the 48 hrs i'd predicted before The Crash ended up being about 20. by late last week i was in a bleak state. i'd been having panic attacks with increasing frequency over the last several months, but almost always at night, when trying to fall asleep, left alone with my mind. i can feel my moods -or rather, the precipitous onslaught of the moods- 'come on' like hearing the sound of a trsin from far away (stupid cliche), or birds vacating the wires minutes before an earthquake. and i knew this 'episode', if you will, was going to be ugly. i found myself crying uncontrollably whilst driving, snarling at people who didn't deserve it, not even fucking caring how i was sabotaging my world.
on saturday i arrived at work and had an attack. crying hysterically, hyperventilating, unable to say anything but 'i'm so sorry, i'm so sorry' to the coworker who was kind enough to help me. thank fuck this all happened behind closed doors, before i was clocked in, away from everyone else. mortifying. terrifying. fucking disgusting. i left. i drove around for about 2 hours in the muggy suburbs, chain-smoking, eyes swollen, a somnambulous stranger to myself.
but it was what needed to happen. after a few hours, after sitting in a park and whining to s about my non-issues, i felt normal again. mellow. rather tired. the storm, as they say, had passed.
until next time. (usually this happens in roughly 3-week cycles, varying degrees of intensity; i can predict it fairly accurately.)
is this manic-depression?
or am i, as i have suspected all along, just a fucking daft cunt with no presonal control, maturity, sense of perspective, or ability to ovverride my impulses?
*
i was blithely diagnosed 'manic-depressive' several years ago. went on meds for a few months. didn't help, just made me even more depressed. i blame that era on the concurrent bullshit going on in my personal life. and i don't believe in mood meds anyhow; i find them ethically abhorrent, a grotesque byproduct of a vapid culture that has ceased to properly understand itself.
...but the main reason i went off the meds: i missed the highs. the highs are what i fucking live for. they make me able to regard the 'lows' with the clinical indulgence of a doting counselor, a counselor examining this strange and annoying creature called brynn. the highs let me feel witty and creative and alive, tipsy without alcohol, awake without sleep. the highs justify the lows, except when the lows are actually happening.
things, obviously, are better now.
i talked to HR on sunday. she was incredibly cool. 'you are in good company here' she said. 'i have anxiety issues. at least 5 other people i can think of here are on meds for the same thing.' i was so fucking afraid that i would be seen as an unstable dipshit, not worthy of my job. 'you're going through a lot of crap right now' she said. 'it's a lot to handle. just let us know if you need anything.'
i was 200mph-hellbent on leaving seattle on saturday. moving everything. starting over. new career, living in squalor, just as alone but in more novel surroundings. it was my way, in that mindset, of saying FUCK YOU to MS, my past, everyone else who was moving on, the relentless drizzle, the boredom. but obviously, what i really needed, and what i got when i least expected it, was proof that people actually give a shit after all, even when i completely do not warrant their shit-giving.
and i am fucking grateful. and, still, a bit disbelieving. the crazy part of me has never been able to fully trust kindness.
anyway, enough of that.
*
the motherboard on my computer is completely fucked up. "just get a new computer" the guy told me. he estimated the laptop at about 9 years old. "haven't seen one of those in a long time" he said. and then he laughed.
i drove to shelton today. twas a meandering route. i haven't been here in years. my library card is still valid. what a fucking sad town: in a valley, surrounded by clearcut swaths, tract housing, rusted vehicles and logging trucks. everyone looks miserable. i could not remember where the library was. the markers along the road are all for churches, which i have never seen the likes of before; they mark churches the way most places indicate town halls, courthouses, et al. there was a store on the way into town called "cindy's dog magic". it was closed. a faded mural of a rooster yelling 'taxi!' on the side of a fried-chicken restaurant. a still-functioning drive-in theater, showing a movie i have never heard of.
a woman at the library just came up to me with a phone she;d found. it was ringing and she couldn't figure out how to answer it. i answered it for her; the caller was the owner. she's still talking to him. that just made my day. people are good.
*
one last thing: i'm starting avonex. a drug rep meets with me in the next few weeks to teach me how to inject myself. i am happy with my decision; it will be nice to exert a semblence of control over what is essentially the core of the aforementioned anxiety. my reticence thus far, other than denial, has been due to the potential side effects: flulike symptoms, liver issues, and... depression!
life, you alluring mistress, do not taunt me so. i should so rather be coming than going.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
fuck yeah
my archaic computer went completely tits-up; it has a virus that makes it impossible to do anything on, and i don't have the patience to toy with it. this is a damn shame, since otherwise i would be posting MY PHOTOS OF THE RACONTEURS!
they were fucking awesome! again. of course.
small venue; i was about 15' away, surrounded by tall guys who knew all the words. 'your blue veins' was much dirtier. 'salute your solution' had everyone jumping. even the shitty sound quality didn't mar the experience. it has led to a mental high that i am still being swaddled in, 18 hrs later, despite the incessant ringing in my ears. it almost made up for the cancelled white stripes tour, of which i still have the ticket for, carefully tended in my wallet- a $50 souvenir.
...now that phish is defunct, it is nice to have another band that i can love while they exist- and, i might add, another band that i am rather embarrassed to admit liking. the white stripes and the raconteurs have been the soundtrack to the last 6 years of my life, consistently.
the only song they didn't play that i wanted to hear: 'together', my schmaltzy '70's-stoner ballad of happiness. but i saw them do it last time.
the fucking nerd shall stop regressing into 12yr-oldy idolation now.
*
before the concert i walked through the rain to the st ignatius chapel at seattle u. it is a marvel of serenity, difficult to maintain an atheistic outlook within. the building radiates kindness- i can think of no more appropriate term. i was the only one there. outside the main chapel is a book of prayers/thankfulnesses that i spent a while reading. some were very fucking poignant; one, in small handwriting, said "please help me. i am so scared." someone else, in feminine script, wrote below it "it will be okay. i am praying for you." the place was softly silent, ambiently lit in shades of ochre; i thought very clearly: "i love my species."
it has been ass-cold for the last month, roughly 10-15 degrees below normal. it snowed/hailed/sleeted/thundered for the previous 4 days. all the daffodils are shriveled and the big tulip fandango in skagit county has been delayed by weeks. trees that should be covered in blossoms are brown and depressing. today is the first in a while over 50 degrees-
tis been a goddamn good week in general. met up with people i hadn't seen in months. played centipide for the first time. was kissed by an adorable boy. finally read 'sybil' (horrifying, terrible, great; i'd had it hidden on my shelf since it looked like a pulpy piece of shit, but fuck. i read it in 2 days. no, i have not seen the movie.) good review at work. and, like, bands.
i'm secreting inanity.
the pendulum is way too high. i give it 48 more hours, max.
they were fucking awesome! again. of course.
small venue; i was about 15' away, surrounded by tall guys who knew all the words. 'your blue veins' was much dirtier. 'salute your solution' had everyone jumping. even the shitty sound quality didn't mar the experience. it has led to a mental high that i am still being swaddled in, 18 hrs later, despite the incessant ringing in my ears. it almost made up for the cancelled white stripes tour, of which i still have the ticket for, carefully tended in my wallet- a $50 souvenir.
...now that phish is defunct, it is nice to have another band that i can love while they exist- and, i might add, another band that i am rather embarrassed to admit liking. the white stripes and the raconteurs have been the soundtrack to the last 6 years of my life, consistently.
the only song they didn't play that i wanted to hear: 'together', my schmaltzy '70's-stoner ballad of happiness. but i saw them do it last time.
the fucking nerd shall stop regressing into 12yr-oldy idolation now.
*
before the concert i walked through the rain to the st ignatius chapel at seattle u. it is a marvel of serenity, difficult to maintain an atheistic outlook within. the building radiates kindness- i can think of no more appropriate term. i was the only one there. outside the main chapel is a book of prayers/thankfulnesses that i spent a while reading. some were very fucking poignant; one, in small handwriting, said "please help me. i am so scared." someone else, in feminine script, wrote below it "it will be okay. i am praying for you." the place was softly silent, ambiently lit in shades of ochre; i thought very clearly: "i love my species."
it has been ass-cold for the last month, roughly 10-15 degrees below normal. it snowed/hailed/sleeted/thundered for the previous 4 days. all the daffodils are shriveled and the big tulip fandango in skagit county has been delayed by weeks. trees that should be covered in blossoms are brown and depressing. today is the first in a while over 50 degrees-
tis been a goddamn good week in general. met up with people i hadn't seen in months. played centipide for the first time. was kissed by an adorable boy. finally read 'sybil' (horrifying, terrible, great; i'd had it hidden on my shelf since it looked like a pulpy piece of shit, but fuck. i read it in 2 days. no, i have not seen the movie.) good review at work. and, like, bands.
i'm secreting inanity.
the pendulum is way too high. i give it 48 more hours, max.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
nectar on my calyx
the first discarded television of the season!
it was warm enough today to briefly shed my jacket and walk uphill with my sleeves pushed up. i needed the optimism of spring more than i realized.
so i went to my happy place, the conservatory at volunteer park. i have several happy places- that is, locales. this one, unfortunately, has fairly limited hours. i got to play with the macro on my camera.
a fabulous succulent, encroaching:
cupping a willing fern:
an extraordinarily phallic vessel, dangling at eye level, filled with water. i believe it is called something prosaic like 'water jug plant'- the pendulous part is about a foot long, tethered by thick vines.
and an especially sexy, sexy flower.
it was warm enough today to briefly shed my jacket and walk uphill with my sleeves pushed up. i needed the optimism of spring more than i realized.
so i went to my happy place, the conservatory at volunteer park. i have several happy places- that is, locales. this one, unfortunately, has fairly limited hours. i got to play with the macro on my camera.
a fabulous succulent, encroaching:
cupping a willing fern:
an extraordinarily phallic vessel, dangling at eye level, filled with water. i believe it is called something prosaic like 'water jug plant'- the pendulous part is about a foot long, tethered by thick vines.
and an especially sexy, sexy flower.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
just like there, but i am here
i am fundamentally american. i smile too frequently, i laugh too raucously. i listen to the melodies before interpreting the lyrics. i want things done immediately, at my convenience. i take hot showers and never allow myself to run out of toilet paper. i have animals for pleasure, plants for aesthetic beauty, and all manner of knickknacky clutter. i expect stores to be open 24 hours, an exposed arm to not attract attention, the ability to operate a vehicle and be employed and curse loudly and receive sanitary medical care and have sex for mere enjoyment. i love idioms and bumper stickers and sarcasm and emotions and being able to, however abashedly, skate through life with a veneer of vapid comprehension without fact-based intellect.
*
was just squirreled away at the odious chain bookstore, reading 'expat' whilst drinking a grossly corporate drip coffee out of a wasteful paper cup. 'expat' is a collection of women's experiences living elsewhere... obviously... and it clarified for me how, every time i have travelled to other countries, i have done so as an American, having my American Experience, filtering these new environments through an onlooker's interpretation and never becoming part of my surroundings. most of my time spent in france (that being my longest time in any 'foreign' place), for example, involved writing in my journal, introverted, creating my own universe, thinking of how i would describe what i'd seen or heard to friends back home. i blame most of that on my inability to communicate. i would be sitting on the beaches of the meditteranean, marvelling at the lack of vegetation and seagulls, admiring how people carry themselves, the way everyone has a calm assurance, smelling the lavender/kabob/galoise blanc/piss patina that would waft along on a single inhalation no matter where i was- and when i was approached by a local, i could only muster "oui, la mere est tres jolie." my american sensibility of "if it's not easy and instantaneous, it doesn't need to happen" tainted what should have been a much richer everything. that is merely one example.
my lifelong 'je voudrais habiter a paris' fantasy involves me, sequestered in a grimy room, writing the most devastatingly fucking beautiful novel ever. in english. about someone like me. writing it alone. in france. still not taking anything in, just letting the rest of the world riccochet off of me.
this isn't a fantasy in this respect. it is the horrid reality i fear i would allow it to become. and it's the largest reason (the other dissentions are rooted in practicality) why i haven't done it.
about a year ago i spoke with b for the first time since he left. i didn't recognise his voice at all. there was no sense of anything. i felt a vile emptiness, as if part of my life had never fucking mattered, had never existed at all- one should, at the very least, be able to remember, be able to relive some sort of sensation towards someone one was married to, in love with, believed in, slept beside every night- but there were, and are, only vague and dismissive anecdotes.
"you sound so american" he said. the scorn in his voice was palpable.
"i am american" i replied. and so are you, you pretentious west texan fuck, i thought. but i didn;t say it. and it still annoys me: that he said it and i didn;t, that i still had the ability to let this stranger make me react.
there comes a point when you have to stop running and revel in what you are and what you have. this is only just becoming blatant to me; i am learning to stop snorting contemptuously at such cliched treacle.
no edit.
*
was just squirreled away at the odious chain bookstore, reading 'expat' whilst drinking a grossly corporate drip coffee out of a wasteful paper cup. 'expat' is a collection of women's experiences living elsewhere... obviously... and it clarified for me how, every time i have travelled to other countries, i have done so as an American, having my American Experience, filtering these new environments through an onlooker's interpretation and never becoming part of my surroundings. most of my time spent in france (that being my longest time in any 'foreign' place), for example, involved writing in my journal, introverted, creating my own universe, thinking of how i would describe what i'd seen or heard to friends back home. i blame most of that on my inability to communicate. i would be sitting on the beaches of the meditteranean, marvelling at the lack of vegetation and seagulls, admiring how people carry themselves, the way everyone has a calm assurance, smelling the lavender/kabob/galoise blanc/piss patina that would waft along on a single inhalation no matter where i was- and when i was approached by a local, i could only muster "oui, la mere est tres jolie." my american sensibility of "if it's not easy and instantaneous, it doesn't need to happen" tainted what should have been a much richer everything. that is merely one example.
my lifelong 'je voudrais habiter a paris' fantasy involves me, sequestered in a grimy room, writing the most devastatingly fucking beautiful novel ever. in english. about someone like me. writing it alone. in france. still not taking anything in, just letting the rest of the world riccochet off of me.
this isn't a fantasy in this respect. it is the horrid reality i fear i would allow it to become. and it's the largest reason (the other dissentions are rooted in practicality) why i haven't done it.
about a year ago i spoke with b for the first time since he left. i didn't recognise his voice at all. there was no sense of anything. i felt a vile emptiness, as if part of my life had never fucking mattered, had never existed at all- one should, at the very least, be able to remember, be able to relive some sort of sensation towards someone one was married to, in love with, believed in, slept beside every night- but there were, and are, only vague and dismissive anecdotes.
"you sound so american" he said. the scorn in his voice was palpable.
"i am american" i replied. and so are you, you pretentious west texan fuck, i thought. but i didn;t say it. and it still annoys me: that he said it and i didn;t, that i still had the ability to let this stranger make me react.
there comes a point when you have to stop running and revel in what you are and what you have. this is only just becoming blatant to me; i am learning to stop snorting contemptuously at such cliched treacle.
no edit.
Monday, April 07, 2008
a fortnight, condensed
this may belie the fact that it was 40 degrees outside and blowing rain sideways:
a lamppost in fremont, after the monthly poster removal.
a fitting electric candle, out of focus on the bar at bleu.
'twas a daylong clusterfuck to post these. more soon... (undoubtedly more bombastic)
a lamppost in fremont, after the monthly poster removal.
a fitting electric candle, out of focus on the bar at bleu.
'twas a daylong clusterfuck to post these. more soon... (undoubtedly more bombastic)
Saturday, April 05, 2008
i'm already home
last night j and i went to the r crumb exhibit. i was waiting for him in the vestibule, playing with my camera, oblivious to my surroundings- and looked up to see a fishnetted ass pointing at me, undulating clumsily to gnarls barkley: interpretive dance by a woman dressed as 'devil girl.' i almost started to laugh, but went outside instead. the array of art was impressive- rough drafts on ruled paper, visible pencil lines- and one in particular, a strip from the early 70s of a charlatan hippie 'leader' convincing the lambs that the way to enlightenment is by sucking his dick and "transferring life", then stabbing them in the back as he's coming, and all his followers raving about how transcendent an experience it is to witness- was amazingly daring and disturbing as fuck. but then... more performance art. i am not a fan of aw-shucks overacting, and luckily j isn't either, so we left.
*
every woman should read "this is who i am", the new book of photographs of women's bodies with a caption by each. the letter from the mother to her two daughters almost made me cry. i thought "why didn't my parents ever spell it out so explicitly? why is self-respect something you are forced to learn by default?" this was thursday. afterwards i went to the pioneer square artwalk, drinking bottom-shelf free wine from plastic cups, especially fond of a ($750) tapestry of a woman being vaginally taken by a bright pink octopus.
the spaces i saw in one labryinthine building reminded me of the environment i'd always imagined for myself as a kid. brick walls, sloping wood floor, exposed pipes, huge industrial windows looking out onto the twilit viaduct. sills covered with succulents. oriental rugs underneath filthy sawhorses. indigenous music and half-finished paintings. i felt a flutter of relief that my dreams weren't so unrealistic after all, since here they are, being ably utilised, albeit not by me- and briefly, but incredibly sad, resigned, and jealous.
a cheap-wine buzz floated me outside, where it was starting to drizzle and the lights seemed especially lovely. everyone i passed smiled back.
*
every woman should read "this is who i am", the new book of photographs of women's bodies with a caption by each. the letter from the mother to her two daughters almost made me cry. i thought "why didn't my parents ever spell it out so explicitly? why is self-respect something you are forced to learn by default?" this was thursday. afterwards i went to the pioneer square artwalk, drinking bottom-shelf free wine from plastic cups, especially fond of a ($750) tapestry of a woman being vaginally taken by a bright pink octopus.
the spaces i saw in one labryinthine building reminded me of the environment i'd always imagined for myself as a kid. brick walls, sloping wood floor, exposed pipes, huge industrial windows looking out onto the twilit viaduct. sills covered with succulents. oriental rugs underneath filthy sawhorses. indigenous music and half-finished paintings. i felt a flutter of relief that my dreams weren't so unrealistic after all, since here they are, being ably utilised, albeit not by me- and briefly, but incredibly sad, resigned, and jealous.
a cheap-wine buzz floated me outside, where it was starting to drizzle and the lights seemed especially lovely. everyone i passed smiled back.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
settle down!
discovered a fabulous new site today. ich liebe das krauten.
http://pundo3000.com/werbunggegenrealitaet3000.htm
it reminded me of this one:
http://www.thewvsr.com/adsvsreality.htm
i don't often eat prepackaged meals- never frozen shit- but i am also one to eat soup cold, out of the can, with a fork, so anything i have to say about culinary matters is bullshit and should be treated as such. but i work with a lot of people (that is, everyone there) who rely on microwavable sustenence. things i have noticed over the years:
-i have only met one person who takes her food out of the package after it is cooked and plates it, as if it is an actual meal
-guys use paper towels as plates far more frequently than womenfolk (especially true with microwave burritos)
-most common: guys- aforementioned burritos, the huge flaccid ones seen in the convenience store cooler. doctors- annie's naturals. chicks- smart choices/healthy whatever/lean cuisine- ALWAYS the "diet" variety.
what do i eat at work? whatever candy is there. yesterday there were jelly bellies. i fucking LOVE those- they are on the list, along with (dry, unadulterated) cinnamon toast crunch and (dry, unadulterated) golden grahams, of foodstuffs i am helpless over. the best jelly bellies: coconut, popcorn (original and caramel), root beer, kiwi, the green one with the blue flecks that tastes like freshly mown grass, blackberry, oh what am i saying? they are ALL delicious and extraordinary in their teenily-encapsulated flavor bombast; it is easier to cite the ones i always toss: peanut butter, most of the fruity ones, chocolate, tutti-frutti, peppermint. the ugly colors.
*
i got on a tangent there.
*
am now distracted by the odd look of "tangent"; it looks misspelled. tangant? no.
http://pundo3000.com/werbunggegenrealitaet3000.htm
it reminded me of this one:
http://www.thewvsr.com/adsvsreality.htm
i don't often eat prepackaged meals- never frozen shit- but i am also one to eat soup cold, out of the can, with a fork, so anything i have to say about culinary matters is bullshit and should be treated as such. but i work with a lot of people (that is, everyone there) who rely on microwavable sustenence. things i have noticed over the years:
-i have only met one person who takes her food out of the package after it is cooked and plates it, as if it is an actual meal
-guys use paper towels as plates far more frequently than womenfolk (especially true with microwave burritos)
-most common: guys- aforementioned burritos, the huge flaccid ones seen in the convenience store cooler. doctors- annie's naturals. chicks- smart choices/healthy whatever/lean cuisine- ALWAYS the "diet" variety.
what do i eat at work? whatever candy is there. yesterday there were jelly bellies. i fucking LOVE those- they are on the list, along with (dry, unadulterated) cinnamon toast crunch and (dry, unadulterated) golden grahams, of foodstuffs i am helpless over. the best jelly bellies: coconut, popcorn (original and caramel), root beer, kiwi, the green one with the blue flecks that tastes like freshly mown grass, blackberry, oh what am i saying? they are ALL delicious and extraordinary in their teenily-encapsulated flavor bombast; it is easier to cite the ones i always toss: peanut butter, most of the fruity ones, chocolate, tutti-frutti, peppermint. the ugly colors.
*
i got on a tangent there.
*
am now distracted by the odd look of "tangent"; it looks misspelled. tangant? no.
Monday, March 31, 2008
nnngghh!
i had another disturbing dream about sexually predatory half-wits and abstract malaise last night. i am unsure what this psychologically indicates.
the dream: i am walking "home" -it's my parent's house in anchorage, but a new place that i have never lived in. i am a visiting guest. they are out of town. i pass two teenage guys in the woods en route. they are loitering under a rain-dripping tree and holding knives. they start to follow me, trying to touch me, saying unsalubrious things. they look like extras from 'the hills have eyes.' i get to the house, all whitewashed walls and empty corridors, and find the room i am to stay in. they are apparently guests here too, in a room down the hall. i go to the bathroom (note: classic toilet dream) and hear them rummaging through my things in my absense. i find another room to stay in and lock the door. sleep. wake up to s, standing over me with concern. "are you feeling better?" she asks. i am unsure what she means. "you almost had to go to the hospital" she says. "you would not stop vomiting."
i wake up for real. entropy has discovered q-tips over the last week; she gets on the counter, ransacks the container, and scatters them all over the house. i blearily yelled at her, tossed my paperback copy of "living and working abroad" in her direction, and went back to sleep.
*
sweet green's tire is finally fixed. i ended up calling the guy who sold her to me. i spent all weekend feeling like a feeble jackass, completely ignorant to what i was doing. pried open bonnet with hammer and screwdriver. stared cluelessly at rusted jack. called 2 places and looked through cheery manual to figure out how to pry off hubcap (lacking the specific "loosening device" i settled for same screwdriver). bought new socket wrench and new "jack" at store. could not loosen lugnuts. in middle of street, visible to all neighbors, the epitome of helpless female. fucking mortifying. it is at times like this that i want a sign that says "honestly, i am rather knowledgable about other things."
c and his son showed up. "how far did you drive on this?" he asked. i proudly showed him my new jack (that did not make sense when i assembled it; it looked nothing like any jack i've seen). "that's the brace" he said. "where's the jack?" he deftly brandished the rusted jack that came with the car; it worked beautifully. "you didn't know how this works, do you" he said as a statement. "no" i replied. i stood by stupidly while he swapped the tire in under three minutes. for over three months i have been unable to do this basic task. he seemed quite amused.
i cannot put into words how fucking daft i feel.
perhaps i can: i feel fucking daft.
but the tire is fixed, and the sun is shining, and it is one less thing to worry about. and i have a brand-new brace and a shiny, unused socket wrench to, i don't know, make a sculpture with.
i even had the vile thought: "i need a man around to fix things." I ACTUALLY HAD THAT THOUGHT.
if i replaced "man" with "minion" it wouldn't sound so fucking horrible.
the dream: i am walking "home" -it's my parent's house in anchorage, but a new place that i have never lived in. i am a visiting guest. they are out of town. i pass two teenage guys in the woods en route. they are loitering under a rain-dripping tree and holding knives. they start to follow me, trying to touch me, saying unsalubrious things. they look like extras from 'the hills have eyes.' i get to the house, all whitewashed walls and empty corridors, and find the room i am to stay in. they are apparently guests here too, in a room down the hall. i go to the bathroom (note: classic toilet dream) and hear them rummaging through my things in my absense. i find another room to stay in and lock the door. sleep. wake up to s, standing over me with concern. "are you feeling better?" she asks. i am unsure what she means. "you almost had to go to the hospital" she says. "you would not stop vomiting."
i wake up for real. entropy has discovered q-tips over the last week; she gets on the counter, ransacks the container, and scatters them all over the house. i blearily yelled at her, tossed my paperback copy of "living and working abroad" in her direction, and went back to sleep.
*
sweet green's tire is finally fixed. i ended up calling the guy who sold her to me. i spent all weekend feeling like a feeble jackass, completely ignorant to what i was doing. pried open bonnet with hammer and screwdriver. stared cluelessly at rusted jack. called 2 places and looked through cheery manual to figure out how to pry off hubcap (lacking the specific "loosening device" i settled for same screwdriver). bought new socket wrench and new "jack" at store. could not loosen lugnuts. in middle of street, visible to all neighbors, the epitome of helpless female. fucking mortifying. it is at times like this that i want a sign that says "honestly, i am rather knowledgable about other things."
c and his son showed up. "how far did you drive on this?" he asked. i proudly showed him my new jack (that did not make sense when i assembled it; it looked nothing like any jack i've seen). "that's the brace" he said. "where's the jack?" he deftly brandished the rusted jack that came with the car; it worked beautifully. "you didn't know how this works, do you" he said as a statement. "no" i replied. i stood by stupidly while he swapped the tire in under three minutes. for over three months i have been unable to do this basic task. he seemed quite amused.
i cannot put into words how fucking daft i feel.
perhaps i can: i feel fucking daft.
but the tire is fixed, and the sun is shining, and it is one less thing to worry about. and i have a brand-new brace and a shiny, unused socket wrench to, i don't know, make a sculpture with.
i even had the vile thought: "i need a man around to fix things." I ACTUALLY HAD THAT THOUGHT.
if i replaced "man" with "minion" it wouldn't sound so fucking horrible.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
'fidget' is an anagram of 'gifted'
yesterday i drove to the grey bowels of arlington to procure 4 tires from a farmer with gorgeous eyes. thank you once again, craigslist. they had been stripped from a 74 super beetle. they still sit in the hatch of my other car- awaiting my motivation. my landlord told me to move my bug by the end of the month. i got into the car yesterday and she started immediately, still smelling like all old volkswagens smell- gasoline and warm dust, even though it's been fucking freezing outside. the radio was playing 'sister golden hair', for chrissake. and i thought "i can't give her up."
went to an MS 'newly diagnosed' group last night. myself and 3 older men- late 40s up. it was therapeutic as fuck. life goes on, always. it was pouring rain when i left; it had snowed on capitol hill and parked cars were covered with snow. i went to bleu to read and was approached by a tweaker at the bar. he was loudly impressed with what i was reading ("babbitt" by sinclair lewis- which is a rather annoying book with hokey dialogue and superfluous detail, but it was 25 cents and is easy to stash in my bag) and we ended up talking for an hour or two. he was already slurry when he arrived and proceeded to grow more so. the things he said were transparently bullshit, but it was nice to talk to a new person. his credit card was declined as i was leaving. i had missed the last bus and walked home. cynicism set in almost immediately and once again i thought:
where do these fuckups come from? is it so fucking difficult to find a MAN who doesn't drink until they're an idiot, who has the self-esteem to not do a fucking line before stumbling through their day, who has a fucking JOB and self-reliance and confidence without arrogance, who lives by action rather than merely pontificating? this generation is getting more immature and ill-defined by the year. and the older people get, the more pathetic it becomes.
luckily i am fortunate to also know many people who have their shit together. and i am grateful and humbled. they remind me that i fall somewhere in the middle.
the new raconteurs album is fucking fantastic.
so is the movie "coming home." i now have a ridiculous crush on '70's-era jon voight.
my trampoline arrives next week. fuck practicality.
... i have successfully negated the strident righteousness of the prior paragraphs by my dorky hypocrisy.
the key to adulthood, perhaps, is to choose your unjustifiable inanities wisely...?
went to an MS 'newly diagnosed' group last night. myself and 3 older men- late 40s up. it was therapeutic as fuck. life goes on, always. it was pouring rain when i left; it had snowed on capitol hill and parked cars were covered with snow. i went to bleu to read and was approached by a tweaker at the bar. he was loudly impressed with what i was reading ("babbitt" by sinclair lewis- which is a rather annoying book with hokey dialogue and superfluous detail, but it was 25 cents and is easy to stash in my bag) and we ended up talking for an hour or two. he was already slurry when he arrived and proceeded to grow more so. the things he said were transparently bullshit, but it was nice to talk to a new person. his credit card was declined as i was leaving. i had missed the last bus and walked home. cynicism set in almost immediately and once again i thought:
where do these fuckups come from? is it so fucking difficult to find a MAN who doesn't drink until they're an idiot, who has the self-esteem to not do a fucking line before stumbling through their day, who has a fucking JOB and self-reliance and confidence without arrogance, who lives by action rather than merely pontificating? this generation is getting more immature and ill-defined by the year. and the older people get, the more pathetic it becomes.
luckily i am fortunate to also know many people who have their shit together. and i am grateful and humbled. they remind me that i fall somewhere in the middle.
the new raconteurs album is fucking fantastic.
so is the movie "coming home." i now have a ridiculous crush on '70's-era jon voight.
my trampoline arrives next week. fuck practicality.
... i have successfully negated the strident righteousness of the prior paragraphs by my dorky hypocrisy.
the key to adulthood, perhaps, is to choose your unjustifiable inanities wisely...?
Friday, March 14, 2008
Sunday, March 09, 2008
fix yourself first
i'm freaking out.
how i hate that term.
i am: sad, disappointed, annoyed, wistful, stuck in a perpetual chasm of a most unrewarding deja vu. i don't even know if i should be worried. my instincts say i should be. but, despite how sparingly we all demonstrate it, we are all adults here, and we all know exactly what we're doing.
though sometimes i wonder.
work was dead slow last night; by eight pm there was one hospitalized patient and i was organizing the syringes. i left early; i wasn't supposed to be off until 12:30am. "it's saturday night" the shift lead said encouragingly. "go have fun." but i was already resigned to working all evening and my mindset was consequently too staid for potential hellraising (hellraising which would have been, i don't know, drinking a G&T instead of tea?). i ended up rewatching 'sideways' until 2am- it's only a month overdue from the library.
my parents came to seattle yesterday. they brought some of the items i'd claimed from my grandmother's old house. i now have: a huge box of her old cookbooks (including "jewish cookery made easy" in which she'd inscribed on the inside cover: "a gift to myself and my heritage!"), a porcelain lamp of a female statue with a large lotus-blossom shade (that apparently everyone else in the family, whilst ransacking the spoils for treasures of their own, vocally abhorred), and a huge sunflower painting that i remember from when i was barely able to walk. "you really should go visit her" my parents reminded me. i feel like a fucking asshole- perfectly willing to take her shit, but not motivated to drive 30 miles and say hello. i must redeem myself this week.
we went to hale's brewery so my parents could indulge their love of their potato salad. it was a good time and i am reminded anew of how much i care about them. there was only one brief lecture about my blood sugar. we were surrounded by surly hungover couples gulping bloody marys. they had two beers apiece; i drank iced tea. the sun was shining. at one point a group of people blithely walked past the restaurant wearing costumes: a rice farmer, a monk, a jester. my mother found this especially hilarious.
soundtrack of the past 12 hours: otis redding "come to me" and black rebel motorcycle club "killing the light." the latter is one of the best fucking songs ever, as well as one of the fucking best songs ever.
how i hate that term.
i am: sad, disappointed, annoyed, wistful, stuck in a perpetual chasm of a most unrewarding deja vu. i don't even know if i should be worried. my instincts say i should be. but, despite how sparingly we all demonstrate it, we are all adults here, and we all know exactly what we're doing.
though sometimes i wonder.
work was dead slow last night; by eight pm there was one hospitalized patient and i was organizing the syringes. i left early; i wasn't supposed to be off until 12:30am. "it's saturday night" the shift lead said encouragingly. "go have fun." but i was already resigned to working all evening and my mindset was consequently too staid for potential hellraising (hellraising which would have been, i don't know, drinking a G&T instead of tea?). i ended up rewatching 'sideways' until 2am- it's only a month overdue from the library.
my parents came to seattle yesterday. they brought some of the items i'd claimed from my grandmother's old house. i now have: a huge box of her old cookbooks (including "jewish cookery made easy" in which she'd inscribed on the inside cover: "a gift to myself and my heritage!"), a porcelain lamp of a female statue with a large lotus-blossom shade (that apparently everyone else in the family, whilst ransacking the spoils for treasures of their own, vocally abhorred), and a huge sunflower painting that i remember from when i was barely able to walk. "you really should go visit her" my parents reminded me. i feel like a fucking asshole- perfectly willing to take her shit, but not motivated to drive 30 miles and say hello. i must redeem myself this week.
we went to hale's brewery so my parents could indulge their love of their potato salad. it was a good time and i am reminded anew of how much i care about them. there was only one brief lecture about my blood sugar. we were surrounded by surly hungover couples gulping bloody marys. they had two beers apiece; i drank iced tea. the sun was shining. at one point a group of people blithely walked past the restaurant wearing costumes: a rice farmer, a monk, a jester. my mother found this especially hilarious.
soundtrack of the past 12 hours: otis redding "come to me" and black rebel motorcycle club "killing the light." the latter is one of the best fucking songs ever, as well as one of the fucking best songs ever.
Friday, March 07, 2008
a friendly ghost
i just saw the magnetic fields!
immediately after i took this (WITHOUT a flash) stephin merritt reprimanded the audience for "those fucking cameras with the fucking blinking lights" and banned all further photography. he was a sullen poop throughout the show. the female singer, whose name i don't recall, shared stories of the "women coked out of their minds who were making out and not gay" at their recent LA shows. "threesome" is my new happy song.
being there made me feel floaty. the room was hot and crowded with earnest couples languidly fondling each others napes. i got to watch. the magnetic fields are perfect music for a rainy summer afternoon spent having sex.
on a less-sexy note, the "blighted corridor", as the press is wont to coin it, of pike street. i took this last night. when this pawn shop was in business, 1998, i bought a television here. seriously.
this afternoon on westlake avenue:
and further down, in a secret alley:
some days are just composed of the right things at the right time.
immediately after i took this (WITHOUT a flash) stephin merritt reprimanded the audience for "those fucking cameras with the fucking blinking lights" and banned all further photography. he was a sullen poop throughout the show. the female singer, whose name i don't recall, shared stories of the "women coked out of their minds who were making out and not gay" at their recent LA shows. "threesome" is my new happy song.
being there made me feel floaty. the room was hot and crowded with earnest couples languidly fondling each others napes. i got to watch. the magnetic fields are perfect music for a rainy summer afternoon spent having sex.
on a less-sexy note, the "blighted corridor", as the press is wont to coin it, of pike street. i took this last night. when this pawn shop was in business, 1998, i bought a television here. seriously.
this afternoon on westlake avenue:
and further down, in a secret alley:
some days are just composed of the right things at the right time.
another post about unicorns
you enter 300+ words of your writing, it tells you if you are male or female.
i entered the text from my last entry. informally: i am a 'weak male, possibly european.' formally: 'male.'
this makes me smug as fuck, actually.
http://www.hackerfactor.com/GenderGuesser.html#Analyze
i entered the text from my last entry. informally: i am a 'weak male, possibly european.' formally: 'male.'
this makes me smug as fuck, actually.
http://www.hackerfactor.com/GenderGuesser.html#Analyze
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
"goodfellas" was also a favorite movie of john wayne gacy
the swing shifts are marvelous and i am much happier, but it is taking a while to adjust to my newfound nocturne. after going to sleep around 4, i woke at 8 this morning; after sprawling on the sofa in the sunshine and reading about serial killers (more on that in a moment) i took a brief and deep nap, during which i had yet another fucked up dream:
i am pet-sitting a grey parrot named ike. (this is directly related to the amazon parrot named frank that came into work just as i was leaving last night. he ate a battery of unknown size whilst being cared for by a friend. he clawed the shit out of my arms.) i take ike with me to a home-depot-type store to procure plants. he is docile enough to ride on my shoulder. there is a huge reflecting pool in the middle of the greenhouse area, filled with koi. "look at the fish!" i am singsonging. he hops off my shoulder and starts to saunter off; i follow him out of the store, worried that he's going to fly away. we're suddenly on a rocky beach. it's a grey day; there is a patch of grasses and driftwood, then pebbles and water. my parents are walking nearby. "look at the bird!" my mother says, running over to him- he's wandering on the ground, ignoring my continued pleas to return to my shoulder. he's startled by her and moves further away. i'm frustrated and annoyed- "mom, leave him alone" i say.
she continues to harrass the bird- he's less agitated now and watching her curiously, still just out of reach but not moving, like a naughty child. i notice there is a red backpack and some rubbish on the shore. i investigate: the rubbish is seaweed wrapped around a tattered ballcap and a wet satchel. i unzip the dripping backpack and pull out a plastic bag. i look inside. it is a severed head.
i drop the bag and curse. my father runs over. i tell him what it is. "and you didn't use gloves to touch anything?" he asks. "you mean, you put your prints all over this?" he is furious. "you just destroyed all the evidence" he says disgustedly.
i start to shake, gasp "i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i didn't think", nearly hyperventilating. meanwhile my mother has gotten distracted from the bird and meanders over. she takes the head/skull out of the bag and starts rinsing it off in the water. "what are you doing?" i scream. "it's dirty" she says nonchalantly. "but you're washing off all the evidence! maybe it was dumped here! they could have traced it from the blood and dirt on it!" i am yelling at her in the dream, even more hysterical, begging her to stop, while she calmly ignores me, while ike the bird saunters on the periphery.
i wake up panting, tiresias still in the crook of my knees, lines from the cushion embedded into my face. only twenty minutes had passed.
analyze that one.
i have a few ideas. "that which you most hate in others" comes to mind.
i had been reading about gacy at the time, so it's not as out-of-the-clear-blue as some of my reveries. ever have a completely specific and bizarre word introduced to your vocabulary, only to suddenly have it be EVERYWHERE? for 29 years i have never heard, considered, or needed the term "adicopere" (sp?). but now, twice in the last week, there it is. gacy's crawlspace, for example, was "filled with an icy sludge of mud and adicopere."
adiocipere? i know which letters compose the word, just not the order in which they go.
i love the english language. it covers all the bases of real and imagined nastiness.
*
this afternoon i drove in the glorious sunshine to "my" abandoned dairy compound near olympia. it had been awhile since i'd visited. today i concentrated on the house only; some of the window coverings had been pried off by ne'er-do-wells. i had never seen the inside before. i did not go in, because the place is a rotting death trap, i was right next to the road (my turquoise car parked jauntily in front of the 'no trespassing' gate), and there were two kids already trespassing in the barns, invisible but audible. i did not want to be a further bad influence on their virginal minds.
the house:
the basement, visible from a knocked-out window. i expected to see a corpse floating in the corner- why the fuck did i read that shit earlier? this area is part of the floodplain and was inundated during december's torrents.
the living room ceiling, the attic, and the sky:
and the cozy porch:
the kids were walking towards the gate as i was leaving. two boys, maybe junior high. "you live around here?" i asked. "what's the story with this place?" they were very polite. one said that the dairy went bankrupt and the land was turned into a wildlife preserve by the state. "there's usually, like, 25 elk wandering around" he said. i asked if they ever got bugged for going on the property. "no, nobody's ever said anything." i thanked them and wished them a "cool day", then drove off, wincing at my feeble phraseology.
when i was their age, had i had such a place, i would have stumbled out reeking of shoplifted cigarettes, fresh hickeys on my neck. just saying.
i am pet-sitting a grey parrot named ike. (this is directly related to the amazon parrot named frank that came into work just as i was leaving last night. he ate a battery of unknown size whilst being cared for by a friend. he clawed the shit out of my arms.) i take ike with me to a home-depot-type store to procure plants. he is docile enough to ride on my shoulder. there is a huge reflecting pool in the middle of the greenhouse area, filled with koi. "look at the fish!" i am singsonging. he hops off my shoulder and starts to saunter off; i follow him out of the store, worried that he's going to fly away. we're suddenly on a rocky beach. it's a grey day; there is a patch of grasses and driftwood, then pebbles and water. my parents are walking nearby. "look at the bird!" my mother says, running over to him- he's wandering on the ground, ignoring my continued pleas to return to my shoulder. he's startled by her and moves further away. i'm frustrated and annoyed- "mom, leave him alone" i say.
she continues to harrass the bird- he's less agitated now and watching her curiously, still just out of reach but not moving, like a naughty child. i notice there is a red backpack and some rubbish on the shore. i investigate: the rubbish is seaweed wrapped around a tattered ballcap and a wet satchel. i unzip the dripping backpack and pull out a plastic bag. i look inside. it is a severed head.
i drop the bag and curse. my father runs over. i tell him what it is. "and you didn't use gloves to touch anything?" he asks. "you mean, you put your prints all over this?" he is furious. "you just destroyed all the evidence" he says disgustedly.
i start to shake, gasp "i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i didn't think", nearly hyperventilating. meanwhile my mother has gotten distracted from the bird and meanders over. she takes the head/skull out of the bag and starts rinsing it off in the water. "what are you doing?" i scream. "it's dirty" she says nonchalantly. "but you're washing off all the evidence! maybe it was dumped here! they could have traced it from the blood and dirt on it!" i am yelling at her in the dream, even more hysterical, begging her to stop, while she calmly ignores me, while ike the bird saunters on the periphery.
i wake up panting, tiresias still in the crook of my knees, lines from the cushion embedded into my face. only twenty minutes had passed.
analyze that one.
i have a few ideas. "that which you most hate in others" comes to mind.
i had been reading about gacy at the time, so it's not as out-of-the-clear-blue as some of my reveries. ever have a completely specific and bizarre word introduced to your vocabulary, only to suddenly have it be EVERYWHERE? for 29 years i have never heard, considered, or needed the term "adicopere" (sp?). but now, twice in the last week, there it is. gacy's crawlspace, for example, was "filled with an icy sludge of mud and adicopere."
adiocipere? i know which letters compose the word, just not the order in which they go.
i love the english language. it covers all the bases of real and imagined nastiness.
*
this afternoon i drove in the glorious sunshine to "my" abandoned dairy compound near olympia. it had been awhile since i'd visited. today i concentrated on the house only; some of the window coverings had been pried off by ne'er-do-wells. i had never seen the inside before. i did not go in, because the place is a rotting death trap, i was right next to the road (my turquoise car parked jauntily in front of the 'no trespassing' gate), and there were two kids already trespassing in the barns, invisible but audible. i did not want to be a further bad influence on their virginal minds.
the house:
the basement, visible from a knocked-out window. i expected to see a corpse floating in the corner- why the fuck did i read that shit earlier? this area is part of the floodplain and was inundated during december's torrents.
the living room ceiling, the attic, and the sky:
and the cozy porch:
the kids were walking towards the gate as i was leaving. two boys, maybe junior high. "you live around here?" i asked. "what's the story with this place?" they were very polite. one said that the dairy went bankrupt and the land was turned into a wildlife preserve by the state. "there's usually, like, 25 elk wandering around" he said. i asked if they ever got bugged for going on the property. "no, nobody's ever said anything." i thanked them and wished them a "cool day", then drove off, wincing at my feeble phraseology.
when i was their age, had i had such a place, i would have stumbled out reeking of shoplifted cigarettes, fresh hickeys on my neck. just saying.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
one last kiss, sunset, time being carded
three of my favorite things: shiny tacky shit, a thriving dracena, and my left hand.
tiresias mid-lick:
work has been much, much better. i start swing shifts tomorrow. today was my last morning of waking at 5am to a black sky, waiting for the paper to be delivered, feeling blurred. 5am should be an hour one sees only if one is still awake from yesterday.
fucked case of the week, thus far: the gastric-esophogeal intussusception. a year-old dog presented with acute hematemesis. xrays revealed what looked like a collosal second heart in the thorax. the stomach was INSIDE THE FUCKING ESOPHAGUS. surgery was done on friday night. the doctor had to crack the ribs to manually milk the stomach back to its proper place. the stomach wall was then tacked to the abdominal wall and a weighted feeding tube was threaded to the jejunum. yesterday the dog was looped on fentanyl but raised her head when spoken to, and politely stood outside her cage to defecate. today: she still looks drained but wags her tail and walks outdoors. animals are fucking amazing. would any human be so impressively resilient? not i, i fear.
but this, in the parking garage of the grocer near my lair, is absolutely the best thing i have seen all day:
tiresias mid-lick:
work has been much, much better. i start swing shifts tomorrow. today was my last morning of waking at 5am to a black sky, waiting for the paper to be delivered, feeling blurred. 5am should be an hour one sees only if one is still awake from yesterday.
fucked case of the week, thus far: the gastric-esophogeal intussusception. a year-old dog presented with acute hematemesis. xrays revealed what looked like a collosal second heart in the thorax. the stomach was INSIDE THE FUCKING ESOPHAGUS. surgery was done on friday night. the doctor had to crack the ribs to manually milk the stomach back to its proper place. the stomach wall was then tacked to the abdominal wall and a weighted feeding tube was threaded to the jejunum. yesterday the dog was looped on fentanyl but raised her head when spoken to, and politely stood outside her cage to defecate. today: she still looks drained but wags her tail and walks outdoors. animals are fucking amazing. would any human be so impressively resilient? not i, i fear.
but this, in the parking garage of the grocer near my lair, is absolutely the best thing i have seen all day:
Thursday, February 28, 2008
ici c'est merde et refuse
walking home last night (circa midnight) i passed the famed hendrix statue on broadway- the one that, every time i see, i am reminded of the amateur porn-movie contest a few years back that i only got to hear about- the one in which one of the entries did "unspeakably lewd" things with, i assume, his conveniently outstretched hand. it is, after all, perfect twat height.
local legends get no respect. (i am not a huge hendrix fan and i use the term very loosely.) last year hendrix's "childhood home", a ramshackle crack den in the CD, was put on the market for a collosal sum by his half-brother. i don't know if it ever sold. it was probably bought for the land only, to be transformed into a luscious am/pm or similar.
the variety of garbage is sociologically entrancing. note the old-school safeway cart (and note that the nearest safeway is multiple blocks away.)
it reminded me of a picture i took on 30 december of a downtown trashbin. fucking starbucks jenga.
and then i thought of a few weeks ago, when i was wandering around the sculpture park- home of "don't touch the (HUGE METAL OUTDOOR EXTREMELY DURABLE) art" signs- and saw a man scrubbing the calder "eagle". did i already post this? it is colorful and ridiculous enough that i shall do it again.
municipal priorities are woefully misguided here. i passed at least a dozen people sleeping in doorways whilst walking around today. last night, post-hendrix, i was accosted in front of a hotel by a very classily-dressed older woman who resembled an asian anna wintour. she started on a convoluted diatribe about her abusive boyfriend and her 15yr old son who had to be up for school in the morning- and it became apparent as she babbled that something was amiss. a security guard suddenly materialized as i was saying "no, i don't have any money, i'm so sorry." she darted off after a man at the corner. "i was trying to save you" the guard said. "she's a heroin addict. what story did she tell you?" i reiterated, lamely adding "she's dressed very nicely." "she was out here all day yesterday too, coming into the lobby to puke in the bathroom" he said scornfully. "she's a damn addict." he asked me where i was going, if i needed to have a cab called, if i wanted any hot chocolate. "be careful out here" he said. "you're walking like you know where you're going, and that's good, but there's some crazy people around."
"my naive vibe will keep them at bay" i said cheerily. and yes, like a douchebag, i really fucking said that. he laughed, i laughed. i thanked him and walked off, clutching my bag, feeling grateful for random kindness and horribly sad about the shit that lurks everywhere else.
today i went to v's. her physical therapist was there when i arrived (carrying 12# of apples, among other things). i was cleaning her bathroom mirror and trying to not listen to their conversation in the other room. she was being asked about her depression, incontinence, pain- and i was inwardly panicking. not only for her, but for myself, wondering what i'll be like 5 years from now. i am currently very pleased to be strutting around the city, up and down hills, carrying heinous bags of fruit, capably (albeit apathetically) remaining employed- but she was probably like that once too. and i cannot help but feel like a fucking asshole to have the same diagnosis but a very different manifestation.
and i cannot stand her kid. today he shat in the bathroom with the door wide open, making dramatic groaning noises as i sat in plain view in the living room. i went into another room out of mortification and revulsion, hearing him flush the toilet repeatedly. his grandmother began yelling at him in serbian; he was yelling back. he probably clogged the fucking thing. the apartment stank of crap. i was scrubbing the mirrors and windows with cleaner that left horrid streaks, inching around piles of adult diapers and medications as v continued to answer questions in increasingly frustrated yet strainedly polite broken english, and i thought: i fucking hate every bit of this situation- for everyone involved.
'tis a fine time for a happy image:
local legends get no respect. (i am not a huge hendrix fan and i use the term very loosely.) last year hendrix's "childhood home", a ramshackle crack den in the CD, was put on the market for a collosal sum by his half-brother. i don't know if it ever sold. it was probably bought for the land only, to be transformed into a luscious am/pm or similar.
the variety of garbage is sociologically entrancing. note the old-school safeway cart (and note that the nearest safeway is multiple blocks away.)
it reminded me of a picture i took on 30 december of a downtown trashbin. fucking starbucks jenga.
and then i thought of a few weeks ago, when i was wandering around the sculpture park- home of "don't touch the (HUGE METAL OUTDOOR EXTREMELY DURABLE) art" signs- and saw a man scrubbing the calder "eagle". did i already post this? it is colorful and ridiculous enough that i shall do it again.
municipal priorities are woefully misguided here. i passed at least a dozen people sleeping in doorways whilst walking around today. last night, post-hendrix, i was accosted in front of a hotel by a very classily-dressed older woman who resembled an asian anna wintour. she started on a convoluted diatribe about her abusive boyfriend and her 15yr old son who had to be up for school in the morning- and it became apparent as she babbled that something was amiss. a security guard suddenly materialized as i was saying "no, i don't have any money, i'm so sorry." she darted off after a man at the corner. "i was trying to save you" the guard said. "she's a heroin addict. what story did she tell you?" i reiterated, lamely adding "she's dressed very nicely." "she was out here all day yesterday too, coming into the lobby to puke in the bathroom" he said scornfully. "she's a damn addict." he asked me where i was going, if i needed to have a cab called, if i wanted any hot chocolate. "be careful out here" he said. "you're walking like you know where you're going, and that's good, but there's some crazy people around."
"my naive vibe will keep them at bay" i said cheerily. and yes, like a douchebag, i really fucking said that. he laughed, i laughed. i thanked him and walked off, clutching my bag, feeling grateful for random kindness and horribly sad about the shit that lurks everywhere else.
today i went to v's. her physical therapist was there when i arrived (carrying 12# of apples, among other things). i was cleaning her bathroom mirror and trying to not listen to their conversation in the other room. she was being asked about her depression, incontinence, pain- and i was inwardly panicking. not only for her, but for myself, wondering what i'll be like 5 years from now. i am currently very pleased to be strutting around the city, up and down hills, carrying heinous bags of fruit, capably (albeit apathetically) remaining employed- but she was probably like that once too. and i cannot help but feel like a fucking asshole to have the same diagnosis but a very different manifestation.
and i cannot stand her kid. today he shat in the bathroom with the door wide open, making dramatic groaning noises as i sat in plain view in the living room. i went into another room out of mortification and revulsion, hearing him flush the toilet repeatedly. his grandmother began yelling at him in serbian; he was yelling back. he probably clogged the fucking thing. the apartment stank of crap. i was scrubbing the mirrors and windows with cleaner that left horrid streaks, inching around piles of adult diapers and medications as v continued to answer questions in increasingly frustrated yet strainedly polite broken english, and i thought: i fucking hate every bit of this situation- for everyone involved.
'tis a fine time for a happy image:
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
oh you DON'T SAY. no, seriously.
to get my retarded fucking idealism-squashing out of the way: the foolish boy, the one i was googly-eyed and lalala and "oh did march come EARLY?" about? vanished. gone. i feel like a fucking idiot, again, as usual. are there no fucking MEN in the world, MEN who aren't full-time students with their living expenses completely paid for by their parents (yeah, him too), who don't sit around and smoke pot and blame everything wrong in their lives on their "psycho exes", who don't wait until they're inebriated to shove their tongues down my throat? FUCK! i am so fucking DISGUSTED with BOYS, with BULLSHIT, with MYSELF for continually falling into the same fucking morass and being hypocritically bewildered that nothing is any different.
is there something really fucking wrong with me?
(crappy self-esteem. gullible. lonely. horny. wanting to believe the best in people. insane in the sense of expecting the same shit, done the same way, to somehow change. please feel free to add others.)
i am, after all, part of the situation. the last two-plus years of post-seperation chronic clusterfuckery cannot simply be a really huge coincidence.
i want to be fucking cared about again. that's all.
the picture i took from the park in everett: i actually really like this, even though it's incredibly off-center. it sort of says everything.
okay, enough of that shit.
here is an inscrutable sign from the wendy's near my work. i don't fucking get it.
and here are some wily pigeons inside pike place market. i waited for about 5 minutes for the little twerps to walk IN THE ACTUAL SUNBEAM, but they never did.
tomorrow i help v. she requested "more apples than last time." (i brought her 10 huge red deliciouses, deliciousi?, per her stipulation.) "like thirty" she said tonight. 30 fucking apples? oh my god. what have i gotten into? i am smiling as i type this, because it is pretty funny. and yes, i will be walking.
is there something really fucking wrong with me?
(crappy self-esteem. gullible. lonely. horny. wanting to believe the best in people. insane in the sense of expecting the same shit, done the same way, to somehow change. please feel free to add others.)
i am, after all, part of the situation. the last two-plus years of post-seperation chronic clusterfuckery cannot simply be a really huge coincidence.
i want to be fucking cared about again. that's all.
the picture i took from the park in everett: i actually really like this, even though it's incredibly off-center. it sort of says everything.
okay, enough of that shit.
here is an inscrutable sign from the wendy's near my work. i don't fucking get it.
and here are some wily pigeons inside pike place market. i waited for about 5 minutes for the little twerps to walk IN THE ACTUAL SUNBEAM, but they never did.
tomorrow i help v. she requested "more apples than last time." (i brought her 10 huge red deliciouses, deliciousi?, per her stipulation.) "like thirty" she said tonight. 30 fucking apples? oh my god. what have i gotten into? i am smiling as i type this, because it is pretty funny. and yes, i will be walking.
rainier cold storage, a majestic building adjacent to the original rainier brewery, was demolished last week. people left flowers in the surrounding fence. this is in georgetown, the area of town i have that crush on, despite the horrid lack of public transport, grocers, silence, and green grass.
on the outside of the aforementioned brewery (also vacant; cavernous rooms visible from the sidewalk):
the butcher album. i think. i hope. the proper serial number, stereo, original liner. i am a fucking nerd.
petting pussy in the languid shadows. i think this is tiresias.
entropy kicking catnip ass.
on the outside of the aforementioned brewery (also vacant; cavernous rooms visible from the sidewalk):
the butcher album. i think. i hope. the proper serial number, stereo, original liner. i am a fucking nerd.
petting pussy in the languid shadows. i think this is tiresias.
entropy kicking catnip ass.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
more spoiled brat bullshit
the yuck feeling continues. work was horrible. people were being bitchy and i felt stupid and unappreciated, burned out and indifferent. another day of not getting a chance to pee until 7.5 hrs into my shift, of frustration making my eyes burn and my nose run, of feeling immature and guilty and fucking incompetent. i cannot keep doing this line of work. i love less about it than i despise it. there were enough surreally vile moments today that i consciously thought: "why the fuck am i here, in this windowless hell?" like: stuffing dead animals into garbage bags, animals that had lives and names and were still warm. like: having to lean into the corpse-freezer to read a body tag and the ice-crusted lid hitting my back, trapping me with the smells of death. like: condescending coworkers. and grown men bawling hysterically in the parking lot. and diarrhea all over the lobby. and animals frantically clawing at their cages because they don't understand why they're there.
i want to do something pleasant-smelling, mindless, and nurturing with my life- like knead dough in a sun-filled bakery while good music plays.
i am still in a wretched mood, though singing along very loudly and ascerbically to "horse with no name" as i drove too fast through the bowels of, inexplicably, west seattle, helped a bit. blaring "easy money" (king crimson, not billy joel) several times in a row helped also.
i am very grateful to be employed and able to sustain my inane lifestyle- lest i sound like a complete fuck. and i would BREAK OUT THE BOOZE and HAVE A BALL, as it were, if i, you know, didn't have to be up at the ass-crack of dawn to do today all over again.
i want to do something pleasant-smelling, mindless, and nurturing with my life- like knead dough in a sun-filled bakery while good music plays.
i am still in a wretched mood, though singing along very loudly and ascerbically to "horse with no name" as i drove too fast through the bowels of, inexplicably, west seattle, helped a bit. blaring "easy money" (king crimson, not billy joel) several times in a row helped also.
i am very grateful to be employed and able to sustain my inane lifestyle- lest i sound like a complete fuck. and i would BREAK OUT THE BOOZE and HAVE A BALL, as it were, if i, you know, didn't have to be up at the ass-crack of dawn to do today all over again.
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