The Seated View

The main drawback to being a so-called starving artist is, well... The starving bit. Nobody makes a lot of money quickly by writing (especially when just starting out) and being perpetually short of cash is starting to get on my nerves. So I’m considering alternative ways of generating revenue. I've rather quickly come up against the wall of my disability, which prevents me from the traditional methods - cleaning houses, bartending, dog walking, selling my body for medical experiments (besides, it’s already the product of medical experiments) and have yet to find a way to charge for organizing people’s lives . Instead, I have my words and my voice. So I started thinking of ways to generate extra income. Some options on the list of considerations include: Winning the lottery . Yeah, right. Next! Marrying an elderly, frail billionaire . All things considered, this seems a decent option and should his children decide to contest the will, I'll let myself be bo

I got a taste for it now. A taste for living with no obligations and responsibilities. No work, no phone calls, e-mail, no news (except for Jon Stewart ), no plans to make, no dinner to cook or shop for, no arranging my life to fit within scheduled visits of attendants every 3-4 hours. No committees, no meetings, no planning 17 steps ahead, considering all permutations and scenarios possible. No constant thinking, no always being available, no being 'on’ all day. Six days of sleeping, eating yummy food, reading, watching excellent TV/movies, with only the responsibility of managing my pain (not bad, as I was no longer doing much), providing input regarding dinner choices and being a relatively amusing guest had managed to slow me down from multitasking madly at 120 km/hr to doing one thing at the time, thinking about one thing at a time and, to be honest, not really thinking all that much. I gained some weight (yay!), stopped twitching, stopped worrying. It was wonde

Last Monday, it all started with a very unhappy Mojo trapped in a teeny little box (and boy, does she hate to be confined) on her way to the vet. She's doing well - still at the vet's, as I will have to leave again, but hopefully not until later this week. I've taken to calling the wee beastie Madame Mojo of the Sore Butt, as she's had her anal glands removed in an attempt to salve my finances and her physical and emotional wellbeing. I then invaded my mother's place, as she had kindly permitted me to stay there for the duration (the poor woman thought it was only for 3 days). We spent the first three nights sleeping in the condo's guestroom (then I moved to the pull-out couch, or Hammock, as I started calling it) which was quite nice. I especially liked the rain hitting the AC unit - it felt like sleeping in the Norah Jones song, somewhere tropical, under a tinroof. We spent the days in my mother's apartment, having a blast. I haven't had a vacation

I am going to be away for this week. Ish. Maybe less, maybe more. The interior of my building is being painted and as paint fumes cause my lungs to shut down (love that asthma), I have to leave. I should be back towards the end of the week, I fervently hope. Posting will be light - ok, non-existent - while I’m gone, as there will be no internet access (and I'm already twitching at the thought). Please keep your fingers crossed for quick dissipation of fumes and for Mojo, who’s having a spot of surgery this week. While I’m gone, here’s my take on the new season’s dramas. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip . I was a West Wing fanatic until after its creator left, so naturally I had to watch this show. I'm still a little on the fence, but it’s a token resistance - it's already one of the shows I look forward to. Matthew Perry is great (not a bit of Chandler in sight), Amanda Peet is wonderful and the cast of Studio 60 is charming me every week. Josh L

Earlier this week, when I was writing Tuesday's post, something really strange happened. I'm sitting at the computer, headset on, dictating to Dragon (and correcting Dragon, as it was having a particularly persnickety day), writing a new variation of an old post. Let's be honest here – this thing about looking at what I have, instead of what I don’t have is not a new lesson for me. It happens every time I get lost in the woods. At some point, something pushes past the fog of pain, heavy meds and resentment and I realize yet again that I've rolled over and played dead, given control of my life to something that can't be trusted with that control and finally, I give myself that kick in the arse and get back on the horse that threw me. Part of that is remembering gratitude. Writing down what makes me grateful, saying it out loud. So there I am, listing The Gratitudes and at the very end, I find myself writing that I am grateful for the pain, because it tea

Writing it down, putting it out there always helps. It’s like some sort of psychic kick in the arse. Thanks for reading, making nice comments and all the cyberhugs. I remembered something this Saturday. Something that I'd forgotten. I remembered that happiness is hard work, that it takes daily effort and practice to be positive. I realized that for some time now, I have skimmed across the surface of being positive and for a while, I was pretty successful. Then my neck got hurt and then it got hurt again and yet again and at some point, I stopped actively healing and started sitting still and whimpering. Much like Seligman's dogs , I had learned that I had no control and couldn't stop the pain. Except, I do and to some extent, I can. I have to adapt to needing big drugs - instead of being angry and resisting having to use codeine again for the first time in two years, seeing it as a failure, I need to be grateful that it is there to help me heal. Inst

I’ve been actively not writing something for a while, but am starting to feel like it’s showing. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just me who can see the elephant in the room (it’s pink with orange polkadots, by the way – hard to miss from where I’m sitting). So I’m going to get it out of the way in the hope that it’ll unblock things. I've had to give up hugging. The neck thing doesn't like it and when the neck thing ain't happy, ain't nobody happy. Especially me. So I've given it up. At first, I was surprised at how little it bothered me and came to the conclusion that it was entirely understandable, as when something is likely to cause you pain, not doing it can be a relief. Then I had a wee meltdown not too long ago and realized somewhat belatedly - as you know, some days I'm blonde than others - that I've been up to my old tricks of repressing things. And let me tell you, I'm highly skilled at repression. Isn't that a nice paragr

Somewhat blurry, but I've been chasing this shot all summer (click for larger version). It's time to let go of the quest for perfection and move on - I'm hoping the obsession will pass if I post it. p.s. Thanks to all who were in high dudgeon on my behalf in the last post. To clarify... Mr. Syphilis didn't seem creepy. More lost and clueless in terms of social boundaries. And harmless.

This weekend, I was on the street, minding my own business and waiting for the light to change. It was a bit of a long weight, but the weather was quite nice, so it didn't really matter. Someone approaches the corner from behind me and the following exchange takes place: Stranger: Enjoying the view, dear? (For the moment, I will refrain from entering into a rant about the propensity of complete strangers to call me 'dear'. I don't know you! Why are you calling me dear? Doubly weird, this man was in his 30s - normally, the dearing comes from older people) Me: Absolutely. Stranger: Are you behaving yourself? (Again, what's with perfect strangers asking me if I'm behaving myself or calling me ‘trouble’? Is it the cripple thing? Would you say these things to an ambulatory adult stranger?) Me: Never! And you? (For once, I had the presence of mind to throw the question right back at the person, in a tortured attempt to reverse the condescension)