The Fool You’re Landed With


A brief intermission in my life of constant and habitual noodling.

Ack, more noodling!


Okay. I did the dangerous life task of informing my boss that I now have two bosses.  I now, officially, have two bosses.  Or maybe three.  Or maybe every last solitary soul on earth has a claim on my time.   Or not.

I need this.  I need to be out there.  I have drawn back hard and fast into…

More noodling!

Constant distractions!

More distractions.

Can I even stay on this page long enough to write a single sentence?  Already, I’m thinking…

Japanese commercials.  Why am I…


Okay.  Water.  Silence.  Focus.

I think I am so out of focus because life feels jarred, shaken, in utter tumult right now.

I feel like the little whisper, the little cilia, the little breeze that I heard and felt is quieter and more distant now.  It’s hard to know if it’s still there or if my imagination is half the culprit.  This was an impulse that things were lucky and good and hopeful.  This was a hey, baby, sit in this space and smile pretty because someone’s looking your way that you’ll like to smile at kind of whisper.  A little brushing touch of hey, darling, you’re free and winged and the world looks so green it’s like a pool table from way up here, above the madding clouds.   The kind of breeze that says, oooh, shiver, let’s turn off all this heat and just breathe it all out.

I found, via the random button, reading a post from three years ago when the transition happened the first time.  The big transition that seems so easy and silly.  It wasn’t easy at the time.  What I want to say is that’s just a reflection of how comfortable we become over time with our own incapacities, but that’s a really uncharitable opinion.  Instead, I see, there’s a lesson I am meant to learn because this is a stripe of shit that comes up over and over again for me.

It’s about boundaries.

I had a vision today.  Just a brief one, no worries, just a visualization unbidden sort of vision.  Where there was a wall in front of me and beyond that, if I could look down on it all, there was a person I’m concerned raging and there’s these swirls of energy, red and blue and they shimmer and splattery in a real high-res photoshop sort of way, but none of them get through that wall.  On my side, there’s just me and quiet and breath.

There was stress and I whipped it around me and beat myself up with it.   The managerial aspects of my position just do not jibe with me as a human being, not in the situation we’re in now.  I just feel a lot of NO NO NO and it’s turning off any and all rational thought.

There’s more to say, but not in twelve or sixteen words so instead, I will just sign off and do my best to live through tomorrow.

Not So Very Charming


I have to write this lady back.

I have to write.  I can’t…I’m doing the thing, I’m doing the thing!

I am entirely without focus and I am not really sure how to get it back.  But I need to get it back.  So frustrated, so happy, full of cake, random Prison Break Episodes, listening to my friends and very strange Hamilton/Room remixes.  It’s hard to listen to our fandom pontifications and somehow turn my brain on to think about my life and my reality and I don’t even know how to…I don’t even want to be thinking about any of those things anyway.

I need to float in between.


-I am wildly grateful for these friends, all their different personalities, the brightness and

-Ginger ale.
-Whatever is going to happen in Seattle.
-Werewithal, which I am going to derive somehow to get
-Fangirl focus groups.
-Gold medal dicks and really dumb movies possibly including Underworld.
-Shooting Fish
-Our tragified thoughts about Lucifer and everything.

I have fifteen minutes left and I care, I care relentlessly about this so I aam going to find a way to produce the word count.  I am going to find a way to surmount.  Why am I rhyming?

This thing, whatever it ends up being, is not going to be great.  But we’ll share it.  We will be victorious.    Even if we go past the midnight deadline, we’ll make this work.


Ah, well, that was a nice picture.  I should have had a much nice post to match it up.  Instead, I am bleary-eyed, with a mouth straining to moisten itself, legs stretched out, no longer relaxed as I try to get this done.  I don’t know where to go with myself seems to be the theme both of the night (now the earliest of mornings) and of myself.

I don’t know where to go with myself or what, pray tell, that we will do when we get there.  I just became we.  No reason for that.  Just tired.  Just lazy tired.  I am peaceable towards my earlier angsty feelings of the day.  Chocolate cake in my stomach helped with that.  A little bit of a few other things helped with that.  Also, our conversation turned ever so slightly towards cheese.  And this helped not because it got me distracted enough that I stopped fixating on my employment plights such as they are, but instead, it reminded me of new possibilities and good ol’ times at the market conventions.  Those people who made work so joyful.

I don’t want to run a market and certainly nobody’s hopping up and down asking me to. But it does expand my sort of achingly small and depressing pool of potential jobs to something a bit wider.  There are options for things to do that I haven’t even thought of and its petrifying to think of change, but it could be a really great change that I could genuinely be a part of and be proud of.

I don’t know.  But if I gotta beat feet, I want to know where I’m running.

The Teratist


Maybe I just need to break the seal by tip-tap-typing away on this page.   Stretch the muscles.  Remind myself I can do by doing.  I’ve had my story open, I’ve been reading Rilke,  I’ve been reading old stories that might have ripe fruit to harvest, I’ve got the time, I’m distracted by how much unfettered time I have.  Maybe, baby.   It’s Friday and I feel…numb and weird, not relieved, not upset.  Just a bit numb and weird.

Maybe I just need the wine I’m going to drink in a bit.  I was going to finish this first, but now we’ve gotten to talking and I am trying to research Edwardian meals and not get caught up in the biography of Rudyard Kipling, who, incidentally, aside from that goddamned racism, was also a Freemason and traveled to Egypt in 1913.  Everything important happened in 1913.  My grandmother was born in 1913.  Ah.

Today, I ran an errand back to the old stomping grounds.  It was unexpected, middle of the day, hurry to drop this grant off sort of situation and I did it despite the usual fear.  The usual Panic of life not coming at me in a precisely measured IV drip.  Still, as you can no doubt tell, I was able to manage it.  It was controlled today.  I hadn’t eaten enough.  I felt concerned, but not enough to find reason to say that I couldn’t do what was asked of me.  That’s the thing.  Practice is something I ask of myself and I can always turn myself down but I can NEVER turn someone else down.  Unless you’re some kid’s mom who wants to date me or some dude who wants to date me and is really not clued in to who I am at all and is trying to borrow THE book from me.

No.  I need that thing.  I sleep with it now.

Yeah, I’ll turn you down.

What else, my friends, my countrymen and women? The actual writing seems a mile away along with the cake and wine and I need a drink before the cotton mouth overtakes me, but I am committed to finish this before anything else happens.

We survived the snow.  I got on the bike for half an hour which felt entirely like nothing. I have eaten yesterday’s reuben.  I have offended my mother somehow by eating a bagel (mostly because of our terrible secret that the parents can’t know about not being able to go fill our carts at the real grocery store so we turn up like locusts and beggars at their door).

I am doing certain things well enough.  I am feeling okay.  Still with the ennui and loneliness.  I miss my therapist.  I am going to get the writing going because this post today feels like garbage.  Sorry, world, the literary prowess will be on display in the morrow.  Today, Rilke, we write because we must, not because we can.

There were two larks that followed me today and for a moment, it was as if I saw the mark.

A Solid Conclusion

pexels-photo (2)Weird anxiety.  Weird, baseless anxiety from this new schedule, this new, weird life, my parents calling me from Florida, happy and having salmon, my room is more clean than it needs to be cleaned.  I look around and don’t feel the pull of procrastination and other, disappointing uses of delaying tactics.

I just need to write and I feel like I want to jump out of my skin.  Is it the caffeine in that iced tea I drank this afternoon – or all the exercise – or something else?

Regardless.  GIRL.  You gotta take a chill pill.

So this scene that I can’t write because I am still, another hour later, all tension and distraction because this is my moment…it’s on my mind, but I gotta excavate it somehow.  This is my qualified writing time and I’m not knuckling down – I’m watching Comedians Getting Cars and worrying about this nothingness.  It’s not nothingness, it’s legitimate stuff, but it’s not worth ratcheting myself up to 11 over.

A bitch gotta get shit done.

OR as I typed it: A bitch goddaget shit done.


The scene starts with Amelia exiting onto the street with Jean in tow.   She’s clutching at her arm and at this bizarre hieroglyphic that has been inked there against her knowledge.   She goes back to the event in her mind, evaluating the blood and the burn it left on her skin, again watching the Professor disappear before her eyes inexplicably.  This time, however,  she pays attention to her cohorts, and notices Shelburne in the corner and thinks he might be of some assistance into figuring this all out.  He has some basic knowledge of hieroglyphics and Egyptology – he’s a scholar and was closer than any of the others, herself included, with Willoughby and the Professor.  She also remembers their final conversation where he seemed deeply disturbed by the loss of his friend and the forces that somehow the Professor had unleashed.   What was he tasked with tracking down before the murder, had he found any unexpected marks on his person…she needed to know, but there was also the matter of following up with Carlisle.  His ship that M. Atanasova said he was aiming to book passage on –  the Castellano – had a regular route to the Continent and sailed around Portugal and stopped in Venice before returning to London. She knew the harbor schedule as readily as she knew the alphabet.  If he was sailing out on that ship, there were two days remaining before it embarked again.   If he had already settled with his lover, he still had two days to hunt through the city.  She knew she both needed to talk to Carlisle and needed to stay as far away from him as possible.  In her mind she begins to formulate a failsafe plan if he threatens her or the kaleidoscope.


She realizes that Jean is in danger by serving her now that he knows what she looks like and that there is too much work to be done in the shadows over the next two days to bother worrying about propriety.  From here, she essentially attempts to Jean who looks completely sick over it, but then she sees the markings on her arm and makes a scene in the street…


Okay, that actually helped.  I can do this.  Part of this.  Maybe.  Bath and then like a spot of work tomorrow afternoon.  I don’t have to be at work until noon, this is not goddamn right, but we’re doing it.







lion-statue-zoo-37609This is still doable.

I think I am going to puke, but I can’t be sure.

  • Bullets.  Bullets make everything better.  Just look at that Bob Schneider song.
  • Don’t puke.  Just don’t puke.
  • Language.  Think about it!
  • I need to get on the bike.  I am fine.  It’s only 9.  I have the dentist tomorrow.  I just want to pass out.
  • I read this really interesting article in Jezebel today about the unsung skill of adaptation in fictional characters and I wish I had even one iota of ability to go back and look at it again.  But I don’t.
  • My head is gonna burst open and fill this room with bees.
  • Bees.  Not beeeezzzzzus
  • My father and my half-sister and nephew went to see my grandfather in Minnesota.
  • I feel like if I could just decide to be better it is possible.
  • I learned about kaleidoscopes and pigments and the history of Mayfair in England.
  • I might be writing the 1910’s version of National Treasure.
  • I have eaten enough if I eat this cake.  I am trying to will myself to not feel so crappy so I can eat it and make my legs move for ten minutes on the bike.
  • There’s been a headache looming that now is here.  I think it might have come from only eating this little cup of chili that I had to heat three times in various vessels.   Sooner or later, I will get the chance to buy some groceries.  A few stressful financial considerations at the moment are playing into not doing that, but I want this to work.  So I didn’t go run and get more food for lunch, but ate the chili, tabulated the total, and had a perfectly filling dinner.  I was good. Or good enough once I get on this bike.
  • Sometimes, in between all the moments when I am not thinking anything beyond the task at hand, and in between those filler moments of disbelief and distrust, I have his sense, of, okay…this is the work, this is the groove, this is the Nile, lay still and let it move through you.
  • A skirt that was too tight to wear was just loose enough to wear imperfectly today.  It’s this brown corduroy thing with buttons up it that never sit neatly aligned in front and I don’t love it, or love the oddly brown sparkled tights or the thirdly brown-shaded boots I had on underneath, but there is a bit of a oh, hoh, moment.  Not being brave about trying anything else for a while though.
  • Hoping that Dear Sugar can distract me from my physical crappitude.
  • She says: “In every virtue is a vice, and in every vice is a virtue.”
  • P.S., it is helping.
  • Maybe I am getting a bit of a second wind. Maybe.  I don’t feel so deadly.  No Greek Goddesses desperate to crack my skull open for some air.
  • It doesn’t have to be a perfect wind, not a gust.  Just a little puff, puff, puff, from one letter to the next.

Stella Maris


So I found the functionality that publicizes these posts on my Twitter account and for the time being, unless something dreadful comes of it, I’m going to use it.  I don’t think I mind if my dear friends see these posts or the occasional random person who can snatch it as it crosses their feed – it’s really no different than here.

Obviously, people who arrive this way will not have the benefit that you and I have, of knowing how long and how stupid the hard road of daily blogging has been.  They will not know how I am toying with changing the paradigm, but how fretful I am that it will fuck my brain up and I will stop writing altogether.  Now, really, how could I stop writing altogether?  Way too many leashes pulling me towards it in this life even if I snip one, I would still be turning up.  I don’t know.  I just know when a thing feels stale, it loses its ability to challenge.  That whole obnoxiously phrased business of leaning in becomes required.

And tonight, even though I know better, is reserved for celebration.  The past nine months have been hard.  The next nine look no easier.  Especially when the agenda is disrupting my status quo and trying for a fresh portion of my allotment of humanity.  Looking forward at that process, well, fun is in short supply.  But this girl is on vacation.

I have needed this for a long while and now, finally, despite all my misgivings about completing tasks and having things shipshape, it’s here.   No going back to work until January 4th.  I put together a box of work I intended to take home, but I have enough to do here without trying to entangle myself in thinking about that right now.  I wouldn’t work on it at all, I have to say, and it’s meant for the office.  Not for this little room where a girl sits around and thinks about elves and long eyelashes and how much straw does it take for Rumplestiltskin to make a bar of gold?

I need to detach my twitchy eye, my hot foot, my bad plans, my good plans and every other little list I have rolling behind me and just start flapping and skipping with the arms and legs I have.  I know what I mean.  Sleep and sugar boil and bend it, but I know where I am going with this.

Tomorrow is Christmas Eve.  I still have some shopping and combining and gathering up to do.  We’ll have Miss Fisher, we’ll have drinks (I hope, I may have to buy drinks), we’ll have Oliver, we’ll have presents and sleeping in and coffee and company and wrapping presents (and probably, unfortunately, some last minute buying of a present or two.) I don’t feel beholden to the power of the day because I have this whole other thing going on, at least, not right now.  Right now, all I feel is freedom.

Also. FYI: Star Wars name: BRAKR MCWHE


Sitting Room


I worry.  I strain.  I struggle.  And it all comes out in the wash.

There isn’t a little bubble to give me a way into today.  No Dear Sugar, no further pages into Mindy Kaling’s book –  which I like for several reasons including its publication makes me feel as though the possibility for something I write to be enshrined in paper and glue is not nil – no immediate profundity popping off the top of my cerebellum.

I went out to dinner with my sister and her boyfriend.  We had pizza at Pizzeria Locale which I am starting to like as much as its own sister company, Chipotle.  Which is to say just verging on an inappropriate amount of liking.

There was a real woman carrying around a real newborn baby while I maneuvered my oversized red coat that probably needs a wash.  Not unlike the rest of me.  She seemed to have the Platonic ideal of the new mother’s glow and had the baby over her shoulder.  The baby for his or her part, blinked sleepily and nuzzled up against its mother’s neck, just happily observing the lights and thinking its little baby thoughts.  It was a little like, but mostly unlike, my dream.  A high school crush and his high school girlfriend are married and just had a baby.  I don’t…

I felt rather awkward and small and stupid.  I felt, as I rushed to eat my pizza because you don’t want to be a third wheel for any longer than the span of one meal, like a hot mess.  I felt a flush of deep shame.  No makeup.  Oil-matted hair.  Clothes ill-fitting, not in the mood for a great chat, though I tried to be attentive.  I felt like I didn’t deserve to be there.  I knew and know that this is not unrelated to my hormones or the fact that I ate some doughnut holes for lunch, but wow, I wanted to jump out of my skin.

It’s loneliness, it’s the fact that I had to wait in my car by myself in our lot where yesterday there was a carjacking that lead to an attempted murder, it’s him supporting her after she did something great like passing a test for a certification.  It’s Driving.  It’s ten or twenty things that need to be done by the end of the year and there being no time to go back and unwind all the whacky time-saving bullshit that was done too long ago to recall.  It’s wanting a day off to think.

So that was the day.  But at the end of it, I got home.  I got my head back on straight and now, it is time for a bath to fix one of these worries right up.  I have to be my own character now if I was my own character yesterday and want to be my own character tomorrow.

I wanted eloquence, but I just got the rubber to meet the road.  I just got going.

Hear the wind?