(no subject)

My cousin Janise is an actress who looks like a doll. Her brother David acts like a doll. Their mother Myrtle collected dolls, and still has thousands of them.Myrtle's husband Bob was a caretaker at a desolate farm on the Eastern shore of Marylend, somewhere too close to rural Delaware.

Everyone is a fucking doll over there, and all the houses are dollhouses. Uncle bob was a very unruffled sort. He died 15-20 years back.

I saw David a few months ago, for the first time in ten years. He and the lost third brother, Cousin Albert, who I had never even met, showed up over at the farmhouse. Myrtle is getting very very old and sick. They were in Balti visiting her in hospital.

Janise is married, Albert divorces, David a bachelor. David reminds me of Norman Bates, but this is just the first impression. He's the boy who spent his entire childhood walking rural eastern shore farmfields finding indian artifacts in plowed dirt. His collection of arrowheads and spearheads is on loan to the Smithsonian.

I found him sitting indian style in my parent's back yard, looking up at a full moon with a stoic lack of expression, maybe a mild "Mr. Spock" eyebrow raise is all you'd get out of him I think.

I took the conversation to the subject of Decoy ducks. He lives in duck hunting central, and the ancient artisans there all carve ornate decoys. I asked him if there were still craftsmen and carvers working the flea markets and craft shows.

His response was SO him. "I'm not really a part of that culture, so I don't know much about it." He looks back to the sky.

Dave is cool. Dave's walked the fields and stood under a thousand migrating ducks, and never could find the urge to hunt them. Instead, he hunted the scattered remains of a million indians who hunted ducks. He picked their hunting implements out of the dirt and collected them in reverence. Not a part of the culture, indeed. Dave is creepy. I like Dave.

(no subject)

Been in a mad streak lately. I've taken over half the house, and dolly-boxed the windows so that they look like felt decorations hanging on a wall rather than windows through it. Oh god they look so fake,mmmm, and they keep out image-leak fairies because there's not a crack.

I've turned the West Wing of my house into a fairy-proof "closed set," ...almost a proper cos/kig/tranny dressup studio. I feel I can work more unburdened if I can't see a crack, or if a crack can't see me.. The only looking glasses there are the ones I control, ones I place, and even my mirrors are warded.

I'm not shutting the world out, I'm, "fixing a hole where the rain gets in, and stops my mind from wandering."

I still need a big sliding paper and frame door.
I just happen to have a pneumatic nail gun, and a big roll of paper muahahqah. Oops, but no skinny wood for framing.

But it will haoppen, I have to close that portal, it's causing a vaccuum leak in the hull of my submarine.


The plastic cup of pasta salad had been through several hands before mine. My father's octogenarian friend had brought it all the way from a shop in Baltimore to have with the crab-meat he also brought into the mountains, a sample of the decadence one leaves behind when exiting Charm City.

From my father, the cup of pasta salad then passed to my grandmother, in the form of a 'choice leftover'. It stayed with her for a number of days until she 'had her fill' of the stuff and passed the remainder down to my wife, who was there for a visit. Bringing it home, it sat another couple days, and a few meals of side-dishing before It finally came unto me.

My wife caught me aimlessly searching the cabinets and fridge for some tasty evening morsel to gobble up, when she suggested the pasta salad. I think she sees me as the last-line of non-food-wasting defense - a human garbage disposal, and so I am. We are always what our wife sees, and our wife sees All. (Though, she has been known to eat far more rancid leftovers and scraps than I, usually in a one-woman artistic statement about the masochistic nature of poverty.)

So this is how this clear plastic container of soggy spirals, colored flecks of who knows what, and many large cubes of red pepperoni and white cheese ended up before me late one chilly night.

Starting in at the top, I relished the chunks and the spirals as if they were heaven-sent. The texture was
still holding up, and the flavor was still unmarried in the larger pieces, ingredients still kept their individualism and integrity. I enjoyed these thoroughly. My mouth was the place to marry them, in the maw of my own great gnashing teeth, as it were.

Working my way down towards the bottom, I ran into a bit of a swampy increase in moisture, which was of the oddest flavor. Who knows how many things had fed on other things, growing into new things, aided by all the forks and spoons of my family? The flavor was bizarre and trashy, but sickeningly compelling.

The further down I went in the cup, the wetter the sauce clung to the solid food, and the more tasteful it became. it was becoming a game of chicken. Living in moderation, I had to leave the very bottom to the gods. Even I could begin to taste the fermented putrescence that is at the bottom of it all. I sat the remainder down, said my nightly words, and drifted down to sleep.

Of course, that night I dreamed heavily of culture.

Writer's Block: Fashion faux pas

What is the strangest thing in your closet?

There's a giant moth who is attracted to pretty bright lights and telling me what to do.

And I'm all: "Yo, chill. You're not like, an angel or something, you're a batty-ass closet-moth!"

And she's all like: "But I don't wanna stay in the closet! Take me outside! I wanna immolate myself into the sun and feel it's great wrath consume me and complete me and make me his uber-queen! You WILL do this for me!"

And she's flapping her wings covered with gauze like some rabid prissghost simply filling cloth with pneuma, and then she's making her own lights and sounds and it's so very, very scary, and yet beautiful, too beautiful, and I understand why she wants to be one with the sun, and go into the light until it consumes and burns away all thought and makes everything light and divine energy.

And then I'm like "yes...i will do this for you..."

And then she vanishes.

(no subject)

The list of "projects I wanna do" is immense and growing. My available time and energy are dwindling.

*tearfully goes "eenie-meenie-miney-mo...."

(no subject)

I'm going insane. Please hurry 3:00, so I can go home and cry in my pillow.

Until then, I am going to pick up a shovel, and just mindlessly dig.

(no subject)

I'm wandering around all sanguine, moody, and broody, abandoning hope, cursing life and wondering why I'm totally on my period.

And suddenly I realize it's gonna be a bloody damned Harvest Moon - tomorrow.

Hang on tight, fellow lunatics. This will pass.

Meanwhile, do try to have fun howling at it. *winks*
defk's September

Not as much accomplished this weekend. Sabe's BP numbers were up a bit, neither too thrilling nor too celebratory. The PVC's are still there. I rubs her feets. She got a line on a job, a stressful job working under a terrible person who hates her. Just what she always wanted. It's going to be a difficult winter.

I got Deel a kitten. Ravenpaw is cute, fuzzy, and friendly. Deuce likes him a bit too much, so he spent the night in our bedroom. Deuce has the claim on the end of D's bed.

Picked up a new steamer, my old one corroded away from calcification issues. Hope this one is a better design.
I use steam for working wigs.

In a moment of creative idiocy, installed blinking lights in mask. It was a $7 hobby kit. I can't resist a soldering gun. Or bling.... :) After cam-testing the effect, my zipper got stuck, and I had to fight my way out of my suit. Someone is telling me something. :O

The work week begins anew, This week, I hope I won't be digging in a muddy ditch. But if that happens, so be it.


(no subject)

Sabe is not doing too great.

She's got her blood pressure down to normal without meds. She's defeated a lifetime of insomnia. Those are both great.

But the PVC/palpitations continue, and she's in a deeply personal war with it. It's a condition where there is no definite cause, a medical mystery, and the Jury is still out. The list of triggers/possible causes is immense.

She's tried every known remedy, and spends all of her time looking up more possible remedies, and experimenting with her body to see what might or might not be her trigger. Most agree that this is a nuisance condition, and not dangerous, but every time they 'come back' she is just a little bit more defeated.

She's had enough defeat. She's shown enough patience. Re-learning to breathe 'correctly' was an immense effort, but only salved the problem for a few days. She sleeps with her mouth taped shut.

Both of her sisters are pregnant. Nobody in her family is remotely interested in hearing about her concerns. While her sisters and her mother shop for new diapers and clothes, Sabra is sitting at home weeping. They don't invite her, and she feels unloved. She deleted her facebook yesterday, because 'nobody cares.' She and her family seem to be distancing.

She's also finding the employment situation impossible, her degrees and certs next to worthless, and has 'never felt so unwanted' in her words.

She's stopped eating and drinking anything she likes, and exists on rinsed nuts and the occasional piece of pita bread. She consumnes supplemtal vitamin pills of various sorts, a hundred a day or more.

Sabe's in Hell, and I can't get her out. There is zero enjoyment in her life at the moment. She's desperate and alone, and losing hope. Any spiritual or emotional ground she gains on one day is crushed to pulp the next, as soon as her heartbeat flutters.

She's in a veritable dance with death. His icy pinky finger just keeps poking her in her most sensitive spot, and she knows he is going to reach up from inside one day and just grab his fist around her heart, and squeeze it until it bursts.

(no subject)

Went to Gary & Brandy's book signing event. Aside from spending more time in the library than I have in over a year, comfortably sharing library war-stories with my own replacement, and yet still awkwardly feeling the ghost of my not-too-much-younger self still haunting the shelves, I got some good home-made cookies and an inscribed copy of the re-issue.

"An official copy for our unofficial editor."

hehe They're redrafting the second book based on my critiques and margin notes.

You can find Gary & Brandy's work here. Go ahead, make their day.