There were two tarot cards that I meant to make.
The first was 'THE FORGOTTEN SOLDIER'. I'm not sure I ever even worked out exactly what that stood for. The second was 'ICE AGE'. It stood for stasis: for things being stuck, and perhaps too for emotions being buried.
Definitely have the feeling of that card ruling my life right now.
I have had a lamentable habit through my adult life of *waiting* for things. Waiting for the end of the month to find out if I can pay rent. Waiting to be called to the Oast, waiting to go back to London. Waiting for my depression to sod off or for me to reach one final and very bloody night. Waiting for sleep, waiting for the dawn. Waiting for ghosts. Waiting for the date of a plane flight, a marriage, a funeral... and now another plane flight. (Although in truth it isn't even a plane flight yet. I'm waiting for forms and rulings, then I'll wait for medical exams and interviews and then, maybe, I'll wait for a plane ticket.)
A lot of this waiting bullshit is entirely my own fault for being a flakey wench who lives for art and stories and has failed to sell her dodgey creations to the world (nor in the mean time get any sort of qualification or skill that would make her employable). Being terminally short on cash does increase the waiting game, which never bothered me much in the past.
Neurons are getting quite fidgety and unhappy about it now however.
Most people are settled in a job and have their own place and (often) a family by the time they hit 36. (Or a coffin, in the case of one of my favourite individuals.) In contrast, I feel myself spread thin. Beloved books, clothes and objects boxed in a country-house attic. Furniture in a London flat. Husband and cat in Hawai'i... I'm trying to get back to FarFarAway, yet ultimately K yearns to return to the UK... Everything is sixes and sevens. But perhaps, considering I'm still undecided about children, have no idea whether I'd rather live in Hawai'i or the UK and have 'wastrel' as my profession, I really shouldn't be so angsty.
On to far more important things.
I am in need of something to lose myself in and something to love.
In grandiose metaphor: I need to build citadels of art to live in, and I need to find labyrinths (usually of fiction) to love and loose myself in. If I don't have those I have a tendency to become a misanthropic/bleeding/drunken wreck. The 18th C sheltered me for a while: research, cooking, BBC dramas, dress-up, writing. But now, for several reasons that door has closed and I can't open it currently.
I've been trying to distract myself with Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, but all I seem to have achieved is a wish to be a cursed, bug-nuts magician in a swooshy coat. (Neurons adore Bertie Cavel's Strange, but I think a lot of that is a weird sort of envy.)
I spent quite a while today trying to source decent black chenille fabric (of which neurons are certain his coat is made). Also eyeing up Armstreet.com historical and whimsical linen dresses. Why? because when neurons don't fancy being me they want to play dress-up. Also, what with all the supplies for the fete I've bought I'm set to get 150quid back that I'd written off.
It is self indulgent to spend them on dresses or fabric. I just can't think of anything more sensible or likely to cheer me up. Other than laudanum or a free pass to other realms, or a license to hex maybe...
Definitely have the feeling of that card ruling my life right now.
I have had a lamentable habit through my adult life of *waiting* for things. Waiting for the end of the month to find out if I can pay rent. Waiting to be called to the Oast, waiting to go back to London. Waiting for my depression to sod off or for me to reach one final and very bloody night. Waiting for sleep, waiting for the dawn. Waiting for ghosts. Waiting for the date of a plane flight, a marriage, a funeral... and now another plane flight. (Although in truth it isn't even a plane flight yet. I'm waiting for forms and rulings, then I'll wait for medical exams and interviews and then, maybe, I'll wait for a plane ticket.)
A lot of this waiting bullshit is entirely my own fault for being a flakey wench who lives for art and stories and has failed to sell her dodgey creations to the world (nor in the mean time get any sort of qualification or skill that would make her employable). Being terminally short on cash does increase the waiting game, which never bothered me much in the past.
Neurons are getting quite fidgety and unhappy about it now however.
Most people are settled in a job and have their own place and (often) a family by the time they hit 36. (Or a coffin, in the case of one of my favourite individuals.) In contrast, I feel myself spread thin. Beloved books, clothes and objects boxed in a country-house attic. Furniture in a London flat. Husband and cat in Hawai'i... I'm trying to get back to FarFarAway, yet ultimately K yearns to return to the UK... Everything is sixes and sevens. But perhaps, considering I'm still undecided about children, have no idea whether I'd rather live in Hawai'i or the UK and have 'wastrel' as my profession, I really shouldn't be so angsty.
On to far more important things.
I am in need of something to lose myself in and something to love.
In grandiose metaphor: I need to build citadels of art to live in, and I need to find labyrinths (usually of fiction) to love and loose myself in. If I don't have those I have a tendency to become a misanthropic/bleeding/drunken wreck. The 18th C sheltered me for a while: research, cooking, BBC dramas, dress-up, writing. But now, for several reasons that door has closed and I can't open it currently.
I've been trying to distract myself with Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, but all I seem to have achieved is a wish to be a cursed, bug-nuts magician in a swooshy coat. (Neurons adore Bertie Cavel's Strange, but I think a lot of that is a weird sort of envy.)
I spent quite a while today trying to source decent black chenille fabric (of which neurons are certain his coat is made). Also eyeing up Armstreet.com historical and whimsical linen dresses. Why? because when neurons don't fancy being me they want to play dress-up. Also, what with all the supplies for the fete I've bought I'm set to get 150quid back that I'd written off.
It is self indulgent to spend them on dresses or fabric. I just can't think of anything more sensible or likely to cheer me up. Other than laudanum or a free pass to other realms, or a license to hex maybe...