Housekeeping

I'm trying the new blogger interface again.
The old one was doing funky things to me this morning. Weird though, how you get so used to putting your thoughts into a certain format, a certain little box, and trying to write in a different one is so disconcerting.

So I wanted to let you all know that Ms. Sarcastic Bastard Beloved is alive and working her tail off. New policies at her place of business have precluded her from reading or writing blogs at work and she refuses (and rightfully so) to open a computer while at home.
She is not happy.
As you can imagine.
But that explains her silence.
I asked her if I could make this announcement and she is in such a work-related tizzy that she said whatever. Basically. But I know I would worry.
So there you have it.

My son sent me a link to a story he's written and I am just reverberating with it. First I asked him if I could link it but then I read what he had to say here and what he basically said was, oh hell, go to the link and read what he had to say himself.

When I read the story it showed me beyond doubt that it is not just the evil which pervades a family for generations. It can be the good stuff too. The magic.
That was about the best gift, that knowledge, I've ever received.

Plus. That was about the best story I've ever read.

Damn. My son can write.

Last night ended so sweetly. That soup was fine and the focaccia was some of the best food I ever put in my mouth. My brother and I came to some sort of terms of peace via e-mail.
Mr. Moon and I blessed each other with love and kisses.
I don't know. I feel like I'm maybe going through some sort of process wherein I am...hell. I don't even know. But I do know that as the dreams continue of violence and fear, I am finding myself in real life feeling more fully in my own body. I would not wish this sort of nightmare therapy on anyone, but we can't always choose our paths of healing.
That's what I am thinking, maybe.

The chickens are out, the sun's light is pouring down. The little yellow butterflies are dancing around the Firespike blossoms which are allowing themselves to be drunk from freely and with passionate color. I have much to do before Owen gets here.

It is Monday morning, a strange time, perhaps, to be so filled with thoughts of magic and wonder, but there it is anyway. One can only take note, one can only be grateful. One can only be cheered at the thought of all that is possible even at this time of life.