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 I would really like to be reading more contemporary poetry and listening to more women rappers.  I've recently gotten mildly fixated on Blimes Brixton's Snakeskin Boots (by way of Snow tha Product's Say Bitch video).  And every couple years I suddenly realize I haven't listened to any new music other than new albums by artists I already love.  
At some point in the past my email inbox became untenable. .I used to pride myself on at least skimming most of the mail that came and now I've completely given up.  MY inbox used to live in the 100-150 range and now it doesn't.  (those aren't things to take action on, necessarily.  I think the idea of communication tires me, and I have an email to write that I don't want to.   I have the best intentions, i bring my computer out every time Spark goes to sleep, but I always end up staring at it vacantly and napping.
I didn't make the con A meeting tonight, couples was extra devastating (not about the relationship we're ostensibly in couples for, but one of those times when a therapist says something that just eviscerates me regardless of context.)  So leftover pizza, TV and some cat snuggles.   And sore eyes (seriously, why do I cry caustic tears?)
I've been unable to go particularly deep for a couple days now, trying to write something, anything and I just get tripped up, not wanting to share the things coming out of my fingertips, not ready and I feel like I'm bleeding the wrong way onto the screen, the wrong way or not enough or too much.  
Thing I've been thinking about all evening - play, and how I engage (or don't) with play.  I don't play enough, not in the sense of I should be merging more dragons, but in the sense that there's a lack of situations in which I feel comfortable exhibiting a lack of care.  Light and I have stopped playing our MMO, and I only occasionally play board games with anyone, and I play with Spark, but a lot of it is me trying to figure out the right balance of unsupervised play and engagement, and it's not exactly play for me much of the time.   What is grown-up play and where and how does it happen? Is it unrestrained laughter or complete lack of selfconsciousness? (I did manage to fall off a chair laughing the other weekend baiting Light into his rant about there's only one shade of white in front of witnesses who were more than happy to troll him)   
What is fun and am I having it?
I was going to title this "i want you because you're funny and kind" but then I remembered it's from the nields song that I get so grrr at, since easyness isn't exactly a trait that's ever been mine, and sometimes I think all (or almost all) easiness is just someone else making the effort instead of the speaker.  The quote itself stands, I do want people both funny and kind, but I'm not comfortable with the rest of it. 
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 Like everyone else in the world, we have neighbors.  On one side of our house lives at least three generations of a family, some assorted tenants and once upon a time the now-deceased avatar of anger that was their small white mutt who would stand on their back porch and try to kill us with his mind/barking whenever we had the temerity to drive into our driveway and get out of our car.  This is also the family who witnessed Dima and I having sex  (the blinds were falling apart in that room and they could see from their kitchen into our bedroom) and the next day when I was walking, the mom-person got out of her car (where the grandmother-person was in the passenger seat) at an intersection and proceeded to scream at me, poke me in the forehead with her index finger and threaten to kill me if it happened again then get in her car and drive away.  I came home, super shaken, after dithering for a bit, eventually called the police, who talked to the family who denied the altercation had gone down like that.  I spent the next handful of months afraid to go outside, eventually calmed down but still am pretty pissed at the older and the middle generation of people who live there.
On the other side of the house, it's not clear who lives there, I  think some combination of high turnover and a house that's rented by the room or something like that.   But ever since we've lived here, there are occasionally very loud backporch/driveway parties thant usually involve drunken not-english karaoke. The not-english is only notable in the sense that my brain keeps trying to pick out patterns and words in a language that I don't understand and I think it makes me slightly more murderous. to have my brain extra engaged while trying to sleep through other people's noise.
But, it meant I was up until approximately 2am, and then woken by my body's natural ryhthyms and the cats at 6:30.  I was up for about an hour, fell back asleep on the couch in a deeply awkward position. woke up again still cradling a now-cold cup of tea, tried to go back to sleep, failed for about an hour and then succeeded 
So I had a lot of groggy dreams, and canceled on packing with Delight at least for the am, possibyl for the day.   Abundance was going to go dancing with polyglot and boisterous, but that's gotten canceled for Reasons and one of the things I dislike intensely is this poly game of telephone where Light kind of knows what's going on with Boisterous and Abundance kind of knows what's going on with Boisterous and the stories don't really overlap at all and Every Single Alarm Bell goes off and I look for lies where there's probably just inattention.
So my Sunday was weird and out of focus, and today had a lovely rainstorm, but midafternoon a teeny stormfront rolled through and my head eagerly reminded me it's not only light that gives me migraines, but occasionally barometric changes.
I came home into Light's every-other-monday game. They normally start at 6:30, which means there's time in between me getting home and them arriving but since Light worked from home today, that got changed. I could be a productive member of the household and clean, or make food or anything like that.   So, an endless stream of youtube videos it is.
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 Abundance reading Little, Big to me while we cuddled with the dog and I merged dragons was way too cozy to stop in order to polish today's entry. So, tomorrow.

Things that were nice about today
Making fruity soda bread
Extra sleep
Falling asleep while drinking tea and waking up before I spilled it on myself
Nonsense's pure unadulterated joy at Abundance being home
The above mentioned scene
Having been careful enough yesterday packing that my back barely hurt today

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*another late night post that went unposted before I fell asleep*

Long day.  Packing with Delight, getting punchy giggly, a half-nap on their couch, some time with Spark and then home to change and head out to Hands and Hips' for amazing grilled pizza and date pudding with vanilla ice cream.
I found the instagram of someone who owns five torties.  Light says it's too many.  I say it's proof of concept. 
I actually really like the way I engage with instagram, I follow I think two people I know in real life (one of whom I haven't seen in at least a decade), and then a bunch of embroidery, tattoo and cat accounts.    It's almost entirely self-soothing, with a little bit of coveting.  Twitter paralyzes, facebook makes me feel like the little match girl, lj/dw I've made my peace with, pinterest is pretty much just for tattoo reference pics now.  
And now I'm just sitting on the couch listening to the incredibly loud party next door and feeling grrr.  Bedtime.
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 I just asked Light plantively "but why is the cat wet?"
Today wasn't the best day.  I did make it to the gym, I did make it to therapy. I did go buy a new purse and accidentally bought a shiny silver scarf and a shiny silver cardigan-type thing.   Apparently physical heavy lifting followed by emotional heavy lifting was enough to sink the rest of the day into some weird fugue state where I snuggled a dog, started to set up the next cross-stitch product and watched way too many episodes of Greys Anatomy.
Again, my therapist wanted me to figure out someplace safe to put one of the smaller, even more defenseless parts of me and I gritted out how much I hate the exercise and how damaged it makes me feel to that the safest place I can imagine is in a closet with my dead cat (not that she's dead in my imaginary safe space, I'm not quite that tragic).
Didn't make it to the Anna Tivel concert, forgot how to talk to people but least I brushed the dog a bit and ordered new dishes.
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 practical:  hopefully we're going to move this year. This will entail moving a gazillion books and at this point, 7 cheapass staples 6 footers of uncertain age and bowed shelves,  We also have two other less standard bookcases, and Abundance has one much newer six footer.   I've always imagined some day getting nicer bookcases, but one-by-one makes me feel oddly guilty about the remaining ones (as in I'm worried about their feelings, I think), and one fell swoop seems too expensive.  Hopefully, when we do move and evaluate everything to see if it's worth moving (ie not the couch) we can come to some sort of consensus on what to do. 
Grownup furniture appeals to me (and I've hit a point in my life where if it's not only wood, I'm not going to rocking furniture of unknown provenance) but so does not caring about the condition of our furniture.  Our massive dining room table is covered with scuff marks, dice divots and mysterious scratches.  Light's and my dressers are from my parents (we think) who maybe got them out of one of my grandparents house, the cracked side table is definitely a magazine rack from my mother's mother's house that someone started to refinish but never finished)  So now, I try to buy things that are weathered enough to stand up to the depredations of my animal horde.  (tv stand a yes, coffee table a no)  And we either have a dog-colored couch or a couch-colored dog.
Emotional: I have some weird commodifcation ideas about energy and asking. I've got this half-thought out metaphor, where I'm afraid like I might build up a tolerance to my migraine meds, people might build up tolerances to me.  (yeah, I think that means that my needs are migraines? or I am?)  So much like I try not to take my meds, I try not to be needy, I try not to ask for things I try not to be messy ( (or I ask for them all the time and consider that part of my personality) Lately I've realized that no one knows what I'm not asking for, so I'm not actually building up credit.  Maybe I'm just lying. Maybe I want to pretend to be a martyr?. I've tried to be very clear with myself about how things I'm doing get me nothing, that I'm doing the things that I want to do because the kind of person I want to be would do them. But then I have to wonder if there's anything that gets me (or anyone) anything,   And I know "get" isn't the right verb and it's not really how I think, except when it is.  Except when feel like I'm crumbling and want to figure out ways to shore up the walls.  Or when I feel like some unmoored kite waiting for winds, favorable or not.
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 out of words today for some reason.  Cleaned a lot today, grocery shopped, dropped off a package, did some laundry, cooked dinner.  Normal housewife shit. Feeling full of strange moods, about liking the polycule I get, and anytime I start thinking about accepting anything I wonder if I'm doing it right, if I'm supposed to be advocating for more of my stuff and being glad nothing is currently on fire and full of bees at the same time is too low a bar.
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 These days when I honk my horn I often imagine I'm screaming "shame" at other drivers and pointing out massholery.  I'm probably becoming a much more aggressive driver myself, but people are so badly behaved at merges and rotaries and clearing the box and all the things.
Sometimes when the people I live with can't find things, and I get up and find them in obvious places, I shout shame!  I do this to Light mostly, it doesn't feel quite right with Abundance.  
Speaking of Abundance, internet I ask you - if you had (1) a pantry shelf that had all your vinegars and oils and other sort of liquidy things like pomegrante molasses and rose water (2) a baking shelf where you some of the really specialized sugars, your espresso powder, and all your extracts (vanilla, almond, etc)   would you shelve your vegetarian worcestershire sauce on 1 or 2?
(There is a specific length of time for a "shame" honk, about half way in between the polite little burp of a honk that says "pardon me but you may have missed that the light is green"  and the wailing on the horn that says "You asshole, there are other people ont he road who do not want to die because you don't know how to interpret stop signs,")
I already think I know what I want the next tattoo to be and I'll probably try to get on emi's books as soon as they open up for the summer months.  I want a stack of books with a candle on top of them and now I just have to narrow down the botanical element I want to nclude.  Which lead me down a path of trying to think of things I consider myself having affinities for.   Keys, but i've already got one of those.  Salt, nutmeg, stone, tortoiseshell cats, trees, iron, tattoos. Labradorite, garnet,  Fire The ocean. ((i've seen a couple ear tattoos lately and now desperately want to figure out a way to have the ocean in my ear or ears.   Apparently ear tattoos don't hurt a lot but bleed like a slasher film) Melancholy. The moon. Tea.  (ooo, maybe the botanical element can be camellia sineensis)  If I wanted to skew a little bitter, or maybe a little bit of reclaiming, I could go for rosemary and try to approach/mitigate/accept the bits of my life I can't remember for one reason or another. But ferns also mean shelter and I can never really have enough of that.  

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*this is not proof-read*

Someone posted this quote " Our own tight places are meant to be answered with expansiveness: with divine expansiveness, and with our own"  
So of course, I can't think too much about the divinity part without tripping myself up, but there's still something there that resonates.  I think mostly the idea of finding my strictures/stenoses and trying to find ways to make them feel less clenchy, like those days when I'm wearing my shoulders as earrings and need to just breathe through it in the moment.  (the now is often at the cost of later-omnia, who will slink off and find somewhere private to cry if she can.)
But I can feel it when something bumps up against my tight places, the back of my throat, that muscle at the base of my thumb, my back teeth, the biggest muscles in my thighs, my tear ducts and my sinuses. It's where I want to be a better person and don't have the reflexes or the bravery or the strength, when I make decisions because I'm afraid of shattering, not because it's the best decision I can make in the moment, when I forget how to be generous, forget how not to assume the worst.  
I volunteer for a place that trains its volunteers very seriously, and yesterday I took part in training the latest batch by participating in a poly panel, where I discovered that I am now apparently a wise poly elder.  I was older by ten years than the next oldest person and depending on how you count these things (did I start being truly poly in 2009 with Asshat?  Did I start in my mid twenties deciding not to date exclusively?
I'm losing track of everything, I have all sorts of things floating around in the soup and now writing them down in anywhere, not even draft emails.  I need to contact the optometrist, to see if my prescription fo rcontact lenses is still good, so I can start taking Spark to the pool again, once my tattoo heals up.  I need to contact the sleep study people to find a day when i can have an appointment to get fitted for the at home study, and also be able to go in the next day to return the equipment. I need to do a handful of things for con A, but I'm waiting for one or two responses before I can do them.  I need to contact the eye surgeon, make an appointment and go in.  I need to find my fitbit and set it back up, I need to catch up on my email, I need to read more.  I need to buy new dishes (the dog has broken multiple mugs and dishes in the past couple days.  Apparently the coffee table is no long a place Nonsense remembers not to go when we're gone.) I need to register the car, and apply for new parking passes. I need to find a color printer so I can print out the pattern Media asked me to stitch for him.  I need to find a way to keep my brain moving, take one of those coursera courses I've been lusting after. Like a   I need to find more things to do with Spark. I need to find a way to be out of the house every other Monday night, or treat myself to something lovely at home
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 The past is a complicated beast, for me.  I suspect for most, but something Polyglot (I wish I was more comfortable with multiple word usenames, because she'd be the polyglot kitten) said yesterday about having a hard time interacting with people because she remembers things that she wished she'd not done or not said differently. I didn't ask in the moment (hockey rinks and wired-from-game not being the right place or time) but I wondered if she also regretted things not said or not done.  I'm definitely more haunted by the things I did do, but there are still chances I wished I'd seized.
I've lost a lot of people.  Not like dead lost, though I suspect some of them maybe are.  My therapist tells me that it's because, well, I'm not exactly sure what she said but what I took away from it is the combination of alcoholism, being acoa and the wrong meds made me not know how to relate to others.  
In my head, I completed that sentence as too much, and then backtracked because my therapist has never said that and tries very hard to get me to accept I'm not too much.  I'm not sure when I switched from being not enough to being too much, but I'm pretty too much just subsumed not enough and now I worry about both.   (Another therapist once told Light and me that there's no such thing as an overreaction, there are just reactions.)
I don't know who I want back, if anyone. After Asshat, I eventually told myself something along the lines of "time brings everyone who isn't an asshole back around."  which might be a sad flag to fly in the face of being left, but sometimes also helps.  There's something about the one who leaves gets to be the one who has the story, and how I'm never going to know as much of the why as I want to, and that's all mixed up with my weird fetish for getting people to admit things to themselves and then to me.   
I announced to Abundance a couple days ago  that I had two things on my post-nanny docket.  Sleep for a year and find someone to get into a LDR with, I want a relationship that is mostly words and anticipation, and something that helps me travel solo instead of stay on the couch with the cats.  Yesterday I added figure out how to get the opportunity to swim with sharks.
Twice, I've dreamed about a snorkel experience  in this magical resort that doesn't exist, that we got to in a little go cart that was somehow perfectly undisturbed sealife, but also underneath an art museum that was a series of exhibits on pontoons, almost all glass art, from tiffany to chihuly and a bunch I didn't recognize the artist.  (it was in my  brain, I suspect there wasn't a specific reference) and everything was well lit and sometimes the light was such that the colors from the art glowed in the water and I remember this gorgeous framing of a ray sailing through the underwater sunbeam tinted with all the blues and purples of a piece of art above the water.  I want to go there too.
I took the tegaderm off today and now I just have to worry about how to convince Spark she can't poke the kitty.
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 Oh, if only I had listened to yesterday-omnia's wise advice about not journaling past my bedtime.

Shuffle on my google music presents me with: Indigo Girls - Rage Against the Machine - songs from the Nashville soundtrack -Jesus and Mary Chain - Edie Carey- Kris Delmhost
I know there people committed to the idea of having either eclectic or omnivorous musical tastes and maybe I'm one of those and just haven't admitted it to myself yet. And yet there's a little bit of a map of the past in there too.   College lesbian, proto-SJW high schooler, depressed girl watching a lot of tv before she couldn't handle all the cheaters on the show, that weird tipping point between rock, industrial and goth and then the relatively recent past folk and finally the listening for twenty years folk.  So far it hasn't thrown up any  rap or straight up goth but they're all in there,
I am so fucking itchy at th emoment, it feels like my arm is being devoured by fire ants. Not that I've ever been devoured by fire ants,   I just looked up exactly what tegaderm is for and was directed to the website and found out that April is chronic wound care month.  So there's that.
I wore a bunch of glitter today and when I asked if it was too much, Light asked me what look I was going for.  I told him I was going for the look of someone who needs to wear her glitter to justify buying still more.   I guess by those parameters I should probably just coat myself head ot toe.
Back to Baba Yaga, since I can't seem to find a thesis to expand upon tonight - 
"There's always something) making clicks & clacks behind us, pushing us forward with a somewhat fear. No one's road is silent."
There's like fourteen places I want to go from this. The idea that everyone's running from something, everyone's trying to prove something, that everyone is driven by something.  I sometimes think I'm good at reading people, I sometime think I'm absymal at it, but I also always assume that I'm the most fearful, the most precariously balanced, the least aware of what I want. 
Maybe that's it, maybe I think everyone else either knows what they want or doesn't want anything in particular and everyone else isn't stuck in this half world of being able to sense a lack, but not being able to puzzle out what would fit in the hole.  But the idea that there's something behind everyone, or something behind most people making half-heard noises that move them forward.  
Someone recently made an offhand comment about having mostly come to terms with their own mortality.  I've worked my way around to no longer thinking death/non existence is the reward you get for having been alive long enough.  (there are so many questions there, what happens if you don't manage to stay alive long enough?  I assume younger-me thought that the worst possible punishment was to have to be a person again, to fight the same battles again.
Boisterous made an off-hand reference to Light singing kareoke and I kind of want to bail on the world for a bit.  I shoud probably tell her that talking about fun drinking things makes me super insecure/anxious/self-castigating.
I should be better than this. I should be able to go to places that serve alcohol with people who intend to be drinking the alcohol.  It's not that I think I'm going to punch someone in the face for their jack ((I know I used to mix it with something but my brain keeps catching on the idea that I mixed it with mountain dew, which I wouldn't put past me, but I suspect I mostly just drank it from the bottle).   And here, I feel like I'm trying to sound badass, and maybe I am but I don't think I am. But I'm also not trying to sound pathetic. ) It's that I can't iamgine how little fun it is to stare at people drinking the alcohol I'm denying myself.  Denying myself for very good reasons, and there are still days I wish I had found something not twelve-steppy to have outside support, 
But the best part of drinking was caring less about being me, and I once based a theology on the idea that being myself was a punishment and now I kind of assume I'm looking down the barrel of the last third of my life and I haven't come to terms with anything. I don't think I'm afraid of death exactly, I'm not going to any particular hell, even the hell of having to be an adolescent again but I wonder if this feeling I should be doing something comes from mortality, morality or just my brain's need for a narrative even when none exists.

Clicking and clacking, indeed.

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 I keep wanting to buy ever more glitter from colourpop, but I'm really not wearing enough to justify it.  My arm is still in the sore part of post-tattoo, but this tegaderm stuff seems kind of magical. (Not peeling it off prematurely is haaaard.)  
I asked Abundance last night if I was finally heavily tattooed, and he said yes, but I still don't feel it. I suspect I never will.  I did ask Light to promise to support me forever if I can't ever get another paper-shuffling job because this tattoo really puts the nail in the able-to-look-bland coffin.  
I still care how I'm perceived, even if I'm trying ever harder to give zero fucks. I maybe want to look counter-culture enough, though I'm not sure enough for what?  membership into a secret club? To instanteously give the impression of bad-assery? I assume that if you want to give the impression of bad-assery, you automatically can't, that it's a title only conveyed by not caring about whether or not you have it. I wonder why I care about how I'm seen.  I wonder if there's a particular audience I'm trying to play to that I've only identified subconsciously.
And the rest of this is just for me.  Something everyone else can see, but are the things I need to remind myself to be me, to stay me, that there are things that comfort me and things that protect me and things that ground me and stories I want my skin to at least hint at, because stories are important and the fact that I'm still telling this story and not some other one is important.
Polyglot (boisterous's fascinating and adorable girlfriend) (yay poly?) came over on Wednesday and we ended up sharing things we'd written and now there's even more old words floating up to the surface of my mind. "gather my symbols like stones / to ward off the spring"
Therapy was rough, as per usual. Talking about other people's parents and other people's parents health and other people's complicated feelings about their parents, and not being sure that I'll have any particular feelings when my parents die.  I mean, I might, but I almost hope I've given up enough that I've already experienced the loss.   
For all my talk, I haven't actually cut them completely out of my life, I talk to them every couple of months or so, I visit them occasionally and usually once around the winter holidays, I call on birthdays.  But I don't think I feel any particular interest in them as people, I don't feel like I owe them anything.  And of course, the fact that they called me ungrateful regularly as a kid makes me wonder if they were right, maybe I should be feeling gratitude and when I'm already feeling like a failure of a human for not loving them, like a failure of a human for not being lovable, being ungrateful slots real nice into that narrative.
I need to remember that starting an entry after 9:30 never works out in my favor and if I'm really dedicated to posting daily, I either need to start in the morning or build up a backlog of posts.
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I got another tattoo today.  I'm elated and exhausted and now have more extremely visible art.   I'm going to try to go figure out how to sleep while not allowing the bottom half of my left arm to touch anything. Wish me luck.   Maybe if I"m feeling smarter tomorrow, I'll even figure out how to post a picture
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 Once upon a time Light bought me the lego set for Fallingwater.  I believe this was at least ten years ago.  Since I can only ever build it once for the first time, I've been saving it for a really bad day.  For something like ten years, during which so many bad things have happened and yet if I can always imagine worse, it's not a Really Bad Day.
Similarly, whenever asked to rate my mood or my pain on a 1-10 scale, I don't think I usually go higher than a 7 or so, unless I'm deliberately inflating my number to attempt to get medicated in a way that seems useful.  (not an addicty way, just trying to model what someone else might do) (which isn't to say I don't do things in addicty ways, I just remember what it was like conning tylenol 3 out of a college health center, and I'm trying not to do that again) 
Migraines aren't exactly an exception to this, but they're their own unique type of pain, some combination of nausea, vertigo and stabbing.   I'm learning to medicate them more quickly, to try to stave off the days when the medication doesn't touch it and I have to double down with a class of drugs I don't love using.  (Addicts are also kind of supposed to stay away from barbituates) (But I almost never let them get to the point where I contemplate scooping my left eye out with a spoon because maybe the pain just needs somewhere to go, or the point where I contemplate throwing myself down stairs in hopes of breaking something and being distracted by that pain. 
But I have an excellent imagination, and so most things I'm saving for a bad day, I'm still saving.   And our financial advisor says no one ever complains about having saved too much money and I get all defiant and remind him that they don't complain because they're dead.  If I save a lot of money and then die before I spend it, I'm not going to stick around to haunt my financial advisor.  Though maybe I might out of sheer bloodymindedness.

I had an odd conversation the other day with someone where they talked about the population to whom they're attracted and/or they think is attracted to them.  I choked down all my immediate responses with the exception of an iteration of the coffee joke "i like my people like I like my coffee, lukewarm and bitter" but my brain just kept throwing them at me for the rest of the weekend.

I'm attractive to people who think they want to take care of someone but don't really have the bandwidth. I'm attracted to people who are emotionally unavailable for reasons usually pertaining to damage done by another person or damage they did to another person.
I'm attractive to people who want to talk about some other person.  I'm attracted to people with other priorities. But it's probably better than that.  I probably need to write about this when I'm in a better mood.

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 mrrr...someone failed to hit post after composing this, so I skipped yesterday. (it's me. the someone is me)   But, as long as I post twice today,whatever internal standard I'm holding myself to will be satisfied.

Sometimes I think I'll just keep making overtures until I'm actually told not to.  And sometimes I think I should just stay home and be quiet, because I want to think of myself as good at reading people and trying to poke my nose into people's lives when they don't want my nose there is a remarkably tone deaf thing to be doing.
I want to be semi-impervious to self-delusion, if that's possible.  But that cuts in many  ways, the delusion I'm unlovable informing as many of my actions as the one where that I always stepping where I'm not wanted. 

And I want to think this through, 'cause I know there's a fallacy at the bottom of it, I just don't know which one.
Let's pick a person and call them W (for realsies, W is an amalagram of approx twelve people spanning a range of twenty years.  Sometimes my messages are veiled thrusts or veiled parries, this is neither).  
W may or may not like me.  I want to hang out with W, and ask them.  They say they're bad at responding to email (or text, or chat, or pigeons) but that I should keep asking.  Is it because they don't want to have to put in the labor of rejecting me, and small acts of not responding take less effort?  Is it because they're just not that good at communication outside of the lines that are currently laid down in their lives?  is it because they're busy?  Do I have any way of knowing?  I could ask, but I barely take my partners' answers at face value and that's something I've been struggling with for over a decade so often people's answers don't feel like answers, instead they're just another thing to try to find the hidden meaning behind.
So, either I stop trying or I don't.   So, plans get made or they don't.  So, plans get kept or they don't. I get more data or I don't.  I don't want to hang out with people who don't want to hang out with me.  I also don't want to use the energy it takes to reach out again to people who won't reach back.
Remember, omnia, you can't make anyone want you for any extended period of time.  They have to want you for yourself for themsevles.
Is the thing I'm trying to puzzle out to safeguard against being mocked in my absence, being put in another situation where everyone but me knows something?  Is this connected to that thing that happened in college, or the one that happened in high school or does it go even further back to something about growing up hypervigilant?  Is it about the part where I think it's my job to keep myself from sustaining more damage, in case this next time it's structural? 

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 Another month.  
Top five books of the month - 
How Long Til Black Future Month by NK Jemisin. 

Like all anthologies, there were some that were just straight up misses for me.  The first story was amazing and gut wrenching and felt weirdly relevant.  But I definitely want a harcover copy and discovering that they'll be writing an anti-lovecraftian NYC trilogy made me very happy and I would happily recommend it and be especially interested when I found out that someone else's favorites were different than mine.
This will be my undoing: living at the intersection of black, female, and feminist in (white) america by Morgan Jerkins.
Oomph.  There's a whole side set of feelings about using the phrase my feminism will be intersectional or it will be bullshit, seeing as how Dzodan hasn't made a cent from the phrase.  And I don't deserve any cookies for working on anything, I believe I'm aware of some of my privilege, I'm aware I fuck up, and I have so much work to do and this book was the most straightforward throat punch it could be.  And i don't even know how to talk about it yet because while it taught me a lot, I also felt a little bit like I was intruding reading it.  Which is good, it's a good way for me to feel while I'm thinking about these things.   And it is so, so good.
Landwhale: On Turning Insults Into Nicknames, Why Body Image Is Hard, and How Diets Can Kiss My Ass by  Jes Baker.   

Haven't yet read things no one tells fat girls, but it's next on the list.  I know my body image is super-toxic and I have no desire to pass any of it along to Spark or C or anyone.  Which means it's probably time to start unpacking a bunch of why I still kind of think getting sick is weakness of will, none of the things that hurt should hurt, that I shouldn't assume ever malady is just because I'm fat, out of shape or a former drunk and heavy smoker.   (Every so often, I just have this little twinge of wanting to be known by someone who knew me then just to feel like the progress can be seen.  It's one thing for me to tell rueful stories about stubbing out cigarettes with my bare feet or waking up under a thin layer of snow, it was another to encounter me already or still drunk and weepy at 7am.)  My body is not a failing supportsystem/cage for my brain and my heart or a way to show off tattoos, it's all actually part of me.  
I need to stop thinking something will change if I can fit into smaller clothes, that something will make more sense if the number on the scale is smaller, that people I want will want me back , that I'll know what to do.
Finding Baba Yaga by Jane Yolen.   A novel in poetry about Baba Yaga and an apprentice and it's sooo good with little slivers of queerness too.
The Aftermath by EK Johnston.  At first I was all ehhh, it's probably only a 7 shading into 8.  And then I realized I was comparing it not to all the books I've ever read, but to That Inevitable Victorian Thing which is a book that I liked so much it basically fucked up the curve.   Comparing it to all the books, it's more like a 9.  It's about the before and the after of a Magical Quest and it's queer and multiracial and all sorts of goood.
Top five dishes
Skillet black beans with mango salsa and coconut rice - This was really, really delicious.  And the rice used half a can of coconut milk and the black beans used the other half, which I found a really nice detail, since I almost never manage to use the rest of a can of anything.
chickpea and fennel stew with prunes and saffron- Delight gave me some of their preserved lemons, and this was the first time I'd worked with them and they were awesome.  I'm not sure  how much the saffron added, I think of it as a subtler flavor and there was nothing subtle about the rest of the dish.
gingerbread pancakes w. disappointing lemon syrup - So good, even Spark ate a couple.  The only challenge here was to figure ut how to determine when pancakes are done when the structure doesn't seem to encourage the bubbles to form on the uncooked side, and the molasses makes judging by color impossible.  Fortunately, I like raw dough things.
jamaican jerk tempeh patties - oil-flour-turmeric dough stains everything it touches and these were absolutely delicious, but kind of high effort for low output.
nutmeg muffins  - These involve grating an entire 1.5 nutmegs into the dry ingredients and they make your tongue feel kind of funny and I liked them a lot.  
March summary
Agreed to be a divhead for con A, had a handful of meeting-like things about that.
Nonsense survived Abundance being first in Barcelona and then n DC for ages and ages.  
Went to a movie night where we watched King Kong: Skull Island
Had a professional massage for the first time since last November (I think)
GLX surveyed my house in case it falls down when they start blowing up things or something.
Saw Captain Mavel
Impulse bought a five pound bag of clove hard candy.
Talked to Mech and Teach more about buying their house.
Went to a social thing at Boisterous' house.  
Saw Peter Mulvey @ Sinclair
tried to give fewer fucks
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 I think I might have run my batteries down yesterday with all that social, all I managed to do today was dishes, tidying and making gnocchi (Not as much of a failure as last time, but not exactly what I was hoping for either).  And some napping and staring vacantly at youtube.  I feel kind of emotionally flat and unsure what to do with that.  
It'll hopefully be a fine, if busy week.  Tomorrow night Light has his every other week game, Tuesday I have couples then a volunteer meeting, Wednesday I have two social engagements with people I've never had social engagements with, Thursday is tattoo (squeeeee) and Friday is more volunteering.    
I'm extra caffeniated in hopes of not passing out at the show tonight, though I suspecct that's a foregone conclusion, even if it starts at 7.  But now it's time to find something suitable for wearing outside the house and putting my protective glitter coating on.

There's soemthing I want to think through about my giving-zero-fucks in some situations and not in others, but tonight is not the night for clarity.

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 Today I saw Delight's new house, babysat for Mech and Teach while they went to an open house (which was also not the one), came home, chilled for an hour and change and then went and was social with Boisterous and a whole bunch of people.  Was completely cutied out by Boisterous' enchanting female partner (we'll call her polyglot for the moment), ate some food, had a hysterical discussion about the color white, played a little bit of a board game.

I've been mopey again today, I got mopey last night, went to bed sad and then just sort of pushed through the day.  I had fun, I love my niblings, I actually did the social thing pretty well and I wish I could write about more right now but apparently once again 17 hours and change is the limit of my awakeness.   So, a token entry to keep the streak running.   Maybe tomorrow I'll write two so I can have one in the bank for occasions just like this.

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 Most of the time I drink out of one of two oversized mugs when I'm at home.   One is large and white and says "a steaming cup of shut the fuck up" which I realize means that's what I'm serving myself and the other is a gorgeous monster-mug that Hips got me one Illuxcon.  When those are both dirty, I drink out of a black mug that says "Well, the patriarchy isn't going to fuck itself."  I also have a favored mug at Delight's, but that's mostly because it's a commercially produced replaceable mug rather than any particular fondness for the sentiment of "Let's get high and deny Christ" which I believe comes from a Chick tract.
 The mornings that I'm home and on the couch drinking tea when Abundance takes Nonsense for their daily run, Skitterypoof jumps up on the arm of the couch and chirrups at me until I make my lap available to her, which she then curls up into, makes biscuits with whatever bit of my flesh she can get to, purrs madly and drools on me.   I often have plans for what I'm going to be doing with the time after I finish my tea but before Abundance returns, and I almost never manage to get around to them.   Skitterypoof usually only decamps when she hears Abundance and the dog on the stairs.
Light points out to me that petting cats is in fact the point and a marker of a good life, I'm not failing anything by hanging out with the kitten.   
The thing I sometimes lose sight of is that housework is never done.  I do laundry, we wear clothes, I need to do more laundry.  I cook, we eat food, I need to cook some more.   I do dishes, we eat off of dishes, I need to do more dishes.  I clean, we choose to own five small to medium animals who shed perpetually, I clean again.
I have all these thoughtful essays open in tabs on my computer that I never feel like I have quite enough energy to process.   I was going to list them out, but that feels too much like showmanship, like claiming to be an ally without actually doing the work.  But my brain feels different these days, less sharp, less capable of seeing the places where things connect, and maybe that's age, or depression, or living in what felt/feels like a referred crisis state.  
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 There's a particular model of house where I live that I'm sure there's a word for that I can't find.   Two to three stories, usually split into two units, with porches on the ground and second level.  There's this one feature of these houses that this house doesn't have, but the rental when we moved here had, and Delight's house has, and many of the places I've seen over the years and that is a built in hutch.  And somehow moving to a house that doesn't have one, even though my house doesn't have one, feels like we're really truly leaving Camberville.  
I actually have a stand alone hutch that I got from my mother that I believe she got from hers.   It's got a super-random assortment of things which I will now enumerate because I've been wondering what I'll do when we move, if it's finally time to not use the hutch. . 
It's topped with a large not-a-Squishable stuffed buffalo wearing a witch hat with a veil and feathers (this possibly being the only place the cats can't get to the feathers) and a random piece of architectural flourish (finial mayhap) from Tampa's house.  
It's three shelves and an awkwardly triangular undercabinet that I think I still store the placemats I never use.  First shelf contains a lot of  gray glasses of various shapes that I suspect are for serving cordials in, but have been with me for 20 years now and I have never served anything out of them or even bothered to research the different shapes.     There's a set of wacky glass salt shakers that my mother in law bought me, the strange bumble-bee in some sort of slowly shrinking resin that belonged to my tampa, a witch ball that isn't the right size or color to hang anywhere here.   Second shelf is  a bunch of old keys, a gorgeous King in Yellow statue that my little brother bought me, various souvenirs that Mech and Media have brought me and a bunch of shells.    The bottom shelf is the physical correspondence to the wall of the honored dead (the wall in my house where I have large pictures of each of my pets who have died). This shelf contains three boxes of ashes, a leash, a card with a pawprint and the silver wire tree that Light bought me way way back when.
Sadly, these days, my altar is on top of a bookshelf that I can't really see.  It's the best place for it at the moment, but i'm hoping when we move, to be able to interact with it more often.  It's not exactly an altar to any particular deity, more a collection of symbols I find useful for reminding me who I want to be.  Various cat sculptures, pieces of rock, a bell with stained glass cherries for a hand, a knife, some sparrows and some matches from Bitch Magazine that say "burn it all down".  
Thinking about moving is making me think about my relationship to much of my stuff.  There's the part of me that wants to burn everything to the ground, start fresh.  There's the part of me that wants to save everything, to find ways to fit old things into new spaces.  And I don't know if I'll keep a new house as well as I keep this one (which is varying degrees of well depending on wind direction and mood stabilizers), but the idea of more space, of storage space, fills me with joy and hope, that it will be easier to keep things from becoming cluttered by having more places where things belong.  
Here's some free-association.   I don't think of myself as somehow who has roots, but I sometimes think of myself as having a low psychic center of mass and lots of inertia.  When I flee, I stay in flight.  When I settle I'm hard to move.  And I have roots here, but Light points out it might be nice to have a house where nothing bad has happened yet, not my transition to Camberville, not BRCA, not Funnyface's death, not Asshat's betrayal, not that awful period of our marriage.  *leap*  it's strange I don't have more root symbolism in my world or maybe it's not strange at all, I'm too full of trees and leaves.  But maybe I need a tattoo of roots.  Maybe I  need a line around each of my calves and roots stretching down to my ankles.  *leap*   I've collected my etsy wants into random titled bunches. 
candles, crafts and paper
kitchens and babies
wrists and wood
tea and tentacles
kitties and clothes
stars and smells
moons and maps
trees and wings
books and keys
I wonder what I'd pair roots with.   I wonder why I still say roots and room with that strange short o that almost no one I know has.  *leap*  Despite being a vegetarian, I kind of want to collect antique bone saws and every time I go on etsy I end up favoriting a handful.  
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