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!
Two grand worth of la z boy dual loveseat showed up on the sidewalk during our walk yesterday so we hauled it home and I am sore like woah. (Jeff did most of the work.) We’ll set it up after we get it cleaned. It doesn’t have any crap in it currently but safety first.
Missed a chance to go swimming with Alex yesterday but I was toast. My eyes are itchy right now and I didn’t feel like adding to that.
Happy BDAY Jeff!!!!
Mike came over and we all watched Alita Battle Angel and ate pizza and wings and he collected all his gear from the party. Another pleasant evening after a day of lying around and writing.
Patsara was fantastic (Jeff pronounced himself pleased and I ordered a bunch of to share appies which were, candidly, incredible) and we came back here to sing and play and talk and Jeff and I cleaned the house somewhat so yay us. Carry On Wayward Son was involved, plus the THR5A amp of posts previous. I drank two whole beers at the restaurant; feel fine. It was lovely to see Tom U., I hadn’t seen him in ages.
David Dowker’s chapbook Time-Sensitive Material (see Instagram links Here and Here) will be launched shortly. Congratulations Dave!
Alex dropped by yesterday and volunteered to be ‘left behind at grandma’s’ so his mamabear could get an alone phone call and he watched Chelyabinsk and Pompeii videos with me, plus he has this thing about the R Crumb Stoned Again animation that I don’t quite get. He’s 4.
Welp I’m crying my face off; mOm just told me that she’s transitioning one of my cousins in the family tree. Welcome Valerie, you’ll never hear your dead name outta my mouth. (Also? one of my favourite women’s names.
)
Dinner was set for 6:30, but our table was waiting when we got there early. “Early!” Mike said mildly, as if such things never occur on his watch. We walked through the restaurant and stepped down onto the patio, where we were transported to a world of attentive and kindly service, and got to watch a wedding out on the lawn. Some violinist, undoubtedly one who had not thought of such a living in music school, sawed away most competently on the exact traditional and classical airs which a) have no ducking copyright and b) are least likely to induce violence in the listeners/gathering. Well done, violinist.
We were bothered by no importunate birds or unpleasant insects as we chowed down on the fresh halibut and lamb tenderloin and west coast risotto (Haida Gwaii halibut, steelhead salmon, capers and lemon which was of surpassing nom, believe me). Dessert would have been folly – Mike and I rolled out of there with bug eyed slowness, such was our state of repletion. We got the charcuterie tray, too, which was so fucking good I’m having flashbacks. It’s also the exact wrong thing for me to eat with my blood pressure. I suggested it but only because I know Mike likes that kind of shit too and there’s not a damned thing wrong with his blood pressure. ( I had zero alcohol )
Mike took pics of my updo – it was held together with 20 bobby pins, 3 hair elastics and enough product to turn the prow of a ship ice-breaker capable. It also held together like grim death in the convertible (Mike’s driving the Mustang again, after many adventures in muscle strain and industrial accident getting the critter operational, all in Trent’s Man Cave, which is much like Tom’s Man Cave and other Man Caves of story and legend in that it has damned near anything you’d need to fix anything.)
Anyway, Mike was in Denver and like me he has trouble finding clothes that fit locally which is FUCKING LUDICROUS because he is an averagely proportioned man of Chinese descent WHO LIVES IN VANCOUVER but because merchandizing buyers are racist, there’s never enough size 28 anything (he’s a perfect size 28) so you can imagine how he felt when he found a designer suit in his size for 99 bucks US.
The suit is gunmetal grey and shiny; put together with a black dress shirt and Daytons elevator cowboy boots with silver chains he looked like a fucking whale at a casino. He looked so sharp I was splodey with pride.
I stepped out of the house and Mike said “You look smashing.” (I intend to share this comment with Teresa, the gal who put my hair up while we had a lovely convo.) I sure felt like it. We were also going for the monochrome look, me in solid burgundy and him in shiny dark grey. Nobody else at the restaurant dressed up. I just wish I could have gotten one of Elyse’s tiaras/necklaces as well, but Eshakti did me up fine with this outfit.
Wrong colour of course and also I got it on sale in the closeout colour. Let’s just say you won’t find an outfit that stylish, comfy and cheap at Penningtons. I’m never going to a classical fat lady store again, the chains can bite me.
So Hart House dins while dressed up for Mike’s birthday went exceedingly well. I am going to remember this meal as the height of company, location, food and basic happiness, because I don’t think I stopped smiling for the entire meal.
And in a less formal way we’ll be doing it on Saturday at the Thai restaurant in New West with the rest of Mike’s friends and Jeff and I are hosting the afterpartay. LET THE GRAND CLEANING BEGIN mebbe with the cat puke in the living room.
IT’s a beautiful, beautiful day. Cloudless and bright.
My clothes arrived from Eshakti and I am officially in love with the grey onesie. The pantsuit is lovely and elegant and fits perfectly. I still can’t believe it got here that fast, in time for me to play dressup.
A thousand words yesterday on the fanfic and about two hundred words on Conversion – had a talk with Jeff about where it should go a couple of days ago and am still trying to figure out the shape of chapter.
I’m really enjoying that. (it’s back under blooooooberries) Sang it for Paul, who snickered. I’m also developing a little dance to go along with it, which is completing my ridiculousness.
Brekky at IHOP with Jeff.
The landpeer cut down the dead tree in the back yard so no more clothesline and no more flickers getting brekky across from my bedroom window. Jeff is going to address the ‘remounting the other end of the clothesline’ in the fullness of time.
I am upset about the damned tree. Nothing to be done. They left at least part of the felled stump in the yard where it will still be food.
The next little while will be a whirlwind (a slow one, maybe a willywilly) of activities; supper tomorrow for Mike’s birthday (he asked me to dress up, which is making me unusually excited; I MAY GET AN UPDO.) Then another birthday dinner with the gang at the Thai restaurant on Saturday, and Jeff and I will be hosting the afterpartay. YAY I HAVE A REASON TO CLEAN MY HOUSE.
Just spoke to Tammy and how good to hear her voice.
Much biscotti, which I will be trading for plums from Peggy later.
Which I think is most delightful for him and his krewe.
The Expanse is back in December YAYAYAYAYA
I will be going to a meetup of genre fiction writers downtown this evening. I am slightly nervous since they’ll all be children and it will probably be the world’s noisiest sports bar and I won’t be able to hear a fucking thing. However, don’t try, don’t get, and they’re apparently going to be doing an anthology.
Ate brekky with Katie and Alex on Saturday. Alex crawled under the table and tickled my leg. It sounds gross but it was charming, and we laughed our heads off. I also showed off my optical calcite crystal to him and he played with it briefly.
as for the rest I’m working on a few tunes and doing a lot of anarchist reading
A fine response to a dictator’s rally.
I think I am getting used to the meds. Still not much movement in my blood pressure; as far as I can tell I’m taking half the correct dose to ensure I tolerate it and I’ll likely be taking more when I go back to see the doc on the 29th. What is definitely lower, ever minute of ever day, which is reducing strain on my heart, is my pulse, which is actually close to being that of a normal adult for a change.
I’m not feeling super sleepy or depressed, two of the things you’re supposed to watch out for.
And Peggy got more biscotti and updated me on the refugees.
The men of this family simply do not pay the slightest attention to people who tell them not to smoke indoors unless they are six foot five. The concept that they cannot smoke indoors – which even the most hardcore smokers do not do in this burg – is entirely opaque to them. This means their desire to all live together in a rental house is not going to happen (they are refusing to live in an apartment, and insisting on a house, which is very funny in that poke in the eye way) since no sane landlord would rent to them, and the so person currently housing them has eight people including 1 pregnant person and four smokers living in her smoke free house.
No fuckin’ good deed eh fOlks.
I’m going to turn those bloobs into pannnncakes.
Do not read this lyric, it is rude but when I came up with it last night I could not stop laughing. It’s me making fun of Supernatural YET AGAIN. There are 800 wingfic stories on AO3 – a subcategory of either romance or smut – and heaven knows how many elsewhere…
This shown below was updated 1 august.
Angels in their true form are big and stern and feathered
To look upon us in that state makes humans come untethered
Gender is irrelevant to Heaven’s fighting squad
Taking orders, smiting demons, ever faithful to my God…
Who then gave me Dean Winchester to reconstruct from hell
He spake, “Start with his mouth, because you’ll get to know it well.
And please don’t ever worry about anything I’m plannin’,
‘Cause gay love saves the day, you know it’s absolutely canon.” <— I had the quote wrong, OF COURSE
Spread ‘em, spread ‘em, spread ‘em up to heaven
I’m gonna spread my great big wings for you
Spread ‘em, spread ‘em, spread ‘em up to heaven
I’m gonna spread my wings for you
I bet you’ll like most everything they do
Interspecies romances are always such a trial
I don’t know what I should feel and Dean’s good with denial
And yes I non-stop worry about what dear Chuck has planned
And so should you until the very last episode’s in the can
Spread ‘em, spread ‘em, spread ‘em up to heaven
I’m gonna spread my great big wings for you
Spread ‘em, spread ‘em, spread ‘em up to heaven
I’m gonna spread my wings for you
I bet you’ll like most everything they do
I’ve been told I’m fun when I rant, but this will be softer than a rant, so it’s a ramble.
Now I believe I’ve mentioned that I have music constantly. Having other people’s music is good, for it drowns out my own, (see previous comments about earworms) but there are times I do not wish to hear anyone’s music but my own, as it is an act radically invasive of cultural space to just not bother to learn a lot of other people’s tunes because a) your own are so much better and even if b) they a-really fucking are not, they’re yours, and explicitly and publicly acknowledging how men really own most musical space and are pissed and contrary about it unless they self select not to be ‘wads that way, by hanging about with women and making music with them.
I’m enjoying Spotify because I’m finding stuff I wouldn’t hear otherwise, no longer dependent on various gentlemen to find me interesting new stuff.
It’s making me think of how songs are constructed, how a lot of songs have all the percussion required by law and sense built into them, but it’s often overkill on acoustic songs.
I don’t mind people in new music using autotune if they leave it for exaggeration in the choruses and don’t chuck with the vocals too much during the verses. Choruses are supposed to be arresting and catchy in pop music. Robert DeLong’s Long Way Down is a worthy exemplar. Whether the lyrics are about the ‘rough patch’ of a relationship or a literal angst fest about the end of the world, it hardly matters. The crunchy, precise sonic palette is entirely too tidy… it’s the end of the world with a Perfect.Fucking.Soundtrack.
‘we can’t get higher than we get
on the long way down’
I would cut myself to have written that.
I am enjoying Better in Blak (the tune, not the album) by Thelma Plum. The first words of the first verse are like a gut punch, delivered in a deliberately blank, emotionally dialled-in expository voice, and then the rest of the song is a joyful reclamation of rage and agency delivered in infectiously catchy power pop. She’s Indigenous from Australia (no national affiliation I could find).
I’m listening to “Albaki” again, and it’s just wild. I WANT TO DANCE LIKE AN IDIOT TO THIS MUSIC. STOP ME FROM no don’t bother, I’m just going to have some fun.
I ha’e toasted almonds mither and likewise procured eggs and butter, and further adventures in biscotti await.
I got Paul twicet yesterday; once for a walk at Fraser Foreshore, which, I hate to say, after our lovely discovery, turns into a goddamned construction site for a bunch of industrial buildings, and was extremely sad except for the one lonely great blue heron, but we sat in dappled shade and read to each other from the anarchist books I just got in the mail, and then again at supper time, when the whole family but Jeff went to Edmonds pool.
Little Alex was exceedingly well behaved until he got out of the pool, at which point he completely melted down because he wanted an eating treat. His mother made nice with promises of grilled cheese sandwiches.
Jeff took me to breakfast and then we did a mini shop. Now must finish baking biscotti!!!
Soon the aroma will be driving us both spare.
Biscotti dough is in the fridge chilling. I’ll bake it before dawn tomorrow by the full moon when it’s still cool, every supposing I get up at a decent hour. My sleep cycle is all over the place, although to me it feels like I’m giving up the afternoon nap in favour of staying up later at night.
Tomorrow I’m supposed to poke my head in at the doc’s to report my current feels. My pressure has not gone down, although damn, my anxiety is almost knocked back. You’re supposed to watch out for depression on this stuff, so I am.
Season two of Lucifer, enjoying the hell out of it, haw haw. It’s good-hearted and cheesy and melodramatic and sweet and autistic (smart people being too honest for their own good) and procedural and scary and at least a handful of buffed-over vampire slayer style fighting scenes plus karaoke. It should not work, on paper it’s an abortion pulled through a shrapnel hole,
It is also, in spots, really funny and that part I like too.