apparently i am an nc-17 blog, according to some blog-rating system that i cannot recall the address of. i cannot fucking imagine why.
immaturely, this pleases me.
my neighbors with the horrid child are officially gone. gone! i was actually on the deck with music playing this afternoon- two things that i have honestly been unable to properly do for the last 11 months. "he's napping" she would say. or the kid would be fucking around in my plants, throwing dirt everywhere, or banging on the glass. and what was i to say? they were my landlords. and now... it is so indescribably pleasant, i cannot express. there was a sale on sunflowers, so i now have some on my deck, falling over constantly and looking decrepit a mere 24 hrs later. i was repotting some cacti when my neighbor at the other end of the bldg came over. we were chatting for a while before i realized my g-string was completely exposed above my jeans. i felt like a whore. kept talking anyway. he is going to lopez island for the month of july and i will be watering his plants. this means that I WILL HAVE THE ENTIRE FUCKING DECK TO MYSELF FOR THE INDEFINITE FUTURE. i am giddy as shit about this. i shall have to find things to spray-paint.
two blocks of 7th avenue were cordoned off by police this afternoon. apparently the prime minister of south korea is in town. he is staying at the sheraton. the korean government can do no better than the sheraton? a crowd of people, myself included, lingered around on the sidewalk for a good while before the cops started letting traffic resume. it was very anticlimactic. i talked with an officer who had a reno-911 moustache and aviator sunglasses. "did he just come through here or will he be?" i asked. "oh no" he said, obviously disgusted. "he's milking us for all he can." -direct quote. and i laughed. the cops had been at that intersection since 9 am; it was around 4 or 5pm at this point. i said something daft about the nice weather.
i stepped away to the bus stop and started talking to a tourist who was actually from korea. he was oblivious to the prime minister being in town. he offered me a korean cigarette. "look at the pretty box" he said. "it has a cat on it."
everyone on the bus was craning their heads to find the accident. "it's the prime minister of south korea" i said. "accident, prime minister, what's the difference?" a man in a pink shirt replied. nobody knew why he was here, either. there were about six of us casually participating in this exchange; we all, in one liquid movement, laughed embarrassedly at our collective american ignorance.
the sunset tonight, i might add, was fucking gorgeous.
i always end on the weather. let me try something else...
flowering dogwood trees smell like a guy masturbating with shampoo.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Friday, June 29, 2007
learn yerself good
http://www.straightdope.com/classics/a1_295a.html
and there you go. it is not as illustrious a history as i would have liked.
and there you go. it is not as illustrious a history as i would have liked.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
that feels really, really good
yesterday: the voyage east
i got another wild hair and drove to wenatchee. i had never been. off the interstate, somewhere outside of cle elum, is a 20' sculpture of a human constructed from painted hubcaps. it is smiling. hwy 97 is twisty and leafy and dreamlike- i was blaring "your blue veins" and grinning at nothing. visited the tiny town of liberty, population 129, which consisted of one road bordered by ancient shanties, rusted tractors, and a yard full of partially constructed wooden outhouses. i got out of the car to watch a slew of goldfinches devour something in the gravel.
the topography of washington is very abruptly diverse. in a 5 mile span one can go from alpine splendor to mossy fernadelica to ponderosa-rife desert. i found the latter in cashmere, home of aplets & cotlets. i have always wanted to visit the fabled factory of these novelty treats (ever-present in my xmas stocking when i was growing up). and it was underwhelming, of course. the place is tiny. half of it is a gift shop of the namesake, mustards, honey, rinky-dink potholders, a shot glass with an apple on it. i took the tour. i felt like a collossal dork as soon as i did so. it was myself (unwashed, looking like i'd been sweating in a tent for days) and five tourists in their 50's, all of us reluctantly donning the mandatory hairnets at the request of our chirpy, high-school-aged guide. the workers had gone home already so everything was quiet and clean and fake-seeming. apparently every aplet and cotlet and fruit delight and whatnot is made in this room. urns at one end cook down the fruit, which is then mixed with pectin, sugar, nuts, and something else that i cannot recall. then the goo is chilled in trays, dusted with cornstarch, cut apart, shaken in a vat with more cornstarch, and coated with a shitload of powdered sugar. everything is wrapped and boxed by hand. at the end of the tour (which lasted all of 10 minutes) our guide said "omigod! i just realized i didn't put on my hairnet!" she giggled. "i never forget this far into the tour!" so the next time one is compelled to eat an aplet or a cotlet or whatever, think of an unfortunately-complected girl from podunk, washington, shedding into the cooking area.
the bathroom there was very nice. it smelled of apples.
and there is an "eels road" in cashmere. eels!
wenatchee is about 10 miles east, appearing to squat in a deeply beige valley. even the leafy trees look brown. there are a lot of pickup trucks, strip malls, car dealerships, and fast-food joints. apart from the gargantuan wal-mart and home depot et al, everything appears lodged in the '70's- as if the region shrugged and gave up. i stopped at the salvation army. same crap, different town. there was a very large assortment of novelty avon bottles. i read the test paper someone had left in an electric typewriter: 'now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party' was across the top, of course. where the fuck does that phrase come from?
highway 2 going west: i drove through leavenworth, which always makes me smirk. the hotel where b was arrested is still there. even the 7-11 has been dirndled up. it is all very twee and 'ja!' and annoyingly picturesque. i seem to end up in leavenworth about once a year for no particular reason and never even slow down. (obviously i was never aware how close it was to the wonders of wenatchee.)
the scenery changes from simply lovely to fucking goddamn stunning as fuck. i coasted the entire way down the mountains, doing at least 70, arm hanging out the window, music too loud. it was cloudless and waterfally and i had one of those rare moments of flying and being invincible. i was still high when i reached gold bar. i pulled into a petrol station still smiling. "are you always this happy, or is it the sunshine?" said the old man in overalls at the next pump. "a little bit of both" i said.
today: the voyage south
my grandparents are doing poorly enough that my aunt liz has flown in from illinois to "save the day," as my mother sarcastically put it. i went to puyallup to see them. my grandfather kept nodding off, my grandmother exhibited blatant dementia, and liz and my mother and i shot the shit. among the gems: liz saying quite casually that my cousin no longer wants to live in atlanta because "it's too black", but "at least she isn't bulimic any more"; my mother giggling uncontrollably after my grandmother asks the same question (and is answered) three times in a row; opa's obsession with their cat, who just does the cutest, cleverest things; the rainstorm outside, the blown glass, the shell leis from kauai, my grandfather's rainbow suspenders, my grandmother's sea-green eyes rheumy yet kind.
every time i leave them i wonder if i will ever see them again. my grandmother will be 91 in three weeks. my grandfather, my mom suspects, won't live to his birthday in august. "he's ready to go" she said. "he has no will." and i am inclined to agree. this is horribly sad but weirdly calming as well- to know even before it happens that his death will not be a tragedy, but a relief to him.
after, at my request, my mother showed me all the places she lived in tacoma. my father proposed to her at a gas station on 6th avenue- a different one than where they first met, when she was a window-washer and he was a skinny-chested letch who liked her legs. everything in my family seems to begin and end in tacoma, washington. the UPS fieldhouse where my folks smoked grass with the members of sugarloaf. the parking lot at point defiance where i was conceived in the backseat of a dodge dart. the intersection where my other grandfather had his accident.
and around the corner from where my mother lived after high school: ted bundy's house.
"no fucking way!" i shouted. "did you know him?"
"no, he graduated before i did. but his parents still lived here."
the house is small and cute, 40's style, with a nice yard and a red door. i took a picture.
*
the sun had reemerged. there was, in fact, a double rainbow.
i got another wild hair and drove to wenatchee. i had never been. off the interstate, somewhere outside of cle elum, is a 20' sculpture of a human constructed from painted hubcaps. it is smiling. hwy 97 is twisty and leafy and dreamlike- i was blaring "your blue veins" and grinning at nothing. visited the tiny town of liberty, population 129, which consisted of one road bordered by ancient shanties, rusted tractors, and a yard full of partially constructed wooden outhouses. i got out of the car to watch a slew of goldfinches devour something in the gravel.
the topography of washington is very abruptly diverse. in a 5 mile span one can go from alpine splendor to mossy fernadelica to ponderosa-rife desert. i found the latter in cashmere, home of aplets & cotlets. i have always wanted to visit the fabled factory of these novelty treats (ever-present in my xmas stocking when i was growing up). and it was underwhelming, of course. the place is tiny. half of it is a gift shop of the namesake, mustards, honey, rinky-dink potholders, a shot glass with an apple on it. i took the tour. i felt like a collossal dork as soon as i did so. it was myself (unwashed, looking like i'd been sweating in a tent for days) and five tourists in their 50's, all of us reluctantly donning the mandatory hairnets at the request of our chirpy, high-school-aged guide. the workers had gone home already so everything was quiet and clean and fake-seeming. apparently every aplet and cotlet and fruit delight and whatnot is made in this room. urns at one end cook down the fruit, which is then mixed with pectin, sugar, nuts, and something else that i cannot recall. then the goo is chilled in trays, dusted with cornstarch, cut apart, shaken in a vat with more cornstarch, and coated with a shitload of powdered sugar. everything is wrapped and boxed by hand. at the end of the tour (which lasted all of 10 minutes) our guide said "omigod! i just realized i didn't put on my hairnet!" she giggled. "i never forget this far into the tour!" so the next time one is compelled to eat an aplet or a cotlet or whatever, think of an unfortunately-complected girl from podunk, washington, shedding into the cooking area.
the bathroom there was very nice. it smelled of apples.
and there is an "eels road" in cashmere. eels!
wenatchee is about 10 miles east, appearing to squat in a deeply beige valley. even the leafy trees look brown. there are a lot of pickup trucks, strip malls, car dealerships, and fast-food joints. apart from the gargantuan wal-mart and home depot et al, everything appears lodged in the '70's- as if the region shrugged and gave up. i stopped at the salvation army. same crap, different town. there was a very large assortment of novelty avon bottles. i read the test paper someone had left in an electric typewriter: 'now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their party' was across the top, of course. where the fuck does that phrase come from?
highway 2 going west: i drove through leavenworth, which always makes me smirk. the hotel where b was arrested is still there. even the 7-11 has been dirndled up. it is all very twee and 'ja!' and annoyingly picturesque. i seem to end up in leavenworth about once a year for no particular reason and never even slow down. (obviously i was never aware how close it was to the wonders of wenatchee.)
the scenery changes from simply lovely to fucking goddamn stunning as fuck. i coasted the entire way down the mountains, doing at least 70, arm hanging out the window, music too loud. it was cloudless and waterfally and i had one of those rare moments of flying and being invincible. i was still high when i reached gold bar. i pulled into a petrol station still smiling. "are you always this happy, or is it the sunshine?" said the old man in overalls at the next pump. "a little bit of both" i said.
today: the voyage south
my grandparents are doing poorly enough that my aunt liz has flown in from illinois to "save the day," as my mother sarcastically put it. i went to puyallup to see them. my grandfather kept nodding off, my grandmother exhibited blatant dementia, and liz and my mother and i shot the shit. among the gems: liz saying quite casually that my cousin no longer wants to live in atlanta because "it's too black", but "at least she isn't bulimic any more"; my mother giggling uncontrollably after my grandmother asks the same question (and is answered) three times in a row; opa's obsession with their cat, who just does the cutest, cleverest things; the rainstorm outside, the blown glass, the shell leis from kauai, my grandfather's rainbow suspenders, my grandmother's sea-green eyes rheumy yet kind.
every time i leave them i wonder if i will ever see them again. my grandmother will be 91 in three weeks. my grandfather, my mom suspects, won't live to his birthday in august. "he's ready to go" she said. "he has no will." and i am inclined to agree. this is horribly sad but weirdly calming as well- to know even before it happens that his death will not be a tragedy, but a relief to him.
after, at my request, my mother showed me all the places she lived in tacoma. my father proposed to her at a gas station on 6th avenue- a different one than where they first met, when she was a window-washer and he was a skinny-chested letch who liked her legs. everything in my family seems to begin and end in tacoma, washington. the UPS fieldhouse where my folks smoked grass with the members of sugarloaf. the parking lot at point defiance where i was conceived in the backseat of a dodge dart. the intersection where my other grandfather had his accident.
and around the corner from where my mother lived after high school: ted bundy's house.
"no fucking way!" i shouted. "did you know him?"
"no, he graduated before i did. but his parents still lived here."
the house is small and cute, 40's style, with a nice yard and a red door. i took a picture.
*
the sun had reemerged. there was, in fact, a double rainbow.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
"they're annoying as hell, in fact"
this is my 200th post.
ring a ding ding.
i spent my 3-day workweek in surgery. it got a bit tiresome. soft-tissue/exploratory surgeries are a blast; orthopedic/moribund procedures, on the other hand, not so much. i do not want to be monitoring a dying animal, or stultifyingly bored and sweating and unable to get a drink of liquid or pee, stuck with the doctor who doesn't talk and listening to his ipod of schlock (though he has stepped it up somewhat, and i realize how much i like spoon. he also plays a lot of depeche mode and radiohead, which i appreciate... but then there's utter shit like blue october... "lesbian coffeehouse music" one of my coworkers opined.)
sunday: the dog that ate pantyhose. the cat with the botched exploratory from vets-for-less (note to all animal owners: never have surgery done at a discount vet clinic unless it's a spay or neuter.). its incision site was dehisced and necrotic and the cat ("scooter") was going septic. it was euthanized the next day, the infection leading to respiratory failure. i have to turn my mind off to the horrors of such situations lest i run from this profession shrieking. this can be a very depressing line of work. and both of these surgeries, i might add, reeked. have you ever smelled something that has been lodged in an animal's intestines for weeks, saturated with gastric juice and decomposition? it smells like an acidic, shit-covered corpse. and the stench is thick enough to taste. a paper surgical mask does not augment the aroma whatsoever. usually someone comes into surgery and whisks the offending object away as soon as it is removed from the animal.
monday: ventral slot T2-T3 with the neurosurgeon. i love working with him. he is fast, clean, gay and gossipy. he bitched about the staff as he blithely hacked out diseased disk material from a six-pound shih tzu. the spinal cord appears blue beneath the vertebrae. back surgery is almost appalingly primitive. he uses a power drill to go through the bone and then chisels the tissue out, scraping it on the surgical drape like a dentist would with plaque. the dog began to screech as it was recovering from anesthesia, which is typical; but it proceeded to bark, nay, yell for the next 28 hrs until it went home. it ended up on too many drugs to count, heavy-lidded, a blanket over its cage door, in the cat ward with the door closed. it was all seperation-anxiety... they usually bounce around quite unsettlingly after cervical disc surgery, now that the pain-causing disc is gone and they suddenly feel better. are humans as resilient?
yesterday: i got shystered into both surgeries, first by s, who didn't feel like doing it (removal of 30 cents, two dimes and two nickels, from the stomach of a pekinese named pansy) (who also had acute anemia, and everyone was sure it was secondary to zinc toxicity from pennies. "no pennies" i called from surgery after they were removed, the coins a sickly sepia from the acid. anemia without an obvious cause is one of the most frustrating things in veterinary medicine. according to ask.com and wikipedia, nickels and dimes are relatively nontoxic, just annoying to digest. and before surgery they induced emesis in vain, and endoscoped in vain, and the bill was approaching $3000 by last night. "they should put the 30 cents towards their bill" someone said helpfully.) second surgery: radius-ulna fracture on a 4# pomeranian (maggie), complete with a tiny plate and tiny screws. i was asked to wipe the brows of the assistant and doctor. "is that weird?" r asked, apparently unaware that the doctor requests that regularly. "no, not at all" i said (hot myself but nonsterile, leaning against the anesthesia machine). "you would do the same for me."
i was mostly kidding, but he agreed anyway.
*
i left work early, for it was slower than shit and i no longer had a purpose as the specialist tech. it was still over 70 on the drive home. i walked downtown around 11pm. my hands were tingling and i was trying to calm my paranoia- no, this isn't the start of something, it's all in your head- and the eerie thing is, i can almost always talk myself out of the physical symptoms just by forcing myself to relax. "aren't you going to say hi?" a man called after me as i passed, oblivious. "hi!" i called back, turning around and waving. "why are you walking away? walking out of my life..." i was still smiling half a block later. is that the reality check i wasn't even aware i needed?
i missed both buses towards home and ended up walking around capitol hill at 1 am. the campus of seattle university is very nice, quiet, dark, the sidewalk lined with blue-lit emergency call boxes. it is a fucking jesuit school, for chrissake. i am reminded of the outcry over the call boxes in "who stole feminism?", one of the best books ever, that berates the earnest stranger-danger brouhaha for ignoring/overshadowing the fact that ~85% of rapes are performed by someone the victim knows, and usually knows well. and what would happen if i needed to use a call box at 1 am on a weeknight, anyhow? would the police park three blocks away and scamper down the pedestrian lane in the dark? or would i just drag my sorry ass those same three blocks to the massive swedish hospital?
there is a luxury to think such things with such belligerent detachment. there is ignorant privilege in having not been a victim.
in that respect.
yet.
in a cartoon of what single women think about: "is it possible to worry too much?" this is one of the funniest things i have seen lately. i will be driving along, remember it, and snicker.
ring a ding ding.
i spent my 3-day workweek in surgery. it got a bit tiresome. soft-tissue/exploratory surgeries are a blast; orthopedic/moribund procedures, on the other hand, not so much. i do not want to be monitoring a dying animal, or stultifyingly bored and sweating and unable to get a drink of liquid or pee, stuck with the doctor who doesn't talk and listening to his ipod of schlock (though he has stepped it up somewhat, and i realize how much i like spoon. he also plays a lot of depeche mode and radiohead, which i appreciate... but then there's utter shit like blue october... "lesbian coffeehouse music" one of my coworkers opined.)
sunday: the dog that ate pantyhose. the cat with the botched exploratory from vets-for-less (note to all animal owners: never have surgery done at a discount vet clinic unless it's a spay or neuter.). its incision site was dehisced and necrotic and the cat ("scooter") was going septic. it was euthanized the next day, the infection leading to respiratory failure. i have to turn my mind off to the horrors of such situations lest i run from this profession shrieking. this can be a very depressing line of work. and both of these surgeries, i might add, reeked. have you ever smelled something that has been lodged in an animal's intestines for weeks, saturated with gastric juice and decomposition? it smells like an acidic, shit-covered corpse. and the stench is thick enough to taste. a paper surgical mask does not augment the aroma whatsoever. usually someone comes into surgery and whisks the offending object away as soon as it is removed from the animal.
monday: ventral slot T2-T3 with the neurosurgeon. i love working with him. he is fast, clean, gay and gossipy. he bitched about the staff as he blithely hacked out diseased disk material from a six-pound shih tzu. the spinal cord appears blue beneath the vertebrae. back surgery is almost appalingly primitive. he uses a power drill to go through the bone and then chisels the tissue out, scraping it on the surgical drape like a dentist would with plaque. the dog began to screech as it was recovering from anesthesia, which is typical; but it proceeded to bark, nay, yell for the next 28 hrs until it went home. it ended up on too many drugs to count, heavy-lidded, a blanket over its cage door, in the cat ward with the door closed. it was all seperation-anxiety... they usually bounce around quite unsettlingly after cervical disc surgery, now that the pain-causing disc is gone and they suddenly feel better. are humans as resilient?
yesterday: i got shystered into both surgeries, first by s, who didn't feel like doing it (removal of 30 cents, two dimes and two nickels, from the stomach of a pekinese named pansy) (who also had acute anemia, and everyone was sure it was secondary to zinc toxicity from pennies. "no pennies" i called from surgery after they were removed, the coins a sickly sepia from the acid. anemia without an obvious cause is one of the most frustrating things in veterinary medicine. according to ask.com and wikipedia, nickels and dimes are relatively nontoxic, just annoying to digest. and before surgery they induced emesis in vain, and endoscoped in vain, and the bill was approaching $3000 by last night. "they should put the 30 cents towards their bill" someone said helpfully.) second surgery: radius-ulna fracture on a 4# pomeranian (maggie), complete with a tiny plate and tiny screws. i was asked to wipe the brows of the assistant and doctor. "is that weird?" r asked, apparently unaware that the doctor requests that regularly. "no, not at all" i said (hot myself but nonsterile, leaning against the anesthesia machine). "you would do the same for me."
i was mostly kidding, but he agreed anyway.
*
i left work early, for it was slower than shit and i no longer had a purpose as the specialist tech. it was still over 70 on the drive home. i walked downtown around 11pm. my hands were tingling and i was trying to calm my paranoia- no, this isn't the start of something, it's all in your head- and the eerie thing is, i can almost always talk myself out of the physical symptoms just by forcing myself to relax. "aren't you going to say hi?" a man called after me as i passed, oblivious. "hi!" i called back, turning around and waving. "why are you walking away? walking out of my life..." i was still smiling half a block later. is that the reality check i wasn't even aware i needed?
i missed both buses towards home and ended up walking around capitol hill at 1 am. the campus of seattle university is very nice, quiet, dark, the sidewalk lined with blue-lit emergency call boxes. it is a fucking jesuit school, for chrissake. i am reminded of the outcry over the call boxes in "who stole feminism?", one of the best books ever, that berates the earnest stranger-danger brouhaha for ignoring/overshadowing the fact that ~85% of rapes are performed by someone the victim knows, and usually knows well. and what would happen if i needed to use a call box at 1 am on a weeknight, anyhow? would the police park three blocks away and scamper down the pedestrian lane in the dark? or would i just drag my sorry ass those same three blocks to the massive swedish hospital?
there is a luxury to think such things with such belligerent detachment. there is ignorant privilege in having not been a victim.
in that respect.
yet.
in a cartoon of what single women think about: "is it possible to worry too much?" this is one of the funniest things i have seen lately. i will be driving along, remember it, and snicker.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
chuckanut!
oftentimes i get words as well as songs stuck in my head. the word today: frijole. what the fuck? frijole. holly holy. holy moly. i am driving myself crazy.
took a giddy jaunt to bellingham today. that drive, once i get past the clusterfuck of everett, always puts me in a good mood. i played with a flirtatious cockatiel at the pet store in stanwood, in a godawful complex of suburban malaise; obviously this entire compound was once a thriving glade, and now it is a concrete wasteland: costco, target, michael's, red robin. wal-mart sprawls on the other side of the freeway. it is yet another example of anywhere, nowhere, generica. there were lots of pickup trucks and minivans and overweight children and surly teens. and me, contributing to the infestation by stopping there in the first place.
i left the pet store empty-handed. i do not need another fucking pet. besides, they were out of iguanas, which is what i was casually looking for.
my vague plan once hitting bellingham: yard sales. i ended up in a leafy victorian neighborhood (apparently very close to the crackhouse/chicken coop where i spent my infancy, which i have never been able to find) by complete happenstance, stopped at the first place i saw, and realized that the area was holding their annual neighborhood garage sale, complete with printed maps secured under a fake hummel figurine. the odds of this: 50:50- it would either be happening or it would not be- but i was rather thrilled regardless.
six dollars and about six yards later:
-a leering, lecherous record, solely for the cover, now hanging in my lair
-a hippie shirt with a hole in the sleeve
-a luscious jackson cd that actually kicks much ass. it fit my mood on the drive home. this would be the perfect make-out music to an earnest teenage girl who doesn't want to get too riled by say, liz phair, and doesn't want to make her lover vomit with the indigo girls.
-a "guide to parties" by the editors of seventeen magazine, published circa 1955. "isn't this fun? it has some great recipes for dips!" said the woman who sold it to me.
-a book of pulp fiction cover art
-a homemade ceramic pot
-a potentially lethal glass hangy-thing
-a tapestry that is now also hanging in my lair
-and the piece de resistance: an unsettling object of unknown use or reason. i call it the "triad of testicles." what it is: three ~3" diameter heavy balls covered with some sort of skin, attached to a piece of twine and looped for easy dangling. it looks like some sort of hideous artifact from the holocaust, actually. it was in a 'free' box. "what's the story with these?" i asked. nobody knew. "please, take them away" one of the women said. i could not help but swing them jauntily as i walked back to my car. perhaps they are weapons? they are also hanging in my lair, next to my bed, as a totem to ensure i will never get laid again.
my lair is rife with hangy things!
the cafe i am typing at has thankfully turned off the fucking classic rawk in lieu of '80s new wave. 'don't you forget about me' is on right now. i still have this 45. it is actually a rather terrible song. do i know every word? do i have fondness for its inherent nostagia? do i think of judd nelson and squirm? you bet your sweet ass. to my consternation.
it is pride weekend in seattle. near my house i passed a gay couple holding hands. they were older and one was visibly dragging the other one along. their arms and bodies were a good distance apart, the way one would hold onto a shrieking toddler. and they were both scowling. it was rather unsettling. on broadway two men were wearing S&M halters and black fedoras. people are damn pale in seattle.
why are sex props so fucking cheaply made? am i the only person who has ever noticed this? flimsy plasticene pieces of shit, the lot of it! perhaps i should go into business selling organic, hardy, earnestly constructed bondage gear. (TM 2007) made in america, by americans, for americans the ads would say, smokily, playfully.
i think of p, who worked at the adult bookstore after quitting the crystal/cheesy tie-dye/glittery lava lamp kiosk at the mall. i have always wondered what it would be like, working at such a place. the sociological implications! my list of professions i would love to try, if only for the smarmy "i'm not really meaning to work here, i'm just collecting information for the book i'm writing about the experience" elitism:*
*which is admittedly fucking obnoxious as shit, which is why i won't do it. i would kick my own ass.
-a porn shop (preferably the graveyard shift)
-mcdonalds
-wal-mart
-the coroner's office
...i have known people who have worked at all such places. one of the dvms in olympia did shifts at the thurston county coroner's office. he was an incredibly jovial man, always in a lovely mood. and he had beautiful handwriting. he and his large (religious) family moved to the montanan hinterlands about a year ago.
and he was always annoyingly professional when i would ask him questions about the sorts of things he'd see. that is, he would not answer much at all.
on an eerily apropos segue: i was on a bus through downtown a little after midnight last night. the street between 2nd and 3rd was taped off and a passle of cop cars had formed a starburst of flashing lights. i found out in today's paper that someone had been murdered there about an hour prior. some guy had said something to another man's woman, something disparaging, and arguing turned into gunfire. apparently the murdered man was shot in the face. they found the shooter hiding in a dumpster. one of the witnesses was shot in his leg.
...and in another reality, 19 hours later, i am walking through volunteer park and lining up the view of the space needle to fit perfectly within the circular sculpture, and the sun is shining.
*
frijole!
took a giddy jaunt to bellingham today. that drive, once i get past the clusterfuck of everett, always puts me in a good mood. i played with a flirtatious cockatiel at the pet store in stanwood, in a godawful complex of suburban malaise; obviously this entire compound was once a thriving glade, and now it is a concrete wasteland: costco, target, michael's, red robin. wal-mart sprawls on the other side of the freeway. it is yet another example of anywhere, nowhere, generica. there were lots of pickup trucks and minivans and overweight children and surly teens. and me, contributing to the infestation by stopping there in the first place.
i left the pet store empty-handed. i do not need another fucking pet. besides, they were out of iguanas, which is what i was casually looking for.
my vague plan once hitting bellingham: yard sales. i ended up in a leafy victorian neighborhood (apparently very close to the crackhouse/chicken coop where i spent my infancy, which i have never been able to find) by complete happenstance, stopped at the first place i saw, and realized that the area was holding their annual neighborhood garage sale, complete with printed maps secured under a fake hummel figurine. the odds of this: 50:50- it would either be happening or it would not be- but i was rather thrilled regardless.
six dollars and about six yards later:
-a leering, lecherous record, solely for the cover, now hanging in my lair
-a hippie shirt with a hole in the sleeve
-a luscious jackson cd that actually kicks much ass. it fit my mood on the drive home. this would be the perfect make-out music to an earnest teenage girl who doesn't want to get too riled by say, liz phair, and doesn't want to make her lover vomit with the indigo girls.
-a "guide to parties" by the editors of seventeen magazine, published circa 1955. "isn't this fun? it has some great recipes for dips!" said the woman who sold it to me.
-a book of pulp fiction cover art
-a homemade ceramic pot
-a potentially lethal glass hangy-thing
-a tapestry that is now also hanging in my lair
-and the piece de resistance: an unsettling object of unknown use or reason. i call it the "triad of testicles." what it is: three ~3" diameter heavy balls covered with some sort of skin, attached to a piece of twine and looped for easy dangling. it looks like some sort of hideous artifact from the holocaust, actually. it was in a 'free' box. "what's the story with these?" i asked. nobody knew. "please, take them away" one of the women said. i could not help but swing them jauntily as i walked back to my car. perhaps they are weapons? they are also hanging in my lair, next to my bed, as a totem to ensure i will never get laid again.
my lair is rife with hangy things!
the cafe i am typing at has thankfully turned off the fucking classic rawk in lieu of '80s new wave. 'don't you forget about me' is on right now. i still have this 45. it is actually a rather terrible song. do i know every word? do i have fondness for its inherent nostagia? do i think of judd nelson and squirm? you bet your sweet ass. to my consternation.
it is pride weekend in seattle. near my house i passed a gay couple holding hands. they were older and one was visibly dragging the other one along. their arms and bodies were a good distance apart, the way one would hold onto a shrieking toddler. and they were both scowling. it was rather unsettling. on broadway two men were wearing S&M halters and black fedoras. people are damn pale in seattle.
why are sex props so fucking cheaply made? am i the only person who has ever noticed this? flimsy plasticene pieces of shit, the lot of it! perhaps i should go into business selling organic, hardy, earnestly constructed bondage gear. (TM 2007) made in america, by americans, for americans the ads would say, smokily, playfully.
i think of p, who worked at the adult bookstore after quitting the crystal/cheesy tie-dye/glittery lava lamp kiosk at the mall. i have always wondered what it would be like, working at such a place. the sociological implications! my list of professions i would love to try, if only for the smarmy "i'm not really meaning to work here, i'm just collecting information for the book i'm writing about the experience" elitism:*
*which is admittedly fucking obnoxious as shit, which is why i won't do it. i would kick my own ass.
-a porn shop (preferably the graveyard shift)
-mcdonalds
-wal-mart
-the coroner's office
...i have known people who have worked at all such places. one of the dvms in olympia did shifts at the thurston county coroner's office. he was an incredibly jovial man, always in a lovely mood. and he had beautiful handwriting. he and his large (religious) family moved to the montanan hinterlands about a year ago.
and he was always annoyingly professional when i would ask him questions about the sorts of things he'd see. that is, he would not answer much at all.
on an eerily apropos segue: i was on a bus through downtown a little after midnight last night. the street between 2nd and 3rd was taped off and a passle of cop cars had formed a starburst of flashing lights. i found out in today's paper that someone had been murdered there about an hour prior. some guy had said something to another man's woman, something disparaging, and arguing turned into gunfire. apparently the murdered man was shot in the face. they found the shooter hiding in a dumpster. one of the witnesses was shot in his leg.
...and in another reality, 19 hours later, i am walking through volunteer park and lining up the view of the space needle to fit perfectly within the circular sculpture, and the sun is shining.
*
frijole!
Friday, June 22, 2007
out of the blue, into the black
whilst waiting for a bus at 6th and pike today, i was approached by an androgynous person (female? i honestly do not know) in a wheelchair. she steered the chair with one foot scraping along on the pavement; the other leg was artificial. "i got bitten by some insect-" she said, and lifted her sleeve to reveal a softball-sized welt, the skin shiny and red, visibly hot to the touch. "oh god" i said without thinking. she was trying to get enough money for a $10 oral antibiotic before going on IV meds at harborview. she had a huge cold sore on her lip and swollen hands covered with open wounds. and she was extremely articulate, looked into my eyes, and we talked about the mecurial weather. i gave her two cigarettes and a pack of matches from 13 coins. and as she migrated further down the sidewalk to repeat her spiel, i felt a hell of a lot less self-pitying.
the rest of the day, filtered through a blur of physical and emotional angst, as aforementioned:
-spiritualized/sigur ros hybrid playing at the record store. the next song came on and one of the clerks made a smartass comment about the polyphonic spree.
-staggering man enthusiastically sparring with a pillar
-'buy buy baby', about the aggressive merchandising directed towards infants and toddlers, which i read despite the fucking terrible title
-very disgusting carrot cake
-midday nap involving near-dreams about leaves (i am laying under a tree on a sunny day and green leaves are falling on me- not to the point of burial, but akin to an autumnal windstorm. the vibe of the dream is calm/indifferent.)
-learning that a part of the small intestine is used in male-to-female surgery to create vaginal lubrication. relentless, unending vaginal lubrication, due to the digestive secretions. that would be a bit overwhelming.
in retrospect, this is one of those days that really had no reason to exist at all.
the rest of the day, filtered through a blur of physical and emotional angst, as aforementioned:
-spiritualized/sigur ros hybrid playing at the record store. the next song came on and one of the clerks made a smartass comment about the polyphonic spree.
-staggering man enthusiastically sparring with a pillar
-'buy buy baby', about the aggressive merchandising directed towards infants and toddlers, which i read despite the fucking terrible title
-very disgusting carrot cake
-midday nap involving near-dreams about leaves (i am laying under a tree on a sunny day and green leaves are falling on me- not to the point of burial, but akin to an autumnal windstorm. the vibe of the dream is calm/indifferent.)
-learning that a part of the small intestine is used in male-to-female surgery to create vaginal lubrication. relentless, unending vaginal lubrication, due to the digestive secretions. that would be a bit overwhelming.
in retrospect, this is one of those days that really had no reason to exist at all.
shame
i drove drunk last night. and i fucking knew better. i happily smiled, laughed, said goodbye, said "yes, i'm fine", started off down the alley, and began to cry.
i halfheartedly applaud my ability to keep my mortifying moroseness somewhat private.
is it possible to embody both moronic optimism and crushing regret? about very nearly everything?
*
i cannot stop my thoughts long enough to concentrate on anything. i cannot listen, i cannot pause, i cannot remember the moment as it happens. sometimes i can. sometimes a sliver of calmness sneaks through. but mostly, my days are spent rushing towards their conclusion with very little absorption. i have gleaned little. and i feel like the spasticity is something apart from me, like a bad drug.
the only thing that truly seems to make sense to me is writing. when i reread myself i do so with the detached bemusement of "that is somebody who i could not spend more than 10 minutes around." and that impression acts as a catalyst to get up and walk away a bit more serenely.
obviously it is temporary.
i really do feel a bit insane right now.
and i am incredibly fucking lucky that i did not hurt anyone or anything whilst careening home last night. my own self-image is toast, but i deserve that.
i halfheartedly applaud my ability to keep my mortifying moroseness somewhat private.
is it possible to embody both moronic optimism and crushing regret? about very nearly everything?
*
i cannot stop my thoughts long enough to concentrate on anything. i cannot listen, i cannot pause, i cannot remember the moment as it happens. sometimes i can. sometimes a sliver of calmness sneaks through. but mostly, my days are spent rushing towards their conclusion with very little absorption. i have gleaned little. and i feel like the spasticity is something apart from me, like a bad drug.
the only thing that truly seems to make sense to me is writing. when i reread myself i do so with the detached bemusement of "that is somebody who i could not spend more than 10 minutes around." and that impression acts as a catalyst to get up and walk away a bit more serenely.
obviously it is temporary.
i really do feel a bit insane right now.
and i am incredibly fucking lucky that i did not hurt anyone or anything whilst careening home last night. my own self-image is toast, but i deserve that.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
"you have no tolerance for humanity" she once told me
one of my absolutely LARGEST pet peeves: people relentlessly inhaling snot. the man at the computer next to me simply will not stop. it is fucking repulsive and making me physically nauseous. at first i almost considered him attractive, despite his disarmingly tiny hands. now i want to fucking kill him.
time to leave.
time to leave.
turn me over, turn me on
the more comfortable i get in any given situation, the more i allow my fucking mouth to run. i do not think before i speak. fearlessness dissolves into introverted paranoia once i am left alone with my thoughts.
oh well.
work was fun, as usual, but the minor bullshit is prompting the aforementioned commentary. luckily i have the next 4 days off to relearn how to conduct myself like a lady.
last weekend i stumbled upon a 'gentleman's magazine' from the '60's, filled with incredibly crude cartoons- my two favorites being:
-new husband is waiting in the honeymoon bed (the iconic "just married" suitcase on the floor) calling out "come on, darling, i can't wait any longer!" his new bride, in the foreground, is smiling coyly with his masculine physique stuffed into dainty panties.
-man is sitting on sofa in front of television, irate expression; she is 69-ing him, ass in his face; the caption reads "dammit, charlene, i'm trying to watch 'bonanza!'"
if it wasn't rather costly i would have bought it.
theme song for the day: "conquest" by the white stripes. rowr. perhaps i just like the usage of the word "huntress."
oh well.
work was fun, as usual, but the minor bullshit is prompting the aforementioned commentary. luckily i have the next 4 days off to relearn how to conduct myself like a lady.
last weekend i stumbled upon a 'gentleman's magazine' from the '60's, filled with incredibly crude cartoons- my two favorites being:
-new husband is waiting in the honeymoon bed (the iconic "just married" suitcase on the floor) calling out "come on, darling, i can't wait any longer!" his new bride, in the foreground, is smiling coyly with his masculine physique stuffed into dainty panties.
-man is sitting on sofa in front of television, irate expression; she is 69-ing him, ass in his face; the caption reads "dammit, charlene, i'm trying to watch 'bonanza!'"
if it wasn't rather costly i would have bought it.
theme song for the day: "conquest" by the white stripes. rowr. perhaps i just like the usage of the word "huntress."
Friday, June 15, 2007
dreaming of a silent vibrator
i am on the precipice of a very obnoxious tantrum.
this city would be perfect if not for the following things:
-i am jaded. it has been done.
-i am fucking tired of not meeting people. i am tired of feeling like an uptight nerdy party-of-one. i am tired of the same goddamn streets and sidewalks and the political redundancy and the prissily manicured yards and the self-aggrandizing pomposity of it all.
-i still work 35 miles away. and even more inconveniently, it is a great job. is it great enough to move to tacoma, where i would be even more stir-crazy? no. a job should never control someone's life. ever. or, it should not constitute one's reality any more than mine already does.
-i am nauseated by the pathetic realization that if i knew more people here, if i had a warm body around, i would not be feeling these what'snext feelings so debilitatingly.
-i really miss new orleans. not the place itself, to be quite honest; i liken the city (or now, a town) to a lovable licky bedraggled pound puppy with three legs. and that is my bag, what attracts me. but the main thing, the propellant for this crush: the vibe of that place. i just felt better there. i felt mentally calmer, more approachable, a bit more sane. was it because i was on vacation? because i'd fantasized about the place for years? because it lived up to my expectations? because i'm so mortifyingly rudderless here?
fucking damn all of it. at the end of the day, i am still saddled with myself, no matter where. yay. *
nighttime is the worst. the world gets dark and ridiculous expectations set in. problems are amplified. i find myself replaying minor events that happened so long ago, things people said or did, and become enraged because 1. i actually allowed people like that to remain in my life, and 2. i miss the company. i actually miss the mind-fuckery, because a human was attached to it, and we were engaged with one another. this is sick and wrong and utterly fucked, hence the immediate (and far more residual) embarrassment.
a representative for some retirement plan came into work last week. i listened to her spiel, then declined. "i don't have much faith in my own mortality" i said. and then i realized how that must have sounded. i could feel myself blush.
i feel like i have already lived so many completely distinct realities, and have failed blatantly at every one of them.
this city would be perfect if not for the following things:
-i am jaded. it has been done.
-i am fucking tired of not meeting people. i am tired of feeling like an uptight nerdy party-of-one. i am tired of the same goddamn streets and sidewalks and the political redundancy and the prissily manicured yards and the self-aggrandizing pomposity of it all.
-i still work 35 miles away. and even more inconveniently, it is a great job. is it great enough to move to tacoma, where i would be even more stir-crazy? no. a job should never control someone's life. ever. or, it should not constitute one's reality any more than mine already does.
-i am nauseated by the pathetic realization that if i knew more people here, if i had a warm body around, i would not be feeling these what'snext feelings so debilitatingly.
-i really miss new orleans. not the place itself, to be quite honest; i liken the city (or now, a town) to a lovable licky bedraggled pound puppy with three legs. and that is my bag, what attracts me. but the main thing, the propellant for this crush: the vibe of that place. i just felt better there. i felt mentally calmer, more approachable, a bit more sane. was it because i was on vacation? because i'd fantasized about the place for years? because it lived up to my expectations? because i'm so mortifyingly rudderless here?
fucking damn all of it. at the end of the day, i am still saddled with myself, no matter where. yay. *
nighttime is the worst. the world gets dark and ridiculous expectations set in. problems are amplified. i find myself replaying minor events that happened so long ago, things people said or did, and become enraged because 1. i actually allowed people like that to remain in my life, and 2. i miss the company. i actually miss the mind-fuckery, because a human was attached to it, and we were engaged with one another. this is sick and wrong and utterly fucked, hence the immediate (and far more residual) embarrassment.
a representative for some retirement plan came into work last week. i listened to her spiel, then declined. "i don't have much faith in my own mortality" i said. and then i realized how that must have sounded. i could feel myself blush.
i feel like i have already lived so many completely distinct realities, and have failed blatantly at every one of them.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
"well, it is a new moon, you know"
my gearshift vibrates as i drive, and when i hear especially hot music or am thinking especially dirty thoughts, i find that touching it with my fingertips ever so lightly adds to the experience. a song came on as i was leaving work tonight, one that will always adhere to my brain as saturated with ecstacy, eroticism, a lack of time or place. so now i am here, typing this on a distressingly sticky public keyboard, legs crossed tightly.
music and smells. these create the purest memories.
after a damningly slow start to my day, leading to such look-busy tasks as cleaning out the staff refrigerator, it got busy: with one train wreck after another. i stayed late to help a dachsund puppy that had been dropped by the 4 year old human breathe; it was herniating its brain stem from cerebral hemorrhage, getting increasingly tachycardic, lacking palpebral reflex, and the owners (including the aforementioned child) were waiting for the entire family to show up to 'say goodbye.' compassionately, i understand this, but logically and medically this is always fucking cruel. this sort of act is for the human's benefit, never the animal. i am a bit jaded.
this computer is slower than fuck. i shall abbreviate this thusly, before my optimistic parted-lips mood disintegrates.
music and smells. these create the purest memories.
after a damningly slow start to my day, leading to such look-busy tasks as cleaning out the staff refrigerator, it got busy: with one train wreck after another. i stayed late to help a dachsund puppy that had been dropped by the 4 year old human breathe; it was herniating its brain stem from cerebral hemorrhage, getting increasingly tachycardic, lacking palpebral reflex, and the owners (including the aforementioned child) were waiting for the entire family to show up to 'say goodbye.' compassionately, i understand this, but logically and medically this is always fucking cruel. this sort of act is for the human's benefit, never the animal. i am a bit jaded.
this computer is slower than fuck. i shall abbreviate this thusly, before my optimistic parted-lips mood disintegrates.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
suckery
on the way to the airport yesterday, the cab driver animatedly pointed out the extent of the hurricane's destruction. there is an 8' high water mark on the barrier walls lining the interstate. part of this very freeway was under water for over a month. "look at all the new roofs" he said, swerving into adjoining lanes as he gestured. "what the flooding didn't ruin, the wind and falling trees did. this whole section of town was on fire-" and he indicates the gutted holiday inn, nearly two years later, unchanged. "new fences, new fences-" the freeway is over a mile from the lake, over a mile from the river, but stagnant canals line nearly every major road. it was over 90 degrees yesterday. "by august you don't leave your house" someone else told me. one day in her shop it was so hot that they filled the bottom drawer of the desk with ice and rested their feet there.
i was incredibly sad to leave; that stony, sulky feeling akin to hugging a lover an indefinite goodbye. i felt murky in the airport, not wanting to look around too much and have my heart broken more.
so i called my neighbors to cheerily check on my cats, who they had promised to check in on daily. "what?" he said. "we haven't been over there at all." they had completely fucking forgot. since tuesday. and i got hysterical. "i only gave them 24 hrs worth of food. go over there right now" i said, crying, trying to keep my voice down but uncontrollably gesticulating, only minorly aware that everyone in the terminal was staring. "i'll stay on the line." i was fucking beyond furious. and guilty. and worried. those two are my babies, as anyone who knows me is aware; i do not ask for much in this world apart from their well-being. "they're fine" he said after going next door, sounding suitably contrite. "we are so sorry."
2000 miles away, helpless, enraged, dripping snot without a tissue, and 7 hours of flying to look forward to. flying away from a place where i liked who i was a little more.
yesterday really fucking sucked.
i didn't get into seattle until after ten. the cats were ecstatic. the only benefit of their not having been fed or watered for 4 of the 5 days i was gone: the cat box wasn't as disgusting as i'd anticipated. to see that they were fine with my own eyes evaporated a lot of my ire. whatever, it's over, it's done, and my neighbors are moving at the end of the month anyway.
this morning life was back to boring normalcy (bormalcy?). i took today off because i knew i'd be burned out; i am working two extra days this week as a result (my own doing). i was having my morning cigarette next to the still-unfinished demon pig statue when she came out. "i am SO SORRY" she said. she obviously felt very, very bad about everything. "they're fine" i said; "it's a done deal. i am just happy they're okay." she kept saying how sorry she was, to the point of becoming slightly annoying; the more i think about the entire situation, the more residually pissed off i become, so it is better to just let it go. (after i am finished typing about it.) i ended up changing the subject; we talked about the hulking pig-thing and how it's been raining in seattle. she gave me a hug. they really are nice people, but the entire incident only serves to remind me how fucking flaky and lonely it can be here.
the comedown wrenches.
and while dallas has some very beautiful cloverleaf ramps along its freeway, i still despise texas.
i was incredibly sad to leave; that stony, sulky feeling akin to hugging a lover an indefinite goodbye. i felt murky in the airport, not wanting to look around too much and have my heart broken more.
so i called my neighbors to cheerily check on my cats, who they had promised to check in on daily. "what?" he said. "we haven't been over there at all." they had completely fucking forgot. since tuesday. and i got hysterical. "i only gave them 24 hrs worth of food. go over there right now" i said, crying, trying to keep my voice down but uncontrollably gesticulating, only minorly aware that everyone in the terminal was staring. "i'll stay on the line." i was fucking beyond furious. and guilty. and worried. those two are my babies, as anyone who knows me is aware; i do not ask for much in this world apart from their well-being. "they're fine" he said after going next door, sounding suitably contrite. "we are so sorry."
2000 miles away, helpless, enraged, dripping snot without a tissue, and 7 hours of flying to look forward to. flying away from a place where i liked who i was a little more.
yesterday really fucking sucked.
i didn't get into seattle until after ten. the cats were ecstatic. the only benefit of their not having been fed or watered for 4 of the 5 days i was gone: the cat box wasn't as disgusting as i'd anticipated. to see that they were fine with my own eyes evaporated a lot of my ire. whatever, it's over, it's done, and my neighbors are moving at the end of the month anyway.
this morning life was back to boring normalcy (bormalcy?). i took today off because i knew i'd be burned out; i am working two extra days this week as a result (my own doing). i was having my morning cigarette next to the still-unfinished demon pig statue when she came out. "i am SO SORRY" she said. she obviously felt very, very bad about everything. "they're fine" i said; "it's a done deal. i am just happy they're okay." she kept saying how sorry she was, to the point of becoming slightly annoying; the more i think about the entire situation, the more residually pissed off i become, so it is better to just let it go. (after i am finished typing about it.) i ended up changing the subject; we talked about the hulking pig-thing and how it's been raining in seattle. she gave me a hug. they really are nice people, but the entire incident only serves to remind me how fucking flaky and lonely it can be here.
the comedown wrenches.
and while dallas has some very beautiful cloverleaf ramps along its freeway, i still despise texas.
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Friday, June 08, 2007
salt, sugar, sweat
the ghost tour describes various lurid acts in and near the french quarter. i was especially interested to learn more about the lalaurie house, purported in the guidebooks as being the most haunted house in america, or at least new orleans. and there it was, is, very beautifully maintained on the corner of governor nicholls and rue royal. the doctor who lived there in the early/mid-1800s used to conduct experiments on his illegally owned slaves, the story goes, and when they (he and his wife) were finally discovered by the authorities, carcasses in various stages of nightmarish mutilation were found: children with their arms broken in multiple places, then grafted into unnatural poses, to see if the bones would repair thusly; dead arms sewn onto live bodies to see if the living form would accept or reject the tissue, and if not, how eagerly/extensively gangrene would set in ("it took a LONG time to die from gangrene" the guide added ominously).
afterwards i had my palm read. i was feeling puckish and acynical. "hoo boy, are you stubborn" he noted right away. i am also, according to my tattletale hand: passionate, strong likes and dislikes ("if you like someone, you love them; if they wrong you, they're out of your life"), nurturing ("you should be a nurse, or a therapist, or adopting strays" were his exact words), fertile ("five lines of fertility" said he. "ohh no" i replied immediately. "that only means that you have the ability" he backpedalled.), logical/able to see the 'big picture', and yes, impatient. "you don't like to wait, ever" he said. i was laughing at this point. apparently i will also live a long life, have many strong interests, and hit my stride in my mid-fifties.
my fifties... jesus christ, that still sounds so old. i have never been able to picture myself old. i foresee an early, unglamorous death... colon cancer or leprosy or early-onset dementia. or a car crash, wherein i am undeservedly rendered a martyr, and when people come to clean my house and package my belongings, they will realize how filthy my bathroom is and how i read cookbooks in bed.
that was yesterday.
today: after a jaunt to st louis cemetary #1 (blazing sun making my head throb) i took a random bus... and ended up in one of the parts of new orleans that the tourist bureau does not advertise. and no fucking bus was coming. it was hotter than hell, overcast, and my jeans were both sagging and sticking to me (i have developed a rash on my legs, sunburn?, so am wearing long pants in 90 degree weather). i thought, for the second day in a row, "i am going to fucking die." instead i stood beneath a tree and bent shards of spanish moss into zigzag shapes and draped them over branches. the teenage boy at the stop with me greeted me with "hey sexy, how YOU doin'?" and then ignored me once he realized i was waiting at the bus stop with him. i was the only white person around for miles... one of those terribly uncomfortable moments when you want to be cool and hip and "hey, i love everyone, man" but you just stick the fuck out and it is obvious that you are lost as fuck.
i felt like an idiot. "hey white girl, what you doing uptown," indeed.
like in tunisia: i may as well have spray-painted myself purple and tied balloons to my head. appearances dictate how you are dealt with in the world. this is not a bad thing by any means, just a reality... but it can be disconcerting. especially when alone.
it still astonishes me, the liberties people take with single women. it taps into an entirely alternate world. and it is getting a bit old. a grizzly old man offered to "lick me down" as i walked past him today. another pair said, loudly as i passed, "i like 'em young and skinny." and the dirty hippie who explained the term "cock sack" to me yesterday spotted me again this afternoon. "hey, it's that girl!" he yelled to his friends. "you're the one who said you're a vagabond!" "and you're the one with the glorious euphemism!" i called back. i am getting a bit snottier as this journey progresses. but i did smile. and he was smiling back.
a guy at the absinthe bar last night, who had weaved next to me whilst ordering more drinks at the bar and slurred "you're cute" saw me again today. he is painting a set for a theater group. he showed me his studio. it was brief. he has lived here for 12 years; he was raised in mississippi. in a small town that i obscurely know about. life is odd that way. i left quickly with thoughts of pressing him against a studio wall and fucking him upright.
this town, i tell you. it is getting to me.
i must admit: i have been more aware of how fucking spastic and yes, impatient i really am. and how easily annoyed. this is a very go-with-the-flow kind of town, especially outside the tourist areas. and i have felt the possibility, to my chagrin, of that driving me crazy. but sitting on a planter on the banks of the mississippi this evening, under a black and sporadically starry sky, watching a rat and then some sort of heron wander near the sidewalk, feeling soft and calm and alive and full o' possibility, i thought "i can do this. i should do this. this could be the next step."
and then i think of uptight, poseur-y, prissy-assed seattle, with its fairweather mentality and carefully self-conscious calibration, and i get very excited about going home.
funny how that works. vacations are about appreciating what you have waiting.
and knowing that you could, and possibly should, be doing something else.
on a side note: bourbon street smells like shit at night, even when there is no feces visible.
good stuff: cookies from the cafe on frenchman street. frenchman street in general. the architecture along esplanade. balconies vs. galleries. an excellent potato salad that i took a bite of and thought "fuck that's awesome potato salad", only to realize that the awesomeness stemmed from what appeared to be shreds of pancetta, and eating it anyway, thereby breaking my four-year unbaconedness, and it was FUCKING GLORIOUS, and i'm on vacation anyway. the cookbook store, nothing but old and used cookbooks, and a manx cat named bob who yowled to be petted, and me babbling to the man who ran the place "i collect cookbooks and this is so cool, finding a place like this" and him saying "you should move here. we'll write you a note." catching his eye as i wave from the sidewalk in front of his gallery. the bottle of absinthe i bought, complete with sugar-cube spoon. underwhelming chicory coffee (black) from cafe du monde, because one has to do such things, and drinking it whilst sweating in 80 degree nighttime humidity. the allman brothers cover band at sing sing. the bible-thumper with the huge cross standing in the middle of bourbon street and the man with the megaphone standing across from him yelling "ignorant martyr" repeatedly. the paris hilton debacle on EVERY FUCKING NEWS STATION. salty lips. the dirt-covered and expired sodas at the a&p. the eerie story about the andrew jackson hotel. romeo catchers.
i don't want to leave. this place crawls under your skin. like a chigger.
afterwards i had my palm read. i was feeling puckish and acynical. "hoo boy, are you stubborn" he noted right away. i am also, according to my tattletale hand: passionate, strong likes and dislikes ("if you like someone, you love them; if they wrong you, they're out of your life"), nurturing ("you should be a nurse, or a therapist, or adopting strays" were his exact words), fertile ("five lines of fertility" said he. "ohh no" i replied immediately. "that only means that you have the ability" he backpedalled.), logical/able to see the 'big picture', and yes, impatient. "you don't like to wait, ever" he said. i was laughing at this point. apparently i will also live a long life, have many strong interests, and hit my stride in my mid-fifties.
my fifties... jesus christ, that still sounds so old. i have never been able to picture myself old. i foresee an early, unglamorous death... colon cancer or leprosy or early-onset dementia. or a car crash, wherein i am undeservedly rendered a martyr, and when people come to clean my house and package my belongings, they will realize how filthy my bathroom is and how i read cookbooks in bed.
that was yesterday.
today: after a jaunt to st louis cemetary #1 (blazing sun making my head throb) i took a random bus... and ended up in one of the parts of new orleans that the tourist bureau does not advertise. and no fucking bus was coming. it was hotter than hell, overcast, and my jeans were both sagging and sticking to me (i have developed a rash on my legs, sunburn?, so am wearing long pants in 90 degree weather). i thought, for the second day in a row, "i am going to fucking die." instead i stood beneath a tree and bent shards of spanish moss into zigzag shapes and draped them over branches. the teenage boy at the stop with me greeted me with "hey sexy, how YOU doin'?" and then ignored me once he realized i was waiting at the bus stop with him. i was the only white person around for miles... one of those terribly uncomfortable moments when you want to be cool and hip and "hey, i love everyone, man" but you just stick the fuck out and it is obvious that you are lost as fuck.
i felt like an idiot. "hey white girl, what you doing uptown," indeed.
like in tunisia: i may as well have spray-painted myself purple and tied balloons to my head. appearances dictate how you are dealt with in the world. this is not a bad thing by any means, just a reality... but it can be disconcerting. especially when alone.
it still astonishes me, the liberties people take with single women. it taps into an entirely alternate world. and it is getting a bit old. a grizzly old man offered to "lick me down" as i walked past him today. another pair said, loudly as i passed, "i like 'em young and skinny." and the dirty hippie who explained the term "cock sack" to me yesterday spotted me again this afternoon. "hey, it's that girl!" he yelled to his friends. "you're the one who said you're a vagabond!" "and you're the one with the glorious euphemism!" i called back. i am getting a bit snottier as this journey progresses. but i did smile. and he was smiling back.
a guy at the absinthe bar last night, who had weaved next to me whilst ordering more drinks at the bar and slurred "you're cute" saw me again today. he is painting a set for a theater group. he showed me his studio. it was brief. he has lived here for 12 years; he was raised in mississippi. in a small town that i obscurely know about. life is odd that way. i left quickly with thoughts of pressing him against a studio wall and fucking him upright.
this town, i tell you. it is getting to me.
i must admit: i have been more aware of how fucking spastic and yes, impatient i really am. and how easily annoyed. this is a very go-with-the-flow kind of town, especially outside the tourist areas. and i have felt the possibility, to my chagrin, of that driving me crazy. but sitting on a planter on the banks of the mississippi this evening, under a black and sporadically starry sky, watching a rat and then some sort of heron wander near the sidewalk, feeling soft and calm and alive and full o' possibility, i thought "i can do this. i should do this. this could be the next step."
and then i think of uptight, poseur-y, prissy-assed seattle, with its fairweather mentality and carefully self-conscious calibration, and i get very excited about going home.
funny how that works. vacations are about appreciating what you have waiting.
and knowing that you could, and possibly should, be doing something else.
on a side note: bourbon street smells like shit at night, even when there is no feces visible.
good stuff: cookies from the cafe on frenchman street. frenchman street in general. the architecture along esplanade. balconies vs. galleries. an excellent potato salad that i took a bite of and thought "fuck that's awesome potato salad", only to realize that the awesomeness stemmed from what appeared to be shreds of pancetta, and eating it anyway, thereby breaking my four-year unbaconedness, and it was FUCKING GLORIOUS, and i'm on vacation anyway. the cookbook store, nothing but old and used cookbooks, and a manx cat named bob who yowled to be petted, and me babbling to the man who ran the place "i collect cookbooks and this is so cool, finding a place like this" and him saying "you should move here. we'll write you a note." catching his eye as i wave from the sidewalk in front of his gallery. the bottle of absinthe i bought, complete with sugar-cube spoon. underwhelming chicory coffee (black) from cafe du monde, because one has to do such things, and drinking it whilst sweating in 80 degree nighttime humidity. the allman brothers cover band at sing sing. the bible-thumper with the huge cross standing in the middle of bourbon street and the man with the megaphone standing across from him yelling "ignorant martyr" repeatedly. the paris hilton debacle on EVERY FUCKING NEWS STATION. salty lips. the dirt-covered and expired sodas at the a&p. the eerie story about the andrew jackson hotel. romeo catchers.
i don't want to leave. this place crawls under your skin. like a chigger.
isn't it a pity?
what can be said?
i love my life. i love this town. i love eye contact, the taste of my own sweat, having george harrison in my head, tangible sultriness.
more later.
i love my life. i love this town. i love eye contact, the taste of my own sweat, having george harrison in my head, tangible sultriness.
more later.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
"the rolling stones ARE new orleans"
i want to fucking move here.
amid my wanderings i happened into some of the area affected by katrina. and let it be known, this town is still fucked up. husks of homes with caved-in ceilings, missing walls, piles of detritus on the crumpled sidewalk, red x's spray-painted everywhere i turn. some were dated as late as 09/14/05- 16 days after the levees broke. outside of the french quarter, this place is a war zone. windows are boarded up; a high-rise building along canal street is missing most of its windows. when walking down the sidewalk, i am dodging traffic cones and sand and piles of broken cement. i am honored to witness this firsthand, disgusted as fuck that nothing is really being done to keep this in the forefront of the news. there are still fucking fema trailers everywhere. i took pictures. i was trying to be discreet, but invariably there would be groups of people sitting on the steps of less-fucked-up houses nearby, watching; i was embarrassed, and walked by with a smile, saying hello. "hello" they would reply, also smiling, genuinely friendly. this is now their reality, and has been for a while. i forget. and the way people reacted to me taking pictures, or the way they didn't react, cemented my love for this place.
happened upon a gallery in the quarter of intricate paintings done on humans, then photographed. the artist was there. we got to talking. we talked for at least half an hour. he showed me video of when robert plant came to town a few months ago and played a 'locals only' bar in the garden district. he was fucking cool as hell. he has lived here his entire life. and the above quote is his. "'can you hear me knocking' was written about the french quarter, i'm sure of it" he said. "that's my favorite stones song" i interrupted. "the guitar is so dirty-" "yeah, listen to it" he said. "he talks about cobblestones, throwing shit at her window, 'cause in the quarter you can't get to someone's place, you can only get to a gate." i was grinning uncontrollably at this point. "so when you hear that song, think of new orleans" he said. "believe me" i replied, "i will." his site: http://www.paintedalive.com
afterwards i wandered towards a bar i'd passed earlier: pravda, where the karaoke and frozen daquiri and becapped frat lushes don't tread, far from bourbon street; i was one of about ten other people, all of them locals, all of whom knew one another, and i eavesdropped quite happily whilst drinking a vodka-cran and doing the sunday crossword puzzle. i left and said aloud, "i will always be a nerd."
dried chicken feet at the voodoo shop. terrible karaoke (must someone ALWAYS be singing 'taking care of business'?) on bourbon street. the hick at pravda ordering grey goose and red bull, and me silently disgusted over such a waste of quality vodka. free samples of pralines. a 'mammy' salt and pepper set. i felt ashamed to buy such things, but they were selling them... sunflowers blooming beside a gutted home. a doll face-down and filthy in the dirt. the carefully stacked rocks on the banks of the mississippi. uncrossing my bare legs and realizing that the sweat makes them slide apart. purchasing a soda at the smallest a&p in america. comparing tattoos with the man who sold me a bracelet as his friends teased him for hitting on me. 2" long cockroaches skittering out from under the fountains. and huge rats clambering over garbage bags on the sidewalk, six or seven of them at a time, disappearing into the crevasses of wooden doors as i approach.
everyone calls me sweetheart here. and they seem like they actually believe it. i love that.
and even the dealers are charming. "hey baby" said a man about a block away from my hotel. his voice was like honey. "hello" i said, continuing to walk. "wanna smoke something?" he called to my back. i declined with a smile.
(and they sell absinthe here.)
amid my wanderings i happened into some of the area affected by katrina. and let it be known, this town is still fucked up. husks of homes with caved-in ceilings, missing walls, piles of detritus on the crumpled sidewalk, red x's spray-painted everywhere i turn. some were dated as late as 09/14/05- 16 days after the levees broke. outside of the french quarter, this place is a war zone. windows are boarded up; a high-rise building along canal street is missing most of its windows. when walking down the sidewalk, i am dodging traffic cones and sand and piles of broken cement. i am honored to witness this firsthand, disgusted as fuck that nothing is really being done to keep this in the forefront of the news. there are still fucking fema trailers everywhere. i took pictures. i was trying to be discreet, but invariably there would be groups of people sitting on the steps of less-fucked-up houses nearby, watching; i was embarrassed, and walked by with a smile, saying hello. "hello" they would reply, also smiling, genuinely friendly. this is now their reality, and has been for a while. i forget. and the way people reacted to me taking pictures, or the way they didn't react, cemented my love for this place.
happened upon a gallery in the quarter of intricate paintings done on humans, then photographed. the artist was there. we got to talking. we talked for at least half an hour. he showed me video of when robert plant came to town a few months ago and played a 'locals only' bar in the garden district. he was fucking cool as hell. he has lived here his entire life. and the above quote is his. "'can you hear me knocking' was written about the french quarter, i'm sure of it" he said. "that's my favorite stones song" i interrupted. "the guitar is so dirty-" "yeah, listen to it" he said. "he talks about cobblestones, throwing shit at her window, 'cause in the quarter you can't get to someone's place, you can only get to a gate." i was grinning uncontrollably at this point. "so when you hear that song, think of new orleans" he said. "believe me" i replied, "i will." his site: http://www.paintedalive.com
afterwards i wandered towards a bar i'd passed earlier: pravda, where the karaoke and frozen daquiri and becapped frat lushes don't tread, far from bourbon street; i was one of about ten other people, all of them locals, all of whom knew one another, and i eavesdropped quite happily whilst drinking a vodka-cran and doing the sunday crossword puzzle. i left and said aloud, "i will always be a nerd."
dried chicken feet at the voodoo shop. terrible karaoke (must someone ALWAYS be singing 'taking care of business'?) on bourbon street. the hick at pravda ordering grey goose and red bull, and me silently disgusted over such a waste of quality vodka. free samples of pralines. a 'mammy' salt and pepper set. i felt ashamed to buy such things, but they were selling them... sunflowers blooming beside a gutted home. a doll face-down and filthy in the dirt. the carefully stacked rocks on the banks of the mississippi. uncrossing my bare legs and realizing that the sweat makes them slide apart. purchasing a soda at the smallest a&p in america. comparing tattoos with the man who sold me a bracelet as his friends teased him for hitting on me. 2" long cockroaches skittering out from under the fountains. and huge rats clambering over garbage bags on the sidewalk, six or seven of them at a time, disappearing into the crevasses of wooden doors as i approach.
everyone calls me sweetheart here. and they seem like they actually believe it. i love that.
and even the dealers are charming. "hey baby" said a man about a block away from my hotel. his voice was like honey. "hello" i said, continuing to walk. "wanna smoke something?" he called to my back. i declined with a smile.
(and they sell absinthe here.)
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
the big easy 1
new orleans is magical. the air here is unlike anything i have ever felt. i feel like a hothouse flower. i cannot believe it took me this long to experience this sort of world.
a day of travel is always bizarre and dreamlike. a recap:
5.30 am. awake to alarm in seattle. the sunshine and heat has given way to greyness and cool. i packed with the lights on. gave the cats some love. they always know when i am about to go somewhere. i always feel guilty for disrupting their rhythm. walked downtown, caught the bus, stared out the dirty window at the graffiti along the transit corridor, how green everything is, how the rest of the people downtown were bustling about with purpose. finished 'growing up brady' on the plane. slept sporadically. sunshine filtered onto my lap. took pictures of the crop circles in texas. asked the man beside me what they were- flat expanses of brown with mondrian, almost perfectly geometric orbs- would make a great tattoo. "the plows are mounted on a central pole, i think" he said. he was wearing a suit and jacket and played relentlessly with his blackberry. changed planes in dallas. got lost at the airport there. the sliver of reality between the skybus and the terminal emitted a steamy blast of air. the plane was late in boarding. three girls in front of me, tarted up in latest mall regalia, gossiped with southern accents. a woman with a bespangled beatles shirt and heels towered over her ballcapped companion. only one cowboy hat in the mix.
all the cool stuff en route to new orleans was on the left side of the plane, allowing me to miss seeing lafayette and baton rouge. the approach into new orleans parish is verdant and flat, resembling plush green carpet severed with canals. the mississippi is brown and often wider than the towns bordering it. the sun through the window had turned orange, reflecting on lake pontrachian...? (i promise to be able to spell it properly by the time i leave), everything hazy and dreamlike. i used the loo upon arriving, not realizing until i got up that i was supposed to replace the plastic sheet covering the toilet seat before sitting down... must not think about that. and then i walked outside, into a hot wet muck that immediately seeped into my lungs and coated my skin with unctuous scum. and i began grinning like a fucking lunatic.
the shuttle into town was full. i was in the back seat beside an older couple; in the middle row were 3 horribly obese people, barely fitting, all shiny with sweat. the sky spit rain. canals and rivulets line most of the main streets. palm trees, factory buildings, enormous churches, railroad tracks. and a lot of buildings that were half-gone, roofless, carcasses, surrounded by piles of debris and crumbling brick. we got off the freeway and into the french quarter, passing houses with red x's spray-painted on, boarded-up windows, people sitting on steps, incredibly dense flowers, rotting antebellum porches next door to ornately remodeled mansions, antique shops and men holding hands with little kids and window boxes and lanterns with flickering bulbs and cobblestoned courtyards with spiral staircases and ceiling fans visible through gauzy curtains...
my hotel is in the CBD, three blocks from the quarter. my room is fucking gorgeous. there is a free computer downstairs where i am typing this now (it is now after 2 am here; the girl working the front desk is bullshitting on the telephone; i disrupted her male coworker, who was looking at porn, to use this).
i walked around the quarter for a while. it is fucking beautiful. did i already say that? i could live here. at some point in my life i probably will. it would be really fun to be here WITH somebody. this is a town that needs another pair of eyes to take it all in. i was rather pleasantly surprised at how quiet and serene much of the quarter really is; other than a visibly drunk guy talking loudly into his phone about how fucked up he was, and the guy who looked me right in the eyes and said "you are really beautiful", the sidewalks were only meagerly populated. and then i stumbled onto bourbon street, the vegas of crescent city, all lights and mechanical-bull bars and blaring cover bands and deafening karaoke and daquiri stands and frat boys and live dancer neon... and an amazing brass band playing on the corner of bourbon and canal. amazing. i called my parents so they could hear. it almost made me cry. it hit me: it is 85 degrees, sultry as fuck, and i am standing on the sidewalk in NEW ORLEANS at 9.30pm, smoking a cigarette, living a moment i have fucking dreamed about for a whole lot of years. life is different now. but then a sleazy old man from north carolina started talking to me and asking if i was with anyone and what my name is and what was i doing, and i made up a lie about waiting for my spouse and politely left. and that is the annoying thing about traveling alone.
i always do this superstitious thing when the plane leaves the tarmac: i cross my fingers and think: "please let me have a wonderful world to go back to." who or what am i asking that of? myself.
back at the hotel, 2 hrs later than what i am used to... i ended up watching 'v for vendetta' in its entirety. i hadn't intended to watch more than a few minutes. but holy shit, that is a really fucking good movie. afterwards i stepped outside for a cigarette. at 2 am the street is dark and the air is still heavy, like a feverish panting lover- it must be 80, with 95% humidity. the old pipe running down the outside of the building was rattling from someone's shower. i pressed my palm against it, felt the vibrations, saw a star in the sky.
a day of travel is always bizarre and dreamlike. a recap:
5.30 am. awake to alarm in seattle. the sunshine and heat has given way to greyness and cool. i packed with the lights on. gave the cats some love. they always know when i am about to go somewhere. i always feel guilty for disrupting their rhythm. walked downtown, caught the bus, stared out the dirty window at the graffiti along the transit corridor, how green everything is, how the rest of the people downtown were bustling about with purpose. finished 'growing up brady' on the plane. slept sporadically. sunshine filtered onto my lap. took pictures of the crop circles in texas. asked the man beside me what they were- flat expanses of brown with mondrian, almost perfectly geometric orbs- would make a great tattoo. "the plows are mounted on a central pole, i think" he said. he was wearing a suit and jacket and played relentlessly with his blackberry. changed planes in dallas. got lost at the airport there. the sliver of reality between the skybus and the terminal emitted a steamy blast of air. the plane was late in boarding. three girls in front of me, tarted up in latest mall regalia, gossiped with southern accents. a woman with a bespangled beatles shirt and heels towered over her ballcapped companion. only one cowboy hat in the mix.
all the cool stuff en route to new orleans was on the left side of the plane, allowing me to miss seeing lafayette and baton rouge. the approach into new orleans parish is verdant and flat, resembling plush green carpet severed with canals. the mississippi is brown and often wider than the towns bordering it. the sun through the window had turned orange, reflecting on lake pontrachian...? (i promise to be able to spell it properly by the time i leave), everything hazy and dreamlike. i used the loo upon arriving, not realizing until i got up that i was supposed to replace the plastic sheet covering the toilet seat before sitting down... must not think about that. and then i walked outside, into a hot wet muck that immediately seeped into my lungs and coated my skin with unctuous scum. and i began grinning like a fucking lunatic.
the shuttle into town was full. i was in the back seat beside an older couple; in the middle row were 3 horribly obese people, barely fitting, all shiny with sweat. the sky spit rain. canals and rivulets line most of the main streets. palm trees, factory buildings, enormous churches, railroad tracks. and a lot of buildings that were half-gone, roofless, carcasses, surrounded by piles of debris and crumbling brick. we got off the freeway and into the french quarter, passing houses with red x's spray-painted on, boarded-up windows, people sitting on steps, incredibly dense flowers, rotting antebellum porches next door to ornately remodeled mansions, antique shops and men holding hands with little kids and window boxes and lanterns with flickering bulbs and cobblestoned courtyards with spiral staircases and ceiling fans visible through gauzy curtains...
my hotel is in the CBD, three blocks from the quarter. my room is fucking gorgeous. there is a free computer downstairs where i am typing this now (it is now after 2 am here; the girl working the front desk is bullshitting on the telephone; i disrupted her male coworker, who was looking at porn, to use this).
i walked around the quarter for a while. it is fucking beautiful. did i already say that? i could live here. at some point in my life i probably will. it would be really fun to be here WITH somebody. this is a town that needs another pair of eyes to take it all in. i was rather pleasantly surprised at how quiet and serene much of the quarter really is; other than a visibly drunk guy talking loudly into his phone about how fucked up he was, and the guy who looked me right in the eyes and said "you are really beautiful", the sidewalks were only meagerly populated. and then i stumbled onto bourbon street, the vegas of crescent city, all lights and mechanical-bull bars and blaring cover bands and deafening karaoke and daquiri stands and frat boys and live dancer neon... and an amazing brass band playing on the corner of bourbon and canal. amazing. i called my parents so they could hear. it almost made me cry. it hit me: it is 85 degrees, sultry as fuck, and i am standing on the sidewalk in NEW ORLEANS at 9.30pm, smoking a cigarette, living a moment i have fucking dreamed about for a whole lot of years. life is different now. but then a sleazy old man from north carolina started talking to me and asking if i was with anyone and what my name is and what was i doing, and i made up a lie about waiting for my spouse and politely left. and that is the annoying thing about traveling alone.
i always do this superstitious thing when the plane leaves the tarmac: i cross my fingers and think: "please let me have a wonderful world to go back to." who or what am i asking that of? myself.
back at the hotel, 2 hrs later than what i am used to... i ended up watching 'v for vendetta' in its entirety. i hadn't intended to watch more than a few minutes. but holy shit, that is a really fucking good movie. afterwards i stepped outside for a cigarette. at 2 am the street is dark and the air is still heavy, like a feverish panting lover- it must be 80, with 95% humidity. the old pipe running down the outside of the building was rattling from someone's shower. i pressed my palm against it, felt the vibrations, saw a star in the sky.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
june 1: 40th anniversary of sgt. pepper, but everyone should already know that
i cried as i drove away from the airport. and i smacked the steering wheel. and i said 'god DAMMIT' out loud several times. and i called him some horrible names.
there is nothing worse than seeing someone you care tremendously about be unhappy. and there is not one fucking thing i can do to change it. she is the strongest and smartest woman i have ever known. she already knows what she deserves and what she needs to do. it's just a question of when. i do believe this.
the 2nd worst thing: i know how it fucking feels. i was in such a ghastly, manipulative, mentally hateful relationship for so long, and i knew very soon after we met that it was never going to be good. but those tastes of kindness, hilarity, sexiness, insight that he would meagerly offer allowed me to justify a hell of a lot. it kept me clinging to a fantasy even as i fucking knew better. and i didn't want anyone else's opinion, analysis, or pity. no one but t and i will ever truly know to what extent the good and bad happened. and the same is fucking true of her relationship. i have to fucking respect that.
but it is very fucking difficult to do.
i do not even want to count the number of 'fuckings' i have employed as adverbs.
overall: amazing two days. sunshine, debauchery, drunkenly walking barefoot down the sidewalk because of our stupid shoes, 3 am pizza delivery, the hot farmlands of rural puyallup, the photo booth, her $6 shake at beth's, having each other's back. i had an absolute blast with her. it is so fucking wonderful to have a friend. i want to grow old with that girl.
there is nothing worse than seeing someone you care tremendously about be unhappy. and there is not one fucking thing i can do to change it. she is the strongest and smartest woman i have ever known. she already knows what she deserves and what she needs to do. it's just a question of when. i do believe this.
the 2nd worst thing: i know how it fucking feels. i was in such a ghastly, manipulative, mentally hateful relationship for so long, and i knew very soon after we met that it was never going to be good. but those tastes of kindness, hilarity, sexiness, insight that he would meagerly offer allowed me to justify a hell of a lot. it kept me clinging to a fantasy even as i fucking knew better. and i didn't want anyone else's opinion, analysis, or pity. no one but t and i will ever truly know to what extent the good and bad happened. and the same is fucking true of her relationship. i have to fucking respect that.
but it is very fucking difficult to do.
i do not even want to count the number of 'fuckings' i have employed as adverbs.
overall: amazing two days. sunshine, debauchery, drunkenly walking barefoot down the sidewalk because of our stupid shoes, 3 am pizza delivery, the hot farmlands of rural puyallup, the photo booth, her $6 shake at beth's, having each other's back. i had an absolute blast with her. it is so fucking wonderful to have a friend. i want to grow old with that girl.
Friday, June 01, 2007
amongst the shit, something un-shit-like
it is so fucking nice to see s.
the weather is absolutely bombastic. she flew in under a full moon. the room at the hotel she is being put up at costs $300 a night. we drove by my lair. hecatomb flopped whorishly before her; tiresias circled close. it is surreal to show her my 'life' here. i feel comfortable, show-offy, self-deprecating, as if i am an actor in a play with a really cool set. this world still does not always feel like mine. perhaps it never will.
*
we lolled around her room talking until after 4 am. the topic of idiotic man-children came up. (do i even know any 'men'? have i ever?) i said something like "if i trust my instincts, i am horrified by the amount of creepy people in the world." "you should trust your instincts" she said. "a lot of peopleare really creepy."
this is one of the many reasons why i love her.
i am going to feel much lonelier when she leaves.
the weather is absolutely bombastic. she flew in under a full moon. the room at the hotel she is being put up at costs $300 a night. we drove by my lair. hecatomb flopped whorishly before her; tiresias circled close. it is surreal to show her my 'life' here. i feel comfortable, show-offy, self-deprecating, as if i am an actor in a play with a really cool set. this world still does not always feel like mine. perhaps it never will.
*
we lolled around her room talking until after 4 am. the topic of idiotic man-children came up. (do i even know any 'men'? have i ever?) i said something like "if i trust my instincts, i am horrified by the amount of creepy people in the world." "you should trust your instincts" she said. "a lot of peopleare really creepy."
this is one of the many reasons why i love her.
i am going to feel much lonelier when she leaves.
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