Casey

This is Casey. She is performing her infamous Batbird trick.

She was hatched in April of '99, and she died this afternoon.

I knew she was sick. Mom told me she was taking her to the vet. She died on the way. Just lay down in the back of the box and closed her eyes. I guess that's the way to go, if you have to. Quick and easy.

Birds are quite a bit smarter than we give them credit for. Frankly, I've always suspected our cockatiels were smarter than our dogs. But that's neither here nor there.

Casey's personality can be summed up in one reference. Years ago, we briefly got my mother into the original Sims. She created a house and a family using us and our pets.

Casey was an angry black woman.

She loved my mother. Loooooooooooved her. She knew the way from the family room (where her cage was) to the den (where Mom worked on her projects), and if Mom didn't bring her in, then by God she'd get there herself. She'd hop to the floor and walk right down the hall and into the correct room, where she would scream until lifted up.

She never had much patience for me. Maybe she viewed me as competition. She had a love/hate relationship with my pet, Gabby (for whom my iPod is named) and maybe that transferred to me. If you think birds can't differentiate between people...Casey had a specific sound she made whenever she saw me.

It sounded a lot like ewwwwwwwwwww.

"Good morning, Casey."

"Ewwwwwww."

Walk by the cage: "Ewwwwwwwww."

She did not dig me. That was fine; I stayed away. She was a small bird, but to annoy her was to risk your own hide.

At one point, Mom was visiting her parents in Tarzana. We were speaking online and I told her Casey was moping.

"She needs to be cuddled," Mom said.

Ha, ha, ha. The hands of mere plebeians like myself would never touch the almighty Casey.

Then something changed.

The first time I came home after Gabby died, Casey actually leaped to the side of the cage to greet me. She hung out with me the entire week I was there - not a single ewwwwwww, just genuine affection. We puzzled over it, then and now. The only explanation anyone's come up with is that she simply associated me with Gabby, and maybe she missed her pal.

Or maybe she sensed I was upset and was just containing the ewwwws because she knew she had to repair her karma after years of terrorizing the parakeets. Who knows.

She never treated me with such friendliness again, but from thereafter there was a truce between us. She made the move down to San Diego, generally refrained from hissing at me unless I really bugged her, and even looked pleased to see me in the mornings when I uncovered her.

I think I liked her because she didn't like me. She was her own bird, plain and simple. Just a real personality.

Our other cockatiel, Sydney, is/was desperately in love with her. We have video of him attempting to woo her with his atrocious version of "Bette Davis Eyes." At points Casey looks at the camera, as if to say "Uh, help?" He never lets up. It's charming. Also, incredibly annoying.

Syd knew something was up this morning. He didn't bother her at all, which is unlike him.

There is another thing. My departed friend, Gabby, is the one who taught Casey how to speak (by "taught" I mean Casey mimicked her). Casey hasn't said much in recent years, but every now and then "pretty bird" slipped out, and I knew where she picked it up.

She was a link to Gabby, I guess. Gabby was my special girl. And now Gabby and Casey are gone.

Getting off-topic...

So. Our pack number diminishes yet again. It has not been a good year for my family. We've lost relatives and pets...it's just been...a lot...it always stings, to lose someone, but Casey is sadly the latest slap 2009 has taken at us. Lest anyone think I'm complaining, please note I'm not. It's just been a shit year for us. Thanksgiving is going to be bittersweet.

I'm off to bed. I hope she doesn't haunt me. The last thing I need is to wake up with a shadowy yellow figure whispering ewwwwwwwwwwww in my ear.

Rest in peace, pretty bird. Say hi to Gabby for me.

Dippers

I went to a party in Newport last night.

I will spare you all the intricate, behind-the-scenes drama (involving exes, shared friends, and general ridiculousness). My gal pal and I got there around eight. Drinking and eating commenced.

At some point there was a hot tub excursion. I found myself forced into a borrowed swimsuit and all but shoved in (I must admit, it was quite nice); watched all manner of weirdness, and then climbed out around 12 because dammit, I was tired.

I remember climbing onto a couch (after drying off and changing, of course - I'm not that inconsiderate) and dozing off for awhile. People came and went. I think someone nodded off at the pool table.

At five, I roused myself enough to drive home. I was sober at that point, just very tired. They start ticketing at seven or eight in Newport, and if I went back to sleep I wouldn't be able to get up to move the car in time. So we headed up to the beachfront parking lot to head back to Orange.

And we stood there.

With 98% of the Newport residents either asleep or respectably passed out, it was very quiet and very, very dark. All the stars were out, shining down on a black void that I certainly hope was the ocean (if it wasn't, well, we've got bigger problems than 2012). The surf crashed in the background.

"Look," my gal pal said, "I can see the Dippers!"

I live in a well-lit area. I haven't seen the Dippers since...I don't remember when.

We held very still for a few seconds, just taking it all in.

"Those parties aren't fun anymore," she said.

"No," I agreed. I'd been thinking that the majority of the night. It's always good to see the pals, but something...something was off. Something was different.

Maybe it's me.

Still, standing out there with just the darkness and the ocean, reminded that there is still true beauty in the world, made me think the evening, while flawed, was completely worth it.

Deep (or not) Thoughts

I am relaxing on the couch, watching The Office and 30 Rock.

In The Office, Dunder-Mifflin is facing bankruptcy. This is something of a familiar subject to me. Source Interlink was having nightmarish money problems in the months leading up to my layoff. The sensible thing to happen at The Office is to start taking out characters left and right...I doubt that'll happen. They will Find A Way.

Source didn't. And I was laid off.

It's strange for me to be at a company that's doing well, where joblessness isn't around every corner (well, it is in my head, but that's just me). I just got so used to impending doom that normalcy is...I don't know...unnatural?

I guess I'm getting a bit introspective because it's That Time of Year, where you reflect on what's gone on and what might yet come. I haven't decided what 2009 will go down as. A lot has changed for me this year.

Sorry. This entry got off-track. I am not much more deep thoughts, really; I prefer to see the humor in life and chuckle my way through it. Sometimes that's not possible. But sitting here contemplating everything that's gone on this year is spooking me just a bit. As recently as five months ago I imagined I'd be spending my November in San Diego with my parents. The day before my interview I'd taken a bunch of boxes down to their house - preparing to move back in after my lease was up. I love my parents very much. I think we'd have made the best of the situation.

Yet here I am, sitting on Cleveland - the couch I bought myself (and his companion chair, Quagmire) - with my feet propped up on the coffee table, still in the apartment I loved enough to stay in after a former roommate's family bought her a house.

For tonight, anyway, I count myself very lucky.

(Random insane rants will return tomorrow, I'm sure.)

(I FUCKING LOVE COMMAS!)

Feh

I hate those nights where I become so embroiled in a campaign that I forget what time it is. Invariably, by the time I glance at the clock, it's too late to beat the traffic.

Sigh.

Anyway, I'm posting from work at six PM because I don't feel like battling traffic. Or much of anything else. Sadly, there isn't much to do out here; no bookstores or libraries to kill time in, and I don't really feel like overloading on caffeine from Starbucks at this hour. So I sit. And twiddle my thumbs. I guess I could head to Quizno's and get lunch for tomorrow...

I find it mildly infuriating that I could spend hours sitting in traffic to go seven miles...or zip down the five to San Diego and eat dinner with my parents. By the time I hit the typical problem areas in SD, it'll be cleared up.

Hmmm.

(I won't do it. It'll mean another insane drive in the morning.)

Feh. I'll just start bringing stuff to Bucks with me, I guess. Right now I'll limp home.

Serendipity

Today is my ex's birthday.

We haven't spoken for a year. I didn't wish him happy birthday last November. I certainly have no intention of wishing him one this year (in case you didn't realize, it was a bad ending [okay, several bad endings]).

But it's his birthday today. It occurred to me while I was out for a walk.

I turned on South Park when I got back. It's "Kenny Dies." There's a particularly rousing moment where Cartman convinces Congress to overturn a ban on stem cell research...via a musical rendition of "Heat of the Moment."

We watched that episode together and agreed on the absolute awesomeness of that song. Somehow, we decided it would be our song. We didn't decide whether it was the South Park version or the official recording from Asia. I believe they were interchangeable.

And so it was.

It proved sadly fortuitous ("I never meant to be so bad to you/One thing I thought that I would never do"), but that's another story. My life's been much better without him in it. Still, whenever we heard this song we'd smile, whether we were fighting or getting along.

Just seems odd that the song comes up on this day, of all days.

I'm still not calling him.

But the song played, and I smiled.

I guess that's something.

Good morning

Got into San Diego last night. My uncle is visiting so I'm sleeping on the living room couch (which is actually remarkably comfortable). The dog, as is her habit, turncoated and hung out with me.

This was of great relief to the uncle, who said she'd been following him around the last two days.

This afternoon we're seeing 2012; after that, who knows.

NaNo is a lost cause. It's all right. At some point I'll want to write again, but I don't think this is the point in my life to push it and then feel guilty when I can't bring myself to do it. On the plus side, I do want to start working on my other tales again; Lusitania and Escapist are completed novels that need work.

Maybe I can spend the rest of '09 in editing mode, then hop into writing mode in 2010...oh, let's hope.

Coffee and cereal for breakfast. My uncle and mother are discussing religion and what it does to people. The knee feels much better; I'm just going to relax this weekend and not go sprinting around. Let the damn thing heal.

Suz vs The Desk

I declare a vendetta.

This desk I am in hates me, and it has lashed out for the last time.

There is some kind of support beam running underneath it. The support beam is made of metal. It's got an edge that is not exactly soft and fluffy. This desk is foolishly designed in such a way that anyone over five feet tall is doomed to bang their knees against the support beam at one time or another.

This happened to me yesterday.

There I was, minding my own business, editing one page or another. I turned to write something down.

SCHUNK!

I loosed a series of profanities that miraculously only reached the ears of one writer, who politely asked if I was all right.

I staggered away.

I've hit my knees on the damn thing before, but this was a bad one. The bruising isn't too bad, but no amount of icing could keep it from puffing up overnight. Hence I'm wearing my comfy pants, which are ragged and huge and probably shouldn't be seen outside my apartment.

I can generally walk on it now. Stairs present a problem.

Trying to blame the general stupor I've been in today on last night's pills, but I'm wondering if I haven't come down with a bit of a virus, too. Did everything I could to keep from catching the flu that went around, and I think I'm in the clear as far as that goes...but after the pummeling the immune system doubtlessly took, it wouldn't surprise me if something's cropped up.

Anyway, back to the desk.

It has roused my ire, and therefore it's going to pay. As of yet, I do not have any clue how to make a construct of fake wood and metal bow to my will (or at least apologize for being an asshole) but I'm open to ideas.

Or, you know, chainsaws.

Deep Thoughts

I can't take credit for this one. It's the one part of Don Quixote that has stayed with me since high school:

I have lived nearly fifty years, and I have seen life as it is. Pain, misery, hunger... cruelty beyond belief. I have heard the singing from taverns and the moans from bundles of filth on the streets. I have been a soldier and seen my comrades fall in battle... or die more slowly under the lash in Africa. I have held them in my arms at the final moment. These were men who saw life as it is, yet they died despairing. No glory, no gallant last words... only their eyes filled with confusion, whimpering the question: "Why?" I do not think they asked why they were dying, but why they had lived. When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies? Perhaps to be too practical is madness. To surrender dreams - this may be madness. To seek treasure where there is only trash. Too much sanity may be madness. And maddest of all, to see life as it is and not as it should be.

Nanourgh

I don't believe in writer's block.

Let me amend that. I can usually "write through" something - either through journal entries or just pounding out chapter after chapter. Eventually, the funk fades out.

Except this month, of course.

I've done NaNoWriMo every year since 2002. I bombed in 2004 when there was a joint boyfriend/family fiasco wrecking my chi. Every other year, it's been a total peach. The stories I churn out might need work, but they're not tooth-pullingly painful processes.

I may have to drop it this year. Too much going on, the brain does not want to write, everything feels forced.

I have a handful of stories - completed novels - that are done. When I finish a book, I convince myself it's terrible and needs tons of rewriting to ever be digestible. So...I toss them aside (well, set them gently under the bed) and forget about them.

There's a couple that really, really aren't bad. One of which I left with a pal for months and have never come back to...

Man. Maybe this is my brain's way of telling me to focus on those stories for awhile. At least say, yes, they are ready to go out into the world. Maybe then the writing voodoo will return.

Or maybe I'm just kidding myself. It wouldn't be the first time.

Book bitching

I now have 3,000+ words on my little space opera, which still needs a name.

Hooray.

In the meantime, I'm trying to figure out what, precisely, is bothering me about the books I read. Mild spoilers ahead.

The latest novel I picked up, Xombies: Apocalypse Blues (by Walter Greatshell) is what prompted the discussion. The cover art looks cool (though it has nothing to do with the book; the heroine is a flat-chested 17yo, the girl on the cover looks like Shiri Appleby, boobs and all - also, WTF is the Queen Mary doing there? So far they're in a submarine off the East Coast. I guess it's possible the Mary shows up later, but so far it's just WTF). The book's not bad. The writing is just...off. It sounds like an adult male trying to sound like a 17yo female and failing. There's just little things here and there. I used to be 17. I am female, despite my tomboy tendencies. We don't talk or think like that.

The narration itself is jarring. Greatshell does get it right now and then, but then he pulls back and just...screws with my head again, I guess. Oh, and there's an entire page where the dialogue is in ALL CAPS because THEY ARE TALKING THROUGH BULLHORNS. I'm sorry. When did this become acceptable in publication? I DO NOT NEED A PAGE OF ALL CAPS, THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

Oh. Yeah. It's another zombie book. Whatever. Some of them are fun. Most of them are ass, but some are fun.

Earth Abides is a classic - minus the zombies. I generally enjoyed reading it, except for the hero, Ish.

How can I explain Ish? Ish struck me as cold. I couldn't feel anything for him as a character. I'm not sure if this was intentional (he is described as a scholar, never great with people) or if it's just a failure of characterization. The only person he really, consistently shows warmth to is his wife, Em, whom he thinks of as "mother of nations." He loves what she represents, rather than her. He shows little to no interest in his children, save Joey, who he sees as smart and possibly the savior of mankind.

(Mankind, or what's left of it, needs a savior because Ish & co reproduced too damn fast and all their children don't want to learn to read or write or do 'rithmatic. I guess my point is, Ish is more interested in mankind progressing than life itself.)

There is no real point to this entry. If I were a responsible blogger I'd point out what I do differently, but I haven't had my morning coffee yet...so that's not going to happen. :)

OhNoNaNo

I've participated in NaNoWriMo since 2002. I've won every year except 2004, where there were extenuating circumstances (bad breakup, family trouble, etc.), with a variety of stories and genres.

(By "win" I mean "hit 50,000 words" - I didn't really win anything, although I've made friends.)

Even last year, in the midst of a truly hellish work environment, I kicked out 60,000+ words on Shadow of Erebus, a supernatural Arctic adventure...

So why is this year so hard?

I sat down today and churned out two thousand words on The Mortal Coil and just sat there hating every moment of it. I hadn't given myself permission to stop because I'm not a quitter; I saw some glimpses of the story I wanted to tell, but the rest of it...blegh. It just wasn't working. The few good words I was getting in October stood alone.

A couple of hours ago I started on something new. Just a silly sci fi story. Chapter one is a jailbreak. Bam, two thousand words.

This one has more of a plotline to work from - I at least know where I'm sending my characters - though I don't know much beyond it. Anyway, it seems fun and breezy and not at all the downer that Mortal Coil was turning into...and maybe I need something fun and happy to work on.

(Last year's novel, Shadow of Erebus, was about as dark and depressing a story as I've ever written. It's a sequel to another dark, depressing story...maybe I've just been in a funk?)

It has no title. The characters are using "borrowed" names until I figure out what to call them. It's definitely space opera, as opposed to hard sf (which I find utterly boring). Typical lightspeed, dashing to planets, banking in space type stuff. Haven't decided if they use lasers or missiles yet. No lightsabers, but that's only because George Lucas would sue me.

On that note, if turbolasers really existed, I'd mount a set on my car and clear the 55 each morning. It would make for a more pleasant commute.

Oh, reLAX

Let me sum up my week:

"What do you mean, you landed at fucking LAX?!"

(This was preceded by, "Omigod, we landed at fucking LAX!")

There are a couple of pluses to being abruptly freed from picking up my darling, lovely old pal from the airport, chief among them "Great! Now I can watch The Office and 30 Rock! And get my writing done!"

True, there was an event I actually wanted to go to at 7, but this gal is my closest, oldest pal, and she's having a tough time, and I thought, sure, I'll pick her up at John Wayne and we'll get dinner and it will be awesome.

Except she flew into LAX.

And we both knew there was no way I was battling 405 to get to her when her mother lives, like, right next to the airport and...

And so I drove home.

Here I am, eating a truly disgusting Lean Cuisine Mac n'cheese and thinking I've really been a step behind this entire week. Not sure if I should blame it on the sickness floating around the office, or allergies, or the time change...oh, crap, used the serial comma....

It's funny. I'm laughing.

I'll be glad when the weekend comes, though.

Other news: I think I'm just barely keeping pace with Nano. Still no plot. I have more of a plot than I did before, but...not a real one.

Neda

I heard about Neda over the summer.

I managed to avoid the actual video. Until tonight.

Thought it was something else. Click. Oh hell no. Am I seeing this. I'm seeing this.

She was my age. I just saw her die.

I feel like something just cracked in me.

Numbers

So, 'tis November first, and NaNoWriMo has begun.

I have 4,320 on The Mortal Coil, which means by midnight of Dec. 1 I need 54,320.

A year ago this would have been easy.

I guess we'll see...