Singleversary

Aug. 28th, 2016 01:44 pm
blcwriter: (enterprise)
Yesterday was my five year singleversary-- the day I moved out & moved on.  I think what I liked about the day was how mundane it now feels.  It's just another day, not an occasion worth marking with either celebration or grief.

It's been a few years since I felt mopey about being being separated and not being part of a couple-- the more time that passes the happier I am in my own company and the more inclined I am to do as I please and to say what I think.  I've been more inclined to set boundaries, too-- "I don't think that's funny," or "That's not my job, so-and-so can help you," or "I wouldn't really enjoy that and would be a downer, but if you would be interested in doing X or Y some other time, I'd love to get together."  I like that these things are now normal for me-- I generally like myself and am capable of being content being alone, and I am not afraid to tell people what I think.

I like that I'm older, and that sometimes I even know better now.  
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Flowers seen on my cooldown from my first Couch 2 5K run.  I hate running, but it's the only way I lose weight, and I need to lose weight because work stress has shot up my blood pressure.  (That, plus it's a sedentary job.)

I am going to try to plan my routes so I go by all the city's good yards, though, so that's something.

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I was in the kitchen this evening, perusing pickle reciepts for the way-too-many cucumbers I picked today (5 pounds, and not one zucchini), and Prairie Home Companion was on, in the way that it is on Saturday nights on NPR.  But it wasn't really on, because the show's off the air, and they're only playing reruns.

I've been listing to PHC my entire life, pretty much every Saturday night.  I've seen it live three separate times.  I wouldn't actually say that I am a fan.  I would say that I have always valued the show for what it represents:  a sense of local place, a sense of smallness, a willingness to wait for the punchline, the patience to sit through a shaggy dog story that sometimes really isn't that funny, and is pretty much the same as the last Big Story you got sat down to be told, a sense of not-really-nostalgia, but likewise no sense of needing to proceed full speed ahead.

PHC took its time.  It meandered.  Sometimes it got a little off course.  Still, Garrison Keillor got you to the end of the ride, and in the meantime you'd heard several different things you mightnt've expected, even if you had to put up with some really lame Dad jokes.

I didn't always like the music, but I was glad it was being aired.  I am not a storyteller who could go on for hours, but I appreciated the art and the practice of it.  I am not a small-town resident, or a regular church-goer, but I appreciated that the smallness and ordinariness and regularity of those things as portrayed on PHC nevertheless coexisted with liberality of spirit (and politics), exhortations to be patient and kind, and an interruption of understandable cantankerousness to do the right thing.

Hearing the echoes of all that compressed meaning, rebroadcast tonight, makes me sad because I worry who will fill Keillor's shoes, especially with the insanity that is the election this year and the assault on blacks, women and queer folk by those people whose smallness of mind and of heart make it impossible for them to remember patiences and kindness.  Who will take the time and make the space for slow and steady?  Who will remember that a sad story is best followed by mid-tempo music, and that you've got to have at least one long-winded joke?  Who will remind us that duct tape and rhubarb are treasures of the republic (or who can remind us what it truly means to be a republic)?

I caught myself feeling like an alien-- if I came here because of the Prarie Home Companion broadcasts and found that people did not sit on their porches playing the fiddle and more-or-less-tunelessly singing old hymns, wouldn't I feel very misled?  Would I be consternated by the violence in deed and in word that takes up so much space, so much air?

Who will remind us to be above-average now?


When we went to Norway, I fell in love with the simple but differently spiced food.

Of course, most Scandinavian cookbooks aren't in English, or are Magnus Nilsson's doorstop, which can make it all a bit inaccessible.  (At least until you realize it's all Irish cooking but with more dill/ginger/cardamom/caraway.) 

Its worth it, though.  Darra Goldstein's Fire and Ice cookbook has a really simple quick pickle of finely sliced rhubarb and cucumbers (these are from my garden) with grated ginger & crushed pink peppercorns.  So delicious, and really crisp & tangy.  

The garden this year was by turns a success and a bust.  I've taken over the gardnening, mostly, from my dad, who now finds it too hard to stoop much, and whose shoulder and back hurt if he does too much digging.  While I was a brat about getting sweaty and hot as a teen, now I don't mind it at all; the pruning and trimming and digging all have realizable results, and sometimes when people are being awful elsewhere, there is nothing like a good day with the electric hedgetrimmer or chainsaw to get out the aggressions.  (Yes, I have a chainsaw.  There's a vicious vine on the other side of the fence and twice a summer I have to cross the boundary to cut it all down to the ground so it doesn't uproot the third fence we've put in in ten years.)  I like the medium-term return of a vegetable garden, and cut flowers inside the house, and homegrown things to cook into dinner.

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If you’ve followed me at all for any period of time, you know I used to blog pretty often, and then I got into fanfic, and wrote a lot of that, too.  Whether or not I was any good at any of that-- the personal blogging, the fic writing-- is another question.  The fact was, I wrote.

For a while, it felt good.  I had online people who read and commented, who agreed or sympathized with things that I said.  I even met some of those folks in real life, and they were all terrific in their own, separate ways.  When I wrote fictional stories, people liked them.  They thought I was funny, or poignant, or smart.  And I met some of those folks, too, in real life, and they were also terrific in their own, separate ways.

At a certain point, though, I stopped.  Stopped personal blogging.  Stopped fiction writing.  Stopped.

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Just a note to note that for those wondering if I'm dead.  I am not.  But I am still fannishly void for the moment, and any writing I'm doing is still at my personal blog regarding all the blah blah blah boring "I'm depressed about money/divorce/personal life" stuff that occupies my time these days.

Thank you to those of you who have sent notes, Christmas cards, left comments on fic, or otherwise chat with me by email or contacted me on FB.  I hope you're all well, and please know my late/non-responsiveness is no reflection on you, and entirely a reflection of the spin I'm still in.  As soon as someone invents the long-term anti-waaaaaaah patch that works better than the stuff I am taking, I will buy it.  : )   Hugs to you all.

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