Snarky's feeling very torn today.
The house inspection was mostly good, with a few somewhat glaring Need-to-Fix-Before-Moving-In issues (leaky faucets, bad wiring).
She and The Mister have been left to marinate in the juices of an extremely thorough inspection report and whatever else that $1000 got them until Thursday evening, when they will meet with their agent to discuss any addendums to their offer.
Since another offer for $20,000 more is waiting in the wings, odds are the sellers will simply back out of the deal and move on to the next fish. Snarky is working hard to be OK with this, even though she's spent the last week mentally placing furniture and having Special Moments in every nook and cranny of this house.
She took over seventy pictures of the place during the inspection, for goodness sakes.
On the upside, her boobies have been deemed perfectly healthy (if maybe just a wee bit lopsided) and she is fairly confident that her lovely "modesty mole"'s (by which she used to determine the level of raciness of various necklines) biopsy will also come back clean.
Snarky was going to extoll the benefits of an anxiety based weight loss plan... but she just succumbed to the siren call of chocolate chip cookies, so apparently that point is not only moot, but revoked.
The Snarkys are addicted to HGTV. They watch famlies in their intimate spaces, delving up the tender secrets of their everyday lives to intruding strangers. They watch as these odd bedfellows work in sweaty, dusty, passionate union to create something better with their homes.
The Snarkys dream of doing it too. They are beginning to believe that this might become their backdrop. Cue bamp-chicka-bamp music:
Where all the magic happens...
But wait? What's behind this little hobbit door?
Secks-SAY!
Some of her distractions are also things from which she wanted to be distracted in the first place, though they tend to fall solidly on the "stess" side of the stress/eustress delineation.
Still, she feels better knowing that her days are filled with deadlines and potential outcomes.
Thanks to the forum, she's got Spring Switch Witch, Year-Long Deco books, and a brewing craft-for-smellies swappathon to distract her from the ongoing house saga (a frothy mix of one part stress to one part eustress mixed together with the swizzle stick of sticker shock) and upcoming followup mammogram.
Mister Snark has been wondefully calm and supportive on both all-consuming, thought and time-stealing topics. She's a bit frightened to find that she is losing her memory of a time without him. Her vaunted (and often cursed) independence harumphs and settles down on the sidelines.
She's layered LUSH's Skinny Dip buttercreme with Faustus to give herself a violet-tinged boost of assertiveness. They will get that house. And she will be healthy, whole, uncorrupted.
Darkity never really got in to music. Even as a fledgling hedonist, she has managed to neglect that one of her five or six senses, hearing.
She listened to talk radio when her contemporaries were tuning in to the 80's oblivious bubblegum pop and/or nihilistic (yet also oddly poppy) electronic underbelly. She did manage to catch a bit of that hair metal infection like everybody else, though.
Then she met The Mister, who as an opening salvo to their courtship, compiled six mixed tapes to express his past, present, and possible future. He has been instrumental (har-dee-har-har) in opening up her ears to the world of sound.
Still, even with his admittedly diverse tastes, she finds herself floating passively along in the wake of whatever catches his interest and can't help but feel... a bit lost and sort of back where she started, musically.
Tonight the Snarks are going to see Thomas Dolby perform. Besides his one song she can think of ("Sah-sah-SCIENCE!") she couldn't remember anything else by him. After The Mister's hilarious recreation of "Europa" she's still stumped. They have one album (probably a best of) that she will cram with before heading out tonight.
Later in the month they will also see Sigur Ros (whom they have seen before, to great effect) and The Editors. Darkity suspects that the audiences will get progressively younger at each concert.
The Snarks are now in a city known for its diverse and rather indy music scene. The pace of trends here (in fashion/lifestyle/food as well as music) is breakneck, yet oddly retro. Darkity wonders if she'll ever get the hang of this.
Eat your heart out, Bellagio!
So the ancient running joke is that Snarky is in possession of two very black thumbs.
The Mister made a habit of gifting her with a potted orchid (of the Lowe's/Home Depot variety) every Valentine's Day, knowing that she would eventually find a way to kill it. One year he gave her a companion cactus thinking that it would outlive the orchid which seemed extremely logical at the time.
Snarky deflated it.
Back in May, some good friends of the Snarks came out to visit. The wife is a master gardener and the husband is the handiest of handymen. They both have done amazing things to their triple wide trailer (and 5 acres of property) nestled in the Appalachians.
The Snarks were able to give them a tour of their soon-to-be house for hints/tips/praise/approval. She did a careful evaluation of the landscaping (somewhat over-exotic for the Snark's taste, but really quite impressive) and even gifted them with a regional resource (which has since been packed and lost, but will be found again, by gum!).
If it weren't for their words of encouragement, Snarky might've considered a scorched earth approach to the existing landscaping. So... they're trying. Most of the bordering landscaping has been weeded (Snarky suspects she "accidentally" took out some "decorative" thistle, but it was annoying and leggy) except for the corner with the roses... which are choking and trying their darndest to continue despite her efforts to destroy them.
She harvested a fistful of lavendar blossoms which are being artfully displayed in one of their many "why did we register for all these?" vases.
They've got a miniature garden (mostly for sammich makin's - tomato and cuke) fighting it out with the clover.
They are doing their best not to destroy what was left to them. Besides the curly willow, which had to go. (Much to the shock of the neighborhood.)
Cross your spades and pointy weeder thingies (Snarky likes to call it "The Probe") for them... pictures of the carnage results soon!
Blogs abound. Snarky regularly rocks three (count 'em, three!) of her own (the prerequisite LJ discourse, the demographically behooved knitblog, and a fairly young SparkPeople weightloss rumination), so why another one?
Because this is so. Damn. Cool.
But, Snarky has to make it interesting, different, somehow equally relevant to the other virtual dumping grounds to her massive ego. Ergo, this experiment.
Once upon a time, she had delusions of literary grandeur. Through some overworked and convoluted logic, the BPAL Blog is going to be The Writing Blog.
And if the Hat Trick of "Snarky-Centric Script", "Aspirations of Artistry", and "Grabby Gimmick" is to be acheived.... well, ya gotta have a gimmick if ya wanna have a chance. Snarky is going for the time-tested, Bob Dole approved method of third person narration. Also possibly horrible grammer, passive (aggressive) sentence structure, and major conjunctivitis (in this case, swelling and overuse of conjunctions... not pink eye). But not dangling participles! That is something up with which Snarky will not put!
Finally, depending on mood, your humble narrator might be "Darkity" or "Snarky" or just plain little Miss Universal "S/he®".
So. All of this, plus the occasional mention of smellies to keep the blog relevant to its gracious host-body. Groovy.
Oh man, the Thomas Dolby concert was AWESOME. Even if "She Blinded Me with Science" is the only song you know, Snarky highly recommends this! There won't be any body slamming or sweaty zeitgeist communion, but there will be a definite bond of geekitude, nostalgia, and just "ain't it cool" gee-whizzedness.
And now Snarky has this song stuck in her head:
"One of Our Submarines"
One of our submarines is missing tonight
Seems she ran aground on manoeuvres
One of our submarines
A hungry heart
To regulate their breathing
One more night
the Winter Boys are freezing in their spam time
The Baltic moon
Along the northern seaboard
And down below
The Winter Boys are waiting for the storm
Bye-bye empire, empire bye-bye
Shallow water - channel and tide
And I can trace my history
Down one generation to my home
In one of our submarines
One of our submarines
The red light flicker, sonar weak
Air valves hissing open
Half her pressure blown away
Flounder in the ocean
See the Winter Boys
Drinking heavy water from a stone
Bye-bye empire, empire bye-bye
Shallow water - channel and tide
Bye-bye empire, empire bye-bye
Tired illusion drown in the night
And I can trace my history
Down one generation to my home
In one of our submarines
One of our submarines
One of our submarines
One of our submarines is missing tonight
Seems she ran aground on manoeuveres
One of our submarines
Today Snarky's wearing what's left of her Tombstone/Sweet Cove SN combo from last night and the zesty fragrance of Pangea Organics Chilean red clover with geranium & grapefruit lotion (she got a free sample).
Spring is finally making footholds in the landscape. The sun lingers until well after dinnertime. That she is making a showing at all is a cause for verdant frolicking.
Snarky reached for Nefertiti this morning. To her logical mind this is because the imp happens by trick of alphabetical organization to fall smack in the middle-front of her ammo box.
But her superstitious hindbrain suspects that her hand was guided there to bring her delicate flowers and sweet-skin confidence in order to make it through this day of waiting.
She, in some small way, wanted to smell like spring. And Nefertiti is one of the few scents that approximates this effect. The rest of her collection speaks of winter's dead hibernations, autumn's angsty decay. But this? This is hope and joy and faith that life is returning.
The air is thick with love making. Sap rises, tender buds unfurl. She waits.
Purely through serendipity, Snarky was directed to the site of one Walt Lockley (link to his site, here's his Wikipedia user bio). She needs to find out more about this man.
She read about the history of the Garden of Allah in Hollywood and thought of Valentina when she read the following passage:
Snarky doesn't even know if anyone else gets excited about things like this (she has only recently been reminded of her own love affair with the built environment), but she just had to share that tidbit.
Xena knew something was up the way She was calling to her with that nearly-falsetto voice. She never called to Xena like that unless Something Bad was about to happen. Last time it had been twenty hours in that blasted carrier in the loud growling metal box, Junebug mewling plantively like the little whiny bitch she is. Xena had saved up her displeasure to generate one particularly foul poop that filled that metal box with the smell of her indignation.
Then they had been moved into a larger metal box that roared enough to shake the ground. By that point even Junebug was too terrified to make a noise. They were finally freed by Him into a small, carpeted room. Xena found all her new hiding places within the first few days.
After a while, it seemed perfectly normal to be two cats and two humans in a small carpeted room. There were three windows that opened out to trees and crazy talking people down below. The food stayed good, and the litter box was (mostly) fresh. Xena and Junebug got used to it and began to forget about their ordeal.
And then one day She came back from Outside, talking in that cracking, anxious voice that should have rumbled with impending doom. Xena recalls with horror how She resorted to using half of a wooden paddle to sweep her out from underneath the coffee table. A paddle!
Oh she hissed. She hissed and did that low, lingering growl bourne from sheer panic. She even released her bladder a bit, which only made Her voice go even higher.
Then He got home. He that was usually their saviour. And He stuffed her in the hamper. Traitor.
She was too frazzled to even muster a good protest poop as they rumbled in another metal box. Junebug still found the air to yowl a few good times, and Xena tried to answer back with her own timid "meh-reow?"s.
When the world stopped rumbling and lurching about, they found themselves in a small room that stank of laquer. The windows were too high to reach, and there was a lone lamp on the floor. The litter box was not where it was supposed to be, it was in the corner. There was food, but it tasted of ashes.
Xena nudged the litterbox out of the corner and created another slender hiding space. She stayed there for two days.
Junebug, and Xena is convinced that she might be a little damaged in the head for this, hid in her carrier every time they heard the clomp-squeak noises in the ceiling. Who hides in that place of impending anguish? Only cats who are Not Right in Their Heads, Bless Their Hearts.
Finally on the third day the door cracked open and He released them into... into what? There are too many places. There are windows to look out to trees, there are windows where they can see Them coming and going in their metal box. There are old familar smells behind the doors Xena has already figured out how to open, smells of His feet and Her perfume piled up and hung down like layers of comforting curtains in the dark. There are new smells and strange, smaller metal boxes. There don't seem to be other cats in these boxes, but They seem to spend a lot of time cooing at them anyway.
He has been gone for a few days. She seems to be quieter, less active because of it. She is giving lots of belly rubs, though, so Xena thinks it will all be OK. If not now, then soon.
She is still keeping an eye out for the carrier though, and a cautious ear for any change in register in Her voice.
Snarky developed some psychosomatic quirks during her senior year back in Nerd School. She was falling into a mild depression, feeling the strain of separation from her first serious boyfriend (the relationship was a bit co-dependent), and she was at a complete loss as to where/what she wanted to go/do/be after graduation.
About once a month she would come down with symptoms of a particularly virulent stomach virus that didn't exist. Two days of debilitating gastro-intestinal distress then suddenly nothing, and back to her self-imposed hermit-like existance of skipping meals in the cafeteria in lieu of a pseudo-monastic supper of rye bread and onion soup (She's not sure why she settled on this particular combination, it was probably something she picked up from reading The Name of the Rose and/or the better option compared to flagellation.). Naturally her suitemates didn't take any of this seriously and did their best to harrass her into being more sociable.
The psychosomatic weirdness climaxed with a spectacular presentation of a raging case of hives during final exams. Every where her skin was constantly touched - her bra strap, necklines and waistlines, where her low pony tail rested against the nape of her neck, bloomed with red, itchy welts. She added two Benadryls to her rye bread and onion soup communion every night and had nightmares about physics exams and botany practicals.
Eventually her skin cleared and she graduated (probably in that order) and after that traumatic senior semester, nothing quite so extreme happened to her again.
But she remembers that it's possible. A crouching gremlin hiding in her meat and bones, waiting for the right triggers.
Last week The Mister took two days off of work because of stomach problems. Today, a full week later, he's still not quite back to normal. He comes from a family that doesn't always think to go to the doctor until the problem becomes much worse, so Snarky's attempts at getting him to Get Help have been treated as Chiken Little-style freakouts.
Finally, though, he is thinking about seeing his doctor. Even if this ends up being all in his head (his work is approaching a critical turning point this week) she hopes that seeing the doctor will help him somehow.
In the meantime, her own stomach has been a bit sour and sullen as well. Whether it is in sympathy (the closest to synced menses they'll ever get), or due to exposure to him (if it is an actual bug), or due to a whole new resurgence of her old sub-conscious mind/body craziness (always an underlying possiblity), she's unclear. Perhaps she'll never fully focus on the cause. She just hopes the effects for both The Mister and herself go away soon.
There are so-called "young souls" and "old souls" and all the souls in between. Snarky has often surmised that she possesses a "middle aged soul" - old enough to know better (she entered her teenaged years with a deep breath and a "well, here goes nuthin'") but still young enough to make all the same stupid mistakes (oh, it went alright).
Her best friend has a teenaged soul. She is impulsive, headstrong, and unable to take the right path until she has exhausted all the wrong ones. Snarky used to refer to her as her "Drama Friend" (we all have at least one of those, even if we are typically the DF in our relationships), often with a bit of condescending affection/scorn (weird how some friendships are so close to antagonistic symbiosis).
Last night Snarky was on the phone with her friend for over two hours - most of it was spent with DF venting and unloading and Snarky listening.
Two years ago such a conversation would leave Snarky exhausted and resentful. It would make The Mister grouchy for stolen time. And worst of all: nothing would have changed for her friend.
But today, Snarky feels fine. Rested, even. It's not that Snarky has disconnected herself from her friend and doesn't care about what she is going through (in short, two words: "emotional incest" Snarky always learns new terms/concepts from her acquaintances that open her eyes and make her extremely grateful for her own dull and boring existance that does not require the aid of therapy speak in order to be defined) it is that Snarky finally had an a-HA moment a few crises ago and realized that in order to be a good friend, she didn't have to live through the experience with those friends. She could just listen and observe and support.
Small epiphany as far as epiphanies go (surely "brightly colored mushrooms are bad for the eatings" ranks higher) but an important one for Snarky, who used to be an empathetic walking open wound for everyone.
And The Mister was really quite OK with not having a wife for two hours. The Snarks are cultivating an appreciation for the concept of "alone time" and have experienced the added bonus of more enriched "together time" for it.
Best of all, Snarky's best friend has really broken through to some new, exciting territory. Of course right now it's scary and overwhelming, but she's calmer now and is finally, finally able to really work toward something better.
So, Snarky feels compelled to give a small for emotional maturity both for herself and for her friend. Snarky always knew she would finally begin to feel more comfortable in her skin (on the personal, bodily level as well as the larger socio-political sphere) in her thirties and is relieved to see that bit of middle-aged soul prognostication come true.
But she will try very hard not to pull a muscle patting herself on the back about it.
(WARNING: Disjointed metaphors ahead and underfoot!)
Ever since she became conscious of the differences between boys and girls, Snarky has been trying to figure out that line between the feminine and masculine. She's unsure of not only the coordinates of the various demarcation points, but also where she stands in relation to those teetering little points in the shifty sand.
She vascillated between Girly-Girl (ballet training coupled with a near drag-queen level obsession with her mother's 1960's wardrobe) and Tomboy (tusseling with the neighborhood boys in the snow, wading waist deep in creeks in order to catch minnows) as she grew up. The advent of body hair and the constant battle to eradicate it was an absolute nightmare (tutus and 'pit hair don't mix) but she also became sporadically lacksadaisical about maintenance (surely Snarky isn't the only girl who has "winterized").
Snarky was lucky to have either indulgent or equally laissez-hair paramours during these experimental times.
Thusfar she's developed a duality fluctuating between the extremes. Some days she does the full get up: make up, matching shoes (as in: shoes that match the outfit, Snarky usually has presence of mind enough to match the shoes to eachother on any given day girlie or no... most of the time), matching underthings, matching BPAL, matching earrings... just matchy matchy all over the place. Other days she's lucky if a shower happens, let alone color coordinated not-nekkidness. (The Mister has been known to serenade her with "Ebony & Ivory" on the days that her bra/panty choice is chromatically challenged.)
For the past year Snarky has evolved away from platform heels and slinky skirts to Mary Janes and corduroy pants due to working closely with contractors, engineers, and ginormous, filthy machinery. This practical work wear attitude has bled in to her off hours as well.
On top of her sartorial schizophrenia is the concept of the masculine and feminine in attitudes as well. Snarky is constantly battling it out between her perceived dominant/submissive, Asian/American, intro-/extrovert, and male/female halves.
(For example, body hair is a Big Issue for Snarky. How does a self-proclaimed feminist explain her need to eradicate naturally occuring body hair to suit some wholly unrealistic sexualized pre-adolescent imagery?)
Then the cherry on top of this sundae of textbook gender identity woe are the emotional eggshells Snarky has been treading upon since The Mister's recent health scares (more honestly, these eggshells have been cropping up for as long as the Snarks have known eachother). She's been swathing their weekends in safe, neutral tones and non-aggressive, granny pantied conversations to keep things bland as oatmeal at home. She's been more mother than wife lately, and that sort of extreme imbalance can skew more than just the one boat in the marriage flotilla. She can't help but think that a wave of equal amplitude in the other direction is needed to put everything back on course.
The Snarks have been recovering long-buried and forgotten portions of their wardrobe as they are expanding into their house. Almost single handedly Snark's hootchie-mama arsenal increased ten-fold (OK, more like two-fold, but ten-fold is so much more impressive) just by finding and liberating the right tub of clothing.
So she's easing herself back into more feminine attire. Perhaps with the physical donning of her old "split up to there" skirts and flirty ankle strap heels, she will also be able to also mentally shed the metaphorical sweatpants. Time to Wake Things Up a little and return to feeling completely human (and girly, and ROWRy) again.
And if she needs to wear the pants for a little while in order for The Mister to get back on track, she'll do that too. But they'll be tailored and leather and just the right kind of snug.
Snarky's office smelled of gas earlier today, and since then she and her co-workers have been experiencing moments of giddiness and short attention spans.
Of course, the spicy hot cocoa mix Snarky has been downing (with hot, strong coffee as the re-hydrating agent) probably is adding to the giddiness.
She is finding herself in a very weird and easily distracted head space this week. The Mister continues to fight the last bits of this horrendous monster cold they've both been fighting (Snarky still gets occasionally froggy, but is otherwise Back to Normal) and has been coming down from Host Mode (the Darkity'Rents are safely back in their home five states away). He's been feeling very worthless and lost this week since he isn't currently working, but is too sick to really explore the possible employment avenues about which he was most curious.
Snarky is Queen of Sloth and hopes to be able to encourage a few good days of solid down time for The Mister through example. Monkey see, monkey (don't) do, as it were.
There is also a weird undercurrent of Impending Doom circulating around the office today (along with any brain cell killing gases that might be wafting). Next week is going to be insane with an annual sale that will require the man power and time of everyone on staff. This is a huge event every year that traditionally gives the company a start of the year boost upon which all sorts of annual projections and planning hinge. And some of the veterans of this melee are feeling that Something Will Go Horribly Wrong.
All in all, the year has started off strangely. There is a feeling of restlessness and unease but also a kind of exhilaration - very reminiscent of the pit-of-stomach feeling one gets while being inexorably dragged up up up toward the payoff of a large, menacing, candy-colored roller coaster ride.
Given that her attention span is normally comparable to that of a fruit fly on a normal day, Snarky's ability to maintain "workplace workface" today has been a hopelessly lost battle from the get-go.
Not only is her heart and mind still racing through MoveIntoTheHouse scenarios, but their contractor is currently tearing up the subfloor in the main bathroom right now, with no way of being finished until the ordered flooring (Asian Tiger! Rawr!) gets in tomorrow at the earliest.
And tonight is The Great Cat Migration '06. The Snarks' furbabies do not take to their carriers very well. At all. EVER. They could be going to the land of catnip and cheeses and still with the yeowling and bloody murder.
Before TGCM'06 comes The Death Defying Cat Wrangling of Ought Six. Snarky only hopes that they have managed to leave one polypro jacket unpacked in which she can suit up in order to protect her fragile, extremely claw-able hand/arm/chest/neck skin. She has had to have medical attention applied to her body in the past. At the vet's office. Cat Wrangling is that violent, swift, and gory.
Tomorrow is the Official Day of Moving, though the Snarks have been schlepping bits and pieces of their lives over to the house for the last two weeks. Last night Snarky did their first quarterless load of laundry in their very own, new washer and dryer! They also have a shiny new fridge! The Snarks are a bit disconcerted by the new appliance smell coming off of said fridge, but they are confident that a few trips to the Safeway will eliminate the problem.
One more hour left before the bloodletting fun begins. Snarky suspects she will be radio silent after tomorrow morning possibly through Monday. The Cable Guy is supposed to be hooking the Snarks up Saturday morning (between the hours of 10 and 12, of course). Even if all goes well, Snarky might opt for the more alluring prospect of blissful unconsciousness Sunday rather than playing catchup. If Snarky gets too caught up tomorrow, she wishes all of y'all a wonderful weekend in advance.
Popular theory stated that Spring had indeed Sprung, but she couldn't help but feel mild bemusement tinged with her sense of personal tragedy as she looked out over the river during her morning commute.
Or at least, what she could see of the river. There was a solid, wintry gray wall of fog taunting the entire city from about halfway across the bridge. The repressive haziness continued all the way north to her workplace.
She couldn't see the tender Spring colors asserting themselves in the landscape. Her fellow commuters had all sunk back down into layers of woolen browns, blacks, and grays. Shockingly pale kneecaps, anklejoints, and collarbones retreated back into the warmth of cavelike clothing.
The weathermen all promised a return to sun, to life. She warily eyed the flat sky and felt the smallest flicker of hope.
She's wearing Midnight Mass to match the weather.
He trusts her. He continues to work silently over blueprints scattered across the living room rug as she presses her lotion-chilled fingers into the welts, all the angry red patches on his back. She works to cover all the places his skin has betrayed him.
His body seems, in all its solidity, horribly frail. He is an unbalanced chemical equation tipping forward on his haunches, always threatening to tumble away from her. Away and down into the dark valleys where she can't find a path to follow.
She tries to hold on with her slippery hands. Her palms linger on his shoulders, much longer than needed to set the medicine into his skin.
She resists the urge to shake him roughly, shake him back into the man he was.
He trusts her not to do this, not to stomp and wail and disrupt the little bit of foothold he has left. He trusts her to hold on, keep an anchor, keep him steady. He trusts her to trust that he will come back.
... for eye strain?
OK, that didn't work quite as well as Snarky had hoped, nor is it nearly as pleasant as ice cream. Nevertheless, she is suffering from ever compounding eye strain as she moves from eight hours in front of the computer (under fluorescent lights in "The Cracker Cave") to a few poorly light hours throwing things around/together/into boxes at the apartment, to a couple more hours in the waning gloom of evening working up close and personal with various nooks and cranies and surfaces of their soon-to-be kalidescopic domicile.
The peepers are pooped, folks.
Add to that the nocturnal goings on at Flat du Snark (Snarky is an equal opportunity mangler of all languages) in the form of feline gymnastics (Seriously, what is the deal with cardboard and plastic bags and the licking? Does it really taste that good?) and there is just no rest for the wicked winkers in the forseeable future.
While some more painting is on the docket for tonight's Chez Snark visitation, Snarky thinks she'll try to truncate the errand and convince The Mister that a break is in order in the form of the one-two punch of eye candy (24 and Grey's Anatomy season finale) and gelato.
Snarky never claimed to be "goth", but she apparently ended up that way.
Black just suited her better, and while her musical tastes have always been on a diet, she enjoys what little genre music does happen to wander past her plate.
Oh and there's the poetry. The breadth and depth of which must surely qualify her for some sort of angsty, navel-gazey, inky black award.
It was on Glampyre's suggestion that BPAL would appeal to more "gothic" tastes that brought Snarky into the fold in the first place. But instead of finding a more delicious brew in which to wallow Snarky has found mostly happiness and resonance through BPAL.
Better living through (esoteric, alchemical) chemistry, as it were.
This morning's judicious application of Danse Macabre has eased Snarky out of her Existential Funk. She's now contemplating dinner with The Mister (another date-date!), a minor sandwich cookie binge (probably not, though, because of aforementioned date-date), and (hopefully) impending landed gentry-dom. It feels good to be grounded in the here-and-now again, rather than the shoulda-woulda-couldas.
However, Snarky will endeavour to honor her inky black roots and try mightily to contemplate something deepy dark and morbid. Possibly the wretched demise of this damned intranet site she's been trying to build for the last two months. Surely therein lies a tale of woe.
Maintaining the status quo.
Treading water.
Keeping a holding pattern.
Snarky has long suspected that she suffers from a slight case of whatever that dude in "Memento" had... her early life consisted of two year stretches between changes in scenery, and with each change she dropped most of her points of reference -- her friends, her hobbies, her life.
Pick up a new string, turn 180 degrees, start wandering the labyrinth again.
Sure, the "reset button" draws her back into a slightly different place each time, but it feels like two steps forward, one step back. It's a stilted, wonky march to the beat of time's inevitability.
There are a handful of touchstones. Powerful moments that break through the thorny hedgerows. Most of them are triggered by scent.
Today she's wearing Jacob's Ladder. The high, bright amber is bringing back memories of her maternal grandfather. Memories of his passing which was sudden, unexpected, and tinged by family lore about karma. He's been dead longer than he's been alive in her life, and that death still ripples through everyone in her family like a silent aftershock.
For years, his death froze her in a substrate of fear. Fear of nothingness and of simply not being anymore. It has taken time, but she is finally starting to see that being still and impacting little is an insult to this brief moment of somethingness she's been granted.
The amber is comforting, familiar. But it needs to be broken. She needs to climb those thorny hedges and see the labyrinth for what it is.
She's making a move.
Swimming for shore.
Touching down.
She's like everybody else - she's completely unique.
There are minor variations that skew her off center from the norm, but it's a large, comfortable demographic with ample wiggle room.
The hated but apropos "slackerdom" is inherent (why else a "high-concept" blog crafted during the work day?) as is the vague uneasiness that often accompanies the under-utilized, over-educated, filled-with-potential-but-not-going-anywhere intelligence that wishes it could live long enough to become wisdom.
She has recently discovered concrete proof of her own mortality - first in the endodontist's chair, tears streaming back into her hair; and again in the surprisingly warm and comfortable imaging room during her first mammogram. Her world sharpened into finite days. Now anything done without mindfulness is shameful, offensive, a waste.
Which is horrifying as her entire life, save for a few accidental miracles, is one shameful, offensive waste after another.
She's waited so long - too long? - she needs to do something. The need is a physical ache in her palms, a perma-frown, unbearable restlesness.
She grabs her imp of Danse Macabre. The drydown will bring back old friends and that night spent saying timid goodbyes. Making eye contact for the first and last time. Her last dance with that great old group of freaks.
Green hope wafts from her drying wrists. She settles down to type, and to wait out her memories.
The Snarks went house shopping this weekend.
And it was good. No, no future home came out of it, but they've made a connection with a realtor who seems honest enough. He might have laughed a little too hard at some of Snarky's jokes, but they were pretty damn funny.
They went to eight houses in about four hours. It was good to feel them all out, interact with them. But it was also very tiring. Walking through the empty spaces, voices echoing off of outdated tiles and fugly cabinetry. Each room demanded five alternative placements for beds, sofas, coffee tables (Yes, the Snarks own two. No, they don't exactly know how that happened.)
Each house was the setting for a new part of their lives together. Each house was the beginning of a different path. Their minds bloomed, unfurled into these eight different paths. Lifetimes bubbled forth like kudzu, trying to cover every inch of possibility.
But none of the stories were quite right. The corners were too sudden, the proportions grating against some invisible outline. They reeled back in all the strands of possiblity. Wrapped them into loose hanks to hang at the ready for the next throw.
Later that night, Snarky stood naked in front of the half-mirror in their tiny apartment "walk in" (more like, "side-step in and pivot") closet. She looked at herself, tried to prognosticate. Perhaps it was the morning's house-hunting exercises that gave her flickering future-visions. She saw herself whole, hearty, healthy. She saw herself shriveled, diminished, in pieces. She touched her chest and tried to find a clue to what the next chapter would bring.
Perhaps in the midst of the hair-and-dust-raising activities of "packing up", Snarky will think back on her and The Mister's history together. Like many couples these days, they met online. The first month of their acquaintance was spent practicing the simultaneously high and low tech tradition of courting over email.
Their exchanges were refreshingly open and honest from the get-go. She was finishing her degree in a field she did not respect, and he was working in an industry that no longer interested him. They found a kindred spirit in eachother's restlessness.
Sometimes they made simple poetry challenges to eachother. One day The Mister asked Snarky to compose a quick poem using words no longer than four letters. Here's what she came up with:
soft paws
pad pad pad pad
purr
cat eyes look at you
a grin? (too fast to tell)
now she goes
zoom!
on your lap
pad pad pad pad stop
"mine"
say her eyes
you nod, "yes"
(New pics posted in Snarky's BPAL Member Gallery. She's having trouble linking to them directly ATM.)
Snarky has posted picks of The Blackening.
The dining room was originally a cranberry red, which looked very striking next to the neutral gray of the living room.
Then the Snarks up and painted the living room candy apple green. In combination with the red, they were then faced with Christmas on Acid.
So... they decided to put down an equally bright and cheery orange to complement the green only... it didn't. At all.
Then The Mister, the normally non-gothy of the two Snarks, had a brainstorm: paint it BLACK.
The Snarks had a gallon of matte black pain on hand to use as a base coat to the blood red they are planning for the basement AV room.
After minor cajoling ("It'll look crisp against the white trim and green w/red accents theme of the living room! There will be so many pieces of art and state plates on the wall the black will look like a framing device!") Snarky agreed and now they have a BLACK dining room.
Snarky is now considering a recycled antler chandelier as well. (only not really) (maybe?)
The assumption usually made about those of a Darker Bent, is that they tend to surround themselves with dark, brooding colors in heavy, funereal (sometimes boudoiresque) fabrics.
Those traditionalists really need to just go elsewhere and have some tea and (angsty, morose) biscuits because Darkity is about to Blow Your Mind.
Behold:
Master Bedroom, apres Snarkification
After one coat. One more (maybe two) to go.
Master Bedroom, before, back toward the bathroom. Darkity added for scale.
The color is called "chocolate sparkle" though the Snarks are unsure from where the "sparkle" comes.
OK, OK. So that wasn't really all that crazy. In fact, it is rather traditionally dark and cozy. But! The ceiling? Those putrid green niches? Those are all going to be sky blue, y'all. The ultimate Master Plan involves a few different shades of green and leaf stencils to create a treehouse/canopy effect.
On to the brightness:
Oops! I exceeded photo limits... to be continued in Part Two, then!
