Oswald 2010

My vacation at the Oregon coast with friends I’ve known most of my life was an absolute blast. It was relaxing and beautiful. It was delicious to see faces of people I love, hear them laugh and catch up on their lives. I know the coastal air, the sound of surf and the scent of sea had a great deal to do with the healing of my body, but not nearly as much as the company of people I love.

There’s something about being around your true friends – you know, the ones that held your hair while you were bent over a toilet, edited your bad high school emo poetry, or drove up Thompson Pass in the middle of the night with you because you “felt like a midnight view” there to talk till sunrise about your most secret and passionate dreams – yeah, those friends.

The friends who’ve called you on your shit for 17 years, whose opinions you trust and motives are compassionate. The friends that believe you are strong even when you feel weak and somehow, magically, you actually surprise yourself with the strength that you didn’t know you had.

These are my friends. The ones I’ve loved through 17 years of evolutions, loss, love, joy, misery, mischief and grief. Has it always been easy? No. of course not. Has it always been worth it? Absolutely.

Thusly, I found myself in Manzanita, Oregon - four blocks from the ocean and in a giant rental house where all of us met to catch up. Sometimes there are more of us that can get together and sometimes fewer, but we try to make a habit of getting together at least once a year with our families and spend some quality time together.

I have never been in this group and felt so utterly not myself. When I was going through my divorce, they were upbeat and encouraging – but so too was I curious and while heartbroken – I was also excited to see what life had to offer me in terms of freedom and exploration.

This last week was not the case. I had not planned on bringing up my medical issues at all. I only wanted to enjoy their company and soak up the enjoyment of being around them.

Then I hemorrhaged at work the Thursday before we were set to leave and I went to the Emergency Room in distress and severe blood loss. That night I went home and thought about it – I couldn’t possibly go on vacation with them – and not mention that it was a very real possibility that I might collapse and bleed all over someone at some point during the week.

I wobbled back and forth. Talk about it. Be silent. Talk about it. Be silent.

But my “be silent” plan lasted all of half an hour because as soon as my friend Sondra stepped off the plane and we headed out – I was filled with relief that my truest and oldest friends were near and all that I felt burdened by would have a safe haven if I only spoke.

All that I haven’t been able to blog. All that I am congested in my spirit. My very real fears of dying and my sense of loss that my own body is working against me. The convoluted angst of the possibility of never being able to give birth – of the feminine mystery of motherhood. The frustration that my insurance company is so messed up and the RAGE at the medical community for consistently treating me like a number or a stupid hysterical woman for wanting my questions answered.

All that I intended to keep quiet, burst forth and for the next five days all I talked about was my vagina.

Seriously?

I talked about my cooch for five days? Why didn’t they stop me?

I suppose it’s because they are my friends, and they knew somehow that I needed to talk. They took it all in stride, one guy sitting up with me till 5 am to discuss my options and the variables of which treatments are available. He offered intelligent feedback and asked complicated questions to things even I hadn’t considered.

My girlfriends always listened compassionately when I talked about the bleeding – every single day – since the last part of February. They moaned and groaned with me helping me realize I’m not just being a wuss – it’s actually a serious pain in the ass and a dangerous topic to ignore.

Even the other guys laughed at my bad jokes to keep things upbeat.

“Athena, are you going swimming in the ocean with us today?”

“Naw, I don’t want to be the one held responsible for chumming the water from my friends.”

They didn’t make be feel judged or pitiful for not being able to keep up, they simply took the bags I was carrying and slowed down so I could continue to be part of the conversation as we hiked back to the cars one day. Or offered to lift the heavier boxes when the jeep needed to be loaded up.

But did they let me off easy when it came to chastising me? Not a chance. Understandably, they complained about my lack of information updates until now. Rightly so, they called me on my seeming inability to ask for help, or accept it. And also correctly they reinforced, lovingly, that I can’t allow my decisions for my health to be driven by my work, or doctors that don’t communicate my options.

But mostly, I was reminded that I don’t have to be alone on this. They are there for me.
Two dear friends offered me a places back in Alaska rent free to relax and re-stabilize my health. Sanctuary. Stress-free and full of love.

Others offered help with finances, counseling and the ever needed ear or shoulder.

Since then other friends from the early years of Alaska have made plans to come stay and visit, keep me company when I’m not my strongest physical form. Staggering their stays to be companions and offer support.

I suspect my house will be full of rotating guests until December.

I returned from Manzanita recharged. The day I left the beach was the first day of not bleeding since February and it has become a full 5 days. Which is a record that makes me feel a little like a Rock Star in energy and newfound resolve. The increase in my hormone medication created a window of side-effects but the result of not fearing I would faint from blood loss was well worth the nausea and giant swollen limbs and cheeks.

I came home full of joy from the coast. Contented happiness from spending time with my friends. And I found that when I stepped back in my house, I had a newfound sense of resolve and willingness to beat this thing back and retrieve my health.

Therefore, I am meeting with a specialist tomorrow. She will effectively be my 4th opinion and I intend to weigh all the information I’ve gotten so far with what she tells me and come to a decision about my course of surgery and/or treatment. I suspect it will be a pretty emotional appointment.

I will keep you posted on what she says and what I intend to do about it.

As for now, I am peaceful. I am contemplating a lot. Feeling better than I have in months (it’s amazing what 5 days of not losing a pint can do) I’m ready to try to treatments and I am ready to consider what needs to be done to regain my health with a truly open mind. Thanks, guys!

Go figure that I forgot to pack my phone charger so my phone is off most of the time, but I think that’s actually working in my favor to prevent stress. Therefore it’s just me, my peeps and the ocean. It’s perfect.

When I get home I’m trying to plan a blood transfusion with my doctors and investigate more options for my health.

Obviously, I don’t want to worry anyone. I’m still working on a fix but for now… I am really enjoying the sound of water, the company of people I love and knowing I don’t have to be anywhere today.

I will check in soon!

Up popped a picture of a birthday cake with a solitary candle and the email read.

“Happy Birthday! Still Single? Come check out your matches and find the men who want to meet you for your birthday!”

Still single?

Really?

That’s their brilliant ad campaign to bring people back to their site? Remind people that they aren’t getting any younger and it sucks to spend your birthday single?

Well, fuck you very much, Okcupid. You can go straight to hell.

And where do I sign up for a new account?

My foggy brain didn’t really care since I wasn’t really awake and didn’t actually remember putting my shoes on this morning.

I wondered if he was flirting as I waited for my turn.

Finally, I pulled up to the window and handed the lady my card.
She handed it back, “Actually, the man in front of you paid for your order. He asked me to tell you to pay it forward sometime today.”

Totally befuddled, I glanced around in morning hazy confusion thinking it must be some kind of prank.

I rubbed my eyes. “Uhm. Is this because it’s my birthday?” I wondered slowly.

“It’s your birthday?! Happy Birthday!! Hey! It’s your BIRTHDAY!” She chirped happily.

Still confused, I took my breakfast sandwich and coffee, “Oh. I guess it’s not because of my birthday….”

It took a good ten minutes after I left Starbucks for it to actually click in.

And when it did….

HOLYCRAPTHATS’SOCOOL! Someone bought my breakfast and coffee
this morning and it happened to be my birthday!

And when I got to work, Ninja had also bought me a coffee, and Kenya brought a cake!

So, I guess it’s my birthday!

AWESOME!

Thanks, Guys!

So here goes.

I’ve been pondering Character a lot lately because of who I am at my office. I am not who I am at home anymore.

When I first started this job, what you see is what you got. I was bouncy, goofy, snarky and optimistic. I used to be able to factor new information, be flexible and after a little gripeage – I’d manage to pull it together and do what needed to be done.

Now, I am not at my best health. My body is struggling with issues I didn’t even know I could have at this age and hormone therapy it totally screwing with my sense of reality. On top of that I am combative, irritable, resistant to everything and anyone and I go so far as to say that my anger has become toxic and I am affecting people in my work space.

For the most part I haven’t had the energy to leave the house for anything but work and then home again – but when I do, I do go on a bit on the whinny side about my life. And once I realize my tocixity is like a runaway train, I stop talking, going out or communicating for fear of oozing all over someone.

So I cave.

Because I think of my Character as being the nature of my behavior when I am on auto-pilot. The mind or conscience that thinks and acts for me when I am not thinking or acting for myself – I am not happy with what I’m seeing about my Character since I’ve been too tired to make active conscious decisions.

While I know that my Character is a conditioned set of responses over a lifetime of repetitive choices – I have to ask myself, “Am I always a bitchy-toxic- asshole when I’m not feeling well?”

OR

Is my behavior a response from the loads of artificial hormones from my treatments, sleep deprivation, medical bills, unhealthy work environment and the current inability to burn a good sweat at the gym and subsequent stress of all of the above?

OR

Both?

The thing that worries me at the moment, is that I am having so much trouble telling what is real and what is a proportionate response – I fear I will do or say something I can’t take back.

But isn’t that a true reflection of Character? Who you are when there is stress? Who you become when circumstances put pressure on your comfort zones? And if that’s the case – I’m kind of a monster when I’m uncomfortable.

I snap and bitch and turn caustic and then want to be totally left alone.

Character is as character does.

And what I do right now is hiss and snap and bite.

Is that medication or me? Because when my treatments are over and my hormones are normal again – I don’t want to be this person. It’s exhausting and lonely and emotionally pitiful.

But because I can’t see the forest for the trees right now – I can’t tell if this is what I’m really like, because I’m forgetting what it feels like to feel vibrant and gracious and loving.

I can’t remember love. If that medication? Or me?

Ohmygod! What if it’s ME?

I’ve gotta tell ya, I have a whole new respect for pregnant women. I have enough hormones in my system for two pregnant women. I have morning sickness, nausea most of the day if I’m not constantly eating, weight gain, water retention, swollen ankles, aching breasts, moody swings and by mood swings I don’t mean a tire swing of moods but a carnival ride being operated by a drunken clown kind of mood swing. I have shaking hands, pathetically low hemoglobin counts – which means I pant excessively going DOWN a flight of stairs because my blood supply can’t carry enough oxygen for anything cardio.

I burst into tears at the drop of a hat – just ask the group of teenage girls sitting next to me at the theater when I went to see Eclipse, I had heaving sobs all through the 10 minutes of previews. The PREVIEWS. With no warning WHATSOEVER! And it got my popcorn all soggy.

I’ve been bleeding since the last week of February. That’s 5 months of bleeding. No wonder I’m tired.

Plus, as it happens, an excess of female hormones makes the female brain believe its body is actually bigger than it really is. I’ve gained 10 lbs. But I imagine it to be nearly 50 and when I go to sit on a chair, my mind worries for a moment, “oh god, I hope it can take my weight.” A totally disproportionate sense of size.

So I don’t feel sexy. I haven’t worn any of my cute shoes in months. Can’t wear my white summer dresses and skirts because I’ll likely bleed through so I wear the same four pairs of dowdy pants to work because - I don’t want to buy more clothes at this weight.

But worst of all, is the affect it’s having on my relationships because I struggle with appropriate words and responses in the proper situations. All I usually want to do is club someone’s stupid rambling chatter with a “Shut the fuck up you stupid whinny pussy.”

So I avoid almost everyone.

No Bueno.

But it keeps coming back to IS THIS WHO I REALLY AM?

When the chips are down am I this angry, crying, swollen, accusatory, toxic person?

Or if this was a crazy contest – would I be winning or what???

Therefore I am digging in to my actions and traits now to see if there are patterns, toxic or otherwise. Are there other times in my life when I’ve felt this way. Trapped and frustrated?

Are there other traits that I can lean on that will pull me through? Can I find other alternatives and outlets for my emotions until my medications are altered or until my body can start to heal the fibroids and endometriosis?

What ways can I discover if this poor behavior is a part of my actual personality and if it is- how can I work on correcting it so it doesn’t come to this the next time I find myself in a pinch?

That is what my last post was really about, and how I have been puzzling my internal makeup and strength of character for the last few weeks. Nothing to worry about folks. It wasn’t meant to be a cryptic or confusing post. I was just trying to find the words to express that I feel, that especially on the BlissQuest, I need to root these questions out and see take an honest look at the answers.

I need to experience the crappy moments to truly appreciate that I can actually recall a time when I used to skip – yes, skip and hum and sing in the shower before work.

If I am questing for bliss with any truth – does that not mean that there will be patches like these? Does it not mean that there will be contrast and comparison and the simultaneous discovery of things that are NOT bliss? And this surely qualifies for that!

I believe it takes a kind of living in the moment, an ever present awareness and readiness to act – rather than RE-ACT. An instantaneous action to a set of circumstances that allow us to respond/be closer to who we think we are or what we’d like to be. It also takes a strength of character.

Obviously, we have the power to astonish ourselves. We have the capacity to outshine our limited perspectives of our own capabilities – and I believe these shining moments are a direct influence of our fixed character. The part of our true selves that requires rare questioning.

Character is the end result of past choices. Character is action - no thought required.

Characteristics are genetic, a DNA profile – but actual character is a conditioned way of being, behaving – it the very way we choose to walk through this life and the measurement of the footprints we consciously leave behind.

I have recently been examining my character. In times of stress I believe character is the best thing to fall back on to support the turmoil – but it’s only helpful if your character is strong and healthy.

I cannot say I am deeply impressed with my character at the moment.

As a writer, designing a character is one of my favorite parts of fiction. It’s easy to do character development on beings that can’t fight back or get pissed at you because you write them with character traits of selfishness, avarice, apathy or judgmentalism. They might not have the chance to get mad at you because they aren’t real – but they certainly, even as a writer – surprise you from time to time as they evolve, grow and mature into characters that are selfless, generous, empathetic and open-minded.

You feel a kind of pride as a writer, when you can pull a character arc of human traits and have it translate to a relatable character that shows the evolutionary potential of mankind – in a fictional story.

As a woman this is so much harder! As a real person with character flaws – it’s not like sitting down at the computer with a cup of tea and writing a scene wherein I create an arc that makes my life more meaningful and useful is even an option. God, I wish it were.

As of late, as I’ve been going through the potential areas that need focus, correction, fine-tuning or full on remodeling – I have discovered some hefty flaws and I know they are affecting my entire personal character arc, which ultimately affects my story arc.

So I’ve decided to put some attention on new evolution. I don’t know what that looks like yet, or how to get it started – but part of living the BlissQuest means digging out the things that make me unhappy, unhealthy and stagnant – and creating a better, more blissful life.

A character that doesn’t evolve, dies.

It’s tough on my pride, but some of these flaws are standing in the way of my growth, my bliss and my opportunities to live a vibrant life.

It’s time to do some honest evaluation and make some serious changes.

Do you have the courage to ask someone you trust, what areas you can work on? Do you have the strength to take their answers to an open heart and seriously consider them without killing the messenger?

What perceived character flaws are you currently working on, if you want to share?

So I reached into my drawer as I said, “You sound like a woman. Here ya go.”

And I tossed him a tampon.

I remember the major emotional meltdown on my 25th birthday as I sobbed hysterically, “But I didn’t think I’d live this long! So I never finished college or started a 401K! I was supposed to be dead by now and now I’m so far behind!”

Then 30 was my “turning into a woman” birthday – and with 32 on the month’s horizon I gotta say, turning into a woman was less climactic than I was hoping for…

Still, it’s an early start to the 30’s so there is still plenty of time for adventuring and mischief and all around chaos.

As I was talking to Meme and Ninja this weekend I was reminiscing about all the times I lucked out of certain doom. Despite car accidents, four wheeler doom, falling off cliffs and swimming in artic ice water in January in Alaska – I am still kicking. I nearly drowned in 4th grade when I was trapped under a pool cover, was knocked unconscious on the football field, ripped a ligament in my groin during powder puff and tumbled off a 60 foot water tower and was saved only by my sports bra until friends could pull me to safety.

Wrecked my bike in Mineral Creek during run-off while trying to charge the rapids, twice. Drove a four wheeler through the same river and impaled myself on a broken tree branch when I launched up the embankment on the other side, nearly shot my foot off in a gun accident, almost took my whole right pointer finger off with a fishing knife, had a really bad rollerblading accident when I crashed on Civic Center Hill. I’ve fallen out of trees, off mountains, into rivers. Rolled Kayaks, crashed rafts and dangled out of cars while speeding down the pass at 126 mph.

Have been thrown off horses, beaten up by bullies, tried to catch a rattle snake in a lego bucket, hitchhiked in the boonies, broken holes in the ice to go skinny dipping, two car accidents and a 15,000 miles solo road trip.

Despite the bumps, bruises, near misses and sprains – I’ve never broken a bone and I didn’t get stitches until I was 25 and had a random emergency surgery totally unrelated to a self-created accident or moment of idiocy.

What’s the point of all this?

With 32 knocking on the door, and me having done almost everything in my power both intentionally and accidentally – and despite all the stupidity I somehow manage to be here still…
I have come to the conclusion that this newly diagnosed condition will not beat me.

I once hiked out to a cute little island in Valdez, just off the spit, to do some writing. It was a nice sunny day and after I’d done a bit of character development I laid down on the mossy ground and fell asleep.

While I was asleep the tide came in and when I woke I was cut off from shore by a quarter mile of 38 degree water. Life expectancy – 6- 10 minutes.

It was May and while the snow was off the ground, I knew I could go into hypothermia before I reached the opposite beach, but the next tide would be 12 hours and that would put me well into the early hours of morning which meant risking exposure through a still cold May night plus the fury of my mother killing me if I managed to survive that and showed up in the morning at the next low tide.

So, I took off my shoes and jeans, packed them in my backpack and swam it. I was 15, three months shy of my 16th birthday.

During that swim, most of which I have since blocked out, I do remember some of what went through my mind.

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod – it’s so fucking cold my boobs are going to freeze and break off. Please god, don’t let my boobs fall off – I just got them.”

“If I make it back I promise never to swear again.”

“Okay, maybe never again, but I promise never to say “holy Christ on a popsicle stick” on Sundays anymore.”

“Thank you, God, that I was on the swim team.”

“But Monday through Saturday are still free game.”

“If I make it back I swear I’m going to move to Los Angeles and never ever come back to Alaska.”

“If I survive this, I will never hike out without a tide book again.”

“If I survive this – I promise to make every minute of my life count for something important.”

I made it to the beach and sat on the rocks in my underwear, blue joints and disbelief. I’d long since stopped feeling anything. Numbness even stopped the shivering. I sat in the sun until my legs would bend and once that happened, the shivering started. I knew if I could get up and move I’d start to warm up again so I struggled into my wet pants but couldn’t get my shoes on so I started walking without them.

I was sure I was going to die many times that day and even wished I’d just taken my damn chances and waited for the tide to shift the next morning. It was another quarter mile down the spit around through the small boat harbor and as I walked I tried to think on how I would make good on all my promises.

The point is, there have been many a time in my life that I think I’m going to die and somehow, one foot in front of the other and I find myself walking barefoot through down, dripping wet, laughing like a lunatic and for some unknown reason – I end up okay.

Often times, better than okay. When I was sure my divorce would kill me – I was astonished to discover that in divorcing I was actually happier and healthier than I had ever imagined I could be – It seemed like it would be the death of me but it actually saved my life.

So the point of all this is, even though I’m not worried about anything as permanent as death, mortality is definitely on my mind. Fragility.

My treatments are showing improvement but two separate specialists are continuously recommending a full hysterectomy. I have since fired them both, and even the gyno I saw the first day who told me women in my position don’t really have options. I’ve let her go as well.

32 is like a bright welcoming beckon. I never thought I’d make it this far, and now that I have I’m excited to see how much further I can go.

If I could survive the bumbling stupid decisions of my childhood, the devastating heart-wreck of divorce and all those times I remember saying, “well, it sounded like a good idea at the time.” Then advanced endometriosis and uterine fibroids are just a blip on the radar.

I know I’m lucky that it’s not worse. I know I’m lucky that even though my doctor’s don’t think I have options, I have a naturopath and an acupuncturist and a boat load of friends who say otherwise. I’m lucky that I have access to emergency care if I need it.

All this, I know I’m lucky. I’m not going to lie and say it isn’t hard. This is really hard. Harder than most things I’ve done so far. So hard I don’t even have the energy to talk about it or even blog much. It certainly isn’t easy – but quite frankly, it’s not as tough at is could be, and I am grateful that I have the awareness of that.

So here’s to letting 32 stumble in with determination and the grace of past lucky breaks. Here’s to a future of continuing a life of sheer dumb luck, and happy relief that I somehow stagger out of it all just fine, even if a little frost bit and delirious.

One quarter of a mile at a time and it’s all doable.

When I pulled the Rubbermaid bins out to take a look at my old writing from high school. I was disappointed to discover that much of it is actually missing. For sure all the printed drafts are there, and several of the disks I saved stuff on are present. But only about a half dozen of the notebooks remain and parts of one sketchbook. Three folders and one giant three-ring binder of loose papers. Much of the bulk of the two bins I thought was entirely Morquesla, turned out to include other works I thought I’d lost.

Short stories, a few note pads and the first draft of a completely different book I’d given up on and didn’t remember keeping among other things.

I realized as I was digging through it that I must have whittled much of it away during moves, packing and storage, cleaning and divorce. Perhaps a third is lost to who knows where. And when I started to wonder where the stack of journals were – I remembered – when I was sorting through a box in 2000, I found them and read maybe the first three pages of one and was so ashamed I tossed the whole set.

I’d forgotten about that, until I went looking for them. All this time I thought I still had them.

Still, there was plenty to make me shake my head and moan and want to hide my face. It is obviously the writing of a teenager.

The thing I’m most disappointed about is the set of journals. I’d written maybe five or six day to day accounts of my time in Morquesla.

Each journal entry began with an accounting of the weather that was reflective of my current mood.

“It is a rainy day in Morquesla today.” “It is a beautiful day in Morquesla today”

And then I’d begin with the accounting of the goings on of Court or the gossip from the Mermaids or the latest news from the Borderlands.

I’m really mad at myself that I gave those up – and I remember exactly what it was.

I found them when I was boxing stuff to move into the house we’d just bought in Battle Ground. It was my first real house, my first permanent residence. Something that I could make a future in. I remember being so excited because I was going to have a writing and art studio finally that would have roots – a cave – a sanctuary where I could let my imagination out of my body to run free in the 7 acres of woods we’d just purchased.

I’d always wanted a quiet place in the woods. Someplace where I could talk to fairies and not be interrupted by telephones or nosey neighbors. It felt like I was finally going to be able to focus – and write.
I’d already packed the kitchen and the bedroom and when I got to my writing and art supplies – I wasn’t sure where to start. So I began going through everything to see if it even needed to be moved.

The box of journals from Morquesla stuck out like blister from another age. I hadn’t been to Morquesla in a couple of years. By then I’d put away the idea of ever finishing the novel because I knew I’d never try to sell it. But it seemed so long ago…

I was 22 when I looked at the stack of journals and felt like I was a woman and these things were written by a child. I was embarrassed and didn’t want anyone to know I’d written them – didn’t want them tied to me in any way. I knew that as a writer you should never EVER throw stuff away. But I couldn’t even finish reading the first journal entry. It was that bad in my mind, nearly ten years ago.

So I threw them away and decided to begin fresh at my new house. A new creative space with the voice of a woman and not a child.

Now, I’m a couple weeks away from 32. Ten years since I was so ashamed of my writing that I threw it in the dumpster. Ten years later I’m ashamed that I was so ashamed.

Alas, perhaps I just need shame to keep me company.

The point is, I blocked it out. Only remembering when I went looking for them and couldn’t find them anywhere. I had to really think back on all my moved and try to remember the stack of notebooks and where I might have left them. Which city. Which house. Which year.

The thing a writer is never supposed to do. And I knew it. And know I actually know why.

Those jottings from 17 years ago are hard on the eye. They make me cringe for sure. But they are a window to a place that I no longer visit. Those perspectives can be dug out of my memory – but not easily and not with the grace of having them already written down.

And as hard are they are to read for the awkwardness and how clumsy they are – from what I have left I am also still entertained. I still laugh. I still got teary. I was amazed at a few images that I didn’t think the 15 year old me would have had the smarts to write – and then I wonder where those smarts went off to.

But I am, for the most part, surprised. How did I do that? How did I chart so much into a whole world.

I failed Drivers Ed and US History – but I designed a language and wrote hundreds of pages of story. How the hell does that even happen?

The point of all this reminiscing, was to jog my memory. To push my muscles and try to regain at least a fraction of the limberness from the days when world building was like breathing. It happened when I wasn’t thinking about it – maybe that’s how I failed Driver’s Ed.

World building felt like a second life, and while I’m not trying to get to a second daily schedule – I am trying to recall the ease with which I could see everything that everyone else did not.

I think it’s helping. So far it has helped me to remember that I’m still learning. I am not a perfect storyteller and it wouldn’t be any fun if I were. I’m remembering that I need to process more information about my characters, pay closer attention to the nitty-gritty details of their surroundings and not to dismiss the parts that feel awkward – keep working the clunky until it has grace.

So with all that I give you a few scans of notebooks that haven’t seen daylight in far too long.