Combing the garden.
Raw, rumpled, squinting, yawning
Life beneath dead leaves.
Saturday, February 29, 2020
Frederick
Happy birthday, Frederic.
Combing the garden.
Raw, rumpled, squinting, yawning
Life beneath dead leaves.
Combing the garden.
Raw, rumpled, squinting, yawning
Life beneath dead leaves.
Friday, February 28, 2020
Yanked
Pulled umbilical
Mother yanking back from death
unique agony.
A friend has just lost his mother. Her age and illness aside, as this changes less than one would think. Oh, it's worse when a younger mother dies suddenly - the shock, but there is a certain minimum of grief that still overwhelms and must run its course. I have a sense of what he might be going through. My own experience is on this spectrum of grief. It's not the same as the immense relief when my father died, and even that was damned odd. Nor it is at all the loss when Aunt Evelyn died, and I still miss talking with her, wanting to invite her into my house, still cry occasionally. With my mother, my body seemed to feel her death, and still does, even as my head and heart stood by looking embarrassed and awkward, unable to explain.
That incongruity makes it worse, even as the absence of loss and regret make it easier.
Mother yanking back from death
unique agony.
A friend has just lost his mother. Her age and illness aside, as this changes less than one would think. Oh, it's worse when a younger mother dies suddenly - the shock, but there is a certain minimum of grief that still overwhelms and must run its course. I have a sense of what he might be going through. My own experience is on this spectrum of grief. It's not the same as the immense relief when my father died, and even that was damned odd. Nor it is at all the loss when Aunt Evelyn died, and I still miss talking with her, wanting to invite her into my house, still cry occasionally. With my mother, my body seemed to feel her death, and still does, even as my head and heart stood by looking embarrassed and awkward, unable to explain.
That incongruity makes it worse, even as the absence of loss and regret make it easier.
Jalapeño
Zeppo hanging out with us.
Resting my way through my usual February vacation week. It's helping, especially getting out in the garden. Stuff is alive beneath the autumn mulch. Mulch that is soon to be compost. It's nearly 60˚F, pleasant to garden in. Picked up grocery store beans and lentils, and coriander, to plant. Another week or so, and might as well get started.
We've had lunch at restaurants three days running. Yesterday the Asian/sushi place. The menu has a nice range from 'quite reasonable' to 'Wow'. We stick to the low end lunch specials, well made, delicious and nourishing.
And before I started in on my Mex roll (jalapeño, crab, avocado) Dylan said, "Close your eyes for a minute."
Ok. I did, raising my eyebrow. I heard a click or two, but the idea of a ring box was ridiculous.
"All set, open them."
A single lit candle stuck in, and I laughed quietly, gave it a moment's honor, blew it out and put it in my pocket. A waitress walking by remarked that it was sweet. Yes, it was, and very funny, and just the right level of fuss. We have a long-standing agreement that any noisy celebration of a birthday with singing, is grounds for automatic divorce. As we finished eating, the other waitress mentioned she assumed it was my birthday, I put a finger to my lips, and she left it at that. I think the waitstaff enjoyed our little ritual, at least they didn't confiscate the lighter.
Anyone wishing me happy birthday in the comments will have their comment deleted, and I do mean that. No exceptions.
Let's haiku through March.
Wednesday, February 26, 2020
Productive
Zeppo on the table.
Considering an idea that humor can be receptive, those who get jokes and wit, laugh and are amused. Less common are those who make others laugh, rather like musical performers. Productive humor. And how much it's all a matter of taste and context.
Dylan and I make each other laugh frequently.
Monday, February 24, 2020
Sol
The sun shone in and cats basked. I'm on vacation and lolling about.
Also, turned the compost pile, picked up way too much bits of trash on the lawn.
Sunday, February 23, 2020
Friday, February 21, 2020
Thursday, February 20, 2020
Ripped
Went over to help build garden boxes for the new community garden in the little park by our house. Taught a woman older than me to use a drill and power screw driver, she said she'd never touched power tools before.
And learned again about Mignon Richmond, for whom the park was named. The marker at the park does not mention that she is a woman, just that it's named for the first African-American to graduate from a Utah University. Usually when there is no "female" designation, it means male. I'm not the only one. Worked with some young women at the garden build who told me this, so I learned today as well.
Fellow nurse asked me on Tuesday if only working 30 hours was just wonderful. I had to say that it was more that I felt able to cover my shifts and still seems like a bare necessity. Nothing feeling wonderful right now, just possible and improving.
Woke to both cats wanting to be snuggled, so I did my duty. Good thing I have two working hands. Eleanor gets pushy when Zeppo's getting petted and she isn't. As long as someone is scritching her, she's willing to share.
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
Denim
Sorting through cupboards and organizing. Life changes faster than my inclination to rearrange.
Tuesday, February 18, 2020
Scrubs
Today was very weird. Three physicians had surgery at our facility, none were... particularly beloved. One of our techs has a severe medical issue and was sent to the ER. I'm glad not to be there tomorrow.
Monday, February 17, 2020
Plaid
So, flask says there is a call for people to post their daily fashion.
Sure. Start with today, a federal holiday.
Sure. Start with today, a federal holiday.
Friday, February 14, 2020
Wednesday, February 12, 2020
Names
I am terrible with names. And always apologetic.
Because my own name is often embellished or diminunutized. Zhoen-ann. Zhoenie. But I am a plain (Zh)OAN. The charwoman name, that's me. The charred saint. JustJoan from Jewel of the Nile. I answer to hey-you, or oh-nurse, without demur. As long as not called the wrong variation of the given dubbing. Worked with a Jacqueline that used Jack, of a similar shape and color, we wound up answering to each other's names, I would likely still answer to a shout of "Jack!"
Never acquired any nicknames, aside from a jr. hs friend who called me "froggie" for my frog-eye glasses. Only JustJoan ever stuck, although one anesthesiologist called me Jonesy, which I rather liked.
Every year with the new residents, I struggle with the names, and apologize. Told one young man that I could't tell one twenty-something white guy from another, and he did not take it well. But I seriously can't tell one twentyish white guy from another, in identical scrubs, masks and hats. The women are not much better, unless they are of a somewhat different ethnicity or name. They come in and flow out, like the tide, and they don't stay in my mind unless particularly good or bad.
I remember two very bad Dimitris. No, wait, it was three. Not a good name.
After a particularly difficult foot fellow, a very nice one came in saying he was the "New (old foot fellow's name)" I said, impossible. You have to be better than him. He was, a very nice young man, and no doubt now, a very good foot and ankle surgeon.
Please, btw, don't go to a podiatrist for anything but diabetic foot care, go to a foot and ankle surgeon for anything more complex, or for actual surgery. Seriously. Our foot and ankle surgeons do a booming trade in fixing podiatrist surgical botches.
Had a college financial aid clerk tell me once that Joan wasn't a name, it's actually spelled Jone.
Because my own name is often embellished or diminunutized. Zhoen-ann. Zhoenie. But I am a plain (Zh)OAN. The charwoman name, that's me. The charred saint. JustJoan from Jewel of the Nile. I answer to hey-you, or oh-nurse, without demur. As long as not called the wrong variation of the given dubbing. Worked with a Jacqueline that used Jack, of a similar shape and color, we wound up answering to each other's names, I would likely still answer to a shout of "Jack!"
Never acquired any nicknames, aside from a jr. hs friend who called me "froggie" for my frog-eye glasses. Only JustJoan ever stuck, although one anesthesiologist called me Jonesy, which I rather liked.
Every year with the new residents, I struggle with the names, and apologize. Told one young man that I could't tell one twenty-something white guy from another, and he did not take it well. But I seriously can't tell one twentyish white guy from another, in identical scrubs, masks and hats. The women are not much better, unless they are of a somewhat different ethnicity or name. They come in and flow out, like the tide, and they don't stay in my mind unless particularly good or bad.
I remember two very bad Dimitris. No, wait, it was three. Not a good name.
After a particularly difficult foot fellow, a very nice one came in saying he was the "New (old foot fellow's name)" I said, impossible. You have to be better than him. He was, a very nice young man, and no doubt now, a very good foot and ankle surgeon.
Please, btw, don't go to a podiatrist for anything but diabetic foot care, go to a foot and ankle surgeon for anything more complex, or for actual surgery. Seriously. Our foot and ankle surgeons do a booming trade in fixing podiatrist surgical botches.
Had a college financial aid clerk tell me once that Joan wasn't a name, it's actually spelled Jone.
Phantom
My feet are slowly improving. Damn post-menopausal-plantar-fasciitis. The new shoes, thanks to inheritance money, are helping. Although I am approaching the shoe event horizon with the good but not for me shoes. And boots. I've made a number of footwear mistakes, which causes me a considerable amount of guilt. Damn feet. Damn shoes.
Which makes a job on my feet ten hours a shift, a bit challenging. Tuesday, a fellow nurse wanted to get out to finish packing for her trip to see her mum, so when I finished my room, I offered to relieve her. She was so grateful, and it was a way to work with a lovely scrub, after the cluster-b personality disorder scrub I'd had to run so fast to keep ahead of (to forestall her preemptory and redundant orders) all the rest of the day. I'm seriously getting tired of the narcissists, hysterics and borderlines. Grew up with a (probable) borderline, and they mash all my buttons. Insulting to be already doing the job, when the less-experienced person stops me to call for what I'm in the middle of doing. Yeah, I stayed an extra hour, but it was a healing hour of good people. My body hurt, but my heart rested.
Got home starving, and Dylan had made kung-pao chicken, which was heavenly. We sat together and Eleanor walked on us, so all is well.
Woke up thinking of Moby, specifically his last moments, and wept. As Eleanor sat on my chest, and Zeppo rubbed his mouth into my elbow. I will miss Moby always. Today I cleaned litter boxes and the back room, which only required sweeping. No urine soaked gunk to scrape away, which was also Moby. That part I will not miss, his variable aim and preference for peeing randomly. I remembered stroking his fur, after his heart had stopped, and wept for his friendship and always will. I felt the weight of his body in the wool as we lowered him into his grave. That I paid the vet before, because I wouldn't be up to it after. They melted away, the vet and his tech, as I mourned our friend, stroked his fur, and laid him in wool, in a basket, until we buried him.
I've been a bit weepy today, grieving. My mother's death still wringing my body without my consent or any emotion. Just an ache and keening. Not even thoughts, just my body missing part of itself, however gangrenous. Phantom pain. Phantom Grief.
Zeppo comes as I sit here writing, to be petted. His lower back, tail, then a circle back to rub his mouth against my hand. This is all he is up to, but he clearly wants affection. We've not had him a year yet. Took Moby a year to get used to ANYTHING. We wait and stay open.
He is getting less nervy, more relaxed. The incredibly slow laying down of trust, layer by layer.
Which makes a job on my feet ten hours a shift, a bit challenging. Tuesday, a fellow nurse wanted to get out to finish packing for her trip to see her mum, so when I finished my room, I offered to relieve her. She was so grateful, and it was a way to work with a lovely scrub, after the cluster-b personality disorder scrub I'd had to run so fast to keep ahead of (to forestall her preemptory and redundant orders) all the rest of the day. I'm seriously getting tired of the narcissists, hysterics and borderlines. Grew up with a (probable) borderline, and they mash all my buttons. Insulting to be already doing the job, when the less-experienced person stops me to call for what I'm in the middle of doing. Yeah, I stayed an extra hour, but it was a healing hour of good people. My body hurt, but my heart rested.
Got home starving, and Dylan had made kung-pao chicken, which was heavenly. We sat together and Eleanor walked on us, so all is well.
Woke up thinking of Moby, specifically his last moments, and wept. As Eleanor sat on my chest, and Zeppo rubbed his mouth into my elbow. I will miss Moby always. Today I cleaned litter boxes and the back room, which only required sweeping. No urine soaked gunk to scrape away, which was also Moby. That part I will not miss, his variable aim and preference for peeing randomly. I remembered stroking his fur, after his heart had stopped, and wept for his friendship and always will. I felt the weight of his body in the wool as we lowered him into his grave. That I paid the vet before, because I wouldn't be up to it after. They melted away, the vet and his tech, as I mourned our friend, stroked his fur, and laid him in wool, in a basket, until we buried him.
I've been a bit weepy today, grieving. My mother's death still wringing my body without my consent or any emotion. Just an ache and keening. Not even thoughts, just my body missing part of itself, however gangrenous. Phantom pain. Phantom Grief.
Zeppo comes as I sit here writing, to be petted. His lower back, tail, then a circle back to rub his mouth against my hand. This is all he is up to, but he clearly wants affection. We've not had him a year yet. Took Moby a year to get used to ANYTHING. We wait and stay open.
He is getting less nervy, more relaxed. The incredibly slow laying down of trust, layer by layer.
Saturday, February 08, 2020
Wasp
-More here.
I've gotten to know the local wasps, and have no trouble with them. I was taught to be afraid of them as a child, like most of us. Thread-waist wasps and some variety of paper wasp. They are important creatures, and I will fight the arrogance of people who hate all wasps in lordly contempt. What right have we to disdain any creature because they are inconvenient* to us? Reduce their numbers because they destroy our food or are in a dangerous spot is one thing. Hate them because they'll defend themselves from our attempt to kill them out of distaste? That's monstrous.
Everything eats everything. We all compete for space and resources. This is normal. But to deem an entire classification of insect evil out of overblown fear? This is vicious. This is projection.
This is dualism.
All things dull and Ugly
All creatures short and squat,
All things rude and nasty,
The Lord God made the lot.
Each little snake that poisons,
Each little wasp that stings,
He made their brutish venom,
He made their horrid wings.
All things sick and cancerous,
All evil great and small,
All things foul and dangerous,
The Lord God made them all.
Each nasty little hornet,
Each beastly little squid,
Who made the spikey urchin,
Who made the sharks, He did.
All things scabbed and ulcerous,
All pox both great and small,
Putrid, foul and gangrenous,
The Lord God made them all.
Friends came over last night. Zeppo appeared. Hopped up for me to pet him, then... went over to Nicole. Briefly, but then tried again. This is the first time we've seen him approach anyone but us, and we quietly cheered him on. I figured it would be Nicole he tried first, though. She has a deep kindness. Yeah, he's going to be a sociable cat, in his own way and in his own time. Watching him become his best cat self is going to be fun.
Eleanor was all over them, sniffing John's beard, and loving on Chris. She's gotten more confident. Especially if there might be a bit of really good cheese on offer. And with this crowd, there always is. Feels really good that we've given her the space and peace to become her bold and cuddly self.
Two days work in a row, and although I am tired and my feet hurt, I'm not entirely exhausted and feet are nowhere near as bad. I'm getting back a measure of elasticity.
In my dreams, I was walking around the steep part of town, it was cold with snow on the ground. Couldn't remember where I'd left the car. A skinny middle aged woman with a mullet is walking behind me, telling me my shoes are going to hurt me and I shouldn't wear them. I thought, no - these are the shoes that are helping my feet heal. I tried to hurry away, she kept following me and shouting at me, using my name, about the shoes. Until she ran up in front of me, yelling at me for not responding and listening to her, went to grab me, and I grabbed her throat to choke (compress carotids) her out. She was so confused and angry as she passed out, and I left her unconscious on the lawn. I woke afraid I'd be arrested, even though I was defending myself.
*Ok, I do hate snails, but they are invasive here and destroy my garden. They aren't evil, I don't want to eradicate them from the earth, just from my garden. I think it's fair to say I hate 'too-many-snails' not all of them as individuals. I get freaked out by swarms of anything, especially bugges. The gut horror of being overwhelmed.
Wednesday, February 05, 2020
Soothing
Lunch with friends, and good conversation, soothing to old aches.
Put in earrings for the first time in over a month. This is a good sign. I love wearing earrings. When I can't manage to wear any, I know I'm in trouble. When I start wanting them again, I know I'm doing better. It's a weird thing, and for most people not a semi-conscious act, for me though, it's a habit of decades and a barometer of my ability to cope.
For a while this morning, I had both cats on my chest, purring, needing to be petted. Eleanor much more tolerant, even affectionate, with Zeppo. Zeppo never stays anywhere long, so Eleanor let him sit on me, with her, for the short time it took him to cross my body, get a head scritch and move on. I just kept breathing, a not inconsiderable effort. One day there will be cat-to-cat cuddling, but not quite yet. No rush, no hurry.
Switching days to accommodate the schedule is fine, I don't care which days I work, as long as I have fewer, and a bit of choice. Another RN did the same this past month, dropped his hours to 30. We've all been feeling the push, and we've all been pushed beyond tolerances. The older of us need rebounding time. I've put off getting an additional or different job, since that would be stressful in a whole new way. Let this settle in, let my heart heal, then search. There is no hurry.
Slowing down, letting my heart open, cultivating softness.
The compost pile is thick with snow. The garden has no plans. Got new rain barrels. There is still inheritance money.
Oh, and I found out, the Worker's Comp money is not taxable. Neither was the inheritance, would take a lot more than that to trigger taxes. We have a nice refund coming, that will likely go into an IRA. All of which makes me feel less guilty about working fewer hours.
Put in earrings for the first time in over a month. This is a good sign. I love wearing earrings. When I can't manage to wear any, I know I'm in trouble. When I start wanting them again, I know I'm doing better. It's a weird thing, and for most people not a semi-conscious act, for me though, it's a habit of decades and a barometer of my ability to cope.
For a while this morning, I had both cats on my chest, purring, needing to be petted. Eleanor much more tolerant, even affectionate, with Zeppo. Zeppo never stays anywhere long, so Eleanor let him sit on me, with her, for the short time it took him to cross my body, get a head scritch and move on. I just kept breathing, a not inconsiderable effort. One day there will be cat-to-cat cuddling, but not quite yet. No rush, no hurry.
Switching days to accommodate the schedule is fine, I don't care which days I work, as long as I have fewer, and a bit of choice. Another RN did the same this past month, dropped his hours to 30. We've all been feeling the push, and we've all been pushed beyond tolerances. The older of us need rebounding time. I've put off getting an additional or different job, since that would be stressful in a whole new way. Let this settle in, let my heart heal, then search. There is no hurry.
Slowing down, letting my heart open, cultivating softness.
The compost pile is thick with snow. The garden has no plans. Got new rain barrels. There is still inheritance money.
Oh, and I found out, the Worker's Comp money is not taxable. Neither was the inheritance, would take a lot more than that to trigger taxes. We have a nice refund coming, that will likely go into an IRA. All of which makes me feel less guilty about working fewer hours.
Tuesday, February 04, 2020
Uncomfortable
We have always conversed. Sometimes with excitement and a rush of thoughts and ideas. Sometimes, and this is the important bit, with silence. No, really, just sitting together, walking together, and knowing the other one is worrying about a story we both heard, that we agree, and the only thing to do is keep each other company. Or an issue so pervasive, we've already said what could be said, and we just need the comfort of companionship.
Certainly at the beginning we talked a lot, tumbling conversations, one thought leading to a dozen more, and not enough time in the world to share all our ideas. Even then, though, we could sit on the floor of the barracks, back to back, reading, simply together being perfectly sufficient.
We don't agree on everything, but we respect each others opinions, and value each others interests. We agree deeply on all the important stuff. Like keeping our sidewalks clear for pedestrians, because that matters. Kindness matters. Inclusion matters. We have a duty.
Like feeding our cats well. Like taking in shelter cats and treating them with respect and gentleness. Like wanting to share our lives with cats...
Dylan's family had a cat named Enzo. Used to get himself caught high up in the screen door, claws in the mesh.
On the football Sunday recently, we did our best to ignore. The whole upper class Ivy League game is an odd choice to become the blue collar 'merican shibboleth. Dylan says it's a post war thing, which I further extrapolate as the roots of modern toxic masculinity. It's damn manly, that football shit. Mud and helmets and violence and forced teaming and committee meetings. Ugh. Seriously, if he'd been at all sport mad, we would never have gotten together in the first place.
Say what I will about my father, he had no interest in professional team sports. Sports at all, as far as I recall. Nor any of the men on that side of the family. Canadian? I really don't know why not, a minor blessing in a whirlwind of curses. No, not even hockey. Although, it might have been less awful than the endless conversations about... whatever it was that adults talked about when I was small. Curtains? I remember being forced to answer a question put to me about curtains, when I was maybe seven? Maybe being able to say, "Yeah! Go Team!" might have been simpler.
When I worked among very religious and conservative doctors, I learned to say, "So, how 'bout that game?" when I had no idea what team, or indeed, what sport, might have been recent or relevant. Sports became that lovely distraction, like yelling "SQUIRREL!" and avoiding politics and religion. It didn't interest me, but neither did it offend me. Totally irrelevant, and therefore tolerable.
I work with a surgeon. Well a few, but this one in particular. Another surgeon was a resident with him, and tried to engage him in chit chat. Dr. G. eventually stops him and says, "I'm comfortable with uncomfortable silences." When I heard this story, I understood Dr.G, and have worked with him contentedly for many years now.
I am genuinely comfortable with uncomfortable silences.
Certainly at the beginning we talked a lot, tumbling conversations, one thought leading to a dozen more, and not enough time in the world to share all our ideas. Even then, though, we could sit on the floor of the barracks, back to back, reading, simply together being perfectly sufficient.
We don't agree on everything, but we respect each others opinions, and value each others interests. We agree deeply on all the important stuff. Like keeping our sidewalks clear for pedestrians, because that matters. Kindness matters. Inclusion matters. We have a duty.
Like feeding our cats well. Like taking in shelter cats and treating them with respect and gentleness. Like wanting to share our lives with cats...
Dylan's family had a cat named Enzo. Used to get himself caught high up in the screen door, claws in the mesh.
On the football Sunday recently, we did our best to ignore. The whole upper class Ivy League game is an odd choice to become the blue collar 'merican shibboleth. Dylan says it's a post war thing, which I further extrapolate as the roots of modern toxic masculinity. It's damn manly, that football shit. Mud and helmets and violence and forced teaming and committee meetings. Ugh. Seriously, if he'd been at all sport mad, we would never have gotten together in the first place.
Say what I will about my father, he had no interest in professional team sports. Sports at all, as far as I recall. Nor any of the men on that side of the family. Canadian? I really don't know why not, a minor blessing in a whirlwind of curses. No, not even hockey. Although, it might have been less awful than the endless conversations about... whatever it was that adults talked about when I was small. Curtains? I remember being forced to answer a question put to me about curtains, when I was maybe seven? Maybe being able to say, "Yeah! Go Team!" might have been simpler.
When I worked among very religious and conservative doctors, I learned to say, "So, how 'bout that game?" when I had no idea what team, or indeed, what sport, might have been recent or relevant. Sports became that lovely distraction, like yelling "SQUIRREL!" and avoiding politics and religion. It didn't interest me, but neither did it offend me. Totally irrelevant, and therefore tolerable.
I work with a surgeon. Well a few, but this one in particular. Another surgeon was a resident with him, and tried to engage him in chit chat. Dr. G. eventually stops him and says, "I'm comfortable with uncomfortable silences." When I heard this story, I understood Dr.G, and have worked with him contentedly for many years now.
I am genuinely comfortable with uncomfortable silences.
Monday, February 03, 2020
Hidden
Snowed madly all night, very messy drive. But the university cancelled all morning classes, and a lot of admin people did not go in, at least not early. So despite the road conditions, at least traffic was light enough for Other Drivers to be less of an issue. The parking lot was being cleared, so I parked in a different spot and a different direction. Which was good, because only the back of the car had much snow when I left at 1700, the front nearly clear.
I did have to make sure it was my car, it wasn't immediately obvious. And there is likely more snow tonight. Dylan figures it at 15". The drive home was iffy, but not scary.
Got asked to cover Thursday instead of tomorrow, which seemed like a great idea to me.
Dylan saw a woman out with her sled dogs. This was the best shot he could get, but she did have them actually running along the sidewalk later.
Happy February.
I did have to make sure it was my car, it wasn't immediately obvious. And there is likely more snow tonight. Dylan figures it at 15". The drive home was iffy, but not scary.
Got asked to cover Thursday instead of tomorrow, which seemed like a great idea to me.
Dylan saw a woman out with her sled dogs. This was the best shot he could get, but she did have them actually running along the sidewalk later.
Happy February.
Sunday, February 02, 2020
Storm
The light is weird, slightly orange/pink, which is usually more noticeable later when it's darker, and there is a big snowstorm approaching. I'm already planning on getting up and just heading off to work without breakfast. That uphill drive is always iffy when there is ice or snow. With how warm it is now, this will likely have an ice layer beneath whatever snow dumps on top.
Winter Storm warning.
Typical February sort of storm. Lots of accumulation and bluster, but it won't stick around. Not like Detroit snow, once down it stayed all winter, getting grayer and grittier until April or May. Here, it'll melt by Wednesday. Especially this time of year.
Winter Storm warning.
Heavy snow expected. Total snow accumulations of 6 to 12
inches valley floor, and 12 to 22 inches on the benches as well
as near Tooele. Winds gusting as high as 35 mph.
Typical February sort of storm. Lots of accumulation and bluster, but it won't stick around. Not like Detroit snow, once down it stayed all winter, getting grayer and grittier until April or May. Here, it'll melt by Wednesday. Especially this time of year.
Greener
Whatever is in the other bowl is better.
At a synesthesia Etsy site, apparently my real name's colors are these. I'd tweak the green a bit darker, but the first three are spot on.
Happy Groundhog Day! Happy 02022020.
Saturday, February 01, 2020
Carmina
I have been looking for this Carmina Burana, not Orff*, for thirty years. Finally. The ex bought it, I fell in love with it. When I escaped, he returned a lot of crap to me that I didn't want, but not this album that I actually wanted. Clothes hangers, yes, this album, no. Dreadful fucker. It was my one lingering regret, that I could not recall the name, could not save the music that so entranced me.
Stewart Copeland is doing a series called Adventures in Music Altered States. He mentions this body of songs, not from this musician. I look it up on wiki, and finally, after all this time, recognized the name. Rene Clemencic. He has my birthday, godsdammit. And they are coming to town, so I pull out the inheritance card, and bloodyshitballs, we are GOING!
Ok,I'm a little excited, this is hitting all the damn synchronicities.
And. It's not actually the same group, but we're going anyway, and I'm still excited.
*I don't really like the Orff Carmina Burana.
Stewart Copeland is doing a series called Adventures in Music Altered States. He mentions this body of songs, not from this musician. I look it up on wiki, and finally, after all this time, recognized the name. Rene Clemencic. He has my birthday, godsdammit. And they are coming to town, so I pull out the inheritance card, and bloodyshitballs, we are GOING!
Ok,I'm a little excited, this is hitting all the damn synchronicities.
And. It's not actually the same group, but we're going anyway, and I'm still excited.
*I don't really like the Orff Carmina Burana.
Cleaning
Last night before I crawled in bed, I sat in the bathroom and noticed, for the first time in many months, that the rugs needed washing and the walls could use a wiping down.
This seems simple, but it's a harbinger of a cleaning wind. The first real sign that I'm starting to recover myself. Noticing and caring that dirt has accumulated and needs a good scrub, and maybe I actually will start to struggle against the encroaching chaos. It's not that I love cleaning, so much as that I need a clean space. Generally. I don't go nuts. Until it's gotten this bad, and order must be restored. Having to move so often has probably obscured this urge.
I've known, but knowing is not the same as seeing and wanting to act. I've kept up a bare minimum, because I do know, and it does matter. Once, I would have dreamed of hiring a cleaner, but having done that once when I had my broken arm, was quite enough. That felt awful, even though the results were wonderful.
And I'm starting to think about the garden, just a little. This is another symptom of my burnout, having to try to get excited about gardening. Usually it's my dearest refuge, to plan and yearn for the mud and seeds.
Still am not wearing earrings. That's another symptom, when I don't much feel like earrings, I know I'm stressed or sick.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And... I washed the bathroom walls, scrubbed sink and tub, and the grubby tops of nightlight and plugs, and the rust off the shower rod. Cleaned the stove, even moving it out to sweep behind, as well as fridge. This sort of cleaning is a very good sign. I'm getting through this, this griefy-burnout. The more I do, the better it feels, the more I want to do.
This seems simple, but it's a harbinger of a cleaning wind. The first real sign that I'm starting to recover myself. Noticing and caring that dirt has accumulated and needs a good scrub, and maybe I actually will start to struggle against the encroaching chaos. It's not that I love cleaning, so much as that I need a clean space. Generally. I don't go nuts. Until it's gotten this bad, and order must be restored. Having to move so often has probably obscured this urge.
I've known, but knowing is not the same as seeing and wanting to act. I've kept up a bare minimum, because I do know, and it does matter. Once, I would have dreamed of hiring a cleaner, but having done that once when I had my broken arm, was quite enough. That felt awful, even though the results were wonderful.
And I'm starting to think about the garden, just a little. This is another symptom of my burnout, having to try to get excited about gardening. Usually it's my dearest refuge, to plan and yearn for the mud and seeds.
Still am not wearing earrings. That's another symptom, when I don't much feel like earrings, I know I'm stressed or sick.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And... I washed the bathroom walls, scrubbed sink and tub, and the grubby tops of nightlight and plugs, and the rust off the shower rod. Cleaned the stove, even moving it out to sweep behind, as well as fridge. This sort of cleaning is a very good sign. I'm getting through this, this griefy-burnout. The more I do, the better it feels, the more I want to do.
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