jazzfish: Jazz Fish: beret, sunglasses, saxophone (Default)
Currently reading Freedom and Necessity, and enjoying it, as expected. One thing I hadn't expected: the print feels tiny. Unsure if this is just a natural result of Getting Old or if it's actually small. There doesn't appear to have been an ebook release, which makes me a little sad.

Gonna be a busy fall, bookwise. Just preordered new books from Kat Howard, Ann Leckie, eBear, and Steve Brust. Need to get on with that Great Big Dragarea Reread prior to late October. At least the eBear won't demand my immediate attention: reading Book One Of A Trilogy is a mistake I try to avoid making when the author is known to write bound book-fragments.

I biked for an hour and a half yesterday, going to a small get-together that may be the kind of thing I'm looking for. Mostly, a good ride, if overly sweaty, and tough going uphill. There's an exhilaration in a steep downhill, though, and a long gentle decline makes for a pleasant coast.

It occurred to me last week that my hip problem likely isn't just from wallet-induced sciatica. It's also possibly a result of babying my right ankle (and hence leg) for several months after I twisted it pretty sharply (CW: depiction of trauma, neither graphic nor permanent). So there's that.

Erin pointed out awhile ago that I do a lot of railing against the Confederacy (sometimes on FB, sometimes in person). I grew up hating everything about the South: the weather, the people, the history, the culture. I've mellowed on that a lot in the last decade or so, but Treason In Defence Of Slavery still gets me wound up. I think it's that it's a reminder of everything I hated about the South. Or maybe just that it's a part of my upbringing that's still acceptable to hate.

And in actual significant news, I've lost a friend over the breakup. One that I know of, I mean. I'd hoped for some compassion and understanding but it was not to be. I'm sad, and a little surprised, but only a little: she's prickly, far more invested in Emily's emotional state, and I suspect skeptical of the whole poly thing anyhow. (A conclusion I draw from sentences like "Since November I've watched you break up with Emily in slow motion.") Losing friends I care about doesn't get any easier. Especially not when they've been good friends and sources of support in the past. Oh well. She's not quite burned the bridge, I guess. She's poured gasoline on the bridge, offered me a book of matches, and walked away. Best I can do is not actually light the fire and be here if and when she changes her mind.

Overall? Still flailing around, still trying to sort out what I want my life to look like and how to make it look like that.
jazzfish: Jazz Fish: beret, sunglasses, saxophone (Default)
And I'm still here.



Way back in the mists of time my then-girlfriend Steph made me a mix tape with, among other things, David Mallett's sublime folksong "Arthur". And Arthur, where are you now, we need you / We've been much too long without a leader. It took me an unconscionably long time to get around to picking up anything more by him.

I always thought of "Inches and Miles" as the quintessential Dave Mallett breakup song, and I guess it still is. And all things have endings, and beggars have their pride. For my money, though, "Fire" captures the end of a long relationship perfectly. But time here is frozen, the clock ticks no more / Just the ashes and cinders and smell.



Still biking, still getting out to yoga between four and six mornings a week when I'm in town. Prayer-twists are now absolute hell on my upper thighs, likely as a result of biking uphill to yoga. On the bright side I'm enough of a regular now that the teachers think it's worth their time to offer corrections. My flows and backbends seem to be working better. (It's hard to think of it as "worth correcting" when my traitor brain insists on interpreting it as "having been noticed doing something wrong." Always more internal work to be done, I expect.)

I'm still enjoying biking. I'm slower than most of the cyclists I encounter, which is okay with me, and I'm nervous on busy roads. But I like the wind on my face and I like getting where I want to go faster than waiting for a bus and faster than walking. I don't like overheating and feeling like I'm swimming in my shirt. July and more so August are going to be awful for that, I expect. But then it'll be fall again and things will be better.

I went to see a physiotherapist about my weird hip problem while biking. It seems to be a natural consequence of having favoured my right leg for ages, due to a long-standing hip ... "injury" isn't really right, but it's close enough, I guess. So I'm finally getting that taken care of, all manner of fun stretches and pokings and proddings and foldings.



Been starting to think more seriously about tattoos, again. Two data points doth not a trend make but this does seem to towards the end of a significant relationship. I think this time it's more to do with seeing all the gorgeously inked folks at yoga every day.

I can't remember how old I was when I visited Grandmother Taylor's old hometown, and the house on top of Crow Mountain where she grew up and, more relevantly, the cemetary. Must have been high school, but I remember it as being summer weather, which doesn't track with any time in high school. Maybe it was just winter in the south being as bright and warm as it is. Anyway, I've got a distinct memory of looking at gravestones of people I'm distantly related to and deciding simultaneously: that I wanted to be cremated and not left behind; and if I was going to have a markerstone I wanted it to have the epitaph from Le Guin's A Wizard of Earthsea on it:
Only in silence the word,
only in dark the light,
only in dying life:
bright the hawk's flight
on the empty sky.
That and bits of Richard Siken's Love Song of the Square Root of Minus One (especially blackbird over the dark field but I am invisible) have been rattling around in my head for months. I suspect they signify. I've got what might be an image in my mind, but no ability to describe it yet. Contacted one highly-recommended local artist; not yet heard back from her.



Taking a look at a potential place this evening. It's a shared basement, but it's in a great location (Cambie and King Ed), and it's cheap-ish and supposedly big-ish. The roommate seems alright if a bit more social/talkative than I like. She's also connected with several of the local communities that I'd like to tap into. It is possible that this will be exactly what I need and have been looking for.

It's much more likely that it will drive me nuts and I'll desperately need to find my own place in short order, but this will give me a couple of months to catch my breath anyhow. Not that there's likely to be anything findable. This fucken town.
jazzfish: Jazz Fish: beret, sunglasses, saxophone (Default)
Today I am reminded why it is that I should get new glasses, no matter how much I hate getting glasses and no matter how pricey they are:

I tore a contact this morning.

This is less of a huge world-ending problem than it would have been the last time I wore contacts, because those were more or less eternal and cost several hundred bucks a pair. These are specifically designed to give out after a month, so I've got a bunch of them.

I just don't have them here, while I'm in the far north. (Not actually all that far, by one measure. Maybe fifty km north of the centre of British Columbia. Then again it's a twelve-hour drive to get here from Vancouver, so maybe it's just that BC is Way Too Big.) So I'm wearing my four-year-old glasses.

There's a mild but definite difference in my vision. Far-away things get fuzzier sooner than I expect them to. Not to mention the lack of peripheral vision, which I'd gotten to the point of taking for granted.

And I seem to be getting a headache. There's any number of environmental factors that could be causing that, but "minor change in vision prescription" seems to be the most likely culprit.

Might be time to start carrying a spare set of contacts with me when I travel.

(I've not gotten new glasses partly because they're expensive, and partly because I hate getting frames fitted to my face. It always involves several trips back to the optometrist and complaints of an earpiece that's rubbing weird right in front of my ear, or pushing into my skull behind my ear, or something like that.)
jazzfish: Jazz Fish: beret, sunglasses, saxophone (Default)
As of yesterday I've developed a sore spot on the inside/back of my right hip, at a contact point for the bike seat. Excuse me, saddle. I'm not sure whether it's a bruise or a stretched muscle. I'd been thinking "bruise" but this morning it started out sore and felt much more neutral after a five-minute walk. I can't figure out a work-appropriate way to stretch it, unfortunately. Ibuprofen it is. I'm not sure whether the saddle needs adjusting, or if I just need to adjust to it.

I'm taking the bike in tomorrow anyway to get a rear fender attached. I rode home yesterday through a pretty good rain. That's still a surprisingly pleasant experience: the rain keeps me from overheating, and not having glasses means I can see in the rain, which is neat. But the pannier and the back of my jacket are both mildly mudspattered, and I'm told a fender will help with the worst of that.

The other thing about biking in rush hour in the rain is that it feels ... unsafe? Unpredictable? Impossible? I get a sense that there's no way I can possibly be sufficiently alert to account for all the cars and the pavement and the weather conditions and whatever else. That it's only a matter of time before something unpleasant inevitably happens. That part is less thrilling.
jazzfish: Jazz Fish: beret, sunglasses, saxophone (Jazz Fish)
On Saturday night I discovered that I tend to walk slightly on the blades of my feet. This is almost certainly doing terrible things for my posture.

cut for description of trauma, neither graphic nor permanent )
jazzfish: Jazz Fish: beret, sunglasses, saxophone (Default)
So, on Monday my quickly formulated plan to "get up and answer the phone to let a package in" changed abruptly to "get up and slam my toe into the ottoman, then jump around and yell 'OW' a lot." For the record, the original plan was the better one.

Monday evening the bruise covered about half of my little toe. By Tuesday it had spread to the whole toe and down onto the foot a bit. The dark red / black hue was kind of pretty, actually, even if from a distance of a few feet it looked like it's going to fall off any minute.

Today it mostly just looks like I banged it up good. There's a black spot on the bottom of the toe and the whole thing is dark and red and angry. It hurts a lot less. That might be because I'm popping ibuprofen like candy in an effort to keep the swelling down.

I'm pretty sure it's not broken, just badly bruised. I'm icing it when I remember, and keeping it taped to the other one thanks to [personal profile] uilos (seriously, it is ridiculously hard to tape your two smallest toes together and not end up with a wad of tape covering half your foot), and mostly not poking at it too much. I'm waffling on whether to see a doctor. I mean, what's he going to say: "yep, it's broken. ice it and take ibuprofen and keep it taped to the other one." I guess if the black blob under the nail gets too bad I should have it looked at.

In all: not particularly recommended.

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Adventures in Mamboland

"Jazz Fish, a saxophone playing wanderer, finds himself in Mamboland at a critical phase in his life." --Howie Green, on his book Jazz Fish Zen

Yeah. That sounds about right.

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