You are welcome to use both the photo and the Haiga, but please credit Cara Hartley/Ornery Owl and provide a link back to this blog.
The photo was taken on 7 May 2017 at the Denver Aquarium restaurant. My son and I were celebrating his 27th birthday (which actually falls on May 8) and Mother's Day. It's a wonderful day that I'll always remember.
This will be a long post, so if you only came for the poetry, this is your stop!
Today is my son's thirtieth birthday. It is also Friday Flashback day. So I am leaving the notes from last year when I wrote the post.
Last year at this time, my son, his dad, and I were in the process of trying to get things in order to purchase the property that my son says is his literal dream house. I often say that I'm a pretty useless excuse for a person and pretty much a waste of oxygen and skin cells, but I am the one who found the house, so I have done two good things in this life. I brought my son into the world, which he sometimes may not think is such a great thing as it has been a bit of an uphill fight for him given that he lives with anxiety, high-functioning autism, and major depression in a society that demands a very rigid degree of impossible perfection and an ability to play by certain rigid rules.
This is the house, and you can well believe that I nearly peed myself when I saw that this property was being sold for $90,000. We had just finished looking at a very "meh" three-bedroom townhome in southeast Denver that cost $240,000 and kicking the worst real estate agent ever to the curb. Thanks for sucking, Matt. You did us a huge favor.
If you're interested in seeing just what this clown did, you can read this post.
I'd like to thank Xenia, the real estate agent we had prior to Matt, for sucking too. Rather than being a professional and telling us that she wasn't the right real estate agent for us, she did the bad high school break-up thing, hung up on me, and refused to return my calls. It was very unprofessional. Note that we didn't do anything wrong to her, we were always polite. We were looking for land, and she only wanted to sell upscale properties in Denver. Also, note that she approached us first, touting her abilities as a real estate agent.
We instead ended up with Jason Wadsworth, who is a fantastic real estate agent. If you are ever interested in buying a property in Northern Colorado, Jason is your go-to guy. He can be reached at jwadsworth@remax.net
I am glad that my son's dream house is now a reality. There has been a lot of work done on it, and more still needs to be done. We are also still tackling the nightmare that is my old mobile home and hope to have it on the market this summer. I will be extremely happy when it's gone.
I couldn't end this post without giving a shout-out to Ghost Town Grover and Cactus Clem. I hope to be giving more attention to their adventures once the whole trailer mess has been wrangled.
The Hokku (Haiku) stanza of the poem was written by Yosa Buson (1716 - 1784). The Akegu (closing) stanza was written by me.
I have never felt that I belonged in this world. When I was younger, I always hoped I'd find people I belonged with. There have been a few where I feel like they put up with me to a degree or felt sympathy for me, but I have never had a sense of finding my "tribe." The only person I'm really at all close with is my son. I tend to form only very superficial relationships with other people.
Dinners with my mother are perilous and fraught with small talk. She has never approved of any of my choices, and she knows almost nothing about what is really transpiring in my life.
I am not at all close with the other members of my family. I would not recognize most of them if I passed them in the street.
At this point in my life, I do not wish to party and socialize. I have one friend whom I confide in via email, and that means a lot. This friend lives a few thousand miles away from me, so it isn't as if we could get together for coffee.
I have felt a degree of understanding and acceptance from the people participating in this little Tan Renga challenge, which I usually don't get a sense of during such challenges.
I usually feel as if I am an outsider who has crashed a party when participating in blog hops, and the general sense is "what is that freak doing here at our exclusive soiree?" Some of the blog hops I participate in are very focused on clothing and fashion although other sorts of posts are allowed, and if you don't think I'm an absolute outlier when it comes to fashion, you don't know me at all. I can't afford nice clothes or even new clothes, and I look like an unmade bed most of the time.
One would think that I would feel more at home with creative blog hops, but I usually don't. I've been surprised by the feeling of peace I've gained participating in this one. Maybe it's just that no-one has attacked me yet. Hopefully, we can do without that happening this time.
The Inevitable Legalese and Other Blah-Blah
Content copyright 2019 - 2020 by Cara Hartley
Please do not repost
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Sharing a link to the post is acceptable.
Quoting portions of the post for educational or review purposes is acceptable if proper credit is given.
It is my hope to back away from apologizing for who I am and instead explain about myself so that those I interact with might develop an understanding of those of us who are wired differently.
I have type 2 bipolar disorder and ADD as well as complex PTSD and OCD. I wasn't properly diagnosed with bipolar disorder or OCD until I was almost 40. I didn't know I had ADD until I was in my 50s. I was just always scolded for being forgetful and distracted. I have always vacillated between being Ms. Wonderful and being that flakey a-hole that everyone hates. I understand why it happens now, but I can't change the past. I wish people would try to understand me a little better, but I'm not going to hold my breath.
My son will be 30 this year. He is high-functioning autistic and has ADHD as well as anxiety issues and major depression. He is very intelligent and has read the entire Amber series (Roger Zelazny), much of Tolkien's writing, The Count of Monte Cristo, the works of C.S. Lewis, and the list goes on, but he can't learn from a textbook to save his life. I think the current educational system does a very poor job of addressing the needs of those who are not neurotypical.
I technically also have a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder, but it is my opinion that borderline personality disorder is actually a form of complex PTSD and is an outdated and sexist diagnosis. It is almost exclusively applied to girls and women. Everyone who has it has endured some form of trauma, whether physical, psychological, sexual or a combination thereof.
I know nobody gives a flying toss about my notes, but since I'm pretty sure no-one will read this post anyway, what do I care?
I am recovering from a mental breakdown and from a TIA. I am trying to move back in the direction of writing what I want to write rather than what I think will make money. My health is precarious and I don't really know how long I have left on this planet. I worry like hell about developing vascular dementia. I'm not too worried about Alzheimer's because there isn't a history of that on either side of my family. My father had vascular dementia. My aunt on my mother's side probably had Lewy body dementia, although nothing was ever really confirmed. Hers seemed to onset more quickly than Alzheimer's tends to, although I have a feeling she was hiding her memory lapses until she couldn't anymore.
The TIAs I have had exacerbate my ADD. I don't have any short-term memory loss, but there is a change in my cognition. I blame this most recent episode on not having adequate insulin (thanks, Medicaid). My P.A. changed up my prescription so hopefully, this won't happen again. It probably could have been changed sooner but she was on maternity leave, and I am reluctant to see another provider. It is critical that I have a provider who treats me with respect and looks at numbers such as A1C, blood glucose, blood pressure and triglycerides (all things I'm taking medications for) as opposed to focusing on the damn number on the scale, which only triggers episodes of self-loathing and restrictive eating. Anyone who thinks that shaming large people (or anyone else) reinforces positive behavior is dead wrong. All that sort of behavior does is makes people avoid seeking medical care for fear of being shamed.
I write a segment called Henry and Henry for the Fetch universe. Henry is my female protagonist Pepper's beloved cat, who passes away suddenly. He is modeled after my Lafayette.
Henry Kalmar is the spirit of a flamboyant, openly gay New Orleans blues musician who commits suicide on the tenth anniversary of his beloved half-sister's death. Henry is modeled after Lafayette Reynolds, my favorite character in the show True Blood. Lafayette was the namesake for my Lafayette. He was played by the very talented Nelsan Ellis, who died on 8 July 2017 at the age of 39 from complications of alcohol withdrawal. Nelsan's sister Alice was murdered by her husband in 2002. This was something that Nelsan never got over.
Nelsan attempted to stop using alcohol on his own because he was ashamed to seek help for his addiction. This, unfortunately, created deadly complications. Here we have an example of how shaming people for addiction doesn't work. If shame worked, there would be no addicts, no fat people, and no smokers. I repeat that shaming doesn't work, it only makes people reluctant to seek medical care for fear of being shamed by ignorant health "care" providers.
I adopted my Lafayette's half-sister or cousin Tara at the same time that I adopted Lafayette. I suspect that both of them were very inbred. They came from the same feral colony. Both of them had to have most of their teeth removed because of feline stomatitis. Lafayette had problems with his fur falling out and scabby skin which I attributed to a grain allergy and began feeding him grain-free food which seemed to help somewhat. I later misattributed some of the signs of system failure to a return of the feline stomatitis and assumed that he would need the rest of his teeth removed. I had no idea, and I will go to my grave blaming myself for being so wrapped up in working that I missed critical signs. I will never forgive myself.
Henry the Cat meets Henry Kalmar in the Dreamlands, and together they become part of the team trying to save the Cosmos from an ultimate threat headed by Nyarlathotep, the smartest and trickiest of the Outer Gods. This ragtag group of reluctant heroes also includes a snarky Swedish spectre, a benevolent Yithian, a sweet-natured but foul-mouthed Scotsman who departs his cognitively impaired body at night to join the fight, a terminally ill British prog-rock icon, and a couple of good-natured ghouls.
I let the story languish for five years in favor of attempting to write stuff that I believed would sell. It didn't, and I'm not going to back-burner my beloved project any longer. Would I like for it to have an audience? Sure, I suppose, but sometimes knowing that other people are watching prevents me from unleashing my creativity. So, whatever.
Generally speaking, I am not the kind of person that other people gravitate to. I have kind of a prickly, defensive personality from years of having to defend myself, what do you know? I can count on one hand the people who will respond to this post, and I thank you in advance.
sometimes the ones who leave home invite the parents to stay
living in harmony--
the sparrow has
both parents! will the parents be able to live in harmony too?
on the tip of the
newly sprouted bamboo...
a baby sparrow a small and innocent thing in a world without a heart ~Issa and Cie~
Notes:
The Hokku stanzas in these Tan Renga verses were composed by Kobayashi Issa (June 15, 1763 – January 5, 1828). The Akegu stanzas were written by me.
The Akegu in the last three verses are references to my son, without whose kindness I would be homeless. The property he bought will eventually also become home to his father who is currently living in Arizona helping his own father. When his father passes, he will sell the place in Arizona and move here.
We were divorced in 1994 when our son was four years old, and we have lived in roommate situations since then, although I was always relieved when he moved on to something else if I am honest. That probably won't happen this time, due to compromises in his health as well as mine. However, this is a big enough place that we should be able to keep from killing each other.
This Senryu was partly inspired by the image and partly by the song "In Joy and Sorrow", which was written by my fellow black dog attendant, Ville Valo.
Some people with mood disorders take medications.
Those of us who don't respond well to medications write bleak a.f. poetry.
Anyone who knows me knows that I love Jimi Hendrix, even though I was only five years old when he died.
I actually didn't discover Jimi's music until I was twelve. My parents weren't keen for him. They had records by The Beatles, Bob Dylan, The Doors, and The Rolling Stones, all of whom I loved, but no Hendrix.
Jimi Hendrix was a hero to me, not that I thought I'd ever be able to play the guitar like he did. He was a true poet, and he was true to himself. He had a certain confidence which I knew I'd never have.
I may live to regret being open about this (I usually live to regret being open about things) but my brother and I once had a chat with Jimi Hendrix via the Ouija board. He was very cool. Know right now that I'm not going to argue about this. You don't think it happened and think it was just our subconscious, fine. Maybe that's so. I think it happened, and it was a great moment in my life.
I think Jimi wouldn't mind if I were to answer his song lyrics with a poem of my own.
Well she’s walking through the clouds
With a circus mind
That’s running wild
Butterflies and zebras and moonbeams
And fairly tales
That’s all she ever thinks about
Riding the wind
When I’m sad she comes to me
With a thousand smiles
She gives to me free
It’s alright, she says
It’s alright
Take anything you want from me
Anything
Fly on, little wing
-- Jimi Hendrix (1967)
For the big brother I never had in this life, here's my answer to your poem.
I remember that girl
Circus mind, running wild
A heart that believed in fairy tales
She wasn't as bad as everyone made her believe
Wild child with her head in the clouds
Who just wanted everything to be a beautiful dream
Her dreams became nightmares
As the world was revealed to be hard and uncaring
And she realized that the songs must come from somewhere else
First, I went with a Tan Renga for this one. The Haiku stanza was written by Jane Reichhold (1937 - 2016) and the Ageku stanza was created by me. I liked the contrast between the quiet of the chirping crickets and the powerful sound of prairie thunder.
I have not heard the sound of prairie thunder yet. My son told me that it sounds like the sky is coming down.
This is my son. This picture was taken around his 28th birthday at the Denver Botanic Garden.
He is the reason we are moving to the Grover Hotel, although, in fairness, I'm the one who found the listing.
And now for our moving horror story. There will be more bitching to come.
My son had the idea that we should move him and the cats to the new place a day before the scheduled move. That way I could be in the townhome to direct the movers and he would be at the new place when they arrived.
Good plan, except these clowns slagged us off.
I suppose I ought to tell the sorry tale from the start.
I filled out a form on one of those "find a contractor" sites describing the work we needed done and was contacted by All My Sons moving company. I'd seen their trucks around. I think they are only in the U.S. but they might be in Canada too. So people in North America, I warn you, do not arrange to have All My Sons do your move. It is one fiasco after another, and if I had only looked on Yelp beforehand, I would have kept looking. Most of their reviews are one star.
First, they arranged for an evaluator to meet with us. I even confirmed the appointment with her.
She never showed up. I called the office. They apologized and said somehow I had been removed from her schedule. Okay, shit happens, it seemed minor, and she did show up to the rearranged appointment and was pleasant enough.
I called the office to arrange a date. I was told we were on for the sixth.
My son remembered the evaluator had mentioned a deposit. I called to ask about the deposit and was told we didn't have a date down.
I said "WHAT???"
The man apologized profusely, put us back down for the sixth, took my deposit via debit card.
I should have known to call these clowns BEFORE we had driven for three hours with meowing cats.
I called when we got to the place and was told that the "BIG BOSS" had taken us off the schedule and had tried to call me several times about this.
I received no calls or voice mails from anyone. I was livid.
My son said that he thought it would be fine to stay there and get the cats settled in. But just a sleeping bag turned out to be too little padding. Fortunately, he found some comforters in one of the storage cases.
When I got back to Grover in the morning I saw that some of the fields had become temporary lakes. Colorado has notoriously bad soil (bentonite.) The water doesn't absorb well, it just sits on the top.
My son described the thunderstorm. He said he'd never experienced anything like it. He described it as sounding like the sky was coming down on top of the house. He said that normally he would have loved it, but trying to sleep on that floor left him in such pain that he actually felt nauseous.
This room is on the second floor of the building. It will be really grand one day. For the moment, it looks like this. The floor is patently awful to sleep on. My son used to go camping when he was in Boy Scouts. He says that he imagines the only place he will ever camp in the future is in a cabin with a bed and running water, which happens to be my kind of camping.
The cats were very unhappy too. We ended up bringing them back to the townhouse. One of them is asleep in his carrier right now. He loves the carrier as a cat bed, not so much as a carrier.
This is Bart. This photo does not show his giant feet.
The move is rescheduled for this coming Thursday with a different company, who have already provided an email confirmation and will confirm again 48 hours and 24 hours before the move. They are called Homegrown Moving and are only in Colorado. So far, so good.
I really don't feel all that great at the moment. Stress--it's a killer!
"Grover, ole pal, y'all can't pull the wool over my eyes. I heard ya chucklin' behind yer hat!"
Follow the adventures of Grover, Cactus Clem and the Punny Old Prune (Cie) plus get updates on the Grover Hotel renovations at the Good Stuff from Grover blog. Y'all might even find yerself something useful in Grover's General Store!
Some sundowns rise on another day of loss and one day set forever on a self ravaged by a broken mind.
~Cie~
Note:
Sundowning is a term for confusion in a dementia patient which worsens as evening comes on. Towards the end of his life, my father, who had vascular dementia, was sundowning. He confused reality with events on television.
My father was a college professor. I have cared for more than one college professor or other people whose work revolved around using their mind who ended up with dementia. The junk science sharticles which proclaim that exercising your mind helps prevent dementia make me see liquid murder.
You know what helps prevent dementia? Not having the DNA trigger for dementia coded in your genetic makeup. You could watch nothing but reruns of Jersey Shore and the Flavor of Love for your entire life and not end up with dementia if the trigger for dementia isn't in your DNA. I don't recommend it, but you could.
Dementia is horrible. It destroys lives. The least we could do is not insult those suffering from dementia and their caregivers and loved ones by publishing victim-blaming crap.
Image created by The Real Cie
Copyright taysuffocation @deviantart.com
I'm hoping one day to get this tattooed on my arm in honor of my father
The "sleigh" of this Troiku was created by Chèvrefeuille. The Three Horses of the Apocalypse were created by me.
This poem actually fits in with my "Legend of Seacliffe" poetry place-holders. The Legend of Seacliffe's protagonist, Randal Messana, is based on my son Michael. Michael loves bees and has neutral to favorable opinions on most insects. However, he despises flies.
I am imagining a scene where Randal is being distracted by a particularly persistent fly while tending to his horse team. Charlie and Jorn are trying to be polite and not laugh at Randal's predicament, but they are well amused.
My son was born on this day 29 years ago at 8 A.M. I was unconscious at the time. He was a long baby with no meat on his bones: 19 inches long, 5 pounds 12 ounces. He lost 4 ounces of that weight after being born and scared the hell out of me. He had to be fed every two hours because his blood sugar kept plummeting.
My son is a very intelligent chap, but he doesn't do things the way our current society thinks people are "supposed" to do things. He's high-functioning autistic and battles depression and anxiety. He has a great artistic eye and loves photography and woodworking. He learns best by doing and does very poorly with attempting to learn from textbooks and lectures, which is why he ended up not doing well in college except for in his German class.
My son and I are stocky people, so with the foolish biases that modern society holds about larger people, most people think we eat a lot. We don't. We are food insecure. We ration our food and tend to only eat one or two meals a day.
Our neuropsychological conditions and my physical issues mean that neither of us can work conventional jobs. Since modern society has Draconian ideas, disabled people are punished and not allowed adequate food or housing.
I am not being hyperbolic when I say that if it weren't for my son, I would not still be in this world. So, now you know who to blame for my continued existence.
Happy birthday, Michael, and may you have many, many more, and may each one be better than the last.
I watched the Jimi Hendrix documentary, Voodoo Child, this evening.
I didn't really become a Jimi Hendrix fan until I was in my teens. He died when I was only five years old. I saw a documentary about him when I was eighteen or nineteen, and it was good, but this documentary reveals more of his personal thoughts. He was brilliant and he left a lot of wisdom for the world.
The wisdom he imparted to me today is to stop looking for adulation and approval from others. This is something that I've struggled with my entire life.
When asked how it felt to receive so many compliments about his work, Jimi said that he really didn't care about compliments, in fact, he found that they distracted him from what was important: creation.
I think that's what it really means to be secure in oneself. Not so much thinking that one is flawless, but to be able to see the worth of one's goals and actions regardless of the opinions of the masses.
Lots of views and comments stroke the needy ego of the insecure and wounded child that remains within the crusty, curmudgeonly, and likely not at all tasty exterior shell which houses my soul.
This becomes a distraction to the creator. I start wanting to please my visitors rather than express myself through my words.
Next time I get stuck in that unharmonious groove, I need to remember Jimi's wise thoughts on the matter.
I will always be a fan of Jimi Hendrix the musician.
Perhaps most people won't understand this, but that doesn't matter.
I also appreciate Jimi Hendrix the philosopher, and I'm grateful for the wisdom and works that he left behind.
I've come a long way in keeping my temper in check from the days of my youth, but there are a few things that make me really hot under the collar, and then I overreact just a teeny tiny little bit and hit the red button with the nearest sledgehammer, sending the verbal nukes a-flyin'.
One thing that sets me off like nobody's business is the implication that I'm a liar or one of those self-important twits who would create a puff piece minimizing the struggles of a person with a cognitive, physical, or psychological impairment to prove how Deep and Poetical (TM) I am. I have ripped shit more than once on the kind of people who say things like "he's so autistic" or "she's so bipolar" when what they mean is "he's withdrawn and not socially adept" and "she's mercurial." Do NOT use people's health conditions as adjectives. It's really fucking rude. Recently, I fired a real estate agent who believed that questioning my credibility would inspire me to "move quickly." Say whaaaaaat???? In what Universe does that even make sense? I remarked that this guy must have watched American Psycho and thought that it was a business training video. The lack of logic in this line of thinking is astounding.
Having my credibility questioned is a real sore point for me. All my life I've had people imply that I was "just looking for attention" or "being dramatic" or straight-up lying about my symptoms. I have a lot of physical issues that have never been resolved, and the scars on my arms are not the result of "seeking attention," fuck you very much. They are the result of having been in one whole fuckload of psychological pain and feeling like no-one was on my side.
Point of trivia: my ex-husband has Asperger's syndrome and I have bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder. This combination proved to be oil and water. He is one of my great friends in this life and I have been very worried about him as he is having some serious health issues. But a marriage between such polar opposites in the neurodivergent spectrum proved to be a volatile combination and not sustainable.
Our son is autistic and has ADHD. He's strikingly intelligent, but his way of thinking and problem solving does not jibe with the modern education system. He learns by doing and is incapable of learning by reading textbooks. Yes, he can read. He is a prolific reader of the likes of Roger Zelazny (whose works I sometimes have trouble wrapping my brain around), Fred Saberhagen, Kurt Vonnegut, C.S. Lewis, Arthur C. Clarke, and J.R.R. Tolkien. He simply is unable to conform to the textbook-and-lecture style of learning.
I feel like the world is missing out on a lot of great talent by insisting that everybody look alike and dress alike and think alike and talk alike. The Stepford Wives was not an instruction manual.
One of the things that I loved about AC/DC, outside of their badass marriage of the blues to garage rock, was the fact that these cheeky-ass working-class bastards gave the middle finger to propriety at every turn. This doesn't mean they believed in being mean and stomping on other people. They themselves had been bullied and belittled and had quite enough of it. They were speaking up for the "mongrels", for the "ugly" people, for the people who had been told that they would never amount to anything because they were weird and different and not conventionally attractive.
They were not a band for the ever upper-class high society. They were a band for the outcasts, like me. So, when I stood up for them when people started accusing them of "devil worship," I got pigeonholed as a devil worshiper too. It was pretty funny in retrospect. I went around throwing devil horns and evil grins at the idiots spreading the rumors. I was probably the biggest excitement they had in their narrow-minded lives.
Fun's fun, but the reality is that I always felt bad for these guys who really weren't doing anything wrong. I had a particular affinity for Malcolm Young, because he was painfully shy (like I am by nature), because he tended to be depressive (gee, I wouldn't know anything about that, I'm just your dyed-in-the-wool ray of fucking sunshine), and because I could see that he was actually a lot more sensitive than he let on.
I have to confess that I was a bit jealous of the powerful bond of friendship that Malcolm had with Angus. Not everyone is lucky enough to have the other half of their soul born in the same lifetime. Forget having the other half of your soul be your guardian angel. Having them be your best bud is the way to roll!
In truth, most soul mate relationships I've observed have been platonic rather than romantic. Too much is made of the romantic soul mate bond.
In fairness, I think that (romantic) love stinks, so take my previous statement however you wish. Take it with a couple of grains of sea salt. I use sea salt in my cooking. I recommend it.
All this is leading up to something. Bear with me.
I honestly think that there is a degree of elitism in the insistence on rigidly adhering to certain concepts. People who do not have access to higher education don't get to learn the niceties of iambic pentameter (I didn't even know what the hell that was until I was in my 50's) or what the hell ever.
I didn't know the difference between a Haiku and a Senryu until I was in my 50's. I just liked the 5-7-5 pattern that I learned in the third grade or thereabouts and I enjoyed using it to express my dumb and worthless thoughts.
There's a lot of shit that I still don't know. It doesn't mean that I don't have the right to express my shit.
Similarly, there are a lot of musicians who are self-taught, who didn't have access to higher musical education, and, frankly, a lot of the time I like their work better than the works of those who have been properly trained. For instance, Chris Isaak (who, by the way, is an incredibly cool person) can't read music. He couldn't tell you what a pentatonic scale looks like, but if you were to play one for him, he would play it right back at you, embellish on it, and turn it into a really amazing song.
The slaves who sang the heart-rending spirituals on which the blues (a.k.a. the backbone of modern music) is based certainly did not have access to higher education about music or poetry. They sang to comfort themselves and their fellow slaves. They sang to convey messages. They did not express themselves in a "proper" fashion, but they damn well expressed themselves. They told their truth. They told their stories. And they had every right in the Universe to do both, propriety be damned!
As well, the idea that using profanity shows a lack of intelligence is elitist fuckery, and I don't have a whole lot to say to anyone who adheres to that foolish line of thinking.
I think I would have thrown myself from a precipice long ago if it weren't for the rule-breakers and "mongrels" of this world. I couldn't bear the idea of being shut in a room with a bunch of hoi-polloi. Pair me with the proletariat any day.
I do like to share my work, and for a while, it seems to go well enough. But I invariably learn the lesson that my truth is not pretty or polished enough and I am not sweet and sunny enough, and I end up saying "fuck it" and oozing back down the back alley from whence I crawled forth in the first place.
I will never be acceptable. For the most part, I think that's a good thing. But it does get kind of lonely, so now and then I go against my own rule about not engaging and I engage. This is generally a mistake.
Live and learn. Again and again and again.
Now I have to unruffle my feathers so I can prepare the latest Carnal Invasion manuscript for publication via my seedy little company, Naughty Netherworld Press, purveyors of high-quality Kindle smut. These are supposed to be gleeful romps featuring a group of randy, shapeshifting aliens having a go with elementals, humans, vampires, werewolves and such, not a heaping helping of angry argleblargh by a pissed-off editor. I need to switch gears toot sweet.
~Cie~
Cracks me up every time. I did see an interview later where Malcolm revealed that the director for this set of videos behaved like a drill sergeant and they couldn't wait to get away from him. Angus spent the entire interview doubled over with laughter. Reporters had a tendency to interview the brothers separately because when they were together they tended to start smirking and chortling about some joke that only they were in on, and one couldn't get much useful information out of them.
