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Showing posts from April, 2021


    I have five drafts that I need to finish. I also have neuropathic pain. Stimuli that wouldn't be painful normally now defines my existence. Cold or hot water. Cotton brushing my skin. Inhaling. It shouldn't hurt this bad. Potentially, I could have another month like this? Fuck that. Fuck this pain. Fuck shingles. Fuck the fucking fuckwhistles that passed laws limiting all opioids. Fuck them. Fuck their ancestors. Fuck their cows.      I wish I was very thin and small. I'd curl up in Better Half's lap and cry into his neck. Everyone needs a pity party now and then.

Color, more color, even more color

  As I blink my eyes and try to focus in the Lyrica haze, my attention begins to return to the "room project".  Ideally, the hall, foyer, living room, and dining room should all be the same color or no more than two steps down or up from that main color. I've achieved that first step by using Universal Khaki (SW6150) for our soon-to-be bedroom. ███████████████ ███████████████ ███████████████ ███████████████ ███████████████ ███████████████   Wool Skein (SW6148)  is two steps down. It's warm, and works well with oranges and reds, but is also neutral enough to tolerate blues. This would be the living room and dining room, and roll into the kitchen. It would be impossible to repaint the foyer will all the bookcases (and soon-to-be large oak desk from upstairs). The best I can do is slap up a bit of wood stained like the rest of the stuff, using it as a hard division line between stairwell and foyer. The new upstairs family room would also be this color. Eventual

Hope and dreams

   I have not been up to posting. There are a scattered baker's dozen drafts lined up; none have been close to finished. It is as though my body exhaled a final "Meh" before settling into this weird stupor. Is this mental state due to the Lyrica or due to the unconquerable fortress of pain enveloping my existence? It feels endless. I can not recall yesterday. I can not recall this morning. It is just periods of time punctuated by scratchy moments of sleep.  I am not depressed. It is entirely possible that my memory skips are due to not actually paying attention to my surrounds. I am floating along. I am not high. I simply exist in a muted world. Of course, my outlook is growing dimmer knowing that I have not completed any projects.   The shingles pain will eventually decrease and I can stop taking Lyrica. I can rescue my mind and try to achieve only a few goals before summer: turn the small room into a bedroom, make the current bedroom a larger lounge and writer's c

The Plasticine Mask

IMAGE: Marina Gross-Hoy     T he clay bricks stacked in the corner of my mind await our morning ritual. The house is silent as I sculpt the material, defining the mouth, the eyes, the nose, the cheeks. It is a painstaking effort in the truest sense of the word. Once done, the mask will set while I have my coffee. Plasticine smiles are the most challenging element. Done poorly, the smile fails to convince. Too exaggerated, it becomes ghoulish.  One needs to draw upon old memories to shape the entirety. This is how it looked on the day I met my future husband. This is how it looked when we moved into our first house.  The one element that can not be helped is the eyes themselves. These remain hollow unless interacting. An astute individual can suss the awkward synergy, or perhaps the complete lack of any, between eyes and mask. The truth is glaringly obvious to them. By the same token, the voice itself must be molded to fit the mask's expression. It is a performance that must be flaw

Shingles and addicts

    I spent almost seven days in hospital. I have zero confidence in most of Trinity's doctors.  I have gone to the Emergency Department with back pain that wrapped around my torso. It was excruciating. I thought it could be my kidneys. They admitted me. They kept me on Dilauded the rest of the night. I awoke the next day still feeling terrible. That is when the Hospitalist (doctor) swept in to announce my surgeon would be by shortly to assess my lower back. "It's not my lower back," I showed him the area that hurt, from spine to midline on my right side. He stooped to listen to my lungs. "I understand that you see Dr Back* in a few weeks." "Yes, for my lower back. I'm not here for that." He left to work up consults for my lower back. This is how it went for hours upon hours, and into the next day, and the next. This pompous man  refused to listen to what I was saying. Dr Back's LNP dropped by. By then, I had a wound on my back (which I as

A happy greeting

      B etter Half vanished for ten minutes. The walk to Yummy's ice cream stand is not long. Hershey hates it when anyone "disappears forever" through the back gate. He stands vigil until he smells or hears them approach. Here's a brief example.  

Holy cow, this grass!

      H oly cow! I came home from the hospital to find shaggy grass and a blooming young tree. While some people would find the lush lawn appeasing to the eye, it is nothing but an eyesore to me. This is especially true of the brick walkway. That walkway and I wage war every spring and summer. The grass takes over, and the water pools because it has nowhere to run. Normally a string trimmer sorts the mess. However, this level of growth is a nightmare to edge. Weed killer and shovels are needed to sort it. That sort of energy expenditure is perhaps too much for me. We shall see.   I could have done it all ten years ago. This realization is forgotten every time I want to start a project. Now it takes me a while, and people bitch because I require more than one day. 'It's too much" ring a bell, BH? Something is never "too much" if the result of that labor  (of love!) provides joy, satisfaction, and a feeling of ownership. That said, projects are backlogged due to ou