My mom is staying a few weeks for the holidays as per usual. Except 'per usual' isn't what it used to be. I love her, but still it is a little bit of an off fit, like as if the pipes have been sweated askew now. She's better than most everyone else (well, she is my mother, so she's obliged to roll w the punches as best she can). As my friend Amy puts it, misery loves company and so your company might very well bail if you stray. And so it has been. Sunnie barely talks to me. It's not like a relationship is oo la la easy to make work in real life. It is a lot of simple showing up. It is a lot of laundry. But still, I want to be doing that work, as best I can. I hope it matters. I make soup. Meanwhile, he is sick right now, he is no yogi, he coughs and worries and works long hours (too long) and does not know how to breathe through his ears. Mom says "he is older than you are really, he's too worn down to have kids of his own anyway".
I hide in the bathroom from her.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
she&him (aka the delicious zooey daschanel) - please let me (smiths cover)
I’m reading Committed: A Love Story because my lover asked me to marry him, 17 times, then I said yes one night and he stopped asking, which I immediately assumed was the beginning of the end, and a nanosecond later I decided (rightfully, I still believe) that such careening around the mere subject of commitment let alone the practice of it did not bode well some kind of way. I started buying books about it.
I think what he meant, at least in part, if not exactly actually “marry me” was “take me seriously” and I said “I do” – now what?
Taking someone seriously, your commitment to them seriously, the possibility of enduring relation seriously, taking the promise of happiness seriously…that’s not a one-time act, like a leap of faith, and once you leap you fall then land wherever. Then again, it is like that. That, and what’s for dinner (and who will cook it), night after night.
Let’s skip the obvious (for now) – that neither of us is fully legally divorced quite yet. We should both be done with that in January, clearing the psychic and legal decks officially. That neither of us trusts legal decks anymore, after those experiences. That neither of us fully trusts the lack of trust in legal marriage either (even my gay friends want marriage more than not, so don’t get all high and mighty – we are all very conflicted on the subject of long haul relationships that are acknowledged by ourselves [iffily] and others [perforce if necessary, god fucking damn it]). That is he is appreciably younger than I am. That I probably cannot have another child, that he has no biological children (and has wanted that keenly all his life and was the number one reason he married [I can’t throw stones at all on that score – I did that same thing, did the math and could get at least a baby out of the deals I made, yes indeedy]); that except for him, I would not want to risk even thinking about having any more children whatsoever. That he is broke (not poor, which is like a disease you’re born into, but BROKE, as in his career cost him well over 100k in education expenses – his “gina loan” alone is 32K, for the core classes he took almost exclusively with me) and thus I keep the lights on (as I would anyway, so no skin off my nose) and that the disparity is an endless irritant to him, like an existential yeast infection he’s always scratching at. Those last two factors, babies and brokeness = we worry we cost each other too much, and what that means or will/could mean over time….
On the other hand, randomly beginning anywhere in the upsides list to note, I’ll note the fact that the boyz embraced him wholly, with an honestly that only kids (and animals) can bring to judgment; their simple faith in his existence in relation to themselves (“we have a bow shooter in the family now” Bruno says about his JOED archery creds) reads like a cosmic endorsement, as if they turned him over and found a label that reads “suitable for parental ft. dude use”... I start there in the list of upsides because it’s down a ways, past the items of the list that are about his infinite tenderness towards me. I haven’t been writing because to do so would be mostly every day to note instances of that tenderness, like a hot stone on a wrenched twitching muscle.
Right now, he is at traffic court. Several hours ago, I told him to disappear, that to do so is delicious, to have nowhere you’re supposed to be and thus you can wander or drive around and Just Be. I meant that, and God knows I love to disappear and wander myself on a pretty regular basis. Now, a mere 5 hours later, I’m ready for him to come back. That almost watery motion in me like a tide that is not controvertible by any list(s) of how we “match up” or not: I worry that he is dead. The tides of worry come in, love welling up. But/and I know that worrying that he is dead will not keep him from dying (to me) necessarily. Now will it?
What will? (What might?)
I’m reading Committed: A Love Story because my lover asked me to marry him, 17 times, then I said yes one night and he stopped asking, which I immediately assumed was the beginning of the end, and a nanosecond later I decided (rightfully, I still believe) that such careening around the mere subject of commitment let alone the practice of it did not bode well some kind of way. I started buying books about it.
I think what he meant, at least in part, if not exactly actually “marry me” was “take me seriously” and I said “I do” – now what?
Taking someone seriously, your commitment to them seriously, the possibility of enduring relation seriously, taking the promise of happiness seriously…that’s not a one-time act, like a leap of faith, and once you leap you fall then land wherever. Then again, it is like that. That, and what’s for dinner (and who will cook it), night after night.
Let’s skip the obvious (for now) – that neither of us is fully legally divorced quite yet. We should both be done with that in January, clearing the psychic and legal decks officially. That neither of us trusts legal decks anymore, after those experiences. That neither of us fully trusts the lack of trust in legal marriage either (even my gay friends want marriage more than not, so don’t get all high and mighty – we are all very conflicted on the subject of long haul relationships that are acknowledged by ourselves [iffily] and others [perforce if necessary, god fucking damn it]). That is he is appreciably younger than I am. That I probably cannot have another child, that he has no biological children (and has wanted that keenly all his life and was the number one reason he married [I can’t throw stones at all on that score – I did that same thing, did the math and could get at least a baby out of the deals I made, yes indeedy]); that except for him, I would not want to risk even thinking about having any more children whatsoever. That he is broke (not poor, which is like a disease you’re born into, but BROKE, as in his career cost him well over 100k in education expenses – his “gina loan” alone is 32K, for the core classes he took almost exclusively with me) and thus I keep the lights on (as I would anyway, so no skin off my nose) and that the disparity is an endless irritant to him, like an existential yeast infection he’s always scratching at. Those last two factors, babies and brokeness = we worry we cost each other too much, and what that means or will/could mean over time….
On the other hand, randomly beginning anywhere in the upsides list to note, I’ll note the fact that the boyz embraced him wholly, with an honestly that only kids (and animals) can bring to judgment; their simple faith in his existence in relation to themselves (“we have a bow shooter in the family now” Bruno says about his JOED archery creds) reads like a cosmic endorsement, as if they turned him over and found a label that reads “suitable for parental ft. dude use”... I start there in the list of upsides because it’s down a ways, past the items of the list that are about his infinite tenderness towards me. I haven’t been writing because to do so would be mostly every day to note instances of that tenderness, like a hot stone on a wrenched twitching muscle.
Right now, he is at traffic court. Several hours ago, I told him to disappear, that to do so is delicious, to have nowhere you’re supposed to be and thus you can wander or drive around and Just Be. I meant that, and God knows I love to disappear and wander myself on a pretty regular basis. Now, a mere 5 hours later, I’m ready for him to come back. That almost watery motion in me like a tide that is not controvertible by any list(s) of how we “match up” or not: I worry that he is dead. The tides of worry come in, love welling up. But/and I know that worrying that he is dead will not keep him from dying (to me) necessarily. Now will it?
What will? (What might?)
Tuesday, December 06, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
limerence (I kissed you with the safety off) playlist
death cab for cutie – I will follow you into the dark mp3
iron and wine – love and some verses mp3
bright eyes – first day of my life mp3
rogue wave – California
the black keys – tighten up mp3
the unseen guest – listen my son
chris Bathgate – a flash of light followed by mp3
jose gonzalez – slow moves
kt tunsall – throw me a rope
margot and the nuclear so n so’s – broadripple is burning
death cab for cutie – I will follow you into the dark mp3
iron and wine – love and some verses mp3
bright eyes – first day of my life mp3
rogue wave – California
the black keys – tighten up mp3
the unseen guest – listen my son
chris Bathgate – a flash of light followed by mp3
jose gonzalez – slow moves
kt tunsall – throw me a rope
margot and the nuclear so n so’s – broadripple is burning
Wednesday, November 09, 2011
He's extremely super duper 100% Polish, like w the Polish dancing with outfits and all that (yes, I see the irony - just - shut up), and thus he can go Christmas bonkerinos with me, as if my little cottage house swallowed a tab of ecstasy and is hallucinating that it's in Vegas only different. No fancy car or jewelry in the world could ever please me as a honey-do listing.
clem snide - any way you want it (journey cover)
Sunday, November 06, 2011
Nitro paste (a vasodialator) works for penis enlargement. However it also makes you pass out. Then you need one of your coworkers to wipe it off your dick but nobody will, they're too busy laughing while also juggling one girl with lumieres and pnuemonia and an abusive probably incestuous father who you had to have arrested for touching her on your last shift and another girl who drank antifreeze then changed her mind but oh well she's going to die and doesn't get that yet, for instance etc. One of his coworkers proved this, the nitro paste trick, then was at the mercy of the entire unit staff who pissed themselves laughing. It was a gift. He kept their minds off the moment it became 1:00 a.m. again and their 12 hour shifts became 13 hours. They appreciated it, and wiped his dick off finally....
Monday, October 31, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
This is a great time to share some of your deepest and most vulnerable feelings with your close partner Virgo. If you can truly open up instead of telling half-truths or even lies to cover what you think are major faults, then you will also do yourself a really big favor. It will bring you real peace of mind and a feeling of serenity.
Liiiiike??: "Soooo, I have this blog on which mostly I talk to myself about myself and my love life about you without you knowing it...."
Um, I don't think so. I process enough of this in front of him as it is. I talk more about FPH than he does about his exwife, and more about my fear-thinking than I should altogether. The other day, EX hassled me (again, eyeroll) and it was a relief to discuss someone from my past notgreek and about whom I have no lingering ambivalence. I could see the happiness in his face over it, the unequivocality of "we're not friends, I don't miss him and he doesn't miss me".
Meanwhile, Mark Erelli - I'll Follow You Into the Dark, he hummed this to me - beautiful song - I looked up a cover so I won't start hearing Death Cab guy in my head.
Liiiiike??: "Soooo, I have this blog on which mostly I talk to myself about myself and my love life about you without you knowing it...."
Um, I don't think so. I process enough of this in front of him as it is. I talk more about FPH than he does about his exwife, and more about my fear-thinking than I should altogether. The other day, EX hassled me (again, eyeroll) and it was a relief to discuss someone from my past notgreek and about whom I have no lingering ambivalence. I could see the happiness in his face over it, the unequivocality of "we're not friends, I don't miss him and he doesn't miss me".
Meanwhile, Mark Erelli - I'll Follow You Into the Dark, he hummed this to me - beautiful song - I looked up a cover so I won't start hearing Death Cab guy in my head.
Monday, October 24, 2011
The planetary alignment may create a situation in which you find yourself confused as to which lover you would prefer to be with Virgo. Many would call this a wonderful dilemma, but because you have such a strong sense of loyalty, you find it hard to cope with this problem. The answer to this may not be resolved in one day, but you can begin by asking yourself what you really want in a relationship.
I am not confused, but I am still processing, feeling stuff.....
Aaron switched to ICU nights as of last night. Awake for 24 hours, he tends a woman with end organ failure all night long, 42 years old and determined to die, bleeding from everywhere inside herself, shitting blood endlessly like a river of life-into-death. I know nursing is historically a female occupation, but I can’t personally fathom that. Men have such stronger stomachs. He and FPH both have infinitely more patience than I do as well…And I can’t help these uncanny moments of seeing similarities between them. Paralax is the distance between your eyes. Look at something with one eye, then close it and look with the other, and you’ll see that it seems to shift the object left to right. The object is not really shifting, you are measuring its distance from yourself using the distance between your two eyes as a kind of visual sound-bounce, your eyesight literally a think that you are throwing against that object and bouncing it back to imprint on the retina of your other eye. Something similar happens sometimes when I look at Aaron and he reminds me of John and I know that actually I am looking at myself and measuring my distance from the perspective of them-both. I bring in a lamp, put it next to the bed, change the sheets and clean everything up, do laundry and put it away, fresh fluffy socks, and I lay out a local police blotter (omg so boring, but he likes it), the Dick’s ad (I just knew) and Science Illustrated (he loves facts, most of which are way more interesting than useful). Funny shit on youtube. He does not tell me not to do these things. That is a big difference (distance) between my sense of him and any other man I’ve known up close. He neither expects that I will do for him nor does he abjure it. He is neither a tyrant nor a phobe. He simply likes the Dick’s ad. He is thrilled that I’d just know that. He is looking forward to chicken and dumplings later, a lot. He says “you take such gooooood care of me”, and he is pleased. Not gratified as if OF COURSE I would, nor freaked out as if BESET by it. He just….goes to sleep. It is garbage day. I make room in the freezer. I throw out soups I had made which have since gotten freezer burn. For a split second, it feels as if someone has reached through wall of my stomach up under my rib cage to grab my heart in a fist and squeeze as the neglect-wrecked soups hit the garbage can. I "want in a relationship" not to have to hit the garbage can, wasted.
bill withers - use me
I am not confused, but I am still processing, feeling stuff.....
Aaron switched to ICU nights as of last night. Awake for 24 hours, he tends a woman with end organ failure all night long, 42 years old and determined to die, bleeding from everywhere inside herself, shitting blood endlessly like a river of life-into-death. I know nursing is historically a female occupation, but I can’t personally fathom that. Men have such stronger stomachs. He and FPH both have infinitely more patience than I do as well…And I can’t help these uncanny moments of seeing similarities between them. Paralax is the distance between your eyes. Look at something with one eye, then close it and look with the other, and you’ll see that it seems to shift the object left to right. The object is not really shifting, you are measuring its distance from yourself using the distance between your two eyes as a kind of visual sound-bounce, your eyesight literally a think that you are throwing against that object and bouncing it back to imprint on the retina of your other eye. Something similar happens sometimes when I look at Aaron and he reminds me of John and I know that actually I am looking at myself and measuring my distance from the perspective of them-both. I bring in a lamp, put it next to the bed, change the sheets and clean everything up, do laundry and put it away, fresh fluffy socks, and I lay out a local police blotter (omg so boring, but he likes it), the Dick’s ad (I just knew) and Science Illustrated (he loves facts, most of which are way more interesting than useful). Funny shit on youtube. He does not tell me not to do these things. That is a big difference (distance) between my sense of him and any other man I’ve known up close. He neither expects that I will do for him nor does he abjure it. He is neither a tyrant nor a phobe. He simply likes the Dick’s ad. He is thrilled that I’d just know that. He is looking forward to chicken and dumplings later, a lot. He says “you take such gooooood care of me”, and he is pleased. Not gratified as if OF COURSE I would, nor freaked out as if BESET by it. He just….goes to sleep. It is garbage day. I make room in the freezer. I throw out soups I had made which have since gotten freezer burn. For a split second, it feels as if someone has reached through wall of my stomach up under my rib cage to grab my heart in a fist and squeeze as the neglect-wrecked soups hit the garbage can. I "want in a relationship" not to have to hit the garbage can, wasted.
bill withers - use me
Friday, October 21, 2011
I have only one prior experience of a hot tub and it wasn't my experience ft. it wasn't a good one for me (someone I loved banged someone else in one, cementing hot tubs in my mind as something belonging to any other woman but me surely). I never in a million buttgillion years saw this coming. Any of it. And I am at this moment literally exhausted by the emotions of it all. Happy, a lot. Bracing myself for the end of happy too, a LOT, until every muscle is sore from the effort. He says "Never doubt that I love you". I don't doubt it. I just know that sometimes doesn't matter worth a god damn. People hurt you, they hurt themselves, they even kill themselves and/or you passively or actively. They sometimes have to do those things. And on top of all that, pianos fall on us all from time to time. There is no way around it. This will rip my heart out sooner or later. He reads my mind. He says "If you're going to chew me up and spit me out in little bloody pieces, I'd still choose this, like o well then that's what'll have to happen".
Monday, October 17, 2011
A nasty cold makes its way through the house. Aaron brings scary dreck, like a kid going to daycare only bigger and worse. The kids get it, I get it, and then Aaron gets it again. We spend a lot of time simply caring for each other. Comfort foods and hot toddies. Vicks vapor rub.
And we buy a hot tub. A Jacuzzi. The strangest purchase I have ever made by far. I could no more imagine myself doing that than I could imagine myself having a jet boat or a pony dog. But achy and hopeful and tender and embracing the goofy factor (a t-shirt from the gap, “Cougar Bait”, cz he knows that if all else fails and a fear of mine cannot be mastered any other way, humor will probably get the job done as I have no resistance to a good laugh), we go comparison shopping and listen to schpeels about LED lighting and numbers of jets and oxidation. The showrooms smell like chlorine. The smell is the same as the Schaumburg public pool I grew up in until my life exploded forever into a shit splatter pattern of my parents’ manias and economic catastrophes – until it exploded into the person I became. Smelling chlorine again, I walked around the showrooms and watched the cascading LED lights and stuck my hand in the warm water. I can remember the hot sidewalk under my little feet as I ran the 8 blocks or so over to the pool, the pool pass a giant baby pin with my number on it attached to my bathing suit, right hip. My sister’s adorable boingboing curly hair, her polka dot butt bikini bottoms and the halter top forever coming untied and flapping loose around her neck. My best friend Mickey and I would go to the pool every single day, sometimes we’d pick up Sherry, sometimes we’d duck out the north door and go to the strip mall for candy, giant chewy sweet tarts were my favorite. Pixie sticks. Sherry’s cat had kittens on the chair in her living room, and we paused to see the squirmy wet pile of them. Mickey took dares to pull her bathing suit bottoms down in the pool, then dive to up-end her bare ass at the life guard, a maneuver she repeated often and which I found stimulating to contemplate at the safe distance of being me not her. Slightly older boys egging her to flash them her vagina in the stairwell tubes of the giant jungle gyms of the parks with no trees in our squat flat poor new subdivision. She cleaned my room for me and worshiped her older sister. Her mom and dad hated each other and kept the drapes drawn always, her house always dark and over air conditioned. Not mine. My house was awash in sunlight, nothing but flowered valances my mom would sew herself, like fabric bangs across the foreheads of the windows. She liked yellow, and shades of it were everywhere, as on the giant round area rug with long gold tassel fringe at the edge. My father had a component stereo system, box speakers near the real-wood fireplace that had a brass curtain I’d open and close endlessly. Led Zeppelin loud on the weekends. My parents nzling each other next to the sink in the little kitchen while she made the nightly salad, vinegar and olive oil and too much oregano always. They kept bells on the doorknob to the bedroom in case one of us got up in the night and might disturb their fucking. The end tables by their bed and next to the couch were all giant empty wooden wire rolls that my dad hauled home from work and my mom made gingham tablecloths for. My favorite gingham was (is) blue, the same material my grandma used for curtains; everyone was always sewing something, nesting nesting my mom would paint walls colors like “chartreuse”. My dad built me a playhouse on the patio and blasted music out of his van while he tended tomato plants and a little grape arbor. I can see the line of orange day lilies along the garage, happy hippie color splash against the shit brown siding color that my mom said was “earthy”. She took yoga classes at the Slim n’ Trim, which ironically was the storefront between the candy depot and a Baskin Robbins in that strip mall. Before his dissatisfaction with his work and the stress of sole providership broke my father’s will into deadly shards hurting anything close enough to catch their random flying trajectories, before my mother’s fragile mind and strong spirit collided and she disappeared into herself to watch the sparks fly, before I memorized the Book of Ruth to win a stack of white bibles and looked for a Larger Meaning to Suffering, life was good. And now it is good again.
Aaron looks at me worried about my worrying, “You really think I’m going to disappear or something don’t you?” Or something is about right; I worry about what I can’t imagine not so much about anything that I can. I rub his head, press my palm to his mind through his skull, promise to care for it, make bargains like a giraffe caught in quicksand only different, “I’ll do anything, take on anything, just don’t take leave of yourself my man, please be happy….” He has a stuffy nose and snores a little; I like it, that’s how I know he’s still there even if I close my eyes. Then I dream of John who shows me a healing scar on the back of his head where his cranium was pried open like a walnut down the middle. He tells me there was really something wrong with it, his brain, a connection capacity was blocked by something like a recurring tumor. I think it was me, the Recurring Tumor Girlfriend. He tells me no, it wasn’t. “It wasn’t you.” I ask him if he is going to die. He doesn’t answer me. I wake up and listen to the quiet house, breathe in the smell of apple sauce I have slow-cooking overnight in the kitchen.
smells like everything will be okay feist - mushaboom
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
buckcherry - crazy bitch
bonus track from DmS: (I'm a sucker for funny animal vids)
-----
I wrote all day (again). Now that I'm done with the tantrum, I think Story's return to the exchange could be good, and besides which Aaron is a Reader of mine, coming towards me rather than away when I boil over, then bending patiently over my foot at midnight to remove a tiny blade of glass using my pink eyebrow tweezers, slowly proceeding despite the precious few three hours of sleep he will get before having to go to work for 12 grueling hours. And today was his grievance too, his one chance to have removed from his file a permanent written reprimand he got for using the word 'niggardly' in the OR, the definition of which his surgical support medic did not know but it sounded some kind of bad to her. While funny to me, it was serious to him, for a reprimand in his file means he can be fired without cause, ie he loses his union rights, for two years. Exhausted, having had to call in crisis counseling (again) and paramedics for his bonkers exwife and deal with that all weekend, having wanted to come towards rather than away from me for "our first fight", having been up half the night with the estrogen tsunami of one woman throwing a weepy tantrum ostensibly about having been flirted with (that's a sore spot, being flirted with as if a man of mine doesn't exist cz he's never around) but really about the endless bonkers tantrums of another woman, he kept a man with stage-4 cancer in 5 places alive all morning and then walked into a grievance hearing with a dictionary and walked out with a letter of apology to him from the director of critical care. And through all this, I sat here and wrote, another chapter, this one about John and G-spots and Botox and Seratonin. And although it was about another man I fell in love with repeatedly and once because he smelled like a stag party and called me Golden Griddle, Aaron smiled to read it, said simply "I love your writing"
bonus track from DmS: (I'm a sucker for funny animal vids)
-----
I wrote all day (again). Now that I'm done with the tantrum, I think Story's return to the exchange could be good, and besides which Aaron is a Reader of mine, coming towards me rather than away when I boil over, then bending patiently over my foot at midnight to remove a tiny blade of glass using my pink eyebrow tweezers, slowly proceeding despite the precious few three hours of sleep he will get before having to go to work for 12 grueling hours. And today was his grievance too, his one chance to have removed from his file a permanent written reprimand he got for using the word 'niggardly' in the OR, the definition of which his surgical support medic did not know but it sounded some kind of bad to her. While funny to me, it was serious to him, for a reprimand in his file means he can be fired without cause, ie he loses his union rights, for two years. Exhausted, having had to call in crisis counseling (again) and paramedics for his bonkers exwife and deal with that all weekend, having wanted to come towards rather than away from me for "our first fight", having been up half the night with the estrogen tsunami of one woman throwing a weepy tantrum ostensibly about having been flirted with (that's a sore spot, being flirted with as if a man of mine doesn't exist cz he's never around) but really about the endless bonkers tantrums of another woman, he kept a man with stage-4 cancer in 5 places alive all morning and then walked into a grievance hearing with a dictionary and walked out with a letter of apology to him from the director of critical care. And through all this, I sat here and wrote, another chapter, this one about John and G-spots and Botox and Seratonin. And although it was about another man I fell in love with repeatedly and once because he smelled like a stag party and called me Golden Griddle, Aaron smiled to read it, said simply "I love your writing"
Sunday, October 02, 2011
Friday, September 30, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
"You must have forgotten how much it costs in efforts, attentions, moves to make the smallest undertaking succeed, to end a lawsuit, to conclude a marriage, to bring off a reconciliation. Think what you like of these details; but I'm going to find them interesting if they're true, if they bring out passions, if they show people's characters.
They're commonplace, you say; they're what one sees every day! You're mistaken; they're what takes place in front of your eyes every day that you never see."
They're commonplace, you say; they're what one sees every day! You're mistaken; they're what takes place in front of your eyes every day that you never see."
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Saturday, September 10, 2011
"What lies behind us and lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
update: what lies in me is plenty. I am never ever backing down again. not from a fight like this. cz right is right, and who you want is who you want, and if you ain't quite strong enough for that well yet I got moxi to burn if you got a brain enough to bring a match
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
update: what lies in me is plenty. I am never ever backing down again. not from a fight like this. cz right is right, and who you want is who you want, and if you ain't quite strong enough for that well yet I got moxi to burn if you got a brain enough to bring a match
Thursday, September 08, 2011
All these insensitive men are actually more reactive to emotion than women, so they are genetically programmed to avoid it.
to a degree, okay, fine.....but really when push comes to shove, if you got something to say, say it
to a degree, okay, fine.....but really when push comes to shove, if you got something to say, say it
Tuesday, September 06, 2011
Sunday, September 04, 2011
Friday, September 02, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
I do not know how to be writing to Nobody on this blog ... that seems like an important thing to figure but I'm not sure how or why .... I dunno.... here I am this morning, alive inside my life, my mother visiting, my kids around me close each of the three (so far) orbiting at their particular distance, my career clamping down on my time... my reproductive health what it is, whatever that is, who can say?? la la la ... a man nearby to all of that but not here (yet?), stirring feelings and memories and chitchats with Mary, writing which for a change I do not leave here, that for a change I gave to Sunnie, a first between us . . . this is still what I'm listening to because it was the last gift I got, though I am trying not to listen to it over much, just a four times now, trying not to make the same mistakes, letting shit get to me too much down the bone more than it is meant to .. or is the mistake that I don't let it get to me enough? This is what I can say for sure about the last 24 hours: I talked to God; I took my girl with me and I gave the dialogue to my best gf; I told the man who is presenting himself to me that people seem to really love me or they really just do not, that anyone trying to hold a middle ground on that is driven bonkers or disappears, that my kids have been raised by the mafia of me, that you're either in or you're out with me that's how it goes for whatever reason; I took my peeps to see "30 minutes or less" and my mother laughed in that shotgun-burst style she does, like John used to too, that way that makes me laugh more than the joke itself; I listened to the rain alone, and am still doing that right now, hoping for some sleep
Thursday, August 11, 2011
"Faking It"
He says he used to know how to pray and can’t remember how any more. I tell him to try a shotgun approach. You have guns on the brain, he tells me. I glance where his gun is, wonder what it feels like, resist the urge to put my hand on it. I take one of his hands in mine, palm reading, I tell him that I think God went to pieces.
Like he failed the NCLEX and went to pieces kind of pieces?
I just think if I were God, I’d have gone to pieces by now. He smiles. I’m going to tell him a story, we take turns at that, I don’t know if it is a sad story or a happy one. There are two babies in it. I rub his palm, his wrist, the back of his hand, I switch to nails and trace the space between his elbow and his fingertips all around, top and tender underside of his forearm, slow soft scratching tracks up and down. He watches me. I watch his arm.
He tells me, You are thinking of him, this is the scratching in the Etta story.
Yes, it is, but I’m not always thinking of him.
Liar, he says.
I don’t, not always.
When was the last time he was completely gone from your mind?
He is gone from my mind more than not, I am busy if you hadn’t noticed.
I mean at times like this, I mean when you are thinking about men, he says. I have to think about that for a minute. His tone isn’t accusatory, it’s a fair question. He isn’t jealous, he hardly could be focused enough to be anything like jealous, sitting here in my hands with a new wedding ring on his left, his desire somewhat fractured. He’s just curious and has agreed to be challenging me to fix it, my ‘man problem’ and its causes, he has asked me to have “faith” ironically enough coming from the man who forgot how to pray. He has told me that he will not disappear (no matter what I say? no matter how honest?).
I tell him, There was a night a few weeks ago when a man I know went to kiss me goodnight but thought better of it but then hesitated and then kissed me on the nose and hugged me instead which he hadn’t wanted to do in the first place to say goodbye because he was covered in sweat, his shirt plastered to him, armpit hair and bandana dripping, and we laughed at our mutual awkwardness. I hugged him closer, soaking enough of his sweat into my dress to be vaguely damp all the way home, I kissed his neck and then bit him.
Bit him?
Yeah just playful, ya know, a little nibble.
What did he do?
He hummed.
Like whistled Dixie?
No, like “mmmmmmmm”.
Ha, gotcha.
And I did not think of John then (not consciously anyway), I thought only that my friend’s sweat smelled like Guinness and he didn’t taste nearly as salty as I would have anticipated.
Wow, you go to hell for thoughts that x-rated.
Shut up, I laugh.
Armpit hair, that’s hot shit.
I think it is hot shit, actually. I switch to his left hand, fingerpads to fingerpads, palm to palm…
What is the story?
O right, there are two babies, both dead.
Good so far.
Both were killed by their mothers.
How?
One against the pavement, I say. His whole body tenses, he exhales, I smell smoke, he wants a cigarette. Don’t, I say gently. I put my face in his left palm.
My hand is not the size of your grandfather’s, he says.
No. And this one doesn’t smell like smoke.
Your nose is cold.
My nose is always cold.
Means you’re healthy.
Only if you’re a nurse for dogs, I’m pretty sure.
And what about the other baby?
You have babies on the brain, I say.
Yes, I do.
The other one had trisomy13, the mother had to terminate.
Is there a plot to this story at all?
Not really, there is a woman on a couch mapping the forearm of a man with babies on the brain, and so in her own mind are babies now too, dead ones, and he tells her to have more faith and she tells him this story…about a woman who very much wanted a baby, though she already had a severely disabled child at home, her heart was not full enough.
Okay…
The other mother who smashed her baby had had more than enough to contend with already as well, a mind full of voices, more people than were not even real (and we both know how challenging is the world of actual people already, right?)
I guess so.
So the babies are lost, the hearts and minds of the mothers stay too full of what only leaves them wanting for sweetness – with me so far?
Yes, I think so.
And the mother who loses the trisomy13 baby, she wakes up from the termination and the first thing she does is sip apple juice and the first thing she says “that is so good” about the sweetness of the juice – that’s a prayer.
I see…I don’t mean to be critical, but telling stories like that one might have something to do with why you never get any, he says, amused.
Well, first of all, I’m not trying to ‘get any’, this is fake – remember?
Right.
Second of all, it’s not me who has dead babies on the brain, generally speaking.
I’ll give you that.
So I’m just trying to be accommodating.
You did say you like to be accommodating, I remember that now.
Yes.
And how long do I just sit here and let you do this?, he asks. It’s him who is being accommodating, to be fair. This is fake and somewhere there is a vegan dietician waiting for him and I don’t actually know how to read palms very well. I can tell if he has a moon line, if lines that indicate a propensity towards madness are present, if they intertwine with intuition, if he can understand people too well, to a disturbing degree (the same thing that made God go to pieces).
This is backwards, I say.
How?
The scratching, caressing, the memorizing of extremities, it comes last not first. First kisses come first and usually except for the fact that they’re FIRSTs, they’re unremarkable, and that’s a pity if you think about it, I lecture. To have mapped his left arm, sitting to his right and facing him, is an awkward slant to hold. I am wearing boots because he thinks they are silly and so he makes a not-smiling smiley face when he sees them. A yoga skirt, waistband turned over low across my hips. I hike it slightly and slide into a straddle across his lap. It would be better, I say, if first kisses were both remarkable and firsts, so that they wouldn’t be like any other first kisses that you ever have with anybody else, so that they’d be unlike any others that the other person has had either.......but still not stupidly weird, like underwater or upside down because that would just be dumb.
He laughs, says maybe just the boots are enough to make this one unique but he can’t kiss me of course.
Of course not, I’m just discussing the concept, and besides “a-straddle” wouldn’t be our first kiss even if we were going to have one. I’d have to think up something completely peculiar to our situation, totally unique to you.
And this isn’t unique?- You’ve straddled men not in a position to do anything about it often, have you?
Metaphorically I’ve done so way too many times. Literally only once, a first kiss that has yet to be topped.
You’ve got it bad, always thinking of him.
Not always, but his genius in sitting in that armless chair, well let’s just say I’ve learned to appreciate that more in retrospect.
He looks at me. I can’t, he says softly.
You’re not doing anything, this is just show and tell, this is how it was, I tell him. Both our voices are tinged with sadnesses. I’ve run my hands up his biceps, my fingers tracing his jaw and throat, I am smelling him, my hair is in his face, he takes the end of a curl between his lips. Did you know that if you have curly hair you can tell when your lover is sick of you?, I ask. He doesn’t answer me, he is breathing very evenly in a way that I wonder if he does when he senses impending crisis. When you are new and have some value, your hair is glorious, your lover puts his face into it, he plays with it when you open his pants with your teeth, he tugs at it to wake you up…then one day, it tickles his nose, it bugs him, he moves his face away from it, and that is the day you should leave him (if you can stand to) because he is done with you, I explain.
So, you put your lovers to this test, straddle them, don’t let them move, rub them down, kiss their throats and wait to see if they sneeze?
I’m not kissing your throat, I’m sniffing it, I’m inspecting your supra sternal notch.
Ah yes, the notch, your favorite body part on the last boy toy.
I wish you’d quit saying that, every man in the world with a job used to be a student at some point, that doesn’t make everyone I might straddle a ‘boy toy’.
Uh huh.
And probably the notch would have been his first kiss, but I never kissed him, so he wasn’t my anything.
True enough, I’m just teasing.
And nobody said anything about not being allowed to move, my lover just would not, he could have.
So he would sit here, while you ran your fingernails up and down and…
I sit up, my ass melting warmly deeper into his lap, I take his hands, put them on my hips. He’d do that, put his hands on my hips, I say. I look into his eyes. He gets a firmer grip on my hips and shifts my weight off of him. (And now I’m afraid he is angry with me. I am sorry. I don’t want him not to like me anymore.) He puts two fingers to my notch, and with his fingers held there he pushes me backwards onto the couch and lies down on top of me. He sniffs me. I giggle.
How do you like it?
Okay, stop.
No, he says, sniffing my neck, pressing his weight down. I laugh, lift my hips to lock against his, my skirt high on my thighs. Those boots are so stupid.
I can take them off.
No no, it’s fine Cowgirl, he says, smiling and sniffing downward, his face to my tits through my shirt.
This is feeling less fake by the second, I say.
Shut up, it’s about time someone turned this around on you, were you a bloodhound in your last life or what? He lifts my shirt and makes sniffing noises against my belly. I’m ticklish, squealing, pushing him away. If you don’t stop squirming, I’m going to flat out tickle the shit out of you, he threatens.
Noooo, stop!
Shut up, stop moving.
No.
He presses his fingers into my ribs.
SQUEAL, okay okay!
He takes his hands away, shifts his weight onto his knees between mine, keeps his face above my stomach, puts his hands on my thighs, pushes my skirt up. He looks very serious, very clinical, staring down my torso, pulls the waistband of my panties an inch lower. You don’t have a single stretchmark, he notes.
I have a small one, right hip.
He looks, looks closer. I can feel his breathing, slow and even, warm breezes. And then he kisses me, once, firmly and sweetly, through the lace of my fake-date panties, at the base of the pyramidalis muscle. He sits up, extends a hand, I take it, he pulls me up to a sitting position. I take a deep shaky breath.
That’s my new favorite first kiss, I say.
I really need a cigarette, he replies.
Understandable, don’t let me keep you.
I’m trying not to.
I laugh, Yeah cuz you’re not a stray dog ya know, you’ve got a license and everything.
I know!
He says he used to know how to pray and can’t remember how any more. I tell him to try a shotgun approach. You have guns on the brain, he tells me. I glance where his gun is, wonder what it feels like, resist the urge to put my hand on it. I take one of his hands in mine, palm reading, I tell him that I think God went to pieces.
Like he failed the NCLEX and went to pieces kind of pieces?
I just think if I were God, I’d have gone to pieces by now. He smiles. I’m going to tell him a story, we take turns at that, I don’t know if it is a sad story or a happy one. There are two babies in it. I rub his palm, his wrist, the back of his hand, I switch to nails and trace the space between his elbow and his fingertips all around, top and tender underside of his forearm, slow soft scratching tracks up and down. He watches me. I watch his arm.
He tells me, You are thinking of him, this is the scratching in the Etta story.
Yes, it is, but I’m not always thinking of him.
Liar, he says.
I don’t, not always.
When was the last time he was completely gone from your mind?
He is gone from my mind more than not, I am busy if you hadn’t noticed.
I mean at times like this, I mean when you are thinking about men, he says. I have to think about that for a minute. His tone isn’t accusatory, it’s a fair question. He isn’t jealous, he hardly could be focused enough to be anything like jealous, sitting here in my hands with a new wedding ring on his left, his desire somewhat fractured. He’s just curious and has agreed to be challenging me to fix it, my ‘man problem’ and its causes, he has asked me to have “faith” ironically enough coming from the man who forgot how to pray. He has told me that he will not disappear (no matter what I say? no matter how honest?).
I tell him, There was a night a few weeks ago when a man I know went to kiss me goodnight but thought better of it but then hesitated and then kissed me on the nose and hugged me instead which he hadn’t wanted to do in the first place to say goodbye because he was covered in sweat, his shirt plastered to him, armpit hair and bandana dripping, and we laughed at our mutual awkwardness. I hugged him closer, soaking enough of his sweat into my dress to be vaguely damp all the way home, I kissed his neck and then bit him.
Bit him?
Yeah just playful, ya know, a little nibble.
What did he do?
He hummed.
Like whistled Dixie?
No, like “mmmmmmmm”.
Ha, gotcha.
And I did not think of John then (not consciously anyway), I thought only that my friend’s sweat smelled like Guinness and he didn’t taste nearly as salty as I would have anticipated.
Wow, you go to hell for thoughts that x-rated.
Shut up, I laugh.
Armpit hair, that’s hot shit.
I think it is hot shit, actually. I switch to his left hand, fingerpads to fingerpads, palm to palm…
What is the story?
O right, there are two babies, both dead.
Good so far.
Both were killed by their mothers.
How?
One against the pavement, I say. His whole body tenses, he exhales, I smell smoke, he wants a cigarette. Don’t, I say gently. I put my face in his left palm.
My hand is not the size of your grandfather’s, he says.
No. And this one doesn’t smell like smoke.
Your nose is cold.
My nose is always cold.
Means you’re healthy.
Only if you’re a nurse for dogs, I’m pretty sure.
And what about the other baby?
You have babies on the brain, I say.
Yes, I do.
The other one had trisomy13, the mother had to terminate.
Is there a plot to this story at all?
Not really, there is a woman on a couch mapping the forearm of a man with babies on the brain, and so in her own mind are babies now too, dead ones, and he tells her to have more faith and she tells him this story…about a woman who very much wanted a baby, though she already had a severely disabled child at home, her heart was not full enough.
Okay…
The other mother who smashed her baby had had more than enough to contend with already as well, a mind full of voices, more people than were not even real (and we both know how challenging is the world of actual people already, right?)
I guess so.
So the babies are lost, the hearts and minds of the mothers stay too full of what only leaves them wanting for sweetness – with me so far?
Yes, I think so.
And the mother who loses the trisomy13 baby, she wakes up from the termination and the first thing she does is sip apple juice and the first thing she says “that is so good” about the sweetness of the juice – that’s a prayer.
I see…I don’t mean to be critical, but telling stories like that one might have something to do with why you never get any, he says, amused.
Well, first of all, I’m not trying to ‘get any’, this is fake – remember?
Right.
Second of all, it’s not me who has dead babies on the brain, generally speaking.
I’ll give you that.
So I’m just trying to be accommodating.
You did say you like to be accommodating, I remember that now.
Yes.
And how long do I just sit here and let you do this?, he asks. It’s him who is being accommodating, to be fair. This is fake and somewhere there is a vegan dietician waiting for him and I don’t actually know how to read palms very well. I can tell if he has a moon line, if lines that indicate a propensity towards madness are present, if they intertwine with intuition, if he can understand people too well, to a disturbing degree (the same thing that made God go to pieces).
This is backwards, I say.
How?
The scratching, caressing, the memorizing of extremities, it comes last not first. First kisses come first and usually except for the fact that they’re FIRSTs, they’re unremarkable, and that’s a pity if you think about it, I lecture. To have mapped his left arm, sitting to his right and facing him, is an awkward slant to hold. I am wearing boots because he thinks they are silly and so he makes a not-smiling smiley face when he sees them. A yoga skirt, waistband turned over low across my hips. I hike it slightly and slide into a straddle across his lap. It would be better, I say, if first kisses were both remarkable and firsts, so that they wouldn’t be like any other first kisses that you ever have with anybody else, so that they’d be unlike any others that the other person has had either.......but still not stupidly weird, like underwater or upside down because that would just be dumb.
He laughs, says maybe just the boots are enough to make this one unique but he can’t kiss me of course.
Of course not, I’m just discussing the concept, and besides “a-straddle” wouldn’t be our first kiss even if we were going to have one. I’d have to think up something completely peculiar to our situation, totally unique to you.
And this isn’t unique?- You’ve straddled men not in a position to do anything about it often, have you?
Metaphorically I’ve done so way too many times. Literally only once, a first kiss that has yet to be topped.
You’ve got it bad, always thinking of him.
Not always, but his genius in sitting in that armless chair, well let’s just say I’ve learned to appreciate that more in retrospect.
He looks at me. I can’t, he says softly.
You’re not doing anything, this is just show and tell, this is how it was, I tell him. Both our voices are tinged with sadnesses. I’ve run my hands up his biceps, my fingers tracing his jaw and throat, I am smelling him, my hair is in his face, he takes the end of a curl between his lips. Did you know that if you have curly hair you can tell when your lover is sick of you?, I ask. He doesn’t answer me, he is breathing very evenly in a way that I wonder if he does when he senses impending crisis. When you are new and have some value, your hair is glorious, your lover puts his face into it, he plays with it when you open his pants with your teeth, he tugs at it to wake you up…then one day, it tickles his nose, it bugs him, he moves his face away from it, and that is the day you should leave him (if you can stand to) because he is done with you, I explain.
So, you put your lovers to this test, straddle them, don’t let them move, rub them down, kiss their throats and wait to see if they sneeze?
I’m not kissing your throat, I’m sniffing it, I’m inspecting your supra sternal notch.
Ah yes, the notch, your favorite body part on the last boy toy.
I wish you’d quit saying that, every man in the world with a job used to be a student at some point, that doesn’t make everyone I might straddle a ‘boy toy’.
Uh huh.
And probably the notch would have been his first kiss, but I never kissed him, so he wasn’t my anything.
True enough, I’m just teasing.
And nobody said anything about not being allowed to move, my lover just would not, he could have.
So he would sit here, while you ran your fingernails up and down and…
I sit up, my ass melting warmly deeper into his lap, I take his hands, put them on my hips. He’d do that, put his hands on my hips, I say. I look into his eyes. He gets a firmer grip on my hips and shifts my weight off of him. (And now I’m afraid he is angry with me. I am sorry. I don’t want him not to like me anymore.) He puts two fingers to my notch, and with his fingers held there he pushes me backwards onto the couch and lies down on top of me. He sniffs me. I giggle.
How do you like it?
Okay, stop.
No, he says, sniffing my neck, pressing his weight down. I laugh, lift my hips to lock against his, my skirt high on my thighs. Those boots are so stupid.
I can take them off.
No no, it’s fine Cowgirl, he says, smiling and sniffing downward, his face to my tits through my shirt.
This is feeling less fake by the second, I say.
Shut up, it’s about time someone turned this around on you, were you a bloodhound in your last life or what? He lifts my shirt and makes sniffing noises against my belly. I’m ticklish, squealing, pushing him away. If you don’t stop squirming, I’m going to flat out tickle the shit out of you, he threatens.
Noooo, stop!
Shut up, stop moving.
No.
He presses his fingers into my ribs.
SQUEAL, okay okay!
He takes his hands away, shifts his weight onto his knees between mine, keeps his face above my stomach, puts his hands on my thighs, pushes my skirt up. He looks very serious, very clinical, staring down my torso, pulls the waistband of my panties an inch lower. You don’t have a single stretchmark, he notes.
I have a small one, right hip.
He looks, looks closer. I can feel his breathing, slow and even, warm breezes. And then he kisses me, once, firmly and sweetly, through the lace of my fake-date panties, at the base of the pyramidalis muscle. He sits up, extends a hand, I take it, he pulls me up to a sitting position. I take a deep shaky breath.
That’s my new favorite first kiss, I say.
I really need a cigarette, he replies.
Understandable, don’t let me keep you.
I’m trying not to.
I laugh, Yeah cuz you’re not a stray dog ya know, you’ve got a license and everything.
I know!
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
what's up?
nothing good. (tell me a story)
ya know those chin straps?
(headtilt)
like it's a dildo attached to your face.
ok...
I gotta friend, we go out and he wears one to the bar.
hahahahahahah wtf? hahahah that's pretty brilliant. in a really fucked up kinda way.
yeah it's amazing how well it works too.
really?
yeah he wears it with a 'I heart fat chicks' tshirt and everybody wants to talk to him.
hahahahahahahahaha....
nothing good. (tell me a story)
ya know those chin straps?
(headtilt)
like it's a dildo attached to your face.
ok...
I gotta friend, we go out and he wears one to the bar.
hahahahahahah wtf? hahahah that's pretty brilliant. in a really fucked up kinda way.
yeah it's amazing how well it works too.
really?
yeah he wears it with a 'I heart fat chicks' tshirt and everybody wants to talk to him.
hahahahahahahahaha....
Hail
That’s still all you know of that, isn’t it?
I keep meaning to learn it, then I forget.
Lame.
I know, sorry.
Sorry sorry sorry, you know how many times I hear that a day?
I can only imagine.
So how you been? Like, for instance, how was yesterday?
I had a bad day. You know about that already?
There was a ‘disturbance in the force’.
That guy deserved it.
Dick cancer?
Hey that was bullshit, no man would go to a doctor for any reason and get a shrink referral rather than a blood test whatever, they only do that shit to women.
Dick cancer virus that’ll effect the need for mass partial dick removals for across the male human genome?
I might have overreacted a little.
A dick eating virus for which there will be no cure, only ineffectual insensitive counseling and antidepressants that suppress orgasms as a side-effect?
Ok, ok, that might have been a slightly disproportionate response on my part.
Plus, you’re not even seriously ill, and you know it, or you’d be here praying about that, which you aren’t, cz you know damn well you’ve just been doing too many shots of southern comfort and self-pity. Unhealthy is not the same thing as sick.
I’m not sick, that’s good to hear, I just spent $600 on herbal vitamins..
Don’t change the subject. We’ve talked about this.
I know.
I’m very nearly about to give you a shrink referral.
That’s not nice, not very forgiving.
You went home, wrote the human genome dick curse down to bind it (which you know I have mixed feelings about that magic shit anyway), then noted the date to all your witchy friends so that when cancer strikes dicks across the globe, you get personal credit. And you’re not even sorry, not even a little bit.
I’m sorry we’re talking about it, does that count for anything?
Then among other things, you bitched out that friend of yours over there, who by the way is right now looking through the church for the Hail Mary prayer, HA HEM.
Sigh, ok, I’m sorry about that, but
But – do you have any idea how often hear ‘I’m sorry BUT’?
But cmon, they fight over utterly nothing all the time – here I am, the way I am, and there they are still screwing nearly every day after 10 years whatever it is, then they start threatening to divorce each other over…what the hell was that even over?
Sooo, you’re not sorry about that either.
Siiiiigh, ok, yes I’m at least half sorry, they do have issues, it’s not my place, blablabla. Ok?
You are so lame today.
I AM sorry that I am lame, yes indeedy.
Guess that’ll have to be good enough. Say some friggin Hail Mary’s why dontcha?
How many?
Let’s be realistic: One.
Ok.
So, you’re here to discuss the polish boy.
You know? How do you know him?
None of your business.
It’s not dead hookers is it?
(stoney stare)
(pause) What’s a missalette? (falls open, Matthew 8:17, for the sick)
Go to church once in a while and you’d know.
So yeah, for the sick whatever, so you know him from ambulance driving days?
You know damn well he hates that term, why are you being passive aggressive?
I have no idea.
What do you want to talk about?
No idea. I really have no idea, but since you know him already and know Everything why don’t you fill me in on what I might want to talk about.
No.
Siiiiigh. Okay. So. Anyway, so we have this fake boyfriend scheme to godsmack Tony with basically…
Yup. Fake married boyfriend to upset the notmarried notboyfriend and maybe the other married notboyfriend too in order to get over the notofficialnowexboyfriend (before you kill him with your self-defense sonic booms, talk about “not very nice”) – you keep us entertained up here, I’ll give you that. That’s about as ass backwards as a woman born with a decent ass and curly hair can be in man-getting.
I’m gifted in ass backwards.
Great job, solid house, blessed womb, and I even let you keep the magic wand…
Ha, “blessed womb”, your Catholic phrasing cracks me up.
(stoney stare)
I KNOW, I know, ok?
Do you know? Cz I don’t know if the butthead from Wisconsin episode of South Park being your favorite quite amounts to self-awareness.
Siiiigh. I don’t know what am I worried about…I guess…thing is, it’s nice to have him around all of a sudden, he’s funny, his stories are KILLER and you know how much I love that, and I think it’s very healthy psychologically, the relationship discussions, him being at the front end and me being shat-out on the other of the whole marriage thing, it’s a useful counter perspective typa deal.
(stoney stare)
Siiiigh. I don’t know! I guess I don’t want to get too attached, it makes me nervous to be glad to hear from him mid drunk golf game, that’s awesome and I could use some new friend energy and, and, I dunno…
How do you spell his name?
What?
How do you spell his name?
Don’t you know?
(stoney stare)
I don’t know, it’s something polish, starts with an M ends in an I. or a Y. No, I’m almost sure it’s an I.
You’ve known him for years, still can’t spell his name, but are afraid you’re getting too attached?
That’s still all you know of that, isn’t it?
I keep meaning to learn it, then I forget.
Lame.
I know, sorry.
Sorry sorry sorry, you know how many times I hear that a day?
I can only imagine.
So how you been? Like, for instance, how was yesterday?
I had a bad day. You know about that already?
There was a ‘disturbance in the force’.
That guy deserved it.
Dick cancer?
Hey that was bullshit, no man would go to a doctor for any reason and get a shrink referral rather than a blood test whatever, they only do that shit to women.
Dick cancer virus that’ll effect the need for mass partial dick removals for across the male human genome?
I might have overreacted a little.
A dick eating virus for which there will be no cure, only ineffectual insensitive counseling and antidepressants that suppress orgasms as a side-effect?
Ok, ok, that might have been a slightly disproportionate response on my part.
Plus, you’re not even seriously ill, and you know it, or you’d be here praying about that, which you aren’t, cz you know damn well you’ve just been doing too many shots of southern comfort and self-pity. Unhealthy is not the same thing as sick.
I’m not sick, that’s good to hear, I just spent $600 on herbal vitamins..
Don’t change the subject. We’ve talked about this.
I know.
I’m very nearly about to give you a shrink referral.
That’s not nice, not very forgiving.
You went home, wrote the human genome dick curse down to bind it (which you know I have mixed feelings about that magic shit anyway), then noted the date to all your witchy friends so that when cancer strikes dicks across the globe, you get personal credit. And you’re not even sorry, not even a little bit.
I’m sorry we’re talking about it, does that count for anything?
Then among other things, you bitched out that friend of yours over there, who by the way is right now looking through the church for the Hail Mary prayer, HA HEM.
Sigh, ok, I’m sorry about that, but
But – do you have any idea how often hear ‘I’m sorry BUT’?
But cmon, they fight over utterly nothing all the time – here I am, the way I am, and there they are still screwing nearly every day after 10 years whatever it is, then they start threatening to divorce each other over…what the hell was that even over?
Sooo, you’re not sorry about that either.
Siiiiigh, ok, yes I’m at least half sorry, they do have issues, it’s not my place, blablabla. Ok?
You are so lame today.
I AM sorry that I am lame, yes indeedy.
Guess that’ll have to be good enough. Say some friggin Hail Mary’s why dontcha?
How many?
Let’s be realistic: One.
Ok.
So, you’re here to discuss the polish boy.
You know? How do you know him?
None of your business.
It’s not dead hookers is it?
(stoney stare)
(pause) What’s a missalette? (falls open, Matthew 8:17, for the sick)
Go to church once in a while and you’d know.
So yeah, for the sick whatever, so you know him from ambulance driving days?
You know damn well he hates that term, why are you being passive aggressive?
I have no idea.
What do you want to talk about?
No idea. I really have no idea, but since you know him already and know Everything why don’t you fill me in on what I might want to talk about.
No.
Siiiiigh. Okay. So. Anyway, so we have this fake boyfriend scheme to godsmack Tony with basically…
Yup. Fake married boyfriend to upset the notmarried notboyfriend and maybe the other married notboyfriend too in order to get over the notofficialnowexboyfriend (before you kill him with your self-defense sonic booms, talk about “not very nice”) – you keep us entertained up here, I’ll give you that. That’s about as ass backwards as a woman born with a decent ass and curly hair can be in man-getting.
I’m gifted in ass backwards.
Great job, solid house, blessed womb, and I even let you keep the magic wand…
Ha, “blessed womb”, your Catholic phrasing cracks me up.
(stoney stare)
I KNOW, I know, ok?
Do you know? Cz I don’t know if the butthead from Wisconsin episode of South Park being your favorite quite amounts to self-awareness.
Siiiigh. I don’t know what am I worried about…I guess…thing is, it’s nice to have him around all of a sudden, he’s funny, his stories are KILLER and you know how much I love that, and I think it’s very healthy psychologically, the relationship discussions, him being at the front end and me being shat-out on the other of the whole marriage thing, it’s a useful counter perspective typa deal.
(stoney stare)
Siiiigh. I don’t know! I guess I don’t want to get too attached, it makes me nervous to be glad to hear from him mid drunk golf game, that’s awesome and I could use some new friend energy and, and, I dunno…
How do you spell his name?
What?
How do you spell his name?
Don’t you kno
w?
(stoney stare)
I don’t know, it’s something polish, starts with an M ends in an I. or a Y. No, I’m almost sure it’s an I.
You’ve known him for years, still can’t spell his name, but are afraid you’re getting too attached?
Isn’t there something in the bible about ‘what’s in a name’?
That’s Shakespeare dumbass.
Whatever. Ok. I see your point, it’s just that..it’s just that there’s something under the jokes. Something I don’t want to lose.
What is it under the jokes?
I’m having those dreams again all of a sudden, where I wake up panicked I’m losing the baby but there is no friggin baby Mare, I’m sick of these dreams…I’m swimming in lakes, I wake up and I can smell the water still and feel silt to my shins, I mean the water feels good. But the drowning
What is it under the jokes? Say it.
I think he’s got the same last sentence as me, or something close.
There ya go.
What does he have to be remorseful for?
None of your business. Go ahead. Get attached.
Really? Just like that? Cz I was gonna promise not to fuck him if I can keep him, no problemo….
I didn’t say you could keep him, he’s not a stray dog, I said to go ahead and get attached. Be happy to hear from him. Knock yourself out.
But that might suck.
Sweetie, of course it is going to suck, you’re mortal whether you like it or not, herbs or not, magic or not, and that means that sooner or later, every and anything you come in here and pray about is going to suck. That’s why the prayer you never learn goes the way it goes. Maybe an ambulance driver can help you out with accepting that reality, he’s traveled the route of it a few times.
Okay…
Look at me.
(eyes closed. ‘in prayer’)
Look at me.
What?
No sonic booming at him. Not now, and not later, not ever, regardless. Not if he disappears today, not if he drives you half-crazy not-disappearing, or anything in between. Got it?
Okay.
I’m serious, you’re not going to be allowed to get away with it, so don’t even think about it. The Greek needs all the help of kicks to the head he can get, and although even you probably won’t be able to get through to him in that bunker of his, you and any other women are free to boom all you want. The ambulance driver, no.
What other women?
None of your business.
Hrrmph. Okay.
And more herbs, less southern comfort.
Okay okay okay.
That’s Shakespeare dumbass.
Whatever. Ok. I see your point, it’s just that..it’s just that there’s something under the jokes. Something I don’t want to lose.
What is it under the jokes?
I’m having those dreams again all of a sudden, where I wake up panicked I’m losing the baby but there is no friggin baby Mare, I’m sick of these dreams…I’m swimming in lakes, I wake up and I can smell the water still and feel silt to my shins, I mean the water feels good. But the drowning
What is it under the jokes? Say it.
I think he’s got the same last sentence as me, or something close.
There ya go.
What does he have to be remorseful for?
None of your business. Go ahead. Get attached.
Really? Just like that? Cz I was gonna promise not to fuck him if I can keep him, no problemo….
I didn’t say you could keep him, he’s not a stray dog, I said to go ahead and get attached. Be happy to hear from him. Knock yourself out.
But that might suck.
Sweetie, of course it is going to suck, you’re mortal whether you like it or not, herbs or not, magic or not, and that means that sooner or later, every and anything you come in here and pray about is going to suck. That’s why the prayer you never learn goes the way it goes. Maybe an ambulance driver can help you out with accepting that reality, he’s traveled the route of it a few times.
Okay…
Look at me.
(eyes closed. ‘in prayer’)
Look at me.
What?
No sonic booming at him. Not now, and not later, not ever, regardless. Not if he disappears today, not if he drives you half-crazy not-disappearing, or anything in between. Got it?
Okay.
I’m serious, you’re not going to be allowed to get away with it, so don’t even think about it. The Greek needs all the help of kicks to the head he can get, and although even you probably won’t be able to get through to him in that bunker of his, you and any other women are free to boom all you want. The ambulance driver, no.
What other women?
None of your business.
Hrrmph. Okay.
And more herbs, less southern comfort.
Okay okay okay.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
that's alex
I didn't want to be here anymore for a while (a stalker can't follow me to WI, presumably) and wanted to see my peeps besides - and what better occasion than a big party at which nobody is getting married?
More later on my relentlessly insane parents, but right now I have to shovel out my house before my head . . .
Thursday, July 14, 2011
it's actually very beautiful, I'm ashamed to keep giggling about it cz once I got it home and saw the price and product info on it and Amy's hubby explained to me what it's made of (maple, not veneer, and mother of pearl w abalone along the neck, etc etc), I realized Tony had wanted to be taken seriously at his store by donating a serious instrument . . I have zero idea how to even hold it correctly, I sit on the couch with it and touch it lightly all over and listen to it say whatever
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
update: going to Black Keys at Artpark tnite
that damn doctor kept me there all damn day, literally, from noon til almost 5, to look at me for o 5 minutes . . he asks, How you feeling? Fine. "Well then you're fine."
>:/
then I picked up my new Transformer (I think the name bodes well - tho I have zero idea how to use this badboy) - it looks like a laptop but it works more like a phone only different <:/
Dave installed the lights - then we had a bit of difficulty over whether I owed him money still on that roof. once upon a time, I'd have swallowed that $1k, but, well - I guess I had a John-moment: No. it's not so much that I'm tired of overpaying for handyman things (which I SO am), or that it was clearly an unfair price for what amounted to 2 half days of sticking flashing on (which it was, especially after a 3 yr wait for this to be friggin done and about $6k altogether in getting f'd by it already), it's more like my skin just went hard. DmS says, "You don't care what I think" and in a way she's right. I feel very alone inside my skin, which maybe lately if you tapped on it you'd feel metal. my ability to get out of it and jump into anyone else's point of view is very low, as is my capacity for anyone else in here then too.
then went to the Wheel with Nunu, whom I have not seen in forever, and Thighs played and tho he's now weird around me a little (I've not known him thru a full cycle, I have a feeling, that goes from 1 you're pretty 2 kissy face 3 omg catholic freak out 4 repeat 2&3 a few times 5 act weird and kiss/hug/talk to everyone BUT me 6 ?? repeat 1-5?? dunno - it's a little irritating, but hey I'm a social retard too in my own ways) he can sure play, whoa man. I talked to her about the gun thing, which I was probably just going to talk about so that people would think I already had one which I do not, and am not sure what the process is of getting one permit-wise, and neither is she, but for her own reasons has been thinking about it as well. so we're going to find out together, which is perfect, there's nobody more rational and systematic in their approach to a task/topic than she is, she won't give a rats ass about pink vs pearl (and neither do I)
then home, which after all that you'd think I'd sleep, but nope - not til the sun starts to come up, till then it's like catnapping w one eye open. NOW I'd love to go back to sleep, I'm going to try not to, this can't keep up forever . .
I like this song
today: the piano tuner is coming at 1, I'm sorting old clothes for a goodwill dropthing down the street, I'm going to HomeDepot for lightbulbs, I'm grading papers til they are done for the summer
that damn doctor kept me there all damn day, literally, from noon til almost 5, to look at me for o 5 minutes . . he asks, How you feeling? Fine. "Well then you're fine."
>:/
then I picked up my new Transformer (I think the name bodes well - tho I have zero idea how to use this badboy) - it looks like a laptop but it works more like a phone only different <:/
Dave installed the lights - then we had a bit of difficulty over whether I owed him money still on that roof. once upon a time, I'd have swallowed that $1k, but, well - I guess I had a John-moment: No. it's not so much that I'm tired of overpaying for handyman things (which I SO am), or that it was clearly an unfair price for what amounted to 2 half days of sticking flashing on (which it was, especially after a 3 yr wait for this to be friggin done and about $6k altogether in getting f'd by it already), it's more like my skin just went hard. DmS says, "You don't care what I think" and in a way she's right. I feel very alone inside my skin, which maybe lately if you tapped on it you'd feel metal. my ability to get out of it and jump into anyone else's point of view is very low, as is my capacity for anyone else in here then too.
then went to the Wheel with Nunu, whom I have not seen in forever, and Thighs played and tho he's now weird around me a little (I've not known him thru a full cycle, I have a feeling, that goes from 1 you're pretty 2 kissy face 3 omg catholic freak out 4 repeat 2&3 a few times 5 act weird and kiss/hug/talk to everyone BUT me 6 ?? repeat 1-5?? dunno - it's a little irritating, but hey I'm a social retard too in my own ways) he can sure play, whoa man. I talked to her about the gun thing, which I was probably just going to talk about so that people would think I already had one which I do not, and am not sure what the process is of getting one permit-wise, and neither is she, but for her own reasons has been thinking about it as well. so we're going to find out together, which is perfect, there's nobody more rational and systematic in their approach to a task/topic than she is, she won't give a rats ass about pink vs pearl (and neither do I)
then home, which after all that you'd think I'd sleep, but nope - not til the sun starts to come up, till then it's like catnapping w one eye open. NOW I'd love to go back to sleep, I'm going to try not to, this can't keep up forever . .
I like this song
today: the piano tuner is coming at 1, I'm sorting old clothes for a goodwill dropthing down the street, I'm going to HomeDepot for lightbulbs, I'm grading papers til they are done for the summer
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
slept again most of today, what can I say?, I don't sleep at night anymore way worse than I ever did which was never great. so I walked. I walked the mall. I walked the village. I ran almost 5 miles at the end of the day. then ate as much pasta as I could hold. it's almost 1 a.m., and now finally I think I might sleep awhile, but not bc of all that effort. sometimes, your own self just is not all you need in this life some kinda way, ya know? you need to borrow quarter, like for the meter.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Aaron (ex-student, now friend), helped me pick one (the mosquito) - he's gonna teach me how to shoot it if I want . . did you know ambulance drivers (he hates that term, it's EMT!) carry guns usually cz even when though they're trying to help well people just suck and are often dangerous besides. I gave him an A for a (doomed) wedding present (no, he didn't do that final paper, o well, what the fuck ever), so I guess, well, I dunno, I let him help me a little, let people help me just a little in general >:/
meanwhile, slept most of the day (don't sleep well at night) then went to hear Clyde at Waterstreet, Tony got shitfaced drunk and sounded way better then he ever does sober (what is up w that? a musician universal truth), got hit on a butgillion times til I ran away (him laughing, ha fucking ha), now home to listen for funny noises and watch netflix.
meanwhile, slept most of the day (don't sleep well at night) then went to hear Clyde at Waterstreet, Tony got shitfaced drunk and sounded way better then he ever does sober (what is up w that? a musician universal truth), got hit on a butgillion times til I ran away (him laughing, ha fucking ha), now home to listen for funny noises and watch netflix.
Saturday, July 09, 2011
today: cleaning (told ya), then the Lewiston Music fest from 5-6 to hear Thighs (tho lordy his kissy face thing royally pissed me off last, sooo not in the mood for foolishness, fyi via the universe to all those who might think of doing so: DO NOT KISS ME DO NOT EVEN HUG ME UNLESS I HUG YOU DO NOT FUCKING TOUCH ME I DO NOT LIKE IT AND IF I DANCE I WANT TO DO IT ALONE, I'll let you know when/if my mood shifts again) playing w someone I haven't heard before, a woman who plays native percussion. then probably Powertrain, ie Crown Chakra and Jeff singing, at the Lasalle Sportsman Club. there are so many simultaneous music fests and charity benefits happening all at once right now that all the people I know are literally racing from one thing to the next to work, and I take breaks to come home and feel stalked and lonely and awful then just give up and head back out again. could be worse.
Friday, July 08, 2011
The boys drove away, I watched them turn the corner, I wondered how I'm gonna stand it (I'm going to clean, I won't even seem unhappy, the usual, inner clenching of will), and John texts right then, "I'm fine", as if he heard me inner-howl. Well, I'm not so fine, fine maybe but for sure not great, if you could care
talked this morning on the phone w tony for an hour, made me feel better and worse. we swapped stalker stories and controlfreak stories and whatnot, which made me feel better - but he's got more options than I do: he knows his stalker so the police put an end to his situation; he's back w the gf that it never works out with but he knows her and she's a comfort, which I so understand obviously, and I frankly would do that too if I could but my comfortlover is dead; and finally, of course, Tony's a man.
today: we're going to buy flippers and get TJ sized for a bike, get hotdogs and smokingjoe's and ice cream cones in youngstown near the fort. then the boys will be on holiday w their dad's family in WI for 10 days. and I will be alone. tonight, my first night alone, I'll have the option of walking into town at 10ish to hear Clyde (Tony's band) kick off the Lewiston Music Fest, or I could go into nf to the Wagon Wheel for the songwriters open mic (ie Thighs and D Thurman singing w Jeff). probably either would mean I go alone, as Sun has no babysitter. or I could stay home alone.
anywhichway, there is no way I'm getting thru this day without crying so I'm not even gonna try
today: we're going to buy flippers and get TJ sized for a bike, get hotdogs and smokingjoe's and ice cream cones in youngstown near the fort. then the boys will be on holiday w their dad's family in WI for 10 days. and I will be alone. tonight, my first night alone, I'll have the option of walking into town at 10ish to hear Clyde (Tony's band) kick off the Lewiston Music Fest, or I could go into nf to the Wagon Wheel for the songwriters open mic (ie Thighs and D Thurman singing w Jeff). probably either would mean I go alone, as Sun has no babysitter. or I could stay home alone.
anywhichway, there is no way I'm getting thru this day without crying so I'm not even gonna try
Thursday, July 07, 2011
update: the mail bundle was misplaced/delivered and has been returned to me. ever wonder how you'd ever possibly be happy to see $2k worth of bills? well now ya know
I am literally physically unable to call the electrician/handyman that Amy recommended, or the one who put the dishwasher in cz this whole thing started right around then, etc. I simply do not want anyone in here I don't know. I'm pissed at myself and so pissed off that I have to feel this way altogether. I finally emailed Dave - that's fraught but at least I know for shizzle that he's safe :(
rest of the day: taking the kids out to eat, probably steelheads, maybe back to the pool in youngstown, maybe to buy Cal a new bike at wallyworld. we're also going to the library. we might see Super8 tonight in nf at the regal12. no piano lesson today - guess what? Tony is being stalked too, his whole own rockstar trouble, dealing w the police etc. I wouldn't wish it on anybody so I feel guilty that it's oddly comforting that at this moment he knows exactly how I feel :(
I am literally physically unable to call the electrician/handyman that Amy recommended, or the one who put the dishwasher in cz this whole thing started right around then, etc. I simply do not want anyone in here I don't know. I'm pissed at myself and so pissed off that I have to feel this way altogether. I finally emailed Dave - that's fraught but at least I know for shizzle that he's safe :(
rest of the day: taking the kids out to eat, probably steelheads, maybe back to the pool in youngstown, maybe to buy Cal a new bike at wallyworld. we're also going to the library. we might see Super8 tonight in nf at the regal12. no piano lesson today - guess what? Tony is being stalked too, his whole own rockstar trouble, dealing w the police etc. I wouldn't wish it on anybody so I feel guilty that it's oddly comforting that at this moment he knows exactly how I feel :(
Wednesday, July 06, 2011
I got a fave pic of my grandpa, I have it where I see it asap when I get up in the morning, his arms open for me cz I'm about to give him a patpat. meanwhile, spent the whole damn day with tech people. Yahoo has spanked and suspended Mr Dick(less). according to tech (and a private investigator who works for Blackhawk [no I'm not kidding] [this is NF, the ghetto, ya know how many dudes go into the military? um all the ones without a guitar, pretty much] [Sunnie knows him]) there is no way to get Mr Dick(less)'s real identity through an email address. anybody could be anybody. BUT the head of the IT dept at work will in the meantime make a website that'd track him to his house if he visits it for when/if he surfaces with a new email, something with a sexy sounding address to tempt him - that's pretty badass, eh? I'll take that solution if I need it. then Sunnie's bro helped me pick a tablet [backordered til the 13th ugh], take back the new laptop, get rid of the old ones after getting the music off, blabla
Tuesday, July 05, 2011
today is the 5th. I was supposed to get my highlites touched up. halfway thru, the boyz didn't answer the phone at home so I went racing out of with my hair quick rinsed and standing on end. FBI guy is unofficially casing me to see who is casing me, and that is a lawyer/judgedude who lives a few blocks away and goes those few blocks out of his way to drive by here as many as 10x a day in his various automobiles to be less obvious about it but if I'm not outside he craaaaaawwwwwwls by waiting to get a glimpse of me, and goes round and round the block if Cal is outside cz then he knows I'm somewhere close. however, he might not be the guy who is emailing me, believe it or not, that person might be a student (or coworker), since although the email is a yahoo acct one of the msgs seems to start via the campus IP so the security people of the college are working on that . . .
fyi, none of this is illegal. it's BORDERLINE harassment, but that's it. until/unless he threatens to hurt me, watching me come and go is perfectly legal. even emailing me your junk, since I'm not a minor, that is no great shakes in the world of cyberstalking.
so I should just go about my business, but wow man it's hard to feel normal. everywhere I go, if a dude looks at me (which um is kinda all the time, just saying, you'd think that would be less and less the older I get but not so much, I dunno, I guess the world has so much milf porn in it now that I'm my own little fetish category or something cz men look at me All The Time) I get utterly completely weirded out. the fireworks last night, omg, we finally retreated to the other end of artpark AWAY from the fireworks so I could look at them and not at the people who might be looking at me. and as for sleep, forget it, I'm going on 48 hours now almost entirely sleepless. ie I'm a freaked out cranky fucking bitch BIG TIME, with fatigue cotton mouth and the urge to slap the shit out of anyone I don't know
rest of the day: eat out (too tired to cook) and nap somehow, maybe at the youngstown pool so the kids have something to do and lifeguards watching while I try to doze off if I can
fyi, none of this is illegal. it's BORDERLINE harassment, but that's it. until/unless he threatens to hurt me, watching me come and go is perfectly legal. even emailing me your junk, since I'm not a minor, that is no great shakes in the world of cyberstalking.
so I should just go about my business, but wow man it's hard to feel normal. everywhere I go, if a dude looks at me (which um is kinda all the time, just saying, you'd think that would be less and less the older I get but not so much, I dunno, I guess the world has so much milf porn in it now that I'm my own little fetish category or something cz men look at me All The Time) I get utterly completely weirded out. the fireworks last night, omg, we finally retreated to the other end of artpark AWAY from the fireworks so I could look at them and not at the people who might be looking at me. and as for sleep, forget it, I'm going on 48 hours now almost entirely sleepless. ie I'm a freaked out cranky fucking bitch BIG TIME, with fatigue cotton mouth and the urge to slap the shit out of anyone I don't know
rest of the day: eat out (too tired to cook) and nap somehow, maybe at the youngstown pool so the kids have something to do and lifeguards watching while I try to doze off if I can
Monday, July 04, 2011
I'm being cyberstalked. Some idiot is emailing me pics of his dick and I was throwing em out thinking it was spam even though it was weird, how the messages included my name, "I'm under your spell sexy G---" etc. Then I got one last night that referenced lunch I had w Amy (margaritas in nf, a new place she turned me onto, I like tamales) and wondered how my camping trip went . . Nice huh? Uber catholic dude who says he can't talk to me cz I'm 'kryptonite' all of a sudden at whose bday party umpteen mutual friends and ugly polish relatives stare at me like I've got 2 heads while my ride ie my best friend's hubby gets jealous as if there's anything going on w either of them which there is not and on the side I get cyberstalked. And why am I blogging this? Well because I stopped blogging - bc nobody reads this - bc I miss John sometimes and I don't want to cz he doesn't want me to - etc etc etc - but now that I want to know where I was on 6/15, I have no record of it cz I've stopped blogging. So. Um. Today is 4th of July. I will be at a party on Oneida St, at the home of the people who run the belowthefalls magazine, where Tony will be playing his guitar from 4 pm til fireworks. Yesterday I was at home mostly - but I went to the Basilica in Landcaster to light a candle to get grounded - because the day before that was the bday party and that had freaked me out. The bday party was at a park in nf, Oppenheim Park, and most of the people I know where there in addition to Thighs and his weird wife and all his relatives all of whom wear ginormous crucifix necklaces on heavy chains. The week prior to that I was in Letchworth, in cabin c6 with the boyz, and Sunnie's whole extended family had the other cabins. The week before that, all I can remember is the party at the Marina on Grand Island, I found a turtle in the road and freed him in the river, Thighs kissed me (he does that, it's the Guinness goes to his head, he doesn't mean anything by it much and then he goes into tizzies of self-loathing over it and puts a ton of money in the collection plate at mass whatever like a lunatic). The week before that sometime, I can't remember when, I went to Waterstreet w Sun and Jeff and Chris (base player who is in our drum circle - superduper shy, nice guy, only ever says about 10 words - but he made fun of Pete in a good natured way, Pete was singing, and it cracked me up like crazy, and I remember thinking "Chris is ok"). Before that, I can't remember . . . it all blurs by early June, nothing stands out, I don't remember talking to anyone new or special . . the only people I know now that I did not know in May are the Thurman Bros, D and J, songwriters both in their late 50's who helped w Tony's store move. To the best of my knowledge, I do not know anyone who could be that dude in the pic, nobody that skinny and with no tattoos and with the gay tendency to shave his balls. Normally, from the look of that pic, I'd say 'a student', but no student knows anything about my personal life whatsoever, except Story who does not know Amy and who would never EVER do such a thing nooooo waaaaaaay - if anything he's even more reserved than John and Tony, who are both very reserved obviously. That's it. I have no idea who this could be, and/but someone is watching me. So I guess I'll go on about my business and wait for Mr FBI next door to work his magic on tracking email addresses whatever and keep blogging where I am going so that if I disappear someone knows where to start to look.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
"The Book of the Grotesque"
THE WRITER, an old man with a white mustache, had some difficulty in getting into bed. The windows of the house in which he lived were high and he wanted to look at the trees when he awoke in the morning. A carpenter came to fix the bed so that it would be on a level with the window. 1
Quite a fuss was made about the matter. The carpenter, who had been a soldier in the Civil War, came into the writer’s room and sat down to talk of building a platform for the purpose of raising the bed. The writer had cigars lying about and the carpenter smoked. 2
For a time the two men talked of the raising of the bed and then they talked of other things. The soldier got on the subject of the war. The writer, in fact, led him to that subject. The carpenter had once been a prisoner in Andersonville prison and had lost a brother. The brother had died of starvation, and whenever the carpenter got upon that subject he cried. He, like the old writer, had a white mustache, and when he cried he puckered up his lips and the mustache bobbed up and down. The weeping old man with the cigar in his mouth was ludicrous. The plan the writer had for the raising of his bed was forgotten and later the carpenter did it in his own way and the writer, who was past sixty, had to help himself with a chair when he went to bed at night. 3
In his bed the writer rolled over on his side and lay quite still. For years he had been beset with notions concerning his heart. He was a hard smoker and his heart fluttered. The idea had got into his mind that he would some time die unexpectedly and always when he got into bed he thought of that. It did not alarm him. The effect in fact was quite a special thing and not easily explained. It made him more alive, there in bed, than at any other time. Perfectly still he lay and his body was old and not of much use any more, but something inside him was altogether young. He was like a pregnant woman, only that the thing inside him was not a baby but a youth. No, it wasn’t a youth, it was a woman, young, and wearing a coat of mail like a knight. It is absurd, you see, to try to tell what was inside the old writer as he lay on his high bed and listened to the fluttering of his heart. The thing to get at is what the writer, or the young thing within the writer, was thinking about. 4
The old writer, like all of the people in the world, had got, during his long fife, a great many notions in his head. He had once been quite handsome and a number of women had been in love with him. And then, of course, he had known people, many people, known them in a peculiarly intimate way that was different from the way in which you and I know people. At least that is what the writer thought and the thought pleased him. Why quarrel with an old man concerning his thoughts? 5
In the bed the writer had a dream that was not a dream. As he grew somewhat sleepy but was still conscious, figures began to appear before his eyes. He imagined the young indescribable thing within himself was driving a long procession of figures before his eyes. 6
You see the interest in all this lies in the figures that went before the eyes of the writer. They were all grotesques. All of the men and women the writer had ever known had become grotesques. 7
The grotesques were not all horrible. Some were amusing, some almost beautiful, and one, a woman all drawn out of shape, hurt the old man by her grotesqueness. When she passed he made a noise like a small dog whimpering. Had you come into the room you might have supposed the old man had unpleasant dreams or perhaps indigestion. 8
For an hour the procession of grotesques passed before the eyes of the old man, and then, although it was a painful thing to do, he crept out of bed and began to write. Some one of the grotesques had made a deep impression on his mind and he wanted to describe it. 9
At his desk the writer worked for an hour. In the end he wrote a book which he called “The Book of the Grotesque.” It was never published, but I saw it once and it made an indelible impression on my mind. The book had one central thought that is very strange and has always remained with me. By remembering it I have been able to understand many people and things that I was never able to understand before. The thought was involved but a simple statement of it would be something like this: 10
That in the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in the world were the truths and they were all beautiful. 11
The old man had listed hundreds of the truths in his book. I will not try to tell you of all of them. There was the truth of virginity and the truth of passion, the truth of wealth and of poverty, of thrift and of profligacy, of carelessness and abandon. Hundreds and hundreds were the truths and they were all beautiful. 12
And then the people came along. Each as he appeared snatched up one of the truths and some who were quite strong snatched up a dozen of them. 13
It was the truths that made the people grotesques. The old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the matter. It was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood. 14
You can see for yourself how the old man, who had spent all of his life writing and was filled with words, would write hundreds of pages concerning this matter. The subject would become so big in his mind that he himself would be in danger of becoming a grotesque. He didn’t, I suppose, for the same reason that he never published the book. It was the young thing inside him that saved the old man. 15
Concerning the old carpenter who fixed the bed for the writer, I only mentioned him because he, like many of what are called very common people, became the nearest thing to what is understandable and lovable of all the grotesques in the writer’s book. 16
THE WRITER, an old man with a white mustache, had some difficulty in getting into bed. The windows of the house in which he lived were high and he wanted to look at the trees when he awoke in the morning. A carpenter came to fix the bed so that it would be on a level with the window. 1
Quite a fuss was made about the matter. The carpenter, who had been a soldier in the Civil War, came into the writer’s room and sat down to talk of building a platform for the purpose of raising the bed. The writer had cigars lying about and the carpenter smoked. 2
For a time the two men talked of the raising of the bed and then they talked of other things. The soldier got on the subject of the war. The writer, in fact, led him to that subject. The carpenter had once been a prisoner in Andersonville prison and had lost a brother. The brother had died of starvation, and whenever the carpenter got upon that subject he cried. He, like the old writer, had a white mustache, and when he cried he puckered up his lips and the mustache bobbed up and down. The weeping old man with the cigar in his mouth was ludicrous. The plan the writer had for the raising of his bed was forgotten and later the carpenter did it in his own way and the writer, who was past sixty, had to help himself with a chair when he went to bed at night. 3
In his bed the writer rolled over on his side and lay quite still. For years he had been beset with notions concerning his heart. He was a hard smoker and his heart fluttered. The idea had got into his mind that he would some time die unexpectedly and always when he got into bed he thought of that. It did not alarm him. The effect in fact was quite a special thing and not easily explained. It made him more alive, there in bed, than at any other time. Perfectly still he lay and his body was old and not of much use any more, but something inside him was altogether young. He was like a pregnant woman, only that the thing inside him was not a baby but a youth. No, it wasn’t a youth, it was a woman, young, and wearing a coat of mail like a knight. It is absurd, you see, to try to tell what was inside the old writer as he lay on his high bed and listened to the fluttering of his heart. The thing to get at is what the writer, or the young thing within the writer, was thinking about. 4
The old writer, like all of the people in the world, had got, during his long fife, a great many notions in his head. He had once been quite handsome and a number of women had been in love with him. And then, of course, he had known people, many people, known them in a peculiarly intimate way that was different from the way in which you and I know people. At least that is what the writer thought and the thought pleased him. Why quarrel with an old man concerning his thoughts? 5
In the bed the writer had a dream that was not a dream. As he grew somewhat sleepy but was still conscious, figures began to appear before his eyes. He imagined the young indescribable thing within himself was driving a long procession of figures before his eyes. 6
You see the interest in all this lies in the figures that went before the eyes of the writer. They were all grotesques. All of the men and women the writer had ever known had become grotesques. 7
The grotesques were not all horrible. Some were amusing, some almost beautiful, and one, a woman all drawn out of shape, hurt the old man by her grotesqueness. When she passed he made a noise like a small dog whimpering. Had you come into the room you might have supposed the old man had unpleasant dreams or perhaps indigestion. 8
For an hour the procession of grotesques passed before the eyes of the old man, and then, although it was a painful thing to do, he crept out of bed and began to write. Some one of the grotesques had made a deep impression on his mind and he wanted to describe it. 9
At his desk the writer worked for an hour. In the end he wrote a book which he called “The Book of the Grotesque.” It was never published, but I saw it once and it made an indelible impression on my mind. The book had one central thought that is very strange and has always remained with me. By remembering it I have been able to understand many people and things that I was never able to understand before. The thought was involved but a simple statement of it would be something like this: 10
That in the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in the world were the truths and they were all beautiful. 11
The old man had listed hundreds of the truths in his book. I will not try to tell you of all of them. There was the truth of virginity and the truth of passion, the truth of wealth and of poverty, of thrift and of profligacy, of carelessness and abandon. Hundreds and hundreds were the truths and they were all beautiful. 12
And then the people came along. Each as he appeared snatched up one of the truths and some who were quite strong snatched up a dozen of them. 13
It was the truths that made the people grotesques. The old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the matter. It was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood. 14
You can see for yourself how the old man, who had spent all of his life writing and was filled with words, would write hundreds of pages concerning this matter. The subject would become so big in his mind that he himself would be in danger of becoming a grotesque. He didn’t, I suppose, for the same reason that he never published the book. It was the young thing inside him that saved the old man. 15
Concerning the old carpenter who fixed the bed for the writer, I only mentioned him because he, like many of what are called very common people, became the nearest thing to what is understandable and lovable of all the grotesques in the writer’s book. 16
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
Thursday, June 09, 2011
Darryl Dawkins played professional basketball from 1975 to 1996. One of the sport's more colorful personalities, he said he lived part-time on the planet Lovetron, a place where he perfected his interplanetary funkmanship. He also liked to give names to his slam dunks. The "Turbo Sexophonic Delight" was a favorite, but the best was his "Chocolate-Thunder-Flying, Teeth-Shaking, Glass-Breaking, Rump-Roasting, Bun-Toasting, Wham-Bam-I-Am Jam." I encourage you to try some Darryl Dawkins-like behavior in your own chosen field, Virgo. Give a name to your signature move or your special play. With playful flair, let people know how much you love what you do and how good you are at what you do.
I'm writing (in the cracks of time I can muster), longish stories (vignettes) of one woman knitted together with flashfictions of another. I'd blog them, but I'm not sure who they're for - sometimes it's you or for ghost-of-you, sometimes it's not, with the intention of giving it, intentions which I then abandon regardless. Sometimes I take one-line pieces of TJ-speak and actually send them to Tony, who is now a big fan of the dictums that TJ carves on stone tablets of air like Moses only different - if TJ had a facebook page called "Moses Only Different", Tony would 'like' it. Sometimes I wonder which of my friends would 'like' the one woman or the other woman, like last night when Ears was reading Chinquee and I realized he'd 'like' the woman of the flashes better than the more solid Etta. The woman of the flashes has no proper name, I just call her "She", like She Ra only different.
I write a little bit every day.
I'm rereading journals (in the attic, I even have an email stack from the Commune, along with a diary I kept in 5th grade). I've been rereading the years between the birth of Ears and when I left. I'm watching my former self go completely down the tubes, from thoughtfully distressed to numb to fragmented utterly writing things like "I am a ridiculous person" over and over and over like Bart Simpson on the blackboard. Just reading it feels again like someone has his hands around my throat and is squeezing a band of loathing into my skin all the way around. I put the journal down, and take deep breaths, visualizing the band being loosened and I smell FPH, as if he really is dead, the way I can smell my grandfather sometimes, that embedded oil smell of his craggy hands. Ghosts of men who smell(ed) like safe places. Maybe there will come a time when I am no longer remixing conscious memory mostly, when I am instead making it all up, and I then won't be tied to reality at all, dead or alive.
I'm writing (in the cracks of time I can muster), longish stories (vignettes) of one woman knitted together with flashfictions of another. I'd blog them, but I'm not sure who they're for - sometimes it's you or for ghost-of-you, sometimes it's not, with the intention of giving it, intentions which I then abandon regardless. Sometimes I take one-line pieces of TJ-speak and actually send them to Tony, who is now a big fan of the dictums that TJ carves on stone tablets of air like Moses only different - if TJ had a facebook page called "Moses Only Different", Tony would 'like' it. Sometimes I wonder which of my friends would 'like' the one woman or the other woman, like last night when Ears was reading Chinquee and I realized he'd 'like' the woman of the flashes better than the more solid Etta. The woman of the flashes has no proper name, I just call her "She", like She Ra only different.
I write a little bit every day.
I'm rereading journals (in the attic, I even have an email stack from the Commune, along with a diary I kept in 5th grade). I've been rereading the years between the birth of Ears and when I left. I'm watching my former self go completely down the tubes, from thoughtfully distressed to numb to fragmented utterly writing things like "I am a ridiculous person" over and over and over like Bart Simpson on the blackboard. Just reading it feels again like someone has his hands around my throat and is squeezing a band of loathing into my skin all the way around. I put the journal down, and take deep breaths, visualizing the band being loosened and I smell FPH, as if he really is dead, the way I can smell my grandfather sometimes, that embedded oil smell of his craggy hands. Ghosts of men who smell(ed) like safe places. Maybe there will come a time when I am no longer remixing conscious memory mostly, when I am instead making it all up, and I then won't be tied to reality at all, dead or alive.
Wednesday, June 08, 2011
Ears LOVES flash fiction, literally mesmerized by the stories that are a sentence long, maybe a paragragh, the ones that stop mid-sentence. He double dogear'd this one actually:
"She watches rolls falling, at a man who looks like a potato. Her stepfather used to come here. He died. He spent millions. There's oxygen and dinging. She gets behind the wheel of a very nice car." _Slot Machine_, Kim Chinquee
"She watches rolls falling, at a man who looks like a potato. Her stepfather used to come here. He died. He spent millions. There's oxygen and dinging. She gets behind the wheel of a very nice car." _Slot Machine_, Kim Chinquee
Tuesday, June 07, 2011
Bale is supposed to be coming today - will that f'n roof ever get done? (will I ever get treated decent?) - it's not that I don't love people anymore, it's just that rather than have to choose between loving them and wanting to be treated like I have value, I've separated the two things and the latter I've got locked away now. and maybe the key is locked on the inside of that box, I'm not sure, but I know I don't have it. my heart you can have, my expecting anything much of you not so much.
clem snide - I'll be your mirror
clem snide - I'll be your mirror
Monday, June 06, 2011
Sunday, June 05, 2011
greek fest in the queen city today, right after the pride parade and we trailed the rainbow'd parade-goers from parade to the orthodox church w/ the beer tent w the greek tunes playing. I dunno about your city but in Buffalo drag queens and orthodox greeks hang out peaceably. the 'retail' attractions at the fest amounted to stuff that a greek couple had garbage picked and cleaned back up, basically. the man said something to me I couldn't hear, I leaned in closer, "you you're very pretty, your hair is wow", I lean back again and smile an embarrassed thanks, his blond wife w/greek accent behind him with a picklepuss face shoves newspaper at him, says "someone BOUGHT something, wrap it up", rolls her eyes at me, he smile-shrugs.
Saturday, June 04, 2011
daily love horoscope for Virgo: Neptune, planet of dreams and fantasies will spend 4 months in your relationship sector before backing out in early August, but will then return again next February and stay here until 2026. The first 2 months of Neptune's visit were in direct motion but today marks the first full day in the second phase, where your imagination needs to be focused on the past.
I had one shakey patch in the wee hours (god damn email) then I woke up over it and over the skittish both. so there. so help me god.
Friday, June 03, 2011
WEEKEND LOVE FORECAST: ARIES: Someone adores you. Your smile is a showstopper to this person. TAURUS: Because you are so comfortable on your own, you can get along with a variety of people. GEMINI: You will eliminate the competition by simply showing up stronger and with more confidence than any of them. CANCER: You'll watch a loved one's eyes and know what he or she really wants. LEO: The one who is not available might seem the most appealing to you, and you are equally appealing when you are unavailable. VIRGO: It will be lucky for you to choose a new song as "your song." LIBRA: Because you are so original, someone keeps coming around to see what you'll do next. SCORPIO: Dating is not a spectator sport -- get in the game! SAGITTARIUS: Your joie de vivre will attract many admirers. CAPRICORN: There are plenty of fish in the sea, but they are not all the kind you want to catch, so be careful where you cast your line. AQUARIUS: Healthy physical outlets connect you with like-minded, upbeat prospects. PISCES: You'll concentrate on your love life and making it the best it can be.
listening to this a lot still, but it's not 'my song'
conclusion: I need more dance/run music
Wednesday, June 01, 2011
gotta be stealthy about this post or I'll get a copyright warning for sure, it's ed (you know the one) from his new cd of just him and his little guitar-thingy - god almighty, he is so hot it's ridiculous
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
it was missing an adverb (it's always an adverb)
"The great pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do," wrote the essayist Walter Bagehot. Personally, I don't think that's the supreme joy possible to a human being; but it definitely has a provocative appeal. May I recommend that you explore it in the coming weeks, Virgo? The astrological omens suggest you're in an excellent position to succeed at an undertaking you've been told is unlikely or even impossible for you to accomplish.
"The great pleasure in life is doing what people say you cannot do," wrote the essayist Walter Bagehot. Personally, I don't think that's the supreme joy possible to a human being; but it definitely has a provocative appeal. May I recommend that you explore it in the coming weeks, Virgo? The astrological omens suggest you're in an excellent position to succeed at an undertaking you've been told is unlikely or even impossible for you to accomplish.
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