The Byrchen Twigges

With its tall weeds, half-obliterated paths, and tumbled-down climbing frames, the feral park was a child's dream and an anxious parent's nightmare. It was kept that way deliberately--or more accurately, it was unkept that way, in a willful act of benign neglect--to provide children with a necessary access point to danger, mystery, and secrecy. It was watched, to satisfy certain minimum standards of child mortality, by the sorts of creatures whom children would find agreeable to encounter, even if they were technically spies as well.

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LL#1440

Yeah, you know what? Fuck everything.

The work week was somehow Oops! All Mondays! flavor. A relentless parade of broken equipment and horrible screw-ups.

I spent the bulk of Saturday doing grocery shopping and other such chores for which there is no time in the week currently. I also donated blood, because I was eligible again and there’s a critical shortage.

And now this morning, one of the ducks has a prolapsed vent, a major medical emergency. None of the emergency vet clinics has anyone on staff today who can handle birds. So we’ve got to try to keep her alive long enough to see someone tomorrow.

I am really reaching my limit on coping with life.

Lewisia: no new pieces written

Day job: 40.5 hours--I managed to scrape together an almost normal amount of time, and it only cost me my sanity and my sleep

Watching: X-Files season 2 episode 21, rewatched Atlantis: The Lost Empire for the first time in many years (RIP my VHS copy of long ago)

Listening: no new album this week--I just don’t have the processing power to enjoy anything new; I did recently finish listening to Mike Duncan’s Revolutions podcast season on the Martian Revolution of 2247, which was marvelous

Clock Mouse: still taking a break

One might have missed the bird entirely, mistaking it for just another twist of cracked, sun-bleached deadwood on the half-fallen tree. Or one might have assumed it was an adaptation to its preferred haunts, growing plumage in the same palette and pattern as the outlook over a field of mousey morsels. Rarely, one might know on sight a reforester hawk, also known as a deadwood phoenix, whose nesting habits began with assembling a skeletal tree, which would hatch into new growth along with the bird's eggs.

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LL#1437

So, look: it’s possible that I’m cursed. With what, exactly, remains unclear.

On Tuesday, mum fell in the bed of her truck while unloading hay bales. (We don’t have time to get into the why of *that*.) And after two trips to the Urgent Care, one to the ER, and an overnight hospital stay, she’s back home with her five (5) broken ribs. *pinches bridge of nose*

I haven’t been back to work yet, but I get to try to make that work tomorrow. It’s not so much that mum needs me present constantly. She’s mobile on her own, so long as she doesn’t drop anything on the ground. But she’s not allowed to do anything. Like, oh, say, feed five horses and two ducks. Or water dozens of fruit trees and three separate vegetable gardens. So I’m having to try to do that. On top of my own usual responsibilities.

Adding my day job to the mix might actually kill me, so watch this space. But don’t bother to watch too closely, because I am likely to be thin on the (internet) ground for the next month or three.

Lewisia: 3 new pieces written

Day job: 17 hours

Gardening: succulent club meeting, harvesting

Reading: Witch Hat Atelier, Volume 3 by Kamome Shirahama (*narrows eyes* I think there’s some bullshit afoot...)

Watching: X-Files season 2 episode 20

Listening: Hunky Dory by David Bowie (I recently listened to the Hit Parade podcast “Starman to Black Star” episode on Bowie and had a mighty need for more; I will point out that the opening noise garbage on “Andy Warhol” sounds too much like medical device alerts and sets my teeth on edge right now)

Clock Mouse: still taking a break