Drywall

Mar. 31st, 2014 06:44 pm
darkemeralds: Photo of an empty room with caption "Imagine an Empty Room" (Empty Room)
The drywall contractors dropped off 20 sheets of Sheetrock the other day, and it's been lying on my sad, sad bedroom floor, conveniently wrong side up, so last night I magicked some of it up.

A piece of Sheetrock with a large portrait photograph of DarkEmeralds taped to it, and the poem The Jewel by James Wright
That's my one and only professional portrait photo, which I had done for my 40th birthday and have had hidden in the back of a closet ever since. I wrote a little history of my time in this house on the back.

The writing is "The Jewel" by James Wright, my forever-favorite poem:

There is this cave
In the air behind my body
That nobody is going to touch:
A cloister
A silence
Closing around a blossom of fire.
When I stand upright in the wind
My bones turn to dark emeralds.



A couple of vigorous fellows came at 8:30 this morning, and had my drywall installed by 2:00. (One of them looked at my Sheetrock enhancement and asked, "What's that?" and I said, "Just some magic," and he kind of nodded, like, yeah, I've heard of that. Apparently people do this kind of thing all the time. Who knew?)

DarkEm's bedroom with raw drywall installed on walls and ceiling, and an incredibly dirty floor.
(Look at all my light fixtures! \o/)

Taping tomorrow morning, mudding tomorrow afternoon, sanding on Wednesday, and the contractor says I can paint by Saturday.
darkemeralds: (Not a Bad Life)
One hundred moments of magic, synchronicity, interesting coincidence...I started doing this meme back in May when my life was seeming magical. Not that it hasn't been awesome since, but that special awareness seemed to fade, and only three things got recorded here.

There was a fourth one today.

Graydie the not-so-stray cat disappeared three weeks ago. She was a peripatetic creature with a checkered past, but she seemed to have settled in with me, never vanishing for more than a day. When I didn't see her for three days, I gave her up as very likely dead. She had a wide range, the neighborhood is not without traffic and dogs, and I knew for certain that if she could have come home, she would have.

I had to force myself to stop looking for her in the usual places--on my porch when I come home from work, underfoot and mostly invisible against my black kitchen floor, following me to the grocery store up the street. I had to have stern talks with myself about looking out the front door in the middle of the night in case she was out there and looking for food.

You know how this ends.

I rode up to my path today from the grocery shopping run, and the neighbor's big tabby was hovering there. I was delighted to see a cat--I usually am; I like cats a lot--and I pulled my bike up as Big Tabby skittered off. When I turned around with my grocery baskets, there was Graydie.

She feels like she's lost a pound or so, and was hungry, but not starving, sick, or hurt, as far as I can tell. I guess she just went walkabout. I don't even know.

Anyway, I was awfully glad to see her. Good thing I kept the cat food, huh?
darkemeralds: Photo of fingers on a computer keyboard. (Writing)
I was out hacking down the overgrowth in the north forty (aka my side yard) yesterday , bleeding freely from a couple of rose-thorn pokes, avoiding a hornets' nest, taxing my hands by removing ceanothus branches that were a bit too big for the loppers, and generally enjoying the heck out of a gorgeous October afternoon, when my phone gave the sonar ping of G-chat notification.

I continued hacking for a bit, and the phone pinged about four more times.

It was [personal profile] ravurian, pitching a story idea so gobsmackingly wonderful that I might have to take sedatives to keep from dwelling on it. Either that, or I'll have to write it.

It would be a crossover or fusion piece. It would branch off from Restraint in a kind of Sliding Doors parallel universe. It would involve magic.

It would be amazing.
darkemeralds: Photo of a glass of whisky on ice with caption On The Rocks (Whisky)
I just totally crapped out yesterday. I get on these self-improvement kicks, and I've been on one for several months now, losin' the weight, workin' the issues, and generally channeling all my creativity into this project that is My Life.

Which, when you think about it, isn't a bad place to put one's creativity...

...but I have some misgivings. )

On the plus side, my knees are remarkably improved.
darkemeralds: Dark Emeralds in red glasses (Default)
Tra-la-la. I'm at work on a Sunday morning because I just couldn't bring myself to come in on a dry Saturday. Somehow, yesterday, between sleeping till the crack of 10:30, and having a typically revelatory conversation with [personal profile] ravurian that lasted through the middle of the day, and writing, as a result of said conversation (thank you, R!) a couple of brilliant-if-I-do-say-so-myself paragraphs of the new novel, and a mad bout of wool-winding (not, as [personal profile] ravurian himself would say, a euphemism: I was frogging some unsuccessful knitting projects and putting the yarn up for another day, and to say that I became a bit obsessed with the balls my new ball-winder makes would be to state the case mildly), and knitting practice swatches for my hyacinth Arpeggio, and watching Sherlock, it was suddenly 3:00 a.m. and not only was my Saturday gone, but also three hours of my Sunday.

So anyway.

Here I am in my gray cubicle at 11:30 on a rainy (OMG rainy again) Sunday morning. And yet still procrastinating. I couldn't find the light switches, and of course this is the World's Tallest Basement, so it's not as if light pours in at the tiny and widely-spaced windows near one of which my desk is not situated, so I'm in the gloom with a desk lamp and the comforting glow of my high-productivity dual monitors. And we don't run the HVAC on weekends, so I've got my little hot-flash fan running. And we also don't open the garage on weekends, just to inconvenience those pesky Sunday terrorists, so Eleanor O is parked down on the porch instead of safely indoors.

And Eleanor O is wearing all her baskets because as soon as I'm done procrastinating and I get an ass-covering-modicum of work done, I need to go to Trader Joe's, New Seasons, Fred Meyer and Sally Beauty Supply to buy all my crap for the week, and then stop at my mom's to drop off Sherlock, because fandom knows no age limits and she's a huge Bendy fan and bought the DVD as soon as it came out. For the subtitles. Uh huh.

So anyway.

Work. I can do this. I can! I focus my mind, and as I do, I begin to remember what the hell task I'm supposed to be accomplishing. It's coming to me now...
darkemeralds: Crows high in the branches of a bare tree, caption COUNTING (Counting Crows)
Three strange things happened on my way to work this morning.

I saw a dead crow in the middle of the road.

The sun came out.

I passed a mezzo-soprano practicing in Waterfront Park.

I was so struck by the strange magic of the other two things that I stopped, turned around, and went back to ask her what she was singing. She, it turns out, was a young man with sweet, wild features, his blue nylon windbreaker hood pulled up around his face. He finished his song as I listened.

"What are you singing?"

"Amarilli mia bella," he said, "by Giulio Caccini. He wrote it not very long after Columbus came to America."

We spoke for a few moments, he made sure I had the song title right ("It's standard," he said. "You can find it in Twenty-Four Italian Songs and Arias." "I had that book once!" I replied. "Well, find it again," said he); I thanked him for singing and he thanked me for riding my bike, and I went on to work.

I don't know how to weave these three things together yet.

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