Mustard

Got home early enough to dig in the garden. Got a large stone from the excavation out to the front, with Dylan's help. Put up both rain barrels. Put down more mustard and clover seeds to fill in the foxtail grasses that took over. Happy enough to have them holding down the soil all winter, but we're not having those nasty spiky seeds again. Well, not as many, this is going to take a while to deal with, and I likely won't get them all. But, bit by bit.

Also moved more of the foundation cored out for the heating and plumbing, stray bricks.

The raspberry in the back is coming back to life, as well as the golden rose and bergamot out front. Mint all over, which is better than weeds or foxtail. Lambs Tongue vigorous, as well as the other thing that survived from a wildflower mix two years ago. Same for the poppies and tall grasses and allium. Everything starting over, the welcome and unwelcome alike.

I'll put out earwig traps this weekend.

More gravel around the new foundation, which is mostly just mud after a week of rain. Dry now, and it does dry out very fast here.

Planning a Hummingbird Trumpet for the triangular raised bed, and more of the Mexico midget tomatoes in the large one. The smaller already has fennel planted. More oatgrass for cats somewhere Moby can get to it easily.

I know the ground, it is all my family.

Tall

Hard week at work, not bad, just... lots of running and big cases. PT wants me to use one of our steps so the counter/desk I use is a better height for me. We have steps, for when someone scrubbed in needs to be taller. They're very stable, about 4" high. Maybe 5", now I want to measure them. Anyway, they don't get used all that often, and I just take one and stand on it so I can chart at a better level. My shoulder pain is much improved just because of this. It's a little too high, but that's better than too low.

Of course, everyone gives me crap about it. Including the one nurse who uses it now too, saying "I LIKE being TALL!" I'm fine with this, in the OR, harassment is a sort of affection.

Wednesday, Dylan and I attended a de-escalation training, to be support staff for the local March for our Lives. It's scary, but better to be prepared, and we both feel we can do this. Be available for any issues, to call for help or record any problems. Like the civil rights marches, this looks to be the real thing. Dylan deals with crazy people in the tech lab at the library, I'm trained to deal with difficult people, we can observe and (hopefully) defuse, and call in security or police, while taking video.

I really hate guns, a tool that makes cowards much more dangerous. And we will likely see a lot of them today. And I could still field strip an M16A1, shot expert, and yes they are fun to shoot at targets. My hope is that they will be as disgustingly unfashionable as wearing real fur, or smoking, or ivory, in a few years. Only the clueless and classless will think otherwise. I remember the Smoker's Rights group at a parade in Boston, they all looked sad, sick and grey, not exactly attractive advertisement.

Update.

Estimated 8,000 marchers. Skewed young, but the full range of ages were well represented. They had a wild intensity, nearly ran the whole way up from the high school to the capitol. A not insubstantial uphill, either. We saw some gun nuts, carrying. No trouble, though. We stayed alert to the possibility.

On the walk back, a small guy in a BIG red pickup gave the multitude the Thumbs Down. Like that was going to do anything. Pathetic. And I would easily tag all of them as smokers, too. The same look of time having passed them by, and obsolescence.





Felt good to have a job, involved, but purposeful. I took a few extra pairs of the cheap stretch gloves, and gave them out to others helping out. Otherwise, did not use any of the prepared kit. Which is very good. Like preparing for trauma, and only having to re-shelve supplies. Tired now, but in a good way.

We are in good hands. Sad that the young have to correct this travesty, but it is always the way. We can only support them, which is too often not the way. Lots of older folks cheering them on, and quietly putting in money and votes.

Walling

Snowed off and on all day yesterday. I prepped the bedroom wall for paper.

Today, I put up three rolls. Not doing the paint until another day. That is a really hideous green. OD green with a hint of battleship grey. And a lot of damage from what we guess was a wall mounted desk/shelves, patched and rough.



The above was done two years ago. I've been putting the rest of the task off.








And had tea here with the new neighborhood friend, met by chance on tweeter. And oh, my the parallels in our lives, aligned attitudes. Not identical, but complimentary, and reassuring. We talked for nearly three hours.

Possible

It's been pouring down, off and on, for hours now. The seeds will be happy. I did a bit of gardening before the rain began. Small areas at a time, pulling up the grass that puts up the awful spiky seed stalks has taken over, the sort that catch in my socks, or dog fur, and burrows into skin. And I've been laying in black mustard seeds, clover too. Some that I did a few weeks ago is sprouting already. Looking forward to what the garden will become this year.

Along with the crocuses and irises, and soon the hyacinths.

The Hedge! is now a hedge, downright tiny. It'll grow, and we can keep it tidy now. That was all Neighbor's doing this year.

Scrounge

My father was a scrounger. He would walk the alley, scouring it for useful items.

I am the same. It is the one part of him I respected then and now. I found a scarf in the mud last month, that I brought home and washed, that is on my lap now. I save drapes that I used as dropcloths for the painting of the past week. I salvage and reuse and find new uses. A reflex.

Not a hoarder, I get rid of unused stuff all the time. Things pass through easily, I let go as easily as I pick up.

At PT today, they used a "dry needle" technique, like acupuncture and electrostim together. Worked very well. Also put me in mind of the EMDR stim therapy for PTSD. Found myself sobbing, which I assured the therapist was not to be taken too seriously. She assures me she's used to making people cry. I keep making connections.

It's not so much pain, I can deal with pain. It's the issue of causing damage that the pain may warn about. That warning pain is what worries me.

I pick up things. It's what I do. I carry it a while, deciding if it solves a problem, or serves a purpose. If not, after a while, I let it go.

My neighbor is taking the Hedge down to about 3', to my amazement. He talked about wanting his privacy. Apparently, we are not a threat to that, proven over years now.

I spent some time gently digging the front garden and putting down clover and mustard seed. We shall see.

On the 21st, going to a training to support the March for our Lives on the 24th, local. I will accrue 1st Aid materials in anticipation. For blisters and sore knees, cuts and dehydration. General care. Use what I have.

Our bedroom is next. Still have the natural fibre wallpaper we picked up at a yard sale. Have 4 rolls up, need to get another 4 up. I'm obeying my therapist and not doing it tomorrow. The dull OD green of the walls is getting to us. Got enough paint for what is left after the fiber covering is up. It's a purple, muted, but sill pretty.

Asked Dylan if we could buy the nice Japanese panels for the window. He says sure. I ask, not for permission, but assurance we can afford it, since he knows our finances best. So, given the go ahead, I decide what we have is sufficient, and do not spend more. Knowing I can is reassuring, then I prefer to make do. Imagining splurging, then scrounging, is ideal.

Angles

Changes

Last night, we didn't feel the need to put on all the lights. The apricot tinged white felt more like cleaning the wall than changing the color.

Off to physical therappy in a couple of hours. All the painting may not have been especially wise, considering.

Kettle

Feeling sore, probably all the painting. Not sleeping well. Got kicked off tweeter for a week for a mild comment about DeVos. When you see all the hostile insults thrown there, it seems more than a little harsh. But I shrug and pick up a book. Maybe good I get away from it a while.

One of the best people on there also has a blog. I recommend you read Stonekettle. the latest on his view of guns. It's informed and intelligent and well written.

Slow day tomorrow, I got called off. One room running all day, which is a special sort of miserable. The place goes very low energy when there is just one room. Which isn't so bad if it is a short day. But no, three cases until about 1300, then a gap until another surgeon has a single case going until 1730. I couldn't even, but I didn't have to. Not this time.

Existence

My mother loved pastels. The palest of colors, nearly not color at all. Pale blue, pale green. All our walls and her clothes - self made of chosen fabric, a standard pattern, light and just this close to colorless.

I hated pastels. Preferring dark greens and blues, and purples especially. Clear and intense colors, jewel tones.

Painting over the muddy darks of the previous owner's covering for their Big Screen TV sins, in vibrant blue and cranberry ice, I think about color a lot. Affects my emotions and sense of wellbeing. As well as maternal preferences. Love that the colors I've chosen would piss her off.

The nearly white tangerine for the alternate walls is another matter. A tint of a clear orange, not a pastel. White with a slight lean toward a clear orange.

Definitely tending to the cleanest of colors. Hints and suggestions. Too light for pastels.

They put "celery" up once. I hated it immediately, but my opinion was discounted. It was too yellow, a vomitous color, which was eventually noticed. I have visceral reactions to color. They should have paid attention. I was not given credit, of course.

Color is not just a matter of shade, but of brilliance, shade, hue, and how much in what context. I love purple, but a purple house or car is not good. Our house is green with orange trim, it works, I don't know how. But House knows what she is, what looks good, and I listen.

She loves these vibrant hues, bright and intense. The houses around here that are more modern boxes love the muted tones of museums, art-ready walls. It matters how a color is used. How dull or cheerful, how small or vast. It all matters. Sunsets are gorgeous, but so are scarabs. Everything needs to know itself.

We need to know what we are.

Yosemite

Painted the living room. Well, two of the walls. The rest will come later. Messy, as per.

The clarity and brilliance of the color helps. Felt like I was painting over mud. Over tasteful colors, dark and muted and... not right for this house. House can wear strong color. The wood is perking up and standing out.

I'm not too concerned about neatness. There will be tidying up. Later.

Previous owners were covering up where they'd bolted a big screen TV to the wall, in part.

Yosemite blue.

LIghtness

So much lighter.


I've hated the dark paint for six years. Kept trying to make it work, but finally, I just had to get rid of it.

The dark blue in the living room is next.

Cranberry

When it's dark, the paint looks nearly black. This is not good.



So, I went bright.



Yes, I know, but it's cranberry, and at night with the lights on, it looks more a dusty rose. Brightens up the room immensely. Quite cheerful. As I paint this over the old color has a muddiness. Not red so much as a dark brick. And yes, it does seem a bit strong, but it works. This old girl can wear bright colors, House carries it off, like a San Francisco victorian.



And yes, I am a messy painter. I'll fix it later. Changing the mass of color is more important.