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 Once again, stoned on my migraine meds.  Full of the best intentions, Abundance and I ran a bunch of errands, and then he went off to an Ostara ritual, Light went off to his date and realizing my complete lack of desire to take my sunglasses off was in fact because I was having a migraine.

I'm still really bad at as-needed medication, I always imagine that I'm just being dramatic, that there's something much worse around the corner and this is just a headache, just a little bit of distress, and I shouldn''t get used to the relief because if I avail myself too often, it'll stop working or I'll need it all the time or something.

I think I'm quitting my job after we get back from vacation.  I'm never going to look back at my life and think "I really wish I'd spent more time at the Beast."  I may not be able to figure out what I want to do, I may cringe a little inside every time I can't keep myself from crying, I may fear that I'll never get another job because I give horrible interview, I may not even be able to talk about it here, it feels like too much privilege, too much dependence, too much weakness.  But I think I'm going to try this, get a wrist tattoo, get a dog, see if going to the gym regularly has any effect on my mood or my sleep habits.   For a little while, at least.

And just typing this makes me cry, again, but I also can't feel my cheeks (that's the imitrex), I dropped off Niecelet's cross-stitch (the pirate ship) to be professionally framed and it feels like so good to have finished, I finally bought more hangers (a relatively simple thing I've been coveting for a while now) and a room of my own. 

But now I've lost part of my charger, and so  may just not get to have nice things ever again, or at least use my computer for the forseeable future.    blargh.



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 If you were going to compile a list of all the books you'd ever read, would you include plays?
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I have a room of my own now, after living here for about a decade, we re-arranged the world so that Light's games and D&D books are upstairs in what was initially the master bedroom and the third bedroom is mine all mine mwahahaha.  (the second bedroom being Abundance's).

Now, the naming of rooms is a difficult matter, because they're all mine.  Sort of.  I sleep  in each of them, sometimes.  And part of the initial impetus for this was after Abundance moved in, I was having a hard time feeling like I had a place in the house, like I was going from Abundance's room to Light's room and back again.

But now, I have a canopy bed, (no canopy yet, though I intend to make one out the disassembled petals of fake flowers) half full of squishables, purple walls that Abundance painted in August when Light and I were at his sister's, bird silhouettes that Delight helped me put up, and a bunch of art up.  (Hips' chickadee painting, an encaustic from a kickstarter I funded, a Maya Stein quote, the quick sketch from the poetry brothel, two pieces of tea art (one a letterpress quote, one a stasiab print), the print I bought at a sheep festival with Chile (I believe) for two dollars, then professionally framed a great many years ago that shows two women walking down a seaside path with the handwritten label "The Marginal Way, Perkins Cove, Ogunquit ME"

There's a set of poems, photocopied or typed out next to the closet.  Brooks Haxton's Dialogue of Soul and Stone. The black sheep monologue from Karen Finley's Theory of Total Blame, Judy Grahn's Detroit Annie, Seamus Heaney's At the Wellhead, Muriel Rukeyser's Myth and Alta's Euridice.  I don't know how long these have all been following me around.   Haxton and Heaney were acquired in highschool, back when I earnestly read the New Yorkers lying around my english teacher's house.  I think Rukeyser and Finley's were acquired in college, and for the life of me, I can't remember when I met Grahn, though my obsession with her was definitely in full swing in 1998, because I remember buying an old copy of The Work of a Common Woman in Florence, MA after one of my first temp job paychecks from the mortgage department of the local savings bank.

I have the featherworked briefcase Iceberg gave me in college, I have a rolltop desk from my parents' house, I have a new craft table and a new sewing machine.   I have makeup and perfume samples scattered around the room, almost entirely glittery things from Colourpop for my eyes and dessert-scented things from various indie perfumeries.

Skitterypoof has decided not only is my bedroom her safe space, but that it becomes safe enough that she will willingly climb on my chest, hunker down and either fall asleep, or loll about trying to make biscuits and drooling. Considering most the time she flees in abject terror when a person walks by her on their way somewhere else, this is pretty amazing.

Now I feel like I have to create something in this room, do something grand, or at least make a grand effort at something.  Haven't figured out what that is yet, though.

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 Kid-saga.
 
Yesterday, I spoke directly with my little brother, who was very sorry that I’d cried and been freaked out and reassured me that it very much wasn’t about me in any way, that it’s all about Tank and Tank’s needs (and some of his wife’s).  And he assured me that he loved me and wanted me in Tank’s life and maybe we could start doing weekends and when I apologized for getting my feelings all over him he told me I never needed to apologize for my
 
So, I calmed.  And Valentine’s Day was a bit of clusterfuck, but also lovely. Good food, two of my partners, adorable cards exchanged, TV watched.
 
And then Teach texted me at 7am today to tell me that she had to cancel my time with Tank today, he was unwell and hadn’t napped at daycare the prrevious day.  So I spent the day alternating sulking and cleaning, and then took two of the four cats to the vet for their annual.  (I hate driving and it remains the bomb all at once.)

There’s a person in the area who hosts an optionally-anonymous valentine's day lj confessional.  In it there are usually interesting threads that allow for glimpses into other people's lives.  These are balanced out by local people all confessing crushes on one another.   I anonymously confessed a crush a handful of years ago, got directly called out on it by the crushee, and proceeded to have a lot of intense feelings (being outsmarted is always hot), which culminated in said crushee telling me in the span of a few weeks that I was lovely, and if they had the time/space/energy/situation to date me, they would but they didn’t so they wouldn’t.  (Abundance said pretty much the same thing in about the same two week period.)  I know the chances of seeing my name in it are extremely low, I don’t move in those circles and for the most part, I don’t think I want to, except for the part of the time when I totally do want to. Is it an ego thing? A feeling of invisibility? I’m a grown-ass woman with a full dance card, what am I hoping for?  Why can’t I just tell myself not to read it?
 
Oh, stuff.  

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 I babysit my nephew one day a week.  Son of my youngest brother, turned 2 last September.
 
My sister-in-law just informed me that I’m no longer going to have a regular day with him, starting in the summer (though actually basically starting mid-april, as she’s decided to sign him up for a playgroup on the day that we traditionally hang out.  He’ll be going to preschool 3 days a week, she’ll be taking him and his little sister to the beach one day a week and her mother will take over the last day.   Maybe she won’t be going back to work at all.  Maybe maybe maybe.
 
I’m absolutely heartbroken.
 
I’m still in the over-reacting phase (I hear my couples' counselor tell me that there's no such thing as over or under reacting, there's only reacting), where I’m telling myself I shouldn’t have cared so much, shouldn’t care so much, especially about matters that other people have all the control over.  And maybe I should just flounce, cancel altogether, write everyone off, give up on trying to be someone that any member of my genetic family is pleased with.  I was of use, and now I’m not, over and over again.
 
I want to know what I did wrong, I think I’m being punished, that I wasn’t good enough.  And of course, it’s probably not at all about me, it’s about her, and him, and the family as a whole.  I want my little brother to call me and actually talk to me, not have this news conveyed by email and text with a woman that I don’t necessarily like or know how to talk to. 
 
And I love Tank, and maybe I’ll still get to see him weekly, or maybe I’ll stop seeing him altogether and I’ll find a way to be fine with that.  But for the moment, I feel so fucking invalidated.  
 
And I had a weird and shitty Sunday, unable to keep my mood above the waterline, sinking into tears every time I stopped actively trying to suppress them.  Light had a sleep-over date with the woman he’s seeing, Abundance was at the last day of his all-weekend hackathon.   I wrote angry journal entries I then deleted, Skitterypoof managed to be chill enough to be cried on for a bit, I eventually sobbed on Abundance and it was a little bit cathartic, but there was the internal critic reminding me that if I was a better person I wouldn’t make him (or anyone) feel bad because I couldn’t wrangle my own emotions better.
 
What's the difference between self-soothing and hiding under the bed pretending the monsters can't get me?
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My reading intentions (different than my habits) come in fits and starts.  I have all these books I haven't read that I really should, before I let myself buy any more. Or maybe I should discard all my unread and set myself free. Some of them I really want to read, but for some reason they never come to hand when I'm trying to pick my  next book.

I used to claim the weight of my books kept me real, kept me safe, kept me tethered, but I eventually started to weed, and then when Abundance moved in and I got my own room, I moved some of the books in here, and a bunch more into storage.

I'm crap at reading nonfiction, my mind skitters off the surface, finds something more interesting to chew on and I read the same chapter more than once and am convinced either I never was all that smart and just have (and have had) enough people fooled that it has had the same result or I didn't quit drinking early enough, or 20 years of antidepressants have turned me to mush.

Same issue with reading the news, I find predigestesd stippets, I read my two news aggregator emails in the morning, and then catch the rest through social media, or the occasional random deep dive into something in particular.  

I've been chipping away at some of the low-hanging fruit of my unread book collection, namely my absurd collection of indie RPGs.  I don't play RPGs almost ever, but I love the ways people create worlds, or how people prompt other people to create worlds.  (that and I think Brave Sparrow may have saved me at one point). I love everything Meguey Baker touches, anything that talks about how people relate to each other, any world where the players create a shared world in addition to characters, or where the world is a character.

I'm going to a day of PAX East and I'm sure I'll acquire a few more.  Hopefully one of these years, they'll pass from aspirational to actual.  I desperately want to manage a game of Ribbon Drive with Abundance and Delight some day.

MIT has declared a snowday, but for the moment the Beast is holding out.  I suspect I'll be taking a personal day, even if we don't close for the day.



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Sometimes, I hate that I can hold onto missing someone for so very long and that the ache can be triggered by such random things (skimming someone’s lj in this case who has no similarity to Teach but reminded me of him). When I'm lucky (or patient or diligent or kind) I can remember the good things, the way I grew, what I learned and/or took away from the relationship, what I might have given. Other times all I can remember is the being judged unworthy, unimportant, discardable.

I met Teach in October of '98.  I'd just moved out of my parents' house and into my own apartment and before the move I'd tried to make friends the only way I really knew how (online, a couple was asking for a third, I corresponded).   The first night in Northampton, I drove to a party the couple were having.  I remember the house as lightly sinister, that I wasn't certain if my alarm was just aaargh-strangers or something else.  I also remember getting lost on my way back home that night, driving in ever-increasing panic until I recognized the rental agency office and could track my way home from there.

I'd go back to that house at least once, the following May, with my-then partner, and we had awkward uninteresting sex in the woods in the back because that's what you do on Beltane, right?  (I have never in my life had sex with the intention of reproducing, and am now physically incapable of it, and have a healthier if more distant relationship to that set of high holidays)

But from that autumnal evening, I remember meeting this large but lightly frail-looking, fey blonde boy, and feeling like he saw me in some important way and asking him if he was happy, as if that was just the first thing you asked strangers, some conversational gambit.  (It's hard to talk about the woo bits of my past, I'm both judgmental and wistful about them.  I'd like a better relationship with spirituality, but feel stuck as to where to begin, how to start, where to go.  I envy people called by their gods as much as I envy people called by their professions, the knowing must be glorious, if also a burden).  But my relationship with Teach started with a lot of woo.

Over the following seven years, we had a lot of ups and downs, and when I'm lucky I remember the joy, I remember snuggling and reading poetry to each other long into the night, I remember the rare occasion that I slept over and woke up with him (I think I had a crush on him, but we were both very open about me not being his type), I remember meat lovers pizza and the goth club, I remember feeling safe.  I remember getting him a low-paying job at the Awful company, being introduced to Unexpected, him being the first person I saw as I woke up swinging from the sedation for my wisdom teeth surgery,  his girlfriend trying to correct me on the pronunciation of my tattoo.  

Our friendship ended badly, I regret that, but I think it was probably for the best.  I don't remember all the details, I know part of it was I was acting like a jealous partner and in order to deal with that, he was lying to me about where he'd been.  (I remember being so furious, not about the lying (though I was furious about that too) but about how badly he did it)  He chose his partners over me time and time again, and at the time I assumed that was the way of the world, friends of the gender you were attracted to would always fall second to romantic/sexual partners.  (yeah, there was a lot of unexamined heterocentrism and binary thinking in that)  And then he got involved with a woman that I thought was dangerous and horrid and I believe I drew some line in the sand.

He wrote me an email about me being a bad friend, I remember reading it at work.  Some time later, one of us extended an olive branch, and we hung out, once and when he went to hug me at the end of the evening, I recoiled, something somewhere in me glossing him as a threat.   We'd see each other occasionally in the following years, before I left the happy valley. We had mutual friends, exes of the aforementioned dangerous girl, and we'd have tv nights, and I tried both civility and pretending he didn't exist.  I read his livejournal once after we parted ways, saw myself vilified and haven't since. The last time I saw him was at Unexpected's wedding, with his very pregnant wife and after a great deal of internal turmoil, managed to congratulate him.    

I honestly hope he's happy and I honestly hope occasionally he misses me.
 
 
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I've been keeping a daily journal again, google docs that Abundance reads and can comment upon.  And I think this is part of why I’m finding it uncomfortable to figure out how to talk on livejournal, why the voice that composes and (roughly) anonymizes, the voice that distances, gives usenames, the voice that tries to do whatever it is I'm trying to do out here on the internet are rusty.
 
But I’ve got a giant mug of DavidsTea’s Salted Caramel tea, a snow day (even if there’s no snow yet), two still-sleeping partners and a SkitteryPoof of a cat that just helped me answer the eternal question of “does tea taste better when a cat dips her tail in it?”.
 
And I want to tell you about my mug, because it’s amazing and Hips got it for me at an artist convention she goes to and it’s covered in happy monsters.  And I want to tell you about how even if there’s no snow yet, there’s this feeling of anticipation, that the awful neighbors’ windchimes are whipping about in the wind, and the flashy blue light (that tells residents an Official Snow Emergency has been declared (so you can’t park on one side of the street) is on.
 
And I want to tell you about all the things I’ve been thinking about or struggling with. Like what appears to be so, so many people, I’m sad and frustrated and I want to Do Something.  But I don’t know what that something is, and I’ve been letting myself off the hook from standing protests (oh! The orthopedist said it was a bad bone bruise and a sprained ligament, and that in another month I should be mostly back to fully functional knee, which is awesome.  Someday I’ll need to unpack why exactly it feels like if it’s not serious, I should have known and not gone to the doctor.) and I’ve signed up for monthly donations (Light and I gave each other a $100 a month budget for charities and a $50 a month budget for Patreon for the winter holidays) and that’s important to me and I want to talk about it, the causes I chose, why it’s important to me to support creators and educators in lots of different spheres, but I choke myself, feeling like i’m not doing enough with my privilege and feeling like my feelings of inadequacy about creating or educating are old news.
 
But instead, I’m going to solve my problem of what to post by reviewing one of my January books. 
 
Kink vaguely discussed )
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 Stayed home from work with a mgraine this morning, I know I got up and took a shower and ate trying to convince myself it wasn't a migraine, then admitted it, took meds, emailed work and went back to bed.  That was all about 4.5 hours ago, and while I was conscious for some of that time, I'm not really sure what I did with it.

Electric blankets are the bomb.

For reasons I'm not entirely clear on, but am going to run with anyway, I'm going on a replying to comments binge, and then commenting on old entries binge. 
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 I had written a thoughtful post about my adventures today (namely my MRI) and a bunch of book reviews that the cat somehow deleted by leaping upon my mouse and closing the window in which I had composed it.  Abundance was very sympathetic and informed me I should compose in a separate, less likely to be lost window. 

So, instead of book reviews a list.  My intention is reviews later

Good
 
As Kinky As You Want to Be by Shanna Germain
Hagseed by Margaret Atwood
Salt to the Sea by Ruth Sepetys
Labyrinth Lost by Zoraida Cordova
Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking by Anya Von Bremzen
She’s Not There by Jennifer Finney Boylan
Slow Regard of Silent Things by Patrick Rothfuss
Imprudence by Gail Carriger.
 
Meh.
Throne of Glass by Sarah Maas
 
Bad.
Some Girls Bite by Chloe Neill
 
Other
Space Time Lunch Battle (comic) by Natalie Riess
The Year of Cozy (cookbook and craft book)
The Vegetable Butcher (cookbook)
Four and Twenty Blackbirds Pie Book (cookbook)

Activism

Jan. 27th, 2017 06:04 am
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 And....lost the entry I was typing due to a cat's help.

I want to march, but not until I can stand for long periods of time without pain.
I want to be calling people, but keep just getting to the point of trying to figure out who to call and freezing.
I want to be a concerned and active citizen, but all the conversations happening around me are things I agree with, but are happening in such violent agreement that voices get raised and then I shut down.

I'll figure this out, I have to.  I just haven't yet.

In other but somehow similar news, my therapist and I are trying to talk about why I feel like a failure, why whenever I try to dig down and find out my wants, I just start to sob and inform her that I just want to be not-me.  Sometimes I imagine this other, successful person to be in exactly the life I'm in now, with the wonderful partners and pets and house, just being less me while doing so.  Sometimes it's just the desire to be absent. 

(this is not suicidal ideation, folks.  I know what suicidal ideation is, and this is not it.  I am well cared for by a psychiatrist, a therapist and a host of medications.)

And so we talk about success, and what it means and I don't know, I just know I'm not doing it.  And she talks about success being about being a good person, and I talk about feeling like everyone starts with the same amount of sadness, and everyone else just does better with it.  She tells me not everyone's an alcoholic, and I counter with "maybe I'm not, maybe I just want the attention".

I will defend with every bone in my body and every word in my brain that self-care is a radical act, when the concept is applied to others, but I can't give myself the same permission, I am convinced if the internal berating voice ever stopped, I'd just crawl into bed and do online jigsaw puzzles forever.  In therapy, I keep coming back to the same example, because it feels easiest and most illustrative,  about how I internally scream at myself about blood draws, tell myself that my fear doesn't matter to anyone, that it was a long time ago, that it will all be fine I just need to sit still and not be such a baby. And it works, outwardly I appear calm, the nurse usually manages on the first or second try and it's over, and so I am proven right, that my fear is irrelevant and useless.  And I would never do that to a friend, I would never in a million years do that to a child.  But here I am, doing it over and over again.

But now, the horde of cats is demanding to be fed and I remember that at least this will always prompt me out of bed.
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 I feel so much embarrassment, so much shame about how easily derailed I can get.  (so of course, I'm going to talk about it on social media).

Spent the morning with Tank, going to a music class and eating lunch and playing tracks and trying to come up with a good, not-scary reason that weeeo-weeeo's (anything with a siren)  go to peoples' houses.

Delight im'd me to tell me we couldn't have a work from home date on Friday and all of a sudden I want nothing more than to sit on my couch and sulk for the rest of the day.  

But I drove home, cleaned the debris out of the car, made myself a sandwich and am now staring at a house blankly.  I have plans, so many plans.  I need (want?) to clean before Light's gaming group comes over tomorrow, I want to make apple curry soup and something we've affectionately dubbed Mexican mess.  I want to accomplish something, but I don't know what that isand the rest of me just wants to turn the electric blanket on high and crawl into bed and stay there until I feel like coming out (or until I have to go to work tomorrow morning).  

And speaking of shame, tomorrow i've got a dentist appointment, and I may not go into the full frozen state of a panic attack  whenever I taste blood, but I have bad teeth.  I have the teeth of someone who drank too much coffee, smoked, threw up too often.  I don't like the story my teeth tell, I feel strangely like it's some extra avenue of fat-shaming, if I had better eating habits I'd be skinnier and have fewer cavities.    If if if.
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I almost forgot to tell you about the Poetry Brothel.
 
Last Friday night, post couples, Light, Abundance and I went to the Oberon for an event called The Poetry Brothel.  It appears to be a traveling show that acquires a handful of local poets for each performance.
 
We arrived at the oberon, a dapper gentleman was playing an accordion and singing in a style that I identify as ragtime, though it’s probably something else entirely. There’s a woman wandering the floor selling tokens,(i'll get back to that).   There are also a handful of poets, in various costume, wandering the floor and flirting in that “I’m a performer” way.  The slightly raised platform that usually has side tables is all curtained off, with signs tacked to the curtains saying Vacancy.   
 
Eventually, the dapper gentleman puts down his accordion and begins to introduce the poets, each of whom perform a short piece, and explain exactly how the evening will work.  (tokens = private reading, tokens can be purchased from madame or the woman roaming the floor).  There’s a band (Hounds on an Island), a couple burlesque dancers (one of whom performed a piece to a song about a Country Boy that soothed all my fears about being mostly-straight.  (The culminating move revealed that she had written “this pussy grabs back” on her stomach in what appeared to be lipstick).  There was also a sketch artist on the floor, and what appeared to be a designated heckler named Tennessee Pink.
 
The individual readings were amazing and intimate in all sorts of weird ways.  My favorite performer carried around a lunch box, that had a bunch of postcards in it, upon the back of which she'd written her poems.  She spread the cards out, let you pick one, and would use the picture to read your fortune, and then read you the poem on the back.  We sat, knees touching, in a teeny black curtained enclosure, and her breath ruffled my hair as she spoke.   There was a woman who wore around her neck an knit infinity loop, with a rose quartz at the center point, and she looped one loop around my neck and the other stayed around hers and she read a long poem that I don't remember any of but that felt like pure connection.   There was a woman wearing a priest's robe, and smudged eyeshadow who sounded a little bit like Nicole Blackman.  
 
But, the absolute best part was that they were offering (jokingly, I’m pretty sure) something called the Bang, where for $100, they’d lay you down on the stage of the oberon and all the poets would simultaneously read poetry to/at you.  And Light sprang for it.  And so they summoned me up, laid me down, the madame put my head in her lap, they covered me with a  american flag with a '76 (research tells me it might have been something called a Bennington flag), some scarfs and then this pure cacophony happened around me.  It was disorienting, it was amazing, it was kind of like getting to be in my own personal resurrection scene.   At some point, the performers convinced the entire room of people to start reciting poetry they remembered at me.  I was part of this weird moment of art and noise which left me grinning for days.

 
 
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 None of my tattoos stem from popular culture, but more and more these days I want the non-compliant tattoo from Bitch Planet.
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I subscribe to the mailing list of a plus size lingerie company.  Today, they sent me an email entitled "what if all your feelings were okay?"

and this is the bulk of the email, which made me tear up )


tomorrow, or later today, I post about last night's poetry brothel. 
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 Today, I turn 41.  In addtion to the weekend's amazing party, I have now gotten amazing gifts from both Abundance and Light (a custom wetsuit and a GC to Ureshii (a website I spend a lot of time coveting things on).

And I've decided what I want from all of you for my birthday.

*drum roll*

A question.  In a perfect world one you'd be interested in the answer to, but disinterested ones will also be happily accepted.

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So....writing group. 

Last semester, I took a class about memoir writing.  It turned out to be a fairly interesting class, I produced a lot more writing than I otherwise would have.  This semester, the class is going to continue to meet, sans professor, to write and read each other's writing and comment.  I liked producing text, I liked getting positive feedback, I liked some of the other writers' writing.  But it's also exhausting, exhausting to have to interact with people I don't like, exhausting to try to figure out how to behave, exhausting to have this sort of intimacy with strangers I haven't chosen, and in many cases, wouldn't choose.  And my desire to be liked, even by people I don't like, doesn't please me at all.  And I'm not writing a memoir, I don't know how.  I can come up with these little segments, but I don't know how to write a book, I don't know if I should try.   I don't know if I want to.

If I agree to do this, I won't be able to take any classes, and this is hopefully my last semester working for the Beast and so my last semester with access to the sweet sweet benefit of extension school classes.  My first choice of classes, Bridges to JustPeace: Understanding Fragmentation and Building Coalitions for a Just and Peaceful Future, was canceled   My second choice would be Chocolate, Culture, and the Politics of Food with the charming description of  "This course examines the sociohistorical legacy of chocolate, with a delicious emphasis on the eating and appreciation of the so-called food of the gods. Interdisciplinary course readings introduce the history of cacao cultivation, the present day state of the global chocolate industry, the diverse cultural constructions surrounding chocolate, and the implications for chocolate's future of scientific study, international politics, alternative trade models, and the food movement. Assignments address pressing real-world questions related to chocolate consumption, social justice, responsible development, honesty and the politics of representation in production and marketing, hierarchies of quality, and myths of purity."

I
 can't do both.   Wednesday is the day the group meets, wednesday is the only day I can take classes.  

Gah.
 

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I had an awesome birthday party yesterday, including much amazing food by Delight, many many snuggles and general merriment.  I'm starting to try to cross the streams of my friendships, Delight and husband (I totally came up with a name for him that I can't remember) have met Hands and Hips, and Abundance's Viking came to meet all four of them. (He'd met Hands and Hips in passing when he visited during Light's D&D night but hadn't conversed with them).  And there was much nerdery, the jargon-laden computer talk I'm so used to, the food nerdery which I love so much and the new-to-me music nerdery.  Everyone seemed so well matched, like I'm finally starting to develop a friend aesthetic, rather than clinging to whomever passes by.  And there was a rousing game of Embarrass Yourself with Geography (officially known as Map It), and Exploding Kittens and Joking Hazard.

I used to think, I maybe still do think, that I was a burden, and that the kindest thing I could do was to spread that burden as thinly as possible.  I want for a lot of conversation, a lot of thinking about what goes on inside our heads, a lot of learning about new things.  And I think of myself as being exceptionally difficult to handle, and so I should try to find a bunch of people who needed something from me and I would provide that thing in exchange for them handling some part of my difficultness.  (while I've mostly stricken crazy from my vocabulary as a pejorative, I still sometimes want it to be a label I claim, rather than one I talk around).  And the more people, the less the burden on any individual person, less toxin per person Something's changing, I'm enjoying this small group of people, I'm not chasing anyone.  Depth, not breadth.

(Even after googling, breadth does not seem like a word at all.   First Second Third Fourth Breadth.)

Next post I want to talk about charitable giving, kickstarter and patreon. And I want to get back to posting all the things I wrote for the memoir class.   I'm also struggling with how often I should post about books.  Every time I finish one? ten? end of month?
omnia_mutantur: (Default)
 I've left myself a note in my gmail drafts folder.  At least, I assume it's to myself because I can't imagine to whom I'd send it.

"I never realize it's awful until afterwards"

And I wonder if was a meditation on exes or my life up to my early twenties, or alcoholism, or wanting to examine my current life to make sure that there's nothing I'll regret later, no bridges uncrossed.  So now I'm trying to come up with a journal entry that begins with that sentence. For the moment, however, I'll meta-journal about it.



omnia_mutantur: (Default)
(How would you punctuate the subject line?)

Yesterday, carrying Tank down the concrete steps in front of his house, I fell.  I don't know why I fell, and I actually don't know how I fell, as in what part of my body hit the ground first, etc. I managed to keep Tank from hitting the ground with anything other than his ass, he was a little shocked and cried for a moment about that, but recovered almost instantaneously.

I, however, did not.   I still managed to get him into the car, drive to the bookstore, sit on the floor for storytime and get him home and get lunch into him before his mother returned.   Then I left her house, and drove straight to the ER.   I could still walk, sort of, but it hurt in ways I was pretty sure my knee wasn't supposed to hurt, and I had already fallen from twisting the wrong way during the lunch-making process.

I managed to drive there, to hobble into the ER, and then I just started bawling.  I'm sure that I'm ascribing intent where none was actually present, but everyone seemed to be being fairly unkind and dismissive.   But eventually someone came in and manhandled my leg, and asked me where it hurt and how badly.

I'm not sure I've ever said 10.   Realistically, the worst pain I can imagine is pretty bad, and the worst pain I've ever been in could have been way worse.  But this was close.  I couldn't answer where it hurt because I could have sworn the pain extended all the way around my knee and for at least an inch outside my skin. 

So I told the doctor it was a 7 when I was lying still.  All the while crying.  He left, said I'd get some meds and xray and to yell if I needed anything.  I tried yelling a couple minutes later, having finally stopped crying enough to realize I was a mess of snot and needed tissues, but I wasn't yelling loud enough.  Eventually someone came in to take my insurance and my money and gave me tissues.  Another ten minutes later someone came by to give me some oxycodone.   Then, onto the xrays.   The xrays involved a lot of repositioning that made me start crying again. 

I get back to my bed, and there's someone in the next curtained enclosure over retching, pretty much nonstop.  I've been known to gag at the cats' gagging noises, so quickly put my headphones in and listened to Very Loud Music.  Some point after this, Light arrives and sits with me and we get the news that there's no non-soft-tissue damage, I should stay off it for the next couple days and if it still hurts next week, make an appointment with an orthopedist.  They give me some crutches, and shoo me out.

I feel like an idiot, like there should have been some way that I knew that it was not ER-worthy pain.  I feel like an idiot because this is not how I intended to spend yesterday, or today, or tomorrow.  I feel like an idiot because I shouldn't have fallen (I still somehow assume that I fall because I'm fat, that there's some one-to-one correspondence.)  For about three minutes a couple months ago, I took solace from the fact that my neurologist had informed me that I had something called an "type 1 arnold chiari malformation" and one of the side effects is potentially decreased sense of balance.  But only for three minutes, because then I remembered that I do still pass all the basic balance tests administered.

So today I'll work from home with Abundance, trying to convince myself that it's totally okay to ask someone else to get things for me, because there's no way I'm going to be able to carry a cup of tea while still on crutches.   And continually repeat to myself "it could have been worse".






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