I can't remember how it started, but last night I went down an internet rabbit hole looking up information about the 1996 disaster on Everest. (Jon Krakauer wrote about it in Into Thin Air.) Well, that led me down the the more wide-rangingly morbid path of reading about other people who've died on Everest - that number is close to 300 since 1922. Most of those bodies remain up there because it's not feasible to remove them - people have literally died, trying. I'm haunted by the fact that some of these bodies serve as landmarks for subsequent climbers.

Just a warning: if you start looking into this topic...you can't avoid seeing photographs of the dead. The most interesting body to me, personally, is that of George Mallory, who ascended and died on Everest in 1924. His body was found in 1999, and it still has most of its flesh. I mean to say, it is not a skeleton. The flesh appears completely bleached white in photographs. (Edit to add: I'm interested because of how well-preserved his body is, not because of who he was.) For context...Mallory is the guy who gave us the phrase, "Because it's there," as an explanation for climbing Everest.

I have zero interest in climbing Everest, or even the more conveniently located (since I live in Seattle) Mt. Rainier, for that matter. I've been up to Camp Muir on Rainier, which is at about 10,200 ft. From there I could see the next leg of the journey that climbers take when they attempt the summit. It becomes a technical climb (as opposed to a "hike") from there - Camp Muir is where summit aspirants spend the night before the final 4,200 ft. push. I still remember looking at the crevasse field on the Cowlitz glacier, which is immediately adjacent to the stone shelter that was built up there in 1921. That view created a pit of pure dread in my stomach. I enjoyed the rest of the day - particularly "boot skiing" down the Muir Snowfield - but that dread haunted me all the way down. I was relieved when my friend Siobhan and I got back to our car. Since then, I haven't been up to anything  even approaching that altitude.

Another memory from that climb that sticks: how it feels, physically, to ascend above ~8500ft. where the oxygen deprivation starts to become very noticeable. It's a weird experience: working so hard; fighting for breath while making very little progress.

Mt. Everest is 29,029 ft. at its highest point. That is 3.4 times the altitude at which I started experiencing oxygen depletion on my way to Camp Muir. Climbers hang out for days at severeal different points in order to acclimatize to the altitude. Those who undertake that climb know that death is a serious risk, they feel the lack of oxygen, and yet they continue on up anyway.

I can't get my head around it: the desire just to attempt the summit of Everest, the persistence necessary to weather the extreme oxygen deprivation - to say nothing of the cold - and then passing all of those bodies along the way. To keep going, despite all of that.

Just to be clear: I don't think it takes courage or heroism to climb Mt. Everest - nor would I call it "ambition," exactly. It certainly takes desire and persistence. Also required: a downright pathological degree of hubris - verging on stupidity, in my opinion. I also don't begrudge anyone who chooses to make the attempt. Mostly I don't. I have serious questions for the ones who climb up that high when they have small children at home. Everyone leaves loved ones behind, but children are different. Dependents.

Why am I so fascinated by the stories, then? Why do they have the power to lead me down rabbit holes?

One of the houses I lived in growing up was built on glacier land.  There was an underground river that ran deep beneath the land, but in places it burst up into springs.  When the snow melted, and the river was as swollen as a kiss, you could hear the water in the house.  

Some days I feel like I can still hear that, the current, the movement underneath everything, that makes it all grow.  Drought years you could stand on the high hill above our property and see the green where the river flowed underneath because the grass didn't dry there.  And other times, in drought years, I'd go straight down to the actual river, and put my feet in to feel that cold, cold water, though I knew better than to swim too far into it.

I'm always fascinated by what drives people to do things.  Motivation can be written up into all the red and black and white titles that you can buy at the airport, like it is a series of things that lead to success.  I don't know about that.  To me it has more to do with gut and heartbeat, the subtities that are still in us from being hunter gatherers, a sense of rain, a sense of snow.  

When I do something that is physically challening, and it intersects with music, something shifts in me.  I can hear that river, I can hear it roaring in my ears.  I may not be the best, I may not be good, but something is happening.  Sometimes, I think, you have to be brave enough to do the things you aren't very good at but you love to be great at the things that you know you are good at and sometimes take for granted.

It's humbling, making a space to talk entirely about skating and it's intersect, when speaking frankly, I'm not that good and I may never be.  I know this is the point where I should say I have no fucks to give, but that would imply I have fucks to give about other things.  I quite simply don't. The last few years have been so humbling and difficult, disappointment bordering on humiliation for the attempt at things I've hoped and dreamed for....the bitter metallic taste of failure.  

These moments are punctuated by the absolute highs of those successes where, for a moment, an hour at least, you think, "I was right all along!"  But somehow success never stay with me as long as failures. I think it's because I learn more from the failure than I ever do success.  There is no quote in a neat box that will pop up on any social media that will salve those wounds.  I hurt where I've not achieved at the things I loved, but I'm still here.  As one of my friends pointed out, "This is what it means when you're making this a career.  It means you keep throwing yourself at it even when it's not working."  And that's on the low days, when I'm a the sunken end of my garden of thoughts, struggling against the crespulcar sky that is my area of the country, relentless.  On a sunnier day I could tally my successes, but long ago I decided that I had no one to impress.  I do what I do and what matters most is... did I do it?  Did I finish it?  Did I try to do my very best?

I am teaching myself, in between writing this, how to spin on skates with one toe lifted and the opposite heel lifted.  I'm blasting music and for the first time, truly grateful that the back room of the house is pergo and not the 1950's hardwood that is throughout the rest of the house.  I keep falling, I get up, I worked all day, I keep trying to write this short story though I've not published one in years, though the toddler woke me up all night, though I'm tired, though my words stumble and I can't quite get the story right.  And so I skate, fall down, get up and write, and in between, parent.  Which in this case means sitting her safely in the center of the table with coloring book.

This isn't an organized space, I've decided it's not perfect.  Things won't wrap up into little packages and deliver a message. These are liner notes, thoughts thrown down into a welcoming white space in transit, between train stations, graffetti on a wall inviting commentary, relevant or not, scrawled beneath it in pens of each individual's choosing.

So you tell me, how does it work for you, then?

yours from the roomette compartment -

QRC

One of the advantages to being ADHD is the random directions my head travels sometimes. Yeah, I actually see it as a perk, believe it or not. Sometimes, anyway.

I listen to a lot of "So you're a self published author? We'll help you market your book!" podcasts. Yeah yeah, I know. I haven't even finished A book, so listening to marketing podcasts about it does seem a little bit 'cart before the horse'. It's... just a thing with me.

Anyway. The single, solitary item that all of these podcasts seem to feel is the very base of any/all book (read as: any digital creative product) marketing systems is the almighty email list.

I won't bore you with the hows and whys. If you really want to know, feel free to ask. Bottom line: I believe them.

As noted above, I've long had a theory that it would be a good idea for me to start a list for my digital illustration stuff. That way, folks who are into the sort of stuff I do don't have to be lead to Dragonbones.net, but rather, could have my stuff show up in their inbox. Yes, it goes without saying that I would have to do this very carefully to avoid being seen as spam or sales-pitchy. (Which, for the record, I would genuinely not want to be 19 times out of 20.)

This thought train got me thinking. I should be doing some more short stories to lead up to the book. Generate some interest in a way that "So, I'm writing this book." can possibly manage.

So now, in my head, I'm thinking this email list receives short stories and art from me on a regular (though likely somewhat infrequent) basis.

That last part bugged me. While I certainly don't want to be sending folks an email every day, (that would bug me as a theoretical recipient of the email, so no) I would want to send out an email a minimum of once per month. Maybe a max of once per week. That really feels like it would be more satisfying to the recipients.

If we assume that the art/writing is good enough that folks actually look forward to the email, that feels like the right volume of emails to be pleasing without being overwhelming.

But it would take way too much from me on my own.

So what if I invited others to join in the content creation?

Well, that would help me, but what would it do for them? I don't really want to ever use the term 'exposure' when trying to attract content creators. As the old catch phrase goes: "People die from exposure."

So I ask you, my fellow writers and creators: "What would be a worthwhile benefit to you to get you to sign on to something like this? To send in your short stories, photos, or illustrations etc." Obviously there's the promise of cash, but obviously that would be very limited for me as a one man band, and the idea of 'contests' and the like feels a whole like like 'exposure'.

I'm asking here because I think most (all?) of you know me well enough to know that I'm not trying to run some kind of scam that just yields perks for me. I'm thinking that it genuinely could benefit other creators in the long run, but getting out of the gate...

For those who are familiar, I was kinda thinking of bookbub in the long term, but on a more diverse scale.

OK nerds, next time there's a thunderstorm, get your sexy arse over to the coolest damn site you've seen in a long time: lightningmaps.org.

Somehow this site displays real-time lightning strikes... and I do mean real time... as in, the lightning flashes, and by the time your eyeballs register the flash outside your window and then you look at your screen, a dot is on the website showing you where the lightning struck. As if that's not cool enough, if you click the "gear" icon and turn on the "thunder" option to one of the top two positions, you will also see a circle radiating from the lightning strike heading towards the dot that represents your position on the map. And the MOMENT the thunder-ring reaches your dot, HOLY JESUS you hear the thunder out your window. It is the coolest damn thing I have seen in years. 

As you adjust the various site settings, the URL changes a bit, so below is the custom URL for the settings I happen to like. Your mileage may vary, of course. 

https://www.lightningmaps.org/#y=39.8211;x=-75.4922;z=8;t=3;m=sat;r=0;s=201;o=3;b=21.07;n=0;d=8;dl=3;dc=0;ra=1;

Anyway, today (Thursday) is supposed to be thunderous for our region, so consider bookmarking the site. Works great on the Chrome browser on my phone.

(Originally posted at xtingu.dreamwidth.org)

I'm home. I'm slacking.

I got mah hairs did, but I really should have taken care of updating my drivers license today, and I just didn't. Stalled until it would have taken forever and then just didn't. Tomorrow. That's the first thing.

Now? I'm sitting in a diner (not the HamFam - I didn't have the heart since it's not Mike's anymore). I had the perfect opportunity to end the evening, and as I rolled down the road, and should have turned to head to my folks' place, I just... didn't. The air is cool, and it's supposed to rain, but it isn't yet, so there's that electricity in the air that happens before storms, and it's making me feel...

What? Well, it makes me feel like I'm a teenager again and I want to gather my friends and go sneaking around the neighborhood again if I'm honest.

Except that I'm half way through my 40s. My friends are grown and have families of their own. None of the others sneak through neighborhoods anymore. (I still do, but only as a means of getting from one place to another, and fairly infrequently.)

So I turned to that old comfort: a building filled with chrome, mirrors, and greasy spoons dropped into mugs of bad coffee. It's Home - even when it's not.

Fuck it. I should get to bed. I want to make stuff happen tomorrow. I just really don't wanna dammit.

Here's the dude I was working during my travels yesterday. He's a work in progress and needs a LOT of work. I feel like the art tidal wave is slowing down. Don't want that.

I have always loved roller skating.

I struggle with how to explain this, fluidly.  Everyone can tell the story of their first love or something they love, but really, the core of it, the gold inside the egg come down to two questions: 

What freedom did it grant you?

Or conversely, "What safety did it provide?'

As an adult woman, I vacillate strongly between these two needs: the need to feel safe, the craving for freedom.  Routine and schedules that span more than a few days or weeks give me a tight laced feeling in my chest.  As children came into my life, the driving need to be alone along with the perishment of personal time (note: I am a solo parent of two) pushed up like an insistant animal at the backdoor of my thoughts.  

I skated derby for two, short, intense years.  They were also the two years I'd relocated cross country and started a new career.  My derby career ended quietly and without fanfare - or anyone noticing really- when I booked an away job for three months. I took my skates, but I never went skating.  It was a ghosting break up with skating, in a way, I just knew I couldn't but I couldn't really bear to explain to myself why.  They were all compelling, professional reasons.  My job relies on the health of my knees and feet.  Solo parent.  Sole provider.  My career has physical requirements.  

Derby had been an intense outlet.  I could never put the time into skating that I longed to, but what I learned there was incredible.  I could fly, or feel like I was flying.  I never really attained any sort of strong skill set as a skater, or so I felt, but for me it had been worth it.

I was on another job, a few weeks ago.  As I took out my kit to prepare for the job, my neglected skates rolled out of the closet, denting my Prada shoebox, as if saying, "What's the deal, Prada, can't take a hit?'  I looked at them and rolled them gently back.  I thought, to myself how my business partner and I often talk about our "fun check in's."  Fun check in's go like this.

We do the activity (drinks, etc)

We head home. 

We text each other, "That was fun!"

Until one night she said, "No it wasn't. I don't know what fun is but that same bar, those same drinks.. it's not fun anymore.  I don't know what fun is but I am ready to find out again."

I laughed.  But it was one of our side projects.  One we'd joke about, "Have you had any fun lately?" and laugh, and say, sadly, "Nah, not really."

My skates looked like fun.  I set them outside the closet and went to work.

That night on the shoot, I ran into someone I'd skated derby with.  It felt like another lifetime ago, I hadn't even recognized this person out of context but they said the magical words... 

"Want to go skating sometime?"

A week later, we were pulling up to a rink and ducking through the darkness to slip feet in skates.  I pushed out on to the floor, and felt that same feeling that skating has always given me, since I was very young.  Freedom.  The music is loud, you don't need to talk, just move.  This, I thought, this is fun.

I still have the same constraints, in many ways.  I am still a solo parent of two children.  My son is a high level athlete in a another sport.  There are a lot of checks and balances.  I don't know if I could commit to a derby team, if one would have me.  But that night, I thought, there must be to be others ways to skate, to do this, other than just the rink.  And there are.  There are teams like the Moxi Skate Team.

I'm not good with routines and schedules.  Augusten Burroughs, in This Is How: Surviving What You Think You Can't writes about how many of us move in deeply entrenched habits, even when we travel.  It's valuable to think about, if you aren't meeting the person you want to meet, if you don't have the friends that you think would fuel your heart and light you on fire with ideas, or, if like me, you have felt a lackluster wondering that whispers quietly, corrosively, "What if this is as good as it gets?"  Because of course, that's a lie.  It can always be better, or even sublime, if you are willing to be uncomfortable and move outside of routine.  Just as it can always be much worse, for no apparent cause or reason at all.  But it's up to you to craft it, no one is going to do it for you. No one will ever care about your happiness as much as you do, so it's yours to build.  And if you struggle with that, well, there's always people a little bit ahead shouting out encouragment if you look in the right places. 

I suppose....I suppose.... I've learned to listen to that little irrational impulsive voice inside me that can feel the electrical thrill of what is destined to come next.  My own Tinkerbell lantern.  I've learned to trust it as far as it can be trusted, which isn't very much, but more importantly, to listen to it as it is wise.   So when I roll over, unable to sleep, restless, with a bruised and warm feeling in my chest, like a distanced lover, to watch yet another video, I think it's time to give in.  Relent.

So. Regardless of the weight I feel right now, the plodding rhythem that we must sometimes adapt to to finish our projects (artistic or otherwise), my responsibilities and that I've lost touch with all my derby friends...

I ordered the Moxi Lolly Skates yesterday.

No idea when they arrive, but when they do, you'll know.

Yrs truly in the silvery light of the late afternoon-

QRC

PS Ended up watching Planet Roller Skate and practicing two wheel turns while on a call this afternoon.  Put that under the hashtag fun, babes.

Revised ...

I kept a Dreamwidth account for reading/commenting.  It's here, come say hi if you have one too:

https://shellefly.dreamwidth.org/

I deleted all of my imported LJ entries after I saved them as a PDF via BlogBooker, so Dreamwidth is empty, and my life story is here on OPW.

Why did I keep Dreamwidth?  I have some people in my life that I want to be in touch with wherever you go to write, so if it's there, I'll dip a toe in.

It was very, very, very, very easy to create a new account on dreamwidth.org and to import all of my LJ entries, comments, userpics, tags, bio, friends, custom friend groups, and everything else.  I mean like stupid-easy.  Like 4 clicks easy.

Go here to learn how easy it is to import your LJ and all its goodies (or all the goodies you choose) to Dreamwidth: ​​​​​​​http://www.dreamwidth.org/support/faqbrowse?faqid=127

Right now I'm running a job on LiveJournal that takes all of my entries and makes them private, except for one public entry that points everyone to dreamwidth.  It'll be a while before all my entries turn private though... (I figure LJ is getting a lot of traffic), but as soon as that's done, I'll purge it.

It's the end of an era.  Looking forward to seeing you guys over on dreamwidth.  If you go there, shoot me a friend request.

1,000,000 thanks to Thomas Boutell for the under-ass-fire-lighting.

Look, I don't care where you go, but get off LiveJournal. Today I was presented with this:

"The translation of this User Agreement is not a legally binding document. The original User Agreement, which is valid, is located at" [see document in Russian].

OK, so other sites change their terms... WITHOUT telling you they are NOT BOUND by the English version, that is... But LiveJournal also got rid of HTTPS recently. (Translation: completely sniffable on the wire.)

It's been circling the drain for a long time but COME ON CHILDREN, we need to FIND THE EXITS AND DEPART.

I will have to make time to check my backups and delete my LJ. What a PITA.

Well, it was good while it lasted. And it lasted a long time.

Number of sweet looking older gentlemen who gave me their number and told me they were into hedonism : 1 

Number of sweet older gentlemen​ who regaled me with stories of being harassed by police for fornicating in their automobiles: 1

Number of married gentlemen who stroked my fur vest, purred, and whined when I said byebye, time for me to split: 1

Ah yes. Still living the dream.