That Hoary Cripple, With Malicious Eye

I've spent the last six days in bed! Or on the lounge! Same thing! I was so bored today I nearly painted my nails! Black, but still! I feel very weird! I'm in at work tonight! Not sure this is a good idea! I have fifteen minutes before the trauma specimen finishes and I have to do a crossmatch! No pressure! I think I may lose my voice! That would be trouble! Semaphore doesn't work down phones! I've tried! The phone wound up rebounding into my face after catching on my out-flung arm! These exclamation marks are giving me a headache!

The fog has settled in for the night; the streetlights are hazy and soft, illuminating little. The road, bordered by untended grassy fields, dips ahead into the black. The mist catching on the grasses looks like frost; cold and breathtaking. Visibility is at ten metres and dropping: a man stands in the long grass by the side of the road. Unseen, he leans down to fuss at something at his feet, then looks at the road. He can hear nothing, but the fog - the blasted fog - could be hiding anything. He moves in front of the unseen bundle and reaches down. He pulls ropes up to his shoulder, turns and pulls the bundle behind. It could be a rolled-up rug. It could be.

Husbandly caught the lurgy as well, but he, natch, is shaking it off after a day or so. Shouldn't there be some rule about taking it in turns for illnesses? Not that I wish him sick, but it seems a bit unfair when I subsist on four hours sleep a day Mondays and Tuesdays while toddling off to work all night. Ah. Perhaps I have put my finger on the problem. Hmmm. Will have to consider options, yes?

The three sisters tended house for their ailing mother, a cliche in four parts. None of the sisters married; their mother and eventually they themselves discouraged such things. They grew their own vegetables and took in sewing when times were lean, or, not so lean, for special occasions. Over the years their prowess with needles earned them celebrity. They might have been known as witches, else.

My ten minutes is well up and has been for a while; there's been a problem. Now I have to wait for a new sample. Lucky me. I shall leap (leap!) into action when it arrives. I really do need a life instead of alternating odd paragraphs. I would have liked to have taken some more time off but ditto the needing a medical certificate and unable to get to doctor; I'm not so badly off as I was, I'm just tired. Or...

There were cigarette butts jammed into a styrofoam cup by the back door, squashed into dirty liquid that might have been coffee. She hoped none of the staff knew she came out here, but didn't care enough to stay inside. She could sit by that bed for only so long before the walls closed in, the smell became unbearable, the scream inside her head no longer un-screamed. The hospital was tiny - he should have been flown out to Sydney yesterday. There was a storm, she could feel the acid dripping off the words - more important people than her husband would be flown out first. Then the storm. He was still here and no longer conscious.

Ferrets dance in my fevered brain and I feel I should explain; the darkness and dreck. Nah. I just like the word ferret. I wish I had brought my pillow tonight though, if only to be able to rest. Every now and then. Between samples, as it were. At least I no longer have to do fertility counts (yes, that is what it sounds like - Gentlemen, if your swimmers were slow, I salute you - they were easier to count). I sometimes miss some of the things I've done in my career. I told small lad about being an enucleator for the Eye Bank (yes, removal of eyes for donation). It was a brief period. His response? "Yuck." Succinct. I like it.

I hear the sea booming at the shoreline through the crack of the window and wonder if I should be finding it relaxing. I smell jasmine from the trellis just under the window: the night should be warmer so the scent of jasmine can herald some promise. The smell of flowers should always be warm, because the first time I smelt gardenia was at a funeral. The body was cold so the smell was stale.

See? Lots of detail in the unwritten words. It is long past midnight now, I had to break off to do all sorts of work and ... stuff. I am going to put this in under Septemeber, because I like temporal upsets (it's like I have my own TARDIS). I would sing if I had a song to sing, but in lieu of singing I shall spare your eardrums and simply say, if they held upper-class twit of the year, someone would claim discrimination. It would be an open event for twits of all socioeconomic dispositions. There's a thought, yes?

My Little Horse Must Think It Queer

I wish to sleep far more than I do. Failing time I would choose to sleep more deeply and all-round under the radar. Today's carnival of dreams involved Nathan Fillion looking concerned, but I could only see half of his face - as if I was too short and trying to see him across a shiny table. His face was reflected in the surface with something strange about his mouth. I climbed on something to see better and he didn't have a mouth, it was a black concrete railway tunnel. He held it open and I kept waiting for the scream, but there were only whispers, dark and deep, dry and dead, his eyes were dead, but it wasn't him it was a blonde man whose eyes should have been red. Then I was standing in the lab trying to spray the air with deodorant but I was holding the can in some spastic way so I sprayed my fingertips and got that foaming-because-you've-hit-to-close-to-the-nozzle.

Sleeping during the day isn't all it's cracked up to be.

I found a note to myself about zombies feasting on brains, with no tie to Nathan Fillion so far as I'm aware. I can't figure out the appeal of les zombis to anyone since I find them pretty naff (I have seen the enemy and he is a shambling corpse). The potential for metaphor is enormous, if completely unsubtle and lost in the bits-keep-falling-off-and-there-are-fluids-and-teeth! I have enough fluids, including other people's, to deal with, thank you very much. Besides, imagine the smell.

I have rediscovered Robert Frost (and apologia of a not very formal nature to anyone looking for more Robert Frost than my titles and this paragraph). I have words singing through my head when I'm not asleep. That it may be preventing my own use of words is troubling me only slightly. The music of words is enough for anyone if they know how to listen and the woods are lovely, dark and deep.

For Christmas I will be getting a Doctor Who Sonic Screwdriver - Tenth Doctor - which I suspect will be a boomerang back to small lad since he was supposed to hide it while I forgot about it when it arrived. Instead I had a rehash of "Partners in Crime" in small lad-speak. He wants to try the pointing of two sonic devices together. His sonic screwdriver - Eleventh Doctor - is now part of his school kit, in that it goes in the side pocket of his bag and gets carried everywhere. I love that he lives in his head.

Plumber's cracks abound around me at the moment. There is a lot of work going on around the lab and at home there have been workmen. Of the plumber's crack variety, not the serious eye candy sort. Dammit.

Once upon a time there was a frog who had once been a parrot. He also tried out monkey-ness, being a teapot, half-a-bee, a barfly and eventually gave up to live in a puddle. The end.

The Mirror [Not] Crack'd

I read a description in a book a few months ago, somehow fascinating and repellent: "...ornate, abstractly phallic orifices". What is an abstract phallus? Is it a metaphorical penis? The kind that women of a ballsy nature supposedly have, or am I confusing my metaphorical body parts? While we're about it, what is a phallic orifice? Blame Kevin J. Anderson.

It puts me in mind of a Lalique homage, a fountain, in charcoal cement, oddly smoothed: grey concrete paving in a cold canyon between black skyscrapers. There are no seats. Men and women are here, not gathered, but not wandering; standing still in deep shadow. The light is that of dawn, but darkness holds sway here. The men wear black suits, black shiny shoes, white shirts and black ties. The women wear black suits with knee-length skirts; their shoes are flat; their hair is long but sternly fashioned. They all look cold between the black glass.

Water gushes, steaming, from the fountain. Standing close to the fountain is warm in spite of the dampness from it. No-one stands close. That way lies madness.

Hello, it's been a while, I'll be a little weird this morning.

Creepy fragments are shooting through my head this morning. ("Once upon a time there was a woman who lived in a small cottage, and her husband beat her.") Don't ask me, occasionally my head just comes up with this sort of thing, although the rhythm of that sentence comes from Neil Gaiman's American Gods. The story of the twins for those in the know ("...the rest is just detail."). The woman in the cottage lives alone, just to confuse the issue. It might be in fragments, but there's an awful lot of detail in the unwritten words.

It's early in the morning, husbandly has left for work and small lad sleeps, sprawled in a warm bed. I have hay fever and am trying not to sneeze - I don't want to wake him.

I have housework and sleeping before paid work to consider for the day, but a twitching in my fingertips that wants me to type, to write something, anything, even if the ideas cupboard is full of fragments and Browning's "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came" keeps hovering at the edge of my mind.

In a reflective mood I carry on, even if he lied in every word and looked askance to see the effects: in my case it's statistically more likely that she lied. Most of my friends and acquaintances are girls (of varying ages and probably not qualifying for the soubriquet of "girl").

Labels only matter if the substance of them is wrong, and to my mind we're all kids yet. Why not? It isn't a matter of being a child but rather retaining childhood's filters, seeing the world anew every time. That I'm a grown woman with a child of my own makes no difference that I can see. Even in those times when I have to be the grown up and responsible. That's part of the fun too.

The cat sits on the table outside, puffed out and cold looking; while she would like to be patted, and warm, if I bring her inside I'll score another puncture as she tries to bite me. She tolerates me, but it's husbandly she truly loves. There are birds squawking rather than singing in this post-dawn apocalypse. I don't know why "apocalypse" seems right and the word itself looks wrong the longer I look at it. I keep waiting for the steel drum to start, but then realise that I'm thinking of calypso music, with a quick cross-reference to Pirates of the Caribbean and weird crab things. Full of fragments, that's my head this morning.

I could go like this all day, but prosaically I have to consider the morning-before-school routines and I want to post this because I'm tired of coming across this blog in corners as something undone and waiting. I like talking, even in the written word, and that this is not so much a conversation as a whisper in your ear is of no moment. Whispers, intimate things, reaching out in the dark (I don't care that it's dawn here, whispers should always happen after lights out, the best way to share secrets). This whisper reaches out to you, to stir not response but reflection; man, do I have my freak on today.

He Lied In Every Word

I'm thinking of cultivating an ethereal and mystical aura. The only things that spring to mind from that sentence are a tie-dyed T-shirt, a long cotton skirt, sandals, frizzy hair and the reek of sandalwood, so the look probably isn't for me. Give me jeans, pithy slogan T-shirts and Amazing Impromptu Haircut any day. I also loathe sandalwood.

The reason for this is some of the ridiculous awkwardness from a neighbourhood mum because I gave her daughter an ice pack for a twisted ankle. ("I'll get it back to you," she sheepishly announced). I found these ice-cube bags in the amazing plastic bag aisle while grocery shopping (cringe*) and had one filled up. Since the ice-pack is disposable, I wasn't too fussed about getting it back. Really. If I wanted it back I would have said where and when. I'm direct like that.

While I'm on the subject, I'm not un-fond of my possessions, but they are only possessions. If I lend something to someone, I hope for it back, but I say goodbye before I hand it over. Not because I think it will get damaged, destroyed or run off with, just because accidents sometimes happen. If it's a disposable something, I couldn't care less if it became Prime Minister, won an Oscar and went on to say it was all down to its new owner in its thank-you speech. The awkwardness** then is perplexing, and occasionally irritating.

So the mystical and ethereal manner could work for me. I could look even more vague than usual. I only need to practice a beatific smile, and stop saying "WHAT?" when I've had a zone-out. I could wear a long cotton dress thing and an occasional stretchy velvet thing. And smell of sandalwood (if I had nose plugs). Although practising facial expressions in a mirror feels a bit American Psycho, and Patrick Bateman is a tool.

*Normally I avoid gadgety-plastic-bags like this because they're disposable, usually craptastic (or less fabulous than I've hoped) and seem a ridiculous waste of all the effort to make plastic. I'm funny that way. I also have a sidebar feeling of the great advertising cliche: being one half of two c's in a k. Erk. (Although I don't have another c that I talk to about shopping in my kitchen over coffee and teacakes we've baked ourselves. Perhaps I'm doing something wrong and should embrace the cliche.)

**I have an urge to invent the word "awkwardity". Until I see how stupid it looks when I type it.

It's three a.m. in the neighbourhood and I've hit a sleepy spot.

It's hard to function at this time of night,
When eyelids slide shut in spite of false light;
My head hits the bench as sleeping I fall
In flittering dark, a whispering hall.
Liquid muttering, shapes felt but unseen,
A glimmer of skin, unhealthy, unclean;
I should run away; no running, not yet.
There's nowhere to go, it's in my own head,
As if the horrors I know took root: bred.
Short naps such as this are double-edged gifts;
The rest of the sleep, the dreams in the rift.

So fell Lord Perth; see that crater in the Earth?

Morphometric Cartoon Characters

At the moment I'm reading The Wayfinders Why Ancient Wisdom Matters in the Modern World by Wade Davis. Very long-winded title, but appropriate since it's a lecture series, really, rather than a book. Very interesting. I just finished The Stars My Destination (yes, okay also known as Tiger! Tiger!) by Alfred Bester ("...for tin crumbles to dust in the absolute zero of space."), one of my favourite novels for the moment.

At the back of my copy is a little blurb from Neil Gaiman (is it just me or does he turn up everywhere?); apparently Alfie Bester bequeathed his estate to his favourite bartender. Who knew? Well, apparently lots of people, but Wikipedia was strangely reticent about the fact. Because I like conspiracy theories, even small ones, I'm going with no-one wanting to mention that he drank. A Lot. Towards the End.

In the way of wiki, that led me on to Babylon 5's Alfred Bester. For some reason, although he's played by Walter Koenig, still recognisably Chekov, the character keeps morphing in my brain into Bilis from Torchwood season 1 (Captain Jack Harkness/End of Days).

The mind is strange. Mine, anyway.

As predicted, I've done less than I hoped to do in the house-clean-keeping stakes, but then, I also made Yorkshire puddings with dinner tonight, so I'm not too bummed. The boys are keeping well. And I predict, since I've come in to work and there were puddings left over, over-fed.

Anything else to report? No not really. I've taken to braiding my hair again. Isn't that a bottom-of-the-barrel mention?

My head is all over (the braid isn't long enough to hold it in place), partly due to my reading habits lately, because nothing messes around with my inner life than compelling science fiction - slideshows of the Spanish Stairs, a space-yacht and the commercial dynasties of the world persisting into the future ad infinitum as a ridiculous upper class - the exhilaration is marvellous, though the spontaneous giggles are off-putting for passersby.

The rest of the slideshows currently running (come visit my head, bring your own popcorn and please be tidy) are intercuts between two short stories that are not written yet. Probably if I did the work instead of thinking about it, things would proceed swimmingly, but again I'm caught in the conundrums of far too much to do half the time, and little motivation for things other than sleep the rest. And the boys have been home. And I'm sure I can think of more excuses if I try only a little. If I try really, really hard, my head might pop.

I normally drink about a litre of water on my shifts these days. The tea room is right next door! There is nice water! There are no comfortable chairs! Count them, zero. Really. No comfortable chairs in a tea room. I'd bring in my own, but it's a bit big to be carting around. It probably doesn't comply with OH&S requirements either. Frankly the thought of doing a risk assessment on a comfy chair doesn't float my boat. It does boggle my mind, however. The Spanish Stairs must be wearing off.

I have no idea where I was going with that. I had to stop and do some work (that is, after all, what they pay me for); marvellous for breaking the concentration.

Anyhoo, as I wasn't saying, I was thinking of doing something postgraduate. I found a couple of master's programs (not the "he knocks four times" Master, but the- oh, you know), that looked pretty interesting. I think it was either Charles Sturt or UNE that had an MA with a non-MA component. I was thinking of doing the "Arts" requirements and then picking up either maths, IT or pathology subjects to fill it out. That would be interesting. Then I looked at the cost. Which didn't bother me, per subject; I could always do the units I wanted without an award at the end. I'm a grownup, I can do whatever I want. Then I saw a disclaimer on one of the websites saying "you must balance the expected career benefits against the cost of this course". Consider me paused. I think I'll just muddle along without, thanks.

Speaking of he knocks four times, back to the science fiction, what the hell was up with those episodes? Flying death's head. Green light things. Ay? Tim Dalton as evil Time Lord, kinda nifty.

No idea where I was going with that either, except the boys are having the Doctor Who Bonanza (all seasons and specials now available in my iTunes library! Go nuts, boys!). Me, not so much, although I did make them sit through "Midnight", my favourite creepy Doctor Who after "Blink".

Much, much later than the above, that will teach me to think it was going to be a really quiet night. You know it's bad when you start growling every time the phone rings. Although people who know me are remembering the number of times I've been caught swearing whenever the phone rings at work. The only thing that mortifies me is that I'm not all that creative in my swearing, generally it's {expletive} off and then I answer the phone. Pick an expletive, I don't always go on about fornication.

Not everything is about sex. Including sex. Apparently.

The View May Be Dazzling: Oxygen Masks are Optional

A few weeks ago I got a delightful surprise in the mail. I subscribed to the Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, and promptly forgot I had. Since all I get are bills in the mail, the marvellous package of issue 50 made my day. The stories were exceptional, which made all of that joy (and giggling) worthwhile.

For myself, I've turned into Gene Roddenberry: can't write for sour owl poop. (Thank you Harlan Ellison). I keep false starting on a short story that I think may have a novel in it somewhere, but, sucks budgies, it's just not coming.

I've discovered I'm overly fond of the semicolon; it seems the book on grammar wasn't entirely wasted.

Or perhaps it was, I'm undecided; just because I like punctuation marks doesn't mean the rest of the world will appreciate my use of them. Okay. Stopping on that now.

Umm. Err. Where is my constant stream of bullcrap from yesteryear? It seems I have lost my way in the verbosity stakes. How frightfully dull of me.

The Royal Wedding is, by now, done and dusted, or nearly so. I tuned in to see the dress (ahem, The Dress), but aside from the light moment of seeing Wills and Kate trying not to crack up at the altar (?), couldn't have cared less. And still don't.

I did some more ironing today, yip-yip-yippee, then transferred recipes to "my" recipe book. Does that sound profitable? I thought so, until I remembered all of the other things I intended to do today. Since I'm starting a run of five in a row, I'll be a bit pushed over the next few days, but I think I'll just have a go at a bit at a time. At least the new and improved bathroom only takes a little while to clean.

That's what I'm telling myself now, but of course I'll do less and beat myself up all over again. Never mind, it will all come out in the wash. Literally, since that's what I needed to get done today.

There was some excitement in our street this afternoon. I heard sirens start up and had that automatic thought of "is that coming to our place? Naaah, can't be", as you do. Then I realise that it is in front of our place. Cue looking out the front door, like the nosy neighbour that I am (in this context, anyway), since it turned out that one of the girls next door decided to dial triple-0, just for the hell of it, and ask the fireys to come out. Nice. Yes, she is old enough to know better. Young people today.

I was thinking about my last entry (blah, blah, nothing to say) - the fun stuff that happens at work I have to leave at work. The nerd stuff (gee-I-like-this-different-method-and-actual-work) I wouldn't even bother boring anybody with, but oh sigh, the hilarious clinical notes (explosive headache after hitting brick wall with face (you think?)), names and general silliness of some of the things we get (please test this clear fluid to see if it is anything) I can't say anything about. Patient confidentiality, anyone?

Disclaimer: I made up the examples above. Of course I did. And any resemblance to anything or anyone is a complete coincidence. Really, honest and for true.

Speaking of making stuff up, and I usually do, we have a running saga on our kitchen whiteboard about three frog brothers, Bob, Clob and Shlob. Although they may have to turn into butterflies - my audience of one (yes, that would be Alex), complained about them being frogs. I did include some butterflies in the last story. In terms of story we are talking two paragraphs at most, but I stand by it being a story. Even if one of the kids from the street poo-poohed it. Sucks budgies, I say. The particular kid is twelve and my target is seven. So nerts.

(Not the same kid who called the fireys today, that was a different one.)

(Children! Everywhere! It's frightening!)

More speaking of making stuff up, and I told you I usually do, although this is only barely in the same category, I want my patterns to arrive from the US. Hurry up, International Checkout! I went mad about a month ago and made bags left, right and centre (actually...no I won't do that joke to you). I have a new sewing machine and everything. Thank you, ebay. So now I want to make myself some stuff. HURRY. UP. This toying with my emotions is not fun.

Shh, it's a secret, I'm also waiting on a sonic screwdriver for small lad's birthday. Don't tell him, okay?