liquor in the front, poker in the rear*

i interviewed at the UW primate lab yesterday. the three women who interviewed me were extremely nice but i will not be taking the job. it pays over 5 dollars less an hour than what i currently make, for a 5 day workweek that starts at 7.30am and involves 95% cleaning shit. (there is no direct contact with the primates, primarily macaques; food and toys are offered through bars. macaques (which i am probably not even spelling properly) carry a strain of herpes virus that is fatal to humans, not to mention the olio of other zoonoses, including HIV and TB. the facility, spread over 3 eerily secretive facilities, houses about 700 primates altogether. i did not see any of that stuff. i was in a windowless conference room for the interview.) it was neccessary to have a perspective offered on my current job, which i really do love, and i am much more cognizant of what a sweet fucking deal i really have there.
afterwards i drove to vancouver. i have had trepidation about this for quite a while; it is a long haul towards disappointment if my passportless status shuns me entry. but yesterday was brilliantly sunny and i had a full tank of petrol and i went anyway. entry into canada was easy. the border guy asked me what my purpose was. "i want to get my mother some canadian candy for mother's day" i said. he took a quick appraisal of my filthy pink car, my stoner hair, and my lack of a passport, and waved me through.
and i was reminded anew of how fucking clean and orderly BC is. verdant green fields and enormous greenhouses line the highway. even the stench of animal urine north of surrey has an air of charm. the traffic entering vancouver did not faze me. cars are all very modern and clean. it was rush hour, of course, and the drivers surrounding me were in suits and dresses, sternly staring ahead. on the radio: a man walks into a doctor's office and says he has a problem 'down there', and pleads for the doctor not to laugh. the doctor instructs him to pull down his pants, whereupon the smallest penis he's ever seen is revealed- "smaller than a AAA battery!" the disc jockey elaborated. the doctor bursts into helpless laughter for the first time in his 30 years of practice. after 10 minutes he is finally able to compose himself enough to ask the mortified patient what brings him to the clinic. "it's swollen" says the man. this was on the radio. and it was then that i began to feel some rather uncomfortable culture shock: a shlumpy girl in a grubby car, snickering at the stupid joke whilst inadvertently raising my eyebrows at such unaccustomed 'bawdiness', shriekingly american, embarrassingly american.
i parked in a garage off burrell and began to walk. the only other times i have been to this city were with t, and every time we would have a horrific row and leave. i actually referred to it as "our fightin' city". once we secured a hotel room that I PAID FOR, only to leave an hour later, no refund. the drive from bremerton to yelm is not nearly so fucking long as the drive from vancouver to yelm, i assure you.
so walking around invoked memories: he would always buy a cuban cigar and light it on the sidewalk, which was obnoxious as hell. we drank fake absinthe at that place ("that's gross" he said, after one taste, and had no more.) once, during one of our tiffs, i went off by myself and stumbled upon the 'gay' neighborhood, and when he found out he asked me what the fuck i was looking for there.
and yesterday, pointlessly torturing myself with these ugly thoughts, i started to get really down.
shops were closing. i went into the iron-on t shirt place (* an option, with a coital sillouhete), fingered a decal of an amp dial that went to 11, and decided against it. went into several grocery stores, decided that my mother probably wouldn't dig ketchup-flavored pringles or a hulking bag of smarties, and bought nothing. i did procure exorbinantly expensive cigarettes (mainly for the gleefully morbid canadian warnings; my box has a picture of two doe-eyed children on the lid, "don't poison us" in block letters next to them) and a pack of gum. the 7-11 has bins of self-serve gummy candy. i thought of s. i smiled. i didn't buy any.
i left vancouver and started south. (total time in city: ~2 hrs, maybe less.) and upon hitting surrey for one last effort at canadiany mother stuff, i got INCREDIBLY FUCKING LOST. there was a north ramp to hwy 99 but no south, nowhere. i drove around for, oh, hours? the sign just before i exited the hwy listed the US border as 8 km away, which made it all so much more fucking frustrating. i got directions from 2 different gas stations. by the 2nd one i was nearly shrill. i ended up being about 20 minutes out of my way. i have no fucking idea how it happened. the odd thing about BC: there is a hub of shops and activity, and then... darkness. elk xing signs. construction. no other cars, except those with their brights flashing as they speed around me, the idiot girl with the filthy pink car and washington plates.
reentry to the US: i have never had a pleasant experience with US border patrol. they are always, unfailingly, beaurocratic blustering asshats. i was perhaps more flippant than i should have been, residually annoyed from my hours of bereftness in the bleak surreyscape. "i don't have a passport" i said. "when i crossed earlier today the man said i shouldn't have a problem with reentry." "they have nothing to do with us" snapped the border man. "that's canada. canada and the united states are two seperate countries. were you aware of that?"
i hope my look conveyed disgust in his unprofessionalism. "yes, i am aware of that" i said. i smiled.
he harrumphed and pretended to look at something on his computer screen. looked at my plates. asked if i'd bought anything in canada "like tylenol". (no, not this trip, thanks. codeine makes me nauseous.) "i bought some cigarettes and gum" i said, knowing that i was so FUCKING OBVIOUSLY AMERICAN that this was just an excercise for him at this point. he let me through. and i drove home, trying not to fall asleep, feeling that smothering abstract aloneness that comes from not really having a place in the world at one particular moment. the freeway was black and empty (after midnight by now) and i thought "no one in the world knows where the fuck i am." often that is a freeing notion. but last night it just made me rather sad.
*
lessons learned:
be happy with what you have.
travel with someone, and don't fight.
go to victoria next.

make yourself easy

today was spent in observance. it wasn't so bad. talking with s helped immesurably. i am lucky to be connected to one person, at least; some people don't even have that. she will be here in 3 weeks. i am giddy as fuck about this.
what was observed on a friday of annoyingly mecurial clime in seattle:
-the brand-new qfc down the hill from my lair. it is partially subterranean under yet even more snitzy overpriced condos. i was deeply disheartened to discover that they have NO BULK FOOD SECTION WHATSOEVER. that had been my hope since their stupid signs went up months ago. they have an on-site cake decorator and a lurid floral department. big fucking deal. i wanted to be able to buy dried mangoes and wasabi peas from a bin and lie about the price at the self-checkout like i do at fred meyer. stupid qfc.
("everyone's heard about the bird" is playing on the hi-fi right this minute. i still fucking hate this song. it will permanently supplant "til the morning comes" as the mental soundtrack of my day.)
-aromatic white roses
-an extremely creepy photograph i bought at the market swap-meet booth: circa 1920's (judging from the clothing), unfocused image of a butcher standing beside a fully splayed cow carcass that is hanging from hooks. the picture was nestled inocuously among placid shots of families posing in front of porches and smiling at the beach. it was a dollar.
-the tweaking boy who sat beside me on the bus. he babbled the entire way, between exaggerated yawns and flopping around on the seat. "i looked for a job today! i bought some salty green candy! did this piece of hair turn blonde yet? i would have married my boyfriend! did you play any video games today?" his hands and pants were streaked with either hair dye or blood.
-the angry bear someone had drawn with a sharpie on the back of the seat
-the unseen woman with the horrific diarrhea in the stall beside mine at the odious chain bookstore. her sandals exposed carefully painted bright red nails.
(now it's "moody river." i am morose in winter '99, driving aimlessly in my subaru, hacked-off hair beneath a ski cap that makes my forehead itch. i have not yet met the person who made the tape with this on it. the fact that someone did helped me through an extremely fucked era. thanks.)
-too many 'emo' boys to count. pasty, scrawny-yet-doughy, black hair shellacked into a comma, assless in unflattering jeans that ride low to expose back acne, and always a fucking HOODIE. one guy was sitting on a secluded tree-covered stairwell in the u-district, eating sun chips. i wanted to commend him on his marvelous choice of location. but i didn't.
i have an interview next week with the primate research dept. who fucking knows. i blew off the staff meeting at work today. i didn;t feel like driving 70 miles through rush-hour for my monthly dose of pap. so i sat in my little elliott bay enclave and read a book instead. (i am continuing my augusten burrough's kick with 'possible side effects.' the harvard t-shirt story is especially good.)
someone could have the worst personality in the world, but if they have good (relatively) taste in music, i idealize them. i really believe that this is how i allow schmucks to occupy any space in my head at all.
i am not idealizing anyone at the moment, overtly. i am presently refusing to be a bottom-feeder. signed, the perpetual spinster.

tahini+carrots=shalom

i felt lower this week than i have in a long while. the optimism and invincibility are always finite, but it still surprises me when those sensations dissipate. i was so, i don't know, LONELY, and scared of being alone, that i avoided going home the other night, driving around aimlessly in the dark rain, my scrubs dirty from work, remembering what it was like to have somebody waiting for me. and i hated it at the time. and when i think about it, i hate it even more now, because that era does not deserve one shred of positive nostalgia. possibly this mindset was due to my period, which is kicking my ass at the moment; i took a much-needed (and uncomfortably disorienting) nap this afternoon, in a haze of cat hair and ibuprofen, and had weird near-dreams of an unpleasant nature. no fully developed story lines, just scenes, just enough to make me wonder if they were, in fact, dreams, or fragments of reality. being pushed on a swing while my ex stands at the ground and describes his new girlfriend=dream. me leaning with my back against a revolving round table, trying to do high kicks in ridiculous espadrilles, my neighbor on the deck with his back to me, the table spinning and causing me to teeter=dream. sun shining too brightly against a chalky sky, me squinting, clearly unhappy=not sure.
i felt like complete crap yesterday. j had lent me 'freeway' months ago so i finally watched it. felt crawly and unclean afterwards. drove to bremerton in intensely variable weather: black sky and fat raindrops, then blinding sun against wet pavement, trees curled in on themselves in the rain. "i am a storm chaser!" i said out loud to no one, trying to feign Zestiness, knowing that i was actually a shit-feeling nerd listening to the fucking oldies station. bremerton is, and always will be, a cesspool of despair ("why are women's asses so large in bremerton?" my father asked after having to go there for work a few weeks ago), but the downtown area is rather quaint, in a plaintive, deserted sort of way. i did not get out of the car. the valleys along hwy 16 are gorgeous, especially with the maxfield parrish clouds that emerged at sunset. lots of minivans, lots of 'save our troops' affixions; this is naval country, after all. and i remembered a few years ago, driving out there with t, getting into a horrible fight along the way and him saying he hated me and wished i was dead, and me sobbing like an idiot and demanding to be let out of the vehicle, and ending up in the tall yellow grass on an offramp while he insisted i get back in the FUCKING CAR, and concerned strangers pulling up and asking if we were okay, and eventually i relented because i had nowhere else to go, certainly not along highway 16, and we returned to yelm in grotesque silence. thinking about that, and thinking about how fucking STUPID i must be to actually, in some small part, almost occassionally MISS that, made me feel even worse.
*
even the fucked-up becomes familiar, and thereby comfortable.
i would enjoy the opportunity to have the un-fucked-up become familiar instead.
*
i just recieved an email requesting an interview for a job i applied for at UW, in the primate lab. i know two people who worked there; both exhibited "ugh" responses when i asked them how it was. an interview cannot hurt. i am positively repulsed by my fucking ennui of late.
playboy magazines were 50 cents each at the used bookstore, so i bought 2 (they are heavy, and it's gross enough to buy used playboys, though these appear relatively unrumpled). the articles really are good, so the cliche must be true. shaved pussy looks fucking terrible. the little strip-shave reminds me of john water's moustache. if i ever have me a woman, it will not be a little plasticene tart with undermilked udders and an 8-year-old's twat.
on a more austeure note (negated by the fact that i cannot spell 'austeure') the downtown library continues to thrill me with its echoey moderny airy somnambulence. even the chartreuse-lit escalators (hereafter referred to as the "sickness stairs") make me happy amid the greyness.

shambala la la

had my employee evaluation yesterday; it was very good, actually. my strength: i always stay busy. my weakness: i get flustered. "you're coming into your own here" my manager noted. "you seem a lot more outgoing and willing to speak up." "my life is going much better now" i replied, and it is true: i was a miserable wisp when i started working there 2+ years ago, it being a 2nd job i took solely to get away from my horrid marriage for at least another night per week. i cannot even relate to that level of shit now. hopefully i will never again have to.
it is good to be acknowledged for my worth. it is a human neccessity, actually.
afterwards j and i got together... "the shows are all new tonight" he said happily, so we engaged in our comfortable custom of weed and thursday night NBC. i fucking love 'the office.' the other shows are pretty stupid. advertisements whilst stoned are absolutely fascinating. and the colbert report should never be watched sober. guamanians! he is my sole portal into television and cinema. during commercials we listened to the alec baldwin tirade on his computer. it is fucking horrible. i feel especially disgusting for perpetuating the fame of it with my sick voyeurism. the modern world is lacking a soul. "big deal" he said. "my dad beat on me all the time." "yeah, i got a fat lip and 'i don't have a daughter'" i agreed. we were both laughing. it is one of two possible responses, ultimately.
i use too many qualifiers. it is a typically female proclivity: 'in my opinion', 'i suppose'... they subtly convey insecurity in one's opinion, even if there is no personal doubt. i do this all the fucking time. there is a book that i cannot recall the name of about a lesbian who goes undercover as a man to see how she's treated in the world, and realizes whilst 'posing' how many latent girly mannerisms she possesses, even as a full-fledged self-professed bulldyke. she smacks her lips together after applying chapstick, for example. after reading that i noticed myself doing the same thing. and guys don't? or the way women talk with their fingers but men talk with their hands. no one taught this. it just happens. i would make a crappy transsexual.
i was always unnerved by how my ex would sit with his legs crossed like a girl. i would even point it out to him. "what?" he'd protest, immediately defensive; this is the same man who says "fags" and "niggers" without any hint of irony. in retrospect, i am cruelly smug about berating him about something so sacred as his masculinity.
i am far too much of a bitch. i even have the audacity to smirk whilst typing that.

the conversation still had a flawless flow

i am going to new orleans! in JUNE! "prepare to sweat" said my boss, evilly.
it is crucial to have something completely nonsensible and frivolous to look forward to at all times. this shall be my new m.o. i suppose it always has been, but went under slightly more sinister monikers like "instant gratification/brilliance in justifying anything."
work, one coworker in particular, has been the source of much consternation. i finally spoke to my manager yesterday. she was very nice about it, acting like i wasn't telling her anything she didn;t already know, but i feel like an asshole now. confrontation is not a strength of mine; i abashedly tend towards passive-aggressive mindfuckery. thus my first day off, today, has been saturated with pangs of stress. i relented and bought a puzzle, which is my equivalent of a junkie smoking crack; it is very ugly and very cheap, the coliseum in athens with far too much nondescript blue sky and confusing flora; i worked on it until my apartment grew dim, muttering to myself all the while. being hip and cool will wait for another day, i suppose.
a guy with far too much Hair Product and a psuedo-ironic western shirt is babbling very loudly into his phone. i fucking hate cell phones. a car nearly smacked me whilst i was crossing the street on the way here tonight; the driver, a baseball-cap-wearing phone user, glowered at me. i smiled and mouthed 'asshole'.
the other stuff that has been preoccupying me A LOT is not worth jinxing with prattle just yet.

i need something to pick at

do i go to new orleans? i have an itinerary saved. www.cleanno.org has a horrifying video taken immediately post-katrina; the icon for it is in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, and it's mind-blowing.
i still feel frantic and rudderless. went out with j last night; we met up with the people who kicked my ass in poker on new year's day. it was very fucking fun. our relationship has been, other than a few inebriated snogs several months ago, strictly platonic, but i have been having impure thoughts of late. it must be the weather. darn it all.
this evening:
-the bus driver turned on the wrong street. the other passengers immediately started braying. "what the hell is he doing? he thinks it's the 49!" the bus was on the wire and couldn't just turn around; the driver meekly called the main office to figure out what to do. everyone was being incredibly rude about the whole thing. "goddamn it all" huffed a man behind me, opening the windows with dramatic bangs.
-another bus driver pulled up to a stop and said to a guy waiting with his bike: "i remember you. you're not getting on this bus." "are you kidding me?" the guy spluttered as the doors shut in his face. it is hard to look indignant whilst wearing a helmet and spandex. like an ass, i smirked.
-i passed a man laying on his back and doing leg lifts in the park. it looked odd from afar; as i got closer i realized that he had only one leg. he was laughing at nothing as i walked by, the stump deeply tanned and waving around.
-a bitch at the bartell's called me 'sir.' she didn't see my face, just my dyke-garb. "oh, i'm so sorry!" she exclaimed loudly when i got to the counter. and she didn't fucking shut up. "i thought you were a man! you looked like a man from back there, where i couldn't see you!" she was obviously embarrassed and trying to cover it up by babbling obnoxiously. i was more disgusted than mortified. at least she thought i was a girl from the neck up. and yes, i am dressed exceptionally asexually today. apart from my heels (thick and clumpy) i could be hewing trees.
-i passed another man, long flowing santa beard and resplendent cape, sprawled on the sidewalk, screaming drunkenly at the equally inebriated woman standing over him. i walked around them, onto the scrubby grass, expressionless.
*
i don't know what the fuck i am doing. i feel absolutely fucking aimless. thank god for gravity.
thank god for walking, for blossoms on trees, for ten years after on the radio, for lavash bread and red grapes and money to burn, if i could figure out what to burn it on. other than new orleans, by myself, guilt and privelege comingling in dissonance.

free fall

diffuse wanderlust. a need to get away. augmented with an eerie sense of contentment. too much coffee, polyuric, hands askance. i don't want to be cynical for the rest of my life. everything is already blurring together a bit too predictably.
when you stop caring, as i sort of have, things tend to fall into place. maybe things already have. that does not change the fact that i want to jump out of my skin at the moment.
'talked' with my 1st ex last night. he is always in the midst of running away from something. i used to be captivated by that, the inability to live in the present, since i felt the same way. now it strikes me as somewhat depressing. but it reactivates the old cravings in my own mind, the need to never be bored, never be complacent, never miss a fucking thing. glassy-eyed towards some ambiguous problems-solved future, romanticizing the past, oblivious to the darn-fine of the right-now. much has been missed. my entire life has been spent in an alternate parallel.
so what do i want? i want to not have doubt and consternation fuck things up. i want to be open to possibilities. i want to be languidly taken on a sunny afternoon.
that's most of it, after all.
how embarrassing.

"think of your head as an unsafe neighborhood- don't go there alone"

i have cried whilst reading a book exactly twice. the first one was fairly recently but i cannot recall the situation; the second was 'dry', tonight, in a freezing corner of the university bookstore. i am certain it is psychologically detrimental to read books in one (or in this case, two) sittings, especially ones loaded with depressing crap that hits way too close to home; i left the bookstore feeling drugged and scarily fucking alone.
alone, in the cold wet night, with my goddamn mind. pissed off that i cannot drink like a 'normal' person, guilty because i have never been as wholeheartedly self-destructive as a 'real, true' alcoholic, disgusted that i cannot meet anyone here without some sort of substance being involved, especially disgusted that it is usually me that suggests it because i am too much of a chickenshit to think other people would consider me fun whilst sober. the book is amazing. but throughout it i couldn't help but think hideous, vile thoughts: 'oh sure, he's got all these friends around to talk to.' and i fucking hate myself for that.
transferring of addiction is mentioned often in AA. i believe my new addiction is isolation. self-imposed, pathetic isolation. it is safe. i went on another all-too-frequent plant-buying binge yesterday. my lair is now even more cool as shit. i look around my surroundings objectively and think "a person i would love to know lives here." it didn't occur to me until some hours later that i never considered somebody other than me ever being there. it is almost as if i am caught in an all-consuming, possessive affair with myself. this is fucking weird and crazy and jaw-droppingly narcissistic when i think about it in such terms.
there is always that feeling of hyperactive blankness that precedes self-destruction. i am not quite there yet. but i could be oblivious because i am consciously choosing to not have anyone around to riccochet my impulses off of.
by myself i am always competent, hilarious, and sensical. there is a seduction about that. but the world is flat and colorless without someone else to share it with: be it a clerk at the grocery store, or a warm hand on my leg, or the ability to relate a story we both experienced. without that the days drool together in fucking ennui and trees fall soundlessly in forests and all that shit.
i want my world shaken up in a frantic way. doesn't everyone?
such a paradox, wishing such things whilst sitting on my ass WRITING about them.

R.I.P. kurt vonnegut

i just found out. fuck. this is the man whose writing got me through the vile throes of adolescence. let us all take a moment and draw a picture of our assholes in memory.

and now you parlez-vous francais

i drove to concrete, washington today. it is very pretty country, snow-capped mountains and green bucolic pastures and the skagit river (and the stillamguamish river, which is not only beautiful but very fun to say) and trees laden with hairy moss. along the road: many dilapidated barns. a car lot with a mini on the roof, trunk open, female mannequin legs hanging out. "discarding of burning objects prohibited" signs. single-wide trailers surrounded by cars on blocks, forlorn swingsets, listing patio umbrellas. (umbrelli?) mysterious dirt roads to nowhere, probably meth labs. horses and bison and crows fighting over carcasses. (carci?) and then, the hamlet of concrete.
so i read and very much enjoyed 'this boy's life', in which he spent his adolescence in concrete, and described it with much disdain. i can officially see why. the town is punctuated with a gargantuan cement (or, actually, it is more likely concrete) silo with "welcome to concrete" painted on it in faded red. the thing is at least ten stories high, perhaps more. behind it lurks a single road of saggy, dreary buildings, gravel parking lots filled with scowling mexicans watching my stupid pink car circle. an obligatory brewpub, a true value hardware store, a police station. and a FUCKING CREEPY CASTLE-LIKE BUILDING, also made of cement, complete with turrets, the bottom levels boarded up, hulking over the end of the road in a most jarring and ill-placed fashion. it reminds me of the bashed-out barracks in whittier. actually, concrete reminds me of whittier as a whole. the silo behemoth = the pink high-rise. the surroundings are equally lovely. and the denizens are equally distrusting. not that i would know. i did not get out of my car. there was nowhere to get to, really. if i wasn;t driving a PINK CAR i would have loved to explore the boarded-up castley thing, but i felt too damn conspicuous as it was.
afterwards i had a hankering for candy. i stopped at a grocery store somewhere along i-5 and all the easter crap was dramatically discounted. so i stocked up, shit that i would normally not purchase: orange snot-eggs (i mean, cadbury's- and i fucking love them, and i also love peeps, which embody all that is heinous with the world, but i abstained from them this time) and chocolate peanut butter eggs, but because i did not have a fucking 'member card' i ended up paying NEARLY TEN DOLLARS for 3 fucking eggs and the bag of peanut butter things. i realized this once in my car. this is my come-uppance for disregarding the religious implications of a most holy day in lieu of a fucking sugar high. i fumed for about 5 miles, remembering the woman's smug face as she checked me out, knowing that SHE knew that there is no fucking way i or anyone would buy fucking overpriced holiday-specific SHIT several days after the fact... so i pulled off the highway, fully intending to go back and Give Her a Piece Of My Mind, and ended up on a one-way road leading me squarely into the anus of everett, with no way of turning around, and then it became pretty fucking funny. i am a fucking boob. lighten the hell up, anyway. so i now have semi-precious happy candy in my freezer, where it will be best, and it made for an entirely aimless story.
it is better to pay too much than to pander to The Man, anyhow.
upon returning to seattle: walked around. a lot. it is therapeutic. i have had my ego spit, stomped on, and booted about at work this week. i do not have the personality to deal with alpha women. if someone is excessively pushy/loud/argumentative, i tend to cringe and back down. i don;t see the point of 'changing their mind' or 'offering my opinion'; it is much easier, and much more ultimately self-sabotaging, to internalize my irritation and sulk annoyingly. i think i used to be a lot more combative and bulldozey. at some point i decided there was no point. at this age people's personalities are set; suggestions are pointless, and if my feelings are hurt, that is solely my problem. and it fucking sucks. it fucking pisses me off. it falls into the same "why bother?" catagory that a lot of things at work are encompassing.
thank god for the 4 day weekend.
i hate working with women.
my neurotic childish self-pity is absolutely fucking obnoxious.
happier stuff:
-it isn't the wheat, thank fucking god. because i love me some wheat. sweet delicious wheat! the cheese, alas, is still at bay, but after 3 fucking years i am sadly accustomed to that.
-dried hibiscus flowers. haven't tried them yet. the appealing lad at the grocer (a different establishment than prior) said they were "pretty good, actually."
-"don't ask me why" on the hi-fi, especially the voice-crack at the end
-sleeves pushed up
-the smells of mown grass, dogwood blossoms, and ethiopian food, though not all at once
-freeway park
-not getting raped whilst walking through freeway park
-black coffee
-more cookbooks! i am currently into the 'ethnic' tomes of the '60s and '70s- time-life's 'great chefs of the world' series is especially wonderful. how else would i know about the king who would eat chocolate-dipped pearls whilst watching criminals be tortured?
this litany of fancy nearly augments the horrible remake of 'crimson and clover' i was just subjected to. and i never NEVER need to hear fucking BOSTON again.

i should like to be a sunflower most of all

'harold and maude' was the midnight movie this week. i about shat when i saw it listed. 5 fucking years i have waited for this. so j and i went last night. i felt much better by the time we met up, thank god. it is such a good movie. i know the entire dialogue by heart; i have seen it, no joke, probably 50 times. i watch it every few months when i am exceptionally 'eh' about life, usually sprawled on my floor in slutty underpants and an ugly t-shirt, cats crawling on me, loving the way he looks at the camera after the 2nd date, loving the glassy-eyed range of 'oh my god that's what it's all about' emotions crossing his face as he lies in bed, loving the way the car shifts no less than 6 times when making the final ascent. imdb claims that the car crash at the end was real.
harold and maude harold and maude harold and maude! on the big screen! la la la la la!
everybody has something. this is mine. one of mine.
*
fucking nerd.

i am disgusting, part 27, or: this should be deleted

i am so tired of feeling like physical shit. why i haven't just fucking offed myself, i know not; insipid optimism, perhaps.
i want to be a normal fun-lovin' gal who drinks moderately and eats cheese and flesh, who doesn't plan her days around loo proximity; who isn't afraid to let someone get too close because that would involve mortifying digestive conversations, not to mention sporadic ms-iness; who doesn't walk around on this gorgeous, hot, saltily muggy friday night feeling like she's going to pass out and shit all over herself; who knows that in an hour she's meeting up with a friend who she once again will be guarded around, not wanting to delve into the whole 'i feel like crap' rigamarole, finding it easier to be aloof and ditzy and wake up in my sunny lair alone with my wheat-free snax and a fresh roll of toilet paper at the ready.
i even pushed my ex-husband away because of this.
maybe i am normal and everyone else in the world has the good sense to keep such things to themselves.
it was absolutely fucking gorgeous today, 80 degrees and cloudless, the sidewalks littered with blossoms. and i spent the majority of it in my unairconditioned car driving to and from and around fucking motherfucking tacoma on my motherfucking day off to attend a motherfucking bullshit staff meeting that lasted all of 40 minutes. 70 miles round-trip, at least an hour each way, killing time in the tacoman wasteland, overdosed and tachycardic from multiple caffeinated beverages, so i could be one of only a handful of employees stupid enough to have not called in 'sick'. i don't know why i fucking bother. sometimes i really hate that place.
i am lonely but i don;t want anyone around. does that make sense? no.
i saw my parents and grandmother yesterday. "do you have a boyfriend?" my grandmother asked eagerly. "ohhh, no" i replied emphatically. "NO?" she said, not hiding her astonishment. i am horrified that she would actually consider that to be a viable notion. "i have absolutely no desire for one" i said, "for once. it is really nice to be unto myself." "but isn't there anyone at work?" she continued, until i finally, with a smile, had to tell her to stop. i am freshly fucking divorced! i am answering to no one! i am an exceptional masturbator! i kept these obvious arguments to myself. she finally shut up, bless her heart. i can envision my family now, gossiping as they are wont: poor brynn, alone in seattle and working too much, the crazy-cat-lady-in-training, though i have merely two- (and why, if they are so hellbent on my not being some bloodshot bepissed spinster, do they all insist on sending me fucking kitty notecards and kitty socks and kitty shitty cutesy crap for xmas?) (i am a fucking ingrate. i am actually wearing cat socks right now. they are chasing fish.) overall the visits were very good, far better than i expected. my folks and i went to a mexican restaurant. 4 beers later my mother was far more jubilant and told a story about a classmate she reconnected with at some reunion. somehow the topic of patchouli came up and he ("being Of That Era" my mother added) said that the smell of it "drove his nuts wild." she said that loudly, cackling, in the middle of the restaurant. "WHAT?" my father exclaimed, aghast. i was too busy laughing.
another benefit of 'normalcy': i could have the recreational drink, as stated above, without following it up with face-planting boorishness, and my mother and i could laugh our asses off together.
is getting buzzed with your mother normal? see, nobody talks about anything anymore.

a very boring and pointless post

i have been exceptionally high-strung lately- no, really, even more than usual; if i were a cartoon guitar, the strings would be snapping and the sedate nearby tuba would be chortling indulgently. it comes and goes. currently my mood is good, mellow even; but at work, surrounded by the bitchy asides and power trips, i have been letting it get to me too much. i do enjoy my coworkers overall. but it is very fucking nice to have the next 4 days off.
it is very fucking nice to have nowhere to be.
another slice o' minutae: what is in my refrigerator? (a recurring series)
-apples, bought out of an obligation to purchase fresh rather than dried fruit, temporarily forgetting that fresh fruit is BORING. they have sat in there for at least a few weeks.
-two cans of pineapple. see above.
-pineapple salsa. this, on the other hand, is craved and eaten frequently, and in large amounts. newman's own is the best.
-tofu. extra-firm. the boxed kind.
-marinated green beans. the worst sort of impulse buy: drunk at the 24-hr drugstore (not supermarket, drugstore) at 3 am, they were on sale and looked enticing. i had forgotten i'd procured them until the next day. "what the fuck?" i said aloud. they are still sealed.
-honey mustard.
-soy sauce.
-apple sauce. probably rotten.
-soy creamer.
-stale white bread that needs to be thrown away.
-1/3 bottle of bacardi rum. has been in fridge door untouched since september.
-still-unopened bottle of dom perignon, keeping all the other crappy food company.
thus i unwittingly embody a whole new subgroup: the slothful wasteful white-trash pseudo-vegan. if i could, i would kick my own ass.

mere fucking = mental infibulation

i can count on one hand the people i know, or have known, that pass the 'daylight test': with whom i get along equally well, if not more so, whilst sober and sunlit. with whom i greatly prefer to be sober and sunlit with, actually. one person is s. the other is my ex. and that should be enough, if i weren't so hellbent on sabotaging my sense of self-respect on slurry slutty shenanigans that leave me ashamed and disgusted the next day, if i didn't find myself feeling guilty and apologetic for my stupid behavior, if i didn't feel so fucking shitty for, however inadvertantly, leading somebody on. my being staggery-drunk is no fucking excuse; when a mouth comes at me, i don't need to fucking kiss it, especially if i don't want to. i am under no fucking obligation. and if i walk away feeling like a three-dollar whore, well, i deserve to.
i turn into the most loathsome prick-tease when i drink; that is, when i'm not loudly amused by my own wit, or sniveling into my vodka, or confessing things i don't recall later. i fucking know better. and my embarrassment now is compounded by resentment that somehow, in a better world, those around me would know better also: they would have the self-worth to say "yuck, this is definitely not worth it. i know she's not interested. she's just a flaky twat who can't hold her liquor and who thrives on hypocricy. why would i take advantage of a gap in our judgements?"
thank fucking god i at least have the sentience to keep my legs together. thank god i am inherently prudish. or protective. or as t is fond of saying, "once you listen to led zeppelin you can never go back to poison."
in less titillating news: 'colour me kubrick' is, on the whole, a rather annoying movie. canned saag mateer is actually quite tasty. sixteen horsepower is good driving music. the darkened streets of newcastle would be prime spots to dispose of a body. and when t said "ooh, the band you got me into" and put savoy brown into the hi-fi and i said "yeah, this is my fucking cd" and 'tell mama' came on, i had to turn quickly towards the window so i wouldn't start crying at how sad it is when the most familiar things change so utterly. those moments i might, in a better mood, consider *poignant* and *life-affirming* are currently just depressing as shit.

focus, wench, focus!

god, it is good to be back.
*
the trees are, as they say, a riot of color- apart from the ones with the floofy white flowers, glowing in the sun. work was fun, slow, too much caffeine, large dogs vomiting intractably, cats in heart failure, the tiny pug named peanut with pneumonia, the next 4 days off. my neighbors planted crocuses (croci?) on the hill behind the building, magenta obelisks surrounded by wintry dead things. and i am unshowered, wearing a cat-hair-covered sweater and too much frankincense oil, at the subdued and light-filled library, feeling very fucking content. i had brought 3 cds with me to alaska, not realizing that the rental was radio only (as previously stated; and, apart from the alice cooper show playing MOTHERFUCKING KING CRIMSON!!! the playlists in anchorage suck. badly. i heard 'run to the hills' multiple times- iron maiden is great, but not every time i turn on the hi-fi, and not when sandwiched 'twixt the likes of 'takin care of business' and 'crocodile rock.') and after being declined permission to play nektar in s's car (which i'd expected; she always hated nektar) i blared it last night on the way home from tacoma. 'desolation valley' warms my cockles. i drove around the curve of 1-5 and the seattle skyline came into view and i thought 'yes, this is where i am supposed to be.'
i miss the w clan like mad. i had forgotten how goddamn nice it is to have an actual friend, someone who knows my crap and tolerates me anyhow. i don't miss anything else about anchorage whatsoever. after 24 hrs i had seen enough. it would probably be different if i'd returned in, say, june. or if i hadn't been reacquainted with the bullshit/gossip/incest/aimlessness/same stories 6 years later-ness. or if i didn't have a pretty good thing going here. but i digress. it was really fucking wonderful to be there. overall.
and peggy's has the greatest fries i've had in i don't even know how long! bloody hell! they were fucking fantastic!

there are no questions about your own life that you don't already know the answers to

i feel melancholy and a bit homesick now. today was beautiful: clear, sunny, warm enough to create huge puddles out of the snow. we drove to girdwood. en route i stood along the arm and smoked in the wind. the ice floes were moving quickly, soundlessly; the mountaintops were encased in mist. i will never get over how fucking gorgeous this place is. the kids slept the entire way, their fingers glued together with condiments, deceptively calm. they are all getting colds, leaking grotesque amounts of chartreuse snot, snoring endearingly.
the mormon church along the highway was engulfed with flames. firefighters were stationed on huge cranes, directing multiple hoses, the dark smoke contrasting rudely with the blue sky. the cause is still under investigation. the roof was completely gone.
i used the loo (and had stellar vanilla tea) at the brayton kaladi's. larger, yuppier, still smells of burnt coffee. the parking lot is still filled with potholes. i spent so much fucking time there when i was a teenager. coffee was $1; we would make a horrid mess at the upstairs counter, turning our drinks into sludgy powdery pastes, then take up space at the tables for hours, loudly playing cards. when i was seventeen i showed off my freshly pierced nipples in the upstairs bathroom. it is at times validating and mortal to be in a town composed nearly exclusively of memories, though the same can be said of pretty much anywhere, really. everything apart from RIGHTNOWTHISSECOND is a memory. and then we die.
s' s husband likes his meet raw. he gave the girls small hunks of his steak. the youngest gummed her piece, blood dripping from her chin, grinning angelically; when i pried the remains out of her hand she smeared spitty steak on my jeans. ("you're a vegetarian?" her husband asked last night, not trying to disguise his horror. "yeah" i replied abashedly. "i figured that wouldn't fly very well in alaska."). afterwards the w clan and i went to noble's. the three girls en masse have only ever been to denny's, and once. they threw an absolute fit once we were inside the restaurant. it was surreal, horrible, and more empathy-inducing than anything else i will possibly experience whilst in anchorage. s is an amazing fucking mother. i have so much respect for her, and for anyone who has ever raised a child. and despite these instances of absolute and utter demonic chaos, i love these kids. we walked back to their house in bright evening sun. it was fucking cold. the oldest held my hand. we walked around piles of dirty littered diapers in an alley, past crappy cars commandeered by glowering shifty men detroit leanin', past a young boy in only a t-shirt riding his bike alone down the middle of the icy street. i could not help but compare this life to mine. parenthood is a choice. i no longer feel quite as flaky to opt for weird cats and too many plants and "it's one in the morning i think i'll go drive around aimlessly whilst high la la la". or rather, i still feel terribly flaky, but very fucking lucky too.
my parent's old house looks exactly the same, apart from somebody else's vehicles parked in front. the snow along the sides of the roads is brown and filthy. i clean my windsheild every few blocks. the rental car has only radio; the last song i heard before i turned off the engine was motley crue's 'kickstart my heart.' produce is expensive. petrol is cheap. i remember why i drank a lot whilst living here. i love being around s and i love the mountains and i love how the air here doesn't feel like it's already been exhaled by a million other people, but i miss seattle. so this trip has been a good thing after all. it is nice to look for something (in this case, clarity?) and actually find it.

home, day 1

i am in anchorage. nothing has changed. it feels right. people are so much friendlier, more open. i got hugs from people i haven't seen in 5 years. they remembered me. i almost cried when descending into the grey. the trees are so much shorter, the colors so much more subdued. and darwin's smelled the same. i bought photographs from a smiling older man who complimented my chipped nail polish. the train took forever to cross spenard. the mckay building is now minty green and respectable. nothing changes. and i fucking love that.
her kids are calling me 'auntie brynn.' they are cool as hell, articulate and saucy, charming, making me feel honored with their attention. i think about having a 2 year old of my own. stop that tangent before it becomes too painful. think about the sunlight flooding my farcical seattle lair this morning, my breath visible through damp downtown streets scented of bacon and ambition. think about that. think about too many cups of tea, foreign languages babbling into cell phones, the stylized graffitti along the bus route, the glossy appearance of anything from afar. trading the woman beside me on the plane my hot nasty sausage-thing for her skittles. multiple sudoku puzzles. snow falling like an afterthought. the upstairs window of the i am house. 7-month-old drooly fists pulling my hair. and through all of it, feeling that strange tenuous flux between crying and hopping around elatedly. this is exactly what i wanted. and yes, anchorage is very fucking small, smaller than i expected.

the storm before the calm

just had the holy shit scared out of me. upon procuring cigarettes at the friendly plaid pantry i realized that my fucking driver's license was missing. i am supposed to be on a plane in 14 hours and driving a rental car in 17, not to mention my vehicle idling in the parking lot. the last place i recall using my id was the online coffee joint on saturday. i drove there in a fucking panic, through almost-snow (yes, it is currently trying to snow in seattle, on the first day of spring), trying to imagine how i would manage any of this without an id. i walked in and the girl at the counter greeted me with "hey, you left your id here." i very nearly kissed her. instead i started laughing and babbling about how she "saved my ass" and all sorts of other inarticulate things. "i have to be on a plane tomorrow and i got off work early and there's no way i would have made it up here in time otherwise and i just realized it was missing" i gushed idiotically. she smiled politely and made me some tea.
"here today, gone tomorrow, so don't get attached to things," as maude said.
my pulse is still racing. oh yes, and i started my period. again. i am probably anemic from the fucking iud. and i rudely boxed an suv in whilst parking here. but i have my id, and currently that is all that matters.
work was gruesomely slow, hence the early departure. we were overstaffed; i was a specialist tech with no specialist procedures. there was a splint change and a csf tap; after that it was myself and a bunch of similarly frenetic techs, all hopped up on sugar and singing along to ac/dc. my neighbors will be checking on the beasts in my absence. it will be hard to leave them. it is rather hard to leave in general. perhaps i am slightly agoraphobic, or overly appreciative of my own space, or both. coming home tonight through dusky crappy weather, the city glowing ethereally, the lair warm and quiet with that familiar my-house smell, the plants sillouheted against the lights outside, i felt similar to holding someone close and knowing i never would again. so i left. romanticism, be it of objects or people, makes me depressed and uncomfortable.
*
that said, i miss him. the champagne is not yet drunk. time and schedules have not yet allowed. i fretted for the last few days over taking him up on his offer to watch the cats. in the end, obviously, i declined. i don't want that hanging over me while i'm back in my old turf, pretending to be frivolous and free. this is admittedly immature. i remind myself that i am under no obligations. instincts are always correct. i hope.
i am terrified that anchorage will be a gloomy clusterfuck, that i will not be able to relate to her at all, that i will be freezing cold and wanting to leave, that nothing will have changed. and i am equally terrified that everything will be so fucking amazing that i will never want to go, and yet i'll have to, and the entire experience will illustrate how vapid my seattle existence really is. hopefully i am incorrect on both accounts and i can expect 4 days of nothin' special.
what i really need to do is get out of my fucking head. i have the ability to fuck this all up monumentally if i so desire, purely by neurosis.

hiding the welfare check under the work boots

the shit weather usurped my good will for several consecutive hours. i drove through the sloppy grey indifferent to the hi-fi. stopped at the obscenely bourgeois whole foods in bellevue, which is always fun because i feel like a skanky ruffian among the earnest white patrons. it sort of snapped me out of my snit. the rain was soft and summery and the sun broke through the clouds, and immediately everything was gelatinous and dreamy, and i actually blew a kiss at the sky.
yesterday i was waiting to cross the street at 1st and pike when i noticed two freshly dead pigeons in the middle of the road. a car ran directly over one of them. blood and feathers went everywhere. the other people standing with me made a communal "ohhh" sound. the other cars took pains to swerve around the carrion. there was something both depressing and uplifting about the entire scene. in anchorage, every spring, a few reckless ducks would take their brood across minnesota parkway by the lagoon. cars would routinely back up for blocks to allow them to cross. i always appreciated that.
i will be there in five days. four and a half, actually. it is an odd thought, like revisiting your elementary school and being horrified at how small the toilets are.
and here, everything is exactly the same and yet completely fucking different, and the shape of the universe snaps from infinite to the outline of our bodies, and i only doubt myself when i think about how fucking stupid and absurd and hypocritical and REDUNDANT this is, so enough already. which end is up? i am certainly not the one to know. ever.
i only feel truly sane when i am utterly alone.

not realizing how numb i was until i... wasn't

things are good. weirdly so. i must shake the unease that always accompanies beatitude.
*
there is a bottle of dom perignon in my refrigerator, next to the grapes and the generic salsa and generic thousand island dressing and vegan cheese. it will be opened tomorrow. it is chilling now, waiting. i have never had dom perignon. he bought it the other night; the guy in front of him in line was "gay as a three dollar bill" and said something like "oh, special evening planned?" and then, saucily, "have fun." this delighted me when he related it. it was all he bought. "you bought dom perignon and missed the opportunity to throw in a bag of cheese curls or pork rinds?" i asked, aghast. seriously: isn't this a once-in-a-lifetime thing? it came in a very nice lined box with a pornographically written multilingual booklet.
today is stultifyingly grey. i am content and lazy. awesome discovery: dr. dog. listen to them. they are reminiscent of the pretty things + early bowie. "die die die" is an especially hot and fucked-up song. 'i don't want to die in your arms/i just want to die...' where were these guys when i was fourteen and ambiguously anguished?
went to the twilight exit last night. i had been there once before with j, at the bar. this time i sat at a table in the cold corner. the place has such a sleazy and foreboding air. the walls are blood-red, the lights lurid '70's multicolored globes. the bar area was filled: the stool-fellingly-drunk guy in the misfits jacket, the old man falling asleep, the obese woman with the distractingly small spandex shorts, the ancient gentleman in the tuxedo stumbling from patron to patron offering to perform magic tricks. eminem was blaring. the bathroom is bright pink with a polynesian mural. someone had written a lecture about proper grammar ('don't write Y for WHY. what the fuck is Y?') in black marker all over the door. i only had half of my drink. he had a rusty nail ("you got me into these" he said). it was someone's birthday; everyone at the bar did a shot. a shitfaced woman sitting alone defiantly lit a cigarette and smoked the entire thing before the bartender kicked her out.
every time i go anyplace i should write a description, no matter how mundane. thus: i am currently at the library... wet and dreary outside. a man with a red windbreaker and a miserable expression is huddled against the building, waiting for a bus, hugging himself. i am the only caucasian using a computer. a group of girls sits at the bus shelter across the street, all in hooded sweatshirts and baggy jeans, presumably fresh from the mall. the guy with the shaved head and goatee, paint splatters on his clothes, nice arms, staring at me when i look up. how creepy that i am looking up to acquire more fodder for his description. now i feel self-conscious. thus i shall stop writing now.

the saccharine narcissist's pep rally

i have just worked 45 hours within the last 92. tonight was particularly insane. there is still dried dog blood on my arm and under my nails. nearly everything that required the most care died. 'lay lady lay' played on the way home. i am hyperactive and exhausted simultaneously. i will eventually stumble home, take a blazing hot shower, sprawl naked on clean sheets and read a trashy magazine. the prospect of this is practically orgasmic right now.
i am now left alone with my thoughts for 4 days. and i am beginning to stress about having t in my life at all. it feels as if no time has passed, no ugliness, but this is a rhythm i recognize. the past has repeatedly proved that everything with us in any capacity eventually curdles. why: there is a husband-wife familiarity and expectation no matter what. and i still feel that icky pang of defensiveness regarding pretty much everything. i have other friends now. i smoke pot from time to time. i don't want him or anyone around all the time. i want to keep my options open. i don't want to ever feel like i have to fucking explain my benign silly little life to anyone EVER AGAIN. how much of this neurotic claptrap is entirely of my own doing? that is the question that continually leads me back to him- the part of me that goes 'it must just be me, and i should do better.'...except that the last year + immediately counters that notion with 'fuck it. you are who you are and needn't justify a fucking goddamn thing.'
i am free now. i must not forget that.
there has been an eerie lightness over the last few days, both pleasantly surreal and guilt-inducing. i miss helix like mad but am now aware of how sick he really was, and for how long. the other cats meet me at the door clamoring for food, which they then eat with gnashing fervor; afterwards they don't puke or piss on the carpet, and in the morning they are hyperactive and playing. when helix was alive i forgot what normal was supposed to be. i am ashamed to admit this, but i am relieved that he is no longer suffering. i am relieved that he is gone.
and the divorce thing: i think about it and feel so fucking happy. i have no fucking ties to anyone. should i feel badly about this? will i?
driving home tonight i felt pretty fucking competent. i have mushed together a rather okay life for myself.
and that saturday nights song is absolutely brilliant.

higher ground

we made a glorious mockery of divorce. talked in the hallway, him in a suit, me in 4" heels ("you got new whore boots?" he asked admiringly; i forget who started calling such shoes this first), thereby missing our names being called. returned to the back row of the courtroom, making rude jokes about the decidedly more white-trash company, feeling sad for the woman who'd been seperated since 1989 and whose husband was somewhere in mexico, or the woman with crunchy bleached hair whose husband was in jail ("make sure you let him know he's divorced" the judge said gently), both of us alternately snickering and crying and his hand on my knee, talking about how nervous we both were, and how sorry, and him saying "it's just a piece of paper." "well, marriage didn't work" i said. "maybe everything else will." "while you're still my wife-" he said, and kissed me. i wonder if we are the first couple who were kissing prior to getting divorced. i am rather proud of that. we ended up being last. the judge was a kindly older woman with white hair. the whole thing took about five minutes. "this is how it should be done" she said several times. "thank you for both being here."
we left with our arms around each other. "that was kind of anticlimactic" i said. then we got into his car and went to the spar. i hadn;t been in downtown olympia in about a year. i had cringingly sweet tea, he had grilled cheese and a coke. and we bullshat, as friends do, as friends who have been through every conceivable life-fuckery together do. on the way back to pick up my car he said "we need a new song. the first song that comes on:" it was 'suite judy blue eyes' by csn. and it fit very nicely. the trees lining the road were covered with blossoms. the sky was dim. and it felt like we were as we always were, but better, easier, sexier, freer, in our old turf- and with the world wide open and fresh for the first fucking time.
i am no longer married.
and i feel really, really fucking good about him, and us, and everything. i feel calmer than i have in a very long while.

on the eve of the wide open new

i just read 'running with scissors' in one sitting. it took 2.5 hrs. the sky was light and the wind was blowing rain sideways when i entered the bookstore. i sat in a horribly uncomfortable chair in the upstairs area, one of my secret little nooks in this fair city, and when i left the sky was pitch black. the lavatory at elliott bay is rather sinister: exposed brick, tanks suspended several feet above the toilets, the pipes making a panting sound. the light by the blurry mirror has the dim quality of an old trailer. my eyes looked like i'd been crying.
tonight is a somber one. i feel completely fucking alone here, simultaneously recoiling from the options i have for possible company. i get giddy about revisiting anchorage but also know that it will only depress me further: the sobering sameness on one hand, the things i wish were the same utterly altered on the other. one can never go home again. but this doesn't fucking feel like home either. i don't know what would, or what ever has.
i feel like a fucking island.
the divorce is finalized tomorrow. this is just another fucking death in a week of fucking death. to admit how much more fucking cynical and devastated i am, especially in legal, public terms, is so GODDAMN TRAGIC. i want to trust simply and wholly again. i don't want to slog through friends who just want me around when they need something, be it my sympathy or covering a shift at work or a pity fuck. but the years pass, everyone gets older, and everyone else gets progressively more disillusioned too. jesus christ, this is so fucking depressing.
one thing that will always stick with me about t: he hated it when i called it 'fucking.' 'it should only ever be making love' he would say. early in the relationship i would roll my eyes at what i percieved to be his prudishness. and maybe it is. but it sets a damn good precedent. if only it was a likely standard to obtain. in a completely fucked up way, perhaps he was my last chance. and these are the thoughts that sadden me now. i know better, i really do. but i didn't marry him at one point in my life because i thought he was a dickhead. i honestly believed that it was the best decision i could have made. and it wasn't. and i am fucking pissed off and disgusted and hurt and every other nasty black emotion about it, and i particularly hate being reminded of all these fucked feelings afresh after months of not contemplating much about it at all.
...the freshness is the worst part. i thought this was a done deal.
once loved, always loved... even if i can't stand them.
the book was good overall. parts of it were a bit trite. i had already read the 'expose' in vanity fair about the falsehoods and discrepancies, blah blah blah, but if regarded liberally, yeah. and my favorite line in the book, one of those things you read at precisely the right time: "before was only there so after could happen."
and thinking about that, everything else i just wrote seems a lot simpler, a lot more optimistic, and almost hovers on a sliver of sense.
and while i was inside for those many hours, it stopped raining.

the morning after

i'm going to anchorage!
YAY!
it is so fucking nice to have something to look forward to, or distract from, or what have you.
occasionally one must make their own silver linings, or something.
lengthier entry to follow.
that almost sounded subversive. god, i wish.

helix 1998-2007

he was there, and then he wasn't. it happened so fast. and when i returned to seattle the moon was just rising, huge and orange and shrouded with cirrus clouds.

and 'pure' rhymes with 'sure', as either "assurance" or "sure full of shit"?

this last week is one i am already regarding with "ooh, some crazy shit" sentiment. working frantically and constantly. soul-crushing cramps that allowed me to go home early today (with the caveat that i pick up yet another fucking shift); i drove in lazy evening sunshine, the window down, supertramp's 'dreamer' blaring (and remembering dancing naked in my various lairs many times to that song). helix doing horribly. knowing that i must conjure the kindness and mercy to let him go tomorrow. i have been coming to terms with this for the last ten months. he has been with me through every crappy post-bob apartment, through every weird relationship, through interstate moves. he endured sarah and charlie, b-mac and his bong hits, the stray cats i would bring home, the three months with my parents while i dilly-dallied around europe. he was my radar for potentially unsavory menfolk- the ones he liked got to stay in my life a little longer. he tolerated tiresias beating the crap out of him, hecatomb hating him, the various reptiles and rodents, incense oversaturation. he tolerated me. i have had him since i was fucking nineteen years old. i wince at the cliche, but this is breaking my fucking heart.
it is incredibly nice to have an unexpected evening free. it is a warm and gentle night. flowers are blooming. the air smells of growth. a man hanging out of his upstairs window called "hey, how you doing?" as i walked underneath, and i happily answered, feeling that sultry summer vibe for the first time in a long while. knowing that things are going to be Just Fine. i may have even said that aloud, shoes clattering on the darkened residential street: "it's going to be okay." i immediately corrected myself: "things already are." the word 'pure' resonated for another block. i made a promise after leaving t last january: it is better to be alone than lonely. expectations are sodomy for the soul. i would no longer put up with bullshit. i would listen to and act on my instincts. me against the world, but in a cool, comfortable way.
i sound like a fucking stoner. fact: i never write in this when i am altered. i mortify myself handily whilst sober.

the catbird seat!

it was very therapeutic to hang out with j again. it had been a while, work schedules and whatnot. we watched 'stranger than fiction', which i liked a lot more than i thought i would. (his other netflix was a terry gilliam movie, "the most fucked up thing" he'd ever seen... highlands? tideflats? something from 2005...) his beagle hogged the sofa. the frank zappa poster glowed in the reflection from the television. it was mellow, wonderfully mellow.
i found asunder dead in his cage this morning. "good morning!" i singsonged, picking him up... and he was stiff and contorted. i spoke the lord's name and dropped him. it was inevitable. he didn't eat when i fed him two days ago. now that i am over $300 into the hospitalization/medication/setup debacle, it is only reasonable that i procure another snake quite soon. or create a kick-ass terrarium of hothouse flowers. that would be more emotionally soothing.
good things: (possibly repetitious, which only heightens their greatness)
-coconut pouchong tea from monorail espresso, which has one of the best logos ever! when i am downtown i always stop there. the people are disarmingly friendly and they have a surcharge if you are using your cell phone whilst placing your order.
-hot-sweet-salty mix from traveller's. it is crunchy greasy crack. it comes in a little plastic cup and can be eaten by placing your tongue inside and gathering crumbs (...so i've heard). it is a hedonistic, private, glorious delight.
-'a tab in the ocean' at 1 am, driving the viaduct through downtown seattle and smiling uncontrollably.
-finding a $20 bill in a parking lot, which i did.
-the very nice guy with multiple missing teeth who works graves at my favorite grocer. it is nice to be recognized and remembered in a big city.
-sleety raindrop patterns on the windsheild.
-the sound of wipers on the windsheild.
-the toilet/1st date scene in 'extras' riccocheting through my mind whilst attempting to pee at j's. the more you think about micturating, the more difficult it can be. perhaps this is just me? dead quiet house (telly on mute), me trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all, then somehow compelled to announce the entire thought process once returning to the sofa. thankfully he laughed.
-the quiz section in the comics. every day i am reminded of how stupid i really am. today: what is the largest island in the pacific ocean? i guessed australia. sorry, dumbass, australia is a continent. the correct answer is new guinea.
-broadway news. still. i am a fucking fool.
-tertiary colors.
-clove oil.
-the print ad for a new movie which, unfortunately, stars sandra fucking bullock. the art is fucking cool.
-rediscovering the unparalleled joy of original flavor trident gum. the pieces are bigger than i remember. the mouthfeel is superb. i am aware that gum is for the uneducated tweaking miscreant.
-"i was just getting my 'swingin' doors' on."
-the tombs is 10 years old today. i just realized that the other thing is also 10 years ago today. unrecognizable. funny. weird. and my second frittering ends in 7 days. life is pretty cool. and that handily sums up my little list. i am smiling as i type this.

wha'ever

...another day when i am so fiercely self-protective, so fucking fed up with bullshit... and the songs on the hi-fi were wonderful, and i sang along, and north of 85th the snow was still present, and i stomped on slush with a girlish laugh under obscenely blue sky, and the world smells clean and full of promise, and everything is still going to be fucking beautiful, and i am still in a damn good mood.

making it happen

work was slow as hell. everyone was jacked up on sugar. it evolved into a fun day. even still, maniacally overcaffeinated, i am riding a rather indestructable wave of optimism. my horoscope, which i read despite myself, said only "buy now, regret later," so i am foolishly waiting until later in the week to spend money on frivolous things, albeit things that have been gestating in my fancies for many months.
foremost: alaska, $377 RT. the fare has not fluctuated in months. it will probably never be cheaper again, the bastards. i want a foray after the divorce is finalized. i was looking at the last weekends of march, my ideals dimmed by the fact that it will still be ovary-shatteringly cold at that point, but i need to go somewhere. i need to git. i want to tread those distressingly familiar streets and relish the fact that i no longer live there. one of the AEC doctors (the flirty one) is going up this weekend to help with the iditarod. "you want me to say hello to anyone?" he asked. we know a lot of the same doctors. it is a small fucking world, and within that microcosm is alaska. and i love that, though i may have despised it when i actually dwelt there. knowing that everyone had slept with everyone else (i thankfully dodged the herpes breakout of '01). buying cigarettes at the store with my 6th grade teacher in line behind me. sleeping on a sofa with a guy whom i had 8th grade english with after a drunken new year's 2000 party and seeing him later that same night at the fucking office lounge (and proceeding to actually cry into my drink because he acted like he didn't know me... this is funny now). running into my parent's friends whilst in compromising situations. i am reminded that the majority of my alaska memories and subsequent shames involve drugs, alcohol, and sex. perhaps that is why i moved, and why i shall visit with a pearlescent sheen of virgin godliness.
or a pearlescent sheen, anyhow.
there is a book at the odious chain bookstore that describes the greatest examples of roadside americana. i have already been to many of the ones in washington, such as the 'stonehenge' near the columbia river and 'the world's largest egg' in winlock. others weren't mentioned, like the teeny church on hwy 2 (where my former uncle once got married, apparently- the uncle who has lived out of his car with his wench and their baby for the last 2 years, both of them unemployed, the daughter having difficulty walking because of said lair). or the teapot petrol station-turned-boarded up-artifact near the tri-cities. or the right-wing crazy fuck with the propoganda-spewing billboard erected on his farmland near centralia. then the smaller, less-iconic but still beloved gems: the smiling radio-station sun near ocean shores. the neon plunger on aurora avenue. the hammering man statue drinking a beer in front of the blue moon tavern. the bardahl oil sign. the wonder bread sign. the pepsi symbol. murals painted on the sides of barns advertising fruit. not looking too closely at spokane and simply admiring the brickiness, then stopping at the diner with the stupid name i cannot currently recall, the one with the huge lurid revolving sign that pokes out above the cement corridors of i-90, and sitting in a semicircular green pleather booth with sunlight shining through venetian blinds in frigid air-conditioning and opting for an iced tea that leaves streaks of condensation on the formica as the pie case twirls and old people dig into discounted meals, central washington sunburn adhering to the cold seat, reading the local NickelSaver as i wait for my order to arrive...
'how soon is now' is playing (here, in seattle): the only smiths song that is not only non-repugnant, but downright awesome. i may even include this in the yet-unwritten account of the 20 sexiest songs ever.
i will not edit or reread this, likely to my detriment.

witany = a litany of wit

a serious flaw in my character: i am far too easily disillusioned. by everything. i am bored too quickly. hindsight leads to regret. thus i romanticize the past, rationalize the crappy bits, and blur the lucidity of the present.
this applies to many things. well, it currently applies to only a few things. i am absurdly content in much of my life, weirdly enough. reading about date rape under xmas lights. playing pool at a dive tavern in tacoma, interspersed with my drunken boss flirting with me and every other woman there ("he'd hit on a fucking corpse" another coworker commented today). calling the grassy yard in front of work "the pudding of the damned", off the cuff, due to the fecal mire resultant of the constant rain, and illiciting laughter. (elicit?) elo's 'can't get it out of my head' on the drive home, very loud, a truly great song that i hadn't heard in a long time.
the undercurrent of grey is still of the lyrical variety. i was thinking last night about sleeping with someone, waking up in the middle of the night, our faces monochrome, mumbling about our dreams or our paranoias or our love for one another, or possibly all of the above. having somebody there. and i thought of the two people i have ever been able to really achieve that with, and how it doesn;t seem possible to ever feel that way again. and i thought these things without a hint of wistfulness or yearning- more as a 'wow, that was really cool that i could experience those connections, isn't life varied' kind of way. and that is weird. isn't it?
everything is so much fucking simpler now. i am only just becoming accustomed to the concept of having myself alone to be responsible for.
a hag at the computer next to me is loudly braying into her cell phone to blind dates. "i like, i don't know, snowboarding... that's awesome..."
i am the anonymous wench with the hippie-scented sweater and floofy hair and crossed legs and quietly oblique expression. i am fidgeting with my hands and realizing that they smell like the air fresheners in the stairwell lavatory of the peace & love hostel in paris- like fake strawberries and old wood. i wish there was another person in the world who would know exactly what i mean. if only i could open my mouth and have a marvelous accent tumble out.

if you don't like it, don't read it

things are gelatinizing very very nicely. i feel calmly optimistic about the world.
in the midst of my serenity i received a drunken phone call that annoyed me. apparently he cannot communicate with me unless he is inebriated. the other day his voice expressed palpable surprise when he said "we had a really good time last night and we were sober." that pissed me off. i was immediately reminded of that same conversation in alaska, how every time we'd get together it was whilst carousing, how we'd discuss the anomaly of that over hungover breakfasts and agree to do better. but i could still talk with that guy. i am left with a brief paranoia that either 1. i am the sort of lass that one must be fucked up (chemically or emotionally or otherwise) to be around, or 2. i have a masochist-magnet, being a bit of one myself. aa talks about this. alcoholics have a fucking radar, the ability to sense similar tendencies in a crowd full of people. this must be why i always fall for such people, and why they always let me down. i wish we could be actual friends.
...but everything else is falling into place, temporarily, for once, so i am not too bothered by much of this at the moment.
the final divorce hearing is on the 9th of march. yesterday was another fucking reminder that it could always be so easy when we actually acted like adults. after the meeting with the court facilitator we lingered in the parking lot. we both cried a little, laughing as we did, the sun brilliant and cold. "i'm okay until i see you" he said. "and then... this whole thing..." "it just fucking sucks" i said. "yeah" he agreed, "that's the only way to put it. it fucking sucks." i felt yesterday that we could possibly be friends. someday. someday when it doesn;t hurt so fucking much, when the rare but incredibly good times aren't so fresh a memory, when i don't expect what i could never have.
i drove away with everything visually sharper. it was probably the sun. i use this word too frequently of late but it seems to suit the mood most efficiently: poignancy. i daresay this is my favorite emotion. it proves that one has given a shit.

flowers planted while the dirt's still hard

i was standing on a corner downtown, across from the library, next to a huge and austere building containing godawful chandeliers, when i texted him. as i sent it i recieved a message from him. i laughed out loud at the "okay, everything's gonna be just fine, life is magic around every turn"-edness of it all. a bedraggled man passed me and said hello with a smile. i grinned back widely, automatically.
i have a similarly symbiotic, if one can call it that, relationship with a woman at work. when she's having a bad day i am goofy and competent, and vice versa. we help each other. we even started having the same Cycle, which is eerie, since we never see one another extracurricularly. jokes have been made: "keep it together" i'll tell her. "i'm having a crappy day", or similar. it is therapeutic as fuck to have people like that around.
stumbled upon a book today, not literally (though i suppose it is literally, being a book... shut up): a compilation of secrets sent on postcards. i'd heard about it before, immediately going down my narcissistic litany of 'secrets', realizing that i cannot think of anything about me that at least one other person doesn't know. it is fucking amazing, in any event. i recommend a special sojourn to the 'cultural studies' section of your nearest odious chain bookseller. the cover looks like a binder with rubber bands around it.
while not 'secrets', there are shameful (and vengeful, and perverted, and pathetic, and self-loathing, and inflatedly self-congratulatory) thoughts.... shame is relative, though. notions i should probably be abased by, i am not. i have a lot of familial shit, i guess. i often wish i wasn't an only child so i would be able to regard my upbringing with greater clarity, have someone else to commisserate with, know that certain things existed because another person was there to witness.
it is quite rare that i can say, with assurance, that things are going to be okay. even now, as i believe it, i wonder what i am missing.

anointed, impure

are these too lofty, such expectations: a parallel between the words written and the words said? being told how much i'm adored whilst being treated like a fucking stranger? i was lounging lackadaisically in my xmas-lit lair, warm skin, listening to goddamn nina simone, feeling rather fucking groovy, and hung up the phone feeling very annoyed by the disparities. felt like a simpering moron, actually, brought back to earth after my little fandango among the stars. there is hell to pay for believing in false familiarity.
i still have the thought processes of an adolescent. currently typing in a cafe is the equivalent of sprawling on my bed and writing torturedly in my *diary*, horses on the cover optional, possibly in purple ink, tongue absentmindedly running over braces.
speaking of the worst years of my life!: found a used copy of the pixies 'bossanova', an album i'd not heard in many years, the cassette shredding from oversaturation and long lost. and i still remembered every fucking lyric, every percussion, every scathing-yet-ethereal backing vocal. this made me very happy. it is excellent driving music.
despite being cold as holy fuck outside, i am in a marvelous mood overall, actually.
holy. fuck. this is such a concise and offensive idiom, which i have never really considered until just now.

lips parting to the notion

work was a fucking drain. have been up since 330 am with pointless, laughable insomnia. a great dane had exploratory surgery- he had ascites, the doctor suspected cancer- only to find what ended up being over 3# (i weighed it) of clothes in various stages of entirety. a completely intact (very large, utilitarian) bra. women's (again, not sexy) underwear. men's underwear (tighty-whiteys, stained black with stomach acid). a leather glove. kid's socks. a thick knee-high sock. more gloves. 2 intact ziplock bags. shrapnel of various other bras, backs still hooked. all this, plus a huge glob of mostly unchewed food. i wore gloves, thank god, and picked through all of it. found out after that the dog is shuttled between a divorced couple. "their underwear was comingling!" said one of the other techs. "it's a sign that they should get back together."
it probably need not be said that the dog apparently tried to chew out certain parts of the undergarments more than others.
i am squeamishly aware that they were probably not clothes sparkling clean from the dryer, either.
humans are so much more repulsive than animals. i once saw a dog vomit a used condom, though. that was pretty disgusting.
but throughout the horribly long day i have been riding a wave of sha-la-la-la. things are fucking good. i have a weird, foreign trust in the future- things will be damn marvelous, this summer is going to be lip-bitingly brilliant, there will be sunburns and road trips and love and skanky motels and grassy confessionals and everything negative will be dealt with, rolled with, grooved on, what have you. vocational shit, snide coworkers, depression, neurological fuckedness, overbearing yet oblivious family, the relentless cold rain, frenetic mania, et fucking cetera- pshaw. silly, ephemeral fearlessness. the paranoia, the 'truth', will come crushing down again all too soon, i'm sure. as usual. i am a bit predictable this way.
oh, sweet minutae, you stiff and soulless lay: thank you for reminding me of my need to scrounge quarters and do laundry. the lustre of everyday life just floors me.

putting the 'twit' in twitterpated

it is bombastically sunshiney today, and if i wasn't hung over on aquavit life would be damn near perfect.
*
i am rather amused by that sentence.
*
someone's phone blares 'ode to joy.' the owner is promptly reprimanded by library personnel. one of my coworkers has a biggie smalls ringtone. methinks that would not go over too well here either.
walked home from the bus stop last night in a blurry, giddy state. that is one of my favorite routes, up precipitous inclines past dark-windowed mansions with the city sprawled out below, past wet gutters and groomed yards and nicely maintained vehicles, the contents of my bag a-jingle, giggling out loud at the glory of it all. uphill breathing sorta augments pangs of lust. but only sorta.
perhaps i shall come back to this when i am not so intellectually stultified. currently my head is filled with happy cement.

king crimson saturation

my first spring back in AK after the initial seattle debacle of 1998: listened to 'young person's guide to king crimson' excessively. it was a thrift-fhop cassette and, despite the abbreviated nature of much of the songs, a damn fine compilation. the days were getting longer. i would get off work and drive through the long sunlit rays, everything tinted gold, feeling attractive and optimistic. often inexplicably ended up at the cematery (sp?) in ocean view. it was a good vantage point for western exposure. i would read the tombstones, admire those with fresh bouquets, rearrange those that were disheveled and withered. fantasized about fucking there. when i would eventually leave, the pilgrimage back to my grotty lair in mountain view would often be punctuated by 'ladies of the road', so loud the car would vibrate, unless a caul of anger/melancholy required 'starless.'
or 'cat food.' thanks.
sometimes i would swipe my friend's bullmastiff, jake, an idiot puppy who was already over 100 pounds. most of the time he lived in a pen in their yard on hillside. his tail would be wagging before i ever got out of the car. i would take him to point woronzof. he was disinterested in birds and water, a good companion. i felt safe with him.
i cannot fathom how long ago that all really was. it seems like ten minutes.... today, on the other hand, dragged on in a blur of chocolate-vomiting dogs and neurotic owners and the unctuous smell of vietnamese food and the rude girl with the diaper-wearing pet rhesus monkey. i do not need to be back for two days. i am glad of this.
'one time' whilst walking the misty nighttime streets of amsterdam. 'easy money' on a winding road in north tacoma under wet autumn trees. 'b'boom' with drumsticks on the dashboard. buying 'islands' at the disgustingly astringent cd store in bellevue during a first date. that tattoo. that email. everything comes back, in a weird way, to this fucking band. perhaps this is the crux of my multiple laments, or my lurid dramas!
this is possibly the stupidest post i have ever scribed.

slate blue mind

high to low. serendipity to shit. the better my mood, the more crushing and immediate the doledrums. this is the story of my life.
i have been a snotty little bitch today. work was grueling and my coworkers were annoying. perhaps i am sleep-deprived. i am always sleep-deprived. i stagger around in a constant haze, looking like crap, unable for the past what, few years, to sleep more than six hours a night. the past month has been reduced to four on average, with bizarre and depressing dreams, waking to cats and wintertime congestion and predawn blackness and a vague feeling of lonely dread.
the dream i had last night: i was meeting my ex to finalize the divorce. "can we have one more night together, for old time's sake?" he asked. "no, absolutely not" i said, part of me immediately wondering if this final chance would be the one in which we would finally get things irrevocably right. i woke up panicked. panicked in my dark lair, MY world, the beasts sprawled about, taking a mental account of the fact that no, i am here, this is my reality and i am not going anywhere else. this must be akin to a recovering alcoholic roused from a dream about drinking. it upset me, depressed me, freaked me out. bad habits never go away, they exist in various levels of suppression.
i picture an animated thundercloud hovering above my head. self-pity is so fucking unattractive. luckily i am not trying to impress anyone.
'dear mr fantasy' is playing. as it does. and i always make some gushing comment about how fucking amazing a song it is, how it gets into my soul and dampens my nether-regions and invokes fancies of heavy-lidded hot-mouthed lolling. whatever.

yes, but honey is merely bee shit

revision of the last rant: i don't hate anyone. poignancy means yer livin', right? i feel goodwill and peace and love and goofy optimism towards the entire fucking world. la la la la la.
life is honey on my tongue.
yes indeedy do.
(shall see how long this lasts.)

life is fucking weird

i accessed the homer pictures as 'inner city blues' started playing. fucking eerie. i hadn't thought about that trip in years. fucking fun, it was. oh, back in the days when i had trust. i miss that. i miss utter comfort and fearlessness. i miss the lack of stick up ass. damn it all, anyway.
i also miss that hat. that was a great hat.
i fucking miss alaska.
*
my current life is so fucking solitary. much of this is self-induced and self-perpetuated. i have spent the nearly 5 years that i have lived in washington being alone- and yes, that included being married, as that was undoubtedly the loneliest, most pathetic era of my life. being by myself is comfortable, safe... and when i think about it analytically, either the height of narcissism or the nadir of despondency.
i go to court tomorrow. part of me is tempted to say 'fuck it' to the entire thing, beg the judge to just annul the fucking thing and let me walk away with nothing but my freedom. this entire ordeal has been such a collossal clusterfuck. i am eager to feel how much less stressed i will be when this is over. but it will not be over tomorrow, alas. i can honestly say that he is a fucking piece of shit. i am horrified that i ever loved him, ever believed in him, ever let him inside of me. i hate him for making me fear that i will never let my fucking guard down again.
jeez, i certainly do curse a lot. how plebian and inarticulate of me.
'fuck', as an adjective/expletive, is certainly my favorite word. 'glee', 'obstreporous', 'shindig', 'minx', all worthy yet distant contenders. i was muttering crudely at work the other day, oblivious to my coarseness, and a coworker (in a favorable manner) said "yeah, she's a salty one." that made me very happy, actually.
an odd thing, reminded by the aforementioned photos: i don't 'hate' anyone else who has ever been in my life. i can still remember the good times, i can still see their pictures and smile, i still wonder how they are and wish them well. not many of them may deserve such amity, granted. perhaps i am a simpleton, far too easily shat upon... or maybe recognizing that at one point they made me laugh and think and come and live in the present prompts a sense of goodwill that doesn't just go away.

b flat

i was inspired to recall purely, grotesquely american phrases whilst walking through the (mcdonald's wrappers- and starbucks cup-strewn) filth of downtown seattle last night. thus far the two cataclysmic ones are "born to shop" and "my baby's daddy." more undoubtedly to follow.
i feel hungover without the benefit of alcohol. i am in a sludgy funk, tired and sullen, blah precipitously hovering near depression. the whole parent thing yesterday certainly set it off, coupled with the fucking court date on monday. my neighbor's horrid child has taken to screeching like a fucking air-raid siren. today he was clomping up and down the (barrier-free) deck, crawling on the chair outside my window, purposely banging his head against the glass. i was laying on the sofa at the time, helix asleep on the curve of my hip, reading a book. his father, my landlord, walked in front of my window and looked inside. i waved, pointedly trying to convey a "what the fuck are you doing in front of my window?" look. for his credit he did look embarassed. it is quite convenient to have free birth control with the rental of my lair.
i would like to be selectively invisible. selectively anonymous. doesn't everyone?
rummaging through the 'prisoners' bin in front of left bank books, i came across a romance novel titled, i believe, "secret agent dad". so i had to fucking look. there was not much copulating, much less heaving bosoms and purple velvet-headed warriors. i tossed it back quickly. when i was in junior high my friend meagan and i would loiter around waldenbooks after school and read the sex scenes of romance novels out loud, the more grotesque and lurid the better, laughing hysterically. tis a marvel we were never kicked out of the store. we then progressed to writing our own scenes, saturated with euphemisms, asexual freakish nerds that we were. i haven't heard from her in nearly fifteen years. (that was a fucking scary revelation. holy fuck. that dates me a touch.) i wonder.
today, a saturday:
-a group of people animatedly signing, viewed through the dirty bus window. my immediate thought: "if i learned to sign i'd fucking end up blind." second immediate thought: "wow, i really am in a crappy mood."
-the insanely good smells from the basement tibetan restaurant, promptly augmented by the vomit smells of dick's a block away
-teenage boys asking my opinion on the tag they'd just left on a light pole. "very nice and silver" i answered. "i like the asterisk." (view said pole at 5th and pike, SW corner)
-two people around me singing independent of each other to 'loves me like a rock.' (would be even cooler if it wasn't currently playing)
-"you have purty hair" said a man downtown, leaning against the rite-aid wall for support. "you look nice."
-the man beside me: white wine, a red bandana, and a somewhat ferocious manner of typing. glasses. long hair. mumbles to himself as he selects the proper phrases. it is rather endearing.
-being put back on 3 12's at work. fuck yeah! i am going to have four fucking days off in a row starting in march! so i promptly signed up for extra shifts.
-kosher chow mein noodles with a funky taste. i ate them anyway.
-picking individual scales off a surprisingly tolerant asunder. (probably going septic)
-realizing that i honestly DON'T REMEMBER the last time i washed my hair. that's kind of gross. good thing i'll be deleting this line.
-cherry blossoms, daffodil stalks, rhodedendron bushes: all abruptly blooming within the last week. eat yer heart out, former life.
-screaming along very emphatically, complete with hand gestures, to a very loud song from my torrid youth as i drove too fast through the i-90 tunnel, headlights off, sunglasses on, a danger to myself and others and not giving a single shit.
on that note.

it was 43 years ago today

being cared about by somebody should not involve having to justify who and what i am. am i fucking naive to feel this way? herein lies the conflict i have always had with my family. i feel like a coherent, kicky, with-it kind o' gal until i'm around them. afterwards i am left wondering what about myself is so obviously fucking fucked up that i am so fucking oblivious of.
obvious and oblivious do not share any common roots but they are almost perfect antonyms. i only just noticed this.
perhaps it is stupid shit like the above sentence that proves my family correct.
the only other person who makes me feel this way is my soon-to-be-ex-husband.
perhaps everyone else in my life is simply more polite.
I FUCKING HATE DOUBTING MYSELF.
I FUCKING HATE COMMUNICATING IN WHAT I CONSIDER TO BE A FAIRLY LUCID, PAINFULLY HONEST FASHION, AND STILL NOT BEING UNDERSTOOD.
enough with the capital letters. that was mighty obnoxious. i apologize. my mindset currently is set to 'guilt.' sorry sorry sorry. i don't want to cause concern, sorrow, pity, obligation, or disgust with anyone.
happier shit, already:
walking from my lair to where i presently is. dark soft night. no annoying coat to weigh me down. the sidewalk feels good. my body moves well. i am very fucking content with my own company and the sensation of air on skin, the sound of my breathing, the rhythm of my steps. i have all the time in the world tonight. the city lights are sharper than usual. fucking peter frampton sings into his talkbox and the crowd cheers and i smile automatically, as usual, because i always imagine how cheesy and yet how fucking cool it would have been to be there. (rather uncool. scratch that. peter frampton is a lily-white twit, the college girl's leif garrett.) someone's clove cigarette on the way here snapping me back to high school and sweet-tasting lips. the funkadelic record in the window at jive time. throngs of hip folk dressed to impress and fuck one another. the paramount theatre sign with the missing lights. the glassblowing neon on 5th. girls with nice asses. polite eye contact. and that was just on the way here.
he let me read his story. and earlier, at the fitfully functional recessed library terminal, i did, unwittingly crossing my legs more and more tightly, getting warmer. he is fucking talented. gleaning optimism out of shit affirms one's aliveness. this seems to be a recurring theme in my little fucking entries, in my little fucking life, and his writing tidily completed the metaphorical triangle. yeah. these are the good things, and how goddamn good they are, so why the fuck do i waste time on the bullshit of the first few paragraphs? were i more sentient i would probably just delete it, so's not to fuck up the veneer of Frivolous Me, but i shall leave this unedited and herky-jerky instead, i guess.
'your time is gonna come' plays. good christ this is a lovely song. it segues to 'into the mystic.' sirius radio is trying to get me off.

only english capitalizes 'i'

his name is now Asunder. and that is the last time i will ever capitalize it, because i dislike capital letters. he and i bonded this morn, him winding around my torso, exploring the table, the cats oblivious. the fog never lifted. "it's almost ghostly" one of my coworkers commented. there is absolutely no wind. flags hang flaccidly. steam plumes directly upward. it is misting and the air smells of spring and possibility... except for in tacoma, where the humidity only punctuates the constant pall of sewage and despair.
'tuesday's gone' plays. this is a fucking amazing song. it always makes me feel wistful, lonely, aroused, like i should be smoking weed on a dewy summer morn, the one i dig sprawled beside me, neither of us talking, both ensconsed in our own thoughts... or walking alone at night, the city lights below, providing the soundtrack to another 'what the fuck was this day about' internal debate, life at that moment so fucking poignant i can scarcely stand it, and realizing that by acknowledging my life as being poignant AT THE PRECISE MOMENT that it is, i am fucking present. good tune, anyhow.
i abruptly felt like crap around 4 this afternoon. "you're white as a sheet" someone actually said. i love being the recipient of cliched descriptions. it was slow. they all but kicked me out early. i felt better, perfectly fine even, about 10 miles down the road. i suspect i am allergic to work. i deserve government compensation. leaving early nearly made up for the nonstop shitstorm that was monday- 10 hours of shitting, vomiting, micturating, screeching animals, mostly very large dogs, mostly eliminating on themselves and constantly needing to be cleaned. we were shortstaffed and three of my favorite coworkers were abruptly canned. it was the sort of day where i finally said, 45 minutes past the end of my shift, "i need to get out of here now."
the bbc once banned 'i am the walrus' because of the lyric 'don't let your knickers down.' this is probably akin to a fucking american using the term 'fanny pack' overseas and wondering why they are met with horrified laughter.

my iron will done buckled

and i got me a snake. from work. an abandoned ball python that was mauled by a rat. he is currently freezing in my car, a sour start to his new fantastic life, so must go.
i am debating the moniker "psaphian"*, story to follow. one of the girls at work was calling him 'elmer.' i smiled politely.
i have been up since 4 am! again! what the fuck is wrong with me?
*probably not spelled properly

introversion causes earthquakes, raining snakes and leprosy

i am oddly soothed by the return of grey weather. everything is flat and nonchalant. it fits my mood. i am once again wrestling with the gap between what i think would make me happy and what i am actually capable of. midday sex. thriving houseplants. teaching a kid to read. lactose-tolerantly sipping cafe au lait in a dive cafe in france, a sheath of astonishingly good writings before me. being up for anything at any time. motivation. channeling my FUCKING MANIC STATE into world-bettering means.
instead i am at the library in shoreline, rumpled and smeary-eyed from the night before, morning-after patina without the tired legs and glow of satisfaction. this is the time of year when everything grinds to a fucking halt. i await spring hungrily.
completely useless things that i have perhaps never documented:
-my favorite kind of furniture wood is cedar or mahogany, dark reddish stains to better offset leaves and decanters of brandy, sunlight filtering through dust. i do not like light wood.
-the best cereal ever is cinnamon toast crunch, but that's a given.
-i had a crush on my friend patty in 6th grade.
-tofu mixed with hot curry powder and a shitload of salt is very good with crackers.
-i tried to parachute off the back of the couch with a plastic grocery bag when i was about seven (not last week). it did not give me the loft i craved.
-my gerbil was named frisky.
-my hands are the exact same size as my mother's.
-i have never been to a bar mitzvah, a bat mitzvah, or a bris.
-i fucking hate the sound of people, including myself, sniffling or repeatedly clearing their throats- more than just about anything. i also hate the word 'sniffle', and try my damndest to never use it.
-showers, not baths.
-salt, not chocolate.
-i cannot cartwheel or do the splits.
-the perfect day might involve pervasive warmth, diner food, amazing sex and a road trip through a winding chunk of americana, not neccessarily in that order.

but wait, there's pie

i am getting very vexed by the fucking spam commentary. no one ever responds to my inane twaddle, proving that this is a futile excercise in narcissistic self-indulgence, so when i do see a comment i light up like a motherfucking menorah. in vain. for naught. silly trollop.
i walked down western ave. i never do; so close, yet so off the beaten path, it reminds me of another city entirely. ultra-foofoo furniture stores, rug shops heralded by scowling turbaned men, walls of ivy-clad brick, unreasonably high curbs.
my very first day back in seattle after anchorage, europe et al, 10 june 2002: firstly, this was the flight i missed due to lack of cat/bike-transport-planning and a goofy miasma of E. flew the red-eye, lingered at sea-tac for three hours until my landlord would be awake to let me into my new, as-yet-unseen lair, shuttled to said lair to wait outside for another hour (accompanied by howling cats all the while), went to the store to buy immediate neccessities like toilet paper, proceeded to break grocery bag and send toilet paper rolling down first hill, felt grotesque pangs of horror, homesickness, and rudderlessness. after taking a fitful midafternoon nap on the carpet, i woke feeling even more discombobulated. walked down spring street in a haze; ended up calling my best girl friend in alaska and wailing to her about what the fuck i'd just done to my life. the pay phone was at the corner of spring and western, under the viaduct, adjacent to a pay lot. but no more. another relic of another time, vanished. that actually makes me somewhat cheerful now.
pay phones are a relic unto themselves. phone booths are even more so. there are a few still scattered willy-nilly about this fair berg, always tagged and bepissed and dysfunctional. i love the iconic quality of a phone booth... like the hiss of a needle hitting a record, or a rotary-dial dialing sound, or the smell of a really old book. explain those things in 20 years.
apparently my grandmother (on my father's side) had a minor stroke about a month ago. this was discovered when she went in for a physical whilst complaining about her shoulder. it has apparently affected her vision somewhat. "what is it with this family?" my mother asked. fucking mortality. i am possibly the most spry of the lot and currently feel as if my right forearm is enclosed in an ace bandage. thanks, brain. it is minor, allowing me to type and paw and gesticulate and whatnot, but just enough of a constant fucking nudge to remind me that lest i forget, lest i get too COMPLACENT, i have a lifelong fucking issue.
'cherish' just started playing, proving that the world is a luscious, good place after all. for every lament there is a perfect musical accompaniment. to find such harmony amid the murk really does make everything of the look-at-this-sexy-sorrow, let's-drink-langorously-and-make-love-sssslowly variety, and less of the my-house-smells-like-cat-ass-and-i-have-a-hungover-mouth ilk.
hypothetically.
obviously.
did i already extol the bombastic brilliance of chocolate pop-rocks? holy shit! they are fucking amazing! seriously, they are the best candy i've had in years. ignore those who decry the carbonated choctastic glory. they know not of what they speak.

'tis all in the attitude

i confess, i have always been of spastic mind. a fucking drama queen, actually. it keeps things EXCITING, i suppose. i feel better today than i have in a while- a quiet calm assurance that shit shall resolve, eventually, in its own way. don't fight it, feel it, right?
thus i shall spend no more superfluous thought on the dark cloud of fuckery that looms, damoclean. (by typing that i prove to be spending thought on it.)
the air was cold and the moon was full last night, casting shadows, making everything ridiculously sharp. we babbled nonsense on the telephone for over an hour, from my trek down 39th to the clattering 26 across aurora to the debauchery of downtown to my cat-strewn lair, on my back on the sofa, staring at st mark's cathedral across the lake, absently playing with the cats. i love not thinking about what i'm going to say next. i love the comfortable silences. i love having my little slice of the world that i can retreat into whenever i please.
and i am fucking loving yo la tengo. whatever took me so long?