twistedchick | Recent Entries

Sweetiecat is starting to do better. Her tail isn't dragging, she lifts her head to look at me and she's purring a little. Last night she jumped up on the bed next to Steve, which she hasn't done in a while. She is eating and visiting the litter box, and moving around.

Zoomy is a bit of a sad sack, because he feels left out; Sweetie is getting all the attention, he thinks. I have the door open, and he could come in at any time and curl up next to me, but he is not doing it; he's fussing about Sweetie. She's his big tolerant sister who puts up with him jumping on her until she does a judo move and stand over him and lets him know that's enough. He is a dear loving boy, and getting bigger every day, or longer.

And I have decided, after much upset and a cost-benefit calculation, not to go to Sacred Space, the big interreligious pagan conference that is less than 15 miles from me this time. ( more behind cut )

A little sarcasm and a lot of truth, connecting one thing and another of everything around us right now politically -- and the end of it is FOTUS' ego.

Apparently, after I stopped watching 'Primeval' because they'd killed off or lost all the original players, they brought it back for two more seasons, in the process finding two characters lost in the Cretacious Era. So now I'm watching entirely new-to-me episodes, and thinking how much more AU my AU series of stories is now with all this additional context.

Sweetie is home from the vet, with medicine to rub on her ear (for absorption) and pills (good luck to us on that) and a shot from the vet to help things move through her better. They took blood tests also but we'll find out about them Monday.

She is sniffing at food, and walking around outside of her hiding place, so I think she's feeling a little better. Steve said she purred for them, which is very good.

I have been on Discord for years. However, if I am asked to submit to facial recognition in order to use it, I am bailing. I wish to retain what shreds of privacy I am still allowed in this society, and I don't want to be stuck into yet another database that will (of course) be made available to whoever wants in.

Sweetie has a vet appointment tomorrow. I think she's constipated; she is peeing (including on the back room rug, which I sprayed peroxide on after mopping it up), but not passing anything. She is not eating, though I think from the pee volume she is drinking water. And she is still mainly hiding behind stuff under the ancient (possibly post-colonial era fourth-hand) desk with the enormous 92-year-old sort-of-easy-chair that is hard to move). Since she is able to get up and walk well enough, I will slide down the front of the chair under the desk tomorrow and try to move her, which will make her get up and walk out, where Steve can grab her.

My throat is okay now. Maybe something is going around? A one-day sore throat that vanishes?

Sweetie, our 14-lb Kliban cat (dark gray and black tabby) hasn't been feeling well. She was upchucking yesterday, not furballs, and I think she may be allergic to the food. But this morning we couldn't find her at all -- looked downstairs and main floor -- until the SU located her in the most inaccessible place in the house: on the old shag rug under the desk in the library/not so spare room. There, she's under a large desk and blocked in by a large chair and neither of us are up to digging her out. She is reasonably alert, so we're waiting for her to emerge at some point. I've put out water for her, and food that I know she can eat (non fish). And now we wait.

Meanwhile, there's a gland at the top of my throat that is trying to decide if it's swollen or not.

Start with the possibility of the stupid SAVE Act being passed by the Senate, requiring anyone who ever changed their name away from their birth name to bring stacks of ID, then add to that the possibility of ICE at the polls. Can you spell 'disaster for American election'?

This is a poem, but it was posted as an image, so please click to read it..

ETA: Since the original link didn't work, I am linking to my FB page.

This is a prayer for Imbolc.

This is a prayer for when roads flood.

This is a prayer for the lingering dark.

This is a prayer for resistance.

We spark the fires to beg the light to return, but we never really know if it will work. The road may flood; this could be the year it all falls apart. The February rains may be too much. We fire up the forge to bend hard metal to our will, but we never really know if it will work. The road may flood; this could be the year that it all falls apart. The February rains may be too much. We write the poem to express what’s inside, but we never really know if it will work. The road may flood; this could be the year it all falls apart. The February rains may be too much.

Imbolc is a chance we take, a chance we take in the dark.

This is a prayer for when things fall apart. This is a prayer for when roads flood. This is a prayer for Imbolc. This is a prayer for the lingering dark and this is a prayer for resistance.

Brigid, the Goddess of poetry, invented keening for those times when no words were enough. Shall we now keen? Brigid, the Goddess of smith craft, invented forges for those times when small flames were not enough. What shall we now forge? Brigid, the Goddess of healing, invented beer for those times when water couldn’t cure the deep thirst. What shall we now toast? Brigid stands in the February rain, a warm flame in her hand, watching the roads flood. She will neither look away from the flood nor extinguish the flame.

Imbolc is a chance we take, a chance we take in the dark.

This is a prayer for when things fall apart. This is a prayer for when roads flood. This is a prayer for Imbolc. This is a prayer for the lingering dark and this is a prayer for resistance.

The shepherd goes out despite the rain. The shepherd is the resistance. Without the shepherd, the ewe will miscarry, die in the mud, bleed to death, deliver the lambkin still. The shepherd sees the rain, throws on her cloak, and cuts through the meadow. But she never really knows for sure if it will work. The road may flood; this could be the year that it all falls apart. The February rains may be too much. But she still wades towards the ewe. Brigid sees and holds her flame.

Imbolc is a chance we take, a chance we take in the dark.

This is a prayer for when things fall apart. This is a prayer for when roads flood. This is a prayer for Imbolc. This is a prayer for the lingering dark and this is a prayer for resistance.

It’s Imbolc! It’s pouring rain in the lingering dark. The roads have washed away. The ewes are miscarrying, the forge fires going out. The poets are throwing down their pens, the yeast has failed the hops. Who are you in these times? What’s Imbolc to you or you to Her? Resistance thrives in the lingering dark and flash floods bring forth new paths. Put on your cloak and wade through the mud. The Goddess Brigid is holding her flame. The Goddess watches and weighs.

Imbolc is a chance we take, a chance we take in the dark.

This is a prayer for when things fall apart. This is a prayer for when roads flood. This is a prayer for Imbolc. This is a prayer for the lingering dark and this is a prayer for resistance.

-- by Hecate Demeter.

It's cold outside. For here, it's an emergency at 0 or -5F. But I remember a weekend in the mountains when it went to -50F...

We got 6-8 inches of snow, and a lot of cold, but we're still here. Power works, gas works, water works. I'm going out now to try to take down the plowed wall next to the cars. It only took 2 days to see a snowplow -- but the area is still closed down through tomorrow, so not surprising.

Not looking forward to more from next weekend.

ETA: Both cars have 2.5 feet of ice and snow along the side next to the lane. I couldn't budge it.
If the SU can't either, we may have to phone the incel across the street to dig it out for an exorbitant fee. If we didn't have the possibility of another storm, with wetter snow, this coming weekend I'd let it sit, but I will still have that doctor's appointment next week.

grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

I think FOTUS is trying to get Greenland in order to impress his dead father. Where's a shrink when the country needs one?

I mentioned the other day that my cousin Don had been diagnosed with rapid onset dementia, after a fall in a bathroom and a trip to the hospital.

He died two days ago, in the hospital, with his daughters there. His son was at home, dealing with the aftereffects of a small kitchen fire (apparently some wiring fizzed and went up; they lost one cabinet but other things need repair and also the insurance man.)

I remember Don all the way back to when I was small. He and his older brother, Walt, rode their Indian motorcycles down from Ottawa to Rochester to visit my mom and meet me when I was maybe 2 years old. I remember them from then as being very tall and kind; as I grew up they continued to each be very tall and kind. In the summers as I was growing up Mom and I stayed at Don's place or Walter's place or their older sister Joan's farm for a week or two every year, so Mom could visit her wider family of sisters and nieces and nephews and grand-nieces and grand-nephews, and so I could get to know everyone.

Some of it blurs a bit -- how many back yard picnics? -- but I remember Don and his wife, Jean, taking me up to a cottage they had in Quebec once so we could go canoeing on the lake there, listen to loons calling and just glide over the beautiful clear water. I remember putting my hand in the water in a certain way and a fish just coming to rest inside it for a moment as if it were seaweed. I didn't grab on and catch it, but I could have. Later on, the two of them canoed up the St. Lawrence River for a good distance; it took them a month or more. I asked Jean what it was like, and she made a face and said it was "like walking uphill on your hands". But she did enjoy it.

All the memories are good. I do wish I could have seen him again, but I have him in my mind firmly and that will stay. And 91 years is a good run. He got to see his children married, and play with his grandchildren, and even (I think) one or two great-grandchildren. He loved listening to Irish music, any time it was available.

Hail the Traveler, Donald Hugh McKenna!