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Entrez Non-Sequitur

Does anyone want to commission me for $80k worth of work?

No. Really. Anything.

I know that sounds a bit dodgy, but I want this

Is it love at first sight if the object of your affection is mechanical?

One More Reason Why Tesla Was God.



This is a solid-state Tesla coil. The primary runs at its resonant frequency in the 41 KHz range, and is modulated from the control unit in order to generate the tones you hear.

So...in case you don't understand what that means, yes, that is the Tesla Coil making the music you hear. Every cycle of the music is a burst of sparks that is being triggered by digital circuitry connected to fiber optics.

One thing I'd love to see in combination with this would be the changes in sound as the noise hits a Faraday cage. Being in the middle of all that electricity....<3 <3 <3

The coil is owned by Steve Ward, is a EE student at U of I Urbana-Champaign, and I'd personally marry him if I thought I could get this thing in the subsequent divorce.

Beaten To Death With the Bloody Stumps

This just in: being awake for 21 hours, dancing for five hours, and wearing 6" heels for more than 12 is really, really owwie.

No, really. It hurts.

Also, I am all bruiseded and broken from places where I was alternately slammed into, jostled, or smacked myself and the metal in the corset did what metal does, and refused to bend. Same goes for a large portion of my legs, thanks to the newly broken-in uber goth boots of doom.

The old ones had to be retired, sadly, so yesterday the new Demonia Transformers came out to play.

The make me very tall. I love it. Or, rather, I did, until Claw came over, and he's still 2" taller than me in my boots.

Sigh.

This morning, we breakfasted on pancakes and drama, with a side of infighting, but other than that the peace was kept. I came home, wrote, and fell into bed until 5pm, when I promptly got up and became a ramen-eating couch vegetable--a dehydrated ramen-eating couch vegetable.

This could be because I sorta didn't eat before going to Nocturna....well, I had a smoothie. I have been informed that this does not, in fact, count as food, but my corset makes my tummy feel happily full, so I was fine until I started the usual "why is the world all spinnier than normal" thing, and was dragged to IHOP, which was inefficient even with nobody there at 7am. Stupid stupids.

Work is gonna be hell tomorrow, and I have an interview at 9:30. Ugh.

In other news, the next Nocturna is November 24th! It's a great excuse to work off all those Thanksgiving calories---so consider yourselves invited.

The goth boots shall rise again, even if I have to strap them on to the bloody stumps of my feet.

If nothing else, that would be so very goth.

Leather, Crinoline, and Dorothy

I am very, very tired, so this will be written now, and posted when I stop being in pain and asleep.

Well, for those of you who were invited but noticeably absent, Yesterday was the Nocturna Halloween bash at the House of Blues. The venue was a big change, and a bit weird, because there was simply no place to escape from the sound, and someone with a massive love of the bass settings had tuned things to a mind-numbing frequency.

That, and the drinks require payment in the form of firstborn children, but hey, watered-down vodka's pricey these days.

On the up side, I got to see a ton of people I've missed, I managed to be good and not try to steal people from their groups, I danced with almost every guy I had my eye on dancing with, and I got at least three "goth hand kisses," which are de rigeur for goth boys to do.

Oh, and I got complimented on being beautiful by drag queens.

You can't see me right now, but I'm squealing like a five year old that finally got her pony.
And it's a pink pony. With sparkles. Possibly licensed by Mattel.

They liked my corset, fondled my waist, gave me makeup tips, and asked me to "promenade" with them to show off our clothes.

Eeeeee! It's the ultimate in compliments, and they were so pretty, and...wow. I felt validated, I suppose, which is dumb, but they were gorgeous. And wearing much, much higher heels than me, so there's some professional admiration, too.

The costumes weren't the best this year, but the drag queens almost made up for it--particularly Dorothy, with her nifty ruby slippers. On top of this, there was a costume contest, which Cobra Commander totally ruled at, since 90% of the other entrants appeared to be some kind of fairy or other. There was a complete set of Endless, and some Dreaming characters, and the drunken pirate whore boy, who is very sparkly and very, very, indiscriminate about kissing people. Eww.

I managed to avoid said contest (which my brother was trying to drag me into.) It wasn't, as he worried, that I wasn't sure of how I looked--I got more offers to dance in the first five minutes of walking in than in my entire high school life, and the corset seems to inspire touching, love, and obedience. This is mostly because many of the other attendees are wearing Hot Topic corsets, which are held together by shoe polish and spit, but it was still nice.

The thing is, I didn't want to go up because...well, if I'd gone up, then certain other people with us would have gone up, and...it would not have gone well. So we stayed, as a group, and things were harmonious, and less dramatically inclined.

Plus, who the hell cares what anyone else thinks of your costume? We're goths, dammit. It's a subculture full of people who have no interest in normal fashion. Costume contests that don't involve real costumes are silly, and basing your self-view on what others in your subculture think is even worse.

Which is why it is just and fitting that cobra commander won, because he is the least goth of all of us, and didn't care.

Also, he's Cobra fucking Commander.

Simple and Clean

Hooray for predestination.

Today was a rather nice day, mostly because of the lack of work that I had to do. Have I been employed long enough to be jaded at my job? I'd suspect the correct answer is 'no,' but those that know me are aware that I can quickly become jaded about anything. The typical excuse that's made for me is that I'm an 'old soul...' For myself, I think it's simply that I'm far too cynical and easily annoyed, and thus get bored faster with monotonous things.

On top of this, it's the ever beautiful month of October, when Fall really gets into the swing of things and the world explodes with the colors of lust and slumber. It's such a small window between the play of sun on the leaves and the bite of snow that I have to enjoy it as it is; brief, gentle, like a stolen kiss from a recalcitrant lover. It is a time that gifts the world with poetics, energy, and the taste of fire.

How can humans hate the passage of time so much? Fall showers us with the beauty of decay in ways that even the best painter is incapable of capturing, yet all we see are fallen leaves and dying plants, our as-yet unripened tomatoes withering on their spires.

All Hallow's is coming soon--there's something odd about this year that I can't place my finger on, but I'm interested to see how it manifests itself. I can feel the crackle of it in the air--I had more time for that today than usual. It's been a while since I made time for friendship. What an odd sensation. I want to bottle it up and keep it with me, this feeling---a touch of loss, a hint of interest, and sparks of affinity that swirl like fireflies. A good friendship is something akin to love in that the scent of it clings to you long after their departure, leaving pangs on your skin of a world that is a little darker for the absence of another like-minded mammal.

Enjoy this month--it's a gateway to les temps foncé. My birth god, Janus, owns this month as surely as he does January, and the strangest of times are those that live on the edge of light and dark, death and birth.

Los Angeles is Burning

" When the hills of los angeles are burning
Palm trees are candles in the murder wind
So many lives are on the breeze
Even the stars are ill at ease
And los angeles is burning"
-Bad Religion


As you can see, I, like everyone else, am consumed by the stories of the fires in San Diego. The pictures of homes, crying children and lost pets are almost easier to face than those of the firefighters, masks in hand, eyes clenched against the ash. The area is covered in a blanket of smog that is simply overwhelming.

The idyllic city, all pale stucco and blue skies at the time of my last visit, is no more. In its place are small pins on a map, white plumes of smoke drifting across a satellite image like the breath of some dead dragon god, and stories of loss and longing.

A state of emergency has been called. Families have no contact, cell phones are off, residents are in their houses, watching the edges of the burning zone and praying that their home will remain outside it, untouched.

One imagines there must be a modicum of guilt. "If I wish that my house be spared, is that as good as wishing that theirs be destroyed?"

The question of order to the chaos is an empty one.

Instead, there is the drama of the first responders, lives on the line as they face miles and miles of a deadly firewall that is being fanned by the Santa Ana winds and aided by dangerously low humidity. Imagine facing your mortality in the face of eight foot flames. Imagine wishing for a moment of calm, for a breeze to catch your breath, knowing that breeze might be the one that turns the fire back on you.

Even if the breeze brings you a moment's calm, the air is caustic. Simply being outside is an exertion, every breath brings a convulsive cough as lungs fight for lost oxygen.

Meanwhile, the home owners watch as one house is spared, another burned. Like tornadoes, fires are capricious in their destruction, and they leave behind the stink of the burn: on photos, on glass, on skin, and in the soil and the memory of the earth, cleansed for regrowth.

As the smoke settles, we will watch these same owners try to salvage their lives one phone call at a time. Money will tighten. Some will never regain what's been lost--was that check, that call, that company that's your "good neighbor" the right one to choose, or will you be left empty-handed, picking up the pieces?

We leave to this planet nothing but our dust, and hope all the while that it will be made the richer for it. They, their belongings, their memories and beliefs, have become part of the soil they will no doubt rebuild on. Hasn't that always been a habit of humanity?

The Meme Begins!

Thanks to my friend circleseven, I now have fun and amusing things to infect people with.

For the first three people that reply to me and re-post this challenge - I will send you something that I think rocks.

I have no idea what it may be, as yet. It's probably a work in progress as we speak.

Whatever it is, I promise that I will get it to you in 365 days or less.
(I will need your snail mail if you want to participate...you can email me that separately if you want.)

The only thing you need to do in order to participate is to be one of the first three to reply to this, AND post this very same thing on YOUR live journal - cause its fun to give people stuff.

Ta-dah! Come, friends, participate!

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Planning A Garage Sale

So, we're planning a garage sale. Not so much for me, although lord knows I have enough junque that I might be able to if I dedicatedly scrounged, but for the Mini-Me. She is suffering from an ailment I call meiosis impedimenta, or "Holy Hell, when did you get all this stuff and why is some of it moving?"

The second one is just a pet name, really.

Anyway, there is currently a lovely layer of cheap Chinese plastic parts and Barbie arms on the floor of her room. This fact has made putting her to bed at night something akin to walking blindfolded through a minefield covered in broken glass. Not that bad, you say? Then you try leaving a hardboiled egg under the carpet since Easter and then stepping on it two months later. The damn thing even left shrapnel.

The problem here is that we have a small, autonomous human being with no concept of time, decay, personal responsibility, or monetary value. So, while we work on the more difficult aspects of this with story books and video games, the monetary value battle will be fought on the driveway, as she chooses which baby toys she no longer plays with and which ones she does, and we prepare to sell them.

The money then goes into her giganto bottle bank thing, to be saved for new and interesting toys later--and I am saved from the horrors of accidentally embedding a plastic arm into the ball of my foot in the middle of the night.

It was in up to the elbow. The elbow, I tell you.
This has been a week of accomplishments, good and bad.

The Good: I've finally managed to plant a meager garden. At the moment, it's a mix of some small veggies and herbs on one half and flowers on the other, in concession to Sophie. I also have some potted herbs that require less space, like chives and basil.

The misnomered "veggie patch" consists of two tomato plants, two bell pepper plants (one green, one ivory), one Hungarian wax pepper plant, and two strawberry plants. They seem to be doing well so far, and the tomatoes and Hungarian pepper plant are staked and caged--this has not, however, stopped the yard's resident squirrel from stealing the first two large peppers the wax plant grew. On the other hand, it was the first time I've seen a squirrel drop food that fast and hide angrily up in the tree, so it was almost worth the sacrifice. Flame didn't quite come out of the mouth, but it was close. You'd think he'd have learned after the first time.

If anyone has hints on tomato gardening, they're more than welcome--these are my first home-grown set, so constructive criticism is to be expected. Any canning hints, gardening tips, and particularly jam recipes (I shall soon be in possession of a large set of strawberries, and want freezer jam) would be spiffy.

The Bad: I sliced my thumb into infection. It's currently covered with a Dermabond seal, which is like superglue for injuries, but has managed to infect itself anyway. This means that once my stoicism runs out, it's back to the hospital I go, possibly for stitches this time. It's not so much the pain--as we know, I handle pain just fine--it's the "dragging my lazy ass to the ER" portion that bugs me. Oh Well.

The Etc.: I'm looking for a loom, preferably a table loom, to teach Sophie weaving. I had one as a youngster, but it's long since gone. I'd like another, but they're hard to find in my current locale, so I was wondering if any of the other lovers of (admittedly small) homespun could give me any ideas as to where to get my hands on a table loom. Any suggestions in the Chicago suburbs or online would be lovverly, so let me know.

Encyclopedia of life is online!

The Encyclopedia of Life, which has long required geeks like me to make several major treks to find out what's in it, is finally online.

There are 1.8 million known species in our world. There are even more we don't know about, will never know about.

Time to look at these while you can, I should think!


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