2am wakings with a small cat

Went to sleep with a cat on my head as usual. Woke up with her gone, which was nice. Wearing a fur hat to bed gets a little warm. We're going to have a problem in the summer. I was up for a while, went to make tea in the kitchen.

As I was waiting for the kettle to boil, the cabinet door opened ever so slowly, and Maf stepped out onto the top of my head. She stood there for a second and then sat down and hung her tail in my face. Given she can barely make it up onto the bed, I have no idea how she got in the cabinets. And I hope we're not going to find little piles of cat hair in there now.

Anyhow, we watched some tennis I'd recorded (Federer v Djokovic in Monte Carlo, Federer won), and I thought about things. She probably did too, but did not share her thoughts.

Did you know that Gabriel García Márquez died a few days ago? There's a quote from One Hundred Years of Solitude that I think about fairly often. A person does not belong to a place until there is someone dead under the ground. What if you think of it the other way around? If someone you cared for has died in a place, does that mean part of you belongs there? Does part of you stay behind and make a home there? We're supposed to carry the dead in our hearts, but what if they carry us?

I think Maf was probably considering how to bend the dogs to her will and use them as portable heating pads, which makes her far more sensible than I am.

guest post

Hey, this is Murray. Sherlock says I've got to post this bat.


I guess it is pretty cool. Look at the length of that tongue. Damn. What I could do with a tongue the length of my bloody arm...anyway.

Soooo. How does this work exactly? 3C says just say stuff.  Except not that, he says. And with less swearing than usual. Right. I slept on their sofa last night. It's not bad as sofas go and I am a connoisseur of sofa sleeping. I just had to ask a seven year old how to spell that, by the way. What is my life, god. We had french toast for breakfast, that Greg's an amazing cook.

Went to see the allotment just now that Greg got Watson for his birthday, which is... I dunno. John Watson. Allotment. Not two things I would've thought went together, but he's really into it, so that's good. All their glasses match too. When did you grow up, Johnny? I only left you alone for a couple of years and nothing in your emails led me to suspect this level of adulthood although I guess getting shut down by op minimise in the middle of every other conversation made things a little weird. Started feeling like I shouldn't talk to anyone off Bastion for a while there. Like it would help or something.

Although being ancient (over forty) now I suppose matching glasses and allotments and proper jobs are age-appropriate, thank god I am still younger than you and always will be. This is bizarre, this writing thing. Makes you say things you wouldn't otherwise. Like: I'm thinking about not going back. I'll probably regret it if I don't but the way it's been since I got home, maybe there's only so much fucking over a bloke's head can take and I should stop while I'm ahead. Whatever.

Why don't I have a tag? I am giving myself a tag. 

stop that

Mycroft's back to school with bat biscuits of various flavours. Sherlock was excited enough about the app he and Mycroft put on L's phone to not be too sad about it. He actually told Mycroft he'd miss him, which was...astonishing. Usually it's 'I hate you and your stupid school!' which means the same thing of course, but I've never heard him actually say it.

So far L's app has told him to 'stop that', 'ask Sally to do it', 'kiss John' (I approve), and 'stop shouting at the television', among others. It has eerily good timing. When it told him to stop shouting at the television, he'd just told off Brian Cox for having silly hair. Not really shouting, but still...pretty good for a presumably non-sentient app.

And here's this:

The road from Muonio to Kilpisjarvi in Finnish Lapland is known locally as the "Northern Lights Route".

If you click on the picture, it should take you to the photographer's flickr page. There are a lot of other really beautiful photos there. I'd like to drive that road someday. 

super powers

Someone asked in the comments of L's blog what his preferred super power would be. Pretty sure mine would be sleep. Just...sleeping through the night, no nightmares, no waking up and wandering around and worrying. The ability to nap instantly anywhere would be great too. I used to be able to do that. Doesn't seem to work very well anymore. 

shipping forecast

This will be short because I should be asleep...but I startled myself awake by falling out of bed, hitting the floor...and then trying to hit the floor. It hit me first. So I'm up for a while. Cleaned up a bit more glitter.

And then I remembered a long ago blog conversation about the shipping forecast and wondered if it were on youtube. It is.

low tide

Well. I imagine you've read L's post so you know his mum is in hospital after a stroke. He's staying with Nicky. I've answered all of Sherlock's and Mycroft's questions that I could. And now I'm really just sitting here staring out the window and failing to think of things to type. So I'd better go and try to sleep. Good night, everyone. Thank you for all the support today. 

Low Tide
Edna St Vincent Millay

the guest house

On Tuesday, I went to see Dr E. It was mainly getting reacquainted, or perhaps I should acquainted for the first time, given how resistant I was to actually telling her anything before. I'm not terribly keen on it now, but I've realised that there are worse things. 

She asked what I wanted to get out of it. I said a lot of things, but what I came to in the end was that it would be good to be able to initiate difficult talks with L without making him feel like it's solely for his benefit, which I think I do. Maybe not intentionally, or at least not with conscious intention, but it's still not good. So. There's that to start with. 

From here: "This tractography image was made to help the neurosurgeon to choose the right approach for his neurosurgical planning. The surgery was at risk of damaging the visual field, as well as damaging complex sensory and visuospatial functions such as orientation in space, perception and motor functions."

The Guest House 

Rumi

translated by Coleman Barks

late nights

I've been waking up every half hour or so, or maybe not sleeping at all. Just drifting. Thinking, for some reason, of all the friends I've lost, one way or another. I suppose sometimes one just has nights like that. I can't say what brought it on.

I never wrote anything about visiting my parents so I thought I'd try that now, at least a bit.

It wasn't bad. If anything, it went better than I expected. They liked Mycroft, said he was a very polite and well brought up young man. They liked Lestrade. My mother said he seemed very steady and would be a good influence on me.

They were less certain about Sherlock, but they don't like a lot of noise and chaos, and Sherlock is 50% noise and 50% chaos - in the best way, of course, but they weren't seeing that. And I think Sherlock was predisposed not to be overly fond of them because he knew I was reluctant to see them. That's my fault, and I wish I could've done something differently there.

They're good people. I'm not even sure I can explain why I find it so difficult to be around them. It's...a restrained atmosphere. And I know I'm not a champion discusser of feelings, but there's a difference between not saying things and feeling you can't say them. I remember that feeling so strongly, starting with my very first memories, the undercurrent of belief that if anyone said what they were actually thinking that our world would collapse. And it was never anything that horrible, but lacking the ability to acknowledge it made every tiny thing loom over us.

Well. This is accomplishing nothing. I'm going back to bed, either to sleep or talk to L if sleep fails. Good night. Almost good morning. 

strange dreams

I had one of those nights last night that are so full of dreams that you wake up feeling like you need to go back to sleep. None of them were quite nightmares, just very tense.

1. Interrogated by the KGB, with my son, on an international flight.
2. Dropping eggs into a vortex of water at a Greek Orthodox church and getting told off by the priest for not having my head covered.
3. Someone stroking my hair, which was quite soothing until I realised I was dead and they were stroking my decapitated head.

All that between about one when L and I got to bed and six when Sherlock woke us, his customary energy undimmed by his late night. Woke up with muscles aching, apparently from having clenched them all night.

L was mostly unhurt after the attempted mugging last night, but in pain from bruises and a shoulder strain. I sort of wish he weren't going back out tonight, but I know why he wants to - even assuming work was giving him a choice, which it isn't. I suggested he shave his head again to better fit in with the surroundings he's meant to be lurking in, but he just rolled his eyes at me...

We had pancakes this morning, a nice time in the park, in the sun, and ice cream. Sherlock lept out at us from behind trees, and from above, and from below. Mycroft told us about how school has been going, and apparently he's going on a camping trip with some other boys from the astronomy club (society? I can't remember what its official name is) to do some stargazing, so that'll be nice. By nice I might mean mildly worrying, since as far I can tell, this plan involves no parental supervision, but I haven't got all the details yet. And anyway, they're 14 and 15, and that's probably old enough, right? It's only for the weekend. 

one confession

L - seems only fair to tell you, since you told me yours. Number seven. 

Day Ten: One confession.

I keep trying not to write this, because I don't think it's appropriate for a blog, or...for anywhere really. But I think can't think of anything else. Not because there aren't other things to think of, but because this one seems to have driven all of them out of my mind. So. 

I've killed three people. Even in retrospect I can't think of a way I could've acted differently without the people I was supposed to be protecting getting badly injured or killed. I suppose I'm lucky in that regard. They were fairly clear-cut situations. 

I don't really feel guilty. I don't really feel anything. Sometimes I feel guilty about not feeling guilty. Mostly when I think about it I feel sort of...empty. I don't know. A lack of any recognisable emotion. I worry about that fairly often. About what it says about me. 

I know this is hardly a unique experience in war. But I've managed to accept most of the things I've seen and done, and I still don't know what to do with this. I don't know if I ever will. 

three turn-ons

On the assumption that the game will stay popular for a while, I've put the answers post into the bar of links at the top of my blog so people can find it easily.

Day Eight: Three turn-ons.

If L can do it, so can I , I suppose... I think this was the worst one. Easier to think of but much harder to post. 

 

1. Competence. In particular at driving and fixing things around the house, but just in general as well.

2. A bit of dirty talk can be nice. 

3. Smoking. Look, I know, all right? I've dissected those lungs. Believe me, I know. Logic doesn't help. And it's only with certain people anyway.



Day Nine: Two images that describe your life right now, and why.
Day Ten: One confession.

tasteful

Lest you have nightmares about our flat and its smothering waves of tinsel, here's something tasteful L did with birds and branches and lights on top of a something or other in the kitchen (I'm not up on the names of freestanding kitchen furniture):

I had a dream last night about a lift that went every which way, further confused by all the rooms it was trying to get to also moving every which way, tipping surfaces, and lethal lift doors. I wouldn't exactly call it a nightmare, but all the rooms involved were decorated with tinsel... Perhaps my subconscious is trying to tell me something. Sherlock said it sounded like fun when I told him about it. 

head on

I never thought I was over the nightmares. Just thought I might be able to depend on my subconscious to save the screaming ones for home. Where I have...walls and things. And there aren't other campers quite nearby to wake up and require an explanation of who's just been bloodily murdered.

No, no, nothing to worry about, ladies and gentlemen. Just me and my permanently buggered psyche.

Everyone was very kind, of course. My three in particular. Sherlock made sure I had Spider, and Mycroft offered me one of his dogs, and Lestrade was...Lestrade. Solid and reassuring and doing his best to look be calm, which I imagine was fairly difficult, given how he'd been woken up.

I ought to be back in the tent with him now. I will be soon. Just needed some air. And apparently to unload on the internet re: current utter self loathing. But it's actually really chilly and I'm not wearing shoes, so. Off I go.