I'd missed my family.  We go for years without really seeing one another, and everyone is accustomed to that, but nothing really replaces the ability to go home and be among them for a while.  It's a return to what constitutes 'normalcy', and it always helps to put things into perspective.

One thing I have noticed is that we all sound alike.  Down to the strange, sing-song inflections and quippy, pun-filled humor.  It's so distinct as to be Kennedyesque, but far less irritating.  Sitting with my mother and youngest Aunt, drinking wine and laughing at the television, one voice becomes hard to distinguish from the other, and I caught my husband looking over several times to see who was speaking from where he worked in the dining room.  He stayed largely at distance, but it was Fortuna's preference to give me free-range as much as possible.  That said, they love him to death, and I've been given repeated compliments that we are well-matched.  (Comes as high praise from my Grandmother, a veteran of 'bad matches' via her many daughters' misfortunes.)

My cousins are growing so fast.  I'm the oldest in this generation, and I remember all of them as babies, so seeing my only male cousin at nearly fifteen and taller than me already was a surprise.  Even in a year he's grown so much, and matured, though it's perhaps due more to family circumstance than development.  He and his younger sister inherited a unique combination of features, their mother's dark, thick hair and her distinctive features, but instead of the standard pale blue eyes, a rich, almost mohogany brown.  It's very striking, and they'll both grow up to be head-turners, I'm sure.

As always, they also inherited the ever-present food allergies.  The tendancy comes with being a part of this family, though they have the good-fortune of only having a few of the list.  Their mother was amazingly kind when it came to meal planning, and is responsible for the first really great non-allergenic meal I've had outside of my own house.  It was wonderful to eat without clutching a bottle of benedryl - though oddly, Fortuna was triggered instead, the poor guy is allergic to sulfites, but the wine was so good he didn't want to pass up a cup.  So he spent the night with an awful headache and ended up going to bed early while we migrated from my youngest Aunt's home to my Grandmother's place near Lake Ray Hubbard.

My mother is reserved, as usual.  She tends to get quiet as the night wears on, due in part to how stressful her work is by day...it's strange to get used to, as I tend to incorrectly interpret withdrawl as anger in her.  She, my Grandmother and I visited a local stone beadery and fawned over their pretty strands of gemstones.  I was given a gift of smokey quartz beads, smooth pears of dark, transluscent stone, and although I have been running a jewelry business, I'll be keeping those for myself.  My mother also bought a strand for me, (rather unexpectedly), a grouping of etched agate in shades of milky white and green, commenting off-handedly that they would look good with my recently re-blued hair.

There's more to say, but I think I'll have a nap.  I'll post more about this later.

Best quote ever:
"Grandmother, how do I get out of Dallas?  Where do I go?"
-she thinks for a moment- "Well, you 'Go West, Young Woman'."

I swear I won't do this very often, but my Etsy shop is finally up and running!  There are 15 new stoneworked necklaces are ready over at the Urban Talismonger.

-squee-  I've had these beads for two or three years now and hadn't really had the chance to do much with them.  Finally there's a spot or two of time.  More are coming.

It might be a symptom of my ADD, but I deal with a great deal of head-noise on a daily basis...strange, semi-coherent daydreams, never the same thing for too long, odd bits of songs, and memories from varying years.  It's really hard to focus on a single thing to the exclusion of all others, and this is especially true when I'm lying in bed.

Tonight, as I lay there drifting through the thought-soup, which was getting increasingly loud and full of static, I was startled by the sound of my first name.

It was like it was being spoken from the back of my skull, and it instantly silenced the thought-storm.  Suddenly I was in the inviting, cool black of the bedroom, the thunderstorm track playing, my husband breathing next to me, and there was -nothing- else.  Except maybe a little confusion.  Physically, I felt jarred, a little cold from being startled, but that was it.

It was like a brain reset...but I wonder what brought it on.
Or how I could inspire it to happen again.

So I've been reading for the last few days about a Genovese-esque gang rape that occurred during a high school homecoming dance...five or so people were involved in the actual rape, and then another large body of people just stood around and watched.  Not one punch was thrown, not one cry for help, not even a fucking phone call.

It infuriates me that the people who stood by, who are no better than the rapists themselves, will recieve no punishment or censure of any kind.  There's twenty or more people out there who deserve to be put in jail for their involvement in the crime, even if their 'involvement' was standing around, staring, egging the others on, or just turning a blind eye to it.  Fucking cowards.

How much effort does it take to make a phone call?  Really?

The cold front brought me trepidation.  I carried it in brimming cups from the door and secreted them around the bed, working hard to nestle down without spilling any of it.  It came pouring down over the house and puddled near the stoop, threatening a river in the soupy black mud of the backyard, the house creaking under the weight of all the tumbling, directionless anxiety.

It occurs to me:  Being a failure on two legs is harder work than it looks.

So I realized at about the point that I was tucking Fortuna in that I'd neglected to make his lunch for tomorrow, and I'd used the remainder of the tuna in the last of the sushi, which meant two things...one, that I'd have to stay up and make his bento, and two, that I'd have to make something rather than just put something together out of leftovers.

Fish gyoza have finally appeared on the scene.  I ended up using thin slices of a salmon fillet, rubbed with crushed ginger and the slightest hint of fishball seasoning (which is basically white pepper) and some kosher salt.  They ended up being aromatic enough to be satisfying, but not too heavy, which I was hoping for.  Packed in the bottom of his bento, they looked surprisingly neat, and although I've been packing his lunchbox for several weeks now, they haven't looked really looked all that professional until now.

In the top, I cheated and just packed some leftover rice and some katsuobushi furikake on top.  (Is that a redundant usage of the word 'furikake'?  Anyone?  Bueller?)

Next, I need to prefect the treat that I want to slip in with each bento.  Normally it's cut up fruit or something, but Fortuna has a tooth for plain, unfilled mochi, so I have a few boxes of mochiko and I'll be screwing around with that this approaching weekend if all goes well.

Om nom nom, bitches.

Here, have a wildly boring entry about housework:

So housework is not one of my strong suits.  I grew up in a cluttered house, and it always seemed pretty normal to me that any given room would be busy with objects, be they books, dumb little decorations, posters, pictures, and the general mess of being alive and living somewhere.  I thought of such places as 'lived in'.  The one exception was my Paternal Grandparent's house, which is kept with a practically military order, due in large part to my Granny's all-but-obsessive-compulsive organizational method.

It seemed impossible for me to keep a house that clean.  I would always fall behind, either the laundry, dishes, or rooms in general would just start to fall apart, usually in cycle with whatever depression was pouring over at the time.  By the time I noticed what was going on, catching up seemed impossible, and so I'd give up.  But the last few months have proven that I can finally stay on top.  I'm still always a little behind, but not so much that it's irritating.  The laundry hamper will never be completely empty, and there will always be a dish or two in the bottom of the sink, and that's all right.  I'm not going to hate myself over it.

Tile floors are a pain in the ass.  I love walking barefoot, and crumbs underfoot drive...me...batshit...insane.  Sure, they're great for keeping dust and allergens at bay, but it only takes a few hours for debris or bits of fur to spread on a newly swept floor, especially with a pair of cats.  I'd been using a broom and dustpan since we moved in, and it wasn't really doing the job as well as I wanted, so we decided to buy a cheap bare floor vaccum and see how it handled.  I'm here to tell you, folks, that stick-vac could suck the sorrow off a recent widow.  Win.

Part of the conversion from cluttered to clean has to do with the narrowing of our belongings.  Between Fortuna and I, we have a lot of stuff.  Boxes and boxes of odd little baubles and trinkets, photographs, materials for crafts, papers, computer parts, kids toys, and so, so many books.  The house we're in right now is large enough to space out our things without filling any given room...case and point, my study is practically bare - and that's how I need it to stay.  Because of the dust they generate, almost all of the books are relegated to a single room, which has really helped with our collective sniffles.

Ugh, though I have to resist the urge to take a nap.  God I want to.

So, I'm devoting an entire day to housework.  Why?  Because despite that the house is clean if not -slightly- cluttered, after a few weeks of rain, the tile looks dull from moist shoes and the house needs a deep scrubbing.  The bathroom tile is blueish from all of the hair dye, my study is full of ferret toys and old, empty tea cups, and it's time for the ferret's weekly cage cleaning.

My work is cut out for me, it will be old movies and interbutt radio all day.
Check out SomaFM.com - 'Illinois Street Lounge' is my buddy.  'Lush' too.

So, I've been excited about the discovery of water on the moon for the last little while, and the idea of confirming it with the LCROSS is equally nifty...but while watching CNN today, they highlighted a lot of insane people who are apparently freaking out about the 'bombing of the moon' and what various and sundry effects could happen.

Where did these people go to school?  Did they at all?  Is there something in the water?  No really.  Among the batshit insane things listed in the videos I've watched have been the possibility of the moon 'splitting in two', of triggering an inter-stellar war, of hitting secret alien bases in the Cabeus crater, of terraforming, and of possibly (most ridiculous of all) the fear that it will effect the tides or women's cycles.

Wait...what?

People are so painfully stupid sometimes.

So, Fortuna and I spent an evening fawning over the rain. I went to bed early, and lay against the pillow drifting back and forth between sleeping and listening to the thunder, swaddled in warm blankets. It went on for hours and hours, and Fortuna sat up until dawn listening to the rain. The next morning, it was amazingly restful, calm, the house was cool and slightly humid, and the day was grey and comfortable.

That is, until we decided to venture out for a bite of lunch...

Upon entering the garage, it was clear that something wasn't right. The already humid air was laced with...mildew? Underfoot, the concrete went 'squish', and already in the dim light, soggy, sad looking office boxes are wicking moisture upward, their contents no doubt long-saturated. Fortuna and I realized at about the same time that some of those boxes contained beloved character sheets, and worse still, some of those boxes held gaming books, part of our massive collection.

So while Fortuna's collection of RIFTS books sat pressing under weight, we surveyed the rest of our sad little kingdom. Displaced mud and sod, it pooled in front of our stoop and left four or five inches of borrowed mud from -somewhere-, seeping along the slab and under the drywall to end up in our garage. On the far side of the house, among the ficas and bamboo, another huge torrent of mud was carried against the back gate only to rush beneath and around, a foot high marker on our far back fence. God damn it. Most disturbing of all, directly following the flood, the tile in our bathroom wiggles underfoot, and our patio door is tight-fitting, suggesting that the foundation snapped overnight under the weight and stress of the water, or the shifting of soil. It was already broken in one place when we moved in, this just appears to have accelerated the problem.

It does not bode well that the flooding was caused by saturated ground from a week earlier, then a single heavy rainfall over the course of a few hours.  If there had been more rain, we would have been flooded beyond the garage.  A few more inches and it would have been in the house.  If we get another heavy downpour, it -will- be in the house.

So, in retrospect, I am grateful for the following things:
- That we did not buy this house.
- That most of the important books were in the study.
- That most of our other stuff is in plastic crates.

We spent today sorting through ruined belongings, throwing sodden boxes into a pile near the door of the garage. They still need to be broken down and put into the recyling bin, but that can wait until tomorrow morning. All books that could be saved were, and pounds and pounds of papers were sorted through to salvage the favorite characters and memories. Some of my pictures were damaged, but negatives exist for some of them. The study is filled to the brim and needs to be organized, but that needed to be done anyway, this just gives me more motivation to do it now. Several afghans were soaked through and now smell of mildew, but they can be washed easily enough...and as soon as the washer and dryer are dried out, I'll be taking care of that.

So, my to do list consists of the following:
- Wash sodden laundry and blankets.
- Break down boxes and put them into the bin.
- Mop the garage floor with bleach water.
- Organize the study and sort through what's left.
- Look into ways to divert flood water for next time.
- Get items off of the inner house floor.  (Just in case.)
- Price renter's insurance and flood insurance.

The last few days have been really, really weird. It's becoming hard to introspect, hard to think straight, and especially hard to write. This isn't some stupid 'writer's block' nonsense, either...I sit down at the word processor and I feel like the dense kid in the back of the class.

It came really suddenly, so I have to wonder if it's some kind of vitamin deficiency, the effect of a food allergy, or just plain fatigue, but I don't really work hard enough to warrant 'fatigue' as an answer. I'm going to eat a little more, remember to take the suppliments, and try to get a bit more sun - hopefully this is going to pass soon, I don't like feeling slow and stupid-eyed.

Sitting in the sunshine with my closed eyes pointing at the sun - a crude method of regulating sleep patterns, but what could be more easily accessable and non-invasive? Since the rainy season started, the backyard has gone from a pitiful, blasted plot of land with tiny curls of long-dead weeds to a thick green mat of varying leaves and flowers. Even with closed eyes, I can smell the hot plants in the light and the drying black mud.

Sunbathing as a recreational activity is horrifying to me, skin cancer being very common in my family, but this momentarily bared skin is the only way to achieve the desired effect, so as flies buzz and meander, the occasional mosquito bite intruding on the peace, I always try to imagine the sun as a nourishing force rather than a mutating, killing one.

Eating blind is funny. Randomly stabbing a fork into a jar of grapefruit slices and bringing it to my lips, never knowing if there's anything at the end of the utensil, juice on my chin attracting flies and god only knows what else, but it's so good I just don't fucking care. I miss that kind of self-honesty. Too quickly, before the timer inside marked twenty minutes, the light filtering through my eyelids dimmed and the sun was gone - immersed in cloud cover.

Oh well.

No one likes a whiner. I know that, but just this once, I'm gonna.

I've been working on a Lovecraftian adult comic since early May, 2009. I had completed over 13 episodes and intended on finishing the current story-arc, then finding an artist. Last night I spent the evening talking about it on-and-off with doronjosama while we made onigiri for the SAAS meeting, and so this morning I went to work on the most recent episode.

They're gone.  Not just missing, but fucking deleted.  Do not pass go.

I was re-arranging my writing folders, and the comic was something casual enough that it wasn't a priority backup, so it never was duplicated...I must have carelessly deleted the folder they were in without checking to make sure it was empty.

Epic fail.

With any given writing project, occasionally you look back at your plot and say to yourself, 'who the fuck would ever read this?' You begin unravelling your own concept, picking it apart, putting it into an ugly light. Whether or not the copy deserves it, you really begin to hate on it. All that lust for writing, all the desire to see the story written, it starts cooling off like a marriage on the rocks, starts to look distorted, it's faults bigger, it's quality diminished.

I've been away from the copy for a while, longer than I'd like to admit. It didn't begin with this kind of doubt, but now that I'm beginning to return to it in earnest, re-reading my work, I'm cringing over it in that ugly way. I won't touch it, won't cut or edit it, and the only real choice is to slog forward until the mood passes...and that's all it is, a mood.

Doesn't change how hard it is to look at this and keep going.

It rained quite literally -all- day.  It was so cold this afternoon that Fortuna and I opened up the house to the air...it smells like rain and dirt, and strangely, this combination is delicious to the senses.  Since it was such a nice night, we decided to go on a jaunt Eastward to enjoy the air and the charcoal sky, and as we drove along, we saw a billboard that read:

RESTROOMS SO CLEAN, YOU'LL HAVE TO PEE TO BELIEVE IT.

Ahem, lol wut?  The location with the (supposedly) unbelievable facilities was 30 miles East...which was about at the tolerance length before we usually turn around and come home.  As we continued on, we saw signs for the same location advertising beef jerky and oddities, and it was turning into just the kind of campy roadside joint that we both enjoy stopping in at.

I was not disappointed.  Fortuna now has some great locally-made beef jerky, and we actually found a piece of telesma to add to my collection, a spiny orb-weaving spider encased in acrylic...just the kind of trinket that I can invest and put to good use.  I am very pleased by it. ^_^

So to explain my brief sneeze of haiku about dead animals, this morning I found a dead stray cat in the driveway.  It was pitiful, surrounded by dogs that were whining and sniffing at it, as though sensing it was dead.  Inu was flipping her shit last night, and I ignored her, thinking she was just playing.  I'm not sure what I would have done had I walked out there and found a wounded, dying cat...probably killed it.  This particular stray was a grey mackrel tabby that Inu had gotten to know through the window, she rather liked watching him in the yard.  That may have been the reason that after it was struck, it ran toward our house.  I found blood on the stoop, following the sidewalk and garage, as though he had tried to get help here.

By the time I found him, he was already stiffening, not quite cold.  All I could really do was wrap him in a plastic bag and lay him in the dumpster.  If I buried him, the opossums or dogs would dig him up...my mistake was that I didn't make sure Inu was out of view as I did it...she was able to see me gathering him up in the bag, knotting it, then setting it in the bottom of the bin.  She was already deathly-afraid of trash bags because I think her prior owner tried to put her in one and throw her away.

So now Inu is hiding from me, terrified of being thrown away like her friend.

dead stray cat
deserved better than a dumpster
in the rain

Inu, my young female tabby, has just made an interesting creative leap.  She's been stalking the opossum in the backyard by chasing it along the wide windows, and as she passed me, I made a gesture to catch her eye in the reflection.  She froze, stared at it, then when I shifted my fingers, she turned and looked at my hand...then back to the reflection...then back to my hand again, eyes wide and looking bewildered.

She now understands reflections, something I didn't think her capable of.

Killit, the older male, grokked mirrors when he was very young, and the circumstances around it were very sad.  I was holding him in front of the big plate-glass mirror of the dresser, and he was staring at his little kitten self, about to hiss, and then he looked at me.  He stared at my reflection for the longest time, then looked back at himself, then at me, then at himself, and he whined to be put down.

For the next few days, he sulked, and we'd find him sitting near the mirror, looking at himself, then looking at us, as though he had just realized that he wasn't human.  It was so horribly sad.  He did eventually get over it, and now he just relishes in grooming in front of it and watching himself.  From sad kitten, to elderly narcissist.