work was slow as hell. everyone was jacked up on sugar. it evolved into a fun day. even still, maniacally overcaffeinated, i am riding a rather indestructable wave of optimism. my horoscope, which i read despite myself, said only "buy now, regret later," so i am foolishly waiting until later in the week to spend money on frivolous things, albeit things that have been gestating in my fancies for many months.
foremost: alaska, $377 RT. the fare has not fluctuated in months. it will probably never be cheaper again, the bastards. i want a foray after the divorce is finalized. i was looking at the last weekends of march, my ideals dimmed by the fact that it will still be ovary-shatteringly cold at that point, but i need to go somewhere. i need to git. i want to tread those distressingly familiar streets and relish the fact that i no longer live there. one of the AEC doctors (the flirty one) is going up this weekend to help with the iditarod. "you want me to say hello to anyone?" he asked. we know a lot of the same doctors. it is a small fucking world, and within that microcosm is alaska. and i love that, though i may have despised it when i actually dwelt there. knowing that everyone had slept with everyone else (i thankfully dodged the herpes breakout of '01). buying cigarettes at the store with my 6th grade teacher in line behind me. sleeping on a sofa with a guy whom i had 8th grade english with after a drunken new year's 2000 party and seeing him later that same night at the fucking office lounge (and proceeding to actually cry into my drink because he acted like he didn't know me... this is funny now). running into my parent's friends whilst in compromising situations. i am reminded that the majority of my alaska memories and subsequent shames involve drugs, alcohol, and sex. perhaps that is why i moved, and why i shall visit with a pearlescent sheen of virgin godliness.
or a pearlescent sheen, anyhow.
there is a book at the odious chain bookstore that describes the greatest examples of roadside americana. i have already been to many of the ones in washington, such as the 'stonehenge' near the columbia river and 'the world's largest egg' in winlock. others weren't mentioned, like the teeny church on hwy 2 (where my former uncle once got married, apparently- the uncle who has lived out of his car with his wench and their baby for the last 2 years, both of them unemployed, the daughter having difficulty walking because of said lair). or the teapot petrol station-turned-boarded up-artifact near the tri-cities. or the right-wing crazy fuck with the propoganda-spewing billboard erected on his farmland near centralia. then the smaller, less-iconic but still beloved gems: the smiling radio-station sun near ocean shores. the neon plunger on aurora avenue. the hammering man statue drinking a beer in front of the blue moon tavern. the bardahl oil sign. the wonder bread sign. the pepsi symbol. murals painted on the sides of barns advertising fruit. not looking too closely at spokane and simply admiring the brickiness, then stopping at the diner with the stupid name i cannot currently recall, the one with the huge lurid revolving sign that pokes out above the cement corridors of i-90, and sitting in a semicircular green pleather booth with sunlight shining through venetian blinds in frigid air-conditioning and opting for an iced tea that leaves streaks of condensation on the formica as the pie case twirls and old people dig into discounted meals, central washington sunburn adhering to the cold seat, reading the local NickelSaver as i wait for my order to arrive...
'how soon is now' is playing (here, in seattle): the only smiths song that is not only non-repugnant, but downright awesome. i may even include this in the yet-unwritten account of the 20 sexiest songs ever.
i will not edit or reread this, likely to my detriment.
Monday, February 26, 2007
Sunday, February 25, 2007
witany = a litany of wit
a serious flaw in my character: i am far too easily disillusioned. by everything. i am bored too quickly. hindsight leads to regret. thus i romanticize the past, rationalize the crappy bits, and blur the lucidity of the present.
this applies to many things. well, it currently applies to only a few things. i am absurdly content in much of my life, weirdly enough. reading about date rape under xmas lights. playing pool at a dive tavern in tacoma, interspersed with my drunken boss flirting with me and every other woman there ("he'd hit on a fucking corpse" another coworker commented today). calling the grassy yard in front of work "the pudding of the damned", off the cuff, due to the fecal mire resultant of the constant rain, and illiciting laughter. (elicit?) elo's 'can't get it out of my head' on the drive home, very loud, a truly great song that i hadn't heard in a long time.
the undercurrent of grey is still of the lyrical variety. i was thinking last night about sleeping with someone, waking up in the middle of the night, our faces monochrome, mumbling about our dreams or our paranoias or our love for one another, or possibly all of the above. having somebody there. and i thought of the two people i have ever been able to really achieve that with, and how it doesn;t seem possible to ever feel that way again. and i thought these things without a hint of wistfulness or yearning- more as a 'wow, that was really cool that i could experience those connections, isn't life varied' kind of way. and that is weird. isn't it?
everything is so much fucking simpler now. i am only just becoming accustomed to the concept of having myself alone to be responsible for.
a hag at the computer next to me is loudly braying into her cell phone to blind dates. "i like, i don't know, snowboarding... that's awesome..."
i am the anonymous wench with the hippie-scented sweater and floofy hair and crossed legs and quietly oblique expression. i am fidgeting with my hands and realizing that they smell like the air fresheners in the stairwell lavatory of the peace & love hostel in paris- like fake strawberries and old wood. i wish there was another person in the world who would know exactly what i mean. if only i could open my mouth and have a marvelous accent tumble out.
this applies to many things. well, it currently applies to only a few things. i am absurdly content in much of my life, weirdly enough. reading about date rape under xmas lights. playing pool at a dive tavern in tacoma, interspersed with my drunken boss flirting with me and every other woman there ("he'd hit on a fucking corpse" another coworker commented today). calling the grassy yard in front of work "the pudding of the damned", off the cuff, due to the fecal mire resultant of the constant rain, and illiciting laughter. (elicit?) elo's 'can't get it out of my head' on the drive home, very loud, a truly great song that i hadn't heard in a long time.
the undercurrent of grey is still of the lyrical variety. i was thinking last night about sleeping with someone, waking up in the middle of the night, our faces monochrome, mumbling about our dreams or our paranoias or our love for one another, or possibly all of the above. having somebody there. and i thought of the two people i have ever been able to really achieve that with, and how it doesn;t seem possible to ever feel that way again. and i thought these things without a hint of wistfulness or yearning- more as a 'wow, that was really cool that i could experience those connections, isn't life varied' kind of way. and that is weird. isn't it?
everything is so much fucking simpler now. i am only just becoming accustomed to the concept of having myself alone to be responsible for.
a hag at the computer next to me is loudly braying into her cell phone to blind dates. "i like, i don't know, snowboarding... that's awesome..."
i am the anonymous wench with the hippie-scented sweater and floofy hair and crossed legs and quietly oblique expression. i am fidgeting with my hands and realizing that they smell like the air fresheners in the stairwell lavatory of the peace & love hostel in paris- like fake strawberries and old wood. i wish there was another person in the world who would know exactly what i mean. if only i could open my mouth and have a marvelous accent tumble out.
Friday, February 23, 2007
if you don't like it, don't read it
things are gelatinizing very very nicely. i feel calmly optimistic about the world.
in the midst of my serenity i received a drunken phone call that annoyed me. apparently he cannot communicate with me unless he is inebriated. the other day his voice expressed palpable surprise when he said "we had a really good time last night and we were sober." that pissed me off. i was immediately reminded of that same conversation in alaska, how every time we'd get together it was whilst carousing, how we'd discuss the anomaly of that over hungover breakfasts and agree to do better. but i could still talk with that guy. i am left with a brief paranoia that either 1. i am the sort of lass that one must be fucked up (chemically or emotionally or otherwise) to be around, or 2. i have a masochist-magnet, being a bit of one myself. aa talks about this. alcoholics have a fucking radar, the ability to sense similar tendencies in a crowd full of people. this must be why i always fall for such people, and why they always let me down. i wish we could be actual friends.
...but everything else is falling into place, temporarily, for once, so i am not too bothered by much of this at the moment.
the final divorce hearing is on the 9th of march. yesterday was another fucking reminder that it could always be so easy when we actually acted like adults. after the meeting with the court facilitator we lingered in the parking lot. we both cried a little, laughing as we did, the sun brilliant and cold. "i'm okay until i see you" he said. "and then... this whole thing..." "it just fucking sucks" i said. "yeah" he agreed, "that's the only way to put it. it fucking sucks." i felt yesterday that we could possibly be friends. someday. someday when it doesn;t hurt so fucking much, when the rare but incredibly good times aren't so fresh a memory, when i don't expect what i could never have.
i drove away with everything visually sharper. it was probably the sun. i use this word too frequently of late but it seems to suit the mood most efficiently: poignancy. i daresay this is my favorite emotion. it proves that one has given a shit.
in the midst of my serenity i received a drunken phone call that annoyed me. apparently he cannot communicate with me unless he is inebriated. the other day his voice expressed palpable surprise when he said "we had a really good time last night and we were sober." that pissed me off. i was immediately reminded of that same conversation in alaska, how every time we'd get together it was whilst carousing, how we'd discuss the anomaly of that over hungover breakfasts and agree to do better. but i could still talk with that guy. i am left with a brief paranoia that either 1. i am the sort of lass that one must be fucked up (chemically or emotionally or otherwise) to be around, or 2. i have a masochist-magnet, being a bit of one myself. aa talks about this. alcoholics have a fucking radar, the ability to sense similar tendencies in a crowd full of people. this must be why i always fall for such people, and why they always let me down. i wish we could be actual friends.
...but everything else is falling into place, temporarily, for once, so i am not too bothered by much of this at the moment.
the final divorce hearing is on the 9th of march. yesterday was another fucking reminder that it could always be so easy when we actually acted like adults. after the meeting with the court facilitator we lingered in the parking lot. we both cried a little, laughing as we did, the sun brilliant and cold. "i'm okay until i see you" he said. "and then... this whole thing..." "it just fucking sucks" i said. "yeah" he agreed, "that's the only way to put it. it fucking sucks." i felt yesterday that we could possibly be friends. someday. someday when it doesn;t hurt so fucking much, when the rare but incredibly good times aren't so fresh a memory, when i don't expect what i could never have.
i drove away with everything visually sharper. it was probably the sun. i use this word too frequently of late but it seems to suit the mood most efficiently: poignancy. i daresay this is my favorite emotion. it proves that one has given a shit.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
flowers planted while the dirt's still hard
i was standing on a corner downtown, across from the library, next to a huge and austere building containing godawful chandeliers, when i texted him. as i sent it i recieved a message from him. i laughed out loud at the "okay, everything's gonna be just fine, life is magic around every turn"-edness of it all. a bedraggled man passed me and said hello with a smile. i grinned back widely, automatically.
i have a similarly symbiotic, if one can call it that, relationship with a woman at work. when she's having a bad day i am goofy and competent, and vice versa. we help each other. we even started having the same Cycle, which is eerie, since we never see one another extracurricularly. jokes have been made: "keep it together" i'll tell her. "i'm having a crappy day", or similar. it is therapeutic as fuck to have people like that around.
stumbled upon a book today, not literally (though i suppose it is literally, being a book... shut up): a compilation of secrets sent on postcards. i'd heard about it before, immediately going down my narcissistic litany of 'secrets', realizing that i cannot think of anything about me that at least one other person doesn't know. it is fucking amazing, in any event. i recommend a special sojourn to the 'cultural studies' section of your nearest odious chain bookseller. the cover looks like a binder with rubber bands around it.
while not 'secrets', there are shameful (and vengeful, and perverted, and pathetic, and self-loathing, and inflatedly self-congratulatory) thoughts.... shame is relative, though. notions i should probably be abased by, i am not. i have a lot of familial shit, i guess. i often wish i wasn't an only child so i would be able to regard my upbringing with greater clarity, have someone else to commisserate with, know that certain things existed because another person was there to witness.
it is quite rare that i can say, with assurance, that things are going to be okay. even now, as i believe it, i wonder what i am missing.
i have a similarly symbiotic, if one can call it that, relationship with a woman at work. when she's having a bad day i am goofy and competent, and vice versa. we help each other. we even started having the same Cycle, which is eerie, since we never see one another extracurricularly. jokes have been made: "keep it together" i'll tell her. "i'm having a crappy day", or similar. it is therapeutic as fuck to have people like that around.
stumbled upon a book today, not literally (though i suppose it is literally, being a book... shut up): a compilation of secrets sent on postcards. i'd heard about it before, immediately going down my narcissistic litany of 'secrets', realizing that i cannot think of anything about me that at least one other person doesn't know. it is fucking amazing, in any event. i recommend a special sojourn to the 'cultural studies' section of your nearest odious chain bookseller. the cover looks like a binder with rubber bands around it.
while not 'secrets', there are shameful (and vengeful, and perverted, and pathetic, and self-loathing, and inflatedly self-congratulatory) thoughts.... shame is relative, though. notions i should probably be abased by, i am not. i have a lot of familial shit, i guess. i often wish i wasn't an only child so i would be able to regard my upbringing with greater clarity, have someone else to commisserate with, know that certain things existed because another person was there to witness.
it is quite rare that i can say, with assurance, that things are going to be okay. even now, as i believe it, i wonder what i am missing.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
anointed, impure
are these too lofty, such expectations: a parallel between the words written and the words said? being told how much i'm adored whilst being treated like a fucking stranger? i was lounging lackadaisically in my xmas-lit lair, warm skin, listening to goddamn nina simone, feeling rather fucking groovy, and hung up the phone feeling very annoyed by the disparities. felt like a simpering moron, actually, brought back to earth after my little fandango among the stars. there is hell to pay for believing in false familiarity.
i still have the thought processes of an adolescent. currently typing in a cafe is the equivalent of sprawling on my bed and writing torturedly in my *diary*, horses on the cover optional, possibly in purple ink, tongue absentmindedly running over braces.
speaking of the worst years of my life!: found a used copy of the pixies 'bossanova', an album i'd not heard in many years, the cassette shredding from oversaturation and long lost. and i still remembered every fucking lyric, every percussion, every scathing-yet-ethereal backing vocal. this made me very happy. it is excellent driving music.
despite being cold as holy fuck outside, i am in a marvelous mood overall, actually.
holy. fuck. this is such a concise and offensive idiom, which i have never really considered until just now.
i still have the thought processes of an adolescent. currently typing in a cafe is the equivalent of sprawling on my bed and writing torturedly in my *diary*, horses on the cover optional, possibly in purple ink, tongue absentmindedly running over braces.
speaking of the worst years of my life!: found a used copy of the pixies 'bossanova', an album i'd not heard in many years, the cassette shredding from oversaturation and long lost. and i still remembered every fucking lyric, every percussion, every scathing-yet-ethereal backing vocal. this made me very happy. it is excellent driving music.
despite being cold as holy fuck outside, i am in a marvelous mood overall, actually.
holy. fuck. this is such a concise and offensive idiom, which i have never really considered until just now.
Monday, February 19, 2007
lips parting to the notion
work was a fucking drain. have been up since 330 am with pointless, laughable insomnia. a great dane had exploratory surgery- he had ascites, the doctor suspected cancer- only to find what ended up being over 3# (i weighed it) of clothes in various stages of entirety. a completely intact (very large, utilitarian) bra. women's (again, not sexy) underwear. men's underwear (tighty-whiteys, stained black with stomach acid). a leather glove. kid's socks. a thick knee-high sock. more gloves. 2 intact ziplock bags. shrapnel of various other bras, backs still hooked. all this, plus a huge glob of mostly unchewed food. i wore gloves, thank god, and picked through all of it. found out after that the dog is shuttled between a divorced couple. "their underwear was comingling!" said one of the other techs. "it's a sign that they should get back together."
it probably need not be said that the dog apparently tried to chew out certain parts of the undergarments more than others.
i am squeamishly aware that they were probably not clothes sparkling clean from the dryer, either.
humans are so much more repulsive than animals. i once saw a dog vomit a used condom, though. that was pretty disgusting.
but throughout the horribly long day i have been riding a wave of sha-la-la-la. things are fucking good. i have a weird, foreign trust in the future- things will be damn marvelous, this summer is going to be lip-bitingly brilliant, there will be sunburns and road trips and love and skanky motels and grassy confessionals and everything negative will be dealt with, rolled with, grooved on, what have you. vocational shit, snide coworkers, depression, neurological fuckedness, overbearing yet oblivious family, the relentless cold rain, frenetic mania, et fucking cetera- pshaw. silly, ephemeral fearlessness. the paranoia, the 'truth', will come crushing down again all too soon, i'm sure. as usual. i am a bit predictable this way.
oh, sweet minutae, you stiff and soulless lay: thank you for reminding me of my need to scrounge quarters and do laundry. the lustre of everyday life just floors me.
it probably need not be said that the dog apparently tried to chew out certain parts of the undergarments more than others.
i am squeamishly aware that they were probably not clothes sparkling clean from the dryer, either.
humans are so much more repulsive than animals. i once saw a dog vomit a used condom, though. that was pretty disgusting.
but throughout the horribly long day i have been riding a wave of sha-la-la-la. things are fucking good. i have a weird, foreign trust in the future- things will be damn marvelous, this summer is going to be lip-bitingly brilliant, there will be sunburns and road trips and love and skanky motels and grassy confessionals and everything negative will be dealt with, rolled with, grooved on, what have you. vocational shit, snide coworkers, depression, neurological fuckedness, overbearing yet oblivious family, the relentless cold rain, frenetic mania, et fucking cetera- pshaw. silly, ephemeral fearlessness. the paranoia, the 'truth', will come crushing down again all too soon, i'm sure. as usual. i am a bit predictable this way.
oh, sweet minutae, you stiff and soulless lay: thank you for reminding me of my need to scrounge quarters and do laundry. the lustre of everyday life just floors me.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
putting the 'twit' in twitterpated
it is bombastically sunshiney today, and if i wasn't hung over on aquavit life would be damn near perfect.
*
i am rather amused by that sentence.
*
someone's phone blares 'ode to joy.' the owner is promptly reprimanded by library personnel. one of my coworkers has a biggie smalls ringtone. methinks that would not go over too well here either.
walked home from the bus stop last night in a blurry, giddy state. that is one of my favorite routes, up precipitous inclines past dark-windowed mansions with the city sprawled out below, past wet gutters and groomed yards and nicely maintained vehicles, the contents of my bag a-jingle, giggling out loud at the glory of it all. uphill breathing sorta augments pangs of lust. but only sorta.
perhaps i shall come back to this when i am not so intellectually stultified. currently my head is filled with happy cement.
*
i am rather amused by that sentence.
*
someone's phone blares 'ode to joy.' the owner is promptly reprimanded by library personnel. one of my coworkers has a biggie smalls ringtone. methinks that would not go over too well here either.
walked home from the bus stop last night in a blurry, giddy state. that is one of my favorite routes, up precipitous inclines past dark-windowed mansions with the city sprawled out below, past wet gutters and groomed yards and nicely maintained vehicles, the contents of my bag a-jingle, giggling out loud at the glory of it all. uphill breathing sorta augments pangs of lust. but only sorta.
perhaps i shall come back to this when i am not so intellectually stultified. currently my head is filled with happy cement.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
king crimson saturation
my first spring back in AK after the initial seattle debacle of 1998: listened to 'young person's guide to king crimson' excessively. it was a thrift-fhop cassette and, despite the abbreviated nature of much of the songs, a damn fine compilation. the days were getting longer. i would get off work and drive through the long sunlit rays, everything tinted gold, feeling attractive and optimistic. often inexplicably ended up at the cematery (sp?) in ocean view. it was a good vantage point for western exposure. i would read the tombstones, admire those with fresh bouquets, rearrange those that were disheveled and withered. fantasized about fucking there. when i would eventually leave, the pilgrimage back to my grotty lair in mountain view would often be punctuated by 'ladies of the road', so loud the car would vibrate, unless a caul of anger/melancholy required 'starless.'
or 'cat food.' thanks.
sometimes i would swipe my friend's bullmastiff, jake, an idiot puppy who was already over 100 pounds. most of the time he lived in a pen in their yard on hillside. his tail would be wagging before i ever got out of the car. i would take him to point woronzof. he was disinterested in birds and water, a good companion. i felt safe with him.
i cannot fathom how long ago that all really was. it seems like ten minutes.... today, on the other hand, dragged on in a blur of chocolate-vomiting dogs and neurotic owners and the unctuous smell of vietnamese food and the rude girl with the diaper-wearing pet rhesus monkey. i do not need to be back for two days. i am glad of this.
'one time' whilst walking the misty nighttime streets of amsterdam. 'easy money' on a winding road in north tacoma under wet autumn trees. 'b'boom' with drumsticks on the dashboard. buying 'islands' at the disgustingly astringent cd store in bellevue during a first date. that tattoo. that email. everything comes back, in a weird way, to this fucking band. perhaps this is the crux of my multiple laments, or my lurid dramas!
this is possibly the stupidest post i have ever scribed.
or 'cat food.' thanks.
sometimes i would swipe my friend's bullmastiff, jake, an idiot puppy who was already over 100 pounds. most of the time he lived in a pen in their yard on hillside. his tail would be wagging before i ever got out of the car. i would take him to point woronzof. he was disinterested in birds and water, a good companion. i felt safe with him.
i cannot fathom how long ago that all really was. it seems like ten minutes.... today, on the other hand, dragged on in a blur of chocolate-vomiting dogs and neurotic owners and the unctuous smell of vietnamese food and the rude girl with the diaper-wearing pet rhesus monkey. i do not need to be back for two days. i am glad of this.
'one time' whilst walking the misty nighttime streets of amsterdam. 'easy money' on a winding road in north tacoma under wet autumn trees. 'b'boom' with drumsticks on the dashboard. buying 'islands' at the disgustingly astringent cd store in bellevue during a first date. that tattoo. that email. everything comes back, in a weird way, to this fucking band. perhaps this is the crux of my multiple laments, or my lurid dramas!
this is possibly the stupidest post i have ever scribed.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
slate blue mind
high to low. serendipity to shit. the better my mood, the more crushing and immediate the doledrums. this is the story of my life.
i have been a snotty little bitch today. work was grueling and my coworkers were annoying. perhaps i am sleep-deprived. i am always sleep-deprived. i stagger around in a constant haze, looking like crap, unable for the past what, few years, to sleep more than six hours a night. the past month has been reduced to four on average, with bizarre and depressing dreams, waking to cats and wintertime congestion and predawn blackness and a vague feeling of lonely dread.
the dream i had last night: i was meeting my ex to finalize the divorce. "can we have one more night together, for old time's sake?" he asked. "no, absolutely not" i said, part of me immediately wondering if this final chance would be the one in which we would finally get things irrevocably right. i woke up panicked. panicked in my dark lair, MY world, the beasts sprawled about, taking a mental account of the fact that no, i am here, this is my reality and i am not going anywhere else. this must be akin to a recovering alcoholic roused from a dream about drinking. it upset me, depressed me, freaked me out. bad habits never go away, they exist in various levels of suppression.
i picture an animated thundercloud hovering above my head. self-pity is so fucking unattractive. luckily i am not trying to impress anyone.
'dear mr fantasy' is playing. as it does. and i always make some gushing comment about how fucking amazing a song it is, how it gets into my soul and dampens my nether-regions and invokes fancies of heavy-lidded hot-mouthed lolling. whatever.
i have been a snotty little bitch today. work was grueling and my coworkers were annoying. perhaps i am sleep-deprived. i am always sleep-deprived. i stagger around in a constant haze, looking like crap, unable for the past what, few years, to sleep more than six hours a night. the past month has been reduced to four on average, with bizarre and depressing dreams, waking to cats and wintertime congestion and predawn blackness and a vague feeling of lonely dread.
the dream i had last night: i was meeting my ex to finalize the divorce. "can we have one more night together, for old time's sake?" he asked. "no, absolutely not" i said, part of me immediately wondering if this final chance would be the one in which we would finally get things irrevocably right. i woke up panicked. panicked in my dark lair, MY world, the beasts sprawled about, taking a mental account of the fact that no, i am here, this is my reality and i am not going anywhere else. this must be akin to a recovering alcoholic roused from a dream about drinking. it upset me, depressed me, freaked me out. bad habits never go away, they exist in various levels of suppression.
i picture an animated thundercloud hovering above my head. self-pity is so fucking unattractive. luckily i am not trying to impress anyone.
'dear mr fantasy' is playing. as it does. and i always make some gushing comment about how fucking amazing a song it is, how it gets into my soul and dampens my nether-regions and invokes fancies of heavy-lidded hot-mouthed lolling. whatever.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
yes, but honey is merely bee shit
revision of the last rant: i don't hate anyone. poignancy means yer livin', right? i feel goodwill and peace and love and goofy optimism towards the entire fucking world. la la la la la.
life is honey on my tongue.
yes indeedy do.
(shall see how long this lasts.)
life is honey on my tongue.
yes indeedy do.
(shall see how long this lasts.)
Sunday, February 11, 2007
life is fucking weird
i accessed the homer pictures as 'inner city blues' started playing. fucking eerie. i hadn't thought about that trip in years. fucking fun, it was. oh, back in the days when i had trust. i miss that. i miss utter comfort and fearlessness. i miss the lack of stick up ass. damn it all, anyway.
i also miss that hat. that was a great hat.
i fucking miss alaska.
*
my current life is so fucking solitary. much of this is self-induced and self-perpetuated. i have spent the nearly 5 years that i have lived in washington being alone- and yes, that included being married, as that was undoubtedly the loneliest, most pathetic era of my life. being by myself is comfortable, safe... and when i think about it analytically, either the height of narcissism or the nadir of despondency.
i go to court tomorrow. part of me is tempted to say 'fuck it' to the entire thing, beg the judge to just annul the fucking thing and let me walk away with nothing but my freedom. this entire ordeal has been such a collossal clusterfuck. i am eager to feel how much less stressed i will be when this is over. but it will not be over tomorrow, alas. i can honestly say that he is a fucking piece of shit. i am horrified that i ever loved him, ever believed in him, ever let him inside of me. i hate him for making me fear that i will never let my fucking guard down again.
jeez, i certainly do curse a lot. how plebian and inarticulate of me.
'fuck', as an adjective/expletive, is certainly my favorite word. 'glee', 'obstreporous', 'shindig', 'minx', all worthy yet distant contenders. i was muttering crudely at work the other day, oblivious to my coarseness, and a coworker (in a favorable manner) said "yeah, she's a salty one." that made me very happy, actually.
an odd thing, reminded by the aforementioned photos: i don't 'hate' anyone else who has ever been in my life. i can still remember the good times, i can still see their pictures and smile, i still wonder how they are and wish them well. not many of them may deserve such amity, granted. perhaps i am a simpleton, far too easily shat upon... or maybe recognizing that at one point they made me laugh and think and come and live in the present prompts a sense of goodwill that doesn't just go away.
i also miss that hat. that was a great hat.
i fucking miss alaska.
*
my current life is so fucking solitary. much of this is self-induced and self-perpetuated. i have spent the nearly 5 years that i have lived in washington being alone- and yes, that included being married, as that was undoubtedly the loneliest, most pathetic era of my life. being by myself is comfortable, safe... and when i think about it analytically, either the height of narcissism or the nadir of despondency.
i go to court tomorrow. part of me is tempted to say 'fuck it' to the entire thing, beg the judge to just annul the fucking thing and let me walk away with nothing but my freedom. this entire ordeal has been such a collossal clusterfuck. i am eager to feel how much less stressed i will be when this is over. but it will not be over tomorrow, alas. i can honestly say that he is a fucking piece of shit. i am horrified that i ever loved him, ever believed in him, ever let him inside of me. i hate him for making me fear that i will never let my fucking guard down again.
jeez, i certainly do curse a lot. how plebian and inarticulate of me.
'fuck', as an adjective/expletive, is certainly my favorite word. 'glee', 'obstreporous', 'shindig', 'minx', all worthy yet distant contenders. i was muttering crudely at work the other day, oblivious to my coarseness, and a coworker (in a favorable manner) said "yeah, she's a salty one." that made me very happy, actually.
an odd thing, reminded by the aforementioned photos: i don't 'hate' anyone else who has ever been in my life. i can still remember the good times, i can still see their pictures and smile, i still wonder how they are and wish them well. not many of them may deserve such amity, granted. perhaps i am a simpleton, far too easily shat upon... or maybe recognizing that at one point they made me laugh and think and come and live in the present prompts a sense of goodwill that doesn't just go away.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
b flat
i was inspired to recall purely, grotesquely american phrases whilst walking through the (mcdonald's wrappers- and starbucks cup-strewn) filth of downtown seattle last night. thus far the two cataclysmic ones are "born to shop" and "my baby's daddy." more undoubtedly to follow.
i feel hungover without the benefit of alcohol. i am in a sludgy funk, tired and sullen, blah precipitously hovering near depression. the whole parent thing yesterday certainly set it off, coupled with the fucking court date on monday. my neighbor's horrid child has taken to screeching like a fucking air-raid siren. today he was clomping up and down the (barrier-free) deck, crawling on the chair outside my window, purposely banging his head against the glass. i was laying on the sofa at the time, helix asleep on the curve of my hip, reading a book. his father, my landlord, walked in front of my window and looked inside. i waved, pointedly trying to convey a "what the fuck are you doing in front of my window?" look. for his credit he did look embarassed. it is quite convenient to have free birth control with the rental of my lair.
i would like to be selectively invisible. selectively anonymous. doesn't everyone?
rummaging through the 'prisoners' bin in front of left bank books, i came across a romance novel titled, i believe, "secret agent dad". so i had to fucking look. there was not much copulating, much less heaving bosoms and purple velvet-headed warriors. i tossed it back quickly. when i was in junior high my friend meagan and i would loiter around waldenbooks after school and read the sex scenes of romance novels out loud, the more grotesque and lurid the better, laughing hysterically. tis a marvel we were never kicked out of the store. we then progressed to writing our own scenes, saturated with euphemisms, asexual freakish nerds that we were. i haven't heard from her in nearly fifteen years. (that was a fucking scary revelation. holy fuck. that dates me a touch.) i wonder.
today, a saturday:
-a group of people animatedly signing, viewed through the dirty bus window. my immediate thought: "if i learned to sign i'd fucking end up blind." second immediate thought: "wow, i really am in a crappy mood."
-the insanely good smells from the basement tibetan restaurant, promptly augmented by the vomit smells of dick's a block away
-teenage boys asking my opinion on the tag they'd just left on a light pole. "very nice and silver" i answered. "i like the asterisk." (view said pole at 5th and pike, SW corner)
-two people around me singing independent of each other to 'loves me like a rock.' (would be even cooler if it wasn't currently playing)
-"you have purty hair" said a man downtown, leaning against the rite-aid wall for support. "you look nice."
-the man beside me: white wine, a red bandana, and a somewhat ferocious manner of typing. glasses. long hair. mumbles to himself as he selects the proper phrases. it is rather endearing.
-being put back on 3 12's at work. fuck yeah! i am going to have four fucking days off in a row starting in march! so i promptly signed up for extra shifts.
-kosher chow mein noodles with a funky taste. i ate them anyway.
-picking individual scales off a surprisingly tolerant asunder. (probably going septic)
-realizing that i honestly DON'T REMEMBER the last time i washed my hair. that's kind of gross. good thing i'll be deleting this line.
-cherry blossoms, daffodil stalks, rhodedendron bushes: all abruptly blooming within the last week. eat yer heart out, former life.
-screaming along very emphatically, complete with hand gestures, to a very loud song from my torrid youth as i drove too fast through the i-90 tunnel, headlights off, sunglasses on, a danger to myself and others and not giving a single shit.
on that note.
i feel hungover without the benefit of alcohol. i am in a sludgy funk, tired and sullen, blah precipitously hovering near depression. the whole parent thing yesterday certainly set it off, coupled with the fucking court date on monday. my neighbor's horrid child has taken to screeching like a fucking air-raid siren. today he was clomping up and down the (barrier-free) deck, crawling on the chair outside my window, purposely banging his head against the glass. i was laying on the sofa at the time, helix asleep on the curve of my hip, reading a book. his father, my landlord, walked in front of my window and looked inside. i waved, pointedly trying to convey a "what the fuck are you doing in front of my window?" look. for his credit he did look embarassed. it is quite convenient to have free birth control with the rental of my lair.
i would like to be selectively invisible. selectively anonymous. doesn't everyone?
rummaging through the 'prisoners' bin in front of left bank books, i came across a romance novel titled, i believe, "secret agent dad". so i had to fucking look. there was not much copulating, much less heaving bosoms and purple velvet-headed warriors. i tossed it back quickly. when i was in junior high my friend meagan and i would loiter around waldenbooks after school and read the sex scenes of romance novels out loud, the more grotesque and lurid the better, laughing hysterically. tis a marvel we were never kicked out of the store. we then progressed to writing our own scenes, saturated with euphemisms, asexual freakish nerds that we were. i haven't heard from her in nearly fifteen years. (that was a fucking scary revelation. holy fuck. that dates me a touch.) i wonder.
today, a saturday:
-a group of people animatedly signing, viewed through the dirty bus window. my immediate thought: "if i learned to sign i'd fucking end up blind." second immediate thought: "wow, i really am in a crappy mood."
-the insanely good smells from the basement tibetan restaurant, promptly augmented by the vomit smells of dick's a block away
-teenage boys asking my opinion on the tag they'd just left on a light pole. "very nice and silver" i answered. "i like the asterisk." (view said pole at 5th and pike, SW corner)
-two people around me singing independent of each other to 'loves me like a rock.' (would be even cooler if it wasn't currently playing)
-"you have purty hair" said a man downtown, leaning against the rite-aid wall for support. "you look nice."
-the man beside me: white wine, a red bandana, and a somewhat ferocious manner of typing. glasses. long hair. mumbles to himself as he selects the proper phrases. it is rather endearing.
-being put back on 3 12's at work. fuck yeah! i am going to have four fucking days off in a row starting in march! so i promptly signed up for extra shifts.
-kosher chow mein noodles with a funky taste. i ate them anyway.
-picking individual scales off a surprisingly tolerant asunder. (probably going septic)
-realizing that i honestly DON'T REMEMBER the last time i washed my hair. that's kind of gross. good thing i'll be deleting this line.
-cherry blossoms, daffodil stalks, rhodedendron bushes: all abruptly blooming within the last week. eat yer heart out, former life.
-screaming along very emphatically, complete with hand gestures, to a very loud song from my torrid youth as i drove too fast through the i-90 tunnel, headlights off, sunglasses on, a danger to myself and others and not giving a single shit.
on that note.
Friday, February 09, 2007
it was 43 years ago today
being cared about by somebody should not involve having to justify who and what i am. am i fucking naive to feel this way? herein lies the conflict i have always had with my family. i feel like a coherent, kicky, with-it kind o' gal until i'm around them. afterwards i am left wondering what about myself is so obviously fucking fucked up that i am so fucking oblivious of.
obvious and oblivious do not share any common roots but they are almost perfect antonyms. i only just noticed this.
perhaps it is stupid shit like the above sentence that proves my family correct.
the only other person who makes me feel this way is my soon-to-be-ex-husband.
perhaps everyone else in my life is simply more polite.
I FUCKING HATE DOUBTING MYSELF.
I FUCKING HATE COMMUNICATING IN WHAT I CONSIDER TO BE A FAIRLY LUCID, PAINFULLY HONEST FASHION, AND STILL NOT BEING UNDERSTOOD.
enough with the capital letters. that was mighty obnoxious. i apologize. my mindset currently is set to 'guilt.' sorry sorry sorry. i don't want to cause concern, sorrow, pity, obligation, or disgust with anyone.
happier shit, already:
walking from my lair to where i presently is. dark soft night. no annoying coat to weigh me down. the sidewalk feels good. my body moves well. i am very fucking content with my own company and the sensation of air on skin, the sound of my breathing, the rhythm of my steps. i have all the time in the world tonight. the city lights are sharper than usual. fucking peter frampton sings into his talkbox and the crowd cheers and i smile automatically, as usual, because i always imagine how cheesy and yet how fucking cool it would have been to be there. (rather uncool. scratch that. peter frampton is a lily-white twit, the college girl's leif garrett.) someone's clove cigarette on the way here snapping me back to high school and sweet-tasting lips. the funkadelic record in the window at jive time. throngs of hip folk dressed to impress and fuck one another. the paramount theatre sign with the missing lights. the glassblowing neon on 5th. girls with nice asses. polite eye contact. and that was just on the way here.
he let me read his story. and earlier, at the fitfully functional recessed library terminal, i did, unwittingly crossing my legs more and more tightly, getting warmer. he is fucking talented. gleaning optimism out of shit affirms one's aliveness. this seems to be a recurring theme in my little fucking entries, in my little fucking life, and his writing tidily completed the metaphorical triangle. yeah. these are the good things, and how goddamn good they are, so why the fuck do i waste time on the bullshit of the first few paragraphs? were i more sentient i would probably just delete it, so's not to fuck up the veneer of Frivolous Me, but i shall leave this unedited and herky-jerky instead, i guess.
'your time is gonna come' plays. good christ this is a lovely song. it segues to 'into the mystic.' sirius radio is trying to get me off.
obvious and oblivious do not share any common roots but they are almost perfect antonyms. i only just noticed this.
perhaps it is stupid shit like the above sentence that proves my family correct.
the only other person who makes me feel this way is my soon-to-be-ex-husband.
perhaps everyone else in my life is simply more polite.
I FUCKING HATE DOUBTING MYSELF.
I FUCKING HATE COMMUNICATING IN WHAT I CONSIDER TO BE A FAIRLY LUCID, PAINFULLY HONEST FASHION, AND STILL NOT BEING UNDERSTOOD.
enough with the capital letters. that was mighty obnoxious. i apologize. my mindset currently is set to 'guilt.' sorry sorry sorry. i don't want to cause concern, sorrow, pity, obligation, or disgust with anyone.
happier shit, already:
walking from my lair to where i presently is. dark soft night. no annoying coat to weigh me down. the sidewalk feels good. my body moves well. i am very fucking content with my own company and the sensation of air on skin, the sound of my breathing, the rhythm of my steps. i have all the time in the world tonight. the city lights are sharper than usual. fucking peter frampton sings into his talkbox and the crowd cheers and i smile automatically, as usual, because i always imagine how cheesy and yet how fucking cool it would have been to be there. (rather uncool. scratch that. peter frampton is a lily-white twit, the college girl's leif garrett.) someone's clove cigarette on the way here snapping me back to high school and sweet-tasting lips. the funkadelic record in the window at jive time. throngs of hip folk dressed to impress and fuck one another. the paramount theatre sign with the missing lights. the glassblowing neon on 5th. girls with nice asses. polite eye contact. and that was just on the way here.
he let me read his story. and earlier, at the fitfully functional recessed library terminal, i did, unwittingly crossing my legs more and more tightly, getting warmer. he is fucking talented. gleaning optimism out of shit affirms one's aliveness. this seems to be a recurring theme in my little fucking entries, in my little fucking life, and his writing tidily completed the metaphorical triangle. yeah. these are the good things, and how goddamn good they are, so why the fuck do i waste time on the bullshit of the first few paragraphs? were i more sentient i would probably just delete it, so's not to fuck up the veneer of Frivolous Me, but i shall leave this unedited and herky-jerky instead, i guess.
'your time is gonna come' plays. good christ this is a lovely song. it segues to 'into the mystic.' sirius radio is trying to get me off.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
only english capitalizes 'i'
his name is now Asunder. and that is the last time i will ever capitalize it, because i dislike capital letters. he and i bonded this morn, him winding around my torso, exploring the table, the cats oblivious. the fog never lifted. "it's almost ghostly" one of my coworkers commented. there is absolutely no wind. flags hang flaccidly. steam plumes directly upward. it is misting and the air smells of spring and possibility... except for in tacoma, where the humidity only punctuates the constant pall of sewage and despair.
'tuesday's gone' plays. this is a fucking amazing song. it always makes me feel wistful, lonely, aroused, like i should be smoking weed on a dewy summer morn, the one i dig sprawled beside me, neither of us talking, both ensconsed in our own thoughts... or walking alone at night, the city lights below, providing the soundtrack to another 'what the fuck was this day about' internal debate, life at that moment so fucking poignant i can scarcely stand it, and realizing that by acknowledging my life as being poignant AT THE PRECISE MOMENT that it is, i am fucking present. good tune, anyhow.
i abruptly felt like crap around 4 this afternoon. "you're white as a sheet" someone actually said. i love being the recipient of cliched descriptions. it was slow. they all but kicked me out early. i felt better, perfectly fine even, about 10 miles down the road. i suspect i am allergic to work. i deserve government compensation. leaving early nearly made up for the nonstop shitstorm that was monday- 10 hours of shitting, vomiting, micturating, screeching animals, mostly very large dogs, mostly eliminating on themselves and constantly needing to be cleaned. we were shortstaffed and three of my favorite coworkers were abruptly canned. it was the sort of day where i finally said, 45 minutes past the end of my shift, "i need to get out of here now."
the bbc once banned 'i am the walrus' because of the lyric 'don't let your knickers down.' this is probably akin to a fucking american using the term 'fanny pack' overseas and wondering why they are met with horrified laughter.
'tuesday's gone' plays. this is a fucking amazing song. it always makes me feel wistful, lonely, aroused, like i should be smoking weed on a dewy summer morn, the one i dig sprawled beside me, neither of us talking, both ensconsed in our own thoughts... or walking alone at night, the city lights below, providing the soundtrack to another 'what the fuck was this day about' internal debate, life at that moment so fucking poignant i can scarcely stand it, and realizing that by acknowledging my life as being poignant AT THE PRECISE MOMENT that it is, i am fucking present. good tune, anyhow.
i abruptly felt like crap around 4 this afternoon. "you're white as a sheet" someone actually said. i love being the recipient of cliched descriptions. it was slow. they all but kicked me out early. i felt better, perfectly fine even, about 10 miles down the road. i suspect i am allergic to work. i deserve government compensation. leaving early nearly made up for the nonstop shitstorm that was monday- 10 hours of shitting, vomiting, micturating, screeching animals, mostly very large dogs, mostly eliminating on themselves and constantly needing to be cleaned. we were shortstaffed and three of my favorite coworkers were abruptly canned. it was the sort of day where i finally said, 45 minutes past the end of my shift, "i need to get out of here now."
the bbc once banned 'i am the walrus' because of the lyric 'don't let your knickers down.' this is probably akin to a fucking american using the term 'fanny pack' overseas and wondering why they are met with horrified laughter.
Monday, February 05, 2007
my iron will done buckled
and i got me a snake. from work. an abandoned ball python that was mauled by a rat. he is currently freezing in my car, a sour start to his new fantastic life, so must go.
i am debating the moniker "psaphian"*, story to follow. one of the girls at work was calling him 'elmer.' i smiled politely.
i have been up since 4 am! again! what the fuck is wrong with me?
*probably not spelled properly
i am debating the moniker "psaphian"*, story to follow. one of the girls at work was calling him 'elmer.' i smiled politely.
i have been up since 4 am! again! what the fuck is wrong with me?
*probably not spelled properly
Saturday, February 03, 2007
introversion causes earthquakes, raining snakes and leprosy
i am oddly soothed by the return of grey weather. everything is flat and nonchalant. it fits my mood. i am once again wrestling with the gap between what i think would make me happy and what i am actually capable of. midday sex. thriving houseplants. teaching a kid to read. lactose-tolerantly sipping cafe au lait in a dive cafe in france, a sheath of astonishingly good writings before me. being up for anything at any time. motivation. channeling my FUCKING MANIC STATE into world-bettering means.
instead i am at the library in shoreline, rumpled and smeary-eyed from the night before, morning-after patina without the tired legs and glow of satisfaction. this is the time of year when everything grinds to a fucking halt. i await spring hungrily.
completely useless things that i have perhaps never documented:
-my favorite kind of furniture wood is cedar or mahogany, dark reddish stains to better offset leaves and decanters of brandy, sunlight filtering through dust. i do not like light wood.
-the best cereal ever is cinnamon toast crunch, but that's a given.
-i had a crush on my friend patty in 6th grade.
-tofu mixed with hot curry powder and a shitload of salt is very good with crackers.
-i tried to parachute off the back of the couch with a plastic grocery bag when i was about seven (not last week). it did not give me the loft i craved.
-my gerbil was named frisky.
-my hands are the exact same size as my mother's.
-i have never been to a bar mitzvah, a bat mitzvah, or a bris.
-i fucking hate the sound of people, including myself, sniffling or repeatedly clearing their throats- more than just about anything. i also hate the word 'sniffle', and try my damndest to never use it.
-showers, not baths.
-salt, not chocolate.
-i cannot cartwheel or do the splits.
-the perfect day might involve pervasive warmth, diner food, amazing sex and a road trip through a winding chunk of americana, not neccessarily in that order.
instead i am at the library in shoreline, rumpled and smeary-eyed from the night before, morning-after patina without the tired legs and glow of satisfaction. this is the time of year when everything grinds to a fucking halt. i await spring hungrily.
completely useless things that i have perhaps never documented:
-my favorite kind of furniture wood is cedar or mahogany, dark reddish stains to better offset leaves and decanters of brandy, sunlight filtering through dust. i do not like light wood.
-the best cereal ever is cinnamon toast crunch, but that's a given.
-i had a crush on my friend patty in 6th grade.
-tofu mixed with hot curry powder and a shitload of salt is very good with crackers.
-i tried to parachute off the back of the couch with a plastic grocery bag when i was about seven (not last week). it did not give me the loft i craved.
-my gerbil was named frisky.
-my hands are the exact same size as my mother's.
-i have never been to a bar mitzvah, a bat mitzvah, or a bris.
-i fucking hate the sound of people, including myself, sniffling or repeatedly clearing their throats- more than just about anything. i also hate the word 'sniffle', and try my damndest to never use it.
-showers, not baths.
-salt, not chocolate.
-i cannot cartwheel or do the splits.
-the perfect day might involve pervasive warmth, diner food, amazing sex and a road trip through a winding chunk of americana, not neccessarily in that order.
Friday, February 02, 2007
but wait, there's pie
i am getting very vexed by the fucking spam commentary. no one ever responds to my inane twaddle, proving that this is a futile excercise in narcissistic self-indulgence, so when i do see a comment i light up like a motherfucking menorah. in vain. for naught. silly trollop.
i walked down western ave. i never do; so close, yet so off the beaten path, it reminds me of another city entirely. ultra-foofoo furniture stores, rug shops heralded by scowling turbaned men, walls of ivy-clad brick, unreasonably high curbs.
my very first day back in seattle after anchorage, europe et al, 10 june 2002: firstly, this was the flight i missed due to lack of cat/bike-transport-planning and a goofy miasma of E. flew the red-eye, lingered at sea-tac for three hours until my landlord would be awake to let me into my new, as-yet-unseen lair, shuttled to said lair to wait outside for another hour (accompanied by howling cats all the while), went to the store to buy immediate neccessities like toilet paper, proceeded to break grocery bag and send toilet paper rolling down first hill, felt grotesque pangs of horror, homesickness, and rudderlessness. after taking a fitful midafternoon nap on the carpet, i woke feeling even more discombobulated. walked down spring street in a haze; ended up calling my best girl friend in alaska and wailing to her about what the fuck i'd just done to my life. the pay phone was at the corner of spring and western, under the viaduct, adjacent to a pay lot. but no more. another relic of another time, vanished. that actually makes me somewhat cheerful now.
pay phones are a relic unto themselves. phone booths are even more so. there are a few still scattered willy-nilly about this fair berg, always tagged and bepissed and dysfunctional. i love the iconic quality of a phone booth... like the hiss of a needle hitting a record, or a rotary-dial dialing sound, or the smell of a really old book. explain those things in 20 years.
apparently my grandmother (on my father's side) had a minor stroke about a month ago. this was discovered when she went in for a physical whilst complaining about her shoulder. it has apparently affected her vision somewhat. "what is it with this family?" my mother asked. fucking mortality. i am possibly the most spry of the lot and currently feel as if my right forearm is enclosed in an ace bandage. thanks, brain. it is minor, allowing me to type and paw and gesticulate and whatnot, but just enough of a constant fucking nudge to remind me that lest i forget, lest i get too COMPLACENT, i have a lifelong fucking issue.
'cherish' just started playing, proving that the world is a luscious, good place after all. for every lament there is a perfect musical accompaniment. to find such harmony amid the murk really does make everything of the look-at-this-sexy-sorrow, let's-drink-langorously-and-make-love-sssslowly variety, and less of the my-house-smells-like-cat-ass-and-i-have-a-hungover-mouth ilk.
hypothetically.
obviously.
did i already extol the bombastic brilliance of chocolate pop-rocks? holy shit! they are fucking amazing! seriously, they are the best candy i've had in years. ignore those who decry the carbonated choctastic glory. they know not of what they speak.
i walked down western ave. i never do; so close, yet so off the beaten path, it reminds me of another city entirely. ultra-foofoo furniture stores, rug shops heralded by scowling turbaned men, walls of ivy-clad brick, unreasonably high curbs.
my very first day back in seattle after anchorage, europe et al, 10 june 2002: firstly, this was the flight i missed due to lack of cat/bike-transport-planning and a goofy miasma of E. flew the red-eye, lingered at sea-tac for three hours until my landlord would be awake to let me into my new, as-yet-unseen lair, shuttled to said lair to wait outside for another hour (accompanied by howling cats all the while), went to the store to buy immediate neccessities like toilet paper, proceeded to break grocery bag and send toilet paper rolling down first hill, felt grotesque pangs of horror, homesickness, and rudderlessness. after taking a fitful midafternoon nap on the carpet, i woke feeling even more discombobulated. walked down spring street in a haze; ended up calling my best girl friend in alaska and wailing to her about what the fuck i'd just done to my life. the pay phone was at the corner of spring and western, under the viaduct, adjacent to a pay lot. but no more. another relic of another time, vanished. that actually makes me somewhat cheerful now.
pay phones are a relic unto themselves. phone booths are even more so. there are a few still scattered willy-nilly about this fair berg, always tagged and bepissed and dysfunctional. i love the iconic quality of a phone booth... like the hiss of a needle hitting a record, or a rotary-dial dialing sound, or the smell of a really old book. explain those things in 20 years.
apparently my grandmother (on my father's side) had a minor stroke about a month ago. this was discovered when she went in for a physical whilst complaining about her shoulder. it has apparently affected her vision somewhat. "what is it with this family?" my mother asked. fucking mortality. i am possibly the most spry of the lot and currently feel as if my right forearm is enclosed in an ace bandage. thanks, brain. it is minor, allowing me to type and paw and gesticulate and whatnot, but just enough of a constant fucking nudge to remind me that lest i forget, lest i get too COMPLACENT, i have a lifelong fucking issue.
'cherish' just started playing, proving that the world is a luscious, good place after all. for every lament there is a perfect musical accompaniment. to find such harmony amid the murk really does make everything of the look-at-this-sexy-sorrow, let's-drink-langorously-and-make-love-sssslowly variety, and less of the my-house-smells-like-cat-ass-and-i-have-a-hungover-mouth ilk.
hypothetically.
obviously.
did i already extol the bombastic brilliance of chocolate pop-rocks? holy shit! they are fucking amazing! seriously, they are the best candy i've had in years. ignore those who decry the carbonated choctastic glory. they know not of what they speak.
'tis all in the attitude
i confess, i have always been of spastic mind. a fucking drama queen, actually. it keeps things EXCITING, i suppose. i feel better today than i have in a while- a quiet calm assurance that shit shall resolve, eventually, in its own way. don't fight it, feel it, right?
thus i shall spend no more superfluous thought on the dark cloud of fuckery that looms, damoclean. (by typing that i prove to be spending thought on it.)
the air was cold and the moon was full last night, casting shadows, making everything ridiculously sharp. we babbled nonsense on the telephone for over an hour, from my trek down 39th to the clattering 26 across aurora to the debauchery of downtown to my cat-strewn lair, on my back on the sofa, staring at st mark's cathedral across the lake, absently playing with the cats. i love not thinking about what i'm going to say next. i love the comfortable silences. i love having my little slice of the world that i can retreat into whenever i please.
and i am fucking loving yo la tengo. whatever took me so long?
thus i shall spend no more superfluous thought on the dark cloud of fuckery that looms, damoclean. (by typing that i prove to be spending thought on it.)
the air was cold and the moon was full last night, casting shadows, making everything ridiculously sharp. we babbled nonsense on the telephone for over an hour, from my trek down 39th to the clattering 26 across aurora to the debauchery of downtown to my cat-strewn lair, on my back on the sofa, staring at st mark's cathedral across the lake, absently playing with the cats. i love not thinking about what i'm going to say next. i love the comfortable silences. i love having my little slice of the world that i can retreat into whenever i please.
and i am fucking loving yo la tengo. whatever took me so long?
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