Clever Manka is dressed and undressed

I wrote 1k words on the original romance novel today, drafted a Patreon post, and painted two two-page spreads in the blank journals. I'm not currently being crushed by anxiety and despair. Thought I'd make a note to remember this as well as celebrate a little.

I contacted a friend this morning, asking if she knew anyone still in the local bellydance scene because I'm ready to ditch all but the very last of my dance stuff. I'm still pointlessly hanging onto my three favorite/most sentimental costumes but for the most part I need these things out of my life. Getting smacked in the face with a box or drawer full of scarves and jewelry is too painful. I don't know what to do with all the zills, though. When Saroyan (a famous manufacturer) decided to close years ago I bought several extra pairs. Turns out they re-opened (I think with different owners?) which is great, because their zills are The Best, imo. But I have many hundreds of dollars of zills now (some in unopened packages) that I have no idea what to do with.

Which brings me to today's question! I'm combining questions from nnozomi and tinny, who both asked me to ramble about bellydance (and other things, which I might also run with at some point). Bellydance as a general topic is too big for one post. I spent nearly twenty-five years identifying as a bellydancer and the loss of that is still, ugh, tough. So let me focus on one tiny part of it for now.

The first time I tried to zill was a disaster, as it is for everyone and everything. My teacher was a difficult woman and abusive in many ways (stereotypical Stage Mom with two sons disinterested in performance so she took out all that energy on her troupe). But damn she could choreograph and she put together a routine that matched steps to zill patterns. I don't have a good brain for memorizing choreography, but my muscle memory is stellar and once those patterns were ingrained in my fingers I was golden. After years of performing with them, it got to where my dancing was better when I was zilling (with or without backup music). Pretty much any photo taken of me dancing after 2005 or so I've got zills on my fingers (unless I'm holding a veil). I have small hands, so I can't wear the giant cymbals (like my teacher did), but my tiny fingers are strong and fast and I can make a pretty impressive (and rhythmic) racket with the ones I do use. This is my favorite style and I have four pairs of them--two pairs each of German silver and brass.

I think I've mentioned how much I enjoyed playing music with my drummers, even when we weren't performing. Making group music on a regular basis was an incredible experience, and since I was the only person who zilled (we had about six regular drummers, and a guitarist), I had lots of opportunities to improvise and play with rhythm embellishment. My zills often took the role of a vocalist, and I learned to weave the melodies I made with them into what the guitarist was doing. Everyone scoffs at jam bands (especially drumming circle bands), but we were really, really good. I wish I had access to the recordings that our head drummer made of us.

When I was performing with my zills, I also used them to communicate with the band (slow down/speed up) as well as the other showrunners (attention/little help here) and occasionally patrons. Nothing like a rapidly-clacking pair of metal disks to stop wayward fingers from getting too friendly! I got to where I could take money from a hand and stick it in my bra while barely missing a beat.

The chances of me dancing again are slim to none, but maybe someday I can make music with people again. I like to hope my zills won't languish forever. But if anyone wants to buy any of the new-in-package ones, hit me up.


My collection of zills that I used. The ones in the bottom right were my standard pair, the Saroyan Professionals in brass.

Oh, and today's dump on cm.net.

And in a much better sense than 2020 has sure been a year. I'm still a little numb and I know I'm not actually processing things right now. Honestly, when I woke on the morning of November 9, 2016, I wasn't sure we'd ever see another election in the U.S. God knows we barely got one--a legitimate one, anyway. Republicans did everything to prevent it and I pray pray pray the Democratic party doesn't speedily forgive and forget although that is so very much their brand. I have so many concerns but I'm trying not to let them fester yet.

The one thing I'm bummed about is I was too wiped out to experience the jubilation I saw everywhere else. If I'd had even a smidgen of energy I would've headed downtown to experience this in person instead of watching the video on Twitter loop repeatedly.

Fun bit of info for those who've read Ghost Story: The corner building that hits center frame at about 00:08 and pretty much stays on the right hand side of the frame for the rest of the video? That's Replay Lounge, which is where Zhao Yunlan goes to make some questionable life choices in that fic. It's four blocks (three blocks up, half a block over) from the Ghost Story house and was my home base bar for nearly seven years.

I have a few errands that must be run before I can continue unpacking. I simply can't unpack the bathroom further until I purchase some in-cabinet shelving, but I'm giving myself another enforced day of rest. A friend is coming over for yard yelling this afternoon and that's really all I should commit to.

Being so physically fragile is incredibly annoying.

Still feeling good about my decision to call in the big guns with that particular candle. I have another one like it (one of my few duplicates) that I'm saving for the third week in January just in case.

Y'all. Y'ALL. ranalore wrote me the most incredible Untamed fic for a birthday present. I mentioned in a comment yesterday how I wasn't really reading much Wei Wuxian/Lan Zhan fic and BOY HOWDY now I don't need to read any more because this fic is so fuckin' amazing. It packs an incredible amount of heat and feels into fewer than 2k and absolutely rocked my world.

Appropriately, happy International Fanworks Day!

Forgot to mention the results of my Twitter poll yesterday. So, this poll taught me something other than 5% of the people who voted would not be so foolish as to consider using the word "succor" in a fic and that something is apparently, unlike on Dreamwidth polls, Twitter votes are private? Or am I just not seeing where the results are detailed...

And now, a rant! Just fuck the recording industry, for real. Let me tell you about being friends with the frontman of a band that allllllllllllmost made it big before getting screwed by their major record label.

So, the house where Ghost Story takes place. I lived there for seven years, nearly five of them with two dudes who lived in the upstairs apartment, Smirl and Ritchie (we already sound like a sitcom, don't we? god I miss them). Smirl was the front man for one of the more successful local bands of the 90s. And when I say "more successful" that's saying something bc Lawrence was considered the little Seattle of the music scene (this sounds so corny now but it really was a big deal). There's a reason I was going out three times a week to see local shows. It was amazing. Anyway, Smirl's band was called STICK and they were so good. I still listen to their albums (they're great workout music, too). They got signed to Arista and released their first CD. Arista gave them zero support, zero promotion, and then of course complained bitterly when the album didn't sell. When the label rejected every track on the second album, claiming "not a single hit" on it, they broke their contract and released it under an independent label. Two members left, then the band broke up for good. Arista didn't do well by another band with Lawrence members (BR5-49 for any alt-country fans) so yeah. That's just ONE label that fucked over two bands that I knew. File under I Hate Capitalism, y'all. I'm still bitter on STICK's behalf. BR at least had a good run. STICK was fucking robbed.

Taken yesterday evening. The face of a writer who just made one of her characters suffer perhaps a leetle more than was absolutely necessary. This was honestly the best I felt all day yesterday and needed to document it. ( Pics behind the cut )

I love seeing other people's faces, so hopefully more of my read list will join in.

BTW, I dunno if anyone subscribes to post notifications for me here, but I frequently start an entry and edit/add to it over the next day or two and then copypasta it all into a new post when it's ready to go (like I did with this one). So if you're wondering why only half my posts show for you, that's why.

Twitter:
More what-do-you-mean-this-is-cosplay, this time for Phantacity.
Super sweet Weilan fanart.
I am not a kid person, much less a kid-fic person but apparently Guardian breaks my rules for all things. (another thread you need to follow the people involved, but oh! very sweet.)
Zhu Yilong has a Madame Tussad wax figure now. If there was ever a face made for statues...
I really like this artist.

Not Guardian:
This Tweet:

Unthinkingly called the current cat  Fetish (warning: pet eulogy at the link) yesterday afternoon and that brought a whole bunch of feels I'd rather not have dealt with. I mean I guess technically I didn't deal with them so much as I allowed about fifteen seconds of silent tears before reminding myself I didn't want a migraine on top of everything and successfully distracted myself but it was a close call, friends. And I don't think it would've been that big of a deal (although there is a reason I didn't want another cat and that reason is I'm still not over my previous cat), but things've just been Real Hard Lately. Like, just, super tired of this particular existence and ohhhhhh yeah, there's that winter depression. Mmmmhmmm. Right. On. Time.

I'm so damned glad my haircut washed out well. Like, I needed that win, y'all, and I really appreciate all the lovely comments. *kiss*kiss* But anyway, It's Been Rough.

And now I have talked about my feelings! \o/ Would someone please send a gold star via Bai Yu or Zhu Yilong? Either or both! I'm not picky!

write_out  let people know that splix died on Tuesday morning. Probably the people who know (knew?) either of them already heard the news. Very grateful I made the trip to Con*Strict in July to see them both--our last time rooming together. I tried not to actively think about it too much, but the fact was always there, floating in the air around us.

Roses of Picardy was my #1 comfort fic for years. I don’t know how many times I’ve read it, but I always felt better after. It's probably not gonna work for me this time. Thank you, splix , for being an amazing person and putting beautiful things out into the world. It was an honor and a pleasure to be your friend.

This morning I had a long, detailed dream about my old place at 1011 Tennessee.

Someone was remodeling it with lots of big, open spaces and a better staircase to the second floor. I was walking around it, feeling so much happiness about moving back in (my old neighbor Smirl was moving back upstairs, too). I told the guy leading me around that when he was ready to sell it, I wanted to be first to have the option to buy it. The dream went on forever, and even when I knew I should start waking up I stayed in the dream because it felt so damn good to be me in that space again.

I know it wasn't (necessarily) about being in the house again. It was about being back in the body that lived there and having all the options and opportunities that went along with being vibrant and healthy. I went up and down the new staircase multiple times just because I could.

As I came into regular consciousness I felt the transition from happiness and excitement shift to depression. The feeling of disappointment and sadness is so heavy in my chest right now. My throat is tight and I'm ten seconds and a hangnail away from breaking into tears.

That house/apartment never left my heart. I drive by it at least a few times a month and every time I have an emotional surge of "mine." I don't miss a lot of things about it--the lack of laundry facility, the unheated bathroom on my floor that used to be a back porch, no central A/C, the tiny kitchen. Everything else, though--the amount of space that was (mostly) all mine for so long, the location, my awesome upstairs neighbors, the person I was then--the loss of those things are a physical ache.

It's strange to have so much of my identity-memory tied to a physical location eighteen years after I moved out. I feel like I left a lot of myself there when I stupidly moved out for stupid reasons. I would like to be that person again, but there's no getting her back just like there's no getting back into that house (not the one I remember, anyway).

The passage of time and change are inevitable, but they can really suck. 

How this works: You comment, I give you an age (please tell me how old you currently are - I don't know all of your ages unfortunately) and you fill out the meme questions with what applied to you back then, and now. tatjna gave me age 30.

At 30...

I lived in:
Lawrence, in my much-missed apartment on Tennessee Street. That was my last year in that apartment before Dean and I bought the house on Lawrence Ave. When I say "much-missed," I mean that I still look at that house every damn time I drive by it to this day which is probably at least three or four times a month since it's on a fairly commonly road in this burg. I lived there for seven years, three of those pretty much by myself. It was enormous. Two big bedrooms, two big living areas, a small but usable kitchen (with my first gas stove), one and a half bathrooms, and a nightmarish basement which was used for band practice for two different local bands. I got along great with my upstairs neighbors (although I hung out more with the two guys who lived upstairs, Smirl and Ritchie, than I did with Tracey, the gal who moved in when Smirl moved to Chicago and Ritchie disappeared off the planet as far as I could tell). It wasn't air-conditioned (I had three window units), and the main bathroom was a converted porch with no insulation or heat but I didn't care. It cheap, my landlord was the best, and it was walking stumbling distance from the downtown bars. It was perfect.

I drove:
My occasionally-missed Honda CRX. It was the car on which I learned to drive stick. I got it from a friend who traded it to me for $200 and some stereo speakers. It had a cheap, flaking, and faded purple paint job, the rear hatch had to be propped up with a tomato plant stake, and when you lifted the floor mats on the passenger side, you could see the road passing by underneath. It got good gas mileage, though, and was surprisingly reliable in bad weather. I eventually sold it for $200 and a dead deer to someone who is still driving it.

I was in a relationship with:
Dean. The less said about that, the better. It was still good at that point, so yay?

I feared:
Spiders.

I worked at:
Color Art, ugh. This is the place where the shitty-ass operations manager hated me for no reasonable reason I ever determined and because he didn't want to give me a raise at my first-year evaluation he said this about me: "Clever Manka unfortunately relies on the most efficient way of solving a problem instead of researching other solutions first." Not. Even. Kidding. After 18 months, I'd had enough of his crap and turned in my resignation (without even having something else lined up). The president of the company begged me to stay and promised he'd have me moved to a different supervisor. Two weeks later they laid me off because of failing financials. That's how absolutely terrible the ops manager was. They had to pay me a severance package and unemployment because the damn president of the company was so unaware of the state of the business that he didn't just let me walk. I still laugh about that. Eighteen months of hell, but what a punch line.

I wanted to be:
At a rockabilly show, probably.

- - -

NOW! (45)

I live in:
Lawrence, still, but in a house on Indiana St. I don't have the same feelings of affection for this place, but it does have central heat and A/C throughout.

I drive:
A Chrysler Crossfire which is registered to mckitterick but is driven by me 90% of the time since he usually relies on his two-wheelers. Unlike my feelings about the this-vs-now living spaces, this vehicle wins over the CRX. It's sexy, fast, a joy to drive, and the hatchback door stays up on its own (although the hydraulics are getting a bit old and it's kind of slow to rise in the winter). Good job deciding to buy this car, mckitterick. WELL DONE.

I'm in a relationship with:
mckitterick. This dude, I tell you. He occasionally drives me up a wall, but he's an amazing partner. He works harder at being a good person than anyone I've ever known. Sometimes his faith in humanity is shaken, but he continues to believe that the world can be saved and that it deserves saving. He is generous, compassionate, and intelligent. I mean, he's really, really smart. I sometimes forget because (ILU honey) we don't share the same sort of smarts and his type of intelligence is simply not on my radar. Also he is kind of a goofball. But then he goes to elite workshops on quantum physics and engages with the scientists there on their own level and when he comes home to talk about it I'm all o_O. Also, let's face it, the guy is fucking fit.

I fear:
Spiders.

I work at:
My paycheck comes from the University of Kansas, specifically the English Department, where I herd graduate students and enforce policy like a gentle and benevolent dictator. I have good times and bad times here, but I'm mostly content. At the moment. I also work really hard at not succumbing to chronic illness (Hashimoto's disease and all its accompanying effects). That takes up most of my life outside of my job. I'd rather spend more time working on art projects or my '68 Chevelle, but that's how it goes. I don't let myself get bummed about it because what'd be the point?

I want to be:
Healthy and wealthy so I'd have more time to do the things I want to do in addition to the things I need to do.

Icon for no other reason than the Darling Rats tumblr has been particularly cute of late and I am missing my Hefner boy today.

Looking through that photoset (my photo-a-day tracking my 39th year) gives me some feels. My pets! My glasses! My growing-out hair (which was a PITA but did look pretty good for growing-out I gotta say)! Eating at restaurants! So much booze! I look at those photos and I see me. But as the year progresses, I see myself slipping into un-health, even though I didn't recognize it at the time. Earlier in the year, my moods are still variable--I look happy in some, grumpy in others, but I'm in some way engaged. By the end, the photos start to look monotonous and I can tell I'm sort of calling it in. Which might be due to being tired of the 365 project, but I think it's more than that. I did another 365 project a couple years later and I have the same issue with not looking like an active participant for pretty much the entire year. mckitterick has asked me more than once to do another project like this, but I cannot bring myself to even think about taking a photo of myself every day.

Which makes me think maybe I've been depressed on some level since late 2009? That...sucks.

This morning I realized why I hate so much doing stuff for the CSSF. I have no connection or investment with anyone but mckitterick. With the graduate students I have a sort of condensed cradle-to-grave relationship with them while they're in the graduate program. With the summer people, not at all. They're like retail customers.

The revelation came to me when I arrived this morning and a grad student came to ask me about fixing the printers in the grad student lab before I even got my computer turned on. It didn't bother me in the slightest that I had to go deal with a printer (ugh printers are the worst) before I'd settled in. In fact, it felt kind of nice to offer such immediate help first thing in the morning. If that had been a CSSF issue, I wouldn't have had the same emotional response. I have no involvement or motivation for helping them and honestly there's nothing that's going to develop the sort of relationship like I have with the graduate students.

It's no wonder my job dissatisfaction tends to crest this time of year, as I'm gearing up for summer CSSF stuff. If I wasn't doing that stuff, this would be the easiest time of my year and I could look forward to summer. Instead, I dread the end of the spring semester and I honestly have not had a memorably good summer since...2006? Whenever I took over management of the CSSF summer program logistics. That sucks. It also sucks that I have no idea how to stop doing it. It was great when someone took over management of the Campbell Conference, but it wasn't enough. I want so much for someone else to deal with the summer writing and institute bullshit because god damn it, I am tired of not enjoying my springs and summers.

Last night's chanting was lovely and so far I'm very much liking their new CD. The last track, which they performed second-to-last was especially lovely. I could pick out a high harmony and started singing it softly, which Kaminaya maybe could hear because she invited people "Please harmonize if you wish" after the third call-and-response and enough people did that it sounded amazing. Since I gave up on maintaining my voice years (decades) ago, kirtans are the only time I do any group singing. Even though I don't buy into a shred of the religious aspects, I do think singing with others can be a spiritually fulfilling experience. I don't need to do it frequently, but it's nice once in a while. Everybody is always so happy at these things, too, and while I will never be that happy of a person (it's just not my nature and that's fine), it's fun to see people being so unabashedly joyful for a couple hours.

I don't want or need to feel that kind of bliss all the time, but I would like to get back to my mental space of early 2009--at least what I see represented in those photos. But I don't even remember what that was like. How do I get back there from here? I haven't a clue.