A weekend ago I was at a rave. There I met a fortuneteller. She read the cards for me. "You will find a worthwhile undertaking," she read, "It will likely bring you fortune."

"You will find true love, a sole mate" she continued, "It won't be just 'some guy', but the real thing, a deeper relationship that you've ever had before."

"But first," she said, "First you must visualize with your third(?) charka these things, and what you really truly want."

But she didn't promise me many bambinos to go with the fortune and love, as that gypsy had 23 years ago. Times change.

*I'm starting up a new blog tinkeress.com So for a while I'll be double posting, there and here.

Another unsolicited dick pic! 

and, speaking of shooters, whoops, I mean outdoorsy sportsman types...

Our office building at work is a converted school. It's four corridors built around a large-ish courtyard, with a lawn, a few trees, and a concrete terrace. It's a nice place to get some fresh air during the workday. 

Around 1 or so, someone (unknown) walked out to a tree in the middle of the courtyard and stuck a soda can in between its branches, then walked away. Stranger things have happened, so nobody commented. 

A few minutes later, someone said, "Did you hear that? It sounds like wood breaking." 

Someone else said, "I was going to say it sounds like a pellet gun." 

The soda can trembled, and fell out of the tree, riddled with holes and finally torn open on one side. 

I wasn't there when this happened, but I saw the soda can. I had finished eating lunch and was going outside to look for Precious (the local cat).  A crowd was gathered by the courtyard door. "Don't go outside," they said. The holes in the can were larger than the ones I'd see in the paper targets at the rifle range at summer camp, where I tried to teach myself to not be afraid of guns. I'm no Annie Oakley, but I ended up being a pretty good shot with a .22 rifle.  Still, I don't enjoy guns. 

Everyone was very calm and watchful. The police conducted a search through the offices. It's a multi-purpose building, and none of the offices are open to the public with unlocked doors. You have to be let in or use a code.  

Basically, someone who had access to one of the offices facing the courtyard decided that lunch time at work was an appropriate time for target practice. 

So, yeah. What did you have for lunch? 

*I'm starting up a new blog tinkeress.com So for a while I'll be double posting, there and here.

KID: “Whats that in the trash?”

ME: “Bones from the chicken stock.”

KID: “Did you save me the wishbone? I want to wish for us to be mermaids. Except on Tuesday, when we are fairies.”

—  —  —  —  —

MAKING/MADE: Kid’s nightstand, chicken stock, BigBall

READING: Ancillary Justice by Ann Leckie

PLANNING: Vacation Trip to Los Angeles (April), Wickerman Burn (June), Pennsic Wars (August)

I’m still trying to find the rhythm of life now that I’ve downshifted from the daily corporate grind. I’m attempting to move forward on some project every day. Or at least on most days – I give myself the permission to have do-nothing days.

Anyway, Monday, and I want to look back on the week.

• Monday: Snow day – entertained kid, built legos
• Tuesday: Sick day (me, not the kid)
• Wednesday: Polyurethaned the nightstand, and touch-ups; Pennsic garb research
• Thursday: Polyurethaned the nightstand – calling it done; Submitted BigBall art grant request
• Friday: Chicken Stock; Kid was sick, so a lot of quiet nothing time
• Saturday: Do nothing Recovery day!
• Sunday: Sugar Cookies (with Kid); Recruiting help for BigBall from friends

<fin>

As usual, I have roughly 9,873,407,654,870,923 ideas for projects running around in my head. I will sometime record voice notes for the different ideas while I'm working (it's tough to write while driving, but a voice memo...). Sometimes I even have the focus required to transfer those voice notes to written notes in Google Keep. (Side note: I LOVE me some Keep. If you like Evernote, but want something faster/simpler, I can't recommend it highly enough.)

Anyway. One of the myriad of project ideas that keeps floating to the surface (especially when listening to writing focussed podcasts) is that of writing a Patch novel. It would be a kind of 'origin story' - telling readers how he comes to be the character than many of you already are familiar with. But he's still young. He's probably in his late teens at the start of the book. By the end? He's a werewolf vigilante.

It's the 80s. With the whole DARE campaign (and others of its ilk) in high swing, drug 'pushers' become his primary source of income.

With that basic structure in your mind, I've been working on a list of things that I would like to incorporate into the story. These aren't plot points, or story arc, or... well, they're just elements that I think would help to make my story stand out. In  most cases because I haven't seen these elements anywhere else.

• Patch won't know he's a werewolf. This is usually an element (in most of the wereworf stories I've read anyway) that is glossed over. The character will say something like "I keep waking up with blood on my mouth the morning after the full moon. Holy shit! I'm a werewolf!". Except here's the thing: If that was to happen 'in the real world'? There's no way you would assume you're a werewolf. Werewolves don't exist. You would come up with a large number of (perhaps even more terrifying) reasons, but you would not think you were a werewolf. I kinda love torturing Patch, and this is likely to be a good source of material for that.
• The audience won't be able to say for certain if Patch is a werewolf or not. If I write it correctly, Patch will come up with reasonable enough explanations for things, or there will be enough 'evidence' that maybe he's just really fucking nuts. Well, he is, but maybe that's all that he is. Maybe.
• Patch won't know what he's doing. He's a kid. He'll be up against some very bad human beings. Things won't go well. He'll make a LOT of mistakes. Again - most stories I read, there's a training montage, and suddenly our hero is bullet proof. Ummm... no.
• The villains won't be 2D. This is one which I have seen done well elsewhere, but it's important to me. Mostly because I've never accomplished it properly elsewhere. I've always written about Patch as an outlet for my... aggression. As such, I didn't really want to think too much when it came time to write. That tends to have meant very generic bad guys. This would be a serious effort and thus a little thought/planning is well called for. This brings me to:
• Life is not black and white, but almost entirely shades of grey; Patch, in his youth and ignorance, however, only sees black and white. Again with the idea of realism in the characters, I want to make young Patrick into the brash "I know what's right, dammit." sort that I was in my youth. He's got a lot to learn in a lot of different senses.

There are a bajillion more, but this is a start for the list. Of course now that I'm trying to think of the long list that has been in my head all day, I can only come up with 5.

At work, there's a cat who lives in the courtyard. Her name is Precious. She's stripey and round. People feed her and look out for her, bring her treats and boxes for shelter. She does her own thing, hanging around. Nobody can catch her. 

Today she walked up to me and let me pet her and scratch her head for about ten seconds. 

Today I was thinking about how we are what goes into our brains and we produce what we consume. Last night I was knitting to wind down before bed, and I had a horrible cheerleading routine chant stuck in my head. It was so lame that we took the time to learn it, and though the pattern of stomp and clap was invigorating, the words were so stupid that we dropped it from our repertoire. 

Yes, I was a cheerleader in high school. The popular girls lettered in sports and won trophies, the freaky girls stomped and shouted in the basement of the gym. The popular girls called us lazy and hated us, until we were their battle drums and pipes at game time, boosting them to victory. 

still, 28 years later, I get the cheers stuck in my head. 

I was thinking that I need a new dreamscape. I need to read some poetry, go to a museum or ten. Today I seriously thought to myself, "self, you've been good about your savings account. Nobody's holding out a permanent position at this job for you. See if you can get a weekday off and go to the Penn Museum. Soak up the Sphinx." 

But I can't take a day off without a doctor's note. Maybe there's a kind archaeologist or historian on staff who would write a note for me. "Lindsay is under my care for dysphoria and ennui, and needs a strong dose of beauty. Please excuse her from work for the day." 

Then I paid the monthly utilities, and OH HI, REALITY. Maybe my $70/day after taxes is more important than I thought. 

So, maybe I'll just see if I can dig up some good recordings of poetry to listen to and chase the stomp and shout out of my head. 

I was writing on paper about this and figured it was a good enough thing to get into on screen. Or maybe I just type faster than I scrawl so it's more comfy. 

I've never been a morning person. Ever. Like, even as a small child. 

In my older years, I figured out that it's partly a personal space thing. Mornings where I have to interact with people are upsetting. No, seriously - there's this weird sort of bubble around my psyche that is overly sensitive and easily bruised by contact with others that early. It's why I rarely ever say, "good morning"; that phrase is particularly cruel to my soul. 

(Okay, it didn't help that my asshole father used to force those words on me and my sister and demand we respond in kind, but still. "Good morning" is reserved for a select few loved ones who understand me.)

Being self-employed and making my own schedule for years has allowed me to avoid mornings, a lot. An obscenely comfortable bed, animals that are hedonist jerks/sweetiepies who also love the bed, and a naturally late ciradian rhythm usually dictate that my days usually don't start until 11am at the earliest. 

(I know, hate me - but know that in turn, I don't usually get the clean cool scruff of morning or the wide-open-day-ahead feeling that mornings usually afford.)

I was just thinking, though, as I was journalling, that mornings weren't always awful. Boston mornings were gold for me. Idunno, the combination of taking the dog out into the cool air, the coffee, the solitude-bubble formed by a cloud of music-noise at the right level, and coffee, and writing, brought back that feel: the cold crowded fuzz of foot-commuting with headphones and notebooks and trains of people in that cold grey. We were all respectful of the fact that it was morning. No one pressed horrible greetings on you. No one made eye contact. But it wasn't out of animosity; we were all part of the same club, and something about that and the sensate noise of walking from stations to destinations and vice versa feels holy in my memory. 

Sigh. 

Maybe I can do mornings a little more. 

I might have to, if I want to make enough money and keep a proper swim habit. 

I just wish I could walk distances like I used to. Whatever. 

Metric. Metric is good morning music. Okay, they're good music, period.

First armwarmer done (needs blocking). Second started. Watching Extant, which is Good. 

EDITED TO ADD: Season 2 of Extant is lame and stupid and boring. Fuck That Shit Right In Its Neon Blue CBS Ear. 

I didn't go to improv class last week because I was sick. Today I went back. I was crabby as a barrel of Dungeness crabs during Crabfest.  I wanted to punch my most negative co-worker, Duane, for claiming that Olive Garden is a terrific Italian restaurant. 

Then I went to class, where it's just offer, receive, give; build and expand, listen with a different part of your brain, and everything feels better now. 

Magic. 

Here's a thing about improv and listening. 

My iPhone has bricked itself.  T-Mobile could not unbrick it, so a new one is on the way, should arrive today.

My contacts appear to have not backed themselves up to the Cloud thoroughly, so I may be seeking phone numbers when the new device arrives.

I am getting a replacement, not an upgrade, which is good news because I just got this case for Christmas and it is the Best Case Ever:

This is just to say, then, that if you have called, texted, or snapped me, I am not ignoring you.  I am looking forward to the post-Ordeal-of-the-Phone snaps very much.