Not a lot. But enough to have quite definite 'bouncy-brilliant-do-everything / stay-in-bed-and-mope' cycles. Then again I figure most artists are manic/depressive, at least a bit.

So long as the swing one way or the other isn't disastrous I think it's okay. I'll trade a weekend of mope if it means I get at least equal time bouncing around doing a thousand shiny things. And that's waaay better than being a lithium zombie. *shudders*

I have spent most of today working on a 17th C doublet, scribbling designs, trying to decide between art nouveau gargoyles and alchemical corvids, and attempting to snort my own wrist. (The only downside to BPAL. Although on the upside I now know what the ghost of a 1920s Flapper should smell like, and I know precisely how Preacher Morrow smells {possibly with added bourbon}. Mmm, so very very tasty, no wonder Cait liked him straight off.)

Am now quite shamelessly watching 'Tombstone' as I still love that film. (Casablanca? Gone With the Wind? Some Like it Hot? Cabaret? The Godfather? Avatar? Bollocks to the lot of them. For the utter hell the production went through, that film is beyond awesome.)

Lalala.

If tomorrow can continue being bouncy please, that would be shiny as a shiny thing. I have things and things and things to do...

My Jacket is in the post at last - eeee!

Ahem.

Sorry; excited and infinitely hopeful neurons.

*shrugs* Always nice to know one isn't actually hallucinating shadow demons, freakishly large spiders or a diminutive hand of Veknor.

This is a short note to say that neurons have finished their pity party (reluctant guest of honour; me) and are behaving themselves. Or at least behaving themselves as much as neurons ever do.

There's been chores, tidying and a bit of commission work. There hasn't been shopping for food so lunch was chocolate and rivita and a handful of uncooked ravioli. Don't really advocate it as a culinary masterpiece - not even sure Withnail or Marwood would back it.

I'm also dressed like a pirate. (Trying to tuck swathes of 18th C shirt into narrow high-waisted trousers is... interesting. No wonder they didn't wear underwear - there's no bloody room!)

Later I should be meeting up with Dave to discuss pirate stories and try to claim the pint the barman owes me for the tarot reading I did for him. (Memo to me: when unable to buy your round amongst a bunch of very nice people you don't really know, handing out merit badges and doing tarot readings apparently is an acceptable substitute.)

That's mostly it. Oh, apart from I re-watched 'Robin of Sherwood' the Brit '80s series. Aged 4 I thought it was utterly brilliant. Sad to say it hasn't lived up to my memories; although it didn't make me reel back in abject horror like re-watching 'Rentaghost' did.

Lalala.

Cold to her core, she held her breath, watching him catch his, and she waited in pain as he straightened cautiously and said the words she feared most.
“Darlin’, I can’’t live this way anymore.”
He wouldn’t look at her.
She knew what that meant.

I’m not very bright. I mean really; either that or actually all my neurons truly do hate me. *sigh*

I’ve spent most of the past three days listening to an audio book.
It was narrated superbly and at least 75% of it was done so in an upper-class deep South accent. Which I happen to be far too fond of. (No, not the hick-town-crazy-redneck slur; the aristocratic antebellum kind of precise drawl - of the type possessed by Shelby Foote for example.) Anyway. I knew the book didn’t have a happy ending, but listened ‘til the end anyway. Am now feeling... well, ‘bad’ is the simplest way of putting it.

*flails about searching for a neat explanation* I’m not trying to explain me for you, I’m trying to explain me in the hope it will get this stupidity out of my head.

It is a well known fact, Corvid does not interact that well with reality due to the fact the sky is all wrong, her wings don’t work and this corner of the universe isn’t presided over by Kee and Cher. On the other hand, her neurons are a bit floofy and so it is possible to distract them with meds and nice things...

Ergh - FFS - I’m a petty Madame Bovary - fekking miserable because I want things I can’t have. *Rolls eyes at herself in a bored manner as this is nothing new.*
Yes, I’m pretty sure I piss off my friends with my shit on a regular basis - this is just to let you know I piss me off a hell of a lot more. That doesn’t absolve me or anything, but at least you know you’re not suffering alone =P

( This is getting far to long... )

Email title: Grow the size that you never imagine
Neurons think: We could be a million miles tall! Or 5”9. Can we be 5”9 please?

Email title: Grow a big package today
Neurons think: Then we’d get our coat - all tied up in brown paper and string - yey! We need parcel seeds!

Email title: Give her more of yourself
Neurons think: Stop staying in the pub all night with your mates, go home, cook her something nice for supper?

Email title: Hear ladies scream in bed
Neurons think: By dropping frogs and scorpions on them. Or cold custard. Or bits of eviscerated zombie. Or...

Email title: Bang her hard and make her moan
Neurons think: Giving people bruises so they bitch about them is just blongey and mean.

Email title: Luxury Replicas
Neurons think: Ooh - can we have a nickel plated Colt lightning .38 please?

Email title: How to get her to suck
Neurons think: Constantly belittle her, don’t give her any education, support, healthcare or respect? Do we win - was that the right answer?

======

Neurons don't really get spam.

Back to Shamblyland tomorrow.

...Fuck me.

My father just read half of one of my novels and told me it was fundamentally flawed.

Neurons were afflicted with chronic sadlyfoxears and I felt stabbingly ill with disappointment.

My father then explained the flaw which turned out not to be a flaw at all but an issue I was very well aware of and one that's easy to fix. (I tried not to feel too relieved and instead wondered what the next piece of critique would be as that was obviously only a starting salvo...)

Then my father told me that it was extremely well written - and meant it.

From a very astute, experienced, widely read man who has made a living for 55+ years out of writing and who isn't a fan of historical fantasy and doesn't cut his offspring any slack in the merit department.... that's gloriously high praise.

Well, I think it is anyway.
Gleeeee!

Have just spent an awfully long time talking to a couple of Jehovah's witnesses. I have no idea what they were babbling about as the lady managed to contradict herself constantly. It was quite obvious she hadn't *actually* read the bible, just the regurgitated quotes. I'm not sure she'd even heard of Leviticus.

I think she wanted to know if I believed god would appear, smite the bad and turn the earth to paradise any time soon. I said no, not really, and personally if he did I wouldn't be overjoyed I'd be bloody terrified. Also unimpressed - I happen to think Jehovah is a bit of a cock and I wouldn't trust him to successfully organise a piss-up in a brewery.

They asked me if I believed in god. I said I believe in two gods who were quite small and absent minded and drank a lot of tea and wanted people to be meekle to each other.

They gave me the Watchtower and some other equally scary pamphlets full of wibble. The one called 'Listen to God and Live Forever' is amazing - seriously. Did you know that *before* he created anything else, God created a mighty spirit person called Jeff Jesus? Apparently the King James bible is missing a few verses...

Oh, and did you know that wicked spirit forces are the real rulers of the world? Rocking! I say we arm up with ghost nukes and psi-blades and go kick some evil-spirit-arse! Although we're not meant to worship idols or 'practice spiritism'. (Spiritism?!) Seems clear to me if we practiced spiritism we might get good at it and then be able to stab the evil spirit forces and make everything shiny. Let's go!

....

Wait - was that not what the Watchtower was trying to teach me?

writes story. finishes! edity edity.

uploades bunch of creative stuff to DA and such.

realises it's 2.20am. has fekk all idea how that happened.

gah.

*flop die*

My (illustrated) week. By Corvid.
==================================

I was here - http://www.westdean.org.uk/
(If you just want to see what I made just scroll to the last couple of pictures)

( And now, a cut-tag because lots of pictures ahoy... )

Saturday night I was asleep by midnight and awoke at least once every hour if not more throughout the night. Each time I awoke I remembered the dream I'd had, and then, loath to leave it at a low point I tried to dive back in to fix things. I returned to the same dream each time, picking up where I left off like it was a RP or LARP session. Looking back at it, I think it was a garbled history of Cinnamon in an alternate universe that was geared a little more to magic and necromancy than vampires or Clans.

( Seven hours of plot badly squished into a paragraph... )
========

Sunday night's dream was all about befriending a black and white cat near the Oast and then taking it back to shamblyland, followed by travelling on the Underground a lot with Spacedmonkey and said cat whilst trying to get somewhere or other. (Dunno where, a train station that lead Oastwards I think, only none of the stations connected properly.)

========

I go to my silversmithing course today.
I am conflicted.
In best Harry Biscuit style I have hope mixed with anguish mixed with empathy, making a new emotion called hanguipathy.

...I am not on speaking terms with my feathers.

Really. Silver-grey hair dye, and they do this?



How. The fuck. Do I have. Pink. And orange. Feathers?
In what world. Is that. Silver?

Answers on a postcard.

Her eye sockets are further in
Then they should be, wanting so to eat,
But she’s not allowed in..."

This week has been a bit of a waste. No - there were some lovely evenings of being social and playing swash-buckling games* - but I haven’t done anything constructive. I’ve spent a lot of time in bed being mopey. Which is bloody useless. Also spent quite a bit of time talking myself out of stabbing myself. Which is irritating as I’d rather hoped I’d got past that.

I think my problem is that I’m not writing at the moment.** After swearing at my brain and telling it to stop pissing about trying to write a Dickens novel in the guise of a short Sherlock Holmes story, my brain is now apparently sulking. And I can’t seem to write. Anything. Fuck. Nope, not even when sleep deprived or after drinking an amount of vodka (which are two of my questionable but reliable ways of kickstarting stories). Woe is me etc etc.

I have a lot of drawing I’m meant to have done. Haven’t done it. Or rather I have, but I need to do all the ultra-dull clean up stuff and am dragging my feet like a bad baggage draggy-feeted-thing.

I was feeling sorry enough for myself to deal a couple of hands of tarot. The first one told me very bluntly exactly what my situation was***; and the second one was... interesting.

Me: Fool
Path: Sun
Past: Vengeance
Future: Hermit
Present, Leading to: 4 Wands to Ace Pentacles
Core: 9 Knives
Environment: 9 Pentacles
Hopes/Fears: 9 Wands
Outcome: King of Pentacles

Which in vague translation runs thus: Follow your whims, it will bring you victory in the end. You've had to weather storms and in the future you may have to walk a lonely stretch of road. Right now your best path is taking all that crazy in your head and turning it any which way you can into pen-strokes of one sort or another as that's the way you'll get a paycheck. You know that just 'cos you're not depressed doesn't mean you're not crazy - which is just as well 'cos you're crazy as a bag of jellyfish dear girl. People you know (specifically your father and ClickSlide) need to trust their own instincts - it will see them right in the end. You've got a fight coming (heh - when do I not?) but it's one you can weather and likely win - so grab your sword and step up, bitch. And at the end? King of Pentacles - which has a secondary meaning for me than it would the average tarot reader.

I don’t think I’ve wanted a hand of tarot to be accurate as much as I desperately hope this one is. How many souls do I have to sell for this to be true?

What else? Today I tried out one of the silver toners I had bought for my feathers. Somehow - and really, I have no damn idea how - my feathers are now an indescribable colour which might be various things but certainly isn’t silver. Antique gold with a pink sheen? WTF? That’s really not what it advertised on the bottle. Sigh. My feathers and I are not currently on speaking terms as I feel they’re taking the piss. Yes, when they're dry tomorrow I'll take a picture and you can all snigger.


* = Kez and Antoine kicked the crap out of a demon and then killed it in a rematch. Kez went a bit mental after and did icky things to soldiers with shadows and then had a conversation with her dead brother. Oh, also, she’s pregnant, and now Antoine wants to wrap her in cotton wool. Which really isn't gonna work.

**= I mean the problem that’s kicking me off balance currently. Having the sanity of a rabid eel, being in love with a ghost, having no money and an uncertain vocation is less of a ‘current problem’ more like a ‘constant issue’ =P

***= There's a fair bit I could type about me and my situation, and indeed I started to do so under the title of 'LJ posts I should not post' before deciding that actually half the time i didn't want to know this shit, other people certainly didn't.

...is a not-really-scifi show by the guy who did 'Heroes'.

It's basically about lone Malkavians in Golconda trying to fix the world.

And for those of you who never played silly WoD games, it's about chance, connectivity, quantum, and what happens if a small autistic boy can read the code of the universe... Causing his father (a much put upon Kiefer Sutherland) to run around trying to solve all the numbers clues like it's a real-time equation set by Moriarty with gorey consequences.

If you can make the leap to buy in to it, it's rather meekle.

I'm currently on Ep3 and really liking the 'Invisible Prince' who so far is a lovely neuron =)

☆ On saturday I had supper with some of the Oast's neighbours. I chatted to the couple's son who thought I was at uni (mwahahaha - sweet silly boy!) and fed a small black lamb called Paul. Lambs are both amazingly dim and ridiculously cute.

☆ On sunday I returned to Shamblyand. anysbryd was a pack-wolf and helped me carry all my Oast-stuff back from the station.

☆ My room was full of parcels. (None of them were my CSA jacket - wah. However...) They included the 1920s silk shawl I bought as part of my outfit for Zoe's wedding - it's really really lovely. Also a small Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab box containing perfume for my neurons to addict themselves to. (They're already addicted to Le Lethe - it makes me want to snort my own wrist.)

☆ I was given Easter eggs by anysbryd. And an easter egg hunt by ksirafai - including an egg disguised as a posted letter, and a nest of eggs in a cauldron.

☆ Saw people at the pub and burbled and bounced about whilst doing my best to look like an 18th century ghost who'd mislayed the bottom half of her shift.


☆ Monday morning was doctor's appointment. I gave him a set on medal-badges and he thought they were the best thing since sliced bread and wrote down what they all meant. (Only small downside to this was he was so happy I didn't fancy telling him I'm still mad as a bag of spoons and ps could I have TB? Oh well.)

☆ Bleached my feathers again. Tidied my room. Found this:

which had my neurons giggling for ages.

☆ Then was told there was still a ninja bunny at large somewhere. 'If I was a ninja bunny, where would I be?' is one of the stranger questions I've asked my neurons of late.


☆ Blade came to visit and much nattering ensued along with tea and hot-cross-buns.

So - quite unusually for me my world has contained an inordinate amount of shiny and meekle over the past few days. No idea if it will last, but it's utterly lovely whilst it happens =)

"Go away."

Once upon a time she would have heeded him without question, would have cringed away from the growl of misery in his voice and left him alone. But that had been before she knew him. "Why?"

"Fool girl," he complained.

"You give me," she instructed, "one good reason to go, and I'll go." She didn't count his pissy moods or his illness reason enough - she'd made that clear long since.

He coughed. "Damn you." The words half choked him.

She gave him a bleak smile, tinged with amusement. I think you already have, she wanted to tell him, but he didn't look to be in the mood to withstand the dig. "Tell me what's wrong," she said instead.

His breathing was as ragged and exhausted as he. "Every instant... hurts."

She winced, pained on his behalf. "What can I do?" There had to be something, and if there wasn't she'd damn well kick the world until there was.

"Just promise..." his lips twitched into a weak approximation of his usual sardonic smile. "Promise I am who you love."

She leant over and kissed him. "Beyond life and death and reason," she vowed. "Idiot."

He did not wring his hands, as do
Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling Hope
In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun,
And drank the morning air.

My neurons have caught optimism from somewhere. (I know it sounds good, but it really isn't. I survive mostly by being a small burnt husk of cynicism.)
I dunno who what why or where but I wish they bloody hadn't. I'd rather catch a cold.
Why? Well... It means they're bouncy as anything about an unlikely project that would take a lot of time and effort but mostly (and I can't stress this enough) is unlikely. For me, optimism is like a candle flame to a moth. Sooooo pretty soooo want it sooo chase it - aaiieee aaiieee on fire and in a burny melty way, not a good sexy or inspirational way... fekk, dead now, sucks to be us.

No neurons, you don't have the time or the skill for this shit. And y'know? Even if you do - NO ONE FEKKING CARES AND YOU SURE AS HELL AREN'T GONNA GET A PAYCHEQUE...

Ergh... I hate equating 'people care' with 'people pay me' - it's not infallible logic and it makes me feel kinda slutty.

Blergh, reality I do not love you.

Oh god let's not listen to Peter Gabriel. Seriously. And no you cannot stab yourself. FFS. You're being good! (Also this is the Oast and there's clean sheets and pale carpet.)

Do please excuse me. My neurons and I are being whingy fliddy little bastards.

We were as men who through a fen
Of filthy darkness grope:
We did not dare to breathe a prayer,
Or to give our anguish scope:
Something was dead in each of us,
And what was dead was Hope.

"Sometimes I wish for falling
Wish for the release
Wish for falling through the air
To give me some relief
Because falling's not the problem
When I'm falling I'm in peace
It's only when I hit the ground
It causes all the grief.."

So, I'm still at the Oast.

Officially I've been doing bits of accounting and Steampunk art.
Actually there's been quite a bit of niece-watching, kitchen-wenching, and house-keeping.
Unofficially, whenever I haven't been paying attention, my neurons have been writing snippets of Victorian melodrama. (I'd run out of plot; I thought the writing would cease. Did it? Fekk no. Apparently neurons have more utter flange to discuss about society, family, sanity and Victorian values. I just really hope my neurons understand that the only person who finds this interesting is me...)

My brother has requested I design his wedding invites. I said sure. He added that his lady wants them out by the end of the month. (For a wedding in November. Ooookay.) Vintage, Autumn and Wood are the design themes. This is all cool and shiny, my only issue is he has more ideas about the how-to-find-the-venue map than for the design of the invite proper. *Sigh* See me spend days making up a hundred scrappy mock-ups with everything design-wise from 1860 to 1950. Wheeee.
*rolls eyes at herself and the world in general*

As if that wasn't enough, I've been reminded of 1880s Arizona. *profound wistfulness abound*
Dammnit - I DEMAND my CSA jacket NOW NOW NOW you bastards. (Also I require TB, laudanum, and most of all my ghost - but that's par for the course, nothing new here, move along. Sigh.)

Oh -HA!- and at the end of this month is my jewellery course. (Neurons throw a minor flid aaiiieee aaiiieee oh gods I agreed to it only because it was forever away but now it's the end of this month - which is brilliant - but, aaaiiieee argh argh panic.) Ahem.

Get a grip? Why yes, that would be a sterling idea, I do so look forward to it...

I should go to sleep. I've been up far too long, have eaten bugger all and have just had a large glass of wine. Time to put a dark blanket over my neurons and send them to bed I think...

The weather has turned chill, and it's raining.
My sister, her sprog, and her bloke have left - the Oast is quiet once more.

I've mostly run out of Victorian melodrama I can write. I have Steampunk stuff to finish.

I'm wearing the wrong clothes. This is perfect weather for ragged tops, full skirts, shawls and corsets. All of those things are in Shamblyland and not here. Bugger.

I really want TB. And laudanum. And my ghost. I'm also musing seeing how long I can last not eating and just notching a corset tighter the hungrier I get. (Just one of my slightly unhinged ideas at present.) I'm actually considering asking my doctor whether he's treated anyone with TB and if so if I might accidentally-on-purpose run into them. I fear my nice doctor will look mildly horrified and may make notes on my file. I wouldn't blame him, but I'd far rather he gave me petrie dish of TB.

*sigh*

Hello supposed sanity, how are you?

More to the point, how is everyone else?

And can you give me laudanum?
Or TB?

( Apparently writing bitchy letters to Morpheus works a treat... )

Lalala.

More dreams like that please!

This eve my father commented that if he came into lots of money he'd have me kidnapped and taken to East Grinstead Hospital where he'd instruct the surgeons to fix all my scars.

I laughed, because it was a foolish comment with a well-meaning thought at its core.

But it also made my neurons twitch a little and I spent a while after trying to work out *why* and if my reason/s were valid.

For example, I could say the situation reminds me acutely of the early Victorian attitude to hysterical women and since I probably was one in a previous life it would be like PTSD flashbacks... But that wouldn't really count as 'valid', would it? Equally, 'aaaiiieee aaaiieee I cannot cope with the male oppressors dictating what should be done to my body' isn't deserving for anything in this case beyond a soupcon of corvidic scorn. Why? Because my father isn't an insane git and I live in a country where if I say I don't want a cosmetic medical procedure my word top-trumps anyone else's. Hence, it's not an applicable flid to have here.

As far as I can fathom, the only flid that can really be argued is this: when my scars turn silver, they cease to bother me. They're not really aesthetically pleasing, but they're interesting and they tell a story. They are very much part of who I am, just as much as past houses, past lovers, past schools, past dreams or past anything else significant is. I think I view trying to erase them in much the same way as I'd view pretending to be someone else or trying to wipe a chunk of my memory.

I guess what I'm interested in, is...

- I have a lot of scars, this is very true. Do they, in your opinion, 'mar' my image - either physically or even socially/mentally? (Yeah, this is a kinda tip-of-the-iceburg question, this topic is vast and tangled {links in with beauty, perception, memory, experience, etc} so really anything you have to say on the subject I'd be interested to hear.

I get that from my father's point of view, my scars represent a lack - a thing I wasn't strong enough to overcome, a thing he could not provide for or defend me against. Unable to prevent or heal the wound, he'd like to vanish the scars since that's the nearest thing to 'fixing' he can accomplish. I understand that. I'm just not sure I appreciate it in this case.

Random/philosophical/anonymous/whatever comments very welcome, this is a thing I am currently mentally pokking with sticks so all other pokking is interesting to me.

Dear Morpheus,
What
The
Fuck?
I've had a very busy time in your kingdom these past two nights. I've been torn apart by hedge wolves, I've been drowned twice (that was pretty stressful), I've had shrapnel shards in my ribs and then had to run away from people a lot. I've watched someone be tortured by having bits of his lungs cut out whilst I've gone into shock from injury and blood-loss because my allies were too busy making someone scream to give me bandages. Finally when they did help me they cut open the top of my foot, put magic nanotec meds in the wound and stapled it up again. (Which, in case you were wondering, bloody hurt.) There was a Jacobean tragedy I was suddenly and unexpectedly in despite not having a script or knowing the play. There was improbable architecture, chases, threats, a screaming stand-off with guns that makes Reservoir Dogs look like a walk in the park and almost getting drowned (again).
Both mornings I've woken up at dawn feeling like I've just been given ECT. Not exactly restful. Can I have something a bit more fun tomorrow night? Or at least with less pain, screaming and dying?
Errgh.
Corvid
x

"I dreamed the world, with my eyes open.
But time moved on and then, new worlds begin again.
Oh my heart, in this universe so vast.
No moment was made to last, so light the fire in me..."

====

Everyone is born with two ways of seeing: with science and with wonder.
Science is correct. But wonder is right.

====

Please imagine the following text is a picture book for children, lushly illustrated, full of whimsy. This is the first bit; I hope to write more.

(If for no other reason than when I hear one niece being taught about 'Haram' and another about 1940s Christian values I want to throw a fit and start ranting about philosophy, fallacy, religion, and all the cool and fekked-up old gods people believed in at various times - just to try to point out... well to try to point out a lot of things, but I was gonna tell a story, not write an essay...)

Comment, critique or suggestion for the further adventures of small meekle godlings greatly appreciated. Also if you know anyone who has more time and talent than I so would like to illustrate this, do give them my email =P

( Beginningy Stuff... )

HARRY: You are a friend to me no more Pip Bin!
*walks out. Door slams*
PIP: Harry, that is the airing cupboard!
HARRY: I know! I meant to come in here! I'd rather talk to blankets than you! Hello Blankets, how are you?

Harry Biscuit is such a meekle neuron =)

This is half of the first episode - they can all be found on youtube and they just get better and better...

I've just watched a BBC 2006 version of Dracula. Why? Well, Victorian melodrama, swooning and sexual tension - Dracula has it all... Only, this one doesn't. This is a fekking terrible adaptation, terrible to the point that I would write a rant on the subject but that would involve me watching it again to give a scene by scene WTF neuronic rant and I'm not strong enough to sit through that again... On the other hand, it did contain my new most favourite phrase - 'parlor games for the disaffected'. (Oh come on, that's glorious. I now want to apply it scornfully to everything from self harm to grocery shopping to going to parties.)

On an entirely unrelated note, but somehow it connected in my brain, I'm finding it weird and fascinating what people take note of, link to or comment on. I'm especially amused and confused by the nice people on DA who write comments to my photoshoots as if all my dressing up is really properly truly other people. Also the game of 'what image gets the most hits?' closely followed by, 'why?'.

Yeah, well, it's late. I'm trying to amuse my brain with trivialities in the hope I won't pick up something sharp and shiny.

Lalala.