sixtywonderful

yup I’m now officially sixty-one. and to celebrate, a tweet that got retweeted (which means I’ll probably get 200k tweet impressions this month, lol) by Xeni Jardin, who’s been cancer free after a HARD FOUGHT WAR for some years now.

This was in response to people telling her that her thoughts gave her cancer.

I quote mOm at the time she was fighting hardest. We were talking about what she said to her body when asked to ‘visualize aiding her body’s fight against cancer’ which she found kind newageous.

“My body got confused about what was supposed to go where. My thoughts had nothing to do with it.” – my mOm, whose apparently infinite reserve of patience got drained by the inane shit the religious rellies would lay on her.

wrote today

Practiced up a storm. Didn’t leave the house except to take out the trash.

51981 is the current wordcount

Talked to Keith on the phone last night. Turns out he helped his friend get a job where he is. He’s got a physically demanding job and he’s tired all the time but otherwise sounds good. He was talking about missing the grands a bit and that always makes me happy, because (after the plague has lifted) I imagine that means he’s planning to go see them.

singing singing singing

I have run a load of dishes but that’s just about it for chores. Instead I have been singing and playing on all my instruments and every time I stop I start again. My fingers now officially hurt and I make pokey jabs at songwriting but nothing stuck.

 

Wasband took me to the park for a walk, and it was absolutely lovely, much warmer and less windy than it normally is at this time of year. I only wore two layers of clothing and no coat (but my hat) and that meant that I didn’t get overheated. I find that on these meds I overheat with a slower onset but a more lingering effect than I did when I was menopausal. He almost clipped a pedestrian at a crosswalk in front of the cop shop when we left. I think I upset him since I yelled at him briefly but I tend to do shit like that when I’m suddenly predicting some chick’s head’s gonna come through my side of the windshield. His reflexes are still pretty good though, he wasn’t technically into the crosswalk when he got it stopped.

I have learned things about his most recent airplane crash that make me think some people have fairy horseshoes on a charm bracelet packed in their asses.

Alone in the house

Jeff’s off in Victoria, back today, and I got to help him to computer-y stuff yesterday by pressing buttons on his keyboard under his close phone supervision so I actually managed to make myself useful.

Editing but no writing yesterday.

My phone made a little meep before it died somewhere in my room and I can’t find it. Jeff, reading this, is shaking his head.

The Lambs of Little Bleating Lane, 1.1

The sky, when it shrugs off its habitual shawl of fog and low cloud, is blue. It flickers sometimes. A low, static cloud of dense dark grey settles over the town every few days, but I don’t like to divide the passage of time into days.

People say: I’m going to sleep now, and then they lie down and wink out of existence. That’s how I imagine it. I haven’t slept yet. I haven’t caught anyone disappearing, and yet they do.

I believe it’s been a long time, yet there are signs that not much time has passed, and since I don’t sleep it’s hard to tell. I’ve been awake long enough to know that I’m the only one who stays awake all the time. I watch the others sleep to make sure that they don’t disappear when they’re asleep. I try to read but I can’t keep the words steady in my mind long enough to take any nourishment from them. Mostly I stand at the window. Someone is playing in the yard. I see her clearly but only for a moment, and she’s horrified at how I look and her face shows it and I run away to the bathroom to brush my hair and run right through a woman. The sunlight that the child was playing in is gone. The woman is gone. I’m alone but when I move to the master bedroom I can see breath rising from the bed.

I didn’t know I could see that. I’m so fascinated that I watch, watch, watch, each little puff and I’m filled with grateful wonder that my eyes can bring me this. I bring my hand up to cover my eyes, to check if this is real or my mind is filling in some blanks, and then I wish I hadn’t. The scene has changed and I’m sitting on the ground in the open; the house has burned down and I was too busy looking at something else to notice. It bothers me that I missed the fire but on the other hand maybe people died and I’ll have company.

It doesn’t seem that way. I get the sky all the time but that doesn’t last. Workers walk through me and I let them pour concrete through me, thinking perhaps I’ll finally stop having to look at anything but my imagination.

That must have been a mood

apparently as a writing exercise WHICH I HAVE NO MEMORY OF I decided to invent a bunch of curses based on the word ‘taint’

 

Kick him in the taint with a Mexican boot! (trival boots – the supah pointy ones)

Kick his taint into his gargle zone! <—— bad villain, bad bad villain

Strain his taint through his teeth with a good swift kick!

Torque his taint to 1500 ft lbs!

OR

Torque his taint to 1500 Newton-metres. <——- SI is full o yuks is it not?

May centipedes roam freely on his taint! <—— I like this one

I shall freeze-dry his taint and use it for tea <——– to be said by someone with a very calm air

Cut his taint in two and make curtains for his asshole! <—- what is WRONG with me?

May frost dancers carve his taint with their toe-rakes! <—– it’s coming back to me now, I have a vague recollection of going to the internet to find out what those prong things on the front of ice skates are called

Throw his taint to the feral cats / raccoons / coyotes / crows / ravens / eagles / vultures.

one of those days

 

50153 HOTM

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on the way home yesterday as mentioned I left a box of biscotti on Peggy’s stoop. One of their tenants picked it up and put it on their kitchen table and so Peggy and Tom came back from their errands and thought why is there a box with Jeff Rivett’s name on it? and they called me. I played along for a brief while pretending I HAD NO IDEA where THAT BOX CAME FROM. Tom said they were the best ever, but he lies. The best biscotti I ever made were the hazelnut apricot biscotti I made while at the café but we do the best we can whether we have a pizza oven or not. He ate those, so he should know better.

Have a baby capybara (above shown is a beardy)

I like hummingbirds.

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Also, check out this new used dinosaur Ferrisaurus Sustutensis from BC. I’m going to get it as a tattoo, but in brighter colours (I kid, I kid)

 

The article is here.

brekky and IDDD

I’ll be making biscotti for International Dorothy Dunnett Day now. Jeff took me out to breakfast, happy sigh.

Much writing yesterday after seeing 15.4 Supernatural. This is the scene that kicked my ass, and if twitter was anything to go by…..a lot of other people tooooo.

Chuck, AKA GOD:

You have anything stronger? 

BECKY: 

We have cran-apple juice.

Chuck, AKA GOD:

Hmm.
I'm good.
[SIGHS.]
It's just, things are different now, Becky.
I mean, I used to be able to see Sam and Dean in my head, wherever they were, whatever they were doing.
It was all just there, ripe for the picking.
And now it's just gone.

BECKY:
Because you lost your prophet powers? 

Chuck, AKA GOD:

Yeah.
Something like that.

BECKY:
Then write about something else.

Chuck, AKA GOD:
But this it.
I mean, this is my favourite story.

BECKY:
Then write about them.


Chuck, AKA GOD:
I-I Okay.
I feel like we're going in circles now.

BECKY:
No, you're going in circles.
You're a writer, a writer who's not writing.
And when a writer's not writing, they feel sad, and they get lost.
And the writer asks themselves, "Why do I feel this way? Why am I so sad and lost?" And what does all this navel-gazing and hair-pulling amount to in the end? Procrastination, distraction.
Just one of a million ways the writer avoids doing the one thing that is all but guaranteed to make the writer feel better.
Which is ? Writing.

Chuck, AKA GOD:
But what if I can't? 

BECKY:
[SCOFFS.]
You can.
The only question is, will you? 

Chuck, AKA GOD:

[CHUCKLES.]
How'd you learn all this? 

BECKY:

I'm a writer, too, Chuck.

Chuck, AKA GOD:
Oh.
I mean, fanfic it's not really the same thing 

BECKY:

Writing's writing.

Chuck, AKA GOD:
Okay.

BECKY:

The self-sabotage, the doubts, the struggle against time.
So whenever I have a spare minute, I write.

Chuck, AKA GOD:

Yeah.


BECKY:

Yeah! Wait.


I didn't mean right now 

Chuck, AKA GOD:

Shh, shh, shh!

peggy fed me pumpkin pie

also Paul. She did not feed me Paul. Paul fed himself pie. Aw, shaddap, the sheep never moved.

The foregoing won’t make sense without context.

What kind of sheep never moves? A dead one.

“I saw a dead sheep walking up a hill.” mOm’s line in a letter to me and brO sent when they were in England the last time, and pOp wrote in the margins “I never saw it move.”

English does have a little bit of error correction. Thanks to our epistemological store of justified true beliefs, we do not wander across the sentence, “I saw a dead sheep walking up a hill,” and holler SANTA MARIA MIRACOLO while mashing our knees in prayer. No, we are more likely to query whether the word ‘while’ got lost on its way back from the liquor store, something the word ‘while’ is extremely prone to do if my past experience of it is any indication, and in so doing rendered the sentence ripe for pOp’s deadpan jape.

 

Loving Stumptown.

Osteofit was exhausting. My mood is improved. Paul got thanked a lot.

The new fanfic is up to 2500 words. I’m a thousand words into a near future sixer short story with a new protagonist, but I don’t know whether it’s one of the kids or not; they have neither name nor sex yet but a very distinct, uneasy personality and way of speaking, and I think I actually need to look at all the concepts I introduce in a thousand words and make it two because it’s not cunning dense, it’s just overwhelming dense. But there’s the seed of something just lovely in there, another action packed non commentary on