Wednesday, 25 April 2018

Didn't go to the doctor; I hope it doesn't come back to bite me in the bumm.. The left leg has by now almost stop swelling and only itches. The right, being treated with vinegar from the start, never swole, there's only a large purple red patch of skin around the sting - I'm guessing the vinegar did that. Now I know: never leave the house without vinegar!! :D 

As my latest project hasn't been finished yet, I couldn't afford any of the hiking gear on my list, but the season is nigh, so the General purchased me a military tarp and paracord and I suppose I'll just have to hit the ground running. It's veteran grade stuff, not easy to get used to, super lightweight. Can't wait for the bonfire night!!!! We pitch it together!

Poor General :D

Monday, 23 April 2018

Are you fucking kidding me?! I got stung in the other leg now, too?!!

... can barely put my sandal on anymore. May be time to seek some professional help.

Just kinda wanna hear these reactions, if annoying, are normal, and they will go away by themselves. Do NOT want to get stabbed by a needle. But can't sleep from the itchy, swelled sensation and walking hurts, too :( Doesn't seem to be going anywhere so far.

Sunday, 22 April 2018


That bitchy bug that stung me four days ago, (it was the same species as the one who flew into my eye and I can only thank the Gods of eyeballs it failed to sting anything in or around the eye, because I fear the eyeball would have fallen out by now...) for the love of all that's buggy, has by now caused my leg to swell uncomfortably and I stink of vinegar, because only wearing vinegar-soaked bandages keeps the pain of all that extra volume out. It hurts annoyingly, like if I nicked it only a little, the whole leg would explode like an over-cooked hot dog, all that water or blood or whatever is making my leg cherubic, especially after I stand up. Couldn't sleep, because no position I tried would have me. Poor General, after yesterday's work at the vineyard, was so worn out he passed out naked on the bed at around seven and slept for 14 hours straight. He kept covering me, subconsciously, though it's already warm enough to sleep without blankies, and holding my head with one arm and my legs with his leg. I didn't have the heart to mention that, ow, ow, he's only adding pressure on the swelling...

A Quiet place

Went to watch the well-spoken-of film with MyMaja, but yet again, I couldn't see what the fuck everyone was praising. The previous two movies - Ready Player One and Red Sparrow I had such low, negative expectations, I ended up feeling they were perfectly fine for two hours spent chewing popcorn (or at least a little better than their respective books). This was supposed to be some amazing piece of cinematography. Who rates this shit?

The premise is - monsters came and killed everyone (somehow), except for this one rural family with small children. Now, how nobody other than them managed to fight off slightly larger than humans rabid-dog-like insectoid aliens, I've no idea. Riddick killed one just like with bare hands. The people in Walking dead kill similar foes with bows and arrows. In Cloverfield Lane ten times the size creature like it is killed with a vodka Molotov. And, mind you, these are sound sensitive creatures, and nobody figures out loud or high pitched sound would hurt them? It takes a ten year old deaf girl after over a year?

The family, doing much of nothing all day but hanging laundry and conserving produce, live in the noisiest, least protected farmstead imaginable. Every time someone drops a pin, monsters come running. Even though they know mechanical repetitive noise like the waterfall bores them. But instead of making noise to convince the monsters it's noisy there, nothing to see, moving on, no - they plan to have a baby in a room soundproofed with newspapers and a mattress and she delivers it in a bathtub - luckily it's one of those babies who never makes a genuinely noisy sound.

The only lines spoken are about blaming themselves for losing a four year old to a toy. That's all they ever talk about. Whose fault was it. Meanwhile, complete radio silence on all frequencies, even though there are living neighbours or people passing through, and there's a scene with fire signals, which I did not get at all. can't use any of the cars left outside? You know electrical cars are extremely quiet, right? How about you relocate to a fucking lighthouse?

I'm not saying the acting wasn't great. Everyone looked good. Even the premise - last living family forced to exist in the noisiest fucking homestead - very curious. But the script was fucking retarded. They showed extreme close-ups of monsters to compensate for the fact nothing at all happens at any point in the film - the effect would have been A LOT better if you never saw what's really there like it was done in the first scene, and the family felt more paranoid than anything until you started to doubt if a monster is really there.. But no, claws and torn tin walls and close-ups of alien ears galore.

And meanwhile, in the real world, you have bishops and the like masturbating how wonderfully religious this film is, how pro-life, full of sacrifice and monastic silence and solitude. Because that is exactly what you ant in thw world riddled with fiends - suicide on every step. Those people are fucking insane.

Just dumb. Where are all the doomsday preppers? Where does their power come from? Who is running their water? Where does he get tons and tons of sand? Do creatures kill for fun or for food? Because killing everything for food within a year is slightly counter intuitive.

I didn't like anything about it. Like they were mocking the audience by boring them and with nonsensical, forced plot points. No matter how cute the 40000 red light bulbs they somehow managed to install without dropping one are.

Thursday, 19 April 2018

Tried to mow the lawn uphill at the vineyard today, nearly killed me. MAN that thin, short, dense as a MF grass is hard to cut through. The mower kept stopping as the blades tangled into it, it was hot, sunny... and the terrain is at times too hard for me to manhandle the machine up and down. Nothing is level, nothing. Some stupid tiny fly hit me in the eye and released a load of burning matter, which still feels like my eye is hot and swollen, even though it's back to normal now. By 2 in the afternoon I was so overcooked I started feeling cold and wanted to cry - I remember all too well the last time that happened. I needed to lie down and didn't wake up again until 5. Then I felt empowered again and mowed some more. I asked G to come meet me halfway on the descend back to town - which was beautiful, just as the sun was setting orange and all the trees are bright green still. He's cranky because the car's not back from the shop yet, but everything is easier when he's around. In fact work is easiest when he does it, I just talk to keep the morale up :P (Starting again tomorrow morn.)

Monday, 16 April 2018

A proper thunderstorm outside. In April! I don't think even my trusted raincoat would help me in this one, it's savage. Reminds me that last summer the hail storms were so severe, getting to the car to drive it to safety could kill you...

Letters read on the literary event the other day

A cute lady read 9 letters by famous women, written to various people for a plethora of reasons. Here's the summary, in a hurry:

Ursula Le Guin wrote to her editor - but I honestly forget what she was bitching about, because the woman who read it mentioned how Gaiman liked Le Guin and that killed my boner for a few minutes. It was a well written letter, she was sharp for sure, but I really don't recall what she went on about.

Harper Lee wrote to a foundation that supplied "forbidden, banned" works to people, including her own book for obvious reasons, saying she hopes her contribution will make a difference. Whether she sent money or books or both I'm not sure.

Rosa Luxemburg wrote from prison in 1943 to her friend. She got out later and established some sort of a resistance with the friend's husband, but they were both executed when found. In the letter she explains workers pull soldiers' clothes carts into the yard with oxen and the inmates have to wash and mend the uniforms so they're then sent back to new men. She wrote the oxen had been replaced by water buffaloes, this was the first time she saw them - they had wet, innocent eyes and were magnificent to behold. A cruel prison guard beat the shit out of them and they stared with those eyes as punished children who don't understand what they did wrong. Far were the Romanian steppes and meadows where they were from now, in this filthy, brutal city and reined-in. Sad fucking letter, truly.  

Anais Nin responded to a collector's remark, regarding her erotic prose (as most people made money writing smut at the time), "less poetry, focus more on the fucking"... that the mechanics of coitus are hardly enough to inspire arousal - you gotsta keep it fresh, hot, tricky, sticky, unpredictable, jealous, temperamental, mysterious and so on ad so forth, to keep it good. I disagree with her entirely, because after 12 years of marriage there is zero mastery or unpredictability or jealousy in our mechanics, but my husband and I like sex with one another so much we have it all the time and it's still good, even when it's just lazy, boring, middle of the day nap ordeal. The trick is you either like it or lie you like it well enough to a stupid enough lover. Though, probably, she was talking less about what she thought or knew a good fuck was and more about what she thought it was and what it ought to be in writing.

Ayn Rand had something to say, but I didn't really listen, because I don't like her. She responded to a reader a line from Fountainhead, about how to be able to say 'I love you' you must first understand what the word 'I' means, though coming from her it sounded more like she was bullshiting to apologize for her selfish and aloof attitude than to encourage housewives with four children to take an hour out of the day to be just themselves. Dunno, I just don't appreciate that woman. Her books are self-serving. She strikes me as someone who was incredibly mean to her servants.

Emily Dickinson responded to an editor she wrote previous, asking for evaluation of her early poems. She says the surgery was not as painful as she's feared, then proceeds to answer the man's questions: how she has a brother and a sister, how her father buys her books but then fears she'll read them; how she's not really formally educated on the subject of poetry as one could be; how she's shy and dislikes to socialize (people thought she was weird for wearing white and shunning guests..), and so on and so forth. Dunno what I feel about her. She didn't have the balls to show people much of her work, I guess I resent that the most. Being privileged by her family enough not to have a job or any social graces, that's just a description of a British brat. She was defensive about her pathetic stance. That bit I liked. 

Simone De Beauvior managed the most pathetic letter of them all: she writes to her long-term pen-pal love-affair guy, who either dumped her to marry someone else or they just drifted apart, I don't know that much about her - but she writes to him how she'll always come if he asks to see her, they don't even have to fuck, but she'll always be there for him, in love, willing and ready for his attention.. I am suddenly not even a little bit interested in the rest of their famous correspondence, I disdain needy women.  

Virginia Woolf's suicide note to her husband, before she sank to the bottom of the river, says how she feels the second episode of her mind going rotten coming up and she fears she will not bare it, so she's checking out instead. She said she believes, though they were happiest as two people can ever be, she's holding her beloved husband back and now he'll be able to snap out of his depression and succeed on his own. Dunno, maybe he did. He certainly replaces her within a couple of months. 

The most beautiful letter goes from my girl Tove Jansson to Too Ticky (Tuulikki Pietila), writing to a lover two days after one has returned to town and the other remains on their summer island escape. She talks about she keeps looking for her, reaching for her in bed, telling her stuff; how she stood up for fishermen who were caught catching illegally; how she's doing stuff around the house and island, the birds, the animals and so on... The tone is almost exactly the same as Summer Book, same magic in the light of the air, but more intimately trivial. Lovely, lovely, lovely stuff.

Sunday, 15 April 2018

I went to the capital for a few days, tho I wanted to be back for G's birthday on Saturday ... Kept mostly to myself, making rounds chasing Pokies, but the time went by like a flash and overall it was wonderful. First day it rained, so it was just my phone, me and an umbrella, and it was supposed to be lovely the morning after, so I set out to see the Plečnik church in Black village... Alas, it still drizzled - not that I mind - but the road there was abhorrent. I hate the thought of some sleepy driver knocking me off the road with their mirror and my corpse wouldn't even be noticed for days in some rotting ditch. I tried my luck with very old local bus cards and one of them clicked green, so I rode the bus back to the city (and had an urge to buy hand sanitiser right after). Am getting too sensitive about other people's oily hands in my old age. I spend too much time in nature, where at least dirty things are just nature's way of cleaning up last party's make-up.
          Having napped, I set out again to try and turn another level, about two hours of exploring random mildly-known parts of the city, before the battery runs out. Some Insta pickies I took with the camera, some with the phone. Once the sun came out - Friday afternoon - the whole city felt charged, colours were astounding and the mood became festive. Most streets featured some outdoor activity and food fairs were abundant, siren call of BBQs and ramen in the warm wind. A coffee invitation led to an invite on a literary event, which proved rather neat. It took me almost an hour to get to the other part of town, causing me to achieve 40.100 steps for the day - a new record - but I should some day  return to those streets, because once, a long time ago, that must have been a shanty village, the tiny farmhouses of which have now all been turned into restaurants, with skyscrapers built in between. I'll report on the event in another post: it was reading of letters by famous women with noise music in the background, good stuff.
          Saturday I got up at dawn again, asking if two of my lunch dates were in the mood for morning coffee, but both declined hours later (hehe), and I set to explore the park, check out the exhibitions there (huge panels often show some vast collection of photos, though seldom any good. Just ... expensive. That city sure has a fuckload of money to waste on itself. This one was another bore - completely random photos of flowers, promoting the Arboretum, something school children might have done free of charge, not a professional photographer.) and the lovely paths around the museum palaces. Went 'home', took a small nap, packed and relocated to McDonald's to have ice-cream and coffee - the only coin spent other than stamps for letters to the General - two out of three I lost in the rain, fuck, and had to draw mock versions; hope he doesn't notice (they contained Pokemon) :D - and a pleasant train ride back.
          Because of the new environment and a foreign bed, I sleep very poorly, with extreme and vivid nightmares I thoroughly enjoy - the parasympathetic nerve system is so active I have to get up three or four times to pee per night. But they are focused, dense storeams, coherent and unusually calm, often featuring the General and I in some abstract, surreal happenstance (like we're both locked in a hotel room in some zombie Apocalypse, rapidly ageing, showering one another as our bodies become extremely old; or each of us battling some robber or some assailant to the best of our abilities, each in our own room our of sight but not sound, and once I overpower mine and joke: now you can stab him, the General stabs and kills him, ('Ah, I didn't think you will actually do it..') saying, referring to the other room: I didn't like what I saw when I killed the other one ...
         Freaky shit. But well edited.
         Anyway, that's mostly it. Once home, we had lunch out to celebrate G's BD, some easy chillin' after and today we went to have lunch at his parents' place and G helped with the bees while I painted his first bee hive with a mock-vintage illustration depicting a beekeeper having a hive stolen from him by a large brown bear :)

All the Ljubljana pickies on Insta! (CBA posting them here again :P )