Flashback

I'm down with depression again. Next week I'm going to a book fair so I'll drop at the shrink's - haven't been there since around September because then I wanted to go on a day of sudden snow when traffic was stuck and after that, I got stuck at the damn hotel which ate all my nerves while I was running out of antidepressants. Last winter I needed stronger shit so now it's probably time for change of meds. Accidentally, Hyperbole and a Half published a piece on depression today. It seems that everyone has already read it but I'm linking it anyway. It sent me thinking, what was my shrivelled corn of inexplicable laughter... and I couldn't remember any such turning point. Well, maybe after my first bout of depression, which ended quite spectacularly (no fireworks or some such, just a nervous breakdown, suicide attempt and the general quiet and discreet spectacle of depression), I came to a conclusion that it's all in my hands, that I can kill myself any time I want, I don't have to live if I don't want to. Life framed not as compulsory but as an option became less overwhelming. No corn, no instant enlightment. I can related to the crumpled hoodie, though. It's all the same again. The last time, I fucked up my Ph. D. due to depression and resulting inability to communicate effectively. These days, I could only fuck up my job, which I probably hate, can't really decide as it's too hard a work. I should probablz go and do something reasonable. If I only knew what could that be.

Balkanized

After less than comfortable night, I got up early, packed my stuff as neatly as possible and hung around, feeling grumpy for no reason (some theorists say that one can always find a reason to feel grumpy but I'm of a pessimist disposition so I do not need to go reason hunting, for me, life sucks all the time unless specified otherwise). Then I learned that several people were robbed. I sometimes feel like the last just and reasonable person and having had a few unlucky experiences in my life, I insisted that the afflicted individuals go to the police. Nobody listened. El Mínimo Líder decided that we're a botanical expedition, we go plant-hunting, we have no time to lose with minutiae, generously ignoring popular whine. At the end, he decided that we'll talk to the campsite manager, let's wait when she comes to work. I mildly protested, saying that even if the campsite wanted to deal with it for one reason or another, which is unlikely, they need to have a police protocol for reasons of insurance or whatever else and that it would be advisable, regarding the time constriction, to go to the police straight away. We hung around for a while, the manager came, said Go to the gendarmerie and that was it. I offered myself to go along, having dealt with a few less than user-friendly institutions (I briefly remembered how I yelled at an officer who told me that I had been my stupidity to get robbed that while stupidity is what it is, it's not a criminal offence and none of his business, while theft is, so could he please proceed and do his job NOW, thankyouverymuch). I had also rediscovered my ability to speak French, not good French but workable one. At the gendarmerie, we got some photocopied forms to be filled in, or, to be exact, “you can fill this in outside or elsewhere, you don't need to be here, full stop”, with a photocopied stamp. Nobody at the station spoke decent English or any other language than French so it was somewhat difficult. After three rounds of explaining that for purposes of insurance and stuff, we need an original stamp, we were repeatedly told that On le fait comme-ça en France. I and Minister went to ask to the Police Nationale whether this is indeed how things are done in France. Minister called his friends in politics and diplomacy, El Mínimo Líder called the embassy with the same question and indeed, things were confirmed to be done this way in France. Meantime, we filled in our papers and went back to the Gendarmerie to see what happens. The gal, erm, officer, signed them and that was it. I'll ask the afflicted persons how it went with their insurance companies and authorities, as some IDs were stolen, too. It seems that there's a lot of petty crime going on and that nobody cares. I'd imagine that this is how things work in, say, Romania. I never dealt with Romanian police and I fully intend not to but one hears stories. One also hears stories that France is actually civilized. Oh well.

High expectations, high precipitation

It rains and rains, which plainly sucks. We got kicked out in Arles, too rainy for plants, good enough for sightseeing. I saw St. Trophime, tried to recollect whatever knowledge remained from the most excellent lectures on French Romanesque (which didn't work), got a postcard, learned that stamp is timbre in French (live and learn) and got lost. I yet need to see the map of Arles but I strongly suspect some urbanistic catch compared to Florence – Roman street plan with some unexpected alteration. Or, worse, my otherwise excellent sense of space is going the way of dodo. Also, Arles lacks mailboxes. The plan was changed, instead of going somewhere to Pyrennees-Orientales and then to Cape Creus, these two were switched as it should be beyond the mountains and warmer down south, which it was. Meantime, we stopped somewhere off Perpignan at a gas station for peeing, coffee and whatever. Someone checked the curb, found orchids and El Minimo Lider decided to take one hour of a break (we had one and half for Arles, by the way) to check plants. I got out, found some Allium roseum and a storm came. Within 20 seconds, I was drenched and my mood got down to absolute zero. Everything gets worse with wet feet. We got to the general area of Figueres. Been there some 20 years ago and since then, street signs and stuff changed to Catalan. I just need to learn this language, pity I didn't start back at the university, there was a handful of courses going on in our building. Or, maybe it would have sucked. I had actually downloaded a textbook back in January but had no time to study since. Next time. Catspotting: One tabby at a gas station somewhere in France. When I called her, she gave me a disgusted look and went away. One tuxedo, one calico, one red and white, all three of them pretty big, in a courtyard of a country house somewhere off Figueres where we stopped for plant hunting.

A long sigh of relief

The chaos on wheels which is one of my current jobs has been sorted out a little bit. We hired a few people so I don't need to do a job meant for five, actually, I can only do my shit and steer my deputy (of sorts) who is new to the place and needs (1) some of his enthusiasm culled (2) to be shown where things and places are. After a long and dreary winter, the cold white crap dissolved even up in the mountains. I was somewhat annoyed watching the brown plant matter emerging from under heaps upon heaps of snow, knowing that down back home where my first work and mommy dearest reside, there're crocuses and stuff in full bloom and I'm missing all that and when I'll get back up there, I'll miss the very start of spring as well. Now I should pull up a pic from my botanizing trip from, say, October, but it's stacked on a portable drive somewhere out there. No, I didn't have time to sort out pictures or herbary entries or just about anything. Life got out of reins, that's it. My dad had some long-standing health issues of somewhat unidentifiable nature which the honorable members of medical profession waved away as You're getting old, my good man, live with it, or It's idiopathic pain, we can't do anything. Or, the worst, You're just fine, it's all in your head. When dad got to a stage when he was barely able to walk, someone got the idea that leg pains might have their source not in the ankles but somewhere upwards, ordered a sCT of the whole spine and there it was, some bone growth that pressed on the nerves and wrought havoc in everything. The solution was a surgery ASAP, hopefully the guy doesn't get paralyzed meantime. The whole process of finding out took half a year and one of the consequences was that I got a bunch of keys thrown at me with an instruction of Run the business. The rest is hinted here. I'm not good with people. I'm introverted and insecure, with my negativist tendencies thrown in. I've worked in very intellectual environment... and I ended up trying to manage a bunch of people ranging from 'somewhat normal, working hard' to individuals dumber than a box of rocks, museum-worthy specimens of laziness and thieving scum. Admittedly, thieving scum might not be sheer thieving scum but chaotic idiots with a bit of theft and scummery thrown in but I don't want to know. I had to step away from the idealist view that all people, if they try at least a bit, can behave in a reasonable way, that they have manners, common sense and a vague idea of what they are doing. Wrong on all counts. I still need to learn that saying Could you kindly do this? doesn't yield anything, that I have to say or sometimes yell Go and do it now! and repeat it a few times. The worst thing... the guests. I know I know, a hotel can't work well without guests but I only have a certain limit of tolerance for people. Make it too long, too many, too willing to interact - and my brain changes into cortisol-laden jelly. At least the Food and Beverages Manager, generally known as Chef, is happily messing around and chattering. Most importantly, on Saturday, I'm going for a holiday. Two weeks of botanizing, folks. I'm terribly unprepared, under normal conditions, I'd already learned some Catalan just for the heck of it and made extensive notes on places and things to see. So far, I've noted down to take my copy of Polunin and Smythies and asked a friend to lend me a tent which I need to pick yet. I hope I'll gather up some energy to start blogging somewhat more intensively than as of late. (I was told that my writing style resembles that of Helen Fielding of Bridget Jones' Diaries fame; this certainly creates a sort of obligation.) There're plants, knitting, possibly some gratuitous cat pics, I kept a bottle of Guerlain's Dawamesk on my table for months before I moved it back to safe storage. I also should take a few shots, I somewhat got pissed with my hair colour and I've already booked an appointment at my hairdresser to do something about it. Which will be funny as I've worn the same bleached hair for some 15 years and adapted my wardrobe to it. Well, things to do, places to go, stuff to blog about. I'll try to be back earlier than in six weeks.

Catastrophic curve

Things were not going exactly well at around the time of my last post but they were sort of manageable. Then, diplomatic flu struck. One receptionist refused to work under the same roof as one of the temps, the manager and the other receptionist, her son, smelled a rat as it became apparent that there is quite some chaos in the warehouse files, and oddly enough, things are only missing, no extras. I ended up working two shifts per in the reception/bar when the hotel was nearly full while trying to handle paperwork, orders, bookings, kitchen, maids and just about everything. We did find a receptionist who rocks but we totally need another one, not only because I can't stand the job but because I have a plenty of other shit to do. Well, I'm doing one shift at the reception, some waitressing and the whole management thing. It would be exciting for a day or two but I'm in my third week and I'm drained. I'm not a people person and all that small talk, be it in person or over the phone, with total strangers and many of them in the asshole spectrum just eats my mental powers away, causing a permanent headache. Meantime, dad was finally diagnosed with Something wrong in his neck - spinal surgery needed ASAP. Life is fun.

The Burgos shawl

I read this article and liked the woven stripes on the scarves the article is about and decided to reproduce them in knitting. I had a hard time making the horizontal lines look the way I wanted - regular stranded knitting would show the zigzag edges between colours so I added a plastic element.


The stripes are made in two colours (A, B) and then in two shades (1, 2) of striping yarn thusly, starting from purlside:


Row 1: purl in colour B
Row 2: hold two strands of colour B together, the shades should differ. Purl one in shade 1; twist yarns by 180°, purl one in shade 2, repeat until the end of row. Twisting the two yarns helps a bit but this is a pain in the arse anyway.
Row 3: purl 3 in colour A, purl 3 in colour B. If stitch count is not divisible by 6, improvise.
Row 4: knit 3 in colour A, purl 3 in colour B to make columns.
Row 5: as row 3
Row 6: Break colour B, turn the fabric, purl.
Row 7: Use two shades of colour B similarly to row 2, twist the yarn in other direction. While breaking the yarn is not high in my books as I generally prefer to respect the yarn, knitting this from the reverse side, which means having the twists on the back, is just awful.


Stripes are used to one's liking.


Should anyone notice that the blue yarn on the left is apparently handdyed and the breaks between balls are visible - you're right. The darker yarn is indeed darker. Oddly enough, both were the same colour as per ball bands. I thought 9 balls would be enough but they're only 70-ish metres and 25 grams and I wanted a larger wrap. The yarn, OnLine Linie 150, is discontinued so when the dark blue stuff arrived, I was somewhat angry but I decided to make do. I have five balls in grey which will be dyed someday soon.


Today I made a pic of my progress and only then I noticed that since the 2nd stripe, I forgot about the edging (simple stuff, p2 k1 p2 edge, purl on the reverse) and being as anal as I am, I'm correcting it. The edge is rolling towards the back which is why I didn't see the problem immediately but only after 150 or 200 rows.

Little white magicians

It was Nanny Ogg or one of the Ephebean philosophers who said that a jar of marmalade now is no biggie while a promise of a jar of marmalade somewhere beyond the horizon keeps people going on and on and on.

In my case, it's the botanical expedition in May. Long time to go yet and meantime I need to watch the goddamn cold white stuff falling and to deal with people.

My shrink kept prescribing anxiolytics, just in case, and sleeping pills, just in case. I guess that my internal system is set to a day which lasts 24 hours and five minutes because after some time, I have problem falling asleep and a bit of zolpidem not only knocks me off but causes silly dreams (which I probably don't dare to publish. On the other hand, half of my traffic goes from a discussion server where they've already been mentioned. Maybe one day).

The job is stressful, the bunch of idiots filthy underlings employees try how far my nerves will stretch, or maybe they're just dumber than a box of rock, who knows, who cares.

I bought another plant book, I knit and I keep nomming chemicals. I suspect that it's rather the placebo effect than anything else as I hear that good old benzodiazepins work the best but they're somewhat addictive. Well, I think that an addiction is just a mild discomfort compared to the feeling that blood and brain matter is gushing out of my ears after having to listen to some idiotic whine over and over.