Sunday. Pale blue and chilly.
Regarding my health, and dealing with a minor flare-up of an old complaint, which is tiresome, but in no way life-threatening, or even very interesting.
Regarding the WIP, I’m missing … something. Therefore, this will be a puttering day.
I apologize for the leanness of my updates recently. We’re still struggling with the new order here, and I’m dreading winter.
I hope everyone has a good Sunday. Be safe and take care.
Tuesday. Dark and cold. The trash and the recycling can stay in the garage until next week.
Woke up at 2 am with a blinding headache, shivering so hard I could barely walk (not an exaggeration), all my joints aching, and also the arm into which the happy COVID vaccine was injected. May have been in an Altered State, but fell into one of those not-asleep, not-awake states that’s so unpleasant, and apparently fell back to sleep, because I just woke up.
I do have a small fever, but the headache is less ouchy, and I’m brewing a cup of tea before I find a breakfast bar or something like, so I can take Motrin/Tylenol and either go back to bed, or make a pillow fort on the couch.
And that was, for the record, Mister Pfizer’s little effort.
So! Calling in sick today.
Everybody stay safe.
This morning’s lesson was Toilet Architecture, this while still wearing one’s bathrobe. The handle of the toilet in “my” bathroom had stopped producing the correct result. Since I rejoice in two toilets, I was able to take the lid off of both and examine said architecture.
Fine, the rod connecting the handle to the lift/seal mechanism had slipped its loop. Simple fix, I thought, more fool I, my excuses being — bathrobe and under-caffeinated.
I did fix the rod back into the loop, and tested my work. The flush initiated, but the rod slid out of the loop. Insert ‘prentice-level curses. Reoriented rod and loop, flushed — rod pops out of loop. Argh.
I think I have discovered the right orientation, but that may be optimism speaking. There doesn’t seem to be a piece missing, like say, a hook or other stop at the end of the rod that would prevent it from slipping out of the loop, so the whole Goldbergian piece of nonsense must, indeed, depend on on orientation.
I suppose I’ll find out.
In other news, I ought to get dressed.
And a cup of tea would not go amiss.
What lessons have you learned thus far this morning?
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So, that’s 1,030 new words written; WIP total words, 64,840ish. This feels much better. I may need to print a poster to hang over my screen that says:
THIS IS A STORY ABOUT JETHRI
In other news, I’m scheduled to receive a COVID shot in a couple hours. Since I can no longer Simply Assume that I will feel no effects save, perhaps, a sore arm, I had best do my duty to the cats now rather than later, and remember to eat something before I get shot, in case eating is not something I will wish to pursue later.
And that? Is the Exciting Life of a Writer, Monday edition.
Friday. Rainy and chill. Sarah will be here in a few minutes to do her magic.
Rook wandered around this morning, calling for Tali to come chase springs with him. The Tali-come-play call is pretty distinctive, which is how I’m able to discern his intention. He was willing to chase springs without backup, so there is that.
I’m lately reading all kinds of things about how the information about Who We Are that’s given us by our parents/caregivers/peers as children stay with us all our lives. There are so many agreements to these posts and articles that I’m starting to wonder where are the popular children who excluded and taunted us now?
That aside. . . it comes to me that one can accept other roles, once one is free from the father who explained very patiently how very lazy you are, or the mother who tried to “beat sense” into you, and, yes, the other children who thought you were weird — and they probably weren’t wrong, given the rest of it.
I, for instance, lucked into friends who valued “weird thinking” as “creative.” Since several were themselves highly creative individuals, I had to believe that they knew what they were looking at. So, I began to take my own stories, and my attempts at writing them down, not as a waste of time, but something that had some value. Since being “weird” seemed to be attached to my art, I slowly began to try to work with my brain — an exercise that continues to this day. While we still do distrust each other, we’re no longer constantly at odds, though I’m aware that being weird when you’re old is a risky business all its own.
Back to the supposition that the lessons of childhood never leave us — even though I was learning to embrace my art, and had produced a professional persona that got me through the day job, I was staggering under the weight of the old lessons when I met Steve Miller.
I’d never met anybody like Steve Miller before. I may have said this a time or two. Steve had . . . let us say that Steve had a Powerful Vision of himself. He paid for this in other ways, but his Best Self was strong, resilient, affectionate, protective, intelligent, and creative. He projected that image — believed in that self — so strongly, other people were swept up into it, believing and supporting it.
Certainly, I was.
Steve treated me as if I were brilliant, creative, beautiful, and strong. And I believed him. It wasn’t just paint and wallpaper; I did believe him, and I began to behave as if I truly was brilliant, creative, beautiful, and strong. I was Steve Miller’s partner; I could conquer worlds.
. . . which we did, together.
This is not to say that I don’t occasionally yell at myself for being lazy, nor that I don’t occasionally feel, truly, worthless. But neither did I boomerang back to the All the Old Lessons when Steve left.
So.
My wandering thoughts for a rainy Friday morning.
What thoughts occupy you this morning?
Coon cats first
Firefly:
Rook:
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Wednesday. Cloudy and cool.
Hard to get out of bed this morning. Rook finally had to resort to sitting on my head and chewing my hair.
Read about a quarter of the WIP, breaking to make macaroni, some of which will become part of lunch; the rest of which will become part of lunches going forward. Also have to do some banking.
Came across a recipe for scallion-and-cheddar scones, which I do believe I’ll be making this afternoon; they actually look like Real Food, in addition to being tasty.
The Lawn Guy has been by and done his thing, being as it’s not Actually Raining at the moment.
The question How Are We/I Doing? has been asked. The answer “I’ve been better,” may be seen as flippant, and “Working,” may be seen as not being kind to myself.
A story. Steve and I many years ago attended the Universalist/Unitarian Church, where I was also a volunteer with the Evening Sandwich Program.
Now, Unitarians are kind of the Virgos of organized religions. There are many variations on the joke that starts out with a question like What Do The Religions Do When Their Church Catches on Fire, and it’s inevitably the punchline that the Unitarians call the fire department.
At our particular church, there was a tradition when those in the congregation who had experienced a Good Thing in their lives during the previous week, were asked to stand up and share this with those gathered. One Sunday, Steve stood up and talked about some writing triumph that I no longer recall, and got A Look from the pulpit.
At coffee, after, the minister came up to him and said, “The Good Thing is supposed to be personal, you know. About your life. Not business.”
To which Steve famously said, “But writing is my life.”
All this to say that when I say I’m going to work, it doesn’t mean that I’m being mean to myself or exceptional in my dedication to my job. I’m writing. It’s what I do. Worry when I don’t do what I do.
. . . and that’s the bell for the pasta.
How’s everybody getting by today?
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There was a call for the scone recipe, which is rendered below:
Scallion Cheddar Scones
This is supposed to make 12 scones. I made 16, because I have a scone pan and it has 16 spaces.
From the King Arthur All-Purpose Baking Companion
2 cups (240g) unbleached all-purpose flour OR (224g) unbleached pastry flour (I used white whole wheat, because that’s what I had)
1/2 tsp salt
1 Tbs sugar
1 Tbs baking powder
6 TBS unsalted butter, cold, cut into pieces
2 large eggs, beaten
1/3 cup (77g) cream or sour cream (I used sour cream)
1 TBS Dijon mustard
1 cup (112g) grated sharp cheddar cheese
3-5 (56g) scallions, chopped (I used shallots because no scallions)
Preheat oven to 375F. Sift together flour, salt, sugar, baking powder. Rub in butter with fingers.
Mix together eggs, mustard, cream. Add to dry ingredients. Stir in grated cheese and scallions. Mix until just combined.
Liberally flour the counter and your hands. Pat the dough into a 6×9 in rectangle about 1 inch thick. Cut the rectangle into 6 smaller rectangles, and cut each smaller rectangle into two triangles to form 12 triangular scones. Place on well-greased baking sheet.
OR 1: Squish even amounts of dough into each space in a dedicated scone pan
OR 2: Make 12 even amounts of dough into balls, put on well-greased baking sheet.
BAKE for 20 minutes, or until nicely browned.
Mine just came out of the oven:
. . .I have conducted a Quality Control Taste Analysis. These? are good.
The vet called with his report: A perfectly healthy cat, he said. Except for the being dead part — he did not say. Heart perfectly fine. Can’t look at the brain, because cats have hard heads, surprise me.
Tissue going to the lab. Another little cedar box will be ready for me to pick up on Friday.
Monday. Rainy and cool.
Just back from the vet. They will do a regular postmortem and call me when they have those results. If they aren’t able to nail down what happened, then they will need to send tissue samples to a full-service lab, wherein we start to talk about $erious Money.
Firefly, and especially Rook, have been keeping very close — Firefly sitting on my lap, and Rook following me from room to room. So far, he’s brought me his lizard, his pink ball, and a piece of hardware he stole off the dining room table, which is — cough — off-limits to cats.
I should find something to eat.
Wednesday. Dim and coolish. I had the doors open in Steve’s office for a while, but somebody is setting off firecrackers across the river, while on this side of the river, they (THEY) are deconstructing the bridge, now that the other bridge is back in service, and between the noise of this and that, the cats asked me to close up, and I was pleased to oblige.
I slept for 10 hours and 16 minutes last night (according to the Garmin Watch), which is what happens when you take a muscle relaxant before going to bed. Sadly, the only muscle the meds seem to have relaxed has been the one that I scarcely use, in-between my ears.
When I did finally arise from my rosy bower, I made myself a sausage-and-cheese sandwich on a buttermilk biscuit. After breakfast, I hit the showers and then the keyboard, where I managed 1,275 new words, bringing the WIP to 59,580ish, in total.
The Plan, insomuch &c, is to do my duty to the cats, find something for lunch, then — maybe — take another muscle relaxant and/or, oh, I dunno, watch Murderbot, which is now available through Prime Video, by which I mean, I can pay extra for Apple TV through Prime, and so binge the first season of Murderbot, which may actually be a good idea. And, yanno, it being Anything Can Happen Day, maybe my back will cut me a break.
Tomorrow, I need to get up at OhmyGHOD in order to arrive at the hospital for the yearly mammogram at 7! A!M!. Who makes these appointments, and why haven’t they been fired?
Oh. Wait.
After said visit to the radiology department, I do believe I will eat breakfast out, for the second time in a week. Then I will either come home and go back to bed — not the way the smart money bets — or turn on the computer and get some more writing done.
And what’s happening for you on Anything Can Happen Day?
Coon cats first: The Breakfast Club
Sunday. Looking like it’s trying to make up its mind, is it going to rain.
About 1,000 new words on the morning, bringing the WIP to 44,150. Ish. May or may not write tomorrow, depending on how early I get up, I guess. Book club at 1; PT at 2:30. Lunch sometime or ‘nother.
The cats tried to tempt me back to bed after breakfast and I won’t say they weren’t persuasive, but — work to do. They finally came in to keep me company about the time I knocked off, and there they are all still.
Got mundane tasks to get rid of, some research to do, and some lunch to rustle up. Enough to keep me occupied, but not enough to be overwhelming. I’ll take it.
What’s doin’ at your place, today?
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Sigh. All the old war wounds are aching tonight, which is my cue to back slowly away from the keyboard and pour a Wine Venti.
Everybody have a good evening. Stay safe. Remember to hug the people you love.
See you tomorrow.
All the Things have been done, including assisting the flying fish in their endless quest for sugar.
I? Am exhausted and hurting, which is apparently going to be the new normal. I’m trying to figure out a schedule where I can write during the hours when the meds are actually blocking out enough of the pain to allow me to think. This produces a very odd sort of day, in which I eat breakfast, answer correspondence, and do the PT homework, with writing starting around 10:30ish and going through until about 2:00/2:30. At 2:30ish or 3, I eat a meal, let’s call it dinner, and either putter at simple household tasks, as I did today, and/or watch, oh, ballet! from the new, improved pillow fort on the couch, designed to be soft and supportive of my back.
After Coon Cat Happy Hour, I either will or I won’t eat something light (I’ve been tending to “won’t.” Quelle surprise.), and possibly go back to the office, as I did last night, to write for another hour before I make a cup of tea, take the muscle relaxant part of the meds and go to bed around 10ish.
I’m hoping that I’ll be able to get back to a less dog-eared sort of a day, but, as I’m led to understand, the whole back situation can only change by getting worse, and nobody wants that. It may well be that I can get to a point where the present level of pain is ignorable, and I actually consider that the best possible outcome.
What all this means is that updates will become even more erratic than usual. I’m not sure how much entertainment is being derived, but I do know that those who do read the updates prefer consistency. Mea culpa. I, too, prefer consistency.
Alas, entropy appears to be winning.
All that said — yes. Thanks to everyone who has written to tell me that the judge has ruled the Anthropic payout can go forward. Yes, I will likely receive money from this class action suit. No, I will not be paid $3,000 per violated title. This is because there’s a 50/50 split with the publisher of each title, and the chapbooks, for which I would have received the full amount, were ruled not to have been stolen by reason of a technicality. Still, I will, eventually, get some money, as I understand it, and, being as we live in a society founded on capitalism, money is always welcome.
While money, above, is always welcome, I fear that this lawsuit has taught the wrong lesson. Wrong lessons. It has not taught that stealing someone else’s stuff is wrong, for instance; it has only reinforced the toxic notion that everything has a price, and once that price is met, there is no accountability nor shame attached to wrongful action.
Well. The pension fund was just Sitting There.
And on that note — everyone have a good evening. Stay safe. I’ll check in as it’s possible, tomorrow.