The Song that Never Ends

Lung Capacity

2010-02-09T21:53:00.000-08:00

I have recently discovered that I have been holding my breath. I attempted to resolve the issue with a large gulp of air. Only to find that my lungs have atrophied. I began to choke on my efforts. My mouth is dry. I have been gone for a long, long time.

I waited for a single domino to fall and set forth a chain reaction. I waited and I forgot what I was waiting for in the process of said waiting. My vision became blurry. The scenery changed in my absence. And when I awoke everything was unrecognizable. The walls were cracked. The paint peeling.

I have been waiting for everything to become just so. Absorbing minute amounts of oxygen through the surface of my skin during my hibernation. I have been asleep. I have been sleep walking.

In my waiting slumber I have overspent a precious commodity. Minutes have become months and years lost behind the protective walls I have mortared.

I find myself unsure and overwhelmed. My feet are frozen in a block of ice. I can not run. My head is buried in the hot desert sand. I can not see the path before me.

I have given in. I handed all of my power over to fear. But after the seventy-third episode of stress-induced vomiting I realized that I constricted myself in a shallow space. This was the beginning.

My very wise friend communicates most effectively through the use of a mix tape. And while "tape" is no longer an accurate technological description the phrase "mix tape" has a meaning that can only be fully understood using the antiquated term.

You should know that my very wise friend recently created a not-so-secret society in which strangers would be paired up with other strangers. Names and addresses would be doled out. Mixes would be created and exchanged.

As I write this post, I am currently listening to the mix created for me. When I reach the final song, everything becomes clear. This intrigues me because the song is sung entirely in Turkish and I neither speak nor do I understand the language.

I quickly discover - because I must - that "Ince Ince Bir Kar Yagar" is a Turkish protest song by the infamous Selda Bağcan. I am haunted by the melody and the lyrics. The English translations - accurate or not I cannot say, but that is hardly the point - provide me with a framework with which to consider my own predicament.

And although my understanding could easily be described in terms of comparing the trials and tribulations of lives in and out of chaos and turmoil, this is not the point I wish to address in this moment. It is the simple yet eloquent question to those with the power to enact change, why can these necessary things not be done?

It is a question that is self directed. And I begin to breathe again.

Two Things

2009-01-28T13:10:00.000-08:00

People are losing their jobs at a shitdamnmotherfucking insane rate. I am reading the reports of these job losses and I cannot help but wonder if the numbers are a result of the various media organizations failing to properly proof their stories, resulting in a few too many zeros in the job loss numbers.

I know this is not so. But allow me to dream for a moment.

An interesting article was recently posted on BIG NAME NEWS ORGANIZATION FINANCIAL WEBSITE hypothesizing that large job losses aren't going to help THE ECONOMY rebound. Sometimes it's necessary to publish information that overstates the obvious. I'm certain that my posts here would also fall into that obvious overstatement category.

But I do not think that corporate executives are going to read this or similarly situated articles and have any sort of epiphany and revoke the tens of thousands of pink slips that have already been distributed.

I don't any answers for the folks that are unemployed. I can only hope that I do not join their club any time soon.

I will say that for those of us who are currently still employed it is more important than ever to do two things. 1. Keep your job. 2. Save save save.

I am not going to pontificate on the subject of how to keep your job in this post. I know you are all disappointed at this, because I know how much you all love to read my pages and pages of pontifications. Perhaps I will devote another post to this topic in the near future. But you should know that it shouldn't be difficult to lose your job if you've decided that you'd really rather be unemployed.

Now is the time to work harder and ask for less. Everyone needs to become the model employee. Stop surfing the internet. Stop the personal phone calls on company time. Find more work if you don't have enough to do. Offer to help with anything that needs doing. Work a few extra hours on your own time if need be. And STOP COMPLAINING AT WORK.

If you are actually successful in keeping you job and your hours aren't cut in half, the next thing you need to do is "save save save" and I really mean it. Saving money can be an intimidating idea for some folks. Perhaps you think it can't be done. Many of us are spread far too thin financially. That's also a topic for another post. But the first thing you need to know about saving is that it's never too little or too late. Every journey toward a solid savings begins with the saving of a single cent.

Seriously.

I have discovered that the only real way to know where you can cut expenses and what you can reasonably save is to document every cent you spend for a few months. You can do this the old fashioned way with pen and paper or you can get high tech about it and use one of the many free online programs to help you out. I've checked a few of them out and my personal favorite is Yodlee, because I think it's the most comprehensive. It's not pretty. It's not flashy. But it works well. However, you should decide what works best for your individual needs.

It is often surprising to find out how much is really being spent on groceries or dining out or toiletries or entertainment. You MUST MUST MUST track these things to the freakin' penny for at least several months to know what's really happening with your finances. You must be honest with yourself and your spending habits. These internet based programs will enable you to create a budget and they will let you know how well you're doing at meeting those budget goals. Review the tracking information to get a better sense of your finances and to determine what you might be able to save. How to save. Where to save. And how much to save are all topics for yet another post.

I guess I had better get to work writing. The rest of you better get started on your homework!

The Econopocalype

2009-01-08T15:10:00.000-08:00

Everyone is talking about "the economy" and what a mess everything is right now with it. "It" meaning, "the economy" which is indeed, pretty shitdamnmotherfucking fucked up at the moment. I don't need to re-hash the statistics here. Every media venue has posted and is continuing to post fucked economy related information.

I have been watching things closely. And I have been thinking a lot about money.

For those of you who know me, it will come as no surprise that I have been thinking a lot about money. I tend to think about money. And I tend to do it a lot. My father lived through the depression and my mother, twenty-five years his junior, lived during a war in her native county. Living frugally was the norm. But I have discovered over the years that frugal living was not the norm for many of my peers. I have also discovered that many of my peers have no knowledge about how to manage their own finances.

And when I say "no knowledge" I mean nothing, nada, zip, ziltch, zero. Maybe they think they do, but they don't. Not one bit.

Maybe that's how we got into this "economy" mess. "We" don't talk about money. Not really. Not in any significant way. We don't talk about how much money we have or what we do with our money. It's considered rude to ask someone how much money they make. Why? Seriously?

Most people have no clue what to do with their money. And it's no big surprise. There is a wealth of information available from a variety of sources, but it is often contradictory. In other words, financial information, like all information, is mediated through individuals that do or do not benefit in some way from providing the information.

I think that it's time that people begin to take responsibility and accountability for their lives and their happiness. And I think it's time for a return to frugal values. There are many individuals living well below the poverty level that are struggling to eat every day. Those folks need real, substantial, significant help to improve their lives. For the most part, I'm not really talking about those folks. At least, not yet. I'm talking about the folks that may not have much, but should have enough. I'm talking about people who could be making better choices.

I believe that it's time to start speaking openly and honestly about money. We live with a sense of the false dichotomy of instant v. delayed gratification. I don't think it has to be one or the other. Ultimately, I think we've lost focus on what's important and I think the only way things are really going to change is if we shift that focus.

This is the first in what I hope will be a series of posts by me about my thoughts, feelings, meanderings, and experiences on this topic. I hope for this venue to become a space for an ongoing dialogue and a sharing of information. Please keep in mind that I will be moderating all posts. In other words, no ass clown spammers please!

Thermal Runaway

2008-06-17T09:45:00.000-07:00

Thermal Runaway: A situation where an increase in temperature changes the conditions in a way that causes a further increase in temperature leading to a destructive result. It is a kind of positive feedback. -- Wikipedia

I'm on a roll
I'm on a roll, this time
I feel my luck could change

-- Radiohead

Sometimes starting over is as easy as burning the past. And not as a way to sweep dust and ashes under the proverbial rug, but as a way to reclaim the phoenix. I opened the box and sat with letters written on so many pages of virgin paper that a staunch environmentalist would be required by her own oath and code to begin protest outside my door. I watched the postmarks progress. Almost twenty years of a life (lives) documented on paper. Handwritten. Typewritten. Ink smeared across the page. I read until my heart was full. I read until the letters began to dance around the page and no longer formed words. I lit the match.

Sometimes burning the past isn't as easy as starting over. Especially when a storm takes hold on what should be still, almost-summertime weather. The wind began with a whisper and increased exponentially. It reminded me that a life cannot be un-lived or re-lived. It reminded me that I burn the pages to remember. And to be cleansed. I want to be reborn full grown. I want to wash the bitter taste from my mouth. I want to let go of my attachment. I want the chains to soften and fall away.

I gave the matches to the wind and continued my efforts. I held each page over a flame provided by Q. I tossed the fragments one by one into a glazed ceramic planter until the words became smoke. I inhaled deeply. The fire grew and I was surrounded in the thick air. The planter shattered and a piece hit me in the leg. I am quiet. And listening.

Non Requiem

2008-04-28T14:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I get stuck. The words for this post have been tumbling around inside my mind for some time. Every time I begin to string them together in an attempt to form sentences I stop. Re-read. Erase. Because it isn't right. It isn't perfect. For some reason I feel that it should be. Perfect. Even though I am not. Even though I have never been. And then I realize that my inability to create perfection is a necessary exercise in order for me to learn the lesson. Again.

I need to start at the beginning. I have a dear friend whom I have known for about ten years. I am typing the words "ten" and "years" strung together and I am shocked. I stop. Re-trace the path. Counting on my fingers. Ten. It is accurate. For the past ten years my dear friend and I have been all of the following: co-workers, acquaintances, friends, roommates, co-workers again, angry, estranged, re-acquainting, friends again. This is not meant to be an inclusive list, but I believe it is fairly accurate representation.

Not long ago I learned that her younger sister, Jenn, was diagnosed with cancer. As further testament to the irony of life you should know that my dear friend works at BIG ASS UNNAMED CANCER CENTER. I followed my friend's posts carefully. Then I received the message. Jenn died after her valiant fight with the disease. She wasn't even thirty years old.

You should know that I am telling you that Jenn died rather than telling you that she passed on, because I too once worked at BIG ASS UNNAMED CANCER CENTER (BAUCC). Typical terminology at BAUCC is that a patient "expired" like milk, but not like UNNAMED PROCESSED CHEESE PRODUCT NOT REQUIRING REFRIGERATION. If you work at BAUCC long enough you are bound to become desensitized about things like death. It is the only way you can survive an occupation like that without feeling the need to throw yourself off a bridge on a daily basis. This is one of the reasons why I can say that someone died so matter of factly. The other reason is that I experienced a great deal of death from a very young age. I developed a macabre sense of humor, much to the chagrin of those meeting me for the first time. However, I never became desensitized enough during my life or my employment at BAUCC which is why I don't use the term expired. It is also why I choose a new career.

Besides. Some people are lactose intolerant so comparing their death to dairy of any sort would seemingly be a slap in the face.

I have digressed, but you knew I would. It is important for me to say that this digression is meant with the utmost respect. You might not think so, but I ask you to humor me for a moment. Because I think it is important for us to explore language. What it means. Why we use it. How it impacts us. And because sometimes we need to laugh to prevent ourselves from drowning in our own tears.

With that said you should know that I didn't know Jenn well. Not as well as I would have liked to have known her. I do know that she was an amazing individual. I know that she touched many lives. I know that she will be missed.

It's easy to say nice things about someone when they are gone from this life. We want to sanctify the dead, because it feels good to do so. This isn't one of those situations. I am not merely pontificating for her eulogy. Jenn was amazing.

I first met Jenn under what was intended to be a delightful holiday brunch, but became a train wreck due to several intoxicated and/or obnoxious guests. Despite the unusual circumstances of the day she held her own like a compassionate warrior. I quickly learned that she had a vibrant personality. Every time I saw Jenn she would sparkle when she smiled and that doesn't come along very often. She was a kind and genuine soul with a passion for life. She made the world a better place. Really, she did. How many of us can honestly say that we have done that?

And so here I am going through the typical mundane-esque bits and pieces of life. As of late I have been feeling a bit sorry for myself for one reason or another. And then I stop and think of Jenn.

Perhaps it is egotistical of me to believe that people like Jenn are put on this earth to teach the rest of us how to live. Fully. Completely. Not merely the wake up, go to work, come home, feed the dog, take out the trash, go to bed, rinse, repeat kind of living. But living with joy every day. Honestly thrilled to be alive kind of living. Who doesn't want that?

I would like to believe that I am not being self absorbed for assuming that Jenn's purpose was to teach us (me) this lesson. Because the thought of this both inspires and comforts me. Sometimes I need to be reminded not to take myself so seriously. This is why I write these posts the way that I do. Strangely punctuated. Grammatically daring. Deliciously vague.

Sometimes I need to be reminded that life is happening with or without me. I need to be reminded to let go of my fear and worry. I need to be reminded to live. I feel as though I want to mark this moment. I want to do something special so I won't forget. Again. I am very good at forgetting just as I am very good at making resolutions. Unfortunately I am not very good at the follow through.

I do not have the answer today. I wanted to wrap this post up with a nice bow. Like a sitcom or dramatic television program where everything comes full circle within the hour. I cannot do it. I have no answer. Maybe tomorrow or the next day. But I can't promise. I can promise that I will continue to post what I know and what I haven't yet figured out.

Thank you Jenn. Thank you for living your beautiful life for all to see.

LMNOP Now or The Year of Not Waiting

2008-01-15T23:28:00.000-08:00

In case you have not noticed I haven't been doing a very good job on this whole updating thing. I have many excuses. And I have found that it's a good idea to keep a few loose excuses around for occasions such as these. I have excuses. But I won't bore you with them. Actually I'm saving them. I think if I can collect enough excuses I can trade them in for something spectacular that I must have but do not need. If you have any new or gently used excuses please feel free to drop them off for me. I am hoping that with enough collected excuses I might be able to trade them in for some plutonium or perhaps some delicious cocoa. Either way I'm good.

But enough random rambling. You want news. You want an update. You want me to impart some of my brilliance upon you.

I'm afraid I'm fresh out.

We are now well into January. January people. January. Time is ticking. Soon the year will have slipped by and I will not have even finished typing this sentence. Because as you all know, the sky is falling. Seriously though. I often post some reflective nonsense prior to or shortly after the start of a new year. I suppose I should keep with tradition given my propensity toward nostalgia.

Okay. Here we go. Here are my plans for the year. Ready? Go.

1. Get a damn passport. For those of you that have been following this for some time you may be feeling a sense of deja vu. No. I still don't have a damn passport yet. But this year I vow to make it happen even if I have to suck it up and beg Soy to take my passport photo.

2. Be naked more. Who doesn't love that one? Seriously. I mean it.

3. Love the people I love more. This includes everything from spending more time with my wonderful friends to giving a bit more on the 60% front.

4. Take more photographs. Some of you may not be aware of the fact that a miracle has happened and I have acquired a digital camera. This doesn't mean I'm throwing the kid in the toilet, but it does mean I need to get my ass in gear. Exciting photographic expeditions are already being planned. If you're interested please contact me. Now, damnit!

5. Travel. Passport not necessarily required. I am looking to leave Seattle for a while. Perhaps I am looking to leave it for longer than a while. But there is much to see and I want to see it while my eyeballs still function.

I think that's it. I tend to put too much on my plate which I end up dropping. Then all of the food ends up on the floor and I'm stuck with stale crackers and a large selection of condiments.

I hereby name two thousand and eight the Year of Not Waiting. This means not waiting for XYZ to happen before LMNOP can occur. Starting....now. Go!

Countdown to National Stomp Out Worry Day!

2007-12-10T14:07:00.000-08:00

So. I wasn't kidding. Because I can't kid about these things. If you read my previous post you will recall my proposal to create National Stomp Out Worry Day! Without further ado, I proudly declare this Thursday, December 13, 2007, National Stomp Out Worry Day! Anyone who wishes to join me in celebrating this gently used day can do so by STOMPING OUT WORRY!!! Big worries. Little worries. High worries. Low worries. Skinny worries. Chubby worries. Flat worries. Lumpy worries. Polka-dotted worries. Puce worries. Grape flavored worries. Invisible worries. Worries of every shape, size, color, flavor. Worries of every type.

My plans for National Stomp Out Worry Day! are as follows:

1. Make a list of my most significant worries.

2. Light list of seemingly significant worries on fire.

3. Stomp out list of seemingly significant worries currently on fire so they will no longer be on fire.

4. Eat pie.

Celebrate National Stomp Out Worry Day! however you see fit. Just be sure to exclaim when you do it. Please feel free to share stories of your National Stomp Out Worry Day! celebrations.

More than a Flurry of Worry

2007-11-26T12:01:00.000-08:00

Some might describe me an individual who is prone to worry. Worry is a funny sounding word when you say it aloud. And I find that it sounds exactly like it feels. Tight. Constricting. Suffocating. Recently I have begun to realize that my propensity to worry is compromising a variety of wonderful things in my life. And I do not like it. I have been able to get away with excessive worry for the overwhelming majority of my life due to the fact that I have not been forced to share my aforementioned feelings of worry.

Early on I became quite skilled at kung fu subject changes which I would often call upon when the topic of worry surfaced with others. I maintained an excellent game face. That mask as since begun to crack. And I am beginning to realize that I may very well have a problem which just so happens to begin with a W much like other current problems facing the nation.

So I am seeking a reputable worry removal service. It sounds easy, but there is a problem. I am afraid to let go of worry. I need worry like a junkie needs junk.

Perhaps my biggest fear with this letting go of worry thing is the fear that I will shift my perspective from one extreme to the other and cease all worrying. And in doing so everything will fall apart. I know it isn't realistic for me to fear that after a lifetime of being a worrier I will suddenly fall into a worry-free slump and end up hustling my ass for mac and cheese. The generic variety no less. Logically I know this won't happen.

But it gets worse. Because...and I'm going to say it so sit down everyone...I may very well look at "non-worriers" as suspect. And what I mean is I may assume that those who don't appear to worry aren't ever worried and therefore could very well end up hustling for mac and cheese faster than you can say public defender. It seems that somehow I have equated the worrier with the responsible.

Okay. There. I've said it. It wasn't easy. But I think it's true.

I know it seems insane. You don't have to tell me so. And I would certainly seek out some professional help, but my health insurance isn't all that great. Hence, something else to potentially worry about which clearly I do not need, now or ever.

I have thought about making a list of my worries. Face them directly. Look them in the eye and sneer. But I don't think I'm ready for such a bold step. Mostly because I feel that I will embarrass myself if I actually put pen to paper which of course means that I should reconsider this whole list thing.

Besides. I like lists.

So perhaps I will be making a list. Checking it twice. Responding to my own insanity. Kicking worry in the junk. I feel stuck and I want to be unstuck. I feel that I am missing out on so many things and I don't want to miss out anymore.

I also tend to feel that I am very much alone in my worry. But I know that I cannot be. Perhaps what we worriers truly need is a national stomp out worry day. Actually, it's not a bad idea.

Therefore, I declare the 13th of December National Stomp Out Worry Day! Stay tuned for additional details on this exciting non-event. Maybe I can get the greeting card companies in on the action and get a kickback. That would certainly give me one less thing to worry about.

Tiiiiiiiiimmmee Ain't on my Side. No it Ain't!

2007-08-22T12:21:00.000-07:00

I have to tell you. I am exhausted! Seriously exhausted. Everything about me is exhausted. My brain is exhausted. My left ankle is exhausted. My nose is most certainly exhausted. Even my right earlobe is exhausted. I have exhausted intestines. My pancreas is very exhausted. The lower lobe of my left lung is exhausted. My blood cells feel quite exhausted. Even my mitochondria is exhausted. Do I have mitochondria? I don't know. My exhausted brain cannot remember anything I learned in college.

My exhaustion and sudden realization of said exhaustion causes me to realize that I have a question. And my question is simple. Here we go. How do people manage to wake up and make the bed and eat a healthy breakfast and get themselves together and go to work and travel to work and work an entire day and manage to drink enough water and maybe even eat lunch and accomplish everything they need to accomplish at their job and travel home from work and prepare and eat a healthy dinner and sift through junk mail and clean the bathroom and pay their bills and do laundry and exercise and spend quality time with friends and/or family and do something productive such as volunteer or finish an art project or plant a garden or read a good book or stay informed on current events or write their congressperson or read the damn voter's pamphlet and maybe even relax for a moment or two and then go to bed early enough to get a full night of sleep so the whole damn thing can repeat the next morning???

Notice the questioning punctuation. Because I REALLY want to know. And I really want to know how someone does it because I am -- as I have previously expressed -- incredibly exhausted in my attempt. I am also incredibly behind schedule. I am not "doing it" because I cannot seem to find the time to do everything. And maybe that's the problem.

How do we do everything. I know what you are going to say. You are going to tell me that one cannot possibly do everything and therefore one must make choices and prioritize the things of importance. But what if everything on the list is important? And the important things do not even make the list. What then?

There is all this talk about the decline of the family unit and blah blah blah. People are making a bigger "to do" than ever about what it means to be a family and how a family should be defined and what a family should be and so on and so forth. This isn't about any of those so-called conversations that are happening. But if it were about those conversations that shouldn't even be conversations I would say this. Get as many damn people as possible in the family to help with all this crap! Seriously people. This is a cultural SOS. How the hell are we supposed to find time to do all this crap? And what about people who have children? I cannot even imagine their lives. Granted they have chosen to procreate. They have made their proverbial bed. But seriously how do those people do it when I cannot even come close?

If I could afford it I would rent a wife. Someone who could do my laundry (and put it away!) A person who could prepare all of the healthy meals that I need to eat. I wouldn't even mind if they were prepared ahead of time and frozen. I would be fine with warming them up. Someone who could make my bed and clean the bathroom and make sure the mail is brought in and organized. Someone who could pay my bills when they need paying so I don't forget because there's nothing worse that having the money to pay a bill, but forgetting to pay it and then getting a late fee tacked on. Someone who could renew my car tabs and put more oil in ol' S.G. when she needs it. Someone who would gently remind me that I haven't been to the gynecologist in more than a year and a half and might even make an appointment for me to force me to go.

How much would I pay for this service? Well. This of course is the problem. Everything is becoming more expensive in the city. And wages are not increasing to match said increased expenditures. Unless of course you work for UNNAMED ENORMOUS TECHNOLOGY COMPANY or a similar high paying industry. But I do not. So what is the "little guy or gal" to do? I can't afford to pay someone to do even some of the aforementioned tasks for me. Living in the city is challenging enough. As it is I have resigned myself to the fact that if I want to remain in the city I will never be able to afford a house, townhouse, condo, or even a garage.

I am curious at the fact that we are expected to do more and more. I am also curious as to what this means with respect to our mental, physical and emotional health and well being. I wonder how our quality of life is impacted. And more than anything I would love to find a solution.

Not for the rest of you...for me. I've got enough on my plate!

Attention. Attention. Attention.

2007-06-08T12:31:00.001-07:00

I have been thinking. Since my last post I have not stopped thinking. And it isn't that I typically take a hiatus from thought. But I believe it is fair to say that there is a great deal going on around me and this has propelled me into an adjusted state of thinking about thoughts.

Quite a number of friends of mine have recently articulated varying degrees of difficulties that they are currently facing. And in their challenges I find myself questioning bits and pieces and fragments of my own life. It is a curious position.

I cannot help but wonder if there is a lesson in the difficulties those I care about are currently experiencing. I cannot help but feel that there is something I am supposed to be watching closely. I have been thinking a great deal about my experience with the crow. This is mostly due to the fact that my crow friend or foe once again flew about me in a way that caused me to take notice of his or her presence.

So now I vacillate between logical explanations and curious omens. My personality is split such that I could easily find an answer in either explanation. However to choose would only make me question my own decision moments later in favor of the alternative. Today I found the crow and told him or her that I was paying attention. No crow attack occurred.

And I am paying attention. Perhaps too much. I find myself noticing very small things and making efforts to determine how the pieces fit in my life. Or more importantly whether I want them at all. I believe it is time for something different. Only I do not know what that different should resemble. The only thing I am sure of in this moment is that nothing as it currently exists is safe from possible removal.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Two Days of Reading Tea Leaves

2007-05-29T14:52:00.000-07:00

On edge. I have been. Admittedly. I feel shaken. Not stirred. And my gin has become bruised. I am naive. But no one seems to believe that possible. I possess the optimism of a child. But there are very few that actually know who I am. Anymore.

The burn surfaced. And everything became clear. My melancholy was spread out before me. And in one instant I understood. I am the caricature of a character in a non existent novel depicted in a mediocre film.

But I am not counting brush strokes. Rather I believe that have allowed myself to accept less as enough. And because I so much want to believe in half-full glasses I smile and nod. Sometimes the smiling and the nodding are not always beneficial. The art of diplomacy can also find its end in tragedy.

This will make no sense unless you understand. If you understand it may continue to remain non-sensical. But it will make perfect sense all the same. I want a life filled with those who will make me eat cookies.

I didn't realize I was falling. I developed amnesia. But I think I am remembering now. Remembering all of the things that I never learned. And now there must be something different.

But that was last evening. When everything was clear. This morning something happened. And now I feel as though everything I thought I learned in an instant was perhaps wrong.

As I was walking to the twenty-eight I was followed by a crow. And perhaps a more accurate description is that I was stalked. I felt a swoosh of air and heard a loud cawing. And the flapping of wings I could almost feel against my skin. But he or she did not rest. Rather this crow continued to fly past me in extremely close proximity. Flapping and cawing. This occurred several times until I turned the corner at the end of the block.

And then I missed my stop. The twenty eight passed the corner of "this street and that" without notice. I looked up and realized that I was several blocks south of "that". Something unusual seemed to be occurring. But what I could not say.

I continued. Far too busy to consider it in any depth. Until I read T's recent post. And then I could not help but wonder if the universe was trying to tell me something. Maybe everything I thought I understood last night was wrong wrong wrong. Maybe there are things more important that I have failed to recognize. Or maybe I am misreading everything entirely. How does one know the most accurate way to interpret emotion and signs and words and actions.

I have no secret message decoder. If you find one please let me know.

12,410 * 24 = 297,840

2007-05-22T09:42:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time I was born. It is not uncommon for me to post something reflective on or around the day of my birth. However I am not feeling particularly reflective at the moment. I believe this is due to the fact that I have been incredibly busy as of late. Both personally and professionally. I have been distracted and I have not had much opportunity for reflection. And maybe this is good because I do have a tendency to over-reflect.

But I am wondering how it is possible that another year has passed so quickly. 12,410 -- give or take a few -- is a rather large number of direct oxygen breathing days. How do these things happen. Yes, yes. Rhetorical. But if someone could explain how time is able to pass so quickly on some occasions and so slow on other occasions it would be appreciated. I am particularly curious as to explanation behind the scientifically proven fact that time does indeed take two or three and sometimes four times as long to pass when one's body is prone on an examination table with a speculum inserted into one's girl parts. Perhaps the reason that I do not understand the scientific principle behind this phenomena is due to the fact that I did not enjoy the year of physics I was forced to take while attending college and missed the lesson that discussed this principle.

As an aside I occasionally see my college physics professor while waiting for the bus in the morning. It seems that we both reside in the same neighborhood. I have been tempted to approach him at times and inform him that he was the worst instructor I have ever had to suffer through during my many years of formal education. I have not done this. But that could change for I have heard that age tends to make an individual say things they might not otherwise be inclined to say.

Another interesting and seemingly unrelated side note I will share is that I have never personally known anyone who was born on this day. This is still somewhat the case. Somewhat because although I am not personally in the know, the man I am currently in a relationship with has a former partner who was born today as well. I find this comical, but also incredibly convenient for it is far less likely that he will forget the day due to this fortunate albeit odd coincidence. It would be more interesting if we were also born in the same year. Alas this is not so.

Despite 297,840 seconds and counting I have no words of wisdom. Actually it hasn't been 297,840 seconds as of yet, because I was born in the evening. But that is not the point. The point is rather than imparting my lack of wisdom to you all today I am more interested in the wisdom that you might have to share with me. I still have a great deal to learn and since I do not have as much time as I once did I could certainly use the added assistance.

And in case you're wondering I'm not very fond of cake. But cash is always accepted.

Take a Flying Fuck at the Moooooooooooooon!

2007-05-18T11:32:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in my office. I am typing on my super cool "natural ergonomic" keyboard. I am drinking coffee which is swill-ish in nature. I am eating a pop tart. I am wearing flip flops.

I am doing all of these things simultaneously. Wait. That is inaccurate. I am not simultaneous drinking coffee and eating a pop tart. I eat a bite of tart. Chew thoroughly. Swallow. Moments later I take a sip of coffee. And then swallow. I do not simultaneously have a piece of tart and a sip of coffee in my mouth together. It would make for a soggy tart. And that would be gross. Maybe not to some, but to me it would be foul.

This is not the point of this post, but I thought you should know.

I must confess that I did not in fact have a point when I began typing. But then I glanced at the morning newspaper headlines. And I found this article:

Combined Effort Aims to Stop Suicides off Aurora Bridge

I read the article and I have questions. My first question is rhetorical. As is typical with my rhetorical questions there will be no question affiliated punctuation. But I want my rhetorical question to be clear. So I will assist you. I will segregate my question so there will be no confusion.

Who cares.

Yes. Who cares. Clearly I do not. And let me share with you one of the reasons why I could give a flying fuck less. If individuals wish to jump off the Aurora Bridge to their death or permanent disfigurement or merely for the hell of it why should I be concerned. It amuses me that we live in a world where we value our right to personal choice often to the death -- no pun intended -- yet suicide or merely bridge jumping is deemed unacceptable.

Toothpaste is a good example of our obsession with personal choice. We can choose among various brands of toothpaste. I cannot even count the total number of toothpaste brands available in your average toothpaste retail location. We can choose either a paste or gel. Toothpaste flavors are so plentiful I can barely keep up. I have witnessed at least seven different types of mint alone. We can choose the "special features" we wish our toothpaste to impart upon our teeth and gums. Tartar control. Whitening. Breath freshening. Toothpaste for sensitive teeth. Sensitive gums. Fluoride. No fluoride. Baking soda. Various herbs and spices. We can choose whether we want our toothpaste to be contained in a tube or a pump. We can even choose organic toothpaste.

It's overwhelming. But this is the United States of America and apparently we value personal choice so much -- even with respect to our toothpaste -- that we must have a three foot by two foot section of shelving devoted to this tooth cleaning product.

But if someone chooses to jump off of a bridge that is somehow deemed socially unacceptable. We must "do something" to stop it. Choice is not permitted. This brings me to my second question which is not rhetorical. How much money does the Washington State Department of Transportation intend to spend on trying to curb the bridge jumping "problem" as they see it? I imagine they will have an entire team including, but not limited to, psychological experts, public relations experts, engineering experts, construction experts, advertising experts, and graphic designers to name but a few.

And please understand I am not suggesting that we should not be providing services and resources for those who need them. But do we really feel the need to create an entire campaign to deter bridge jumping? There have always been suicidal individuals and there will always be suicidal individuals. Should we put suicide hot line telephone numbers on razor blades, knives, rope, aspirin bottles, or the barrel of a gun. Each of these items and many many more are all used to assist in committing suicide. They are also used to shave, cut bread, reduce fevers, and hunt for food.

It is important to keep in mind that bridges are primarily used to assist people in getting from one place to another over a body of water. Perhaps the solution is to cease in the building of bridges completely. Rather we could simply fill every body of water. That would solve the problem entirely. It would also solve the problem of individuals who attempt to commit suicide by drowning. In fact why don't we just ban water.

How many warning labels and advertising campaigns do we really need. Again, rhetorical I know.

I don't mean to be insensitive. But I feel that we as a society often fail to think logically about problem solving. We fail to analyze which solutions are reasonable and which are not. We are blinded by emotion and feel even if a solution is illogical it should be undertaken so as not to seem insensitive to the needs of others.

Let us remain sensitive to the needs of all, but continue to use our logic and intellect in the process. Actions should not be undertaken because they give the impression of concern. Rather they should be undertaken because they are sound and just. Rather than slapping a band aid on a bridge, perhaps we should try to reach out and connect more directly with our fellow human beans for we could all benefit from reassurances that we are wonderful and worthy and valued.

Eating Cake

2007-03-26T15:31:00.000-07:00

Some of you have recently discovered that I don't so much care for cake. I'm sorry if this upsets you. I do enjoy a good cheesecake every now and then. Sometimes a torte. And I'm semi-fond of angel food cake. I must admit "regular" cake is not so much my thing. But I have been thinking recently about the eating of cake.

And when I say that I have been thinking about the eating of cake what I am actually referring to is the metaphorical having and eating of cake. I mean to say that I have been thinking about having cake and eating cake in a metaphoric sense.

I am being vague. I know this. Say no more. I will explain.

Once upon a time I was "progressive" thinking. I say "progressive" but what I actually mean is "different" and by putting "progressive" in quotes I am attempting to be humorous or ironic or something else.

Uh...where was I. Oh yes. I shudder to admit that I once scoffed at the man holding a door open for me or the one willing to give me his seat on a bus. I saw no reason why women should not have to register for selective service. I refused to let a man I was dating pay for dinner.

I think I was wrong. No. I don't think. I know I was wrong. I've known this for some time, but I'm somewhat of a procrastinator so I'm really just now getting around to formulating these thoughts in print for your reading pleasure.

And I know that in this moment feminists everywhere are falling over dead. Okay. I'm exaggerating. But seriously. Some women may say that I have lost my grip on feminism. Maybe that's true. I would like to think that as a former women studies major in college I have not. But college was a long time ago. And as I have gotten older I have realized that I want cake. And looking at it isn't enough.

Being a feminist isn't a crime although it can feel that way. I think the reason for this is simple. There are a number of wack jobs out there that give the rest of us a bad name. There are women who date and simultanteously hate men. Those that blame every male on the planet for patriarchy. There are women who believe that the pyramid should be flipped and men placed under the heel of our collective boots.

But they still date and fuck men. And this I will not ever understand. I am perfectly willing to accept that some women believe that all men are the root of every bit of evil in the world. I cannot say that I agree, but I consider myself fairly tolerant and if you believe this more power to you. HOWEVER if you are going to FUCK MEN and let men FUCK YOU IN RETURN then you absolutely cannot believe that men are the problem without being an absolute moron and a raging hypocrite.

These women need medication. And any man who agrees with such a philosophy is simply trying to get laid by as many women as humanly possible in his lifetime. This isn't feminism. Feminism is very simple. It's about equality. Boot kissing is not equality. End of story.

All of this brings me back to my current state of being. For I have digressed once again. This is not a rant about women who hate/fuck men. This is about something different.

I have now come to believe that women have missed the boat. We -- being the collective we -- want this equality thing -- whatever that is -- so badly that we give up what I will refer to as social pleasantries.

And then we don't even get the equality anyway. Not really. So we're double screwed.

I live in Seattle now. I didn't always. I say this because things are different here. Men are different here. They're not as aggressive as the men on the east coast. Maybe they have less testosterone. Perhaps it's nurture and not nature. I don't really know. But I can tell you that most men in this general area are considerably more shy and sensitive and so on and so forth.

They are also seemingly more "progressive" which means that they will let you struggle with your hands full and not make any attempt to help you with a door. They won't hold the elevator for you if you're running. You will almost never get one of them to give up their seat on the bus.

It's different. I do not believe that it's better or worse, merely different. And here's the one thing that's going to go over wonderfully with all of you. I believe women are at least in part to blame. And you should know that I originally typed the previous sentence to read "I believe women are to blame" but it even disturbed me so I added the "at least in part" so that I would not spontaneously combust.

Waitwaitwait! Before you attempt to stone me to death you should at least hear me out. Women overall refuse these social pleasantries from men. I observe this numerous times per day. We refuse the open door. We decline the seat on the bus offered to us. We arm wrestle with men and the winner gets the privilege of paying for dinner. We do these things so often that men don't know what to do anymore. They are confused in part because we have confused them. So they let us stand on the bus. They permit us to pay for dinner. And I suppose this means that we've achieved equality. As long as equality equates to tired legs and a less substantial bank account.

We as women need to accept the fact that these small things do not equate us with being weak and ineffectual. It isn't easy to permit someone to do something nice for you. And I can not help but wonder why some of us still fight so hard against such things. In short, permitting a man to pay for dinner or taking his seat on the bus doesn't make him a filthy patriarch who wants to slap that bitch up.

I am not immune to this disease. In fact you should know that I absolutely refused to let the man I am exclusively dating pick up the check for dinner this weekend. I insisted that we split the bill. He gave me that look that he gives when I'm being difficult. He tried to fight me on the issue, but he didn't fight me too hard because he knows how stubborn I am and that I will win. And in an interesting twist when our cards were returned he discovered that they ran my card twice instead of running both cards.

Until the "pollo asado incident" I had been working on this post for some time. I was unable to finish it. When I was informed of the card error I realized this may very well be the universe poking fun at my continuing inability to permit anyone to do anything nice for me.

"Fine. We'll show her," said the Universe. I chuckled while my dining companion signed his name or mine name or someone's name to the receipt and thanked me for dinner. In this moment I that these ideas required posting and it needed to be soon if I am ever to end this madness.

For those of us afflicted I cannot say that it will be easy to develop a cure overnight. I know that I am often far too independent for my own good. And this doesn't mean that I think I or anyone else should swing the pendulum in the opposite direction and merely take what can be taken. But I can say that from this point forward if a man offers me his seat on a bus I'm going to sit my tired ass down and graciously thank him. No political analysis required.

Maybe then we can begin to make some real and significant change regarding the gender related problems that both men and women face in our current society.

Bank of America is the Devil

2007-03-13T14:38:00.000-07:00

We interrupt this regularly scheduled post for a new and irregular and not-so-scheduled post. In this post you will find my current rant about Bank of America.

Normally I would have typed UNNAMED EVIL FINANCIAL INSTITUTION but not this time. This time I'm naming names. That's right Bank of America. This means you!

I should have known. With an acronym like BOA I should have suspected they would attempt to constrict the life out of me. But until recently my complaints were few and far between.

It all started when I decided to enroll in the Bank of America Keep the Change program. It seemed like a good idea. They round up your debit card purchases and put the difference in your savings account. What's not to love. Especially since I do all (and I mean A-L-L) of my banking via my debit card. I haven't physically walked into a branch for years.

I start the on-line enrollment process. After a series of prompts I am informed that I must have a check type debit card to enroll. I've never had one of these check card things because I already have a credit card. But I'm not opposed to the idea so I follow the link to get a check card so I can enroll in the program.

It seems I have options. I decide to go for the airline miles card because who doesn't love airline miles? The only thing left to do is wait for my card in the mail. So I wait.

And wait and wait and wait. I wait some more. I finally decide to email Bank of America. I tell them the whole deal and inquire about the status of my check card. I receive a response from Nancy Ware that reads as follows:

"Our records for your account ending in [-XXXX] do not show that a check card has been ordered for the account. Unfortunately, we are unable to order check cards through this channel."

Now I'm worried. Because I know I did not dream the ordering a check card. I start wondering what went wrong. I start thinking that something bad happened. I write another email and copy the message from Nancy Ware along with it. When I arrive home later that evening my check card is waiting for me with the rest of my mail.

I receive a response from Jennifer Hinebaugh. She explains that I have an airline miles check card. She does not address why I was informed that there was no record of my request. She does explain that I cannot use this card with the Keep the Change program because I cannot keep my own change and earn miles simultaneously. She states:

"If you still want to be enrolled in the Keep the Change, please send us another email and we will take care of it immediately!"

I respond. Because now I'm angry. I express deep concerns about Bank of America's record keeping system and their inability to respond to my concerns. If they had no record of my check card order perhaps they might have no record of my latest deposit. I ask for an explanation and chastise her for not providing one in the previous message. I also ask for an explanation as to why I was not informed that I could not use this card with this program when I signed up for the card. She responds, explaining why I cannot do both and "apologize[s] for the misinformation [I] received earlier." She ends her message with "Have a great day!"

Are you fucking kidding. What happened to her "we will take care of it immediately!" response. She didn't tell me that they would send me a new check card or that I would be enrolled in this program. I send another email copying all the previous responses.

The next day I decide to give up with email communication and call the bank directly. I explain the situation and I'm informed that they can send me a new check card. I am told that my old debit card will be active for one month and that my current PIN will be used for the new card.

Then I receive a response via email from J. Cline. J is smart not to use a first name. I think J knew I would be writing this post. J informs me that my airline miles check card should arrive by March 10, 2007. Keep in mind I received it on March 2. I was informed that I would need a new card to enroll in Keep the Change. Again I am told:

"Note that we are unable to order another card for you through this channel." Again note that they have no record of my order.

I decide not to respond to J. So now I wait for my new card. I am already fairly pissed, but I know that customer service isn't what it used to be. I receive my new card roughly seven days later. It's a weekend. I activate my card.

I then take a trip with the Sprinkel to UNNAMED NEARBY STORE to buy soap and toothpaste and such. I decide to use my new check card. I am told that my PIN is "incorrect" so I try re-entering it. It is still incorrect. So I try my old debit card. Same problem.

Thankfully I have a credit card. Otherwise I would have been without soap and toothpaste for the entire weekend. That would have been unpleasant not only for me, but for those close to me. Seriously.

Then I start thinking about how lucky I am to have a credit card. I know people that don't have a credit card. For some individuals this is a personal choice. What if I was one of these people. I had no cash whatsoever. What if I needed to purchase gas for my car or food or life saving medicine. What if I needed to bail someone out of jail or bribe a cop. These things often require cash or access to cash. I spent the entire weekend without access to MY OWN MONEY.

And people wonder why crime happens. I think we should ask the question to individuals who are arrested for robbery and burglary, "Do you bank with Bank of America?" If the answer is "yes" we should immediately release them without further question. They have been punished enough.

On Monday I call the local customer service number to my bank. I speak with Adam. I tell Adam that I am cranky and angry and I know it isn't his fault, but I am probably not going to be terribly pleasant. I go through the entire story. From beginning to end. Adam tries to interrupt me. I don't let him. He explains that Bank of America didn't change my PIN number. He cannot look up my PIN and tell me what it is, but he tells me that I must have changed it because Bank of America would not do this. I told him that I have had the same PIN number for more than fifteen years. I'm glad he has such faith in Bank of America.

He then tells me that he cannot help me. That I must go into the branch. I explain that this is impossible for me to do. I have a job. I cannot simply take valuable time off work and hop down to the branch to resolve this problem. This is why I'm calling. I ask to speak with his supervisor.

Adam tells me he can have me speak to the supervisor but it will not help. He says that I should speak with the branch and he can transfer me. I tell him that is fine because I am about to tell Adam to fuck off.

I speak with Melissa at the Madison-Pike Branch. I go through my whole story. She tells me that she will need to do some research and determine the problem, but she will call me in one hour. She is nice and apologetic. She calls me in exactly one hour. She explains everything that went wrong and why. She tells me that a new PIN is always assigned with a new check card. She explains that I should have been told this would happen. She explains that I shouldn't have been told that my old debit card would remain active. They are always inactivated with a new card. She said I should get my new PIN in the mail in a day or so.

She then tells me that she is very sorry, but she will not be able to change my new PIN to match my old PIN. She said I need to come into the branch. The entire time she is the only one who is attempting to be helpful, not blaming me, not misinforming me, and not making me feel like Bank of America is taking my money.

I explain that I appreciate her assistance, but that I will be closing my account as soon as I can GET TO THE BRANCH. I am expecting the hard sell, but she doesn't give it. Instead she tells me that she wishes I would reconsider, but understands my position. I tell her I intend to write a nice letter about her to the company. She thanks me for this and tells me that she would like me to include all of the problems I have had in whatever letter I write. I tell her I have every intention of doing so. I also have every intention of reporting them to the Better Business Bureau.

It has now been more than fourteen days since I originally ordered the check card. I still don't have a PIN. My account will be closed soon enough. I will keep you posted on the results of my letter to Bank of America as well as my complaint with the Better Business Bureau as soon as both are completed and filed.

Maybe I'm just getting older, but customer service seems to have gone by the wayside. I worked in customer service for years. It isn't an easy job, but my requests were not complex. Businesses seem to expect us to accept poor service rather than take our business elsewhere. I say it's time we all start to put our money where our mouth is rather than merely accept status quo. Not just in who we choose to bank with, but in everything.

Government Cheese

2007-03-06T14:47:00.001-08:00

Many of you know that I submitted some of my photographs to a call for art by the Seattle Public Utilities some time ago. Those who are aware of this also know that none of my photographs were chosen for purchase by SPU. I did quite well with the rejection if I do say so myself. It was the first time I submitted anything to anything and I felt quite accomplished having done so. It was empowering to actually complete a project, regardless of the outcome.

Recently I received an email from my good friend Soy. Apparently some individuals affiliated with INSANELY EXPENSIVE PRIVATE ART SCHOOL had their work accepted by the project. As an alumni of said institution he received notice of this news. Check out one of the works of art that was accepted:

ACCEPTED WORK OF ART

Soy also included the following message:

"If a paper airplane photoshopped [sic] onto a satellite image of Washington (how lame!) got into that show, then I'm glad that your work is NOT associated with SPU! Unfortunately for me, my work IS associated with [INSANELY EXPENSIVE PRIVATE ART SCHOOL]!"

I appreciate Soy's sentiments because he is an artist that I respect highly and a good friend. And this is by no means intended to be any disrespect toward the artist in question. Kudos to you for your efforts. However I am curious about one thing. Because in thinking about this further I was reminded of the numbers. Let me explain.

My rejection letter read (in part) as follows:

"The panel viewed more than 1800 submission, with a purchase budget of $50,000 to award, and selected 49 artworks."

For those of you not well versed in mathematics you should seriously consider a refresher course. Just kidding. Okay. I'm not kidding, but this isn't my point. My point is that given the above information Seattle Public Utilities paid an average of $1020.41 for each piece of art. Not too shabby considering my work was priced at 10% of that figure.

I suppose I should have known that the government isn't accustomed obtaining a bargain. My affordable pricing may very well have caused their heads to explode. Silly me. But I do believe that art should be affordable. Not that this means that my time and effort isn't worth compensation. But rather art should be accessible to the masses, not merely the wealthy.

And in case you're wondering, here are some scans of some of the pieces I submitted:

Despite my rejection, I am thankful for the experience. I imagine the more rejection I receive the more accustomed to it I will become and the more apt I will be to submit work in the future. Because it won't matter. And it shouldn't matter. What matters is that we are all wonderfully unique and creative beans and the we should all do our thing and let the world experience it as they will.

And before I forget, does anyone know any rich folks who want to buy a bunch of overpriced art? Lemme know. Thanks.

Super Sleuthing Sickness

2006-12-15T23:01:00.000-08:00

Okay. Okayokayokay. I am going to admit something to all of you. Shit. Maybe I won't. No. Yes. I will. I will do it. I will admit it. Because you see I have this...problem. And this problem involves a bit of internet snooping. Snooping. I should not be snooping. But the information is RIGHT THERE and I must say I cannot control myself. Perhaps I am far to curious for my own good. And it isn't as if I am stalking anyone. There are no laws being broken. Any information I may have obtained is entirely public. But I do not know why I feel compelled to review it.

Insecurity. Curiosity. Notice how similar both of these words sound. Coincidence...I think not.

And I can so easily justify this...really just watch me. Because my super sleuthing internet snooping provides me with something very very very very important. Here it comes...I hope you're paying attention. My super sleuthing internet snooping provides me with material. Material. Yes. Material. Material for writing. And it's important to have material for writing. Because...let's face it...there is most certainly not enough material-esque things going on out there in the world for me to write about. Things are pretty mundane these days.

Uh. Yeah. Exactly. That is exactly it. There is nothing at all interesting going on the world at all nothing not one thing nothing interesting.

And as it is quite important that I continue to have good writing material. Otherwise something tragic might happen. So. And what I mean is that it isn't exactly like I am stalking anyone or anything. I haven't researched where any particular person or persons live. And I haven't followed them home. I don't own high powered binoculars. I haven't broken into anyone's home and rifled through their refrigerator. No. None of that. Nothing creepy.

But you see. There are these internet web sites. And people post information about themselves on said sites. It's right there. They are asking, ne begging you to read all about them. And their lives and hopes and dreams and wants and food poisoning and vacationing and midterms and new shoes and friendships and such. Sometimes there are photographs. So what's a girl to do really. I mean really.

How was that. Seriously. I hope you're convinced. Because I think I did a decent job and almost convinced myself of my own sincerity. Which just so happens to have the same ending as insecurity and curiosity -- see above.

So. Yes. I am curious. And insecure. Then I become curious again. So I check to see if a new blog has been posted. And I read and this makes me still more curious. But don't worry. I promise not to name names if I use your life material for my next poem. Because that would be rude. I will protect the innocent. And the guilty.

And hopefully I will stop creeping even myself out in the very near future.

Begin to Delve into Nineteen Twelve

2006-12-12T15:28:00.000-08:00

I write this in the fine tradition of the airing of dirty laundry. Exposing myself in a public forum. Showing more than you want to see. My dirty panties are on display.

Ew. Panties. I hate the word panties. I much prefer underpants. Panties sound icky. I imagine something pink. With hearts. Something frilly. I'm not so much down for the pink-hearts-frilly.

But I was talking about exposing myself. And not the kind of exposing that you could go to prison for. Why am I doing this again? Oh yes. I remember now. I am doing this because I want you to understand. Actually that is not true. I am doing this because I know some of you will never read it.

And maybe someone will. Perhaps some human bean will stumble upon these words and find solidarity with a stranger. Maybe someone will read this and believe that they are not quite so weird after all. They will feel better about themselves because they will know that at least they are not as strange as that weird grrl airy her dirty laundry in a public space.

Why don't I just begin.

Several days ago I remembered that today is my father's birthday. Not only did I remember this, but I also realized that in July he will have been dead for twenty years.

I had to pause when I came to this realization. And while I was pausing I happened to be driving. Merging to be more specific. Attempting to merge in this city can sometimes be a catastrophe. For some reason merging seems to be a lost art and I wonder if those of us who have merging skills should start a secret society and take over the world.

Uh...ahem. I mean. Twenty years ago feels impossible. For anything. It is someone else's lifetime. Most certainly not mine. I am far too young to remember twenty years ago. But really, I'm not that young anymore. Even though I sometimes feel as if I am five years old.

The problem with dead people is that it is easy to remember them as someone they were not. I have had my moments of remembering my father as a man who was not the man that he was. I do not mean to be Dr. Seuss about it. But I find this to be an accurate statement.

It is quite similar to the ways in which we might recall a former partner as someone more wonderful than they were when we were dating them. Sometimes we forget they this person was an ass and when they call we block out the reasons that the relationship ended in the first place. And then we remember.

It's exactly like that. Only different. Because in this case the call will never come. And if it ever does I am certainly not accepting it collect. In circumstances such as these we will never be reminded unless we choose to consciously remember.

I cannot recall if I was angry at my father for dying. It seems logical. It's one of those death step thingies. It is more likely that I was angry at him for leaving me with an emotionally crippled parent. And most certainly for not being the father that I needed him to be.

I do not know very many beans who have or had one let alone two parents who were able to give them what they needed. I doubt my experiences are all that unusual in this realm. And after twenty years -- my that is painful to type -- one would think that such things would no longer fill my thoughts. But they do. And sometimes they do not so much fill my thoughts as influence my emotional state and affect my interpersonal relationships.

Which, quite frankly, sucks. Perhaps my expectations are unrealistic. But I am most certain that I have spent an unconscious lifetime searching for the qualities in others that I desperately needed in parental figures.

Unconditional love and support are words in a language I have never known. And I am always teetering on the edge of wanting something and expecting nothing. And when I wobble in this place it is quite easy to manipulate the data and see exactly what your mind and experiences expect.

Any action or lack of action can be manipulated to fit the mold. Assumptions run wild and rampant. And then I am five years old again. Suppressing my authentic identity that was never ever good enough.

I believe that this has impacted me more strongly as of late because my relationships have changed. My tough exterior has begun to crack or melt or slip off like a snake shedding its skin. And this has caused me to feel emotion differently. Sometimes at the most random nonsensical moments.

Everything I learned as a child is still with me. Insecurities. The belief that I am unworthy. Unlovable. Never good enough. The subliminal messages run deep. They defy logic. I argue with myself about their validity. But they remain.

I have no words of wisdom to end on. There are no silver linings. Brilliant glimmers. I have no epiphanies. Sometimes things simply are what they are and one can only continue traveling down the path arguing with the self and trying not to look like too much of a fool in the process.

One Hundred and Sixty Two Days

2006-12-11T22:53:00.000-08:00

When I turned thirty three I started to make a list of things that I wanted to do in my thirty third year. And I must admit I have been a bit slack ass in getting these things accomplished. Maybe it is because I am afraid. Or maybe it is because I feel paralyzed. Perhaps I'm just plain tired.

I have been examining my life under a microscope as of late. I am in a space where I require a change. I want a life that is full of passion. Adventure. Excitement. Something more. I want to begin a fabulous journey. I do not require anything complex. But I do require something different.

Given that there are now less than six months until the time in which I become thirty four I suppose I had better get my behind in gear and make another list. Since I am so incredibly fond of list making. Sometimes I wonder if I have a tendency to put too much on my list of things to do. I create situations in which I set myself up for failure. And this is not helpful on many levels.

So I am going to create a public list. Yes. An incredibly public list of thirty three things that I will accomplish before I am no longer thirty three.

And I am going to create thirty three things that I believe are attainable. Thirty three things that are completely reasonable and feasible for me to accomplish in a relatively short amount of time. Doing this publically is an incredibly bold step for me as I often keep my projects hidden from sight so that in the event that I fail no one else will be the wiser. I now believe that this attitude has stunted me creatively. It has left me lost and feeling unworthy. And if I want this to change it is up to me to do something different.

So here is my list. Many things on the list are quite small and simple. Some list items are more involved. And some items will be more difficult for me to accomplish than one might imagine. But here I am. Exposing myself for you all. I am naked (there's that word again) and vulnerable in a way that is quite uncomfortable for me. But I have realized that it is now or never. I am going to try to keep this list realistic and simple. So here we go -- in no particular order.

1. Get a passport. Or at least try given the current challenges associated with getting a passport in the current political state. 2. Sing out loud. At least once. In front of other people. 3. Complete a Holga photo shoot. Develop the film. 4. Take a kitschy road trip to a new place and document it. Use more than one form of media. 5. Collect various found objects. Use collected objects to create an art piece composed solely of found objects. 6. Feed peanut butter sandwiches to happy squirrels. 7. Purge all of the unnecessary material items in my possession and donate them to charity. 8. Practice saying no and meaning it. 9. Research various publications in which to submit poetry. Make a list of the viable options. 10. Complete an infrared photo shoot. Develop the film. 11. Go see art created by others on a semi regular basis. Think about it. 12. Revise a handful of older poems to a completed state. 13. Finish sanding and staining the bookcase. 14. Hand write a letter to someone I respect and appreciate. Tell them so. Be specific. 15. Meet with Soy to discuss the motivational collective. 16. Practice saying yes more. Especially when I am afraid to say it. 17. Complete a public art project. Anonymously. 18. Go to the library. Review various art books for the purpose of creating a left arm sleeve. Copy. Scan. Make notes. 19. Compile a series of photographs for a future art show. Print all images. Think about display and framing. 20. Meditate. Again. Seriously. 21. Practice asking for it by name. Often. Even when it seems scary. 22. Drink more water. Right now. 23. Go hiking to a new place. Explore it slowly and thoroughly. 24. Take more naps. Even if they are very short. 25. Watch the sun rise or set in a different state. Or even a different country. 26. Let go. Seriously. 27. Trade passions with someone for a day. Have that person teach me about their passion. Then teach my passion to them in return. 28. Move more. Run. Do yoga. Tai chi. Cartwheels. Dance like a fool. Just move. 29. Submit completed poems to print journals. 30. Learn more about Photoshop. Study the first four chapters of Soy's book. 31. Make bread. 32. Research classes on lighting. 33. Cook dinner with someone. Barefoot. Drink wine while cooking.

So uh...maybe it's still too much. I'll keep you posted.

May I Please Have One Quarter Pound of Time and a Side of Lime

2006-11-29T12:03:00.000-08:00

I am of the belief that life is a beautiful and precious thing. And given this personal truth I am quite careful as to what I do with the time that I have on this planet. This is especially true because I do not know exactly how much time I am working with.

It would have been nice to begin life with the gift of knowing approximately how much sand I have going in the hourglass. But that didn't happen. So I have to guess. And since I am not a very good guesser I figure that anything could happen. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow. And that would suck.

So. Given that I could be hit by a bus tomorrow I feel that I should be somewhat particular as to how I spend the little bit of time I have remaining. Unfortunately there are a variety of things that take time away from other more interesting things that at the moment I cannot not choose. As I am not independently wealthy I must work. This is fine most days as I do actually enjoy my job the majority of the time. But this does not mean that there might not be something else on the list of things to do that I would rather be doing.

And given that my housemate expects me to pay my share of the rent and given that I am far too obsessive compulsive and vain to live on the street it is necessary for me to derive income in order to pay said rent.

And work takes up a great deal of the aforementioned precious time. Who decided that a forty hour work week was acceptable? Seriously. I would much prefer a six hour day for four days per week at my current rate of pay. However as I have not yet lost my mind I am fully aware that this will not happen any time in the near or distant future.

But I digress. Because this post isn't about a shorter work week. Not that this would be a bad thing to discuss. But a discussion for another time indeed.

Rather, this post is about time. And more specifically my precious and valuable time. I do not mean this to imply that my time is any more precious or valuable than your time. But simply that time is the greatest commodity. And we should treat it as such.

Which brings me to my point. Recently I had another epiphany. Yes. Go make some cocoa and come back and read my epiphany. Because ephipanies should be read while drinking cocoa.

I realized that I can no longer continue to permit situations in my life that disrespect me such that they devalue my time. Do not devalue my time people. That is not delicious. I do not appreciate it.

This means if you want to see me -- naked or otherwise -- then do so. And be on time. If you cannot be on time for some reason then I am more than willing to be understanding, but it should be a good reason.

It should be because you were getting me a present. That is a good reason for you to be late meeting with me.

There might be a few other good reasons but I cannot think of any at the moment. I'll keep you posted.

What it really boils down to is you should do what you say you are going to do. Have enough respect for others to make an effort not to waste my precious time. Life happens and we should all be understanding of such life related things, but if you are a perpetual flake and cannot seem to get it together than you should know that I will not be making an effort to continue a friendship with you.

My time and my life are valuable. You should think so too.

And if you do not then perhaps you should rethink the friendship as well.

We -- as in the collective we -- seem to spend a great deal of time complaining about the behavior of other people. But we -- collective again -- do not seem to do much about it. It is almost as if many in said aforementioned collective forget that we have a choice.

Who. What. When. Where. How.

Seriously. It's not just for reporters anymore. Take charge and control of your own life. I say this as much for myself as I do for everyone else on the planet. Value you life every day. Value it more than you do in this moment.

Five Thankful Things

2006-11-26T22:13:00.000-08:00

I had planned write a fairly extensive imperalist holiday post about the many things that I am currently thankful for in my life. However I realized that this post would be like many other postings and decided that there are really five things that I need to address at the moment, rather than the complete multitude of things for which I am most grateful. This is not meant to slight anyone or anything, but it may actually be true that there is a time and a place for brevity.

Consider this the first and last time for me. And truth be told this began as three things, but after I typed the three I realized that there were two more additional things to add for sense to be made out of the whole.

So without further introduction or subsequent comment I will lay out the five things that I am currently thankful for at the moment. And these things all involve an expression of gratitude to my Very Wise Friend.

* Thank you for asking a crazy girl to marry you on your first date with her so many years ago and subsequently moving to Portland due to said proposal.

* Thank you for deciding it would be in your best interest to work at an UNNAMED CONVENIENCE STORE in a small suburban Oregon town.

* Thank you for coming back home.

* Thank you for dragging me to eat grilled cheese and drink sugary coffee after your art show at the UNNAMED COFFEE SHOP LOCATED IN THE GARAGE NEXT TO THE TATTOO SHOP last year.

* And finally (at least for this posting) thank you for falling in love with an amazing woman, deciding to become a tattoo artist, and moving to Olympia (in no particular order) and for having wonderful friends who felt the need to throw you a going away party.

You have my utmost gratitude. More than you could possibly know.

Terrorist Shampoo Airline Action

2006-10-26T14:00:00.000-07:00

Apparently I am completely out of touch with what is going on in the world these days. I'm not quite certain how that happened. Perhaps I blinked. Maybe I have been avoiding. But it is critical that I share this information with you. Perhaps you already know because you have not blinked and you have not been avoiding. Nevertheless it is important enough worth repeating.

Moments ago I was sitting at my desk when I received a call from an attorney I work for who was at her home packing for a trip she is taking out of town. She explained that due to an aggressive cat family that has moved in outside of her house she was unable to travel past the sliding glass door to her computer to look up the answer to several questions about her trip. Not wanting to cause tension between her and the aggressive cat family she thought she would call me at the office for assistance instead.

Given my employment situation this seemed perfectly reasonable so I asked her how I could help. She wanted to know what liquid or liquid-like items she would be permitted to carry on to the airplane. I did not quite understand her question and explained that I was quite perplexed. She informed me that there have been new regulations outlining what liquid and liquid-like items were permissible to pack in one's carry on luggage.

I was shocked. But I soon discovered that this was not a practical joke. It took no more than a quick Google search to determine that she was in fact correct and I was completely out of touch with this vital newsworthy news. It would appear that there is some great fear by the TSA with respect to liquid and liquid-like items carried on to an airplane.

After hearing about these new regulations I realized how fortunate I am that the attorney was traveling and that the aggressive cat family prohibited her from walking past her sliding glass door and discovering the answer to her own question. What might have happened if I boarded an airplane in the near future without this vital information. I could certainly imagine carrying four ounces of Bert's Bee's shampoo which would have been far outside of the allowable three ounce limit. And what horrors might have I have endured if I brought a full tube of Tom's of Maine wintermint toothpaste in my carry on luggage. I shudder to think. Perhaps I would have been transported to Guantanimo as a suspected terrorist. Not even my legal connections would have been able to assist me under such circumstances. And given the Terrorism Detainee Bill I might never have been heard from again. Thanks Liza!

So yes. Thankfully the attorney is traveling and she thought it wise to contact me. I owe her my life and liberty. And I strongly urge you to visit the TSA Permitted and Prohibited Liquid and Liquid-Like Item Site and memorize it immediately. I would hate for any of you to be executed for traveling with too much conditioner. Even if you do have excessively dry hair.

I will not relay all of the points on the TSA site for you. However I will provide you with some of the more important points to consider. Because I care. So here we go. Please take notes. Bookmark this page. Do whatever you must but please oh PLEASE do not fuck this up. Your life and liberty may depend on it.

First it is IMPERITIVE that no liquid or liquid-like product be in a container larger than three ounces. This is grounds for immediate deportation to a country located in the Axis of Evil. The TSA website actually refers to these products as "liquids, gels and aerosols" if you are not certain whether your product falls into the LG and A category or not I highly recommend you assume that it does for your own safety.

Second. You should know that all of your LG and A toiletry products must fit "comfortably" in a one quart zip top clear plastic bag. I for one am quite pleased that TSA is concered with the comfort of toiletry products. Someone must be looking out for their welfare and civil rights. It is unacceptable to cram one's toiletry products and cause it discomfort. Please keep in mind that the United States of America will not accept mistreatment of toiletry products. Power to the people!

Third. For those of you concerned about packing products of a more sensitive nature you should know that TSA respects and understands your concerns. Therefore travelers are permitted to carry as MUCH KY Jelly as they deem necessary without adhering to the LG and A guidelines. In fact travelers are permitted to carry as MUCH prescription and over the counter medications as they might deem necessary. Therefore feel free to pack your carry on full of pseudophedrine if you so choose.

Finally cigar cutters, corkscrews, knitting and crochet needles, nail files, and scissors with metal pointed tips -- provided the blade is less than four inches in length -- are permitted in carry on luggage. Wonderful. I feel much safer now.

But thank goodness that the TSA was smart enough to prohibit the carrying of too much mouthwash for our safety. Now I can relax. Thanks TSA!

Orange Juice and the Sunday Newspaper

2006-10-03T12:25:00.000-07:00

Many years ago I had an in-depth conversation about orange juice with my very wise friend before I was aware of the fact that he was very wise. He articulated utter delight in a tall glass of orange juice coupled with newspaper reading on a Sunday morning. I articulated that I was adamantly opposed to orange juice during this conversation. I exclaimed loudly that I neither wanted nor did I need orange juice. I told him that I thought orange juice was icky. And orange juice coupled with the Sunday newspaper was almost too much to consider.

And I did not realize it at the time, but I was afraid of orange juice. I ran from it. I ran as if my life depended on it. The mere thought of orange juice was enough to make me feel anxious. Even artificial orange flavoring made me itch.

But sometimes I would pretend that I did not have an orange juice phobia. Because I wanted to feel normal. And people tend to look at you with a wiggly eye if they learn that you are afraid of orange juice. So when I wasn't refusing orange juice I purposefully sought it out from places that clearly did not offer it. I pretended that it was perfectly normal to ask for orange juice at the hardware store. I looked for it under rocks in the desert. I inquired about obtaining it at the dentist's office. And each time I was unsuccessful in my feeble attempt to obtain the beverage. I never acknowledged the fact that I might be purposefully sabotaging my own quest for juice.

And then things got completely out of hand. I tried to purchase the Sunday paper on Thursday.

Denial is powerful. And I remained in denial about orange juice for quite some time. I couldn't admit that I was terrified at the risk of diving into a tall glass of ice cold orange juice. Certain that it would be the end of me. I would most certainly drown. I imagined losing my identity in the sweet round fruit. Or I feared that I would develop a fondness for the beverage and then it would disappear forever. So to protect myself I became adamately opposed to orange juice. Because I was afraid. And it seemed easier not to care about oranges at all.

But then something changed.

In the most unlikely place I found an amazing supply of orange juice. I wasn't inquiring about oranges. And even though they were in my line of sight for quite some time I didn't notice them. But then I did. And the amazing orange juice supply seemed to not only sense my fear. But understood. I'm talking about tree ripened organic oranges. Fresh squeezed juice folks. The perfect blend of sweet and tangy. And the most beautiful orange color I have ever seen.

And I must admit that it scares the crap out of me. Seriously. Maybe that makes me weird. I'm pretty well certain that it does. But I have decided something. This isn't an ephiphany mind you. Rather I decided to make a conscious effort to accept my fear of orange juice. And take a risk anyway. I have decided to open myself to the idea of orange juice and the Sunday newspaper. I thought I would lose it completely after the first sip. But I didn't. Sometimes I still get a bit nervous around oranges. But I think that I am going to do just fine.

Deja Voodoo Review

2006-09-18T14:17:00.000-07:00

It is. Simply put. Deja voodoo. Because it not only feels as though you have been there before. You actually have and. You cannot seem to stop going back. To that place. As if you are under some sort of spell.

Deja voodoo.

I have been trapped in. Deja voodoo as of late and. Perhaps forever. And it is incredibly easy to ignore. Because we are all very very busy. And we all seem to require a bit of denial every now and then. However I would. Prefer to have it become more then-than-now. So last night I turned to my housemate Stash and asked him.

I asked him if he felt as if he is living his life as if it could end with his next breath. And I did this because he happens to be an expert on the subject. I respect his opinion and I knew that he would not merely provide the brief "yes/no" answer. Rather he would engage me further in my own inquiry and. Travel with me down the road of yellow brick.

And I cannot help but wonder how it is so that we. Learn lessons and forget lesson before our cocoa can cool. How is it that I could have worked. With terminally ill people for more years than I care to. Recollect and have forgotten the secret to. Living. Living. Living. And perhaps this doesn't matter. But what very well might is my own perceptions. And fear.

Fear of rejection. Fear of abandonment. Fear of failure. Fear of injury. Fear of embarassment. Fear of poverty. Fear of retribution. Fear of insanity. Fear of success.

Yes. Fear of success and. I am also afraid that. Afraid that it really is as. Simple as it appears to be.

I do not do and have not done what I should do and should have done due to. One or more of the above. Simply and simplistically. And I do not want this anymore. Someone else can have it. Yes it is slightly used dysfunction but. It remains fully functioning and in. Great shape. Almost new in appearance. And the best part is that it is free. One hundred percent no charge. F-R-E-E.

So I am going to leave all of my. Insecurities and over-analysis on the curb. Put an add in the FREE section of the newspaper. Tack enormous crayon signs with. Childlike scrawl. Free. FREE. FREE! Hell...I might very well even pay you to dispose of it all.

Take it away and. Do not make any effort at any future point in time to. Return anything. I will not be home.

So let us all. Take and give risk. Do things that we know we. Cannot do well. Challenge ourselves and each other to. Break out of our mold and try on. Some other skin for at least a moment. Speak honestly and show love fully. Lose our minds and then. Find them again in far away places or. Three blocks away.

Perhaps for a moment we can. Drop the pretense. Let go of the cynical thought and. Believe idealistically. Fingerpaint on walls and. Trapse through half collapsed buildings. Dye our hair blue and attend an opera. Tell someone we love that we do. Do wonderful things anonymously.

Maybe it is time for a. Ritual burning of all that holds us in deja voodoo. Maybe it's time for. New ceremony and letting go.

And starting over.

So let us meet on. Saturday afternoon for formal tea in. Fishnet and crazy hats or. Hide small treasures in the park for. Others to find. Maybe we can let go of. Everything that keeps us from living as we. Should be. Maybe I can.

¡Viva La Revolución -- Resist the Ballast!

2006-08-23T08:53:00.000-07:00

Last night I was eating a delicious. Waffle and I decided it would be advantageous to call my. Very wise friend who I adore more than most things including. Delicious waffles. And so I did.

My very wise friend works very. Long hours at multiple jobs and I have lost the ability to. Count the number. This of course means that more often than not when I call. He is sleeping or working or sleeping while. Working which could prove. Dangerous indeed.

Despite his insane. Schedule our conversations are always. Random and delightful and after speaking with him I always adore him more than I did. Before our conversation began which is quite impressive after ten years of kooky but. Wonderful friendship.

So last night we discussed voltage regulators and after additional. Research today I discovered that what he was referring to was a. Ballast resistor. I like the word. Ballast. And I am guessing that it is important to resist the Ballast. Perhaps I will design a bumper. Sticker that simply states: Resist the Ballast. But I already have far too many. Projects in various stages of completion so I may very well put this particular. Idea on my list of things to do which is so long that I cannot even find. Thing to do number twenty three anymore.

Although I have a fairly good idea what. Thing to do number twenty three might be and I am quite certain that there is a. Subsection "a" and subsection "b" but that is another matter entirely.

And in this moment I find myself. Entranced by words not merely. Ballast or. Resistor but the ways in which language can simultaneously mean and. Not mean and my. Love of the melody that words create when strung together specifically and. Alliterated in such a manner as to create something more than mere definition might provide. And I should not divulge, but will nevertheless that I would most. Certainly fall in love with an individual able to paint such melody with Words highlighting the beauty of language and when I fall in love under such circumstances. One should most certainly be quite careful indeed.

But such confessions are not the. Purpose of this post and perhaps hiding such a confession in the middle will enable me to determine how. Attentive you are to words and meaning and not meaning.

In earlier conversations I have. Told Very Wise that when he is no longer. Tattooing grapefruit which I am so proud of him for. Tattooing grapefruit because it is one more step. Forward and also because I happen to enjoy grapefruit that. When he is no longer inking fruit and when he eventually decides to. Develop his own non-fruit inking establishment that I would be most interested in. Running said establishment of the non-fruit inking variety. And it isn't that we would discriminated against. Grapefruit or any other fruit but simply that they. Probably do not meet the legal age requirement.

And I do not know if he knows that I am. One hundred percent serious because I am often not serious and we often speak of. Silly things but. I would love to run such an. Establishment and perhaps combine it with an. Art gallery of sorts. Perhaps when and if this ever occurs Very Wise will be twice as old as me.

It could happen. The twice as old thing that is. For once I was twice as old as Very Wise because I am hip to some. Crazy mathematics.

And so it seems that I have been pondering a great many things as of late as I. Often am pondering a great many things. And as of late said ponderings have included such. Things as the intricacies of the. Back seat of my vehicle and wondering if my boss truly does have. Audio or video recording equipment in his office. Perhaps I should have. Sex on his desk one evening and determine if this is so. And let me be clear that I do not have any desire to have. Sex with my boss but merely to determine whether or not he is truly paranoid enough to record the comings and goings in his. Office no pun intended.

I would wager that. He has the entire office audio and. Video recorded reviewing the footage on. Weekends with popcorn and a bottle of. Red wine except for the fact that he seems to. Have a rather full social calendar.

But as I often do I. Digress and do not want to imply that I have pondered only that which I have. Referenced above for my. Ponderings have extended to a great many ideas as they often do including but not limited to. Secret projects and artistic collectives and collaborations. Seemingly silly notions of running off to unfamiliar territories for undisclosed periods of time and. Yams. Delicious yams.

As of late I feel as though I have lived my. Life in a very safe and responsible manner with the exception of. Tumultuous teenage years which I do not believe count for much. And so I wonder how I might be able to tip the. Scale so that I might ponder. Less and enact said ponderings. More but in this moment I have only random thoughts suspended in. Lime Jell-O so if you have suggestions please drop them in. The box.

And that is all for. This moment until the next moment which. Could be soonish. Indeed. But most likely not before. I procure a. Ballast resistor.

Grrrl Makes Committment -- Film at Eleven

2006-08-11T12:27:00.000-07:00

The truth is. I fear committment. And it isn't easy being commitment phobic. Because people tend to think you're weird. And it's not that I generally mind people thinking that I'm weird. Truthfully I am a bit on the weird side. And I wouldn't have it any other way. But this is a different kind of weird that people are thinking. What I am referring to is a weird that causes people to look at you as if you have some deep dark aspect of your personality that has yet to surface. Something that will shock and horrify those around you. Perhaps something serial killer-esque. And so people begin to wonder what I must be hiding.

I don't have any dark secrets. Simply this semi-irritating fear of commitment. Clearly not a secret or even secret-esque. At least...not anymore.

But something changed recently. And I'm not sure when or how exactly. But it did. Changed. And then something happened.

I committed.

Let me reiterate that if I may. I made a commitment. And I have shocked myself by doing so. One long conversation later and I had agreed to commit. The words just seemed to spill from my lips. I do not quite recall how it happened. As I began to travel home following said conversation and subsequent agreement I had time to sit with myself in silence.

And then I lost it.

It was full blown panic. Certain that I had made a mistake. Worried that everything would fall apart. Fucked up kind of freakin' out. Some time after the panic had become full blown my dear friend Soy was forced to witness said panic. And he did his best to reassure me. Kind soul that he is. Despite his efforts I continue to freak the fuck out. Because I had committed. And I couldn't actually believe that such a thing could have happened. To me no less.

I began to "what if" the committment up and down. Left and right. Forward and backward. And then I played a game of "Worst Case Scenario" with myself -- because I have a stellar imagination. I thought about ways to get out of my committment without making a complete and utter mess of the situation. I couldn't think of any viable options.

Then I realized something. Or perhaps I should say that I remembered something. Life is an adventure. We must be willing to take a risk in order to learn and grow and live a full existance. And then my freak out made perfect sense. It was clear that I has was afraid. And my fear of commitment was simply fear of failure...and success.

So I guess I am pretty fucked up. But hell, who isn't? So I stopped trying to make excuses. And I didn't do anything to sabotage myself -- one of my stronger skills. I am looking forward to the road that I am about to travel upon.

Well...as soon as I get the damn title transferred which has proven to be more challenging than originally anticipated. But more on my hatred of Department of Licensing at a later time.

So yeah...I bought a car. What the hell did you think I was talking about?

Seeking One Good Deal for a Box on Wheels

2006-08-04T15:08:00.000-07:00

As you all know I have been contemplating getting another box on wheels. It has been a long time since I have owned one of these contraptions. And you all know that I don't typically make any decision with any sort of quickness. Once a scientist. Always a scientist. I suppose.

At any rate. In my perusal of boxes on wheels I have noticed something that I do not quite understand. And perhaps it is me. Maybe I am somehow missing something. But nevertheless. I need to know.

Why does everyone want to sell their piece of shit box on wheels for way more than it's worth.

I mean seriously dude.

Well I suppose because they think they can. Maybe their particular box on wheels has some sort of sentimental value. And they really don't want to part with it. But they have to for some inexplicable reason. Perhaps their partner has informed them that they will no longer tolerate the piece of shit box on wheels and either it goes or they go.

I think that seems rather harsh. But I have discovered life is strange and unusual. So I suppose anything is possible.

So they go through the motions. But secretly they are hoping no one will really buy their box on wheels. And then they can explain to said one-foot-out-the-door partner that they have tried to unload said piece of shit box on wheels but they have had no luck to date.

And let me say this. I'm no stranger to the box on wheels sentimentality. I had a box on wheels once. In fact. And this is another surprising little detail about me. I have only ever owned one box on wheels. And I loved my little box on wheels. I drove it through more states than I can possible count. And I would like to think that I have a reasonably sufficient intelligence quotient.

My little box on wheels was faithfully devoted to me. She was with me for a very long time. She saw me through the best of times and the worst of times. She was old, but still had spunk. And she would still be here today, despite the minor leak causing a small pond to form in the trunk every winter. If it wasn't for the evil SUV that decided to crunch her (and me) beyond repair.

Sometimes I wonder if I am in fact, beyond repair.

And then things happened. And years passed. And I am still sans box on wheels.

Some time ago I decided that it might be time to get another box on wheels. I have thought about this before. However it became clear to me after freaking out in a box on wheels while a technologically obsessed individual I was riding with began sending a text message while driving. After the hyperventilating ceased I came to the realization that I might still be a little bit freaked on the road and the only way I think I will be able to get over this fear might very well be to get another box on wheels. And start driving again. And I should probably do this before I develop a full blown case of post-traumatic stress disorder.

I started looking. And then I threw up my hands in despair. I consider myself to be a reasonably intelligent human bean. People purchase boxes on wheel every day. Yet I was experiencing severe challenges.

The point is that I am now thinking again about boxes and wheels and such. And I really think I'd like to get an old box on wheels. Something with personality. Character. Staying power. Something cool.

Something cheap.

And it's the cheap part that has proved problematic. So I've come around full circle now. I have made an observation. For some individuals who are selling their box on wheels, old = classic. And classic = rare. And rare = way more cheddar than it's really worth. I find this to be especially laughable when the "classic" box on wheels is a piece of utter crap. Rust. Oil leaks. Mysterious clanking. Transmission problems. No freakin' interior whatsoever. No freakin' exterior whatsoever. No freakin' ENGINE. I shit you not. Each and every example originals from an actual individual attempting to sell an actual box on wheels.

At least they all had wheels.

I mean really people. I know you love your little box on wheels You probably have fond memories of it. Beautiful memories of adventures far and wide. But let's be realistic. Your box of wheels ain't worth crap.

And obtaining a box on wheels involves a great deal. It's a big decision. No. It is. Remember. I said I have only ever owned one box on wheels. And that whole scientist thing. Every decision becomes an insane research project. Except when it doesn't. But that is not the point.

I was on the verge of torturing and then killing and then mutilating another human bean. So I gave up. Took a break. Got some calm. Then decided I would give it another shot.

So I've been looking. Again. But little has changed.

And just so you know I am not making this shit up, here is a portion of the reply I received today when inquiring about a 1975 Volvo. Color = orange. I expected the individual to quote me a figure higher than what he actually wanted for the box. But I was not prepared for this:

"The Volvo is still available. I need to get $7,500 for it. I have $9,000 invested in the car and drive train work. Had a freak thing happen with a valve so rebuilt the top end of the engine. They were able to look inside the lower part of the engine and said it looked great. The car is like new except for a spot on the drivers seat that has worn through. Two mechanics have looked at it and given it an A+. I have owned it @one year. Before that it was owned by one family that we know. I bought the car for my son for driving around Seattle, where he lives. He has gotten into a commuting situation for which the car is not appropriate. Thanks for the interest. Mark"

I thought perhaps he accidentally included an extra zero. Then I realized he was not joking. And what exactly does "a commuting situation for which the car is not appropriate" mean?

I really wanted to tell Mark that he could go fuck himself. That no one was going to pay $7500 for his vehicle. It's a fucking VOLVO people. Not a one of a kind classic. However I decided that I didn't need to tell Mark that I thought he was mentally ill and that I should stick a fork in his eye. He would be stuck with the box and I would move on.

So I keep looking. Far and wide. Wide and far.

And I have this dream. I have a dream that I will meet an eighty-seven year old woman who bought her 1960-ish very cool box on wheels new and only drove to the grocery store and to her hairdresser once a week. In my dream, I am standing in line at the grocery store. And it turns out that she has forgotten her REDACTED grocery store savings care. And so I offer the use of my REDACTED grocery store savings card so that she can get the extra savings on thirty cans of cat food and a quart of whole milk. And then I help her out to her car. Because I'm nice like that. And I like old people. And we are walking. Slow baby steps. And she speaks to me of many things. And I listen.

And then I see it. It's beautiful. And I almost shed a tear. And then Mildred or Prudence or Dorothy tells me that she's really getting too old to be driving anymore. And out of the kindness of her heart she offers to give me her car. Because no one has listened to a word she has said for at least fifteen years. Until she met me.

Hey. Stop laughing. I said it was a dream, didn't I. It could happen. You don't have to shit all over my parade with your skepticism. That's just plain rude. Geesh.

So if anyone has a grandmother that is looking to get rid of her very cool old box on wheels. Or if she is about to die any time soon. Let me know.

Ding Dong the Witch Will Wed

2006-08-02T13:40:00.000-07:00

It's lost. And I don't know when. Or where or. How or why but it's. Lost. And in case your wondering whether I am speaking of house keys or my green stripy sock or my camera lens or my mind. Let me assure you that. None of those things are lost.

Well...I'm not certain about the mind. But aside from that everything else is where it should be. The lost item that I speak of is my ability to bullshit anyone anytime anywhere. I realize this is shocking. You might be afraid. Please do not delay. Send your love and support in the form of a new or slightly used cash donation.

Seriously. No wait. I WAS being serious. So yeah. I need your help. Your help. You. Over there. Get up off your ass. Help me damnit!

Let me explain.

So. I'm going to be in a wedding.

Yes.

Me.

In a wedding.

Stop laughing.

I said stop.

One of my oldest friends is getting married. We have known each other for almost twenty years. Since freshman year high school Spanish. My friend continues to reside in the town I grew up in. The town I have not visited in many many years. And my dear friend has decided to get married in July. July in Connecticut.

When she first told me of this decision I was not at all pleased. "October is lovely" I encouraged. But July it would be. And I decided that it couldn't possibly be that bad. I would find something presentable to wear. Don my combat boots and trek east for what is bound to be the most chaotic dramatic Guinea-Dirty White Boy Chicken wedding in the history of weddings. Her side of the family is crazy. His side is certifiable. I would attend said event with the appropriate accoutrements and delight in the amusement of it all. Even thought I would surely melt in the process.

But then something happened. Something unexpected. My dear friend who I thought for sure loved me like family...scratch that. My dear friend who I thought loved me like someone else's family asked me to be in her wedding. No semi cool dress. No combat boots. No watching from the shadows. Fuck!

I am not the "being in a wedding type" of grrrl. Until recently my hair was the color of a fire engine. My lips are usually donned with an almost black smear of paint. And now my friend is asking me to don something that will no doubt be pastel in color and girly in nature and ask me to walk a straight line which I cannot even do sober and there is no way I could maintain any sense of sobriety for this event. Fuck me!

But wait. All was not lost. I had a plan.

I would find a way to get out of it. So I sent this lovely email to said friend telling her how much I love and support her and explaining all of the very good reasons why I would not make a good bridesmaid. I tried to convince my dear friend that she did not want me to be a bridesmaid. I tried to convince her that I would be the worst bridesmaid in the history of bridesmaids.

For example. My hair could return to its former fire engine red state. Or perhaps blue. Maybe green. I might very well be tattooed from head to toe by July. I could have multiple facial piercings.

And no I will not discuss the nose piercing incident of 1994.

Seriously. The families would freak and that would cause my dear friend unnecessary stress and I want her wedding to be as stress free as possible which seems rather unlikely given the circumstances as they currently exist. I explained that I could love and support her without being a member of the bridal party.

And really. Why do they call it a party. When I think of bridal party I think of scary drunk clowns.

I told my friend that I was merely looking out for her interests. I could trip and fall and take down the entire bridal party with me. See above comment regarding my coordination or lackthereof. I might almost faint like I almost fainted during my friend's LEEP procedure. I could have a relapse of THE WHOOPING COUGH and vomit on myself and the other bridesmaids.

I am a time bomb waiting to explode.

I explained all of this and more.

She didn't buy it.

Basically she said something to the effect of:

FUCK YOU BITCH IF I HAVE TO SUFFER THROUGH THIS SHIT SO DO YOU

Well...she didn't exactly say that. But that is basically how I interpreted her response.

So uh. Your humble narrator will in fact be donning a real dress with real shoes and participating in the very real wedding of my dear friend of twenty years. Did I mention that said wedding will be taking place in Connecticut...in July? Yes. Connecticut in July. If you have never been to Connecticut in July let me explain what I must endure in addition to the above.

First. It will be hot. The average temperature in Connecticut in July is twice as hot as the average temperature in hell when Satan is only relatively pissed off. That my friends is shitdamnmotherfucking hot.

Second. It will be humid. This means that although the average temperature will be twice as hot as the average temperature in hell when Satan is only relatively pissed off. It will feel as if it is ten times as hot as the hellish average or twice as hot as hell on a day in which Satan is particularly pissed.

Third. Where there is heat and humidity there are bugs. Bugs that like to eat people. I am a people.

To recap in the event that you passed out or fell asleep or got distracted or weren't paying attention. I will be in Connecticut in July sweating and scratching in some sort of shimmery fabric dress and probably heels. Some friend huh!

My friend has lived her entire life in Connecticut. So I had to ask. Why July? You will be happy to know that the reason she will not be having her wedding in October when Connecticut is absolutely delightful is that my dear friend has decided July is most appropriate in order for the bride and groom to remember when exactly they got hitched. Seven days after his birthday. Seven days before her birthday. No. I am not kidding.

So I'm stuck. Committed. And you must be painfully aware of how serious my commitment issues are by now. Seriously dudes I mean my longest committed relationship is about...uh...nevermind. Back to our story. So. Given that I am now about to be a bridesmaid which I am most certain has far too many sexist origins than I could ever handle I might as well have fun with it.

I'm already thinking about ways in which to spike the punch!

Go Letting and Off Track Betting on Something Seemingly Non-Static

2006-07-21T00:35:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to completely let go. I feel as though I am on the edge of said go letting. As if some chemical reaction could be set into motion at any moment by the addition of an out of control element. And everything would change.

As of late I have been...distracted. And thinking. For much of my life I have felt as if my interests are too varied and diverse. This of course means that I have far too many unfinished projects. And I can do a little bit of everything but only half-assed. Some might say this is classic Gemini. I have other ideas and believe strongly that I learned to be this way. Thanks M.

Sometimes I think about packing up a vehicle and disappearing for a while. I could travel to Neah Bay or New Mexico or one of those middle states that I have never seen. It might help if I actually had a vehicle to pack up. Try something completely different. Become a "real" photographer. Or actually attempt to publish something I have written. Or play random kitchen items percussively on small town street corners. And then I get all responsible and shit. Turn off the alarm clock. Get my ass out of bed. And go to the office.

And I am one of those fortunate people. I actually like my job. Seriously. Stop laughing. I do. But I have learned that this one thing alone cannot define me.

But sometimes I become self conscious and doubting. And I do not know if I am more afraid of success or failure. The fact that I have so many talented human beans in my life is both wonderful and frustrating. Sometimes I am witness to the talent they exude from their pores and I feel inadequate about my own abilities. I am delighted by their creations. Proud of them at every turn. But I feel as though nothing that I could ever do would ever measure up. They are supercalifragilisticexpaladocious. I am a phony.

And then there are the distracting moments. Perhaps I should not discuss the distracting moments. But in these small moments I typically observe something that reminds me how much I have grown to adore you. Little moments that I derive a great deal of pleasure from because I find people fascinating. Moments in which the true nature of the individual begins to surface and with that comes eccentricities and delightful habits that could easily go unnoticed.

But I notice.

You may feel that I am shifting gears. Perhaps a disconnect. But my distractions as of late are intimately intertwined into everything articulated thus far.

Seriously dude.

Perhaps I should take bets. Or at least a survey. Or poll of sorts. Determine whether or not I should travel to India to study tabla. Or take a road trip to the desert to photograph endangered lizards and secret government test sites. Maybe I should move to Hungary to write silly stories about socks. Perhaps I should do all of these things. Or other things. And take you with me.

Please feel free to post suggestions. Particularly if you are in a position to fund some sort of grant for me to undertake said suggestion.

Code Key Goings on with Me

2006-07-18T13:36:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time...wait...no. Last week I...uh...well. Yesterday there was this...uhm...I...uh...hmmm. Sorry. I've been rather neglectful haven't I.

And...it is not because nothing has happened. Or because I have nothing to say. It's just that...well...I...uh...so...things are good. Quite good. I would even go so far as to say great.

Seriously.

But perhaps an update is in order. Therefore. Please find enclosed my rather random update. Indeed!

Secret deciphering code key available with four box tops!

Here we go:

Riverbank Slumbering. Outrageous Hats. DLEs. Sun Induced Tag Line Tattoos. Excited Exclaiming! Merit Badges. Dried Mango. Hiking in a Hail Storm. Sittin' and Sippin'. White Chocolate Obsession. The Tiny Little Dog on the Windswept Moonscape. Spirals. Whip Crackin' Roommates with Deadline Infusions. Sugary Coffee. Road Trips to Cemetaries. Globe Sunday. Desert Adventures. Lustful List Making. White Pepper. Successful Popcorn Procurement. Tangled on Tuesday. Lyrical Obsessions. WAFFLES! Technological Advances. Record Collections. Pondering on Rooftops. You.

Everything that you are. That you'd like to be. Will come in three. My friend. For it's. Not what you are. How you've come to be. All this will end and begin. Again.

Sometimes Fishnets and Face Paint are NOT the Best Idea

2006-06-18T00:08:00.000-07:00

The Soy and the Sprinkel arrived...late. I expected as much and therefore requested an earlier arrival to account for such. And after I completed painting of spirals and the adjusting of fishnet hose. Sprinkle knotted roller skates and debated leg warmer placement. Soy donned cowboy hat. Adjusted the macular degeneration visor. And primped like the rock star we all know and love. We were ready. Out the door. On our way.

Even though we were early we were late. Nevertheless we located a choice spot toward the beginning of the festivities. In a moment of brilliance Soy explained that the energy would be high at the beginning. Therefore this was prime real estate.

And after too much foul language. Balloon moving requests. Discussions of scaffolding structures. And being touched inappropriately by a furry four legged creature. The festivities began.

I give kudos to every individual secure enough in their own skin to hang high and low and to the left and right. Each expressing their own individual beauty.

Later in the day I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror. And I realized that I had actually obtained a fair amount of sun. And when I say "fair amount" I mean a whole hell of a lot of sun. And then I realized something.

I have several spirals painted on my face with waterproof black eyeliner. Shit. This could be problematic.

So I did what any sane individual would do. I refused to wash my face with the hope that remaining in denial about the possible ramifications of my actions would enable me a bit of peace. But I certainly couldn't remain in denial for all eternity. So after a few drinks at the illustrious Denny's Lounge made by our lovely bartender. And a brief conversation with the mysterious Maverick. Finalizing the evening with the tattooed and heavily pierced fine as hell man at the Ballard Market. I returned home. And washed my face.

Sprinkle remained with me for moral support. That and she needed a bit of time to sober up. And I can say to my lovely readers that my spirals may be around a bit longer than I originally anticipated. That and the fact that in a day or two my upper right thigh will appear to exhibit a lovely golden waffle pattern.

Happy Solstice!

Be Afraid of Your Keyboard. Be Very Afraid.

2006-06-16T09:33:00.000-07:00

It seems that everything is about something or something else or something over there or something over here that we are supposed to fear. Here is yet another example of a seemingly innocent object that we should be very very afraid of. Be careful. It's an incredibly dangerous world out there...or so we've be told!

My new and improved keyboard -- complete with functioning a, q and z keys -- includes a health warning. There is a tag located on the cord of the keyboard that reads as follows:

See bottom of keyboard for HEALTH WARNING! DO NOT REMOVE THIS TAG!

So. Being one of those girls that always does exactly what she is told I turned the keyboard over to view this important "health warning" immediately. This is an exact quote of the health warning:

HEALTH WARNING!

Use of a keyboard or mouse may be linked to serious injuries or disorders.

When using a computer, as with many activities, you may experience occasional discomfort in your hands, arms, shoulders, neck, or other parts of your body. However, if you experience symptoms such as persistent recurring discomfort, pain, throbbing, aching, tingling, numbness, burning sensation, or stiffness DO NOT IGNORE THESE WARNING SIGNS. PROMPTLY SEE A QUALIFIED HEALTH PROFESSIONAL, even if symptoms occur when you are not working at your computer. Symptoms like these can be associated with painful and sometimes permanently disabling injuries or disorders of the nerves, muscles, tendons or other parts of the body. These musculoskeletal disorders (MSDs) include carpal tunnel syndrome, tendonitis, tenosynovitis and other conditions.

While researchers are not yet able to answer many questions about MSDs, there is agreement that many factors may be linked to their occurrence including: overall health, stress and how one copes with it, medical and physical conditions, and how a person positions and uses his or her body during work and other activities (including use of a keyboard or mouse). The amount of time a person performs an activity may also be a factor.

Some guidelines that may help you work more comfortably with your computer and possibly reduce your risk of experiencing an MSD can be found in the "Healthy Computing Guide" installed with the device's software. If this device did not come with software see the "Healthy Computing Guide" section of the "Getting Started" manual. You can also access the "Healthy Computing Guide" and UNNAMED MAMMOTH COMPUTER CORPORATION.com or (in the United States, only) by calling UNDISCLOSED TOLL FREE PHONE NUMBER to request a CD at no charge.

If you have questions about how your own lifestyle, activities, or medical or physical condition may be related to MSDs, see a qualified health professional.

I am certainly not a qualified health professional. In fact. I must admit to all of you that I am not even an unqualified health professional. But I for one have grown weary of all of these things that we are supposed to fear. This is not to minimize repetitive movement injuries. I am certain that they are quite serious indeed. But is it quite so necessary to create such dramatic panic.

We have become a nation of terrified individuals. And this terror has caused us to shift our focus from the many important and signficant things that perhaps we should be afraid of, to a miriad of insignficant topics instilling fear and paralyzing us into non-action. Such fearful tactics are used by both the right and the left in order to futher their own agenda.

Perhaps it is time we discover OUR own agenda. Perhaps it is time that we shed light on this trickery. Perhaps it is time for us to look beyond the surface and make our own decisions about what we deem significant.

The Case of the Disappearing A Q and Z

2006-06-13T21:59:00.000-07:00

Today I discovered something very important. I discovered that there are a great many words in the english language that incorporate either the letter a, q or z. I came to this realization because this afternoon my keyboard decided that it no longer wished to type those letters. I'm not really sure why. I made an effort to inquire as to why this might be so. Unfortunately my investigation was not fruitful.

I attempted to perform minor surgery on the a, q and z keys. Sadly, they didn't make it.

So after various attempts and still no functioning a, q or z, I did the only thing I could do under the circumstances. I decided to call our receptionist. The conversation went something like this:

ME: Hey. Can you do me a favor?
Receptionist: Well uh...yeah. I guess so.
ME: Could you send me an email with a lower case a, q and z, and an upper case A, Q and Z?
Receptionist: Uh. You want me to...uh. Yeah. Okay.
ME: Thanks.

Our receptionist has not been with us long. But clearly she has realized that we are all insane and that it is often better not to ask questions and simply comply with our requests.

So now I have access to a, q and z, and A, Q and Z. It is somewhat akin to a "break glass in case of emergency" situation. Only it doesn't require any glass breaking. Perhaps I should enclose a full set of the alphabet behind glass. Just in case.

However, I soon realized that cutting and pasting these letters into the text of pertinent emails is a rather tedious task and truly a pain in the ass. Close to the end of the day and I need to send an email to the other members of my office. I decide that they are all a very smart bunch of individuals and they will figure out what I am trying to say without the use of a, q or z.

The email looked something like this:

Hey Everyone. In the interest of sving time nd energy nd not driving the receptionist insne I forwrded ll of the WCDL list messges regrding bckline numbers for her to compre with those we lredy hve nd updte s necessry. She should hve them ll now so no need to forwrd to her. Thnks.

Attorney Number Four approached me shortly after the sending of the message. She thought perhaps I had sent some sort of coded spam that would cause her computer to spontaneously combust in thirteen seconds. I told her that I have no a, q or z. And if she just adds a few a's my message should be clear.

Funny thing about not having an a, q or z. You cannot exactly explain that you are missing these keys in your message because...well...you don't have them.

Perhaps tomorrow I will be able to acquire a new keyboard. Maybe I will no longer have a t, b or o.

Something exciting to look forward to. Well. Not exactly.

Exciting Epiphanies Twice Daily with a Side of Something Sparkly and Spectacular

2006-06-10T01:34:00.000-07:00

Life is exciting. Every tiny moment is wonderful. Beautiful. Even the shitty moments. Well. Fine. Not every shitty moment. I have certainly had many truly shitty moments that were not wonderful. But perhaps something wonderful eventually took root from said shit. For it is true that shit has amazing fertilizing properties. So perhaps shit is necessary for the growth of tremendous beauty.

I find it essential for one's own sanity to find laugher in the worst of moments. Finding humor in madness is critical in order to continue to experience beauty in one's own life.

This isn't always always a simple process. It is often easy to forget such things. We forget to become excited about life. We forget to live in balance. We forget what it means to live with passion.

And when I witness such things it saddens me. For I would rather die than live a life without passion.

Every day should be full of tiny epiphanies. Every moment filled with wide eyed wonder. My very wise friend commented to me recently about my frequent epiphanies. To paraphrase him (using a tremendous amount of creative license) he explained that I would not be the person that I am if I wasn't in a constant state of epiphany.

And as always, he is absolutely correct. Of course I never realized this until he brought it to my attention. It is possible that I over epiphanize. But I accept this as part of who I am. Another one of my little eccentricities that I find rather delightful indeed.

As of late I have been epiphanizing. Considering my various forms of relationships with other human beans. And I have discovered that I have on occasion permitted others to treat me less than I would prefer to be treated. I realized this while examining the history of a very long friendship. And I realized that this friend has always treated me exactly how I should be treated. Exactly how I want to be treated by another human bean.

I could most certainly make a list of the many wonderful things about this particular friend. I will refrain. However, I will say that sometimes it is pretty fucking wonderful for another human bean to simply act in such a way that you are fully aware of the fact that said bean thinks you are fucking amazing. And perhaps I once thought this was somewhat selfish on my part to want a bean to think such things about me. But perhaps I was wrong. Maybe I was too afraid because I thought perhaps the bean would not really mean it. Or even more afraid that said bean would mean every word.

In replaying bits and pieces of my very long friendship I realized that in many ways this friendship was everything that I could ever hope for in any relationship in my life. I feel quite fortunate to have this individual in my life. And I know that this bean will in many ways become the model of what I hope to achieve in other relationships. This friend reminds me what I am worth. What we are all worth.

And in experiencing such epiphany I became fully aware of other relationships in my life and the need to let go of bits and pieces that do not meet the standard. Perhaps we often confuse various feelings for what is truly our own bruised ego over not having our particular and often peculiar needs met. Realizing this makes the letting go process more sensical and quite natural. This is what returns us to more of a balanced state of being.

In such a state we are able to live more fully and more passionately. We become less afraid and more willing to embrace risk. In these moments we are able to find delight in the most simple of experiences. We become more open and more accepting. And perhaps we even find a way to permit others to achieve a higher level of security clearance without ever form filled out in triplicate.

Pet Peeve Reprieve of Bored Bored Boring Droning

2006-05-23T12:47:00.000-07:00

I would like to think that I am a fairly tolerant person. And perhaps that is not entirely true, but I would like to think that it is true. I could probably make a list of things that drive me insane. Things that stir thoughts of sticking a fork in an unsuspecting eye. But that would be a bit on the negative side and I have recently chastised a good friend to holy hell for such negativity.

But at the risk of sounding somewhat hypocritical I must must must say something about people who feel the need to articulate to the nth degree all about their own incredible state of boredom.

Perhaps I am overly skilled at self entertainment, because I am never bored. I cannot recall the last time that I actually felt bored. Maybe I am unique in this respect and I will be bombarded with hate mail from those of you chronically bored individuals. And if that is the case then please explain to me why you do not have the ability to entertain yourself in any situation. Perhaps you don't really like yourself that much so the thought of spending any time with yourself without outside entertainment is dreadful.

But I make no apologies. I just don't understand. And I cannot help but feel that you must be an incredibly boring person if you are bored. Perhaps I might be able to comprehend a moment of boredom. Or a glimmer of boredom. But boredom for more than a blink or two perplexes me.

Maybe some individuals need constant entertainment. And they are so damned self centered that they expect others to provide them with said entertainment. Perhaps they are unable to take responsibility for their own lives. And maybe they merely want everyone to be as miserable as they are in that moment. Perhaps that is the only way they can climb out of their hole of misery.

Maybe I am being a bit to harsh on the chronically bored. Perhaps it is more of a disease requiring some sort of therapeutic intervention.

I have witnessed individuals droning on and on about their boredom for what seemed like hours. And I have observed various sorts of postings about said boredom. And I can only wonder why anyone would think that another individual is interested in hearing about their boredom.

I mean seriously. Don't tell me if your bored.

Now if you want to go play on the swings with me or finger paint with me or skinny dip or sing a song or bake bread or take a walk with me or play Uno or watch a movie or if you want me to read a passage of a book to you or give you a hug or listen to you talk about your shitty day or fly a kite or explore a secret beach or stand outside in my backyard naked or go camping or drink vanilla soy chai or chop wood or do yoga or write a poem or play hide and go seek or just sit around and chill I am all for it. But do not tell me that you are freakin' bored because I do not under any circumstances want to hear it.

I am fortunate that I rarely have to listen to anyone speaking with me directly about their own boredom. Most of the experiences I have had with respect to the boredom of others involves my observations and not direct participation. But you boredom droners should know that when you continue to drone on about your own boredom it is simply insulting to the dronee. It implies that you do not value your time with me and I like myself enough to know that my time is truly valuable.

So if anyone can explain to me this sorry state that some individuals tend to not only find themselves immersed in, but feel the need to bring others into their misery as well, please let me know.

Sister Sledge Stuck in my Head

2006-05-22T23:42:00.000-07:00

I must have done something amazing in a past life. Seriously. I bet I discovered the cure to some horrible disease. Or saved an entire country from an evil dictator. I must have done something so spectacular that it had to be kept a secret for my own protection.

And I say this because I can only wonder how I got so lucky to have some of the most wonderful people in my life. And I often wonder if these wonderful beans truly have any idea how much I love them and how grateful I am for every moment with each and every one.

Because let us be honest. I am not always an easy person to befriend. Sometimes I am overly sarcastic. I can be confrontational. My expectations are high. I am not always very good at intimacy. And every once in a while I can truly be a fucking cun...er...you get the idea.

Yet these fantastic people in my life seem to love me anyway. Perhaps they are insane. Some of the most fantastic human beans have come from near and far and have loved and supported me fully and completely. They have walked through fire with me and nursed my charred skin.

Never did a single bean ever question my sanity or grow tired of my latest diatribe. In a world that is often tremendously apathetic I feel as though I have been given a tremendous gift of these wonderful people. People that I consider family.

And I should say that I didn't have much of a family growing up. Despite having a rather large network of blood relatives my family was disfunctional enough to belong on Jerry Springer at times and I never felt home with them. But I have discovered that real family has nothing to do with blood type and genetic material and everything to do with love and kindness and support and kicking me in the ass when need be.

Family is not born, but made over time. Like ol' fashioned country gravy. Indeed.

And I have found as of late that it is not merely my close circle of beans that express such wonderful traits. But my extended network of individuals who have also surprised and amazed me. Some of whom I would have never imagined even noticed or cared for a moment. And in the smallest of moments I realized that I could not have been more mistaken.

In these moments I believe that collectively we can in fact change the world. Perhaps this makes me overly idealistic. Maybe a bit insane. But maybe we need an occasional sprinkle of idealism every so often like powdered sugar on a Belgian waffle.

So thank you to each and every one of you wonderful people who continue to amaze me with your love and generosity. Thank you for accepting me for who I am with each and every flaw I possess. Thank you for every special moment you bring to my life and your constant inspiration which makes me want to be a better person.

I love you more than words can say.

And no...I'm not intoxicated. Fuckers.

Five -- Twenty Two -- Eighteen -- Fifty Nine

2006-05-21T11:14:00.000-07:00

In less than twenty four hours I will have been breathing oxygen on this planet for thirty three years. That seems like quite a bit of breathing. I suppose I could make some sort of attempt to calculate the amount of breathing that has occurred during this time. But even with my seemingly ingenious mathematical calculations it would be necessary to adjust for the amount of time in which breathing did not occur during the whooping cough incident of 2005-2006.

And I realize that I have not actually posted a summary of the whooping cough incident of 2005-2006. However you may rest assured that such a post is forthcoming. And if such a post is not forthcoming then I am most certain that Soy's whooping cough incident of 2005-2006 post is forthcoming and I will provide a link to his post upon completion. I imagine that anything he might post would be quite similar if not identical to my own experiences.

But this post is not about whooping cough. This post is about other aspects of me that do not involve coughing or whooping. And given that I have successfully survived yet another year on this planet I thought that perhaps I should post my year in review. And then I realized that I don't want to look back. I want only to look forward.

So I have decided some things. I have decided to make a list. Those of you who know many of my dirty secrets -- and there aren't many of you who know such secrets about me -- know that I am and perhaps always will be a list maker. Fine. This isn't exactly a dirty secret. So called dirty secrets will be reveled in the proper time and the proper place with the proper company. But I digress. So. I am a list maker. Unfortunately I am also a bit absent minded and eccentric at times so I tend to lose or otherwise misplace completed and partially completed lists.

Neverthless I have decided that I am going to make a list of all of the things that I want thirty three to be for me. And the things that I want to accomplish in my thirty third year of life. It seems appropriate. And in case you were wondering I am not going to post my list here as it is a work in progress. But perhaps I will post a few bits and pieces of said list.

But rather than toss out random thoughts I want first to say something else. Let me tell you why I am happy about turning thirty three. Because I wasn't always happy about it. I think that we (read: women) are taught that we are less than we once were as we age. This is sad and unfortunate and I want to assure all of the younger women that this is simply not the case. The more time I spend on this planet the happier I am with who I am and the less I am concerned with what others think about who I am. I have no desire to be twenty or twenty six or twenty eight ever again. I feel that I am finally reaching a point in my life in which I am content with myself and my path.

I am not the person I once was. Most certainly not the person I was at twenty four. Definitely not the person I was at twenty nine. Hell. I am not even the person that I was last month. Instead I am someone who is more at peace with her self and her life. I am more clear about what I want and what I do not want. And I am less willing to compromise myself than I once was not so very long ago. I am willing to admit my flaws. And most certainly there are many.

However I am also willing to admit the ways in which I am not flawed. And sometimes this is surprisingly more difficult. So things are changing. I am no longer willing to censor myself for anyone. I cannot bring more than those who supposedly care about me are willing to bring to me. I can no longer give enormous amounts of my energy to individuals in my life who are not open and honest. Loving and courageous. Interested in who I am. Supportive and encouraging. Willing to tell me that I am wonderful and willing to call me on my bullshit. I am willing to work through everything that I am afraid of and you must be too.

I have been told that I am too loud. Overly affectionate. Too opinionated. Way too sarcastic. Overly talkative. Vague. Too much of a bitch. Once I was told that I was a facist dictator. Too flirtatious. Fickle. Trite and cliche. Overly emotional. Not emotional enough. Too distant. Too clingy. Condescending. Confusing. Not good enough. Insensitive. Too sensitive. Not attractive enough. Vain. Just too damn much.

I say that I may very well be or have been all of these things. I am also intelligent. Funny. Beautiful. Talented. Kindhearted. Compassionate. Generous and giving. Friendly. Loving. Affectionate. Sexy. Articulate. Silly. Strong. Passionate. Honest. Helpful. Magically delicious. I smell good. Delightful. And I dig a mean hole.

It amazes me how we find it so easy to either say unkind words to each other (or to ourselves) or to just remain silent about how we really feel about one another. Sometimes I think that the silence is worse. I know that time is short and life is precious. And I cannot be certain how much time I have left on this planet. I can be certain that I have a choice in what to do with that time. And so do you.

I wish to live my life balanced in a way that is appropriate for me. I will keep you posted on my successes as well as my failures. In the meantime I can only hope that those of you who have personal relationships with me in one form or another choose to make every interaction with me full and complete as if it could be our last. Please don't hold back. For better or worse. Let us not go out with a whimper.

My goal is to do the same with you.

Living Room Tent Action Infraction

2006-05-17T22:46:00.000-07:00

So I'm putting up a tent in my living room. And the phone rings. It is my very wise friend. And I knew it was my very wise friend before I walked over to the phone and saw his name on the caller ID.

I tell him that it's about time. And of course he has no idea what I'm talking about. I knew that I would talk to him today. And given that fact that he is either working or working or working. Occasionally sleeping or working. I never really know when it is good to call or when it is not good to call. So sometimes I just guess and I usually guess wrong and wake him up. That is an experience in and of itself and the subject for an entirely separate post.

You see. I had this feeling all day that we would speak. And so we did.

I tell him that I am putting up a tent in my living room. And I explain that I am having a difficult time with the putting up of said tent due to the fact that I am not very tall. So he starts to explain to me in great detail how to assemble a tent and discusses the finer points of tent rod bending technique.

Well. I know how to assemble a tent. But I'm having difficulties because I cannot get enough bend on the rods that form the frame of the tent because they are fucking longer than the river Styx and I am in my living room so space is limited and I can't pull them up at the top because I can't reach them.

I try to explain this but I am not making much sense because I am putting up a tent in my living room while talking to my very wise friend. And as you are most likely already aware. This is perfectly normal. So. Uh. You get the idea.

It probably didn't help that I was trying to set up a tent in my living room while holding the phone with the other hand. Of course I didn't realize this until I finished my conversation and with both hands and shoulders and brain cells free I was able to finish the assembly process.

Then I stepped back from the scene for a moment. I imagine my new roommate laughing his ass off at the visual of this enormous tent in our living room. And when I say enormous I mean to say that this is a big ass fucking tent.

I purchased this tent for the bargain price of $14.99 at UNNAMED NEARBY PRO-UNION STORE. Sprinkel and I wandered into the camping gear section of the store while we were purchasing beer and fake grillable meat and tiki torch wicks for a recent vegan cook out. And no one could pass up a tent for $14.99.

But it's fucking big. And I am rather surprised at the size of said tent for one simple reason. The tent indicates that it is a two to three person tent. After assessing my past tenting experiences I know that to mean that two people can fit in a three person tent if and only if they sleep in some sort of puzzle pieced manner. In other words...they had better like each other and someone should most definitely be on some form of birth control. IWhen I purchased this tent I figured this would be the perfect size to own as I am a rather small person.

I thought perhaps the fact that the tent was in the living room might be causing some sort of deception as to its actual size. So I crawled in. Four people could sleep comfortably in this tent. I bet we could squish in six. And no. I'm not kidding.

So I must wonder now. Have tent sizes increased because we as a population have increased in size. Or because we seem to always want more of everything.

Perhaps next week I can convince my very wise friend to camp out in the tent in my backyard. We will most certainly have enough room if anyone else is up for some back yard camping.

** This post is for my very wise friend because he is expecting to read about my tent adventures here and for once I wanted him to be right about something.

Kitchen Sleeping as an Olympic Event

2006-05-13T22:09:00.000-07:00

I do not like sleeping in the kitchen. In case any of you were wondering. I thought I would let you all know. Because someone might like sleeping in the kitchen. And others might confuse me with one of those individuals who enjoy kitchen sleeping. And I would not want there to be any misunderstanding. Because I do not particularly enjoy sleeping in the kitchen.

And perhaps I should be more specific. I am not particularly fond of sleeping in my own kitchen. I do not believe that I have ever slept in any other kitchen. So to be fair I cannot say that I am anti-kitchen sleeping. To make such a sweeping generalization would be unfair.

Perhaps if I had the opportunity to sleep in another kitchen that was not my own I might enjoy it.

But what I mean to say in case these words are at all vague is that I really do not find any particular enjoyment in sleeping in my kitchen.

So. I'm in my kitchen. And I am not yet asleep. But I am working toward sleep. And the phone rings. It is my very wise friend. It is late when he calls because he is always either working or working or working. And our best conversations always occur when it is late. And the world is quiet. So he begins the conversation with the usual pleasantries that most individuals begins their conversations with when they are beginning a conversation.

So we begin this exchange of pleasantries and he asks me what I am doing. Which could most certainly be translated into questioning regarding my current state of anything in particular and a query as to what might be going on in my life that is need of sharing with him.

But I take this question very literally. Because I know that I can do that with him. And because I know that he probably does care to know exactly what I am doing at some random moment because that is the kind of friend that he is so I tell him. I tell him that I am sleeping in my kitchen.

And then of course I have to qualify my own statement because I cannot very well be sleeping in my kitchen and speaking with him. So I explain that while I am not yet sleeping I am about to be sleeping. In my kitchen.

In response to my kitchen sleeping he shares a kitchen sleeping story of his own that involved a refinishing of hardwood floors. And sleeping in the kitchen. I explain that I am not refinishing hardwood floors. If I was I would most certainly not be sleeping in the kitchen as the hardwood is located in the kitchen and that would seem nonsensical.

So I begin to think that perhaps everyone has slept in their kitchen. Maybe everyone has a kitchen sleeping story. Only we do not know this because it just does not seem to arise in the course of regular conversation.

My very wise friend and I never have regular conversation. And I believe this is why I explained the kitchen sleeping.

Now I have become curious about kitchen sleeping stories. Perhaps if we only spoke of such things with one another we would discover that we all have such stories. It would be enlightening. We would discover that we are all more alike than we might otherwise be aware.

So I'm curious.

And in case you were wondering. No longer sleeping in the kitchen.

Momentarily Missing EST

2006-05-08T20:34:00.000-07:00

Home sickness has. Overwhelmed me. I want to. Eat a street vendor falafel and. Take the subway to Soho. I miss the sweet honesty of. New York City. I miss the beauty in her people. Tired of the locals in this place. Mispronouncing my. Last name. And looking at me cross eyed. Trying to acertain my ethnicity. I miss the city that. Never sleeps. I miss the place where. Everyone treats me like family.

And perhaps my recollection is. Skewed from years somewhere else. But I have grown weary of the. Weak mentality and. Dimunitive stance. Tired of the. Passive aggressive nature of this. Place and these. People.

Missing the humidity and. Air conditioned necessity. Garbage overflowing in alleys and the stench rising. Enough to make you want to vomit. On an August afternoon. And wind. Chill factor like people huddled together but at least we. Have something to complain about.

I want to purchase paprika from Szeged and. Tokaji (five puttonyos) at the Hungarian store owned by the. Refugee couple who. Immigrated rather escaped in. 1956. I miss cannoli from the bakery around the corner any. Bakery around any. Corner and you can find it. I miss cannoli even. Though I was never a fan of. It because I cannot seem to. Find it here.

I miss. Meeting the eyes of pedestrians with a nod and. Good morning. Rather than head down. Eyes shifted away everyone. Seems afraid in this. Place. Afraid to be. Honest with themselves honest. With each other and I fear that I have. Been here too long and. Have adopted something similar for myself.

Mouring the loss of my. East coast. Attitude and waking up to the smell of. Good old fashioned diner coffee black as. Tar needing more sugar than. You could imagine to. Choke down. Hoping to find my. Self under the cushion of a. Chair or in my. Sock drawer.

Choking on Non-Attachment. Gagging on Emotion. And Vomiting it all Up. Again.

2006-04-22T15:50:00.000-07:00

Today I almost killed a man. Seriously. And it pretty much sucked. For I am really not the type of individual who goes around almost killing people. It was not exactly a pleasant day.

Please allow me to take a moment to relay to you the incident that almost led to said killing. It was discovered that a containment device filled with personal and important items was placed in a pile of other non-important items that were recently collected by the UNNAMED CHARITABLE ORGANIZATION.

This occurred despite the fact that I very specifically and explicitly told said ALMOST BECAME DEAD INDIVIDUAL that said containment device was NOT to go to said UNNAMED CHAITABLE ORGANIZATION. This containment device was not in the room with the other said items awaiting said donation.

And I would not be writing about this incident if it were not for the fact of the actual contents of said containment device. I cannot be certain of every item in said containment device. But I know for certain that the device contained various personal identifying documents perhaps including the official certificate of my live birth and social security card. Various financial documents containing -- you guessed it -- financial information. Large quantities of writing of which no other copies exist. Photographs of my dead father. Wait. Let me be clear. This should not be interpreted as photographs of my father dead. He was most certainly alive when said photographs were taken. Now he is not. Photography prints and possibly negatives. Etc. Etc. Etc.

So it finally happened. And it is probably surprising that it did not occur prior to this moment.

I completely lost it.

There was screaming. Yelling. Door slamming. Crying. It was not pretty. I was quite concerned that the UNNAMED CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT would be knocking on my door at any moment. Fortunately for me that did not occur.

The Buddhist in me explains that this is a lesson in non-attachment. The Sicilian in me wants to tie the Buddhist to a block of concrete and throw her off a dock at midnight.

Perhaps I will be fortunate enough to have the UNNAMED CHARITABLE ORGANIZATION find said items. And it is entirely possible that I will not cause the ALMOST BECAME DEAD INDIVIDUAL who removed said bag bodily harm. But I must say that I do believe I have reached the end of my proverbial rope.

Those near and dear are painfully aware of the fact that I have been experiencing an overwhelming amount of difficult emotional experiences in the last three or so weeks. I have been rather on edge. Hanging by a thread. Ready to stick a fork in an unsuspecting eye.

I can only hope that this moment does not propel me from secret super hero to evil dictator overnight.

Pho-motional Love. Cellular Support. And Secret Beach Blanket Lingo

2006-04-19T11:26:00.000-07:00

Sometimes in what seem to be the worst and most challenging moments I am reminded of something wonderful about human beans. As of late I have been struggling emotionally. I feel as though I should take up the black veil of mourning as my ancestors did before me. Those of you who have asked me how I am as of late have actually gotten an honest answer. Sleep has somewhat eluded me. And I have been less than my self. But last night I realized that I am so incredibly fortunate to have the most wonderful people in my life. And it is critical that I do not overlook this very important point.

And isn't that what life is really all about. Wonderful connections with people who love and care about you. People that you love and care about in return. I am far too fortunate in my life to be cynical about human beans and the human connection. And it is both miraculous and beautiful to see that some people are truly willing to walk through fire with you.

These wonderful individuals in my life that I speak of -- and you best know who you are -- have patiently permitted me to spill all of my emotions onto the floor. And following such spillage they have assisted me in picking up the broken pieces and even had enough forethought to bring a tube of emergency purpose super-ultra-omega-crazy gluish stuff. These beans have given of themselves fully and completely putting their own needs on hold for a moment and placing the focus on mine. This is truely an amazing gift that I have been given and I want to acknowledge their valiant efforts.

You amazing beans have checked on me. Forced me out of my self imposed seclusion. And made me laugh when I didn't think I had any room left for laughter. One of you even traveled over sixty miles just to take care of me for an evening and to inform me that you love me completely -- even in what I perceive to be my most unlovable moments. And sometimes when you're not feeling wonderful about your self it is essential and truly a blessing to hear such things.

So I want to take a moment to thank you dear beans who have permitted me to cry -- or almost cry -- on your collective shoulders as of late. You wonderful individuals who have politely and not so politely informed me that I am beautiful and pretty damn wonderful despite the snot running down my face. Those of you who have taken the time to let me know that you love and care about me even though your own lives are hectic and chaos filled.

I adore you and wish the best for you always. You have definitely earned a fair amount of Karma credits for your kindness and generosity.

xox.

Toss it Out and Start from Scratch

2006-04-17T22:29:00.000-07:00

Holy fuck. You should know that just about everything in my life that could change has changed in the last two-ish weeks. It has been a tad bit overwhelming and I remain somewhat frazzled. Some of these changes are for the better. Some are sad and I know that I will be mourning losses for quite some time. But sometimes change is good. Change enables you to view your self in a new light. And I have not been very kind to myself as of late.

Those that know me know that one thing about me is constant. I talk a great deal of shit. And I do not think that this is necessarily a bad thing. But sometimes I am much better at taking care of other people or giving of myself than I am at giving to myself and doing what I need to do for me. In saying this I don't mean to imply that I am some sort of Mother Fucking Teresa. Clearly I am not. But I have this tendency to put the needs of others before my own. Because despite my tough grrrl exterior I love human beans fully and completely. And this occasionally gets me into troublesome situations that I take full and complete responsibility for regardless of circumstance.

I am not good at expressing my feelings in an honest manner. I will rarely admit that I have needs let alone tell another person what they might be. I am trying to correct this but it has been a long and difficult road. There have been many instances -- some quite recent -- in which I felt that there was much left unsaid.

After a bit of whooping cough relapse in which I coughed up a lung in my Pho this evening much to the concern of my dinner companion, I returned home and sat in front of the mirror. Well. First I engaged in a bit more Artist Pact work. Then I fucked around a bit in order to distract myself. Such distractions failed miserably. I cried for a while. And then I took a very long look at myself in a full length mirror. Naked. Because I have been feeling incredibly naked for the last few months as is probably apparent from my previous posts.

So I stood there. Sans clothing. I stood there in silence and allowed my thoughts to flow naturally. Permitting them to enter and exit as they would. I stood there for a long time. I made note of how pale my skin has become since moving to Seattle more than ten years ago. How my breasts aren't as perky as they were when I was twenty-three. I closely examined the cellulite on my upper thigh. I turned to view the scar behind my left shoulder and noticed how much it has faded since the day I received it. I glanced down at my butt -- not too bad. I looked very closely at my face. And noticed the way it has changed over the years. The deep lines in my forehead. Laugh lines that remain present even in my most serious moments. Scars that marked the change in once perfect skin. I examined the weak chin I inherited from my father and my mother's Hungarian nose that my very wise friend is so fond of.

I stood there for a very long time. And then it got fucking cold. So I turned on the super high powered space heater that resides on the floor in the corner and resumed my examination. And it wasn't so bad.

For the first time in a long time I permitted myself to be with myself without distraction. I am not perfect. And I don't think that I want to be.

It has been a long and difficult journey finding this place. And I felt saddened for the little grrrl who still exists somewhere in the maze of my mind. That little insecure grrrl who never heard a kind word from anyone. The little grrrl who had to be so tough all of the time. The little grrrl who thought she was ugly and unlovable. And I realized in this moment that I am worth more. We all are worth so much more than we permit ourselves to accept. We we continuously permit ourselves to accept less. Less in our personal lives. Less in our professional lives. Less in everything.

I can not help but wonder if we are afraid to be successful. Successful in our personal lives. Successful in our professional lives. Successful in everything. I wonder what the world would look like if we were able to see and acknowledge our own beauty. What would things look like if we took a moment to witness and acknowledge the beauty in others. How would the world be different if we gave ourselves permission not to accept less and embrace success without fear.

Someone...let me know.

Addendum to Post: I find it quite interesting how the spell check program associated with this site does not recognize the words cellulite and unlovable. Perhaps we should not recognize them either.

Random Thoughts of Personal Treason

2006-04-12T00:02:00.000-07:00

Sitting in the dark in the. Night thinking. Replaying every moment in my. Mind again. Silently I reconsider. Every second. I could have. Said something. Said something different. Instead. Paralyzed by something seemingly viral. Completely incapable of. Unable to find the appropriate. String of syllables. Again. Quiet in the. Night. Shackled in thought. Wanting something written. On a wall I once. Saw. But words remain. Elusive. Or blurred. And I cannot find my. Anything anymore. In this silent personal. Treason. Wanting to break. Glass again. Hear the crashing sound. Shattering on pitch instead of my. Own thoughts out of. Tune. Fragmented. Wanting to digest the pieces but the. Sharp edges are. Difficult to swallow.

Tongue Tied and Tangled in Turmoil

2006-04-10T23:16:00.000-07:00

Words are. My obsession. Among. Other things. But this post is about. Words. And not other. Things. There are a great many strings of. Words that. Strike me. I am. Often captivated by. Combinations of syllables strung. Together in an inexplicable. Manner. And it is important for me to say that. There are certain strings of. Words that are more intriguing than. Those I am about to post. But as of late. Due to a. Variety of. Difficult circumstances. Bits and pieces of my. Own experiences. These words have been particularly. On my mind.

Cinder and Smoke -- Iron and Wine

Give me your hand. The dog in the garden row. is covered in mud. And dragging your mother’s clothes. Cinder and smoke. The snake in the basement found. the juniper shade. The farmhouse is burning down.

Give me your hand. And take what you will tonight. I'll give it as fast. and high as the flame will rise. Cinder and smoke. Some whispers around the trees. The juniper bends. As if you were listening.

Give me your hand. Your mother is drunk as all. the firemen shake. a photo from father’s arms. Cinder and smoke. You’ll ask me to pray for rain. With ash in your mouth. You’ll ask it to burn again.

Neither Boxed Nor Bagged in Cellophane

2006-03-16T14:57:00.000-08:00

You explain that I am not. Starchy white bread pressed. Flat and baked with. Salt. And for the first time in. Can not remember. I am. Not searching for. Distance running records to be. Broken. Instead of marathon escape at. Lightning speed. I stand barefoot on. Wood splintered worn thin. Knowing there will always be a sliver waiting to. Stab skin and. Slide. Under the sole. Cautious but. Not paralyzed in place. Neither graceful nor. Jagged I mentally negotiate your. Security clearance.

Tied to a Traffic Light. Again.

2006-03-13T10:24:00.000-08:00

In this moment. Everything is continuous mistake making. And every step is a stumble. Words. Once ally. Now enemy. I am simmering in a pot of. Alphabet soup reconstituted. S and U float by in the broth. And I need the. Letters to make the words that. I cannot seem to find. I am left. Holding R-N and T-A-Y. But I cannot seem to spell anything. Completely. Anymore.

Perhaps there are letters. Missing. Words not familiar to my. Limited vocabulary. Already eaten by the spoonful. Or maybe they never. Found their way into the can in that place where. Condensed soup is processed and. Packaged.

I take letters that remain. Attempt to. Form words. Discover that they betray me. Words. Once I felt secure and. Safe with them. Now my mouth opens. And they spill out. All wrong. And I am left alone with. What I really mean.

Once I was told that. I speak in. Vague tones. And I know that I. Hide behind language. Utilizing an Alice in Wonderland-esque vocabulary to. Distract you from the detour. A tour of the rabbit hole so that. You will forget or. Simply give up.

I am tied. To a traffic light. Naked and blindfolded. In downtown Seattle during. Rush hour. Alone with my. Intentions. Alone with my mind racing. Through a yellow light. I. Feel like a voyeur. Forced to see my. Self like this. Again.

Fragile. I do not want to. Admit that I am not always. Strong enough. Do not always. Know enough. Tired of this role. But I do not know any other. Way. In this. Moment everything has been. Rattled. Contents shifted. Into corners. I cannot manage to. Rid myself of. My overwhelming supply of. Styrofoam peanuts that. Remain.

** An acquaintance of mine recently wrote about himself in a very honest manner. I skimmed the words. Feeling like a voyeur. Or perhaps the feeling was not so much voyeuristic. But rather in the reading of his words I became uncomfortable. Not simply due to the personal nature of the admissions. But because I know that I am not always so honest with myself. And perhaps it is time.

This is the best I can manage in this moment. Thank you Sharp.

Fix the Fucked with a Side of Cocoa

2006-03-13T10:23:00.000-08:00

Well fine. Let me be absolutely fucking honest. At least for a moment. Today is day two of crappiness. And I am ready for something different. And I don't mean mildly annoying experiences. Rather. I speak of full on crap.

Yesterday I felt crappy. And today I woke up with a continuation of said feelings of crappiness. So it would have been most preferable to crawl back into bed this morning. Pull the covers up to my nose. And remain there for the day.

But that did not happen. Because I am too fucking responsible. And quite frankly I am not so much the type of person who is particularly skilled at feeling sorry for herself. So. I got out of bed. And did all of the things that I do after getting out of bed in order to get my ass to the office.

So. I arrive at my office this morning. And I am fully aware of the fact that I am in a fairly unpleasant mood. However I am drinking tea. And listening to Book M. So even though I am feeling rather less than my typically cheerful self. Do not laugh. I am fucking cheerful. At least I am drinking tea and listening to SC3.

Attorney Number Two arrives at my office door some time before nine o'clock in the am. For those of you who have not memorized every word that I have written as of yet I will inform you that Attorney Number Two is the spandex and bandana wearing attorney.

He is in the aforementioned attire and asks me to make what seems to be a rather routine call to the UNNAMED COUNTY Probation Office. Of course the call turns out to be anything but routine. Let me explain.

First. No one is able to "find" our client in their "database" so I am transferred. And then transferred again. The second transfer involves speaking with CCO DOE. I have now moved up the ranks in the UNNAMED COUNTY Probation Office. So I explain the reason for my call to CCO DOE. And He begins laughing. Hysterically. In fact I am quite certain that he stopped breathing for a moment. I imagine him rolling around on the floor. In fact. I believe that he actually dropped the phone at some point during his laughing episode.

I wait. Patiently. Blink. Then blink again. We have a very blunt conversation about who fucked up and how they fucked up and why they fucked up. In fact the phrase "fucked up" was used numerous times throughout the course of this conversation. And I do not believe that I have ever used the phrase "fucked up" when speaking with anyone at the UNNAMED COUNTY Probation Office. But this guy is old school. And it seems to be expected.

So. I am patient. And insanely diplomatic. Even though I am using ridiculous amounts of profanity. And it appears that CCO DOE is going to try to help me out and give our client a break.

And all I had to do is offer the soul of my first born child. Little does CCO DOE know that I have promised said soul to many before him. He will have to wait in line. Or sue me.

So now I wait to see if CCO DOE is going to make good on his promise. Even though the insanity of the situation is not the fault of our poor little client. He could get royally fucked by said fuck up. So I had to kiss some CCO ass. I am fine with this. Because I am all about getting my way. In the end. So I wait.

But maybe I am not so much fine with this today. And perhaps it is because I am already in a rather unpleasant mood. But permit to say the following: I am sick of cleaning up every fucking mess all of the bitch ass damn time. And here is what really gets me. I must always be the fucking diplomatic one. Because that is the only way shit ever gets accomplished. And there are times when I do not want to be the diplomatic one.

There are times when I want to stab someone in the eye with a fork. But I am fully aware that I cannot simply go around stabbing everyone in the eye with a fork. Someone would eventually object.

So I tell the attorney of said fucked-up-ness. His response is for me to tell CCO DOE that he said to fuck off. Now of course I will not tell this guy that the attorney told him to fuck off. I will also not relay the string of obscenities that poured from his mouth after I explained the circumstances of said fucked-up-ness. Because this will not assist our client in what has become an enormous fucking nightmare.

However. I can not help but wonder what would happen if I did relay the string of obscenities directed at said CCO. I would only be doing as I was instructed. It could prove interesting.

Perhaps I should secure alternate employment before attempting such an action.

Now I am most certain that I will spend the overwhelming majority of the day resolving this issue. And once said issue has been resolved I will question why the fuck I cannot seem to resolve my own personal life issues as easily. However you will notice the continuing lack of question mark punctuation at the end of the previous sentence. Because in this moment I am not certain that I can handle the answer.

So I have decided something. I am going to get up from my desk. And walk out of my office. And go make some cocoa.

Some simple. Semblance of. Escapism.

2006-03-02T16:06:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I can only. Communicate in short chopped. Up sentences. There is no significance to. The break it is. Something I cannot. Explain in explaining where. I am today. Simple and. Seemingly fragile.

Just for a moment. I want to be. Disconnected from. Everything. I want to be. Away from. This place that keeps me. Spinning. Circles. Just for a moment. I want to. Go. Think. Not think. Everything I have been. Thinking. Feel. Not feel. Everything I have been. Feeling. Listen. Not listen. Turn off all sound. For a moment. I must escape. Run from this. And I do not know. What. This. Is. Run from this. Again. Again. Eye on the door I. Resist the urge. Hard like. Some magnetic force pulling me. Up and out. Stronger than. I ever thought. This time. Different. But it isn't and. It never really is. Just for a moment I want to. Stop running. Stop and stay and. Say something instead of. Praying for. Disconnect. My prayers are. Always answered eventually. For a moment I want to. Pray for something different. Pray to stop and stay right. Here. Now. Even if the answers are. All wrong.

Those Who Would Sacrifice Liberty for Security Deserve Neither

2006-03-01T13:29:00.000-08:00

Alberto Gonzalez is on the rampage. Again. But this time. Something interesting happened. So. Fairly recently the Attorney General arrived at Georgetown Law School for a speaking engagement on the NSA no-warrant wiretapping program. Yes. I said no-warrant. If you do not know about this. You should. Because I know you think that this cannot possibly affect you. But it can. I encounter individuals every day who are average citizens in crisis. Many have never so much as received a speeding ticket. And then one day. Something insane happened to change their life forever.

So. Alberto gave a little talk. And he was clearly mimicking the voice of his predecessor and the general Bush party line in his sentiments that such programs were necessary in a world of terrorism in order to keep our country safe. Because of course the safety of the American people is of the utmost importance.

And here is what I am really wondering. I am wonder who does and who does not feel safe. And I am wondering for those people who do not feel safe. When did you stop feeling safe. I mean really. When did these overwhelming feelings of unsafeness begin. Or has it been a progression of unsafe feelings over time. How did this begin. And why is it continuing.

But let me back up for a moment. Yes. Let me say this. For those of you who don't know. Because I feel this is important.

I spent the overwhelming majority of my life living on the east coast in the tri-state area. I lived within spitting distance of New York City and spent a great deal of time there. I have had and continue to have friends and family that live in the area. On September 11, 2001 my world fell apart. I could not fathom that such an event could occur in my own country. But my family could. So. Let me explain further. And then I will back up again.

My life is what one might call the epitome of what it means to be American. My paternal grandparents immigrated from Sicily in the early 1900's with nothing. And while they spent there entire life with pretty much nothing, it was more than they had in their home country. Additionally, my mother escaped her native Hungary at the age of eighteen in 1956 during the Hungarian Revolution. She left her war torn homeland for a chance at freedom. And freedom was something she never knew her entire life. Not for one single breath. She left the only home she had ever known. She left all of her family. Her country, her culture, her language. Everything for freedom.

Both parents respectively loved and love the United States. They embraced this country, its culture, language, and community.

So. I heard more than my fair share of war stories growing up. And how grateful my parents were to have to opportunity to live in this country. So I get more than a little bit pissed off when conservatives tell me that I do not love my country because I do not agree with this or that and that I do not respect the values in which this country was founded upon. In fact. I get a little twitch. Sometimes in the left eye. Sometimes the right. And it is probably a very good thing that I have not embraced all of my constitutional rights and purchased a firearm. It would be too easy to shoot one of these arrogant ignorant individuals in the face.

But I digress.

I was speaking about the tragedy this country experienced on September 11, 2001. Let me explain this. When I heard about what happened I was riding a Metro bus on my way to my job at Company F. There was a young teenage boy telling someone about airplanes flying into buildings in New York and I thought he was playing a prank. Because I know the area. I have been there many times. I can see it in my mind to this day although I can not fathom the current landscape. And I am not certain that I want to attempt to do so. So what I am saying is that I know intimately what this really means. So naturally I imagined it not possible.

But we all know it was possible and I arrived at Company F with my co-worker and cubicle neighbor New York D waiting for me. He confirmed it all. And we cried together. I attempted to reach those that I love who still reside in the area. And while it took the majority of the day to do so, I was thankful to find that everyone was alive and well.

Although to this day I do not know if people I once knew perished in the tragedy. People who I did not keep in touch with over the years. Or casual acquaintances. I do not know and perhaps I never will. And sometimes I think about this.

The point I am trying to make is that I more than some and less than others am fully aware of the impact this event had on our country. It changed everything. And it changed it forever. I am still overcome with emotion. I have yet to return to New York due to my being emotionally unable to do so. It is only now that I am starting to feel ready.

And with that said I will continue with the entire reason I am writing this post. Alberto Gonzales. Georgetown Law School. And our freedom.

So our pal Alberto decides to give a little talk at Georgetown Law School. He is trying to explain exactly why it is we are no longer safe and why we need this new law in order to keep us all safe and snug like a bug in a rug. And he did this all using the events of September 11, 2001 as a shield for the piss poor policy that is changing the shape of our country. I am insulted and offended by this tactic. And I am insulted and offended that political leaders are purposely instilling fear into the hearts and minds of the American people in order to pass their agenda swiftly and virtually unnoticed.

People want to feel safe. And for some reason people don't feel safe. I question why people really don't feel safe. I believe we are bombarded from all sides with news and images and information that is meant to terrify. Terrify us all down to the core of our being. And now that we are terrified. Someone is purporting to have the answers.

And it can be hard to know who has the answers. But it is important to look at all of the information in its entirety. I certainly cannot do this in this post. And that is not my goal. I am not unbiased. But are any of us really unbiased. And is that possible. Can we ever be unbiased. Perhaps it is better to admit our biases. Come clean. Put them out there. And allow people to take everything we say and do with the filter in place.

So. The ACLU and the Center for Constitutional Rights have had quite a bit to say about the legality of this program. Lawsuits have been filed. The ACLU website has a great deal of information on this topic and other topics affecting the freedoms in our country. You should check it for yourself.

But what was I saying. Oh yes. Something. Happened. Some of the law students at Georgetown University turned their backs on ol' Alberto. They refused to continue to accept what they were being told. They refused to just sit there and listen.

Check the Georgetown U Article for the full scoop.

And I think it is time that those of us who are like-minded turn our backs on these policies that serve to tear apart the things that make this country an amazing place. It is an insult to those who have and continue to fight so hard to make the United States their home. Now this is not to say that there isn't a great deal to be critical about. And isn't it wonderful that we have the freedom to be critical of things here. And it doesn't even matter if they said things involve serious critique or something silly.

But what if one day we no longer have that freedom. My mother tells me of a time when my family in Hungary had that freedom. And then I hear about what happened when it was slowly taken away until there was nothing left.

Let me also say that I have had many moments of paralysis. I know from my conversations with many of you that you have them as well. And I am not saying that we need to take to the streets in good old fashioned protest. I do not believe that is always the answer. There needs to be a variety of solutions. Various actions from various directions. Perhaps there are ways of protesting that work for us on an individual level. Perhaps it is a simple as educating yourself by actually reading the Patriot Act. Or giving a copy to someone else. Posting flyers on telephone poles around the city in the hopes of educating others. Finding a way to express your disdain artistically. Talking with friends or family or co-workers. Making bubbles. Something. Anything.

Because if not you, then who? Really.

Correction Rejection and Repetitive Inflection

2006-02-28T21:53:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wonder about many things. Little things. Big things. Medium sized things. All sorts of shapes and sizes and textures and colors of things. Wacky things. Tacky things. Things. In general. I wonder quite a bit. But today I started thinking about common sensical sorts of things.

So. It is Tuesday morning. Afternoon actually. But for some reason it sounded better to say morning. But it was afternoon. Tuesday. So I understand that sometimes folks are a bit off. Because it is only one day after Monday. And Monday can be difficult. At least those individuals for whom Monday is actually Monday. And therefore Tuesday is actually Tuesday. For some Monday is actually Thursday. Or Saturday. Maybe even Tuesday. But for me. Monday is Monday. And Tuesday is Tuesday. So it's Tuesday afternoon and I am returning a call to an employee at a local correctional facility that shall remain nameless.

So I call the number that I think is this individual's direct line. But it isn't. Instead I get some weird recording. This means that I must now call the main number.

Sigh.

I HATE calling the main number. Do you know what happens when you call the main number. Well I will tell you. You get to talk to whomever answers the main number who does not want to speak with you or help you or provide you any information or know anything you want to know anyway.

I have called the main number before. And the main number is ALWAYS bad. But at this particular correctional facility it is particularly bad.

But wait. I almost forgot about option two. Option two at this particular main number permits you to enter the first three letter corresponding numbers of the person's last name whose extension you desire and it will provide you with said extension. Excellent. I am excited. So I call. Press two. Enter the proper numbers corresponding to letters. And wait.

Nothing. Damn. Maybe I mis-dialed. I try again. Crap. It isn't working. I must speak with the main number operator.

As previously stated the main number is bad. And speaking with the main number operator is mind numbing. It is enough to make you want to get all Helter Skelter on someone's ass. Let me provide an example.

Main Number Operator: NAME OF FACILITY, is this call in reference to an inmate?

Little Ol' Me: Actually no. I am calling from a law office in Seattle and I need to speak with someone about gaining access to the facility to visit a client.

Main Number Operator: [silence]

Little Ol' Me: Hello?

Main Number Operator: [more silence]

Little Ol' Me: So uh...can you transfer me to whomever I am supposed to speak with about that? Maybe?

Main Number Operator: Is this call in reference to an inmate?

Little Ol' Me: Well not exactly you see I just need to...

Main Number Operator: Inmate's name please.

Little Ol' Me: Well I need to visit our client. His name is ENTER NAME HERE.

Main Number Operator: How can I help you?

Little Ol' Me: I work for a law firm. ENTER NAME HERE is our client. I need to visit him so that he can sign some documents. I need to know who to speak with to obtain access to the facility.

Main Number Operator: Is this call in reference to an inmate?

And you all know that I am prone to occasionally bouts of exaggeration. But I am not exaggerating. This actually happened. I had to call three times and finally I was transferred to the Warden's secretary who was able to direct me appropriately. In case you were wondering, she was quite helpful, but it is a challenge to get anyone to transfer you to her directly.

So this time the conversation was a bit different. It sounded like this.

Main Number Operator: NAME OF FACILITY, is this call in reference to an inmate?

Me Again: Uh no actually. I'm calling from a law office in Seattle and I need to speak with UNNAMED EMPLOYEE. And I'm hoping that you could please give me his direct extension as well. I was unable to obtain it by using the touch tone directory. I must be butchering his name.

Main Number Operator: No. You said his name just fine. That's how it's pronounced.

Me Again: No. I mean that I must be misspelling it when I type it into the touch tone directory that is supposed to provide me with the extension number. Does he spell it like this: LETTER-LETTER-ANOTHER LETTER-LETTER-LETTER-LETTER?

Main Number Operator: Yes.

Me Again: Odd. I am not sure why it didn't provide me with the extension. Can you provide me with that information please.

Main Number Operator: Ma'am I am not allowed to give out extension numbers.

Me Again: Oh. But you have a directory that I can access if I know the spelling of the last name.

Main Number Operator: Ma'am I am not permitted to give out that information.

Me Again: Okay uh. Can you please transfer me to his extension?

Main Number Operator: Well he's gone for the day.

Me Again: Does he have voice mail?

Main Number Operator: Yes.

Me Again: Could you please transfer me to his voice mail?

Main Number Operator: Hold on one moment ma'am.

Me Again: [holding on]

Main Number Operator: Still there?

Me Again: Uh huh.

Main Number Operator: Is this call in reference to an inmate?

Me Again: Uh...you were going to transfer me to UNNAMED EMPLOYEE'S voice mail.

Main Number Operator: He's gone for the day ma'am. Do you want me to transfer you.

Me Again: Yes please.

Now. Given the above two examples, I could say a great deal about the folks who answer the main number. Maybe they only hire people with zero short term memory. Perhaps everyone working there has some sort of head injury. But what really gets me is that this guy would not give me this particular employee's extension number EVEN THOUGH THEY FREAKING HAVE A "PUSH TWO FOR A DIRECTORY OF EXTENSIONS" option when you call.

So. If I am fortunate enough to be able to spell the last name appropriately. And the moon and the stars are aligned properly. And it isn't a Monday Wednesday or Thursday afternoon. Then maybe just maybe I can freakin' push two and enter the information and get a freakin' extension number. But otherwise I am shit out of luck. And I have to deal with. The freakin' lack of common sense having main number operator.

And what is it with this "is this call in reference to an inmate" question. I mean isn't virtually every call in some way shape or form in reference to a freakin' inmate. It's a damn correctional facility. What else could I be calling about.

I suppose this could be a personal call for UNNAMED EMPLOYEE but then I would probably have his direct freakin' extension.

Unless of course he was not permitted to give it out.

Random Analysis on the Verge of Mental Paralysis

2006-02-26T21:30:00.000-08:00

I have been feeling a bit out of sorts as of late. And perhaps it is a combination of various life things. However. I feel as if I am on the verge of something. But I don't know what.

Sometimes I am four years old again. And I am calling my father at the Eagle's Club where he spent the overwhelming majority of his time sitting on a bar stool drinking screwdrivers or cheap scotch. By the time I was four years old I had memorized the telephone number. And I would call and beg and attempt to bribe him to come home. And he would always say that he was on his way. But he never really was on his way. So I sat. And waited. Waited and waited some more. And I mean really. It is not like I had anything else better to do. I was four. But that is the kind of crap that sometimes stays with you and occasionally wreaks havoc on your psyche in various unpleasant ways later in life.

In other words. I have been weird lately. And in said weirdness I have been feeling all sorts of things that I do not particularly want to be feeling. And I think that perhaps we do not always admit those times in life when we are feeling weird. So I'm admitting it. Because I think that maybe we should. Sometimes I think that we. And by "we" of course I really mean "I" but it is much easier to speak in the collective "we" so I will. Sometimes I think that "we" fail to talk about these sorts of things. Because we feel that everyone else in the collective we might have some sort of feeling about whatever it is we are saying that we do not really want them to have in the first place. And then we will feel even worse.

Or worse yet. We imagine all of this to be true. And it isn't.

So we just don't really say anything. Sometimes perhaps we say something. But it is often not enough. And I am incredibly guilty of this chip-on-the-shoulder-I-can-handle-anything mentality. Because quite frankly I can handle most anything. But maybe my silence isn't always such a great idea. So I'm trying something different.

And let me just say. Because I want to give credit where credit is due. My dear friend Trouble often says things that are at times shocking. Surprising. Awe inspiring. Scary. Weird. And what I have realized about many of the things that she says is that sometimes they are the kinds of things that we are all thinking anyway. Or they are the kinds of things that we have thought at some particular point in time. Maybe they are things that we eventually will think in the near or distant future. Nevertheless. She says these things. Out loud. Things that most people would never ever utter in a crowded room.

Of course sometimes she is just weird. But I love her anyway. Seriously. There are many things that we never say. Or rarely say. And I know this because people tend to say things to me that I think they would not otherwise say in crowded rooms. But I usually never say very much in return. However. Trouble has the courage to say many of these generally unspoken things. And therefore I must give her props for her willingness to put her self out there in the world. Her whole self. Her entire beautifully imperfect as fuck self. Which I love and admire and respect in so many ways. So. Maybe we should all be a bit more like her. Maybe this is what life and the development of true intimate relationships is really about.

Or maybe I am just fucked up right now.

And sometimes the fucked up-ness manifests itself in qualities that I otherwise appreciate about myself. But said qualities occasionally are not so appreciated. Let me provide an example. So. Most of you know. And if you do not. I will tell you. I am incredibly analytical. Sometimes ridiculously so. About every fucking little thing. I would like to think that I am not. Yes. I would like to think that I am this free spirit artistic sort of person who is overflowing with spontaneity. And sometimes I am. But more often I am logical and analytical and...well...boring. I can analyze anything to death and I often do. In fact. I can even analyze my own analysis. I have been trying to slow my roll with respect to analyzing shit as of late. And I must give myself a bit of credit in this regard. Because I have been doing a pretty damn good job. But every once in a while. Some of that shit that I really do not want to be analyzing just creeps back in. Fuck.

Maybe I just need more iron.

Or maybe I just need to admit the fact that sometimes. And often for no apparent reason. I feel doubtful and insecure and abandoned and unsure of myself and everything. Sometimes I feel as though everyone else has all of the answers and I am left wondering how to solve the equation on my own. And perhaps for some reason. This is one of those times. And I just need to confess this to the entire fucking world. That right now. I am feeling weird. Somehow. Some wire in my brain got tripped and set in play this reel to reel memory for me to re-experience. And it is not about now. But then. Even though it isn't always easy to determine what it's all really about anyway.

And sometimes these sorts of things are difficult to figure out. I have been spouting off a great deal as of late about the importance of knowing your own worth. But I must wonder if my focus has been too much theory and not enough praxis on the subject. And this is not about anyone else. This is about me. Mememememememe. And some more me. With a side of me. For I am the only one who can truly know my own worth. And the only one who can accept no less payment than the price tag indicates.

So. I have been. Sort of. Weird lately.

And I have been thinking about all sorts of things. In fact. I have been thinking about thinking about how I am feeling about things. Or how I might be feeling about feeling about things. Not thinking about what I am feeling. But thinking rather. About what I might be thinking about what I might be feeling. So before I am even feeling. I am thinking.

Makes sense doesn't it.

Exactly. Now you know why I have been. Sort of. Weird. Lately.

Even I do not understand what the hell I am talking about. But perhaps that is the way it has to be. Perhaps sometimes we have to be sort of weird. And not know what the hell we are talking about. And while we're all at it we might as well inform the whole fucking world about our weirdness.

As if you didn't already know that I was sort of. Weird.

Jacked Open Like a Vehicle with a Flat Tire in Need of Changing In Two Part Harmony

2006-02-14T11:40:00.000-08:00

I had a medical appointment today. And I should probably say that I began writing this post yesterday. So today actually should have read tomorrow which would have been today. Now. Had I written tomorrow it might have been confusing because said appointment would have already occurred by the time you have read this post. Yet I feel that I had to begin writing prior to said appointment. But you are reading after said appointment. Because today is tomorrow.

I hope this isn't getting confusing.

Anyway. Let me explain that I began writing this post prior to said appointment due to the fact that I was a bit freaked. And said freakage occurred due to the fact that said appointment was "one of those" medical appointments. The kind where you drop your underpants and climb up on the examination table. The kind of medical appointment where you will inevitably be told to "scootch down" with you rear-end hanging of said table. That very special medical appointment in which you will be cranked open with cold metal and examined from the inside out.

Yes. So today. Which is in fact today and not yesterday or tomorrow. Today I had such an appointment. And I should say that I was a bit overdue in getting all of my internal plumbing checked out. So I begrudgingly picked up the telephone and made the call last week.

But it is one of those semi-unpleasant things. Perhaps not as unpleasant as having foreign soldiers bomb one's country for the purpose of "liberating" the people residing within its now defunct boundaries. But unpleasant never the less. Yet sometimes you must do things that are unpleasant. So I made the decision. And decided. That I was going.

So. Tomorrow. Or yesterday. This morning in fact. Which is today. On freakin' Valentine's Day. Such an internal plumbing check appointment was actualized. And really. What else could I do to show myself some love.

Actually. I could think of at least thirty-seven other things that I could have been doing tomorrow...er today...or any other day for that matter to show myself some love. And I assure all of you that none of said thirty-seven things involve a cold metal speculum inserted into my INSERT FAVORITE NAME FOR SAID SPECULUM INSERTED PART HERE.

Interesting side note. Quite some time ago it was brought to my attention that there are human beans out there in the world who rather enjoy speculum play of the sexual variety. As far as I am aware I have yet to meet any of said beans. But there is a great deal that I do not know about many of you so anything is possible. Personally. Given my distaste for the gynecological examination I cannot imagine finding this arousing. But if that sort of thing butters your biscuit who am I to judge.

However. My dear friend Franchina once told me about an "electro-shock speculum" she saw in a sex shop in NYC. And I must say that seems a bit extreme. Now this is not to say that I am not open to extremes or extremities. But given that I do not want my sexual partner to jack me open as if I were vehicle with a flat tire in need of changing in the first place. I cannot imagine wanting to be jacked open and then have said jacked open parts shocked with some unknown quantity of electrical voltage.

But that is just me.

So it is now truly tomorrow which is of course today. And somehow. I survived. And I suppose I knew that I would survive. But since anything can happen at any time I thought I should tell you all that I did in fact survive. I was not crushed by a falling meteor. Nor was I struck by a poisonous dart. And this is good for you to know because these things can and do happen.

But I digress.

So. I arrive and pay the twenty dollar co-payment in return for the pleasure of being violated with a cold metal object and swabs or sticks or other scraping devices.

Maybe that was too graphic. Sorry.

Where was I. Oh yes. I have assumed the position. And what can you really do when your rear-end is hanging off of an examination table and you are cranked open with your innards exposed and completely unable to move. I believe that any situation calls for the requisite amount of polite conversation. Even one such as this.

So Michelle...

Yes I call my physician by her first name. Why you ask. Well if you are going to be sticking cold metal objects and fingers and eyeballs and sticks and twigs and swabs and spatulas and other scraping devices inside of my INSERT FAVORITE NAME FOR SAID SPECULUM INSERTED PART HERE then I believe we ought to be on a first name basis.

So Michelle...

Yeah.

How are things.

Good. Except I kind of have to pee.

Can you hold it?

I think so.

Good. Because I don't mean to be insensitive but I'd rather not be left like this ya know.

I can dig it.

Coo'.

So after a bit of cold metal and cranking and jacking and fingers and eyeballs and swabs and sticks and twigs and spatulas and spoons and such I was given a pat on the back and a moist towelette -- similar to one that an individual might be given at a Bar-B-Que restaurant -- and delightfully informed that everything is in fact peachy keen. Therefore. I was free to go and be on my merry little way.

And perhaps you think that the story ends here. Alas. It does not. I arrive at my office and Attorney Number One attempts to engage me in a discussion of necrophilia and midgets.

Again.

And I am wondering if there is some way to avoid having this conversation at this particular moment in time. For quite frankly I would much rather discuss something pertaining to a different topic.

Unfortunately I was not entirely successful in thwarting his efforts. I realized my lack of success in said thwarting when it became apparent that he was following me into the restroom. And continuing his diatribe on whatever it was he was actually saying about said subject. To which of course I was not paying the least bit of attention. He is continuing on and on and I am standing inside the restroom door. And he is continuing his banter to which I would typically provide an eye rolling response. That is of course. Until he realized that he had one foot in the restroom and that this was perhaps not the best place to continue such a discussion.

One point for me.

And for some reason that I cannot explain. Numerous people have since wished to provide me with more information than I wanted them to about their sexual and/or gynecological issues today. And I did not mention said appointment. But perhaps they could somehow sense that I had only moments ago returned from "on of those" medical appointments. And therefore they somehow felt this was some sort of bonding experience.

Nevertheless. After the aforementioned necrophilia-midget debacle I was forced to listen to a variety of information on the following subjects. None of which I encouraged. Yeast Infections. Personal Lubricant. Menopause. Hormone Replacement Therapy. IUDs. Breast Self-Examination. Ovarian Cysts. Pregnancy Tests. Thankfully I did not have to have a conversation about the Vaginal Contraceptive Foam. It might have sent me over the edge.

However. I do believe that I may require immediate assistance from one of you lovely individuals out there in the world. Please. Send reinforcements.

Hurry.

The Left Breast Might be Dangerous Weapon in the Wrong Hands

2006-02-08T13:22:00.000-08:00

I am going to get right to the point. Not something I typically do. But I have no witty segue for this post. So here we go.

Today my boss touched my breast. And I am wondering if now might be a good time to ask for a raise.

So. I guess I should explain. Because I know that some of you are shocked. Some of you are horrified. More than a few of you are laughing uncontrollably. And surely at least a couple of you are sort of turned on by this announcement.

So let me make certain that there are no misunderstandings. Because I would not want any of you to think that I need a referral to a good sexual harassment law firm. Or that there is some sort of hanky panky going on with my boss. Let me reiterate in case you were reading too quickly. Because I know some of you skim these postings. Not that I can really blame you. But I would not want you to miss the point of this particular post. I am NOT fucking my boss. And I do not want to be. Everything is fine.

Maybe I should just tell the story. Although I have this feeling that no one ever believes the real story of the boss touching the breast. I suppose it is too late now. So I might as well just continue. And hope for the best.

Attorney Number One comes into my office. I can already tell he is feeling a bit left out today. He is sort of needy and this sometimes happens. And today he is on the verge of sulking because I am not paying attention to him. Rather I am working. This is what I have heard I am supposed to do while I am at work. I suppose this is why they call work "work" and not something else like "salami" or "vacation" or "breast touching" or something else entirely.

So the man enters my office with a rather large binder in hand that I do not particularly want to see let alone have in my office. But he is here. In my office. And so is the binder. I know that he wants to give me said binder. And if he wants to give me said binder it is because he wants me to do something with said binder. And I suppose I do not really mean that he wants me to do something with said binder. But he will more likely than not want me to work some miracle regarding said matter contained in said binder. And I probably will not even need the binder anyway. But I can already tell that I do not want to do anything with it. I do not want it. Because I have more than my fair share of binders in my office.

Wait. I just re-read that and I feel like I need to pause for a moment. This is not some vague attempt to have you all read between the lines. There is no wink wink nudge nudge implied. I swear I am referencing an actual binder. You know. Made of plastic. Three metal rings. It secures documents that have been three hold punched. You can find such a binder at any office supply store. I am not speaking of anything else. There is no innuendo here. Binder. That is all. Just a simple three ring binder.

So where was I. Oh yes. I have a great many binders in my office already. I do not need another binder. And when I say I have a great many binders in my office I am not even including the plethora of reference binders in my office. For I have a great many reference binders as well. Binders that read "Resource Information" and list the various topical resource materials contained within said binder. I have binders that are labeled "DRUG" and "Domestic Violence" and "SEX" and "False Confessions" and so on and so forth.

And no. You cannot borrow my resource binder labeled "DRUG" or the one labeled "SEX" and you should know better than to even ask such a question. Trust me. You would not find it very interesting. It just is not that kind of party. Promise.

At any rate. I have an overwhelming number of binders. Both resource and otherwise. And the man is walking into my office with yet another binder. Great. One more to add to the pile. More things to add to the list of things to do and I haven't done but probably should have done a long time ago. More more more.

He is pontificating about something related to this particular binder. And I am admittedly not paying attention. He realizes this and then attempts an alternate tactic in which he strategically places said binder on my desk directly on top of the materials I am currently working on. Sigh. So now I have no choice but to stop working on said materials that I was working on and listen to whatever the fuck he has to say that I do not want to be listening to in the first place. Sigh again.

Fine. I am listening now. See. Listening. Well. Sort of listening.

And then. It happens. Because my office is rather small. There isn't a great deal of room. It is pretty well full of stuff. Maneuvering in this small space can be challenging at best. And it is important to note that said individual is incredibly animated. My office is most certainly not wheelchair accessible. Or accessible to those overly animated folk. In short. Three people in my office at the same time is semi-obscene.

So it happens. I am sitting at my desk. And he is speaking. About something that I am only half-assed paying attention to. And he is being his typical overly animated self. And. So. I feel this hand. And it is really too late to do anything. I feel this hand. Just barely graze the left side of my left breast.

It was kind of like that scene in Dirty Dancing where Patrick Swayze does that running of the hand thing grazing the breast move on Jennifer Gray. Except it wasn't hot. And now that I have had two and three quarters of a second to think about it. It wasn't hot in Dirty Dancing either. But that's probably because of the whole Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Gray thing. Maybe it would be hot if it was someone other than Patrick Swayze and someone other than Jennifer Gray.

So. Most of you know that I work in an insane office. I am used to strange things happening. So the whole grazing the left side of the left breast thing. Well. I don't really think much of it. It was one of those things. He barely touched me. And it was completely unintentional.

Now. Let me just say this. Because I know what you are going to say. You are going to tell me that he just wanted me to think it was unintentional. And I will have to tell you that you are wrong. I know this man. And really. He is a bit on the odd side at times. But he is not now nor has he ever attempted to purposefully touch my left breast. It is just not that kind of party around this place. Just because he calls me into his office to look at pornography on his computer...er...uh...maybe that is not the best example to prove my point.

Seriously. All kidding aside. And I most certainly hope that no one in my office ever finds out about this post. I swear. It is totally not "like that" at all. Everything is above board.

So. Back to my left breast. He realized instantly what he had done. And became incredibly embarrassed. Apologetic. Concerned. He is probably in his office drafting some sort of "hold harmless" document for me to sign. Promising not to sue him for accidentally touching my left breast.

Whatever. It's just my left breast. Wait. I do not want you all to think that I let just anyone touch my left breast. You cannot just touch my left breast whenever you want to and pretend that you "accidentally" touched it. Believe me. I know the difference between accidental left breast touching and "accidental" left breast touching.

If you have touched my left breast I guarantee you that it was either a.) one hundred percent obvious that it was accidental or b.) I wanted you to touch my left breast. And probably my right breast too. But definitely the left. And I do not mean to imply that I have some sort of preference for the left breast over the right. I do not want my right breast to feel left out in any way. I do not favor the left breast. And I do not have a left breast fetish. And you never really know about the whole fetish thing because people are into all kinds of stuff. And although I am pretty much a "whatever butters your biscuit" kind of grrrl. There are a few things that I must admit go way beyond anything that I have any desire to experience. Such things that I have no desire to experience typically involve farm animals and defecation. Eww.

But this is not about either of those things or any other fetish that you may or may not have. This is simply about my left breast. So let us stay on topic. Before things get out of control.

So. Basically I got quasi felt up at the office today. And I suppose it could be worse. At least I didn't put my underpants on inside out. I hate it when that happens.

Naked and Tied to a Traffic Light in a Wind Storm

2006-02-01T15:21:00.000-08:00

One of you once said that you wanted to see the naked parts. Another said you did not. Even though I know that you do. But perhaps not the naked parts that I am referring to here and now. We will not talk about those naked parts. Even though I have been pondering said naked parts a great deal as of late. Not merely my own naked parts. But the naked parts of others.

And I do not mean pondering the naked parts of others to mean what you think it means. Well. Not entirely. But I will not discuss that here. And now. That is not the point of this post. And good grief I have to be able to have a secret or two don't I. Right. I will remain tight lipped about said ponderings. They are dangerous and will only serve to get me into some sort of trouble. Or perhaps not.

So. Let me tell you what I do mean. I mean I have been pondering issues of the body. Representations have always been an obsession of mine. That and both the written and spoken word. Especially when the spoken word drifts over me in slow soft melodic tones with delightful words and phrases strewn together like music. Hint hint. Nudge nudge. In other words. Keep talking.

Do you see what I mean about the whole dangerous trouble thing. Sheesh. I tried to tell you. Anyway.

Uh. Right. The body. Images and representations. Identity and identifying. My dear friend Trouble (not related to the aforementioned danger and trouble referenced above) and I have been discussing these issues as of late. She is an amazing artist with more talent than I could ever hope to have. And she I believe may very well be obsessed with such issues as well. So it has been interesting discussing such things with her especially given the different forms of representational media we are currently immersed in with respect to this specific topic.

So. I have been thinking. Oh no. Here she goes again. Thinking. No really. I have been thinking. And maybe it was the wind last night. Storms put me in a contemplative sort of mood. I am saddened at the infrequency storms in this area. However. I do live close enough to water to get some decent storm action drifting in on occasion. And I am thinking that it is just about the right time to drive out to the Pacific. For the ocean always brings the most magical of storms. Storms. Storms of the thunder and lightening variety. One of the few things I miss about the east coast. Thunder and lightening. And Colony Pizza. NYC street vendor falafel. Lightening bugs. And a blow your freakin' mind art scene. Oh. And good public transportation. But that is pretty much about it. Wait. I miss the Franchina too. Yes my dear. I miss you.

At any rate. Last night was a crazy wind storm fog rolling in time in my neck of the wood.

As my house shook. And tree branches cracked and fell to the ground. I felt at home. At home in my own skin. And I always feel at home when the wind blows hard and the fog rolls in. But this was something different. And I realized something. I realized that everything is fine.

Funny thing to realize. But it is. Everything is fine. And actually. It is much more than fine.

So. I should say. Early-ish yesterday was semi-unpleasant. I have been worried about two lovely people in my life who are not doing so well on the medical front. And of course this is difficult for me because I have no control over either situation. Sometimes it is painful not to have control. Especially over such things as these. And with one dear friend I was reminded of circumstances that were unrelated to her but related nevertheless. I did not realize it initially. And then it surfaced. I saw her illness and it was familiar. Similar to something that fell into my lap many years ago in dealing with the illness of another. And I was forced to make difficult decisions. Decisions that I was neither ready nor prepared to make. Never feeling as though I was doing the right thing. I felt awkward. And alone. And I realized the similarities and knew that at least some of the residual yuckiness I was feeling was a physical and emotional remembering.

So after all of my obligations for the day were met. I went to have cocoa with a friend.

And maybe it was the magic of the cocoa. Or perhaps it was the compassion and wisdom of the friend. And I am certain that the wind and fog played at the very least, a small part in the process. But suddenly I felt as thought everything was fine.

But I said that I had been thinking. And what this post is really about is something simple. Intimacy and vulnerability. Er. Maybe not so simple. And I know that sometimes it is rather difficult to determine what the hell I am actually writing about because of my tendency to be vague and subtle in my statements.

I want you to know what I am talking about. But I do not want you to know what I am talking about. Because that might very well put me smack dab in the middle of some vulnerability. And it might be too intimate for me to feel comfortable sitting in.

But this post is different. So rather than merely write about such things knowing that some of you will see the hidden words within and others will not. I will simply state that I am thinking and writing about intimacy. And vulnerability. As the two are inextricably woven together with string and paper clips and glue and a bit of duct tape here and there.

If there was some generalized quiz about the ability to be intimate and vulnerable my score would prove rather pathetic. I am now admitting this publicly. Which of course means that I have completely lost my mind. But no one reads this shit anyway right. Er. Uh. Well. I guess some of you do. And I am doing this because I now know that I am not alone. Although sometimes it doesn't exactly feel that way. But I am trying to remind myself that I am not that special. And we all feel these things in various ways and to various degrees. And perhaps in saying these things out loud. We will all speak of who we truly are and others will hear. And we will all find a way to negotiate beyond these spaces into something more.

And let me also admit that I have many tricks to avoiding intimacy and vulnerability. Some are perhaps apparent. I know that there are some of you that I am not fooling as much as I would like to think I am fooling you. Other tricks are perhaps not so apparent. And some of these so-called tricks are actually lovely qualities if I do say so myself. And I suppose I can say so myself because I am writing this crap so if I want to give myself a bit of credit and a pat on the back I should. I mean I am pouring my freakin' heart and soul out here people. Sheesh.

Seriously. Let me provide an example. Some of you have found me to be a rather compassionate person. And do not scoff. You have said it. And not just when you were drunk. Or in a semi-comatose state. So let me say I am compassionate. I believe that I am. You can't convince me that I am not. Even if my patience sometimes wears thin. I do care deeply for all of you. Er. Some of you. You get the idea. But sometimes it is very very easy to tap into my compassionate side because in doing so the focus is removed from me. And I no longer have to share intimacy or display my vulnerability.

I have done this recently with at least one of you. Over a freakin' cupcake no less. And perhaps that is somewhat blasphemous.

And this is but one small example. There are certainly many more that I could provide. But you get the idea. And I suppose we all have reasons for being this way. Most certainly I am no exception. But last night I realized. At least a little tiny bit. That everything is fine. And that perhaps I could step gently into such intimacy and vulnerability without the fear of spontaneous combustion. Or maybe some of you could keep a great deal of ice around. And a fire extinguisher perhaps.

It seems quite simple doesn't it. Funny how the most simple of lessons are often the most difficult to learn and enact. Yes. It is the enacting that is truly challenging. Knowing is one thing. Enacting is entirely different. Indeed.

But we don't really talk about these things. Not really. Sometimes on the surface. And we never want to admit that we are messed up in any way. But I believe that it is necessary. Necessary not merely for ourselves. But for everyone. For in the re-telling we learn that we are not alone. And we learn that there are other human beans out there in the world that are ready to accept us for who we are and help us through the rough patches. Guide us through the dark scary places. And stand ready with a fire extinguisher.

Yukon Canada not Gold Potato Latkes with Lamb and Puppetry of the Sexy Ass Search Action

2006-01-30T15:18:00.000-08:00

So. Last night. I could not sleep. The Sprinkel left my house at 12:38 am give or take five minutes after a lovely and not so lovely musical evening. Those we know created something magical and beautiful. Those we didn't know created the onset of a migraine in the overwhelming majority of the crowd. So. Sprinkel and her pigtails bounced off. And I thought I was tired. I felt tired. Almost deliriously tired. But then. After crawling into bed. And tucking myself in. Under nice sheets and warm blankets. My eyes flipped open. Yes. Flipped. And I was wide ass awake.

Now I know that I am going to get all sorts of bizarre hits on this page because of the proximity of the words "wide" and "ass" referenced above. In fact. I have been watching you all. Noticing who is coming and going. Not that I really "know" who the hell most of you are given the information available. It is not much. I assure you. But I am curious as to who is who of my dear friends. The only person I can pretty much bet on the identity of is my very wise friend. And this is due to his location.

It is sort of interesting to see where you all are from. Kind of. I mean a little bit. Interesting. Or not really so interesting. Well. It is. Yes. Interesting.

Let me just say that I am quite curious about the individual I will refer to as Yukon Territory. I have a feeling I may actually know. Who. Yukon might be and that perhaps Yukon is not in fact in Yukon. Instinctively I feel this to be true. But perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps there is actually some RCMP secret squirrel monitoring going on.

Do NOT get me started on the RCMP. For those of you who think that moving to Canada might be a good idea especially given our political climate here in the good ol' U S of A let me tell you that unless you have done a bit of research with respect to the actions of the RCMP you do not want to make this move. And this is all I will say on this particular topic for now.

At any rate. Here is what I find even more interesting than Yukon and such. It is most amusing to review the google search terms that brought those of you non-regular readers to this space. Those of you who never intended to read these words. Here are but a few of my favorite examples. Wait. Let me back up for a moment.

Apparently I have used some rather interesting words and groups of words in my postings. I have discovered that I have typed the word "ass" quite frequently. And "ass" is apparently a hot search term. Oh great. Now I have placed the words "ass" and "hot" in close proximity to one another. Great. So I have received many interesting hits from all over the world. For example. Because I did say that I would provide examples. I have received hits on the phrase "sexy ass" from Saudi Arabia more than once. Many many times actually. And I will absolutely refrain from commenting on this little tidbit. Additionally I have received hits on the phrase "male exibitionist" and simply "exibitionist" from various states in our own fine country.

And in reviewing this information I decided to go back and review some of my previous postings in order to determine the context of said searchable words and phrases. I can only imagine the disappointment from my Saudi visitor when it was determine that my use of "sexy ass" briefly referenced my sexy ass friends, but more extensively discussed the consistancy of phlegm I have been coughing up and the thousand and one ways in which I have been scarred by watching an up close and personal video of childbirth. Sorry Sexy Saudi Ass Seeker. Better luck next time.

But I do not mean to imply that all googling individuals have sex on the brain twenty-four-seven. I have received google page hits that had nothing to do with sex. Well. I have received one. And when I say one I mean that many of you have been searching for the lyrics to "The Song that Never Ends" and therefore have. Found my page. However that is the only non-sexual google search term or terms that has brought those of you unwilling individuals to this space. And I have never posted said lyrics to my page. Even though I do have a fondness in my heart for Shari Lewis and Lambchop.

RIP Lamby.

No silly. Not THAT lambchop. This Lambchop.

Have I ever told you about my little stuffed lamb. Probably not. I don't think anyone knows this story. When I was a small child. Perhaps three. My Aunt Stella gave me a stuffed lamb. It was a very simple stuffed animal. I do not even believe it had a mouth. But it went with me everywhere. Much to the chagrin of my parents. Until that fateful day. Lamby Pie was lost.

Yeah. You heard me. Lamby Pie. Do not fuck with the Lamby Pie. I swear I will fuck you up with my steel toed boots if you even so much as make a cross eye at the Lamby Pie.

The losing of Lamby Pie is a long story which I will not relay in this moment. But suffice it to say it was the first of many tragic experiences in my young life. Somewhere there is a photograph of me and LP by a swimming pool in Florida. I shit you not.

But I was talking about Lambchop. And I think that perhaps my favorite episode of Shari Lewis and Lambchop involved Shari making potato latkes. Which of course Lambchop loved. And they sang a little long about potato latkes. Which everyone should do at least once. As an aside. My mother used to make potato latkes. But she isn't Jewish. So she called them potato pancakes instead. Same deal.

But. No one is searching for the potato latkes song. Except for me of course. So. I will do something I would not normally do. I will provide those of you lyric seekers with said lyrics. They are quite simple actually.

Here we go.

"The Song that Never Ends"

This is the song that never ends.
It just goes on and on my friends.
Some people starting singing it not knowing what it was.
And they'll continuing singing it forever just because.*

*Repeat above forever and ever.

There. Now you have it.

And let me say that I do believe this has been the longest tangential digression in the history of all tangential digressions. I have perhaps broken my own record for tangential digressions. Indeed. So. I was talking about sleep. Or lackthereof.

Last night I feel asleep at some time I believe after three am. That's three o'clock in the a and the m. After a small coughing episode at two twenty five I finally was exhausted enough to drop into slumber. Unfortunately the alarm clock chimes its final chime at six fifteen. No snooze. And I am starting to think the lack of snooze action was not exactly the best idea after all. But I know that if I had snooze action I would have hit that damn button thirty million times. In fact. I might still be hitting it. And that would probably not be the wisest decision for my career.

But I suppose sitting at my desk. Looking out the window. At the blue sky. And sunshine. Writing this post for all of you is not exactly a. Career wise decision either.

But of course I am just kidding. I am most certainly not writing this at work. No way. I would never do that. Nope.

And I guess I don't really have that much to say about my lack of sleep after all.

Just a Spoonful of Sugar and an Axe Murderer

2006-01-24T14:56:00.000-08:00

Last night. I got the call from Rainbow Sprinkel. Coffee at El Diablo. My hands are covered in photography chemical. Fixative agent to be specific. And I probably should have washed said chemical from my hands. But I did not. No point really. No matter what I do my hands are going to smell like photo fix. It is just one of those things. Occupational hazzard.

At any rate. First bus to Queen Anne. Lower. And then the Two to the Soy-Sprinkel Estate. But as you know the Two will not arrive. Did not arrive. And I have learned not to wait. So I hop a Thirteen and request the Sprinkel meet me at El Diablo. And to bring the Soy with her.

Sometimes he is very vanilla. Sometimes he is not.

So I grab a Cafe Cubano. The hard stuff. No soy additive. And usually. I enjoy the soy additive. Which is not to be confused with the aforementioned Soy of the Soy-Sprinkel Estate. He is not an additive. And I head up the spiral staircase to find seats for my compadres. And then I see them. The Nine. Nine women knitting. Nine women knitting in a circle. And for a moment I freeze.

For the first time ever. I am unable to speak. Well. There was that incident in the summer of 1992 when I could not speak. But that was an entirely different matter. So I guess I probably could have spoken. But what would I have said.

So. There is a fucking knitting circle of nine at El Diablo. Instantly I wonder if this is some sort of a coven. And I do not mean a wiccan coven. No. Rather. I am transported back to Rosemary's Baby. A good ol' fashioned satanic coven of folks who want to impregnant a young woman with Satan's spawn. Which of course would not be complete without Ruth Gordon. And in case you were wondering. Ruth Gordon was not one of the Nine.

Her group looked a bit more like this:

But that would have been fucking awesome. Freaky considering she died about twenty years ago. But fucking awesome.

No. The Nine are all very young. The oldest of the group perhaps thirty years of age. Most I would guess are in their early to mid twenties.

The nine knitters stop. And look up from their yarn. They are looking at me. And no longer knitting. I feel like I am some sort of exotic animal. Perhaps part of some traveling exhibit at the Woodland Park Zoo. On loan from a foreign country with a name that no one is willing to learn how to pronounce correctly. Because after all. This is the United States of America. And besides. No one in said country has any resources for us to steal or rape or otherwise pillage anyway.

Uh where was I. Oh yes. The Nine.

The Nine are freshly scrubbed faces with. Ivory soap. Hair pulled back in elastic. Or headbands strategically placed so that long undyed virgin hair remains perfectly in place. The Nine are lily ass white.

I smile. Sheepishly. And find one of the few remaining seats in the corner. Eventually they return to their yarn. Pink. And baby blue. Pastels. The rebel of the group knitting hunter green. And I do not know much about knitting. But I can see from a distance that the stitches are intricate. Their needle work complex.

And it is not that I think there is anything particularly unusual about knitting. In fact. I have friends who knit. And one friend in particular whom I adore. Even though I do not know her nearly as well as I would like to know her. She knits. And she is a dreamy knitter grrrl. But this scene was a bit unexpected. And the dreamy knitter grrrl I know has jet black dyed hair and a lip ring and a very sexy smile.

There were no lip rings among the Nine. I am certain of this. Yes. I checked. In fact. I did not notice so much as a set of pierced ears on the entire group. Perhaps the hunter green knitting rebel had a small set of diamond studs. One in each ear. No more.

So I sit down. And pull out my notebook. Along with a squishy Procrit drug company pen given to me by my nurse practitioner friend who always hooks me up with interesting things from the oncology conferences she attends. So. I am barely doodling on the page. I do not believe I have written a single word at this point. And then. I hear it. And I am not trying to evesdrop. But something catches my attention.

We had the best cake at our wedding. It was so beautiful. Three layers. With a chocolate ganache.

Really. I wasn't happy with my bakery at all. But my younger sister is getting married next year and she could use a good recommendation. What bakery did you use?

You know. I never can remember the name. Isn't that funny? I should know. But I have it written down in one of my wedding scrapbooks. I'll get the number for you.

The conversation about wedding cake continues for at least ten minutes. And I am looking at my watch. Wondering where the Rainbow Sprinkel and Soy might be. I am feeling lost. And abandoned. Afraid. So I do the only thing I can do. I start scribbling frantically upon the page.

The Nine are discussing their respective weddings. There are simple gold bands on the majority of the ring fingers in the room. Each with a large accompanying diamond stone. Almost all of them are wearing little white Keds sneakers.

So I am sitting on the Ikea green denim sofa. And drinking very strong cuban coffee. Listening to seemingly neverending talk of wedding cake. And wedding flowers. And wedding photographers. They speak of wedding party favors they provided to their guests. And bridesmaid dresses. And the various wedding traditions that I find so repugnant that I cannot even repeat them in this post. Not even for you.

And I am starting to feel a little bit ill. Like maybe the coffee was a bad idea. Perhaps I should have gotten a glass of Shiraz instead. And I feel their bright blue eyes staring. Glaring at me. One woman in particular. She cannot possibly be a day over twenty-three. Looking up from her knitting momentarily. Her eyes burning holes through me.

She is wearing pink. And she appears perplexed. I imagine that it is my appearance she is pondering. Perhaps my fire engine red hair and blood red lips and the fact that I am clad entirely in black clothing is somewhat perplexing to the young knitter. And perhaps I am stereotyping. Assuming as much about her as she is assuming about me. But I imagine that she is Mary Poppins. And that she imagines me to be some sort of psychopathic serial axe murdering witch.

And I think it is important to state. For the record. That I have never been a witch.

Addendum: Shortly after witnessing the above. The Sprinkel and the Soy arrived. And I share with them all that I have now shared with you. And in this moment. I stop to ponder the scene before me. And I wonder if I really am that different from other people. And I realize that I am. Thank goodness. Because sometimes I wonder.

Just a Little Song and Dance About My Underpants

2006-01-19T01:51:00.000-08:00

Well. I have been writing about some pretty deep shit lately. I suppose I have been in a somewhat contemplative sort of mood. Contemplation is good. Everyone should do it. But I knew that it could not last. Something of the non-deep variety was bound to occur. And today just happened to be the day of that sort of occurrence.

So. Many of you are aware of the fact that I work with a kooky bunch. They are all a little bit. Well. Uh. Different. But I love them all dearly. Except for our former bookkeeper who was recently fired for embezzling large sums of money from the firm. I do not care for her so much. Everyone else I love. I love dearly. But I already said that. You know. I should say it again. Because I really mean it. I love them all dearly. There. I have said it. Thrice.

And the reason I love these people dearly is simple. Our office is one happy dysfunctional family. On any given day I can expect to be yelled at or slapped or otherwise made to feel as if I should just go to my room without dinner. Yeah. That makes it feel just like home. And it makes me rather nostalgic for my childhood and my mother's proclivity toward the wooden spoon beat down.

But my childhood dysfunction is not at issue here. That is an issue for my therapist. If I could actually afford a therapist.

And speaking of affording a therapist. I must share this story. Yet another digression. However I will return to the point eventually. But this is worth mentioning. So. Yesterday. Unnamed Attorney One tells me that they are giving me a special bonus. And for a moment I was worried that this "special bonus" might involve some "white pee on the front butt" sort of action.

Huh.

For those of you who did not specifically follow this reference. Have no fear. There is nothing overtly kinky happening in my office. I was merely looking for an excuse to insert that phrase in this post. For those of you who do specifically follow this reference. The other thing I should say is gu-gunk. Gu-gunk. Because after all. I carried a watermelon.

Sorry. Enough. Moving on. At any rate. This bonus I received was for coming in to work for the past six weeks while I have been on my death bed with sickness. And if you did not know that I have been on my death bed with sickness then where the fuck have you been. You should do a better job of keeping in touch with me. Geesh. Anyway. My office. They just wanted to let me know how much they appreciated my dedication.

Wow. Nice huh. I almost did not accept said bonus. But given the fact that I am already grossly underpaid. It seemed as if I should probably just keep my big mouth shut. For a change.

But the point of my story. For this is not the point. The point of my story. So. I am in the office. And I am speaking with several of the unnamed attorney persons. And I am looking for something in the pocket of my jacket. So I begin to pull things out of said pocket trying to find what I am looking for. And I feel something sort of fabric-esque. I do not really think much of this as I often carry some sort of scarf or bandana with me. So I pull said fabric-esque item out of my pocket and toss it on the counter in front of everyone.

Only. It was not a scarf. Nor was it a bandana.

It was a pair of my underpants.

So now I am standing in a room with two men and my underpants are on the counter. Now I should say. My underpants. The underpants on the counter. They are clean. I have not worn them. But they are now on the counter. In the office. Just sitting there. Mocking me.

And they both look at me for a moment.

I am not entirely sure if I am supposed to pick up my underpants and shove them back in my pocket quickly. Or attempt to be a bit more casual about it. Perhaps they didn't notice. Maybe they don't even know that the lump of fabric on the counter is my underpants.

Ugh. They know.

I am now getting a look. And I cannot exactly describe the look. However I do notice a glimmer. Some sort of twinkle that represents the overwhelming need to laugh. The funny thing about this whole situation is I know they will never believe the real story of why I have a pair of underpants in the pocket of my jacket.

Correction. I had a pair of underpants in the pocket of my jacket. And why is it a pair of underpants. Does anyone know the answer to this question. Please let me know. Those of you who study origins of underpants. Why a pair.

Anyway. I know they will never believe me. They will think. That I actually. Have something remotely resembling a life. But I really don't. Not uh. Really. No. I do not. Sad to admit. No life here people.

No one will believe why a womyn is carrying underpants in the pocket of her jacket anymore than anyone would ever believe the real story of how someone ended up with a black eye. It is just one of those things not even worth explaining.

Except here. So. For those of you who do not know why I had a pair of my underpants in the pocket of my jacket I will tell you. And you will believe me. The answer is simple. It could not be more simple. Innocent really. I assure you. The answer.

Dirty Dancing.

Doesn't that explain everything. It does. Right. Good. I am so glad that is over. Because I was beginning to feel a bit self-conscious for a moment. That leaves only this left to say.

Damn you Curator of the Hidden Mangrove. Nice nickname huh. I just made it up at this very moment. But as you are the OG of said hidden grove of men. I thought it seemed. Fitting. So Damn you. For this is all your fault.

In case you were wondering. I did eventually put my underpants back in the pocket of my jacket. And yes. They were black. If you want any more information about my underpants than what I have already provided. You are going to have to buy me dinner first. Or at least a drink. Perhaps a cup of coffee. How about a muffin. At the very least a pack of gum.

Fuck You Cowboy

2006-01-18T00:12:00.000-08:00

Fuck You John Ashcroft.

Sorry. But that felt good. It isn't exactly the point of this post. Or rather it is. I haven't quite decided yet. But something amazing happened today. And you all should know.

Yes. Something amazing happened today. The United States Supreme Court did something right. Oops. I mean. Correct. They did something correct. Today. Well. I'm a little bit late posting this posting. But I feel that it is still close enough to today to call it today. So I am calling it today. Today. So there.

Anyway. Something happened "today" and it was amazing. The Supreme Court decided that Oregon's Death with Dignity law permitting medical doctor's to assist certain categories of terminally ill patients to end their lives is not in violation of the Federal Controlled Substances Act.

Huh.

I know. I know. Let me back up. For those of you who are not aware. In 2001 then Attorney General John Ashcroft went after Oregon with a vengeance. They had twice passed. And possibly thrice passed. Legislation that permitted medical doctors in very specific circumstances following very specific procedures and guidelines to assist their patients with terminal illnesses to end their own lives. Ashcroft said this was a violation of the Federal Controlled Substances Act. He declared that medical doctors providing such care to their patients could be arrested and convicted on federal charges.

And let me tell you. This federal stuff is serious business.

But today. The United States Supreme Court decided the matter. And the medical providers in the state Oregon are no longer at risk of losing their medical licenses or facing the possibility of federal conviction for violating the law. This is a pivotal decision. Especially in this era of "family values" propaganda. If you are interested I encourage you to read the full text of the decision for the scoop in its entirety.

In the majority opinion, Justice Kennedy stated that the "authority claimed by the Attorney General is both beyond his expertise and incongruous with the statutory purpose and design." Emphasis mine.

In other words. The Attorney General doesn't know shit and the legislator never intended the Federal Controlled Substances Act to be used to prosecute medical doctors providing legal medications to their patients. Dumb ass.

And that the Attorney General doesn't know shit. Oh wait. I already said that didn't I.

It is notable. Although not surprising. That the dissent was provided by Justices Antonin Scalia and Clarence "Whatever Scalia Said" Thomas. And guess what. The new Chief Justice John Roberts joined the Scalia-Thomas dissent. Imagine that.

Now. If you are wondering why I actually give a shit about this issue. Let me explain. Many of you know that I worked for Company F. Surely you recall my tirade on Company F from a previous post. But this is not about said tirade.

One positive thing about working for Company F was that I was given the opportunity to confront death on a daily basis. And in doing so I was able to develop peace with death. Quality of life must be defined on an individual basis. And we certainly all sit at different points on the continuum. Ending one's life in the midst of a terminal illness is personal decision. I do not imagine that anyone in such a circumstance would make such a decision in some willy nilly fashion.

As Oregon has explained. This is a decision that must be made between a patient and his or her doctor with specific guidelines in place to assure that such a decision is not made in haste.

It is a decision that I hope never to be forced to make. But I most certainly hope that if I am ever in such a prediciment that I have the freedom to make such a decision in the manner that I see fit for myself as a human bean.

Oregon has recognized the complexity of this issue. And their law addresses the potential ramifications of such a decision. So congratulations to Oregon. It has been a long and arduous battle for the ability to make decisions for their community in their way. For the people. By the people.

I imagine the right will view this decision in much the same manner as the recent Terri Schiavo incident. Interesting how quickly the right has forgotten about the now deceased Ms. Schiavo. Nevertheless. I believe it is important to state that as a proponent of quality of life measures. I am not anti-life. And how could I be. I am at this very moment a living breathing human bean. So. I am not anti-life. On the contrary. I have a deep respect for life. And in possessing such a respect. I am also aware of the personal decisions involving life. And the ways in which one must define life and living in a way that speaks to one's own heart.

So fuck you John Ashcroft. For starting this mess. And for wasting so much time and energy and resources. And fuck you Alberto Gonzales for allow it to continue. Fuck you. This time a small bit of sense has filtered back into society. Let us all hope that the seed that has now been planted will begin to grow.

The Song Remains the Same. Except for the Moment in Which it Changes.

2006-01-12T15:25:00.000-08:00

Late last night. Well. Early this morning. Actually neither. I starting writing this post yesterday. But I rather appreciate the way "late last night" and "early this morning" sound. So. You may refer to this as creative license. But. I am just letting you know. If you do in fact know.

Anyway. Late last night. Well. Early this morning. Ahem. Over coffee with too much sugar. And when I say sugar. I am referring to that delightful overly processed bleached to high hell will give you cancer in twenty years regular ol' comes in a fifty pound bag white as snow sugar.

Yeah. Never trust whitey. Waitwaitwait. I was talking about sugar.

Sugar. Coffee. And sugar. Drip coffee with too much sugar. I never really drink coffee. Unless it is very late at night. Or very early in the morning. And I am having some sort of insightful conversation with you or you or you.

Then. And only then. Do I drink coffee. Drip coffee. Drip coffee with too much sugar. I stopped measuring the sugar a long time ago. I just pick up the container and pour. And most people stare a bit. Sometimes an eyebrow is raised. But it all dissolves so I figure it must not be that much. When I reach the point that the sugar no longer dissolves. Then I will worry.

Uh. Yeah. Anyway.

So I am drinking my coffee-sugar mixture or sugar-coffee mixture if you prefer. As it is early in the morning. And when I say early in the morning. I really mean late at night. For I have not yet slept and I do not define a day as officially complete until I have slept.

So I am sitting. And I know my alarm clock will be chiming in but a few hours. Yet I sit. Drinking coffee with my friend. The Piscean Musician. He is yawning. And quiet.

And for a moment I sit in silence with him. It is a comfortable silence. Sometimes silence is not comfortable. But I enjoy silent moments with this particular friend. Although I would say they are rare as we both have so much to say. So I really want to enjoy my sugary coffee and this silence. But I cannot do this because I am compelled.

I am compelled because I know that my very talented friend is not aware of the extent of his talent. And I cannot merely sit here. Drinking coffee and sugar in silence. Not until he knows.

And as I am writing these words. I cannot help but wonder. If telling the world that my friend does not know the extent of his talent will in some way embarrass him. I do not think that I am outing him in some bizarre fashion. This does not seem to be some mysterious discovery that only I have made. I believe this is a well known fact. And therefore. I do not feel guilty about said post. However. I am willing to be corrected. If need be. Until then. Please allow me to continue.

So I am attempting to explain the fact that I believe he has something wonderful and unique to offer the world. And perhaps he believes me. I am not quite sure. Maybe he thinks I am merely being kind. Perhaps he believes that I am merely trying to get into his pants. He is a musician after all. And isn't that what women do.

It is entirely possible that he knows that I am in fact sincere. And serious as a heart attack. Which might be right around the corner if I continue to drink this coffee sugar concoction.

My friend is a humble man. In in between sips of sweetness I think I see a glimmer of understanding in his left eye. And then I realize that it is just the far too bright grungy hipster pseduo-diner lighting bouncing off of his teaspoon. Neatly placed on top of his napkin. So I continue. I wax and wane. Wane and wax. Sometimes I over talk such things thinking that if I merely continue I will find the perfect words. And a flickering of light will occur. Then everything will be illuminated. And then. I realize something.

I realize that. Everything that I am saying to my friend. Every ounce of wisdom that I am imparting. Each syllable that I utter is filled with information that is not only meant for him. But also for me. Through my words to him. I am giving myself. The advice I so desperately need.

Funny how that happens.

The Piscean Musician was my most willing subject in the first photography shoot of my current project. And I have been stumbling through this project. Recently I understood. I understood everything.

So I tell him that I was in the darkroom. Printing away. I was working on printing a few photographs I took of him in his bathtub. And I was pleased. Tickled in fact. And then I realized. I began to develop a sense as to where this project is going. I thought I knew. Actually. I knew that I didn't know. I had no idea where the idea came from as it was nothing like anything I had ever attempted. So I dove in. I did not try to examine the origins of the idea. I dove in. Confused. And unsure. I dove in and began to realize. It wasn't really what I thought at all. It is becoming less and less about bathtubs. And more and more about identity.

And I now know that I want to push the ways in which we view identity. I have always been obsessed with this notion. And now I am examining identity in an entirely different way. I realize that my tongue-in-cheek project is merely the beginning. And now I understand that it had to begin here. In order to get there. And I am hoping to get there soon. But I have more work to do here first. And I know this.

I am stirring the sugar in. And I know that I do not need any more coffee. Sleep will not come easy tonight. In this moment. I see that I need to begin to view things in a different way. Maybe. Perhaps I am too hard on myself. And perhaps we all are too hard on ourselves. Well. Some of us.

So. We are driving. Over the Fremont Bridge. And he asks me if I am a perfectionist.

Yes. I am.

Me too.

And in this moment I understand. I am not alone in this space. This place of self doubt. Even one of the most talented individuals I know is in this place. At least sometimes. And I wonder if we continue. If we all began to share such things with each other. Sharing our insecurities and doubt. Speaking openly about our fear. Communicating all of these things. With each other. Around the world. I wonder if perhaps we might be able to turn everything inside out. So that we are all on the other side of all things that hold us back. Leaving it all behind.

Photographer Schmatographer

2006-01-12T15:05:00.000-08:00

So. I guess it is finally time that I admit something. It is not easy for me to admit things. Well. Some things I admit very well. For example. I do not experience any difficulty when it is time for me to admit that I am always right. However this may be due to the fact that you all are aware of this as a fundamental truth.

Seriously. My point. Admitting stuff. Here we go. And you may be wondering why I feel the need to admit what I am about to admit. It may already be clear to some of you. In fact. Many of you have described me in such a manner. I have posted information about what I am about to admit. In a previous post or two or thirty. And I have probably talked your ear off about it if you have spoken with me for more than five minutes. Still. I feel the need to admit it now. So here we go. I am going to do it. I am going to admit it. Once and for all.

I am a photographer.

There. I said it. Wow. That was tough. I didn't think I was actually going to get that out. Please do not make me say it again. It was difficult enough the first time. What. I have to say it again. But what if I don't want to say it again. Damn this is a tough crowd. Fine. I will. I will say it again.

I am a photographer.

And why is it so difficult for me to admit such things. It seems curious. Since. Well. Uh. How about for the umpteen reasons posted above. So what gives. Why am I suddenly admitting something so seemingly strange to admit. Something that most of you already know in some form. What is up with this whole stating the obvious thing.

Well. Maybe it is because I do not believe it.

Huh. What. You don't believe it.

Yeah. I know. But I don't. Not really. I do not believe it. Or I did not believe it. But I think I do now. I mean. Well. I just admitted it so I guess I must believe it. Maybe. I just might.

It is a considerable amount of pressure. What hidden implications exist in such an identity. Photographer. It is as if the notion of wearing the photography label someone implies that you know what the hell you are doing.

And sometimes I do not know what the hell I am doing. What if I suck. What if I suck at photography. How can I justify the label photographer then. Worse. What if I suck at photography. And I do not even know how bad I suck. In these not knowing kinds of situations. It is implied that everyone else on the entire planet knows how bad I suck.

It is like one of those dreams. You're running. Or you are trying to run. But it's like you're running through molasses. You cannot get here or there or away. You cannot run. It is not much different. Except it is. This is...uh...real. Not a dream.

She's no photographer. Whisper Whisper. Her photographs are terrible. What a hack. Whisper Whisper. I could take a much better photograph than that garbage.

Nevertheless. I have said it. Well. I have placed it in print. Uh. Sort of print. You get the idea.

So. I am a photographer. True. And tomorrow I will forget. Tomorrow I will no longer believe that I am a photographer. Tomorrow I will consider myself a half-assed hack again. And I do not say any of these things as a way of seeking out confirmation that I do not suck. I am not fishing for compliments. In fact. I cannot recall the last time I did any actual fishing. But I believe it may very well have been 1979.

So. What I am saying is this isn't about something I need from you. It is about me. Actually. It is about us. It is about our own self-doubt. Our internal critic. That voice that tells us that we are or are not.

So today. I am a photographer. And maybe. If I am lucky. Tomorrow. I will be a photographer as well.

May I Please Have the Honesty with a Side of Something Splendid

2006-01-09T23:14:00.000-08:00

Wouldn't it be great if we were all a bit more honest with one another. Well. Wouldn't it. I think it would. And I have learned something. The something I have learned with respect to this topic is that everyone and I mean everyone because I do not know an anyone who does not fit into this everyone generalization. Everyone always seems to say "wouldn't it be great if we were all a bit more honest with one another" or some sort of permutation of that sentiment.

So why aren't we more honest with one another. And more important. Why aren't we more honest with ourselves.

This is curious. We all seem to want something. Honesty. Yet we seem to be unable to attain said something. Perhaps this means that we do not really want this thing. With said aforementioned thing being honesty. Or maybe we only want it as long as we are able to receive honesty in exactly the way we want to receive it. And what I mean is I think that we want others to be honest with us provided that they tell us exactly what we want to hear.

And this never ever happens.

Yes. We know this never ever happens or we are afraid that it will never ever happen and so we convince ourselves that we do not really want honesty. But at the same time we are unable to admit that we do not really want honesty.

Perhaps we believe that the fantasy that we have created in our mind is better. However. I will be the first one to admit. And I now know that I am not alone in this admittance. Thank you very much for admitting this tendency by the way. And you know who you are. But I will not out you here. Anyway. I am admitting. Yes. I am admitting that when I do not know something that I want to know I will create whatever it is I want to know in my mind. I will not only create whatever it is I want to know in my mind. I will create the worst possible scenario. The most insane fantastical situation. An explanation that it most unpleasant. And if this is true. Then why in the world wouldn't I and others want honesty. For it surely must be better than the horrific tale my imagination is able to conjure up. But perhaps we believe that our horrific tale might in fact be true. And so we do not really want to know for sure. Therefore. We do not really want honesty.

Yet we pretend to continue to want honesty. And then everything gets all fucked up. Why does it get fucked up. Simple. Or not so simple. At any rate. I will provide an example to explain. If you tell me that you crave honesty. Real old-fashioned handmade no preservatives added honesty. I will be honest in such a manner. Or at least I will make every possible attempt to be honest in such a manner. But you do not really want me to be honest. You actually want me to tell you XYZ. And I cannot tell you XYZ. Because you have not told me anything about XYZ. I do not know that you are even thinking about anything remotely related to XYZ. Or maybe I do know. And I cannot tell you XYZ due to this honesty that you say you crave. So when I speak to in the manner of the old-fashioned no preservatives added honesty. You become upset. And I might very well know that you are upset. Yet I will not understand. Most likely it will be because I haven't addressed XYZ. Because I do not know that is what you want me to address. Yet I will not be aware of the fact that this is why you are in fact. Upset. Confusion will set in. Hence. Everything will get all fucked up.

I have been there. So have you. More likely than not on both sides of the equation.

And here is what I know. I know that I do not want to "be there" anymore. Not with you or anyone else. I do not want to be on either side of the equation. And this isn't to say that I will probably ever stop wanting to hear what I want to hear. For I am equally guilty of this tendency. But I would rather hear something that is honest. Perhaps we fear that honesty will always be negative. And this is not true. Nothing can always be negative. The world simply does not work in this way. Perhaps the honesty. If we were to permit ourselves to speak it and to hear it. Would be better than whatever it was we wanted to hear that prevented us from honesty in the first place.

See. It's confusing.

So I have made this pact. Mostly it is a pact with myself. However I mentioned said pact in passing to a friend recently. The same aforementioned friend who admitted to creatively creating answers to unspoken questions. I do not know if said friend knew that I was completely serious about said pact. But the pact is simple. I vow to be more honest in my relationships with everyone I know. And everyone I sort of know. Even with those of you that I do not know. I will be more honest. And I sincerely hope that you will do the same with me.

As an aside. But not exactly a digression. I am reminded of a statement made by my very wise friend. He once told me that if you want something you must "ask for it by name" and he is correct. This is the heart of this honesty thing. How can I possibly know what you want unless you ask for it by name. And how can I possibly know that you know what I want unless I ask for it by name. But I am guilty. Guilty of not asking for it by name. In fact. I have probably not asked for it by name recently. Perhaps we are afraid that if we ask for it by name we will be rejected. And rejection. Well. That is most certainly a topic for an entirely separate post.

But I was talking about a pact. I said that I was going to be more honest with you and that I expected the same in return. And why do I say "more" honest. Simple. I do not believe it is necessary to be one hundred percent completely honest about everything. I am certainly not going to go up to a complete stranger and say something mean just because it is a thought I happen to be having at the time. No. I am talking about honest about the things that really matter. And we all know what these things are so I do not feel the need to make a list.

I have always thought that I was a fairly honest person. Perhaps it is my east coast bluntness. It often startles people when I say things in such a straightforward manner. But I know that I have moments in which I do not speak about things that are important. I do not often share my feelings easily. And I am fairly skilled at avoiding.

As of late I have had some rather polar experiences. I have experienced communication challenges with individuals that were confusing enough to propel me into a killing spree. And I have experienced amazing moments of communication. Moments of intimacy that were deeply honest and in experiencing such uh...experiences I understood. I understood that I cannot accept anything less from myself or from others in my life. And I will not. This does not mean that people always communicate with one another easily. We all stumble. And there are things that we do not always feel comfortable communicating. But perhaps when we are stumbling we can simply explain that we are in a stumbling moment. If there are things we cannot easily discuss we can share that our comfort level has been reached. And most importantly. If there are things that we must say we can find the courage to say them.

We never know what life will bring. And so I wish for myself and for you the courage to develop such honesty and enact it in your life. I wish for myself and for you the courage to always ask for it by name. In other words. I suppose what I am saying is that. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow. And I could be instantly killed. Or I might be in a permanent vegetative state. In which case I would hope that one of you will pull the plug. Quickly. But I digress. So. Where was I. Oh yes. I could be hit by a bus tomorrow. And then. You would all feel guilty. Guilty for not telling me how amazing you think I am and how much you love me. So what you are waiting for. And really. What in the world are we all waiting for.

* Credit to my very wise friend for the phrase "ask for it by name" which I could not have created if I tried. And special thanks for reminding me to use said phrase. Even though I seem to "forget" to use it when it is often most in need of being used.

Inspiration Contemplation and Self Deprecation

2006-01-08T13:27:00.000-08:00

Last night. I was. Inspired.

For those of you that know me. You know that I have been obsessed. Obsessed with the Secret Chiefs 3. And last night. Secret Chiefs 3 played a show in Seattle. Let me just explain that this show. Blew my fucking mind. In a way that I cannot even begin to articulate in this moment. And perhaps the moment does not need articulation. Those present may. Very well. Understand. Not to mention that Trey Spruance worked his own merchandise table. Well. I suppose I did just mention it so I do not know why I utilized the phrase "not to mention" when I was mentioning. The point. He did. And. Well. I may need a moment to compose myself. Or two.

So. After the performance. I felt somehow renewed. Inspired in such a way that. All of the concerns that have washed over me. In the past week. Seemed to. Not so much vanish. But not feel so concerning. Anymore.

You see. I have been feeling a tad bit frustrated as of late. Some time ago I decided to push myself out of my comfort zone. It was time. I had an idea for a photography project. Different than anything I have attempted in the past. And I began this project. Not really having any idea as to what in the hell I was doing. So I began. And let me just say that I am learning. But not. Fast. Enough.

So I have been. Frustrated. And I realize that life is all about making mistakes. In order to learn and grow and evolve. This is essential. And the only way to make said mistakes is to. Try new things. Different things. Things that you do not know. So. That is what I have been doing.

And this means. That I have been. Stumbling.

If I am going to truly learn and grow and evolve. The way I want to learn and grow and evolve. Then I must admit something. Right here. Right now. I must admit it. That I have had this tendency to do things that I know how to do. To do things that I do well. And to in some way avoid those things that I do not know how to do. Well.

Or completely avoid said things by any means necessary. Avoidance. I think my next post will pontification on avoidance. Anyway.

It isn't that I am not a risk taker. But. Perhaps. In some way. I am afraid to fail. So I avoid things. Things that I know I do not know.

But here is the thing. And perhaps why this is so difficult.

I have the most amazingly creative and talented and supportive friends that anyone could possible dream of having. In so many ways I have had the privilege of meeting and knowing the most beautiful people. They inspire me. And at the same time I wonder if anything that I am working on can ever measure up.

Measure up. Measure up to what. I do not really understand why I feel such a need to do whatever it is I am going to be doing at expert level. Particularly if it is something that I have not previously attempted. This clearly cannot be the case. Yet. That feeling. Lingers. Perhaps I am not as tough as I thought.

It is not easy to place pieces of yourself out there in the universe. But I think that it is essential. I believe that we all must place pieces of ourselves into the universe. This is intimacy. Real intimacy that often does not exist between people. Among humanity. It is in these beautiful intimate moments that we see and hear and taste and touch and smell everything. These small intimate moments. Moments of utmost simplicity. Moments that are life altering.

It is in these moments that we find everything we could possibly need. And in the sharing of these moments that we realize the connectedness of humanity. Everything becomes clear.

And I know that in this moment. My life is traveling in a necessary direction. I am encountering people that I am meant to encounter. As we always do encounter those people we are meant to encounter. But it is beautiful when we can see the reason that we were meant to share a moment. When we know exactly why such interactions take place. Yet. At the same time. We must be open to the possibility that there are reasons that might not always be so apparent. Reasons that we could not. Imagine.

So. I am pressing on. Pushing through. Against wind and fire and smoke. And I know that I will be better for it. In the end. I encourage you all to do the same.

Provoking Someone's Eye Out

2005-12-31T16:21:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-29T14:41:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-29T14:26:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-28T07:58:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-26T15:37:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-26T00:32:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-21T23:54:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-20T16:33:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-15T16:31:00.000-08:00

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

2005-12-09T15:49:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-12-06T15:27:00.000-08:00

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.

Assumptions of Appendage Action

2005-11-26T09:22:00.000-08:00

So the other day I am leaving my office. And I get on the bus to go home. And it's one of those smaller busses. My route typically has some of that big ass reticulated double bus action during commuter hours.

But not on this day.

So now bunches-o-people are trying to cram themselves in a bus half the size of what is typical for this particular time and day and place and space and so on and so forth. So we did what anyone trying to get their asses home would do. Shoe horn ourselves in and hold on and hope for the best.

And I'm standing because we now live in a world where men no longer offer their seats to women because we are all "equal" and shit even though we still only make $0.74 on the dollar compared to the average male wage.

But I'm not bitter or anything.

So I'm standing. And I'm fine with this because I have some serious bus surfing skills. We're stuffed into this bus like a can of sardines. Well, I assume we're like a can of sardines. I can't really say, because it's been a long time since I've been in the vicinity of a can of sardines, but I imagine that a can of sardines can't have changed all that much since the last time I saw one. And I don't really remember when I last saw a can of sardines. And I guess it doesn't really matter, because now I'm totally off topic. And this is a perfect example of the tangential nature of my communication and why it is necessary for you to direct the path on occasion.

So what I'm saying is that there is just no way not to be close to other people on the bus in these circumstances. You're all packed together in some sort of bus goo and that's just the way it is. There are things you just have to accept and deal with in these situations. You pretty much expect to get bumped and knocked and such. So I'm standing and I'm thinking. I'm thinking about how I need to clean my bathroom. And I'm humming this little tune that's been running through my head as of late. And life is good.

And then it happens. I'm just standing and thinking about Dow Scrubbing Bubbles and humming in my head and it happens. I feel something.

And at first I didn't pay much attention.

And then I feel it again. I tried to pretend I was imagining things. But I couldn't. This time it was unmistakable.

Someone touched my butt.

And in case my words seem vague, let me clarify this for everyone. SOMEONE on the bus TOUCHED MY BUTT. And if that wasn't bad enough, I think, although I cannot be certain, that someone on the bus touched my butt with a part of their anatomy that was quite possibly NOT their hand.

Eww. Let me just say that again. Eww.

And the worst part of this whole situation was the fact that I had no idea who did it. You might be wondering how it is possible not to know who just TOUCHED YOUR BUTT with a non-hand appendage, but I didn't know. I didn't have a clue. And the prospects were not looking good.

Now let me say that it wouldn't have mattered who was touching my butt, assuming all strangers are created equal. For a stranger touching my butt in a public place with a non-hand appendage, or any appendage for that matter, is just too creepy for me. I have my own set of kinks which I will not discuss here and now because that would be so off topic that I don't think I could find my way back. And I would guess that I have just as many kinks and such as the next grrrl, but I'm really not down with the unsolicited stranger non-hand appendage butt touching on the bus thing.

And if you are down with the unsolicited stranger non-hand appendage butt touching on the bus thing, that's great. I'm not being judgmental. It's just not for me. My biscuit does not get buttered by the unsolicited stranger non-hand appendage butt touching on the bus thing.

Now I realize that my butt tends to be out there in the world taking up space more than most and therefore, it sometimes get in the way. I understand this. Really, I do. But this does not mean that I WANT YOU TO TOUCH IT! Good grief, I mean if you want to touch my butt, you could at least have the decency to ask.

"Excuse me Miss, may I please touch your butt?"

I might spit in your eye, but at least I would have respect for you for having the decency to ask. I'm a sucker for folks who are polite. Oh yeah. Polite is sexy. Unsolicited stranger non-hand appendage butt touching on the bus without even having the decency to ask first is not so much sexy.

So let me just say as an aside that If any of you currently reading this have an overwhelming desire to touch my butt, with or without a non-hand appendage, I promise not to spit in your eye if you ask me first. I might kick you, but I will not spit in your eye.

Direct Line to the Lord

2005-11-22T09:10:00.000-08:00

So you should all know by now. Strange things happen to me. Let me provide yet another example in the never ending list of strange encounters that I experience in life. Last Saturday night I was standing on the corner of First and Pine. Perhaps it was Pike. I never can seem to remember if it is Pike or Pine. Pine or Pike. I suppose it doesn't really matter, because no one else can ever seem to distinguish the two either. I do know that Pine is north of Pike. Northern pine. Get it. Aren't I clever. Nevertheless, this still does not help me determine where the hell I am at any given moment in the Pike Pine vicinity.

But I digress.

So I'm standing on the corner of First and Pike or Pine or Pike and I'm waiting for the bus to go home after a thoroughly entertaining evening with thoroughly entertaining friends. It's like that. This bus waiting thing. Waiting. And I'm minding my own business. And then it happens.

Someone attempts to speak to me.

And in case you were wondering, this is exactly what I want to happen at one o'clock in the freakin' morning while I am waiting for the bus. I want to speak to strangers at this hour. That makes me feel special. It makes me feel like I am loved and wanted. It makes me think that perhaps a good friend of mine has a point when he talks about wanting to purchase a taser. Okay not so much, but you get the idea. So this guy approaches me and begins to speak to me in Spanish. I know a little bit of spanish. Un poco. Enough to know that I don't know what the hell he is talking about. And I am able to explain to him in Spanish that I don't really speak Spanish and I don't have a clue.

I'm thinking about this and I'm realizing that it probably would have been much more convincing to tell him in English that I don't really speak Spanish. There's that hindsight thing again. Always creeping up on you when you least expect it.

Where was I. Oh yes. Yes. Now I remember.

So this guy who decides he must talk to me at one o'clock in the freakin' morning asks me if I am Mexican. In case any of you were wondering, I am not Mexican. This isn't the first time that someone has asked me if I am Mexican. However, it might be the first time that someone has asked me if I am Mexican at one o'clock in the morning while I am waiting for the bus in downtown Seattle.

Are you noticing a bit of a theme here folks. Good. You're smarter than I thought. Well, some of you are. I hope the rest of you are at the very least damn cute. You've got to work what you've got to work with. But this is not the point.

So I'm feeling like this is the typical one o'clock in the morning waiting for the bus pick up line. Because let's face it, what womyn doesn't want to be hit on at one o'clock in the morning while waiting for the bus in downtown Seattle. But I was wrong. This gentleman wasn't merely trying to hit on me. However I was not aware of this at this particular point and time in the story.

And I'm getting ahead of myself. So let me just continue on with the story. When we last left our hero, she was waiting for the bus at one o'clock in the morning and she was about to hear the line. You know the one. That question that men ask. And it is usually not a good sign. Because no one that I might want to ask ever does ask. Unless of course they are being amusing and sarcastic because they have already heard the story that I am about to relay. And then it's kind of cute. But that doesn't really count. That isn't the kind of "bad sign questioning" I am referring to. No, not at all. And you will see exactly what I mean in a moment. Patience my dear friends, patience.

So back to my story. Here we go. Then he asks the question. Oh you know what question I'm talking about. Yep. He asked it.

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

Now I've got to give the guy credit for being so bold at one o'clock in the morning while waiting for the bus in downtown Seattle, but how am I really supposed to answer this question. I've never been one of those womyn that lie to men about these things. I've never given a fake phone number. I don't let men I don't know buy me drinks so that I can either a.) feel good about myself, or b.) drink for free. That shit just isn't me folks, but most of you already know this about me. However, if you are a man I do know and you would like to buy me a drink, by all means, bring it. As long as it's not a forty of PBR. Nevertheless, what I am saying I suppose, is that I am not one of those grrrls. I'm fairly blunt, but not to the point of hurting people's feelings. I don't usually bullshit people. Unless it's work related. But that doesn't really count.

Okay, as a side note, I'm actually a big freakin' sap. The truth is out. Fine. Are you happy now. Well are you. Wait. What was I talking about again. Oh yeah, I remember. Nevermind.

So he asks the question and something tells me to lie. And it isn't the screaming fluorescent LIE sign blinking in front of me. No, it was something else. So I tell him that I do in fact have a boyfriend. I have lots of friends that are boys so I can easily justify this lie. And I'm trying quickly to think of a name of one of you just in case he asks. Do you see, this is the problem with lying in the first place.

And then I realize why I lied.

Dude tells me that he has seen god. Three times. In downtown Seattle no less. That's right. The man has the red hotline phone to the lord and he decided he was going to tell me all about it.

And when I say all about it, I mean ALL about it. Suddenly this man was my new best friend and he decided he would spend the next five or so minutes until the bus arrived describing in full and complete detail, his conversations with the lord. But that's not all folks. I was fortunate enough to ride the bus with this particular gentleman all the way freakin' home. Therefore, if there was any part of his story I missed on the first telling, I would most certainly receive clarification. As well as any additional significant details that he may have forgotten the firs fifty times I got to hear about him meeting the lord.

So for those of you who aren't hip, I thought I would provide you with some information. Here are some things you should know about the lord:

-- The lord has purple eyes. That's right, purple. According to my new pal (I will refrain from using the name he provided to me) god has beautiful purple eyes.

-- God is a pretty big dude. I sort of expected as much. I mean I wouldn't really expect god to be a short guy. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I'm short myself and I tend to have a preference for shorter people. But god ain't short.

-- The lord don't like evil. Okay, you probably already knew this. But maybe what you didn't know is the fact that there is a lot of evil out there. People with money are basically evil. I can't say that I entirely disagree with my new pal on this point.

-- God wears some sort of cream colored outfit and there are some sort of flowers either real or embroidered on his calves. This is a bit more obscure because at this point my pal was speaking in English and Spanish and I couldn't follow a great deal of this description. Maybe he was trying to tell me that god has some sort of flower tattoos on his calves. That would be pretty sweet.

-- The lord got strength. My pal told me that god hugged him and his entire body shook violently because god is a strong man. I suppose this isn't exactly surprising either. I mean it would be a problem if god was kind of a wimp and other folks could kick his ass. You don't get to be god having your ass kicked.

-- God can introduce you to Jesus. Again, probably not surprising. I mean after all Jesus is the son of god so it seems to make sense that such an introduction would be possible. Most parents like to introduce people to their kids. Unless you've got some bad ass anti-christ meth smoking kids. Then maybe not so much. But I'd be willing to bet that most parents can't introduce you to their kid in some ring of smoke like god can. Then again, most parents aren't god.

-- The lord can make some shit happen. If you have seen god and spoken to god and god tells you that you are a good person, then god will probably make some shit happen for you. For example, if you've got some bad stuff in life, god might be willing to give you an extra nod or two. That seems to make sense.

So I basically spoke with my new pal all the way home. And when I say all the way home, I mean all the freakin' way home. As this guy lives in my 'hood, chances are good that I will run into him again. Maybe if I run into him again at one o'clock in the morning, on the corner of First and Pike or Pine or Pike or Pine, he will have more information to provide to me about the lord which I can then relay to you.

Spirals and Shiny things for the Reverend

2005-10-31T16:35:00.000-08:00

I am going to toot my own horn. This is not entirely true, but as you all know, I will segue into something completely different which is of course always the point. But as we must begin in this manner, let us begin with the beginning. Where was I. Ah yes. For all of the grief I get from you people I think you should know how much I rock. And why exactly do I rock you ask. No, you're not asking because you already know. I did the unthinkable.

I helped clean LDS's apartment. No I am not referring to the Latter Day Saints. I am referring to the one and only Reverend B. My dear friend of nine years. Funny story about that friendship. It goes a little something like this...once upon a time I met this phenomenal writer. Back then he was Dr Krazylegs and boy were his legs crazy. We met in the park and he read to me from a Steven Jessie Bernstein book and showed me his artwork and talked about the sunlight shining on my nose.

And I was absolutely terrified. Because I had never in my life met anyone quite like him.

I still haven't. But I am no longer terrified.

And because I am who I am I once tried to run away from this wonderful human being. I ran fast. And I was in better shape in those days so I could really move. I created all sorts of new math to keep distance between us. I told him that I didn't like orange juice and hated reading the Sunday newspaper. I refused to borrow books.

But he never gave up on me. He still hasn't.

And I kept talking and peering around corners and together we dug holes so vast and wide and filled them with beautiful things.

I have now let go of the new math. And yes, I have admitted that I like orange juice. I recently even borrowed a book. And it doesn't matter how crazy I am, he is always lending his support. He is never jealous of other friendships like other folks I have known. He constantly helps me find the balance between not taking myself too seriously and knowing exactly when to take myself seriously. He cares about what I have to say, even when I don't seem to care that much. And he doesn't take any of my bullshit either. Except every once in a while he allows me to think that I have gotten away with something spectacular. He knows that eventually I will get it.

But I digress. We were talking about the once doctor now reverend's apartment that needed cleaning like a hooker needs stiletto heels. For those of you who have seen his apartment you know this is no small task. It was frightening. But I made it through. Alive. Unscathed. No scabies either.

Seriously. This is one of those things. One of those things that I felt so happy to be able to do for someone who has been there despite miscellaneous moments of our own individual insanity. Now of course I probably know much more about this fine young man than I did previously. However I am grateful to see it all in its imperfect perfection. Unless he decides to cut his own hair in the bathroom again. Geesh.

And as I write this, my dear friend is moving. Far. Okay not that far, but pretty damn far. He has a new career ahead of him that will enable him to leave a truly permanent mark on the world. His art will now be seen far and wide. And as saddened as I am by his departure, I couldn't be more proud or more thrilled at how far he has traveled down this wonderfully mysterious road. He will not need luck, but I will think of him when I see the night's first star. I will pause and ponder at wishing wells.

And in this moment, I can only say to him, if that road should require you to travel in twists and turns in cavernous ways, I will be here with a shovel and we can dig our own path below ground. I love you man. Always.

Transportation Conspiracies and Cafe Cubano Catastrophies

2005-09-28T20:34:00.000-07:00

I hate Metro. And let me just pause for a moment. I really hate those folks. Hate. Harsh. Strong. I know. But I must be true to myself and in this trueness one things is clear. I fucking hate Metro.

Some of you are aware of my newly discovered hatred of Metro route number two. Metro route number two allegedly arrives at a set schedule. However, I do not believe it. I have a theory. The Metro route number two schedule was created, fabricated if you will, to convince large groups of people to wait for the route two at specific set intervals. Metro route number two never arrives at these set intervals. The question is simple. What is happening during these periods of time when mass quantities of individuals are waiting for the two?

I do not have the answer.

I believe it is something very very bad. If you have any thoughts or ideas of inside information, please contact me immediately. Especially if you do now or have in the past worked for Metro.

But there is more to this tale. Much more. Last night, something happened.

Last night I discovered a Metro bus route that I despise even more than I despise the two. You may be thinking that this is not possible. Two days ago I may have agreed with you. Now I must assure you that it certainly is possible. The route I now despise more than the two is Metro route thirteen. Is it a coincidence that this route also travels to the top of Queen Anne hill. I think not. What we have is yet another non-schedule schedule conspiracy.

And this is how conspiracy theories are built. On truth. Hard solid fucking evidence people. Solid fucking evidence.

Last night I waited so long for the route thirteen that a muthafuckin' two arrived. That people, is a very long time.

But there's more.

My thirteen-two travels led me to a glorious cup of cafe Cubano. Thick. Rich. Sweet. Dark. All of this coupled with cool breezing. Creative companion. Well fine, tripled then. You get the idea. The two. The thirteen. Lost in my mind.

And then it happened.

Sipping. Sipping. Sipping sweetness.

"this little light of mine"

It couldn't be. Not here. Not now.

"I'm gonna let it shine"

But it was happening. It was happening badly. And it was too late.

"this little light of mine"

I sat paralyzed.

"I'm gonna let it shine"

I could not speak. I could not make a sound.

"this little light of mine"

I could not even blink.

"I'm gonna let it shine"

I was screwed.

"let it shine, let it shine, let it shine"

I'm not really sure why this happened. This horrible man was singing. Someone gave him a microphone. It was the worst rendition of the song I had ever heard. At a Cuban themed coffee house. It was decidedly inappropriate. It was a head on collision. I didn't want to look. But I couldn't stop myself. And then. I wished I hadn't.

As I walked down Queen Anne hill -- for I certainly wasn't going to tempt fate twice in the same evening by waiting for the two or the thirteen -- I began to do something I do not typically do. I began to hum.

"this little light of mine"

Oh shit.

I hummed all the way down the hill. I hummed while waiting for a non-two non-thirteen bus that typically does arrive on time. I hummed while getting on the bus. I hummed on the bus. I hummed while getting off the bus. I hummed while walking home. I hummed going up the steps to my door. I was still humming while I walked into the foyer. Glanced at the junk mail. Humming.

I have now come to believe that there is a strong and significant connection between Metro route number two, thirteen and "This Little Light of Mine."

If anyone can shed light on the above, please contact me immediately.

"let it shine, let it shine, let it shine"

Lock 'Em Up then Drown 'Em

2005-09-23T13:31:00.000-07:00

Before you begin reading the article I have posted, I find it necessary to put this information into the proper context for everyone. One moment while I climb onto my soap box.

As you are reading, please keep in mind that not every individual housed in a jail has been convicted of a crime. Many are accused, but unable to afford bail and therefore, must remain in custody until their case is resolved. NOT that this should make any difference, but it is interesting to note that not only were these individuals incarcerated while they were "presumed innocent" under our legal system, but additionally, they were left alone, locked in these facilities to die like so much unwanted garbage.

When the filmakers begin to complete their work in documenting the horrific tragedies that have occurred recently in our country, perhaps they will be able to save money on production by lifting footage directly from the movie Titanic. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

New Orleans: Prisoners Abandoned to Floodwaters

Officers Deserted a Jail Building, Leaving Inmates Locked in Cells

(New York, September 22, 2005) — As Hurricane Katrina began pounding New Orleans, the sheriff's department abandoned hundreds of inmates imprisoned in the city’s jail, Human Rights Watch said today.

Inmates in Templeman III, one of several buildings in the Orleans Parish Prison compound, reported that as of Monday, August 29, there were no correctional officers in the building, which held more than 600 inmates. These inmates, including some who were locked in ground-floor cells, were not evacuated until Thursday, September 1, four days after flood waters in the jail had reached chest-level.

“Of all the nightmares during Hurricane Katrina, this must be one of the worst,” said Corinne Carey, researcher from Human Rights Watch. “Prisoners were abandoned in their cells without food or water for days as floodwaters rose toward the ceiling.”

Human Rights Watch called on the U.S. Department of Justice to conduct an investigation into the conduct of the Orleans Sheriff's Department, which runs the jail, and to establish the fate of the prisoners who had been locked in the jail. The Louisiana Department of Public Safety and Corrections, which oversaw the evacuation, and the Orleans Sheriff’s Department should account for the 517 inmates who are missing from the list of people evacuated from the jail.

Carey spent five days in Louisiana, conducting dozens of interviews with inmates evacuated from Orleans Parish Prison, correctional officers, state officials, lawyers and their investigators who had interviewed more than 1,000 inmates evacuated from the prison.

The sheriff of Orleans Parish, Marlin N. Gusman, did not call for help in evacuating the prison until midnight on Monday, August 29, a state Department of Corrections and Public Safety spokeswoman told Human Rights Watch. Other parish prisons, she said, had called for help on the previous Saturday and Sunday. The evacuation of Orleans Parish Prison was not completed until Friday, September 2.

According to officers who worked at two of the jail buildings, Templeman 1 and 2, they began to evacuate prisoners from those buildings on Tuesday, August 30, when the floodwaters reached chest level inside. These prisoners were taken by boat to the Broad Street overpass bridge, and ultimately transported to correctional facilities outside New Orleans.

But at Templeman III, which housed about 600 inmates, there was no prison staff to help the prisoners. Inmates interviewed by Human Rights Watch varied about when they last remember seeing guards at the facility, but they all insisted that there were no correctional officers in the facility on Monday, August 29. A spokeswoman for the Orleans parish sheriff’s department told Human Rights Watch she did not know whether the officers at Templeman III had left the building before the evacuation.

According to inmates interviewed by Human Rights Watch, they had no food or water from the inmates' last meal over the weekend of August 27-28 until they were evacuated on Thursday, September 1. By Monday, August 29, the generators had died, leaving them without lights and sealed in without air circulation. The toilets backed up, creating an unbearable stench.

“They left us to die there,” Dan Bright, an Orleans Parish Prison inmate told Human Rights Watch at Rapides Parish Prison, where he was sent after the evacuation.

As the water began rising on the first floor, prisoners became anxious and then desperate. Some of the inmates were able to force open their cell doors, helped by inmates held in the common area. All of them, however, remained trapped in the locked facility.

“The water started rising, it was getting to here,” said Earrand Kelly, an inmate from Templeman III, as he pointed at his neck. “We was calling down to the guys in the cells under us, talking to them every couple of minutes. They were crying, they were scared. The one that I was cool with, he was saying ‘I'm scared. I feel like I'm about to drown.' He was crying.”

Some inmates from Templeman III have said they saw bodies floating in the floodwaters as they were evacuated from the prison. A number of inmates told Human Rights Watch that they were not able to get everyone out from their cells.

Inmates broke jail windows to let air in. They also set fire to blankets and shirts and hung them out of the windows to let people know they were still in the facility. Apparently at least a dozen inmates jumped out of the windows.

”We started to see people in T3 hangin' shirts on fire out the windows,” Brooke Moss, an Orleans Parish Prison officer told Human Rights Watch. “They were wavin' em. Then we saw them jumping out of the windows . . . Later on, we saw a sign, I think somebody wrote `help' on it.”

As of yesterday, signs reading “Help Us,” and “One Man Down,” could still be seen hanging from a window in the third floor of Templeman III.

Several corrections officers told Human Rights Watch there was no evacuation plan for the prison, even though the facility had been evacuated during floods in the 1990s.

“It was complete chaos,” said a corrections officer with more than 30 years of service at Orleans Parish Prison. When asked what he thought happened to the inmates in Templeman III, he shook his head and said: “Ain't no tellin’ what happened to those people.”

“At best, the inmates were left to fend for themselves,” said Carey. “At worst, some may have died.”

Human Rights Watch was not able to speak directly with Orleans Parish Sheriff Marlin N. Gussman or the ranking official in charge of Templeman III. A spokeswoman for the sheriff’s department told Human Rights Watch that search-and-rescue teams had gone to the prison and she insisted that “nobody drowned, nobody was left behind.”

Human Rights Watch compared an official list of all inmates held at Orleans Parish Prison immediately prior to the hurricane with the most recent list of the evacuated inmates compiled by the state Department of Corrections and Public Safety (which was entitled, “All Offenders Evacuated”). However, the list did not include 517 inmates from the jail, including 130 from Templeman III.

Many of the men held at jail had been arrested for offenses like criminal trespass, public drunkenness or disorderly conduct. Many had not even been brought before a judge and charged, much less been convicted.

Forthcoming Fecundity on Flirtatiousness

2005-09-10T23:22:00.000-07:00

I've been alive on this planet for some time now. And during these years of being alive on this planet, I have heard many things. Some of these things that I have heard have been quite strange. And when I say strange, I mean very fucking strange. Come on folks, you're all intelligent. Well, not all of you, but I'm willing to give most of you the benefit of the doubt, because I am a positive fucking person and I believe that human beings have a lot of potential, despite what some people may think. Therefore, I firmly believe that you know what strange means. And I don't want to hear any of your philosophical arguments about strange being relative and blah blah blah. Fucking strange. Figure it out.

At any rate, I have been hearing strange things lately. Many. And I suppose I could talk about all of the strange things I have been hearing. For example, I have heard this wild rumor that there are many many human beings who are suffering or who have lost their lives unnecessarily in our very own country because the powers that be once again have fucked shit up. Those same being powers have found it critically more important to care for the needs of the white and wealthy than the poor and "colored" because they just don't have the lobbying power. I wish I could say I was ready to write about the events in the hurricane ravaged regions of our country. I cannot. For I am far too overcome with anger and grief to form words that would do any justice to those who have articulated before me. No, I will not speak of these things today in this post. However, until I am able to do so, I encourage you all to speak out about this travesty. Speak loudly. It is time that we are finally heard. By any means necessary.

With the above said, I am going to try to segue back to the main topic of this post. That is challenging to do given the serious nature of the topic in the previous paragraph and the non-serious nature of what will follow. However sometimes we need to re-engergize and take a moment to laugh so we can actually do the work necessary in the world to enact change. This is one of those re-energizing moments. Without these moments of laughter, we as a society become paralyzed. I would like to see us collectively end this paralysis, so I will attempt to bring a bit of light hearted humor to a very difficult time. So here we go. I have recently heard another tidbit of information that I have no choice but to label strange information. I have recently been informed of the fact that I am "quite" flirtatious. Now this information was quite a surprise to hear. And I have to wonder if this is some sort of universal opinion. I thought about taking a poll, but then I realized that taking a poll requires effort. I am too lazy for that kind of effort.

And I am forced to ask, but rhetorically of course, can one be too flirtatious. And I say this because if you tell me that I am quite flirtatious, I will automatically assume that you mean too flirtatious. I have been taught to read between the lines. To look through the bullshit and determine what people really mean. Perhaps there is some sort of scale of flirtation that I was not aware of and therefore, I have been breaking the rules. If there is some sort of code book, I would ask that some kind soul please provide it to me. I will happily pay any postage charges incurred in this effort. However, as an aside, this statement does explain quite a bit. Oh no, there's that word again. Quite. It does explain why so many people think I "like them in that way" when I in fact, don't. So I have been provided with this information as of late. And I am pondering it.

I attempted, albeit half-heartedly, to inquire further into this statement. I was curious as to why some people might think that this is in fact true. However my attempt was half-hearted because I also am not quite certain that I actually care if it is in fact true. For I believe, if I am in fact, "quite" flirtatious that this is not exactly a negative. We aren't exactly kind to each other much of the time. People are more isolated now. Community has changed. As June Jordan asked, "where is the love" and while she wasn't exactly referring to flirtatiousness, there is a certain caring about humanity in such actions. Perhaps my flirtatious nature has more to do with the fact that I actually give a crap about people. Stop laughing, you know this is true. Perhaps I am what some call too nice. Too nice. Can one be too nice. I am not certain. I don't think many people are very nice to each other at all. I have not given up on the human being yet. I still hold hope for us. And what is so bad about making people feel good about themselves.

However at the same time, I do not want to be misinterpreted. I do not want to cause concern or confusion. This is turning out to be more of a dilemma than I originally anticipated. Here I thought I was going to relay a bit of tongue in cheek commentary on my alleged flirtatiousness. I inquired about this flirtatious dilemma to a friend. I was informed that I am flirtatious by nature because of my astrological sign. "Gemini's are notorously flirtatious. And fickle." Gee, thanks. Now, not only am I a shameless flirt, but fickle too. I guess I should have kept my big mouth shut.

I will probably continue to ponder this topic. If you have thoughts, please feel free to weigh in. I probably won't care. Wait, of course I will. Perhaps I will have a t-shirt printed with a disclaimer. Warning. Any actions perceived to be a flirtatious act on the part of the wearer may not in fact, be intended as such. These actions include, but are not limited to eye contact, smiling, laughing, baking you cookies, helping you paint your house, taking care of you when you are sick, hugging, kissing, licking, biting, beating you with a riding crop (uh, maybe I'm getting carried away here) or any form of contact, physical, mental, or emotional. The wearer regrets any inconvenience this may cause and is not responsible or liable for any damages to any persons affected directly or indirectly by such actions.

Circular Spirals of Soggy Contemplative Contemplation

2005-08-29T19:33:00.000-07:00

I'm in a contemplative sort of mood. It might be the rain. We haven't really seen rain in a while. Suddenly the sky opened. I think Jimmy Hoffa's body floated down my street yesterday. This is a reminder of what is yet to come. Not Jimmy Hoffa, the rain. Soon. Very soon.

So now the wheels are turning. And getting a bit rusty.

Maybe I should contemplate more. Maybe I should contemplate less. Maybe I should set my alarm clock. I am reminded of a Zen koan that is something to the effect of, "if you've eaten your rice, then wash your bowl." The idea is that we should live in the present moment. Right here. No here. This moment. This one. Now. This little tiny moment. Oops, no this one. Even more specifically, it could be said that we should let go of all of the other moments that we simultaneously live and re-live in our mind.

We need to let go of living and re-living and just live. This moment. Right here. Nope, this one. Right now. This little teeny tiny moment. This delicious little piece of a moment. Here. Now.

I don't think that we -- and of course I am using the collective we -- are very good at living in the present moment. It's damn hard. The moment keeps shifting. Changing. Moving. Changing again. We have expectations and fears and creepy crawly bump in the night ideology. However I do believe we -- here we go again -- are very good at living in every single solitary other moment, including moments that do not now, never have, and never will exist. These non-existent moments tease us. Tantalize us. Draw us into their non-existent existence. Like a spiral. And we like it. Hate it. Simultaneously. And there is something beautiful about the realization of the liking and the hating and the contradiction. The journey. No, I'm not talking about the band or Steve Perry. That would be a capital J, but I'm not sure they deserve it.

And I must confess, I love using the proverbial we. The collective we. I won't put we in quotes. It would seem too pretentious. I love this collective we because it depersonalizes whatever I happen to be saying in any given moment. It is philosophical rather than actual. I can detach from the words. The moment. I can hide behind the tangent. Maybe within the tangent. It is mathematical. Sinusoidal. I am outside of the words. The moment. I remain anonymous.

And maybe this is why I write. And maybe this is where I want to remain. But as I have said, I am a contradiction. Long ago a friend of mine once told me that he had spent years trying to get to know me. He spent years trying to get inside some space that he felt was closed. I laughed and told him I was an entry way without a door, but rather consisting of an open space for one to easily walk through, unobstructed. Okay, I know I've never been good at metaphor. If you have a better one, I'm open to hearing it. But I digress. He told me the walls were stone and the guard at the opening was fierce. I guess he wasn't very good at metaphor either. And I disagreed. Even now, I disagree. In actuality, I feel there is often far too much on the page. But that may be because I am rather verbose. Hey, you over there, I heard that!

And what I find most interesting at this moment is the fact that I am relaying this tale on this page. I spread the words out onto the universe like Veganise on whole wheat bread from Great Harvest bakery. Damn they have fine bread. I am rambling like rain water dragging dirt and leaves and the occasional piece of polished glass down uneven alley streets. Completely aware of the fact that I have no point. But having a point, I believe, is completely overrated.

Although I am always curious to hear your point. Well, not you over there, but the rest of you, most definitely.

Revolutionary Ramblings on Restless Rhythm

2005-08-22T21:43:00.000-07:00

"If I lose the light of the sun, I will write by candlelight, moonlight, no light. If I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls. I will write always. I will capture nights all over the world and bring them to you." Henry Rollins

Words. Syllables strung together forming melody like whispers. I am intrigued, entranced, perhaps even a bit obsessed. The written word. The spoken word. Rhythm. Rhythm. Rhythm. I am verbose. It has always been this way. However the sound of words strategically placed. Listening. Listening. Obsession. The sound of words placed forward and backward and sideways gleaning meaning, or not. Yes, I may very well require a twelve step program.

And in this beautiful world of word, language, rhythm, sound, I find a pretense that creates a distortion. An inaccessibility that divides us. I want to unite us through words, through language, melody, rhythm. I write specifically about this with respect to poetry, although I could most certainly argue that that are individuals working in a variety of artistic mediums that carry the same pretense of the "highbrown/lowbrow" debate that I find preposterous and limiting. Please feel free to apply these meanderings to various forms of artist expression. I will not specifically discuss other art forms in this post, although I could. It saddens me that there is a debate about what poetry (and art, see above or have you forgotten already) is and isn't, as if we could or should define and structure language, communication, syllables in this way.

I want all words, all expression, valued and visible. We are gloriously, beautifully flawed as human beings. For one moment, let us embrace this. Value it in ourselves. Value it in others. Listen. Listen. Learn something from our stories. Different. Similar. Our imperfections shining brightly. Embrace the perfection of our imperfection. Laugh at our contradictions. Breathe in and out. For a moment, let us stop being so fucking frightened all of the time. Let us let go of "what if" and simply do, live, be present, accept the beauty in small moments.

Poetry is not meant merely for the printing of words on pages of ground up pressed and polished former trees, to be lost in dusty literary journals, but rather, we should post our words on government buildings, display phrases in bathroom stalls, plant ideas at the corner bus stop. I want to find words on parking meters, phrases on fire hydrants. Let us write our words in chalk on sidewalks, and write new words when the rain washes them away.

This can begin with you.

Bitch Slappin' Negativity

2005-03-07T21:43:00.000-08:00

I am finding that I have been meeting a lot of negative people lately. Where do they come from anyway? I used to think it was the abundance of rain in Seattle, but we haven't had much rain as of late. It must be something else. Maybe it's me, because it is, afterall, ALL about ME isn't it?

Seriously though, what is up with the negativity? This is not a rhetorical question people. Now this is not to imply that my middle name is Pollyanna. It isn't. I am quite skilled at complaining about this or that or the other thing. I am also prone to exaggeration, but that is merely for my own amusement. It seems that everyone I have been meeting as of late is not only always complaining, but they are downright miserable "oh woe is me-ing" all over the shitdamnmotherfucking place.

I mean really, just because I don't have any other color in my wardrobe except black, doesn't mean I'm a negative person. I'm not. Quite the contrary. I'm perky. I'm fun. I'm pretty damn cool if I do say so myself. I am also empathetic, but a grrl has got to draw the line at some point. This constant negativity shit is not attractive.

The bizarre thing is that some of these miserable fucks don't really seem to have that much to be miserable about. The one person who has gone through utter hell for the past few years, who SHOULD be fucking miserable, isn't. In fact, she's pretty damn positive under the circumstances. However these other folks, geesh! At least try to fake some happiness people.

Why are people so miserable? Now you know I love you all in Seattle, but I have never met a larger group of miserable and pretentious folks. I'll save further comment about the pretentiousness of Seattle for another post, before Seattelites hunt me down and whip me with some wheatgrass or pho noodles. I'm sure you will all tell me to stop whining, bitch slap a few of these people, and get over it myself. Well before you can even type out the "b" in bitch slap, I assure you, the point has already been noted.

So you all know who you are. I am not your psychotherapist. If you wish me to be, please be advised that my fee is $85/hour, and I require a non-refundable minimum retainer. This is tough love baby.