Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Rage against the waves ...

I am frustrated. My life seems so disorganized lately. I can’t plan anything without the expectation that the plans will go askew. I’ll have to stagger off to bed and sleep away large portions of my life. It seems very unfair, though it probably should not be measured in the context of fairness.

I need help making a “last resort” book. I need to write down all sorts of instructions and guides to how things work, what things are, and what to do with them. I know K. Knees does not see the same worth in some of these things that I do. While we share many interests, even most interests, he’s only mildly interested in my research library. I don’t want it to go into a yard or estate sale.

I need to catalogue it and include a description of what it is and what it’s probable worth is. I need to tell my family how to dispose of it, if they don’t want it for themselves. I wish one of my children would carry on my work, but none of them are the least bit inclined. Only one of them is mildly impressed that I write.

I considered gifting a library with this collection. I talked to the archivist at a religious institution. It became apparent that they would not treat the collection with any sort of respect, even though much of it is relevant to their history. Also, they do not cooperate. We seek material from them; the answer is an automatic, “no.” It’s not just us they refuse to help, it’s anyone. So it won’t go there. I talked to two universities, both of whom maintain specialized collections of this material. I’m not happy with either.

I tend to measure these organizations against how they respond to our research needs. They get at best a C – and at worst an F. None of this collection will go to them. I’d rather write a detailed inventory and have my family sell it piece by piece on ebay.

All my files, photocopies, research notes? I haven’t a clue. I think they should ebay these by the binder full. I just don’t know.

I like pretty glass. Our house is a mini-museum in some respects. No one cares about this stuff but me, but if my family wants to dispose of it, they should at least know what it is and what it’s worth. It would be silly just to yard sale it.

I’m watching the estate sale of an arrowhead collection from N. California. How sad that is. The woman is in a nursing home. They’re selling her stuff. She’ll never see it again, and apparently she is in no condition to care.

I suppose it doesn’t matter, but I feel as if the pieces of life that kept me stable through trials are about to just go away. If they must go away, I want them to go in an organized manner.

I think we’re selling the goats this year. It’s not quite like selling your family … but close enough. I’m pairing off things now. It’s better than having someone else do it later, and it will leave our life a bit more organized.

This sounds as if I’ll die tomorrow. I won’t. But I’ve declined a lot in the last two years, and that won’t stop. There are days when I hate the world. I’ve grown very impatient with people. I feel ignored by people who once were my friends. I cared about that for a long time. I care much less about it now.

I’ve withdrawn into my family. My family matters, I’m not sure many others do anymore.

My room is a mess. My digital camera gave up the ghost. My nose runs from allergies. I have trash to take out and don’t want to leave the house. I’m a mess today.

I’m not writing today – exactly. I have a chapter to revise, but the writing is done. I just have to type in the hand written revisions and new footnotes.

I wish I had more blog readers. But I know this isn’t a very interesting blog. It was better in its first permutation. I took all of that down when I got sick. I should have left it up, I suppose. I had lots of readers then. It was fun, and then I crashed. Life sucks lemons.

Our research has changed the way I think of religion. Sometimes I’d like to abandon this project. It’s stressful in odd ways. I’m always surprised when one of these people we research stirs some emotion in me. There have been two cases of that the last few weeks. One of these characters was a Church of God (Baptist oriented sect, very small) clergy man who went insane. He led such a disreputable life. Just nasty. But his church accepted him until his death, giving him high office. I read through newspaper articles from the 1880’s and 1890’s and found myself repelled by a man dead for over a century. Another was a man named J. V. Coombs. Coombs was a Disciples minister who wrote at least one anti-sect book. (Stupid book, I read it.) He disrupted the meeting of another sect, entering the hall in Washington, D. C., where the meeting was held and trying to ascend the stage and take over the meeting. He was expelled by the police and reveled in all the publicity. This happened almost 100 years ago. I shouldn’t care, should I? I should just document it and feel … nothing … but curiosity. I was repelled, angry.

Partly this stems from the emotional waves that come with my illness. I know this, and it tempers what I write when I actually do tell the story. Their actions, told without a great burst of emotion, tell as much about these men as any ranting on my part would. I can tell you, though, that events of 100 years or more ago do matter. They come back to haunt the organizations with which those people associated, usually as unreliable gossip or myth.

I’m about setting the record straight and telling the story fully. This has not won us very many friends.

I’ve complained for paragraphs about how miserable I am, and my writing partner suffers from all the things old age brings and the same inherited health problems that plague me. I sometimes wonder how he stays so calm. Maybe it’s just a “man thing.” I feel like raging, though I never would.


  1. It sounds like you need to take yourself away from everything and everyone for a bit.... can you book a B&B or a hotel for a week (or more but not less)and have EVERYTHING done for you?

    Close the books and the files, turn off the TV and the computer and focus on YOU, and by that I mean Only that which is Inside Your Skin (inside your phycial, emotional, psycic and spiritual skin that is)

    Every now and then us Beings (of all pursuasions - as well as and especially Pixies) need to STOP - thinking, doing, organising, sorting, engaging, relating.

    I can guarantee the Universe will not end if you do this, but you might if you don't ... and I for one, would sadly miss you.

    I can't help with the 'last resort' book, but I can with this. Email me if you feel the need.

  2. Life sucks lemons

    Indeed it does and I don't see why you shouldn't rage when you've been dealt such an unfair hand. You're doing an amazing job of making the best of it but sometimes it's bound to get to you.

    You do have friends who care. I hope I can count myself as one.

  3. Dear Heart, I can tell you this is a very interesting blog and I am so glad to have found you again.

  4. Select $500 of Sci-fi and fantasy books that you think I would like. Include a bound copy of Pixie Warrior signed by the author when it is available.

    You don't need to box them up and ship them now. When you are done with them will be soon enough and I am in no hurry. If you want to do the transaction through eBay or whatever, just let me know.

    When you get the cash do exactly what Lori suggests. You and K.K. need a vacation together. Indulge yourself. We'll hold down the fort here and Aunt Shirley can watch the girls for you. Take care of yourself.

  5. I can't do that, Harry. The offer is sweet and made me cry. Stop making me cry ...

    When Pixie Warrior goes to paper, you get a copy anyway. so thupp!

    You're all very sweet. I shouldn't have posted my agony. I'm feeling a bit better, at least mentally. Thoug confusion fills my life. I'm missing more of my books!

    I panic when that happens. Some of these things are not replaceable. Yet, I know they're here in this house. They are on a shelf somewhere, misplaced, or something.

    I've farmed all the kids out for the day except Arpita. She's busy with a project. And aunt Karen is coming in three weeks to help out for a while. It's a fair peice for her ... several hundred miles, but she comes about three times a year.

    It will be a relief.

  6. I don't want to make you cry. I can't help it. I cry every time you write a post like that. But don't hide your feelings from me or anyone else. Tell it like it is.

    I'd rather make you laugh.

    Two cannibals are eating a clown. One asks the other, "Does this taste funny to you"?

  7. Anonymous9:47 AM

    Or how about ...

    Knock knock.
    Who's there
    Interupting cow
    Interup moo cow who?