Overly Inspired.

I had one, and only one, goal for today: to rework the opening scene of my YA novel (working title: The House of Doors). That was my plan. And I did make a little progress, I guess. But. See. Here's what I've really been thinking about:

My friend Melissa insisted that I watch Married to The Eiffel Tower, a documentary about Objectum-Sexuality (I posted it over at URFCKD, if you want to watch it). And instead of thinking about how a secretive and snarky thirteen year old girl would react to this and that, I've been thinking about a short story about an OS, who is in a long-term committed relationship with a particular staircase or something, who (in a moment of weakness) has a one night stand with a foot long double-ended dildo. The OS accidentally falls in love with the dildo, and struggles with the complications of loving (the equivalent of) a hooker or a porn star, as well as the crippling guilt of adultery.

In case you were wondering, shifting gears from one story to the other is not an easy task...

In other news, I've been feeling a strong compulsion to start crafting life-sized, soft-bodied dolls with paper mache heads and limbs. They would, of course, look like me. Sort of as totally tactile/posable self-portraits. I imagine this urge will pass, but if it doesn't, I'll keep you posted.

(And speaking of things Melissa has clued me in on: I was organizing my inbox and found a link to this article she sent me a while ago. I remember thinking it was amusing enough then, but now I can totally relate to it...)

Thursday Night, and All's Well. Sort Of.

I sat down with a list of things to blog about, but I'm tired. I spent the afternoon first shampooing carpets, then trying to change a flat tire (which is a pain in the ass and yet another reason I'm determined to move someplace with decent public transportation). Finished off the night watching a History Channel documentary about Caligula, with whom I've been kind of obsessed since I read "I, Claudius" and "Claudius The God" (both by Robert Graves). The documentary was not nearly as obscene Gore Vidal's "Caligula", but then, nothing's perfect. (I have a thing for extraordinarily debauched tyrants in cinema, gloriously portrayed in all their vulgarity.)

The image to the left somehow tied into what I was going to blog about, but I'll be damned if I can remember how... Uh. Yeah.

A Blog About You.

You always thought of yourself as a normal (though perhaps struggling) artist-type. Talented enough, smart, social, etc. And you've always operated under the basic assumption that crazy cat-ladies were--by definition--old, living by themselves (or, living with no other humans) and socially awkward. Because you're young, and are surrounded by people, and are not totally socially retarded, you always kind of assumed that you (artist-type) and she (cat-lady) were on opposing ends of the spectrum. That, on a Venn Diagram, you would be two distinct bubbles, no overlap.

But you've recently realized that you don't have to be old. You don't have to be maladjusted. You don't even have to be alone; you just have to be lonely.

Not even like, 'I'm-so-lonely-I'm-going-to-pay-a-prostitute-for-conversation' lonely. Nope. Just plain old, 'One-of-my-best-friends-lives-in-Finland-and-the-other-lives-in-Missoula-but-doesn't-have-a-phone-and-all-my-other-close-friends-are-scattered-across-the-U.S.-and-I've-always-been-a-quality-over-quantity-when-it-comes-to-relationships-type-of-girl-so-here-I-am' lonely works just fine.

The equation, you discover, is: lonely lady + cat= crazy cat-lady. It's like the e=mc2 of the desolate.

One day, you hit that point where it seems totally reasonable to bounce ideas off a cat. They don't mock you, or roll their eyes. I mean, yeah, they sit there totally disinterested, looking at you like you don't have the right to talk to them. But they listen. And then, when you're done ranting and raving (or crying), they don't offer you advice. They don't psychoanalyze.

They just continue to sit there. Or, they get up and leave. Or, occasionally, they let you pet them.

And after a couple of weeks, they get used to you being all Chatty Kathy, and sometimes even sit on your lap when you're telling them about your idea for a fantasy novel for young adults. They wrap themselves around your neck while you blather on and on about how you don't want your novel to end up sounding like Tolkien (or like that other kid from Montana who wrote a book that sounded like Tolkien.) They swipe at your (incessantly wiggling) toes, which reminds you that you used to have friends who teased you about the fact that you perpetually fidget your toes, so you tell the cat that. And she doesn't care; she just wants to sharpen her claws.

The worst part is, you start writing blogs about cats. You should blog about how you've given up on The Great American Novel you'd been trying to write, because frankly, you just don't think you have the talent. Or about how you've dug up your notebook from last summer and, after revising some basic plot issues, have decided to start working on that fantasy thing you started. About how you've decided you don't need the Booker Award if you can have the Newbery Medal. Because it (the fantasy thing) is more fun to write (than the serious novel). And also, because you watched "Twilight" and have realized that you don't have to actually have talent to write a successful novel for young adults. Which, naturally, should led to you blogging about your fear of failure. And also about selling out, and whether or not you could live with yourself were you to, in fact, sell out, and how you would only write YA literature until you had a foothold in the industry and your student loans paid off, and then you would write something more substantial (which is not to say YA Literature can't be substantial). You'd maybe try to rationalize your decision by informing the internet that you'd always planned to write kids' books. Always. You could relate the anecdote about how, when you were like, 4 years old, you wrote and illustrated that 'book' about a bird who looses his nest (a blatant rip-off of "Are You My Mother?"), and it won some award at some fair, you proudly declared your intentions to write kids' books. Or about how when you where 10, and had just finished The Hobbit, you just knew that that was what you were going to do with your life. Or about how you still check the YA section of Barnes & Noble every time you visit. You wouldn't be able to refrain from postulating if it is really 'selling out', or just 'getting back to your roots.' And you'd blog about normal things like writer's block and how the history of mining (which is actually fairly crucial to your novel) is incredibly boring to research.

But you've become a cat-lady. A crazy cat-lady. So, instead, you blog about how your cat tried to eat your sock. Or how she thinks hitting the space bar on your computer is the spiffiest thing in the world. Or how the cats are filling a void that was created when everyone you knew seemingly dropped off the face of the earth.

And then you read the blog aloud to your cat before posting, just to make sure there are no typos.

Welcome to your new life as a crazy cat-lady.

Rustic Lonely.

I did, in fact, take more photographs today. I prolly took two or three times as many photos as I did yesterday, but yielded fewer photos I'm actually happy with. Also, it was overcast again today. Sad face.

Half of these were taken with the Casio, half with a Canon EOS 20D. The Canon is a $1,200 camera, all professional like, but truth be told, I prefer the Casio for close-range photos.

And now, three things I like:

1. This tree:


This tree was struck by lightening a few years (or five) back. It's solitary, gloomy, and domineering. Also, there's a cool cave sort of space in the trunk wherein one can hide and think.


2. This cat:


Amanda (or 'Andabear') has figured out that the sounds coming from the glowing white box I'm always on suddenly stop when she pushes the long button... And that they start back up if she pushes it again. This is infinitely amusing to watch, and I will try and get a video of it the next time it happens. Also, she's totally fine sleeping on my feet, which keeps me nice and cozy.


3. My brother:


Very few people will humor me when I, camera in hand, ask them to "stare meaningfully into the distance, please."

Other than that, not much else is new. Still job searching. Still trying to write the great American novel. Still missing a toenail...

That's about it.

Lonely Rustic.

I like farm junk: it makes for interesting photographs. Something about the contrast of colors and textures combined with the sense of decay and disuse appeals to my aesthetic. I wandered around my parents' property today, Casio Exilim in hand, trying to capture the feeling of... well, the feeling of loneliness that comes with living out here. Here're the results:

My favorites of the day:





I'm going to give it another shot tomorrow. Hopefully, it'll be sunnier; it was pretty cloudy today, which made some of the shots I wanted impossible.

What My Tax Refund Will Be Buying This Year:

The Frye Harness Boot in Olive Green. Because it's not enough to own them in Black and Tobacco. And also because I lost my Burgundy Fryes somewhere in the move...

I've Basically Quit Smoking...

... But only because it's a long way from my room to the outside.









And I'm lazy.


Here's a comic:

Goodnight.

In Which I Say "Fuck" A Lot.

I'm totally lame.

Both "lame" in the sense that I only made it two days without internet, and "lame" in that I fucking ripped my fucking toenail off and it fucking hurts and I'm hobbling around like Verbal fucking Kent.

Also, have I mentioned that this house is haunted?


Fuck.