Yo-yo day.

I have good days and bad days, but today was just whacked.

I got up, and my little red car had a flat. (Not really a big deal since I hardly drive it because it needs so much work, but now I have to monkey around to drive it. Whatever.) Another token in the “oh, yeah, baby – you are so going to get canned” slot fell – first thing at work. I go to counseling, and I can tell something is up from the way my counselor comes out of her office. Turns out the grant that has been paying for my going to see her is up, and not renewed. But the worst part was a friend of a friend had choked on her breakfast, and they thought she had gone too, too long without oxygen.

BUT! I get home from counseling, just cringing at what is going to happen next, when my friend calls and says her friend woke up and asked for ice cream! And that someone we work with had come by and filled up my tires! and then I went to talk to a benefits counselor for my clinic, and it turns out she used to work for the county and can help me navigate a bunch of other things I need help with!

I lit candles and said thanks.

Folly.

I’ve got a few rocking chairs. Maybe it’s sort of like a hope chest, and if I get enough of them I’ll be able to retire. Except it hasn’t worked. Good try, though.

My first rocker is still my favorite. I picked it up down on the corner of 38th and, maybe 20th ave? long, long ago. I was working with a woman who lived in the same neighborhood, who had been eying it up also, but I jumped first. (Irrelevant, but still makes it a little sweeter.) Stupidhead is all about the sucking up to me these days, and is bored stiff, so he decided to clean it up a little.

I only left him alone in the garage with it for a couple of hours, I swear. Three weeks later, it is back together.

It was fun, except for the parts where I had to yell at him to not turn it into a Frankenstein. Except it already was; Stupidhead figured it had been repaired (or “butchered,” as he put it) three times. I’ve had the chair for probably 25 years, and had never really looked at what was going on with it. I’d noticed bits and pieces, like the 45-degree chop in the front of the one leg where somebody had put in a replacement bolt, and the nails driven through the top of the arms into the legs. But I’d never thought about what all had happened to it. It was obviously designed for a big person, and a really big person must have used it and abused it. There is a stress fracture across the grain in one of the back uprights, and another in one of the legs. The wood itself is terribly dried out, and a few peg holes had to be reinforced. It creaks like crazy now, all the joints settling back into place.

But the biggest thing is the finish. The chair is oak, probably lightly fumed. Stupidhead wandered around our good friend the internet and found a new old technique called french polish, multiple thin, thin layers of shellac. Now this battered old cheap piece of crap rocker glows. I was almost late to work this morning; I was walking past it and the thin light of early morning set it off, and I had to stop for a minute and stare at the grain in the seat.

And this is where it gets cosmic. I’m reading a book by Laurie R. King, the one who wrote “The Bee-Keeper’s Apprentice,” called “Folly.” (Really good, by the way; set in the San Juan Islands.) The protagonist in this book is a woodworker; she talks about a piece finished in french polish. I am so cool. I know how to do it.

Representatives talking about healthcare reform.

via SG.

Remember knitting?

It’s funny, all these blogs I got to through knitting, and how many don’t talk much about it any more. Which is fine, because I have enough projects to last my lifetime, and not enough money to buy the beautiful yarns that are out there. Except, did I tell you that the local yarn store is run by this wild lady who dyes her own, including this one sock yarn in yellow and red that would look just like flames knitted up? I don’t go in there at all….

I’m working on Daughter’s socks, the ones that were supposed to be done in time for her orientation camping trip? Last August? I’m still working on the 6-pack of beer I bought when she went away to school, too. I’m working on a purple scarf, “Branching Out.” I don’t really care for lace, at least in lace-weight yarns, except for those first few glorious moments when it comes off the blocking board. And knitting it. Very satisfying, following the pattern and watching it unfold.

I applied for a part-time job at the local book chain store, for a lot of reasons. The first being BOOKS, and meeting people who read books. Second, I could use the money. Third, I will never feel secure in a job again, I suspect. I was told that my supervisor and her boss had noticed me slowing down. Strangely enough, this was after they found out I have COPD. I might be slowing down, because I’m having trouble getting the one drug that makes me feel wonderful, so I’ve cut back on it to make it last. On the other hand, I feel like I have license to slack. And look for another job.

That moving thing. Good grief, how did I get all this stuff? I mean, it’s not like I have amnesia. I can look back and go, “oh, yes, this is Aunt Mary’s whatever,” but when you think about all the people who have died before me, I’m screwed. I started calling around about this one set of china (service for eight – absolutely beautiful and formal and in near mint condition – a couple of coffee cups have a little stain) and stuff ain’t movin’, nobody’s interested. It’s worth two, three hundred. I’m going to dump it at a garage sale for $100 – if I can get that much. I want it gone. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to talk myself out of either the other set of china (my paternal grandmother’s?) or my own ratty collection of this and that or my grandmother’s little tea set that I’ve adored since I was five, so I will still be burdened with two sets of china, plus a bunch of other stuff. I am a material girl.

I suppose that’s the perfect lead-in to talk about the sewing stuff, and my mother’s sewing machine in the mahogany cabinet. We won’t.

I’ve been editing furniture in my head. I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to part with quite a bit. Maybe not all the rockers. There’s that one set of chairs that would be worth lots more if the seats were redone; I’ll let somebody else make the money. The table my computer is on? Maybe. Either that or my grandmother’s kitchen table. It’s got a tablecloth on it right now, so I don’t remember how much I love it.

And then there’s the books. I’m going to be getting in contact with a bookstore to come give me a quote (part of the purpose of this is making money, right?). I had decided to keep all the art books; everything else was going to go. I’m still being ruthless, but I started running into snags last night. Camus came up. Then books of essays that I didn’t even know I had. Thank goodness I found Hans Christian Andersen and Grimms’ fairy tales. I thought I’d purged them both. (I haven’t come to the interior decorating books yet. I’ll have to think about those. They should be considered art, right?) I’m clearing out Latin American realist fantasy, or whatever that genre’s called. Then the poetry books started showing up; they have to stay. I ran into a copy of Robert Frost from 1924, with woodcuts from J.J. Lankes. That one’s messing with my head. Probably worth good money, but poetry! and woodcuts! I think it will have to be pretty darn good money. There’s a leather-bound copy of Longfellow’s “Hiawatha” out there in some box, too. Arrgh.

I vaguely remember an essay by somebody about working in a used book store, and selling off some author’s collection of books, and how sad it was to piece them out, because as a group they represented the author’s mind; separate, they were just books.

But then again, if it’s my mind we’re talking about, perhaps it’s best.

So, yeah, working on a garage sale, and a pair of socks from a year ago. And it never rains. All I want to do is go out and look at the sky.

Some like it hot.

I really don’t know what’s going on. I’m doing new things again. Getting off on chopping vegetables, making food.

Daughter and I both have this thing going on for curry. (Her’s veers off into Tim Curry, which is fine – it’s what led me to that special showing of Rocky Horror Picture Show last fall. Which reminds me; we have to start watching it obsessively so I know all the lines. Also, I need to start looking for a corset.)

I read this website – 101 cookbooks – which led me to pick up her cookbook Super Natural Cooking. The first recipe I tried was for black-tea-flavored spring rolls. I didn’t much care for the way they turned out, but you know? it might have something to do with all the substituting I had going on. It’s that whole “go to the co-op and snatch up the pretty things,” issue. The yellow pattypans were just too pretty to leave there, so they got substituted for half the mushrooms. The bag of spinach I bought was way more than the recipe called for, so now I’m chopping up fresh spinach and throwing it into everything. No shallots, so I went with that big beautiful leek. She called for shoyu; I had soysauce. Two tablespoons seemed too much, so I backed way the heck off. We did manage to eat all of the spring rolls.

Another recipe is for a tofu scrambler; obviously tofu, and fresh spinach, and Curry! So breakfast has been scrambled eggs and spinach and cheese and curry! She has a recipe for make-your-own curry, but I’ve got this tiny, rapidly being depleted jar of Penzey’s Maharajah Curry, so that’s been getting thrown into everything, including those amazing roasted potatoes (which included sweet potato and carrot and fresh basil).

We tried a new-to-us restaurant, “Buddie’s burgers.” Pretty ordinary food. I didn’t have a burger though; I didn’t fall off my veg wagon until later in the day. But they have Malts! And they use a TON of malt powder. The standard “retro cliche” decor; the funky “pretend to be a car interior” seats, and that odd combination of turquoise and rose that I’ve seen used as true art-deco colors. A poster of Marilyn Monroe that might start me off on a movie spree, or maybe poster-buying – fantastic graphic.

Also tin ceiling and neon ceiling fan.

Keep that sunshine coming.

4th of July.

It really didn’t do much for me.

Crowds and clowns.
Only one marching band.
(One funny, funny thing. A pair of F16’s did a fly-by. I plugged my ears to muffle down the sound. All of a sudden, I had this strange warm feeling of comfort, and realized the sound of jets reminds me of my parents’ home back in Minneapolis, near the airport.)(I am a little tired of these memories flying in on a strafing run, trying to keep where I am and what I’m doing front and center while holding on to whatever was dragged up.)

At one point I wandered off, and realized I was a lot more comfortable walking through the crowd than being a part of it. Then, being of a certain age, I decided it was in my best interests to walk over to a fast food joint. To cover what I was really in there for, I ordered fries. The poor schmoe at the counter tried three times to get the attention of the kitchen crew, who were laughing and joking around, because there were no customers. It was an absolutely beautiful day, and nobody was loose in town – all at the parade. So, when it ended, we bolted and went down to the marina, to watch the world. Gulls and geese and people setting up their boats for a quick turn on the water. I tried scrambling down the rocks, but being of a certain age made that difficult. When I lost my shoe, I gave up and sat, and realized that was what I really needed to do. So I stayed still for about ten minutes, watching the gulls fly out and fly in, each end with its own ritual.

We went for a walk along the seawall.

Naps most of the afternoon, grilled dinner (I made the most amazing roasted potatoes. A quick shake of this, a splash of that…never to be duplicated), finished in time to walk down to the water to watch the fireworks, the boats slowly moving out on the bay, water like glass. Turning to go home, the moon seen scarlet through the smoke, the sky still blue behind it.

I keep trying to write, but then I trip.

I’m trying to get things done. Things that require pushing, in a subservient way. I am becoming a conscious master of passive-aggressive. I’ve got today off. I can make phone calls, see what I can push along. I told Stupidhead to go away for a while, quit sucking all the air out of the room so I can think. Plus, this is the poor part of town because of the railroad. The tracks ran through this neighborhood, a block away. They’ve pulled up the tracks, and now it’s the poor part of town just a few blocks from the Lake. It hasn’t gotten gentrified – yet. I take some pleasure in that.

I’m laying in bed this morning – wait – is that supposed to be lying? – rolling all this over and over – counseling is actually helping, I know how to short-circuit the closed-loop thing, straighten out my thought process, set down a plan, even tiny steps help, shut off Monkey – I forgot to lie there and look up into the pines.

I’m not sure I like it here. Too much. Metal. People. Energies racing and sparking. Colliding. Sirens. Firecrackers. Birds. Bugs. Cars. But there’s pretty women, and little girls wearing skirts. Preschoolers running with that wild joy. I met a few neighbors a couple of days ago. A woman came over and asked if I’d ever seen this huge boxer before. He’d just wandered into her house and made himself at home. When she came over to talk to me, this huge dog was sitting on her (tiny, little) partner’s lap on the front steps. Funny head, colors split down the middle front to back, one side white, one side brindle. (Where do those kind of markings come from? If more intelligent species are more individuated, are we causing creatures to be more individually recognizable as a sort of badge of our intelligence? And do people who wear outlandish clothes seem more intelligent? Isn’t this all about mammals? And who are we to say we’re more intelligent, anyway?) I went over after she came to talk to me, to ask her where she’d gotten her push mower. Her neighbor came out to mow her lawn, with a push mower. Crazy dogs barking and biting at the mowers’ tires. Laughing and getting on with things. No yelling. Sears, apparently. $80, and self-sharpening. I’m going to look at garage sales.

I miss my home, my parking lot, my swamp, the broken streets, the tiny creek. But there are red-winged blackbirds here. If they can be here, I can be here.

I have nothing to say.

I seem to be on cruise, lately.

I got to watch an insect peel itself out of its exoskeleton, and stand in the breeze letting its newly longer parts wave. Some sort of mayfly, from what I hear. Beautiful, with its wings standing proud like sails. There were three on the other side of the window I was cleaning, all head up on the glass, with their wings held high and their tails trailing out.

Bigfoot worked out a new-to-him wood finishing technique. I think it’s called french polishing. It involves shellac, and a pad of cotton, and many thin coats, and ends with the grain glittering and deep. He made a quick little shelf to store some bowls on, and its surface is something to stroke, to gaze at, and into. A convoluted fail, or success. I don’t know.

I don’t think I’ve even taken many pictures. How about this one?

Some of those things that will live on top of the shelf.

Sleepy yet?

Do me a favor.

Go read Lene over at the Seated View. She has a post up about trying to get services and supports as a disabled person. She doesn’t whine on and on about it, or even get pissed. She’s a much better person than I am. (And judging by comments, it’s a pretty universal issue.) There’s some side discussion about doctors as gods. I guess that’s universal, also. Or global. Because I haven’t gotten that far off the planet yet.