splodgenoodles: (Default)
Cats. Increasingly I am dreaming about cats.

This morning, I had one in which my darling cat got out. You know, the cat I don't have.

And possibly never will have, as this cat is one whose photo on the internet I've fallen in love with (whoah, parsing?) but when I made an enquiry the shelter owner did warn me that "She's timid, very timid".

But in my dream I got her home safely, and met other cats on the way.

~~~

And that was just this morning. The night before I was chatting with many cats.

It's getting weird.

~~~

On the plus side, MyGC is free on Saturday when the shelter is open and has offered to drive me there.
splodgenoodles: (Default)
Physical and mental illness ensure that I am always worried about how I'll feel, think, and manage tomorrow.

But I have also observed that I seem to lack emotional memory.

Or, possibly, that I have a strong need to have everything in balance in each 24/48 hour period.

I say 48 because as far as CFS goes, I can have a (moderately) energy consuming activity once every 48 hours without crashing. The idea of pacing oneself to the point of only doing as much on any day as you could do on every day is not only bloody hard in anything but the most controlled conditions, but I've found it to be not entirely true. I seem to go moderately well if I work my pacing schedule to 48 hours, not 24.

I don't take this to the point of crashing, because once I hit that point recovery will always mean more than one day to recover. But keeping within limits, I can stretch things one day if there's a quiet day the next day.

~~~

But with many things, I feel out of balance quickly. Hence the 24 hour thing. I want every day to have a bit of everything. The idea of a full day devoted to anything feels me with dread. Changes and transitions have always been hard (always). It's like every time I forget that I've been through this change before (because I nearly always have) and survived okay. A day in will scare me because I just had a day out. A day out will scare me because I just had a day in (and even though I get stir crazy quickly, it will still scare me).

I've never learnt to just go through the motions of preparing for change without investing that change with anxiety, frantically overthinking the meaning of the transition, and longing for a sense of place while it happens.

I suspect this is why I can't read on trams even though if I could, the transition from out to home would be so much smoother. Too much distraction and too much awareness of the whole damn process. I suspect this is why music can be so challenging: it occurs over time, it's a process of change. And time is the scary thing.

And while I'll never be good at being a Buddhist! If one certainty in the world is change, excuse me while I lie down with my head under a pillow.
splodgenoodles: (Basil Fawlty)
Okay, why the hell am I having an attack of the wibblies today?

Nice and sunny, one small outing which is *just* enough to stave off isolation and which is well within my CFS limits, a few things to do when I get home but nothing of outstanding urgency - I should be feeling grand.

Crossing my fingers for PMT, rather than complete and irretrievable psychiatric breakdown.

(On the plus side, if it's the latter, I've sorted out all my PoAs for just such an eventuality).
splodgenoodles: (Penelope intro)
I now have enough graphic novels to need to think about where they should go.

When I only had a few zines done by my friend Jo, they went in with the art books. Then I got a bunch more, and they've gone in a nice file box, largely because they are just little paper pamphlets and I want to keep them nice.

But now I've got actual *books*.

And I don't feel they really belong with the art books, since they are stories, and not reproductions.

Should I shelve them with my general fiction (which is roughly alphabetical)? Or would I lose something if I shelve them this way, as graphic novels and pure text aren't the same? How else might I shelve them?

Hey and while I'm about it, for those of you who do a fiction/non fiction arrangement in shelving, how strict are you with it? I ask because I wonder about my Vikram Seths and my Truman Capotes: some are fiction, some are not, but dividing them up seems wrong because the authorship is more significant than the fiction/non fiction division.

And there is another reason for authorship first: sorting out non-fiction categories is even harder and when I get it wrong, I can't find things. And it's not that I often need to find things but if I suddenly wonder where a book has gone, I can't rest until I know where it is. This usually happens at 2AM, which sees me wafting through a zillion other books while looking for that *one* book that I am certain is in the house, and running through the various categories it might belong. It's a great pleasure, but like sex, I feel it's best kept to daylight hours.

Do other people like to ponder such questions while staring at a pile of books, or is it just me?

Putting the graphic novels with "humour", which includes cartoons and Peanuts books, is obviously way inappropriate regardless of what humour lies within.
splodgenoodles: (Penelope intro)
It's a warm but still comfortable day, with a light breeze (and no smoke haze). Doors and windows are open.

I've done a giant to-do list, but as it was an attempt to include everything I can think of, big and small, I don't feel compelled to rush. Moreover, it includes things like 'do some laundry', and I can hear the washing machine going.

Last night as I was dozing off I came up with what amounts to a universal theory for understanding the operation of the gender binary in art and literature. Pretty good for someone who hasn't done anything remotely academic in 20 years and was only ever a B student anyway. I will remember it later. I hope I can, because I recall thinking it was great and that it should be written down and shared with the world. Then I thought that it was so great I would surely remember it when I woke up.

I hope it doesn't work out like that time when I was a teenager and the best song ever occurred to me just as I was dozing off. Then, as last night, I was convinced I couldn't possibly forget it so I didn't need to write it down.

That memory, of failing to become a famous rock star, did flash through my mind last night when I was contemplating rolling over and jotting down the definitive explanation in my diary (which was on the cat's side of the bed), but I feel certain that this is far more memorable.

This was in spite of the fact that last night's epiphany was perhaps more abstract than well formed in, as it were, grammatical terms. Or in terms of vocabulary: the words weren't quite there - I knew I'd have to use synonyms, antonyms, arrows and probably lots of question marks, and iron it all out today or tomorrow.

Still, it's nice to know that it's all there and will be finalised as soon as I care to look.

Time to put in another load of laundry!
splodgenoodles: (Penelope intro)
It followed me home can I keep it?
splodgenoodles: (Sisyphus)
I still can't shake this cruddy mood.

Doing my best, but it's not enough.

Going through the motions, more or less eating well, no meltdowns today, even done a few things that count as challenging for which I can give myself a pat on the back, but it's still descending on me with horrible regularity.

Just breathe, just breathe. It will pass, I'm sure.

I wish it would hurry up though. I do not like it, no, I do not like it at all. It serves no useful purpose, just stops me enjoying the basics and making the most of what I do have. The things that are good stop feeling good, and the hard stuff just gets harder. It doesn't inspire me to do anything, clouds my judgement and my reasoning. Ugh. The sour grey dust gets into everything.

Still looking for that magic solution. The mystical Mr. Sheen.

In the meanwhile, all I can do is just CBT my way along and hope it's enough. If I'm not back on the horse by this time next week, I might just wind the Lexapro back up to 11. (That's 35mgs for those of you who haven't seen Spinal Tap).
splodgenoodles: (rickyswallow)
It says something about where I'm at - still - that last week, after locking myself out and having to break in, and being rather shook up, my preference was to go to someone else's home for the evening. Even though I've only been to that particular place a couple of times before. Admittedly the people there are awesomely wonderful and welcoming, but still...maybe that's inevitable when you live alone.

Wanting to hang out with friends in times of stress is only a problem if you don't have friends or can't be with the ones you do have. On this occasion this wasn't a problem, and I'm trying to ensure it's less and less likely to be a problem in my future. I want an improved sense of social cohesion back, social identity. But at least I know that that's what I need.

What worried me more is that in the following day or so, with the wibble and drama over, I felt more cheerful about life and I think it was simply because something had happenned. It was interesting. It was a challenge. It tested me (and I passed).

When you are so lacking in an ongoing sense of engagement with the world that being locked out cheers you up, something has got to change. It ties into social place, it's too big that it cannot be linked. But I don't know what it could be.

It's not about whether I've got a to-do list or not. I have got one, and I'm getting through it as I need to. It's just that the to-do list is not enough.

I don't know what I'm talking about. And that's the problem.
splodgenoodles: (Lady Penelope's car.)
I am doing so well today.


1. Meet neighbour, exchange pleasantries.

2. Thank god for toddlers because you can always just goggle inanely at them for a couple of minutes instead of smiling inanely at their mum while you both wonder what you're supposed to say to each other.

3. Come inside and write down names before you forget, say them a few times because the letters don't match phonetically.

4. Be again confused by conflicting service advice from a potential ISP. Send emails.

5. Get date on shed door fitting.

6. Speak to ex.

7. Ponder the surrealness of it all.

8. Consider how much more dinner one ate the night before at one's sister's place than one's hosts did. Wonder if this is why one is the size of both of them combined plus their adorable son.

9. Knit and listen to the Stones at the same time.

10. Admire the depth of "Sympathy for the Devil". (It's the endless repetition of "woot" that does it.)

10. Wonder if one will ever hear the White Album by the Beatles.

11. Consider if "I've never heard the White Album you know" would work as a pick up line.

12. Figure that it would, with grubby old bastards in the liver failure unit.

13. Cream cheese and anchovies for lunch! With salada biscuits underneath of course.


Bring on the afternoon!

Good News.

Dec. 5th, 2011 03:34 pm
splodgenoodles: (manamana)
Went to my Ortho appointment this morning and not only were we home by 11:30 (there are people around who've had morning appointments and not gotten home until 4 or 5), but also I can now 'weight bear as tolerated' on the right leg.

This is good news. It was a bit of an anti-climax when I got home of course, because it doesn't mean anything immediate - it's just the go ahead for the next stage of slow rehabilitation. (Oh, and this decision was based on the x-rays done two weeks ago, which means if they'd been reviewed while I was an inpatient, like I tried to get them to do, I'd have had an easier time of it all since getting home...but nevermind...).

So I got home feeling chirpy and then felt at a bit of a loss. But I'm okay again now. Mmm. Coffee!

I'll probably be getting a bit more pain as I increase activity, although this had already started happenning over the last few days because I was getting more and more toey about not doing stuff and therefore more inclined to be adventurous and take risks.

~~~

One's perspective on adventure changes of course. "Adventurous" meant walking to the clothesline over grass. I don't know if I mentioned that they had an obstacle course in rehab, and the day I found out I was likely to be around for another week I went to physio and asked to have a go on it because I was feeling all grumpy and needed some fun.

It's actually designed for amputees, they have to complete it before going home and it even includes a set of tram steps of the old, steep style, leading up to a tram seat. (Very cute actually).

Apart from the curious little play tram with its steps, you wouldn't notice it was an obstacle course unless you were an amputee or someone like me. It doesn't help that it's called a "mobility garden". It's a series of different path surfaces with a practice drain to negotiate, a bit of train/tram track, and wooden decking. But seriously, when you're in that state it's an OBSTACLE COURSE, no more no less and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Mobility garden my arse.

~~~

I just digressed, lost in a reverie of how much fun I had that afternoon on the obstacle course and thinking it might be fun to navigate my way to the clothes line again, or possibly behind the armchair next to me to the stationery shelf...I could take sandwiches....

But now I'm back and I've just had a look at a CD of x-rays, including the one of the fracture before traction and I no longer feel bad about screaming:cut for the squeamish ) Also, not only can you see my knickers, you can see am impressive amount of further detail beyond my knickers to the point that I'm not going to be waving them around.

Not knickers, not x-ray.

~~~

Today's reviewing orthopaedic surgeon was the worst one yet in terms of bedside manner, I can only assume he'd had a really shit morning. Plus a personality bypass and humourectomy.

I have come to the conclusion that orthos only come alive in emergency when you're screaming your head off. Then they look right in your eyes and tell you what's happening and what needs to happen and they ask for your trust and you hand it over willingly. They'll use your first name like they've known you all your life. They also pat you a lot in a manner that I, for one, found very reassuring, although it's since been pointed out to me that that's how they check the rest of your bones for breaks as well.

And once it's all over, they're gone. You will see them, they'll turn up to check on your progress, but they'll never look you deep in the eyes again, never run their hands over you with reassuring confidence like they did on that night that was like no other. And now you're Patient Noodles with #rfemur and elastoplast allergy, not Splozza whose jokes are hilarious and religious views are entirely profound.

Strange creatures indeed.

Plans.

Jun. 9th, 2011 11:34 pm
splodgenoodles: (The delinquent daisy)
Mr.Fish is unwell. I'm hoping it's constipation. The cloud tells me to fast him for a couple of days, then feed him mushed green pea, although one person suggests getting straight on the pea treatment so you find out quickly if it's actually something else. I like this idea but we are all out of peas.

And as we are also trying to empty the freezer for a defrost, 10B doesn't want to buy a new bag. Especially since I only want one.

In fact half of one would probably be plenty.

The prospect of negotiating with local food retailers for one pea (or even just a half of one) is a little daunting, especially since I recently decided to work harder to appear normal rather than allow myself to slide further into the role of local bag ladyeccentric, and I think having to explain the pea situation to the nice people at the local IGA would be a backward step.

So for this reason I've determined that, health permitting, I'm going to the shops tomorrow to steal half a pea. It's down to half because I really don't feel good about theft, it's just that I'm driven to it by my need to keep up social appearances (god it's a cruel world) so at the very least, I'll keep the actual theft to a minimum.

~~~

It's going to be so awful if I get caught.
splodgenoodles: (Default)
Ok. I probably need to slow down now. I don't really want to, but I think it's going to hit me very soon if I don't.

I've been oot and aboot. Bought tights and long socks. Bought some fish-related things but no actual fish yet. Bought yummy pork pies for 10B et moi.

Did not bank cheque, or stop at vet for Extra Speshul Cat Fud.

~~~

As far as fish go, I can't help noticing the amount of web advice along the lines of 'talk to people at your nearest good aquarium for expert advice'.

It rather reminds me of public health pamphlets I used to see that tell you how to be a proactive and well informed patient by suggesting that you ask your doctor about side effects/other symptoms, etc. It's a fine idea in theory, but doesn't take into account the fact that many doctors will look you in the eye and tell you there are none. (Many doctors, in fact, believe that telling people about side effects of medications, or obscure symptoms of diseases, only causes trouble).

But that's a helluva digression.

It's just that the behaviour of doctors and the behaviour of people who work in pet fish stores are starting to look remarkably similar.




I'm not obsessed, really. Not with medical culture, not with tropical fish. Really, not.
splodgenoodles: (Default)
Oh bugger.

I should know better than to read up on anything, even classics which theoretically are still good reads even after you know how they end. It would have been more fun if I didn't know what was coming.

*slaps forehead*

Still, turns out I wasn't the first one to notice a metaphor or two.

I may yet read the book, and I'll definitely watch the second part. Actually, I'll definitely read the book because this is a heavily truncated version and apparently the book is full of loads of stuff about life on whaling boats, which all of a sudden I find fascinating.


They all seem like such nice people...
splodgenoodles: (Default)
Oh bugger.

I should know better than to read up on anything, even classics which theoretically are still good reads even after you know how they end. It would have been more fun if I didn't know what was coming.

*slaps forehead*

Still, turns out I wasn't the first one to notice a metaphor or two.

I may yet read the book, and I'll definitely watch the second part. Actually, I'll definitely read the book because this is a heavily truncated version and apparently the book is full of loads of stuff about life on whaling boats, which all of a sudden I find fascinating.


They all seem like such nice people...
splodgenoodles: (Default)
Yes, you fool, he is just here for the females, not out looking for you. And now he's going off his own way.

Life isn't out to get you, you just got in the way.

But your boat is kind of irritating and will be smashed if you keep trying to poke me with it.
splodgenoodles: (Default)
Yes, you fool, he is just here for the females, not out looking for you. And now he's going off his own way.

Life isn't out to get you, you just got in the way.

But your boat is kind of irritating and will be smashed if you keep trying to poke me with it.
splodgenoodles: (molesworth)
This is your captain speaking. Now we are far enough away from shore I feel it is reasonable to tell you that I am batshit insane. You came for one kind of journey but guess what? I am on another one and I am the Captain.

Holy fucksocks.

"We hunt to live, not live to hunt."

"Vengence on a dumb animal...? Sounds blasphemous to me."

but he pulls them all in anyway. It's a bit hard to argue against a cult leader

~~~

It's rather awesome how this comes from a man who initially presents as kind of reasonable albeit having a bit of a hangup about that leg business, but is really on a mission to prove dominance over nature. He doesn't see God in nature anymore. Or maybe he does, but he's out to get the bastard. He's a very troubled Ahab.
splodgenoodles: (molesworth)
This is your captain speaking. Now we are far enough away from shore I feel it is reasonable to tell you that I am batshit insane. You came for one kind of journey but guess what? I am on another one and I am the Captain.

Holy fucksocks.

"We hunt to live, not live to hunt."

"Vengence on a dumb animal...? Sounds blasphemous to me."

but he pulls them all in anyway. It's a bit hard to argue against a cult.

~~~

It's rather awesome how this comes from a man who initially presents as kind of reasonable albeit having a bit of a hangup about that leg business, but is really on a mission to prove dominance over nature. He doesn't see God in nature anymore. Or maybe he does, but he's out to get the bastard. He's a very troubled Ahab.
splodgenoodles: (Default)
So yesterday I was telling the massage therapist that I'd recently started watching Rake on the ABC and was heartily looking forward to the next instalment in a few hours time.

She mentioned that the star of the show, Richard Roxburgh, was in another ABC series years ago, Blue Murder. Blue Murder was a fictional account of police corruption based on real events and he played the part of Roger Rogerson (aka 'Rodger the Dodger'), a real person.

So. Later on I watched Rake and enjoyed it. Then I watched Paper Giants: The Birth of Cleo, the fictionalised account of the early years in the career of Ita Buttrose, who's now something of an Aussie icon.

Well. According to the story of Paper Giants, Ita Buttrose received death threats and credible reports of threats against her kids at one point. And the police officer who kept her informed and advised was none other than the same Roger Rogerson. Small world.


I guess it really is a totally meaningless coincidence but hey, it's all I've got.


Oh, but not played by the same guy. Shame that.
splodgenoodles: (Default)
So yesterday I was telling the massage therapist that I'd recently started watching Rake on the ABC and was heartily looking forward to the next instalment in a few hours time.

She mentioned that the star of the show, Richard Roxburgh, was in another ABC series years ago, Blue Murder. Blue Murder was a fictional account of police corruption based on real events and he played the part of Roger Rogerson (aka 'Rodger the Dodger'), a real person.

So. Later on I watched Rake and enjoyed it. Then I watched Paper Giants: The Birth of Cleo, the fictionalised account of the early years in the career of Ita Buttrose, who's now something of an Aussie icon.

Well. According to the story of Paper Giants, Ita Buttrose received death threats and credible reports of threats against her kids at one point. And the police officer who kept her informed and advised was none other than the same Roger Rogerson. Small world.


I guess it really is a totally meaningless coincidence but hey, it's all I've got.


Oh, but not played by the same guy. Shame that.

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