(no subject)

Pandemic, isolation, sociopolitical fear and anxiety, ecological dread, and now adding the persistent, expansive sadness of knowing more closely the parameters of my loved one's time with me. I'm still insanely frustrated out of proportion at inanimate objects; if I was teaching animism, the true name of most objects in my domestic sphere is clearly "Motherfucker!".

The sadness is creeping in around the edges, checking the territory, and preparing to settle in long term. I think that's more honest than the spill-over irritation, but also harder to live with. I don't know how to do this; it's a position in which I've never been before.

(no subject)

I can remember conversations with K and feeling seen in wholly unexpected ways when she compared my life to angles forced to reduce themselves to human dimensions, and every interaction, from interpersonal to sensory being defined by loss and pain.

I can remember sitting on Mt Arabia trying to meditate and center myself and realizing that the portal/shivering feeling I was used to feeling at the top of my neck/base of my skull started to extend across my shoulders to the triceps.

I can remember waking up to Hellsing running on my tablet (I sometimes stream anime when I can't sleep; it engages a part of my mind that gets in the way), seeing the silhouette of the vampire full of eyes, and feeling a recognition.

I can remember reading Something More Than Night and pausing over the description of seraphs. Something about the multiple wings and the sheer otherness of that stuck with me, overriding the noir identity shell game (which would otherwise have been exactly my jam).

There is something about wings (more than two, extending) and eyes (many more than six) that resonates with me deeply in ways I don't understand, don't necessarily want, and am kind of embarrassed about.