If you’re interested in a two-buck werewolf short story I wrote while thinking about how to write the Angelov Wolves, now’s your chance!
canine tales
Big Shape
On our rambles, Miss B and I come across all sorts of things. Sometimes she wishes to investigate them. Sometimes, though, it’s large machinery, and she gives me a sidelong look that says no thanks, Mum, I know better.
Would that humans were as wise as this one shaggy, neurotic little Australian shepherd…
Message, Dream, Philosophy
The other night: The Lovers, Nine of Cups, the Devil. All in a row. It’s been a while since I got such a mirrorlike reading, and such clear message.
Of course, this morning, in the long dark shoals before I had to get up, I was jolted out of a dream of Donnie Yen as my werewolf boyfriend during a zombie apocalypse, but I’m not considering that a message. Especially since the heavy breathing I kept hearing in the dream, which I thought was the zombies, was actually Odd Trundles, who point-blank refused to go back in his crate after a 3am “MOTHER I GOTTA PEE, RIGHT NOW, I KNOW I WENT BEFORE BEDTIME BUT I GOTTA, I GOTTA.” He ended up with his giant face in my neck, and my hair on that side is still damp from his jowls.
He still thinks he’s the puppy who slept on my pillow because I was terrified he’d stop breathing altogether. They never really grow up, our furry friends. I’m on the fence about whether we ourselves do.
I’m still making my way through Facing the Extreme. I am having trouble with a few of Todorov’s base assumptions–like the one that human judges can be impartial or objective. I mean, certainly, a good judge aims for that, but is it really possible? It’s more of a goal to strive for than an actual can-be-done-completely-achieved. On the other hand, the book was published a decade ago, and there have been some advances in understanding bias since then. Another set of Todorov’s base assumptions, his habit of gendering responses to totalitarianism, grates on me with increasing regularity. I rather suspect him of cherry-picking survivor narratives to suit his gender-assumption hobby-horses. Unconsciously, of course, but he seems really invested in women being passive, forgiving creatures even when shoveled into death camps.
You can tell what I think of that.
Anyway, we’re near the end of the book, so Todorov’s making assertions that the front half of the text is meant to have set up and provided proof of varying kinds for, and I just don’t see that the narratives (survivor or otherwise) or logic he’s provided bear out said assertions. Still, it’s not a bad thing to have to stop while reading and think hard about just why one disagrees with a philosopher.
The Sekrit Projekt continues apace. Yesterday was a measly 3.5K words, but I got two crucial scenes done and dragged the man with the gun in, kicking and screaming. (He didn’t want to show up just yet, but it wasn’t his call.) By the end of it, I was exhausted, so his appearance needs some polish in order to make it properly eerie. (And he doesn’t have a gun, but a claymore, I think. Or maybe an axe.) But it’s there, that part of the corpse is on the table, and I only have 20K left to write.
*looks at last sentence*
*weeps a bit*
I suppose it’s time for yoga now, and there’s a run to fit in today, too. Going back to bed, while certainly the most appealing option, isn’t even remotely possible.
Ah well. Over and out.
An Unserious Post
I always told myself that when the kids were older I’d allow myself back on my preferred schedule. But then…dogs. Especially Miss B, who is a BRIGHT SHINY HAPPY MORNING DOGE. Of course, as she grows older, she’s more inclined to have a bit of a lie-in, but her idea of one is a full fifteen minutes of hard snoring before nosing me hopefully or sticking her paw in my armpit to make sure I’m still alive.
She does so love to be helpful. It absolutely torments her if I shut her out of the bedroom while I do twenty minutes of yoga. Apparently that is an eternity of cold loneliness, so bleak and terrifying she has to howl at the door. It’s kind of hard to relax, even in Corpse Pose, with a dog wailing that she MISSES, and LOVES, and CANNOT BREATHE without, YOOOOOOOOU. Then, of course, Odd Trundles, who doesn’t understand quite what’s going on, thinks that because the smarter dog is wailing something must be wrong, gets in on the act.
It’s either deal with that noise outside the door or let them in, where they decide to helpfully nose or hip-check me in every pose. Downward dog? They have to be underneath me! Plank? Try to knock Mum over or take out her arms! Reclined side twist or Figure-4? Sit on Mum’s hair! Reclined Goddess? Crawl over Mum’s knees to give her a Van Damme groin stretch! Tree Pose? HIT HER ANKLES! AGILITY TRAINING!
…yeah, so either way, those twenty minutes of yoga are probably far more…active…than any swami or guru ever intended. At least the last time they decided to cavort under me while I was trying to stay upright in Tree Pose, I fell onto my bed instead of Odd’s crate. Small mercies.
I did have a Serious Post planned for today, but apparently I’ve become distracted. Where was I? Oh, yeah. Wandering around at night to take pictures.
Maybe there will come a time in my life when I can do that again. Sadly, it’s not yet, so I have to do other things I love. The bright side is, I have so many things to love and be interested in. Even if I have to drag my protesting body out of bed and subject it to wakefulness when it’s genetically designed for sleep.
*shuffles off to find more caffeine*
*also, dodging dogs*
Against the Tide
I had a post planned about gender roles, spurred by Cormorant’s release, but I sat here staring at the screen for a little bit and thought, do I really want the concomitant internet kerfuffle today? I mean, there may be no kerfuffle at all, but I just don’t have the energy this close to a release day. I’d rather wait until I have some spoons to deal with potential mansplaining.
That’s a common hidden cost to being female. It makes me wonder how many great things we’d have if women didn’t have to swim against that tide every. damn. day.
Anyway, there’s a weather warning out today, for wind and rain. Just in time for me to go running with B. I lowered my bicycle seat and did 13ish kilometers yesterday, and my knees are protesting a little, but not badly. Fortunately today’s run is short, with walk breaks. Since B is getting older, she appreciates the walking part more and more.
It’s strange to watch her get frustrated. In her head, she’s still a puppy, with a puppy’s boundless enthusiasm and bendy bones. Odd Trundles thinks he is, too, and is constantly surprised that he can’t fit through puppy-sized holes in things. He is so muscle-bound and heavy he just tries to power through, which means he gets stuck a lot. B just overtaxes herself, then gives me an agonized look as if to say, “MOTHER. WHAT IS THIS AGING CRAP? I NEED TO RUN.”
Poor girl. I hear that.
I’m pretty sure the weather will hit when we’re in the middle of our jaunt, and we’ll come home soaked. Might as well just accept it. At least it’ll be warm-ish rain. B’s fur will puff up, so she’ll look like one of those soot-balls in Spirited Away. With four little legs scrabbling madly underneath.
I can hear Odd snoring in my bedroom down the hall. Now it’s time for some Latin, and some hangul practice. And, once the coffee settles in, an easy run. Then it’s wordcount, since the release day nerves have settled somewhat.
Over and out.
Getting Older
Up a little late, nosed out of bed by an Australian shepherd who was extremely sure I was supposed to be ambulatory before I was quite ready for such an event. She also “helped” me all the way through yoga, hip-checking me when I almost fell asleep in Child’s Pose. Her nose was on my knee all during French and Spanish at breakfast, and she snored all through the sit-down Latin lesson. When I begin my pacing and reading Caesar, no doubt she’ll herd me around my office.
She’s very excited at the prospect of a run today, can you tell? Yesterday I took her along for 5K, very soft and easy, and she was so thrilled she dragged me half the time and tried to slow me the other half, especially when Other Dogs showed up.
She’s neutral on humans (except her own) but she cannot resist other dogs. Odd Trundles is just the opposite–he will schnorgle a new human until the cows come home, and has only met one or two he doesn’t care for, but other dogs fill him with slow, wheezing rage. Except Miss B. I’m not sure why he’s so upset by other canines, since he was socialized to a fare-thee-well, but there it is. He even likes squirrels better than other dogs.
Speaking of which, there were two juvenile Rodentia Arborea doing their level best to tear down the cedars along the back fence yesterday afternoon, which filled both dogs with excitement. I checked to make sure I was wearing shoes and watched, openmouthed, from the deck as they scurried back and forth, shaking branches and sending a cascade of detritus down upon a barking Odd and a leaping, extremely athletic Miss B, who wanted to get her ass up into the branches to herd those small, silly sheep. She landed on Odd twice before he got the bright idea to retreat to the upper garden boxes, where he began to run in circles and bark loudly. Miss B kept going, back and forth along the fence, stopping only to throw herself to whatever altitude her haunches could catapult her weight to.
Needless to say, when they both calmed down, they were filthy. Just a single day after I washed Trundles, too. *sigh* There was a quick brushing to rid them of cedar bits before I dragged them inside. Of course Miss B viewed the brushing as a reward for her doughty performance, and trotted around the rest of the day with her skirts swishing and her ears held high.
The upshot of all this is that they’re both moving relatively slowly this morning, and Odd is exceedingly cranky. He may need a muscle relaxer, the little idiot. Miss B is in a particular stage of almost-elderly-irritation that will no doubt reach epic levels once I leave the house for a run alone.
They’re both getting older, these sweet, silly dogs. Odd doesn’t mind so much, being a creature of sedentary habits, but Miss B doesn’t understand why she can’t run like she used to, or why she gets so tired after a quarter-hour of attempting to scale cedars in pursuit of a herd of juvenile tree-rats. The inevitable codicil to this is that their lives are short, but will be comfortable and full of interesting things.
And with that sobering thought, I’m out the door for a run. Caesar can wait until I come back.
Language Morning
Get up. Stumble through yoga. Stagger into kitchen. Let dogs out, feed cavy his morning treat. Let dogs in, feed them. Breakfast with French and Spanish.
Make coffee. Trip twice heading down the hall, manage not to spill any coffee, open up Rosetta Stone for Latin. Stare at “hoc, hic, haec” and curse every goddamn part of speech. Startle-jump when phone buzzes, reminding me I’ve a 5K slated for later this morning. Eye Caesar, trying to decide if it’s worth opening him up today.
Feel guilty for even contemplating skipping a day. Startle-jump again when a cold wet nose touches my ankle. Let cat out, muttering imprecations.
Head back to my bedroom without tripping, so the coffee must be sinking in. Brush teeth, mumbling “hoc, hic, haec” and various versions of “Fuck this noise.” Grab running shoes, wonder which of my children is stealing my running socks, decide it doesn’t matter. Maybe the dogs have eaten them. Head back to office, stare at Caesar, daring him to open up and say one. goddamn. thing. Have longing thoughts of traveling back in time and stabbing Caesar before Brutus could.
Open Caesar. Blink. Begin reading aloud, checking each sentence against translation on facing page. Startle-jump again when someone slams a car door across the street. Drop Caesar, begin swearing softly so as not to wake the children. Pet Miss B, who has decided I obviously need help and many snootboops this morning. End up sitting on office floor, dog under my arm, reciting Caesar interspersed with “goddammit, fuck you, alliteration, what does that mean…oh, okay…fuck you anyway…”
I have longing thoughts of adding Korean to my daily language practice, but I’m not sure I’d survive the experience.
And that, my friends, is what a Monday morning is like here a la Chez Saintcrow. It’s like every other morning, except with about ten percent more swears.