what I'm thinking and doing § what I'm listening to § what I'm reading
what I'm writing § retrospective: The Phonosnout
My parents were here from Wednesday afternoon until this morning, down from Canada for U.S. Thanksgiving. Usually they come for Christmas, but since this year we'll be having a big family reunion and my sister and all her family will be arriving at my parents' house right after Christmas, my parents decided to come now instead.
It was lower stress for me than them coming for Christmas because I didn't have to decorate and do all the special Christmas preparation things, and I didn't manage to get much that I'd planned done anyway because of spending last weekend zonked out with our colds. The house was swept and vacuumed and the silver polished, but there were many dusty corners and I didn't bake our special welsh cakes that we have at Christmas. Instead we ate Scotch oatmeal for breakfast, which was probably better for us as we did have rich dinners between the turkey on Thanksgiving and a roast lamb last night (one of Mom's and my favourite things). (My apologies to all you vegetarians out there. I do admire you, but I'm a carnivore.)
So my mother slept. She always does when she comes to visit because her day-to-day live is pretty busy and she can relax away from it. We sat around and read a lot. My dad wandered around not quite sure what to do with himself then found the stash of Smithsonian magazines. We went used book shopping, Mom and I made a quick dash into Pike Place Market, then we ate and cooked and read and talked. Nice and low key.
I'm lucky that I can just hang out with my parents and we're all pretty happy. I think they missed their two puppies, though, and were glad to get back home to them. Sure sounded like it from their phone call to let us know they'd arrived safely.
This week's Phonosnout is a visitation of memory on my head, remembering how much I felt about Paul and how intensely. I really was crazily infatuated with him, or at least who I thought he was. The intensity of it all is what I remember best now.
Oh, and my father said that I wasn't that obnoxious in my rabid Christian phase. I'm grateful for that.
So today since my parents left this morning I've been trying to figure out what I do when I don't have visitors and have a study of my own (it's the guest room when we have guests). We did loads and loads of laundry, I tidied up my room and cleaned the kitchen. Jim did a bunch of yard work (and most of the laundry, actually, as he always does) and we got more of the lawn covered up with newspaper and compost to did in next spring for more garden (this we're just going to plant in thyme or some other ground cover we can walk on because it's just below the rock garden. We just don't want grass there because it tries to take over the garden, and we're on a slow campaign to have much less grass. Not that we have a lot.
I'm really tired, and ready for a weekend. Alas, back to work tomorrow morning.
last week's thinking and doing § next week's thinking and doing
Ani Difranco's to the teeth, Fiona Apple's When the Pawn... and Heather Duby's post to wire continue to rule the stereo, with the added spice of Tamara Williamson's Unconscious Pilot again, and right now I'm listening to an odd Swedish man called Nicolai Dunger. The album is Songs Wearing Clothes. It's kinda Jeff Buckley-ish, with strange catchy melodies and lyrics and a jazzy touch to the pop.
I was telling Jim that I wasn't sure about it, and he asked me if I'd like it better if it were by a female artist. I'd like to think that isn't the case. I do like it, just find it odd. I think I'd do that no matter who it was by.
last week's listening § next week's listening
I loved Jonathan Lethem's Motherless Brooklyn, a novel (no speculative fiction aspects of it that I could pick up) about a man with Tourette's Syndrome trying to find out who killed his boss and learning a lot about himself and the world in the process. I found the narrator compelling, and the language-twisting aspects of his condition fascinating and fun. We often play word games like his character was forced to my his condition, and it was alarming to recognize so many of the character's compulsions as things that I think about. I think everyone does, but then what separates us from someone with Tourette's? Anyway, an intriguing mystery, but mostly for the main character and the writing.
I also read a young adult novel by Charlotte Culin, Cages of Glass, Flowers of Time. This is one of those books I would have loved to make the author revise just one more time to get rid all the repetitions and awkward passages and eliminate a few of the constant exclamation points (Gag! heh,) and flesh out the characters just a bit more. The story was about a teenage abused girl who has lived with a grandmother (now dead) and her idolized, alcoholic father, and is forced now to go and live with her alcoholic mother. She finally finds friends and learns to trust them. It reminds me just a little bit of Kaye Gibbons' Ellen Foster, except Ellen is so much more vital than this character seems. But anyway, the story kept me up late to finish it, so I did get caught up in it despite all my quibbles.
last week's reading § next week's reading
Between getting over the cold and my parents' visit, no, I haven't gotten back in gear yet.
last week's writing § next week's writing
About the Phonosnout
431. More story (Dedication to ____)
Well, there once were two. Two together. [Quote from Crosby, Still, and Nash omitted.] Well, that's the way it was for them. Together they were complete, a whole, but when there was just the two of them they were alone because they needed God. So, when the two of them were with God, they were three together. And all of them, all three of them for for each other. Beautiful, eh?1
Sitting here sleepily seed-sitting. That's all i have to say, except Paul's here. Good night.
433. Dead, gray day/Doubts
Cloudy, no sun, yucky weather and it will be June tomorrow. Something's wrong. (Is it the Last Day? Who knows, except God.) Depression. Paranoia. Little pieces of me are dying, day by day. Paul, i need you. Have i never said that to anyone before in my life? I doubt it. Wow, what a heavy. And are you getting bored? Sometimes i think you are. I worry about it a lot. I worry a lot. I'm not me anymore, i'm just lost, sad somewhere. Time is not my friend anymore. Things are changing and i liked them the way they were. Are we heading to the end?
434. Too insecure
For a generally secure, well-adjusted Christian i certainly am feeling insecure a lot these days. I'm worried about so many changes. I wish days would just slow down a bit so i could catchy my breath and get some homework finished. So little time left for so many things. Two weeks more school. Many assignments to do. Four more correspondence papers to finish. A test to write there. English drama test. Lit test? About a month before Paul leaves, then i won't have any time with him until September (them i'll be going to university and won't have any time anyway.) Seed-time running out, our guys are leaving ad we haven't found any summer replacements.
435. Not really
That chapter changed, and it shouldn't really be titled insecurity. I got a little off topic and started babbling about hassles. Oh dear. Hassels are a pain. A big one. And Paul didn't phone when he said he would at lunch. Another worry to add to hassles. I am plagued with worries these days.
Between fits of anger, pain, depression, hope, worries, and doubts, i wait for his phone call, it's late.
437. Does he understand?
Does he understand me at all? How i feel, what i say, what i want from him, and what i think he wants from ? I really wonder, sharing my day with pain.
438. Not so down
I'm not so down anymore. Just tired. I hate Wednesdays and Thursdays, days i don't see Paul. We only reach each other by a short phone call. That in itself hurts, hearing but not being able to see, to touch. So sad. Today is Thursday. All day. (All day? You've got to be kidding. This whole day is Thursday?) I've got work to do. Keep myself busy. Accomplish something.
439. Love is larger than life
Love is larger than life. This is a fact that has made itself clear to me after many years of drifting, one of basing myself on the rock. Love is my rock, my one constant. I like ot share my rock. Hey, you, want some of my rock, i've got plenty to share.
1. I find it so hard not to comment on this stuff. I think if I now met the person I was then I would find myself insufferable. Maybe vice versa, too.
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