My heart is made of sweet words: whispered, giggled and shouted;
with soggy bits where tears seeped in and found the cracks and crevices.
My heart is made of fur: long and silken, short and coarse, baby fine and bunny soft;
with purrs that run ragged, silver, rumble and holes of black and white.
My heart is made of memories: rioting with laughter and curses;
scented with coffee, tea, flowers and balsam; and held tight in a squeeze.
My heart is full, and yet broken;
because of all that it has, and all that is gone.
Technically, there’s one more day: tomorrow. And I might write, but then again, I probably won’t. Even if I do, though, and even counting this blog (which I will), I will still have failed.
Part of that is not committing fully to writing daily. It can work for me, for sometimes as long as a 5 day streak. (I might have even managed a week streak. I’d have to look at the regular Nano history to find out.) But it doesn’t usually work for an entire month. And it appears to rarely work during one of the Camp months. April? Nope. July? Apparently nope. But November? I’ve done relatively well at least once.
I don’t think this means I’ll never be able to do it. I don’t think it means I can’t write or any of that. But I do think I need to start out with lower expectations. I wanted to adjust down to 10 items (pages were the indicator I was using for that), but the system wouldn’t let me go below 30. Even so, I wouldn’t have made that.
I can’t decide if that means I’m going to skip out on camps from now on, or if I’m just going to try to be more reasonable with my goals. Balancing real life stress vs trying to decompress in healthy ways (I have been reading more again lately, which is pretty awesome; I’ve cut back on gaming with friends lately, but I really enjoyed blowing stuff up with them on a regular weekly basis, and we’re still doing other gaming activities, which I really love) and then trying to add in a task that is almost a chore – but not – well, it doesn’t seem to be working.
It needs to become a new habit. But so do a few other things. Like exercising and dealing with first year home owner issues. I don’t want to back-burner writing, but I think it’s just going to be one of those things that has to be wedged in as I can; and unfortunately, the NaNo camps don’t seem to work for that particularly well.
I’m here. I haven’t been blogging much, and I’ve only written a bit else-web on other topics.
I miss internet people/connections in general, and a few people in specific. I have reached out, but only through the forums we generally connected in. The thought occurs to me that I actually have other avenues. But the way the world is makes me wonder if I’m intruding or crossing boundaries by taking advantage of them? I enjoy getting postal mail. You know, the old sort. Cards and letters with stamps. I’m not as good at sending it out. But I try and I have. It’s so terribly slow though. One thinks of calling, but then time zones raise their hands, clear their throats, and I worry about disruptions to life and peace of mind. This is a failing on my own part, likely, feeling as though people would rather I only be available when they want/need me, but that I hide neatly tucked away in my box until that time. Knowing that’s likely the case doesn’t actually reassure. Because what if?
I read a review the other day of Anne of Green Gables and how she could be read as bi-sexual. Or at least bi-romantic, with her love of Diana. And yet her equal love of Gilbert. And how that wasn’t what the author intended, and in fact, the review asserted, the author would be extremely upset because she herself thought such things inappropriate. And I have been dithering about exploring that rabbit hole. If it’s true, I will be so disappointed. Because what’s so wrong with that? I read it that way as a girl, I realized, when reading the review, even if I didn’t have the words for it, and connected on some level with it. Why take that away from thousands of people? Not that it actually does take it away, mind you. At a certain point, an author can intend all she or he likes, but what the reader brings to a work is also valid in interpreting and experiencing that work.
I have an odd relationship with summer. It’s my birth season, and my mother’s. But neither of us cared much in some ways for celebrating overly much on specific days, and while warmth is nice, being overly warm is not. At the same time, it’s still a break, in my head, because my father was tied to an academic calendar. And finally, it’s not at all a break, especially in my current job, because our general niche doesn’t find it that. It is one of the most challenging times of year in fact. And yet, we also typically go on a company trip in the summer. So yeah. Summer isn’t getting easier to deal with it, the longer I’m in my current position. I’m getting resigned to the stresses and volatility, in small ways. But I still dislike them. And I think they’re making me dislike summer.
I don’t know. There are other things. Those are the ones that are coherent and floating at the surface. I keep floating back to missing people. I miss playing on text-based roleplaying games. I miss being able to walk upstairs to visit friends on the 9th floor. I miss being able to call someone at all hours because we were younger and didn’t need sleep. I miss, in tiny ways, hanging out at conventions with a lot of people at once. I miss feeling able to set aside responsibilities as easily as I once did. I’ve always been a responsible person, who takes things perhaps too seriously, but lately, it feels harder to step away and breathe for a moment.
This is the part of being an adult that I understand people wanting to step away from. When they envy being a kid. Other parts? Not so much. I like not having to answer to someone for other things. For being able to say yes and no on my own terms. I just hate that as an adult my own terms have tightened down so much. I need to find a better balance there, as I’m the only one who can truly control that.
I have four prompts in my drafts folder. 2 are dictionary definitions of things that either interest or annoy me, and the other 2 are vaguer shower/email thought prompts.
They don’t sound good to write.
I thought about writing about mothers, and the holiday yesterday. The thing is, I’ve done that? It would retread these themes: I miss my mom. I think the holiday has a tendency to encourage fictionalizing/romanticizing some relationships (and I didn’t have a wrought relationship with my mom). I am not a bio-mom for anyone. I feel weird being a step-mom/-mom-in-law to adults, and being shoved in those roles by random semi-strangers. I sometimes feel weird being a god-mom for a long host of reasons. The only mom thing I feel good about is being a cat-mom, and that’s not a socially acceptable thing.
See? Written up very succinctly.
I think I’m just feeling tired, and disgruntled, and frustrated. In part that’s likely work related. It’s also life related. Having recently bought a house, and moved, our life is only mostly settled. We still have dozens of boxes that need sorted and a small storage we haven’t moved yet. I’m not sure if I’ll be all better once that happens, or if it will just be a new thing.
This is the point where I usually remind myself that I’m privileged to be able to whine about the things I’m whining about. I have it very good, in a lot of ways. And even on days when my brain is completely fried and I feel misunderstood by everyone, I’m still doing better than I could be.
I do feel better about one major thing this weekend: after several bookshelf purchases, all of the book boxes that I know about are finally unpacked. And shelved. And even basically organized!
I may still need to unpack miscellaneous office junk. And remaining art. And random hidden boxes of clothes. But BOOKS ARE ON SHELVES WHERE I CAN FIND THEM.
Why can’t I take that success and wallow in it for a bit? I must be a glutton for punishment.
For her birthday, Amanda Palmer asked if folks who loved her things might share them and more importantly talk about them a little.
It’s hard, for me a bit, to talk about what music of Amanda’s I like. Because I didn’t find her through her music. I found her through Neil Gaiman and then twitter, I think, although I’m not actually sure I wasn’t quite on twitter yet when he first posted about Who Killed Amanda Palmer. (I just looked it up. That was released late 2008, and I believe I’ve been on Twitter since 2007, so it very well happened simultaneously or very near to.)
This song though, that I’ve embedded above, makes me hurt in a cathartic way. Because I do sort of think about my first marriage, listening to it. We didn’t grow apart in the bed, particularly. Or at least, the increasing size and quality of the bed wasn’t as obvious of a symbol as it is in the song. But we did grow apart. And it was, in large part, due to not talking to each other and realizing the ways we were growing and somehow integrating those things. I’m not sure we could have. We became very different, over the years. But… sometimes I wonder if we couldn’t still have been friends. Perhaps not? In any case, this is a good song to listen to when you’re having a pensive moment about a former relationship.
I also bought, and really loved The Art of Asking: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Let People Help. It’s interesting to me, to learn what people think and are going through that helps them grow. And learn. And trust. I wish we could trust people more. A lot of the time, it actually is okay. Sometimes, it’s very much not okay. And it’s always a learning experience. This book was wonderful for that. And it just made me feel closer. In a lot of ways, that’s what I love about both Amanda, and Neil, and why it was and is wonderful that they’ve come together as a couple and have a new human between them. They truly encourage community around them. People who love them are open to helping each other, just because of the commonality of the artists they love. It’s the same, and yet different, from so many other fan groups out there. And a pretty amazing thing.
So thank you Amanda, and Happy Birthday!