Deep Thoughts

Empty Spiral

Leaving home behind.

Boxnoggin and I found this on wet pavement; he gave it merely a token sniff since it isn’t a small furry thing to savage or a pile of something highly fragrant. I was struck into immobility for a few moments, watching the play of light. I almost picked the shell up…then I thought it was probably left there for a reason. A picture harms nothing.

Of course when I crouched to take a snap Boxnoggin was suddenly interested again, because if Mum is examining something it’s suddenly high-value. Nevertheless, I managed to get his big wet snoot out of the shot, and it turned out better than I hoped.

I feel very much as if I’m growing out of a shell or two myself these days. I know whoever made this lovely spiral was most likely pried free and tossed down a bird’s gullet…and yet.

Tonight’s Friday Night Writes, my beloveds, and I hope you have a grand weekend. See you next week.

Breaching in Absurdity

Humpback Whale in Body of Water
© | Dreamstime Stock Photos

There was a band of bright pink and gold at the eastern horizon when I took Boxnoggin out for his first loo break of the day, and a waning moon tangled in the lilacs’s bare branches as well. I prefer to be going to bed as the sun is rolling out, but decades of kid- and dog-schedules means it hasn’t been an option.

Maybe someday soon. In the meantime, there are bits of beauty to be found even while my body grumbles.

My health almost broke completely last week, but things are a tiny bit better now and I’m trying to be as gentle as I can. Plus there’s all sorts of purging and spring cleaning in the works. I can’t recall the last time I did a good old-fashioned Kondo-ing–I have to wait for better weather to put a “free” pile at the end of the driveway, but that just gives me time. I’m breaking tasks into tiny chunks, arranging them like mosaic around the large stones of two projects on the grill.

At least those are going well. I’m within striking distance of finishing two zero drafts at once. Maybe when that’s done I can arrange the surroundings for my usual productivity, because if I’m not juggling three-plus projects at a time I don’t know who I am. I need that third slot in my working schedule open, dammit.

The biggest thing is trying to be kind to myself, a skill I have very little practice with. I tend to hurt myself before anyone else can get around to it, a purely protective mechanism. Trying to be friendly with the person in the mirror is difficult at best; on the other hand, difficulty is what practice is for. The purging of physical space will also help me let go of habits which aren’t serving me. At least, that’s the theory. We all know how vast–and instructive–a gulf looms between planning and execution.

One of the quandaries I’ve been struggling with lately is the paradox of being completely free to decide who to be, and it generally ending up with being who one actually is. I could not wrap my brain around it, no matter how accustomed I’ve become to putting a few contradictory ideas in the old skull-case and just…letting them sit there. There was something in the tension I just wasn’t seeing, and I kept picking at it with every invisible finger I could spare. (Like a scab…)

A couple days ago Boxnoggin was busily sniffing a thorny bush he always tries to get his harness hooked on while voiding his bladder into its tangle. I was occupied with keeping just enough tension on the leash to make sure he didn’t get gouged like a prince attempting to hack his way to a sleeping castle, and it hit me. Right between the eyes, in fact, and I gasped with relief like a breaching whale.

I’d overlooked preferences. Choosing what one wants to be can be boiled down to a preference. For example, I prefer to be kind, it’s literally the easiest state for me and has the benefit of feeling good as well. And what are preferences but part of who one is? The paradox is not neatly resolved–it never is–but the signpost goes up and that’s all I need.

Just point me at it, and I’ll start moving.

Of course, some of my wants and preferences are a little less than ideal–frex, I would prefer to be in bed right now, and to stay there while the books write themselves. Alas, such is not the world we are given. But even those non-ideal wants make me who I am, and I get to decide which of them to indulge and which to gently chivvy myself out of. I suppose that’s the “absolute freedom” part of the bloody paradox.

Life has mostly been about what I can endure rather than what I like. Philosophically it’s been great training; emotionally it’s been a rough patch. Now I have a little breathing room to do something else. Sorting through a midlife tangle (because I’m sure that’s what some of this is, just a function of getting older) is proving most enlightening. A few parts are even fun, but mostly they’re deeply satisfying, plenty amusing, and occasionally painful enough to provoke tears.

I never used to cry, either. Nowadays it’s safe enough to let a few feelings show. A great and lovely change.

Anyway, the coffee is almost done, and there’s feathery bright clouds over a layer of darker grey as the sun rises. The daily balance has been tipped past dawn into actual morning, and soon the dog will need his ramble. I might even have another meditative untangling while he’s busy sticking his nose in something foul; they tend to happen when life is simply so absurd a deeper meaning can slip through the cracks. And we all know dogs are great at absurdity.

See you around.

Coffee, Easy Enough

It’s a very damp Monday; the time change is sucker-punching me. I love it in fall–who doesn’t enjoy an extra hour of sleep?–but in spring…ugh, ugh, ugh. Good thing it’s raining. My soul expands with every drop hitting the roof, let alone sodden earth and gleaming pavement. Gutters are busy, storm drains full of rushing, and if there’s any of winter’s doldrums left they’re about to be dissolved and washed free. (Oh, and the latest Reading with Lili is up on YouTube for your enjoyment.)

There are some good things about springing-forward, I suppose. It’s an invitation to shake things up, reorient a bit. My office is cleaner than it’s been in a while–I haven’t done a cleaning purge in quite some time, and once one is past the initial “argh, do I really have to do this” phase and the “dear gods, it’s messier than it was when I started, what the hell” bit, everything starts to come together and one can breathe again. All the extra space is lovely.

Of course, I probably have to get the garage rearranged at some point in the next few months too. You can imagine my sardonic tone while typing “that’ll be fun, won’t it.”

Boxnoggin likes the having-dinner-early part of time change, but he is extremely reluctant for the get-out-of-bed bit. The water pouring from the sky during the first loo session of the day didn’t help; the poor fellow regards me as an inscrutable goddess in charge of every item, no matter how mundane, and dear heavens he does not see the point of me making it rain.

I could tell him I’m not responsible, but he wouldn’t believe me and in any case, to him plenty of my actions are so powerful and incomprehensible that any explanation will only stress him out further even if I could express it over the species divide. So he simply trusts that I have my reasons for making it cold and wet, and I make sure he gets toweled off and fed as the situation requires.

He even gets a dab of bacon grease in his bowl this morning, which should soothe the sting.

I’m aiming for calm these days. I had a whole blog post planned about that particular life lesson, but instead I’ve been nattering about the weather and the dog. Ah well, there’s always tomorrow–I’ve got to get some breakfast down for both of us, get the washing machine going, and start the week. I’m trying a few schedule changes to bolster the changes I want to make. The most difficult part is getting over the initial hill to make a habit stick. I can’t decide if small habits or large ones are easier to start or maintain. There seems to be a complex sliding scale of difficulty in the whole affair, which I suppose is part of being mortal.

It’s not a bad state, despite being extremely friable and frustrating. There are a few pleasures to be had.

One of those is the coffee I’m about to finish. At least the morning jolt is one habit I can keep, and it doesn’t take much brainpower to get through making it. This doesn’t mean there haven’t been notable instances of difficulty, naturally. But all in all, coffee’s easy enough.

It’s everything else that’s gonna kick my ass today. But at least I’ve got a fighting chance, and I’m up early enough to grab the beast’s tail.

Let’s just hope we get along…

Preparing the Ground

Under the ice, the green lingers.

Pretty much all the powder is melted. The snow was so dry that its compacting during melt turned into a particular type of granular ice, and lingered in shaded corners. The moss is having a wonderful time with this, since even if it’s chilly it’s also damp, and they love the wet to near-distraction.

These lumps of moss are actually a coat over some scalloped concrete, and you can see how thick the velvet is. Also, the pine needles and detritus deserve a round of applause for providing nourishment. Everything works together, even on a bare stony surface.

I’m attempting to feel hopeful today. That’s probably why I’ve been so obsessed with Bryophyta lately–even under the worst conditions it finds a way to flourish, and prepares the ground for later growth. One can take a lot of comfort in that.

Have a wonderful weekend, my beloveds. Mine will be spent with proofreader queries, but that’s a small price to pay. I might get half a day off and some tiramisu…but I’ve got to get through the work first.

Guarding the Doors

Snow is still lingering in patches, but I’m betting the pavements will be much clearer. We had bands of snow and sun yesterday, the weather unable to decide what it wanted and my sinuses throbbing like a particularly dedicated marimba band. Boxnoggin will be very happy for a longer ramble; yesterday’s had to be cut short because of his tender paws, albeit not nearly as short as previous ones where we barely got halfway down the hill. And forget running outside, despite my hopes! It was the treadmill or nothing.

The yard is still a shambles. That’s a problem for another day. Week. Month. Whatever.

I’m slowly getting my fire back under me. It’s difficult, but there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. If I can just get one particular problem sorted, my productivity will skyrocket. Unfortunately that problem is one that has developed over multiple years and I’m going to have to wait a wee bit longer to get it done up–assuming anyone will listen to me, the person actually doing the work, about what’s necessary to fix it.

I’m not sanguine about that. I suppose part of my hesitation could be a persecution complex, but is it really a complex when the entire industry’s set up to be exploitative? I dunno. I’m bracing myself to be ignored or derided once more, which is hardly the most productive mindset for problem-solving. I recognize this, yet there’s only so much battering even the sunniest optimism can take before it goes underground and leaves cynicism, not to mention apathy, to guard the doors.

On a (much) brighter note, I was pleasantly surprised at a throwaway name in Hell’s Acre turning into a really satisfying (to me) character homage. (Look, I love Jason Statham, all right?) And Sevring the valet has become a quite crucial minor character, which I never expected but is quite useful as I’m tying things up and getting ready to write the climax. I still don’t know who’s going to win the combat scene I’m currently constructing, so I’ll probably be blocking it out mentally while Boxnoggin prances. I mean, I have plans no matter who wins, but I really would like the valet to catch a break…even though he’s far from decent, being the Main Antagonist’s henchman. If he ends up dead it’ll be tragic.

I suppose I’ll have to write it and see, but that can’t happen until the dog is walked and certain other chores are Taken Care Of. Already this morning I’ve done the last few pronunciations for an audiobook, started some email threads, finished others, and dear gods I need more coffee, I’m just not caffeinated enough for this.

At least there’s beer mugs used as weapons and a bit of close-in knife combat. My only regret is that the setting precludes me adding motor oil to this particular scene. Ah well, we can’t have everything, especially on a Tuesday.

Time to get to work.

Aid, Abet, Power, Justice

I finished off the weekend by watching a Netflix documentary on Charles Cullen, nurse and extremely prolific serial killer. What struck me was not his methods–sociopaths gonna sociopath–but the way he was allowed to keep killing, aided and abetted by the American for-profit “healthcare” system. Many other serial killers have been aided and abetted by misogyny in similar fashion.

I could write a whole article about the links, but I’m tired, only halfway through my coffee, not being paid nearly enough, and have deadlines besides. Instead I’ll just say, serial killers are cowards and they choose vulnerable, marginalized prey. We find the idea of the handsome genius serial killer entrancing because it makes for good fiction and we want there to be some meaning in the horror, but in reality they are empty wastes creeping through shadows and picking off easy prey if they think they can get away with it.

And all too often, society colludes.

I mean, I love a good serial killer show or detective novel just like anyone else. I enjoy the fiction. The real-life study is something I engage in because looking steadily at the horror is my lot in life. Plus, I have always tried to believe knowledge is power. (Cersei Lannister says power is power, and as a reductionist analysis it’s fine as far as it goes, but it’s also bad-faith, too simplistic, and let’s not even talk about problematics.) I’ve also tried to believe in justice, though I know very well otherwise. (Pratchett in Hogfather pointed out why it’s important to believe so; I shall let you go forth and discover–or remember–for yourself.) At the same time, I think a lot of power resides in belief, in finding meaning, in patterns and the breaking of them.

…it’s a Monday, I’m allowed to be philosophical. At least before the caffeine hits.

Today is for more Hell’s Acre, getting prepped for a meeting I don’t want to have, finally a ramble with Boxnoggin–who has been very patient with the snow keeping us from his accustomed exertions–and a decent run. It’s the last I’m looking forward to most. Getting the stress chemicals sweated out and rinsed off will do me no end of good, and thankfully the sidewalks are clear. A few more days above freezing and the snow will be a distant memory. The dog can hardly wait; I suppose I’m the same.

Onward and upward, then.

Multiple Marathons

I meant to get a solid night’s sleep, but come 2am my brain simply decided no, did you forget who you’re locked in here with? So there was a lot of staring, a whole lot of thinking, and not very much rest. Consequently I’m more tired than when I lay down, though I forced myself to stay still in the darkness, allowing the body some simulacrum of quietude.

At least it’s daylight now, and the weird wiggins that hit around three in the morning have passed. Boxnoggin’s presence kept them to a minimum, though his habit of burble-breathing into my armpit leaves a little to be desired. I don’t know why he’s so determined–maybe it’s the terrier in him? Maybe he finds the smell comforting? I mean, I can’t imagine who would, but here we are.

There are crocuses in the yard, and snowdrops in the back corner. Unfortunately the fellow whose negligence took the fence down is dragging his feet about replacing it. Good fences make good neighbors, and all that; I suppose I’m finding out which type he is. It’s enough to make me sigh heavily, not to mention pinch the bridge of my nose. Which is what the kids refer to as a warning sign.

I have to think whether I want the next scene in Hell’s Acre to be one I’ve already written. I’ll have to rip it apart and restructure, of course, but I think the bones are there. And if I get that done today I might moonlight with a bit of experimental writing, since Fall of Waterstone has gone quiet. I’m sure it’s just readying for the final push, and that my current low-energy state is simply the result of blazing through the proofs for Salt-Black Tree. They went well–the copyeditor for that particular book was a marvel and I’d love to work with her again–but even good stress is still stress, as the saying goes.

The duology is done, save perhaps a few leftover proofreader queries. It was a massive, wrecking effort, now I’m enduring the snapback. Plus steadily mounting nerves until release day, but that part’s normal. Always fun.

At least there’s coffee. And I took some time off this weekend to watch Altered Carbon‘s first season. My writing partner was right, it suited me very well though I will not be reading the books. I also won’t be watching Season Two, since I think the first ended perfectly, but the noir body-hopping was precisely what I needed and I enjoyed it very much. It had the right ending, not the happy ending, and you know how I feel about that. It makes me want to Franken-bolt something similar to some Jupiter Ascending fanfic, since I love that movie desperately but it didn’t fulfill even a fraction of its potential.

I know the huge problem in my doldrums is feeling behind on Waterstone. There’s nothing for it but putting my head down and plodding through. This is the endurance part of the game, where a lot of washing out happens. I’ll feel better once the decompression sickness from finishing proofs abates, and especially once I get another zero draft dusted. There’s no shortage of work, but stoppages elsewhere in the book pipelines have left me feeling nervous, and it’s difficult to write when one’s physically ill besides. Art takes all types of energy, and when that force is being spent on questions of bare survival…well.

In any case, I have frameworks for both books on the burners now, a piece of fic to play hooky with, and walkies with Boxnoggin to clear my head and get everything inside me jolted into place. The movement will help, even if I’m dragging.

A book is a marathon, and I’m often running multiple ones at once. It would be nice to take an actual break, but heaven knows I’d get itchy-edgy and end up with another story falling out of my head. For better or worse, this is the rocket I’m bound to.

Time for some breakfast.