packed and I’m holding

January 30, 2014

I know what I want out of life now.

I want my gorgeous effing office chair, she of lithe line and tomato bright enthusiasm. What a perfect damn chair. When for good I leave the establishment that currently owns this chair, I think I will ransom it along with me. Notice what a nicer way that is to say ‘pilfer.’ I am sure that mutual satisfaction can be arranged.

Look at this amazing chair.


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Myself has been confusing lately.

The overarching shape of things is that I’m tired.

I don’t know what my deal is. I feel vaguely that I’m going through another cycle of growing pains and even though my conscious mind isn’t really invested it’s tiring me out anyhow. The landscape of my dreams is changing dramatically; I think maybe I’m actually just tired in general, because my dream life is so damn active lately. I really do think I accomplish a lot of self exploration and transformation in my dream sleep. The amount of change that has been happening lately within my dreams is totally disorienting. For the past twenty nine years and some change my dreams have been one of the most consistent things in my life; they’ve been a hard part of my life, but at least they’ve been familiar, quantifiable. Lately I’ve been having all sorts of brand new dreams. I find myself moving away from the age old cocktail of wild and magnificently active nightmares blended with odd, vague wanderings through heartbreakingly beautiful and hauntingly familiar cityscapes. That combo has pretty much been it for the majority of my life: escape the dying like crazy, probably also rescue some random baby; or wander lonely as a cloud through drifts of architecture my brain creates for me as we go.

Recently all the shit has been getting jacked.

I’ve had categories of dreams I didn’t even think to imagine existed. Fun dreams, dreams with other people in them (people who are not zombies or evil killers or some random baby to rescue, people who are just hanging out in my awesome car with me having lemonade…), weird dreams where I get to go ‘shopping’ in some old lady’s amazing vintage apartment and take all her amazing vintage clothing because for some baffling reason she no longer wants any of it, and oh also I can totally have that excellent baby blue egg beater as well…

I noticed all of these new types of dreams vaguely, like you tend to notice dreams.

And then the other night I had my first ever angry dream. In it I just drove around in this super sweet Fifth Element style flying car and found all the people I have issues with and yelled at them. Concisely, vehemently, without apology…and then I got in my flying car and roared away and found the next person I was mad at. I did not give them a chance to tell me that I am wrong, or break down my hurt into chunks of my own insecurities to hurl at me, or turn everything on its head and make it all my fault some clever how. I just yelled; and I got back into my flying car; and I went away. I think this is a super cathartic kind of dream for me to have, unless I just get in the habit of doing all my yelling in dreams. I know this is a strange thing to want for yourself, but I kind of want to do more yelling in my real life too.

I don’t really yell. I don’t even really yell about football, I just sit there with my jaw clenched and my fists clenched and my toes clenched and my spine clenched…I just sit there all clenched and I hope for the best, I hope that what I want to happen can happen, but I do not put my body into it, I do not throw my voice behind it. This is probably a pretty fucking good illustration of how I tend to live my life in every category; I used to be a yeller but I got the yelling sucked slowly out of me during the Great Fade, where every color I ever was bled out of me. I think I have been doing a pretty good job of getting my colors back ever since I got out of the wash, but every so often another gray patch pops up and I realize that it’s time to address yet another expanse of threadbare soul.

I think a soul that yells is a soul that releases, that expresses, that flies free. My family is a family of yellers. They are a bunch of old yellers, they are a bunch of young yellers. They are yellers all the way across the board. I always used to be a loud thing. I know that people still tell me they can hear me two blocks away when they first get out of their car, but this is not the same gray patch I am talking about. That is happy yelling, and I got that back last year. This year I want to get back all the other kinds of yelling: angry, confused, excited, pissed at bad game calls, safeguarding my heart, arguing my point.

I know that one reason I’ve been so tired lately is that I am a house divided. It’s definitely another stretch of those grownup growing pains, but recently it’s been occurring to me that a lot of the time when I’m doing what I want to I’m only doing part of what I want to. I’m extending myself in as many directions as possible because I want to, but I’m not asking for anything to be sent back down that extension in return; and I know that this arrangement cheats me of resources I need, and it cheats the people who love me of being able to give to me. I feel like so often I don’t even remember that I can get things from people. And when I do remember I sure as hell can’t figure out how to open my mouth and make it happen. I know that there are all these wonderful people all around me, totally willing to help me out and help me up and hold my hand and hold me dear…but the fabric of my ability to achieve a reciprocal relationship is still all faded out and losing strings. I know that it’s a problem with me, because there is no one person in my life that I feel like I’m not getting what I need from; there are a lot of people in my life that I feel like I’m not getting what I need from. And hanging out with them makes me tired. So doing what I want to be doing with my life makes me tired. And I have been tired for a long time, and I am only growing more tired, and it is time to change things.

It’s time to stop standing in the way of people who deserve my trust and want to be a partner. Part of me has always had a hard time believing that people will want to keep me around if I don’t do absolutely everything I can for them and require absolutely as little as possible from them…and some parts of life and a few incredibly terrible people have tried damn hard to keep me that way. What I am currently feeling incredulous over is that for so long I have let them drown out the far larger chorus of voices that disagree, a massive choir of good strong lovely and true people who only need me to be their friend, and who want to give me the same in return.

So I know that this is all rambly and shit and full of stuff about my dreams (yay! We all loooove to hear about my dreams!) but it is good stuff and it is hopefully headed somewhere cool, although I currently have no real idea.

Yelling is good. That’s what I’ve got right now.

I am

your magnet tar pit trap

January 20, 2014

In my house it would be like, why don’t you have a microwave?



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the clouds they roll on by

January 17, 2014

I don’t know what they’re making candles out of nowadays, but it is either not wax, or crappy wax. Instead of hardening up and peeling right off if you wait a few moments, it just sits there all greasy and semi flaccid, congealing up under your fingernails in the most unpleasant way.


This is not to say that it is the candle’s fault that you put your fingers into it while trying to plug in your computer speakers, while it was lit. This has nothing to do with the crappy composition of current candlewax. It’s just frustrating.

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It’s my five year anniversary of this blog! How’s that for a flibbety gibbety lack of commitment to things?Image

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So the other day Jason and I made donuts in our deep fryer with the help of our friend Steven, for the first time. We have been wanting to make donuts for a long time, since summer at least, and we bought the deep fryer for this express purpose and then never made donuts, mostly because a deep fryer is not something I am used to having and when it is in the cupboard I forget its existence. Also I tend to forget the general existence of donuts. When I lived in San Francisco I thought about donuts a lot. There was a donut shop of some slightly seedy sort or another on nearly every corner in San Francisco, so out of mind was never really initiated by out of sight.

So anyhow, apparently all you need to do to get yourself to remember to make donuts is to tell a clever and responsible friend about it, and then they will remember it for you. Hurrah. So we were making donuts, and everything was going ok although  I kept running across parts of the recipe I hadn’t read yet, (sigh), and I was feeling fine. And then suddenly I encountered a large chunk of my own willful foolishness, and I began to worry that the donuts were not going to work out at all. This story is actually a great study exercise in the chronology of how Tabitha’s Brain doubts itself.

I had come home from work and set immediately to the task at hand of mixing and raising the dough; so I had that going for me. And I had pulled all the ingredients together for everything else, and found the fryer, and found the oil, and had a beer…so I had those things going for me. But then I discovered that I needed softened butter to make the glaze, and lo, I only had cold hard butter. So I stood a couple of sticks on top of the baseboard heater in the bedroom, and just hoped for the best, and did not mention it to anyone else.

The dough rose beautifully, it was all that could be expected of donut dough. We fried up the donuts and failed to fill them with jelly because my make-shift duct taped pastry bag failed. It was a valiant effort. The need for a pastry bag was way down at the bottom of the recipe and so of course I did not read it until right before the pastry bag part of the donut making was supposed to happen, so. There were no jelly donuts.

This was sad, but it was fine. There were still donuts, after all; glazed donuts and powder sugar donuts are, although a little and a lot respectively inferior of course to jelly donuts, still quite good. So it was clearly time to make glazed donuts, and I went back to the bedroom to find out if standing a stick of butter on top of a baseboard heater will make it soft.

Now here is my (pseudo) expert advice: if you are going to soften a stick of butter on top of a baseboard heater, you will want to do it like I did and give yourself a backup stick. Because about half of one of those two sticks will be all soft and lovely, totally ready for glaze, with half its former mass mysteriously missing – and the other stick will be totally melted all over the carpet and your fiance’s kettle bells. This will be demoralizing.

This may in fact be so demoralizing that you do not actually feel like making glaze anymore, especially not 1/3 the amount of glaze you were originally hoping to make, and you will in fact just clean the butter up off the floor and the kettle bells and not mention it to anyone. So. There were no glazed donuts.

Regardless, there were still donuts. There were no jelly donuts and no glazed donuts, but the donuts that did make it out into the world were actually totally delicious. So my brain doubted its entire ability to do anything right for no real reason (ahem) and everything worked out splendid.

The moral of this story is, make donuts. It will be awesome. And thank god for powdered sugar.

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