So,  this happened today.  Alden decided it was time for a hair cut.  We cut off about a foot, now it's sort of chin length, and I shaved it into a mohawk for him.  He's donating that glorious braid to Locks of Love.  Some little kid is going to be over the rainbow about that gorgeous red hair.

Yeah.  It was fairly emotional, but once the braid went, things were smooth sailing.  Love that boy.  He's been home for Easter break, and pretty much hanging around me all the time, and I'm not at all sick of him.  This summer is going to be rough for both of us, more for me than him, but we'll both grow.  He is getting cooler, and more mature by the day.

We had a frank talk about sexuality, the other day, and it was so nonchalant, yet...I don't know, important?  That's not quite the word.  Anyway, we were talking about how people use homosexual slurs as name calling, like it's derogatory.  I explained my theory that most people who are homophobic, past the level of just normal ignorance, have never stared at themselves, and their whole lives, and said "do I like the same sex?  Could I?  Is it possible?  Just who am I really attracted to, anyway?"  Then to come up with a definitive answer, or not. Many people, adults and all, are afraid of that sort of naked evaluation, and never honestly ask that question, and then live in fear of it for their whole lives.  Fearing latent feelings in themselves, fearing what other people, society might think.

It's not coming through well, in text, but the conversation flowed easily.  He surprised me by saying, "I think I know what you mean.  I asked myself that, and honestly, I don't know.  I like girls and I like boys."  So, that.  I reassured him that 13 is plenty young, and even if he never decided, that's fine too.  When kids are young, sexuality is elastic, and I was inwardly proud of him for being cool with himself to just come right out and say it.  I was pretty happy we have that kind of dialogue, too.  I also let him know that I didn't really know either, but that I met his father and fell in love with him, and that is what it is.  If Irv's starstuff, his essence, his wonderfulness was in a woman, then that.  For me, love doesn't hang on gender.  Love is love.  I think Alden's kinda the same way, for now at least.

This weather is murdering my foot, and my sense of drive.  It's forty fucking degrees!  FORTY.   I got up at 5, realized it was fucking pouring (and forty degrees...).  Further realized my foot was thrumming right along with the rain drumming on the roof.  Went back to sleep.

Fuck.

Dug out the belly dance video. I've been watching and sort of swaying along with some on Youtube.  Today, I actually did it.  I think I realize, now why I always feel like an enormous failure. The one I have just kinda plunges you right into dancing.  No warmups! No stretching!  No opening your form, and flowing.  Just...you're standing there, and then you start hip circling.  Then, about 15 minutes of hip dropping, torso whatever, shimmying,I get a major stitch, and quit.  It feels good, conceptually, but I'm durrin it wrong.  I wish I were more coordinated. I can fuck like amazeballs, I can pound and sway and shimmy and do it to some primal rhythm all day...till someone sets it to music, then I look like I'm trying to shake toilet paper off my ass.

Today, with the help of some Youtube videos, I had a better time of things.  Only, with all the pivoting, The Tendon started burning, so I quit fast.  When the pain lets up, I'm going to do my little medicine ball twisty routine.  That always makes me feel like I did something.

Right now, I'm freezing ass cold, fighting to stay awake. No real motivation except to play some old school video games and maybe take a nap, when I inevitably drift off hitting the attack button.

I'm so not used to insomnia.  I had a now-rare night of no sleep, and today was just all about moping around and melting down.  Seriously, I couldn't figure out what to eat, I was getting deliriously hungry, Irv and Alden were hassling me in their own bombastic Walling Way, and I just started crying.   After I broke down, Irv was like "you need to eat, then go take a nap or something."  I think the tears came because the way the day was going to look, he planned on dragging me to store after store, again.  That's happened two weeks in a row, and after a shopping excursion, I'm crippled for days.  It's cold, rainy, and the reason I didn't sleep already was intense pain.

It's been a loss of a day.  Sleeping on the couch for half the day.  No gym.  Bleh.

Some stupid twat over on Spark posted a link to a CNN article on a message board about fat fashionistas making blogs, with the idea like "why are people always trying to justify their fatness?".   Um, Stupid Twat, you are in a weight loss and fitness community...  I served it back, and it felt good to silence a stupid fat hating twat.

Also, Pintrest.  I'm on Pintrest now. I  have no idea what the fuck this is all about.  I'm just gaily going from thing to thing posting pins on my boards.  Pins for beer! Pins for snakes!  Pins for tarot cards!

καλλίστῃ in the Springtime!

I still meant every word of that post.  I'm reading cards again.  I eschew all systems, I fly.  It's freeing to have tools and use them as such.  Utilizing the cards, is akin to not having any religious system, but feeling like "I need some Jesus" and popping into Sunday church for some communion, and getting that boost of Vitamin God.  I should do that sometime. I can still make like a Catholic, and take the Host properly. They're all symbols, all reminders for our human shells.  Divine self doesn't need them, but sometimes these tools make it easier to figure out your Divine self, or talk to it or touch it.

Fnord.

I just saw that quote below, on Tumblr.  I still don't totally get Tumblr.  It's like blogging, but with lots of pictures and memes?  So, like FB but with less soccer moms and "-ville" games?  I have no idea.  I'm just a writer. Therefore I write.  Blogger seems to be better about pictures and whatnot, than it used to be. Maybe I'll start putting the songs I'm obsessed with, quotes, and other mental ejaculations here.

So, that quote.  Yeah.  I would still fuck Henry Rollins into the ground like a tent peg.

I don’t need a god. I have you and your beautiful mouth, your hands holding onto me, the nails leaving unfelt wounds, your hot breath on my neck.
— Henry Rollins

I am SHOUTING INTO SPACE.  BAAAAGHGHGHGHAAAH.

I've been blogging my ass off, but over on Spark.  I keep it squeaky clean, there, but it's a place where I can ramble about mundane shit like exercise and eating.  I'm exercising more and eating less.

I made a friend there, and she sent me a link to her tumblr.  A) Tumblr is cool. I feel like an old person.  I'm all "so, you do this thing with pictures?  Tell me more..."  Because, I only ever write.
B) she's a big girl, like myself, and she posts the most lovely and flattering pictures.  I hates the camera. Luiz is always trying to get me naked and in front of the camera.  He wants to take artistic nudes.  I'm like...fuck that... But, I see this girl, and I'm like "hmm."  I mean, I love my body. I love squishing it around in my hands, and working it out, and feeling it squish against someone else, and I love looking down at myself...but I hate seeing pictures of any part of me.

Back reading cards every day for myself.  Like riding a bike.  I'm also doing more cards at work, too.  Hell, I've also been riding a bike.

The Foot Thing

I keep thinking I want to document The Foot Thing, from beginning to end.  I certainly mention it plenty here and everywhere.  I really can't bring myself to it. In fact, the days right after surgery are already misty (thank you, pain pills) and I'd like to keep them that way.  I do have the urge to think about it in a timeline sense.

July 3, 2010-  Jump around and jump real high at the Faith No More show, land on heel.  Heel turns jet black and hurts like dying agony for a month and a half.  It eventually faded, only to flare up during long stints on my feet, in bad shoes.

July 3, 2011 (right?)  Attend a party, consume alcohol, go on a 3 mile walk to see fireworks in very cute and very terrible for my feet sandals.  Slip.  Brush it off for the rest of the evening, till I woke up at 4 am in a cold sweat, with the weight of the blanket crushing the life out of my foot, it seemed.  Ate an oxycontin, went to the ER the next day. (turns out, in retrospect, this is when I ruptured it.)

July 3- September something.  Misdiagnosis, pain, more pain, low air boot, higher air boot, x rays, physical therapy, cortisone shots...then epiphany in the form of an MRI.  Surgery scheduled.

September something to Nov 9- Cramming as much fun and activity into my fall as I could possibly, while secretly stressing and dreading.  Lots of pain, disregarding it.  Screw pain, I have a life to live.

Nov 9- surgery to repair not only a ruptured achilles tendon, but an infected bursa, a heel spur so large it made my surgeon say "whoa!" out loud.  It was supposed to be a routine 1 hour surgery that stretched to three hours.  Into the wheelchair, and a bandage/splint.  Began sleeping on the futon downstairs.  Learned the meaning of "sponge bath".

Off the pain pills by Nov 12.

Nov 16- Hard cast and still in the chair/crutches.

5 weeks after November 9- a fall off my crutches that stretched the healing through February.  Blew the incision open, exposing the tendon.

Days after the fall- out of the hard cast into a huge bandage, thus beginning the "wound care" phase of this journey.  Out of the wheelchair full time, and hobbling a little.  Wheelchair for long stints on my feet (long, at the time, meant longer than a trip to the bathroom.)  Able to sleep back in my room upstairs, and take half-assed showers.

Christmas- walking very tentatively, in a boot, with lots of resting and a cane, still half in the chair.

January 4, tendon still right out there, exposed.  Back into surgery.  Skin graft time.  Novacane shot right into my tendon, nearly pissed my hospital johnny, and back on the pain pills for the next week straight.

January 10- go back to work.  Shaky, in the big boot and in a lot of pain, wishing I could use my crutches at work.

January 23- start physical therapy.  Ecstatic about being able to drive a little, and walk into work looking relatively normal.  Out of the boot.  Walking like a careful drunk.  Not quite limping, but sort of like I have a potato chip between my ass cheeks and trying not to break it.  This is a result of not being able to bend my foot at all.

February 6- walk around the block.  Regret it later.  Still totally psyched.

February 7- walk around Red Bank, maybe 4-6 blocks total.  REALLY regret it later.

February 8- Get a stern lesson from my therapist.  Still atrophied, still in a lot of pain.  My leg looks like the leg of an anemic five year old, with no color or muscle tone, still in spite of all my exercising.  Throughout all this, I've been religiously doing my physical therapy, since I got out of the cast.  Learn that it could be a year before I'm pain free.  Trying not to be depressed about it.

I think I figured out why I'm so antsy around this time of night.  I get bored of the internet. I lose focus to read.  I don't have the attention span to play any heavy video games.  I become fidgety.  Just now, in that state of mind, I got up and went around the living room doing my usual tank animal care.  Misting the spiders, spot checking the temps on all the tanks, watching Grim explore the outer reaches of her new huge tank. I got up and started focusing on a passion of mine, the pets. They took me right out of that buzzing futile spastic energy brain state, and made me happy for a few.

I sat right down here to write about it.  I crave my hobbies, I think. I crave doing things with my hands.  When I get in this mood, I want to paint my minis, do needlepoint, craft and create.  I'm writing because it's a good thing to do with this energy.

I really want to set up my netbook, drag out all my paints, watch some trashy TV and paint my miniatures.  Right now, and on into the night, till I'm squinting so bad my eyes water.

Now that we've set the tanks up in the living room in a definitive more permanent manner, that's my cue to take back my drawing table upstairs. Irv dragged the ancient thing up there, to use as his "office" upstairs, but he's so needy and co dependent, he can't work alone up there, he has to be near the family.  I suffer no such issues, I'm just a little apathetic (that, and I'm still not negotiating the staircase as well as I'd like).  I'm taking this moment and this energy as the incentive to clear a space to work on my handiworks.  I'm taking my drawing table space back, and moving my paints and minis up there, for permanently, so I don't have to drag everything out, eke out a space down here, and hope I am undisturbed for a small amount of time, only to bung everything back into boxes, and back under the couch till the next time.

Right now, I'll content myself with writing, and snake-gazing.  Anyone who thinks that only fuzzy companion animals can help relieve stress, have never owned a sinuous, sensuous, supple, elegant and lovely python.  My spiders, too. Watching their delicate gestures, web weaving, the gentle twitter of palps, their gravity defying acrobatics-but-slowly...maybe when I set up my space later, upstairs, I'll bring Spooky with me.  They're good listeners, too.

First, listen to the song.  Read the lyrics while you're listening.  I mean it.  The song's epic, but that's not why I'm writing about it.

Bother to do that, and you'll learn a lot about me.  This is the song I listened to every single day, for three or four years straight.  I needed it.  I'd listen to it as I was putting on makeup to go out, or in my car on my way somewhere.  Always top volume, always singing along.  Those were very good years!

Maybe it's not "me" the way you know me, but it's the "me" I want to display.  It's my armor.  It's the aura  I wish to project.  It was the transition of "jeans and teeshirts" to "leather and chains". I mentioned something to Luiz the other day, without really thinking about it too hard.  I gestured to a picture I keep on my desk of myself at 16, my little brother and my little cousin. I said "That's more like me now than when I was 18"  Meaning, that was before I took on some mantle, before I started disguising myself.  When I started dressing some "part" and cloaking myself in the trappings of...whatever it is I was going for... I felt well and truly great, going out the door, in public.  I never feared new situations. I never hesitated to walk into a crowded room.

Since I've let that fall away, I'm becoming more paralyzed in the face of society.  I hate new situations, I hate crowds, I always feel like everyone's staring at me, I feel constantly self conscious.

Taking some steps, in my life, now that I'm mobile again and this whole crippled-tendon thing is moving behind me.  Taking steps to craft myself again, regain confidence, put things in my body that make me feel good (nutrients, cock, piercings) and on my body (good make up, good clothes, tattooes) to start back down the path of having very good days, every day.

For about the past year-year and a half, I've been in a funk. I'm aware of it. I've been aware of it, and I'm taking initiative to turn it around, now.

This song makes me feel invincible, invisible, impossible, and empowered.  It's who I was, and who I always wanted to be, and who I still am.  I'm adding it to my "leaving the house" playlist.  It fills me with life beyond just life.  I feel the seeds of my divine will grow and sprout when I listen to this song. The power that lies dormant at my center expands, and fills me, radiating outward, and hopefully past my skin.

Some part of me falls asleep, once in awhile, and I don't notice it till it wakes up again.  I'm having one of those phases, where it's waking up and getting antsy again.  The creative productive forceful part of me.  The driver of the Chariot.  This is what plays in her car stereo.