This summer has been a hectic one.
To start with, sometime between last July and this, I misplaced my inventory for my one big show. In the three weeks between losing my job (more on that later) and setting out for the Fair, I frantically made nowhere near enough inventory. Therefore my display looked bare, and I didn't have enough things to sell. Grawr.
I found my inventory within three days of getting home from said event.
So that (Making inventory, going to Fair, setting up for Fair, having Fair, and then tearing down and getting home) bit a month and a half out of my summer.
August led to running out to Spokane to spend time with my mother and help my little sis at a convention. Two weeks of living in a trance in the Back Woods and helping get the house ready to shut down, and that's the first half of August gone. Worth it, but gone.
Over labour day weekend, I'll be in Vancouver (Washington) at Kumoricon, where Little Sis Meip and I will have a table in the Artist's Alley.
Also, I've found that my dysphoria is now too strong for me to use my (beautiful, splendid, fast, girl's) bike. I've gotten on it all of three times this summer, and not for lack of wanting to. I just can't ride the damn thing. Also, the frame is probably bent from the one accident I've been in. While I still love my bike, and it is still a good bike, I just can't do it. I'm currently on the quest for a good guy's bike to last me until I can get a new one. I'm considering begging my roommate to let me borrow her (Ancient, fast guy's) bike.
Now that all my excuses are out of the way, lets move on.
I've started reading again, on a "real" level. I have been a Very Good Student for the past few years, and read almost exclusively what I was assigned to read for class.
My pleasure-reading ability atrophied somewhere around the middle of senior year.
And then I discovered that book-review blogs and two-hundred-page mysteries are the perfect training regime to get back up to reading properly again (Getting enjoyment, not just information, out of what I'm reading...).
In the past month or so, I have devoured five of Ellis Peters' Brother Cadfael mysteries, and am chomping on the sixth. I'm hoping to put up a review that I'm working on of one of them, soon, but it would seem my non-essay-writing skills have also atrophied a little, so that's taking longer than it should.
In any case, I'm ending this here and hopefully I'll be getting a little more active on this now.
Slan!
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Helloooooo Neverland!
I am Pan the Man.
Today, I dug my bike out of the dirt, replaced the breaks (Which hadn't been replaced since I was sixteen, and were worn halfway down), tuned up the gears, and aired up the tires.
And then I rode down to the Safeway, which is probably about half a mile away. This is the first time I've ridden this year, and it wore me to shreds. As it turns out, there's a very, very slight hill for half the way home. In other words: A cyclist's worst nightmare. The slighter the hill, the more you have to work to get up it. I, personally, would take a short, steep hill over a long, slow one any day. But that might just be me.
In any case, I've gotten back on my bike. Here's hoping I can keep it up.
Today, I dug my bike out of the dirt, replaced the breaks (Which hadn't been replaced since I was sixteen, and were worn halfway down), tuned up the gears, and aired up the tires.
And then I rode down to the Safeway, which is probably about half a mile away. This is the first time I've ridden this year, and it wore me to shreds. As it turns out, there's a very, very slight hill for half the way home. In other words: A cyclist's worst nightmare. The slighter the hill, the more you have to work to get up it. I, personally, would take a short, steep hill over a long, slow one any day. But that might just be me.
In any case, I've gotten back on my bike. Here's hoping I can keep it up.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
On Time Travel and Job Interviews.
The twenty-first-century job market is not Time Traveller friendly.
This may seem obvious to you, but it has really, really put a damper on my ability to find a job.
I should back up.
All throughout highschool, I dressed like a Time Traveller. I wore cloaks and corsets and floofy shirts and tall books. I fenced and ran around at night in a swamp. I was often stopped on the street and asked if I was in a play or on my way to a Renn fair or something.
I really like the style of clothing associated with the middle ages. It's comfortable, serviceable, and durable. It looks good on me, and hides my barrel chest.
Over this past weekend, I went on an Extreme LARP in the woods behind my old college. It was amazing, and fun, and cathartic. For the better part of a day, my cellphone was a Whisper Stone (scrying mirror), and I was a bronze-age warrior patrolling the boundaries of my clan's territory, following the streams and finding a clay deposit by the beach with which to make an urn for my father.
Yesterday, I dressed up in my kilt and floofy shirt and jerkin and went out Freaking the Mundanes while mailing a payment for my roommate's White Charger that she couldn't get in the mail because she worked too late.
In short, over the past few days, I've been a Time Traveller again, and have had so much fun doing it.
But I have a job interview tomorrow. I was told to wear "Professional Attire."
As a Time Traveller, I have no idea what that means.
At the moment, the outfit I've put together consists of a pale lilac checked shirt (it's better than it sounds), a massively stylized floral tie, my corduroy pants, and a suit jacket, with my black boots because that's the shoes I have for this weather. This is, more or less, the outfit I've worn to all of my job interviews.
I keep feeling like I'm doing something wrong, here...
This may seem obvious to you, but it has really, really put a damper on my ability to find a job.
I should back up.
All throughout highschool, I dressed like a Time Traveller. I wore cloaks and corsets and floofy shirts and tall books. I fenced and ran around at night in a swamp. I was often stopped on the street and asked if I was in a play or on my way to a Renn fair or something.
I really like the style of clothing associated with the middle ages. It's comfortable, serviceable, and durable. It looks good on me, and hides my barrel chest.
Over this past weekend, I went on an Extreme LARP in the woods behind my old college. It was amazing, and fun, and cathartic. For the better part of a day, my cellphone was a Whisper Stone (scrying mirror), and I was a bronze-age warrior patrolling the boundaries of my clan's territory, following the streams and finding a clay deposit by the beach with which to make an urn for my father.
Yesterday, I dressed up in my kilt and floofy shirt and jerkin and went out Freaking the Mundanes while mailing a payment for my roommate's White Charger that she couldn't get in the mail because she worked too late.
In short, over the past few days, I've been a Time Traveller again, and have had so much fun doing it.
But I have a job interview tomorrow. I was told to wear "Professional Attire."
As a Time Traveller, I have no idea what that means.
At the moment, the outfit I've put together consists of a pale lilac checked shirt (it's better than it sounds), a massively stylized floral tie, my corduroy pants, and a suit jacket, with my black boots because that's the shoes I have for this weather. This is, more or less, the outfit I've worn to all of my job interviews.
I keep feeling like I'm doing something wrong, here...
Monday, March 12, 2012
On Headaches.
At this moment, I am feeling pretty alright. I am not in pain, and my mind is clear. I am able to sit upright, type a coherent sentence, and have lights and music on.
In about four and a half hours, this will not be so. I will probably be huddled in my big green chair, struck with the kind of pain that has caused people to shoot themselves just to make it stop.
In all seriousness.
In mid-summer, I suffered a relapse of Cluster Headaches, which are known among sufferers as "Suicide Headaches". Once a day, every day, some time between five thirty and seven fourty-five, for anywhere from fifteen minutes to five hours, I feel like I'm being stabbed in the face. Many sufferers say that a cluster headache feels like being stabbed in the eye with a hot poker, and I must agree. The best way I can think to describe it, other than that, is like a small explosion going off behind my right eye. To those who don't know what's going on, watching me get a headache can look like I'm having a very small seizure.
And the only medication that will let me be alive in the evenings is still illegal in the US.
I have by this time tried every pharmaceutical headache remedy on the market, to no avail. The only thing that I have found to treat my headaches is green, illegal, and makes it really hard to get and keep a job.
I really wish that we could pull our collective heads out of our collective asses for a moment. It would be nice to both be able to be alive and not have to worry about losing a job because traditional medication doesn't work...
In about four and a half hours, this will not be so. I will probably be huddled in my big green chair, struck with the kind of pain that has caused people to shoot themselves just to make it stop.
In all seriousness.
In mid-summer, I suffered a relapse of Cluster Headaches, which are known among sufferers as "Suicide Headaches". Once a day, every day, some time between five thirty and seven fourty-five, for anywhere from fifteen minutes to five hours, I feel like I'm being stabbed in the face. Many sufferers say that a cluster headache feels like being stabbed in the eye with a hot poker, and I must agree. The best way I can think to describe it, other than that, is like a small explosion going off behind my right eye. To those who don't know what's going on, watching me get a headache can look like I'm having a very small seizure.
And the only medication that will let me be alive in the evenings is still illegal in the US.
I have by this time tried every pharmaceutical headache remedy on the market, to no avail. The only thing that I have found to treat my headaches is green, illegal, and makes it really hard to get and keep a job.
I really wish that we could pull our collective heads out of our collective asses for a moment. It would be nice to both be able to be alive and not have to worry about losing a job because traditional medication doesn't work...
Thursday, March 8, 2012
I can feel myself getting "better"...
I'm not sure what the given value of "better" is for this, but I think I'm finally on my way there. I woke up before noon today, even after getting no sleep until six in the morning. Not only that, but I find myself with a concept of time again, for the first time in nearly a year. I woke up to find that I wanted a shower, clean clothes, and food. The fact that I am currently ravenously hungry should speak volumes to anyone who has spent more than a day in my presence in the last ten months. There's not really much else I feel like saying right now, but I feel like updating this thing is something important that I've been neglecting. So.
I am going to be okay.
I am going to be okay.
Of the Dreams of Fathers and Sons.
Wednesday night, for the first time since his death, I had a dream about my father.
I walked through the kitchen door to my family home, took off my jacket and hung it on my coat-hook, next to the phone. My father was sitting on the couch, smoking a joint, playing the guitar that now waits to be repaired under my roommate's bed. When I hung up my jacket, he put his guitar aside, meeting my at the level split of our house. He stood on the livingroom floor, while I stood on the kitchen floor, six inches above. We hugged, our chins fitting neatly over each other's left shoulder, our chests pressed tight to one another. A deep breath, in unison, and we both started humming, two pitches creating harmony. It is something that my father and I have done more times than I can count.
We broke apart, and went back to the couch. He was healthy, and hale, and happy, as he was in the summer. His skin was tan, and his eyes were bright, and he was smiling. He had taken a hot bath that morning, and had left the towel draped over the couch where he had sat to let himself dry in the open air. He rolled another joint, and we smoked together, and talked. He told me that his teeth finally fit, and that he wasn't in pain anymore, anywhere. He got out my guitar, and showed me three chords, and we sang "The City of New Orleans" together. We talked about me, and I showed him pictures from my graduation. He said that he was there, standing on the edge of the crowd with my mom and his sister, and I knew he was telling the truth. He told me that he liked what I had done with my hair. I told him that I liked that he hadn't changed his.
We went outside, and walked around the property. It was cleaned up, and his garden was full of ripe veggies. His old bicycle, the one he used to ride when I was little, was fixed up and waiting in the front yard. As we walked the property, he showed me all the out-buildings, and the fence, and all his little paths and patches of garden. He told me that his head was clear, and that he could finish things now, and get things done. As he spoke, I realized that all of the things he was showing me were finished, and beautiful. The outbuildings and the fence were finished, sided and shingled, with a long dragon along the outside and the inside of the fence, made of tin-can bottoms and bottle caps, pull-tabs from soda cans, the things that people throw away without thinking. He showed me a new, fresh concrete slab out back, where he had nearly finished rebuilding my mother's kiln, with a covered concrete walkway from a brand-new building, which he was fitting out to be a new workshop for her. We walked around to the very back of the property, to the Thistle Patch, which was now devoid of thistles, but filled with a lush jungle of pot. He turned to me, and told me that I should go for the Folklore degree, and that I probably should have bought the Professor Suit at Value Village, even though it was $20 and too small for me right now, because I am going to need it in a few years.
Then he told me I was going to miss my flight, and we got into my truck, which he had repaired and restored, and he had me drive him to the airport. At the security checkpoint, he hugged me again, humming, and told me that he was proud of me, and to send his love and a humming hug to my mother when I see her next. He told me that he was healthy now, and that I was going to be alright. He told me to get my driver's license and get my prescription for my headaches worked out, and to practice the guitar more often. He gave me a kiss, and another hug, and waited for me to get through the checkpoint, waving. As I put my boots back on, he put his hands in his pockets, and walked away, with a light step, humming the theme to Gilligan's Island, loudly.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up, and it was Thursday morning. Over the course of the day, I felt better than I have in months. I felt ready and able to get doing and at the very least get the kitchen back into a livable state.
I think I'm going to be okay.
I walked through the kitchen door to my family home, took off my jacket and hung it on my coat-hook, next to the phone. My father was sitting on the couch, smoking a joint, playing the guitar that now waits to be repaired under my roommate's bed. When I hung up my jacket, he put his guitar aside, meeting my at the level split of our house. He stood on the livingroom floor, while I stood on the kitchen floor, six inches above. We hugged, our chins fitting neatly over each other's left shoulder, our chests pressed tight to one another. A deep breath, in unison, and we both started humming, two pitches creating harmony. It is something that my father and I have done more times than I can count.
We broke apart, and went back to the couch. He was healthy, and hale, and happy, as he was in the summer. His skin was tan, and his eyes were bright, and he was smiling. He had taken a hot bath that morning, and had left the towel draped over the couch where he had sat to let himself dry in the open air. He rolled another joint, and we smoked together, and talked. He told me that his teeth finally fit, and that he wasn't in pain anymore, anywhere. He got out my guitar, and showed me three chords, and we sang "The City of New Orleans" together. We talked about me, and I showed him pictures from my graduation. He said that he was there, standing on the edge of the crowd with my mom and his sister, and I knew he was telling the truth. He told me that he liked what I had done with my hair. I told him that I liked that he hadn't changed his.
We went outside, and walked around the property. It was cleaned up, and his garden was full of ripe veggies. His old bicycle, the one he used to ride when I was little, was fixed up and waiting in the front yard. As we walked the property, he showed me all the out-buildings, and the fence, and all his little paths and patches of garden. He told me that his head was clear, and that he could finish things now, and get things done. As he spoke, I realized that all of the things he was showing me were finished, and beautiful. The outbuildings and the fence were finished, sided and shingled, with a long dragon along the outside and the inside of the fence, made of tin-can bottoms and bottle caps, pull-tabs from soda cans, the things that people throw away without thinking. He showed me a new, fresh concrete slab out back, where he had nearly finished rebuilding my mother's kiln, with a covered concrete walkway from a brand-new building, which he was fitting out to be a new workshop for her. We walked around to the very back of the property, to the Thistle Patch, which was now devoid of thistles, but filled with a lush jungle of pot. He turned to me, and told me that I should go for the Folklore degree, and that I probably should have bought the Professor Suit at Value Village, even though it was $20 and too small for me right now, because I am going to need it in a few years.
Then he told me I was going to miss my flight, and we got into my truck, which he had repaired and restored, and he had me drive him to the airport. At the security checkpoint, he hugged me again, humming, and told me that he was proud of me, and to send his love and a humming hug to my mother when I see her next. He told me that he was healthy now, and that I was going to be alright. He told me to get my driver's license and get my prescription for my headaches worked out, and to practice the guitar more often. He gave me a kiss, and another hug, and waited for me to get through the checkpoint, waving. As I put my boots back on, he put his hands in his pockets, and walked away, with a light step, humming the theme to Gilligan's Island, loudly.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up, and it was Thursday morning. Over the course of the day, I felt better than I have in months. I felt ready and able to get doing and at the very least get the kitchen back into a livable state.
I think I'm going to be okay.
Friday, December 9, 2011
My One Thing -- Most Wanted.
I am here, and I am packing for a trip to Eugene to visit my girlfriend. I will be spending a many-hours-long drive in a truck with the mother of the woman I am going to visit. This sounds both less and more awkward than it actually is. At the moment, I have no idea when I will be coming home, and I have not told this to my roommate.
I am here, and I am packing, and as I am making a pile of things that will and will not go into the pack that I am taking with me, I find that it is no contest that the deck of cards that my ex boyfriend gave me will be going along.
Why?
Because if I take one good thing away from that soured romance, it will have been this deck of cards. I love these cards and I will be damned if a little thing like where they came from will spoil them.
Each card has a dark, 'moody', strange, unsettling, obtuse, fractured, inverse, unwound image superimposed over an artificial background, with a few lines of poetry, unrelated to any of the others in the deck, written in a smudgy typewriter font across the card. These cards are dark and murky. These cards have images of film slides, negatives, photographs, x-rays (one of a tulip), statuary, birds, and dark things.
My favourite card is the five of clubs. A black ink handprint is superimposed over murky green-gray-brown background, and while lettering splashes across the palm.
These cards make me feel things that I like to feel. They make me feel full, but hollow. They make me feel secret, and, probably most of all, in control.
I will admit, the card showing a pressed tulip backlit through a floodlamp (trust me, it's way better than it sounds) is my second-favourite. It is the three of spades, and mostly a yellow cream colour.
preparing for the act:
and a pillow of sorrow.
I am here, and I am packing, and as I am making a pile of things that will and will not go into the pack that I am taking with me, I find that it is no contest that the deck of cards that my ex boyfriend gave me will be going along.
Why?
Because if I take one good thing away from that soured romance, it will have been this deck of cards. I love these cards and I will be damned if a little thing like where they came from will spoil them.
Each card has a dark, 'moody', strange, unsettling, obtuse, fractured, inverse, unwound image superimposed over an artificial background, with a few lines of poetry, unrelated to any of the others in the deck, written in a smudgy typewriter font across the card. These cards are dark and murky. These cards have images of film slides, negatives, photographs, x-rays (one of a tulip), statuary, birds, and dark things.
My favourite card is the five of clubs. A black ink handprint is superimposed over murky green-gray-brown background, and while lettering splashes across the palm.
this yin for vivisection,
for a mother-may-I,
hayseed seance
These cards make me feel things that I like to feel. They make me feel full, but hollow. They make me feel secret, and, probably most of all, in control.
I will admit, the card showing a pressed tulip backlit through a floodlamp (trust me, it's way better than it sounds) is my second-favourite. It is the three of spades, and mostly a yellow cream colour.
preparing for the act:
on a bed
of soft threats,
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