I kind of feel overwhelmed and that life is running away without me.
I'm going to NC for Christmas and New Year. Apparently.
I'm supposed to be going to NJ for Thanksgiving, but I still haven't bought train tickets (because I've been waiting for there to be enough money in my checking account, but there never is).
I don't know how I'm going to afford to pay the oil bill and December rent, much less Christmas presents. And now I begin to doubt my financial ability to go to Europe with John and Rodney in the coming year.
And I can't talk to my parents, because they're not going to be supportive. They're just going to tell me to stay here, and "I told you so." And then they'll try to talk me into putting money down on a flat I can't afford.
I feel quite absolutely sick. Money is only half the issue.
I'm going to stop editing this entry now.
13 November 2007
panic attack, right now
09 November 2007
thoughts?
On the subject of autism ...
One user wrote in response to today's WonderMark comic: The 'cure autism' movement really strikes a raw nerve with me. It's as offensive as someone trying to 'cure' skin color or homosexuality. I'm sure Eric's heart is in the wrong place, but I'm really afraid of the damage he might be doing by spreading the message that being autistic is wrong and it needs to be cured.
I'm wondering about people's thoughts on this subject--particularly a close friend, if she reads this, because she works with autistic youngsters.
In my reading, there's a growing Autistic Culture, similar to Deaf Culture, that believes autism is not a disorder but a condition and a way of being.
Discuss.
NaNoWriMo means:
Alcohol and caffeine.
The afternoon before yesterday I went to TJ's as promised. Merlot, Cabernet Sauvignon, Muscat, and Mead ... bitter chocolate ... and chocolate-covered espresso beans.
Had an amusing conversation with the guy at the check-out about the joys of warmed alcohol after I had "informed" him about the fact that they stock mead (and by "informed," his word and not mine, bought a bottle of the stuff, so clearly it must exist somewhere--next to the muscat, port, and sake, specifically). He was quite amazed with the sachets of mulling spice that come conveniently attached the bottle.
I had some of the Cab last night, but noticed that I hadn't finished the glass when I woke up this morning; and, against my experience and better judgment, I swigged what was left (not a lot, thankfully, ugh--wine, it doth a body good, when it's not been sitting around all night).
I wrote a couple decent paragraph prompts on the T this morning, so I'm cutting it short here to go do that instead.
Lay back. Think of Torchwood.
06 November 2007
mmm, lecher
[edit: 7. November, 1233 ... Due to what I have inferred as a request, now with a craptastic attempt at translation! Yay! ... Some artistic license taken where words weren't making a whole lot of sense.]
Le pauvre honteux
[The Poor Ashamed One]
Il l'a tirée
De sa poche percée,
L'a mise sous ses yeux ;
Et l'a bien regardée
En disant : " Malheureux ! "
[He drew it
From his open pocket,
Placed it before his eyes;
And regarded it well
While saying: "Unhappy!"]
Il l'a soufflée
De sa bouche humectée ;
Il avait presque peur
D'une horrible pensée
Qui vint le prendre au coeur.
[He puffed into it
With his moistened mouth;
He was almost terrified
At a horrible thought
That stole into his heart.]
Il l'a mouillée
D'une larme gelée
Qui fondit par hasard ;
Sa chambre était trouée
Encor plus qu'un bazar.
[He wet it
With a cold tear
Which melted by chance;
The room was pierced
Again by more than one bazaar.]
Il l'a frottée
Ne l'a pas réchauffée
A peine il la sentait ;
Car, par le froid pincée,
Elle se retirait.
[He rubbed it
Could not warm it
Hardly felt it;
Because, by the cold pinch
It was withdrawn.]
Il l'a pesée
Comme on pèse une idée,
En l'appuyant sur l'air.
Puis il l'a mesurée
Avec du fil de fer.
[He weighed it
As an idea is weighed,
Pressing it on the air.
Then measured it
With a wire of iron.]
Il l'a touchée
De sa lèvre ridée. -
D'un frénétique effroi
Elle s'est écriée :
Adieu, embrasse-moi !
[He touched it
To his wrinkled lips. --
In a frenzy of fear
He exclaimed:
Goodbye, kiss me!]
Il l'a baisée,
Et après l'a croisée
Sur l'horloge du corps,
Qui rendait, mal montée,
De mats et lourds accords.
[He kissed it,
And after crossed it
On the internal clock,
Which returned, badly resurrected,
In checkmates and heavy bargains.]
Il l'a palpée
D'une main décidée
A la faire mourir. -
- Oui, c'est une bouchée
Dont on peut se nourrir.
[He touched it
With a hand determined
To bring it death.--
--Yes, it is a mouthful
With which one can nourish oneself.]
Il l'a pliée,
Il l'a cassée,
Il l'a placée,
Il l'a coupée ;
Il l'a lavée,
Il l'a portée,
Il l'a grillée,
Il l'a mangée.
[He folded it,
Broke it,
Placed it,
And cut it;
He washed it,
Carried it,
Roasted it,
And ate it.]
- Quand il n'était pas grand, on lui avait dit :
- Si tu as faim, mange une de tes mains.
[--When he was not yet grown, one had said to him:
--When you are starving, eat one of your hands.]
Xavier Forneret
(1809-1884)
01 November 2007
welcome to November
There's a particular part of Beacon St. that inspires me to do bad things to people.
Kid carrying shoulder pads and a football helmet? Little voice says: Run and tackle!!
Three construction workers doubled over and smoothing cement on the sidewalk? Little voice says: *SLAP-SLAP-SLAP!* and RUN AWAY! (to the sound of people squishing head-first into cement).
Car pulls in front of me to go into the video store's parking lot. Little voice says: Slam fistful of keys onto boot and RUN!
And these kinds of thoughts tend to occur between The Fireplace and Vinny T's, level of meanness involved depending upon my mood at the time, of course. And, to be clear, I don't actually do any of these things. But I think about it. And smirk.
moon at dawn
a festive Beacon St. residence
you know, my love of Minis aside--that's still fantastic
And today begins NaNoWriMo ... Good luck to everyone participating this year! I will be struggling along with you.
I think I'm adapting the rules to suit my purpose this year, however. Last year, I aimed, as I did the year before, to make it to 50,000; and I succeeded, in a way. I was working on "Part II" of the novel I began in 2005, and I did write 50,000 words. But I also avoided my main character up until the last 5,000 or so ... that's nearly 100 pages without Mauro in attendance. I'm not sure that swings with most ideas about what a plot should be.
This year, my goal is just to FINISH the novel, regardless of word count. I know it's not the given point of NaNoWriMo, but it's what I want to do with my thirty days. So there. "Part III" and the conclusion of this novel by 30. November.
And, if you're curious: My profile--though there's not much of anything there yet.
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