it feels good to do what i want; it feels good to knock things down

my arm is twitching in a disconcerting manner.

also, i am worried that my medication isn't working, and/or i need more of it. and the thought of doubling my dosage, AGAIN, makes my stomach turn.

maybe this is a fool's errand. maybe i just need to do more (or any) yoga.
read more existential literature and asian philosophy.
eat more raw food. stop watching american psycho and it's always sunny in philidelphia.
quit smoking cigarettes.

what is that? that, in order to stop feeling empty, i need to empty my life of things i love to do.

i suppose that isn't much of a feat, considering i don't find enjoyment in anything anymore.

/emo.

pipe dreams

i have so many crafts to accomplish before wednesday.

wednesday is the birthday of my dear friend, yeti, and i'd like to knit him a delightful Yeti. fitting, no? we'll see.
yeti has been a dear to me, and i feel a great need to express gratitude through delightful knitted toys. last year, i crocheted a little Boognish for him. apparently, it was a big hit. i didn't get to give it to him (i passed it on to his neighbor, the fabulous e-rock), but all reports are that of surprise and delight.

i also need to finish up greyson's birthday guitar (which promises to be quite adorable, if i ever get off of my ass and give it a face), and i am thinking very seriously about making him a cape.
i'm thinking something sewn from a t-shirt, so nothing terribly serious. should only take a few hours, if that, and it will be machine washable (unless i suck at sewing --very possible-- and it is shoddily constructed). i'm trying to think of a Symbol to applique onto the back of the cape... maybe just a "G."
that's "G for Greyson," folks. write that down.
noah suggested race car cookies, and i think that is a stellar idea. greyson would, however, be enormously disappointed by a lack of cake.
maybe a race car cake? yeah. probably not. a Michael's in boone has been very freeing, craft-wise, and maybe a race car cake is not as much of a daunting impossibility as it seems right now.

tonight, i think i will be tackling the attachment of the neck to the body of the birthday guitar, and maybe beginning the process of imagining/cutting out pieces for a face.
i am both terrified and excited at the embroidery portion of the project... i've had a deep love for embroidery for a long time now. a co-worker came up with the brilliant idea to embroider "Greyson" a la Gibson, to really personalize the project... brilliant, but maybe too much so. noah has a Gibson, so maybe i can use that as a reference.

easter is rapidly approaching, and i have half a mind to knit an adorable reversible toy that starts out as an egg, and flips inside out into a little bird.
i definitely have easter colors (i would knit the egg in several colors and delightful patterns, if i were more ambitious... probably just one though, because i'm not) in my shamefully large yarn stash, and i could probably make that happen in a day or so. i'd like to knit two (one for greyson and one for emily), and that is probably do-able before easter, but the prosecution will note that it took me a YEAR to finish a reversable cat/mouse.
in my defense, the knitting was done. it just needed a face.
it stared at me, eyeless, from the kitchen table for a long time.

oh, sweet, sweet crafts...
i wish and wish that i could commit to you.

funny thing

a few months ago, my psychiatrist diagnosed me with something called Borderline Personality Disorder: a mental illness that affects the ability to create and maintain lasting relationships.
fair enough.
my biggest beef is that she based some (maybe most) of her diagnosis on my many facial piercings and brightly colored hair and tattoos, because apparently that is "self-mutilation."
ouch, right?
i am especially insulted because, after doing some research on BPD (also the acronym for boone police department. fun fact!), i discovered that i barely, or don't at all, fit the other major symptoms. also, she had diagnosed my boyfriend with the very same diagnosis less than a month prior.
those odds are staggering.
piercings and blue hair and tattoos = self-mutilation? i'm calling bunk.
it is fair to say that i am certainly subscribing to a lifestyle that will probably permanently alienate me from Mainstream Society, which, i'm not gonna front, is desirable. anything to get away from Mother Culture, right?
but, am i "mutilating" myself because i hate myself and want to make myself as freakish as possible so i can justify my feelings that i am doomed to experience nothing but exile and my only choice is withdrawal from, what is considered to be, normalcy?
jeez louise!

i actually think a lot about why i love piercings and tattoos so much... i am planning several more piercings. i have a queue, including my septum (the space between the nostrils), which is probably one of the more controversial piercings.
though, i have definitely seen an increase in ladies with the septum piercing. i think it's charming, and only vaguely intimidating.
but i digress.
maybe, i have such an affinity for these body modifications because i am tiny and adorable, and i feel discredited by these factors. i use tattoos and piercings to feel more confident in my assertiveness, and it really has done wonders for my self-esteem.
weird, that my psychiatrist should be so convinced that my piercings are because of self-loathing, when i'm pretty sure they are a support system.
maybe i'm just proving her point by needing body modification to feel better about myself.

what the fuck ever. i'm still getting my septum pierced and expanding my half-sleeve.

WHAT, BITCH?

you haven't looked at me that way in years

Yes. Well. Here we are.

I will ignore the fact that just a few blog posts away, I was proclaiming my vow to the Unnamed God to update "weekly. hell, daily!" and jump into something New and Exciting and Worthy of Internet Publishing.

Sigh.

I haven't updated in over a year. Lots of things have happened, things that I don't feel like getting into right now as they have dominated my life and conversation with unsettling regularity and by god I'm moving Forward, Dammit, Forward! and I suppose I'll let it slip out eventually, but this post is about now. And now is not the time for unpleasant memories.

Greyson turned 2 this week. His party was a success, I think. I told most of my family that Greyson wanted books for his birthday, and he got some interesting titles... he also got a Darth Vader helmet and a stuffed koala. Go figure.

I spent a majority of the party trying to corral him while he chased bubbles and tried to dip everything in salsa.

I suppose that's all I've got... writing has just become physically painful and I think I'll bring this to a close before I completely melt-down.

Maybe sometime soon, I'll be back.

glorious, glorious

I have a typewriter under my bed. It is dusty, and blue, and probably a breeding ground for spiders of all shapes and sizes (tho all feared with equal severity). It does not breed creativity, as previously imagined. As previously imagined when I lugged it down King Street, 30-dollars poorer and pregnant, no less!
Countless nights, clicking out abstract poetry and tinkering with ink tapes, thinking about time-lines... my pregnancy was a creative upheaval. Hopefully, this means I've birthed the next John Lennon. (I'll settle for Heath Ledger) Where did that Lillian go?
No time or free space for projects, she rationalizes. Babies need lots of attention; the rest of the time is for rest or productivity.
But there is always time. I literally will fucking kill myself if I have to spend the rest of my life being domestic. Being selfish is a luxury.
I'm tired and need. more. time. But it's not all terrible; I am being totally melodramatic.
I have had time to knit baby pants and write in my journal enough to have nearly calmed my brimming soul. I have had plenty of time to think, just not enough time to create!
Idle hands do the devils work, you know.

take me to the movies, 'cause I like to sit in the dark

Drove to Harris Teeter tonight, even though slightly buzzed and kind of spacey; couldn't stop humming "Such Great Heights" by The Postal Service.

Sometimes I feel like all I ever write about anymore is how much I hate my job, or how much I love my son. Trust me, both of these feelings are heartfelt, but I can't go on like this. Something needs to happen. I need to join a club, or go on a trip, or learn a new hobby, or something, or anything.
My life is dull.
I aim to change that.

In other news, there is a Jet Li movie playing in the other room; it would be a shame to waste it.

will the wind ever remember?

Weather-wise, it is a beautiful day. But there is a dark cloud hovering over my happiness; its name is Time Management.
I spent much of my day wandering Walmart (not as thrilling as it sounds), and the other being disapproved of by other moms at the park, but here is how I would have liked to spend it: getting a shamrock tattoo for free at the local parlor.
For. Free.
If there were ever any two words to catch my attention, they would be "free tattoos."
But it seems that, in my hatred for making plans, I have foiled myself. Luke is going on an adventure with friends, my mother is going to be here in less than an hour to babysit Greyson, and I hardly have enough time to make it into town for a tattoo (even one as small as a shamrock).
Happy fucking Saint Patrick's Day.