quirkytizzy: (Default)
I woke at 9:30 AM. Much later than usual, but I'd been hoping to stretch it to noon. I'd gone to bed terribly late and about an hour after, Jesse became violently ill. So I gathered a blanket, a bottle of cold water, and some crackers and sat with him on the floor, wastebasket in hand should he throw up, until he felt better enough to crawl back into bed.

I must have gone back to bed around 4 AM. Sleep, as it ebbs and wanes, is such an unpredictable creature. Tempestuous and mercurial.

It is another day of wondering why the hell I write. Over the last two years, my journal has become far less of a discussion and more a scream into the void. Nothing but temper tantrum after temper tantrum.

I've lost energy to directly reply to comments, which isolates me even further, as I know that public journaling requires giving direct replies to those who are willing to speak to me.

I grieve that and can only hope, as time goes on, I can go back to what my LJ once was: A real conversation between all of us.

I also feel bad for my kitties. I often toss them off of me (most of them are pretty cuddly) because my joints can't handle even the slightest extra pressure. Even when my joints CAN, there's often GI or skin sensitivities to consider. Their favorite place to lie down is on my chest or stomach. So as I'm wishing for their contact, I'm pushing them towards my legs to lay down there, petting them the whole way.

Cats, despite their reputation, are not nuanced creatures. Talk about giving them mixed messages. Yeeeesh.

I've run out of Hydrocodone to deal with the migraine pain. And as the medical field is now paranoid of turning patients into junkies, I can't get more until my official dr appointment, days away. The blood pressure meds do drive the pain downward - significantly - but it doesn't take the pain away enough to be functional. I can also take only so many of the blood pressure meds and am SOOO NOT WILLING to take the chance of messing more with them. I have no one around me that either has extra Hydros or would be willing to give me extra Hydros.

A friend of Jesse's gave me a few pills called Propoxyphene. It's opiate based. I don't do so well on opiates. They usually make me horribly ill. But I'm willing to do almost anything to relieve the pain right now. The FDA had discontinued the med due to heart arrhythmia being a possible side efffect. I'm not worried. Every goddamn medication I'm on lists "heart arrhythmia" as a possible side effect. Hell, Tylenol lists that a possible side affect.

It seems to be taking care of the pain. I've also no need to violently hurl up stomach bile, as is usually the case with opiates. But just the sheer NUMBER of pills I take a day does a number on my stomach. If things are going well, perfectly, absolutely, well, then the pills just settle in and I'm fine.

Throw off any other part of my system, though, and I'm unable to do anything but moan about in bed. This body is fragile. So fragile and far more connected to its various operating systems than I ever knew.

God, if I could go back in time and bitchsmack myself for every time I joked that I was immortal. And maybe I AM immortal (so far, so good), but it's the kind of immortal that Meryl Streep and Goldie Hawn had in the movie "Death Becomes Her". Where being immortal does not necessarily include a functional body to BE immortal IN.

And really, if your body parts are falling off, what's the point of being immortal anyways?

Bitch, moan, complain, complain. It's a sure enough sign that I'm at least clear enough TO be able to bitch about things. But I get tired of it just as much as anyone else around me does.

But I have no filter and even if I did, would never use it on LJ. This is the place for bitching. As much as my writing is for others, it's still a continuance of what I've always done: write for myself, to untangle it all, to keep record of it all, to try and find some box I can at least temporarily place all the bullshit in.

Thank you, mother, for the burning of all my journals over 20 years ago. You burning an effigy of me helped me realize I was someone important enough to even BUILD an effigy to burn. It's twisted. It was nothing short of heartbreaking and enraging. It still stings today.

But goddamnit, it proved to me that I should keep writing, no matter what that writing is about.

Wordplay

Mar. 30th, 2017 05:02 pm
quirkytizzy: (Default)
ME: Oh man, I messed up on word tenses in my last post. Damnit. I always get that mixed up. The are/is context, I mean.

JESSE: What about it?

ME: Well, "are" is something you use in the current tense. "Is" can also be used current tense, but there are times when it's best used for PAST tenses, too. It's like how I sometimes have problems with my singular nouns to plural verbs. Basically, I've been mixing up my prepositions.

JESSE: I love having a girl who knows these things, but you do know that after about ten seconds of that explanation, you started to sound like the adults on a Charlie Brown movie?

ME: *laughing a bit* I'm of the school of thought that you can't break the rules without first knowing what the rules ARE.

This isn't completely true, of course. Due to a horrific home situation, Jesse had to drop out of High School and get his GED years later. He has no formal education in writing and yet, through not knowing the rules, it gives him this...creative freedom that others might not have.

He'd be in good company. Many of the greats didn't have a good education, if one at all.

Still, it was a relief to find that you CAN start a sentence with the word "And". You're just told not to in early education because teenagers often abuse the "And". This turns a three page paper into a Nietzschean, nearly one run-on sentence nightmare.

(I haate Nietzsche. I mean, I LOATHE that man. Not for his ideas, as pretentious as they were. I hate him for his writing, his habit of turning a ten word thought into a 500 word paragraph. The man may as well have fucking married the semi-colon and gotten on with it.)

Get to college and find out that YES, you CAN start a sentence with the word "And", so long as you do it right. Then they tell you how to do it right and WHAMMO, you can say "And" anytime you want to, even if it's at the beginning of a sentence.

Allow me a little literary rage towards some bad college teachers I've had.

* Fuck you, Mr. Brannon - the singular "they" DOES EXIST. Writing "his or her" in every sentence that deals with multiple people of unknown or unassumed genders is CLUNKY AS SHIT. And if you're not concerned about how clunky your writing is, you're not a good writer.

* Seriously whaaaat, Criminal Justice professor? You want FULL URL LINKS included in our papers? When was the last time you looked at an updated copy of MLA standards? Like, fucking 1997??!!!

* I know you are a fully educated woman, Miss English Professor at Brown Mackie. But goddamnit, full phrases such as 'majestic ability' and 'statue of beauty' ARE NOT synonyms.

Classes like those, I just sat in silence, did what they said, and allowed my ego about the English language to stiffen when I stepped out of the classroom. Being a writer, a good writer, is one of the world's most attractive things to me. Makes sense, given how sacred I consider the art.

So yeah, wordplay. Almost as important as foreplay.

Naaaah. They're on the same level.
quirkytizzy: (Default)
Art.

Jesse and I tried to get into a conversation about art yesterday. I waived off. Art is one of those conversations that can get so pretentious, so nebulous. It's just too big of a subject. I don't think of myself as an artist. I write. I understand that the basic need of an artist IS to madly create. But when it comes to anything but the written word, my creative base does not twist, turn, or in any other way yearn to be seen. I like to write. Screw you if you don't like to read.

Besides, if one wants to get really broad and boring, Life itself is Art. And yes, so is dying. Shut up and get a life, Sylvia. (Ha ha. I just made a Sylvia Plath joke. I'm such an asshole.)

The conversation did, however, spark one question in me: Is everyone compelled to create something? Maybe a couple wants to start a family. Maybe fixing a broken engine puts together a new machine. These ARE acts of creation, just more literal ones. Is that art? Is art really, honestly, truly anything you make it? Looking at it from that perspective, the parent who rises, exhausted and agitated, for a colicky baby puts it as much work as I do. The mechanic who spends a hundred a month on a good oil cleanser for his hands puts as much work in as I do.

I'm a staunch believer that a writer who does not write is like an alcoholic courting a job at a Vegas nightclub. I also know that the drive to create does NOT have to drive one mad.

Silly questions. They say if you speak to a person long enough you've eventually cover the Four Basics of All Human Interaction: Art, Sex, Love and God. I'd believe it.

And after morning cleaning, errands, and accidentally locking myself out of the apartment, thus accidentally waking up Jesse as maintenance had to fix it, I am done with this entry.

I gotta wash my medical underwear. It's surprisingly comfy.

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