labelleizzy: (Default)
Q: What prevents me from getting started?
Q: What are the obstacles and impediments?
Q: What are my goals?


I'm keeping myself accountable for this writing by way of a facebook post where I asked friends to say: write the thing! and give me a number between 1 and 9, labeling each writing prompt with a number in my ADHD journal.

Actually the goals part is the most difficult, so it's appropriate to use it for last.
shall I write about writing? or about this therapeutic process to address the impact of adhd in my life, now that I know something about that being a THING for me?

I think I'd prefer to write about the therapy process and unpack some ideas or thoughts or just basically ... well, hopefully do better than just word-vomit but I shan't make any promises tonight. I have 10 prompts I've culled from the group on monday and therapy with Lara yesterday.

Q1) What prevents me from getting started?
--- Interest. Now that nobody's making me do shit, now I'm not accountable to a boss, a schedule, a clientele (well not precisely) I mainly spend my days doing what I want with a few commitments per week, mostly self inflicted. There's stuff that I know I COULD be doing, even SHOULD be doing,
...and I don't. I don't do them.

I used to judge myself on that, but I don't. I used to tear myself up about that, but I don't. Thank god, I used to literally be my own worst enemy that way.

---Accountability. For reasons that I hope to be able to dig into later, accountability is huge in my motivational force. If I promise to someone I will do something, I will do it solely BECAUSE I SAID I WOULD and that seems to be sufficient. If someone asks me to do something, and it's pretty direct, like Jeff asks will I pull out that part of the garden full of aphids, and I say I will, that seems to be sufficient.

However. If I don't have some kind of outside accountability, I don't do things on any kind of coherent timeline. Which is maybe not always important, but like, it feels like it would be good to shower three times a week, but I can't always hit that. And sometimes that's the depression, but also that I don't get enough human f2f feedback to notice and then to feel embarrassed when I stink.

I've actually planned to chain the showering habit to the working out habit... but haven't been successful. I don't at the moment know how to force that.

Maybe I could find a depression/neurodivergent partner, who also has a not-daily habit they want to build, and we could encourage each other.

It seems that I am better about keeping other people on track than I am at keeping myself on track.
also I am better about staying on track if I have someone else helping me stay accountable.

The last writing prompt out of ten, is, why is it more effective to have Lara or anyone else, tell me what to do, than it is for ME to tell me what to do, in this accomplishing tasks.

1) The oldest part of my brain says because what I want doesn't matter. Because you're always supposed to put other people first, because you can't figure stuff out on your own. (interesting that I chose to use second-person there...hmmm) There's a LOT of old messages there, traceries of a former self. What my friend Chelsea recently called... something like spent seed pods, or carapaces, or used envelopes.

what I want DOES MATTER. I don't ALWAYS have to put other people first, I am ALLOWED to be first on my own priority list godsdammit! and I definitely CAN FIGURE STUFF OUT ON MY OWN but I do have old learned helplessness and my constant fight against distraction to get the stuff figured out, and then the steps sorted out, and then get the shit DONE.

2) when I was teaching about study skills (bear with me a moment, it will become relevant) I had the kids take a test which would help them figure out what their learning style was like. Howard Gardner had a theory of Multiple Intelligences, for which there are Varied tests, now available on the internet. (gosh that would have been much more easy and fun to do on the internet! but it was nearly fifteen years ago that I started that unit, & in an inner city school with limited computer resources.)

I suspect that I have a deep need for interpersonal learning. I'm only sometimes good at teaching myself new skills; I hunger for someone to see me and teach me. I love dance class and working with my trainer for that... but having a teacher teach me and walk me through the material, help me build skills? so much more satisfying than YouTubing my way through something new. (I bet Jeff has a strong intrapersonal learning drive. It would make so much sense.)

What are my goals?
  • I want to feel productive, truly productive, every day.
  • I want to help other people every day. (I can be the person helped, it's allowed. *smile*)
  • I want to feel like my mind and my time are under my guidance and control.


That last item is going to require a new skills base, or a return to old skills (Flylady or Franklin-Covey 7 Habits territory), probably some new skills base. My needs are different now than when I first learned those, ages and ages ago. My mind is different.

Okay. that's enough for the first two prompts.

Thanks for listening, hopefully this isn't too much of a plate of scrambled spaghetti noodles for anyone but me to find benefit in.
labelleizzy: (write first edit later)
gods help me, I'm signing up for the new mini-season of LJ idol, [livejournal.com profile] therealljidol.

*\o/*

go me!
labelleizzy: (inherent worth and dignity)
I havent written here in weeks. it was Burning Man prep, then i was gone for Burning Man, now this week has been Burning Man recovery. big fuckin deal, I guess, and yeah, it kinda was.

Met a ton of good people,






discovered I'd conquered last year's terrors, was productive and helpful, did my volunteer shifts, and so many bonuses.

During my shift at the Temple, I met the temple's designer. That was super cool, and he gave me a token to remember the Temple, it's truly lovely.
So was the Temple, though I had a rough time connecting with it at first.
(Temple Photos go here)






Tried to mostly take photos of people, missed a number of important people, though. Didn't photo too much of art cars or even the Man, my memories are quite vivid... there was a carnival theme this year, and there was a maze set up around the Man, with a small shrine in the middle. That much was very different from last year.

This year was full of dust and sandstorms, whiteouts where you can't see in front of you past the length of your arm.
(we hid from one whiteout in the Ali Bar Bar tent.)
I trusted my goggles and my dust mask, I knew what to do, and I survived just fine. It was cold as fuck at least three nights out there, and we hadn't brought enough bedding, but our friends lent us their extra blankets and we got by fine. We ate delicious food thanks to Jeff, and our tent was very comfortable. (also thanks to Jeff.)

Discovered what it's like to have my own things I want to do on Playa, and Jeff and I intentionally separated more than once to go have explorations and adventures.

I have this strange conviction that it didn't matter what I looked like, how I was dressed, how fat I am, how old I was compared to the Young And Cute. People were warm and welcoming and lovely, pretty much across the board. Kind words and gestures that are still soaking into me days later.

Last night was a "Dust-off" party thanks to someone in the extended Burner community. Met a few more new people, had some good conversation, watched some friends dance with fire and glow-poi and hoops, and I think I needed that.


To remember that was real, that community, that affection, that honesty and commitment to being better in the world.

The commitment to burn brighter.

I have more writing to do, I've been inhaling stories like a vacuum cleaner, it's time to start putting my own words out there again. It's easier to write when I'm alone in the house. Jeff and Our Jenn are out at the Farmers Market. I'm going now to get my coffee and finish something I started yesterday, and I hope to write more later today.
labelleizzy: (bunny writer)
Oh god, we were SO FUCKING STUPID.
So naive.

those long discussions around the campfire or around the HDTV, cold beers in our hands, hot nachos in the fucking microwave, laughing and joking about the fucking "zombie apocalypse". How we would have this job or that job, how we would hole up in a Costco store, because it would have everything we'd need to survive and even enjoy life after the world ended. The skills we already had or could learn quickly in order to be valuable enough to win our way into someone else's fortified stronghold.

We had NO IDEA. We had NO IDEA what we really needed, what we really knew how to do, how fucking SOFT we were.
How much EVERYTHING would hurt. How much WORK just bloody EVERYTHING would take, how much thinking and planning and acquiring.

How much FEAR. Terror. Absolutely shit-your-pants terror.

We used to say, "I'd get a really good knife, and really good boots, and this kind of backpack and that kind of rifle" without really understanding.
What happens when your knife gets dull? Well, you sharpen it. How do you sharpen it? Do you KNOW how? do you have the right tools? can you recognize something else you could improvise as a blade sharpener, if you run across it? and can you use that blade, even dull, to do what you must to survive another day? It's hard work, gutting a carcass, butchering an animal for meat...

Same goes, obviously, for the REST of all our dumb-shit assumptions about how privileged and lucky and SKILLED we were.

What happens if someone TAKES your tools from you? Those books you treasured, that were the reason why you thought you'd gain admission into someone's guarded bolthole? The boots, the knife, even your CLOTHES. What happens if you're not strong enough to protect them? To hold onto them?

Knowing how to brew beer isn't very valuable when there's not enough fucking FOOD. Nobody really cares about booze when they're starving. Knowing how to bake bread is useless, so are gardening skills, if you can't settle down anywhere longer than a week or two for fear of the scavengers. Wildcrafting is a blessing, and I'm glad every day for what I learned from my beloved Girl Scout Leader, of all things. What she taught me when I was fourteen makes the difference now between hungry and starved to death.

I'm always hungry now, I'm always worried about getting hurt bad enough so I can't run anymore. I haven't had any of my meds in over two years, I've got half a tube of neosporin left and fuck-all chance of scoring any more. I'm getting slower, I hurt more often, I'm lonely as fuck. I'll never stop grieving my husband and my home and the comforts I once took for granted, but I just don't have any fucking TIME to FEEL. Every moment has to be spent in working out how am I going to survive this day, food, water, shelter, taking care of myself, whether I can trust anyone at all. Despair would dog my footsteps if Despair could keep up with me. I move fast for an old broad. Fuck that, I move fast period.

What the fuck am I even doing? Who am I even writing this for? I have no idea who's going to read it, but I'm stuck here anyway till it's dark and I can sneak away through the shadows. Might as well, I guess.
heh.
One thing my shitty childhood was good for. Learning how to hide, to sneak, to find all the places nobody would think to look for me. No, I'm not sharing my secrets. Find your own damn bolthole. Oh. Heh. If you're reading this, I guess you DID find your own bolthole, just that I was here first. Hi.

I'd tell you to keep the faith, but I don't think anyone has faith in anything but themselves anymore. I'd tell you to keep up hope, but I know you know that's a stupid, useless thing to say. I can tell you I'm thinking about you, because it's true. Random Stranger Reading This, I hope you're less hungry and less alone than I am. RSRT, I hope you have someone or something to love and take care of. RSRT, try to be kind. My only happy memories from the last two years are of random kindnesses. Someone scratched directions to a waterhole that hadn't gone dry. Someone left bedding in a bolthole. Someone left the last few pieces of fruit on a tree... that might not have been kindness, that might have been someone who was too big to climb out onto those thin whippy branches at the top of the tree... someone little like me could still get up and out to them.

Once, back in the day, I was fat and prosperous and happy. I thought I was ugly, being fat, I had NO fucking IDEA. I was so lucky then. I was loved, and safe, and pampered and treasured, and I had no idea. Now I'm tiny, wiry, strong, and fast. I have had to be, to survive.

Random Stranger Reading this, despite everything, have hope. Life may be shit right now, but if we all keep going, something has GOT to get better. Maybe I've been off my meds too long, and this is a manic episode, maybe it's just I've exhausted all my fear and I don't fucking have time for anything that doesn't keep me going.

I do have hope. I don't know why, but I do. It's almost dark now, I can barely see to write, so it's time to pack up and head out silently to my next bolthole.
I hope you can pass some hope along to the next person you meet, and I hope they're worthy of you trusting them.

Good luck, and gods' speed to you.

"kilroy"
labelleizzy: (bunny writer)
Uncle Cy understands about her dad. They went to college together and apparently dad was even a bigger jerk with poor impulse control, in his youth. Oy. it is pretty damn bad now, she has difficulty imagining her dad being even MORE immature.

Cy says he’ll meet her at the visitor’s center for the park. it is a pleasant drive up into the Santa Cruz mountains, and a lovely walk from the parking lot into the park. He wraps a rough arm around her shoulders, his heavy canvas coat scraping against her wool jacket. He’s the only relative that treats her like this, like they can rough house a bit and they won’t “mess her up”. she knows she takes after her mother in wanting to look put together and tidy… most of the time. But Athena loves spending time with Cy. He treats her like an adult (why her father and mother can’t understand how to do that she does not know) but doesn’t shy away from hugs, physical affection, hair tousling, that kind of thing. He can also tell, without her saying a thing, when she’s too fragile or upset to play that way. And when she is, he makes sure to treat her more gently, though he doesn’t refrain from touching her, like her siblings do.

it is nice. it is nice to have at least ONE family member she can rely on for hugs and blunt, honest conversation.

They walk, an arm around each other, into the smooth and well manicured park beneath the towering redwood trees. it is a beautiful day, and the needles and leaves underfoot smell sharp and clean. The air has a tang of autumn in it. It catches at the back of her throat when she breathes in deeply. And here, unlike at work or at home, she wants to breathe in deeply. It smells so good. She can distinguish sun warmed crushed pine needles, and the bitter green scent of bay laurel and eucalyptus mixed. A slight floral note comes, she expects, from the small patch of flowers over there in the sunbeam. She doesn’t know what kind of flower it is. Corey would know. Her cousin knows all about the local and imported flowers. Anything that grows in California, Corey knows everything possible it is to know. At least that’s how it seems to Athena. She shrugs beneath her uncle’s arm, and he shakes her lightly.

“you lost in your own head again, there?” She looks up at him with a wry smile. He pats her shoulder with the hand that’s wrapped around her. “you might as well be HERE while you’re here, you know. It is more fun that way.” His tanned and weathered face bends towards her as he drops a kiss on top of her head. there is NOBODY else who does that to her. She loves it. As a tall woman since adolescence, meeting a man taller than her has been a rarity her whole life. A man taller than her who loves and hugs her and kisses her atop her head? rarer than hen’s teeth.

She hugs him sideways and leans her head briefly against his shoulder. “Thanks, Cy. Thanks for dragging me out of the city and getting me out of my own head and everything.” She heaves a sigh, shaking her head slightly. “My dad is being a jerk again and I just needed to get away for the afternoon.” She smiles down at the path as they continue walking. “I am glad you were free for lunch.”

“Anything for my favorite niece, you know that.” The proud smile shows up in his voice, even (when she can’t see his face) with her not looking at him. She darts a smiling glance upward. “I know you say that to my sisters too… but I am okay with us all being your favorite.”

Cy laughs suddenly and loudly. “It is true, you are all my favorites. And I love when you all, or any of you, come to visit. We’ll have to have a family sail before I put the boat in drydock for the winter storms.”

He shakes her gently again, as they start up a slight slope in the path, illuminated by the bright beams slanting through the tall trees. “I am sorry Zee is being a jerk again. I wish I could say he’d get over it, but after many years of experience with his charming and crappy attitude, I’ve come to the conclusion that what’s needed is a giant fish slap upside the head.” Athena snorts involuntarily with laughter as Cy continues. “Kind of like in that superhero movie recently. A cognitive recalibration, they called it.’ Athena flat out giggles. “I am giggling.” she says, holding her hand self consciously in front of her mouth. “You’re the only one who makes me laugh like this.”

“Probably helps that I am one of the few, the proud, the stupid, who continue to be friends with your dad despite his jackassery. I get what you’re going through because I’ve been there too.” He releases her shoulder with a final squeeze to step up high onto the next part of the trail. When he extends his hand to help her up, she takes it and lets him give her a tug. She doesn’t NEED the help, and she doesn’t get huffy with him the way she might have done with any other man… but she appreciates the gesture, coming from him. They stand for a moment to catch their breath and take in the view of the river below.

“Look, Kid.” And who else would call her, a 40 year old attorney practicing international law, a kid? She looks up at him, his hands in his pockets. “You know this, I’ve said it before. You need to live your own life. Your dad has his own stuff to take care of, and to be honest? Your mom does too. They both could stand to have some serious conversations and hash out some of the ancient stuff that’s just continuing the patterns that got established in the very beginning.” He shakes his head and stares out over the river gorge. “None of that nonsense is your fault OR your problem, even if Zee tries to make it so. Maybe you want to spend more time with your friends or your other family, if Zee is making life awkward for you.”
He cocks his head, considering, as he looks back down at her... “Girl, when is the last time you had a REAL vacation?” She looks up at him, wide gray eyes wary. “Don’t give me that, answer the question. Have you had more than a weekend off work in the last two years? Have you turned your cell phone off for more than a night (once it gets charged)? Ever refuse to answer it when your dad or your mom phones you up?” Her guilty glance sideways tells him what he needs to know. “Right then. It is October now. You book yourself a week off, and you go alone or you take a friend with you, and you go someplace new, someplace you’ve never been.” She looks up with that sharp assessing glance he knows she uses on fellow lawyers and board members. “Someplace you’ve always wanted to see. Tokyo or Kyoto, or Moscow, or Anchorage, the boating is superb up there. (He grins.) Boston in the fall maybe. Go shopping in Paris and eat baguettes and coffee for breakfast. Go visit Prague and study architecture for a week. Whatever.”
“It is time you do something for YOU, not for Zee.” His face quirks into a half-smile in profile as he looks away again.
“It is also time that he realizes how valuable you are to him, and how fucked he would be without you covering his ass all the time.” She joins him in a smile, though hers is shyer than his. “Your PA can handle your email and phones while you go. there is nothing huge on your schedule right now, which is probably part of why Zee is being such an ass right now. There;s no crisis for him to get high on, you know your daddy loves him some DRAMA.” She giggles again. “See there (it) she is.there is my smiling girl.” He turns and puts both hands on her shoulders, stepping down the trail till they are eye to eye. “you. you are amazing at what you do. You are competent beyond belief. You put on your armor and pick up your briefcase and you go into battle for him. But all warriors need rest at the end of the battle. And you? You have been working nonstop for entirely too long. We worry about you.” He moves his hands to her cheeks and places a kiss on her forehead. He holds her face a moment, looking into her large clear beautiful eyes.

“let’s hike back, have some lunch, and talk about what you might want to do next.”

She exhales and bumps her forehead into his sternum as she leans forward into his hug. His arms wrap around her and his hands rub her back in long, firm strokes.
She speaks quietly. “I am so damn TIRED, Uncle Cy.” She breathes in the salt and tar and wool smells of him as she leans her cheek on his chest.

“I know, girl, I know.” they stand in silence for a few moments as the sun warms their coats on one side and the shade chills their flesh on the other.

“Let’s get you out of town awhile. Maybe you can go teach that weaving class you started up a few years ago. Get your hands busy and get out of your head.” She raises her head quickly, and he smiles. “or,” he continues, “you could come crew the boat for me for a week? I promise you’d be too tired at the end of the day to worry, fret, or even think.” She raises one eyebrow. “Good point. I remember doing that with the sibs when we were kids, it was the best sleep I ever had, a night on your boat after working on it all day. The sea would rock us all to sleep in those hammocks you had.”

“All right then. Food, plans, let’s grab your sibs and the cousins and start planning a sail. And you start dreaming on where you want to fly away to. You deserve it.”
Athena straightens up, sighing and nodding. “I need it. You’re right.”

They pick their way back down the path, arm in arm, heading back towards the (guest) center visitors center. “I admit,” she says, “that I am NOT looking forward to telling Dad that I am taking a vacation.”

“So don’t tell him,” says Cy. “You’re a woman grown, and the head of your department. You’ve good people working for you, competent people. Let them handle it awhile. It will be FINE.”

She nods, already lost in her head and dreaming of a week of freedom to do what SHE wants to do, see, experience, and try for the first time. They walk the rest of the way in a silence broken only by birdsong and the sound of the water below.
labelleizzy: (bunny writer)
It's been two years now
since you left
So loud
And then so silent
Refusing
To speak.
Lying with silence
Sharp, pointed,
Nasty.

You said you'd be here
many years
you said...

Words left unspoken,
Promises
broken.

Lying to my face.
Mirrorshades,
Blank eyes:
Lying with the truth?
"I don't know"
FUCK that.

Disingenuous -
DID you know?
You said
whatever you thought
I wanted
to hear.

Disinformation
feels just like
all trust
disintegration.
Every time
you lied
Recalibration:
How could we
make do?

A strategy in war.
We were the
terrain...
Was I the prize?
The end-game?
The goal?

Was this even love?
Furious,
hurting:
Win the heart and mind,
Recover
MYSELF

Sex was fantastic...
Apathy?
Passion?
Now I'll never know.
Your true north
nowhere,
Your compass: broken.
Did you love
At all?

Disinformation:
Truthiness
Ain't truth.

Pattern's still the same:
Please tear down
your walls
Learn to see yourself.
Grow a pair
Man up.
Motherfucker, PLEASE.
KNOW thyself.
*eyeroll*




This has been my entry for this week on LJ Idol, [livejournal.com profile] therealljidol. This week's prompt was "disinformation" and it immediately brought to mind this PARTICULAR ex boyfriend. *sigh* I guess I still had some old feelings about all the stuff that happened.
I encourage folks to visit my colleagues' brilliant writing HERE and of course I will also encourage you to help me continue to play in this enjoyable sandbox by voting for this entry HERE
labelleizzy: (bunny writer)
Writing Community:

What if we collected a group of writers willing to write to prompts. Everyone contributes prompts, somewhere between 1 and 5 for some fixed period of writing to be agreed upon in advance, six months maybe?

Use an open google doc to organize all the promptsprompts, and have a rotating moderator, maybe like in the game Apples-to-Apples.

We could still have polls for favorite stories, but low votes,instead of elimination, could have mandatory concrit from other members, specific to that one piece.

Thoughts? Feedback? Suggestions?

I know that[livejournal.com profile] therealljidol will not last forever, and I would love to find or found a group to keep writing and reading with.

Good discussion in The Green Room for this week that's prompted this idea.
labelleizzy: (bunny writer)
Steve's deep voice comes through the comm system with a clear note of sarcasm and a touch of Brooklyn: "Well, THIS is gonna be more fun than a barrel full of monkeys..."

The giant gelatinous creatures look like an unholy offspring of banana slugs and squid. Their eye-searingly acidic stench had evacuated civilians without complaint for city blocks in every direction.

Clint shudders, speaking loudly over the sound of the rotors. "Cap, I never understood why townfolk used that figure of speech. Back in the circus, I SEEN a barrel full 'a monkeys, and it NEVER ended well. The screeching. The biting. The scratching, the fur flying, and just let's not talk about the rest of the dirty mess monkeys love to make." He rotates quickly through the arrows in his quiver, selecting the most likely to get this job done fast.

Steve snorts as he flies the helicopter in circles over the park where the creatures have nested. "Nah, Hawkeye, that's just right. Ma said her pa would always say that just before he had to go tackle the nastier chores on the farm. Nest of skunks under the porch. Wild boar gored one of the horses. Mucking out the pigs, or fixing the stock fence that went down in the middle of the worst rainstorm in thirty years."

For a moment, both men watch in fascination as one of the iridescent eggs below bursts open with a flail of acidic tentacles. Birth fluid rains down on the sad, scorched remnants of the park's trees and jungle gym, droplets hissing and smoking wherever they fall.

"Well, thank god for Bruce and Tony and Jane and SCIENCE," Clint muses, pulling the string taut to his left ear, delivery-system arrow nocked and ready. "THESE pigs are going to be a lot easier to muck out once we've neutralized most of the acid they've slimed everywhere."

A few moments later, the creatures below are writhing like slugs doused with salt. The SHIELD science teams in full hazmat gear are laying down even more acid-neutralizing foam as they cautiously approach the egg-pile.

"Hah! Evil scientists, Zero, Avengers and SHIELD science-types, fifty-four? or is it fifty-five, now?" Clint raises an eyebrow, cocking his head at Steve.

Steve chuckles. "And nobody's handing us shovels and pointing us toward the pig-pen, today. I'm just as happy to let the science teams do the rest of the clean up."

"Hey, if they wanna analyze acidic tentacled slug-babies, who am I to stand in their way?" Clint rubs his chin and swiftly stows the rest of his gear in the long narrow pocket behind his seat. "Not my circus, not my monkeys."

Steve slants a wry, sideways glance at Clint from the pilot's seat, as he turns and heads for home. "This ain't a circus? We got acrobats and knife throwers, fireworks and explosions, exotic animals and shiny costumes...?" He raises an eyebrow back at Clint.

Hawkeye slouches back in his seat, scowling. "Okay, FINE, this IS my circus." He gets a thoughtful, mock-serious expression for a moment gazing straight through the windshield. "Does that make us Fury's monkeys?"

Steve's face is perfectly bland when he replies, "That would mean Tony and Thor were Fury's flying monkeys. I don't think it would be productive sharing that image with either of the guys, do you?"

Clint laughs softly. "No. Don't suppose it would." He grins at Steve. The next time Thor and Tony light up the sky, they both know they'll remember this.

Flying monkeys, heh.




This has been my entry for [livejournal.com profile] therealljidol, week 12. The prompt was "barrel of monkeys."

I'm enjoying writing within this community very much. If you enjoyed this post, or got something out of it, please consider voting for me so I can continue to write with these amazing and supportive people (sadly this week is a Community Only vote, so if you're inclined, feel free to join the LJ Idol community!). The polls are HERE, and I'm back in Tribe One.

Author's Note: If anyone's unfamiliar with the Marvel Avengers fandom, Steve/Cap is Captain America, Clint/Hawkeye is, well, Hawkeye. (and I hope Hawkeye gets his own movie someday too.)

Crossposted to Archive Of Our Own, here.
labelleizzy: (bunny writer)
She didn’t even look up from the wash cloth she was wringing out to bathe the skin of her patient as I approached, and at first all I could see of her was the dark skin on the back of her neck and some steel-wool textured hair beneath the brightly colored headwrap.

“If you have come here to help me, you are wasting our time,” she said, her hands angrily twisting the washcloth. “You’d do better to get on the horn to the CDC and find out if any of their new young hot-shots has any idea how to mitigate the speed of this onset. I have children who are playing happily on Day One and by Day Three are either comatose and staring blankly, or babbling incoherently with a terrifyingly high fever.”
She glared upward at me.
“And if they could get their thumbs out of their asses long enough to arrange a fresh drop of basic medical supplies, that’d be PEACHY.”

I took a step back. Paused. Straightened up from my usual slouch, even though her words felt like a slap in the stomach.
“Uh, well, some of those descriptors aren’t accurate, but I actually AM here from the CDC, via StarkIndustries. And we managed to bring in most of the supplies you were requesting... Doctor St. Pierre?”

She softened her glare to merely suspicious, and nodded once, looking away.

“I’m Doctor Bruce Banner. We’re here to help.” I gestured vaguely in the direction of the young interns and nurses who came with me in the Quinjet. My hand combed through the damp hair at the back of my neck, warm already with the heat of this desert, only an hour past sunrise.
“Where do you want us to start?”

Victoria St. Pierre rose from her low stool next to the child’s cot, nodded again, scrubbed at her face with her left hand, and extended her right hand. I took it, and we shook briefly.

“Doctor Banner." She exhaled slowly. "Thank you for coming. I apologize for my rudeness, but we’ve lost nine children in four days, we’ve no idea of the disease vector, and twelve more have come down sick.” Her gaze took in the rest of the cots in the medical tent. “Let’s begin by you telling me about the new staff and supplies you’ve brought us, and I’ll bring you up to speed about the protocols we’ve been using to help ease the children’s symptoms.”

I held the flap of the tent for her to exit. She inclined her head gracefully and moved out into the sunlight.




(This is my entry for the Home Game version of LJ Idol, this week's prompt was "If you have come here to help me, you are wasting our time")
labelleizzy: (bunny writer)
I was a school librarian way back during the dialup/AOL days of the internet.
We started the library microlab with three 386 machines in 1995, and at first they weren't networked.
Eventually we acquired 8 newer Mac/Windows Power PC machines, and daisy-chained them with a ninth machine to act as server.
By default I became the IT guy and network admin for the library. I was learning fast, but barely kept two steps ahead of the kids.

I remember when we got internet working properly. Even in '98 and '99, the junior high kids would rather look things up on webpages than use the CD-rom encyclopedias. In retrospect, finally I understand why. They feel so... STATIC. The internet feels *alive* in a way that most books and every encyclopedia I've ever met, simply do not.

I also remember staying late after work, and after I finished tidying up after the kids, I myself would sit down, read email, and surf the net a little.

There was a "meme" (before I understood "memes") which I stumbled across at some point. As I thought about this week's prompt, this page came to my mind's eye, so of course I Googled it. *smile* The Last Page Of The Internet. Hope you've enjoyed your browsing, now turn off your computer and go play outside!

Even fifteen years ago everyone could tell that the internet was a fascinating, roiling, sea of distractions and delicious, delicious data. Distracting.
Even then, it was apparent we would all need reminding to turn off the screen to go outside and play...

There was a bumper sticker on the door of my office in that library. I probably had picked the sticker up in Berkeley, it said in big dark letters, "KILL YOUR TELEVISION". Some kids would read that and argue that they loved their television; others immediately got the point of the message and why I found it so damn funny. Because they did too. But the thing I never would have expected, was to need to think about Killing My Tablet, Phone, and Desktop computer too, from time to time.

The most seductive thing about internet memes? They are in-jokes. You have to have been there. You have to be part of the culture, the subculture, the microsubculture. You have to belong.

And that's part of why memes are so irresistable. Embedded in the joke, is the reminder that you belong.

We're all citizens of the internet. With the rights and privileges thereunto.

but sometimes, you do indeed need to turn off your computer and go outside.

*click*

This is my home game entry for [livejournal.com profile] therealljidol. The prompt for the week is "Keep calm and end this meme."
labelleizzy: (bunny writer)
Polls are open for this week's LJ Idol, they're open till 9 pm Thursday the 20th.

There's quite a few good stories to be read; I've still got more which I will try to read before the polls close.

I'm learning more about effective writing and the wide variety of techniques and forms available to address a given subject, already. Just in the first week here.

*grin*

I'm in the third tribe, if you're inclined to clicky. Tons of good reading material here.
labelleizzy: (bunny writer)
YOU can still sign up for LJ Idol (if you want to!)

via our host Gary, [livejournal.com profile] clauderainsrm at LJ Idol: if you could continue to spread the word that the Sign Up Sheet is still open until Monday (March 17th), I'd very much appreciate that! http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/711493.html.

also for my reference: Week 1 Prompt (deadline for submissions is Monday March 17th as well)

Week 1 green room link here (first day)

Week 1 work room link here

My Week One entry is HERE.

Voting, as far as I can tell, starts shortly after the deadline to submit. So after Monday sometime the poll should be up.

Please feel free to vote for my entry if you found it worthy.
*curtsy*

Philosophy

Mar. 9th, 2014 12:39 pm
labelleizzy: (bunny writer)
Love is a verb.

It’s taken me many years to realize that intentions don’t count for much unless I actually DO SOMETHING about them. Teach. Reach Out. Help people who need it. Talk. Listen. Figure something out and then Do that thing. Make. Write. Art (yes, it’s a verb). Dance. Share something that’s important with people who matter.

Make stuff. Laugh. Sing. Enjoy where I am now. Strive toward something meaningful.

What’s next?
No idea. I’m making the map as I travel. I used to believe that everyone else had gotten the map, and I was stuck behind the door somehow, but I know better now.

We’re all on stage, improvising. Or in the workshop, building from scratch, solving problems, making mistakes and fixing them. Or writing, revising, sculpting a new shape with words on a page.

Starting from the quiet place works best for me.
Here’s a moment of quiet.
labelleizzy: (avengers)
third chapter is just a little drabble, but I'm still having fun.
labelleizzy: (avengers)
Tony Stark thinks he can't carry a tune in a bucket. (though he is, in this respect, completely wrong.)
Read more here, I would love to hear what you think...! )
This means Tony gets an idea. A wonderful, AWFUL idea...

And all that's needed is a programming genius, a week's work, and unlimited access to streaming videos and music.

His eyes crinkle with glee. He can't WAIT to talk the Avengers into this.


(...to be continued, muahahahaha)

also to be found here...

40 at 40...

Mar. 8th, 2010 08:07 pm
labelleizzy: from lj user= angelbob (creative resourceful sane)
I have an idea for a blog post: Advice for younger women.

I'd like to make it a list of 40 things I've learned as a woman of a certain age.

I'm not yet sure I HAVE 40 things I've learned as a 40 year old that would be valued by younger women.

Here's a start though. Edit: who knew I had this much good advice in me? =)


1) Pluck your chin hairs while your face is slightly 'dirty'... they come out easier and don't break.

2) If the person you're crushing on isn't all that "into you"... might want to reconsider why YOU are into THEM.

3) If your body is sore, move it. No, really. (And don't say should I move it if it's broken, I know you are smarter than that)

4) Invest in quality tools of all kinds. Take care of them. You don't need 3 pairs of mediocre scissors, or nailclippers, or whatever, if you have one good pair and you know where it is.

5) Get rid of crappy stuff. Get rid of multiples. You deserve better than to paw through boxes of crap looking for something you need.

6) Don't talk trash behind people's backs. Hell, don't talk trash period. You look petty and mean when you do.
Read more... )

Whew! Not too bad for a first draft! Any comments, advice, critiques, or contributions?

(that was SO much fun!!)

Words...

Jul. 27th, 2009 05:04 pm
labelleizzy: (Default)
[livejournal.com profile] kineticphoenix gave me words.

Tea,
Read more... )
Universe,
Read more... )
Waldorf,
Read more... )
Dance,
Read more... )
Discipline
Read more... )

Done.

Mar. 27th, 2009 12:59 am
labelleizzy: (just write)
I don't even know HOW many hand-written, double-spaced pages I'm winding up with,
but it's good,
and I'm done, and happy with the work.
It got done how it needed to get done, and I managed to distill it down into a better form, thru the process of waiting and wondering and letting the ideas just work in me.

This kind of Pathwork is immensely satisfying.
labelleizzy: (just write)
I'm doing Artist's Pages, or trying to, in the mornings. The designer, Julia Cameron, insists that the benefit of doing them, consists largely in doing them handwritten. That is how you sweep the braindust out, she says, and has anecdotal stories to back her.

I'm growing more inclined to believe her, both from my own practice and from my extended experience of writing my Waldorf classroom-and-student observation paper, entirely by hand. And letting it lie fallow for days at a go, as I had always heard rumor was effective. (nemmind that necessity-invention's-mom had always insisted that I write all my college papers at the last minute, until now I have never been able to finish a paper early and then set it aside and leave it...)

This paper seems to have assembled itself in my subconscious. I refer to my notes, the second draft of fully written sentences drawn out from initial cryptic classroom notes...

And I can just feel how the words and sentences want to go together. Even if they were pages apart on my first draft. Just writing them, they assemble themselves. word leads to word, sentence to sentence, growing organically, building a progression like a jazz riff.

It's truly remarkable. I cannot recall ever before feeling this ease of assembly. I don't know if it's an effect of all the Waldorf classes I have been taking, if it's the newfound confidence and clarity from my recovery work, if it's the fact that I write so damn much HERE on LiveJournal that I just have become a better intuitive writer, or what.

But I can feel the organic nature of the process. I've never looked FORWARD to writing a paper for class like I have done this one tonight. I'm ready. It will be lovely. I have illustrated title pages for each section, drawn myself, and I'm handwriting it with my cartridge calligraphy pen, in purple. I never before had teachers who told me I could, I should make, my homework beautiful. And this time, they have, and I believed them that I was able to do so, and I think it will be beautiful. I can't wait to see it once it's done!

*happy dance!*

My 15 minute break is nearly over, I am hoping to be done by midnight so I can try to get a solid night's sleep before substitute teaching girls' PE tomorrow. Short commute, blessed be.

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