Time flexing like a whore

Too little of it, need more to look at a picture of black and white fur. Nights are desolate places in my mind, no one watching, no one purring.

And too much of it. How much longer obliging this hobby-turned-into-job-and-hating-the-hobby. I had so many dreams, had so many break throughs.

Can I go back over twelve years, when the deadline was tomorrow and I wasn't even 30? Where I'd work a full day, come home and tend the flowers and weeds, and still find energy and time to spend with my friends who now sometimes keep me awake anight with their urgent questions. Always the same questions, as it is. Where will we go? How will we end? Tell us, write it all down...

Is that you, CowWatcher?
What was the name you called me? (wind - called - crow - lift head - lonely)

Head like hole

Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.
Nobody gives a fuck.

Karma

Bitch.

The Cross

Hello there, strangers, we must stop meeting like this.

How are you, digiblips?
Because, I'm having a major bum day.

A sort of AA day.

Hello, my name is Wildheit and I'm addicted to saying yes. I will try to help you, and anybody that asks for that matter, to the detriment of my own life and health.


Add some tears for effect.

Also add a sprinkle of failure, because you can't help everybody. You just go tits up.

The tats... The tats you get in people telling you no and sorry and all the lame and half-assed excuses you know so very well because they bounce around in your head, day in, day out, but never roll, slip or stumble from your tongue. They make it sounds so easy!

And when you're really done with trying and trying, there is but one option: admitting failure.

Rat's ass, that's even harder than saying no.

Cue the flood.

Edge.

Things have edges.
Sometimes sharply defined.
Sometimes fuzzy and rounded and toddler-safe.

This thing today has the tact ('tactility' whispers Cow Watcher) of blunt force trauma with the in-your-face sharpness of a razor.

That was what it was, you see.
Razor sharp, the knife wrapped in a towel, which she had stashed in her bag.
Razor sharp, her drawn and grim face, eyes crazed and furious and the unseen people that live in the walls of her apartment.

If that's how your mom responds to an invitation to coffee and cake, it's time to get your head out of the sand.

This is going to be one hell of a fun week.

Messiah-cell

Woke up and didn't know where I was and what day it was.

That's okay, the brain said, let's just turn over and sleep some more until we do.
But through the haze came the screaming of one little braincell: Hey, we haven't felt like this in ages, so this must be wrong!
Rest of the brain went: Blah blah, too busy turning this lump of flesh on its other side to understand a word of what you're saying.

So then I found out that this one braincell is where my savior complex and megalomania live, all of my universe saving in the face of Armageddon powers reside. Because that tiny little braincell kept on whispering 'Alert! Alert!' but helped turning over the lump of flesh anyway, because its a cunning little braincell, you see.
All it had to do next is open one eye, just a tiny bit while its colleagues were snuggling down into sleep again.
And there it was.
Victory.
08:15 screaming red in the dark.
Look, messiah-cell pointed, look. It's past seven!
It took another second for the message to gently roll home.

And then it was out of bed, stumble downstairs and grab a cat...

Oh.

Probably I was.


Not so much reading now. Kill Tinkerbell on sight, daft idiot twinkling firefly.


If I survive this shit with my soul intact, I'll be able to log this filth as "research" for a book or two.

It's probably gonna be Man of Mercury and the full rewrite of the Barynn trilogy or quadrilogy (when/whatever I make my mind up about the amount of human ugliness the average reader will shovel).



I'm losing my writing muscle, dear old digiplips, and it makes me thoroughly unhappy.

Because nothing matters *that* much.

Where did February's rant go?

Ummm, into the private slice of life, digiblips, that's where. When life throws me lemons, I like to throw my dingy old juicer back at it, screw the lemonade.

Then things get messy, and it takes a whoooole lot of efforts to put things back together again.

No, seriously, things just keep cascading for the moment, and the balance between fencing stuff(1), life stuff(2), Russian stuff, work stuff (3) and supernormal daily toil(4) is very tight.


So like, I've spent all my ranting energy at walls and the hubby, and a tiny little bit at the cats (their expression of sympathy is slightly better than that of the walls). I've squared things with life and bought a new juicer. Let's not rock this boat by even thinking of making time for writing (5).

(1) everything from me fencing to fencing federation related things like me volunteering to help out with the accounting, because, really, what would I do with all that free time? *le sigh*
(2) things to do with dad
(3) busy busy stress with a good helping of conniving self-serving bitches and managerial idiots
(4) laundry, grocery, cooking, cleaning, and generally managing the necessary check-ups (dad, cats, car...)

(5) Though truth be told, nobody can stop the Cow Watcher. I've penned down a couple of pages worth of revision-paragraphs for Barynn, a tweak or two for Dreams of Cold Stone, and a dialogue for the UTA trilogy that has opened up much needed perspectives.

Actually, that's already a pretty damned lot of writing for not-writing. Thanks for pointing that out! I knew I could depend on you digiblips to turn my lemonade into Pepsi Max.