So this is my product of tonight. It’s not terrible for a first try with one of my own photos… but you can still see the lines of my scars because I couldn’t manage to take them out completely. Ah well. Next time perhaps.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
A Phantom of the Opera Photo(Manip)
When I got home tonight, I was tired, but I am most certainly not sleepy. I therefore wasted a bit of time playing around with the photo program that came with my laptop. After this month of selfies, I have been getting decent at it, with sharpness and contrasts and whatnot, making the lighting kinder to me. But I thought, I’m a Phantom of the Opera fan and I would like to know my program better… and I’m already not a very attractive guy.
So this is my product of tonight. It’s not terrible for a first try with one of my own photos… but you can still see the lines of my scars because I couldn’t manage to take them out completely. Ah well. Next time perhaps.
So this is my product of tonight. It’s not terrible for a first try with one of my own photos… but you can still see the lines of my scars because I couldn’t manage to take them out completely. Ah well. Next time perhaps.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Tumblr Hate Mail: First Edition
I had an anonymous user on Tumblr send me a charming message:
OH NO. YOU NOTICED.
your a fucking freak
OH NO. YOU NOTICED.
Someone Misses My Selfie A Day
From an Anon on Tumblr:
Yes, that does seem a little weird to me considering how much I disliked taking them and posting them (and looking at them, but that is a given), but it isn’t a bad sort of weird, I don’t think. In truth, it is nice that someone is telling me they miss them instead of how freakish and horrible I am. I don’t think I have many other pictures of me readily available that I haven’t already posted. I always avoided cameras. And pictures now, selfies or by others, takes a presence of mind that I don’t usually have. There are a couple of me while at work, but I’m covered with so much makeup, you would never recognize me. Even if that were not a deterrent, I hate admitting to what I do for a job and pictures would give that away. However, I just dug this up (you can tell why I didn’t use it during the Month of Selfies). Yes, this is me doing duck-face. Just because (I have a healthy dose of not-taking-myself-too-seriously). And I ask you: look upon this face (of, how do the kids say it? cray-cray?) and ask yourself, are you sure you miss my selfies? Are you completely sure?
Maybe this is weird but I kinda miss seeing your selfies every day on my dash.
Yes, that does seem a little weird to me considering how much I disliked taking them and posting them (and looking at them, but that is a given), but it isn’t a bad sort of weird, I don’t think. In truth, it is nice that someone is telling me they miss them instead of how freakish and horrible I am. I don’t think I have many other pictures of me readily available that I haven’t already posted. I always avoided cameras. And pictures now, selfies or by others, takes a presence of mind that I don’t usually have. There are a couple of me while at work, but I’m covered with so much makeup, you would never recognize me. Even if that were not a deterrent, I hate admitting to what I do for a job and pictures would give that away. However, I just dug this up (you can tell why I didn’t use it during the Month of Selfies). Yes, this is me doing duck-face. Just because (I have a healthy dose of not-taking-myself-too-seriously). And I ask you: look upon this face (of, how do the kids say it? cray-cray?) and ask yourself, are you sure you miss my selfies? Are you completely sure?
Monday, March 31, 2014
Last One to Finish Out the Month
Finishing out March with a pic (I only missed one day out of 34 and that one was not within my monthly obligation which makes me glad since I thought I wouldn’t last the month). I think I have one or two more pictures of me, but I’ll keep those for later when I am feeling particularly sadistic and want to inflict them upon you.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Post A-Picture-A-Day, Finishing Up March
I didn’t post a picture yesterday (because I forgot) which means it’s a good thing that my monthly obligation is over. But I still have a couple left. Therefore, I will post for the next few days until the last batch is done. And then I will see how I feel about the camera. I mean, I still hate it, but it’s not quite as repellent to me now.
This is still with the eyeliner.
Friday, March 28, 2014
A Picture a Day: Day 31
I have done a picture-a-day for 31 days now and my obligation for doing it for a month is officially over. Because today is ALMOST the end of March, I’ll see if I can scrounge up a few more until March 31st and then I will have gone above and beyond my obligation.
I will debrief about the experience soon and why it won’t be a selfie-a-day-for-a-year (I am certain you are just as glad as I am, you sweet people who follow me). Until then…. officially done!
I will debrief about the experience soon and why it won’t be a selfie-a-day-for-a-year (I am certain you are just as glad as I am, you sweet people who follow me). Until then…. officially done!
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
A Picture a Day: Day 29
Last batch. I’m sorry I don’t have anything particularly thrilling or interesting to say about these. More eyeliner. And my nose looks rather pointy here.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
A Picture a Day: Day 28
I have been scrambling to find some more pictures. The few Orson has of me from recent times aren’t electronic (we are kind of like luddites in this household) and the old ones aren’t candidates for this, even by my own loose criteria and rule breaking tendencies.
In an effort to keep things slightly interesting for the last few pictures though, I let Phoebe but some eyeliner on me, although I think she put it on way too thick… but what do I know?
In an effort to keep things slightly interesting for the last few pictures though, I let Phoebe but some eyeliner on me, although I think she put it on way too thick… but what do I know?
Monday, March 24, 2014
A Picture a Day: Day 27
This was right after Phoebe dyed my hair. And, I have a confession. This isn’t a selfie. Pheebs took it. I know. I’m cheating. But I’ve run out of pics and I need to take more or find more or something because I am not getting this close to doing it for a month only to fail. Besides, you can tell I’m pretty delighted here to finally have black hair, so I think I should be forgiven for making up the rules (or breaking them as the case may be) as I go along.
Saturday, March 22, 2014
Trouble with Eating
One of my coworkers, Sandy if you’ve been following, and I were tasked with coming up with a couple new routines for work. In order to get time to sit down together and brainstorm, the other day she suggested that we should discuss possibilities over some dinner at the local 24/7 diner after our shift ended since it was appallingly late and neither of us had the opportunity to eat prior.
I went, against the inner little nagging voice of my fears, because I have a life to live and I can’t just… not live it. I felt like having the company and, in the interest of not trying to make my life sound more glam than it ever is, I am powerfully lonely, all the time, every day, so if she had suggested going to the grocery store, running naked through a frat quad, or driving to the west coast on a whim, I probably would have done it without a moment of hesitation (although, I am quite relieved that she did not suggest running through a frat quad naked). We also had things to talk about and for a few dollars I could get a large satisfying meal that I didn’t have to cook myself. There were very few cons about accepting the invite.
Sandy knows me, knows what I look like, my peeves, my hidden snarky side. We have worked together for the past two years and occasionally I tutor her with whatever classes are the hurdle of the day (although she is incredibly intelligent, has far surpassed me in Calculus, and I’m just completely useless with her engineering courses). But the thing is, we don’t spend a lot of time together outside of work. Even the tutoring usually happens in the employee area when our shifts match up. So we haven’t actually gone anywhere or done anything in the general population like normal people. Fortunately, we both embrace the word “freak.” She is a delightful body-modification “punk-junkie” with hair more colors than a mantis shrimp can see, and a bit of an activist deeply into alternative fashion in the context of fat-positivity and love-your-body-at-any-size movements. So when I spend time with her, I feel pretty comfortable.
It was late, so I didn’t have to worry about there being a lot of people (I may live my life, but I’m still extremely self-conscious. That doesn’t go away.), but in the past-midnight hours, there are frequently belligerent inebriates and I have narrowly avoided incidents with such people a handful of times. That was all I could think of that might have been detrimental, but nothing else. And Sandy was extremely considerate about me, requesting a booth tucked away in a corner behind the cashier’s area, so that we were in a nice secluded little alcove. And even the waitress who came over was perfectly cordial to both of us.
It was when the food was brought out that I had the first germination of real anxiety.
One thing many people don’t think about when it comes to my scarring (and why would they?) is that it affects much more than mere aesthetic. The thing about my scars is someone cut my face open. And although they are mostly faded now, the suture scars along the edges of the "smile" seem to suggest that merely cutting wasn’t enough, that it was done surgically. Someone restructured my face. I don’t think there was any resulting nerve damage since my face is completely usable and sensory, but the way my face healed, the skin puckers along the incision lines. This causes constant pulling at my cheeks and lips and impedes the mobility of my face. I frequently say that I wear a "permanent smile" but not because my mouth is drawn back from my teeth in a frozen maniacal grimace to resemble an actual smile. I am clearly just scarred. But the pulling, the limited range of movement, means that trying to do anything like frowning is a painful effort. The scarring keeps my mouth fairly taut and to countermand the reconstruction of it is nearly impossible. This difficulty translates over into anything else I do with my mouth, like eating and drinking.
I hadn't considered this prior to being confronted with our meals since I had a straw in my glass of water. And when I looked at my first forkful, I had the extremely eloquent thought, "oh shit." I try to be downright dainty with my eating etiquette, tiny bites of food on the fork, nothing too messy, nothing that can leak. Around my family, I am not so conscious of my habits, but I always try to be aware of myself. And, left unchecked, watching me eat has to be fairly disgusting.
Sandy said nothing about it... not that she would. Hopefully, I was not an embarrassment although I caught myself a couple times spilling. The whole time, I just wanted to slink under the table.
If I ever mention going out to eat again, please talk me out of it. It's a really bad idea.
I went, against the inner little nagging voice of my fears, because I have a life to live and I can’t just… not live it. I felt like having the company and, in the interest of not trying to make my life sound more glam than it ever is, I am powerfully lonely, all the time, every day, so if she had suggested going to the grocery store, running naked through a frat quad, or driving to the west coast on a whim, I probably would have done it without a moment of hesitation (although, I am quite relieved that she did not suggest running through a frat quad naked). We also had things to talk about and for a few dollars I could get a large satisfying meal that I didn’t have to cook myself. There were very few cons about accepting the invite.
Sandy knows me, knows what I look like, my peeves, my hidden snarky side. We have worked together for the past two years and occasionally I tutor her with whatever classes are the hurdle of the day (although she is incredibly intelligent, has far surpassed me in Calculus, and I’m just completely useless with her engineering courses). But the thing is, we don’t spend a lot of time together outside of work. Even the tutoring usually happens in the employee area when our shifts match up. So we haven’t actually gone anywhere or done anything in the general population like normal people. Fortunately, we both embrace the word “freak.” She is a delightful body-modification “punk-junkie” with hair more colors than a mantis shrimp can see, and a bit of an activist deeply into alternative fashion in the context of fat-positivity and love-your-body-at-any-size movements. So when I spend time with her, I feel pretty comfortable.
It was late, so I didn’t have to worry about there being a lot of people (I may live my life, but I’m still extremely self-conscious. That doesn’t go away.), but in the past-midnight hours, there are frequently belligerent inebriates and I have narrowly avoided incidents with such people a handful of times. That was all I could think of that might have been detrimental, but nothing else. And Sandy was extremely considerate about me, requesting a booth tucked away in a corner behind the cashier’s area, so that we were in a nice secluded little alcove. And even the waitress who came over was perfectly cordial to both of us.
It was when the food was brought out that I had the first germination of real anxiety.
One thing many people don’t think about when it comes to my scarring (and why would they?) is that it affects much more than mere aesthetic. The thing about my scars is someone cut my face open. And although they are mostly faded now, the suture scars along the edges of the "smile" seem to suggest that merely cutting wasn’t enough, that it was done surgically. Someone restructured my face. I don’t think there was any resulting nerve damage since my face is completely usable and sensory, but the way my face healed, the skin puckers along the incision lines. This causes constant pulling at my cheeks and lips and impedes the mobility of my face. I frequently say that I wear a "permanent smile" but not because my mouth is drawn back from my teeth in a frozen maniacal grimace to resemble an actual smile. I am clearly just scarred. But the pulling, the limited range of movement, means that trying to do anything like frowning is a painful effort. The scarring keeps my mouth fairly taut and to countermand the reconstruction of it is nearly impossible. This difficulty translates over into anything else I do with my mouth, like eating and drinking.
I hadn't considered this prior to being confronted with our meals since I had a straw in my glass of water. And when I looked at my first forkful, I had the extremely eloquent thought, "oh shit." I try to be downright dainty with my eating etiquette, tiny bites of food on the fork, nothing too messy, nothing that can leak. Around my family, I am not so conscious of my habits, but I always try to be aware of myself. And, left unchecked, watching me eat has to be fairly disgusting.
Sandy said nothing about it... not that she would. Hopefully, I was not an embarrassment although I caught myself a couple times spilling. The whole time, I just wanted to slink under the table.
If I ever mention going out to eat again, please talk me out of it. It's a really bad idea.
A Picture a Day: Day 25
I’m sure you can tell just how thrilled I am about these pics. Look at my enthusiasm. It’s contagious.
In actuality, it was early. I was getting ready for work. And the night before I realized that I had only one or two more pictures for the picture-a-day effort. Therefore, I thought taking a picture that morning might not be a bad idea. Although, look at me. I look like I got ahold of a special brownie for breakfast (I didn’t though). I was just very tired. Double shifts four days in a row will do that.
In actuality, it was early. I was getting ready for work. And the night before I realized that I had only one or two more pictures for the picture-a-day effort. Therefore, I thought taking a picture that morning might not be a bad idea. Although, look at me. I look like I got ahold of a special brownie for breakfast (I didn’t though). I was just very tired. Double shifts four days in a row will do that.
Friday, March 21, 2014
A Picture a Day: Day 24
This is the last one I have (at the moment) from being painted up like The Crow. I might be able to squeeze one or two more out from that flurry of selfies, but they’ll probably all look exactly the same. So, for the moment, this is the last one. Now, I have no idea where I’m going to find more pics (unless I cheat and use pics by others…. that’s a thought). But, only a week left!
A Picture a Day: Day 23
Oh, the end is so near I can taste it. Pulling up the last one of the first batch of selfies I did (a month ago) when Phoebe painted my nails.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
A Picture a Day: Day 22
Another Crow pic. Not as happy with this one (I think it’s the lighting that throws it off), but the other ones looked so similar to the ones already posted that I thought, eh, I’m already a sight, let’s run with it, lighting be damned.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
A Picture a Day: Day 21
Home stretch! Ten more days and then I’m done! I figured, with the end in sight, I should use the last few remaining pics from the very first go I had at this. They are pretty much the dregs of my pics, but that’s all I’ve got. Sorry. But you can do the little dance of joy with me that this will soon be over.
Today at Work
On break now and still have a few more hours of work ahead, but today was the best day of work I can remember in a long time.
Brian, who brought in the burned CD yesterday with “Sexy and I Know It” on it for background, brought in a new CD today specifically for me to use when leading our warm-ups.
The line-up:
Sexy and I Know It (LMFAO)
Moves Like Jagger (Maroon 5)
Strut (Adam Lambert)
You Can Leave Your Hat On (Joe Cocker)
Do Ya Think I’m Sexy? (Rod Stewart)
Turn You On (The Scorpions)
Pour Some Sugar on Me (Def Leppard)
I’m Too Sexy (Right Said Fred)
Closer (Nine Inch Nails)
It is a great thing to work with a bunch of other improvisational dancers and gymnasts because while it started like a traditional warm-up, it ended up more like a crazy musical montage that vaguely resembled a cross between the opening of Miss Saigon and Cirque du Soleil. A couple of us even sneaked in a little ballet (because we’re trained and we don’t get to use it that often).
I don’t want to go back and actually work the rest of the evening. Hopefully nothing will come along to ruin this wonderful day.
Brian, who brought in the burned CD yesterday with “Sexy and I Know It” on it for background, brought in a new CD today specifically for me to use when leading our warm-ups.
The line-up:
Sexy and I Know It (LMFAO)
Moves Like Jagger (Maroon 5)
Strut (Adam Lambert)
You Can Leave Your Hat On (Joe Cocker)
Do Ya Think I’m Sexy? (Rod Stewart)
Turn You On (The Scorpions)
Pour Some Sugar on Me (Def Leppard)
I’m Too Sexy (Right Said Fred)
Closer (Nine Inch Nails)
It is a great thing to work with a bunch of other improvisational dancers and gymnasts because while it started like a traditional warm-up, it ended up more like a crazy musical montage that vaguely resembled a cross between the opening of Miss Saigon and Cirque du Soleil. A couple of us even sneaked in a little ballet (because we’re trained and we don’t get to use it that often).
I don’t want to go back and actually work the rest of the evening. Hopefully nothing will come along to ruin this wonderful day.
Monday, March 17, 2014
Not So Quiet and Reserved
I hate my job but I really like my coworkers. However I realized today that they are under the greatly mistaken impression that I am the epitome of quiet and reserved.
We were in the studio rehearsing with someone’s burned cds on in the background to keep the energy up and “Sexy and I Know It” came on which is not something I listen to, but I broke out into an outrageous improvised dance routine and everyone just gaped. Sandy and Kelly joined me after their moment of stupefaction and we just put on our own little show. I had one person ask me after if I had been replaced by a pod-person.
It was great though. Their faces were hilarious to behold. I felt like I was in a musical, cast as one of the protagonists who take off their glasses (Clark Kent or heroine-going-through-a-makeover) and suddenly no one recognizes them anymore.
We were in the studio rehearsing with someone’s burned cds on in the background to keep the energy up and “Sexy and I Know It” came on which is not something I listen to, but I broke out into an outrageous improvised dance routine and everyone just gaped. Sandy and Kelly joined me after their moment of stupefaction and we just put on our own little show. I had one person ask me after if I had been replaced by a pod-person.
It was great though. Their faces were hilarious to behold. I felt like I was in a musical, cast as one of the protagonists who take off their glasses (Clark Kent or heroine-going-through-a-makeover) and suddenly no one recognizes them anymore.
A Picture a Day: Day 20
Another Crow pic. In truth, I am rather pleased about these. I think they came out very well. And yes, I’m saying that because the scars are well masked by the makeup even if not entirely hidden. But the beauty is that, even with a big smile, I don’t look ridiculous because the rest of it makes me look a little too bad ass to be ridiculous. Like I have said before, I should just paint myself up like Eric Draven every day.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
A Picture a Day: Day 19
Sorry about the odd glare on the side. This is the new half-ski-mask I mentioned a bit ago. I really like it except the cold weather is leaving and I don’t have much excuse to wear it now.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
A Picture a Day: Day 18
Orson wanted to take these pics, but they’re not selfies if I don’t take them, right? He took a couple pics though, but I haven’t seen them.
Ah, look how cute I am.
Mime from Hell, anyone?
Ah, look how cute I am.
Mime from Hell, anyone?
Friday, March 14, 2014
My Excitement of the Other Day + A Picture a Day: Day 17
A couple days ago (three days ago? two? I suppose by technicality three days ago, but I haven’t gone to bed yet, so only two), I got a text message from Phoebe while I was at work asking me to go to her place when I was done for the day. This isn’t unusual. Every so often, she has a tech problem (I am not tech savvy at all, but for some reason she thinks I am) or something she needs put together or something that requires a little heavy lifting. I thought nothing of it. After work, I headed over there, was let in, and, much to my confusion, was summarily presented with a box of black hair dye.
Phoebe, her brows furrowed and mouth twisted, told me that she found my rambling on my It’s Never Been About Being Ugly post on my blogspot. She semi-lamented that there was nothing she could do about the scars but she brightened as she pointed to the dye. If she could do nothing else, about my scars or hands or height, she could at least, she beamed, make my hair the color I wanted it.
A box of dye and one stained bathroom sink later, plus all the hilariously awful middle stages where my hair, stiff with dye, stood straight up like a poor impersonation of Edward Scissorhands, I now have black hair. I am aware that, overall, it doesn’t make a great impact on my general appearance, especially since dark brown to black is the most minimal alteration possible, but anyone who, like I am, is hyper-critical and hyper-aware of their appearance can doubtless understand. It’s a small difference that I not only notice, but that makes a great impact in how I feel about myself. And that makes it a pretty fantastic thing.
Pheebs is a wonderful person, a very laid back and very considerate one. I am touched that she went out of her way to make me happy. She may not have stayed married to Orson or decided that being a mother to Dea and me was her thing, but she’s remained a really good solid friend to all of us.
When I got back home and Dea embraced me, she stuck her nose in my hair and then wrinkled it in disgust. She said I smelled of chemicals and whatever flowery scented shampoo Phoebe had used to try to mask it and demanded to know what I had done to it.
Now, Dea’s not one to talk. She has her own, rather epic if I may be so bold as to say, battles with her hair. I mean, I think her hair is perfect, that she’s perfect, no matter what, but what she thinks, and wants to do about it, is more important than any thought I have on the topic. And Phoebe helps her too with the relaxers and straighteners and whatever else they use. All I know is that, if I wander near the bathroom, it sounds like something out of a torture chamber, and peering in with the tools strewn around does not help that impression. So Dea knows and understands about the hair even if her focus is more on the texture than the color.
I told her about Phoebe, about wanting my hair darker although I didn’t tell her how Pheebs knew since Dea doesn’t know about my internetting, about Pheebs turning the bathroom black for me. Dea, wanting to be completely fair before pronouncing final judgment, stuck her fingers in it and combed them through several times before proclaiming that my hair was softer than usual and that she likes that I’ve kept it long… which kind of throws a monkey wrench into the plan to have it cut soon.
She was braiding it (I let her do whatever she wants to me) when Orson got in (she was telling me about how she “pwned” her professor by correcting some equation that went right over my head, did I mention that she’s not just perfect but brilliant?). Orson didn’t notice right away but after a couple hours he finally stopped in the living room, stared at me, and then asked me what was different. I think he was even more excited about it than I was when I told him because he ran and got some black makeup and insisted on painting me up like The Crow.
In conclusion, I had a great day because of a very thoughtful woman, Dea approved which made my happiness official, and now all you sweet followers of mine are going to get spammed with Crow selfies (no, not really, I only have a couple) because I am (almost) officially out of other pictures for the picture-a-day attempt and I still have almost two weeks to go yet.
Sorry!
But, here’s the first! Picture-a-Day: Day 17
(And the colour problems are still happening.... sigh.... better quality here)
Phoebe, her brows furrowed and mouth twisted, told me that she found my rambling on my It’s Never Been About Being Ugly post on my blogspot. She semi-lamented that there was nothing she could do about the scars but she brightened as she pointed to the dye. If she could do nothing else, about my scars or hands or height, she could at least, she beamed, make my hair the color I wanted it.
A box of dye and one stained bathroom sink later, plus all the hilariously awful middle stages where my hair, stiff with dye, stood straight up like a poor impersonation of Edward Scissorhands, I now have black hair. I am aware that, overall, it doesn’t make a great impact on my general appearance, especially since dark brown to black is the most minimal alteration possible, but anyone who, like I am, is hyper-critical and hyper-aware of their appearance can doubtless understand. It’s a small difference that I not only notice, but that makes a great impact in how I feel about myself. And that makes it a pretty fantastic thing.
Pheebs is a wonderful person, a very laid back and very considerate one. I am touched that she went out of her way to make me happy. She may not have stayed married to Orson or decided that being a mother to Dea and me was her thing, but she’s remained a really good solid friend to all of us.
When I got back home and Dea embraced me, she stuck her nose in my hair and then wrinkled it in disgust. She said I smelled of chemicals and whatever flowery scented shampoo Phoebe had used to try to mask it and demanded to know what I had done to it.
Now, Dea’s not one to talk. She has her own, rather epic if I may be so bold as to say, battles with her hair. I mean, I think her hair is perfect, that she’s perfect, no matter what, but what she thinks, and wants to do about it, is more important than any thought I have on the topic. And Phoebe helps her too with the relaxers and straighteners and whatever else they use. All I know is that, if I wander near the bathroom, it sounds like something out of a torture chamber, and peering in with the tools strewn around does not help that impression. So Dea knows and understands about the hair even if her focus is more on the texture than the color.
I told her about Phoebe, about wanting my hair darker although I didn’t tell her how Pheebs knew since Dea doesn’t know about my internetting, about Pheebs turning the bathroom black for me. Dea, wanting to be completely fair before pronouncing final judgment, stuck her fingers in it and combed them through several times before proclaiming that my hair was softer than usual and that she likes that I’ve kept it long… which kind of throws a monkey wrench into the plan to have it cut soon.
She was braiding it (I let her do whatever she wants to me) when Orson got in (she was telling me about how she “pwned” her professor by correcting some equation that went right over my head, did I mention that she’s not just perfect but brilliant?). Orson didn’t notice right away but after a couple hours he finally stopped in the living room, stared at me, and then asked me what was different. I think he was even more excited about it than I was when I told him because he ran and got some black makeup and insisted on painting me up like The Crow.
In conclusion, I had a great day because of a very thoughtful woman, Dea approved which made my happiness official, and now all you sweet followers of mine are going to get spammed with Crow selfies (no, not really, I only have a couple) because I am (almost) officially out of other pictures for the picture-a-day attempt and I still have almost two weeks to go yet.
Sorry!
But, here’s the first! Picture-a-Day: Day 17
(And the colour problems are still happening.... sigh.... better quality here)
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Thunderstorm Follow-Up
Dea woke me this morning by crawling onto my bed, wrapping my arm around her, and then poking me in the shoulder until I was sufficiently roused enough to sympathize with her when she lamented that, instead of a thunderstorm, it’s snowing again.
I’ll take snow any day if it merits waking to her.
We snuggled for a little bit, until Orson stopped in the doorway and scolded us both (not very seriously) for being bad influences on each other when she has school and I have work
I’ll take snow any day if it merits waking to her.
We snuggled for a little bit, until Orson stopped in the doorway and scolded us both (not very seriously) for being bad influences on each other when she has school and I have work
Waiting for a Thunderstorm with Dea
We were supposed to get a massive thunderstorm through here, so Dea and I went down to the ground floor of the apartment building and sat outside under the overhang on a bench that has left permanent slat imprints on my backside. She let me hold her though, pressed herself against me. And we talked like we used to, of everything and of nothing, huddled against each other like children.
I miss her so much. She has been occupied with school and her boyfriend and going out with Phoebe to attend to those things that Orson is completely clueless about and I’m useless. But it amazes me how I can see her almost every day, live with her, and still miss her so profoundly. Especially when we don’t talk or make time to talk.
We never did get our thunder. Rain came by and the sound of it was pleasant on the metallic overhang, but nothing beyond that. And she just called it a night and said we would try again some other time.
She may be ready for sleep, but my hands and arms tingle from having held her. My heart rate has gone up, especially at the prospect of repeating this another night. I am energized. Wide-awake.
And I don’t know what to do with all this energy and wakefulness at 2:30am
I miss her so much. She has been occupied with school and her boyfriend and going out with Phoebe to attend to those things that Orson is completely clueless about and I’m useless. But it amazes me how I can see her almost every day, live with her, and still miss her so profoundly. Especially when we don’t talk or make time to talk.
We never did get our thunder. Rain came by and the sound of it was pleasant on the metallic overhang, but nothing beyond that. And she just called it a night and said we would try again some other time.
She may be ready for sleep, but my hands and arms tingle from having held her. My heart rate has gone up, especially at the prospect of repeating this another night. I am energized. Wide-awake.
And I don’t know what to do with all this energy and wakefulness at 2:30am
(Non)Adventure + A Picture a Day: Day 16
About two weeks/ a week and a half ago, feeling restless and in unusually low spirits, I left the apartment to do something, anything, other than stay inside and do work or chores or more job applications. I wanted company but Dea was busy and there was no one else available, and in that situation, to fend off any encroaching loneliness, I went off for some dedicated introspection. It was still cold, still suitable weather for my scarf, and I needed to be outside, to walk and think without being interrupted and beyond the confines of the apartment walls.
I thought about going to the green, but I live in an extremely populated area, and when you're feeling lonely, sometimes it's even worse in the midst of many people. This also ruled out Orson's uni campus. And I did not wish to be disturbed, particularly if the point of escaping the apartment was to have a few moments of clarity in solitude.
Instead, I went to the next best place for quiet, solitude, and nature: one of the older cemeteries in the area. I had to drive there since it is across several non-pedestrian-friendly freeways, but once there, I found a place where I could park partly off the road to allow another vehicle by with ease. At the entrance, there was someone doing maintenance, so I went to the opposite end of this rather extensive cemetery so that I wouldn't cross paths with him.
The beauty about the cemetery is that not only is it quiet and scenic but it's usually fairly empty. Even though I often go around without my face covered, it always stresses me out when others are present. Even if they don't notice me or look at me, I feel exposed and the self-consciousness is all-consuming (which is also another reason why company helps, because I am distracted from the self-destructive internal dialogue I have with myself). So being alone, armed with a camera, on a brisk day, with all the landscape before me and some truly beautiful stones, I pulled down the scarf and headed off towards a huge stump of a newly felled tree. I was already feeling much better than I had been in the apartment.
(It's quite sad that such a large and old tree had to be cut down, so I thought I'd take a picture of the stump. Unfortunately, there was no way to accurately judge the enormity of it, so I put the camera on timer and hopped on to show its size. I look like a little kid on it.)
Not even five minutes later, a huge truck rolls up right behind my car and stops. I thought he had plenty of room to go by (and he did, upon checking), but the maintenance worker got out and came towards me. I pulled my scarf back up and went over and asked if he needed me to pull the car over even more. All he did was stare at me for a moment as if trying to figure out what I was doing and then he told me I had to move my car somewhere else (mind you, there's no place for parking here so one place is much the same as another) and then began asking me all kinds of questions: why was I there, how long was I going to stay, was I a student at one of the universities, etc. etc. and then he started on how my coat looked thin and how it wasn't cold enough for a scarf. Annoying. I told him I was just cold and I got in my car and moved off to another location. I got out, started wandering again.... and he FOLLOWED ME. Not on my tail, but close enough so that the engine disturbed the stillness and he kept an eye on me, and my stress levels just skyrocketed, to the point that, not even twenty minutes into the cemetery, I ended up leaving.
(I snapped this there. Who puts shoes on stones though? I've heard of coins and small rocks... but boots? Really? And they're not bronzed shoes or anything. They are actual, unattached, boots.)
I went to another cemetery, also large and historic, but not nearly as cozy as the other one, lacking trees and rambling paths, and any sort of park-like quality. I walked around for about an hour, looking at some of the beautifully carved stones, happily left in peace while I took pictures, some quite ordinary, some quite silly.
(This would be of the silly variety. And, while I look at this, I think I really need a haircut.)
But as I was going around the backside of the cemetery, a dog ran over to me. I don't mind animals at all. I'm rather more partial to animals than I am to people and I bent down and pet him while he smelled Philandros on me. But as I looked around for his companion, I saw a couple of women walking over. Up with the scarf again. They came over for the dog (I learned that his name was Brûlée) and started talking to me.
Now, I don't know what it is about people but sometimes they are maddening. I do enjoy social interaction, I just stress out about it. And that's okay. I can usually move beyond it. But people just state the obvious and I always have to keep my snark in check because most people don't appreciate it. I can have a sharp tongue at times, sharpened ever more by increasing frustration at having to hold it. And amid the pleasantries (ie, discussing the weather), they told me that it was too warm for a scarf (you know, just in case I wasn't enjoying the same weather that they were. Twice, in one day. What the....). I thanked them for that vital piece of unknown information (no, not really, but I wanted to) and we went in our own directions... or at least I thought we had. Every time I went to pull down my scarf again, the women would be disturbingly nearby.
(I was very much not amused as you can tell by that raised eyebrow of mine and that withering glance. And that handless book-toting figure behind me looks rather irate too.)
Now, this is a huge cemetery. Huge. We were the only ones there. And yet, I went to the newer section, they wandered there too. I went to the earliest part, they followed. I went to the Civil War section, they came over to admire the column statuary. In conclusions, I ended up leaving there earlier than desired too.
Privacy, even outside of personal space, isn't usually that hard to come by if you know the places to go... like the cemetery. And if you think about it more as an outdoor sculpture garden than a place to deposit dead people, it really isn't as morbid as it sounds. The carvings do take a great deal of artistry and many cemeteries were designed by architects as park spaces, meant to be used for people like me seeking a little escape from the rest of the world.
It was a disappointing day, but it did get me out of the apartment and allowed me to return to it with a little more inner peace than prior. And now you get to see just how silly I am at times.
And, this definitely counts as A Picture a Day (Day 16) because you got three pics of me today (lucky devils that you are).
I thought about going to the green, but I live in an extremely populated area, and when you're feeling lonely, sometimes it's even worse in the midst of many people. This also ruled out Orson's uni campus. And I did not wish to be disturbed, particularly if the point of escaping the apartment was to have a few moments of clarity in solitude.
Instead, I went to the next best place for quiet, solitude, and nature: one of the older cemeteries in the area. I had to drive there since it is across several non-pedestrian-friendly freeways, but once there, I found a place where I could park partly off the road to allow another vehicle by with ease. At the entrance, there was someone doing maintenance, so I went to the opposite end of this rather extensive cemetery so that I wouldn't cross paths with him.
The beauty about the cemetery is that not only is it quiet and scenic but it's usually fairly empty. Even though I often go around without my face covered, it always stresses me out when others are present. Even if they don't notice me or look at me, I feel exposed and the self-consciousness is all-consuming (which is also another reason why company helps, because I am distracted from the self-destructive internal dialogue I have with myself). So being alone, armed with a camera, on a brisk day, with all the landscape before me and some truly beautiful stones, I pulled down the scarf and headed off towards a huge stump of a newly felled tree. I was already feeling much better than I had been in the apartment.
I went to another cemetery, also large and historic, but not nearly as cozy as the other one, lacking trees and rambling paths, and any sort of park-like quality. I walked around for about an hour, looking at some of the beautifully carved stones, happily left in peace while I took pictures, some quite ordinary, some quite silly.
(This would be of the silly variety. And, while I look at this, I think I really need a haircut.)
But as I was going around the backside of the cemetery, a dog ran over to me. I don't mind animals at all. I'm rather more partial to animals than I am to people and I bent down and pet him while he smelled Philandros on me. But as I looked around for his companion, I saw a couple of women walking over. Up with the scarf again. They came over for the dog (I learned that his name was Brûlée) and started talking to me.
Now, I don't know what it is about people but sometimes they are maddening. I do enjoy social interaction, I just stress out about it. And that's okay. I can usually move beyond it. But people just state the obvious and I always have to keep my snark in check because most people don't appreciate it. I can have a sharp tongue at times, sharpened ever more by increasing frustration at having to hold it. And amid the pleasantries (ie, discussing the weather), they told me that it was too warm for a scarf (you know, just in case I wasn't enjoying the same weather that they were. Twice, in one day. What the....). I thanked them for that vital piece of unknown information (no, not really, but I wanted to) and we went in our own directions... or at least I thought we had. Every time I went to pull down my scarf again, the women would be disturbingly nearby.
Now, this is a huge cemetery. Huge. We were the only ones there. And yet, I went to the newer section, they wandered there too. I went to the earliest part, they followed. I went to the Civil War section, they came over to admire the column statuary. In conclusions, I ended up leaving there earlier than desired too.
Privacy, even outside of personal space, isn't usually that hard to come by if you know the places to go... like the cemetery. And if you think about it more as an outdoor sculpture garden than a place to deposit dead people, it really isn't as morbid as it sounds. The carvings do take a great deal of artistry and many cemeteries were designed by architects as park spaces, meant to be used for people like me seeking a little escape from the rest of the world.
It was a disappointing day, but it did get me out of the apartment and allowed me to return to it with a little more inner peace than prior. And now you get to see just how silly I am at times.
And, this definitely counts as A Picture a Day (Day 16) because you got three pics of me today (lucky devils that you are).
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