maundering

13 articles tagged as maundering

Like everyone else who dares to have a credit card and an internet connection, I receive tons of ads in my email. Most of them I ignore because I am not actively shopping for anything in that area – the Frederick’s is annoying because I bought one…count it, one…corset to get me through until I make my own historically accurate under pinnings and I keep getting barraged by emails that can only be called not work safe. Yet, I hang on to it because I am cheap and keep thinking I might, eventually, buy a bra or something on sale.

But, this is the time of year that the garden, fabric sale and spring dress advertisements come out. I have been hitting delete, thankfully. The spring dress ones are easy…is it just me, or have the dresses for the past couple seasons been particularly ugly? Maybe I’ve been looking in the wrong places…I like to buy one or two new dresses a year because once the weather changes and it’s hot out I tend to particularly love dresses…especially since, if you hit the snooze one too many times, you step into a dress, step into shoes, brush your hair and go.

The fabric sales are a little harder. Cheap wool? In my hobby, wool is awesome. Always period, doesn’t wrinkle much at all, and hand sewing it is actually fun. But I have sworn that until my fabric stash is a little smaller that buying fabric is out, unless I know exactly what I need and I am sure I don’t already have it.

But the worst ones are the garden catalogues. I live on a three acre slope with a flat spot for my house and a couple flat spots here and there for other things. It has woods, which are a mess. It has brambles, which are not fun to cut. Without regular tending, it can become a jungle with 5 foot tall weeds. I have allergies that might be poison ivy, and then again might not be, but I get it fairly easily.

That, and my ability to do a job becomes less reliable if I think I’m going to just go out and do it again and be miserable two weeks later.

Yet, every Spring, I am sure that *this* will be the year, that I will go forth and accomplish. Brush will be collected. Neat beds of lilies and other flowers will bloom. The horrendous weeds and thorny things will be kept at bay, up the hill. My yard will become a place of quiet contemplation with pretty shade trees and benches, where I can go outside and sit in peace and drink soda and read or write. Birds will chirp. The sun will shine. The air will be gently scented. Life will be golden.

And I start out with a will. My mother and I go out, determined to conquer. And, at first, it looks good. I receive boxes of things in the mail and I plant them. We go out to the local greenhouses and spend way too much money. The herb garden is resurrected. The roses are pruned and fed. Everything looks good. The lawn furniture is cleaned and set out.

And then, life happens. Medieval events take me away on weekends, and of course, mowing the lawn is going to lose out to playing with my rapier. Slowly, the only thing that gets dependable attention are the rose bushes and things in planters.

I start to get sick of having whatever rash it is that using a weed trimmer gives me. And it gets hot, and my attitude goes from “Yes! We will!” to “But I don’t want to go outside and work really hard and get a head ache and another case of the itchies!” Every once in awhile I resurrect my will, but it falters.
Basically, there’s always something I’d rather do. Like, re-do the bathroom, or gut my bedroom, or drive away and camp for a week.

So, the reality, is I end up sitting by a window with my soda and book, and reading under a fan.

And this year might be better. Miracles have been known to happen. But at least this year I didn’t order plants, so this year I won’t have wasted money on things that get planted in the ground, only to disappear. That’s got to be an improvement, right?

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I think that life is about wanting what we cannot have. (That is not, point of fact, the meaning of life…no one knows that.) We want what we cannot or should not have, yet we hope for it, long for it anyway. Maybe that is ingrained in our natures, maybe that’s what keeps us going forward.

(PS — the song in my head right now is “Everything will be Alright” by The Killers. So this is not a depressed post. Just something I really believe and wanted to express. It’s also one of my favorite songs.)

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Wow. It’s odd, the things you don’t know you’re carrying around, the little weights around your heart. Guilts, regrets…I threw one away today, one I didn’t want to realize I was carrying.

Today I saw a video on Facebook of my ex-husband and his new lady. One of our mutual friends commented on it, which made it show up on my page. They looked wonderful together…just having fun and playing. I watched at work…with my boss (tell me that the chair of my department isn’t cool! The GA, Tim, was also supportive…thanks, guys!) and I was…happy. Genuinely happy, with no sorrow or regret or bittersweet attached to the emotion. I felt like there was one less thing in the world for me to feel guilty about, like maybe, in the end, I did something good for him. And she’s cute, too! Very sweet faced…lovely smile. I hope they end up married, at least, if she’s the best thing for him. I thought…though it’s hard to see…that she was wearing a ring.

Wow. My heart feels all floaty. I often envision my heart as being covered by all these lead weights…you know, like the ones they use in fishing? And I try to unhook them, but sometimes there are ones that won’t undo. I feel like a couple of them are gone.

Bless you, D. I hope for the best for you.

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So, I am all ready.  I think.

Plenty of clothes.  Enough food.  I look at the stack of stuff I’ve packed, this of what my father said about “light packing makes for a light heart”, feel like I’ve messed up, go through my stuff again, realize that I’ve packed about as tightly as a fencing, middle eastern dancing, wants to be prepared for all eventualities in a reasonable manner female can do.  Tomorrow, on the way, I buy ice, bread, and fruit, and then I will be completely done.

I never DID get my frakking gloves from All Things Ren.  I am so going to make their lives misery until I get my money back, since I am buying gloves at Pennsic now.  Even though that means I’ll have to soak them to avoid “plague hands” (I’m buying black gloves…if I don’t wash out the excess dye, they will turn my hands green when I sweat in them.  Also, not thrilled about the staining they would do to brand new lovely blouse.) there…which means I’ll be fencing in damp-wet gloves.

So, my shopping list is simple:

I will take a notebook, because I have an Ashton and Minerva story I want to write set at Pennsic…what better place to have a secret meeting among the clans of vampires and werewolves than a place where you are supposed to be someone else?  I see a fencing tournament by torchlight, a murder…I think it might be fun to sketch it out while I’m there.

I will own, I am a bit nervous.  I’ve never done anything like this.  I’m happy…I want to have adventures and not allow myself to just be a plodder.

And…this is not an exactly random thought, it was inspired, but even though the person who inspired it never goes on the internet much, I am skating around things.  It’s one of those things you HAVE to say, but you don’t want to hurt or be judgmental.

Anyway, during the conversation, I thought,  “Loving a man for his looks is like loving the sunset. It is hearts and souls and how people react to the world that matters.”

I usually find that, if the spark of attraction is there, that the more you speak to a man, the handsomer he becomes.  You have to give people a chance to unfold who they are to you, to discover what they really are like inside.  Because that is what you will have to live with.

I’ve known men of absolutely heart stopping glory…just so handsome you could stare at them all day.  And you fall a little, like you would at the perfection of a flower…but then, you get to know them, and they are vapid.  There is NOTHING going on.  Like maybe God made them pretty for a reason, and that reason was that they would have to have SOMETHING to get them through life.  Emerson discussed such compensations in one of his essays, it’s like you get this thing instead of that.  I have met men who were that handsome and smart, or that handsome and incredibly sweet, so, who knows.  But I’ve also met men who were not handsome, but who became handsome because what was inside them was just SO incredible.  It was this whole world of amazement and wonder.  In the end, those were the men I loved and regretted the most.

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Do you ever have those days when you just don’t know what to do with yourself?

I feel like I’m spinning my wheels a bit. I’ve been having troubles getting into any particular book, and I want, desperately, to finish something. I first drafted “Grey lady” and am now writing another short story, about a young woman named Aziza who is a “bell witch”…she walks through her village at night, the bells she wears scaring off evil. So, at least I’m writing, but gah. Let’s finish one of my 13 books, shall we Miss Muse?

I know how very fast time goes, and the fact that it’s already the end of May makes me wonder if I’m going to meet my goal of completing another book. I’m not doing very well, because I forget that we find a million ways to fill out time…re-doing the filing system (Which is done! Yay!) cleaning the computer, re-doing the bathroom. I need to make myself set blocks of time aside better.

I did manage, however, to finish my bodice for Saturday’s SCA event. The costume is in evolution, I originally used a very sheer cloth to make the shirt and skirt, and now I regret it, because while it is lighter – it breathes very nice, and I don’t feel dead so quickly – it is rather too sheer, and if you thought that having an over skirt would provide enough shadow/coverage so that people couldn’t see your legs through the skirt, then, like I once was, you are mistaken.

So, gauze. I’m making my next blouse and underskirt out of gauze. At least the skirt. I can’t fence in a gauze shirt. I will photograph as soon as the bodice is ironed.

So, that’s it. My brain is sort of clogged up with the Pirate event that I’m helping with, sewing, fencing, reading, renovating the house, taking care of the garden. (The Irises look fabulous! I need to show them to you.) But these things, they are also in sort of a holding pattern. My father, we just have to wait until he heals. Fencing, I have to just wait and hope that I am doing the right things to make the club strong. The other stuff is all, well, you pick it up, you work on it until you can’t.

The good news is that despite the fact that I have apparently declared this the Summer of Self Improvement…where I am working on everything to see how much better I can make it…I am regaining my calm. I have this image, I’ve always had, of this pool of cool, calm water in my chest, over my heart. In the past, when I needed to, I was able to dip into that water, concentrate on it, and remind myself to be cool and calm…to have grace under fire. Between all the things that I won’t bore you with my reiterating, I’ve had cups taken out of that pool, but never at any time was there a point where I was able to tap into something to refill that pool. When I wasn’t upset about something, or wired up, I was asleep. Since last September my life has been a roller coaster of crazy, and I look back with regret at how skitzy I must have seemed to the people around me, because I used to be so proud of how calm I am. Dignity and decorum – those used to be my watchwords.

Note: I do act dramatic about things to be funny. Because I’m a nutter. And no matter what has happened in my past, when things are really, really bad, I still become dead calm. So, I guess the rule of thumb is, if I’m cussing and festering over it, it’s not really horridly bad. If I seem to be handling it with a serious, calm voice, taking it in steps, you should be worried.

Well, maybe not, since I intend to be more like that now. But we know what intentions are, right?

Anyway, point is, it feels SO good to be calm again. To sit and think of the lake inside of me, quiet and inviting, and know that I feel like I’m in control, like I’m ready to walk my path.

Maybe, to get back to my complaint about writing, the fact is, that I am in a healing process, and as I recover everything will start snapping back into place. It already is…I’m slowly recovering ground that I had lost, rebuilding everything. I’ve not gone through a lot, not compared to some people, God bless them, but I’ve gone through enough, trying desperately to juggle all of my goals and responsibilities. So, the moral of the story, if there is ever a moral to my maunderings, is to do one’s best, to try and be happy when one can, and to let life roll on – not over you – and just keep breathing.

Now that all that is out of my head, let’s see if I can get any writing done.

PS. The subject line is from a Tanya Donnelly’s “Landspeed Song”

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So, about five minutes after I got home today from work, the power went out…again.  It had gone out Saturday (I’d spent most of my day planting, and I came in to wash up, and the power was out again…which is why I didn’t get to attend the International Student Dinner this year.  🙁  ) and both times it was because a tree had gone down somewhere.

I wish we could bury our power lines.  It’s probably impossible, but it would look so much nicer.

So, anyway, when the light faded enough that the house was dark inside, and I felt tired (I’d been really low all day…hormones, probably) I went to bed…maybe 7:30, got up at 9:30, wandered around the silent house, humming Suzanne Vega’s “Night Vision” in my head, then tried to sleep.  The power came on just before 11, and now I’m up like a light.

I did do my fencing drills, today.  I fenced with my mother, and now think maybe I should get a second mask.  Or maybe give her mine, and wear my weed eating goggles…that said, I would yell at anyone who decided to do that, but maybe I’m a hypocrite.  And poor.  And I don’t want to risk hurting mum just because I have other things for fencing I sort of have to buy first, so I’m sort of trying to do it slowly.

And then there’s, you know, siding the house.

I’ve been dreaming of the Ghost again.  There’s this man, who flitters along the edges of my perception.  I mentioned him awhile back, when I saw him along side the road, walking.  Ever since my late teens, I’ve either dreamt of him, and sometimes, on very rare occasions, I see someone who looks remarkably like the man from my dreams.  He’s almost unreal, to be honest…tall, slender, pale haired.  He has an incredibly sweet smile, and he gives off an air of strength, sometimes, fragility at others.

I don’t think of him very often.  I don’t usually allow myself to, because there’s something so inexplicable about the whole thing.  My dreams of him are never clear, they are never anything that you could use as a story or a sign.  The three, four times I’ve seen him in real life, I think it is the same man, but then I disbelieve myself because, while I write fantasy, and am willing to believe in the nifty and the odd, I am too sensible to believe that there is any real connection.  I have used his likeness in stories, and I will again.  I think we have odd threads  of coincidence that run through our lives, like unheard theme music.  The number 101 is one of those things that reoccur in my life…my street address, my mailbox at work, on and on and on.    It is not something that sense or logic can resolve, it just is.

I think I shall try to make myself sleepy, and go back to bed so I don’t feel icky in the morning.  Or maybe I will write for however long it takes to get myself ready to sleep.  Who says that your eight hours of looking at the back of your eyelids has to be consecutive?

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