Provoking Someone's Eye Out

Provoke: Transient Verb. to stir action or feeling. to provide the needed stimulus for. to induce. Verb. to call forth emotions, feelings, and responses.


It is all about this. This moment. Right here. This. One. Moment. This Little. Moment. Wanting in. This moment. See it. Hear it. Smell it. Taste it. Feel this moment. Feel something. Feel anything. Where. Have the moments gone. No one has. This moment. Anymore. No one feels. This moment. Something. Anything. Anymore.

We have. All stopped feeling. Something. Anything. We wake. Get dressed. Work. Go home. Do something. Do something else. Sleep. Repeat. Repeat again. Repeat fifty thousand times. And it is. Shallow. Empty.

We. Get high. Fuck our best friend's spouse. Watch mind numbing television. Have mind numbing conversation. About. Nothing. Drink too much. Cheap beer. Drink too little. Expensive beer. Wax. Wane. Pretentiously. We are so progressive. Here. In this moment. Waxing. Waning. About the state of the union. We. Walk past four men. Sleeping on the street. Holes in their shoes. Hands in our pockets. Head down. Forget. Everything.

We are so progressive. In this city. We are. So. Progressive.

Home. Sleep. Repeat. Repeat again. Repeat fifty thousand times.

And really. What I'm talking about. These moments. Not his moments. Or her moments. Not someone over there's moments. Your moments. Each and every one of your moments. You think. Not think. You are immune. To such moments. Not immune. Better than these moments. Not better. More evolved than these moments. De-evolving. I have seen them. The moments. Your moments. Each one.

And when I do I want to. Do something. Like. Yank out your eyeball. With some. Super Tarantino style kung fu action. In a moment. Fingers ready. Pluck. Gone. All kinds of eyeball missing glop. Hanging out of the. Socket. Drop it in the dirt. Spit. Stomp. Up. Down. Hating every second that you can. See out of the eye. That remains. So it. Must. Not. Remain.

Repeat. Repeat again. Repeat fifty thousand times.

Lick the cornea. Put the eye. In a blender. Set it on. Frappe.

No one really gets to use the frappe setting anymore.

Toss in. Vanilla Silk soymilk. Maybe some raspberries. Tobasco. Strychnine. Strap you down with. Twine. Stolen from the Ikea parking lot. Duct tape. Eyelids open. You. Instinctively. Blink. No reason. Anymore. Feed you the eyeball-vanilla-Silk-soymilk-raspberry-tabasco-strychnine concoction.

Delicious.


** Credit and thanks to B SHARP for providing the title of this post. Thanks B. Oh wait. I already said that. Nevermind then.

Paranoia Settles into the Brain

So. Uh. Okay.

Here is a bit of information for you all. Lately I have been checking out the domain names of those who have been checking me out. I have noticed a fair amount of repeat customers. This makes me happy. But today. Today. This morning. Moments ago. I noticed a domain name that did not make me happy. In fact. It made me a bit. Well. Concerned. Worried if you will. Freaked out kinda.

Someone. Some traffic. Originating from a United States Army domain name. Checked out my blog.

Now I'm not really the paranoid conspiracy theory type. Okay. Well. I sort of am. But I don't believe that anyone would really have any interest in little ol' me. I'm pretty boring actually. But this. Sort of uh. Got me concerned. And I'm sure it's probably just someone goofing off at work on the Federal dime. But. Uh. Well.

I'm wondering if I should be. Well. Worried.

My So-Called Sexy Ass Friends and the New Plague

I have some sexy friends. Really. I do. My friends are shitdamnmotherfucking sexy as hell. And you realize what this means don't you. It means that I should be fucking each and every one of my friends.

No. That is not what it means. Silly rabbit. It means that this is the second post in a row where I am saying nice shit about people. I must be sick. Those of you who know. Know that I am sick. Quite sick indeed. And have figured out this sickness thing. It is none other than bronchio-whooping-pneumonia. Horrible. Isn't it.

So I have bronchio-whooping-pneumonia. And it is not contagious. But it isn't pleasant. The last time I publically discussed my sickness I informed you that I had been coughing up my internal organs. Because I couldn't cough up anything else. Not to get graphic. But this is about to get REAL FUCKING GRAPHIC. So those of you with a weak stomach might want to stop reading now. Skip to the end or something when my tangent will wrap back around and I will be saying nice things about people again.

Still with me. Good.

So I have had this insane dry cough. And chances are. If you have seen me within the last two weeks I have either coughed on you or over you or under you or in your general direction or possibly even kept you awake most of the night with my dry hacking cough.

But guess what. I have good news. My cough isn't...uh...dry anymore. Actually. It is pretty fucking wet. And when I say wet. I could only be referring to one thing.

Phlegm.

Yes. Phlegm.

Even the spelling of the word looks awful. And it sounds awful. Go on. Say it. Say it out loud. Phlegm. Ew. And when I say phlegm people. I mean some of the thickest and stringiest and nastiest shit flying out of my throat. In fact. A mere five minutes ago. I was leaning over the sink in my kitchen. Choking on my own freakin' phlegm.

DISCLAIMER: I originally wrote most of this post last night. So when I wrote it, it was indeed a mere five minutes ago. I am currently sitting in my office at my place of employment and I have not forcibly expelled any phlegm yet today. But the day isn't over yet. So. Let me continue.

And when I finally forcibly expelled it (meaning phlegm) out of my body. It was like giving birth.

Okay. I don't know if it was really like giving birth. Giving birth is probably worse. When I was in high school. Instead of taking auto shop like I wanted. My guidance counselor made me take a course entitled "Child Development" oh yes. Child freakin' development. I remember two things from this course.

First. We had to carry around a freakin' egg for a freakin' week. I guess this was Westhill High School's ghetto ass low budget way of teaching us what it might be like to have a child at the tender age of fifteen. Shit. There were grrrls in my class who were already pregnant. Guess this lesson came a bit on the late side for them. Anyway. My mother -- bless her sweet little immigrant heart -- thought this was the most ludicris idea she ever heard and promptly put my egg in the refrigerator. Where it freakin' belonged.

The second thing I recall from this class was the video from hell. The video of an actual womyn giving actual birth.

This video was all up close and personal. And when I say close up I mean that either the camera had some massive zoom action going on or the person shooting the video was seriously all up on that shit. That video was the only birth control I ever needed. It was by far worse than some of the crime scene photographs that I have since seen. So. I really have no desire. None whatsoever. To ever give birth. And seeing that I don't really have any desire to ever give birth. Let us just call this projectile phlegm action the closest thing I will get to ever in a million billion years to actually giving birth.

My lungs are filled with something nasty. It's like something out of a bad horror movie. And I normally wouldn't share this with you all but damn. I have to tell someone. And here you are. Just sort of right here/there/wherever you are. So you get to hear it.

Let me say that I just don't feel so cute right about now. And I think I'm normally kind of cute. Sort of sometimes cute at least. But now. No cute action. And a great many of you have put up with my non-cuteness as of late. Thanks for that by the way. I owe you some serious cuteness when this is all over.

Or at least some head.

Which brings me back to the reason I began this post in the first place. And that was a damn fine segue by the way. My sexy ass friends. How is it possible that I know so many sexy people. Am I just lucky. I must be. Do I just attract sexy people into my life. Quite possible. Do I maybe have a strange and unusual view as to what is in fact sexy. Pretty damn sure.

So I know some sexy people. In my group of friends and extended friends and such we've got all kinds of sexy. Sexy smiles. Sexy vocal action. Sense of humor sexy. Sexy attitudes. Sexy brainy individuals. Especially those of you who don't even know how sexy and brainy you are one little bit. Insane sexy communication. Dorky sexy. Geeky sexy. Nerdy sexy. And how about talent sexy. All sorts of talent. Artistic drawin' talent sexy. Paintin' talent sexy. Writin' talent sexy. Photographin' talent sexy. Music makin' talent sexy. Sexy folk near and far. Sexy in ways you don't even know.

Yeah. I probably should just fuck all of you. Sexy ass bitches.

This Post Sponsored by the Letter U

The end of two thousand and five is approaching. Two thousand and five. And it is mind blowing if you think about it. Well. Uh. Not really. But that sounded quite enthusiastic didn't it.

I recall when I was in my early teens having a conversation with my high school friend Liggy. We were talking about the future and we were somewhat distraught because we felt that we would be "too old" to fully celebrate the milennium when it in fact arrived. Somehow the thought of being twenty seven years of age was akin to having one foot in the grave and the other in a nursing home. I suppose this is a normal and natural process for the fifteen year old mind. And I am reminded of this every time a young person feels the need to call me ma'am.

Ma'am. Oh bloody hell. Only one person on this planet is actually permitted to refer to me as ma'am without experiencing some very well practiced excessive eye rolling or an over abundance of sarcastic tongue lashing. Only one. So do not attempt this at home thinking that you are that one because the odds are against you. You are most likely not that one.

But I digress.

So. Two thousand and six. It will be here soon. Contemplation often ensues during this end of old and beginning of new year sort of thing. I am not certain as to whether or not I am feeling particularly contemplative. Eh. Who am I kidding. I am always at least somewhat contemplative. At any rate. Somehow the collective "we" feel that if one is to be contemplative or enact significant or non-significant change a new year is an appropriate time to begin such contemplative enactment action.

It is as if we somehow we feel as though we get a fresh start when the calendar flips. The slate is wiped clean. We can begin again. There is a second or third or fifth or fiftith chance. And somehow we can be reborn if we so choose.

But if you ask me. And I know you have not. But knowing me you all are fully aware of the fact that you do not have to ask in order for me to throw my opinion into the mix. So. If you ask me. Ahem. Uh. Shit. I no longer recall where I was going with this idea.

Oh yes. If you ask me. It all seems like a great deal of pressure. This pre new year contemplative enactment action of significant or non-significant change. And with too much pressure things tend to explode or implode or just get sort of soggy.

Soggy. Now is that any way to resolve or enact anything significant or non-significant. I think not. So no pressure cooker action. I will attempt to avoid the soggy exploding implosion. At least in this moment. I cannot promise that it will last. It must be that Gemini thing. Whatever that means.

Anyway. I am not going to make a list of things that I resolve to resolve in the coming year. No. I will not. I refuse to make a list that outlines enactment action of significant or non-significant change. It is tempting. I know I could do it. But I will not. Out of protest. For uh. Something.

Maybe I will talk about you. That would be nice. You. Yes. You. Now that seems like a rather good idea indeed. I will talk about you instead of talking about me. And I will say something nice. I will. Stop laughing. I will say something nice. I will. In fact. Say. Something. Nice.

So here is the nice shit. And I mean it. But do not ask me to go through it all again. I have an image to uphold here people. Uh. Here we go.

Let me say that I am honored to have met and to know some of the most amazing individuals on this planet. Seriously. I am not trying to kiss your collective asses. If anything. You all should be kissing my ass. Collectively and individually. But I mean it. I know some kick ass fucking fantastic human beans. My life has been and continues to be enriched by all of you. Including those of you that I know will never ever read a single word of my ramblings.

You are all beautiful. And talented. Each in your own right. This is true. All of you. Yes. I said all of you. Each and every one of you has in some way had an impact on my existence on this planet this year. Many of you in ways you could not possibly know. Or ways that I could not possibly have imagined. And perhaps "we" should inform each other more often of the wonderful ways in which each individual enriches our life. I am not certain if anyone does this enough. If I had to guess I would probably say that I do not. Unless I am drunk. And that really doesn't count. Because you are usually drunk too. And we don't remember these things then. And life is short. Too short not to say what you mean when you mean it. But I suppose we are all guilty of not doing so for a variety of reasons. But I digress.

We were talking about you. Well. I was talking about you. Many of you. And I mean you. But also you. The you that doesn't know that I am referring to you. Because maybe we have only had a few interactions. Maybe we don't know each other very well. Or maybe we know each other very well. Either way. I am talking about you. The many of you. Because in short you rock. But I am not brief. I am verbose. So I will continue. You are also wise. Compassionate. Encouraging. Inspiring. Loving. Gentle. Passionate. Humble. Brilliant. Geeky as hell. Hysterically funny.

I am an observer. And I have observed you all. In a variety of places and spaces and settings. And I have seen more than you probably know. For some of you more than I wanted to see. But I digress. Seriously. In the little details. I have seen everything. And I am duly impressed. And this doesn't mean that you are perfect. You are all georgously flawed. I am not flawed in any way of course. But we are not talking about me. We are talking about you. Yes. You.

So. Some of you drive me crazy. And others I wish would drive me a bit more crazy. But that might be getting a bit too personal. And since this is not about me I will refrain.

I guess what I am getting at is you are all wonderful for a whole host of different reasons. And I do most certainly hope that you all can see your wonderfulness. You are beautiful. Really.

Well. I do believe that is enough sappy ass shit for one post. Pardon me while I take my leave to go vomit now. Blech. Yuck. Gross.

I mean. Whatever. You didn't really buy all that shit did you. I most certainly hope not. I was just kidding. Sucker.

Possession Inflection Interjection

I have been thinking about language. Again. Language. And more specifically. The ways in which the use of language influences thought. And even more specifically. The ways in which we use language indicating possession.

Now I am speaking of possession. But not of the demonic variety. Forget about Linda Blair for a moment. Although I wonder if I might be able to use this as an interesting analogy. I may return to this idea later. But not now. And just so we are all on the same page. Let me be more specific. To possess is to have some degree of control over the object of said possession.

So. Here. I have been thinking about one word in particular as of late. One word denoting possession.

My.

Yes. My. And there are many ways in which one can use the word my. So let me break it down further.

My. My is an adjective. It is used as the possessive form of I. It is used to modify a noun. So my essentially denotes possession of the noun it modifies. Now with this little refresher in mind it can be said that there are many times in which one might want to denote possession of a noun in the first person in such a manner. Hence. The use of my. For example. I may want to speak of something that I purchased. In such a case I would use the possessive my as the modifier. And to provide further example I will list several nouns that could potentially be modified by said my modifier.

Book. Shoe. Pen. Keys. Bed. Spoon. Camera. Notebook. Gum. Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Lover.

WHAT.

Wait. Something has gone terribly wrong. Did I say...yes. Yes. I did.

This is what has been puzzling me as of late. And let me back up for a moment. I understand that we live in a society with capitalism as a framework. And everything is built upon this frame. Everything always has been and likely always will be based on ownership and control and more specifically, the ownership and control of property. In some way. Shape. Form.

It could be argued that property ownership has been the central focus of all existence. And I am not speaking of all cultures and all times. I am not smart enough to do such things. I am not a historian. Nor am I an anthropologist. I can only speak of this place. And this general time period. So with that said. I have disclaimed. Let me continue.

Property. Control. Ownership. And what does this mean. What does this mean for our relationships and the ways in which we view those individuals with whom we share relationship.

It would seem to mean that in some way or shape or form we view people as some form of property. Not a new concept. In our society people were long viewed as property. Another example of the ways in which language and notions of property meld. Rule of Thumb. The original Rule of Thumb stated that a man could beat his wife with a switch. Provided it was not wider than the width of his thumb. Women were deemed the property of a man. Father. Uncle. Husband. And this was acceptable. And my point here is not to determine the rights and/or wrongs of the past. I am merely stating a fact about the past. Without value judgment in this moment. Perhaps I will value judge in a different moment.

But if you examine the ways in which we use language. You can see. Many people utilize the Rule of Thumb phrase. Without meaning to reference to original meaning. And perhaps when I said the people were long viewed as property. I meant. That although we would like to think that things have changed. They. Really. Haven't. Not much.

I would argue that our notion of people and property is much more ingrained than we might realize. And I will offer a second disclaimer. I am not a linguist. Someone who has studied linguistics might agree or disagree or both. Recall these are merely my thoughts. Therefore. Let us continue. Return for a moment to the aforementioned list. My boyfriend. My girlfriend. My lover. My. My. My. My person with significant descriptor attached.

And I don’t believe that people consciously think of possessive qualities when they speak. Or when they are my-ing. I don’t believe that this is intentional. But language is pervasive. And I do believe that it influences the way in which we think and therefore, the way in which we define relationships. And therefore, the way we live our relationships. Furthermore. I believe this has the potential to be psychologically damaging to said relationships.

Psychologically damaging. And perhaps this is where we can return to the Linda Blair analogy. I will argue that we have all either witnessed or experienced relationships in which one person in said relationship has their head spinning around. They are projectile vomiting the likes of which we may never have seen. It may very well be Academy Award winning. Confusion. Misunderstanding. Jealousy. Anger. Heartache. More jealousy. Dishonesty. More confusion. And perhaps if we viewed everyone as an independent individual. A sharing of intimacy on part of each individual. Not a possession. No control. Not ownership. Perhaps then. The confusion and misunderstanding and jealously and anger and heartache and more jealousy and dishonesty and more confusion and such would not exist. For our baseline view of the individual. Our baseline view of the relationship. And perhaps most important, our baseline view of ourselves would be different.

I believe this would be freeing. And our relationships would be richer and deeper.

But now we are back to language. You may be wondering how to describe a relationship with another individual without using the possessive. And I don’t have the answer. You may be wondering how I describe such relationships. I will tell you that I struggle with the use of the possessive. I am certainly guilty of utilizing it in a variety of circumstances. I want this to change. And this requires a great deal of re-training.

I believe we need significant modification to language. One that permits us to describe relationships without gaining possession or asserting subliminal control over people in such a manner. I believe we need to take everything that we think we know and turn it upside down. Shake the dirty secrets out of deep pockets. Allow them to fall to the floor. Sort through the lint. And you all know about my love affair with language. My fetish with words. I do not suggest we stop communicating in a verbal manner. This is not the answer. This is not my answer. I do suggest one moment of thought. One. Single. Tiny. Moment.

And perhaps. Just maybe. We will find the answers. Together.

Celebratin' the Day of the Lord

Give it up for the Lord.

I mean. Really. It is. After all. The birthday of the Lord. So give it up.

I though I should celebrate the day of the Lord proper. So I tried to think about what Christians would do on this day. I thought. And than I thought about it a bit more. I made a list. I checked it twice. I put my plan for celebrating the day of the Lord into action. It is good to have a plan.

So I began the celebration. I began celebrating the day of the Lord. First. I went to THE ONLY FREAKIN' STORE OPEN TWENTY FOUR HOURS ON THE DAY OF THE LORD WHICH WILL OF COURSE REMAIN NAMELESS and bought some condoms. It seemed like a good place to begin. Because I think the Lord would want us to be prepared. In fact I believe the Lord may have said something to the effect of go forth and be prepared. Oh. Wait. Sorry. That "be prepared" thing comes from the Boy Scouts. Not the Lord. Well. Nevertheless. I think the Lord would want us to engage in preparation. Prepared to celebrate the day of his birth. In a manger and shit. So. Yeah. Condoms.

After my condom expedition at the aforementioned unnamed store I went home. And I took a big swig of the codeine ladden cough syrup. I stopped using a spoon to measure out the dosage days ago. Now I just take a swig or two every couple of hours and it seems to be helping. Well. Sort of helping. Actually. Not really so much helping. But that is another matter entirely and not related to the celebration of the day of the Lord stuff so I won't bore you with the details in this particular post.

Okay. So now we've got condoms and narcotics. Wait. Narcotics. How does that relate to the celebration action. Uh. Well. See. The Lord helps those who help themselves. So. The codeine cough syrup is helping my cough -- sort of see above --and I am helping myself to a big swig of the shit. So I am meeting my end of the bargain and I most certainly hope that the Lord bones up and does the same. Busy guy. I know. But as George Michael once said, you've gotta have faith.

Uh. Where was I. Oh yes. Condoms and narcotics. So that doesn't seem like quite enough. I mean it isn't just any birthday you know. We're talking about the Lord here. Jesus. The savior and shit. I think that's a pretty damn big deal.

So I opened a bottle of wine. You know. To wash the taste of the cough syrup out of my mouth. It isn't such pleasant stuff. The cough syrup that is. Not the wine. And I'm not talking cheap ass wine here either. This is the $10 bottle stuff. You cannot be drinking the cheap two buck Chuck when celebrating the day of the Lord. At least not right away. So I opened some wine and had some friends over for a very delightful vegan celebration of the Lord.

See. Vegan. And you know that I did not have any part in the preparation of said vegan feast. After the previous evening events many of you now know I cannot even make a simple batch of popcorn -- unless it is of the microwave variety. Anyway. No animals were harmed in the making of this day of our Lord. Which is more than I can say for all sorts of other events involving the Lord. You know. That whole baby boy killing thing. And that animal sacrifice business. And let us not forget that whole cruxifiction thing. That was pretty damned harmful.

Hmm. Maybe I've crossed the line of sarcasm a wee bit. I am waiting for the lightening to strike me down at any moment.

Anyway. I rented a few movies to continue the day of the Lord celebration. Here's the lineup: the Omen. Carrie. Rosemary's Baby. Die Die My Darling. Mommie Dearest. They all have the Lord in a starring or supportive role so it seemed appropriate.

I really should have rented the Last Temptation of Christ. I guess I just wasn't thinking.

Oh well. There's always next year.

Projectile Coughing Internal Organs

I think that I have been infected. And it is someone's fault. I do not know who I might be able to blame for said infectedness as virtually everyone I know is currently infected or has been infected as of late. But let me make one thing very clear. I am not pleased.

As you all know. I have survived a fairly recent infection of the avian flu. The particular flu strain that I speak of is the variety that subsequently transforms into something even more diabolical than the avian flu. Once you are relieved of the avian flu symptoms you find yourself infected with tuberculosis. It is thoroughly unpleasant. I do not appreciate tuberculosis. I also did not appreciate the tuberculosis type symptoms that did not resolve for approximately four to six weeks.

But at least it was finally over. Or so I thought. Now I think I have been
re-infected.

Let me share with you how it all began. Yesterday morning I woke from a pleasant night of slumbering in my pleasantly comfortable bed with my even more pleasant sheets. It was. In a word. Pleasant. And then it happened.

I coughed up my spleen.

And let me step back for a moment. Let us put this in the proper context. The coughing originally began somewhere around Sunday. I went to visit my very wise friend in Olympia. And noticed a small almost unnoticeable cough. This almost unnoticeable cough became more noticeable by Monday. And now. It is most certainly no longer unnoticeable.

But I was not prepared for what was about to occur. After all. It isn't every day that you cough up your spleen. So I'm standing in my room looking at my spleen on the floor. And I did what I suppose anyone would have done in a similar situation. I picked up my little spleen and went to the kitchen to wash it off.

So I washed it off. And I shoved my spleen back where it belongs. That wasn't exactly the easiest or most pleasant thing I have done as of late. But somehow I managed to shove my spleen back down. Back into the spleen area.

I spent the majority of the day coughing. Coughing. More coughing. So much coughing that Unnamed Attorney Number Four asked me if I could "cough a little bit more quietly" because said unnamed attorney was meeting with a client and my coughing was causing a disturbance.

My coughing was causing a disturbance. How fucking unfortunate.

Anyway. Last night I saw my dear Dirty White Boy Schricken friend. He has been quite ill as well as of late. He is on the list of potential infectors. However he did redeem himself so he is no longer on the list of individuals who may very well get smited. Anyway. He has now developed a cough so severe that it is inhibiting his intake and outtake of the delicious life sustaining oxygen cocktail. And as a former scientist-y person I can tell you that inhibiting the intake and outtake of the delicious life sustaining oxygen cocktail is not so very pleasant. Or a good idea. I mean really. That is why they call it life sustaining people. Pay attention to language.

So after discussing various descriptors such as "flavor and smooth" jasmine tea and cock flavored noodles and additional observations of the burning of books he took pity on my organ expelling coughing. He was kind. He shared some of his codeine laden cough syrupy stuff with me.

Actually. He was probably just getting tired of my hacking all over his place. Maybe I was inadvertently spitting in his eye. No. That is not true. He is a gem. Not exactly a ruby. Not a diamond. Not really an emerald. Maybe not quite a gem. Maybe a piece of quartz. Or some beach glass. Seriously. He is a damn good friend. Thanks for the codeine dawg.

So I don't know about you. And some of you I really don't know about. And to be quite honest. Some of you I don't want to know about. And some of you I know far too much about. And maybe some of you. I want to know a great deal more about. But let me just state in case anyone is unclear on this point that I am not fond of coughing up my spleen. I like my spleen right where it is. In the spleen area. Not on the floor.

I have spent the majority of the morning/afternoon/evening coughing. And I feel my left kidney starting to break loose. And I know that it is only a matter of time before my kidney is up and out and on the floor.

And I hate it when that happens.

Protection Inflection Calls for Rejection

Many of you are very aware that I have been trapped in a bit of political paralysis for some time now. And such paralysis is a difficult place for me to be so duly trapped. Let me explain.

As critical as I am of the United States. And many of you know I can be quite critical. I love this country.

Let me say that again for those of you who perhaps did not catch that one. I LOVE THIS COUNTRY. I do. I mean it. I am not being sarcastic. And I know that I am often sarcastic. But sarcastic I am not being in this moment.

I do not want to run off to Canada or Algiers or Istanbul or Iceland. Well maybe I do. But I'm not willing to give up in this moment. Perhaps I am an optimist. Perhaps I am stubborn. Perhaps I am stupid. Either way I plan to stick around. For at least a little while longer. But this is not the point.

The point is that despite the fact that this country was founded on torture and rape and murder. On the bloodshed of indigenious and not so indigenous brown skinned people. That our foundation was built on death and destruction and lie after lie after lie. And that not much has significant changed with respect to the torture and rape and murder and bloodshed and death and destruction and lying both actually and metaphorically. Despite all of these things I believe that the theoretical framework is solid. And perhaps when I refer to the theoretical frame I mean to say that it is solidly built out of pine or cardboard or paper mache. And it is unfortunate that we used all of the old growth teak and mahogany and such to build elaborate homes for the elite. Poor planning I suppose.

And I do not purport to know a great deal about carpentry or construction. But I have always been quite skilled at taking objects apart and putting them back together. Except for that time I took apart the old rotary dial phone in the kitchen when I was four years old. I didn't do such a snazzy job of putting it back together. But I have come a long way since that point in time.

Where was I. Oh yes. I do believe that we have enough of a foundation to be able to build it up into what it should be. And I know that there is a great deal of debate about what that should be. And I am not going to discuss that in this particular post. Suffice it to say I do believe that there are some quality materials mixed in with the rubbish.

So I have been on a bit of a political hiatius. And it has been killing me. But I felt like I needed to take a moment. Get my head together. I was feeling a bit too much like Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole. And I'm not opposed to rabbits or holes. But this hole was getting a bit much. Even for me.

I took a moment or two. I took a deep breath. Then I returned.

So today I decided to check in with the mainstream news sources. I have found you can find a great deal about what is happening by observing what isn't being said. But an article caught my eye. Both of them actually.

Bipartisan Call for Wiretapping Probe: Cheney Says Bush Has Right to Authorize Secret Surveillance

And I started thinking. I would like the right to authorize secret surveillance. And I started wondering if perhaps there was some sort of correspondence course that I might enroll in so that I might obtain a certficate of some sort permitting me such a right. That would be excellent.

I started reading the article because I cannot resist anything with "bipartisan" and "wiretapping" and "probe" in the title. So I started reading the article. And I came upon this quote. This is one of those "I could not have said it better myself" kinds of quotes by your favorite patriarch and mine, GWB. I love this shit. Here we go.

"I just want to assure the American people that, one, I've got the authority to do this; two, it is a necessary part of my job to protect you; and three, we're guarding your civil liberties."

Well. That is certainly a relief. Because you see. I want to be protected. The Ramones had it all wrong. I WANT to be PROTECTED. And I want to be protected by a man. Nay. I need to be protected by a man. And as long as said man assures me that he is guarding my civil liberties then I can rest easy at night. Now if my civil liberties were not being guarded. If I had not been so informed. Then I might be concerned. I might worry. I might not sleep well at night. But now. Now. I feel safe.

So I said that I started reading the article. I started reading. But I didn't finish. I realized that I didn't have to finish. This is old news. We know about all of this already. It is like a rerun on television. Cointelpro. It sounds pretty doesn't it. Let us all say it together shall we. Cointelpro.

I decided long ago that I did not want to procreate. But if I did. I think I would name my child Cointelpro. For a fabulous book on the topic -- and I am certain there are many but I enjoyed this one thoroughly -- check out this lovely book about Cointelpro for I do believe it will be an entertaining read. I strongly recommend that you purchase this book from a used and/or independent bookstore. However that doesn't mean we can't utilized the tools of UNNAMED LARGE BOOKSELLING COMPANY for research.

Now that I think of it. Maybe the Ramones had it right all long. Protected. Sedated. It is all the same really. Isn't it.

Glorious Giddiness and Crazy Chemical Containment in the Kitchen

Many of you are already aware of the fact that I have been processing film in my kitchen. Processing film. That is. Developing. Film. In my shitdamnmotherfucking kitchen. Let me just say this one more time. I am processing black and white film in my kitchen.

I am giddy. And it’s been a long time since I have been giddy. Well. Perhaps that is not entirely true. Let me speak of giddy for a moment. And some of the things that have caused said recent giddiness. But only some. I can't give all of my secrets away. Especially since I have recently discovered that some of you actually read this crap. Anyway. Giddiness.

Recently the Piscean Musican at the STATELY HMG provided me with numerous CDs of mind blowing music. Mind blowing. And I would not have expected any less from this particular individual being so musically inclined himself. But I think I may have a problem. As I have been listening to the same CD for weeks now. And I can't seem to stop.

Many of you are aware of this obsession that has developed regarding said CD of Secret Chiefs 3. In fact, many of you have received multiple Secret Chiefs 3 CDs from me. If you have not received them it is only because I have not seen you. There are copies waiting. Waiting. Er. Uh. No. There aren't. You haven't. You can't prove that was me. I would never engage in any sort of illegal copyright infringement sort of thing. I'm just kidding. Kidding.

Uh. Where was I. Oh yes. Obsessed. And it’s not my fault. Not one bit. I blame the aforementioned Piscean Musician. It's his fault. So if you're all sick of me blathering on and on and on about Secret Chiefs 3, take it up with the management. Write a strongly worded letter. Get involved. I will be happy to forward your documents of complaint to said individual. Provided of course that you file the proper form in triplicate.

Uh. Yeah. So I’ve been giddy.

So the other day I was processing film in my kitchen. Wait. Should I explain this further. Am I leaving something out. And I hope by now you are all understanding the punctuation thing. When I want to hear something from you folks I promise you will indeed see a question mark. Maybe I should start from the beginning.

In the beginning...wait. Some guy already said that. Okay. So. I had an idea. I started thinking. And you know what dangerous things can happen when you start thinking. So I was thinking about dark spaces. Closets are dark spaces. Especially when there isn’t any light. So I thought that I should be able to go into my closet, roll out my film, and process it in the kitchen. I got chemicals. And I came home. I mixed them. Now for the potentially tricky part. Rolling out my film. In the closet.

So I got my can opener and a pair of scissors and the film developing reel and tank that I have had since I was seventeen and I went into my closet. Shut the door. Sat on the floor. And I’m feeling like it’s pretty damn dark. And I probably haven’t mentioned this, but there is quite a bit of crap in said closet. So I’m sort of sitting but there isn’t really a whole lot of room. And I don’t exactly take up that much room to begin with. But I’m sitting in this semi-contorted position. And it’s a good thing I’ve has some experience with yoga in the past or I might have gotten stuck. And given the fact that my housemate wasn’t due home for quite some time it might have gotten ugly.

But it didn’t. So I rolled my film. Pried myself off the floor. And went into the now chemically laden kitchen.

Oh. And I put on some Secret Chiefs 3. I mean really. What were you expecting.

So I’m standing in the kitchen in my argyle knee high socks. Pour. Shake. Knock. Knock. Bang. Wait. Shake. Knock. Knock. Bang. Repeat. And I’m sort of dancing around and shaking and knocking and banging the developing tank. I said the DEVELOPING TANK. And the giddiness is expanding logarithmically. Because I realize I am not only developing film IN MY MOTHERFUCKING KITCHEN. But also. Listening to Secret Chiefs 3. AND doing all of said things in my knee high socks.

I’ve been obsessed with knee high socks for some time. However. I have not admitted this in the past. And it’s not really that I haven’t admitted it per se, but I suppose I never really mentioned it before. So let me say it now. Loud and proud. I love me some knee high socks.

In case you were wondering what I might like for a nice little holiday-ish gift. Knee high socks baby. Knee high socks. I mean. Not that you have to get me anything. I'm not exactly getting you anything. So. I guess. I'm not expecting knee high socks. But if you ever feel the need to give me something that you haven't made. Which of course I always prefer. Then go for the knee high socks. But not the ones with the separate toe compartments. Those socks kind of freak me out.

Uh. Where was I again. Oh yes. Developing film in my fucking kitchen. In my fucking kitchen people.

So what does this mean. I will tell you. It means that I will be able to do a great deal more photography. I may be treking through shipyards. Or throwing lids off garbage dumpsters. I will be attending various musical events and click click clicking. Most certainly I will be photographing nerds in bathtubs filled with shiny objects. Beautiful womyn who smile with a sexy innocence. And bubbles. Lots of bubbles.

And this truly makes me feel giddy. Like a school girl with no panties on a cold December morning. Passion. It's all about passion.

Outside Inside at the End

I am feeling somewhat sentimental today. Actually. It began very late yesterday afternoon. And this is not surprising because I am somewhat prone to sentimentality. Perhaps this is why the capturing of images appeals to me so greatly. One moment. One small tiny moment. Frozen. So I am feeling sentimental. And nostalgic. And I can't really talk about it. Confidentiality. You know. That thing. Which normally isn't a problem. I have enough to talk about. But this time it is.

What I can say is that I was on the telephone with a client's family member. Her other line rang. I am holding. And when she returns she is crying. And I know. His time in this life has ended. I am the first person she is speaking with after the news. And it is awkward. And beautiful at the same time. Her tears. Connecting us in a strange and unusual way. And I will not soon forget.

And my first inclination was to tell what I could of this story to my friend. The one who requires that I speak softly. Whisper. His hearing sensitive. Like an animal in the wild. But he wasn't available. Dialed. Twice. No message. What could I say. Sigh. So I opened a beer and sat down and thought about nothing in particular. I gave myself mental space. Tried to perform a few mundane tasks. Find a moment where I could be completely present. Only semi successful.

I am not afraid of death. And I am not particularly saddened by death. And perhaps this makes me an unusual person. I have seen the worst of death. The absolute you can't even imagine it could be that bad worst. And I have seen the best of death. Yes. The best. Several experiences throughout my life have given me a strange glimpse into death as beautiful process. Beautiful.

Last night I sat. With myself. I sat for a moment and realized I couldn't sit. As of late I have noticed. A need to chew. Swallow. Digest. Process. Before anything can be said. And this is new. And I am learning to negotiate with myself.

But I couldn't do it. Not last night. So instead of doing this. I called my very wise friend. And found myself distracted. Very Wise didn't know the situation. I didn't tell him. But I wonder if he perhaps felt my distraction. Although I am most certain he is used to this as it is part of my nature. Still. This was different. And I could not be completely present in our conversation. And this is not the case. Not with him. Not anymore.

We spoke of many things before his one-of-many-late-night-working-for-the-man-extravaganzas was due to begin. And I found myself spitting out random bits of information truncated. Finally a Hallelujah like exclamation when the words he had been seeking washed over wire.

I was vague. And didn't know. Much like I am vague now. Only this time I am aware of every vague syllable. And it is only because I am stumbling through things right here. Right now. With you.

And I realize that this moment that I shared with this womyn. Almost a stranger. Was one of the most intimate moments two people care share. Beginnings and endings. Dramatic. Black. White. And the gray tends to fall away. Slipping past the seemingly important but not important enough to remember. And perhaps this struck me because I have been thinking about intimacy a great deal as of late. And what this means. And my relationship with intimacy as an entity.

And sometimes I wonder if the universe is trying to tell me something.

Indeed.

I Have Decided Something. And I'm Not Quite Sure What.

Yes. I have. Let me repeat it once again for all of you. I have decided something and I'm not quite sure what. And this is not to be confused with that classic Christmas tune, "There's Something Stuck Up in the Chimney and I Don't Know What it is." Or maybe it's exactly like that song.

Anyway. I have decided something. Or perhaps I have discovered something. And if I have discovered something, I should make it clear that I do not quite know what I have discovered. It's not a dead animal or the clap. But I'm not quite sure what is up with this discovery stuff. Or this deciding stuff.

And that's not entirely true. But as you all know. I am a Gemini. And that means that I am incredibly tangential. And sometimes I forget where I started. But that isn't really the point. The point is I will most certainly twist and turn and weave throughout the course of post. And you my dear friends are merely along for the ride. I am rambling about everything. And nothing in particular.

Life is interesting. I think we can all agree with that statement. Even the most cynical among us should be able to agree with the word interesting. And it has become quite clear to me that the overwhelming majority of people don't really live life. They exist. Or survive. But they don't live. And so I'm thinking about living and what this really means.

So I went where anyone would go for answer to questions about life. The internet. Actually I was looking for definitions. And I don't have a dictionary in my office. So I checked it and here's what I found on one particular unnamed site. What. Did you think I was going to provide you with a link did you. I am not shamelessly promoting this site. Nope. Anyway. On said unnamed sight, there are seven definitions of live. Not the be confused with the band Live. And I use the term "band" loosely when referring to Live. You all know how I feel about that whole "her placenta falls to the floor" lyric. If that isn't enough to make one an axe murderer, I don't know what is.

Anyway. Defining. To live. Seven defintions. There's your recap. Here we go. So it isn't until I read down to number six that I found this: "to pursure a positive, satisfying existance." And I wonder why I had to travel down through five defintions including to subsist, to exist, and to support onesself before I reached this particular definiton. What does that say about how we view life and why so many people do not really live it. I ponder this.

I have always believed that language shapes the way the think. The way we feel. The way we act. Our world view. This is why I have an obsession with words. The words we choose to use. The string of words we assemble to create phrases. The meanings attached. All of these things influence our thought process. Some might say it is a chicken or egg question. But I believe we (and others) brainwash our Selves a little bit every day because of the way we use language.

I know people that don't have such a word obsession. In fact, I know people that are so unobsessed with words that that communicating with them is similar to my poor attempt at conversing in Spanish with a native speaker. I never know what tense I'm speaking in and you would be amazed at how profoundly that can impact conversation. Or maybe you wouldn't be amazed. The point is simple. We need words. We need language. And communicating with those who are not cognizant of the ways in which language impacts their thought process can be like sticking bamboo under your fingernails while sitting on a hot tin roof.

And let me also say I am tickled that I was able to use the word cognizant in the previous paragraph. Let's say it together shall we. Cognizant. Beautiful.

So back to life and living. Here's a little story. I used to work for Company F. And I won't go into how much I hated working for Company F. But I did. And those of you who know about my Company F experience understand. You know what I am talking about. You know about my daily vomiting sessions that I somehow justified as normal. But the point. Yes. The point. Company F did stuff. This stuff provided treatment for specific terminally ill diseases to specific terminally ill people. And when I say specific as in people, I mean people who could either pay, or who were so poor that they were able to qualify for state medical assistance, which doesn't seem to be anyone anymore. Essentially, we killed these terminally ill people and brought them back to life. Sometimes.

But I digress. As I always do.

So I had this job with Company F and I worked with terminally ill people at Company F and you would have thought that perhaps this experience taught me a little something about living. And you would have thought that the realization that one should not continue to work in an environment that caused them to vomit on a daily basis would have taught said person something about living.

But it didn't.

Because I wasn't ready.

And that happens I suppose. So I continued to work in misery at Company F until I was forceably thrown back into a yin/yang balance. And I understood. Sort of. But I didn't quite learn. Not completely. Until now.

I wonder if sometimes we are presented with lessons that we are not quite ready to chew and swallow and digest so we store them like squirrels storing nuts for winter. And then one day winter arrives. And the lessons are there. Perfectly preserved and waiting to be injested.

Sometimes the lessons are simple. As if we knew the answers all along on some level of consciousness, but we didn't see, smell, feel, taste, or otherwise become intimate with complete clarity.

So life. It's this funny thing.

Recently, I was having a conversation with a very wise friend. This is an individual I have known for a long time through another very wise friend. But we were never really more than casual acquaintenances until recently. So we are talking at the HMG about the role that art plays in one's life. The passion that accompanies the creative process that is as essential as breathing. And the rung it occupies on the ladder of priorities. And I am explaining something about this and he says something in return that almost knocks me to the ground. He inferred. He implied. He basically stated in a way that I could not overlook or ignore, that I am an artist.

The shock. The horror.

But I'm not an artist. I've never called myself an artist. I have many friends that are artists. I call them artists. But not me. An artist. Nope.

And I wonder why I can have such an open and broadly sweeping definition of what art is and what an artist is, but I have never thought of myself as such.

So here I am. Sitting there. At the HMG. In the freakin' cold because my very wise friend is a smoker and I am such a good friend that I will brave said cold for said smoker. No need to thank me. And I realize in this moment all of the things about living that I have forgotten. Or never knew. Things that I have been fighting. For a long fucking time.

Oh come on. You didn't think I could get through a post without a bit of profanity did you.

And I speak of all these things to the very wise friend that introduced me to the very wise former acquaintenance now friend. And he essentially gave me a pat on the back, albeit verbally, and a "good job kid" as he often does when I finally come to accept things that he has been trying to explain to me for the past nine years.