endlessland

After almost a two-week hiatus, the Storyteller has returned.

Reasons for my absence on the internet? Batshit insanity. And I'm not just saying that. It was the most epic, baffling, extraordinary case of schedule planning fail I have ever heard of.

While working two jobs and attempting to finish five studio-quality paintings in approximately one month, I also attended four lengthy and often medically-related appointments, one parade (somewhat miraculously, I must admit, after the events mentioned in my cancellation e-mail), and completely rehauled my SIDES courses. Even worse, the only two days I worked or am about to work eight hour shifts were a) a day I really, really needed for painting progress, and b) a day I really, really need to complete the entrance assignment for my new course. Go figure.

Other events worth mentioning that occurred during the hiatus:

• Began knitting a hat;
• Completed (!) five paintings (!!!) for Artisans 2009 (more info about that later);
• Learned how to make authentic quill pens from a member of the Pacific Association for Recreating the Middle Ages;
• Learned that, after actually managing to sneak up on a crow and pull a tail feather that crow feathers make utterly lousy quills;
• Read excessive amounts of Lovecraft;
• Blew up over one hundred balloons in six hours (109 of those were before 10:30am, and the first order involved me arriving at the Dollar Store an hour and a half before we opened just to get the order ready);
• Did stuff to my hair (aka, this is a "you'll see it when you see it" situation);
• Acquired yet another Lovecraft-related plush toy;
• Acquired a vintage World War II gas mask manufactured in Canada;
• Acquired a new bookshelf (thank Zombie Jesus, hail Eris, and may Cthulhu eat my soul if I don't get those books off my floor really soon);
• Acquired far too many books (wow how surprising);
• Did not get enough sleep.

***************

The Gay Pride Parade was all the more awesome because I honestly didn't think I'd be able to see it this year. I wore only a bikini top and booty shorts, and danced behind the last float with a mobile mosh pit of lesbians. Also, I had my picture taken with the individual who belts tunes from the last float every year -- I don't know if she's just a great singer who supports gay rights, or a flamboyant lesbian, or a post-op drag queen, but whatever she is, she's amazing.

Frolicking with Boss #2 in general (after he surprise-tickled me to alert me of his presence) and the time the two of us snuck behind the massage tent to take a picture of the awesome old bearded cross dresser was far too entertaining. I wish Gay Pride events happened more often. I am consoled by the fact that next year, I can legally go to all the drag shows and after-parties.


***************


ART SHOW INFORMATION:

The show technically begins on Friday the 10th at 6pm, but that night is only open to the artisans themselves. From July 11th to August 26th, from 10am to 4pm every day, the public is both welcomed and encouraged to attend, enjoy, and purchase, if the desire arises.

I have on display five original pieces, priced from $95 to $145 (mostly judging on size, the largest being 16x20 inches). All of the pieces are acrylic on canvas; they include hardware for hanging, pre-installed by myself. The fact that I have pieces in the show shouldn't be your only reason to show up, however -- I have seen a good selection of the other pieces, and they are spectacular: paintings, carvings, glass work, textiles, jewelry, and more.

If you want to visit while I'm in attendance, I am the artist-in-residence on these days:

JULY 12TH, 12:30 to 4
AUGUST 2ND, 12:30 to 4
AUGUST 23RD, 12:30 to 4


*******************

A news blurb, for those who like to be caught up to the minutiae.

READING:
* Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson. (I picked this one up solely because the title sounded like 'Necronomicon', but I am rabidly enjoying it. Seriously. It's like an unselfconscious nod to Ulysses that is actually coherent and doesn't involve several degrees to find the humorous references.)
* Heart Of Darkness by Joseph Conrad.
* One Lovecraft collection or another. I lost track.
* The End of the Story, a Clark Ashton Smith collection.
* 20,000 Leagues Under The Sea by Jules Verne.

WRITING:
I have been veritably ambushed by two new short stories. After I bullshit my way through the new activation assignment for EngLit, I'll see about writing them up -- as well as finishing that one from a couple months back. (This will involve reviewing my knowledge of Jacobean English, so I've been understandably stymied about its completion.)

For the curious, Short Number One is a convoluted nod to both Sarah Monette's Khloïdanikos concept and Lovecraft's general tone and mythos. Short Number Two is the narrative of an individual the Devil sets out to corrupt -- via, um, less than PG-13 means. Don't necessarily think that means the story is full of sex... because it's full of other blasphemies, and not all of them are pretty. It's still a pretty light and rewarding tale, for all that.

ART:
I have nothing.

Oh, well, since you mention it, my attention has been a little focused on those five paintings for the show -- but no, I can't see any reason why you'd think I haven't sketched at all recently...!

SCHOOL:
I've really mentioned all the necessary pieces of this section.

JOBS:
Doing very well at both. Exciting things may be happening at one, but I don't want to say too much about that until it actually happens. You know the sort of thing. To the three people I have mentioned it to, two of whom read this blog, I know you what I mean more than most.

BRAIN:
Unbalanced in both pleasant and unpleasant ways. Balanced in both pleasant and unpleasant ways. Can you tell I've been a little crazy, lately? More than usual, I mean.

THINGS TO DO:
Clean room, organize books, make an art post, do schoolwork, drink more water, take over the world look sexy while performing ridiculous acts.

HUMOR:
I find it very amusing that several spell-checks want me to correct "Cthulhu" to "Catholic". Almost as entertaining as the time MS Word wanted me to change "Tolkien" to "Volkswagen."

MUSIC:
If one does not listen to "Staying Alive" for a year after being raised on the Bee Gees, one cannot help doing the Chair Dance while singing along in a falsetto that startles the shit out of sleeping cats.

EXCITING THINGS:
It rained most of today. It's July. This winter child is very, very content.

OTHER:
The jar is still open, and will remain open despite my current inability/lack of time with which to create/post poetry. I still squeak with glee every time I see people dropping spare change in there, as seldom as that is, considering how infrequently any member of the Serious Crew (let alone the whole) has been in attendance. I doubt this lack-of-groups or lack-of-Serious-Crew will change in the near future, simply factoring the sheer busyness level going on in my life -- even now that the art show prep and most of the medical appointments are under my belt, I still have plenty of commitments on my hands with two jobs and a first-year-university-by-correspondence-English-Literature-course to undertake. So it goes. I've been content as a hermit, thus far. I hope this doesn't sound like an insult to my readers. Hermitage is my nature!


****************

Now, to choose between reading and room organization before I go to bed. Room organization is a priority, but after the month I've had, I think the more relaxing of the two will win out. C'est la vie.

Being unable to find her pajama pants, and equally unable to relax in anything with a belt, Bryi vanishes to the faint rustle of skirts and the pad of bare feet.

Today wasn't the best day for me.

I didn't sleep well, woke up before my alarm, had a rushed shower and not enough breakfast, worked most of the day in the antique store alone with very few sales, discovered that Sister had managed to flip my bike upside down despite it being locked up (although that was kind of amusing, I have to admit), and found out that there is a very high possibility that I will not be able to attend the Gay Pride Parade -- not necessarily in that order.

I was pretty much prepared to come home, putz around on the internet, eat dinner, paint a bit, and then conk out in a rather depressed state for the rest of the night.

That was until I found this, and spent the next sixty seconds in convulsive laughter.



Call me superficial, but... I-I think my night just got a whole lot better.

Laughter-As-Medicine: wurks pritty well, ackshully.

Finish rainbow canvas
Blueline eye onto rainbow canvas
Finish Through A Different Lense, touch up
Finish and touch up Cocksure
Finish and touch up Butterflies Are Free, Moths Are Liberated
Finish and touch up Nouveau Sky
Finish and touch up Chasing Havilah
Take photo for Artist Bio
Write Artist Bio
Go into Community Arts Centre BEFORE July 3rd for volunteer information and inventory tweaking
Sign all paintings
Take detailed photos of all paintings
Make inventory signs (include number and title)
Bring in paintings and inventory signs on July 6th
○ Sleep for a week Obviously not going to happen now that my University-edition English Literature course has officially begun, so let's just scratch this one.

DONE!

We could use an update post around here, because things are about to get pleasantly crazy.


READING:
* Heart Of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
* The Cloister And The Hearth by Charles Reade
* The Confessions Of Saint Augustine translated and edited by Albert Outler
* A History of God by Karen Armstrong (yes, still!)
Also switching between reading The Portable Nietzsche and The Portable Marx. Augh, brain is breaking.

WRITING:
Head-space is still being taken over by amorphous project along the lines of "steampunk alternate-history Vatican." The priests, they have kidnapped me.

Also, Burnt In Stone developed a tragic twist near the end that made me all kinds of sad when I stumbled on it two nights ago. In loose terms, staying in the Palace means long life, even immortality if you're lucky -- one of the characters who I expected most to stay, in fact, does not, and is implied to have lived an average life, dying of old age. Had to be one of my favorite people, too. Figures. The best novels always rip your heart out!

ART:
One new sketch, a personal one.

PAINTING PROGRESS:
Cocksure: 85% complete. Down to the nitty gritty details now.
Nouveau Sky: 45% complete. Skin pretty much done, hair needs shading, background not begun.
Touching-Knowing: Still at whatever percentage I graded it at last time. Ugh.
Paper Faces On Parade: 40% done. Background almost complete, foreground not begun.

JOBS:
I could have worked eight hours yesterday, but for some reason, half-awake, I thought it was Wednesday and that I had an appointment or chores or something that prevented me from coming in early -- half an hour later, during breakfast, I slapped myself in the face when I realized it was in fact Tuesday and I was free both days. It worked out well, I guess, because I got a lot of work done on the paintings and scheduled an appointment at SIDES, but still. I feel bad for turning Boss #1 down on false (albeit unknowingly false) pretenses.

SCHOOLWORK:
Speaking of SIDES, I will be starting Advanced Placement English Literature 12 very shortly. After finishing prep for the art show, AP Lit and the final dregs of Comp Civ will be occupying every waking hour not devoted to jobs, showering, eating, or minimum safe relaxation time. Hooyah.

EXCITING THINGS:
Phantom: A Novel of His Life by Susan Kay arrived in the mail today, in rather excellent condition for not having any padding whatsoever in shipping, which makes me very happy. If I can muster the energy, I'm going to go Brodart it at Job #2 before I go to Job #1.

Also, zeppelinphan is dragging me down to the City on Sunday to make me buy a nice dress for a friend's grad next year before I can change my mind.

Also also, I work eight hours on Canada Day, so I get time-and-a-half. Yay, money! Especially considering that I just made an order from Chapters, money will be well appreciated. (Hey, I wasn't going to pass up an offer for eight books for $40. Even if they're crap, I can still get credit for them at any number of used book stores.)

STUPID THINGS:
One of my contact lenses had a hissy fit yesterday, so I had to go through my entire shift wearing my very-nice-glasses with the not-so-nice-and-actually-rather-outdated-perscription.

HUMOR:
A few of you may recall when Muse told that story about the guy who got a bar code tattoo for personal reasons. The guy worked at Home Depot, so he scanned his tattoo one day out of curiosity, and found out that he was a six-inch claw hammer.

I was in the loading dock, doing inventory with Edna yesterday, when I pulled out one of the boxes and started fighting very hard not to laugh. The skid we were inventorying was mostly hardware -- and that particular box was marked as "six inch claw hammers." Now, when I put them on the shelf, I get to find out what claw hammers actually are...!

MISC:
I may have a super-secret surprise coming up that a couple people know about. I don't need to ask people to keep quiet about it, seeing as I haven't said much about it nor the fact that I want it to be a surprise if it does happen, so those who suspect what it is may be thinking of any one of three things.

TWITTER:
That is not poetic license in my last tweet: I actually did run around without a shirt on (accompanied in shirtlessness by zeppelinphan, Shanzie, and a non-Blogger friend, as well as several others who opted to keep their shirts on) in the forests and fields behind what used to be Greenglade School. Afterwards I drank lovely, if luke-warm, honey lager, then proceeded to go home and read The Call Of Cthulhu in bed before passing out for eight hours. Good times! I did have a out-at-night-with-teenagers induced panic attack at one point, in Tulista Park, but fifteen minutes hiding in a polymer tube on the playground fixed that.

Until next time,
Your friendly neighborhood endlessland.

Boss Man: "Damn, I thought we had wrapping paper. Does your dollar store have wrapping paper? We should wrap this because the guy is buying it as a gift for his lady friend."

Bryi: "Yup. I can get a discount, too."

Boss Man shoves a twenty under Bryi's nose.

Boss Man: "Wrapping paper! And change for the till!"

Bryi runs over to the dollar store.

British Coworker: "Hullo! How are you!"

Owner Man: "What are you looking for?"

Bryi: "Other boss wants wrapping paper!"

British Coworker: "Next time we're working together I want to see all of your tattoos!"

Bryi: "Okay!"

Bryi runs back to antique store with wrapping paper.

Boss Man: "That is the gayest wrapping paper I have ever seen."

Bryi: "We were out of the nice Victorian patterns, and it's for a lady, right?"

Boss Man: "Yes, that is true. That's okay. But it doesn't fit in the only small box I have! Does your dollar store have gift boxes?"

Bryi: "Yup. I think they're the perfect size, too."

Boss Man shoves another twenty under Bryi's nose.

Boss Man: "More change!"

Bryi runs over to the dollar store.

British Coworker: "Back so soon?"

Bryi: "Need a box!"

Bryi runs back over to the antique store.

Boss Man: "Okay, that's perfect. Kind of clashes with the wrapping paper though. Maybe we don't need to wrap it."

Bryi: "You know, it's funny. The wrapping paper selection was so girly -- flowers and cartoon characters and shit. But the boxes were all so manly! This pattern was the next best thing to golf tees!"

Boss Man: *rofl*

LATER:

Boss Man: "You know, this box could do with something sparkly in it to match the bottle. You know those things, they're small, and come in packages with hundreds of them in it, and they're shiny..."

Bryi: "...confetti?"

Boss Man: "Yeah! That! Does your dollar store--"

Bryi: "Yup. How about gold stars?"

Boss Man shoves a twenty under Bryi's nose.

Boss Man: "Change!"

Bryi runs over to the dollar store.

Kay: "Oh hi!"

Bryi: "Hi! I need confetti for my other boss. I've been in here two times already buying stuff to wrap a $300 perfume bottle!"

Kay: o_o

Bryi: "See you later!"

Bryi runs back to antique store.

Boss Man: "Oh, perfect! Let's glue some on the outside too."

Epic session of gluing gold confetti stars to gift box using ancient liquid Elmer's glue commences.

Bryi: "You know, we're giving all these foreign tourists the impression that this is what Canadian antiques dealers do with their days.

Boss Man: Ha ha!

Boss Man drops stars everywhere.

Bryi: "Well, now the floor is sparkly too."

Boss Man: "The store is very gay."

Bryi: "100% homosexual content!"

Boss Man: *rofl*

FIVE MINUTES LATER:

Boss Man: "I'm hungry. You know what I'm craving right now? Barbeque chips. Does your--"

Bryi: "Yup. 75 cents a bag."

Boss Man is about to shove a twenty under Bryi's nose, pauses, laughs, gives her a five instead.

Boss Man: "No change! Buy chips!"

Bryi runs over to the dollar store.

Owner Man: "Omg, are you back again??"

Bryi: "Other boss wants potato chips!"

Owner Man: "Boss wants potato chips... I'll have to remember that... boss wants -- Lady Boss! I want a Blizzard!"

Lady Boss: "Hi Bryi! Did you say something about ice cream?"

Owner Man: "I want you to buy me a Blizzard."

Lady Boss: "The brownie batter ones are soooo good!"

Bryi: "I have not tried one. Must do so. Mmm, chocolate."

Owner Man: "Blizzard!"

Lady Boss: "I thought you wanted your back room organized!"

Bryi: "Gotta go!"

Owner Man: "Will you be back?"

Bryi: "Not unless he wants soda next...!"

Bryi runs back to the antique store.

Boss Man: "Yay, chips! Did you get some for yourself?"

Boss Man looks at the bag Bryi is holding.

Boss Man: "Oh, All Un-Dressed."

Bryi: *dies*

FIVE MINUTES LATER STILL:

Bryi: "Oh crap, I have to go tell Kay that she pressed the wrong button. Their cash-out might be messed up if I don't tell them."

Boss Man: "Go forth!"

Bryi runs over to the dollar store.

Owner Man: "Ha ha, soda?"

Bryi: "Flukey reciept, actually."

Kay and Owner Man: "Yay, thank you! Bye!"

Bryi runs back to antique store.

Boss Man: "At least you're getting your exercise."

**********

And I haven't even recounted all the times Boss Man checked out male customers and asked me which one I thought had the cutest butt, or all the times I fielded his phone calls with clever white lies because he didn't want to talk to anyone.

Never a dull day!

I remember the first time I heard about Reading Lolita In Tehran. I was sitting in the waiting room of a naturopathic doctor's office -- a doctor that I hated, because he ordered pointless blood tests knowing that I was driven to physical illness at the mere thought of needles, among other sins. I don't know if I'd forgotten to bring a book, or was simply bored by it, but one of these was the reason I picked up a magazine that was laying on the low glass table. I don't even remember how Reading Lolita In Tehran was mentioned, whether it was an ad or an article (it was probably an article, in retrospect), but I remember showing it to my mother and our mutual agreement that it sounded like a marvellous book. Even then, when I couldn't have been more than thirteen years old, I knew what Lolita was and why it was so controversial, and so I boggled at the idea of Islamic women gathering in secret to read and discuss its contents.

Today, about six years after hearing about it for the first time, I have finally finished it. In a way, I'm glad that I didn't read it before, because I would have been unable to understand some of the finer points -- yet, obversely, I wish I had read it sooner, because my appreciation of it would have been less intellectual and more pure enjoyment.

I miss being affected by books. It used to be that once in a while, I would stumble upon a truly magnificent work, devour it in a day, and experience a dramatic and shattering change in my personality and the way I saw the world. In the past, this happened at least once a year, and frequently, more often than that. Daimonic Reality, Atlas Shrugged, The Man Who Fell In Love With The Moon, In The City Of Shy Hunters, and American Gods were the main books that mercilessly pulled my brain out of my ears, fed it strange substances, and put it back in. They're the books that I honestly, all evidence to the contrary at times, do not like my friends to read. When friends read them and report back, it's like discovering someone read my private journals. Knowing that thousands of others, sometimes over a million, have read the books as well doesn't bother me at all -- it's only when it regards people I know. I've made the mistake of trying to share favorite books, and it always turns out badly; I used to try to get friends to read them, and ask them for their favorite books because I wanted us to be able to share the things that touched us most via a sort of literary osmosis, but there was a flaw. The way I perceive a book is completely isolated from the way anyone else perceives it, because of the sheer variety of philosophies, life experiences, and personal preference that we all bring to the reading experience. My Shy Hunters is not the same as anyone else's Shy Hunters for that simple reason, despite the fact that the words we read are identical.

It makes me think a lot about the human condition, and what makes us all unique. What, exactly, is at the core of a person? What is it that, if outlying things about their personality changed, would remain the same? Sometimes I wonder if my friends would still love me if something dramatic about me changed on the surface; something that left my core, my basic morals, intact.

What if I suddenly changed my career goals to something unexpected?
What if I slept around?
What if I became a Communist?
...a Christian?
...a Muslim?
What if I killed somebody?

What if, I sometimes ponder, the people close to me are attracted (in a platonic sense) to something about me that isn't true -- an impression or an image of myself that I've cultivated through lack of foresight or plain and simple misdirection. If I were to suddenly remove the misleading or confusing blankets over myself -- blankets we all wear, I might add -- would what is left still be a person they could sympathize with?

I think being in survival mode generates a lot of philosophical (and most often rhetorical) questions...perhaps due to a combination of stress, insomnia, isolation, and stuffing the rest of my waking hours with poetry and strange beauty. I have to remind myself often that survival mode is not only generated in situations of mortal danger or other world-shattering events; survival mode can be triggered by something so small as a single night's lost sleep. Our psyches are hard wired for trauma and introspection.

I have been exhausted before, but not often from outer situations. The exhaustion that comes from chemical imbalances in one's brain is a different kind of tiring than the exhaustion that comes from physical labor and mental fatigue. I find myself imitating a pendulum; swaying from one pole to the other in an attempt to stabilize an uprooted lifestyle. One minute I am striding with the purposefulness of rage, full of threats and images of death to those who deserve it -- the next, I am caracol, tucked up around myself, lacking the energy to clench my fists, the lines from a poem pounding behind my eyes: Alas, we who wished to lay the foundations of kindness could not ourselves be kind.

I am not stressed, per se. I am upset, in a deep, quiet way that is more akin to being disturbed than anything else. My ideals, motivations, and reactions to the world are changing as I am exposed to more of it. I used to think, as a child, that some day I would chose a set of morals and comfortably align myself to them for the rest of my life -- I remember the moment, years later, when I realized that it was not and would never be true. Each day, we have the opportunity to reassess our lives, our goals, and our darkest secrets. What seemed to be a curse yesterday can be a blessing tomorrow, and vice versa. We are liminal creatures that do not fit into any static categorization of psychological existence: neither gas, liquid, or solid, we have the ability to pass through each, whether by individual will or imposed circumstance. The latter is more the thing that makes us, to quote Adorno, "not feel at home in one's own home." It makes us question what we take for granted, and ask why the removal of those things unsettles us so badly. Imagine something which you have every right to do now -- something that you rarely stop to question, but in reality, are actually blessed beyond measure to be permitted to do. What if that right were taken away? Would you survive? How would you adapt? How much would you change; how different would the core of your being become in order for you to retain your humanity?

Humanity is not necessarily the most infallible of models one could wish to hold, but in the end, it is all we have. In the past, homo sapiens has reached toward the unknowable for ideals -- the things we could not see and could not comprehend have inspired us more than any other object in creation. Gods became dark matter, spirits became quarks, and still, we persevere. We dream up things of great power, great beauty, and great horror, and we will continue to do so until the last member of our impaired, yearning race is extinguished.

From the simple, sensual pleasure of a good book, to the eternal question of what lies at the heart of the universe, I know one thing is true. Even if none of it matters, even if all we have become is simply highly evolved primates on a planet on which the existence of life is a mere cosmic fluke...

I know that everything changes, and that we will always, always strive for something greater than ourselves.

Why do people collect things?

Some would say they do it for the money -- "I can sell those limited edition coins when I'm a senior and pay my bills for a year."

Some would say they do it to save artifacts from being lost to history -- "If I preserve those busts in a temperature-controlled case, my grandchildren can be just as awed as I was."

Some would say it's the social aspect -- "By collecting these cards, I can attend events, meet new people, swap for even better specimens, and share my enthusiasm."

Some would say it's for the challenge -- "My goal is to have a complete collection of license plates from every country of the world."

Freud would have said (and did say) that it's for the hoard -- "We wanted to control our lives as children, and couldn't, and were so frustrated by this that we have the inner drive to collect things that aren't useful to survival."

And some, like myself, don't have a reason. I collect, and have collected, certain things simply because I like to use them, look at them, and enjoy them.

I used to collect tarot decks. Some of them I purchased because they were rare; some of them because they were exquisitely beautiful (even if they were impractical for everyday use); some of them because they were intensely readable; and some for the sole reason that I had a good feeling about them. Now, I only have a fairly small collection of favorites, and I rarely use any of them, but I like flipping through them occasionally. They're good to touch.

It's no secret that I love books. I own over three hundred and twenty, and have read about ninety of those -- the ones that I haven't, I plan to. I collect the ones that seem interesting, that have beautiful pictures, the ones with exquisite paper and typesetting, and especially (as far as "collecting" over "planned purchasing" goes) antique novels. One of my most precious possessions, secreted away in a safe drawer and wrapped in acid-free plastic, is a prayer book published in the early 1800's.

My small bottle cap collection was caused by a combined influence of Fallout 3, Lyncs, Schmizenheighmer, and force of habit. I can tell the newer ones from the older ones because they still smell like soda or cider or beer -- kind of like wine corks.

More strange, or so new friends tell me, is my collection of crystal skulls. I started the collection with a clear quartz skull way back when I was a new ager on vacation in Courtenay. The first skull got a personality and a name -- Max, breaking all records for weirdest name, given that I'm a SF/F author -- and began a chain of quiet obsession that still lasts today, if the purchase of two new members of the "skull family" is any indication. The row of mineral faces now numbers thirteen, and each skull is distinct; only two skulls share a mineral group with another set of skulls (jasper and labradorite, for the curious). A name comes into my mind almost instantly from some cabinet in my subconscious every time I purchase one, which surprises and delights me to this day. I don't believe they have any super-special magical powers, but I love looking at them when I sit at my computer every day -- and sometimes, sometimes, like to think that they're sentient in their own stoney way.

The quest closest to my heart is the search for beauty. Is it any wonder that all the things I collect have something to do with beauty and art, touch and sight?

The endlessland wants to know: What do you collect?

I was trying to avoid spamming my readers with update posts, but after ten days, I think I have enough leeway to make one.

READING:
* Reading Lolita In Tehran by Azar Nafisi
* A History Of God: The 4000-Year Quest of Judaism, Christianity and Islam by Karen Armstrong
* Leaves Of Grass by Walt Whitman
* The Cloister and the Hearth by Charles Reade (1905 edition)

BOOKS RECENTLY ACQUIRED:
* Books on the British occupation of India
* A book on the golden age of locomotives
* Books on the Crusades
* Books on religious history (including two books written by late popes)
* The memoirs of a transsexual (the first chapters include a lot of whining, and it's not particularly well-written whining -- but for the $2 I paid for it, it's not bad)

WRITING:
Still haven't had time to write, since free time goes to either reading or painting. After the art show I may have a little more time on my hands, so I hope to finish that short story about messianic birth, and throw some words at Burnt In Stone. That project idea about the alternate-history steampunk Vatican just will NOT leave me alone, however. That's the main reason I bought books written by religious leaders -- I have no clue how they think. It would be intriguing to get inside the head of someone so different from me, and write a book from that perspective.

ART:
Paintings, going slowly but surely. May scrap one of the painting ideas for something simpler, something I can finish in an afternoon instead of a weekend. Hell, maybe I'll start that one tonight for something easy I can throw paint at.

BRAIN:
Still treading the line of things I can't talk about, but all in all, especially dealing with two jobs and an art show and a few days of insomnia over the weekend, I have been doing very well. Some ongoing concerns, but they're not really things you tell the internet about. There is a post brewing about the general tone of these things, though. It's been brewing for quite a while.

HEALTH:
My wrists are bothering me slightly. I think it's just minor strain from learning to adjust to new muscles, as well as the time I hyper extended them a few weeks back, so I'm optimistic that they'll heal quickly. Being careful with them involved a very strange method of mopping the floors at the dollar store tonight.

JOBS:
DS job is going smoothly -- although Kay is leaving us next week for a job that pays far better, so while we're sad to see her leave, we're glad she'll have better financial opportunities. I'm adjusting to my floor supervisor position well, and being more organized when it comes to closing, cash-out, and rearranging the stock.

Antiques job is going splendidly, as per expectations. I love my manager, I love my coworkers, I love that I can be open about my sexuality and opinions, and I love working with antiques and books. The only downside is the dusting, which, in the long run, is not such a downside after all. It's a small sacrifice for better pay.

EXCITING THINGS:
Money! Books coming in the mail! It was cloudy today and even rained!

STUPID THINGS:
I wish certain things weren't developing the way they are, but I know they're happening for a reason. There's honestly no use crying over spilled milk if you know that cleaning it up will be a rewarding experience.

MISCELANEOUS:
Listening to Phil Collins' Son Of Man and Nickelback's Hero on loop gives me very strange mental pictures. They make me want to write things down in some crazy spaztic authorial binge.

Also, I want to make a post on the phenomena of collecting, and the things I've collected over the years, and the things I collect at present. I think working at an antique store is prompting this, more than anything -- we get so many people coming in to complete what seem to me to be strange collections. Collecting itself is a strange art, and can tread the line between a cabinet of cool nick-nacks and compulsive hoarding.

Until next time, mon freres.

As of 1:20pm on Tuesday, June 16th, I own three hundred and seventeen books. Three hundred and twenty one, if you count the two in the mail and the two I plan to buy today.

How many of those have I actually read?

Something between 85 and 90, considering that I can't remember how many of the Clive Cussler ones I've read.

Maybe my goal should have been "read all books in collection in three years" rather than "one hundred books in a year".

endlessland is highly amused (and slightly appalled that she actually owns over three hundred books).

"See, if this mark is a lion--"

"Oh!  Yes, I see it now!"

"--that means it was made in Britain.  And if this one is an anchor..."

"Birmingham, right?"

"Yes!  This one references the date.  The duty mark helps with that.  See the face?  You can usually tell which king it is because of the caricature."

"So the big nose is a giveaway."

"Exactly.  Now, some of the pieces, like this one, have very faded marks.  We can hardly make it out, but you can see the lion and what might be a Sheffield mark.  The engraved initials on the inside of the cup don't help much with dating."

"So there's a lot of guesswork."

"Very much so.  We can only be about 80% sure of the origins of a piece if there aren't papers or identifying marks on it.  For instance, we're only fairly sure that the cup you're holding belonged to Robert Louis Stevenson."

I just about dropped the sterling cup, then carefully replaced it on its pillow.  If a sense of reverent wonder had not already been drilled into me by carrying a stack of books printed before my great-grandmother was born, it was certainly there now.

************

"There's a real mummy in there," I whisper to zeppelinphan.

"Yeah," she breathes.  "It makes you think, though.  At what point does a body not be a person anymore, and just an artifact?  I know it's a piece of history, but shouldn't she be, y'know, buried and given some dignity?"

I agree with her, and we talk about it a little more before we move on.  Underneath it, I'm thinking about a conversation I had with my coworker the day before.

"Do we know who the person in that little framed photo is?"  I asked her.

"No idea," she said.  "It doesn't have any writing on it, or a date."

"It's funny," I said, after a long pause.  "Do you think that, at any point in their lives, the people in these photos ever stopped and wondered whether their faces would someday be eclectic currency in an antique shop?"

She laughed, and said that they probably didn't.  I laughed too, but not with real humor -- a day later, I am still vaguely disturbed by the implications.

**************

My before-Dollar-Store events at the antique store can be summed up thusly:

"Have you been taking your 20% staff discount?"
"20%?  I took 10% once or twice because Brenda said it was all right."
"No no no, it's 20%.  Didn't I tell you 20%, Brenda?"
"20?  I thought it was 10."
"I've been telling everyone it was 20!  Augh!  How many books have you bought without taking the discount?"
"I dunno, a lot.  There was that fifty-four dollars on the 5th, about $40 one time and $10 another time..."
"Well here, just take this book you had on hold then."
"So I'll make a note that I owe you $15, minus whatever 20% off comes to."
"No, just take the book.  It's easier than figuring out what to pay you back!"
"Um.  'Kay.  Awesome!"
"Just don't buy books anywhere else, got it?"
"Yup!  Just you and Bruce.  Because I get credit there and all."
"Good."

It's probably good that I didn't tell him that I requested a book from Tanners just before seeing him...!

***************

I really don't understand this obsession with children.  I mean really.  The sheer amount of things you can buy for them, they're they're popular dolls with accessories, is horrifying.  The sheer amount of young women having children because they're "so adorable" and they "always wanted like six kids" is disgusting to me -- people, we are already grossly overpopulated, and we do not need your little bundles of joy and dribble to overpopulate the world that much more.

I'm unapologetically stern about the latter.  It makes a lot of people angry, and I honestly, with every fiber of my being, cannot understand why.

So here's a point everyone can agree on:  DO NOT TAKE BABIES TO MUSEUMS.  Science World, yes, maybe I can understand.  It's interactive and kid-friendly.  But even then, babies?  As in carriage-fodder infants that can't walk or talk yet?  In museums?  God no.  If you have to take a stroller into the museum, that thing is too young.  Maybe even too young if its still in the "why" phase.  It differs per exhibit.  For instance, I was appalled to see unobserved children almost, almost laying their dirty hands on priceless pieces of history.  The pieces that are not under glass are clearly marked with friendly signs, but children do not read these signs, even if they can read.  They just want to hug the nice naked marble girl.  Even breathing too close to these pieces erodes them -- children should be guarded like crazy around them. 

Also, back to the point about babies.  As zeppelinphan will attest, our enjoyment of the amazing British Museum exhibit was greatly marred by the fact that a baby, in a stroller pushed by its mother (who was accompanied by two walking toddlers), was crying the ENTIRE TIME.  I am not exaggerating here.  Except for perhaps one or two minutes near the end when we doubled back to find my father, it was wailing the ENTIRE TIME.  This is at least an hour, folks.  The mother not only did nothing to quiet the baby, which shows how much respect she had for dozens of other people trying to enjoy the exhibit, she made little effort to control the other two children.  I was appalled.

***************

Sister:
*this music is inspiring feelings of HAVOC AND CHAOS AND DEATH AND DOOOOOOOOOOOOOM
*mwhhahahahahahahaha
*MWAHAHA
Bryi:
*AND FROLICKING
*AND DEATH
Sister:
*dooooooooom!!!!!!!
Bryi:
*DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM
Sister:
*DOOOOOM
Bryi:
*DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM
Sister:
*ok you win

Just another uneventful day at the House of Bryi.

Quick update before I go to the antique store:

PAINTING PROGRESS:

Cocksure: So, so close to done.

Touching-Knowing: Blueline done, but the first coat of skin colour ended up in some variant of murky sludge -- probably a result of combining two different paint brands.

Nouveau Sky: Blueline nearly finished, and oh, this one will be beautiful. I'm almost regretting pricing it so low because I thought it would be sub-standard, but perhaps the low price will catch someone's eye along with the painting. It may be the first one I sell!

REMINDERS TO SELF:

* Scan stuff and make art post
* No more caffeine for a while
* Sunday is my first day off in something like three weeks, holy shit. SO looking forward to a break. Especially a break with zeppelinphan than involves museums.
* Sundaaaaayyy
* Pollen allergies are perhaps the most annoying thing I have ever had the displeasure to deal with personally. Next year, commit suicide some time before spring, yes?


Go look at something funny until this blog gets more interesting.

I have to link this.

I have to. I can't resist.

It's a hilarious short story involving messianic birth in second-person Jacobean English.

Go read "The Parable Of The Shower" by Leah Bobit right now, or I'll eat your unborn babies.

My favorite lines, just in case that particular threat wasn't enough of a carrot-on-a-stick:

There is an angel of the LORD in my shower, thou imploreth, and he keeps saying he’s supposed to knock me up, and I’m only twenty-three, I can’t raise a kid right now—

THOU CANST USE DAYCARE, the angel boometh.

—and I thought you were against single-parent families, thou finishest.

DO YOU NOT TRUST IN THE POWER OF THE LORD TO BRING YOU A HUSBAND?

That’s not the point, thou repliest, shrinking down unto Missus Van Metre’s carpet. It is not thy job to tell an angel of the LORD that thou likest not the boys.

The real irony of this is that last night, out of the blue, I started writing a humorous short story about messianic birth. I think my brain is telling me that I should finish and post it when I have time, because obviously Jesus, angels, and irreverent humor from young female protagonists is something that works.

Interesting posts will return some day soon, guys. I swear. Eight more days of work in a row, then a day off that I intent to spend doing stupid stuff with zeppelinphan, then six days on, then a day off. After that, my schedule gets a little more reasonable, excepting the art show stuff.

My god, I'm turning into a responsible adult. I'm pleased. Honestly. I will, however, admit that there is a voice in the back of my head telling me to take my shirt off and start babbling infantile curse words out the window.

REGARDLESS.

Here, some updates.


READING:
* Palimpsest by Catherynne Valente.
* Jesus For The Non-Religious by Bishop John Shelby Spong. (The guy has been practically excommunicated on a number of occasions because he's pro gay marriage, pro choice, refuses to believe the Jesus story as literal, etc. Awesome guy.)
* The Abbey Up The Hill: A Year In The Life of a Monastic Day-Tripper by Carol Bonomo.

BOOKS IN THE MAIL:
* Phantom by Susan Kay, finally, finally, finally.
* Another Phantom-related book that I'm too lazy to look up the information for. Supposedly about as good as the Susan Kay re-imagining.
* Part of zeppelinphan's birthday present, also Phantom-related. She knows what it is, and we can't talk about it without having a fit of giggles. I'll write about it when it arrives.

BOOKS RECENTLY ACQUIRED:
* The Learn Latin edition of The Daily Telegraph's QED series.
* Latin For The Illiterati by Jon R. Stone.
* A Night At The Opera: An Irreverent Guide to the Plots, the Singers, the Composers, the Recordings by Sir Denis Forman. (SO FUNNY.)
* The Complete Phantom Of The Opera by George Perry. (Anyone sensing a theme?)
* The Panorama of the Renaissance, edited by Margaret Aston. (I'm turning into such an art snob. It's great. Anyway, this is one of the most beautiful books I've ever seen.)

WRITING:
Nothing on that front.

ART:
Now, here's some juicy bits. Not only do I have a few new sketches -- and an art post in the works when I have a little more time and energy that isn't devoted to necessities -- I have an announcement. Some of you have heard from me, or may have heard rumors, that I have been honored with a space in an upcoming eight-week art show at the Community Arts Centre on Tulista Park. Well, it's true. I've submitted my membership application, my fees, and my inventory, which consists of six thematic paintings of not-quite-human women. With zeppelinphan's help, they have been priced from $95 to a whopping $145 for the largest canvas (14x18). I'm aware that these may seem like "low" prices for original canvases, but keep in mind that I'm not yet a professional and this is my first show. As zeppelinphan will attest, I was leery to even price them that high. However, the nice thing about the way I paint is that if I sell even just one, and the lowest priced one at that, I'll be fully refunded for my time and my supplies. I'm just trying to get my pieces out there, primarily -- the money is secondary. (I have two jobs, so it had better be secondary.)

I'm not your fluffy pseudo-spiritual artist, and I'm not your business-oriented artist... I'm one of those obnoxiously self-sacrificing artists who is happy spending hours and dollars if she can make just one person thoroughly enjoy the painting. I aim to brighten people's days. What more could an artist want, really; aside from self expression?

At any rate, I'll let you guys know more about the show when it gets closer to opening night -- location, visiting hours and all that. I hope it doesn't sound obnoxious when I say that I know you guys will want to at least pop in and take a quick look at the paintings. I have amazing friends who actually enjoy my art!

In lieu of that, the next couple of update posts will have a new headline:

PAINTING PROGRESS:
Cocksure: 40% completed
Butterflies Are Free, Moths Are Liberated: not yet begun
Touching-Knowing: not yet begun
Nouveau Sky: not yet begun
Sea Armor: not yet begun
Paper Faces On Parade: not yet begun

MUSIC:
I have my ear out for opera, in the pursuit of a collection of favorites. So far, the final aria from the Kopit version of Phantom of the Opera with Gérard Garino and Michele Lagrange (the voice-overs for Teri Polo and Charles Dance) headed the list before, but after discovering a CD of Jussi Björling's opera at work today, I am floored. Almost in disbelief, at some points -- I keep thinking, how can the human throat DO that?? I almost want to say that he's better than Pavarotti, but it's been a while since I heard anything sung by him. There are two CD's left by Björling, and I'm really tempted to get them. Holy crap. OPERA <3

God I love working in an antique store.

EXCITING THINGS:
I tried two new food items today: sweet potato in tempura, and a sushi roll. I was intrigued by both. I haven't discovered a new favorite food, but I certainly didn't dislike either of them. Learn something new every day.


And now, I am off -- it will be an evening of Björling, Faust, Carmina Burana, and Vivaldi while I work on the first painting!

I leave for Job Number One in about half an hour. Yesterday, I worked with Dee, who is shy and cute and takes direction very well. Today, I close with Gee, who is quiet and sweet -- Thursday, I close with Kay, who is young and funny and easy to get along with. Which is good, because we both have a feeling that the market will either make things dead or crazy, so we'll keep each other sane in either case.

I didn't sleep last night, on account of my brain getting stuck on something bad that happened last night, and then I made the brilliant decision to go into the city because I had no summer clothes that fit. Also because I needed canvases. Five of them. And paint. Why? Well, I have a place in an upcoming eight week long art show.

Yeah, I know. Crazy, eh? I'm excited, in that completely-exhausted-with-no-room-for-other-emotions kind of way. The fact that I have four weeks to get ready? Not phasing me at all. Exhaustion is good for some things. You don't get as anxious.

Female readers are more than welcome to light-reference pose for the paintings, if they are so inclined. I'm good at anatomy, but the way light plays on skin is still immensely helped by models. Nudity is not necessary -- I'm making this a PG show, so nipples will not be making an appearance.

My brain has been trying to figure That Damn Thing out for a couple of weeks now. I understood before what the Discordians meant when they talked about mindfucks, about going in there and really messing with things and then figuring out how to put yourself back together...but now I really understand. In a bigger way. Or deeper. Supersize the understanding, plus fries. I'm still not ready to talk about it. Even when I am, I probably won't. It's one of those things. Talking about it makes it diminish.

In winter, I dislike summer in theory. In summer, I dislike it in practice. Actually, let's be honest. I hate it in practice. There is nothing remotely entertaining about being sticky with sweat. I'm like a giant wicker man made out of velcro. A customer and I both laughed when I had to peel the recipt off of me to give it to them, but I wasn't really laughing that hard. "Ha ha, ugh," not "ha ha, funny". Even seeing girls in small scraps of almost-clothing is not compensation for this. I am so thankful for ice cubes.

Zeppelinphan, Muse, Lyncs, Xethavosh, Rockstar -- you all made cameo appearances in a dream two nights ago. I can't remember it. We were searching for something. I'm always searching for something in my dreams. I had a lady come into the store yesterday, after I had it, and looked at my tattoos and said that if you dream about snakes, it means new beginnings. I said, these are ancient symbols for infinity, so I guess they mean a constant state of new beginnings. She said "yes!" in a voice full of child-delight, and wished me blessings instead of a good evening. I felt like it counted more than all the 'good evenings' I'd previously recieved.

I'm amazed by how important the simple things have become. Flipping the page to a painting with a background of perfect, perfect blue-green brightness, I could have eaten it with my eyes for a very long time. I bought paint in the same colour afterwards. I couldn't say no to that colour.

Just now, I squinted out at the sun and started getting myself ready to go out in it. Five minutes there, and four hours without air conditioning, and five minutes back, and I can see zeppelinphan and do stupid things that have nothing to do with cash boxes or keys or overstock. My head is full of colours and women wanting to be painted with their owls and peacock feathers and masks, and my skin is full of sweat.

Until next time.

I'm Christian...so I must be close-minded.

I'm foreign...so I must not speak English.

I'm Hispanic...so I must be a thief.

I'm black...so I must be a drug dealer.

I'm French...so I must be a pansy.

I'm racist...so I must be a villain.

I'm a prostitute...so I must be amoral.

I'm a dropout...so I must be a failure.

I'm disabled...so I must be childless.

I'm a drug dealer...so I must be heartless.

I'm a child...so I must not know anything.

I'm a teen mom...so I must be a slut.

I'm a teen dad...so I must be a deadbeat.

I'm an illegal immigrant...so I must be out to get your job.

I'm Republican...so I must be pro-war.

I'm Democrat...so I must be anti-troop.

I'm on welfare...so I must be lazy.

I'm a frat boy...so I must be a womanizer.

I'm a kid...so I must be a brat.

I'm a stay-at-home-mom...so I must not work.

I'm mentally disabled...so I must not have feelings.

I'm schizophrenic...so I must be dangerous.

I'm a meat-eater...so I must hate animals.

I'm a vegetarian...so I must feel superior.

I'm overweight...so I must have no willpower.

I'm skinny...so I must be anorexic.

I'm bisexual...so I must be easy.

I'm abused...so I must be weak.

I'm American...so I must be superficial.

I'm blind...so I must be helpless.

I'm pro-choice...so I must be a killer.

I'm pro-life...so I must be traditional.

I'm a priest...so I must be a child-molester.

I'm a Catholic...so I must hate gays.

I'm an alcoholic...so I must be abusive.

I'm a believer...so I must be ignorant.

I'm attractive...so I must be a player.

I'm homeless...so I must lack ambition.

I buy from Starbucks...so I must be a consumer whore.

I'm transgendered...so I must be flamboyant.

I'm a lesbian...so I must have had bad experiences with men.

I'm gay...so I must not have meaningful relationships.

I'm asexual...so I must be repressed.

I'm a government employee...so I must be out to get you.

I'm a pagan...so I must worship the devil.

I'm a jock...so I must be a bully.

I'm pretty...so I must be a bitch.

I'm a goth...so I must think I'm a vampire.

I'm a teenage girl...so I must be insecure.

I'm a teenage boy...so I must be horny.

I'm child free...so I must not be a real woman.

I'm a feminist...so I must hate men.

I'm Native American...so I must be an alcoholic gambler.

I'm a senior citizen...so I must be useless.

I'm an atheist...so I must be a pessimist.

I'm Asian...so I must be a genius.

I'm poor...so I must not be worth anything.

I'm rich...so I must be self-centered.

I'm an ex-felon...so I must be a liability.

I'm a gang member...so I must be a detriment to society.

I'm a Muslim...so I must be a terrorist.

I'm Jewish...so I must be stingy.

I'm a fangirl...so I must be immature.

I'm a writer...so I must be a hack.

I'm an artist...so I must reject compliments.

I'm a hippie...so I must not bathe.

I'm a stock broker...so I must be ruthless.

I work at McDonald's...so I must be unexceptional.

I hate reality TV...so I must be elitist.

I demand respect...so I must be self-centered.


This message brought to you by your friendly neighborhood equality activist:

Stereotypes support no one.

Last survivor of the Titanic disaster dies at 97, on the anniversary of the launch of the "unsinkable ship" herself.

Wow. Today, everyone who was on the Titanic is gone.

How long will it be until everyone who was alive during the Korean war -- my father's generation -- is gone as well? And everyone who was alive during 9/11 -- my generation?

I would argue that time is the most powerful, inexorable force we know of. I wonder why there were not more gods of time in history.

(I'll have a more intelligent, reader-involving post when I'm not feeling like a failed science experiment. Ugh. Today was not the most successful day in dollar store history.)

This is a notification post!

There will be very little, if any, activity on this blog for the next two weeks. I will likely not be on any sort of text or chat software, either.

Why?

No, it's not a personal crisis or a mental breakdown or an internet vacation.

Starting today (Friday) I will be working for sixteen days.

Straight.

This is a combination of my two jobs -- one at the dollar store and one where I am being trained as an antiques dealer. In my spare time I will be resting and doing schoolwork, with the exception of Wednesday night and Thursday afternoon, which I will be spending with zeppelinphan. It's extremely likely that I won't be showing up at either Safety-Pin Boy's camp out, nor Serious Coffee.

I'm torn between being excited to start my antiques training, and exasperated that I have to pick up other's shifts at the dollar store due to illness (valid reason), "personal reasons" (sort of valid), and "graduation preparation" (which is I suppose reasonable, but arg), respectively.

I am trying to think of how much freaking money I'll be making instead of how brain dead I'm going to be in two weeks.

Wish me luck, my friends! I feel as productive as much as I feel tired, and I am definitely rewarding myself with something when it's over, so it's not so bad. For those who may worry that I'm burning myself out, it will help you to know that eight of those are four-hour days, and that four of those days will be spend in a quiet atmosphere with classical music, lots of books, and a wonderful manager.

After this, I am going to request a great deal of hugs and trips to the swings and stargazing in the middle of fields. The best remedies always involve beauty.

An addendum to the previous post -- I decided to put up a poem a couple of days late, because, despite all odds, this one managed to tear itself out of me in the span of ten minutes this evening. It feels unfinished, but it's that rocky kind of unfinished that ends up inspiring others. I hope it does.

I'm not bothering to put up the PayPal button with this one. The jar is always available.

SHOUTOUTS:
My friends -- I am sorry for all the worry I'm causing. Sometimes, I get throwbacks to my early days of mental illness, and from experience I have learned that there is nothing more productive that I can do besides riding it out and surrounding myself with beautiful things. After reading the Raised By Wolves series, I find myself often thinking like Gaston, the mad Frenchman, and wanting to run off into the wilderness for a few months to battle myself -- but you and I and the wanna-be Gaston in my head all know that's a horrible idea.

I am also sorry for missing a Friday of Poem Busking. I have the material, but I don't have the energy. Hence, we will be skipping one week due to unforeseen circumstances.

Zeppelinphan: I have some things for you. Yes, more than just the mp3 of the final Kopit-Faust aria. I also have a link to a Phantom stage production on YouTube that I don't think you've seen (the musical fight between the new managers alone is a brilliant, brilliant thing) -- and I managed to find French and English lyrics to the final aria, so I was able to deduce that they took some artistic license. But I was able to translate, and...my god. It's so beautiful.

READING: A book about the history of the Catholic Church, more specifically the Vatican, that highlights each piece of art in the Vatican City. I refuse to allow my dislike of the Catholic institution to mar my delight with the artwork showcased. Relatedly, I need to read four books to be caught up to the 100 Books In A Year margin of error. I am at 38, and should be at 41. I'm sure if I get my nose back into Palimpsest or Alex and the Ironic Gentleman or The Picture of Dorian Grey I can get my quota back up to par -- they're small novels. Or, y'know, The League Of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

WRITING:
My brain has spawned two new settings on account of my recent obsessions.

* An alternate history Vatican in which Jesuits go to different planets instead of different countries, and where Jesus' bloodline with the Magdalene is not only acknowledged but carefully monitered and influenced.

* Again, alternate history or outright fantasy, but this time the story of an opera house. I'm sure with some tweaking, it could blend effortlessly into that plot about the household of heroes, one of whom was a composer whose wife was a prima donna.

JOB:
Doing well. The terror of small crowds I've recently re-cultivated does not seem to extend to customers on the other side of the counter.

As a recap...

ROOM: messy.
BRAIN: even messier.
HEATH: squeaky clean.
EXCITING THINGS: not really very exciting.

See you next time -- hopefully with something far more coherent.

"I decided which project I'm going to work on," I say.

"As if there was ever any doubt," Lune replies with a grin. "Besides, I already know. I heard Kerinsa swearing."

I sigh. "She's not the only one."

Lune gives me a considering look that lasts far too long not to have a question behind it.

"But...?" she asks hesitantly.

"I'm pretty sure I believe the camp that says you have to get a million bad words out of you before you can get on to the good stuff deep inside. And even though it's guaranteed that I'm going to be nineteen before I finish writing -- let alone the minor edits and tidying up -- I still have this stupid feeling that nineteen is too young."

"Too young for what?"

"Well, I don't know about you, but I've never heard of someone writing their magnum opus at the age of nineteen," I say. "Twenty five seems to be the minimum age for a great work of literature."

"So you're hesitating on the chance to finally write not just any project, but The Project, because you think you're too young?"

"Exactly."

"Bullshit."

I glare at her. "I did say it was a stupid feeling."

She shoves me aside and brings up Google. Ten minutes later, we've discovered that Christopher Paolini, S.E. Hinton, Alexandra Adornetto, and Falvia Bujor are all published and relatively well known authors who had books published before they were 18. We've also heard a rumor that Walter Farley wrote The Black Stallion at the age of fourteen, but couldn't prove it. The information certainly bolsters me slightly, but Lune can see I still have doubts.

"It's such a big thing," I say. "I'm tired most of the time -- I work half of the week, and use the rest of the days to recover, sleep, and do schoolwork. I haven't even found time to exercise yet, aside from speed walking a lot at work. And I haven't even started the other job yet! I still want to do the second job, especially since it'll be emotionally and intellectually rewarding, and a lot less stressful, but...

"...well, you know. I always worry that I won't have enough time for things. Everyone does it, the same way they take an hour complaining when they could have used an hour being productive."

"Like what you're doing now."

"Right. God, Lune, I want to write this thing so bad. I've been making excuses for four years. Don't you think it's time I finally dug my heels in, grabbed the reins, and steered this outfit?"

"Of course," Lune says. There's a long pause, and then she adds, "You hardly beat yourself up anymore. You've realized that you can have bad moments, bad days, and make mistakes just like everyone else. You've learned that apologizing to someone else or to yourself, and striving to correct the fault in the future, is far more productive than wallowing in self hatred and self pity. If you end up making mistakes or not having enough time and energy for this project, you're not going to send yourself into a spiraling basket of depression and failure. Honestly speaking, you don't have anything to lose but a bit of your time if it ends up exploding on you."

"The pros far outweigh the cons," I agree. "You know when I realized a while back that I had a really weird childhood? That time when I was talking with Housemate about how I had never really been punished or forced to do anything, especially when I was having trouble with mental illness, so while I didn't really grow up spoiled and coddled, I didn't learn self motivation or the rewards of hard work. When people said that making something yourself makes it taste better, I thought they were really stupid -- I mean, how the hell can making something yourself change the chemical composition of the food?"

"Right."

"But after I realized all that stuff about my childhood, and told myself that I wasn't going to blame my parents for raising me in an environment where I was dependent on everyone, I realized that I was going to have to raise myself all over. I was going to have to teach myself to be independent, to have the drive to force myself to do things that aren't necessarily rewarding in the now, or even at all, and I was going to have to build up a tolerance for hard work that wasn't instilled in the proper developmental slot. Getting a job is part of that, and actually making myself do schoolwork I find boring or demeaning -- writing almost 40,000 words on Eliseo's story last October was a stepping stone on the way to this stuff. Nobody made me do it, and I didn't do it with a group of people to help motivate me. I did it on my own, and I can do it again. Realizing that made me think that those people who say it's better if you make it yourself... they're right. It doesn't taste better. People who think that literally are deluded. But it does feel better."

Lune is quiet for a long time, staring out the window in the way I know means 'leave me alone for a minute, I gotta sort this all out'. I fiddle with a book I want to read but know I can't start until I finish the other ones on my plate. Finally, she looks back at me, but she doesn't say anything. She just smiles.

"What?" I ask, laughing. "What's that look supposed to mean?"

"It means that you got it, sunshine. You got it. You were talking about this worry that you were too young -- not mature enough, not enough life experience, not enough writing practice -- but someone who has the wherewithal to realize something like that is quite mature enough to write the novel that they dream about."

"It is, isn't it," I say with vague wonder. "It's almost always one of the last thoughts on my mind before I fall asleep. Whenever I want to draw but can't think of anything, I usually scribble down a woman who ends up looking like Taeh or Ryonyhana. Most of the cool story ideas that appear get tossed into the Ayee setting before anything else, and a lot of the time, they float."

"They say everyone has a novel in them somewhere," Lune says. "Maybe even the writers who have fifty novels in them have one novel that will always be their novel, despite how good the other projects may be?"

"Yeah," I say. "That sounds just about perfect."

***

So, Burnt In Stone. How you doin'?

(Post forthcoming about my decision process, how and why I chose this one and not one of the other four, and why I came to a decision far quicker than I expected.)