juushika

I woke to rain outside, and kept hearing it, on and off, through the day; hearing it because I've been able to keep a window open and the fan off for a few days now. The window here is behind a substantial bush, so the light is gentle in the mornings (the birdsong, on the other hand, not so much). Yesterday morning, I sat under that open window and peeled and cut apples while watching Supernatural. (Every year about this time I catch up on Supernatural; every year it's still awful, but the kernel of the show it could be, the 11.4 "Baby" show, the AU werewolf!Claire show, the show of ambiguous landscapes of denuded, earthen British Columbia forests pretending to be the Midwest, the show of flannel and bunkers and overnight drives, always leave me wistful.)

The apples came from the back yard, half-feral apple trees that produce tart, hard, dry green apples with just a few bugs. When I taught Teja how to make applesauce, I told him "peel, chop, boil over medium heat"—it's impossible to screw up. This year made me wonder if I was wrong; the first batch was prone to scalding and awfully tart, and required a cup of water (I'm used to ladling off excess fluid instead) and half a cup of brown sugar (there are greater sins). And it wasn't ruined, it turned out fantastic. Homemade applesauce always is.

Anyway, I moved last month. Moving is objectively always awful, but this went fine, even if it left me wishing I owned zero physical objects—despite that it was making a place for objects (specifically, an overhead shelf with nothing but blankets and plush and treasured figurine) which made me feel settled in.

August and Gillian are settling in too, decently well. The stress of the move, and the smaller space and relative isolation, has made them much more companionable. They've lived together for five years, with tolerance but no intimacy. Now, they're touching all the time! They share a blanket! This morning, August licked Gillian's face three small, sweet times. I'm not getting invested in the future of this intimacy, but feel blessed to witness the little signs of it.

I've been taking a few shitty snapshots of the cats, and you can find them over on my Tumblr; here are some cat-touching highlights:






Their peace and comfort, and also mine, has been interrupted by a fairly severe flea infestation—with which we are dealing, but which may be an ongoing/reoccuring battle for reasons outside my control, and I'm mad about that. They're just so uncomfortable, and only have the energy to groom and eat and then nap; not eager to play, too sore for most cuddles. Hopefully things will improve as the medication does its thing.

Autumn is the season of my heart, and the weather report says the rain is not just today, it is the next five days, and by then it's late September; 70 degree days after that will just be sunny days in autumn—the season is here. Most people don't get such a clear cut-off date! But ours was September 17, and rain, and rain, and rain.

I just got back from a week visiting Devon in Corvallis, and the return journey was lovely. Mist over the fields and river out the train window; dense fog as we reached Portland, with the city and its bridges shadows in the gray. The 6am train trips in autumn are consistently my favorite of all things: the clear dark cold at the train station, the slow sunrises, the mist and the changing leaves.

August was ridiculously clingy when I was preparing to leave (she even followed me and my luggage downstairs to hang out by the door and look concerned) and she's been inseparable since I got back, because she loves me and also because it's autumn and she wants to sit on me and be warm. I held her on my tummy and sang Can't Take My Eyes Off You to her, my wonder keeping the stars apart.

It was a fantastic trip, and I appreciate the reminder that I have those—and that last month's misery visit was a birthday-related anomaly rather than a trend. I timed my visit for the Fall Festival; I accidentally slept through most of Saturday, but we stopped by on Sunday. It was too sunny and I am pale and pathetic, so we made but a brief circuit. My favorite of what I saw was Fantasy Figurative Art dolls by MARCA—I like my art dolls creepy/cute rather than Froud-esque, but there were blue goblin children and humaniod bird monsters and of that I approve. We also went to the library's book sale, and by the time we got there they had entered the $5/bag "please, take them away" final phase; slim pickings but a joy to comb through, in no small part because it was indoors this time. I picked up paperback copies of books I own in hardback (hardback is a pain to read, and I'm a big rereader), some new-to-me books by authors I'm familiar with, and a few random picks—because at a flat rate, mistakes are free.



The Cherryh I picked up on another night out. After dinner and dark, we got Starbucks and walked across to the Book Bin—bless their late hours. The checkers were looking at pictures of baby goats, there were no other customers, and because I'd already made a book run I wasn't working off my to-buy list: the laid-back book browsing I've always wanted. Having credit there allows me to make impulse purchases without stress.

One final highlight: a moment when Devon and I both walked down the hallway and Gigi the puppy, the best baby dog with the most love, came in from the kitchen, saw us both, and barreled past Devon to get to me because Dev is everyday and known and boring where I am Important Dog Auntie, and also the only one that will hold her paws.

I didn't see my family and other than the Fall Festival had no to-do list, which I think contributed to the successful visit; it was the private, quiet time that we needed.

Provided in bulk to cut down on spam. I am so behind in book reviews, as in all things. I've been quiet and I had some things going on around my birthday, and as soon as I was ready to write again I was hit by a few (ongoing, but today I'm stubborn, fed up, and working to spite it) days of unremitting back pain that medication just will not touch. But I've been reading a lot, and have more to read, and have been writing my notes in a fresh, new, larger Moleskine—5x8 inch; my last two were 3x5 inch, and there are benefits to both, but this larger size is so much easier to structure and to hold, and I'd forgotten how much I like it; summer is most definitely winding to a close, and I know because it rained today and Dee and I took Odi walking in it; I want to at least pretend to turn all that into some sort of record before the month is up. Ergo:


Title: The Geek Feminist Revolution
Author: Kameron Hurley
Published: New York: Tor, 2016
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 385
Total Page Count: 200,115
Text Number: 590
Read Because: personal enjoyment, ebook borrowed from the Multnomah County Library
Review: A collection of short essays, most harvested from blog posts, about intersectional feminism within literature, media, and other geek spheres. This intersectionality is intentional, valuable, and imperfect—I wish it stretched to include mental illness, which is instead equated to bigotry in problematic ways. But on the whole, this is a step above white feminism or feminism 101, although it fails to say anything truly revolutionary. I'm not sold on the tone: anger is a valid and valuable tool, but the swearing combined with the repetitive style and content smacks of what it is: blog posts, edited but still informal and unrefined. I appreciate the intent of this collection, but as a published work I don't think it's particularly successful.


Title: Sword of Destiny (The Witcher Book 2)
Author: Andrzej Sapkowski
Translator: David French
Published: London: Orbit, 2015 (1992)
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 380
Total Page Count: 200,495
Text Number: 591
Read Because: continuing the series, ebook borrowed from the Multnomah County Library
Review: Six short stories, largely chronicling the dissolution of Geralt's relationship with Yennefer and his first interactions with Ciri. This collection is less enjoyable than The Last Wish, mostly because it has a slow start—"The Bounds of Reason" and "Eternal Flame" ("petty politics instead of dragons" and "a comedy of financial errors," respectively) in particular run overlong. It's also, arguably, braver, offering more in the way of overarching plot, reoccurring characters, and a dense emotional register. But that last is a strange: the gritty, crude worldbuilding grates against the persistent coyness of Geralt's emotions and even his actions. His character could be profound—but the production of profundity grows tiresome.

And the sexism, in the worldbuilding and the narrative, of course persists; that Yennefer's infertility is her sole motivation is predictable and simplistic. Again, in contrast, the female character themselves are complicated and strong, especially willful child Ciri—she's lovely in the title story, which also offers complex, solid worldbuilding and an evocative atmosphere.

I will continue these, and look forward to starting the novels proper. But I can't recommend this collection and, oh, does this series have problems.


Title: Cold Fire (The Circle Opens Book 3)
Author: Tamora Pierce
Published: New York: Scolastic, 2011 (2002)
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 350
Total Page Count: 200,845
Text Number: 592
Read Because: continuing the series, ebook borrowed from the Multnomah County Library
Review: Daja and Frostpine are working in the snowy city of Kugisko when a rash of devastating fires breaks out. The structure of this quartet remains formulaic, but this installment is surprisingly good. The setting, fire against snow in a well-defined woodworked city, is evocative; the plot is simplistic but the characters are not—gracelessly in the antagonist's case, but the supporting cast is strong. The nostalgia is toned down and the themes of maturation are less clear-cut, which gives Daja room to shine instead of slotting her into the series's formula. I still don't love this quartet, but this is one of its better installments.

Real autumn broke a few weeks back, and was a long time coming—so many sunny days—but we have rain now, and deep blue skies behind the yellow foliage. Gillian has been out and about for an hour or three every day, while August is busy with her daytime sleep and locked safe in my room. I have played American McGee's Alice: Madness Returns while sipping hot apple cider and buried under a blanket, with an open window (letting in wind and the sound of rain) at my back and a cat in my lap.

Indeed it feels as if lately the only thing I've not done sans lapcat is breathe. Cool weather brings August to me; at night she curls up between my legs while I read or watch TV before bed, finding the most awkward possible spot on the bed (hogging as many blankets as she can) so that when I finally turn off the lights I must twist myself around her into whatever space and bedding is left. When they're not cuddling, they're yowling: Gillian mostly, who—now that he has discovered the world outside the bathroom—complains mightily whenever he's trapped in that stifling prison. He has another month of quarantine, and so he shall just be forced to cope.

Odi is afraid of Gillian, who weighs eight pounds and is front declawed. We're not sure if this is because Gillian has the scary confusing soft e-collar of doom, or because Gillian has a few times actually gone after Odi when Odi gets too close. (Mind, August has swatted at him with actual, albeit blunted, claws, and he's not the least bit scared of her).

Autumn is for walking dogs. Dee's been walking Odi in the rain since the first day of it; I finally went with them a few days back, on a day when threatening rained turned into sprinkles turned into a jean-soaking downpour, and I would not live in any other climate in the world than this. Yesterday we walked down to St. Johns proper, went to Starbucks and took our drinks and the dog to the Willamette waterfront, blue and cool; we went to the library where we each had a book on hold, because autumn is for reading.

It's not all beautiful: my wrist issues have been flaring and thus I have a lot piling up that I want to do and can't—and moreover the fact that my body's throwing up yet another chronic issue just frustrates me—and the needy cats are lovely but also draining my energy. But: autumn. I can't argue with that, wouldn't want to; it is so beautiful, here.

Apparently? This year sort of crept up on me, perhaps because it's been a bit too hot lately to think about anything but being miserable (everything written about the weather in this post turned out to be a lie oh god—it's been like a billion degrees), but today is indeed my birthday and I am now 27.

I'm in Corvallis, Land of the Air Conditioning (although it is no longer so aggressively miserable out: I would love some cold air, yes, yes I would); tonight we'll go out to dinner with my parents and, if I'm lucky, manage a slice of flourless chocolate torte at the neighborhood bakery afterward. That's about all I have planned—low key and lovely; I'm fine with it.

I have no idea what birthday gifts look like. I'm having huge and major wantsies in a lot of areas right now, and the BPAL autumn update is due soon and I usually put most of my birthday shopping into that, but probably on account of the weather I've been a bit too bleh to actually plan or decide or request anything. So! We shall see, I suppose.

And that's it. Thank you for birthday wishes and love!

Dear Universe,

I think that's the best addressee. With these things, it's hard to be sure. Lately, the warm muggy weather finally broke; it's been wet and cool outside, almost too cold, and last night I had to nudge the window almost shut and the cat slept curled against me and half under my blankets.

So my request is that, perhaps, I wake up tomorrow and it's September. I would love nothing more than to just skip over summer. I know it's not a particularly reasonable request, and there'd be all sorts of awful consequences for the flora and the harvest—but if it could be done somehow, then I'd really like to do it. I'm okay skipping only as far as September 1st: I could survive a lingering week or two of hot weather. It's three months of it that I'd rather do without, especially in the face of the beauty that's been outside my window the last two days. I don't want to give that up.

So let me know how that sounds, yeah?

Hopefully,
—Juu

I'm writing from a hotel lobby—sitting beside a fireplace with my laptop and a book, giving room service a chance to clean my room. I smell like The Seekim (cacao absolute, hay, black pepper, patchouli, and incense ash), a warm dark smoky smooth deep chocolate. They're playing innocuous soft jazz over the sound of background chatter. Outside there's mist and heavy sprinkles, humid and wet in turns, a thick but almost crystalline gray, weather like quartz. Express is at work, but should be done about dinner, and then we may eat the quiche I cooked and we'll probably hack more Pokémon and attempt to stream more Initial D over internet that feels as ancient as this historic hotel.

It's good.

When Dee gave me a lift into downtown yesterday, we left at dusk; we went up through St. Johns, over the St. Johns bridge, and down US-30—our secret route into downtown and Beaverton, with less traffic and beautiful sights. Coming onto the arc of the bridge, the blue fog as so dense that it nearly swallowed the spires; as we drove across the far side came into view, the rising hill of Linnton Park, dark green Douglas Fir shot through with saffron Bigleaf Maple that glowed in the dimming light. Coming up the hill where US-30 merges onto 1-405, the city did the same: blue-stained concrete buildings shrouded in fog, pieced by and shining with a thousand amber lights.

Express is Los Angeles-born and is surviving the cold and wet—we went wandering last night once we finally here and settled, walked down to Pioneer Square and saw the light-wrapped trees that decorated the streets from here to there; this morning we went out for morning coffee and to find his office in that deep fog-cum-heavy sprinkles. He's surviving it, wrapped in his layers and waterproof jacket, but I'm reminded how much I love the land where I live. Autumn was slow in coming this year, the trees were reluctant to turn, but now we have golden leaves against rained-darkened branches, and a blue haze to wrap it like a gift, and the cold is bracing and the wet tangles in my hair, and I could live elsewhere—Sweden, England, Scotland, I remember them all fondly and long to go back—but right now I am just so happy to live here, and to have these days to show off my city: my city where, yes, you have to love the rain—but if you do it sparkles with it, and it is so beautiful.

It is 70 degrees Fahrenheit outside and the sun is still setting. Perhaps this shouldn't feel like a minor miracle, but it does, and I'll take it.

On Saturday, Dee and I drove into downtown Portland to meet sisterite/Lyz and a whole flock of others—Lyz's boyfriend, their roommate, the roomate's friend, a friend, and the friend's boyfriend, if I'm remembering it all correctly. They were visiting Powell's because, well, wouldn't you? And then we all went to Deschutes Brewery for lunch, which was surprisingly nice (not that I had my doubts)—I had the spinach flatbread (garlic cream sauce, sun dried tomatoes, whole milk mozzarella, chanterelle mushrooms, fresh local spinach, finished with garlic parmesan aioli) which was pretty much a sauceless pizza, rich and savory but, without sauce, not too heavy, with a wonderful kick from the aioli. When Lyz and her gang left—we only had about two hours with them, but, given that they were driving a round trip through Washington, that's understandable—Dee and I dropped back into Powell's. We browsed a bit, and in the last room as we were thinking of leaving we found the $1 "literature" section where I picked up a book about dog people (thus the sarcasm quotes) and another random fantasy of manners-esque find. Then we went across the corner to a roomy, all-amenities Starbucks, and I had my first pumpkin spice latte of the season. I hate it when these go away each year, but the blessing of their seasonal nature may be that the first is the best you will have all year: creamy and golden and spiced and just ask Dee, I would not shut up about how delicious my coffee was.

Lyz should be coming back through town this weekend, and we hope to grab her for a little longer if we can. One day we may even kidnap her and keep her overnight in the living room, with its delux pull-out couch—but shhhh, don't tell her that. The short visit was nice, and the day in downtown was quietly spectacular (and escaping into air conditioning was quite the added bonus), but I like a visit I can dig my teeth into, with less noise and fewer people and longer conversations, and a BPAL smellathon might be nice too.

Today we woke up to overcast skies and fresh cool air. The max temperature today was ten degrees cooler than yesterday, and it's looking to do so again tomorrow, and then so help us we may actually have low 70s for the rest of the month and see the actual advent of autumn. That's a cause for celebration, here. Dee dropped me off at Starbucks while she ran all number of shopping errands, because cooking food becomes more appealing when the house isn't already cooking you. I had a conversation about the book I was reading and OryCon with one not particularly socially adept middle-aged male, and then a 20-some indie artsy female thing brought in a large bag containing a small and mewling cat so that she could feed it about a cup of whipped cream. Something tells me that the average Portland Starbucks is a mite bit stranger than your average Corvallis Starbucks. I convinced (well, asked) the barista to take a slightly-expired free birthday drink card (because the hot weather has not been conducive to coffee drinking, either) and had a second pumpkin spice latte which so help me was just as good. I wrote a review, and figured out that my back is still not recovered from these last few days of pain, and when I left it was still a reasonable temperature outside.

I could get used to this, you guys. My eyes are peeled for turning leaves. My pumpkin necklace should be in the mail. We have the energy to do things again, energy that these long days have summer have been draining out of us. Today we had stir fry. Not burritos! And now the sun has set, and there's a cool breeze. Dee brought Spike out of prison and downstairs, and August is trying so desperately to get him to chase her around the house. And I'm happy.

Nights are a balance, right now, between trying to get plenty of rest while it's still cold enough to sleep, and wanting to be awake to perhaps enjoy a few moments while it's cold enough to live. In other words: I am beyond ready for summer to be over, so ready that I have been dreading the days. We're midway through almost a week of 85 to 90 degree weather. I don't care how moderate that is my your standards: I am from the Pacific Northwest, and I am not made for this. I hate people that bitch about how wet/cold/overcast it is in one time of the year, and how sunny/hot/fucking miserable it is in another, but so help me I am not one of those people—I never complain about the rainy season or want it to be any shorter, and there is no hypocrisy when I say I am finished, I am done. There are hours these days—sometimes entire days—where the ambient temperature and humidity is just so that it feels like my body never ends, like I extend to the size of the house, like the air is my flesh and I'm suffocating myself. It's like the hell version of a float tank.

We're surviving thanks only to foods that can be cooked in half an hour or less, the blessed ice cube tray, and media sufficiently distracting that we may for a while to pretend to be anywhere but here.

Even the cats get hot. August goes and lies down on the linoleum and refuses to move.

But right now, August is nestling herself in my lap, and there is a cool breeze and the start of sunrise, and I'm actually comfortable and—despite the rant—quite happy, so I'm going to go and enjoy the moment.

Kitty under my chair.

August has discovered the magic of microfleece blankets. I'm not horribly surprised—Madison goes crazy for them, she'll kneed and suckle on them like some replacement mother; August just kneeds and ... puts her nose one the fabric. It's like she's not sure why her nose and mouth need to touch it, she doesn't drool or suckle at all, but they have to be there or the experience isn't quite complete. Honestly it's like she's not sure why any of it has to happen at all—she gets this look of WHY AM I KNEEDING PLEASE SEND HELP that morphs into NEVERMIND TOO COMFORTABLE PLEASE GO AWAY. Kitten loves her blanket.

Not that it's her blanket. Boy is using it over his long weekend here, and then it'll return to the living room because my dirty little secret is that the freakishly soft feel of that fabric makes my skin crawl. Said blanket has been necessary for the weekend, however, because we hit the sweet spot in this week of remarkable, overcast, cool summer weather: Rain. Buckets of rain. It's pouring now and has been pouring all day, hours of it, I fell asleep to the sound of heavy rain and woke to find it even heavier. All of this unseasonal coolness has been welcome—seriously, Dee and I won't stop talking about the weather—but this rain, it feels too good. It's perfect. It makes me long for autumn as if it weren't already here—because I know well enough that it's not: this weather can't last forever, and now that it's had its grand finale it'll probably pass. I've come to embrace summer in the last few years, as I've learned the art of sleeping in sunlight (and since Boy has an air conditioner in his room), but this is my weather and my home: the sound of rain, the gray sky and silverblue light, the cool humidity, the cold breezes, long sleeves and blankets and a sudden craving for warm food covered in cheese. It hurts me a little to know that after this will be many more weeks of heat—not that the heat has been bad this summer, and we've found all the little tricks for coping with it, but ah, this weather. I want it to last forever.

Devon's visit has been fantastic. He got here Thursday night, and leaves this evening—we've been doing four or five days together every two weeks, which seems to work out wonderfully: the longer visits are more relaxed and fulfilling, and the weeks off give us more time to engage in our own local lives. This weekend's weather has me in the mood for books, sleep, and staying in, so we're thoroughly wasting our time away with a marathon of the original American McGee's Alice, and it's perfect. We're sleeping when we want to sleep, sometimes at night but also to the sound of the rain during the day; we have the windows half open and most people would think it's way too cold in here but that just makes the snuggling even better.

You may have noticed at some point that sleep and I are not particularly good friends—but August has me napping at all hours, these days. We curl up for a cuddle and sometimes when she drifts off, so do I. That, like this casual non-schedule that Devon and I have had this weekend, feels surprisingly natural. It embraces my preference for sleeping in sunlight and the fact that I wake up so often that pretending to get a solid chunk of sleep is foolishness, and it dismisses so many of the anxieties that make sleep difficult—like the simple expectation that I'll sleep now, for this long, and then be awake and engaged with the world. As a result of course I'm less engaged, but...

Basically, August is teaching me to be a cat. Some of it already there, in little realizations that tickle me—like when we watch out the window together and we both perk at the same sound or movement. But my sleep issues are one of the hallmarks of the disconnect between my self-as-human and self-as-cat, and so this.... Well, back in that post I wrote, "A cat that can't catnap hardly feels a cat at all." And now, sometimes, we catch a bit of sleep in the sunlight for no reason at all other than the fact that the bed feels nice. There's that argument in the therianthropy community about nature and nurture—if this identification is innate, or if it changes and grows; if it's inherent nature, of if it's tainted by affectation. It makes me feel like something of a charlatan that so much of my personal experiences are about the disconnect between my human and cat identities, and therefore about (re)learning mentalities and behaviors—not because they're not mine, but because I get in my own way where they're concerned. And for all that anxiety I still don't give a flying fuck how it might be perceived, because these little lessons, these little naps, make me so happy.

So it's been a pretty nice long weekend, I guess is what I'm saying.