my heart is a glorious machine;

Wishing you all (retroactively) a very splendid Christmas, from out here on the other side of the state. Mine has been warm & jolly & more than usually nerdy, and you shall all be regaled with tales when I get home.

(Isn't the weather glorious? I ought to be downcast that we've had such a warm Christmas without any snow at all, but the warmth! It's like a God-gift all of its own. Standing outside Dad's little church in the utter dark without streetlights, without a coat or gloves, while the wind howls around me and sends my scarf out behind me like a banner -- magnificent. A Christmas of howling winds! And rain, and lovely thick mists pooling over the road, although I suppose the mists are not so lovely when you are driving the car rather than being a passenger in it.)

Going home early tomorrow, and -- ugh -- to work, but I am excited to get home and put various and sundry new items to use, and presumably Kyra's parcel will be waiting on my doorstep (I do hope the postman has the good sense to slip it into the entryway, because I would hate for it to get soaked). I've had a sufficiently warm & merry Christmas, with a few little stings of magic in it. ♥

I twined my smallest strand of fairy lights all around my iron headboard this evening, and when the lights are turned off in my bedroom, they send faint finger-touches of colour all about the walls and the bedspread like little blessings.

Thus far the Day Off has been a success. I did not, as I often do, spend a lot of time getting around to accomplishing something, and ending my day of lazy leisure with a thick feeling of disappointment. It took a while, but I did do things eventually -- went to the library (that was purely for pleasure, but as it involved running two blocks in the bitter cold, it woke up my senses enough to get to the Next Step), made a large lunch, cleaned my bedroom. I listened to NPR all day, which I have sorely missed, and -- well, I would have slept in if not for my appointment with Dr DiGilarmo at ten am, which I also ran to (only a block, though). I feel a little less -- jumbled about, now, I think, in some ways? And -- several weeks ago he had me take a test for ADHD, and the questions made me laugh because I was checking "VERY OFTEN" for nearly all of them, so he had me take another one today, to see how consistent my scores were, and -- they were pretty ruddy consistent. So I have an appointment with my doctor on Friday ...  

(I'm rather optimistic about this -- even depression treatment hasn't cleared up some of my messiest mental problems: the fatigue, the inability to concentrate, the way I keep drifting around life unable to touch anything; the way I can never, ever, ever finish projects, or half the time start them; the general feeling of my head never being clear, like my bedroom, except I know how to clean that, and my head just keeps getting more and more cluttered and disorganised and uncomfortable. If I can just straighten out my head -- I think a lot of things come through after that.)

One of the points of interest I was too exhausted to remember last night is that we got our Christmas tree last week, and Saturday morning Mum & the siblings & I decorated it before I went to work. (It wasn't quite right, doing it in daylight, but we had a Christmas open house for members of our little church that evening, so we couldn't wait till after I got home.) Our Christmas tree is always such a fun colourful jumble of unique ornaments, each humming with memories. Of course Leandra keeps trying to run off with them ...  And the fireplace mantle has a garland entwined with fairy lights, and the stockings are up, and there are extra boughs from the tree nestled around the sconces on each end of the far wall: everything is marvellously cosy.

And now for bed... ! (Maybe.)

Someday I mean to talk about why Madeleine L'Engle is my hero, in an actual, legitimate, yes, in every way this is the person I want to become, but tonight, all of the words that would take up really ought to be in my NaNo and not elsewhere. But today is her birthday. And I am filled with a great joy and a great sadness. Does Time run that way in Heaven ever sometimes? Can one perhaps look down on Time, run one's fingers through it as one might make ripples in the water? If so, I would like to think that Madeleine and her Hugh are celebrating together: not celebrating Today Is Madeleine Day, but celebrating the beauty of existence, and of the great completion, and of Joy.

"...An hour with a Mozart sonata at the piano is not wasted time but time spent on a real value. Or really listening, without talking, to music. Or going for a walk to see the beauty around one, or the real importance of a view from a window."

Madeleine, I love you.

Well, no more writing on the job for me. Bah. And of course it was Cranky Manager who told me, although she did it fairly diplomatically. The thing that upsets me, however, is that she, by her own admission, does not mind me writing, the store manager is very unlikely to mind me writing, but Company Policy minds me writing, and if The Man happened to walk by and saw me writing on the job they would probably fire me on the spot. I kind of hate corporations right now. 

Let me rant for a minute.

1. Writing helps me do better on the job. It keeps my mind active and my temperament cheerier.
2. Thus far, writing has never, ever gotten in the way of me doing my job in any way.
3. My job involves, at the moment, me making about one sale per hour. In between I have virtually nothing to do, except occasionally straighten calendars. Writing for five minutes at a time and then going round to make sure things are all right and making certain I am alert to any and all potential customer needs cannot possibly hinder this. I understand that I will get much, much busier -- someday? really? PLEASE? -- and of course I would not spend all sorts of time scribbling when I have lines of customers and people knocking things down and making messes.
4. THIS IS DISCRIMINATION AGAINST NANOERS. CAN I SUE? [/flippant]
5. Writing + books + bookstore employee. Do the math. It is of the good.
6. I really, really hate wasted hours. Quite a lot of people will laugh at this because when I have a bad emo fit I spend quite a lot of time sulking about and doing nothing -- but really, few things make me feel worse than doing nothing for hours on end. When I go to work I feel very insignificant. I spend four hours standing around doing very little. I sell people calendars occasionally, and yes, I am earning money and gaining experience, but it feels so very -- pointless? -- in the end. That's coming off a bit strongly, I think -- what am I trying to say? Superfluous is the word I keep knocking up against. I sell people somewhat expensive things that they do not very much need. Certainly I may make some people happier by -- being pleasant towards them? Making things go more simply? 

So, yes, I felt really horrible and emo after work today. Silly and selfish of me I suppose. I won't write on the job anymore, and if I get into the store eventually I won't have time anyway -- and that's all right with me. I just hate that I have hours and hours in which I can't do anything useful at all. (Of course claiming that my writing is very useful is somewhat presumptuous of me.)

In better news, I was slated to lead worship all by me lonesome this morning and had scrapped together some songs -- all gospelly things that I enjoy playing and singing, because I am very tired of limp worship songs, but I was not exactly looking forward to it because I am Not Very Good at leading worship. So I was practising a bit, and then Jonathan got on the piano and we ended up jamming for a bit, which turned into impromptu-ly adding him to the roster. It was the best worship ever. My voice only did something funny once, the congregation was actually singing a lot, I managed to be slightly charismatic ("okay everybody, we're going to sing this song now!" and "all together now!" and "one more time!"), Jonathan sounded fantastic, I felt really involved in the music, and I wish I could clearly say that it was because I was worshipping, but I can't tell, really, between music-propelled emotion and actual worship, but at least it was good, and whole-hearted, and joyful, and well-meant, so I think that counts for something. Also, everybody sang. It was kind of mind-blowing. I have so much trouble getting anybody besides my parents to sing with me. (And, um, Dad tends to throw me off sometimes because he is sitting in the second or third row singing a really different melody and harmonising and throwing odd little bits in and, argh. I mean, it's kind of adorable, but it really throws me off. And sometimes people start singing a different melody or tempo than I am singing and that messes me up terrifically. But anyway.) 

(Also I had this really vintagetastic new Goodwill dress, which made me a little happier than clothing probably ought to, although practically every single person in the car made fun of my green stockings at least once.)

I wrote two thousand three hundred or so words today, I think. I meant to go for another two hundred at least, but it was eleven o'clock, and I already wrote more than the Daily Quota, so if I keep that up I'll catch up by the end of the month, at least. I can't expect to write three thousand words every day from now on. (Also when I checked my word count I was at 22,222 words, which was so awesome that I had to stop there.) And, oh dear, how I hated most of what I wrote. There is a certain underlying problem, though, that caused most of the hating, which I may expound upon later. But there were about two hundred words, near the end, that I really liked, and after so many exhausted, trite metaphors and repetitive dialogue and my characterisations going bland and stereotyped and melodramatic, that felt good.

I have been enjoying Good Days lately -- a whole string of them, which is lovely, and un-looked for. The air is brimming with October and possibility, and when it isn't, I have been trying my best to keep myself busy.

Sunday: Jonathan's parents and younger sister came to dinner. This I think was a resounding success. The dinner itself went well, the food was fantastic, my cake turned out even better than I'd anticipated (though next time I think there will be more icing), cider was very seasonal & delicious. The company was much enjoyed as well -- the McKeens are pleasant and comfortable and everyone got on very well. Jonathan & Allison & I had Fun With Cameras in the backyard before heading back to Jonathan's apartment for commisseration with Sarah, Hannah, and Victoria, who has just returned from three weeks in Williamsburg, and I have missed her quite a lot, so it was more than usually good to see her. I made a lot of cookies (snickerdoodles & chocolate buttermilk chocolate chip) and they were all eaten, and Taboo was played, and much cheer and goodwill was exchanged.

Monday began with...well, laziness, and me feeling a bit sloshy and thick, but by afternoon Mum & the little girls & I had headed off on an ultimately profitable Goodwill trip, whereupon I acquired the first pair of sandals that I have actually owned and liked in the past five years or so. I loathe flip-flops and anything resembling them with all of my being and most other practical sandals I have come upon would not co-ordinate with anything in my (extremely varied!) wardrobe. But Mum found the splendidest leather t-strap almost-flat sandals, with beading, which I later discovered on the internet retail for around forty-five dollars. I wore them all the rest of the afternoon; they are extremely comfortable and bohemian and will suit next summer's festival-going very well. There were also intruiging black flats with bows & silver buckles, brown & black striped stockings, and a charcoal-coloured hat that looks like a bit like a bucket hat by way of Jane Austen. There was also a Wal-Mart trip, full of kitcheny things and general housekeeping-ness. Almost immediately after we arrived home, Jonathan showed up for a planned photography walk. This was really some of the splendidest fun & glory I've had in ages, I think. The weather was warm and gentle with just a little coldness of breath in the wind, and we explored all sorts of bits and pieces of my town I've hardly or never looked at before, and took pictures of all sorts of odd things. Some of the results from my end will show up on balladrie before long; I am still sorting them out. There is some lovely magic about finding hidden things in a place you know.

Also I bought some really awesome jewellery involving buttons & owls, and stripey warm fingerless gloves. I mention this partially because I am very happy with my purchase, and partially so that I can tell you about how I bicycled to the mall in the near-dark, and the moon came out, and she was full and pale sheeny gold, an old-lace moon netted in lavender clouds, which darkened on the way home to skeins of navy silk.

Tuesday I woke early to see Dad off: he has gone for a quiet sabbatical in a cabin in the woods, where he has been hiking every day, and reading and writing quite a lot, he told me on the phone this evening. The rest of the day involved watching a lot of Firefly (I first fell in love with Firefly last October and now it has become one of my Autumn Things, like Sunshine and Abigail Washburn and certain sorts of baked goods and combinations of colours in my clothing and the onset of me wearing more eyeliner than usual), and an excursion, which was sort of a walk, and sort of a going to Hockman's for some chocolate caramels and then taking the long way back to the park, where I curled up on the far edge, away from the playgrounds and the city pool and the ball-fields, under several trees, between the picnicking pavillion and the stream. I lay on the grass under the gathering clouds and read The Secret History of Moscow, which along with The Graveyard Book is probably going to be one of this year's most memorable Autumn Books. I missed having one last year, and since Autumn is practically a holiday to me, this was very unfortunate. I had Winter Books that could have done just as well for Autumn but they came too late. The year before that I discovered Neil Gaiman and Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, and the year before that it was Sunshine, which it is now tradition for me to read at the end of October -- I am chomping at the bit to re-read it now, but I make myself wait! -- and bake cinnamon rolls to coincide. Anyway, it started to drizzle (which is a very ugly word; I don't like it; it has very little resemblance to the delicate little scatter-rains I love so much), and my poor library book was getting damp, so I went into the pavillion and got a bit chilly and watched Firefly a bit more, with my chocolates.

I think it was also yesterday when I had the candelabra on my trunk burning so long that the left-most candle is nearly flat, and there is a great mass of picturesque wax dripping down.

Today I have watched more Firefly, read, and gone to Hockman's with Heidi and Leandra, where Leandra got a free chocolate for being ridiculously adorable and grinning her little seven-toothed grin. It's been softly rainy most of this day, too, what Mum called "Seattle rain", my favourite sort of October weather -- it makes one want to be cosy, but also to be outside, and alive. The streets finally smell absolutely of autumn -- wet leaves and far-away woodsmoke and rain and things decaying quietly and willingly, and that undefinable autumnery that must be its very own scent, independent of all material causes. I took a little barefoot not-on-purpose walk down the sidewalk a bit, loving the trees, and in the luxury of dusk stood on the ledge overlooking the road in all the wet. Our house is on a hill, but the hill is only a hill from the back, where it drops steeply down to a patch of grass and the road that feeds into the main through-town one. There's a long sort of curb of wood keeping the yard a little safer, and some odd, thin trees jumbled up together. I love standing on the ledge and just watching things. Mostly cars, but the park is just a little ways from the other side of the road, and the Medicine Shoppe is exactly across, so often there is someone walking by.

We have been making our home more homey by getting all of the decorations out of boxes and putting them on walls where they belong. The living room is almost finished; the bedrooms are pretty well set also. I indeed take pictures when things are more in order and there are fewer boxes everywhere. My bedroom needs more posters -- I will buy them with my paycheck!! -- and I am thinking of copying lady_moriel and making a collage for my door. I spent a few hours today listening to Lisa Hannigan and NPR, and pulling everything from where it was crammed into my dresser drawers, sorting it out, folding it, and putting it back in, except I hung a lot of things in the Main Clothing Closet (Jonathan was right; I do need to name my four closets), so there is much more room now, and everything is considerably more organised, and my bedroom feels a little bit more settled.

Also I cut myself shaving -- BAH, I HATE RAZORS -- and knocked a shadowbox off the wall, shattering glass everywhere, one bit of which I stepped on. The cut was small, but there was an inconvenient amount of blood. One of these days I will grow out of this? 

It's been a gorgeous couple of days, I must say; extremely refreshing. The odd thing is that I've been doing a lot more work than usual, as well as having Events to attend, and yet I'm feeling completely un-rushed, and almost as though I have more free time than I usually do. I've been reading for long stretches at a time (I just finished Orson Scott Card's Speaker for the Dead, which -- gorblimey. I can't remember the last time I've been so utterly absorbed in a book.), baking, streaming BtVS on the laptop, watching Once, playing music, doing Useful Internet Things -- so far the only Thing I Always Mean To Do When Everyone's Gone that I haven't done is any writing, and since I've been doing so many other useful things, both practical and emotionally fulfilling, I am emphatically not feeling guilty about it. Furthermore, laptop.

Last night was glorious -- after Once and a little straightening (and a lot of live streaming WUMB), I put on my apostrophe dress and my red shoes and the Angelmobile and I took off for the theatre to see Sarah and Hannah in the Teen Theatre showcase, which consisted of a lot of short plays that I very much enjoyed. Victoria was there as well, and Alessandra's brothers Brennan and Jesse, so it was a merry time. After the play there was a bit of hobnobbing before we headed our separate ways (well, separate as in "everyone else in the Meholicks' van, me on a bicycle"). Riding at night is lovely; the air was just a little chilly and there was wind in my hair and the sky was dotted over with stars and a brightly glimmering nearly-full moon. It was so unbearably lovely that as soon as I got home and had my bicycle in the garage and shed my coat and shoulder bag I ran back outside and wended my way up the hill. Oh, I wandered up there for hours, it felt like, singing old songs, with the moon glinting at me through the trees, and the stars (and aeroplanes) winking overhead. After a while I simply lay in the grass and stared up at the stars -- the stars always make me feel closer to God than anything else. It's odd, I suppose, because one is supposed to feel small and insignificant when one beholds the splendour of the night sky, but it always makes me feel -- connected. Almost as though I can feel my blood humming in my veins, and the pull of the moon on the tides, and the way everything in the world fits together, and how this world fits together with the heavens, and how I fit into the scheme of everything. When I look at the stars, I feel anchored.

And after skimming the f-list and reading a little and, er, having another slice of cake (it's very good cake!), I went upstairs and cosied up in my blankets and lit all the candles I have holders for, because my lamp is broken, and for a little while after I was too sleepy to read I lay in bed with the covers up to my chin, watching the blurred glimmer of the candles and the flickering of the firelight over the walls and ceiling. (I blew them out before I was sleepy enough to fall asleep, though, don't worry.) And there was that stillness, that beautiful singing stillness that feels -- unstill, alive, I don't know, it's more than silence. I want to say "communing" -- not to be mystical -- but communing with what? God? Myself -- the truest part of myself? I don't know. But it's peace, and it's beautiful.

This morning started slowly; I stayed cosied up beneath the covers and listened to Morning Edition on NPR for a while, and watched a bit of telly, and had some orange juice, until I finally stopped lazing about and got drlady_morielessed and cleaned the hall and most of the bathroom and a lot of downstairs and the last corners of my bedroom (...sort of). And the day's been mostly like that. Cleaning, turning the radio up loud -- the Folk Show on our local NPR station was on until just now and for once they had a competent DJ playing good music rather than third-tier no-name singer-songwriters and amateur local string bands, and I've been making a great big batch of my fantastically luscious cinnamon rolls for tomorrow (WHEN KYRA IS HERE). Cinnamon rolls are an excellent thing to make when no-one else is around, because a) they take a very long time, and b) you cannot help but make a truly incredible mess. I've just cleaned it up and the cinnamon rolls are cooling on the counter and when they are ready to be put away and I stop typing on, I am going to get the Angelmobile and head off. The gang is having one last great bash before Alessandra gets married on Monday and moves away to California. (Hopefully I get home tonight before my parents do; if not, I am leaving a large, brightly coloured note.)

AND KYRA IS COMING TOMORROW. ALKSHDGLKHGH. lady_moriel and I have known each other for nearly seven years and she is my oldest and bestest friend, but we have never actually met -- so she may be an axe murderer. If I never post again, she has probably hacked off my head and carried it off to her lair to display on the wall with the heads of her other victims. But anyway she will be here for a week and I am bubbling with excitement and half-formed plans and, oh yeah, terror. (What if she doesn't like me in person? But she's seen the very worst of my emotastic whingeings; if she still likes me after all of that she won't forsake me because I am clingy and sneeze like a freight train and talk too fast and fall over a lot, right? Right?) It's also sort of fascinating from a psychological perspective, and...strange. All of these years she's been words on my screen and a voice on the telephone and suddenly she's going to be here? In my world? And we've been talking about getting together for years, some plans more serious than others, and I still don't really believe she's coming at all, and won't, until she's in my car tomorrow morning flopping over with jet-lag and suitcases. I'm having gigantic silly metaphysical thoughts that are too convoluted for words. Furthermore I have been overcome with completely random fits of squee ("lalala, cleaning the bathroom...FOR KYRA. KYRA IS COMING TO SEE ME TOMORROW! *flail*") and may have jumped up and down on the bed. Just a little bit.

Well then. I ought to put away those cinnamon rolls and find a jacket and depart.

So, my birthday.

I've been feeling especially out of sorts the past several days, and I didn't want to write it in that mood and sound cross all throughout; I'm not feeling precisely fabulous today, but it's been long enough, and I don't want to forget anything.

I am trying to sting myself back into life. It keeps going foggy round the corners, or foggy all around, and I am tired of being unable to touch anything, of being able to taste, to feel.

Last week I lit all of the candles in my room (only three; I'm running low), threw open the windows, wrapped myself tight in my green knit shawl, and played Sarah Slean's new album straight through, watching the candles flicker and gutter. I haven't got deep into an album in some time, and it took a few songs before my thoughts stopped running hither and thither like a lot of lost sheep, but though the curtain never quite parted I felt the breeze that might someday lift it.

Yesterday evening, I looked out of the window: the sun was just beginning to dip down below the trees, and everything was that vivid, desperate green that comes with rain and early spring and the dimming of the light, and suddenly I had to be out in it. I had Moony in my pocket, and I walked out of the house and wandered a while, not knowing exactly where I meant to go until I got there -- the pond, a block or so away, with the Methodist church on the other side flickering its stained-glass shadow on the water, the sun just low enough to make everything quiet, and I stood by the water, and then on the dock, walking back and forth across the boards and becoming inside the music, inside of my skin, inside of my head; more solid, a compass needle that does not waver quite so much. I sang aloud, because there was no-one around to hear me, and a bird flew down and skimmed the surface of the water, and as the sun went down the church glimmered ever more brightly over the water, the world got quieter and smaller and larger in the strange intimacy of evening: little bats flittered over the water singing to one another, geese rippled its surface, the chill in the air felt sharp and green and awake. I sat on a bench beneath a tree and wrapped my arms around my knees and sang and thought, and didn't think at all.

My shuffle produced an Abigail Washburn reel and so I had to dance, on the grass, which was too wet, and then on the boards, until I was out of breath but alive, with a certain clarity of feeling.

I stood over the water and I sang, because it was quiet, and no-one but the bats and the geese could hear me (and anyway I've just got over a cold and have missed most awfully being able to sing), and then I walked home in the dark.

I am tired of walking dead, but at the same time the world seems so exhausting, and I wonder how much energy I can expend to keep the sting in my blood before it wears me down and I go back.

Today (22 February) is Edna St. Vincent Millay's birthday. charismitaine has an utterly fabulous commemorative entry which all of you should read, but I must at least make some offering in celebration of one of my favourite poets.

For those of you who have not yet read it, and do not know my long and rather fantastic complex relationship with it, this may very well be my favourite poem. It is also my anthem. (You should also read Patricia MacLachlan's book Baby, which was where I first met this poem; I then became re-acquainted with it in the Americans' Favourite Poems anthology and had one of those rare rushes of seeing-past-the-curtain I refer to, after L.M. Montgomery, as the flash. ...Aaand then I wrote a story.)


And another, which I have posted before, which also gave me the flash. After a scene in Rosemary Sutcliff's The Eagle of the Ninth, Lethe has always been one of my special things.


Lastly, a particular treat: Vincent's poetry set to music (cello and piano) by Erica Mulkey, also known as Unwoman. It sounds exactly right.

(And perhaps I shall simply call this Vincent's Birthday Weekend, because goodness knows I could use more geekery in my life, so beware, for poetry might spring upon you when you least expect it.)

So, have been functioning and not functioning in rather dizzying succession, and have been mostly scanning the internet in a sort of haze and not getting anything done. (Sounding familiar yet?) The good news is that I saw Serenity and it was fantastic (and I really really do need to say something more concrete about both Firefly and Serenity eventually...another one of those things I Am Going To Do Later. Actually, probably when my laptop comes home. Then I can, you know, write about Simon's waistcoats when I should be sleeping.)

So, in lieu of an actual post, here's some music I've been listening to lately.



Today it was windy and rainy and dark, and a few hours ago I slipped out of the house with my cloak on and ran around outside staring at the trees, blazing in orange and gold -- the two great orange trees across from our parking lot have carpeted the road with leaves. And it was dusk and the clouds were so thick and dark and stormy and there was rain of water and rain of leaves and it was perfect. The world rarely looks the way it seems to in photographs and films, but tonight glimmered with the sorts of lights and shadows and contrasts that you don't believe exist. I ran barefoot up the back road and along the base of the hill and the wind whipped me round and I was gloriously chilly and wet. The rest of the day was unexceptional, but this evening made it magical.