Patron Saint of Falling Over Things

I think I'm in the process of breaking up with my therapist. I think the fact that I find this less wracking than going to see her tells me that I'm doing the right thing? *breathes deeply* I am not looking forward to finding another therapist. I'm not looking forward to that at all. I wish there was some way of knowing who is well-regarded, or what methods they practice. Otherwise, it's just choosing a name at random, and I don't think I can go through this process again, not the way I'm feeling right now.

I have writing deadlines coming up, and I've just got nothing. Nothing. I hate this feeling. All I can do right now is sew yo-yos and play Harvest Moon, and that's on a good day.

Ugh. So sick of this. Want to take my brain out and give it a bubble bath or something. It's full of beetles.


On the positive side, it's autumn, and the mornings are beautiful. We've been out and about at exactly the right time to see the sun rising over the fog that covers the valleys around here, and it reminds me of how much I love living here.

And we have a tribe of currawongs camped out in the back yard. There's seven or eight of them, and they spend most of the evening quordling to the world, presumably about how awesome it is to be a fucking huge piebald bird with elite problem solving skills. We call it "Isn't it awfully nice to be a magpie!"

I recorded them tonight, in some kind of shouting fest with the corellas.

It's a jungle out there!

The recording is just one minute of what you can hear from our balcony. The screeching, clattering noises are the corellas, they're sitting in the gum trees. The melodic sound is the currawongs, they're striding up and down the backyard like they own it. Which basically they do. I don't mind.