to-do

Mar. 13th, 2005 12:21 am
sigerson: (...special.)
emails to write:
one to old friend, attempting to summarize last ten years
one to complete an interview for a grad school thesis project
one to dad, someday, bringing up a sore point so it doesn't become a permanent source of irritation
two to friends inviting them to various things

rooms to clean:
my study
our bedroom
the bathroom
the stairs

things to make:
dinner
quilt
plans

dreams to dream:
porch swing and tea
pilot at the podium
knee deep in the lake
great tree in the field

thoughts to think:
family and connection
purpose and intent
absolute and relative morality (or mortality)


conclusion reached:
like Schroedinger's cat, simultaneously alive and dead until the box is opened and the wave collapsed, I exist simultaneously ecstatic and despondent, carefree and weighted with plans, until Tuesday when the admissions office can be called.

mojo and love to you all; sweet dreams.
sigerson: (Default)
I think I went outside once this weekend, for approximately twenty minutes. (To the Osco for sorely needed supplies.) Since Thursday afternoon I have inhabited this apartment. And it has been perfect.

A superfluity (hee! new word!) of snackage leftover from the party; a stack of productive things to do, many of which were done; a cat that's starting to remember that Mommy does things other than feed her. The majority of the time was spent in two pursuits: Cleaning, unpacking, and rearranging my room into a usable workspace (still have to finesse the sewing machine location, but hey...); and sitting on the couch with DaMan, knitting or just watching as he plays a new Gamecube game. Long lazy mornings with a full double bed. Books I'd forgotten that I own.

And tonight we watched Punch-Drunk Love. I had no idea Adam Sandler was that good an actor. It was touching and beautiful and more real that 99.5% of romantic comedies out there.

This week I do the job-searchy and temp-working action. But this weekend, I have been warm and hugged and purred at and loved.
sigerson: (Default)
7/3, 9pm
Entry 1—Just out of Syracuse, on our way to Rochester…

It’s just about firework time, and I’m missing them a great deal. I have less of [Bad username or site: ”fairoriana” @ livejournal.com]’s love for the light-them-yourself kind, and more of a passionate love for the huge outdoor variety.
So much of fireworks is linked with being out of town. I can barely remember the halfassed display that Boston puts on at its Esplanade hoopla. Big woop. The city already makes so much light that you miss the deep, deep darkness that fireworks deserve, and Keith Lockhart and his Pops keep ftweeing away.
No, it’s the fireworks in the small town that tears at me. Home, of course, and the wooden grandstands, and Grammy Ronald, I think, waiting with me for the sun to go down. So many years of those, and throwing temper tantrums when it stormed.
Also Peterborough, NH, and the Conval School display. All the mosquitoes, and lying on blankets.
And most close, most recent, most dear perhaps, Oneonta, NY. DaMan came out to Cooperstown for the holiday weekend, and we went down to watch the fireworks and laugh. We braved crowds, picked a likely target, and hugged the whole way through it.
I don’t know what about them affects me so. I ooh and ahh, stripped of irony or selfconsciousness. The sheer glory of the bursts of sparks has me transported. When a year goes by that I don’t see fireworks, I feel gypped. Or worse—as if I’ve let a precious thing break or leave.

So now I find myself watching the sky as we travel through upstate New York, (when I’m not typing, that is), waiting for a burst of gold or blue.

Mile-wide sea urchins. Stars spinning and whistling. Bright flares that are nothing but BANG! Big long draping ones, where the sparks droop so far you worry about the trees. Ones that split into three or four or five separate explosions.

We are often horribly cruel to each other, and terrible to the earth itself; and then we manage to make stars,

Somewhere, I’m still five years old and staring at the sky.
sigerson: (Default)
*humming*

I see the moon,
and the moon sees me,
and the moon sees someone I wanna see.

God is the moon,
and God is me,
and God is someone I wanna see.
sigerson: (helicopterman)
---I dressed up as a pirate tonight and went out to get drunk and sing shanties. Perhaps it would have been even cooler if I were less shy in a bar situation, but overall it was lots of cool. Argh. Arrrrrgh. Fear my bandanna and foofy shirt.

--Sam has sent a followup CD to our cover-mix, "Revenge of Pork". This outrage can not be borne. Especially Masters of Chant singing Blue Monday. Or any David Hasslehoff. But Mr.TheMan and I are nearly tapped out of covers. Shy of finding some Me First and the Gimmee Gimmees or Annoying Music Show cds, I don't know where we're going to find enough songs to mix a reply cd. Oof. But at least I have Tiny Tim singing "Hey Jude".

--LJ may not be the best place for it, but I feel I must state and restate how much I love Mr.TheMan. I am incredibly lucky to be who I am, where I am, and the fact that he's so wonderful makes it even better. I love his uncontrolled laugh, his expressive eyebrows, and his way of challenging me. And his smiles.

--On my way home from getting fish-paste...er...sh*tfaced, I found a silver ring. It looks kind of like your standard bit of shiny chromed hardware, incomplete circle with rounded tips, about 1/8" wide round band, no other adornment. It fits my middle finger on the right hand. I picked it up and put it on without even thinking about it. How strange, the things we find. I like to think I was meant to find it.

--I continue forging through the heavy philo-theo-ethico book I picked up last week on a whim. It's actually providing a good crash course in the last two hundred years in basic theology and philosophy. I'm just about to reach the point where the author will begin to form his actual argument, rather than restating the entire history that has led up to it. I hope it's well done; I want the equivalent of the toy at the bottom of the box.

--Last, I leave you with silly haiku:

No peg leg, no hook
Yet buccaneer I remain
Bring me my brown pants!

Tomorrow, Green Line
Muttering "argh" I grumble
Keelhaul the whole train!

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