Been quiet again, I know. It's just a phase in the moon. Or maybe something I ate. Still with the whole not anything to share period- just don't think of myself as all that interesting, and not up for ranting about anything. I read enough of those at work on the message boards- mostly about cars and racing. And it is a bit self-serving to complain- I did put myself on the boards, intentionally. And sometimes enjoy it. But there you have it.

Yesterday was my final PT for my shoulder. It is done. I have most of my mobility back, and what I don't have yet, I will get soon, or never- not all is necessary for fully functioning. I probably won't be spending much time doing sideplank position in Yoga, so there you have it, again. And yes, it bloody well did hurt. But it's like that. If it hurts, I did more of it. Because I thought it necessary. And it appeared to work. I am done a month early. Ha.

Kman had a road trip last weekend. He went on a drive with a passel of other BMW enthusiasts. He didn't take his old girl- she is currently disassembled in the garage- appears she has a slight oil leak. For a couple of decades. And my honey is nothing but a man for Sisyphean efforts. Stick a finger in that dike, son, it might slow the flow a bit.

And my current writing project is slowly taking over my life. I should be happy, but am a bit perplexed. There are characters in it who suddenly appeared, and one came back from the dead (where I put her in the last draft- seems she didn't want to die, after all.) Since when do they have a bloody choice? Appears when I write fiction, they get free range like the chickens. They say, "fuck you, we do what we want." And I oblige by recording it all. Fine. Be that way, then. And it it sucks, it won't be my fault.

And now I go to work. It's like that.

All right then. Because it has been difficult to drum up enthusiasm lately for my usual rantn and ravin, I might have to resort to just confessin.

I've been working on a project. I was supposed to remain in phase 2 of my new me development process (if you remember, phase 1 was the job). Phase 2 is very close, actually. Less than 20 pounds to go, and the pounds that remain are configured very differently. So that's all good, and I had always intended to remain free of the "weight loss blog" kind of thing. So that's that.

Phase 3 has started prematurely. But I think that's how things work. No clean boundaries, really. The project is writing in nature, and I am knee deep in research. What is is about? Sssshhhhhhh.....that might not get told quite yet. But it isn't autobiographical so much as just...different. I've been re-reading a bunch of books, though. Things that got me thinking back in the day. And I do mean back in the day. I found a book that spurred my interest in the subject I studied in grad school. I found a book that scared me so badly that I took it back to the library unfinished. But had to check it out again to find out what happened- and then read it again and again. But only during the day. There's really something incredible happening as I dive into these stories again- it's bringing back my internal voice- the one I used to use all the time to play and tell stories to myself when I was bored. And that's not a bad thing, I suspect.

No, the voices aren't telling me to DO things, or anything like that. Not to worry, Holmes. I am fine. Just getting in touch with some elements that have been neglected for far, far too long. And not entirely sure what is going to come out. But the long-postponed project that I was working on a couple of years ago is still in there, and a couple of elements that I couldn't figure out have resolved themselves very nicely in the past week.

And that is what I am doing in my head lately. That and singing along to the music in my car. Because that stops me from hating other drivers. No way I can be screaming at them if I am singing along to the fabulous and dreamy Jack White. So there. Don't be hating.

Ah, the joy of discovering that some days all I encounter is the incessant OPINIONIZING of one collection of experts after another. All fucking day. Not my people- they are fine. It's others at the company. Who CANNOT and WILL NOT leave a sentence untouched. Because it is IMPORTANT to have the best and most highly intellectual opinion about it. Regardless of what it is. And regardless of how high they rank on the jackassery scale when they express that opinion. It just does.not.stop.

Ah, it fucking kills me. And I am constantly amazed. But then I grow jaded. And thankful that I don't have to deal with these horse's asses daily. Only via email. Which is sufficient, thank you.

And it also explains why I would surmise the majority of these particular fellows never, ever get laid. I wonder how many men at my company own Realdolls?

Ah, the Monday morning post. Sort of a summation of the weekend, what I remember, at least, and avoidance of going to work.

Well, not today. Nothing of true note happened this weekend- mainly some snow (yes. Snow.), visits with friends, calls with family, some shopping, some driving around, and cleaning of the house.

So the problem with this forum is that it is always by necessity at this point a soliloquy. And I've never been all that into the speechifying...well, maybe a bit. But sometimes I just get tired of listening to my own voice. I prefer to have conversations. I prefer to not dive so deeply into my own head. Just because I really don't think there's much in there that anyone else would find interesting.

But I will admit that the idea that others might not find my every word fascinating came with age. Once upon a time, there was a princess. She thought that she was unique. She knew that she was special. She also figured that since she was unique and special, that everyone knew it, and would be interested in everything she said. And so it was. On and on. No one ever told her that she was a pedantic bore. No one really wanted to face her wrath. Because the wrath was very evident right under the surface. So they put up with her, until they didn't.

The end.

But it did end, and there is a happy ending, after all. Because she grew up, got her head out of her ass, and realized that other people have limits of what they find interesting. And a lot of the garbage that passes for mental activity is merely that- potato chips and soda of the mind.

So. And onward. We saw a documentary on BBC America last night about Realdolls. And the men who love them. Oh my. God. It was an hour of very disturbing things. And I can only imagine that all of the men in question live in homes with a certain...funk about them...

And that is my gift to you on Monday morning. Realdoll documentary. Heh.

"Marie Antoinette" was on last night. I have to say I hate that movie. Costumes, check. Sets, check. Emptiness, check. And it's not just the sappy moviemaking. I have always hated the story. Hated it like I hate the story of the Russian Revolution. And it is personal. No, I am not claiming to be the reincarnated Anastasia. Nothing of the sort.

I have always sympathized with both sides, and fully understand why neither family could be allowed to live. They HAD to be wiped off the globe by the revolutionaries not only to legitimize the movement and finalize the victory, but also to ensure that there were no happy returns. It still boggles my mind that they didn't do the same to Napoleon. Seems a tad...naive.

But the human destruction causes me grief. I hate that Marie and family were slaughtered because they were stupid. And rich. And the basic end-game genetically. Now how much of this was their own personal fault is one thing. But being thrust into roles for which they were neither prepared nor suited wasn't necessarily their fault. And that's the crowning bloody tragedy of it all. Ditto the silly Romanovs. The whole culture that they perpetuated and relished of being so detached from humanity as a whole, and the excesses just make it more of a sad display.

I honestly don't know which side I would've fallen on. Probably the revolution's. As no doubt, I would've been a peasant, and heartily pissed at the expense and quality of footwear. And food. And seeing those saps living la vida would've brought out the pike skewering rage in me right quicklike, y'all.

But I still hate the stories and hate the movie, and can definitely be happy that I don't HAVE to either teach the topics or read about them. Not without a large bucket of wine to drown my sorrows at the stupid fucking human condition.

While I have a kitty making biscuits on my lap, I can breathe for a minute. I'm not going anywhere.
Not for a bit.

Lately those moments aren't as common as I would like. Not the kitty part, just the silence. Internally and externally. Feels like nothing but running around endlessly. Point a to point b. Over and under and through again.

Endless repetition and then some more. Again! And the thing that is funny about it is that the repetition doesn't just become ritual. Nothing that profound. Just busywork. Not infused with splendor or meaning. Just busy. Not even with the necessity of a squirrel gathering nuts. Just busy.

And there you have it. The cat has left, and I must commence with the busy.

Context:
They were very young. Probably too young to handle fully the experiences and responsibilities that they seized so willingly. But they had their reasons. History played a role. As did emotion. And escape.

Narrative:
Not your typical fairy tale. In fact, not a fairy tale at all. No real villains, just well-meaning, but at times ineffectual people. A couple of fools. And in the end fine people who made some questionable and at times bad choices.

Summation:
Yes, indeed, time heals all wounds- if you let it. And there might be scars. These aren't removed by silicone bandages (have you seen these?). They are forever. But they become less important.

Reality:
Taking the time to transition from bitterness to sadness to something beyond all of these choices can cause a ruckus internally. But it isn't the hardest part. And it isn't something that is easily shared. Not with the causes, and not with the effects. It's an internal game, really.

Conclusion:
Watching the cat eat a spider is more interesting on a good day than pondering the imponderables of the past, and more fulfilling ultimately.

If it's not raining it's bloody foggy outside. Once upon a time, I thought it would be wonderful to live in England. Well, most of my childhood, actually. Always wanted it. Ever since I ran across a children's biography of Queen Elizabeth I. Then I read everything I could find about England. And being English. But Montana is a long way from England. Like that's not obvious. And my family is a far cry from English. We speak the language, and that's about it. Most of the rest of it is as foreign as the Galapagos. We have wonderful teeth (for the most part). We drink our beer cold (if we drink beer). We don't particularly cotton to cricket- it bores us. As does soccer. We prefer American Football. We don't drive British cars- the electronics are too sketchy. And there's no one in town to service them. And growing up, I don't remember having tea in the house. That particular fact really bothered me. Because tea seemed important. A cornerstone really. And we were so very unBritish. And I wanted it to be different. I wanted tea.

I remember my mother went out of her way to buy me tea. It was the Lipton kind. And I overbrewed it. It was the nastiest stuff I had consumed, with the exception of the vodka I sipped one time (wanted to see what the fuss was about- still can't drink it- appears aversion therapy works sometimes). So I thought tea was nasty, and the English were a tad odd.

But this weather thing. Nothing romantic about it, really. Just moist. And too cold for things to grow properly yet. I used to love foggy days, mainly because I can count on one hand how often they occurred. But now I have lost count, and the romantic aspects of it are vanishing quickly. Because all it really means is that the drive to work will be slower, and the windows at work will be all pearly, and dark.

But it's not all bad. I didn't grow up English, but I did grow up with a fondness for Mary Poppins. And for Ian Fleming. And for Arthur Conan Doyle. And for Virginia Woolf. There are others on the list, I am just getting bored.

Cheerio.

General update now:

Nothing to rant about. But I did make an excellent discovery yesterday. I have been verging on road ragey for weeks. Mainly because I commute amongst idiots and arseholes. Trust me. They are. So, I hate who I become when I am driving. It perplexes me, as I can't figure out where that aggression is coming from. So yesterday. Instead of NPR, because it is begweek, and I already gave for the year, I opted for CDs. And it was good. I sang along like a goofus. And it was good. No rage. Perhaps I have found a solution. Or unbeknownst to me, I had the right chemical mix of coffee in the blood for once.

Shoulder progress is steady, unpleasant at times, and overall encouraging. Still never gonna see complete mobility, but it'll not hurt. And the PT is now officially kicking my ass twice a week. And I love her for it. But not in an S & M way, just know that she's doing her job well. And it's not in a $2Million dollar flat in Chelsea.

Job is fine. Not much to report there. Just the usual fire drills, hijinks, and petty annoyances that take up time during the day. I still maintain that a hefty number of people who work at my company are stark raving lunatics, but there you have it. At this point, I can probably count myself in their ranks- see above, about the driving...

It is, of course, as I write, raining again. Not much to say about that either, suffice it to say it is dreadfully depressing. There was a garden growing in our street gutter. A layer of mud had sprouted 6" of grass and weeds. It was frightening, and confirmed what those tv shows about the end of humanity have to say. Once we are gone, the blackberries, ivy and weeds take over. There is a camaro down the street that I need to take a pic of and post here- it has been on blocks for years. It is covered with green mold. God knows what the interior looks and smells like. But the exterior is something to behold.

Nothing else to report at this point. Just wanted to give the update for those of you who might be interested. Now on to work.

Changing gears

I was going to write about the wonders of our new Dyson vacuum cleaner. Amazing. Simply awesome. We lived in absolute filth, people, and were totally unaware.

But I got sidetracked by my response to another person's blog. And need to vent. Go figure.

In F1, currently, there is a bit of a scandal. Seems the FIA (governing body of the racing series) President, Max Mosley (yes, son of Sir Oswald Mosley and Diana Mitford- Wiki them, bloody fascinating but scary-ass family) was caught in a sting operation cavorting with 5 hookers in a rough trade afternoon. What is nice about this is that he is 67, and apparently in very FINE health. What is not so nice about this is that the News of the World in Britain has labeled the ladies Nazi re creators for pay. Now I (in the spirit of intellectual inquiry) watched bits of the film. And I didn't see Nazi symbolism anywhere. Just some high end call girls dressed in domi outfits, and some prison garb. (Oh, you bad, bad boy Max!). And some bottom spanking.

According to the news, the video goes on for five hours. Impressive. But for such a seemingly spendy venture, if indeed Max's fetish goes towards Naziism, it was a waste of his money. Because that was just not there. Not there.

So. My point. The F1 community and the press are reacting in the most deer in headlights alarmist fashion. They are pillorying the man. In public. Despite the fact that he hasn't been accused of a crime. And the Nazi thing hasn't been proven. And the video was taped illegally (and I suspect as part of a blackmail scheme-there are at least 5 different cameras involved). He has been set up. Obviously. No question. And still. The press (ie. Murdoch's establishment in England) is hammering him. And he is suing the pants off of them. And rather than take a moment, be calm about it, and insist that the allegations be fully proven, most of the teams have chosen to condemn the man.

What really chaps my ass, besides the unfairness of being condemned without a trial, is that I feel sorry for Max. I don't like Max. Never have. And I feel that I must defend the man. Ick. Feh.

I just overwhelmingly hate that people attribute the press with some kind of magical power of truth. That if it is written down, it is automatically true. That pisses me off beyond extreme. And I want to start calling out instances of the media being manipulated. And in this instance the media clamoring for one man's blood is more than I can bear.

Looks like someone's got a case of the...

Sometimes I just don't know what the hell people expect. It astounds me. Like when they act surprised when I do something clever. Or astounded when I create a new process that works well with some heretofore muddled situation.

What the hell do they think I have done with my life?

What the hell do they think I did before getting this job?

I just don't get it. And it's hard not to let their underestimation slip into my pores. And keep a cheerful and happy face on it. No place to go but up, right?

But the patronizing extent of it all... "thank you (redacted) for being so proactive on this!" Fuck you, you tool- it's only my JOB. Fucking ass. And I've been "proactive" about this for about, oh, I dunno, a year now. At least the ones who bother me the most aren't the ones I work that closely with. Like the bossman. He is cool as hell.

But then, I probably need to step off a bit. All this hostility is no doubt personal and hormonal in nature, and needs a better outlet. Like a nap, a funny movie from the 30's, some quality time with Kman, and a raise. I'll start holding my breath for all of the above right about ...... now.

In the meantime, whilst I turn blue, I will go get ready for work. But a nap would be nice. I wonder if I can convince Kman to call in sick with me today.....

Life as a fairy tale

I was addicted to fairy tales as a kid. My aunt and uncle bought me a wonderful set of Grimm's and Anderson's fairy tales when I was too young to read them. I still have them. The challenge of finding out what was between their covers was one of the reasons I learned to read. Ditto the copy of "The Little Prince" that my other uncle gave me when I was 4. Age appropriate? Probably not. But a challenge, you betcha.

So, my life as a fairy tale. It is, you know. Whether I like it or not, the way I structure my own story in my head always follows that pattern. And it keeps me going. Something fresh about the never ending saga. Not like one of the epic poems- nothing that convoluted. More of a small thing, really.

There is always a heroine. That would be me. And there is always a villain. That would be someone else, most of the time. Some times that is also me. And there is the prince. You know him from previous appearances hereabouts. And there is the plot. Pretty unvarying. Adversity/the challenge. The quest. The conquest. The iron core of determination. The triumph. Moving on to the next challenge. The pattern repeats.

I was fascinated by Jung, and his archetypes- especially when applied to fairy tales and tarot cards. Mainly I enjoy seeing that some of what I experience is universal. Only the details are individual. But what I also enjoy is the pattern. The repetition is comforting. It is how I function. By casting myself in a play or a structure like that I can step outside for a moment and see the plot for what it is- temporary, and part of a larger whole. Each step appears random, but the underlying pattern emerges with a little emotional distance. It's like when Kman and I play rock, paper, scissors. He always knows that I will start with scissors, followed by rock. Because I used to always start with rock, and he pointed it out to me, so I switched to scissors. And that pattern means I don't usually win unless he lets me. Because creature of habit.

I don't know if anyone else feels like they are part of some kind of personal play in process. But I kind of imagine it's pretty common. Like those who pattern themselves after Nancy Drew. Or who fell deeply in love with horse books, and have always wanted to be National Velvet. And for the boys, I dunno- never been one. But it's probably more of a recognition of aspirations in a sports figure or something like that.

And do I like being in a fairy tale? Hard to say. Some days, not really. I would rather be more concrete and pragmatic. But on days when the snow soddenly drapes the plum tree across the street in a blanket of white, and the city grows silent, and the night is bright white from the reflected light in the snow, and all grows still, it is just fine. Just fine, indeed.

And now a memory. When I was 5 my uncle (the "Little Prince" one) stayed with us for a while. It was winter. Our kitchen window faced the mountains to the north. Including the Sleeping Giant- the one I wanted so badly to see rise and become real- and was very disappointed to find was only rock and dirt. My uncle woke me in the middle of the night once. He took me to the kitchen window and pointed north. "Look and watch." There were lights dancing in the sky. Colored sheets of light. Reflecting off of the snow in our yard. We stood there watching for a while, and then he put me back to bed. I haven't seen the Northern Lights since, even though it's not an uncommon occurrence. I just haven't looked. Because that magic moment only strikes once. And it's like seeing Disney Land as an adult- it robs the magic from the early time in an incremental way. And I'm not willing to lose that.

Am getting a cold and feeling like ass, so will keep it brief.

No stories from the girl-child today (much to some people's relief, it seems). Just me.

Nothing really happening of note, just sunshine and kitty diabetes (big kitty has a little problem). It's being handled, no real trauma- the hardest part is getting him to eat his special diet- for such a large cat, he is a very picky eater, and is being a tad divaesque. The needles are very small, and he doesn't notice them.

Didn't go to Eugene with Kman over the weekend- to visit the sister in law and family. Stayed at home injecting the cat at 12 hour intervals and watching my very own Joan Crawford film festival. And racing. Always racing.

And now I am getting the cold that everyone has at work. Gotta love the irony of taking a day off over the weekend, and not minding being sick over the weekend, and getting it now.

Other than that nothing. Not in my world anyway. Others have news to report, but let them blog about it themselves, I am feeling lazy. And ill-equipped.

Tagged

Six word memoir (now that's a challenge to the long-winded one, indeed)

Get on with it, she said.

Instructions:
1. Write your own six word memoir
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to this original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere
4 Tag five more blogs with links
5. And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!

Came from the Good Doctor-http://zombieswan.blogspot.com/ (don't know how to embed tags yet. It happens)


I'll get around to tagging some people in a bit- not up to it this morning.

And the photo? It was Easter Dinner at my Great-Grandmother's house circa 1960. I would've scanned something special, but again, not up to it this morning. Think bunny cake, and be happy. (or HOPPY!!! I crack myself up....)

Probably the best part of being little was running. Running fast. All the time. It felt good. Usually bare foot. In the summer wearing only a swimsuit most of the time.

She wondered as an adult where all that energy went. Where was the ability to just play all day long. Where the ability to run all day and not breathe hard went. When all the aches and pains arrived. When she had really grown up and gotten old.

But while it lasted, the running was perfect.

The little girl had a collection of books that she carried around with her. When the collection grew too large, she had to choose only a few to take along. That was torture. Would she pick the one about the birds? Certainly. But then what about the one with the frog and the princess? And then the one about the pretty rock? And then the one about Santa with the best pictures ever? That process, of choice, probably took up more time than finding matching socks. Because matching socks were never a real priority. And she hated the way clean cotton socks felt on her feet anyway. She preferred to be barefoot if given the choice. Nothing was as delicious as the feeling of soft green grass under her toes in the twilight- when the grass was still slightly warm and slightly cool- and the green had turned to black.

She also liked to bury her feet in the sand box, under the warm, dry sand. Down to where the sand was wet and cold. It felt nice. So did the dirt in the garden. But that was forbidden. Because if she uprooted vegetables by mistake, she would get in trouble.

Her favorite time of day was early morning before anyone else was up. She would run into the back yard in her nighty and wait for people to be ready to play. She learned quickly that it wasn't a good idea to visit her friends too early- their parents didn't like it. And she didn't like seeing other people's parents in their robes and slippers. It felt wrong somehow.

She liked Sunday mornings best, because she could hear the bells of the Cathedral in her back yard. When she was really little, that meant that they would be going to church soon. This wasn't a whole lot of fun, and entailed pinchy shoes and scratchy dresses. But it did feel special somehow. And afterwards was usually an opportunity to show off her purse with the favored books and maybe a doll inside.

As for the actual religion, it pretty much escaped her. She could recite some of the stories, but was more interested in the colors of the windows and the statues on the walls. Those were her favorites. She always dreamed of them opening their eyes and talking to her. She wanted that more than anything, and was disappointed when it never happened.

The little girl was overall very happy in these early days. Very happy indeed. Things were going her way, with a certainty.

Once upon a time. All good stories begin with "Once upon a time." There was a girl. And she wants me to tell her story. Really, I have tried to avoid this for years. But she is insistent. Just won't let it rest. She always did love a good story.

So it begins. And damn the consequences. And there are consequences. The truth hurts if you avoid it for too long. Essentially bites you in the ass.

But then you can hedge your bets by getting all philosophical about it. Just start talking about perceptions of truth, and objectivity. Turn it into an intellectual discussion rather than an emotional one. Much safer. Theory is always safer than practice.

But those voices. They won't be silenced. And that girl is most strident. So is the older boy. He wants to be heard.

So, I think it's time to let them tell the tales. Those of the fathers, and the mothers, and the little children. All through the viewfinder of an odd camera obscura. Upside down and backwards. Not through the looking glass- that was another teller. But with plenty of scratches on the negatives, and room for interpretation. And the light is fitful and dim. Dreamy with bits of fog in the intervals between notes. And the times between times. And the efforts leading to tears.

Once upon a time, my friends, there was a little girl. And she was most important. In her mind she was an Indian Princess. Like the ones in her Peter Pan book. She had long braids, and loved to wear her grandmother's nightgown and jump on the bed. Her braids would fly in the air, and the nightgown would balloon around her hips. It was pink and blue. Her braids were brown. She was happy. Her grandfather quoted Shakespeare when she left for the evening to go home.

"Goodnight, goodnight. Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow."

She always giggled at his silliness. And when the grandmother died, and he stopped quoting Shakespeare, and she realized that she was no longer the Indian Princess, the loss was deafening. And irrevocable.

Her favorite game was Cowboys and Indians. She liked to be tied up, only to escape in a dramatic and dynamic fashion. She read Wonder Woman comic books, and linked the two together somehow. She liked to have her back scratched. She liked to eat candy. She liked orange pop the best. She wanted to read her own books by herself more than anything else in the world. She loved cartoons and the Walt Disney show on Sunday nights.

There is more. Only later. Later.

You take what you can get, right?
I mean what happiness.
In between the rest of it all.
It's just an interlude, right?
Because no one can be happy all the time.
Only idiots and fools.
And maybe Englishmen.
But even the songs indicate that, right?
They seem to be divided up evenly.
Johnny Cash versus Paul McCartney.
Never thought I would see their names in the same sentence.
Kind of a negative/positive thing, right?
But back to happiness.
Not the kind of crap in the movies.
The real thing, that disappears overnight sometimes.
But it can come back in the most surprising ways, right?
Like the day that you walk in the rain, and smile at a stranger.
And the child in the stroller holds your gaze.
And smiles back at you without guile.
Something to that, right?
Lack of judgment.
Or just stupid kid.
But still, happiness.
And probably no soundtrack playing in his or her head, right?
No need.
No intent.
No lie.
Right.

So been dealing with those damned boxes of papers again. Not getting easier- sorting and deciding. Do I need the title to the house I used to own? Is that like taxes- need to keep for 7 years to guard against bad luck, or something?

But the fun thing- found a trove of Kman's stuff. We had a great time trawling through it all- he is a very funny man, who once was a very funny boy. I am trying to convince him to let me share. But he is shy. In that way.

Also found my own trove of high school and grade school ribbons, play bills, awards, etc. What a lot of stuff. And all of the meaning pretty much faded. Stripped. Just a book of stuff.

And then I took a pill and went to bed. The end.

Overall she feels good most days.
It's hard to tell through the grey.
Everything is dulled by a scrim of grey.
Before, the colors were bright.
Before, the sky was blue.
Before, her feet could carry her across the globe.

Now she sits.
And feels good most days.
But the memory of the brightness is fading.
And she doesn't really notice.
It's part of the end.
And she didn't get a chance to read the last chapter.
It was written without her.