On the Planning of Funerals

I'm pushing thirty, right, and I'm at Chapter meeting with the other members of the community, and somebody mentions that we need to have another funeral-planning party. Another, first of all. And another what?

That's right. Funeral-planning party. Apparently there's a sort of tradition in Rivendell that everybody gets together on a yearly basis or so to plan their funerals. This year, the plan is to have the party on, appropriately enough, Memorial Day. And so we do.

In my musings on this phenomenon, I also notice that Cathy in particular tends to refer to the time of her death as the day on which she "gets to die." Like, "I get to go to the waterpark today!" -- except that it's about one's death. At first my reaction is, "How terribly morbid!" But as I think about it, and as I participate in the whole planning-of-funerals festivities, I come to change my mind.

*

Everyone who reads this blog and who knows me probably has picked up that I have an anxiety disorder. Which makes Worry About Death particularly -- um -- prominent for me at certain times. If I am having an attack, and I happen also to have a headache, more than likely I'm going to think I'm about to DIE of an ANEURYSM or Something Horrible of That Sort. Then I get well both of the attack and the headache and go back to thinking of death in the same uneasily nonchalant way as everybody else. If, however, I think in such moments that I "get to die," it puts a whole new complexion on the thing. It's not quite like the day in my childhood when I randomly asked my mother if one could avert the worst of a pain by pretending pain was pleasure, and was answered that it would be a sick thing to do. I didn't, and don't, exactly agree with that, but "getting to die" is different either from what she meant or from what I meant by pretending to like pain. After all, I recite the Apostle's Creed in the Daily Office of the Prayer Book; you know, the one that says "I believe in the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and the life everlasting, amen." Sometimes I say it with a feeling of belief, and sometimes I don't. Even if it weren't true, it still sheds light on death as an end that is "not the end of the world." But if it is true, and I behave as though I believe it, then death, and specifically my death, has no sting. Frightening, yes; griefworthy, yes; world-without-end tragic -- no.

So if I think of it like that, and if I think of my own funeral as a celebration and as a chance to speak my last "word", then I don't have to spend another night maundering on and on about my imminent death and my legacy, cut -- ah! -- so tragically and brutally short. It's like George Macdonald's character Malcolm, cheerfully standing on the gunwale of his fishing boat as he works, explaining that holding his life lightly makes him much more sure-footed.

*

So anyway, we plan our funerals, and it turns out to be a great deal of fun and very moving, as we all sing snatches of hymns and read out our chosen readings from the Old Testament, the Psalms, the Epistles, and the Gospels. Virginia collects them all at the end, to keep in case anyone gets to die this year -- which we don't expect and don't worry about. We laugh that it's too bad that we can't all have the funerals at once and enjoy each other's songs and readings. It's another little Easter day, without pretense or ostentation, but with deep joy.

My funeral, you ask? In addition to the readings from the Bible, I threw in a reading from the 32nd chapter of Lady Julian's Revelation of Divine Love. I chose Psalms 63 and 84; Philippians 2:1-13; Isaiah 43:15-18; and the passage from Luke 10 about Mary and Martha. Hymns include "Be Thou My Vision," "What Wondrous Love is This," and "All Creatures of Our God and King."

*

On a smaller scale, we experience deaths every day. We are disappointed, we are hurt, we lose things and people, we lay our hand down on our time and found it has slipped out from under our grasp. And yet we do every day "get to" experience the holy Present -- bearing this cross, drinking this cup (whether of bitterness or refreshment), loving this human, sharing this meal. It makes one much more Ready -- ready in its old senses as well as its new ones, ready as being well-counseled, well-"read", well-prepared.

Especially so, with my funeral plans reposing peacefully in Virginia's file folder.

What's in Your Character's Wallet?

Yay! I will help James start a meme.

In the pockets and backpack of Elisabeth, heroine of my Buffyfic, Shadow Though it Be:

(I'm not going to list them in too much detail, since many of the items are mentioned heavily in the story and comprise plot points:

-- a worn, thin towel
-- a small airline pillow
-- a thin but warm down blanket
-- a packet of medicines, including tranquilizers for anxiety
-- a packet of bath gels, shampoo, facial cleanser and the like
-- three changes of underwear
-- two changes of jeans
-- a pair of khaki slacks
-- a pair of olive-colored pants
-- one permanent-press black skirt
-- a motley collection of cotton T-shirts of varying colors
-- one thin grey cardigan sweater
-- 10 CDs, 5 paperback books, 3 notepads, and 1 battered notebook/journal/writer's workbench
-- a walkman for said CDs
-- in her jacket pockets, a wallet stuffed with old and new IDs for various things and a small pocketknife, keyringed to a pair of folding scissors and a pencil flashlight

In the purse of Helen Reynolds, female protagonist of my novel-in-progress Record of Wrongs:

-- she carries nothing in her pockets; that is messy.
-- one small pocketknife
-- one wallet for cash and credit cards
-- one checkbook
-- one travel packet of Kleenex
-- one compact of pressed powder
-- one change purse
-- one pencil case, containing two pens and a pencil, well-sharpened
-- one tampon
-- all the rest of her identification and notes and plans are in her Franklin planner, which is too full to be properly snapped shut.

I'll do some of the others later. This is fun!

The Author Exerts Her Epistolary Prerogative

Thanks to Liz, Natasha, and Rebecca, I am presented with temptation, thusly:

Dear Giles,

Lighten up a bit. God knows it's not going to get any better. And no, it's not your fault. Listen to Elisabeth, that's why I sent her to you, for heaven's sake.

And I am sorry you ran out of the good tea. I will get Elisabeth to buy you some.

Love,
Lisa

*

Dear Elisabeth,

If you whine too much people will think I'm bratty and self-serving, and I won't get any good reviews. On the other hand, bratty and self-serving people like good reviews, too! Okay, okay, abandoning the Schroeder and Lucy references to get down to cases. You will figure it out eventually, so relax; meanwhile, give Giles a good time, and our work will be complete. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaa.

Love,
Lisa

*

Dear Spike,

Honestly, I like you better than Patmore, I really do. Don't mind Elisabeth, she's had a difficult day. I mean, really: if Patmore had ever tried to rhyme "effulgent," I might have some affection for him, but I doubt it. You, on the other hand, are one of a kind -- isn't that what you want? Oh yeah: and it would really go better all around if you'd just admit to that little G.P. you have for Rupert. I'm just saying.

I'd offer you love, but I know you'd turn up your nose at it. So...

With the respect of an armed detente,
Lisa

*

Dear Rankin,

I have not forgotten about you. I promise I have no intention of leaving you in prison for a literal eleven years. Anyway, when you get out -- have patience with yourself, you'll be fine. Listen to Helen, she won't B.S. you. But do remember you have wisdom too; don't let her steamroller over you all the time, especially if you know you're right.

All my affection,
Lisa

*

Dear Helen,

Put down that bloody Franklin planner and go get some ice cream. I can't watch you do this to yourself.

Now.

Your affectionate Author

P.S. I really, really did not make you a Virgo on purpose. So you cannot claim exemption from your responsibility to lighten up.

*

Hee!

Notes from a Heavenly Place

All very random of course. Starting with:

I have discovered that some IE browsers (i.e. the one at Rivendell, which I am using) read my code in such a way that my body text is incredibly small. This is not my fault...I think. I have the font set at .95 px. But it's darned annoying and if anyone wiser in the ways of CSS can advise me, I will rewrite the code so that everybody can read my blog with comfort.

I have sore muscles from all the hard work we did on Saturday planting hostas in the garden. In between digging holes, I stood in the grey cool morning quiet and rested the heel of my gloved hand on my shovel, like farmers have been doing for centuries, and just contemplated the countryside. I can trace the path of the tornado through Rivendell: there is a line of splintered trees, followed by the demolished garage shed, followed by the big white barn with its tin siding peeled back from the roof, again followed by destroyed trees, and so on out of sight. There is a lot of work to do, and once we get a chainsaw that we can actually start, we will be getting to work on it.

But that was Saturday; the only strenuous work I've done today is to drive down to Humansville in the community car to pick up some flyswatters for the kitchen -- and apparently the library; good grief. *swats at a fly and misses*

I'm also keeping a journal of my time here, so that I don't have to find time to blog this week and yet can have a record of my retreat here. And of course I can put things in that would only bore my public.

It's beautiful here, and I cannot hope to convey the sense of quiet and purpose that just permeates the land and the people living here.

More of a Gesture, Really.

Chapter 13 is going better than I had hoped; I'm already about a third done, after zooming my way past what I thought would be one of the hard parts last night. I've noticed in recent months that I've been making heavy use of a very handy narratological tool: that of conveying characters' emotions by describing the movements of their hands, shoulders, eyes, and lips. It says much more, after all, to have Giles whip off his glasses during an argument, or to have my character Helen hide her shaking hands under her desk, than it does to say "He was pissed off" or "She was afraid and ashamed". It's part of the grand old rule of writing called Show, Don't Tell. Even so, this narratological tool has its limitations; I bump up against them occasionally, when I want to describe a complex state of mind in a character without resorting to my own narrative prose, which has a limited range of tone. I also, apparently, have a limited range of sentence structures to use when describing a series of actions. Take for example this snippet from Chapter 12:

She set open the doors of his sound system and turned on the power; lifted the lid of the turntable and blew the dust off the needle. With infinite care she removed the record from its cover and placed it on the turntable; she set the turntable spinning and used the velvet brush to clean the surface of the vinyl. The scent of static and the spinning words on the center of the disk brought unbidden childhood memories. She lifted the needle and (silently hoping that Giles would not be too scandalized at this liberty) laid it gently on the turning record; it landed perfectly, like a leaf falling to the surface of a river.
As the Requiem began she looked around her for a place to imbibe the music; after a moment surveying the room with a thoughtful twist to her lips, she decided on the table. She moved the centerpiece aside, crawled onto the top of the sturdy table, and arranged herself in more or less a lotus position. She took off her glasses, laid them next to her on the table, and shut her eyes.

Stripped of its narrative verbiage, it goes something like this: She did this and did this; did this and did this. With infinite care she did this and did this; she did this and used this to do this....She did this, did this, and did this. She did this, did this, and did this.

Oy vey.

That, in essence, is the problem with conveying a character's state of mind through a detailed description of his or her actions. A better writer, perhaps, might have more sentence structures waiting in her subconscious at her disposal; or, like A.S. Byatt, be able to capture an entire tableau of movements with one devastatingly raw and unvarnished phrase. Myself, I just worry on the best I can.

A problem, too, is that language itself, with its tangle of referents and its habit of making everything either totally opaque or totally transparent, frustrates the writer who wants a translucent glow. I want something in my narrative that is not quite fact, nor quite intuition. Sometimes, writing, I feel like Tom Hanks in Apollo 13 shouting, "I need a Gimbel lock!" (Whatever that is.) Meanwhile the other part of me is Gary Sinise attempting to figure out how to get everybody home on less power than it takes to work a toaster. Um, okay, abandoning this metaphor now before it gets hairy, and before I have to mention Kevin Bacon.

Writers: what do you do about this problem? Or are you busy frying other narratological fish?

Oh What Fools These Authors Be!

In celebration of having completed 12 chapters of my Buffyfic, I did a page count. My fic has now reached the 75-page mark. And I have four more days to chronicle, give or take some narrative slack. Sigh. Never thought I'd write one of these novel-length thingies. Now I feel guilty for not working on my actual novel. Still, I'm having fun, and that's something. And I'm going on retreat for the rest of this month, so it is to be hoped I will get some writing done in between prayer and farm-work. It sounds heavenly.

Am reading Dante again.

I decided to break Chapter 12 up into two. So here it is; and hopefully I can knock heck out of what will now be Chapter 13 this coming week.

This chapter has a little Spike action, for those who like him. I have a bit of a soft spot for him myself, which is one reason I more or less let him have the last word this chapter.

Notes on the Search for a Spiritual Director

Part of the discipline of the Rivendell Community is to acquire a spiritual director and meet with him or her as often as necessary. So at Chapter yesterday we were all discussing the process of choosing and relating to one's spiritual director. I was thankful to discover that such things were not regimented: the choosing of a spiritual director is like the choosing of a friend in that it is a mutual, gradual, and contiguous process: and we have to let it be so, without rushing or pushing.

In fact, the spiritual director appears to be similar to the anamchara in medieval Irish Christianity -- a special friend who helps to bear your private spiritual burdens. Since that statement about exhausts my knowledge of the anamchara, I won't go on about it except to say that clearly the spiritual director has a long and distinguished history.

I've had a few spiritual directors over the years, some older than I, some my age -- the ones my age were prayer partners. Time spent with them was mainly time spent voicing my struggles and my everyday vicissitudes, much after the manner of psychological therapy, except with a somewhat different goal in mind. I've also been spiritually directed by authors; the outstanding example, of course, being C.S. Lewis, on whom I cut my intellectual and spiritual teeth. I can point back to my first few years reading Lewis as a time in which I changed radically in the way I apprehended my walk with Christ. Too, I've had friends who possess a great talent for reading me; I can ask these friends to tell me what I am feeling and thinking, and quite often they are very accurate -- sometimes eerily accurate.

We agreed that a good spiritual director would have all of these qualities to a certain degree: a parallel hunger for the things of God, a level of wisdom and insight about spiritual and other matters, and an ability to cut through her directee's crap. Naturally, she would also be trustworthy -- willing to relinquish her own ideas about what her directee should do in favor of God's greater wisdom; able to keep confidences and to resist taking advantage of the vulnerability of the directee.

In the past, I've often hungered for a spiritual director in much the same way that I longed to find a really good doctor: I wanted to sit on the little table with the wax-paper crackling under my backside and let the other do her work -- examining gently, knowing unerringly, making the kindly and wise prognosis. Knowing exactly who I was and focusing on me with the fixity of attention of a Sphinx. Fixing me: or, if not cleaning house herself, telling me where to swipe the broom. Making the prescription that would heal the perpetual wound in my soul.

There are two huge problems with this scenario, however. One of them, obviously, is my longing for ownership of the doctor's full attention and care. I'm an adult, I ought to take responsibility for my own choices and attitudes and even wounds; I can't just lay them passively in the hands of someone else, as spiritually luxurious as that sounds. Secondly, this longing and response -- this scenario -- is precisely (as Foucault argues) what imbalances the transaction of power: this urge of mine has elsewhere been the fulcrum for many a case of exploitation in doctor's, pastor's, and teacher's offices; and the echoes of it ring throughout our society and addle our collective brains.

Thirdly, I have to add: any time I've been near to this scenario that I say I long for, I get increasingly peevish and stubborn and whiny. I don't want to take the advice, I don't want to allow the healing touch, I don't want anyone telling me who I am. Even, and sometimes especially, with God himself. So why the urge to be so passive, when it never works out that that's what I want? I think both the urge and the counter-urge must be symptoms of the same difficulty with trust (faith, confidence) in the other. But I don't know what the answer is. Clearly the illicit dram of dependence is just that. Clearly also I should listen to God and to certain other people. It reminds me of the scene in At the Back of the North Wind in which North Wind takes Diamond to an old church and puts him on a narrow ledge: Diamond protests, frightened, at first, but at her assurances that he is as safe with her as though he were on the ground, he gradually walks across the ledge and is soon marching raucously up and down its length.

I'm also reminded of a passage in Galatians 6, that as I think about it must be directly applicable to the spiritual mentoring relationship: "Brothers, if someone is caught in a sin, you who are spiritual should restore him gently. But watch yourself, or you also may be tempted. Carry each other's burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. If anyone thinks he is something when he is nothing, he deceives himself. Each one should test his own actions. Then he can take pride in himself, without comparing himself to somebody else, for each one should carry his own load. Anyone who receives instruction in the word must share all good things with his instructor." I always used to get irritated at the apparent contradiction of "carry one another's burdens" and "each one should carry his own load"; which one is it? I wanted to scream at Paul. But I figure he was a smart man and knew what he was talking about: it's both. Not that it's not still an irritating paradox, especially if one is trying to figure out what to do in one's life. But like all paradoxes, it does do its work of counterweighting the center.

Knowing this now, I think perhaps I will make a better directee to the director I choose and who chooses me, though I shouldn't think even a successful relationship would be simple and easy. I don't know why I'm so perpetually surprised and disappointed at the complicatedness and difficulty of life; I guess the joke is on me, eh?

It's the Friday Five!

1. Would you consider yourself an organized person? Why or why not? About ten years ago now I once said: "Well, I'm not organized in body, but I'm organized in mind." My friend, to whom I was saying it, just kept shaking her head. "What?" I said. And I still say: "What?" I recently drew up my own astrological birth chart, just for kicks, and it ought to be subtitled Look For Practicality and Common Sense Elsewhere. Luckily there was Practicality and Common Sense elsewhere in the chart, or I should have thrown a fit. All of which is to say that I feel ashamed of the way my brain works and probably shouldn't: I see the big Franklin thing as a huge chore, but I think in syllogisms and write with outlines -- outlines which I draw up after the fact. Why knock it if it works? I don't know, but I do. I think it must be linked to the huge ESTJ and non-HSP chauvinism in this country. I'm going to start a political club. *heaves up portable soapbox and heads down the block*

2. Do you keep some type of planner, organizer, calendar, etc. with you, and do you use it regularly? See above characterization of the Franklin planner. As a student, I did indeed keep a planner, but in actuality I lived off loose sheets of notebook paper and post-it notes on which I scribbled my goals for the day/week/month/whatever. It worked okay, and I didn't spend 200 bucks either.

3. Would you say that your desk is organized right now? Well, considering that my bloody desk is still in bloody storage, it's pretty bloody organized in the sense that it doesn't have a bloody thing in it. Right now, the floor is my desk, and IT is a bloody nightmare. When my desk is in operation, it is organized in the drawers (which all have their designated contents) and the usual rats' nest of receipts, coins, writer's scribbles, and phone numbers on sticky notes on top.

4. Do you alphabetize CDs, books, and DVDs, or does it not matter? I do not, as James accused Terry, alphabetize my CDs. I have currently two CD racks, whose contents are divided into Christian/alternative/rock and classical/miscellaneous respectively, followed by the further classification, bottom to top, of stuff I listen to from the least to the most. Books I likewise organize by content and frequency of use. My DVD and video collection is too scanty to organize under any criteria. I own the Pride and Prejudice DVD set and, on video, Toy Story and The Princess Bride.

5. What's the hardest thing you've ever had to organize? Two words: Student Teaching. Organizing long-range lesson plans would be a lot easier if there were less people involved; and, furthermore, if I didn't have to do it. I'm well out of that. Though with this new business I'm starting, it may be a case of out of the frying-pan into the fire. Sigh. Deep sigh.

All That is Made

Today, I must add before it is over, is the feast of Lady Julian of Norwich.

For anyone who has not read Julian's Revelations of Divine Love, which is what I'm working on, here is a capsule biography of her, which encompasses pretty much all that is known about her anyway:

The Lady Julian(a) was born about 1342, and when she was thirty years old, she became gravely ill and was expected to die. Then, on the seventh day, the medical crisis passed, and she had a series of fifteen visions, or "showings," in which she was led to contemplate the Passion of Christ. These brought her great peace and joy. She became an anchoress, living in a small hut near to the church in Norwich, where she devoted the rest of her life to prayer and contemplation of the meaning of her visions. The results of her meditations she wrote in a book called Revelations of Divine Love, available in modern English in a Penguin Paperback edition. During her lifetime, she became known as a counselor, whose advice combined spiritual insight with common sense, and many persons came to speak with her. Since her death, many more have found help in her writings. The precise date of her death is uncertain.

Her book is very spiritually dense, even when translated into Modern English -- though it is also very simple and easy to understand. I highly recommend Julian to all my friends, and am very glad to celebrate her feast day.

Not Them

Our kitchen has an infestation of ants.

Not big ones, the little black ones that cluster around a crumb and break it up so that they can each carry off a piece. Dad H. is periodically spraying bug spray in the kitchen to keep their numbers down. To this I don't object, but I don't dislike ants either. In fact, I think ants get a bad rap.

It seems a number of people agree with me, judging from the twin releases of ant movies, A Bug's Life (which I've seen many times and loved), and Antz! (which I haven't seen at all). All that aside, however, I like ants for more fundamental reasons than their narrative representation; after all, A Bug's Life and Antz! haven't completely recouped the horror quotient of THEM and "Leningen vs. the Ants."

I like ants because they don't move in straight lines. They don't. Even when they're following an ant trail, they don't move in straight lines. It's as if their six legs move on three little axles that are constantly getting pulled by dips and turns in other directions. Ant lines are not bee lines; they wind around considerable obstacles, both physical and imaginary.

Ants are fastidious, cleaner than most members of the insect world. They stand on a kitchen counter in full view of a human such as myself, wiping their nearly-invisible antennae with their front legs and using other legs to wipe the rest of themselves. In the outdoors, their seemingly disorganized mound of a home seethes with ordered activity. See, this is why I like ants: they don't move in straight lines and they don't look organized, but they're clean and they get the job done all the same.

And they're cute. There, I said it. But not, I hasten to say, when they're squirming in your mouth. I once picked up a piece of old Christmas rock candy and popped it into my mouth, only to find that something was moving and it wasn't my tongue. I spit out the candy to discover that I'd also popped a large black ant into my mouth. It looked rather disgusted and disoriented at being covered with my saliva. Well, I kinda felt the same way, so I didn't feel too sorry for him.

On the other hand, as a child I used to stir up red ant hills just to watch them panic, and meanwhile try to get them to walk on a twig I was holding. So maybe the ant-in-the-mouth adventure was karmic payback.

I dunno.

The Awe of Power

Arriving home I see the trees have been barbered,
And some have been butchered:
Leaves and twigs like green confetti in the street
After some raucous party in the grey sky.

Seeing this destruction, I expect I should feel dismayed,
But somehow I never do. The car swerves slowly around a tree
Lying felled across the road. Things have fallen, artlessly,
And it seems almost a shame that they will be picked up.

Watching a storm, from afar or from within, I keep my eyes
Wide open, loath to miss anything. The dark grey smudge of rain
Pouring from that cloud on the horizon, or the swirling green of the cloud over my house:
"Someone's going to get it, even if it's not us," I say,

And as I do there is a thrum in the cells of my body, and I must admit
That the feeling is not unpleasant. Far from it:
The rattle of rain driven against glass is the sound of holiday.
The weatherman broadcasting extended minutes of colorful Doppler screens

As I sip my coffee curled before the television: an unexpected recess.
Would my tune change, I wonder, if it were me with the demolished house?
Would I still feel the surge of holiday? or would I clench my fists and scream at the sky
As I see the man on TV doing? Or the woman in the newspaper photograph,

Embracing a friend and crying amidst rubble: is she mocked by me,
Smiling like a child out the window as the wind shakes trees like shaman's leaf-bundles,
Seeing it all as a ghost-dance rather than a flogging, or worse,
Duly attending the medieval beheading, munching on my oily drumstick,

Catcalling to the condemned with the rest of the crowd? I am
No less human, I suppose, supposing this were true. The abandon
With which I embrace the rushing storm would be innocent, I think,
Were there no cost to be paid in pain by someone else.

Wishing I were an island and that Donne was wrong, I nevertheless
Am unwilling to quite relinquish my grasp on the main, and so
I tread two worlds of feeling when the storm comes: the hum
Of excitement and the tingle of vicarious horror, until it be
My turn to suffer.

Not Gerard Manley Hopkins by a Long Shot

Yes, instead of something called "The Blessed Virgin Mary Compared to the Air We Breathe," Ink and Penwipers brings you "The Dearth of Blogging as Mental Constipation." I mean, it's not as if I don't have anything to talk about. So let's just make the inventory of subjects now, shall we?

Family: Went to Tulsa this past weekend to watch my sister graduate from ORU. Jessica and I have become connoisseurs (or should it be connoisseuses?) of graduation ceremonies, so adding this one to our collection was interesting, to say the least. The crush afterward was horrendous; I lost Jessica once and almost lost myself despite having grown up going to the Mabee Center, so when I found Jessica I decided we would go out to the car and wait to see J there. And sure enough, after a time Mom and J came out to the car and I got to wish her congratulations. She is now the proud possessor of a degree in New Testament Theology: and she worked very hard for it too. My deepest congratulations, J.

Tulsa: Hasn't changed much in six months. I felt no weirdness driving around town; I may as well have visited Tulsa every weekend since I left.

The Weather: Unusual supercell storms escaped from Kansas into Missouri yesterday, spawning numerous bad tornadoes and killing people. Northern Springfield got away unscathed, but (I hear) Rivendell lost its garage in the storm that obliterated downtown Stockton. The people at Rivendell are safe, thanks be to God; and I hope that the cleanup task will be smaller than anticipated, both there and elsewhere.

Manchild: About killed me with laughter last night. Terry offers to put James up while his flat is repaired, and is treated to a hilarious invasion of his "cave". Terry's anal selfishness is subjected to all sorts of indignities, like James's irritating way of making friends with all the neighbors (whose names Terry doesn't even know), and his method of cooking (nude). He also waters the plants in the nude, labels food in the refrigerator, bonds with Terry's girlfriend over a movie, and accuses Terry of snoring. ("Bollocks to you!" "Bollocks to you too!") A very funny and sweet follow-up to the disaster that was Dirty Dixon.

My Fic: Knocked off work on Chapter 12 this past week to give my mental strength to dealing with the Tulsa trip. Worked instead on a certain scene that will happen later in the fic. Found it very relaxing and enjoyable, though I shall be very red-faced when it comes time to post it. Ah well.

Work: Am now selling Mary Kay. Bit scared, but excited at the prospect of working for myself. Plus, the products totally rule, and I couldn't sell something I didn't like and use.

Oh how very exciting this all is. Sorry, everyone. *off to find lunch*