someone holds me safe and warm

Some things happen for good reasons. Some things happen for bad reasons. Some things happen purely out of random chance.

On occasion, however, friendship, luck and love combine, and the world subtly shifts.

It's not well known, and the why of it may remain shrouded for some time to come (potentially to me as much as anyone else) but--due to one thing and another--Kaleidecopia House is no longer in the world.

I still have my bright blue build with all the stained glass windows, but it travels with me now. Our shop is still in Penzance, but not our home. With much contemplation, we accepted an offer to sell the home parcel, and set off looking for somewhere else in Caledon to call home.

We did not expect to find it so soon.



We reestablished my larger tree dwelling in my beloved Rivula, and spent some time with windows drawn, in that space of mossed forest primeval, discussing, sorting, acting and reacting. Crisis built from the world beyond the world, which ended in...something of a collapse, on my part. My core friends, my loves, came forward to support me, something for which I remain profoundly grateful...and I was carried, broken and bleeding from soul to skin, to a better place.

We were offered sanctuary in Caledon Morgaine.



It's a harsh lesson, but a true one: our words have power. This is, on its surface, an obvious statement, nearly a ridiculously obvious one--but, even with hitting 10,000 visits to the wee blog? I still had the notion that it did not matter, to anyone, what I said here, that I was writing profoundly for myself, that no one paid much attention to what I wrote here, to me.

This is not some swelled-ego "Dig me" realization, from this, trust me--but I know now, what I say here? Resonates beyond this space. My words have power. My words can hurt, more than just me. The train wreck travels and touches lives beyond my own.

I can apologize all I wish--and I do, and I have--and if I speak on my life, my life of so many secrets, that's my responsibility, no one else's. But if I speak on those portions of my life, that expose the secrets of others, secrets they may not--or actively do not--wish shared: that, I do, to my shame and their peril.

It's a harsh lesson, but a necessary one: I have been wrong when I do these things, I have wronged and harmed others, and all the regrets in me, copper-acid on my spendthrift tongue, will not change that. I was responsible. And I was irresponsible.

So now, I begin to heal. I am weak, and I resent it, but I will slowly grow stronger, hopefully heal and be better. I may not be as frequently seen, at social events or even in the world, for some time. I accept this. I have responsibilities here, and I will be responsible for them, it will give me a pattern to the convalescent days. And pain will still be part of the train wreck, because how could it not? I'm still me.

But it's going to be less of the point of this blog. I will have to consider carefully the impact of what I write, rather than writing blind. Every entry that deals with personal angst, mourning, pain, loss--I will need to consider whether it's just me I'm choosing to expose, or is it someone else, who would not have chosen such exposure?

Expect...carefully chosen angst from this point. More where-we-are posts. More skin/fashion/sim reviews (I can't stop those, and I won't stop being honest on them, and I learn from every one, even if no one else does).

And, since it was brought up by more than one person--occasional cookies.

[[NOTE: For anyone who took down this recipe and wondered how much baking soda? It's, err, now in there. I skipped that bit. Oops.]]

Moravian Cookies

1/4 cup butter
1/2 cup molasses
3 Tablespoons firmly packed brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon each: ground cinnamon, ground ginger, ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon each: nutmeg, allspice, black pepper
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
dash salt
1 3/4 cups sifted flour
1 cup rum (or brandy, or whisky), plus a shot glass

You'll also need: a large mixing bowl, desired cookie cutters, clean flour-sack towels, or cheesecloth, and a large-size holiday or cookie tin with a tight lid (like the Danish butter cookies come in, for example). Also a spatula.

First, heat the molasses in a saucepan over medium heat and stir in the butter. Add sugar, all spices and soda. STIR LIKE MAD: it'll foam up and try to leave the pan. DON'T LET IT!

Lower heat, pour a shot of the rum, and sip it for a bit, breathing.

Pour your butter/spice blend into the mixing bowl. Stir in the flour and beat well until it forms a large spiced ball on its own.

Open the tin, lay the first bit of cheesecloth or flour-sack towel on the bottom (it should drape over the sides of the tin, that's fine). Sprinkle towel with rum. Set aside.

Lightly flour a cutting board, and roll a palm-sized ball of the cookie dough out thin-thin, as thin as you can get it. Cut your shapes. Sprinkle with additional flour to prevent sticking, but use flour sparingly. Move by spatula carefully to towel in the tin. When you have enough to cover that layer, sprinkle with more rum, and lay out a new towel. Sprinkle *that* with rum.

Repeat until the dough's all gone and the tin is full of cut unbaked cookies. (Depending on your cut shapes, you *may* need more than one tin). Fold in all your layers, sprinkle with the rest of the rum (pour more rum if you need to), and press the lid on tightly.

Store this in a cool dark place for at least a month, taking it out on occasion and sprinkling with rum, and recapping. (You can do this for longer; six months works pretty well, I've never had the willpower to push it longer).

When you're ready, heat your oven to 375 degrees, lightly grease a cookie sheet, carefully unload your cookies, and bake each batch for six to eight minutes. Carefully brush excess flour from each cookie with a soft cloth.

Store in a tightly capped container (cleaning out the same tin works; or save that with the towels to wrap dark fruitcake in, that works too).