thejunipertree: (Default)
The awesome mirror that I briefly mentioned in one of my recent entries has been located, strangely enough.

The Engineer and I have been on mission to clear out all of my junk a large portion of my junk from my father's basement so that we may bring in his paintings and canvases which are currently residing in a storage space. When he moved out of his apartment and into mine, the art had no home here, so he decided to rent a space to keep them in. This money is far better served in other areas, so I offered up my space in my father's basement.

The majority of my stuff hasn't been touched since it was put down there, unless I was rummaging for books I wanted to bring home, and is therefore extraneous. Over the past several years, I have gotten rather mercenary about possessions in that if I haven't touched it or needed to touch it in over a year, then I most likely have no further need of it. Some things will always be kept out of sentiment: old journals, certain toys, things of that nature. But, I really do not need or desire to keep the rest of it.

Not only are those boxes a giant and looming reminder of my failings as a wife (the boxes, after all, would not reside in the basement had I not left my husband in 2001), but also of everything else I have started with good intentions and went on to fuck up. I don't need them, I don't want them, and the very thought of them gives me anxiety.

We had been putting off getting this job done all summer for one reason or another. Most of the time, we were both just too busy or frazzled to make any effort in planning. But I had recently promised a co-worker of mine all the Hello Kitty swag her young daughter could ever hope to own and I was starting to feel bad whenever I told her I hadn't made it to my father's yet. I also wanted to go through my books and bring home the reminder of what I wanted in my shelves in the apartment and sell the rest. Money's been extremely tight lately, so even if I only get ten dollars for them, it's ten dollars I do not currently have.

So, we girded our loins or whatever one girds before descending into a pit of despair, and drove to my father's house this past weekend to begin the preliminary excavations. My primary goal was retrieving the Hello Kitty swag and any books I could find that I wanted to keep. Any other books would be set aside for another weekend because I don't have any time soon to bring them to a used bookstore and they would be in the way in the apartment.

And even though I am still unable to locate the Best Box of Books Ever (tm), the one I'm convinced grew legs and walked out of there, I was able to find the Second Best Box (tm) and brought them home. So, I am once again in possession of M. Gira's The Consumer and my much loved copy of The Thief of Always, by Clive Barker. I also brought home my antique books because the damp was not being kind to them. The one from 1894 is in shameful condition, with the cover held on by threads, but it was largely woeful when it first came to me. My collected fairy tales printed in the 20s is still doing ok, though.

The Engineer found the mirror in the middle of my bitching to my father from the bottom of the steps, snarking up into the patch of day light he stood in from the kitchen doorway about kleptomaniacs and disrespect. He had walked over to the other side of the basement, glanced up at the top of a shelf, pointed, and said: "Is that it?"

Lo and behold, it was. Someone had put it way up there, above my head, and as everyone around me knows: if something is put above my head, it winks out of existence. Egg on my face, I would reckon. I don't rightly care; I'm just glad to have my mirror back.

As I've mentioned before, it was a wedding gift from a very dear friend who knows my tastes well enough to totally nail buying me this present. It's about three or four feet long, a wall mirror, and is in a silver painted, wooden, hourglass-shaped frame. It is completely me and I adored it from the moment it was handed to me. It fits in well with my bordello leopard print couch and the sweet ass red tile and wrought iron coffee table I bought from the dirt mall (for twenty dollars!) years and years ago.

And now it's mine again. It took me forever to clean it, my father's basement is dank after two hot water heaters implosions and just the sheer basementy-ness leaves everything covered in grossness if left down there too long. But, it's spotless once again and one can now see themselves clearly in the glass, instead of through a sepia-toned thick as linen haze.

I need to find a good place to hang it in the apartment. Wall space is at a premium here, considering our bookshelves and my framed prints and the Engineer's giant hung canvases. I wanted another mirror on the front of the hall closet's door, but the last one leapt to its death and shattered across the carpet. The idea of that happening again does fill me with joy and song.

When I get the rest of the apartment clean to my usual standards, I'll take a picture of it. I've been meaning to photograph the apartment to show everyone how the Engineer and I merged our lives together when he moved in, but I haven't had time for a true deep cleaning. Given that school starts in six days (SIX DAYS?!), I dread the idea that I won't get this time any time soon.
thejunipertree: (Default)
I am tired and tired and tired again.

This being an adult thing is utter, unmitigated bullshit. I come home from work, exhausted. Self-medicate on the couch and fret endlessly over ever-amounting debt, both mine and the Engineer's. I write long and grandious lists of groceries, things needing tending, and string together repetitive financial statements. All in an effort to get my affairs into order.

I am so far behind on getting my gear together for school. I'm not starting funeral school in the fall because of the cock-up with the two classes they say I need. So, I have to take them at CCC, which means re-applying for every single thing under the sun. I graduated. My files are no longer open to just tack things on to the end. It is frustrating and galling. Half the time, I wonder what the goddamn point of any of this actually is. I know I should contact the school and get this show on the road, but I can't be bothered. I am stuck, my feet are frozen in place. And no amount of shoving the old mule is going to make it turn its head to the road.

The depression which has lately settled around my shoulders is an old, familiar coat. It's slightly comforting in its familiarity at least. I am able to stretch my limbs against its contours, occasionally allowing an arm or a hip to poke through into the open air. This coat is soft and full of sleep. I used to pull it around me, makeshift armor against everyday wounds. But, now? It is a field of poppies and I can feel it clawing around my legs in an effort to get me to lie down amongst the flowers.

I've been trying to build my nest against the coming winter for so many years, but sometimes I really just want to give up. Not in the open-a-vein sense, never anything nearly as garish and ridiculous as that. But, more so, by following in my mother's footsteps. She gave up her dreams of what may be for an uncomplicated and easy life, sleeping quietly in the poppy field. It was work, sure, but it was the shifting sands of endless paperwork and constant 9 to 5. Unobstructed. Palatable. Simple. I am a lazy cat and the idea of not needing to put all that much thought or energy into my day to day is more than a little appealing. It's downright seductive.

And even now, at only the barest breath of the thought, I can feel that goddamn magpie rocketing awake and clamouring against the notion in a riot of feathers and gall.

Are you stuck on stupid? It shrieks at me. I can feel it rising up, filling my body with its ire. It bumps aggressively against my breast bone, a sharp pain that causes my heart to stumble in place. Don't you dare. You stupid cow, don't you fucking dare.

When you get to the core of the issue, I do agree with it.

thejunipertree: (Default)
Getting out of my car this morning in the parking lot of a grocery store, on my way to buy brilliantly purple carnations for Fet Gede, a large black and white bird perched on the handle of a shopping cart and cocked its head at me.

"Umm. Hello." I said, standing all of two feet away from it. What looked for all the world like a magpie bounced from one foot to the other, opened wide its black beak and clicked it furiously at me. I stood there, dumbly blinking, as the bird began to chatter loudly. Looking over my shoulder at it, I continued into the store.

It wasn't there when I came out with flowers and chocolate, though I looked around the parking lot for it.

Later on, lying in the grass at the cemetery with my eyes closed tight against the sun, I heard the chatter again, but when I sat up and looked around, the only birds I could see were a murder of surly-looking young crows some distance away. I drank rum and smoked cigarettes with the shade of my grandfather. I paid my year's debts to the Ghede. I curled my stockinged feet against autumn grass and wished I didn't have to go into work. But, I still didn't see that bird again.

Sliding behind the wheel of my car, as I was on my way out of the graveyard's dim quiet, I felt a fluttering of wings inside my chest and realized where the magpie had gone.

Learn to build your nest. It said to me, over and over again. Learn to build your nest before winter comes.


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January 2011

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