Feb. 21st, 2017

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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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