The memory of smoke

The memory of smoke

Saturday, May 30, 2020

Function follows feet.

Fucking knees hurt so badly after a day at work with 14K steps. Feet hurt intermittently. At least I was useful.

My value in life is surely to be of use.

Saturday, May 2, 2020

Eat the rich, however bad they taste

"So you talk about mobs and the working classes as if they were the question. You've got that eternal idiotic idea that if anarchy came it would come from the poor. Why should it? The poor have been rebels, but they have never been anarchists; they have more interest than anyone else in there being some decent government. The poor man really has a stake in the country. The rich man hasn't; he can go away to New Guinea in a yacht. The poor have sometimes objected to being governed badly; the rich have always objected to being governed at all. Aristocrats were always anarchists."
- G. K. Chesterton
The Man Who Was Thursday: A Nightmare

Via Whiskey River

Thursday, March 5, 2020

Remarkably comfortable

Started wearing a corset last week. It seems to help my poor back, improved posture. Costume history and research.

And I have a bit of a waist again, which is good for my head.

Tuesday, January 28, 2020

River of piss

Dreamed I smelled cat urine, and saw that Moby had peed in the dining room, a puddled stream half way across the room, squatted at one end. And I was anguished that we'd let him get that ill that he was so completely incontinent. Dylan was glad to see him alive, but I had to take him aside and say "We are hallucinating. Moby died in my arms right here months ago. This isn't real."

I'm still grieving. I weep. I don't miss the piss, but I will never stop missing the great soul of that cat.

Friday, January 24, 2020

Dealing with the public

I've yet to find a way to get people to talk more quietly to the voices in their head.

-Dylan

Wednesday, January 22, 2020

And the work goes on and on and on

That last post from Captain Awkward, of course.

Still in foot pain, still exhausted, still marginally self-destructive.

I want to be well and full and energetic. I can work toward that.

Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda....

If “should” is somebody’s only argument for spending time together as a family, like “Look this Family Tree is basically a binding contractual Org Chart that means that you have to do what I want and I get to treat you however I want and you still have to love me and show up for me, forever” and they have nothing else to offer, or they insist that anything nice or fun also has to come with a bunch of vitriol and blame and unkindness? Maybe that’s a shitty bargain and you get to opt the hell out and join our union, the union of adults who can’t undo the damage of childhood but who can refuse to accept ongoing harm as a condition of having a family. “The Fuck-Its Local 101.”

Fuck should.

Be.