Rope

Shhh. Don't tell Fred, but I am having a very good morning. I promise to tell him later -- *after* he has brought me another wonderfully brewed cup of coffee, in bed! To me, this is the height of luxury -- to have slept five hours without interruption and to wake without my first thought being that of pain medication, and then to have this sweet man offer me caffeine.

I need a better adjective than "sweet."

It's hard to accept gestures from him.

There is so much in my head and heart right now that I once again wish for Dumbledore's pensieve:

The Pensieve has multiple functions.

At times, when one's head is so full of thoughts that one cannot hear oneself think, it is useful to be able to take some of those thoughts and literally set them aside. The practiced Wizard can extract a thought from his head and store it in a phial or in the
Pensieve for another time. If it is in the Pensieve, it is possible to stir the thoughts stored there together and look for patterns. It appears that the wizard has the choice of extracting an entire memory, leaving no trace of it in his head... It is also apparently possible to edit these extracted memories, though it is a difficult task and one which is often not done well.

If one places one's head within the Pensieve, one becomes immersed in a memory that is stored in the Pensieve, and is able to relive it as if one was living that time over again...

A thought or memory stored in the Pensieve can, with proper stimulus, appear to nearby viewers as if standing on the surface of the basin.

It is also possible to take another person's memories, place them in the Pensieve, and then enter them to relive them as if one were the person whose memories you have just added to the Pensieve...

Most interestingly, the memories viewed by the person watching in the Pensieve are more complete than the person's own observations.

Ah, the coffee? I just dumped a few good gulps down my shirt. It's lovely what the tics and spasms of CRPS can do. I remember making an ambitious meal one evening -- cooking from a wheelchair in a kitchen that isn't handicap-friendly can be a challenge -- and as I was carefully lifting some filet with my spatula -- ticticticspazspazspaz -- and the fish went flying through the air backward over my head, landing with a satisfying *SPLAT* next to the catfood bowl, which of course determined its destiny.

At least the italian roast provides me the incentive to get out of bed, wash up, dress, and put the pensieve back in the closet. Throw in a load of wash --

Ah, the laundry? I have it on the brain. I was up at 3 am doing laundry because Sam-I-Am decided to piss on my dirty clothes again. This threat that he feels from Little Boy is getting serious -- as in: I cannot deal with any more cat piss. There are worse odors in the world but none that can line the sinuses quite the way that acrid, oily smell does. Bleck. Little Boy is the big-balled stray who is Marmy's brother, Dobby's uncle, and who is continually lurking around the exterior of The Manor. He has been injured recently -- it looks, Fred says, like it might be a bite on one of his rear legs -- but he is walking and feeding/drinking well, so I think he will be as "all right" as a stray cat can be in this cold-hearted world.

Marlinspike Hall has a few chinks loose here and there, especially in those wings dating from Medieval Times -- and Little Boy finds every little hole and access and marks, marks, marks with joyful abandon.

Following impeccable feline logic -- it only makes sense that Sammy, threatened by this virile male, would then do the expected: seek out my dirty clothes and piss all over them. No, I don't leave dirty laundry strewn about -- not when Captain Haddock might pop in at any time (for I do NOT believe he's still with that Swearing Bongi, photographic evidence be damned). I keep a clean Manor, thank you very much. But I will be keeping my laundry in some new, highly classified, secret spot.

A FEW HOURS LATER: I was planning to blog a bit about John McCain's performance on Meet the Press. Dick Gregory is doing a great job of making the show his own -- he is comfortable in his own skin, up on the topics -- Tim Russert must be smiling. McCain seems to be somewhat returned to his old self -- the man obviously does not fluorish when under the thumb of those political advisors and bobbly-headed pundits that the presidential campaign forced upon him. Forced upon him? Whatever. So now he thrives as part of the "Loyal Opposition." He is right to be angry about President Obama's failure to pick the pork out of his legislation, for not going with a line-by-line veto, as he promised. It is a bit of a pain, though, to listen to things like how McCain is anxiously waiting for guidance on Obama's plans to revamp immigration policy; Yes, it needs to happen, but can we decide once and for all whether he is doing too much too fast, the wrong things too soon, the right things too slow, or -- O, hilarity! -- whether he is doing everything just right, the Socialist Mad Man? The funniest moment of the show, was Gregory asking McCain if he planned to support Sarah Palin for President in
2012. It was hilarious. I haven't seen lips flap that fast in months. Why, surprise, surprise, it appears that there are many fascinating and qualified potential Republican candidates emerging!

He put the mark of approval on the new administration's foreign policy decisions and gave a smarmy yellow-toothed grin at being reminded that the fundamentals of our economy "are sound."

He plays the statesman well when he is not called upon to lead -- and just as I will never forget to remember that he was a brave man and that he served his country, and now suffers for it, physically, daily, I will also not fail to recall the seamier, steamier details of the man's life. I need to dig out that Rolling Stones' article from last Fall... it was an eye-opener.

Found it. Make-Believe Maverick: A closer look at the life and career of John McCain reveals a disturbing record of recklessness and dishonesty
By TIM DICKINSON, posted October 16, 2008

Yeah, so I was going to say a word about McCain!

Fred has gone to church and is staying afterward to give some sort of guidance about the lighting changes the congregation wants to make. Yes, I still have trouble with meanspirited jealousy. I long for the days when I woke up (Odd. I see myself as *single*, too.) early on Sunday morning, threw on some jeans and walked the grounds for a bit before hopping in the car and going and doing whatever the hell I wanted. But I am doing better in that I know my feelings have nothing to do with The Fredster's doings, nothing to do with him at all.

He helped me out the other day. Hmm. This won't make much sense to you, or seem at all important, but it was A Moment for me, somehow. We were flying down the highway to a doctor's appointment, it was pouring rain, I had not slept, my legs were enjoying some wild myoclonic jerks, and the allotted doses of pain medication had all been taken to little effect. The night before I had made noises about wanting to get my hair cut after the appointment -- since the route we had to take brought us near the hair place that knows how to tame my tangles and love my locks.

After seeing the PA (God forbid PainDude should pop his head in), while we were loading me back into Ruby the Dutiful Honda C-RV, Fred asked if I still wanted to get my hair done -- it was fine with him, said he.

And in that little moment, my world caved in. It just did. The fatigue of -- the shit of -- the large and total crap of it all. I kept hearing the voice in my head repeating ad nauseum -- Why does everything have to be so hard? It's an unfortunate mantra of late. I am trying to keep it unuttered. You know, think before I speak, edit what comes out of the mouth -- that sort of self-improvement [?] project.

I ducked my head and was searching for the ability to just do it (this would be others' mantra for me -- it bleeds out of their eyes, it is so obvious. Shut the fuck up and just do it. Anyway, strength of character can sometimes be found on the car floor mats.)

Ignoring me (or whatever), Fred said, still in that detached but kind monotone: "You just can't do it today. You hurt too much."

You know -- kind of like how you might say, "Well, skinless boneless chicken breasts are on my shopping list but I don't like the looks of these, so we'll just move on. I am more in the mood for a salmon salad, maybe with capers and some really finely minced scallion anyway."

It mattered that he didn't interrupt his movements to make an announcement; It mattered that... what? That he seemed confident that soon I would be able to do it, that soon I would not hurt too much.

He threw me a rope.

As today takes shape, it turns out to be a normally bad day -- which is, oddly enough, fine. The only things making me wince are these damned spasms and jerks (remember the coffee down the shirt?). And the thing fuelling my energy? A fever of 101.2. It really can give me the energy to get a lot done. I think Iwill surprise him with a lovely dinner.

I feel like cooking.

I hope I don't toss the food across the kitchen.

Oh! Do you remember The Turtles song -- no matter how they toss the dice/ it had to be/ the only one for me is you/ and you for me? Being just a wee lass, I "heard" that lyric as "no matter how they toss the tights..." Don't ask. I guess I kept an image in my head of everyone throwing leotards around.

This is a terrible post. Sorry. Maybe I'll come back to it. Likely not. Sufficient unto the day, and all that jazz. My goals remain modest -- a *deep* clean of the kitchen (as in, take off the grill from the bottom of the fridge and wash it; as in, pry the knobs off the stove and soak the suckers; as in, wash the trash cans!) and a lovely supper for the guy that throws me rope.