November 21st, 2007

new year

Since last week

Lunch with replyhazy after my yoga class last week was good. Today I am not making it out that far.

Lunch with bibliofile and intelligentrix who called and got us both out of the house was delightful. This never happens. Snark and catching up for a couple hours at the taco place where Firefly used to be.

So last night I was down here printing out my apazine (I'm back today because the copy count went up, hello? and I am tracking but just not up to speed) and I was browsing on the the blog Making Light where in a long comment thread about the miseries of high school, the delicacy of teenage sensibilities, and the shocking Megan incident in Missouri that recently hit the big news (just in case you are inclined to follow that up) I found Teresa Neilsen Haden's textbook description of PTSD:

Exhaustion, anhedonia, social and emotional withdrawal, apprehensiveness about things that previously wouldn't have frightened you, and chronically underestimating how much people care about you. It takes a while to get over the worst of it. The pain never entirely goes away, but it can be buried under a heap of further days and deeds and memories.

Which sounds, you know, familiar. I'm not "retired": I'm a thoroughly blocked artist, waning in vitality, still working STILL through the traumas of my eighth through sixteenth years when my nervous system was the work in progress. I am moving past it, on the road, permanently in flight through deeds and days, toward some day (somehow, somewhere over the rainbow, where happy little blue jays fly) when my life actually happened to someone but it's no big deal that I remember, and it's okay. Some days I walk far enough, and the medications are just right.

Today they are just wrong.

When I found again the clean well-lighted reasonable discussions at Making Light, I was looking at traditional poetic forms in Wikipedia, and found a link to a villanelle written by the late great John M Ford in an old comment thread. There are still some very good occasional poets there, who contribute fine work to amuse their friends. As you do.

You know what I like about fans? (besides the reading thing, and the intelligence thing), is that many of them Get It. We all went to the same damn high school.

Holidays. Bring it on. Make my day.