An Cat Dubh



I am doing pretty okay, considering and am now trying to decide if my mouth has mutinied.  I had a discussion about my sister about jaw clenching and how I’d been feeling like I’d been doing it lately but was relaxing and it was going away.  Now the whole thing feels sore and there’s a big discomfort and pressure when I move my mouth a certain way and I feel panicked and stressed DEFCON 11.   It was demonstrably fine all day and now, oh my gosh, broken.

I have also freaked out once today that my tongue was broken so…I am kind of taking everything with a grain of salt.  Kind of.

This is, if we’re paying attention, and I am so trying to now, one of the hard places where I in the past have just thrown up my hands when facing its challenges. In this case, it’s a health thing and a money thing.  I’m freaked out because something doesn’t feel right, I’m thinking the insurance is all questionable, and I feel insecure about dealing with what I need to do to get that squared so that I can get in if it becomes essential (I’m due for my appointment in a month or so) (I think).

But I am going to see what I can do about that.   I am at least going to give them a proper going-over with the toothbrush and letting myself relax where I can.

Tonight, I’ve actually gotten some cleaning done.  Got my desk cleared off and cleaned up.  This has been a task I needed to do, but also, it’s me wanting to not think about our dear sweet Madi (I think of it as spelled Maddie, but I have long since been overruled on this point and she was not, in the final analysis, my cat.)   We had to put her to sleep today.  My sister nursed that poor thing in the last few months of her life when a throat tumor at 16 overwhelmed the little thing.  She was small, even on kitty cat terms, having been feral and trapped in a trailer in Oklahoma before turning up in a cat rescue where our friend worked.  We were visiting her and, if I recall, going to A-Kon in Dallas for my sister and her friend to appreciate anime and for me to go any new place I hadn’t been before.  On the way back, we or…perhaps, I, was not planning on having any unexpected travelling companions.  My sister decided to bring home this black cat who had been at the cat rescue for two years.  I thought there had to be something wrong with her if nobody wanted her and wasn’t clear on why we should be the people to change that.  I remember being faintly testy about the whole arrangement, while my sister was totally clear.

But still, there she was, in the back in a cat carrier, crying in a desperate, mechanical music box voice as we drove under a billowing storm somewhere around Limon.  I was studying Gaelic at the time.  Half-studying, a dilettante, really.  As a means of distraction against the idea that we might all be blown to bits in some unforeseen tornado, we were tossing around names for this displeased creature.  I said madra was Irish for cat so we could call her that and shorten it to Maddie.  Turns out, with the sort of check that Google would have taken care of were we getting her today, that madra means dog.  And cat’s just cat, pronounced with a lovely Irish inflection.

But things stuck.  The cat stuck.  And she became a loyal, pleasant, jealous, good little house cat.  She didn’t want anything, but to be loved and so she was.  Until we had to say goodbye.

So today had that rough bit in it.  But we knew it had to happen, and so, here we are.  I feel the energy gone in the house, the change.  There’s just the one cat, my Lilybean, remaining.  I feel there was a gift in the compassion and love she engendered in us, and now in the psychic space that has been stretched wider as she’s gone.

More to say, but we’ll find a way to say it later.


In the Lacrimatory


Broke AF.  As Fucking Fuck.

That is not a good feeling.  I’ve been cash-poor, I’ve been running low for months, but after the whole car fiasco, I’ve come to realize that life right now has tapped me out.  I thought that I’d have a hundred to spare, but trying to withdraw 20, apparently, no bueno.  So, I, freaked and ravenous, took five bucks and went to McDonald’s.   And the next half paycheck, one hopes, will arrive on Wednesday.

And right now, I’m listening to MST3K and chatting and what I want to do is keen in the darkness and cry about this.  I think it would make me feel so good, so relieved, so much less a pot at boil that keeps being pulled off the heat just before the water spills over the edge.

There’s no reason for me to be working 6 days a week and have NO money save for the coins I’m already planning to dig out of my bag, the coins I’ve already been

I thought for half a second about offering Tarot readings or…something, I don’t know what (not that, I hardly doubt there would be any takers even if I were) just to get some cash in.  But I’m not talented enough to do that – I wouldn’t just idly sell an experience without preparation.  Like A LOT more than I can get right now.

And that’s the thing.  I can get through five days of this.  I can get food at my parents, eat much less, figure out how to push off that last credit card payment so it doesn’t auto-withdraw.  But I’m not making enough to just come back up to par once those checks come in. I am just…exhausted and irritated and pissed and yet, I’m also nothing.

I’m just numb to it.

I can’t buy anything.  I need to get gas.  How am I going to get gas?  That’s a question.  I don’t know what to do, y’all, I honestly do not know what to do.   There is no secret storehouse of funds to tap.  I have no more savings.  I am just here.  Blinking.  Breathing. I don’t know if I’m marinating in this tunnel where I’m not seeing the forest for the trees.  Should I be leaving the combination of jobs that put me in this position?  Should I be demanding something, asking for a loan, asking for my check early when I know that’s not possible? Nothing I could do today, even if it were quitting all my jobs and starting some place new could do anything to correct the issue at hand.

I can’t go see the therapist.  I can’t talk to all that many people about it.   I can just complain here.  I need to complain regardless of whether or not you need to hear it.

But I don’t…feel like crying.  I feel like it, but I don’t feel like it’s possible.  It’s too abrupt.  It’s too much.  Sooner or later, though, a gullywasher is coming, I know it.

And I’ll be damned if I’ll be found there


Every Laura Marling lyric sounds like it’s about Brexit.  She probably didn’t have that in mind when she wrote the songs.  I don’t know why it feels like such a punch to the gut. Too much Anglophilia. I find it actually deeply…bothersome.  Angering?  Maybe?  I suppose the financial impact will have its own sway on the matter.  I have things to say, but I’ve bleated them out on Twitter.  Enough of my opinions on that, none of which will shift the world any further than it’s shifted itself.

Between this and all the other delights that 2016 thus far has had to offer (my grandpa, whatever’s going on with my mom’s health, the fact that we even are considering Donald Trump for anything but a late-night infomercial shill), I’m feeling a bit panicky and high-strung after a day of being way, way, way too chill about everything.  Numb and distracted and yes yes yes to everything just to make it go away.   And then feeling guilt about that.  I keep having flashbacks to the old job, possibly because I’m now working within walking distance of old job and continually have conversations relating to old job.  I was always freaking out like this, always exhausted and running and upset.  I left that because of this.  I wanted, even if it meant not having the same amount of pay, to just feel steady and calm and have order.  The absence of stress was worth this to me.  Now, with far less pay and triple the stress, seems as though this is a bad way to go through life, I must tell you. We’re swinging on a very long rope.   The power went out at precisely 4:58p.m.  There are signs everywhere, for everything.  For right now, however, I am taking my four day weekend of working at the retail job where I am blobby and awkward but negligible rather than the job where I am essential and negligible all at once.

I wrote exceptionally well yesterday.  Words came slipping and a’sliding out of me with ease.  It’s easy to do, I find, when you’re writing to someone, for someone, when you have their attention to keep and not just the pathless noodling of one’s own thought to try and follow along.  It was nice.  Less nice to not have the applause at the end of all that, to have to be very patient and assume nothing and wait to hear on its reception.  I have no say in so many things, so I have to just enjoy the work. This way it can’t be for naught because I’m at least getting my words written and stretching different writerly muscles while I do it.  Let the giddy things be giddy and not worry about the rest.

I don’t know where else to drag myself today.  I’ve put on Grace Under Fire, thinking that there can’t be too much there to raise the ol’ blood pressure.

We can look ahead.  We can look ahead.  But we don’t have to look.

Heritage Handle


Good ol’ black tar loneliness.  Wrap your everlovin’ arms around me.

Weird how it ebbs and flows.  Weird how you don’t learn any lessons, you just watch it pool around your ankles and then, just as suddenly, draw back towards other shores.  You go all watery, agog, tremulous and keen.  And forget as though you suffered such pain you couldn’t recall anything but peace.


The computer I was delicately caring for in its time of great frailty is still working, however, my sister who flips off lights when I am using them, decided to close my laptop.  This put a big massive, unbearable crack right through the side of it.  It’s still charging, but I can’t open it wide enough.

The group.  The man of the group who had a sort of Man of La Mancha vibe for a moment.  A Mr. Rochester-lite is not the man of my octopus hearts and tri-chambered dreams.   He’s old, for one.  I have nothing against old.  Old is preferred, in fact. But I feel as though old means that my frittered advances are extra frittered away.   There’s always a chance I could win him over with my excellent and prodigious wit.  But he lives very far away to begin with and is focusing on self-care and not bemoaning the status quo in the little group.  And with his absent participation, all I have left are a pair of kind-hearts that I would be abusing by demanding attention and refusing to offer affection, as Mr. Mumford once wailed against.  I don’t want to be the sort of girl who flutters in and chatters away in someone’s ear, flirting and cooing and knowing outright that I don’t mean any of it.  Spending hours chatting back and forth with someone in a singles group when the charge I feel is getting to be heard, rather than hearing. That’s cruel, ultimately, and I don’t find much or really any pleasure in receiving one-sided romantic energy.  I know I could fake it.   Effortlessly, almost.  But I don’t want to have to just to keep someone from posting about their own aloneness on FB, where we all are drug along with it.  I refuse to accept the responsibility of making others feel good just because I am standing there.

I’m tired, I have my own shit going on.   If that hasn’t been made abundantly clear.


I followed the advice and worked as hard as I could on what I could today and let it go.  Then, I drove the straightforwardish (far more straightforward for me) way to writing group.  There were just three of us, but it was good.  The social aspects are good even if I don’t necessarily get the sort of feedback that would help me.  I’ve said that before.  It’s just enough to kick the can forward two weeks and be human and out in public when I’m not wearing the service person mask.

I had music that carried me through and I woke up after a beautiful dream of driving through Seattle.  Driving or riding or flying over their wacky interstates, trees everywhere, light absorbing through my skin.




It’s springtime.  There’s going to be pictures of flowers, I’m afraid.

As ever, I am running out of time.

1545 – word counts count!

Okay.  So that was challenging, but not impossible.  Tomorrow we work at the store.  I am going to try and wake up early enough to be cute.  I am starting the caring about what I eat.  I am not going to roll my eyes.  I have been amusing myself with revolutionaries and bohemians with open dressing room doors and high society rakes and regular wine-swilling criminal riffraff.

I am enduring this.  I am practicing my GRE vocabulary, obsessing over Kyla La Grange’s Hummingbird song, sipping and drinking and debating the euphony or diseuphony (is that a word?…no, the red squiggles tell me it is not…the dissonance of words.

So.  Yes.