D.G. Reid

Long live the Independents

Posted on July 5 by Scribbler / 0 Comment

The youngest and I spent the afternoon and a good part of the evening shopping about a week ago.

We don’t do that often. We needed supplies.

It was two weeks until Connecticon. There was work to be done.

If I don’t get to run around like a goober dressed as a Browncoat toting weapons I’ll live. I’ll just wear an appropriately nerdy tee-shirt. Lord knows I have an ample supply to choose from.

The youngest will probably cry if her costume isn’t ready. She’s 12, it’s understandable.

If she was 16, constructing the costume would be her problem, but she’s 12 so it’s mine. Not that she’s not willing to help. She just doesn’t have the skill set to bring her character to life.

I guess that’s what moms are for.

My interpretation of Lilligant’s headpiece. Craft foam, wire and a whole crap ton of hot glue.

We’ve been talking about what she wanted to dress as since last year. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do it until I started. I can research and think all I want but I figure out how to do things by figuring out how they don’t work and then I finally get to a viable idea.

Thankfully there are lots of images, ideas and tutorials on the interwebs. Can’t imagine how I would have done all of this without some guidance.

I’ve spent practically every free moment for the last two weeks working on one part of our costumes or another. Lilligant is done except for some quick tacking down with a needle and thread. Mine is done enough except for a coat of clear on my gun and a tee-shirt that needs a logo stenciled on it. And I need to change the buttons on my coat.

No biggie.

Just kinda in a crafting zone. Listening to a lot of music and watching movies that I haven’t seen in years. Scrounging from the fridge and freezer and puttering around from one task to another.

At a good point for this close to con. Haven’t really had the time to have fun with it before. I like this. It’s fun. Fun is good.

It’s the Fourth of July so I actually took the day off from work like a good American. I don’t get paid if I don’t work but I have a month to make it up somewhere.

Worked on cosplay crafting and even started rereading an old favorite when on break. Then I closed up the house and dug around for the traveling chair and walked around the block and into the field and sat down with the city to watch some fireworks.

In a field full of people and families I found a bit of empty space and planted my chair and sat back and watched the show. They were pretty good.

Once they were done I folded up my chair and headed back. Helped a lady over the guardrail when her companion abandoned her and hustled away once he was over the fence. She said thank you and I was happy to help. Just glad that I still can. That was enough human contact for the day.

Home in five minutes, surrounded by so many more people than are usually walking these streets. Ducked into the house and headed for a quick shower. Washed off another haircut and a day of sewing, ironing and painting.

Love taking a shower at the end of a summer day.

Sat down at my desk for a few and pulled back the curtain to watch the people going by and lo and behold fireworks start shooting off down the main street about a block away. They were amazing. And they even finished up with a bit of a finale which included strings of Ladyfingers on a chain link fence like I haven’t heard since my Fair Haven days as a disaffected youth.

It was a great show and made this an even better day than it already was.

Thank you unknown neighbors.

Now I’m just typing for a few and then I’m going to go do what I always try to do on this day. Watch the very fine young Mr. Smith save the planet with lots of gratuitous explosions and destruction.

What better way to celebrate the day?

The only thing that would have made it better would have been a steak with some sautéed baby bella mushrooms and caramelized shallots. A Nor’easter for cocktail hour and then a nice dark beer with dinner followed up with a cigar and a few fingers of whisky around a fire in the back.

Too bad the mulberries are falling making the backyard a hellhole of bugs both small and large, bitey and not.

And the steak, beer and cigar aren’t in the budget.

I’ve got the whiskey at least.

And lots of fireworks.

And the peace and quiet to enjoy them all.

Happy independence day indeed.

chatelaine/in the kitchen/the horde

Saving grace

Posted on June 28 by Scribbler / 1 Comment

I get paid once a month.

It probably would be a challenge for most people to budget out an entire month on one check that comes in somewhat randomly.

It’s even more interesting for someone like me who is dancing on the razors edge between modest comfort and financial ruin.

My definition of modest comfort being in the black and still having enough left for gas and maybe a bit of monthly fun. Right now is a much different story but I also recognize that compared to the rest of the world, let alone the rest of human existence, I live a life of luxury and leisure.

Sometimes it really sucks to have the long view. Smacks your problems right down to size. Still a bit of a reach for me to completely stomp them into oblivion though.

I eat alone three days a week. I tend not to eat much those three days. It’s just too much bother unless there’s something quick and easy.

I try to cook enough on the weekend so that there are leftovers but that doesn’t always work out. Sometimes they disappear over the weekend.

Towards the end of the month, pickings get slim. I buy most things in bulk so the budget goes quick. Don’t get me wrong, there is always food in this house. I just don’t want to have to cook any of it.

Cooking during the week takes too much time after I’ve worked a long day unless I’m really in the mood and I’m usually not.

Cereal is good. Quick, easy and not completely horrific for me depending on what I fill the bowl with.

Only problem is that the youngest is about to hit a growth spurt and is eating everything that’s not nailed down. People always tell me that boys are the worst about cleaning out a kitchen and larder. They haven’t met my little piranhas.

The little wench ate all the cereal.

Stood in front of the fridge the other night stumbling for something that wasn’t going to take too long.

Stocking the freezer to the rescue.

If you don’t already know the joys of what can be done with a whole roasted chicken then I would recommend you learn as a general life skill. As one of my favorite authors said, “A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects.”

One of the best parts of the roasted chicken is the stock made with it and stock freezes wonderfully.

I try to always have on hand two sizes of frozen stock. The larger one is for making a soup or risotto. The smaller for making a quick couple of bowls of yum.

Last nights variation on a theme was frozen tortellini in broth and a cheese and cracker plate that used up the last of a couple of sleeves. Cheddar and wheat crackers and I dolloped some fig spread on the black pepper water crackers.

An apple would have gone great with this but she ate all of those too.

Dinner was ready in less than 15 minutes. Perfect.

When I end up with extra I drain out the tortellini as soon as I fill my bowl. The quicker they cool down the quicker they’ll stop cooking and the more likely they are to stay al dente. They also dry out a bit which is good because it helps them hold up when you put the leftovers away.

I don’t like mushy pasta.

Good thing the youngest isn’t here otherwise she’d probably have eaten the leftovers by now, potentially mushy pasta or not.

It’s going to be interesting to see how tall she ends up.

Her sister is shorter than me by a couple of inches and hasn’t grown in ten years.

I’m wondering if she might end up taller than me. That’ll be a new experience.

They are my angels, even when they descend like locust.

#curatorslife/filtered view

A walk through the herb garden

Posted on June 21 by Scribbler / 0 Comment

At work we have a lovely little herb garden that is carefully tended by a dedicated group of volunteers.

We are able to do so many things because of the time and efforts that our unpaid helpers contribute on a regular basis. They help us move forward and even though there are plenty of volunteer related horror stories out there, for the most part people are well intentioned and do the best they can for the good of the organization.

I only hope they know how much we appreciate them.

Enjoy the garden.

Interesting that everything that’s currently blooming is purple.

The smell of the lavender followed me back into the office from brushing up against it.

chatelaine/in the kitchen

Melting

Posted on June 14 by Scribbler / 0 Comment

I don’t deal well with the heat.

Never have, probably never will.

That said, it’s finally hot where I live. Really hot and pretty damn humid as well. Good for the curls, bad for everything else.

I’d turn on the central a/c that I’m very lucky to have but this current heat wave is only for three days and it seems silly to cool an entire house when the newt and I are the only ones in it and I’m gone at work for more time than I’m not. There’s also the financial implications of flicking that switch. I’d rather save up for when it’s going to be hot for weeks on end.

The first thing to go when it gets like this is my appetite. But if I don’t eat I feel even worse which makes me not want to eat even more.

I’m finding that the key to breaking this lovely vicious circle is to have something quick, easy and tasty on hand. One of my favorites in this category is my version of a Turkish chicken.

Marinate the chicken in a bit of plain yogurt with lemon juice, garlic, and some spices to taste. I use this particular Turkish seasoning with another pinch of Turkish oregano (yes it is different than the Italian stuff) that I pick up at the Turkish market. I also throw in a pinch of a zaatar mix that’s been hanging around for awhile. It probably came from Whole Foods. Use what works for you.

Grill the chicken and if it’s a big piece either shred after cooking or cut it into bread sized medallions before marinating.

Wrap up the chicken with your favorite flatbread. I’m rather partial to the ones at Costco. They’re priced right and taste better than any flatbread I’ve ever made. They freeze great and just need to be popped into a toaster to be ready to eat.

A yogurt sauce goes well with this if you have the ingredients on hand. Just mix yogurt, dill (fresh is best but dried works) and some finely chopped and deseeded cucumber. Mix up ahead of time by at least an hour if possible so the flavors have a bit of time to mix. An even longer sit helps re-hydrate the dill if it’s dried. It starts to go south pretty quick so make in amounts that will last you for about 24 hours or so.

Add lettuce, onion or tomatoes if you have and want them.

Serve with a simple side of dressed greens.

Depending on the particulars of taste and season, all of these ingredients are part of my regular pantry, freezer and bit of garden. Work with what you’ve got and adjust accordingly. You can also do the prep ahead of time and shave down the actually cooking and assembly to as little as 15 minutes when it’s actually time to eat.

Although I’m melting even I am willing to eat this.

filtered view/musings

Filtered view

Posted on June 7 by Scribbler / 0 Comment

No one who knows me would be surprised when I say that I suffer from anxiety and have a wee bit of trouble valuing and understanding my place in the world. I’m an introvert who loves to talk. Crowds and noise generally exhaust me but nothing thrills me more than a crowded and ridiculously loud concert with one of my many favorite bands playing. It’s all a bit confusing and can sometimes overwhelm me. Not as much nowadays as in the past but there’s always a hamster on a wheel in the back of my head running their little heart out trying to escape it all.

I know exactly why I’m like this. So many reasons that combined to make the person and personality that is me. This is how it works for all of us. Quite remarkable when one thinks about it. Bring an egg and a sperm together and eventually you’ll have a fully formed and hopefully functional human being.

Knowing why I’m like this doesn’t necessarily mean that I know how to fix it though. Or if it is fixable. Do I really want to fix it? What are essential parts to the person?

What brings a life into focus?

I’ve always been fascinated with photography, in all it’s forms. I think part of the reason is because it provides a bit of distance from the life swirling about me and with a bit of distance it’s easier to see what’s actually going on and process it.

When I was little, probably even before I could read, I would flip through my mother’s photo albums. They had garishly colored covers and were spiral bound with “magnetic” pages. I now know that those albums are horrible for the photos but as a kid that sheet of plastic meant I could look at them without supervision. In those pages I saw moments frozen in time before I was even born with the faces of the people around me but slightly softer and less worn.

My first camera was a Kodak Disc. It fit in the pocket of my jean jacket and had the most adorable teeny tiny negatives. It was the first time in my life I had control over which moment was captured. Now I was the one pasting the photographs down in my own photo albums. Choosing which moments were laid out in the narrative and captioned for future reference.

I bought myself a Pentax K-1000 in high school. I barely knew how to set the it and money for film and developing was always in short supply but I loved that camera. Saw many miles and countless people through that lens.

My transition to digital happened with a lot of kicking and screaming and dragging of feet but now that I’m here I love it. For the first time in my life I can shoot as much as I want. What a luxury.

Now I have access to three cameras, each with their own benefits.

There’s the phone in my pocket on my ancient and ailing iPhone 4. That’s the one I have the most problems with. It’s only 8gb so I have to dump the photos on a regular basis or I don’t have enough room to capture a spontaneous image.

At work I use an Olympus Stylus TG-4 and I’ll occasionally borrow it if I’m traveling light. It has a microscope mode that is unlike anything I’ve had access to before. I have a macro lens for the Pentax but this is even better, especially with the light ring for proper exposure.

He bought me Nikon D3100 several years back for Xmas. I’d wanted a dslr for years but could never afford one and was completely intimidated by them. He liked to buy me tech and with being an IT guy and knowing me pretty well he bought the right tech for me.

I was able to take a class to on the basics of digital photography a couple of years ago and now sorta understand how to use all the dials and buttons, or at least most of them. It’s going to take several more years of actually using them before I really get how it works. That’s just the way my brain is.

Now that work is less demanding I’d like to spend more time wandering around with my camera. While I love industrial and urban decay I think I’d like to try shooting something new.

We shall see what I shall see.

chatelaine/musings

Pinching them till they scream

Posted on May 31 by Scribbler / 0 Comment

A lady I follow recently had a post about how second-hand stores seemed to be going up on their prices and did her readers see similar trends?

I find that it depends entirely on what store and location you shop at as well as how frequently you are willing or able to go.

I try to stay away from the for-profit second-hand stores entirely. Yes, they have things for sale at prices lower than new that still have a bit of life left in them but they’re not really in my budget range. My budget requires a significant discount from what I’d pay retail or online.

There are certain non-profit stores I don’t bother with unless I’m feeling flush because while I know I’ll find something I want to bring home the prices won’t be dirt cheap. Except on furniture. I got two of these for $25 each. They go well with the dark purple velvet sofa from Freecycle.

Went shopping at Salvation Army with the eldest up where she went to school when I drove up there for the second time in less than 24 hours to pick up MORE of her copious belongings. 300 miles on the car in a day and I never even got to leave the state. Weee.

We weren’t in a rush to get home and had both had good luck with the store so we went shopping. She needed shorts and I was looking for various things and hit the top two on my list, a new messenger bag and two pairs of jeans. Also got a hardcover book by my one of my favorite authors and probably the most expensive piece for my ConneCTcon cosplay for this year. All for under $35 bucks. Basically what the bag alone would cost new. I’d say that’s a deal.

The eldest is setting out on her own as soon as she’s back in the country. She has some basics of keeping house but not much beyond that. Found a lovely mixing bowl at a nearby Goodwill that shines like new now that it’s gone through the dishwasher and thought of her. Also checked to see what it was worth if she didn’t like it and decided it was worth the $2.99 gamble. She’ll take it if she doesn’t have to travel light. She’s not sure yet where she’s going or how long she’s staying. And if she doesn’t want it I’ll make a profit. That works. Minimal effort and capital tied up and I can make $30 or so.

The bulk Goodwills were recently mentioned by another lady I follow. Those are even more hit or miss than most thrift stores because I’m picking around the edges and not shoving my way to the front of a fresh bin. For me the fun is in the hunt just as much as the kill. I’ve gotten several good pieces there even without being ruthless; a nightstand that I refinished, a Fisher Price Little People Garage for the girls to play with, various books and movies, even picked up a nice serving spoon in the parking lot my last trip. Saw it when I pulled in and it was still there when I left so I ran it through the dishwasher several times and love it.

This isn’t mine but it’s the same vintage. This one was found at : http://www.ebay.com/itm/Vintage-Fisher-Price-Little-People-Action-Parking-Garage-Service-Center-COMPLETE-/182586321989

Have thrift stores gone up in price in recent years? I’d say yes but that doesn’t mean that you still can’t find a bargain if you’re willing to dig through the detritus and be patient.

Does it annoy me that I’ve spent way more thought and effort in securing a new messenger bag? It would have been much easier to just order a few off the internet, keep the one that worked and returned the rest. Yes, this particular hunt was annoying and time-consuming but that’s the nature of my particular beast right now. I will say, that in return for a bit of thought, effort and time I got a bag I like and will use until it falls apart, hopefully many years in the future. It’s barely used. I think someone got rid of it because they couldn’t be bothered to clean it of some very minor soiling. Wasteful for them, a win for me at $3.99 and an overnight soak in the kitchen sink.

With deciding whether or not second-hand/thrift shops are worth it depends on which way you are more willing and able to pay. Will it be with time and effort or with dollars that you bought with your time and effort?

musings

Letter to a forbidden love

Posted on May 24 by Scribbler / 0 Comment

I started smoking when I was 13.

Before that I was a rabid anti-smoker and had even broken and flushed Dad #1’s smokes more than once. Guess it didn’t take too terribly much to flip that particular addiction switch.

I was riding my bike somewhere with my sorta friends from school. One was named Bill and lived in a nearby beach community. I went to his house once. The short dead-end road was narrow as fuck and the houses jammed cheek to jowl. The house itself was amazing though. Full of family and laughter and warm colors and music and books and interesting things to look at. It was everything I’d ever wanted in a home. I was actually dumbstruck. It was old and wound about with tight rooms. When I was reading about the Burrow years later, this was the house that sprung to my mind.

So anyways, Bill and I and another kid, I can’t remember his name. He had the most beautiful brown eyes but he played for the other team but hadn’t figured it out yet. They both did, would, hopefully, figure it all out? They were nice guys. I hope they found what they wanted. I’ll call him Rafael.

So the three of us are riding our bikes. We were going to Rafael’s house. I was absolutely flying down this huge hill and had to take a sudden sharp right and didn’t realize that the road was covered in sand. Down went the bike and of course, it being the early 80’s and summer, what was I wearing? A freakin’ tube top. Yeah I ended up with some serious road rash all down my right side.

Fucking ow.

The boys helped me and the bike up. Thankfully we were at our destination for the most part. I cleaned myself up and picked the gravel out of my skin. I remember being very jittery from the crash and the pain of trying to erase my right breast with asphalt. Rafael had stolen a half pack of his grandma’s Pall Malls. So we each lit one up.

It tasted really gross but I had at least two, maybe three before we left. My stomach was queasy but I wasn’t jittery anymore.

Never told, will tell, Dad #2 that I was a smoker. His mother died of lung cancer and she was a very heavy smoker. Started smoking because her doctor told her to because of her nerves. Of course the nerves had nothing to do with the five boys who were always trying to kill each other and the alcoholic husband. Nah, just pick up this habit that’ll kill you young and it’ll all be fine. So I get why he really, really hates smoking and smokers.

Was a regular, daily smoker by 14. Smoked unfiltered Camels and loved every one of them. Loved the packaging art and the fact that they’d been around forever and the way I had to pick leaves off my lips if I wasn’t careful with tamping them before ripping the pack open.

And then there was the burn.

Taking in a deep breath of smoke and just feeling it sear all the way down.

And then there was the exhale.

Just as good going out as it was coming in.

I started working in restaurants at 15. Practically all the kitchen staff, no matter where I worked, smoked. Dishwashers were united in their love of anything menthol. Line cooks tended to smoke Marlboro. I worked with one chef who smoked Dunhills when he was flush. I tried a pack when I was jonesing while in Canada. Didn’t see what the fuss was about. Was just appalled at how much the dang things cost up there.

Whenever I worked with ex-military guys, they would always smile when they saw my Camels. They’d usually bum one off of me for old times sake and then cough their way through it.

I eventually worked my way up to the filtered ones and by the time I quit up to the lights. But they all still had that burn.

When I was in Turkey, men were fascinated by the fact that I, a woman, was smoking in public and would often bum a smoke to try an American brand. More than one was amused by the filter but they were always friendly and polite about it.

I quit quite some time ago but I still miss it, almost daily.

My youngest sister has one of those electronic thingies. I asked her if it had the burn of an actual cigarette and was saddened and relieved when she said no.

I can’t start smoking again.

I won’t.

Can’t afford it physically or financially. Won’t ever be able to afford it and that’s just fine.

Breathing is good. I’m a big fan of it and would like to keep doing so on a regular basis.

But oh how I miss the particular burn and crackle and the first deep drag off a just lit Camel fresh from a newly opened pack.

chatelaine/in the kitchen

Salt bomb

Posted on May 17 by Scribbler / 0 Comment

Life has been especially crazy lately.

Coming up hard and fast on the completion of a multi-year project at work so I’m working long hours and more days than ever before. Good for the struggling finances, bad for cooking.

I’ve been trying to cook extra on the weekends to get me through the days when it’s just me to feed. I’ll eat leftovers, especially if they can be repurposed.

Otherwise I just end up with a bowl of cereal for dinner. Not the worst thing in the world but since I don’t eat when I’m busy working it can be problematic to not have at least one decent meal a day.

Roasted a chicken recently which was immediately broken down for stock. Made more roasted potatoes than the youngest and I could eat with one meal, still working on readjusting quantities. Coming from a restaurant background and then cooking for a large family means that I usually make too much.

Not a big fan of reheated roasted potatoes, they lose something in the translation, but there were too many to waste and I was hungry hence the repurposing.

I turned them into home-fries.

Start with a nice heavy pan, medium heat with a dollop of your favorite fat. I used bacon grease, olive oil would work as well. Once the pan is heated add in the cold roasted potatoes and occasionally move them around so that the edges crisp up nicely. I also added some seasoned salt and crumbled in a piece and a half of bacon that I dug out of the back of the fridge.

I considered finishing it off with some cheddar cheese melted over the top but instead went with sour cream and fresh chives from the garden.

Yeah, it was a salt bomb but I’ve been craving salt with all the running around and damn was it yummy and filling.

musings/the scribbling life

Updating the about

Posted on May 10 by Scribbler / 0 Comment

This is my 50th post.

Took a few years but I got here.

I’ve been working on updating things around here in this bit of my virtual universe. Finally getting the site updated, adding a not so desperate plea for people to sign up for email, changing out photos, that sorta thing.

Decided it was time to update the about page. I hated the blurb when I originally created and posted it over three years ago but I was standing firm on perfect being the enemy of the good and just got the damn thing done and up. I knew I wasn’t going to like it no matter how much I agonized.

So I started writing a new about blurb and as often happens the damn thing grew beyond its original purpose. So now it’ll be my 50th post and an edited version will be the new about page.

Two for the price of one!

About D.G. Reid

I don’t remember a time before I could read.

Not that I’m so freakin’ brilliant, just that my memory sucks, and doesn’t, in weird, horrible and wonderful ways.

I remember riding in the back of the family station wagon and watching Dad #2 back into a telephone pole as no one would listen to me as I tried to warn him. I remember the sudden in-rush of exhaust as the window shattered into a million pieces all over me. That’s a suck ass of a moment to have to remember all these years later.

But then it’s balanced with standing in a field in Turkey. The air was just on the cold side of chill but not enough to be uncomfortable while bundled up. The grass in the field was brown and sighing in the wind. I could smell coal smoke in the distance as the muezzin called the faithful to prayer as the sun started to set and cast everything from the dead grass, to the people I was traveling with, to the old Roman ruin we had hurried to reach before it closed, with an amber glow that turned everything a beautiful warm shade of gold. It was, as Spalding Grey named it, a Perfect Moment.

With my head full of the above sorts of memories it’s no wonder I have no idea when I started to decipher the squiggly lines on a page and derive meaning from them.

I’ve spent a substantial part of my life reading. Always have. Hopefully always will.

I started dancing with the muse just as I became a teenager. I have what is termed a severe sequential processing deficit in regards to language, math and other linear processes. The person who tested me figured the reason my language skills were so wonky is that I memorized the English language because the structure behind it was, is, incomprehensible. Good for vocabulary, bad for diagramming and grammar. Guess I just didn’t have enough words at my fingertips before I was 13 to be able to form a sentence that could actually convey some deeper meaning.

The first poem I remember writing was about/to a boy named Danny. He had brown curly hair and one blue eye and one green. He was my first hard crush that I got to act on.

My life blew apart shortly thereafter. No idea what happened to the physical manifestation of the poem but I’ll always have the memory of pouring a bit of myself through the pen and onto the pages of a composition book just like I’m doing with the first draft of this particular bit of me.

I wrote a lot through high school. Even attended a program for it in between regular high school and work. Students always explained it as kinda like Fame, but not. I was in the first class of the Poetry/Prose department. The program was so new we didn’t even have a classroom. We met in the lighting booth of the theater. The stairs up and down were a nightmare but it felt very special being isolated up in the tower of a former synagogue.

Writing gave me a place to dump all my thoughts and feelings so they didn’t all come oozing out through my ears.

So many things to process.

Received a national award for a short-short story I’d written. While doing a reading of the third chapter of a fantasy book I was plowing through creating, an editor for a major NYC publishing house handed me her card and told me to send her the full draft once it was finished.

I never wrote another word in that universe.

During college I was busy writing other things and didn’t have time for anything other than the occasional poem. As a history major, if you learn nothing else, you at least learn how to bang out the pages.

After college came kids and when they were little I was so busy figuring out how to be a mother there was no brain space for anything else. Not even me.

As they aged I picked up the composition book and pen. Brought dreams and nightmares to life and talked with friends old and new about writing again.

And then my life blew apart again. It happens. Sometimes more often than not, or more often than we’d like. I do what I can to minimize it. Prepare for the worst, hope for the best.

And then I got sick and wanted to die but didn’t. Writing helped me hang on to what little bit of sanity I had left.

I wrote 97,000+ words in The Tome. When I couldn’t stand being in this world I had that one to retreat to. Three final chapters to go and I chucked the entire thing and started over again with an outline, character sketches and a blank page.

And then it happened again.

But here I still am. Figuring it out on my own and not feeling especially successful at the moment but still moving forward even if sometimes I take the long way around.

Words are the only thing that has always been there. Whether my own or another’s.

I string words across the page and try to bring order to my chaos.

Welcome to the journey.

It’s nice to have some company.

#curatorslife/musings/the horde

Sure hope the floor holds up

Posted on May 3 by Scribbler / 0 Comment

The father of my children once said with that dry, wry wit of his that he was waiting for the floor of my study to collapse into the basement some day.

Why would he say that?

It may have something to do with the 142 linear feet of shelving stuffed into a small room which are double and triple stacked with books as well as a 1917 piano, several filing cabinets as well as just general stuff and detritus.

The piano was a rescue. I don’t play. Was never allowed to as a kid (Dad #1 was a piano player) and haven’t learned yet to as an adult. Retirement project? Ha! Like any Gen X’er is going to be able to retire. Or at least not too many that I know.

Got a call at work one day. Guy wanted to know if we wanted a piano for the collection. We already have 4 pianos (and 2 melodeans!) and this one was from across the river so it wasn’t relevant to us anyway. I offered to help him find a new home for it but he said “Nope, I’m going to get my ax. The dumpster leaves tomorrow.”

That brought me right back to when I was a kid hearing tales of when my middle aunt refused to practice piano like my Jadgi thought she should and he chopped it up with an ax and burned the remains in the backyard. My grandfather was always very calm and kind to me but there were enough stories floating around our family about his wicked temper that I knew there was something more lurking under the surface that I saw as a kid.

So I’ve got this annoyed man on the phone who just wants to clear some space in his house after no one touching this piano for years and he’s going to get the ax.

I couldn’t let the piano die.

I told him I’d take it personally if he would wait till the weekend. He was willing to do that. Took four guys and a pickup truck with ramps to get it from his house to my apartment. We left dents in the wooden porch floor on the way in while they rested from getting it that far.

When I moved next door I paid for movers. No one was willing to do all that again and I don’t blame them. This scrawny, almost elderly guy with a scraggly beard and his very young and slight assistant moved it all by themselves with a shifty looking dolly. It was a wonder. Well worth the $300 just to watch. Well, not really but what choice did I have? I may be stubborn but even I realize that I’m not moving a piano by myself.

The piano takes up a lot of wall space, which is unfortunate, but I don’t begrudge it. It is a thing of beauty and has a rich mellow tone. Sterling really did make a beautiful piano. A sorta friend gave it a good workout once and it was amazing. He’s a hellva ivory tickler.

From: http://www.ebay.com/itm/Symphonium-Organ-Sterling-Piano-Derby-CT-Brattleboro-White-Cat-Advertising-Card-/311658114936

It’s still a lot of potential shelving lost though. To make up for it I have books piled on top of it and in front of it. And in front of two of the three filing cabinets. I can open the top two drawers on each but the other three are lost to the ages.

I have books in the basement of this house and in the basement of the house next door where I used to live. My dream is to have all my books shelved at once in an orderly fashion.

An inventory would be nice too. Who hasn’t bought the same book more than once?

Anybody?

It’s one of the perils of buying the vast majority of my books secondhand. I can afford to make mistakes at a couple of bucks a pop and if nothing else it’s a donation.

I need to go through all these books and decide what I really need to keep. The complete Dresden Files and This Republic of Suffering most definitely. But Dreadnought, eh maybe not. Oh there’s another two inches gained.

Or maybe I should keep it?

How to choose? They made it into this room for a reason. Isn’t that enough?

What metric to use when judging what should go back out into the Great Material Continuum?

What would I miss if I never had access to any outside books ever again?

That seems reasonable.

I’ve always wanted my own private library. Any space I’ve lived in has always had lots of books. I actually used them as insulation in one room. Well it was actually more of a porch and there was no heat so I had to use something to keep from freezing.

Yes, my current study could use a bit more square footage but too much and I would miss the intimacy of being surrounded by dead trees. So many other universes trapped within their pages that I can practically hear them buzzing, just waiting to be opened and explored.

No one but me is ever entirely comfortable in here. I didn’t intend it to be unwelcoming to anyone else, it’s just the way it ended up. This is the one place in the universe I allow myself to do anything I damn please. He once said that being in here was like being inside my head and it felt too intimate, even for him.

Maybe I can use that to judge any future potential mates. If they don’t run out screaming they can stay.

No one besides me can find anything but I actually have a pretty good grasp of what’s in here, which is both terrifying and amusing. Needed to lay hands on the patches for my bag that I bought last year at ConnectiCon. While I was digging them out, which took all of three minutes, I also set aside a pile of magazines and catalogs for recycling and actually brought them straight to the bin. Every bit helps in the Great Sorting.

The youngest is doing a project for her enrichment program and needed some research material on children who were evacuated from London during the Blitz.

“You don’t have anything like that, do you?” she asked.

I laughed.

It took a bit of doing but was still less time than it would have been to take her to the public library. I had to move the Little People house and a stack of about 10 books from on top of the piano to get to the one I was looking for which was specifically about children and their experiences with the Blitz.

For the one about the Blitz in general I had to get on top of a step-ladder and plant my foot on an opposing shelf for a boost up. I handed my phone to the youngest and told her to call 911 if I managed to fall and knock myself out. I was successful in retrieving the book and as might be expected caused a bit of a book avalanche.

While I was tidying the avalanche, I found another book I’d forgotten about printed in 1943 by the The British Information Services with an insert titled “How to Protect Yourself Against War Gasses”. Her eyes lit up when I showed her that. It’s got a lot of photographs in it. All black and white and it’s propaganda so I doubt there’s any bodies. Appropriate for a kid in other words.

People forget how those in charge once more overtly controlled what the people knew. Control what people have access to, like through censoring photographs of military coffins and maybe you can keep the good folks at home from connecting those ever higher numbers they hear on the news every night with an actual flesh and blood person. Control what they see and you control what they know. These days we have the threat of the loss of net neutrality to the development of alternate facts and beyond. It’s all spin control.

Were the cruisers heading towards Korea or away?

Who knows what the truth is anymore?

Who’s willing to do the work to figure it out?

I’ll be choosing my own truth by setting aside this book but not that.

The Library at the End of the World.

Does that Pat Buchanan book I was forced to buy for a graduate Poly Sci class but never even cracked open need to stay?

Does my universe lose something if it goes?

Do I really even need to ask?

No wonder why this room is such a mess.

But hey, I got rid of a pile of recycling today. That particular pile is five inches shorter now.

As long as the floor holds up I’ll eventually get through it all.