Wonderment

Particularly, Blissfully

Some mornings, that first sip of coffee is particularly glorious. I mean, it’s always good, but sometimes it’s more than good. I can almost feel the caffeine molecules jumping across fleshly barriers to kick-start my brain. It could be merely psychological, but caffeine does go straight across the stomach barrier, so…

Monday again, and I may have recovered from the roof replacement. Certainly I’ve been sleeping better, which could be a function of cooler weather. Not to complain–we had perfect conditions for roofing, and the cloudy coolness afterward has been likewise perfect for the amount of gardening I had saved up (since the sprinklers are now working again too, hallelujah).

What I’m not doing this morning is looking at the discourse. Nope, sorry, nerves can’t take it, I can remain blissfully unaware of both news and analysis for a few more days. I’m just too emotionally exhausted. Sure, I’ve been reading Gibbon’s Decline and Fall all my life, I saw this coming, I even wrote a whole goddamn book about it. I don’t have to keep looking, I know perfectly well what’s going on.

I worked furiously ahead before Bailey’s passing, too, knowing the grief would knock me caddywumpus, and it’s time to get back to it. Even thought Sons of Ymre 2 has around 40k words, it’s only a little over halfway done and I’m not going to be able to turn it in on time. I hate that. I don’t mind if publishers/editors fall behind–there are a lot of moving parts for them to corral, and honestly a worldwide pandemic plus fascist coup are good reasons for disruption–but I despise being behind myself. So it’s time to either catch up or just do my best.

All of which means reserving what sanity and energy I have by not looking at the news. I can feel my will to live being sucked away each time I even glance at the mess.

So. Today I rework (again) this goddamn scene in Hell’s Acre, I clear a pile of stuff so I can get Sons of Ymre 2 into the mix, and I open up the Tolkien Viking Werewolves again. Book 2 of that little series needs some attention now too. Closer to the end of the month I have line edits on Ghost Squad 2 to eyeball; I think the book will hold up pretty well to that last real read before copyedits. At least I don’t have to worry about That Damn Werelion Book until after the first of the month; the paperback should be live in early August and the ebook is in September.

And Guilder to frame for it. I’m positively swamped.

Of course, now that I have a plan for attacking the mountain of work looming before me, the Muse wants nothing more than to fool around with the follow-up to Strange Angels. Which will probably never see light of day, but I did tinker with it this past weekend in dribs and drabs, more to keep my hand in than anything else. But it’s Monday now, such things must fall by the wayside, and there’s also the dog to walk. Which I should get to, as soon as this coffee has been finished.

It’s gonna be a busy week, my beloveds. I hope your weekend was restful and that we’re all in fighting trim. I’ve got the machete on one side, the Louisville Slugger on the other, and I’m ready to rumble.

See you around.

Gingham Deck

Unexpected order.

I was too tired to bring everything back up the stairs yesterday after the roofers left, but it meant I was greeted with this beautiful pattern when taking Boxnoggin out for his morning potty break. Sudden order and regularity make me happy in a deep, very specific way; the precise angle of sun needed to make this is temporary, and had I come out a little earlier or later, I’d’ve missed it.

Sure, I need to clean and refinish the deck…but for the moment, I can take a deep breath and enjoy what’s already been accomplished. The roof is finished, the sprinklers are working again, my nerves are shot, but we’re crawling back up out of the abyss. Or so I hope–ever since 2016, getting to the lip of the hole has meant being kicked in the teeth and falling back in.

I keep climbing. Keep struggling, hand over hand. Clinging to the side to catch a breath, looking up to figure out the next hold. Dum spiro, spero, and all that.

Happy Friday, everyone. I hope it’ll be a good one…

Daisy, Answer, Do

Give me your answer, do…

Fighting off whatever bug the Princess brought home from work (tests say it isn’t the plague, but how can one be sure, I ask you) means no running. But I can take long rambles, with Boxnoggin and without, and I know where to find the daisies.

At least there’s that.

The social media sabbatical did me nothing but good. I think I’ll have enough spoons to stream today, which is good because someone asked me about dialogue yesterday and I apparently have Things to Say. Oh, and don’t forget the July sale(s); right now Finder is on sale until the 15th, courtesy of the publisher, and I have something scheduled for after that.

I wish you a soft, pleasant weekend, my beloveds. Try to take care of yourself, if you can. Hopefully you can find a few daisies of your own, but if not…here, have mine.

Pink Blackberry

Peekaboo.

The blackberries are having a wonderful time, between the rainy June and then the heatwave. We’re back to cool mornings and warm afternoons, which they also like.

This morning was taken up with a plumber’s visit, which went off so well I am now a bundle of nerves waiting for Something Else To Go Wrong. I am not used to things going smoothly. You’d think I’d be able to relax, but noooooo.

Ah well. Time for some breakfast. And Boxnoggin has behaved very well despite New Things Happening, so he might get a treat after walkies. I am trying desperately to rise from a morass of despair; maybe some toast will help.

Here’s hoping the weekend is quiet and safe, my beloveds. At least the blackberries know what they’re about…

Hollowbone Hope

A night of grim insomnia gave way to leaf blowers at 7am, and there’s this big yellow thing in the sky I’m hissing at and hiding from. I’ve been adulting hard lately, and with all the other stuff going on in the world, the cognitive load has me feeling a little loopy.

A little? No, a lot loopy, and last night’s staring into the darkness while brooding might not have helped.

On the other hand, it might have. Certainly I feel calmer now, though that could simply be exhaustion. Either way, I’ll take it.

This morning I’m thinking about little things. I read about someone finding a ladybug in their house during a cold spell, looking up on the internet to see if there was a way to keep it alive until it could be taken back outside. (There is!) The amazing thing is, there were pages of other people asking the same question, which is a hopeful sign for humanity.

I had forgotten what a revelation the internet is, and I’m on it every day. There are whole YouTube channels of therapists giving advice on how to deal with narcissists, breaking down the patterns of abuse and telling one how to protect oneself. Caveat emptor and all, yes, but it’s still a huge improvement over suffering daily abuse in my childhood and teen years, feeling so lonely and isolated self-harm seemed the only option for dealing with the pain. There are so many more choices today, so much more knowledge.

There is the usual caveat–the internet is not ubiquitous, it just feels like it when you’re on it. Accessing all the information presupposes that one has the hardware (and data plan) to do so. At the same time, a rising tide lifts many boats, and plenty of things are now much more common knowledge than they were when I was a teen, or even just a decade ago. Hope, like a weed, stubbornly takes advantage of every crack.

On some level I hate the last monster in Pandora’s box, since it seems merely an invitation to get kicked in the teeth again. (Especially for the past six years…) I know it’s necessary, and yet it hurts so badly I often wish I were immune to its blandishments.

And a certain character in Hell’s Acre is giving me trouble. He insisted on showing up and making cryptic pronouncements, now he’s hanging out on a rooftop and moping. The urge to chuck a story-boulder onto his head to solve the problem is overwhelming, but instead I have to patiently bother and tease until he tells me what his goddamn deal is.

Ah well. As long as I’m frustrated over the imaginary people inside my head, I suppose I’m doing all right.

Oh, and the cordless weed whacker (not euphemism, thank you) works like a charm. I got most of the patio mostly excavated yesterday evening. I can rake the dried stuff away this afternoon and take another pass. It’s much easier than the other trimmer, which had to have an extension cord I was deathly afraid of getting tangled or cut. Technology, my stars and garters. We could do such wonderful things, us humans, if a malignant minority of us wasn’t given so much power and petting.

I’m contemplating another quad shot of espresso with brekkie, just to get some of the cottonwool out of my poor benighted skull. No run today, since going out after a terrible insomniac night is simply asking for injury, but I can fire up the yoga app and have it take me through a few sun salutations. (Another marvelous innovation.) Boxnoggin is slowly settling into being the only dog in the house; he doesn’t seem to be grieving so hard he needs a companion. Some dogs don’t; we may be a single-canine house for a while.

And whoever was running the leaf blowers seems to have finished their project, so there’s that. I’m sure someone else will start up with blowers elsewhere in the neighborhood soon, and if they don’t the pressure-washer brigade will be out. (I’m amazed some people have any driveways left, the way they blast them.) But for the moment there is a bit of peace, and I can shuffle for the toaster at a slow but steady pace.

The little things. I stalk them, pounce, hold the few moments’ worth of good feeling to my chest, treasure its gilded hide and hollow bones before opening my claws, one by one, to let them flutter elsewhere.

Here’s to the chance that can get me (all of us, really) through the day.

Gin, Saviour?

Of course it brings forth juniper berries, it’s a juniper bush!

I really do have to watch Life of Brian again sometime soon. (Follow the gourd, the Holy Gourd!) Every time I see a juniper, I have to at least smile. And since I’m turning my attention to Hell’s Acre next, and that’s in an alt-Victorian setting, I’m thinking about gin. A lot.

I could also be thinking about gin because a little intoxication might be nice on my shattered nerves. It’s a bloody joke on the universe’s part that I’ve started breaking out in hives whenever I drink. Of course, edibles are legal in my state, so at least there’s that–a door closes and a window opens, so to speak.

I finished the line edits for The Dead God’s Heart yesterday, sent them off, and spent the rest of the day doing other work here and there, not to mention hopping out for bread and milk. At least some people are still wearing masks; the proportion seems to be ticking up a bit. I will admit I was unprepared to see how many of my fellow humans are selfish gits who won’t cover up their disease-holes to help keep others alive and safe. It is a great shock, and I’m still–still–reeling from it.

But the junipers are fruiting, my peonies are still blooming, the foxglove is still lovely, and I’ve a run today after I walk Boxnoggin, who has found out he somewhat enjoys being the only canine in the house but is still unnerved because to a dog, Even a Good Change is Change, and Any Change is Bad, Bad, Bad. There’s also Tea with Lili to consider today before I can turn to the task of rewrapping my nerves and maybe getting a little rest.

Maybe.

We’re almost to the weekend, my beloveds. I hope it’s pleasant and calm for you, in whatever proportion of both you desire. And now I’ve got to finish absorbing this coffee…

Green Fire

Tender? Yes. Weak? No.

The rhododendrons suffered badly under the heat dome last year. (Thanks, corporate-fueled climate change!) I was afraid we’d lost fully half of them. They straggled through the winter, and the only reason I didn’t take them out was because suppleness still lurked in their limbs instead of the dry-bone feeling of dead wood. That, and my stupid, persistent kindness, the willingness to see if things will get better, to whisper “do what you must, I’ll help all I can” to maybe-dead plants.

Now, in a wet spring, fresh growth covers them. On my low days, I wonder why they’ve bothered. And there have been a lot of low days lately, what with All This.

It also makes me wonder if it hurts a phoenix to burn. Renewal is at the end of the fire, certainly, but it never comes without cost. Does the fragile, sticky, delicate new growth ache as it bursts free? Does the phoenix feel a sweet pain, cold air hitting wet wings as a butterfly struggles out of necessary confinement? Will I endure long enough that this agony becomes simply something that was instead of it hurts, it hurts now, it hurts so much?

I don’t know, and the rhododendrons aren’t saying. I touch their trunks, feel the living weight of their branches, examine the raw, downy leaves. For a bare moment the pain lessens a fraction, and I take a deep breath. Sometimes, simply enduring is the only courage possible–or necessary.

Gods grant me strength to sing through this fire, and to cover the scars with green when it’s over.