musings: the life i want

I have been very busy of late, probably over-busy based on how hard it is to stay asleep and how much difficulty I'm having just sitting down to read the books I need to read. But I'm starting to figure out more of what I want out of life.

For one, first and foremost, I've discovered that I don't care if I have to have arm surgery later on: writing is definitely all I want to do. I mean, I want to eke out time to craft and make and redecorate, I want to have the money to travel and see new things and not get left behind when friends invite me places because I just can't afford them, but I want it all to be because I'm writing. I made a list the other day of all the books I have lined up in my head, waiting to be written. There were twelve just off the top of my head, and that's not even counting sequels and half-thought-out probably-novels, or Wolfe and Raven which informed me that now it wants to be a webseries (10 x 6 minute episodes, probably four seasons).

I want a house somewhere with weather I like and enough land to plant several gardens where roses will grow. And cannas. And lillies. And lilacs. And a big ol' victorian-style greenhouse where I can grow oranges and lemons and let them out into the sun in the summer like they do in Italian Villas. I want a house I can stay in, where I can plant my poor sickly pine tree in the ground and know that I'll still be living there so he can thrive. Where I can have / get kids and plant a tree for each of them, too, and start a forest dedicated to my family.

I want to decorate from Ikea and Urban Outfitters, yes, but I also want to find beautiful antiques that people don't know the value of-- a velvet fainting couch, a canopied bed (especially if it's a Chinese wedding bed!), an old wash-basin stand. I want to gather trinkets and art pieces from everywhere I've been and display them properly. I want a house full of color and eclectic wonderfulness. My sister once described my bedroom as a treasure-box, said there was always something more to look at; I want a whole house like that.

I'm not terribly picky about who lives in the house with me. I don't necessarily need a husband, and even if I get one, he would have to be very special for me to want to live with him. I'm getting far too indipendent and unusual in my advancing age.

I think I want a writing cottage. I want my books and my desk and my working computer to be somewhere separated from the house, a little beautiful thing that's only for me, where I can hole up when deadlines are tight and I need the separation from distractions.

I think I want to dance. And I want space to dance in. I might even want an audience. I definitely want classes.

I want to never have to learn how to drive. Which means I want a big-girl bike that can get my longer distances with a lot less trouble and uncertainty. I love my baby-bike, but it's just too slow and too rickety for the long haul.

I want to carry my babies on my back and plant my own food and live somewhere where the cats can go in and out as they please without having to worry about cars and dogs and diseases. I want to make my own furniture and do it well and love doing it. I want to publish more than one book a year, every year, until I die or I go mad, and even then still have seven or ten or twenty books written and waiting, started, planned out, that others can finish and publish. I want my house to always be surrounded by nature and full of people I love, talented, opinionated, beautiful, glamourous, wonderful people who laugh and cook and drink wine and home-made ales. I want to raise kids in that atmosphere. I want to change the world just a little bit. I want to be famous enough to never have to be poor again. I want to give back to the community with a scholarship and maybe some community funding, like a garden project or something. I want to start a school and save a publisher and edit anthologies. I want to visit friends who live far away, and maybe sometimes live far away myself, but always have this one beautiful house to come home to.

And you know what? Sometimes, I feel like I'm getting there.

dreamjournal

I dreamed I met the Doctor and he took me with him. We ran everywhere and laughed more than I've ever laughed and everything was an adventure, so we went everywhere. Someone was filming it for a documentary. We were free, and my whole life was there. We were in love. And then I started getting older. All that running made me tired and I couldn't keep up. I kept falling, getting left behind, getting stuck or captured. And he was further and further ahead. And then one day he came back for me and it got him killed, and let some evil out that we couldn't catch, and all I had left was one little token and the documentary that got it all wrong, and someone else walked away with his memories and didn't love me any more. I was still mourning when someone came back in his form and was so mean. He tried to make it all mean, tried to ruin my memories-- and it was so aweful that it woke me up.

Man. This is pretty much the plot of every companion, but it felt so real that I woke up almost bereft that it was all over. It was my story. And then I had to wake up and realize it wasn't reall at all. I hate those dreams.

letters to the aether

Dear Dirty Street Emos,

I'm glad that making shallow comments about strangers as they walk by entertains you. Good for you, deflecting your anger over the fact that you had an entirely ordinary middle class upbringing onto something that makes you happy. I hope you find it fulfilling.

But know this: You don't know a damn thing about any of the people walking by. You don't know anything about anything, really, and one day, in two years or five or ten, you'll realize what a douche you are, and you'll be so embarassed you'll have to change your whole look and become someone else, because right now, you're stupid and shallow and mean, and so are all your so-called friends. As soon as you wake up, they'll turn on you. Don't deny it; you know that truth somewhere deep inside you.

So go take a damn shower and shut your mouth. Suck it up and do something useful. Or at least leave this place alone.

Love and spikes,
Me

video: puppy is confused by escalator

This had to be shared. It had to.

x-prize is back on my radar

I've been following the X-Prize for years, but last night I watched a show about Virgin Galactic, and now I'm all enthused about the whole New Space Race all over again. VG got Space Ship Two to fly, and there's still lots of other teams out there trying to do the same thing. I want to be a part of it. I need to figure out how to get a job with one of them, painting the machines or sticking carbon fiber or something. They've got to need someone for basic grunt work, and then I can work my way up to wiring or something.

I wonder how ones goes about starting to build a space ship in their own back yard?

More info:
X-Prize on YouTube
X-Prize homepage
Virgin Galactic homepage
VG booking -- only 200K$

wow! long time, no post!

I feel like I've been haunting my own blog, wandering through the back rooms, looking at comments, playing with tags, but not writing any new posts. So here's a rundown that will probably not be quick, but will hopefully be at least informative.

TMI alert: I started out last week with some improbable combination of a UTI, a yeast infection, my period and a head / chest cold. Things were pretty horribly uncomfortable for a while there, and I need to have a word with my immune system about allowing everything to blow out at once. Maybe it was a biological form of global pole shift or something. My immune system harmonics are all reversed now, but they're working again. I beat them into submission by drinking a whole bottle of cranberry juice and half a bottle of orange juice every day for the last week... and now I'm addicted to cranberry juice the way I was addicted to grapefruit-ade at the start of the summer.

Work is... stupidly tense. The schedule can't be perfect and now we're not allowed to switch shifts, which puts me probably missing a required chat at school tomorrow night unless they'll let me leave early, and boss-lady is getting ever more uptight about tattoos. It's not like any of us can take them off when we come into work. Or that any of us will forever not get new tatts because we work there (it's not like it's an office or a cube farm, and she doesn't pay us enough to start dictating our lives and aesthetic choices like that). I just sort of don't want to have to bother with it anymore. When I'm there, it's fine, so long as no one bothers me directly, but dealing with the public and their low-blood-sugar is getting harder and harder, especially when I'm sick, and I'm finding myself railing more and more against the basic operation of the place. But there is no way I'm going to get another job or a new job unless it's something professional and in my field. This is going to be my last day job.

I'll be going to school again soon. The first term is almost over, and in the next two weeks, I need to turn in my last 25 pages, a self-evaluation, a book report, registration paperwork, and book my tickets. Crazy! But I'll be traveling much lighter this time, since last time was crazy with the heaviness, and this time I don't have to bring things like towels and an alarm clock. I got the lovely lady who made my purse for me to scale up the design and she's going to make me a bag to travel with so I don't have to check my luggage, and can save about 50$. Sweet, no?

I am in love with this site: Fuck Yeah Tattoos. I want more. And work being stupid about them just makes me want them more.

And that's about it for me. Cold, work, school. My life is small now.