I am livid.

I want to kill a motherfucker. I really do.

And I fucking can't.

Why is it that my widowed Aunt has found herself in the position of being stalked and sexually harassed by a dipshit who is just fucking like N- is beyond my comprehension. I do know, however, that I am so filled with rage at his behavior that I can't calm down enough to sleep. I just want to beat the fucker until he's lying in a pool of his own blood and drowning to death in it while in excruciating pain from his injuries.

Worries.

I can't stop thinking about money and worrying about it. My stomach is in knots and I feel like I'm on the verge of crying half the time when I'm not numb right now.

And when I'm not caught up in that, I'm fretting about stupid bullshit with my mother.

Or of turning into her.


It has not been a good day for me today.

Stream of consciousness rant/rambling

I suppose that did sound a little awkward for a title to this post. Ah, well. I'm not going to trouble myself over it very much. Right now, my son is sleeping and so is my husband. As such, I either have the liberty to use the internet as I wish or do some chores uninterrupted. As you can tell, I've chosen to play in the interwebz. It's been challenging over the last several days. I'm not sure where the biggest challenge comes from right now.

I am torn between pointing at the anger I feel towards my mother for her recent bullshit and the general feeling of malaise that's been left in the wake of her... bad behavior, bitchy words... what is the correct way to describe it? I honestly don't know. I've ranted about this elsewhere. I've had about a half hour long conversation with my husband's girlfriend about it (who is wonderfully supportive and is strongly exhorting me to say 'fuck you' to my mother and cut her off from my life just as she has done with the people who've hurt her in her family). In some ways, I feel purged of the angst that I sat down with initially to write out and expunge from my soul.

At the same time, I'm... feeling like I need to lance some kind of emotional boil and drain the festering abscess within my soul of rage, anguish, pain, and profound disappointment. It's funny, I fell asleep last night and dreamed of assisting people will illness and a theme that came up was healing infections. It wasn't an exactly cathartic dream but it wasn't one of the nightmares that I've been having on a regular basis either. It was kinda nice to wake up and not have my left arm bruised because I smacked it against the nightstand as I was having some form of night terrors as I slept.

Night terrors... Oh, gods, do I hate those things. I can not begin to detail the worst of them. Actually, I could but even in the supposedly reassuring light of day, I still find myself uneasy with *that* one particular one. Not terribly surprising, it does feature physical violence and torture. It seems like the worst of my nightmares are usually along those lines. It kinda makes me wonder just how bad some of the things I don't remember were. It also makes me think that my interest in medieval torture really didn't serve me very well for helping me sleep.

Fascination with medieval warfare and torture just doesn't mix well with a restful sleep when you have an active imagination and way too much stress inside. It does make for some very... well, fucked up dreams at times. Throw in my amusement/love of zombie and other horror movies and it can get really disturbed inside my head sometimes. So, I believe I'm going to write about something else. I've decided to write about something happier.

I have made alot of progress in my efforts in preparation for the holidays. I think it will be a good year to be a child around in this neck of the woods. I still need to pick up a few things because I realized that I'm missing some of the materials I need to make a couple of items, but it's not as bad as I thought it would be. My plan to make a rag book for my youngest neice and a rag book for my son this year is coming into a good stage. It've gotten my ducks in a row and I'm ready to start cutting and peicing it together.

I'm also working on finishing up a couple of sweaters and a few other nice things for the kids in the family. On one hand, I've got to admit, it is kinda easy. When you have nothing but neices to get gifts for, it is terribly easy because they're all pretty much interested in the same things right now. The eldest of all the girls is a bit more sophisticated but even she's at about the same point right now. So I don't have any real worries about what to give her. I just need to get my sewing machine in order. Which I think I've got fixed.

Wow, my capacity for paying attention is just completely shot right now. I should work on something else aside from writing right now. Fortunately, this is not in preparation for anything like serious publication.

Brief Update.

I've got some stuff to rant about and such. I'll do so in a few minutes. This, however, is a quick plug to let the world know that I'm still alive. Aside from that, I'm severely pissed off with my mother. Don't worry, I'll rant about that in a minute.

I'm also contemplating changing the layout of my blog again. I'm getting bored with this one.

Images that match characters.

I'm taking a brain break and this is what I found.

Marie Clair (daughter of Marie Olberight):









Marie Olberight:



Richard Dawson:











Janine Davis:



All pictures belong to the owners which the images come from.

Insomnia.

I'm sitting here with a minor bout of insomnia. I'm going to attempt to do some writing upon my NaNoWriMo project and I can't help but feel that odd sense of peace that comes late at night. A part of me is contemplating just staying up incredibly late tonight for the sake of that feeling. I don't really know why.

I also feel an odd mix of sorrow, liberty, and longing right now.

Stormcrow, you make me wistful at moments for the oddest reasons. I think that smile the last time I saw you is what did it this time.

And Stargazer, I wish you were here right now. I was brave today, so very brave and I think you'd have been proud of me for it.

Getting comfortable in your own skin is so very hard sometimes.

Prospero's Speech

I've found myself listening to Loreena McKennitt's rendition of this final soliloquy from Shakespeare's Tempest earlier. I was struck by the ringing quality of purity and the undercurrent of sorrow to it. It seems fitting that it is playing right now.

Even as the lies I tell myself are stripped away and the mask is removed, I can't help but feel grief. Would it be easier if the lie was true? I honestly don't know.

I only know that I feel deep and profound sorrow over the childhood that I wish I had. I also feel and adamant refusal to allow such sorrow to be visited upon my own child for the sake of conveniance or anything else that motivated my parents to treat me as they did when I was a child.

Perhaps it would be easier if I could hate them. I don't know.

Happy birthday to me.

I'm thirty. Yay! [insert cheezy noise maker SFX here]

Random thought.

I just heard someone singing a beautiful rendition of the national anthem. Why is it that I felt the sudden urge to weep with grief? Is it the fact that the nation is not the place that I had thought it was when I was a kid? Is it the fact that the patriots who fought and died to found this nation are spinning in their graves?

I don't know, but the wave of sorrow that washed over me was enough where I was glad that I was sitting down when it happened.

Gods, I hope election day doesn't bring a complete disaster. I hold little hope for it all, though.

laughing at the interwebz

Your result for The Sexuality Spectrum Test...

Bi/Slightly Straight

For the most part, you are bisexual. You have a slight preference for the opposite sex, but either sex would suit you. If you are sexually inexperienced, it is possible that this will change after you do some experimenting.

Take The Sexuality Spectrum Test at HelloQuizzy

Well, that was a statement of the obvious.

Thoughts.

On Friday, I'm turning 30. A third of my life will be over. Given how women in my family tend to live until they're roughly 90 if not a little older, it's a safe statement to make.

I don't feel depressed because I'm not a kid anymore.

I feel disappointed because I don't think there is going to be a party. I mentioned something a little while back that I had wanted a party for my birthday with our friends to my husband. But, then our finances went nuts and life has dropped a proverbial hammer or two on us. I don't think it's going to happen.

And that disappoints me.

Last year, my husband was upset because he felt kinda ignored on his birthday. I'm hoping that I can make it happen where his birthday doesn't completely suck next year. I've a few ideas. If my birthday is just plain again, that's ok. I've go my husband and my son. We've got our health and even if money is kinda crazy right now, we've got our needs met. So, we're doing ok.

Who knows, maybe we'll get something nice for dinner.

Updated Word count.

Word Count: 5,634.
Page Count: 16

Other details:

Some of the characters have started to reveal themselves. There's a female character named Marie Claire. Divorced with at least one child, a daughter. She's got some tension (an understatement) towards the other female character that's revealed herself. They met in the office of the psychiatrist with the red leather chair referred to at the opening of the story. Marie is described by the as of yet unnamed character as 'creepy' and as a precognitive individual. Unclear what the relationship between Marie and the psychiatrist was.

Second female character named Janine. Janine slept with Marie's husband. Janine has hostile feelings towards Marie and Marie's daughter. Janine's relationship with the psychiatrist was a combination of a mentoring and something more. Janine comes from an abusive household, there was at least physical abuse by her father. She's an artist. Marie was a writer at the time they interacted. It's unclear if either still are. Janine's artwork in the past was photography. It's yet to be revealed if there's still a career in the arts for Janine. Gender identification with Janine is unclear. We'll see how *that* develops as well. Janine's past is fleshed out much more in the writing I just got done.

There's a few other characters and I think a few other points in time that I'm writing here. I'm not sure. But it's beginning to turn somewhat cohesive. I'm a tenth of the way to where I want to be. Perhaps I'll get lucky and write the rest of it this easily. I kinda doubt it, but who knows. The muse is fickle and will grant as she wills.

:)

The Red Chair: Excerpt (1)

I remember that chair. He had a red leather wingback chair in his office. You know the scent

of old leather, that slightly sweet, half musky smell of it? It permeated the entire room in a

subtle perfume that lingered on my clothes after our sessions. I remember that chair all too

clearly. Somehow, I managed to forget the discussions but the chair… The chair was just burned

into my mind in every detail, right down to the way the padding beneath would feel like a coiled

animal with the springs as bones.

Three years ago, the sessions ended and I did my best to forget everything. I bared my soul

and told the company every possible thing about my past. And yet, here I am, seemingly

stepping back into that routine of walking into his office and sitting in that chair every Thursday.

Last week, I got a tape in the mail. At first, I didn’t know what it was. There was no return

address on the label and no manifest in with the package. But once I put that tape into the

player, I knew. I just don’t know why they sent it to me. Perhaps somebody is concerned about

me or concerned about him. I think I just want to forget, though. I’m sure I said too much.

He said his mother hated him when he was a boy. He said she wanted a daughter but she had

him, so she tried to make do with what she had. As a kid, he said that he had fantasies of

self-castration, where his mother came in and suddenly loved him as he lay dying. She’d cry and

plead that god doesn’t take her baby and then somehow, everything was right with the world.

Usually, however, he said that she just ignored him or treated him like crap. After all, what

mother could do anything with a son who didn’t love opera or want to have tea on Sunday

afternoon, right?

Details of the Manuscript!!!

Ok, I suppose I should say something about what I've got going so far. :)

The title is The Red Chair. It comes from the opening of the manuscript. I believe the chair in question is going to become a theme, it just has that feeling to it. It'd be kinda nice to have a way to tie all of this stuff together. But, we'll see as it develops!

The style of this is turning out to be a Modern/Post-modern kind of thing. I don't particularly like it but that's how the manuscript is turning out. Perhaps this will change my feelings on the style. That said, I suppose I could talk about the characters but they're still remaining elusive. I'm around 10 pages into this, but I hope to see things begin to show some cohesion soon. It's like I'm reading a book and I can't skip ahead to find out what's coming up!

:P

So, I'm going to do it...

I've decided to take the plunge and I'm giving NaNoWriMo a shot this year. I've been working this evening on a piece for it and I'm already just confused by it. I tend to let my work write itself, especially if it's fiction. If I haven't mentioned it before now, I can't stand the Modernist or the Post-modernist style of writing. It just irritates me to no end and I feel that it is nothing but a major headache for readers.

That said, I'm utterly baffled by why I've got a manuscript coming together in that type of style. I've been writing tonight for about an hour and a half. I'm taking a bit of a brain break. I've decided to write for two hours a day until this thing is finished. The goal is to have 50,000 words in a fiction manuscript by the end of this month (Nov. 30th, at midnight to be precise!).

I've been writing for an hour and a half, as I said just a moment ago. Right now, I've about 10 pages and I'm at 3,049 words. I made myself a few rules for this thing. It's nothing to do with NaNoWriMo's rules. These are supposed to keep me from tearing this thing apart before it is done.

MY RULES FOR NaNoWriMo:

1.) Pages written in a given day don't matter.
2.) Write for 2 hours a day until word count requirement is reached.
3.) Don't re-read pages written until manuscript is complete.
4.) Don't edit for content until manuscript is complete.
5.) Do write what comes to mind, no matter how dopey it sounds.
6.) Let the novel write itself, don't force it!

So, here's hoping it goes well! :) I've told my family and a few friends. Now I've got others who are aware I'm doing it. So I suppose I'm now 'officially' committed to this project. I think if I can prove to myself that I can write a novel in a month then I can get the nerve to go out and publish! :)