Walking backwards, looking ahead.

Well, hello, you Sweaty Horde of Screaming Fainting Groupies, throwing your panties at me like Tom Jones fans. All two of you. Hello, hello. Have a seat. Here, have some tea. Oh - oh...here are your panties back. I have my own, thank you.

First things first. I am very sad and offer a profound salute to my favorite blogger Cat of all time, the beloved Estorbo, who passed away on November 16th last. This rooftop garden cat made me laugh and cry. The news of his passing sent shivers up and down my spine and rendered me speechless. Although I never met Don Estorbo, I felt he was part of my life, because one of my blogger friends, my precious B, is his aunt-in-law. I weep wih her and Estorbo's loving Wooman and Smoothman as we say goodbye to the gorgeousest, magnificientest, larger-than life plus attachant des Blag Cad. Tu nous manques, Storbito. Dayeeen, dayoud. I wish I had a more fitting tribute. Eep. Eeeeeep.

Click here or on Estorbo in the menu on the left, under 'Mademoiselle follows', to get a glimpse into this matou majestueux's world, translated by Marie, the Wooman.

So - I'm not going to explain my absence from this creative writing venture which is my blog. A dear friend told me to come back, so here I am. Turns out I needed this, and my friend did not even know it. I will not call this divine intervention, as God and I have had our differences in the past (believe it or not, we once were buddies, looooong ago) and I don't agree with His divine design. But that's okay, we're still sorta buddies and leave each other alone. Although we speak through mediators occasionally. Anyhoo.

Actually, I've changed my mind about the explanation. I won't bore you with the whole shebang - here's the abstract (you can skip this paragraph altogether if you so desire - it's boring shit anyway...oh - and you can skip paragraph six as well, while we're at it).

So. I was let go in the Spring, left to fall flat on my back from a metaphorical fifty-story building, still gazing lovingly into the bottomless-pool-eyes of the man who doesn't love me anymore as I plummeted to the ground smiling. And I am still reeling, months later, from the shock. I feel broken. I probably am not. The silver lining in all this: I've seen in the far distance, beyond the mountains and the canyons. There seem to be tiny flashes of some kind of light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, but I am still searching my pockets for the map and my flashlight. I'll get there eventually. But for now, these are dark times. There. All is said. Now - on to other things.

It's Saturday. I am sitting uncomfortably at the kitchen table, the laptop is too high and my chairs are hard and offer no support whatsoever. Let me get the ergonomic chair. Hang on. Ah - much better. 

Olive (my seven-month old puppy, seen below) is circling around the apartment, looking to destroy things and generally being unpleasant because I am not completely paying attention to her. She's a baby, she requires attention and caring and constant supervision and care. I am not an adequate parent/master/pack leader for this adorable, demanding, cuddly demon-child. I am a cat person. But that's another ball o'wax altogether... 

I am your greedy demon-child. Care for me. I am the cutest ever. Look.

Christmas music is playing, and I'm even having the customary Saturday afternoon glass of wine, to get the creative juices flowing. My universe-renowned cretons are cooking on the stove top, it smells really, really yummy in here. I've pulled out the paint chest from one of the seven dwarf-doors in my tiny apartment. Quick note: these doors baffle and amaze me. These doors, which are about four feet high, open to reveal 'compartments' that line the walls, like hidden passageways. If you are four feet tall or smaller and less than two feet wide, you can actually walk from one corner of the kitchen to another between the walls unharmed. Pretty nifty storage. There are three dwarf-doors in the kitchen, one in the bedroom, two in the living room and one in the bathroom. I've been playing with the idea of making door signs and postboxes for each of them. But anyway. I'm trying to keep a grip, here. 

I bought supplies at Michaels two weeks ago, to make Squibbit plant companions. Here's the 1-inch version, made a few years back:

Now - this one, he's sideways, so you can't really see him. But basically, they are my creation, although full credit for the name is due with much reverence to K, my artisty, loopy lovey friend who lives waaaaay to far in Toronto. I miss her.

Squibbits, you should know, live in nature, generally. At least that's what I sense. Don't worry - I'm not off my rocker, they don't actually talk to me and I don't see them hopping around the house with their skinny limbs of wire and pearl-tipped antennae. I've still got a grip on reality. Sort of ;) These little guys have been with me ever since, about ten years back, they suddenly appeared out of the tip of my markers as K and I were doodling one evening. 

I didn't quite know what was happening - they were hanging off a clothesline, upside-down in some cases, and they were just staring back at me, completely innocent, harmless, and somehow, somehow...deeply connected to my very core. They are part of my life, I draw them everywhere, and they are copyright, because I am afraid someone will steal them. Just putting a picture up here makes me all tingly and stressed out. At least I've got the legal disclaimer at the left of this window. Look - seriously, whoever you are - they are our Squibbits, mine and K's, and they are protected by law. Back off with your filthy black stealing hands, you stealer thief burglar.

This one, above, sideways, is a bit dusty. He lives in one of the plants at my sister's, two and a half hours away. His big brother, to be adopted at Christmas this year, is two inches across. Bigger. Since I'm kinda broke, I've decided to make gifts instead of buying them. So everyone in the family will be getting Squibbit plant companions this year. I'll even make one for myself.

I'll be taking pictures of the progress in making the Squibbits. I'll post them later.

A quick hello and big hug to my life-long friend who made me come back here. You know who you are, you Home Depot card, Swedish-talking, Shakespeare-quoting being. Thank you, this feels good. And thank you for bearing with me through my on-again, off-again blogging. Would you like a Squibbit for your plants?

A Different View From Down Here.

I am crouching under the leaves of a lush, bright-green fern, somewhere in the middle of a forest, east of here. My fingers are firmly planted in the moss and the soil beneath me. I can smell the sickly-sweet decaying leaves, the fresh scent of green living things around, the rain coming in a few minutes. She also senses all these things, albeit very differently. She scoots over closer, leans her rounded shape into the curve of my back. I've removed the saddle for now, it's starting to chap her sides, and I have not yet found enough leather to make another one. I think I'll have to ride bareback for a few weeks, until we return to the scrapyard. We've been tending things in this neck of the woods for a few days now - I can't wait to get back home. We're hunched low - someone has heard us, and we do not wish to be seen. We were stuck in the crevice under the bark of the white birch in the middle of the wheat field for hours - someone is stalking us. And we are usually the stalkers.

The wood piles are high and airing out, the barrels are in place, and we should reap most of the silk we need before the frost hits. Fall is always this busy. We must make rounds, make sure everyone's tucked in and has everything they need. Our allies have grown loyal over the years, and even though they sometimes grunt and protest for show, they are steadfast. When we gather around the flicker of the autumn flames, spirits are high and we share smiles, knowing that our mission is accomplished.

I can't wait to get back home. When I do, I'll have to go through the usual pains, turning back, towering over her, and treading lightly. She will return to the palace I have built for her beneath the floorboards, with her brethren, and I will go back to the oven, the yarn, the soapy water and the warmth of my husband's arms.

I am the tiny Queen of this Land. She is my Ant.

Important note: I have borrowed these pictures from various corners of the web, and have not properly credited their owners. I will fix this. In the meantime, thank you for your images, they are amazing and beautiful.

Glintlock. Or not.

It is the Dawn of Time. For this presentation, Little Person Living Inside My Head will play the role of Glintlock, the Huge Fairy Living Under A Rock. (Please, Loverlies, bear with me. It's a long bus ride.)

So it is the Dawn of Time, and flaming cauldrons of hot lava are bubbling and gurgling, the toxic air is noxious as it it's expected to be, and the unicellular being (which, happily and lazily, although occasionally with some measure of enthusiasm, has been floating in the pond among other similar beings) is beginning to sprout a little tail. But you can't see it, or its new little tail, because they are super, super small. We're talking microscope small, I swear, it's like trying to see a....argh. Hang on. Someone needs the spotlight again.

Me: Okay, Little Person Living Inside My Head, what now?
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Hi!
Me: Hi. What do you want? I'm telling a story, here.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Sooooo....how are things, buddy?
Me: "Buddy"? Geez, I created you! What recognition!
Little Person Living Inside My Head: What, like you wouldn't call God your "buddy"?
Me: WHAT?
Little Person Living Inside My Head: You know God, don't you?
Me: Um, I know about God. Sure.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Have you spoken to him lately?
Me: Him? No. You?
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Yeah, actually I follow him on Twitter. I totally retweet his tweets. Like, all the time.
Me: Okay. First of all, you sound like a teenager. Second, quit using my iPhone to spy on me and my Twitter activity when I'm not looking. It pisses me off. And third, you are not following the actual God's Twitter feed, you are following some guy who pretends to be God. And he's funny.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Ah! So you admit God exists! You said "the actual God"!
Me: *sigh* ...
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Why are you sighing?
Me: Because you're freaking obnoxious.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: You love my being obnoxious: quit whining! It enables you to write senseless, pointless, absurd dialogues between you and me and kills time while you're on the bus. And you believe in God!
Me: I do not. I don't see why this is any of your business.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Hee hee. I live inside your head: everything about you is my business!

So the tiny, unicellular being we were spying on earlier in this post was merrily zooming in a circle around its cozy pond, humming a light tune and switching directions once in a while, so as to not wear out its tiny hairs/arms/means of propulsion and their tiny follicles.

Little Person Living Inside My Head: Snooze.
Me: Shut up, worm.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Rude!
Me: Obnoxious.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Rich vocabulary!
Me: Shut up.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: ...and plethora of insults! No! Nooooo! I am slain by thy whipping words, oh mighty, mighty creator! Aaaaargh! Pain! Shooting pain through my heart and soul!
Me: Okay. Put your costume on. It's time for the play.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: What play?
Me: The Glintlock thing.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Oh! No. No, I'm not doing that anymore.
Me: What? But we've been rehearsing for weeks! You've made me listen to you in my sleep! You have been waking me up in the middle of the night - while I was on vacation! - to show me your costume and to relieve you of stage fright! You are not doing this to me.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Yeah, no. My agent was supposed to call you about that.
Me: You don't have an agent.
Little Person Living Inside My Head:: Yeah I do!
Me: Oh really? Who is it?
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Glintlock.
Me: No. Glintlock is the character you're supposed to portray in the play.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Well, he lives inside my head now.
Me: Great. Now the tenant in my head has a tenant in its head.

On Wondering Why.

I have been around the block too many times, at 35, to expect anything. I should know by now that when you have expectations, they are usually shattered. Not to be pessimistic, or anything.

But this time, I am hoping things will be different. I am trying to be free, to be happy, and to accept that not everybody is at the exact same spot in ‘Being’ as I am. It still hurts, though, when the person you thought was rocking your world is apparently not doing that intently or with purpose at all. What they are doing, though, is carelessly wafting through life. They have chosen (by their own admittance) to not make choices in life. They have chosen not to commit. You like their bohemian lifestyle, their carelessness. You like that they get up to go get chocolatines on Saturday morning, that they make chocolate coffee for you when you are still in bed and that their restaurant-owning neighbours have soup delivered to your door for lunch.

 

Your choice (and between the lines, mine, oh My Loverly Loverlings): to play along or to be stuck once again expecting something you feel you won’t be getting soon?  Argh. To be 20 again, and to not care about these things.

Benefits of Having Too Much Time on Your Hands When You live Alone with Two Cats and an Obnoxious Cyclops Pink Dog Doll.

Greetings, you bunch of Cutesy-Pies,

You must concur - that was the longest blog post title ever. Love it, right? Me too. It is way past my bed time, and I cannot sleep, so I figured “what the heck – I’ll show them what I am thinking of working on tomorrow because I need a project and I’ve been putting this off for way too long”. Intrigued? Good. So am I (glad we agree on so many things, things are looking good between you and I. Maybe we should take this to the next level). Let’s see where this takes us.

Months ago, on a bright, sunny, awesome day on the south shore with my Most Loverly V, I ordered (well – she ordered) some fabric off eBay. A quick look, shall we?

Yum, right?  I think so, anyway. So I was ready to commit to a long project, go figure, and I decided quilting would be it. I actually thought of hand-quilting, but then I remembered only my sister has this kind of patience and goddammit, I have a sewing machine, so for my first quilting project, it would have to suffice. So here I am, almost a year later, and these one hundred and twenty-six squares of fabric have been sitting all alone in one of my craft drawers, silently moping and hoping one day, I would fondle them and assemble them into one crazy, awesome united entity, My First Quilt. Since I live in quite the confined quarters, my craft drawers are in my room, and I swear I could hear them scream at me at night. They would bellow at me from the fourth drawer, and although muffled, their yelps sounded awful. The drawers they live in are see-through, too. So in visual terms, it looked like this (can’t you just see them scream?):

 Then this guy (who lives on my bed between two striped cushions during the daytime, but totally gets his ass hauled to a pile in the corner of the room during the night, because he would just bite my ears off, I swear) started sniggering and generally projecting an unpleasant vibe:

So that was it. Tonight, I got home after a yummy Mexican dinner out and decided it was time I kicked myself in the ass and did something about the nocturnal fabric screams (wow – that would sound so wrong in another context). So out of the plastic drawers the yummy fabric squares came.

Tomorrow, I will :

1. Wake up too early as per usual on Saturday mornings;
2. Remember it is Saturday;
3. Yawn, smile, yawn again for good measure;
4. Fall back asleep;
5. Wake up again about five minutes later;
6. Get up, make coffee and have breakfast but keep my jammies on instead of getting ready for work;
7. Maybe go for a shower, maybe not;
8. Set up some sweet tunes;
9. Open the windows and curtains even if it’s going to rain;
10. ...and whip out the ironing board, the straight pins and my sewing machine, and I am totally officially starting My First Quilt.

I am scared. But I promise I will post progress pictures. I am accountable now, as I have committed to you, my Rainy Day Ghouls. You Lucky Bastards. ;)

Ipso Facto.

Little Person Living Inside My Head: Hi. I thought I’d barge in here, because I’ve got all the passwords and stuff, being the Little Person Living Inside Mademoiselle’s Head and all, and let you know how things have been lately. You need to know. I’ve been relegated to the role of, um, Bookkeeper or Something, and so that makes me the only entity, aside from Mademoiselle herself, able to tell you what has been going on inside her head lately. So bear with me: I make things interesting. First, you need to know I have been fine, thank you. I value your friendship for asking. I always knew you came here for news about me, not Mademoiselle’s constant rambling.

And now, on to the other things. So, you should be warned, this is not a pretty or a funny story, and Mademoiselle has had it rough. She spent more than one evening getting used to being alone, and the evenings where she was not alone, she was wondering how come she wasn’t able to be alone. She would curl up into a little ball and – 

Mademoiselle: Uh - what the hell are you doing?

Little Person Living Inside My Head: Um. Talking about stuff.

Mademoiselle: What stuff? My stuff?

Little Person Living Inside My Head: Yeah.

Mademoiselle: How dare you?

Little Person Living Inside My Head: I’m entitled. I am standing on the inside, here, and I see that all these nice people are waiting to get the real deal. You have to let me do this. I am your best voice. Trust me. Look – I am not wearing a loincloth, today. I am wearing a toga. A soft, silk blend toga.

Mademoiselle: Which makes you completely trustworthy.

Little Person Living Inside My Head: Yes.

Mademoiselle: No.

Little Person Living Inside My Head: I think this argument is pointless, and that now, your Faithful Throng of Readers will think you are crazy. Voilà. 

Mademoiselle: I do not wish to share this part of my life right now, thank you. My readers (all three of them) will understand. You are no marketing major, so buzz off.

Little Person Living Inside My Head: Fine. I will let you do this in your own time.

Mademoiselle: Thank you.