Settler words&music in S'ólh Téméxw, (leanpub.com/upsun) living where privilege meets precarity in MST country. she/her/they———– Novels: Midnite Moving Co., Upsun; Sweep Off Those Waves coming soon, Hair Sinister after that. —Restore All Indigenous Lands!
The roast beest leftovers were if anything even better the second day. The words ‘enough gravy’ really helped. It was a tad lumpy, but oh so good.
My mental state is pretty leftover too – there’s a couple of days after a migraine where I just don’t work, brain-wise, normally, although the argument could be made that having a migraine has little to do with that.
I’m still a little light sensitive but I have no real excuse not to go to work, so I will go. I completely lost yesterday. Around 7:55 I put the roast into the slow cooker. Around 8 am I got ‘the flashies’ and by 8:30 I had stabbing pain behind my eye and then poof the center of my visual field disappeared. I drank a cup of coffee and went back to bed. Around 11:15 I woke up again and moved like arthritic crow through the house trying to determine if there was anything useful I could do, but moving made me nauseated so I lay back down. Around 2 I ran a hot bath and around 4 I managed to get mobile enough to put the veggies on to roast (braised beast with oven roasted potatoes, yams and squash). Keith and Paul ate dinner with me (my appetite returned when my visual field did) and Jeff was kept late at work but he pronounced my efforts awesome, which was good enough for me. I hadn’t fed him a proper meal in ages so it’s quite funny that the one day I was really in no shape to do it I could – but it was literally the only thing I did yesterday.
It’s raining, it’s dark, I’m a pedestrian, I think I’ll jump in front of Allegra’s car.
I don’t mind pedestrians being suicidal, but puhlease, not during my commute when I’m already running late.
Yesterday Paul and Keith and I went down to Suzanne’s (where stayeth Katie) and had pierogies and chicken for dinner. Suzanne was in fine form and Katie cooked dinner. Then I took Keith back to Geekhaus and we watched the last two eps of season 4 The Wire (oh, Dukie, oh Bodie) and all in all it was a very pleasant evening.
I woke up super early and cooked up some oatmeal. As soon as it clicks over 7 am I’m going to put a roast in the crockpot; Jeff’s been getting stiffed on hot meals and I’m thinking meat and two veg for tonight.
I have started working on another long poem – first in almost ten years – called The Drunkard’s Walk, which is going to be a long meditation about the mystery of human existence as framed by our limited cognition. And alcohol.
Katie is cocooning. More I cannot say on that subject.
I had an hour long conversation with a customer last night. Mostly we stuck to business but at one point he pointed out that he is a Canadian born into an American body, and I owned that in almost 13 years of abusing customers in the service of the alternative energy business I had never heard an American say that. I was so moved I offered him shelter in Vancouver come the revolution. He was grateful, and we returned to business.
I am transcribing dreffle Victorian poetry, and there’s this one poem so vilely racist that the backs of my eyes get scratchy just looking at the damned thing. And in 150 years, if anybody survives, people will be looking at my ravings and know me for a bigoted lunatic. Sigh.
If everyone needs a goal, here’s mine; I’m training hard to be bedridden. Because, you know, getting out of bed sucks so bad.