Spamming like the spamster I am
Sep. 6th, 2004 06:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
katallisonBeing still unable to deal with laundry and/or dinner and/or another ICU visit, I decided to dump out all the half-formed LJ entries that have been floating around in my head this weekend.
Spiders Are Dum!
So I've mentioned with praise the spider who's valiantly maintaining her web out on the back deck; but there is another spider, just as valiant but rather dimmer, who's decided that the perfect place for *her* to set up shop is on my *front* porch. As in, she persists in trying to tether one side of her web to my front screen door. I am basically pro-spider, as long as they stay out of the house, but twice now I've gone lunging heedlessly out the door, ripped the web from its moorings, felt the tendrils brushing against my head, and then done the Bent-Over and Wildly Flailing Dance of Oh My God, Is There a Giant Spider In My Hair?? (I can only hope the neighbors find this entertaining.)
I would try to capture and relocate her, except for the Giant part just alluded to, meaning Enormous and Really Really Huge and Also Quite Incredibly Speedy. Soon enough the cold nights will do her in, but in the meantime I'm going to have to remember to take a stick and swipe around the front door area every morning. *sigh*
Small Pleasures
On my dining table is a vase of roses. They're nothing huge and showy--floribundas, the kind sometimes called "spray roses". Having them there is something new for me; I've never been one for flowers in the house, figuring that if I can just keep the joint from lapsing into foetid chaos, I'm doing well enough. But a couple of weeks ago I was at the grocery store, dejected and thinking Oh god I should buy a whole bunch of vegetables and *eat* them except if I did buy them I know I'd just let them rot in the fridge like the big goober of a loser that I am. I paused by the display of fresh flowers; noted that they were only $4.99 the bunch; and, on impulse, picked up some roses and took them home and even managed to find a vase to put them in. And since then I've had a fresh batch, replacing them when they get sad and wilted.
The current bunch is a particularly beautiful shade of off-white just barely suffused with pink, blush-color, the hue of the inside of a seashell, my favorite color for roses. They give me pleasure every time I look at them, and -- this seems like a small thing, and it is, but it represents a rebellion against my lifelong definition of myself as the anorexic at the banquet table of life. I've always felt that if I shared one thing with Fraser, it's that sort of chosen, *willed* turning away from life's sensual pleasures, a kind of ascetic self-abegnation. To choose to spend money on something frivolous and fleeting is Not Like Me, but it feels like a striking-out on a new path, a start on redefining who I could be and what I could choose. Sometimes, when I catch a glimpse of them suddenly and unexpected, towering serenely over my usual tableful of dirty dishes and unopened mail, I feel like I don't deserve them. I'm working on this, though.
Posting While Drunk, or Kids, Don't Try This At Home
It was a huge relief to get positive comments on the flashfiction piece I posted last night, not just for the usual reasons (You like me! You really like me! smooch, sob, snivel) but also because -- OK. The first half of that story I'd written quite a while ago, and worked over a bit, and then I hadn't been able to see how it ended, so I stashed it in my WIP folder and let it ripen. And then yesterday, which was a sticky sullen heavy day of torpor and non-productivity, I was idly opening up various unfinished stories and heaping myself with guilt about my inability to FINISH anything, and I came across that snippet, and suddenly thought, "Hm, y'know, this could work for the flashfiction thingie."
The only problem was, by that time I was fairly far into the Lagavulin, and while that has a positive effect (disinhibiting the vicious inner editor), it also -- um -- disinhibits the inner editor. I typed, rather wildly and spontaneously, flinging sentences together and reading back over them squinty-eyed, and then forging ahead, mumbling and pouring myself yet another shot.
So when I rolled out of bed at 7 this morning, I had one of those cramping clutching moments of "Oh my god, did I actually *post* that thing??? Uh, I think I did. Oh jeeezus....."
I cringingly went and opened it and reread, and was relieved to find that the Drunken Writing Master of my subconscious can handle itself, or at least refrain from puking in the begonias and singing karaoke off-key. There are a few things that, in the hard light of day, I'd write a bit differently, but whatever, I think it worked.
But you know, I really need to find some other way to deal with the vicious inner editor, because I hate that 7 a.m. panic. Lord, keep my finger from the "update" key, when I am in my cups...
And that is quite enough out of me for now.
Spiders Are Dum!
So I've mentioned with praise the spider who's valiantly maintaining her web out on the back deck; but there is another spider, just as valiant but rather dimmer, who's decided that the perfect place for *her* to set up shop is on my *front* porch. As in, she persists in trying to tether one side of her web to my front screen door. I am basically pro-spider, as long as they stay out of the house, but twice now I've gone lunging heedlessly out the door, ripped the web from its moorings, felt the tendrils brushing against my head, and then done the Bent-Over and Wildly Flailing Dance of Oh My God, Is There a Giant Spider In My Hair?? (I can only hope the neighbors find this entertaining.)
I would try to capture and relocate her, except for the Giant part just alluded to, meaning Enormous and Really Really Huge and Also Quite Incredibly Speedy. Soon enough the cold nights will do her in, but in the meantime I'm going to have to remember to take a stick and swipe around the front door area every morning. *sigh*
Small Pleasures
On my dining table is a vase of roses. They're nothing huge and showy--floribundas, the kind sometimes called "spray roses". Having them there is something new for me; I've never been one for flowers in the house, figuring that if I can just keep the joint from lapsing into foetid chaos, I'm doing well enough. But a couple of weeks ago I was at the grocery store, dejected and thinking Oh god I should buy a whole bunch of vegetables and *eat* them except if I did buy them I know I'd just let them rot in the fridge like the big goober of a loser that I am. I paused by the display of fresh flowers; noted that they were only $4.99 the bunch; and, on impulse, picked up some roses and took them home and even managed to find a vase to put them in. And since then I've had a fresh batch, replacing them when they get sad and wilted.
The current bunch is a particularly beautiful shade of off-white just barely suffused with pink, blush-color, the hue of the inside of a seashell, my favorite color for roses. They give me pleasure every time I look at them, and -- this seems like a small thing, and it is, but it represents a rebellion against my lifelong definition of myself as the anorexic at the banquet table of life. I've always felt that if I shared one thing with Fraser, it's that sort of chosen, *willed* turning away from life's sensual pleasures, a kind of ascetic self-abegnation. To choose to spend money on something frivolous and fleeting is Not Like Me, but it feels like a striking-out on a new path, a start on redefining who I could be and what I could choose. Sometimes, when I catch a glimpse of them suddenly and unexpected, towering serenely over my usual tableful of dirty dishes and unopened mail, I feel like I don't deserve them. I'm working on this, though.
Posting While Drunk, or Kids, Don't Try This At Home
It was a huge relief to get positive comments on the flashfiction piece I posted last night, not just for the usual reasons (You like me! You really like me! smooch, sob, snivel) but also because -- OK. The first half of that story I'd written quite a while ago, and worked over a bit, and then I hadn't been able to see how it ended, so I stashed it in my WIP folder and let it ripen. And then yesterday, which was a sticky sullen heavy day of torpor and non-productivity, I was idly opening up various unfinished stories and heaping myself with guilt about my inability to FINISH anything, and I came across that snippet, and suddenly thought, "Hm, y'know, this could work for the flashfiction thingie."
The only problem was, by that time I was fairly far into the Lagavulin, and while that has a positive effect (disinhibiting the vicious inner editor), it also -- um -- disinhibits the inner editor. I typed, rather wildly and spontaneously, flinging sentences together and reading back over them squinty-eyed, and then forging ahead, mumbling and pouring myself yet another shot.
So when I rolled out of bed at 7 this morning, I had one of those cramping clutching moments of "Oh my god, did I actually *post* that thing??? Uh, I think I did. Oh jeeezus....."
I cringingly went and opened it and reread, and was relieved to find that the Drunken Writing Master of my subconscious can handle itself, or at least refrain from puking in the begonias and singing karaoke off-key. There are a few things that, in the hard light of day, I'd write a bit differently, but whatever, I think it worked.
But you know, I really need to find some other way to deal with the vicious inner editor, because I hate that 7 a.m. panic. Lord, keep my finger from the "update" key, when I am in my cups...
And that is quite enough out of me for now.