naamah_darling: A gray cat with a white chin squinting as though she smells food. (Fish)
Fish often visits me right after I get in bed, snuggling up near my feet. Tonight, I came in from brushing my teeth, and this is what I saw.

Fish and Bunnsley

Who says cats don't have expressive faces?

She is still lying there with one paw over her eyes and her back feet sticking straight out. She is still monopolizing Aubrey Bunnsley. Silly thing.

Today (tomorrow, since I haven't slept) is my birthday, and I am going to dinner and I get to see my dad and I will probably get to talk to some friends and game some, and later on I will keep working on pirate porn, which is going really well, and that's about all I really want for myself. What I would like for all of you is for you to be as happy today as that fat cat up there. I am wishing you major fat cat happy vibes.
naamah_darling: A gray cat with a white chin squinting as though she smells food. (Fish)
Fish often visits me right after I get in bed, snuggling up near my feet. Tonight, I came in from brushing my teeth, and this is what I saw.

Fish and Bunnsley

Who says cats don't have expressive faces?

She is still lying there with one paw over her eyes and her back feet sticking straight out. She is still monopolizing Aubrey Bunnsley. Silly thing.

Today (tomorrow, since I haven't slept) is my birthday, and I am going to dinner and I get to see my dad and I will probably get to talk to some friends and game some, and later on I will keep working on pirate porn, which is going really well, and that's about all I really want for myself. What I would like for all of you is for you to be as happy today as that fat cat up there. I am wishing you major fat cat happy vibes.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
I had a good day. I got to see friends briefly, hung out with my dad, gamed with Sargon, had ice cream. It was a nice birthday.

Sargon got me some Blu-Ray movies, including the Underworld trilogy* and the Kingdom of Heaven director's cut.** He also got me a new digital camera, a Sony PowerShot. It's very, very nice and I am crazy grateful. I am going to try it out tomorrow on the massive pile of crap my dad foisted off on me.

He gave me some fossils, some neat pieces of driftwood, some found glass bottles including vet-med bottles and an empty perfume bottle with a lotus on the side, some bones, and . . . uhh . . . I accidentally came home with a bunch of his teeth. No, his teeth. Really. They were in a bottle that I accidentally packed with the others. Anyway, pictures forthcoming. My wonder cabinet, let me show you it.

Thank you to everyone for the presents, both virtual (LJ lets you buy people llamas; this is awesome) and material. Thank you most of all for the well-wishes and kind thoughts. Things have sucked, and it's nice to know that other people disapprove of that as much as I do.

Right now, I am going to go watch TV and draw saber-toothed cats.

* Hey, ([livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva, just say when/if you want to come watch Rise of the Lycans; I will happily hold off).

** Which is a completely different movie from the butchered theatrical version, and you really ought to give it a chance if you haven't already.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
I had a good day. I got to see friends briefly, hung out with my dad, gamed with Sargon, had ice cream. It was a nice birthday.

Sargon got me some Blu-Ray movies, including the Underworld trilogy* and the Kingdom of Heaven director's cut.** He also got me a new digital camera, a Sony PowerShot. It's very, very nice and I am crazy grateful. I am going to try it out tomorrow on the massive pile of crap my dad foisted off on me.

He gave me some fossils, some neat pieces of driftwood, some found glass bottles including vet-med bottles and an empty perfume bottle with a lotus on the side, some bones, and . . . uhh . . . I accidentally came home with a bunch of his teeth. No, his teeth. Really. They were in a bottle that I accidentally packed with the others. Anyway, pictures forthcoming. My wonder cabinet, let me show you it.

Thank you to everyone for the presents, both virtual (LJ lets you buy people llamas; this is awesome) and material. Thank you most of all for the well-wishes and kind thoughts. Things have sucked, and it's nice to know that other people disapprove of that as much as I do.

Right now, I am going to go watch TV and draw saber-toothed cats.

* Hey, ([livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva, just say when/if you want to come watch Rise of the Lycans; I will happily hold off).

** Which is a completely different movie from the butchered theatrical version, and you really ought to give it a chance if you haven't already.

Meh.

Jun. 4th, 2008 03:02 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Alpha Female)
Yesterday was . . . a day. Like any other day. Only worse.

I was too worried about other crap to really enjoy myself much. Dinner was other people talking. The high point of the night was when my dad began discussing the uncut version of Caligula with my in-laws. I think that may, in fact, have been the high point of the week.

He then lay down what I am pretty sure was a complete line of bullshit about how Mom proposed to him by telling him she was pregnant, and how he falsified first his driver's license and then his birth certificate in order to get married legally, whereupon he called the DA and asked exactly how much trouble he was in. There is a thread of truth in most of my fathers' stories -- he is not habitually a liar, though he does enjoy occasionally pulling legs -- but if the entirety of that yarn was true, I will eat it and crap a knitted scarf.

This is all just as well. I was in a Mood. If he hadn't entertained me, I'd have entertained myself by talking about Rasputin's pickled penis, or about porn, or buttsex, or all three, and that never leads anywhere good.

Of course, no family event is complete without a roll on the wandering anatomical event table, and adding a birthday in is just adding a +5 modifier. In the middle of dinner I realized that feminine TMI was about to occur when a stabbing pain made itself known in my groinal region. I made it home in time to contain it, but I am now achy and cranky, and that is all the complaining I will do about that, because I don't think I get to complain about cramps when a friend just had a bad go-round with a kidney stone.

I will say that at least two friends are in this boat with me, and even with company, it sucks.

Sargon supplied presents, however, and I am happy with that. I got an excellent shirt:



"Better living through merciless experimentation" is probably one of the better mottos I've seen.

The high point of the night was definitely torturing captives. Nothing like roleplaying a pirate to take the edge off one's frustrations. Alas, I am afraid I could roleplay for three days solid and still not work through all my hostilities.

I spent most of today in pain from the aforementioned TMI, and aside from time spent with friends and silly dogs, today had very little to recommend it.

That's . . . pretty much all the update I have tonight.

Meh.

Jun. 4th, 2008 03:02 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Alpha Female)
Yesterday was . . . a day. Like any other day. Only worse.

I was too worried about other crap to really enjoy myself much. Dinner was other people talking. The high point of the night was when my dad began discussing the uncut version of Caligula with my in-laws. I think that may, in fact, have been the high point of the week.

He then lay down what I am pretty sure was a complete line of bullshit about how Mom proposed to him by telling him she was pregnant, and how he falsified first his driver's license and then his birth certificate in order to get married legally, whereupon he called the DA and asked exactly how much trouble he was in. There is a thread of truth in most of my fathers' stories -- he is not habitually a liar, though he does enjoy occasionally pulling legs -- but if the entirety of that yarn was true, I will eat it and crap a knitted scarf.

This is all just as well. I was in a Mood. If he hadn't entertained me, I'd have entertained myself by talking about Rasputin's pickled penis, or about porn, or buttsex, or all three, and that never leads anywhere good.

Of course, no family event is complete without a roll on the wandering anatomical event table, and adding a birthday in is just adding a +5 modifier. In the middle of dinner I realized that feminine TMI was about to occur when a stabbing pain made itself known in my groinal region. I made it home in time to contain it, but I am now achy and cranky, and that is all the complaining I will do about that, because I don't think I get to complain about cramps when a friend just had a bad go-round with a kidney stone.

I will say that at least two friends are in this boat with me, and even with company, it sucks.

Sargon supplied presents, however, and I am happy with that. I got an excellent shirt:



"Better living through merciless experimentation" is probably one of the better mottos I've seen.

The high point of the night was definitely torturing captives. Nothing like roleplaying a pirate to take the edge off one's frustrations. Alas, I am afraid I could roleplay for three days solid and still not work through all my hostilities.

I spent most of today in pain from the aforementioned TMI, and aside from time spent with friends and silly dogs, today had very little to recommend it.

That's . . . pretty much all the update I have tonight.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Thane)
I'm 31 today. Not too terribly exciting.

Sargon jokingly remarked that I've reached the magical number at which I begin to age backwards, and now I can start saying "I'm 29!" to people when they ask me how old I am. To which I say, "bullshit." I'm damn lucky to be 31 years old, and when you take the shittiness of the last year into account, it seems stupid not to give that year its due. I damn well deserve credit for having lived through it.

Never understood why people would want to lie about their age anyway. Lying doesn't make you younger, it just makes you look insecure, and that's not attractive in a person of any age. Probably easy for me to say. I'm only 31, and I look 25. Maybe I'll feel different in 15 years, though I'd like to think I will accept it with grace.

Yesterday I roughed out box designs, and I should be able to start painting on my commissions in a couple of days; after that it always goes fast. It feels good to be working again, even if it's harder than I remember it being. It's always like this after a long break. Hopefully there won't be one this long ever again. I hate that I've been inactive for so long.

I also sat down yesterday and lay in the design for engraving on two skulls, a dog and a coyote. I'll start with the coyote; he's got thinner bone, but he'll be easier and cheaper to replace if I foul up, which I probably will. I'm very excited and I want to start grinding, but of course it has to be ninety-plus degrees out today. Lovely.

I've been working on a cow's legbone, getting a feel for the Dremel. The bendy attachment is fabulous. Even though it reduces the RPM, the finer control it gives me offsets the difference in bite. I should get a Foredom at some point. It's a big step up from a Dremel, and since it's not likely I'll get hold of a medical hand engine anytime soon, it's probably the best I'll have access to. It's expensive, but I could use it for bones and such, and Sargon will probably want one eventually for finer metalworking.

Speaking of expensive, anyone have a spare $30k they wouldn't mind throwing my way? Someone has listed a for-real dire wolf skull on eBay. It's absolutely gorgeous.

Of course, Skulls Unlimited has reproduction dire wolf skulls for much cheaper. That's as close as I'm ever going to come, I think, though I do hope to at least handle a real one someday.

Skulls Unlimited also have a trio of real imperfect wolf skulls they're letting go for $200. Part of someone's liquidated collection. I'm considering it. One has very badly damaged teeth, another has a broken zygomatic arch, but the third has nothing terribly wrong with it except some longitudinal cracks in the large teeth. All have lower mandibles. Even the worst of the lot is still really cool-looking. I should just buy a single perfect one, though, if I'm going to spend that money; it'll be easier to move a piece that's in good underlying shape. I still can't really justify the expense. I've got plenty of skulls to work on, and I shouldn't buy more until I've moved about half of what I have. I need to know there's a market for it.

Don Simpson kind of proves that there is. His work is striking, and he's my inspiration in this. I'll be going in a different direction, but his work sells well, so I know there's an audience.

Right now I am going to go downstairs, watch some of my new Mythbusters DVDs, and try to fix the last of this box design so I can send sketches to the client.

Jack still needs someone to love him forever and ever. Spread the word!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Thane)
I'm 31 today. Not too terribly exciting.

Sargon jokingly remarked that I've reached the magical number at which I begin to age backwards, and now I can start saying "I'm 29!" to people when they ask me how old I am. To which I say, "bullshit." I'm damn lucky to be 31 years old, and when you take the shittiness of the last year into account, it seems stupid not to give that year its due. I damn well deserve credit for having lived through it.

Never understood why people would want to lie about their age anyway. Lying doesn't make you younger, it just makes you look insecure, and that's not attractive in a person of any age. Probably easy for me to say. I'm only 31, and I look 25. Maybe I'll feel different in 15 years, though I'd like to think I will accept it with grace.

Yesterday I roughed out box designs, and I should be able to start painting on my commissions in a couple of days; after that it always goes fast. It feels good to be working again, even if it's harder than I remember it being. It's always like this after a long break. Hopefully there won't be one this long ever again. I hate that I've been inactive for so long.

I also sat down yesterday and lay in the design for engraving on two skulls, a dog and a coyote. I'll start with the coyote; he's got thinner bone, but he'll be easier and cheaper to replace if I foul up, which I probably will. I'm very excited and I want to start grinding, but of course it has to be ninety-plus degrees out today. Lovely.

I've been working on a cow's legbone, getting a feel for the Dremel. The bendy attachment is fabulous. Even though it reduces the RPM, the finer control it gives me offsets the difference in bite. I should get a Foredom at some point. It's a big step up from a Dremel, and since it's not likely I'll get hold of a medical hand engine anytime soon, it's probably the best I'll have access to. It's expensive, but I could use it for bones and such, and Sargon will probably want one eventually for finer metalworking.

Speaking of expensive, anyone have a spare $30k they wouldn't mind throwing my way? Someone has listed a for-real dire wolf skull on eBay. It's absolutely gorgeous.

Of course, Skulls Unlimited has reproduction dire wolf skulls for much cheaper. That's as close as I'm ever going to come, I think, though I do hope to at least handle a real one someday.

Skulls Unlimited also have a trio of real imperfect wolf skulls they're letting go for $200. Part of someone's liquidated collection. I'm considering it. One has very badly damaged teeth, another has a broken zygomatic arch, but the third has nothing terribly wrong with it except some longitudinal cracks in the large teeth. All have lower mandibles. Even the worst of the lot is still really cool-looking. I should just buy a single perfect one, though, if I'm going to spend that money; it'll be easier to move a piece that's in good underlying shape. I still can't really justify the expense. I've got plenty of skulls to work on, and I shouldn't buy more until I've moved about half of what I have. I need to know there's a market for it.

Don Simpson kind of proves that there is. His work is striking, and he's my inspiration in this. I'll be going in a different direction, but his work sells well, so I know there's an audience.

Right now I am going to go downstairs, watch some of my new Mythbusters DVDs, and try to fix the last of this box design so I can send sketches to the client.

Jack still needs someone to love him forever and ever. Spread the word!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (You Fool!)
Best wishes, oaths of eternal fealty, and nudie pics are always appropriate tribute.

And now, I go downstairs to give him presents!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (You Fool!)
Best wishes, oaths of eternal fealty, and nudie pics are always appropriate tribute.

And now, I go downstairs to give him presents!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (SAMURAI FACE!)
I'm just spamming you with random pictures.

Later on you get pictures of wild animals, but today you get pictures of me being silly as hell.

AND.

Because I did not spam you with cat pictures on Friday, we will declare this a belated Caturday, and celebrate with pictures of my primary felines.

On to the pics!

NYARRGH ZOMBIE 01
Me, proving that even at 30 I still cannot sit still for a picture.

More! Click if you dare! )

And, just because it amuses me, this picture, taken of me painting a cat design with an actual cat in my lap. This is what I look like on a good day. Ponytail, paintbrush in my teeth, paint on my hands, a cat in my lap, and something creative spread in front of me.

Kitty Help

Cat Help is pretty much essential to all creative endeavors.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (SAMURAI FACE!)
I'm just spamming you with random pictures.

Later on you get pictures of wild animals, but today you get pictures of me being silly as hell.

AND.

Because I did not spam you with cat pictures on Friday, we will declare this a belated Caturday, and celebrate with pictures of my primary felines.

On to the pics!

NYARRGH ZOMBIE 01
Me, proving that even at 30 I still cannot sit still for a picture.

More! Click if you dare! )

And, just because it amuses me, this picture, taken of me painting a cat design with an actual cat in my lap. This is what I look like on a good day. Ponytail, paintbrush in my teeth, paint on my hands, a cat in my lap, and something creative spread in front of me.

Kitty Help

Cat Help is pretty much essential to all creative endeavors.

Thirty-Odd

Jun. 2nd, 2007 04:18 am
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
As of four hours ago, it's my birthday. I'm 30.

I feel like I should say something really profound about how it feels to turn 30, but mostly I just have a sense of relief.

"Ah," my brain says. "Now we're finally getting somewhere."

I'm the youngest in my group of friends, so I'm not afraid of getting older. I admire my older friends too much to feel that way. I'm just sort of excited. After all, 30 is a real age. I'm indisputably not a kid anymore, no matter how I look. I suppose I'm optimistic. Which is a good thing to be. Birthdays shouldn't be depressing.

They should be full of good things.

So when I get up, we're going out to Safari's Sanctuary so I can investigate the wildlife and probably be nibbled on by goats at the petting zoo.

And then I will come home and we'll open presents.

There will be pictures. Cute pictures.

And I will have a good day.

Thanks to [livejournal.com profile] muppetk, who sent me a beautiful coloring book which I cannot wait to try out, and to [livejournal.com profile] topknot, who sent me a beautiful card. Neither were birthday-o-specific, I don't think, but both were much appreciated and really well-timed. Also thanks to [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva and husband, who gave me some bad-ass art books that made me positively twitter with glee.

And thanks to all of you, who give me a reason to keep coming back to this weird little place I've made. Y'all, y'all are a big part of my joy. Thank for that gift.

Edit: Holy crap! I share a birthday with Johnny Weissmuller! How cool is THAT?!

Thirty-Odd

Jun. 2nd, 2007 04:18 am
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
As of four hours ago, it's my birthday. I'm 30.

I feel like I should say something really profound about how it feels to turn 30, but mostly I just have a sense of relief.

"Ah," my brain says. "Now we're finally getting somewhere."

I'm the youngest in my group of friends, so I'm not afraid of getting older. I admire my older friends too much to feel that way. I'm just sort of excited. After all, 30 is a real age. I'm indisputably not a kid anymore, no matter how I look. I suppose I'm optimistic. Which is a good thing to be. Birthdays shouldn't be depressing.

They should be full of good things.

So when I get up, we're going out to Safari's Sanctuary so I can investigate the wildlife and probably be nibbled on by goats at the petting zoo.

And then I will come home and we'll open presents.

There will be pictures. Cute pictures.

And I will have a good day.

Thanks to [livejournal.com profile] muppetk, who sent me a beautiful coloring book which I cannot wait to try out, and to [livejournal.com profile] topknot, who sent me a beautiful card. Neither were birthday-o-specific, I don't think, but both were much appreciated and really well-timed. Also thanks to [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva and husband, who gave me some bad-ass art books that made me positively twitter with glee.

And thanks to all of you, who give me a reason to keep coming back to this weird little place I've made. Y'all, y'all are a big part of my joy. Thank for that gift.

Edit: Holy crap! I share a birthday with Johnny Weissmuller! How cool is THAT?!
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
This morning feels bright and exceptionally clean. The sun is shining into my eyes as I write this, and I can hear sparrows fighting outside my window. Outside, it's brisk but not frigid, and whenever the breeze blows, great shimmering curtains of yellow leaves come sighing down. It feels like a new beginning, everything fresh and clean and new.

It's very much the first of November.

There's a party going on in the Bar of Lost Souls. It's for Nick. I believe you've only met him the once, as I don't tend to talk about the Imaginaries much.

Anyway, it's his birthday today, so I'm wearing my hair back and slathering myself with an unholy cocktail of Iago, Brimstone, and De Sade. I've got my morning star necklace on, which belongs to him, and my Punisher tee shirt, which is how you can tell I'm feeling Nick-ish. Later I'll put on my boots, pull out my leather coat, and go for a walk in the sudden autumn. I'll be listening to Qntal, which he enjoys. This evening, there will probably be port, which I like and he likes even more. He's trying to talk me into something savory, but I'm not biting. He can wait until Friday. I've promised him Italian.

It's as much of a party as you get, I suppose, if you don't exist.

He's been with me as my primary daimon for nigh on two years now, I think. He's the only one of my Imaginaries whose birthday I bother with, probably because it's almost exactly half a year from my own. Well, and I love him best. He's seen me through my heaviest shadows, a tireless companion. What sanity I've retrieved over the past year has his fingerprints all over it.

November.

I haven't written much for myself of late, no personal creative projects. And with November 1st ushering in word-count meter season with the onset of NaNoWriMo, I feel the lack most acutely.

More than anything I miss meeting new imaginary people. And I regret, truly, that I can't let the ones I currently have knocking around in my head out more often. Nick, especially, suffers from a lack of interaction.

I won't be doing NaNo this year, though I'm going to pull out some unfinished business later and see if I can't tease a few hundred words out. I wanted to give it a go this year, but I'm so far behind on my other projects I simply didn't have the time to come up with anything workable. I hate that feeling. But I hate the feeling of not having money to buy food, medicine, clothes, and heat even more, so it sort of evens out.

Instead, I'm going to try (try) to post every day. I want to get back to it, and it only takes a couple of minutes. And I'm going to write an end to the three tales I have sitting in literary limbo.

And just for today, I'm going to sit and draw deep breaths of the naked, raw, brittle air, and thank goodness that I have imaginary friends who are stronger than all the ghosts in my past.

I must go walk the woods so wild
and wander here and there
in dred and dedly fere,
for where I trusted I am begild,
and all for one.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
This morning feels bright and exceptionally clean. The sun is shining into my eyes as I write this, and I can hear sparrows fighting outside my window. Outside, it's brisk but not frigid, and whenever the breeze blows, great shimmering curtains of yellow leaves come sighing down. It feels like a new beginning, everything fresh and clean and new.

It's very much the first of November.

There's a party going on in the Bar of Lost Souls. It's for Nick. I believe you've only met him the once, as I don't tend to talk about the Imaginaries much.

Anyway, it's his birthday today, so I'm wearing my hair back and slathering myself with an unholy cocktail of Iago, Brimstone, and De Sade. I've got my morning star necklace on, which belongs to him, and my Punisher tee shirt, which is how you can tell I'm feeling Nick-ish. Later I'll put on my boots, pull out my leather coat, and go for a walk in the sudden autumn. I'll be listening to Qntal, which he enjoys. This evening, there will probably be port, which I like and he likes even more. He's trying to talk me into something savory, but I'm not biting. He can wait until Friday. I've promised him Italian.

It's as much of a party as you get, I suppose, if you don't exist.

He's been with me as my primary daimon for nigh on two years now, I think. He's the only one of my Imaginaries whose birthday I bother with, probably because it's almost exactly half a year from my own. Well, and I love him best. He's seen me through my heaviest shadows, a tireless companion. What sanity I've retrieved over the past year has his fingerprints all over it.

November.

I haven't written much for myself of late, no personal creative projects. And with November 1st ushering in word-count meter season with the onset of NaNoWriMo, I feel the lack most acutely.

More than anything I miss meeting new imaginary people. And I regret, truly, that I can't let the ones I currently have knocking around in my head out more often. Nick, especially, suffers from a lack of interaction.

I won't be doing NaNo this year, though I'm going to pull out some unfinished business later and see if I can't tease a few hundred words out. I wanted to give it a go this year, but I'm so far behind on my other projects I simply didn't have the time to come up with anything workable. I hate that feeling. But I hate the feeling of not having money to buy food, medicine, clothes, and heat even more, so it sort of evens out.

Instead, I'm going to try (try) to post every day. I want to get back to it, and it only takes a couple of minutes. And I'm going to write an end to the three tales I have sitting in literary limbo.

And just for today, I'm going to sit and draw deep breaths of the naked, raw, brittle air, and thank goodness that I have imaginary friends who are stronger than all the ghosts in my past.

I must go walk the woods so wild
and wander here and there
in dred and dedly fere,
for where I trusted I am begild,
and all for one.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Renaissance Woman)
I should be sleeping. Right? Sleeping? Isn't that what people do when it's 4:30 a.m. and they have shit to do the next day like, oh, give blood and see friends and do art show stuff and paint and write and buy flea treatment for the mammals and feed snakes and . . . and . . . and?

Sleeping.

Right.

The birthday was good, as I have said. Just what I needed, just who I needed, just when I needed it. And that's . . . all I needed.

I had the added bonus of ridding myself of a pain in my ass the next day. I feel profoundly guilty, but also relieved beyond my ability to express, because I have given Mathurin back to Dad. I'd feel worse but he remembers the old house just fine, he has rats to hunt, and no other cats to fight with. He's happier. And we're happier too, without his howling and his mess -- he could not eat without smearing a four-foot area with wet cat food. I kid you not. He had to remove each individual mouthful from the dish and put it on the clean floor. Bastard. Dad is apparently coping. I really hope he doesn't change his mind. At this point, the other cats are getting along swimmingly, and I don't think they'd accept Matt back in. I think they would gang up and murder him the minute he came out of the carrier. Mostly I feel guilty because this was a decision that was made mostly for my sanity, not anyone else's. But, then, it was nothing but screaming catfights, howling for food, claws in my leg, stolen dinners, and broken plates. Anyone would have snapped. I'm surprised I lasted a year.

My granddad is in a really nice assisted-care facility. Nursing home. Raisin ranch. Whatever you call it, and however pleasant it appears to be, it's still pretty fucking awful. I haven't gone to see him yet, though I need to. It's just that places like that . . . I can't explain it. The taint of human suffering, the psychic aura of despair and death, it really gets to me. I often have nightmares after going into hospitals, no matter the occasion. Nursing homes are only a little better. They're less horrifying and more sad. Like an oubliette. "A place you put someone to forget about them." He is apparently not very lucid most of the time, and since by law they aren't allowed to tie up the inmates, he's always trying to get up and escape. He's fallen multiple times, and last time was bad -- he hit his head pretty hard.

There is no dignity to this. There is no fairness, no right sense of life or grace or continuity. I know without a doubt that were he in his right mind he would not want to continue like this, but the truth is that there's nothing to be done, and that he won't last long anyway; he's ninety, and he's taken a major turn downhill. How long can he hang on? It's fucking horrible and tragic. You don't want to see a strong man like this, but Intervention and Medicine are the lenses through which society understands death, so you just have to keep your mouth shut and pray that by the time you're old, it will be legal to have yourself gently put under, if that's what you want.

No, I don't want him dead. But I'm not one of those people who wishes life on others. I'd prefer someone step out, if they must, rather than linger in discomfort or dementia. I hate, hate, to think of them suffering. Of being locked in a broken body, with a broken mind. And I hate the people more, those who jail us in our old age. Doctors, relatives, caretakers. People who won't let us go, or help us. I'm not pointing fingers in this case, it's being handled as well as anyone could handle it. I'm just saying that the way our society is built, we torture our elderly. For ourselves and others, we value clinging to life more than embracing death. And there is no mechanism to allow us to simply step out. We're hassled every step of the way to do more, try harder, keep on living. For god's sake. It's awful.

I'm agnostic-bordering-atheist, but I wonder. If we have souls, and I think we might, the soul knows what our body knows, and more than that. Our soul, once we die, remembers what we once were, doesn't it? It has a perfect memory, of everything from the moment of birth right up until. So what about people like this, whose minds are fragmented, failing, fugitive? Is the soul imprisoned there, knowing, trapped like a moth in a lantern? Does the soul leap out on the moment of death, remembering all that the body had forgotten, and profoundly relieved to be rid of the burden of flesh? Or is the inner life of the soul itself a random kaleidoscope of memories and feelings, indistinguishable from the fugues of dementia and only hampered in some glorious expression by the shabby coat of flesh we all wear to our graves?

It's questions like that I have no tolerance for from other people, questions like that which make me believe that it's easier, if not more reassuring, to say that we're just animals, all synapses and neurotransmitters and vague fears and memories and bare naked instinct, with no more depth to us than that.

Arrrgh. I promised myself I wasn't going to get maudlin or philosophical. I'm sick of that shit. Makes me sick. I'm sorry.

At any rate, it's been much on my mind. There are no answers, not that I can accept from anyone else, so as always I'm left to find my own. I'm comfortable with that, actually.

Things have improved significantly. All the panic, anxiety, dread, fear, etc. that I've been wrestling with is retreating, or being held at bay. I am taking kava extract for my twitchiness, have been taking it for a week now, and it's fucking amazing stuff. It's a clear amber liquid, it smells of composted flowers, and when I drop it into my tea three times a day, it bursts into cloudy explosions, a creamy yellow louche like venom. It's my Potion. And it has restored about two thirds of my sanity and functionality. Which is more than any pissant SSRI ever did for me. Fuck your Prozac, the kavalactones have made me their bitch. With no side effects, I might add. Who's your daddy now?

And I've been reading a book, which is always a bad and boring thing to say in the context of feeling better about oneself, only this one has explained so much about me, and other people, that I can't even articulate the difference it has made. "The Highly Sensitive Person" by Elaine Aron puts a new face on parts of my personality I have always wrestled with: my dislike of noise, sensitivity to medications, vivid dreams, fear of doctors, inability to be out of the house for more than two hours without becoming hopelessly overstimulated . . . I could go on and on and on. Suffice it to say that if you go to this page and look at the questions, and it seems like you are a highly sensitive person, or your spouse or child is, get the book. Please.

Thank you, David, for getting it to me. It came at a very good time. And way back when, someone directed me to that very page, that very quiz. I don't remember who it was, and I'm so sorry. I tried to find the post and couldn't. Speak up, if it was you. I owe you a very big thank you. Without that, I would not have added that book to my wish list.

Anyway, I see I have a lot of work ahead of me, a lot, but I'm starting to feel like I at least know which end of the sword to hold. The pointy end goes into the other man. And that's a start, right?

I can't change what I am. I can at least understand it.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Renaissance Woman)
I should be sleeping. Right? Sleeping? Isn't that what people do when it's 4:30 a.m. and they have shit to do the next day like, oh, give blood and see friends and do art show stuff and paint and write and buy flea treatment for the mammals and feed snakes and . . . and . . . and?

Sleeping.

Right.

The birthday was good, as I have said. Just what I needed, just who I needed, just when I needed it. And that's . . . all I needed.

I had the added bonus of ridding myself of a pain in my ass the next day. I feel profoundly guilty, but also relieved beyond my ability to express, because I have given Mathurin back to Dad. I'd feel worse but he remembers the old house just fine, he has rats to hunt, and no other cats to fight with. He's happier. And we're happier too, without his howling and his mess -- he could not eat without smearing a four-foot area with wet cat food. I kid you not. He had to remove each individual mouthful from the dish and put it on the clean floor. Bastard. Dad is apparently coping. I really hope he doesn't change his mind. At this point, the other cats are getting along swimmingly, and I don't think they'd accept Matt back in. I think they would gang up and murder him the minute he came out of the carrier. Mostly I feel guilty because this was a decision that was made mostly for my sanity, not anyone else's. But, then, it was nothing but screaming catfights, howling for food, claws in my leg, stolen dinners, and broken plates. Anyone would have snapped. I'm surprised I lasted a year.

My granddad is in a really nice assisted-care facility. Nursing home. Raisin ranch. Whatever you call it, and however pleasant it appears to be, it's still pretty fucking awful. I haven't gone to see him yet, though I need to. It's just that places like that . . . I can't explain it. The taint of human suffering, the psychic aura of despair and death, it really gets to me. I often have nightmares after going into hospitals, no matter the occasion. Nursing homes are only a little better. They're less horrifying and more sad. Like an oubliette. "A place you put someone to forget about them." He is apparently not very lucid most of the time, and since by law they aren't allowed to tie up the inmates, he's always trying to get up and escape. He's fallen multiple times, and last time was bad -- he hit his head pretty hard.

There is no dignity to this. There is no fairness, no right sense of life or grace or continuity. I know without a doubt that were he in his right mind he would not want to continue like this, but the truth is that there's nothing to be done, and that he won't last long anyway; he's ninety, and he's taken a major turn downhill. How long can he hang on? It's fucking horrible and tragic. You don't want to see a strong man like this, but Intervention and Medicine are the lenses through which society understands death, so you just have to keep your mouth shut and pray that by the time you're old, it will be legal to have yourself gently put under, if that's what you want.

No, I don't want him dead. But I'm not one of those people who wishes life on others. I'd prefer someone step out, if they must, rather than linger in discomfort or dementia. I hate, hate, to think of them suffering. Of being locked in a broken body, with a broken mind. And I hate the people more, those who jail us in our old age. Doctors, relatives, caretakers. People who won't let us go, or help us. I'm not pointing fingers in this case, it's being handled as well as anyone could handle it. I'm just saying that the way our society is built, we torture our elderly. For ourselves and others, we value clinging to life more than embracing death. And there is no mechanism to allow us to simply step out. We're hassled every step of the way to do more, try harder, keep on living. For god's sake. It's awful.

I'm agnostic-bordering-atheist, but I wonder. If we have souls, and I think we might, the soul knows what our body knows, and more than that. Our soul, once we die, remembers what we once were, doesn't it? It has a perfect memory, of everything from the moment of birth right up until. So what about people like this, whose minds are fragmented, failing, fugitive? Is the soul imprisoned there, knowing, trapped like a moth in a lantern? Does the soul leap out on the moment of death, remembering all that the body had forgotten, and profoundly relieved to be rid of the burden of flesh? Or is the inner life of the soul itself a random kaleidoscope of memories and feelings, indistinguishable from the fugues of dementia and only hampered in some glorious expression by the shabby coat of flesh we all wear to our graves?

It's questions like that I have no tolerance for from other people, questions like that which make me believe that it's easier, if not more reassuring, to say that we're just animals, all synapses and neurotransmitters and vague fears and memories and bare naked instinct, with no more depth to us than that.

Arrrgh. I promised myself I wasn't going to get maudlin or philosophical. I'm sick of that shit. Makes me sick. I'm sorry.

At any rate, it's been much on my mind. There are no answers, not that I can accept from anyone else, so as always I'm left to find my own. I'm comfortable with that, actually.

Things have improved significantly. All the panic, anxiety, dread, fear, etc. that I've been wrestling with is retreating, or being held at bay. I am taking kava extract for my twitchiness, have been taking it for a week now, and it's fucking amazing stuff. It's a clear amber liquid, it smells of composted flowers, and when I drop it into my tea three times a day, it bursts into cloudy explosions, a creamy yellow louche like venom. It's my Potion. And it has restored about two thirds of my sanity and functionality. Which is more than any pissant SSRI ever did for me. Fuck your Prozac, the kavalactones have made me their bitch. With no side effects, I might add. Who's your daddy now?

And I've been reading a book, which is always a bad and boring thing to say in the context of feeling better about oneself, only this one has explained so much about me, and other people, that I can't even articulate the difference it has made. "The Highly Sensitive Person" by Elaine Aron puts a new face on parts of my personality I have always wrestled with: my dislike of noise, sensitivity to medications, vivid dreams, fear of doctors, inability to be out of the house for more than two hours without becoming hopelessly overstimulated . . . I could go on and on and on. Suffice it to say that if you go to this page and look at the questions, and it seems like you are a highly sensitive person, or your spouse or child is, get the book. Please.

Thank you, David, for getting it to me. It came at a very good time. And way back when, someone directed me to that very page, that very quiz. I don't remember who it was, and I'm so sorry. I tried to find the post and couldn't. Speak up, if it was you. I owe you a very big thank you. Without that, I would not have added that book to my wish list.

Anyway, I see I have a lot of work ahead of me, a lot, but I'm starting to feel like I at least know which end of the sword to hold. The pointy end goes into the other man. And that's a start, right?

I can't change what I am. I can at least understand it.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (SAMURAI FACE!)
My birthday was quiet, and extremely pleasant, spent in the company of my family-of-choice. Thank you to all who were there -- you know who you were -- and thanks, too, to everyone who wished me a happy birthday. It was very happy, despite everything.

I will do a proper update shortly, discussing things like cats and grandfathers and strange herbal tinctures, but for now I lay the seriousness aside and present you with gratuitous silly pictures, since it's been too long.

Birthday 01

Birthday fun is logged over at Flickr. Mostly, the pics are just up there for amusement because I made some very silly faces.

Birthday 10

Michael Manning, aka [livejournal.com profile] metalweb has a way of bringing out the Sexy Face with his pervy, pervy art. This is a compilation of his early stuff, and I'm very glad to have it. I love big cartoon asses and gratuitous weirdness.

Birthday 12

That one you have to see full-size, both for the face and for all the notes I pinned to it. Michael, THAT is a picture of the exact moment when I discovered "Brahma." It is one of my favorite stories in there, despite the look on my face. I was just caught off guard. My bad.

Thank you to [livejournal.com profile] shemchadash for the loot. These two gratuitously sexy pictures are just for you. I don't know about you but the second one is my favorite.

Aha I See

And just when I think I've found my favorite goof-ass picture of myself, a new one comes along:

Birthday 05

Hard to say if I was more disturbed by the wrapping paper, or by the ghost ball hovering near my face.

And thank you to Nonny and Morgan. Seriously. I ordered me some Collide CDs, and I'm pretty damn sure they will fracking rule.

And for those of you who are in some way demented, here. Have some pictures of my goddamn cats. I know you fuckers miss them like anything.

CuteFu02

Nakedbelly!

Don't say I never gave you nothin'.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (SAMURAI FACE!)
My birthday was quiet, and extremely pleasant, spent in the company of my family-of-choice. Thank you to all who were there -- you know who you were -- and thanks, too, to everyone who wished me a happy birthday. It was very happy, despite everything.

I will do a proper update shortly, discussing things like cats and grandfathers and strange herbal tinctures, but for now I lay the seriousness aside and present you with gratuitous silly pictures, since it's been too long.

Birthday 01

Birthday fun is logged over at Flickr. Mostly, the pics are just up there for amusement because I made some very silly faces.

Birthday 10

Michael Manning, aka [livejournal.com profile] metalweb has a way of bringing out the Sexy Face with his pervy, pervy art. This is a compilation of his early stuff, and I'm very glad to have it. I love big cartoon asses and gratuitous weirdness.

Birthday 12

That one you have to see full-size, both for the face and for all the notes I pinned to it. Michael, THAT is a picture of the exact moment when I discovered "Brahma." It is one of my favorite stories in there, despite the look on my face. I was just caught off guard. My bad.

Thank you to [livejournal.com profile] shemchadash for the loot. These two gratuitously sexy pictures are just for you. I don't know about you but the second one is my favorite.

Aha I See

And just when I think I've found my favorite goof-ass picture of myself, a new one comes along:

Birthday 05

Hard to say if I was more disturbed by the wrapping paper, or by the ghost ball hovering near my face.

And thank you to Nonny and Morgan. Seriously. I ordered me some Collide CDs, and I'm pretty damn sure they will fracking rule.

And for those of you who are in some way demented, here. Have some pictures of my goddamn cats. I know you fuckers miss them like anything.

CuteFu02

Nakedbelly!

Don't say I never gave you nothin'.

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