The Cliffs of Insanity!

It’s been about a year since we launched our campaign to haul Shriekback out of the sanctuary of the studio and back under the bright lights of the stage. Our Kickstarter pledgers responded magnificently, enabling us to exceed our original Phase 1 target and giving us the resources to assemble our 8-piece dream-team, fine tune it through intensive rehearsals and start delivering live shows that we and our loyal supporters can feel proud to be part of. We had a resounding success at London’s Shepherd’s Bush Empire and have taken our first steps into Europe. So far, so good…

Now, though, it’s time for Phase 2, which is turning out to be bigger than we thought. Getting an 8-piece band to America, with all the visa, travel and accommodation that that entails, is proving to be jaw-droppingly expensive. Once more, and more than ever, we need your help to deliver this crucial part of our long-term plan. Our intention is to be playing in America in June, on a short but wide-ranging tour that will enable as many of you as possible to see the band in action. Dates are yet to be finalised, but it is likely that we’ll be playing about six shows, split between the east and west coasts with a couple in between. Apologies to all our Canadian friends but we just couldn't get the fees there. Next time, we hope.

We know this is a Big Ask and we want your contributions to go as far as possible. To do this, we want to offer rewards that are not so much based on physical product (records and T-shirts, for example), as one lesson from our Phase 1 campaign was that manufacturing, shipping and other costs can eat up a big chunk of your generous contributions. Aside from rewards like exclusive downloads, we want, above all, to make this personal – entry to shows, backstage and other access, opportunities to spend time with the band: this is, after all, what the campaign is about – getting Shriekback to you.

When we started Phase 1 of this project, a year ago, we said “the riskiest part is the first part; there’s a lot of expensive inertia to overcome”. We’ve demonstrated that Shriekback Live in 2018 is a viable and exciting animal. However, it’s also a big and hungry one. We have achieved our first goal, which was to be able to function self-sufficiently as a live band in the UK and Europe. The next challenge is to take this beast to America, and, to be frank, it’s a much bigger challenge, economically, than we thought. We’ve looked at every way to deliver this large-scale payload as efficiently as we can; these are how the final numbers stack up. Yes, we’re asking a lot from you, but we believe in what we’re doing and, from what you’ve told us, we believe you want to see and hear it. So, how about it? What are you doing in June? Let’s go.

RISKS AND CHALLENGES
We think the last crowdfunded initiative speaks for itself. We have an experienced team and we've been doing this stuff for a while. Have no fear - if we get the cash, there will be joyous times ahead.

Over the past few days, I've been struggling to assemble furniture. One piece was a bedside table, and the other was a chest of drawer. The bedside table wasn't too bad, because it was small. The chest of drawers, however, was an entirely different matter. The instructions noted that two people were needed to put the bloody thing together. The problem is, there's only one of me. The solution to this problem is, I'm ambidextrous and can also use my feet like a fucking spider monkey. After two days of struggle, and many breaks so I wouldn't lose my temper or my mind, I was finally successful! And that was with an injured hand, thanks to a fall a few days ago. One shelf of the chest of drawers is a little loose because I had some issues with the dowels. This is nothing that a little bit of Krazy Glue won't rectify. When I was a tiny tot, one of my favourite things on Earth was to hammer nails into wood.

Even though I couldn't build anything to save my life, I do like the concept of crafts and putting things together, and my hammer skills, however rudimentary, are still present, even from my days as a four-year-old. I can't help but admit I'm a tad proud of myself.

Achieving something I should not have been able to on my own gives me hope that I can figure out how to reattach the doors to the CD/DVD cabinet Janice gave me, along with a small knick-knack shelf I'm planning on using for some of my books.  If I can get the doors properly affixed, I can finally unpack some of my CDs and DVDs. Most of what I have left to unpack are my media and books.  And I have tons more of that than I have room, so my number one priority is shelving.  I have found shelving that is sufficient for books and media, and should definitely allow me to finish unpacking and get the rooms of my pad sorted and cleared off all these boxes and storage containers.  Of course, I've added this item to my Happy Housewarming for the Minimalist with NOTHING Amazon Wishlist, and I've put it at the top of my needs.  As it stands, I have no doubt I'll be able to put the shelves together by myself.  It's amazing the things of which you find yourself capable, when your options are limited.

Apparently, I have two end tables en route, and they require some assembly as well. Once I have them put together, I will have more room for books, albeit only two or three per table, plus a place to finally set my living room lamps! Eventually, I will need an accent table or something so I'll have a place for the big-ass fugly lamp I've been clinging to since Granny bought it for $5.00 in 1977.  It needs to be rewired and a lampshade, though, so I'm in no rush for the table.  In the meantime, I'm gonna keep on keepin' on, and take advantage of the shelves with which I am currently blessed.

One of the things that is imperative for a happy, healthy dog and, as a result, a happy, healthy dog parent, is establishing a routine. In fact, it is probably the most important thing about a dog/human relationship in our modern times.

That is the one thing I did not have in San Diego.  As a result,  I had a dog who was utterly confused as to what was expected of him, and seemed hellbent on pissing in the house at every given opportunity. His habits degenerated from going out when he wished and doing his business outside, to going outside and just waiting to come back in, at which time he would then relieve himself.  I had to invest in puppy pads every single month, and keep them all over the bedroom floor.  It was a disgusting situation for everyone involved.

There were a number of factors as to why this was the case. First, the area in which we lived in San Diego was at the bottom of a series of canyons.  With my health issues, walking in the neighbourhood was exceedingly difficult on the best of days.  On top of that, with my depression out of control, I had zero motivation to step out of my room, much less the house.  Matt had set up a very long leash system that allowed Toby access to the entire front yard, where he even had enough room to run to play fetch, which he did a lot of with Matt. (One thing I can say about Matt is, he is very good with animals for the most part.  I don't agree with his hard-on for César Milan, but Matt has a huge heart when it comes to animals, and he and Toby were best buds for four years. I really believe there was a chance Toby would not have survived our time out there, had it not been for Matt.) If no one was out there with him, though, Toby would do nothing but sit by the door, waiting to come back inside. Matt would let him in and play with him out in the living room but, instead of letting him back out to use the bathroom before sending him back to me, he'd just put him in my room, where Toby would then relieve himself, since he hadn't been out in a while. Thanks to the humans around him, Toby developed horrible habits and appeared to delight in doing the exact opposite of what was expected of him at any given time.  At some point, I just gave up and kept a puppy pad carpet on the bedroom floor, and let the unruly boys do whatever the fuck they wanted.  None of it really mattered.

During the move, Toby was thrown into even more upheaval, and his behaviour got worse.  Whenever critters are thrown into uncertain situations and unfamiliar environments, they do exactly what small children do - they act out.  With dogs, their acting out often comes in the form of reprehensible bathroom behaviour.  Toby was marking anything and everything, both outside and indoors.  Nothing I did seemed to stop him, no matter how often I took him outside.  When we were staying with Janice, I thought she was going to have to be committed there a couple of times, especially when Elvis - Blake's little Chihuahua - and Toby were together.  Elvis wouldn't stop humping everyone, and Toby wouldn't stop marking to show his ownership of and dominance over all which he surveyed.  Truly, it has been a nightmare.

The first day were were in the new pad, Toby had a couple of mishaps in the apartment.  Thankfully, he chose the side of Smidgen's litter box.  I cleaned it up easily, and thanked the Mighties that Toby didn't choose to soil the carpet!  That very day, I started him on a schedule, taking him out every two hours the first couple of days.  The landscape here at Stonesthrow is relatively level and a 100% improvement when it comes to being walkable.  Plus, there's a dog park that allows Toby to freely roam as he chooses, instead of always being tethered to his crippled companion.  By the time the first week was up, we had established a set schedule that works for us both.  In the morning, we go out around 6:30 am, then 10:15, 2 PM, 6 PM, and sometime between 9 and 10 PM.  Toby swiftly embraced the schedule, and has readily adopted it to his internal clock.  

After four years of excremental horror, there have been no more bathroom incidences since we have settled into the new place.  Plus, I'm getting more exercise than I have in ages, as well.  The ability to move more without excessive pain, or the threat of blacking out from over-exertion in a landscape hostile to the mobility-challenged.  I downloaded an exercise app the other day, because I was curious to see how much I'm walking with Toby each day. After using it these past few days, I'm pleased to report that I'm averaging between 2 and 3 miles each day. After storm season is over with, and there's not a threat of being drenched only moments after you were strolling under the sun, I intend to expand our wandering out to the main roads like Pleasantburg Drive.  I don't really need to lose weight, but I do need to build back my muscle, and Toby definitely could slim down a little, after spending years being fed gobs of people food and living a sedentary lifestyle.

I am amazed that it took basically just a week to turn Toby around.  His breakthroughs have also been my breakthroughs, because the increased activity has helped me manage my depression which, in turn, allowed me to stick to the new routine, and actually look forward to mine and Toby's times out of doors.  

Coming back to the Southeast has been the wisest and healthiest decision I could have made for myself, Toby, and Smidgen.  No regrets!

Despite breaking into a clumsy trot, pinwheeling his arms in an attempt not to succumb to his boot toe catching on a rise in the sidewalk pavement, Flint felt himself topple in slow motion, sprawling across The Osmond Family’s star on Hollywood Boulevard.

“So much for Vampiric grace,” Flint grumbled, pulling himself from the ground as tourists studiously ignored the spectacle before them.  Why were there so many tourists out at 2 in the morning? Flint wondered.  Raising his voice to where he could be heard, Flint groused, “Hey, shows over, eh?  Pictures’ll cost you extra!”

The tourists widened their berth around the irked Vampire, as he brushed the grime from an outfit that already looked grimy and unkempt.  The clothes weren’t dirty, they were just old, well-worn, and much too large for Flint’s slight frame.  It was his wardrobe that was responsible for his fall, because the size discrepancies weren’t reserved to just Flint’s threads, but also his shoes.  Flint’s proper shoe size was between a 9 and 10, depending on the make of the shoe.  The boots on his feet were size 13, and the sole of the left boot was loose and floppy.  Flint called it his rubber flapjack.

Satisfied with sorting himself after the tumble, Flint reached into one of his overcoat pockets and pulled out a wretched-looking cigarette, along with an even worse-looking book of matches.  Without moving from the middle of the sidewalk, Flint struck a match, and cupped it to the cigarette, taking a long drag, then exhaling slowly toward the night sky.

Out of the corner of his eye, Flint caught the disapproving glare of bearded young man approaching him, probably on his way to the subway station nearby, given his non-tourist appearance.  He was in just the perfect mood to not let the silent judgement go without comment.

“Calm down, it’s not like I’m a corporation belching filth into the air around the clock.  I think you’ll survive having to pass me on your way to whatever hipster convention is eagerly awaiting your arrival.  They surely can’t get started with their hardcore smugness without your retro arse in attendance!”

The man stopped in his tracks, his scowl deepening.  But when Flint flashed his fangs in a predatory smile, the scowl turned to dismay, and the young man hastened away, no longer concerned with the peril to his lungs.  Funny how people forgot minor dangers to their person, when they realised their throat could well be on the cutting board.  Flint chuckled, his mood buoyed by the brief encounter. He began to walk again, puffing away and humming to himself.  

It’s been an interesting few days.

I’ve been trying to unpack and do laundry, but have been battling where to put what, because I’m having problems getting this chest of drawers and side table put together, and I’m unsure where to place the shelves until I get the couch and have it in the proper position.  So I’m just sort of in a move-in suspended animation until tomorrow, when I’m scheduled to finally get the couch.

As I unpack and sort stuff, I learn of the things that I need and don’t yet have.  Like a broom.  I’ve already asked that someone revoke my Witch Card, because this shit is off the hook.  Who has ever heard of a Witch without a broom?  I was going to use the Swiffer one kind soul sent to me, but I forgot the sweeper needs batteries, so all I can do until I get to a store is just look at it, and look at the floors that won’t be getting cleaned for another couple of days.  Oy vey!

On Wednesday, a maintenance dude came to refurbish my tub and sink.  At first, I was told that Toby, Smidgen, and I would have to be gone for four hours after he had used the paint, but he seemed to think that the complex people were being overly-cautious.  He did warn that the paint had a strong odour, but that was fine, because I liked it once he used it.  Then again, I love the smell of gasoline, so I'm a bit of an olfactory mutant.  He got to work sanding the tub down, as he waited for his boss to bring the paint he needed.  She brought it after about two hours, but she brought the wrong paint, and what the dude needed was all the way in Simpsonville.  He asked if he could return the following morning, and I said yes.  He had to leave all his equipment in the apartment overnight, so I kept a couple of lights on, so I wouldn’t end up falling and breaking my face, or arse, or something else I might need.  He returned the next day and finished the job shortly after Noon.  Right now, I’m super-ripe and look atrocious, because I haven’t had a shower in over 48 hours now.  It’s currently 11:30, so I have less than an hour  to go until I can clean up my act.

Yesterday, Micah was swung by to pick up some incense I had for them, and give me some quarters for bills, so I can do laundry.  Stonesthrow has an on-site laundromat, but the machines only accept quarters, and they have no bill changer.  I found a drink machine in the gym this morning, and thought that might be an option for when I don’t have quarters or a way to get quarters, but the drink machine won’t take my bills!  Frustration is too weak a word for this situation…. Anyway, a few hours before Micah was to arrive, my phone died.  I figured it just needed to be charged.  But it wouldn’t come on, even after an hour of charging.  Nothing I did would make it show any sign of life.  I panicked.  With my health issues, not having a phone is not an option.

Thankfully, Micah was kind enough to haul my butt to AT&T, where I was prepared to bite the bullet and sign a contract, so I could get a new phone.  Everything was in order, until they asked for my identification, which I lost, along with my social security card, in the move across country.  The only way I can get a new phone, the service agent said, was to order it online.  Shiiiiiit!  But she did try this one wee trick to see if there was any hope for the phone, and the battery symbol popped up on the screen.  She explained that, sometimes, phones just get locked up and, if you press the power and home buttons at the same time, it can reboot them, and they are okay.  She suggested I take the phone home, hook it up, and do the reboot.  

IT WORKED!

So, it appears I don’t need a new phone after all.  I just need to learn every clever tip and trick having to do with the iPhone 5s, and I need to do it as soon as fucking possible, before I find myself in a panicked state, simply because I’m ignunt.

Anyway, it was great meeting and hanging out with Micah, whom I initially met online through my friend Cameron.  They are a delightful person, and I’m really looking forward to watching them perform in an outdoor production of William Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night’s Dream, in which they play Puck!  Cameron, Cindy, and I were originally scheduled to go to the Saturday production, but Cameron is now thinking it’ll be Sunday, instead, which works better for me, considering I’m supposed to be getting that couch on Saturday.  Back to Micah, we share a fascination for the Arabic language and alphabet.  They are learning Arabic in school and seemed pleased when I told them that my original Rhyllan alphabet was inspired by the Arabic alphabet.  (I really need to turn Rhyllan and Tarmian Tarmi am Tynillim into digital fonts, but I’ll have to wait to get a printer/scanner for that.)  Micah is a brilliant person, and exudes a deep kindness.  Toby could not get close enough to them when they were here.  When they found out I was a Witch, they expressed some interest in learning more about Wicca, since their brother had recently been talking about it as well.  Once I have all my gear unpacked and have the apartment in order enough to where I can cast a Circle to my satisfaction, I'm going to invite Micah, and anyone else who might want to participate, to an open Esbat ritual.  By then, I'll have furniture for people to sit on, and receptacles out of which they can eat and drink!

I find it telling that I have only been back in South Carolina a month, and I’ve already made a new friend in Micah, and a potential new friend and neighbour, whom I met a couple of days ago.  Her name is Christa, and she stopped me as I was walking to the mail box, because she spotted my Pentagram pendant.  She’s moving in later on this month, and she’s an herbalist/acupuncturist who has dabbled in Wicca in the past.  She wants to get together once she’s settled.  I spent four years in San Diego and only made a tiny handful of friends right at the end of my stay in the area.  It isn’t that San Diegans aren’t friendly, this is about me.  I have to admit I was unwilling to get out there and be proactively social.  To be honest, I think that if I had remained in San Diego, I would have become a shut-in, because my social anxiety out there was out the roof.  I don’t know why, but I intend to suss it out over time, because I think it’s important to know the reasons behind my inability to interact with others there, when I don’t seem to have a problem with it here.  If I discover the roots of this behaviour, I can work to rectify it in the future.

Thanks to my Tribe, another very happy difficulty I’m having with getting unpacked and organised, is I keep getting more packages, which means I’m inundated with boxes, which are getting in the way of unpacking more boxes.  I’m not complaining, I think it’s ironic and hilarious!  For now, I’m holding on to the better-made boxes, and have put out the word that they are available to anyone who needs them, for whatever.  If I haven’t heard anything by Saturday evening, I’m beginning the arduous task of breaking them all down and taking them to the recycling bin across the way.
 

Speaking of Tribe and new friends, I’ve also connected with a local artist, who has created a piece of art for the new pad. I’m looking forward to meeting Modesto and seeing the barn he has drawn.  I had told him to make anything he felt would be good for me and, even though we’ve never met, he decided on a barn.  I have a weakness for barns and, especially, lighthouses, so this was perfect.  I’m thinking the barn will go in the dining room.  I can’t wait to meet Modesto, with whom I hope to work in the future to create an all-inclusive artistic community for the Upstate of South Carolina.  I’m in the market for other art, as well.  I’m hoping Janice will paint me a lighthouse, when her life settles down enough to where she can get back to her painting.  Also, I’ve found this print representing my patron Goddess, Lilith, that I’m keen on putting in the living room.  I also want to get a Tolkien-focused piece of art for the living room.  The other picture I want to put up is the picture of Jesus that Granny painted when I was just a baby.  I grew up believing he was a hippie whose eyes followed me when I moved, and I would flash him the peace sign at least once a day and say, “Peace, brother!”  I left the painting behind when I went to San Diego, because I was afraid it would be damaged in the move.  Now that I’m back, I’m reclaiming it from all the stuff I still have stored in the old house.  Of course, my Shriekback poster will eventually be gracing the bedroom wall.    As for the hall and bathroom, I’m not sure yet what, if anything, I’ll do in the decor department.  Despite my accrual of a shit=tonne of stuff in a very short period of time, I still consider myself a minimalist!

Smidgen vomited day before yesterday, and did so again overnight, but she seems to be doing well, other than those two incidences.  Rene is insisting I stick with the plan of taking her back to Dr. Patch next week, so I’m going to swallow my pride to acquiesce.  If it were me, or a situation that did not involve a living entity, I would just wait to address the issue when I could afford it, but that’s not the case, so off we go to the vet’s office one day next week!  And, actually, as I was writing this, she vomited again.  It was clear fluid with a light yellow tinge to it, so I’m a tad worried that her liver is not doing as well as I had initially hoped.  

I’m out of milk and sugar, so I checked to see if the Instacart service was available in this area.  It is!  So I’m having my milk, sugar, and a couple of other items I needed, delivered in a couple of hours.  Since I’m waiting on this, I’m postponing my shower until after s/he has come and gone.

For the past two weeks, I’ve been watching nothing but the Tolkien films.  This occurs occasionally, in my Arda-saturated world.  The tales JRR Tolkien shared with the world are as ingrained in me, in my soul, as they are in anyone who has ever been moved by a myth or a legend.  These are stories as old as time, at least as it is perceived by humankind.  You can call it ancestral memory, cellular memory, genetic memory, whatever it is, the remembering experienced by people when immersed in the epic accounts of a nation or race is what drives every generation to redefine the stories to fit their times, and to make sense of the world in which they find themselves.

On the recommendation of my sixth grade English teacher’s son, who was a year my senior, I checked out The Hobbit from the school library, and absorbed it in three days.  Before I returned it to school, I read it again, this time more slowly, taking a week.  I loved it, but hated the musical abomination that was the Rankin-Bass adaptation.  Normally, I loved their TV specials.  Not so with their version of The Hobbit.  I did, however, love Return of the King, primarily because of Glenn Yarbrough's beautiful song, "Roads Go Ever On."

Even though I had loved the book, it didn’t compel me to pick up The Lord of the Rings, which Gregg also recommended, or The Silmarillion, of which I doubt Gregg was aware, based simply upon his age and how difficult it was to be privy to information, literature, music - basically everything - that wasn’t in the realm of the commonplace.  LOTR and The Hobbit were popular enough to be well-known and easily-obtainable in the South.  The Silmarillion, on the other hand, had only been published for approximately two years at that time.  Even if Gregg knew about it, it was highly doubtful the school library had book!

On the day I took my SAT, in my senior year of high school, Aunt Tudi found a box set, which I still have, of The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit at a yard sale she and Granny visited while they waited on me to finish my test.  I still did not read LOTR.  I was busy with other things at the time, like getting through my last year in high school, preparing for college, and writing this odd collection of mythic stories that were born out of my lighthearted science fiction shorts, originally inspired by the Electric Light Orchestra’s Time album.  

In my first year of college, my Humanities professor was impressed with my assignments and asked if I was a writer.  I told him I wrote stories and poetry, and had been active in the literary and drama clubs in high school.  He asked to see some of work, so I opted to share with him some of the stories of the Rhyllans, and how they came to be.  

A week later, Dr. Miller, who happened to be a Tolkien scholar who had taught classes on the old professor's works, asked if I had read The Silmarillion.  When I asked why, he informed me that I could be sued for some of the material I had written, if I ever tried to clean it up and get it published.  I did not understand but, instead of reading The Silmarillion, I opted to read The Lord of the Rings, under the incorrect assumption that it came before The Silmarillion.  Publishing-wise, it did, but I was thinking of the timeline of the narratives themselves.

Of course, I fell in love with The Lord of the Rings, and promptly went to B. Dalton Books and purchased a copy of The Silmarillion, which I still have.  When I read the Ainulindalë and Valaquenta, I finally understood Dr. Miller’s warning, and I reconciled with the fact that my Rhyllan myths would never be published in any complete capacity.  The one thing I couldn’t understand was why I was unable to make myself change much of anything in my myths, even though their current incarnation would get me chased around by the Tolkien posse.

This is where I want to make it very clear that I am, by no means, comparing my writing to that of JRR Tolkien’s, who far surpasses the greatness of the likes of Clive Barker, and he greatly surpasses even my wildest dreams of scribal skill.  The essence of the stories, in particular the Music of Creation and the diminishing of the Dėaghydge, was exceedingly Tolkienesque.  Even the Goddess Kessilon, the Dėaghyden Star Goddess, was nearly identical to Varda, albeit a tad more sci-fi in her relationship to the stars.  My mind was boggled, and it still is, even though I came to learn the root of the similiarities.  

It wasn’t until three years later, when I began to study theology and various theories, one of which was genetic memory, that I understood the connection between my stories and those of JRR Tolkien’s.  It wasn’t a connection that involved just myself and Mr. Tolkien; it was one that encompassed a great swathe of the Fantasy literary world and the whole of human myth, be it supposedly dead myths of ancient Greece and Sumeria, or the living religions like Hinduism and Judaism.  They are all retellings of a very tiny collection of stories that speak of humanity’s commonality.  And the connection doesn’t affect just nations or tribes, or even families; they affect individuals.  We all have the capacity, and often the compulsion, to create our own personal myths.  This is what I was doing with the Rhyllan folk, and their sister races, the Tarmi and the Thranodiena ~ all three of whom comprised the descendants of the divine Dėaghydhe.

In 1993, I was tasked with deciding on a Craft name, because I had decided to become a Dedicant in the Temple Hecate Triskele.  I opted for Tinhuviel, adding the “h” for numerological purposes.  Artanis was a name for the Tarmian Goddess of the flora and fauna, tightly connected with bears, owls, and lizards.  It wasn’t until about a year later, I discovered that Artanis is also Galadriel’s father-name!  So this is why I feel that Tolkien’s works aren’t simply fiction.  They have an ancient magick within them.  They have the power to bring people together and, sadly, because of their religious nature, they also have the power to pull them apart.  Such is the way with spiritual works.  JRR Tolkien wanted to create a mythology for England.  He certainly did that, but he did so much more.  He enriched the mythologies of people around the world, so much so, that scientists have named an entire ancient human race after one of his own.  That speaks volumes to me, and it should to any student of JRR Tolkien’s work, or human memory in general.

I know it’s an impossibility, but I would love to know the origins of the stories that are obviously of such great import to our species, that they have been retold for thousands of years, and are as beloved today as they were from time immemorial, with no small thanks to JRR Tolkien.

Yesterday, I called Charter Communications to set up Internet service, after AT&T fucked up every order I set up with them. Like, every single one. The gentleman I spoke with told me the technician would be at my pad between 8 and 9 AM. While I was out with Toby's morning walk, I got an automated call from Spectrum, informing me that the tech was en route. It was a quarter til 8. Toby and I hied our way back to the pad and about 10 minutes later, Chase the Spectrum Tech was standing, smiling, at my door. It was 8:06! He had everything set up within 30 minutes, and even checked with the other tech in the van to see if he had a lighter or matches for me. I haven't the ability to make fire at the moment, so I'm starting to feel like Naoh!

Thanks to my wacked-out health, there was an incident last Sunday that landed me in an extended stay hotel until yesterday morning. As documented on my Facebook, I ended up with Blake's cold a couple of weeks ago. Since 2015, I don't just get to have a simple cold and be done with it, no. I end up with secondary infections and my sleep patterns and behaviour are almost always affected. That means I sleepwalk. After the cold began to wane, I developed some sort of viral infection under my tongue. I caved and went to the doctor about that last Friday. He gave me some lidocaine for the pain and told me to ride it out for about a week, at which time, it should be getting better. But it wasn't just that. A knot - infection? lymph gland? who knows? - began growing behind my left ear. I felt generally unwell. The next thing I remember, Janice is driving me to Crossland Suites. She thought I had over-taken some of my medication and, when she couldn't find it in my stuff, was not going to be convinced otherwise. I was so sick and out of it, I was incapable of explaining what I had done with my meds, and had no way to show her that all was in order, because I'd repacked everything a couple of days prior, along with the meds I'd had moved from San Diego to here. It was an effort in poor organisation. The next day, I Uber'd to the closest CVS and had them check my temp at the minute clinic. My throat was on fire, and I felt delusional, and couldn't think straight. I had a fever of 103. I got some aspirin and juice, and went back to the hotel to die. Then I lost my voice for three days.

Fortunately, I began to recover from this nightmare on Thursday.  Friday was the big day of the move, so I had to be at least marginally functional!  When Friday came, my voice was back, my mouth had recovered almost completely, and my throat was only a little scratchy.  I was still weak and underwhelmed, but I was present and accounted for.

It's been slow going like you wouldn't believe with the unpacking process.  I don't have furniture to put things on, and I don't want to put stuff on the floor, in the event Toby decides he wants to mark something, like an asshole, so I'm having to pick and choose what I pull out for right now.  Today, I wanted to smudge the apartment, and set up a little bit of sacred space in the bedroom, but I can't find my supplies and incense.  I've gone through everything and can't find an inkling of Witchery anywhere.  But I did find the prescriptions I'd consolidated!  I called Janice to let her know and, when I see her, I'm gonna show her what I'd done and why it looked so bad, when she went to check on my medicinal intake.  I also apologised for acting so wonky.  I really could not help it, though!

Yesterday, I got a delivery of cheese garlic bread and a Pepsi, which I have been subsisting on for almost 24 hours. About an hour ago, I did something I had not done since 2013: I used a pot and cooked soup on a real stove. To most, I guess this is no big deal but, for me, it's truly a momentous occasion that means several things.  It means that I'm more self-sufficient now that I have been in years.  It means I can begin to eat properly and have more variety in my life as a crap foodie.  It means that I am going to save a huge amount of money on food, because I have so much storage space, a whole damned fridge, and the ability to prepare food rather than depending on prepackaged junk food.  Cooking that soup on a stove top, in my own pot, with my own spoon, means that I am free.  It also means that Gordon Ramsay will have one more vegetarian pseudo-cook to rail at for existing, and daring to darken the sacred doors of a kitchen!

Of course, I could not have gotten to this mini-milestone, had it not been for the kind souls of my Tribe and our extended clan.  Were I able, I would cook up a flipping cauldron of soup and share it with you all, as we party as hard as a pack of introverts could!

Today, the Cliffs of Insanity turns 15 years old.  Sadly, the original journal won’t see Sweet Sixteen, but I’m okay with that.  As I learned back in 1984, in German class, “Nichts ist dauernd als der Wechsel.” - “Nothing is lasting but change.”

Considering this is the final birthday the LJ Cliffs of Insanity will be celebrating, I find it only fitting that this is the fifteenth year.  The number 5, in increments thereof, have always been of great import to me.  I don't know why.  Maybe it's some form of borderline schizophrenia, given a fascination for numbers is involved.  I remember the fifth and tenth birthdays were special, simply because of their numerical value.  It's fitting that the journal will end on a fifth year.

I hadn't planned for that to happen, but I certainly won't balk at the symbolism permeating the situation.  Everything happens for a reason.  We may not know the reason behind it, nor might we ever know, but a reason exists, nonetheless.  It's sort of like science.  Whether you choose to believe it or not, science is.  Get over yourself.

I wish I knew how to create journal styles.  I would very much like to make a Cliffs of Insanity style for the second incarnation of the Cliffs blog over on Dreamwidth.  The header of the style would be the picture above, or something very much like it.  I used to have a Cliffs style here on LJ, before they moved everything to an S2 format, which I have some sort of mental block that prevents my learning.  Yesterday, I went hunting for an S2 style generator online, something comparable to sites like HTML.am, to no avail.  Apparently, we ignorant folk don't get to have nice things.