ghost, wandering around the house and asking us how our day had been. I remember regretting that in my dreams I'd always remember her in a nightie - didn't seem quite right somehow.
Dammit, I banged on about my mother. Bugger.
Anyway, another thing was about dreams in general, and control. Personally, I think that having too much control is never going to get us the release we need. I've lucidly dreamt, and enjoyed it, and will continue to enjoy every time it happens in the future, but never felt the need to master the skill - it seems to be against the point, somehow.
All of which rambling aside, hello, how's it going? You came into my mind very strongly recently, pre return to lj - a friend of mine was describing the plot to Brokeback Mountain, which has opened here in the UK lately...
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*cracks up*
I'm sorry. That's just flat-out hilariously British. Sad, yes, but . . . ah, how very human.
It's the grammar thing that bugs me the most, you know? I do so much of my expression through words, and when something like this happens, I'm just like "Well, NOW what am I supposed to do?"
It's been decidedly okay here, all things considered. News is slowly improving, I still have both legs, my husband has yet to die in a mutant attack, none of the cats are growing extra limbs.
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{helpless chuckling}
(odd - 'chuckling' is not a word you'd associate with 'helpless', but I don't know how else to describe the sound and the sensation...)
The grammar thing got more confusing for me when my dad remarried. Now, I hope, people know that when I say "my parents are" that it's about that pair (I got fed up of saying "my father and his wife," "my father and stepmother," "Daddy and Selwa," etc.). When I say "my folks were" it's about my biological parents.
How it's going to work when they've been married long enough for past tense creeps in, I've no idea. Luckily, my four-year-old sister (again, I hate qualifying it with half- or step- - she's important enough for me easily to be able to imagine killing/ thoroughly hurting/ incapacitating anyone who harmed her in anyway) tends to take most of our attention, and she's easy to grammar over.
Love the icon - but who's the woman in it?
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Relations are such an odd, mutable thing, and our language is pretty poorly equipped to describe even the most common complications.
(I'm told the girl in my icon is me, but I can't quite believe it, even though I was there when the picture was taken. *grin*)
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Heh, my brother takes great care to correct me "half-sister" when I say "your little sister." {eye-roll} Stubbornness is a Roberts trait like - like wow. She Herself has got to the stage where she is obsessed with familial relationships. Quite why it catches at my heart so when she concludes happily and loudly "we're sisters!" I'm still not sure. There's lots in there, about love and acceptance and belonging, and also, of course, the sure and certain knowledge that she wouldn't be alive if my mother had survived...
I wonder if there is a language which has it better. In Iraqi (or Arabic in general - I never know, and forget to ask each time) there is a distinction between, for example, 'uncle-who-is-my-mother's-brother' and 'uncle-who-is-my-father's-brother.' And it's just one word. Very efficient.
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I've found there's nothing quite as powerful as belonging, and in an age where so many of us don't have close familial ties, having that reasserted in a positive way is incredibly moving.
The pictures were totally taken in my dining room, next to an old lamp. But the light looks so golden it's amazing. (Big versions are here and here, complete with requisite really goofy faces.
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Brava! My Mom and stepDad are the parents of my younger halfsisters, and you can see how arsed I am about what's genealogically proper by the use of the itty bitty font. My father is not a very nice man; Dad was the one who earned the title, and everyone knows that Dad is my mother's second husband. The girls do not add up to equal one whole person, so I fail to see what's "half" about them.
(And when Dad fell ill, Mom found herself the head of household, and I found myself playing SisterMom to two pre-teens; thus ensuring that our family relationship chart looks like something that Lewis Carroll might have dreamed up.)
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