Lili Saintcrow

Radioactive word maven. A crow for a fetch; I'm your huckleberry.

The Menstrual Fury Hat

BEHOLD, the Menstrual Fury Hat. It’s a Pussyhat Project hat off this pattern. I had a slight problem though: I loathe pink. I just…do. So I did a couple practice hats in a very dark red, almost burgundy acrylic–I called it “clotted menstrual blood color” on Facebook and was surprised when nobody unfriended me. The first one turned out comically large, so I’ll probably use it as a scrubbie or repurpose it as a bag, who knows? The second, done on size 8 needles instead of size 10, turned out beautifully, and the Little Prince claimed it. I explained what it was for and he said, “Oh, okay. Can I still have it?”

And I said, “Yes. Yes you may.”

Then I got some bright, bright crimson wool, and knitted another one. Which you may see above, and I wore to volunteering yesterday. (You can also see the circles I’m growing under my eyes. I’m proud of those.)

Since it’s not pink, I’m thinking it’s technically not a Pussyhat. So I called it the Menstrual Rage Hat. Then it occurred to me that “Fury” was better, because of the Erinyes. Several people have floated the idea of knitting a few more and putting them up in an Etsy shop. When I get supplies to make earrings I might do that, just for fun. Of course I’d probably have to charge something like $12-$15 and shipping, just to make it feasible, and who’s going to pay that for a hat that doesn’t have a feather? I mean, really.

Right now, though, I’m knitting a shawl. No, it’s not red. It’s gray and black, and I might even add fringe when I’m done with it. I do a couple rows in between achieving wordcount for each project I have going, and it’s growing at an exhilarating rate. I’d forgotten how much fun knitting is, when I’m not spitting with frustration at a pattern I don’t understand.

Go figure.

Time to Run

It’s not a monsoon. It’s steady, penetrating sheets of small drops, coming in waves, tiptapping the roof. It’s a warm rain, as things go. Not jungle-warm, but it’s not coating everything with ice and it has no particles of sleet in its many beating hearts. Mud’s collecting in every corner, grass is a sludge with a thin green hat, your shoes sink in, the cedars are bathing like naiads.

Down in the mud, the crocuses bloom. Snowdrops, too. The hyacinths are coming up, and the daffodils are raising green spears. I saw the crocuses yesterday, and a wave of hot, acid relief went through me right at the solar plexus. I’ve never been a springtime person–winter is when I’m most productive, especially in a damp, temperate clime. It’s a good thing we only have ice and snow here every once in a while. It kills off the slug overstock and keeps some of the other pestiferous populations down, but it’s not my favourite.

In a little bit, I have a long run. In the rain. I won’t be taking Miss B–she’s getting older, and this distance isn’t for her. She will no doubt be pissy with me for the rest of the day, until I give her some trick training to exhaust her doggy brain. Her separation anxiety is intense, even when someone else is home while I’m not. I’m not sure why, it’s not like she’s ever left alone for long, and there’s the cats and Odd Trundles to herd as well, but every time I leave, the kids tell me she mopes. SO MUCH MOPING.

There’s wordcount to chip free today, but Afterwar is in that funny fallow phase right before it breaks free and I race for the end. I can feel it gathering itself, bubbling and boiling under a cauldron lid, but whenever I go to peek, it rattles warningly. This particular book has been an education in submission to the process, yet again. I just keep repeating, it’s my job to show up, don’t worry about the rest.

Some days I even believe it. Most days, though, my entire body is a mass of exposed nerve-wires. I’m also in the Slough of Despond on the other two projects: Nobody will like it. The publisher will hate it. They’ll decide you’re not worth publishing. You’ll starve to death, your kids will starve, the sun will go out and everyone will hate you hate you hate you. That’s the big problem with juggling multiple books; when they all hit that moment of paralyzing doubt, it’s exponentially worse for each project added to the pile.

Ritual and habit are going to get me through this, just like they’ve gotten me through *mumblemumble* other books. It’s just a little painful right now.

Time to run.

On Don Giovanni

Sheet Music
© Kevdog77 | Dreamstime Stock Photos

This morning, for some reason, I woke up wondering about a scene in Mozart’s Don Giovanni—Act 1, Scene 5, in particular.

Zerlina’s lines include, “I am ruined!” I wondered if Mozart made it explicit that she’d been raped, or if the assault had been interrupted. I do love opera, but it’s hardly kind to women as a rule. (“Saturated in misogyny like most classical stage arts,” is closer to the truth.)

God bless the internet, for I was able to find (while abed, this was the reason I didn’t get up until later) quite a few interesting things.

Anna and Elvira convey attitudes close to those of the women activists who have raised awareness about the issues of rape and sexual harassment on college campuses. Their voices are strong and filled with anger.
“Never again another victim” is their message as Elvira sings Ah! Fuggi il traditor! (“Flee from this betrayer!”) and Anna steels herself for vengeance.

These women, whose wealth offers them a limited degree of autonomy, are ingenuous and inventive in plotting to catch the Don red-handed. The peasant girl Zerlina has fewer options. Zerlina is her bridegroom’s property and has to make her marriage work at any cost; she has no alternative.

“No need to worry about Zerlina,” says Kerman.

Why not? Is she not worth it? Her aria Batti, batti, the most famous invitation to domestic violence in the genre of opera, reveals a woman of the lowest social class employing the only tool available to her, that of her “feminine” sexuality, “feminine” in the traditional sense of completely submissive. (Liane Curtis, in SFGate)

I hadn’t thought of it that way before. Mozart’s not really a feminist, but several of his female characters speak almost despite him. (I don’t know enough about his mother or his fabulous wife Constance to guess if perhaps they had an effect.) And it’s really Donna Elvira who drives most of the story–she’s the active component, she vows revenge and openly threatens Giovanni, rescues Zerlina from him right after the peasant girl’s marriage, makes Ottavio and Donna Anna begin to doubt Giovanni’s urbane exterior, tries to save Giovanni despite his maltreatment of her, and is the first one to witness the spectre of the Commendatore as it arrives for the final supper. Donna Anna is another driver, though not the primary one. She uses the limited autonomy of a wealthy woman with a fiance to force Don Ottavio to swear vengeance, and while Ottavio is not a huge prize–he paternalistically declares he must either “enlighten or avenge” her–at least he doesn’t ever threaten Anna with the breaking of their betrothal, as a lesser man might have done.

Of course, Zerlina’s husband still may still hold the whole Giovanni incident over her head for the rest of their married life, Anna is going to marry Ottavio, and Donna Elvira has to lock herself in a convent for the rest of her days. There were precious few “good” choices for women in those days, but at least Giovanni was dragged (thrillingly, fittingly) to hell. Byron tried to make Don Juan/Giovanni a hero, and several (male) stage directors have, too. But it remains the women who drive the story, and in the end, Giovanni’s always dragged publicly and irrevocably to an eternal punishment. You could make the case that he was only done so because of property crimes–of course, a woman belonged to father or husband, and rape was only prosecuted or avenged successfully on those grounds–but the strength of Mozart’s opera is that it can surpass that.

I am not sure if Zerlina is actually raped, or if she’s “saved just in time”. Given Massetto’s behaviour, it’s probably the latter–as he’s written, I can’t see him going home for supper with Zerlina otherwise. That led me to a whole chain of thought on Donna Anna’s insistence that she fought Giovanni off, and how that was likely critical to the continuance of her betrothal, and how Zerlina, no matter what happened, might have had to convince Massetto over and over again that she was innocent. I’ve seen relationships like that over and over, in fiction and in real life. No doubt Mozart did too, it’s a function of patriarchy.

To finish, here’s a little something from October 2016:

Neither Mozart nor his librettist Lorenzo Da Ponte ever meant Don Giovanni to be a role model; the opera’s original title was “I dissoluto punito, ossia Il Don Giovanni” (“The Immoral Man Punished, or Don Giovanni”). It is true that in the “Catalogue” aria Leperello recites the extent of Don Giovanni’s conquests: 1,003 in Spain, 100 in France, etc. But in the end the message is that even a rich charismatic guy can not get away with predatory behavior, groping, serial rape, and, I’m sure, the occasional pussy-grab. The Don ends up dragged to hell. (Bonnie Gordon, in Slate)

Nowadays, of course, it’s likely to be an army of pussyhatted protestors who will save us from the crotchgrabber in the White House. I’m sure, though, to His Majesty der Turmper, it’s just as much hell as Giovanni’s.

Mouths of Babes

I am soaking rice noodles for a stir-fry lunch, and I thought, well, maybe I should blog a bit. Since it’s Tuesday, and already I got in and out of the post office before the lunch rush. I feel unjustifiably proud of that accomplishment.

You take it where you find it.

Anyway, one of the things in my post office box was a flier for a series of “free” lectures on Revelations, the Antichrist, and various other fun things from some weird guy. It was so quaint I brought it home and the Princess and I had a lot of fun going over its weird Photoshopped animals and wild claims. (Best take: “Chemical engineer drops out of college after making too much LSD, reads Revelations, and BINGO! Easy money!”) I am HIDEOUSLY amused, but the Princess looked a little troubled. “It’s all scaremongering,” she said. “And refreshments? They don’t offer those unless they want you to buy something.”

Wise words, from my darling child.

I’m sure the Little Prince’s analysis will be more along the lines of, “If lions had wings they’d look better than that. And is that the dinosaur from Jurassic Park?” Bad Photoshopping almost viscerally offends him. I’m not quite sure why, because this is the kid who plays Minecraft, and that pixellated cube-stuff drives me bonkers. If there’s a genetic component there, it’s doing some interesting bending and stretching.

Also hilarious: standing in the shampoo aisle with the Prince and saying, “Well, do you want the cool cucumber scent? Or the…Old Spice?”

“Mom.” Scandalized. “That’s for old guys.”

I texted that exchange to the Princess, who responded with, “Two tickets to That Thing You Love.”

Nobody ever told me parenting would make me laugh this hard. Funny, funny little humans, growing up into scorchingly funny big humans.

Anyway, the rice noodles are fully soaked. Time to get my soy sauce, fried egg, and peanut oil on.

Over and out.

All The Things

So today, in addition to hopefully running to the post office and finishing whatever didn’t get done over the weekend, and getting wordcount in after a few days of just working on whatever catches my fancy, I should also put together a mini-greenhouse for starting the herb garden. Oh, and there’s a run to get out of the way, too. And stealing a few minutes to knit on the current project, and piano practice, and…

You know, maybe I should just go back to bed? That’s the problem with DOING ALL THE THINGS, just the mere thought of it is overwhelming. Added to all the cleaning I got out of the way yesterday, it’s a wonder I don’t need a weekend to recover from my weekend.

Or maybe I do.

In any case, it’s sunny, and I’m trying not to look at the news in order to keep my sanity. There’s also a clutch of emails that landed while I was out-of-office.

*eyes to-do list*

Uh, yeah. Maybe I’ll have to reprioritize and get some of this done tomorrow, for that is anothah day. And I didn’t list one of the really important things, which is looking at the Little Prince’s bicycle to see if I can fix it. I’m not sure if the rear brake cable has snapped or if it’s something to do with the lever on the handlebars, or whatever. And since I shifted to a smaller vehicle, loading it up to take it to a shop isn’t really an option, even if I could afford to. This will either be an easy fix once I eyeball the problem–in which case a victorious Instagram will be in order–or I’ll end up covered in bike grease and crying with frustration.

…yeah, I’m definitely going to push some of the to-do-list to tomorrow. Choices, choices, choices.

Canine Dignity

That feeling when you know you’ve got to grease your bulldog’s creases, and that he probably won’t like it, but he’d like being chafed and yeasty even less. Unfortunately, you can’t explain that to a dog. For them, it’s all one eternal Now, and when the Now involves not only bath-time but Sulfodene and butt paste, well. There is much moaning, groaning, and “BUT I WAS JUST WASHED LAST WEEK.”

The only thing making it bearable for Odd is the prospect of treats after the greasing of manifold crevices. Which he snarfs happily, then looks at me as if to say, “MOTHER. THAT WAS NOT ENOUGH REWARD FOR WHAT YOU JUST PUT ME THROUGH.”

And I reply, each time, “At least you get something out of the deal.” Not gonna lie, when one’s up to one’s wrist slathering a bulldog’s inguinal fold, sometimes one wonders if rescuing, say, a Labrador might have been a little more dignified.

Of course, I had a yellow Lab once, and “dignified” is not the word I’d use for that lurpy, happy bundle of furry neuroticism.

I managed to get out for a run yesterday, and it felt amazing. The only trouble with today is having to take it easy, because the mixture of bad weather and depression set my mileage back a bit. I long to get out and pound some more pavement, and I know Miss B would go with me, but the aching in my shins tells me pushing it yesterday means nothing but stretching and deep breathing today.

Dammit.

At least things are a little brighter. I managed to make it out of bed this morning on the first try. Progress! Miss B didn’t have to nose me more than once to express her joy at being Awake and Ready to Do Fun Things. Thankfully, brekkie and a rousing game of “let’s wrestle with Odd so Mum can grease him” has exhausted her, and she needs a short nap before finding more trouble to get into. This will probably involve the backyard, which is a sea of mud from the snowmelt and the weekend of steady rain.

Yeah. Dignity. Not a canine strong suit. I’m beginning to think it’s not really one of mine, either.

Cheerful Muffin

GOOD MORNING, EVERYONE. Not going running until my phone charges–the weekend was a busy, busy cupcake.

Oh, who am I kidding? It was busy because, undaunted by the fact that I have three deadlines happening at once (and another round of edits for Desires, Known just landed this morning, whee!), my brain decided to hork up 5K on a book I’m not supposed to be working on. Oh, I’d planned on doing other things, sure, but the story took over. Stolen time to write is the most enjoyable, of course, and I could feel the pressure of the Slough of Despond bleeding away.

That’s one thing I didn’t plan for when I realized I had three projects going at once: hitting the Slough on all three of them at the same time. Fortunately the Veil Knights project is still mostly in the new-shiny phase, but I’ve been thinking about it for soooooo long that when I flip to the file and take a breath to re-insert myself, I find myself staring at it going, wait, I know I wrote more than this, where’s that chapter? Then I realize I didn’t write it, I just THOUGHT REALLY HARD about it, and the urge to weep and drink rises a notch. Afterwar, of course, is deep in the weeds, but at least the disembodied hand is in a jar now. That’s one thing.

As for Roadtrip Z, I’m cogitating on the current scene, which is Ginny’s insomnia and a few realizations about just how fucked the current situation is. She’s sort of the only one who fully grasps as much, what with everyone else being concerned with survival first and deep analysis later. And poor Juju, wracked with guilt and grief, is not having a good time of it. Maybe they can help each other.

Anyway, my day’s work is all mapped out for me, including going for a run to work off Miss B’s fidgets. Bad weather and depression put a dent in my training schedule, but there’s no way around it, I’ve got to get back. It’s a vicious cycle–the more the depression mounts, the less I want to exercise, but exercise is one thing that interrupts the depression and pushes it back. It’s really hard right now, with so many trash fires going on. I keep reminding myself to keep swinging, to just put one foot in front of the other, but…yeah. It’s difficult. If not for the meds, I’d probably still be in bed, curled into a small ball and staring.

As it is, well, it’s hard to pry myself out from under the covers. So far I’ve managed it only because the dogs and the kids need me upright. Giri: the net that keeps one from the abyss. Left to myself, I’d probably withdraw until I erased myself from existence, but I have others to care for, and that forces me outward.

*looks over last paragraph* WELL. AREN’T I A CHEERFUL MUFFIN. Time to check my phone’s charge and get out the damn door. I’ll feel better after a run, I always do.

Over and out.