Hurts hurt.

I think I messed up. I've offended a friend, a confidant, and I'm not sure how, and I'm not sure how to fix it. I hope I can. But maybe I just need to wait see. I value them highly, and I aside from really needing a friend right now, I'm worried that they do too. But hurts hurt, and sometimes picking a scab is the worse thing you can do.

Shit

Jason Molina is dead. Pitchfork's obituary is here,

I'll be playing his music and drowning myself in gin.

and they'll be placing fingers through the notches of your spine

Possibly my favourite line in any song ever. Simultaneously tender and sinisterly clinical.

I'm making stew. Pretty simple, beef, onions (chopped), shallots (whole), potatoes, carrots, thyme, stock, soy sauce, low heat. Not sure if it needs much else, I'll season shortly and see, but it smells pretty good. I'm making stew because I've not been looking after myself much recently, and combined with the various stresses of life, this is resulting in headaches. So food and a resumption of yoga practice shall ensue. Eventually I reckon I'm going back to a largely vegetarian diet, you know, yoga and clean living, but I'm using up the contents of the freezer first.

I'm listening to Kala, which you'd think would be the antithesis of sense with a headache, but bizarrely they're complementing each other well; the music is almost drowning out the pain, and the lightshow with my migraine seems to be perfectly in line with the sounds I hear. Which right now is this

Beyond that he was numb: heart-numb, mind-numb, soul-numb. And the numbness, he realised, went a long way down, and a long way back.

I really do love Neil Gaiman right now.

You've got a good heart. Sometimes that's enough to see you safe wherever you go. But mostly, it's not.

I'm on a bit of a Neil Gaiman bent right now, the last three books I've read Coraline, Stardust and American Gods. American Gods is fabulous. I won't spoil it for you, save to say that I think it possibly contains the best death-by-vagina scene I've ever read/seen/heard of/notheard of but doubtless exists somewhere. So, imagine my excitement to find out that Neverwhere is on Radio 4! With a cast including James McAvoy, Anthony Head, Johnny Vegas and NEIL GAIMAN HIMSELF (voicing three parts! Not that that excites me or anything...) it promises to be an awesome radio serial. I also only realised today that Neverwhere was also a TV show in the 90s! So over the next few weeks, I'll be having so much Neil Gaiman based fun, especially with the hopeful scenario that the next Neil Gaiman penned episode of Doctor Who will happen in the forthcoming series. QUITE EXCITED.

Drinking tea under your covers while kissing thee

I've been in a funk the past few days. I don't know why really, but a funk there has been. Thank fuck the funk has gone. This morning I'm listening to the French Quarter. A boy bought me this beauty on lovely lovely vinyl in 2008, with the explanation that In June reminded him of me. I'm not sure why, but I really like the record. And I really do like In June. So thank you.

Here's a live version right here.

I have a headache

Thoughts in my head
Unsaid
Poison. Twist.
Deal made
Silence twists
Sickness knots.
Silence sickens.
Sickness quickens.
Knowledge rejected
Of speech reflected
Sickness lingers.

I NEED A FUCKING DRINK

I rarely drink any more, so the only alcohol in the house is Armagnac or Sherry, as Christmas cooking is wont to require.

I like Armagnac.

Snow swirls outside my window pane

It is a beautiful day, with snow swirling in the cherry blossom outside the window, I am working on coursework that needs to be in on Thursday, and Procrastination rears its head. My friend Danny announced on Facecrack that he was listening to Uzeda's 'Stella' album, and, having never heard this, Procrastination whispered lightly in my ear "Play the album". And I did. And I'm glad I did.

Procrastination, you regularly lead me astray. But I'm glad you are my friend.

It is eerie

In the library at 4:31am.

There are a couple of guys over the other side of the computer room, but otherwise all is bare. Staying awake is one thing, concentrating is another.

There is beauty in the small things

I also stumbled on an online space today where I occasionally write down notes to myself, or random thoughts. I found this from 2007. Lordy, but I was a pretentious wazzocky bastard! In my defence, I was only 26, and no doubt in the depths of despair over something foolish like a boy.

There is beauty in the small things. There is beauty in things that make you happy, and in the things that make you sad. Even in atrocity there is beauty. Beauty in the reaction it provokes, the strength of spirit that prevails and pulls through. There is beauty in sadness, for loss stings all the more when something of beauty slips through your fingers. The poignancy of what was. Of what might have been. And there is happiness to be had through loss. Happiness that you had something so beautiful for a time. That you were able to experience something that was worth the current pain you feel. That experience, and that pain, make you who you are.

Idiot.

I broke my foot!

I told you to get off. But no, two years have passed, and you didn't get off my foot.

Actually, I really have broken my foot. But I did it glamourously, by *drumroll please* walking. In flat, sensible shoes. Yes, it seems so. I met my friend Rae for lunch, and when I left, my foot was broken. I'm pretty sure he didn't do it. Nor do I think you can break your foot by sitting on a chair in the Eighth Day cafe on Oxford Road. So it must have been the walking. I probably didn't help it by going dancing at Underachievers the night after. In red patent high heels. I swear it was only to alleviate the pressure on the broken bit... On the other hand, co ordinating my underwear with my shoes was straight up just for kicks.

And more importantly, it was one of the last few Underachievers nights that are ever going to be. It's very sad, but looks like they'll be going out in fine style, tonight was Songs for Walter and Post War Glamour Girls, and the next few events are going to see sets from Kid Canaveral, Letters To Fiesta, Patterns, and, for the last ever Underachievers, Ghost Outfit. It's all pretty special.

So. The inevitable catch up. You're not interested, but I'll pretend you are. I'm nearly at the end of my first year in a Psychology and Speech Pathology degree, I've got three more years to go, and it's proving to be one hell of an adjustment to go back to education with a small child in tow. The small child is two and a half, and brighter than a box with wired up light bulbs inside. Really, I'd say I'm biased, but the nursery staff are constantly staggered. What can I say? I made a kid, I did it well.

I've only been to a few gigs over the last year or so, I saw Nina Nastasia and Sam Amidon in Leeds earlier in the 2012 (Nina Nastasia talks a lot about TV. Seriously a lot. I think I heard more about what she'd seen on TV than I did songs), Joe Pug at the Castle in August, Jens Lekman at the Ruby Lounge in September, and I saw Boris and Joe Volk on their split LP tour in December. Boris were AMAZING. And let's face it, they had a gong. I've still going to less stuff as I'm a responsible adult now apparently, but we've moved back to Manchester, so everything's definitely more available. (And the Boris/Joe Volk LP is in the boot of my car! I'm going to play it when I get home)

Anyway, enough procrastinating... I'm currently in the Library instead of out dancing, as I have a lot of coursework to hand in, and the Kittencat's father is off to Japan on Monday for a wedding. So I'm making the most of him this weekend, by abandoning him and the child to get some work done... Obviously I'm succeeding! Back to the grind, and I shall no doubt complete my work and stumble home shortly.

GET OFF MY FOOT...

So Kittencat has been walking for some weeks now, but more importantly, it occurs to me that without some important task for Blogger to distract me from, I'm often curiously silent. My last spurt of blog spewings related directly to a perilously close deadline combined with a significant lack of work due on the subject (Open University course on double entry booking - I got 93% for 3 weeks work on a 12 week course, YAY!!!) but since then we've been overthrown a little with visitors and mayhem, culminating in a trip to Dorset at the beginning of September for EOTR, which was beautiful and lovely and there were peacocks and EVERYTHING. Main highlight for me was probably Sam Amidon, and seeing him do some of the King Speechy such he's been tweeting about on stage.

Anyhoo, the point of all of this is that everything calms down a little, and since little four tooth Kittencat will not do anything but read, it seems that now is the time to start doing the writing and the knitting and the generally doing and making things. September is cordoned off for doing little, but it's nearly October, and a plan lies a foot. GET OFF MY FOOT...

Kittencat is on the brink of the momentus

Kittencat walked the length of the rug today, holding only one of my hands. This is very new. She was very unsteady, but she did it. She has been crawling up the big victorian flight of stairs for a good couple of weeks, and climbing unaided onto sofas, but her confidence in moving on her back paws has hitherto been lacking, or possibly just pushed back in favour of a speedier way of getting around. Now though, little three teeth Kittencat is standing strongly, and ready to go. It won't be long. Oh no.

Procrastination

I'm trying to focus on doing an Open University course. It's only a 3 month job, but there are about 4 weeks to go, and about 3 months of work still to achieve. Of course, it's the normal state of affairs that I work better under pressure. But this applies pressure to the Boy as well, who is taking on all the standard evening chores, like tidying up after Kittencat, for the duration of this mini marathon of learningness in which I shall hopefully rediscover my brain.

In other news, the Kittencat is 9 1/2 months old, and running around everywhere. Well, crawling to things she can run around, and then running around them whilst holding on. When we go to get peas out of the freezer she enjoys stealing and eating the still frozen peas. She has quite a sense of humour, and looks pleased with herself when she decides to steal the phone, and more so when the mission is accomplished. She doesn't miss me when she's with the grandfolks, and is happy as can be in their company, which is smashing news in time for End of the Road.

And lo! The Lord said let there be record stores, and there were record stores, and it was GOOD.

Incidentally, the boy has reminded me that it's Record Store Day on Saturday. Now, I'm a bit out of the loop these days, what with Kittencat preferring reditions of Baa Baa Black Sheep and The Grand Old Duke of York to anything lovely put out by Kill Rockstars or Secretly Canadian, and I'm really unsure how she feels about Bedroom Community, but I do know that Record Store Day is a wonderful day, and that you Manchester types should get out of bed, put on your dressing gowns and shoes, get on a bus and stop by Piccadilly Records for a browse and a buy. Anyone not in Manchester can just sub their own location, the principle is pretty much the same. Now, I'm not going to tell you what you should be buying or what you should like, but there's some pretty awesome stuff available for Record Store Day, and going to record shops in your pj's really is what Saturdays are all about.

See you there, I'll be in the blue check pj's and my snazzy blue mocassin slippers!

In which the former made way for the latter...

Kittencat did good today. She knelt for a time whilst playing without the need for any support, and she did good eating of beans and vegetables, which is pretty good for her mere seven months of existence.

Woodcat sat proudly on the mat, batting toys around with Kittencat, thinking "I made that."

Turns out drinking gives you cancer

But it's bloody nice, isn't it?

I miss gin. With tonic. With a dash of vermouth. Oooh. Yes. Martinis. And vodka martinis. YUMMY.

Everything kills you these days, but it's an awful lot easier to bear if you're soused in booze.

Possibilities...

I've not been to a gig for ages. I think the last gig I went to was Wu Tang in August 2010, and the at-that-stage-not-yet-born small person got the hump, turned back outwards and elbows out and sulked. Horse Feathers played in Manchester about a week after the small person was born, and I missed it. In fairness, I never expected not to miss it, but I'm becoming increasing aware that I've not been to much in the way of anything for a long time. I miss music. I miss the cinema. Anyway, on Friday 27th May The Mountain Goats are playing at the Academy. The boy has suggested we go, and I'd really like to, but I can't plan for anything until the small person can be left with the mother, which is uncertain as to when that will be. Gah.

I am, however, thinking that we should be able to plan to leave the small person with the mother for a time in time for END OF THE ROAD!!! And Sam Amidon is playing, and Emmy the Great, and Joanna Newsom, and Bob Log III, and a veritable cornucopia of beautiful music for a musically starved Woodcat. Who could wear her wellingtons and cowboy hat and dance in fields with gin and her friends (order of priorities clear methinks).

And the prize for best newcomer goes to...

I haven't written here for a while. Much has changed. I met a boy. I had a baby. She is small, and beautiful, and right now she's asleep. I don't go out right now, but I'm having a whale of a time with my baby, and the boy and I are learning a lot about each other's television preferences. I can't believe I've never watched Seinfeld. It's A-MAZ-ING.