Thursday, November 25, 2004

Turkey Coma

An easy, no-trauma, no drama day. Went to Hamunaptra to have the famous feast with the MIL et al, at one of the many clubs peppering the location. The meal was...adequate. Nothing was bad, and nothing was memorable. Didn't eat so much as to feel stuffed, and had no leftovers, thus no turkey induced coma. I haven't prepared a Thanksgiving meal in perhaps 3 years now. It feels a little odd, sometimes, when I reflect on it, but I do not have a large group of friends all displaced from their families, and now the little bits of family I do have are all nearby.

So, we had a mediocre dinner. Conversation was light, as is to be expected. Got into a slightly political post-dinner discussion about immigrants -- US (mis) treatment of legal immigrants vs illegal immigrants gaining access to benefits, which ended quickly by abandoning the table. I felt very strange about it, since I'd brought up the topic and Husband was about to start arguing with Mil's Sister (the "al" in "et al" above, "et" being Husband's godmother). I was nudging his leg under the table, as I heard the tones -- no one was going to be convinced of anything other than what they already believed, and there was nothing to be gained in a fight to be right. That's something Husband has not yet learned. I prefer to let such conversations die.

Went to MIL's house, changed clothes, Husband did a few little chores while I tormented MIL's cat (a highly tormentable creature -- walking into the room can send her into a hissy fit. Looking at her twice can incure spitting and scratching. It wasn't like I put a lot of effort into irritating this cat. Mostly I breathed.) Came home, listening to NPR and a Bailey White Thanksgiving short story in the van. Came home, settled into the bedroom, and now I'm here.

It was a day without much detail. Oh, there are details. I'm going through a collection of foriegn coins MIL has, mostly South American, most pre-1965, with unfamiliar shapes, metals, colors, symbols, and words I only half recognize (my high school Latin comes in handy here). One coin is dated 1884, and is worn and stained enough to back it up. Jay's godmother gave me some old jewelry she doesn't want, including a beautiful faceted garnet bead bracelet pair that, from appearances, must date back to the 1930's. Some of the strands are broken and I promised to make something for her from the loose beads. There is a large garnet set in the clasp, a dark, jelly clear stone in fogged and darkened metal (gold? electroplate? I can't tell until I clean it.) there are also three amethysts, all nearly matched, with more blue in the purple than I've ever seen, each one about the size of the pad on my index finger. There was a strand of begger beads, and some weird ones called "cat's eyes" which LOOK like yellow bakelite set with seashell "eyes" -- definately of late 20's/early 30's vintage.

I just don't write the details in here. I gloss over things in my life here, unless I'm lecturing. I puzzle over that. When I'm writing fiction, I love the details. I can happily plunder the concrete image then. But nothing in my actual life, in my day-to-day doings, seems to merit that kind of attention.

I can't imagine anyone sitting down to read about it. So I skip and I gloss and when I read back over the record of my days, they blur together, smeary and indiscinct, as if nothing really happens and nothing really matters.

Tomorrow the painting begins in earnest. Everything is marshalled for the effort. By Saturday, furniture should be in place, curtains up, and everything but the new book cases put in a lasting home. Once all that is done, I am out of excuses. I must start writing.

I've been all about the excuses for not writing. I'm not comfortable, I don't have a space, I don't have the right mood, I get interrupted, I get disturbed, I get distracted, the space bar and the B key on my laptop aren't working right, I don't have any idea where my half-written stories are going...blah blah blah. So, I've set a goal and after that, no more excuses. Either I write or I don't. Turkey coma notwithstanding.

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