Anansay

( in which a blabber incoherently on 3.03 )

I use my watch as my alarm to wake me up in the mornings, mostly on school days so I can get my kids up.  On the weekends, I let 'nature' wake me up when it will, or Marg will holler.  *G* 
So I didn't have my watch with me, or anywhere near me, on Saturday morning.  It didn't bother me.  I knew I'd find it eventually.  So I walk into the kitchen, and look up...



...and closer...



and closer, up on my tiptoes...

Don't know if you can make it out through the blurriness and all, but that is MY WATCH. On the cupboard door. And yes, I did open the door, and no, it didn't fall. Surprisingly.

This is what I have to put up with from my lovely son.

So son really wants to get on the computer.  I said he must "work for it".  So he decides he's going to clean the living room, vacuum everything: the couch, under the cushions, etc.  He looks for the vacuum.  Walks all around our rather small 3-bedroom apartment.  Can't find it.  Comes into the dining room where I'm on the computer myself, and asks "where's the vacuum?"  I look up at him and see, no less than two inches by his elbow, not hidden, in plain sight—

—the vacuum.

Tomato sandwiches are only acceptably good when the *gasp* white bread is gooey-fresh. 

Erin, my 12yo daughter, in Burger King:

"The cat woke me up this morning. Making this really weird noise on my windowsill, like screaming or something, clicking, you know? And she was just there, staring out the window and meowing and making that scary sound she does, hissing, like she was trying to get out through the screen, going up on her back legs and her front paws clawing at the screen—

And that's when the pig fell."







*the "pig" in question is this colourful patch-work-looking ceramic piggy bank about the size of an adult's head that I've nicknamed "Jody", and who resides on the windowsill of my daughter's bedroom. 

LJ servers are on American territory, which means their content has to abide by American law, right?  So, if a UK resident writes/draws something pornographic with under-18-but-over-16 characters, it will be stored on an american server and therefore be in violation of American law, right? 

What if there were an LJ-type place whose servers were in the UK, and an american person wrote/drew something in which the characters were under-18-but-over-16?  It's stored on a UK server wherein the law allows for those over 16 to engage in sexual behavior.  Can the american author/artist also be penalized for producing something that violates the law in the country in which it was created? 

So, in order to post something on a server, a poster would have to do a background check to ensure the server's country of placement would allow such a piece to reside on that server? 

The ambiguity between 'country of origin of creation', and 'country of final residence' is confusing the hell out of me. 

There are many non fandom-related books out there already, have been for a long time, which deal with, in one way or another, underage sexuality.  Are they being banned from existing on american soil?  Or this recent LJ/6A ruckus merely a smoke screen to demoralize fanfic writers and fanfic artists alone?  If I were to write a piece of original erotica which dealt with underage sexuality with my own characters, would I also be banned from LJ/A6? 

These questions may have already been answered, I haven't been following the whole shebang as closely as others have.  If so, just point me in the right direction.  I just like to see all sides to an issue. 

So many newfound authors to read, so little time.  Life sucks. 

Why do I find them all tucked away somewhere, all nice and neat and cozy and practically doing each other as they write the most amazing porn and I have NO IDEA who to start with first?? 

So much for my needing only a few hours of  sleep at night, I'm crashing left, right and centre during the day, and crashing for good by midnight, then laying like a coma victim on the couch until... NOW. 
Of course this coma victim is having some pretty wicked pseudo-orgasms with the Holy Mother of God Hawtness that's just been newly discovered. 

*is terribly pleased*

A few weeks ago, by this time, my arms would be screaming in pain and I'd absolutely have to get off my laptop and hope that sleep claimed me soon.  I have to be up at 8am but I'm not feeling sleepy at all.  I've been finishing up and posting fic like WHOA in all my fic journals, just to get them posted and off my brain.

My two youngest kids are gone with their father for a week, until next Sunday.  I am still in shock over this.  My son called and called him and pestered him until his father finally gave him plans that included a date and time.  I'm proud of my son for taking the reins and getting things done the way he wanted (needed) but I also feel sad that the Son had to do the calling, and not the Father, as I feel it should be.  Shouldn't it?  I mean it's perfectly alright for the Son to ask if/when he can go over, but to have to do it ALL THE TIME?  That just hurts.  That screams 'Dad doesn't care about his kids'.  But I am trying to encourage my children to make the best of a not-so-good situation.  I'm commiserating with them over the appearance of lack of caring from their father, giving them a shoulder to rest their head. 

Talked with my father this evening.  Told him about my grandma, and then mentioned that I'm having a really hard time spending any time with my family.  And he said to me, "they don't like you because you're outside the box."  Basically, he told me my family doesn't like me because I'm too different.  And then I realized that my sister maybe doesn't like me because I am what she wishes she could be.  She's certainly not what she appears to be to her mother and family.  She has secrets, not big or dangerous secrets, just sorta character failings that have to do with alcohol and street drugs, but not to the point where it takes over her life.  She's in control, but she lapses here and there, like most people. 

My other sister dislikes me simply because I'm Different and refuse to fit into the mold cast by our mother. 

My brother dislikes me probably for the same reasons as his sister.  The last two have the same father. 

Most of my uncles call me by my "kid" name, and it makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, like they remember me from when I was young and cute and ACCEPTED.  Kimmy.  One even complimented me on my (lack of) hair.  At the viewing, too!  That brought a broad smile to my face. 

I can only think my mother dislikes me because I remind her way too much of my father, in looks, in opinions, in the way I've chosen to live my life, more on the starving-artist's side complete with irresponsible money management, unusual ways to raise my children.  I don't want to list all the things my mother sees in me that she probably sees in my dad too.  It's too long and depressing. 

As for my step-father, the only reason I can come up with is that I am not his biological child, AND I look like his wife's first husband, AND I refuse to fit the mold.  Though I was quite the wallflower in my teens, quiet and shy and didn't do ANYTHING bad.  Still he disliked me.  Still he shunned me.  Still he berated me for the tiniest little things.  Still, he does to this day.  Still, I am not human enough to warrant more than a passive sneer and a command to clean and do the dishes and mind my (fucking) children.  Like I'm not good enough to be a part of the family.  Like I was never good enough, for some still indiscernible reason. 

I've often thought of approaching him dead-on and requesting answers/reasons for his behavior toward me.  Behavior he visited upon my sister and yet not anymore.  Not anymore because my sister has put on thick, heavy masks and has shoved everything down ("left it in the past") and now they hug when she's in town, and she kisses him on the cheek and they laugh together.  I can't do that.  I tried, once, for a while, to forget.  But when I saw him treating my children with the same utter disdain he thrust on me, all my bilious venom rose to the surface and I hated him all over again.  Hate. 
 
I can handle most people, see through them to the reasons and work within their framework to create a patchwork relationship with them.  I can handle my mother, when I chose to.  I can shove aside my confusion and frustration when dealing with most people (having children teaches a LOT about tolerance for people's differences) but I canNOT do that with my stepfather.  Every time I see him I want to Hurt him. 

Why does he hate me? 

So, it's done.  She's gone.  My mother, and all her four sisters and five brothers, is an orphan.  Her mother (my grandmother) died tonight, at 7:30, two and a half hours ago.  Don't really know how they knew, as she slept on the couch most of the time during the day, waking up groggy here and there before slipping back into slumber.  So, really, did somebody happened to walk by, or look over, and realize her chest wasn't rising anymore, went over and checked, and discovered her cold and still?  If so, can they really say she died at 7:30?  Or is it that they discovered, at 7:30, that she'd died?  Or maybe a few of them, or all of them, or one, just happened to be sitting beside her and heard the singularly gurgling breath of impending death? 

Who knows. 

All I know is my grandmother is dead now, no longer in pain, and there will be a funeral sometime this week. 

My mother called me this morning, asking me what of my grandmother's I wanted when she passed.  I had no idea, except for a tiny ceramic pot with ceramic flowers—red, yellow, and blue—that I gave her when I was still in single digits.  I remember bugging my mom in the car that we bring it to her right now.  So we did.  And she put it in her buffet cabinet and said to me, "It's right here, okay?" as though I was worried she'd throw it out.  She never did. 

And I asked for photographs.  I want old ones, when my grandmother was young, when my mom was young.  I want posterity.  I want memories, memories that I don't have.  She was always my Grandmother, a figure-head, my mother's mother.  She was never my 'gramma', never a human being.  Only someone I saw on occasions. 

Perhaps it'll hit me later.  Right now I'm numb, and sorta glad it's over.  I no longer have to steel myself when my mother calls waiting for those words—"she's gone".  They've been said.  It is done. 

Goodbye, Memère. 

Alright, done!

On GJ (greatestjournal) I now have:

anansay.greatestjournal.com - normal journal
anansay-fic.greatestjournal.com - fanfic journal
murphy-kismet.greatestjournal.com - original journal (very little things, so far)

If LJs goes belly-up, I'm feeling better. 

And, I've finally figured out the multiple posting thing through Semagic.  I had to read through the comments to learn from other people's mistakes, but I did it.  I'll probably do the double posting thing for now, so nobody really has to read both journals; it's just for security reasons. 

Heh.  Heh.  Heh...





What type of Fae are you?

---

EEGADS!!

SO not cool to be on the laptop at night in the DARK and see a damned ANT crawling along your screen. 

---

First the ants, and now the spiders.  I've seen a half dozen of them in the past three days, all ambling along leisurely through my home.  Nothing overtly fearful about them except their existence. 

Tonight, I saw one on my couch.  I smacked a pillow on it (the only thing I could find), but I couldn't find the body.  I shook the pillow out.  I moved the couch and checked the back of it.  I did find one, a smaller one, about five feet from the first spider.  Yes, a second spider.  But not the first spider.  That one is still alive somewhere. 

And now I think it's on me, on my head, on my shoulder, on my leg, on my foot.  I'm afraid to go to sleep now lest it crawl into my mouth. 

My daughter Billie is "staying with us" for a while due to her friend being evicted in favour of the landlord's family moving in.  Proper notice was given, and all.  Still, no home.  Friend is living at Salvation Army, and my daughter is here.  Her stuff is here.  She walks in a little before 1am.  It's not ideal.  Nothing's ideal.  Everything's skewed. 

So, apparently there's the Great Big Family Reunion being planned Way Down in New York for this October.  I mean HUGE family reunion with people whom I'd never heard of.  I got a "newsletter" last night in the mail (mailed to my address of four years ago!)  Apparently there's a DVD being made with pictures of ALL the family members (those that send some in). 

Thing that bugs me is that I spend four days with my mother, my FAMILY, and NO ONE bothered to fucking mention this grandiose family reunion.  (My uncle apparently gave them my address o_O)

I have no fucking idea what to think anymore.  On one hand, it was my sister's wedding, so maybe Great Big Family Reunions that would require massive traveling expenses (again!) weren't high on anyone's priority.  Also taking into account that my grandmother is STILL dying, still sick, and my mother and aunts and uncles are STILL by her bedside, just waiting.  So, you know, maybe it just innocently slipped their minds.

Or, maybe not. 

I don't know.

I have no idea where these paranoid feelings of rejection come from.  If they're real, or just imagined. 

Sun comes up, I wake up.  I wake up especially when my cat yowls at my bedroom window to be let in.  And I wake up when my body decides it needs to urinate.  The thing is, when I do wake up, I can't get back to sleep.  And I can't seem to fall asleep as easily as I used to.  I used to be able to just close my eyes, and sleep would soon follow.  Most times my mind conjures up wholly impossible scenarios, and then sleep follows, though not the dreams one would expect.  It almost never follows the waking scenario.  My unconscious mind takes over and presents me with wholly different scenarios, most that I never remember upon waking.  Or only for that split moment when full wakefulness hasn't yet been achieved, for about ten seconds.  Then the influx of wakefulness banishes the dream like a disturbed puddle. 

---

I want to do something with my life.  I want to Be something. 

See, my younger brother (by almost eleven years) is already a journalist (well, he has his college and university degrees that states he has the required knowledge though the actual job seems to be not quite caught, yet), already takes amazing photographs with his thousand-dollar camera (for which he received some sort of add-on lens for xmas by his father), and he already plays pretty good guitar.  He already is the writer, photographer, and musician that I want to be.  And all this happened under my nose because he previously had shown no penchant for any of those things.  He didn't seem to have a creative bone in his body.  Did he make a deal with the devil, or something?  Oh yeah, and he's drop dead gorgeous, fit, tattooed.  Only his attitude royally sucks.  Well, his attitude with me; I have no idea what he's like with other people. 

I feel like I'm truly living on the outskirts of existence, never quite getting in there, never quite being as much as I can, or doing as much as I can.  I've always felt a sort of detachment from everything.  Like looking in from the outside and never being able to really touch what's there, to feel it, to experience it.  Like I'm not quite here. 

And maybe that's why there are always these thoughts niggling at me of simply pulling myself out completely, whatever that means.  I still want to exist, I just don't really know what that means.  If I can't be Here, in this Life, then maybe there's something Else, somewhere Else, for me.  I just have to find it. 

I can't seem to pinpoint the divergence my existence takes on my dreams.  Why can't I just do it?  Should I buy the extra lenses for my camera?  Will I use them?  Or will they gather dust?  Will I be able to figure out the knack? 

My piano is at my mother's; there is no room for it here.  I've thought about buying a keyboard that would emulate a piano with a full-sized keyboard of touch-sensitive keys.  I haven't priced any yet.  Once again, I worry that it'll sit there, that I won't be "able" to play it, for whatever reason. 

I bought my laptop to allow me to write and not take up the main computer.  How much writing  have I done since getting my laptop in September 2006?  That's right.  It seems as soon as I have the means, something clicks over in my head and the Reason for getting it becomes moot. 

Maybe I should speak of this with my counsellor.  She might have ideas on why this is.  Is it my fear of success?  Is it a skewed fear of failure?  Is it an internal sense of never being quite capable of doing anything more than the basic necessities for existence?  Is it the acquired, and skewed, need to fight for everything?  As soon as opportunities are presented I mess it up because then it becomes too easy?

See, I had about an hour and a half this morning before I needed to take my shower and get ready to leave (get Marg ready), but I pushed aside any thoughts on writing, or continuing the story I started months ago (and haven't touched in about four months).  The message in my head is, "Don't bother, you'll never be able to do it, so don't even start."  I do things that I don't mind being interrupted.  I HATE having my writing interrupted.  I HATE being pulled from a place in my head that I might only have just settled myself into and have started writing about it.  Why bother going somewhere when I'll just be pulled back here. 

Perhaps I don't really want to write, or on my time "off" I'd take my laptop and go someplace where I was ensured no interruptions would happen.  But, even then, my mind would wriggle with thoughts of what I'd have to return to, and the guilt of it all happening (because of) in my absence. 

Not so surprising, it's the month I was actually born in.  Though I have edited the list: cross-outs.

( Read more... )

HOW ARE YOU READING DH WHEN IT'S ONLY COMING OUT THIS WEEKEND?!?!??!

*cough*

I haven't seen the movie yet.  I'm not that hopped up on seeing it, simply because I loathe bastardizations of good books.  And a book the size of OotP simply cannot be condensed into two hours. 

But the book, the last book, the one that ends it all, now that intrigues me.  But I'll only be able to get it sometime next week as I'll be away this weekend.  And then, when we DO get it, my 11yo will immediately pounce on it, disappear into her room, maybe not even eat, and then emerge victorious, and informed.  I will have to gag her so as not to hear any inadvertently blurted out details (even though I'm not quite so spoilerphobic as others; there are TIMES for spoilers--when one can psyche oneself up for them, you know?)  So, I'll probably get to it in about a week. 

Actually, come to think of it, I'll probably just get my daughter to give me the lowdown.  See, she has a tendency to go into GREAT detail when conveying stories of any variety. 

On a sorta-related note, my 11yo daughter also mentioned today that Supernatural ought to have a show in which the boys acknowledge their birthdays.  She said the show started off when Dean was 26, and Sam was 23, but that now Dean is 27 adn Sam is 24 and NO WHERE/WHEN was it mentioned about their birthdays.  What, they don't have birthdays?  She said: they should have this scene in which Dean is driving the Impala, Sam is asleep beside him (what else?) and Dean is checking his cellphone for some reason, sees the date, realizes what day it really is, and does something uberly sweet so that when Sam wakes up, Dean is wishing him a happy birthday.  Only, of course, from my 11yo daughter, there's no slash.  Just cute brotherly love. 

I dare say it's her first SPN fanfic! :D
I told her to write it.  TRUST ME, she has the intellectual verbosity of a freaking high schooler going into college after having aced all her courses!  It's freaky!  Supernatural ought to do an ep wherein seemingly normal 11yo girls acquire a phenomenal amount of "intellectual verbosity" and it freaks out the denizens of some small, little town, hidden from the mainstream, but these girls all know things that aren't so well known, even in the local closet of a library. 

Well. 
That was odd.
Going to bed now! 

*serious deja vu happening right now, for both the layout of the words, and the words themselves* O_O

 

If I make supper, and she doesn't eat it, I feel angry, frustrated, and useless.
If I don't make supper, I feel guilty.

If I do make supper, I'm being responsible and mature and doing my job.  If she refuses to eat, that is her decision. 
So, regardless of whether or not people eat what I make, at least I will have done the "right" thing, and done my job. 

It's what I have to do. 
So I'll do it. 
And I'll swallow the anger, and the frustration, and the feeling of uselessness. 
And I'll freeze the leftovers, for myself. 

That is all.

That doesn't apply merely to religious beliefs of believing in something one may never see, or hear, or feel, let alone measure.  A while back, depression was thought to be merely a 'woman's illness', and they were given Valium, and told to go home.  Today we know that depression is a physiological illness with measurable hormonal levels.  I think about what those women long ago went through when nothing could help them, only give them a sense of a thick blanket covering them, not allowing to feel anything, to react 'properly'.  Frustration, humiliation, embarrassment, continual stealth in trying to hide one's true, and real, feelings so as to appear as normal as was expected of them. 

Today, we can't 'measure' ADHD, ADD, ODD*.  They are diagnosed through anecdotal evidence from various sources: parents, teachers, people who might be intimately involved with the child/person, and hope they're honest and not decreasing, or increasing, certain criteria.  Drugs are given from a list that goes from the most simple and straightforward, to the more complex, combining two or more to try and achieve a balance of sorts in behavior and thought processes.  This, too, is a frustrating series of events to endure, as hope after hope is slowly dwindled, pruning in the mind.  There are private crying sensations, and public ones.  There is blame.  There is worry.  There is anger.  There is fear. 

Just because something can't be measured, poured into a beaker, or spread in a petri dish, does not mean it does not exist.  It simply means we have not yet developed the means and the tests to measure it. 

I don't know, with certainty, that my son has ADHD, or a touch of ODD (like his doctor says).  I don't know if I, myself, have ADD.  I don't know if it's depression.  I don't know if it's physiological, psychological, environmental, allergy-induced (and I won't even go into the dozens of forms of allergy inducing elements there are in this world).  But I really do not like it when people imply that ADHD, ADD, and depression don't exist, that it's only out-of-control kids (and, in association, lazy parents), or lazy kids, or lazy people.  I wasn't a lazy kid, I just couldn't find it in me to concentrate on work (school work) that held no interest for me.  I could zoom through fiction book after fiction book.  I could do my math work in a jiffy when it interested me.  But everything else only induced a sort of apathetic stupor that had me gazing glaze-eyed out the window and conjuring up various scenarios in my head.  I missed valuable information at the supper table (family dinners at friend's places, etc) because the jabber was monotonous and I couldn't held but fade away mentally into my own world.  I only wish I could have had enough focus of mind to write down those scenarios in my head.  I think I could have had a pretty hefty portfolio by now.  (The one Stephen King/Clive Barker-style story I did write was so thoroughly torn apart by criticism, that I didn't write again for a long time.  And I hadn't even yet heard of King or Barker.  I was twelve.) 

I don't believe in god because I've seen no evidence of his existence.  But I have seen evidence of my son's behavior and how it deviates from the norm.  I don't have any measurable indices to tell me that he has 'this' much ADHD, or that my own ADD might interfere with my daily living, or that my depression may push me toward actions most people don't talk about.  I know how I feel.  I know what I see in my son.  I know how much more effort I need to put into dealing with him, into helping him understand things.  Much more than my other two children.  I know that this way of . . . interacting with him is not a regular, normal way that most people interact with others.  There is an expectation of response falling into a certain narrowed space of allowances, like a script.  My son doesn't have that script; he's not interested in reading it, or in following it.  So I've created my own script and half the time it works.  The other half of the time I begin to wonder at his chances of survival 'out there'.  By 'survival' I mean not end up in jail. 



* If I'm wrong, let me know. 

Snagged when passing by knightmare_shad's LJ. 

Sorry, dear, guess we can't kiss.  *G*

Your Kiss is Black

Your kisses are amazing. You put a lot of effort into your kissing technique. You are a perfectionist, and you never leave any kissing detail to chance. When you're kissing, you like to be in charge. You don't enjoy someone else taking the lead. You know you're the best kisser. In fact, you're often disappointed by how other people kiss. Kissing Type: Thoughtful People See Your Kisses as: Amazingly unreal You Kiss Best With: A Pink Kisser Stay away from: A Green Kisser

What Color Is Your Kiss?

It seems I can write, but only tidbit scenes.  I'm enjoying them, really.  I only wish it would come for longer than an extended hiccup.  Or maybe it's like a really good sneeze, good, intense, but over too quickly.  Kinda like an orgasm, but without any lengthy buildup.  A quickie. 

I'll call this one Losing. 
It's rated a distant R. 
There might be Dean/Sam if you squint hard enough.  Or it just might be some real intense brotherly love.  Reader's choice. 
eta: spoilers for the end of S2. 

---

Dean walks like he's a powerhouse—firm and steady.  There is nothing soft about him, never has been, never will be.  Maybe once, a long time ago, a forgetful time, a time he chooses not to remember, there was softness about his face, in his eyes, from his smile.  It was wiped away in one fell swoop, a lick of flame cauterizing the frown to his face.  He doesn't remember how to really smile now.  He only knows how to grin maniacally, cock a gun, pull the trigger, and never check to see that his aim is, indeed, dead-on.  He remembers his daddy's sad smile when he was six and blew away a dozen dented cans from a nearby farm fence.  He felt it in his bones, a cooling of his blood even as it boiled in his veins.  He imagined he could smell it--the blood.  Blood of creatures not of this world, the world of the humans.  He smelt it and felt himself step into their world and suddenly he could smell it all the time, the coppery stench of spilt blood, tinged with evil. 

Even in his sleep, there is a rigidity that never leaves him.  He feels it in the morning, in the creaking of his bones, the painful stretch of muscles.  He remembers it in his dreams—bricks walls painted black in the moonlight.  Holding a gun is second nature to him, his hand molding perfectly to the fine angles and cool steel.  The reverb is caught and held in shoulders long grown stiff from holding up worlds of pain and knowledge. 

He knows all this, feels it like marrow in his bones, a part of him from the beginning, the second beginning.  When he held Sam's soft body in his arms, heard the wails of a terrified infant, and felt his heart harden under his father's hate-filled gaze.  It was a peripheral heat that he felt from his father, not directed at him, but singeing him nonetheless.  And when he looked down at his brother's cherubic face dotted with demon blood, he had to wonder, too, why a child could bring such pain to a once-happy family, even if it was only by happenstance. 

When he holds Sam now, it's still to feel something soft pressing back, a molding of brother to brother.  Even with the height difference (which should really tick Dean off, but it doesn't), he can still feel Sam bowing to him, slinking into himself.  And when he looks into Sam's eyes, it's like looking into melting chocolate.  The smile is like sweet softness brushing against his flickering resolve.  He wants to give in, to relax, to close his eyes and not see eyes discoloured from within, black or yellow, bodies distorted with demon-disease and coming apart like overripe watermelon.  Or pestilence set free. 

He wants to feel more than his molding to something else.  Wants to feel his entire body shifting and changing and becoming what he knows it can.  He wants to feel warmth beneath him, soft breasts or hard planes of muscled chest, soft lips around his cock, or a taut unforgiving asshole clenching him too tightly.   He wants to feel it for what it is, not what it might be should something find him at the wrong time.  He never looks into people's eyes, only makes a semblance of obversation. 

But now, when he holds Sam to him, feels a hand on the back of his neck, sees that puppy-dog look squinting at him, he does feel himself soften, feel something bleed inside, weeping for something that ought to have been a long time ago.  Not today.  Not now.  Too late.  When he sees those puppy eyes darken and harden and sees those long-fingered hands holding the gun ever-so-fucking steady and hearing the sharp CLACK of bullets aiming and hitting their mark— When Sam looks up at him, a small tiny grin tipping the sides of his mouth, a drop of blood on his cheek that he wipes off slowly, like he's enjoying the feel of blood smearing into his skin— When he doesn't drop the gun in horror at having killed, not a demon, but another human being, something he'd avoided doing only a few hours before— When Dean sees this, he feels the air crackling with electricity and knows his baby brother is becoming something Dean wouldn't wish on most humans. 

Sam is becoming like Dean. 


cross-posted to my fic journal

Nightmare. 
Standing outside in the back on the patio.  Sense something behind me.  Turn.  See shed—half of the shed—top half—on the ground.  Doors to the side.  Everything inside gone.  Stolen.  Robbed.  Anger and panic.  Run inside.  Don't tell Marg.  Don't tell the kids.  Find music.  Find most of it gone, except for two discs of classical music.  Very boring classical music.  That's all they left me, when they took my music.  Boring.  Took the exciting classical music, and all the other music, and left me with two cds of dull music.  Hatred.  Anger. 

Woke up in a start.  Kitchen light on.  Anger.  Jump up and yell at son.  Back to couch to sleep.  Remember half of shed, and missing music. 

Feelings are muted now.  Dulled.  A two-dimensional memory.  Not real.  Flat.  Fading in the light and noise of day. 

---

Today will be a flat day.  Emotionless.  Don't know if it has to do with the dream/nightmare last night.  Only that I'm on my couch, beneath blankets, feeling strangely cradled in softness, things contorting to my body, instead of me having to shift to adapt to something else.  A good feeling.  I don't want to leave any time soon. 

The place is more or less tidy and cleaned.  Only a few dishes to be cleaned, and a bit of laundry.  Nothing that is pressing. 

---

Flat.  Not worth bothering.  Everything's breaking.  Nothing stays good. 
New dvd/vcr makes clicking noise when playing DVD.
Laptop's P doesn't work.  DVD drive broken—pops out randomly, and won't play DVDs.  Haven't tried other discs.  Don't really want to see error messages telling me my laptop is breaking.  Am seriously considering sending it to HP to get fixed and am wondering if I need to back up my information, or simply remove it for now so as to maintain my privacy. 

---

Must leave comfort of couch to fetch some Drano so bathing may take place in a tub not filled with hours' old dirty water.  Not impressed.  However, will have music via MP3—Android Lust, NIN, Marilyn Manson, theme from Requiem for a Dream.  It will be a good walk. 

So, no Strattera for my son.  It's not covered under my medical plan (Ontario Trillium Drug Plan), and I don't have $130 per month for this medication.  The doctor's office is closed until July 9.  I'll call her then to inform her (as per her request) that it isn't covered, and I cannot afford it.  She said if that were the case, she'd find something else that would be covered. 

Right now, I'm feeling scared and worried that any medication that might help my son is not covered, and would be too expensive for me, considering child support has become erratic, almost non-existent. 

I'm not enjoying things right now.  I have a student loan that has come due.  My son needs medication that I can't afford.  And a portion of my income has become too erratic to be counted on.  More expenses, and less income.  That's just Great.  Thank you, deities, for giving me yet more challenges.  What else?  I'm strong.  I can take it.  That's why you're giving it to me, right?  So I can see that I have more strength than I thought.  I still don't like it.  Nyah.

must need move things around
too static
too cluttered
too chaotic
must need declutterify
organize
fix
toss out
put away

drowning in messes
pulled apart by clutter
 
tired


—and there is this movie I need to watch, only I don't know what it is yet.  Don't know the name, or the actors, or the story.  Only that it's coming and I need to see it.  I feel it coming, feel it there on the edge of myself, tipping closer and closer, showing itself in layers.  Thin layers like an onion. 

must needs see movie

I really like the results of this meme.  Gakked from leah_the_muse.

You Are Midnight

You are more than a little eccentric, and you're apt to keep very unusual habits. Whether you're a nightowl, living in a commune, or taking a vow of silence - you like to experiment with your lifestyle. Expressing your individuality is important to you, and you often lie awake in bed thinking about the world and your place in it. You enjoy staying home, but that doesn't mean you're a hermit. You also appreciate quality time with family and close friends.

What Time Of Day Are You?

I'm writing a story for spn_boc.  Just a small thing, just under 1000 words.  R-rated, I think.  It has sex in it.  Well, sex-like activities.  The whole thing is flowing through me like a river with tiny stones in it.  Meaning: I pause here and there, take a gander at where it's going, ask a few image-questions, get an image back, and write some more.  And I get to this one sentence and I have to pause because the whole thing suddenly seems very familiar to me.  I get this feeling that I was supposed to write this, like it was meant to be, to be written.  By me. 

I'm not quite sure what to make of this when it happens.  It almost feels like settling into well-worn path that seems vaguely familiar and like I'm headed to a good place.  Almost.  Because it also feels like it's a foggy path and I can only see a few steps in front of me, but not enough to make and sense of anything around me.  It's familiar, but I can't remember why, or where it's headed.  But it's not bad, just unknown. 

I also haven't written anything in what feels like forever.  So this putting words together and stringing them in ways that make sense, at least to me, is like visiting an old friend who has changed, and yet is still the same.  A few more laugh-lines, a few more grey hairs, a different colour paint on the walls, the shrubbery a bit higher, but still the same in what matters,  in the essence of what is. 

I signed up in a fit of mania with ideas curdling around in my brain, but without the time to organize them.  It was supposed to be humorous, but it became a simple PWP.  Right it's still a bit too two-dimensional for me so I'll be adding a bit more to dent it into something more tangible.  I didn't really feel like writing when I sat down, but I'm learning that if I don't force myself to sit down and at least try to write something, it won't get done.  So I sat down, opened OpenOffice, and began.  It wasn't as painful as pulling teeth, but it didn't flow like spring water either.  Not like other times I remember, getting lost in the clatter of keystrokes as the story blossomed onto the page, a fully formed being taking control and pulling me through to another world. 

I've found myself tethered to this world, and therefore not able to get lost anymore.  Even though I feel more lost then ever, it's not where I'd like to be lost.  Like I'm lost in a place where typewriters are anathema and there are razor-like barbs forced through my ears whenever I think of anything remotely literary.  A place of horror for writers, a burning hell in which I have to watch books and words and letters and words being burned alive, screeching and wailing their demise.  And the worst: I feel nothing.  I stand by and watch impassively as my dream becomes ash at my feet, and I kick through that ash as I stumble around, a flat being with dead eyes. 

But this is like finding that pinhole of light high up.  Still feeling to high to reach, but with just enough light to burn through parchment, and if I hold it just write right, and move it just write right, it can burn words onto it and I can create something once again. 

Did you see that?  That misspelling?  Now, is that not a massive Freudian slip, or what? 

This feels good, like finding a cool spring in a desert, and gulping greedily from it.  I can now stand taller, fuller, and with a bit more strength in my step.