resetting my bloggy world; a post in portions.

Since my ailment of a week or so ago, it's been a slow climb back up, or so some might think, but really i've been secretly squirrelling away bloggy things that I will now take this opportunity to unleash in a most frivolous manner.

I. my new arm.

One knows one's tattooist is Exemplary when he, mid-tattooing, pauses momentarily to bless a sneezer in the next room. Twice.
(In a non-denominational way, of course.)
THATANDMYARMLOOKINGSOUNBELIEVABLYBLOODYAMAZINGANDINCREDIBLEIT'SADDEDYEARSONTOMYLIFE.
(font size 72)

Bobby Five, ladies and gentlemen.

I will be posting Copious pictures of my bare skin on the internet for your gratification, imminently.

'Coz i'm just that kind of gal.

II. stones and ghosts.

Imagine receiving this little package of love in your mailbox. It is a Good Good Life.

III. is So Amazing.

My new tattoo is So amazing.
More amazing than my bike tires.
(only slightly more amazing than my bike tires.)
(but More amazing nonetheless.)

IV. on the nature of teaching.

As this book-making workshop I'm involved with unfolds, I find myself pondering principles and styles of teaching, all of which is kind of new to me, and makes me realize how much I'm a product of when I was 10. I went to a Montessori school for 9 years, and as a result have a particular take (who knew?!?) on how I relate to kids I'm showing stuff to.
Discussing this with teaching guru SG tonight over amaretto sours (which I've never had before and are Amazing, incidentally.)
(although not Quite as amazing as my new tattoo),
she coined her teaching philosophy in a way I thought was perfect. (I'm paraphrasing the following, hopefully accurately:)

[The ideal scenario as a teacher is to render yourself irrelevant.]

THAT IS. If kids can walk away knowing they have figured something out, knowing they have accomplished something on their own, having learnt something they can claim as theirs, that means they have been taught well. What they think of the teacher as a person is not the object of the class, nor is it the purpose of education.

I was awed and humbled, all at the same time.

V. My underpaid back.

Had another "publishing is built on the backs of underpaid women" conversation last week. I've had alot of these in the last year. The question is whether these jobs truly are irrevocable labours of love or whether that is a collective ruse all us girls gather under to accept the fact that we're doing nothing about being paid quite badly for doing good work.

Of course, these conversations are always followed in my brain by "That's it! I quit!", which is then followed by "It's far too late for me to join the Tour De France, my math/science skills are hopeless, and I burn way too much toast to ever be a chef, etc. etc. etc."
(sigh) And I love books. I do. I love making them, in whatever capacity.
So. What to do?

VI. sigh.

It's Fun being shallow and caring about things like my NewAmazingTattooThatICan'tHelpButThinkHasChangedMyLifeIrrevocably.

VII. something i most obviously could never live without.

I saw a blurb for this in this week's Now, which convinces me that I must go out and get a better-paying job IMMEDIATELY.
What was I ever thinking, and how will I ever be the same without it?

VIII. disclaimer.

The interest expressed in section VII is not to be confused with the genuine interests of stef lenk, who, marked devotion to new tattoos notwithstanding, will never ever EVER condone the acquiring of such FUCKING RIDICULOUS items as a "Clocky".

15 minutes, 6 seconds.

queen and roncey to beverley and baldwin.

I credit the blue tires.

New Arm.

This man is a Genius. GENIUS.

FUBAR re-training module.

Today's lunchtime topic of discussion with dear Coco was apropos of me finally pinpointing the one thing that makes me completely, irrevocably, and pretty much Constantly FUBAR: ambiguity. That is, unfinished communications, stranded messages, stray emails, who went where, what happened then, what will happen next etc etc. This lack of foresight is completely untenable to me. Like, losing-years-of-my-life-stressing-over-it untenable.

Being a dear friend, Coco decided that the best way to be of help was a re-training strategy. You know, little lessons in loving and living with the unknown.

(scenario: Coco arrives for dinner one night and promptly ties stef to a chair and blindfolds her, and then runs around the place banging things.)

stef: "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!? WHAT'S GOING ON?!?!"
Coco: "You don't know, do you? And you CAN'T know! You Can't. You just have to LIVE WITH IT."

(scenario: stef comes home one evening to find that everything in her house has been hidden.)

stef: "WHERE'S MY OVEN?!?"
Coco: "You don't know, do you? You just have to accept this, stef. Live with the mystery. LIVE with it."

(scenario: stef somehow finds herself sitting amidst many trees in a foreign land.)

stef: "WHERE AM I?!?"
Coco: "You can't know."
stef: "But, who are these guerilla armies advancing towards me through the jungle?"
Coco: "You can't know that either. And you just have to be OKAY with it."
stef: (sigh)

Apophenia of Immeasurable Significance.

And as the credits rolled the other night on the last DVD in season two of my dear Who, I realized, most melancholically, that there was no longer any excuse to be ill.
I sighed and looked at my (wind-up) clock only to see that it had STOPPED. Not two minutes before. No doubt in sync with the Time-Lord himself, who had just sent forty billion daleks and cyber-men into oblivion and closed up a rip in the universe.
Which is more than I managed over the four days of Hell my innards were sopping in. Sigh.