Monday, 11 October 2010
Finding the Joy: Boxing Not Blogging
Finding the Joy: Boxing Not Blogging: "An idea is trapped inside my head and can't quite make it to the screen; like the things still trapped upon shelves and in cupboards that ca..."
Boxing Not Blogging
An idea is trapped inside my head and can't quite make it to the screen; like the things still trapped upon shelves and in cupboards that can't quite make it to the packing boxes lined up against the wall.
So I make more boxes- folding and taping and stacking- like opening up tab after tab on the screen- the perfect diversionary tactic...
A box by some definitions is a containment device- and in a similar sense my blogs are beginning to take on such a purpose... acting as boxes to contain thoughts, ideas, little pieces of 'stuff' that I cannot bring my self to throw away yet cannot remain trapped within the shelves and cupboards of my insides...
Upstairs, a pampers box has been reinvented as a container of trinkets and treasures: my 18Th birthday music box; old books of poetry and photos in black and white and slightly torn.
Scroll down, a blog contains a treaure; Greebo in black and white and slightly torn has been put away, safely wrapped for a move from our present to our memory- or for Lyra's understanding, she's packing for a holiday.
So, my boxes are currently redundant as I have no inclination to put away these things- instead childish things take over and one box becomes Ly's bed, her boat, her fort, a place for her to place Isaac and a place for her to hide... and before I chastise her for damaging one of the boxes constructed for the serious purpose of packing; I stop and think; better to be that broken, exhausted, misued yet much, much loved box than simply ...a container of things.
So I make more boxes- folding and taping and stacking- like opening up tab after tab on the screen- the perfect diversionary tactic...
A box by some definitions is a containment device- and in a similar sense my blogs are beginning to take on such a purpose... acting as boxes to contain thoughts, ideas, little pieces of 'stuff' that I cannot bring my self to throw away yet cannot remain trapped within the shelves and cupboards of my insides...
Upstairs, a pampers box has been reinvented as a container of trinkets and treasures: my 18Th birthday music box; old books of poetry and photos in black and white and slightly torn.
Scroll down, a blog contains a treaure; Greebo in black and white and slightly torn has been put away, safely wrapped for a move from our present to our memory- or for Lyra's understanding, she's packing for a holiday.
So, my boxes are currently redundant as I have no inclination to put away these things- instead childish things take over and one box becomes Ly's bed, her boat, her fort, a place for her to place Isaac and a place for her to hide... and before I chastise her for damaging one of the boxes constructed for the serious purpose of packing; I stop and think; better to be that broken, exhausted, misued yet much, much loved box than simply ...a container of things.
Tuesday, 5 October 2010
I.P.Freely needs good home
November- remember?- is all about change. Not just seasonal- autumnal leaves crisp underfoot and Saltram walks- but change in every sense. The change from not being at work to being at work; the change from being 24/7 with Isaac to not being with him 24/7; the change from this family home to another house. And as clock literally ticks closer; I kind of wonder/ wander from room to room, working out how to recreate the essence of this home in a new house.
As a house this one is flawed: no more than by ourselves as happy yet slightly clumsy tenants... I spot an iron burn; a paint stain and splash back; blu tack pebble dash walls in the kitchen and the distinctive, dire and definite smell of cat urine. Courtesy of I.P.Freely.
I.P. Freely- officially registered as Greebo (nod to the Disc World series)- was a quick solution to a very real mouse problem.
Having initially decided not to go back down the puss route following the untimely death of our first and real cat love, Neo... And then the 'incident' with his evil twin replacement, Buster Ray, a.k.a. Sirus who was quickly re homed after pouncing and pining Lyra by the neck... The arrival of Greebo- ominously a black and white short hair like the other two- did not bode well...
The fact that Paul rescued her from the barmaid at the hotel and that at a year she had had no injections, vet care or outside experience should have served as a warning; but after £100+ in vet costs and the fact that I couldn't get her out from behind the sofa, it became more likely that she would stay... Then waking up after the first two nights to find two dead mice laid out as an offering on the altar of the stairs earned her a truimpant entry to the Doidge family... All hail the mouse catcher!
But then she began to pee.
In patches behind the front door, behind the back door, the corner of the dining room... Always trying to get close to the nearest point of entry/exit to the house but never quite grasping the concept of using the litter tray instead. Ironically, once outside she has learnt to use the door handle and the momentum of her jump to open the door to get back in- but has never been able to work out how to reverse this action to get out. Maybe she doesn't want to.
Her intent may be more about the interesting relationship that has developed between us. I have found myself relegated in the hierarchy to a shoddy fourth position- making me second to last - though if we are counting Larry- I suppose the night she attacked him and he escaped to fly again- promotes him back up the ranks... but either way I remain below Greebo in this order and therefore the legitimate member of the pack/pride that she can, in effect, bully and dominate.
Paul as alpha male and the one with the big hands and big voice can pretty much out manouvre her at every turn, and sadistically the more he alternates between being dismissive and affectionately aggressive, the louder she purrs... Lyra then quickly established herself as second in the pack using the 'arm under the cats front legs and drag technique' meaning that the passive aggressive Greebo took to stalking and dominating me with swipes to the heel and peeing in strange places whilst I was powerless to stop her- queue peeing in the bath whilst I'm on the toilet; peeing in the wash bag whilst I'm on the bed, breast feeding Isaac...
So I'm last in the ranks which might explain why I'm the one that scrubs and obsesses and invests the time, money and a myriad of carpet cleaning products to find the perfect way to remove the smell of cat pee from the carpet... It might also explain why as I scrub and sponge, I imagine a way to usurp the Pee-er and reclaim my carpet.
But even those thoughts mask the reality exposed when we were told she couldn't come with us to our new house- I.P.Freely has been evicted- and now I see- not smell- Greebo.
Black and white beauty, with a torn ear and white socks and bib; the object of Lyra's affection and Isaac's first love (outside of us, he sits and stares at her with liquid eyes and smile). Flawed and yet in essence a Doidge.
And in moving to a new house, I realise this home can not be recreated so readily there: already a little bit of home is not coming with us and I wonder what else might be lost.
As a house this one is flawed: no more than by ourselves as happy yet slightly clumsy tenants... I spot an iron burn; a paint stain and splash back; blu tack pebble dash walls in the kitchen and the distinctive, dire and definite smell of cat urine. Courtesy of I.P.Freely.
I.P. Freely- officially registered as Greebo (nod to the Disc World series)- was a quick solution to a very real mouse problem.
Having initially decided not to go back down the puss route following the untimely death of our first and real cat love, Neo... And then the 'incident' with his evil twin replacement, Buster Ray, a.k.a. Sirus who was quickly re homed after pouncing and pining Lyra by the neck... The arrival of Greebo- ominously a black and white short hair like the other two- did not bode well...
The fact that Paul rescued her from the barmaid at the hotel and that at a year she had had no injections, vet care or outside experience should have served as a warning; but after £100+ in vet costs and the fact that I couldn't get her out from behind the sofa, it became more likely that she would stay... Then waking up after the first two nights to find two dead mice laid out as an offering on the altar of the stairs earned her a truimpant entry to the Doidge family... All hail the mouse catcher!
But then she began to pee.
In patches behind the front door, behind the back door, the corner of the dining room... Always trying to get close to the nearest point of entry/exit to the house but never quite grasping the concept of using the litter tray instead. Ironically, once outside she has learnt to use the door handle and the momentum of her jump to open the door to get back in- but has never been able to work out how to reverse this action to get out. Maybe she doesn't want to.
Her intent may be more about the interesting relationship that has developed between us. I have found myself relegated in the hierarchy to a shoddy fourth position- making me second to last - though if we are counting Larry- I suppose the night she attacked him and he escaped to fly again- promotes him back up the ranks... but either way I remain below Greebo in this order and therefore the legitimate member of the pack/pride that she can, in effect, bully and dominate.
Paul as alpha male and the one with the big hands and big voice can pretty much out manouvre her at every turn, and sadistically the more he alternates between being dismissive and affectionately aggressive, the louder she purrs... Lyra then quickly established herself as second in the pack using the 'arm under the cats front legs and drag technique' meaning that the passive aggressive Greebo took to stalking and dominating me with swipes to the heel and peeing in strange places whilst I was powerless to stop her- queue peeing in the bath whilst I'm on the toilet; peeing in the wash bag whilst I'm on the bed, breast feeding Isaac...
So I'm last in the ranks which might explain why I'm the one that scrubs and obsesses and invests the time, money and a myriad of carpet cleaning products to find the perfect way to remove the smell of cat pee from the carpet... It might also explain why as I scrub and sponge, I imagine a way to usurp the Pee-er and reclaim my carpet.
But even those thoughts mask the reality exposed when we were told she couldn't come with us to our new house- I.P.Freely has been evicted- and now I see- not smell- Greebo.
Black and white beauty, with a torn ear and white socks and bib; the object of Lyra's affection and Isaac's first love (outside of us, he sits and stares at her with liquid eyes and smile). Flawed and yet in essence a Doidge.
And in moving to a new house, I realise this home can not be recreated so readily there: already a little bit of home is not coming with us and I wonder what else might be lost.
Monday, 4 October 2010
Finding the Joy
Itchy, twitchy blogging fingers need a kinder metaphor- like a gardner's green fingers which evoke images of something natural, serene... yet both the blogger and the gardner are attempting a little bit of the same thing- the crafting of 'something' out of little seeds and dirt and graft; a little bit of digging to find the joy...
Jumping back on the blogger bandwagon
Ironically, I wrote my first and only blog in November last year- remember, remember the month of November?- before the reality of pregnancy and a three year old, meant that the slightly self indulgent therapy of blog writing had to be put on hold. Now- as yet another November represents a significant change in my abiltiy to naval gaze- with a return to full time work- have decided to write a blog every time I get some time to be myself if only to serve as a body of evidence for how little time a full time working mum of two, really gets...
Used to be, that that time was spent smoking and reading under the weak light of the street lamp that filters through the back yard gate- but as yet am not smoking and unless I use this time to do a little something for me then I'm at risk of either houseworking or facebooking myself into mediocrity.
Used to be, that that time was spent smoking and reading under the weak light of the street lamp that filters through the back yard gate- but as yet am not smoking and unless I use this time to do a little something for me then I'm at risk of either houseworking or facebooking myself into mediocrity.
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