Hello, world! Long time no greet, yeah? Sorry about that. I’ve been at a cross between busy and something akin to sick, neither of which are truly solved at the moment but I suspect part of my brain will suffer if I don’t resume blogging soon.

The sick part is getting better. It’s just one of those things that’s taking more time than I truly appreciate. It’s mostly allergies, between the pollen count, ten cats and the bone deep cleaning this place has always needed- more so now that we’re in the midst of purchasing it. Asthma doesn’t help. Neither does Scoliosis which has progressed into tension headaches – but, I have an awesome doctor who went back through all my medical history (even the on and off betwixed foster care) to figure out what I really needed. Physical therapy is in order to help me learn to manage a pain I may very well carry with me for a rather long time. As terrible as that sounds I feel great about it. I’ve gotten used to the pain but here’s a chance for me to get used to less. I like that idea.

As for busy… heh, that’s a whole other ball of multicolored yarn and I half love it.

I’ve been cleaning this house, pursuing financial aid for college, went to a convention and I’m plotting my way to another. I’ve been educating myself on ways to feel energized (an ongoing battle) and talking to my relatives a lot more with every passing day. Most extraordinary out of all of that is that I’m pursuing my artwork with fervor.

I purchases an older Wacom tablet, refurb, for $50 and since then I’ve been testing the threads of my creativity. I have a handful of epic things in my DeviantArt and I’ve even opened a Zazzle store selling a couple of my digital paintings on mugs and whatnot.

To me this is amazing. Few people who know me now know quite why. It’s a half secret. Something I express flippantly but feel deeper down.

Today is not the day for that explanation. Today it is hot. My garden is watered my bathing suit is on. Great music trickles about my skull and a story waits at my fingertips.

It’s time to get back to writing.

This is just a test. Please ignore this random post. I just want to know if this QTM app will really suit my needs or not as far as blog posting from Ubuntu goes. If it does… then aside from gaming I don’t really need to rely on Windows so much and that’s pretty cool.

Hello, my lovelies!

Music thrumming in my ears. Muse-cats within reach. Honey dulling the bitterness of tea and keyboard at the ready.

The words are waiting for me to pluck them from the air, like buttered butterflies I dip them in starlight before savoring on my tongue. An abundant treat with a rare taste.

I’m longing.

Tonight, like every night, is a night to begin.

So mad right now.

Clicked back up. Clicked send export file to memory card. Clicked ‘okie dokie’ after it confirmed my writing had been exported.

Reset my muchly happy tablet (she needed some intense love after my newbie abuse) to factory newness.

Added back in all my apps. That went fine.

Added in all my settings. Fine too.

Tried to import my export file… not so much.

Well #$&%.

Good thing I only had a bunch of notes on there. Time to buck up and buy a better app.

As usual I find myself caught up in a storm of thought. Convoluted and rainy, bearing down against my gray matter from every angle of my skull. It’s dark in there with flashes of lightning and cracks of thunder that sometimes set off sparks when they hit something. Noisy and elemental.

Alone that may sound terror-ific but what I haven’t told you yet is that I like the rain. I like that dazzling darkness and the smell of energy burning in the air, half feral winds pulling me up off my feet while I scramble for shelter. It’s beautiful and honest and some of my best thoughts trickle out of this maelstrom like the first pure stream in Spring after a harsh and nebulous Winter.

Proseful illustrations aside I’d like to babble a bit about this idea of mine.

My grandfather died a few months ago. I handled it better than others perhaps might have seeing as he passed the night before I was able to fly out to see him. Some might bemoan that last lost opportunity to say goodbye while others might slowly let fester what could have, should have and whatever other ‘oulds there could have been between us but not me. Perhaps it’s this constant difficulty I feel in connecting to others or maybe it’s because I connect on a totally different level that allows me the rare opportunity in my age to look beyond the momentary.

Over the course of my rather short but seemingly long life I’ve had so many things taken from me, lost, destroyed or simply removed from my life. Mind you that while I say things I’m referring to ‘things’ beyond simple items. Family, friends, homes, safety. Precious photos of moments never to be visited again, beloved pets and dear ears and shoulders to cry to. Books and teachers, religion and the firm ground beneath my feet.

Lost, taken, destroyed or removed.

Some of these things could be replaced, others not so much. Either way the sentiment is always what has changed and it’s often that intangible piece of meaning I’ve found myself grasping at. Sometimes it’s all I’ve had which is why, more or less probably, I find myself far more attached to the concept than the thing.

In short:

My grandfather’s body is naught but a symbol, an image one can put energy into in order for it to mean something.

My grandfather, as in the man I knew and grew with, is very much still alive as far as I’m concerned.

He lives in the memories he gave me and the teachings he passed along. He lives everytime I contemplate how to build something, my earliest lesson involving a rainbow colored birdhouse. He lives everytime I hear a bow drawn over the strings of a violin of a scant of Irish lilt. He lives in all my favorite poems and the tale of Monte Cristo.

He lives in cigar smoke, dusty boots and cowboy hats. He lives in my inability to tolerate contemporary hip hop and far too repetitive lyrics and everytime I call the cats. He’s there in homemade blankets and green rugs, antiques and an appreciation of the world beyond the seen borders.

He lives in honor and respect, love and obstinacy.

And without further digression I come to my idea…

I want to write something for him. Something to honor his memory, to show how much I respect all he has taught me and though I love him a great deal just how obstinate I have learned to be against some of those teachings.

I don’t know what it will be yet, a series of short poems or stories perhaps. I feel that I’m at a disadvantage for my yearning because of the small window of time I was afforded to know him and how narrow my view might be as a result but maybe that’s the beauty in the whole thing. He was so much more than I can ever know but I have what I do know of him and death can never take that away, sentiment can live beyond the circle of life if you’re not afraid to tell a story again and again.