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The only thing that's changed is me

I left for a week. I left, during what other people experience as Spring Break, to gain a little peace of mind. Perhaps closure. It has certainly been a mess in my head lately. No work, no pets, no house helps put things in perspective. When you have no mirror to encounter in the morning, you start caring more about what's going on around you than the composition of your face.

In the torment of severe winds and not enough sunshine, we smoked cigarette after cigarette, sang songs, read, knit, and watched. There came the sweet cacophony of commuter traffic, the whining and screech of steel cutting over steel. All that was required of us was to watch and wait, and in the study of the rumbling and clanking of cars we learned in the course of four days of ramen and crank radio that there was no train for us yet, no car that would be able to take us where we wanted to go the way we wanted to go.

And priorities rework themselves; as much as one could hold out indefinitely for a ride, there is, at the end of a week of vacation, school and work to return to, and a dog much missed. Now why would anyone give up a life devoid of time limits, if even briefly?

But we did ride the coast line—only, on Amtrak—and it was a beautiful journey down to Santa Barbara, complete with horrifying studies of American society on board and along the beach...but that analysis later. In the sun burning through skylights, I watched the golden grass give way to cliff and sea, and dreamt of watching the same landscape race by merely feet above the rails instead of yards.

In the sun burning on the beach, my face scarred over with red, but well fed and stretched out like smug lions, we soaked up what the city had to offer us.

Mar. 30th, 2009

Sometimes the ground shakes beneath me, a little shiver, and I have to remember again exactly where it is that I live.

Hard man fe dead

I bounced right back. Of ska, Prince Buster is not to be missed. Aside from some songs of repetitive lyrics, he was indeed a forefather of much that is rocksteady and ska, influencing those that followed like a drop that prompts the ripples.

Gustave Doré is an amazing engraver, artist, and goes hand-in-hand quite nicely with Haydn, specifically The Creation. I'm reminded to pore over the things and works that inspire and move me to create myself. And in the past week, believe me, I have been little more than a slug and need that jump start.

It doesn't hurt to have 60 balls of yarn delivered to my door. It does kind of hurt for room in the apartment with that and the addition of a new love seat (Jon and I can sit side-by-side now in the living room, how novel an idea is that?), and a dog that is making use of all the terrier energy he was denied in the past, all of it catching up to him now.

My project is nearing completion at work. Time to plot out a new work path to pick up at the end of the previous, elsewhere, and also for myself.

Regaining calm, never had composure, regaining excitement, steamrolling with perseverance, managing stress.

Sense of humor? Finding bits and pieces of it again.

Putting myself into place. That place is pretty high up there, so it's a bit of work to match the knowledge.

The great game of the world.

5 seizures in 17 hours, and that they're seizures are confirmed by the neurologists. Phenobarbital and Viagra, my dog should be a canine spokesperson, a poster boy, how lovely the idea of sponsorship sounds. At some point everyone on UC Davis' vet campus will become a fan; emergency services, cardiology, neurology, pulmonary. They do not think that his seizures are at all related to his heart condition, and they're pretty sure it's not epilepsy. And even if I wanted to drop money I can't drop on an MRI and spinal tap, he's no candidate for anesthesia.

But, on the plus side, Pavlov is happy and never realizes he's seized. Sometimes I think his mind spasms, though, as he takes to acting a bit off, sniffing at things in a more confused manner, sometimes ornery.

My grandmother's wake is today. I have not attended a funeral since I was eleven, I believe, and so the protocol of 4 or 5 funerals I've tucked away under my belt is lost to me now.

We have basil and mint and cilantro and parsley and thyme and chives and oregano and peppers growing.

A semblance of peace

Next Saturday we put my grandmother to ground. Or, what remains of her.
Oh secrets, I've not a one, but a burning desire to outwit a mass of live tissue I don't respect but love. In one instance I could glimpse it all through the eyes of a coyote, isn't it all a cosmic joke? But too often my greater derangement is a wave of disbelief in my capabilities and morals, the fiber of my being.

Tried and true.

No matter how convenient, a Swiffer still does shit work in place of broom and mop. And so does the vacuum.

In the future, you will see me working as if in the past. Keep your roombas and your goombas, these choices I can't abide.


I just had to frog my Riding to Avalon sweater, or what I'd started. Which was, about, 1/5 done.

Oh well, if I'm going to make my first sweater, and it's going to be with expensive silk/wool yarn with alpaca, I might as well take the right measurements to ensure it looks fucking amazing on my frame. Better I rewound the yarn now than after I finished...

I'm apprehensive of Worsted-substituting-DK, even with measurements, since one of the stitch patterns may end up looking SuperFat.

Here we go again.

At a crawl.

I got your messages. Really, I have, and I will get back to you. I forget I'm not alone, though often I feel lonely (and enjoy that, and the company of others by choice). Why I choose to be reclusive right now I'm not sure. It's not the weather. I saw ladybugs and butterflies and fresh blooms all in a square foot of space.

I suppose I am worrying about death and decay right now in the time of growth and procreation. And what I can only guess is the closing curtains of what I perceived to be a wonderful relationship. A funny way to have cycles butt heads.

Listening to The Unicorns heavily. There's something familiar, nostalgic, and comforting about them.

I will call you in a day or two...I promise, I promise. Even if I have nothing to say, soft static and your voice will be the balm.