Perhaps it's past my bedtime.
Sep. 11th, 2003 11:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ysobelleI don’t know why I feel so horrible today. Yes, I’ve had some soul-sucking things happen, but I somehow feel I should be stronger. Somehow. My life’s a piece of cake compared to some. I do know this. However.
I’m probably going to go places I shouldn’t, but then I still believe this journal is primarily for my own good. Catharsis—that’s my word for the day.
http://www.lanuitobscure.de/multimedia/sanctuary_flashfla.htm
My scar aches. And it’s ugly. And this morning, I was awakened from a nap by someone from PARF calling to tell me that no, the faire will not pay any part of my hospital bill, which currently totals $901.00. I don’t know yet if there will be a charge for my mother’s allergist (it’s a very long story) removing said stitches on Tuesday. I do know it was one of the most painful things I’ve ever been through, so if that counts for anything, I do feel I’ve already paid. Unfortunately, I do not often feel G-d’s sense of humour runs concurrent with mine.
I went to my computer to check my email and discovered an email from Jay telling me not to say anything to management until he’s had a chance to discuss the matter with them himself. Thankfully, I’d had the presence of mind not to say anything beyond, "Okay, thank you" while on the phone. But in the end it didn’t matter. Someone from the faire sent a brusque, juvenile, snotty, email to Jay, full of indignation that I would DARE to even inquire about putting in a claim on their liability insurance. It seemed obvious to me: Jay’s insurance covers incidents at his booth. I was nowhere near his booth—I was on the participant’s road, for which the faire itself is responsible. Jay wrote back to say that he himself has a part-time job at a mall, working for Radio Shack. If he fell in his store, RS would cover it. If he fell in the hall outside, the mall would cover it. The faire apparently wrote him back and said, "That’s nice. Tough."
But there’s no point in fighting this. Both Jay and I know that if we should push the matter, all of a sudden, the architectural drawings that have already been approved for the new booth will suddenly develop problems that can only be solved by having the faire build said booth themselves, to the tune of $50,000. Somehow, this will come back to Jay, and he’ll be ruined as far as this show goes. As will the Guild. As will I.
I spoke again to the woman from Good Samaritan, Joanne, and explained the matter to her. As I’m on unemployment, and have been since December, I may be eligible for aid from the hospital. That’s nice. But G-d, I’m bitter. I’m so very bitter.
This afternoon, the wenches were discussing today’s dire anniversary. The shock and the pain are still greater than I thought they would be, but that makes me, I’m sure, quite ordinary. I was unable to cry, however, until I finally tracked down the above-linked flash animation, which features VNV Nation’s "Forsaken," a song I sometimes can’t listen to in the best of times.
And then this evening, someone close to me has demonstrated again how very differently our minds work.
I’ll use an example. Some people idolise Wagner. And yes, I’ll admit that he wrote some fairly glorious music. But Wagner hated the Jews. Hated. So of course, Hitler adored him. The two of them were of one mind. And because of this, I can’t really listen to Wagner. I can’t disassociate the art from the artist. I think art is an extension of the soul—I don’t think one always should break the artist from his or her creation. I understood how the Israel Philharmonic defended playing Wagner, that we’re free now, and we can do whatever we like to his music, and there’s nothing he can do. But I also understand the outraged patrons who stormed out in protest—why should we give glory to someone who wanted us all rotting corpses defiled in the sun? I can’t fully enjoy the work of someone I know hates, reviles, and wants to destroy me, my family, my people, and everything we hold important to our souls. And in less vituperative terms, it’s simply a matter of respect—if you have not the least shred of respect for me, my feelings for you will reflect that. The difference of opinion I’m having is, obviously, with someone who doesn’t see it that way.
I am so tired. I’m tired in places sleep can’t touch. I’m tired of fighting this fight, of not understanding or being understood. I’m tired of my knee hurting and looking so ugly. I’m tired of arguing with a not-quite-five-month-old puppy. I’m tired of pushing myself to work and not getting anything done. I’m tired of being utterly broke yet having folks hound me for money. I’m tired of bad things happening to my friends.
I am also, you will be relieved to know, tired of whining. Thus, goodnight.
I’m probably going to go places I shouldn’t, but then I still believe this journal is primarily for my own good. Catharsis—that’s my word for the day.
http://www.lanuitobscure.de/multimedia/sanctuary_flashfla.htm
My scar aches. And it’s ugly. And this morning, I was awakened from a nap by someone from PARF calling to tell me that no, the faire will not pay any part of my hospital bill, which currently totals $901.00. I don’t know yet if there will be a charge for my mother’s allergist (it’s a very long story) removing said stitches on Tuesday. I do know it was one of the most painful things I’ve ever been through, so if that counts for anything, I do feel I’ve already paid. Unfortunately, I do not often feel G-d’s sense of humour runs concurrent with mine.
I went to my computer to check my email and discovered an email from Jay telling me not to say anything to management until he’s had a chance to discuss the matter with them himself. Thankfully, I’d had the presence of mind not to say anything beyond, "Okay, thank you" while on the phone. But in the end it didn’t matter. Someone from the faire sent a brusque, juvenile, snotty, email to Jay, full of indignation that I would DARE to even inquire about putting in a claim on their liability insurance. It seemed obvious to me: Jay’s insurance covers incidents at his booth. I was nowhere near his booth—I was on the participant’s road, for which the faire itself is responsible. Jay wrote back to say that he himself has a part-time job at a mall, working for Radio Shack. If he fell in his store, RS would cover it. If he fell in the hall outside, the mall would cover it. The faire apparently wrote him back and said, "That’s nice. Tough."
But there’s no point in fighting this. Both Jay and I know that if we should push the matter, all of a sudden, the architectural drawings that have already been approved for the new booth will suddenly develop problems that can only be solved by having the faire build said booth themselves, to the tune of $50,000. Somehow, this will come back to Jay, and he’ll be ruined as far as this show goes. As will the Guild. As will I.
I spoke again to the woman from Good Samaritan, Joanne, and explained the matter to her. As I’m on unemployment, and have been since December, I may be eligible for aid from the hospital. That’s nice. But G-d, I’m bitter. I’m so very bitter.
This afternoon, the wenches were discussing today’s dire anniversary. The shock and the pain are still greater than I thought they would be, but that makes me, I’m sure, quite ordinary. I was unable to cry, however, until I finally tracked down the above-linked flash animation, which features VNV Nation’s "Forsaken," a song I sometimes can’t listen to in the best of times.
And then this evening, someone close to me has demonstrated again how very differently our minds work.
I’ll use an example. Some people idolise Wagner. And yes, I’ll admit that he wrote some fairly glorious music. But Wagner hated the Jews. Hated. So of course, Hitler adored him. The two of them were of one mind. And because of this, I can’t really listen to Wagner. I can’t disassociate the art from the artist. I think art is an extension of the soul—I don’t think one always should break the artist from his or her creation. I understood how the Israel Philharmonic defended playing Wagner, that we’re free now, and we can do whatever we like to his music, and there’s nothing he can do. But I also understand the outraged patrons who stormed out in protest—why should we give glory to someone who wanted us all rotting corpses defiled in the sun? I can’t fully enjoy the work of someone I know hates, reviles, and wants to destroy me, my family, my people, and everything we hold important to our souls. And in less vituperative terms, it’s simply a matter of respect—if you have not the least shred of respect for me, my feelings for you will reflect that. The difference of opinion I’m having is, obviously, with someone who doesn’t see it that way.
I am so tired. I’m tired in places sleep can’t touch. I’m tired of fighting this fight, of not understanding or being understood. I’m tired of my knee hurting and looking so ugly. I’m tired of arguing with a not-quite-five-month-old puppy. I’m tired of pushing myself to work and not getting anything done. I’m tired of being utterly broke yet having folks hound me for money. I’m tired of bad things happening to my friends.
I am also, you will be relieved to know, tired of whining. Thus, goodnight.
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no subject
Date: 2003-09-12 04:54 am (UTC)Somedays, you wish you had a security blanket like Linus', where you could cover everyone you love with warmth and safety. You are in my thoughts, sweetie...
Love, Allie