If anything happens here, can I count on you?

Today flew by.  Probably because I spent most of it working on a T-shirt quilt.  I haven’t made a quilt in a while.  This will be my 8th.  I listened to Be Myself by Sheryl Crow on repeat all day.  I’m glad I checked to see if she released anything recently.  I’m a little behind with her (but compared to just discovering Stevie Nicks, not much.)  I stood about 7 feet away from Sheryl Crow’s tour bus as it was pulling into the fairgrounds years ago, and waved, (even though I couldn’t see anyone through the tinted windows.)

I accepted M’s proposal.  I told him we should wait until after the national crisis, though.  He doesn’t want to wait so we’ll talk about it more.  Instead of rings, we’re going to think of something else.  My first wedding ring, engagement ring, expensive watch, and a few other similar items are somewhere under the sand in the desert outside of El Paso.  I lost one diamond stud in Grafenwoehr, Germany.  The other one disappeared along with roughly half my possessions when they were shipped stateside.  One rollerblade made it.  🙄

I took some pictures of my quilt in progress.

It’s not ironed yet.  I haven’t decided what I’ll use for the back.  I think I have some flannel left over from my Cookie Monster quilt.  I’m getting better at this because I didn’t lose a single drop of blood this time, (so far.)  I did all the cutting on a board on the floor, which made it easier.  From now on, I’m always going to listen to music when I sew.  (I didn’t have wireless headphones last time.)  I can’t wait to continue working on it, (but will till tomorrow, so I don’t disturb my neighbors.)

I finished re-reading A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving the other day.  It’s been years since I last read it, and I got a lot more out of it this time.  I’m reading The Rise and Fall of D.O.D.O. by Neal Stephenson and Nicole Galland now.  I don’t even read the synopsis before buying his novels anymore.  I know I’ll like it, whatever it’s about.  Excellence is dependable.  I’m probably getting loopy from lack of sleep, so I’m off to read, and hopefully, sleep.

I made this whole meal in there.

I’ve run out of rage.  At least the desire to express it.  It’s too expensive to my body.  I suck at holding grudges, too.  I guess I’m just not wired for it.  The worst part is my mind won’t cooperate with visualizing anything my heart rejects.  I tried for four minutes to no avail.  It’s a long time when you’re trying to imagine something unsuccessfully.  It felt more like a concentration exercise.  So I laughed at myself and changed my mind.

I know people, myself included, who are traumatized by what 45 is doing to our country.  I know individuals who aren’t even American who are traumatized by him, too.  His existence is a trigger because he’s loudly vile and proud of it.  It’s a difficult time to be a woman, a POC, disabled, LGBTQIA, elderly, ill, evolved beyond tribalism, logical, or someone fucking concerned about the survival of our planet and species.  Seriously, fuck anyone who isn’t.

I saw Angie Tribeca for the first time tonight.  I love it.  I’m going to buy the seasons and do a marathon this weekend.  (After Firefly got canceled, I take my fangirl responsibilities more seriously.)  I needed to add something new to my viewing habits and cut back on the shows where I’ve memorized the dialogue:  Seinfeld, Friends, and The Big Bang Theory.  Turns out, others find it annoying when you say the lines during the show.  It’s a disappointment because it’s such a fun thing to do.  If I only do it when I watch alone, it’s incredibly hard to refrain from also doing it when I’m not.

I can’t wait to go see Wonder Woman.  I keep noticing the startling contrasts between progress we’ve made and oppressions proposed.  It’s weird when they occur simultaneously.  I feel like I’m living in 1929, 1945, and 1980.  I’m relieved much of Europe is residing in the present.  I like knowing there are still civilized nations.  I haven’t slept in a while.  My tolerance for being still is lower than usual.  My cat enjoys my wee hour pacing, at least.  I finished DeadZone by Stephen King.  It’s excellent.

In One Person by John Irving is, too.  It expanded my awareness and understanding of humans to an astonishing degree for a single novel.  I highly recommend it.  I don’t think I could possibly be privy to a more intimate view of the main characters, were they close friends.  The story covers decades and is historically accurate in its portrayal of the AIDS crisis during the 80’s and beyond.  It’s full of information on variations of sexual identity, and gender identity.   There’s a trigger warning for (the depiction of) the murder of a transgender woman.  It triggered me, but I’m still glad I read it.

I love reading novels.  I’m loyal to my favorite authors and buy everything they write within days of release.  But there’s one thing I wish all fiction writers would stop doing.  Please, whenever you’re tempted to add a rape scene to your story, talk yourself out of it.  It’s enough already.  It’s not edgy.  There are other ways to depict the past.  It’s unimaginative to an exasperating degree.  If it didn’t happen to the author, I don’t want to fucking read it.  Okay?  Glad we had this talk.

 

 

It’s like my brain is facing my penis in a chess game.

I laughed when I chose today’s Seinfeld quote.  Mostly because I love referring to my (figurative) penis when going postal on a misogynist.  There are few groups I consider fair game for an all-out verbal attack.  Misogynists top the list.  I barely consider them human.  They’re contaminating the gene pool.  They cling to ignorance, and a false sense of superiority like their life depends on it.  It’s sad.  I’m happy to report they’re dying off.  In twenty years the word misogynist will only show up in novels and word games.  Glory days.  In the meantime, they usually insist on identifying themselves within minutes of contact, so at least they’re easy to avoid.

I’ve been enjoying the hell out of my electronic drum kit.  Unfortunately, I damaged the snare drum pad.  Now, It only plays softly no matter how hard I hit it.  Disclaimer:  I void warranties religiously.  I took it apart.  I could fix it for a few bucks, or I could build a better one.  I wasn’t about to fix a cheap rubber snare drum pad.  Clearly, they’re too easy to break.  Although, for a cheap entry kit, I’m astonished by what I got in a good way.  The rack and module alone are worth what I paid for the whole kit.  The drum pads and cymbals are temporary, and I’m in the process of replacing them.

I love the rack because it’s matte black everywhere, it’s compact and sturdy, and I can use standard hardware on it.  I ordered a 10″ rim, some 35mm piezo discs, foam tabs, a 1/4″ instrument input, cables, and a mesh head to make a better snare drum.  It’s now a dual trigger, shiny, mesh pad and is a joy to beat with sticks.  I can do rolls, and the velocity triggers beautifully, too.

I’m debating on how I want to address my hi-hat replacement, which is next.  Part of me thinks I’ll never want an acoustic kit, and shouldn’t limit my choices in that respect going forward.  I much prefer having the sounds from multiple super expensive kits recorded in high-end studios than whatever I could reproduce.  In that instance, I’d prefer using a mesh head pad for my hi-hat and cymbals, too.  It’s a quiet enough trigger that I can practice anytime I want, day or night.  How very attractive to this insomniac.  If I decide against the mesh cymbals, I’m just going to get acoustic cymbals because the rubber and plastic cymbal pads currently being sold are unbelievably shitty substitutes.

I have a tendency to read all night.  I’ve been doing it often since I learned how to read.  I was raised to believe laying still in bed while wearing pajamas counts as sleeping.  The laying still part really means being silent enough not to awaken others.  Laughing out loud at a book while reading is something I’ll admit to often doing.  In my head, I’m in another world where something funny just happened.  Not laughing would be weird.  Immediately after, I feel guilty for making noise.

The guilt part is just a habit at this point.  When Heather died, her diaries were given to me.  (All my siblings kept a journal growing up but only the girls continued in adulthood.)  She wrote about my late night giggles with fondness as an adult.  She wasn’t so fond of them at the time, I recall.  We shared a bedroom until I started 7th grade.  My Mom decorated it, but it looked like Holly Hobby threw up in there to me.  Yellow gingham fabric with lots of ruffles everywhere.

Starting in Junior High, I got to decorate my own room.  Heather was so worried about me having my own room.  She didn’t think I could handle it (Queen of Nightmares is my original title).  Thinking back now it makes me laugh.  She was really the big sister at times.  She was my self-appointed voice for much of my childhood.  At first, it was because I didn’t speak, but later because it amused me so much.  (Heather was always a bit of a loud talker who didn’t hesitate to demand being heard.)  We were opposites in so many ways, but we always had the same sense of humor.  On that nostalgic note, I’m off to continue reading Last Night in Twisted River by John Irving again.  It’s so fucking good.  (That’s my review.)

What do I have to do to put you two in a relationship today?

Today passed quickly.  It occurred to me earlier I’ve reached equilibrium again.  I’m comfortable, which means it’s time to shake things up.  I don’t want to become weak.  I’m going to sleep on it, and decide tomorrow what to do.  On the physical side, I’ve been maintaining my upper body strength with daily pushups and 5 lb. barbels.  I remember speaking with an old classmate at a wellness center about arm definition.  It was one of those situations where someone touched me unexpectedly, and I mentally took a giant step backward and booted into safe mode.  (Fortunately, I can play it back in my head after I recover. )  It was the first time I ever thought about arm definition.  She asked me about my workout, stating she was seeking my arm definition.  I don’t think I responded, much to my chagrin.

Now that I just pondered how I would have answered her, it’s probably better I just stood there.  I have a horrible history of saying things that are politically incorrect without realizing it.  Like… When someone asked me if I ever thought about getting a tattoo, my response was, “But I’m already colored in.”  In my defense, I’m not disrespectful to people with brown skin.  On an entirely unrelated note; I have brown skin.  It’s more an issue of speaking.  While I sometimes struggle to maintain the ability, nevertheless, I still do it more than I should, often before thinking first.  The older I get, the more I recognize nothing is often the best thing to say.

I’m on the 3rd book of The Magicians trilogy by Lev Grossman.  It’s love at first novel, although the second in the trilogy is better.  I might check out the TV show just to see how someone else imagined it.  You know how every so often you come across a story that feels as if it was created just for you?  It’s like an inside joke with someone you’ve never met.  The last novel that delighted me on this level was Ready Player One by Ernest Cline.  I’m going to read something without rivets or dragons next.  I haven’t picked yet.  Probably something by John Irving.  I still think about Lupe from Avenue of Mysteries often.  I reread everything he writes multiple times.  He’s my American Dickens.  I’m off to read.