Broken Windows
This morning I woke up to a crash as my bedroom window fell out. I staggered out of bed to go outside and survey the damage and discovered that the cat vomit fairy had visited in the night. So before I had even properly awakened, I had to embark on impromptu home repairs and janitorial duty. There is no cat puke on the floor now, but we still have no window. Only some foam stuff covered with a tarp. Charming!
On the bright side, we got to worm the cats again last night. Now, those of you who think this is a horrible chore, you're just not looking at it right. It's like interactive theater! I mean, come on, two people, four cats, a red towel, and a bottle of giant blue pills . . . how is that not a recipe for comedy gold? During last night's performance alone I nearly had my finger taken off three times, was almost lacerated across the face when Matt came unmummified from the towel at the precise moment he became mentally unglued, we were treated to the Ode To Melancholy as sung in four-part cat harmony, and the whole performance ended with Sif feigning death throes, complete with lolling tongue and gagging. (No, she was not choking; I never got the pill past her tongue. She spit it out, launching it a good three feet, then began to try to convince us that the taste of it alone would KEEL HER.)
I finished another box today, a small glass-topped one with a celestial theme. I'll be putting the finishing touches on it tomorrow and taking pictures, I hope. Never done one quite like it. It's cute.
Something about the work soothes me . . . working with my hands, though my mind could wander, it doesn't. When I'm painting I become utterly still inside, and at its very best there are glorious hours where I'm just adrift. Writing is like that sometimes, but even at its most transporting it's still mentally exhausting, plunging yourself into the thoughtstream. There's never that sense of stillness, of quiet.
I'm feeling more . . . I don't know. In context, I guess, about Mom. I'm not okay by a long shot, but I think a lot of the missing feelings are coming back. I get overstimulated really easily now, though. I have to watch that. I'm tired, and cranky, and easily aggravated, and there are a lot of things I'm just . . . not in the mood for. I'll be fine one minute, and then the next minute I'll just have to be alone, or go home, or turn everything off and be someplace quiet for a while. I get stressed out by the stupidest things.
But I'm aware in a horrible sort of way of being strong. Of being stronger than I have ever, ever been. It's not a comfort. It's not something I want. It's just there: the knowledge that if I really had to, really wanted to, I could handle almost anything. Actually, it's part of what's made me irritable and angry with other people. Just because I've survived a horrible bloody gash and still kept going, it doesn't mean I don't respect my neighbor's pain when he stubs his toe. It doesn't even mean that he can't complain about it; I welcome the opportunity to comfort. It does mean I expect him to be able to get up and keep going. To paraphrase the Raisuli, I'm a woman of patience, but not unending.
I don't like feeling like that or thinking like that because it's quite obviously horrible and unfair to the people who unwittingly rouse my ire. That doesn't change the fact that . . . well . . . I feel that way. The petty things in life are pettier, the pathetic things are more pathetic, and the irritating things are more irritating. As though I've gone and turned the saturation setting way, way up on my emotional color levels.
Right now I'm going to try to get some work done on Vixen, which is not more than 15,000 words from finished. At my pace, that's barely a sprint. And if that fails, I've got porn-for-pay to write. It's not centering or meaningful, but it does help take the edge off things like broken windows.
I have a crappy new icon, too, as you'll notice. Lucian is lord of alpha-male cockmastery. Yes, he is.
On the bright side, we got to worm the cats again last night. Now, those of you who think this is a horrible chore, you're just not looking at it right. It's like interactive theater! I mean, come on, two people, four cats, a red towel, and a bottle of giant blue pills . . . how is that not a recipe for comedy gold? During last night's performance alone I nearly had my finger taken off three times, was almost lacerated across the face when Matt came unmummified from the towel at the precise moment he became mentally unglued, we were treated to the Ode To Melancholy as sung in four-part cat harmony, and the whole performance ended with Sif feigning death throes, complete with lolling tongue and gagging. (No, she was not choking; I never got the pill past her tongue. She spit it out, launching it a good three feet, then began to try to convince us that the taste of it alone would KEEL HER.)
I finished another box today, a small glass-topped one with a celestial theme. I'll be putting the finishing touches on it tomorrow and taking pictures, I hope. Never done one quite like it. It's cute.
Something about the work soothes me . . . working with my hands, though my mind could wander, it doesn't. When I'm painting I become utterly still inside, and at its very best there are glorious hours where I'm just adrift. Writing is like that sometimes, but even at its most transporting it's still mentally exhausting, plunging yourself into the thoughtstream. There's never that sense of stillness, of quiet.
I'm feeling more . . . I don't know. In context, I guess, about Mom. I'm not okay by a long shot, but I think a lot of the missing feelings are coming back. I get overstimulated really easily now, though. I have to watch that. I'm tired, and cranky, and easily aggravated, and there are a lot of things I'm just . . . not in the mood for. I'll be fine one minute, and then the next minute I'll just have to be alone, or go home, or turn everything off and be someplace quiet for a while. I get stressed out by the stupidest things.
But I'm aware in a horrible sort of way of being strong. Of being stronger than I have ever, ever been. It's not a comfort. It's not something I want. It's just there: the knowledge that if I really had to, really wanted to, I could handle almost anything. Actually, it's part of what's made me irritable and angry with other people. Just because I've survived a horrible bloody gash and still kept going, it doesn't mean I don't respect my neighbor's pain when he stubs his toe. It doesn't even mean that he can't complain about it; I welcome the opportunity to comfort. It does mean I expect him to be able to get up and keep going. To paraphrase the Raisuli, I'm a woman of patience, but not unending.
I don't like feeling like that or thinking like that because it's quite obviously horrible and unfair to the people who unwittingly rouse my ire. That doesn't change the fact that . . . well . . . I feel that way. The petty things in life are pettier, the pathetic things are more pathetic, and the irritating things are more irritating. As though I've gone and turned the saturation setting way, way up on my emotional color levels.
Right now I'm going to try to get some work done on Vixen, which is not more than 15,000 words from finished. At my pace, that's barely a sprint. And if that fails, I've got porn-for-pay to write. It's not centering or meaningful, but it does help take the edge off things like broken windows.
I have a crappy new icon, too, as you'll notice. Lucian is lord of alpha-male cockmastery. Yes, he is.