I feel a definite need to do a bit of shopping. Christmas is coming up (obviously) and this year, I have *even more* buying to do than normal. Not only will I be buying for the kids and my partner (a new partner, I'm sure we're all aware) but also, I have new family-and-friends-in-law to buy for (so to speak).
Oh my heavens, oh my stars. What shall I do?
I know. I'll do exactly what my new partner does, I'll think really hard and worry for ages and finally come up with something everyone likes, and then, since I know they like it, I'll just run with that for years and years to come :D Yay. That'll work out just fine, won't it? And if I get it wrong this year, well, it's only the first year I've known some of these people. I'll do better next time 'round.
But I've at least got to make the effort, yes? Yes. And so that's where I'm going now, off to peruse the internet in a potentially vain effort to find something suitable for literally EVERYONE I know. Dammit. Why must I care so much? I dunno, but I do, and therefore, I'm off to the one place that quite literally has a little of everything on offer.
Ebay, here I come.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Sunday, 11 October 2009
Moving In
I am. Well, I'm not moving anywhere, but it's sorta the right idea. Well, I mean, my boyfriend is coming to live with us. He's the one moving in. With me. With my kids.
I'm actually not nervous at all, about the whole living-with-a-man-again thing. I had about a week of nerves, the nasty kind, the kind that make you pick fights and stir shit and spread blame, and now, I am so relaxed it's unbelievable. Cool as the proverbial cucumber, and serious as a coronary thrombosis, I am so sure about this, I'm downright smug.
He's lovely. Oh, God, he's so lovely. Decent. Thoughtful. Intelligent. Sweet. Fun to talk to, stay in with, go out with. I don't wanna talk about sex (lies, you filth, you *always* wanna talk about sex) but the very thought of him gets me going. He's cute, cute, cute, and very much to my personal, admittedly slightly odd taste. I almost can't believe he's going to come live, with me, by choice. Who would?? I'm nuts... and so is he, a little bit, for wanting me. I mean, not for 'wanting' me--many do--but for wanting me for keeps.
Are you sure, my love? Are you really, truly sure?
That's the only thing that makes me nervous, now.
What if he changes his mind? I'd live, I suppose, if he did; but oh. Figuratively speaking, I think my heart would implode.
I'm actually not nervous at all, about the whole living-with-a-man-again thing. I had about a week of nerves, the nasty kind, the kind that make you pick fights and stir shit and spread blame, and now, I am so relaxed it's unbelievable. Cool as the proverbial cucumber, and serious as a coronary thrombosis, I am so sure about this, I'm downright smug.
He's lovely. Oh, God, he's so lovely. Decent. Thoughtful. Intelligent. Sweet. Fun to talk to, stay in with, go out with. I don't wanna talk about sex (lies, you filth, you *always* wanna talk about sex) but the very thought of him gets me going. He's cute, cute, cute, and very much to my personal, admittedly slightly odd taste. I almost can't believe he's going to come live, with me, by choice. Who would?? I'm nuts... and so is he, a little bit, for wanting me. I mean, not for 'wanting' me--many do--but for wanting me for keeps.
Are you sure, my love? Are you really, truly sure?
That's the only thing that makes me nervous, now.
What if he changes his mind? I'd live, I suppose, if he did; but oh. Figuratively speaking, I think my heart would implode.
Thursday, 8 October 2009
Unicorns
The first story I ever had 'published'--I use the term so loosely it's about to fall off, what I mean is, I once got a story put into an elementary school yearly publication--was called Unicorn Valley. I was 8 when I wrote it, and it was surprisingly good, and I've often thought about revisiting the creatures, either to extend the original tale, or to write a sequel (really, I suspect I want to write fairytale fantasy stories, even though I'm well aware the market is flooded and I've got virtually no chance of cracking it for another 30 years or more).
At the minute, I'm playing a game on Facebook... I mean, it's not really a game, you know, not like a *gamer* would play... and it involves the potential breeding of unicorns. (Every single time I admit I play such a game on FB, I die a little inside. I've actually used that phrase more than once.) My personal shame aside, the thing about 'breeding' 'unicorns' is, it reminds you why you liked mythological creatures in the first place:
They're magical. They're mystical. They're made-up. And because they are, you can make up any facts you like about them, and no one can contradict you.
I need to get back to writing; and I need to write in a universe/with characters, that I have free rein to alter and amend as I choose. In spite of wanting to write other things--like science fiction, like things that involve some basic understanding of physics--I really need to concentrate on stuff that I either know, or can imagine, without restraint.
Focus, woman. Focus, and get something done. Daywalker or not, you *might* not live forever.
At the minute, I'm playing a game on Facebook... I mean, it's not really a game, you know, not like a *gamer* would play... and it involves the potential breeding of unicorns. (Every single time I admit I play such a game on FB, I die a little inside. I've actually used that phrase more than once.) My personal shame aside, the thing about 'breeding' 'unicorns' is, it reminds you why you liked mythological creatures in the first place:
They're magical. They're mystical. They're made-up. And because they are, you can make up any facts you like about them, and no one can contradict you.
I need to get back to writing; and I need to write in a universe/with characters, that I have free rein to alter and amend as I choose. In spite of wanting to write other things--like science fiction, like things that involve some basic understanding of physics--I really need to concentrate on stuff that I either know, or can imagine, without restraint.
Focus, woman. Focus, and get something done. Daywalker or not, you *might* not live forever.
Wednesday, 7 October 2009
Sing A Song of Sorrow
Sing a song of sorrow, sing a song of woe/My pie has no blackbirds, all I eat is crow/I'm always saying sorry, I'm always in the wrong/Apologise so often that I can't complete this song!
Well. Well. Well.
I don't know what it is about this time of year, but it always makes me want to extract, squeeze, wring, as much productivity from myself as possible. Adding blog entries, writing in my kids' journals, finishing short stories/poems, glancing at half-written manuscripts and tenatively fleshing them out a bit; and everyone's gonna get a mixed CD for Christmas, *IF* I can stop going overboard with the listening and critiquing of the music.
If. This is the problem, you see. IF can stop being obsessive, and spending all my time madly scrabbling to finish millions of projects. The 'if' is rather the point--I can't stop. I can't slow down.
And I want *everyone* to come along with me, on this mad ride of chaotic productivity and sleep-deprivation-based emotional highs and lows. I figure that if I can function on 30 hours of sleep a week, so can all my friends and family members, and I don't see why they won't just come out and play (at 4 in the morning, as often as not).
If I stop and think about it, I come to this unwelcome conclusion; although I am functioning on 30 hours of sleep per week, 'functioning' is not really enough. I'm certainly not firing on all thrusters, this week or last; I can't stay awake long enough to watch a movie (I love movies) my eyes are periodically unfocusing themselves without warning (the only time my slighty lazy eye is noticeable) and I have 3 unfinished blog entries on the go *right* *now*.
It's ridiculous. It's beyond ridiculous, it's ludicrous. It's beyond ludicrous, even; it's actually all gone a bit Marrakesh Bookcase.
I'm tying this up RIGHT NOW. I'm going to have a nap. I'll come back later, when coherence is a concept I can understand and apply to my writing/thinking.
Or maybe I'll just go sing some more groovy Christmas songs!!!
Well. Well. Well.
I don't know what it is about this time of year, but it always makes me want to extract, squeeze, wring, as much productivity from myself as possible. Adding blog entries, writing in my kids' journals, finishing short stories/poems, glancing at half-written manuscripts and tenatively fleshing them out a bit; and everyone's gonna get a mixed CD for Christmas, *IF* I can stop going overboard with the listening and critiquing of the music.
If. This is the problem, you see. IF can stop being obsessive, and spending all my time madly scrabbling to finish millions of projects. The 'if' is rather the point--I can't stop. I can't slow down.
And I want *everyone* to come along with me, on this mad ride of chaotic productivity and sleep-deprivation-based emotional highs and lows. I figure that if I can function on 30 hours of sleep a week, so can all my friends and family members, and I don't see why they won't just come out and play (at 4 in the morning, as often as not).
If I stop and think about it, I come to this unwelcome conclusion; although I am functioning on 30 hours of sleep per week, 'functioning' is not really enough. I'm certainly not firing on all thrusters, this week or last; I can't stay awake long enough to watch a movie (I love movies) my eyes are periodically unfocusing themselves without warning (the only time my slighty lazy eye is noticeable) and I have 3 unfinished blog entries on the go *right* *now*.
It's ridiculous. It's beyond ridiculous, it's ludicrous. It's beyond ludicrous, even; it's actually all gone a bit Marrakesh Bookcase.
I'm tying this up RIGHT NOW. I'm going to have a nap. I'll come back later, when coherence is a concept I can understand and apply to my writing/thinking.
Or maybe I'll just go sing some more groovy Christmas songs!!!
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
What?
I'm sad. Mournful. Melancholy. For no reason; but worse than that, not only do I not have any reason to be sad, I have a reason to be happy, and I'm just not.
I've just had some great news, and I can't even muster a realistic-looking smile. I should be jumping for joy, I should be giggling with glee, I should be exclaiming with excitement, and instead, I just feel a bit... meh.
Do you know what this calls for? Random song day. Today's song for discussion is the song 'Show Me Heaven,' sung by Maria McKee.
It's *awesome*. As ever, I like the music, but in any song, what really grabs me is the lyric. Certain strings of words are particularly excellent: ''Take my hand, don't let me fall/You've such amazing grace;'' if you know anyone like that, you know what that line means, but I think such individuals are exceptionally rare. I'll explain why that's a great line for those of you who haven't been lucky enough to find such a graceful individual for themselves.
Firstly, it *is* a reference to physical grace, to beauty, to being good in and of yourself; and, it alludes to the fact that the singer is speaking to someone, who, by merely taking her hand, can stop her from falling. All the weight of one person, their mass, their momentum, held still and safe, by the reassuring grip of one other person's hand. I think that's a beautiful concept, as if one person can stretch out their arm and grasp another's hand, and with only the firm, warming touch of their palm and fingers, they can prevent the other from plummeting into nothingness. It's mentioned twice in the song, as well; the second verse contains the line, ''I need your hand to steady me.'' Because, of course, just the touch of his hand will be enough to settle her, to steady her nerves, to make her feel like everything's okay.
What a beautiful idea.
Also, obviously, the phrase 'amazing grace' is a play on words--we all know, or at least know of, the gospel song by the same name. The term 'grace,' in that respect, refers not to physical grace of any sort, but to the concept of God's grace, His willingness to take some of His goodness, His perfection, and pass it along to us, so that we might be saved from the destruction we so richly deserve. The line, 'You've such amazing grace,' is a lovely allusion to the other party's heavenly qualities, their 'betterness,' as opposed to the singer, and their ability to bring the singer up, to a higher level of existence, with their mere presence.
The song *is* called 'Show Me Heaven;' it's going to contain, presumably, some suggestion of aspiring to, well, Heaven/a heavenly way of life.
Finally, the last of my favourite lines from the song: ''I've shivers down my spine/And it feels divine.'' Again, that's a great line purely for the play-on-words factor--it feels 'divine,' as in, wow that's nice, do that again, and of course, it's 'divine' as in, related to the divinity of God. It's quite literally a heavenly feeling. A celestial one. When she sings, ''It feels divine... show me Heaven, cover me,' Maria McKee is singing about being in the sexual embrace of God, or, at the very least, someone she views as a god. She is being touched, pardon the cliche, by something like an angel. In that song, sex is a fiery chariot on its way to the Pearly Gates, and the driver is, at the bare minimum, an agent of the Almighty, if not The Man Himself.
As lovesongs go, that one is a ninja. It's like combining God, and sex... and what else does a girl need?
I've just had some great news, and I can't even muster a realistic-looking smile. I should be jumping for joy, I should be giggling with glee, I should be exclaiming with excitement, and instead, I just feel a bit... meh.
Do you know what this calls for? Random song day. Today's song for discussion is the song 'Show Me Heaven,' sung by Maria McKee.
It's *awesome*. As ever, I like the music, but in any song, what really grabs me is the lyric. Certain strings of words are particularly excellent: ''Take my hand, don't let me fall/You've such amazing grace;'' if you know anyone like that, you know what that line means, but I think such individuals are exceptionally rare. I'll explain why that's a great line for those of you who haven't been lucky enough to find such a graceful individual for themselves.
Firstly, it *is* a reference to physical grace, to beauty, to being good in and of yourself; and, it alludes to the fact that the singer is speaking to someone, who, by merely taking her hand, can stop her from falling. All the weight of one person, their mass, their momentum, held still and safe, by the reassuring grip of one other person's hand. I think that's a beautiful concept, as if one person can stretch out their arm and grasp another's hand, and with only the firm, warming touch of their palm and fingers, they can prevent the other from plummeting into nothingness. It's mentioned twice in the song, as well; the second verse contains the line, ''I need your hand to steady me.'' Because, of course, just the touch of his hand will be enough to settle her, to steady her nerves, to make her feel like everything's okay.
What a beautiful idea.
Also, obviously, the phrase 'amazing grace' is a play on words--we all know, or at least know of, the gospel song by the same name. The term 'grace,' in that respect, refers not to physical grace of any sort, but to the concept of God's grace, His willingness to take some of His goodness, His perfection, and pass it along to us, so that we might be saved from the destruction we so richly deserve. The line, 'You've such amazing grace,' is a lovely allusion to the other party's heavenly qualities, their 'betterness,' as opposed to the singer, and their ability to bring the singer up, to a higher level of existence, with their mere presence.
The song *is* called 'Show Me Heaven;' it's going to contain, presumably, some suggestion of aspiring to, well, Heaven/a heavenly way of life.
Finally, the last of my favourite lines from the song: ''I've shivers down my spine/And it feels divine.'' Again, that's a great line purely for the play-on-words factor--it feels 'divine,' as in, wow that's nice, do that again, and of course, it's 'divine' as in, related to the divinity of God. It's quite literally a heavenly feeling. A celestial one. When she sings, ''It feels divine... show me Heaven, cover me,' Maria McKee is singing about being in the sexual embrace of God, or, at the very least, someone she views as a god. She is being touched, pardon the cliche, by something like an angel. In that song, sex is a fiery chariot on its way to the Pearly Gates, and the driver is, at the bare minimum, an agent of the Almighty, if not The Man Himself.
As lovesongs go, that one is a ninja. It's like combining God, and sex... and what else does a girl need?
Sunday, 4 October 2009
My Son
I haven't really written loads about him, up until now; this is largely because he's very small, and I've been getting to know his personality this past year.
Well. He's a year and a bit, now, and he's well worth writing about, not least of all because he's such a 'good' baby. I mean, I hate that phrase--my mother would say, all babies are gifts from God, and I wholeheartedly agree--but I've gotta give my son credit, he's just about the pleasantest baby I've ever met in my life. I don't just mean the physical things (so many of which, he makes so unbelievably simple). It's great that he sleeps (always has! still does!) and that he can amuse himself for a while if I need him to, and that he really only cries if he's very tired or hurt (that is all amazing, a true gift of convenience and cosmic slack-cutting); but even better, he has the loveliest little personality.
He likes everyone. I myself am a firm believer in looking for the good in people, even when you have to search high, low, and in-between for it, but my son... my son doesn't even have to look. He just glances at people, and you can see it on his happy, open little face: he is actively giving them the benefit of the doubt. He is convinced that they will get along splendidly, until they give him a reason to believe otherwise. If my son had the necessary understanding of language, he would absolutely subscribe to the ideology that strangers are just friends you haven't met yet.
He is like a smiling, golden, chubby-cheeked, sunny-haired, sweet-eyed ball of sunshine, and I love him more every day. After my daughter (who is AWESOME, by the way; just rather intense in her awesomeness) my son was *exactly* what was needed. I cannot imagine a better foil for my daughter, or a more perfect way to complete our small circle of familial goodness. In the book of family, my son is the feel-good chapter that ties up the loose ends and leaves you with a warm glow. He is the chord change, from minor to major, that finishes a poignant song on an upbeat note. When the credits are about to roll, my son is the scene that turns the movie into a truly uplifting story and causes you to the leave the cinema smiling.
If you knew my son, you'd be happier for it. My son is like the balm for a wound that never heals. He is a reward, for trusting in God or Fate or just the concept of hope, and taking a path after you've learned that the way is fraught with danger and uncertainty. If my son were a song, he would be Beethoven's 9th (Ode to Joy) and you would rejoice, simply to hear him. I know I do.
He is my Bunnyman, and I love him more with every beat of my heart.
Well. He's a year and a bit, now, and he's well worth writing about, not least of all because he's such a 'good' baby. I mean, I hate that phrase--my mother would say, all babies are gifts from God, and I wholeheartedly agree--but I've gotta give my son credit, he's just about the pleasantest baby I've ever met in my life. I don't just mean the physical things (so many of which, he makes so unbelievably simple). It's great that he sleeps (always has! still does!) and that he can amuse himself for a while if I need him to, and that he really only cries if he's very tired or hurt (that is all amazing, a true gift of convenience and cosmic slack-cutting); but even better, he has the loveliest little personality.
He likes everyone. I myself am a firm believer in looking for the good in people, even when you have to search high, low, and in-between for it, but my son... my son doesn't even have to look. He just glances at people, and you can see it on his happy, open little face: he is actively giving them the benefit of the doubt. He is convinced that they will get along splendidly, until they give him a reason to believe otherwise. If my son had the necessary understanding of language, he would absolutely subscribe to the ideology that strangers are just friends you haven't met yet.
He is like a smiling, golden, chubby-cheeked, sunny-haired, sweet-eyed ball of sunshine, and I love him more every day. After my daughter (who is AWESOME, by the way; just rather intense in her awesomeness) my son was *exactly* what was needed. I cannot imagine a better foil for my daughter, or a more perfect way to complete our small circle of familial goodness. In the book of family, my son is the feel-good chapter that ties up the loose ends and leaves you with a warm glow. He is the chord change, from minor to major, that finishes a poignant song on an upbeat note. When the credits are about to roll, my son is the scene that turns the movie into a truly uplifting story and causes you to the leave the cinema smiling.
If you knew my son, you'd be happier for it. My son is like the balm for a wound that never heals. He is a reward, for trusting in God or Fate or just the concept of hope, and taking a path after you've learned that the way is fraught with danger and uncertainty. If my son were a song, he would be Beethoven's 9th (Ode to Joy) and you would rejoice, simply to hear him. I know I do.
He is my Bunnyman, and I love him more with every beat of my heart.
Monday, 28 September 2009
Introverted Extrovert
That sounds like a contradiction in terms, really, doesn't it? It's not. I know someone who absolutely suits that description right down to the ground... As a matter of fact, I know *2* people, who can talk for hours, without revealing any personal information about themselves at all; but I'm only talking about one of them today.
His name is... well, Duncan, for the purposes of this blog. Everyone who reads this knows what his name really is, but fuck it. I said everyone's having a fake name, and they are, and if he doesn't like his, he can sit on a tack. Can't you, Duncan? So ner.
Duncan, as we are calling him, can talk for hours on virtually any subject you suggest--my personal favourites are the mathematical properties of circles/triangles, powers of two, and how beautiful and efficient his code is/what a code-breaking ninja he is--but ask him for some personal details about his childhood, or his family, or how he feels about himself, and boy howdy, does he clam up; then, of course, he goes back to interesting, factual, meaningless chatter. He'd even give my sister, Jessica-I-can-talk-for-hours-about-anything-except-what's-really-on-my-mind-Rabbit, a serious run for her money. Occasionally, I refer to him as 'the Waffle,' both due to his propensity for doing just that (blah blah blah) and also, because it's the phonetic pronunciation of the acronym my ex occasionally applies to him (WFL--Wallet From Leeds).
He's lovely. He's absolutely lovely. But he has, I think, no real idea how to express the darker aspects of his personality, without someone to help him explore those sides of himself. No word of a jest, I am the perfect person to help anyone discover what's really floating around, underneath the surface of themselves. I have a million and one personal, probing, largely inappropriate questions, and no shame or fear in asking them. I sometimes (not always, not nearly, but sometimes) see the questions that need to be asked, and even if I *don't* know the right questions, I am unafraid of the answers.
My Duncan needs to be asked questions, sometimes; and they're not even that hard to work out. I've never met a man who's more inclined to wear his emotions (if not his thoughts) on his sleeve/in his voice/across his face. I don't see how more people haven't devoted days/weeks/months of their lives, to asking him about all the things he *doesn't* say. But it doesn't matter, anymore. Now, he has me, and I'll never quit stalking, and studying, and collating, and cataloguing the Data of Duncan.
I will learn him. I will know him. He can't waffle enough, to keep me from reaching what's underneath all his nonsensical, playful, charming, adorable bullshit.
His name is... well, Duncan, for the purposes of this blog. Everyone who reads this knows what his name really is, but fuck it. I said everyone's having a fake name, and they are, and if he doesn't like his, he can sit on a tack. Can't you, Duncan? So ner.
Duncan, as we are calling him, can talk for hours on virtually any subject you suggest--my personal favourites are the mathematical properties of circles/triangles, powers of two, and how beautiful and efficient his code is/what a code-breaking ninja he is--but ask him for some personal details about his childhood, or his family, or how he feels about himself, and boy howdy, does he clam up; then, of course, he goes back to interesting, factual, meaningless chatter. He'd even give my sister, Jessica-I-can-talk-for-hours-about-anything-except-what's-really-on-my-mind-Rabbit, a serious run for her money. Occasionally, I refer to him as 'the Waffle,' both due to his propensity for doing just that (blah blah blah) and also, because it's the phonetic pronunciation of the acronym my ex occasionally applies to him (WFL--Wallet From Leeds).
He's lovely. He's absolutely lovely. But he has, I think, no real idea how to express the darker aspects of his personality, without someone to help him explore those sides of himself. No word of a jest, I am the perfect person to help anyone discover what's really floating around, underneath the surface of themselves. I have a million and one personal, probing, largely inappropriate questions, and no shame or fear in asking them. I sometimes (not always, not nearly, but sometimes) see the questions that need to be asked, and even if I *don't* know the right questions, I am unafraid of the answers.
My Duncan needs to be asked questions, sometimes; and they're not even that hard to work out. I've never met a man who's more inclined to wear his emotions (if not his thoughts) on his sleeve/in his voice/across his face. I don't see how more people haven't devoted days/weeks/months of their lives, to asking him about all the things he *doesn't* say. But it doesn't matter, anymore. Now, he has me, and I'll never quit stalking, and studying, and collating, and cataloguing the Data of Duncan.
I will learn him. I will know him. He can't waffle enough, to keep me from reaching what's underneath all his nonsensical, playful, charming, adorable bullshit.
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