August 13th, 2012

Shaw

"Squeaky swings and tall grass ."

Sorry. I sort of found myself goofing about the last hour (though a chunk of it was business-related email, so not goofing, technically).

Yesterday, I rallied and found my way back into the book. After two days of dismal word counts, I did 1,667 yesterday, finished Chapter 2, and began Chapter 3 ("Elves on Harleys, or Urban Fantasy Cliché 15"). So, it at least seems Fay Grimmer is back on track.

Here in Providence, we are cloud haunted each night, and the Perseids are eluding us yet another year. In 2004, when Kathryn and I had not yet moved to Providence but were up visiting her parents, we lay out beneath the clear and starry sky and watched. Unfortunately, a full moon outshone everything else that night. This year, we have a waning crescent, but clouds. Right now, it's mostly sunny out there. Don't let it fool you.

When Chapter Three is finished, I'm taking a day or two off while a scrap of summer remains. This is one of those summers that has almost been my undoing. I have lost so much time.

Anyway, with nothing much else to say, and no time to say it, I leave you with kitten pr0n. Er...MS Word knows how to spell "pr0n"? Anyway, Young Master James Selwyn Nightshade is growing like a weed, and he and Hubero are becoming fast friends. We're trying to get photos before Selwyn is all growed up and shit. [TRIGGER WARNING] Cute kitten lurking behind cut!*:

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Now I'm Feelin' Kittenfied,
Aunt Beast

* Why, yes. I am making light of "trigger warnings." They're bloody fucking absurd. Kill your fear, and grow a fucking backbone. Or spend your lives avoiding cute kittens.
white

"What the eye don't see won't break the heart..."

Okay, kittens. I have been called an "ableist" in my own goddamn LiveJournal. And I will not abide such a thing. I refer anyone who may be surprised at my indignation to the entry of August 5th.

So, if you've read that, or if you know anything about my life (which has become fairly fucking public), you should know that calling me an ableist is essentially the same as calling me a misogynist, transphobic, homophobic, or, hell, a fucking rapist. Or lazy. Or rich.

Yes, that's how bad this has gotten.

I have survived. I have, in fact, thrived. And I'm not special. But I have made myself strong. I'm not a victim. I'm a survivor. And I will not coddle.

So add to #readerfail and triggerpunk another neologism: enableist. Id est, someone who facilitates another's inability or refusal to recover from traumatic events by treating them like precious fucking flowers. I've been through almost two decades of therapy, and not once has a therapist – psychiatrist, psychologist, or counselor – advised me to avoid that which scares me, or takes me back to the bad times or events. I have been taught to face my fears, by degrees, and to face every little reminder of my traumas, to stare them down, divesting them of any power over me which I do not choose to grant them.

But that's actually irrelevant.

See, this is my life. This is my journal. You're here by choice. It's public, but you read at your own risk. Life doesn't come with warning labels. Nor should it.

What the hell ever happened to "Take back the night?"

I'm closing this to comments, as I don't need a sycophantic Cult of Caitlín* to tell me I'm right, and I sure as hell don't need people to try and tell me I'm wrong.

Pissed is an Understatement,
Aunt Beast

* Not that my readers behave in a sycophantic or cultish fashion, but people say dumb shit, and none of us need to hear that.