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.
Friday, December 09, 2005
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
I Have Decided Something. And I'm Not Quite Sure What.
Yes. I have. Let me repeat it once again for all of you. I have decided something and I'm not quite sure what. And this is not to be confused with that classic Christmas tune, "There's Something Stuck Up in the Chimney and I Don't Know What it is." Or maybe it's exactly like that song.
Anyway. I have decided something. Or perhaps I have discovered something. And if I have discovered something, I should make it clear that I do not quite know what I have discovered. It's not a dead animal or the clap. But I'm not quite sure what is up with this discovery stuff. Or this deciding stuff.
And that's not entirely true. But as you all know. I am a Gemini. And that means that I am incredibly tangential. And sometimes I forget where I started. But that isn't really the point. The point is I will most certainly twist and turn and weave throughout the course of post. And you my dear friends are merely along for the ride. I am rambling about everything. And nothing in particular.
Life is interesting. I think we can all agree with that statement. Even the most cynical among us should be able to agree with the word interesting. And it has become quite clear to me that the overwhelming majority of people don't really live life. They exist. Or survive. But they don't live. And so I'm thinking about living and what this really means.
So I went where anyone would go for answer to questions about life. The internet. Actually I was looking for definitions. And I don't have a dictionary in my office. So I checked it and here's what I found on one particular unnamed site. What. Did you think I was going to provide you with a link did you. I am not shamelessly promoting this site. Nope. Anyway. On said unnamed sight, there are seven definitions of live. Not the be confused with the band Live. And I use the term "band" loosely when referring to Live. You all know how I feel about that whole "her placenta falls to the floor" lyric. If that isn't enough to make one an axe murderer, I don't know what is.
Anyway. Defining. To live. Seven defintions. There's your recap. Here we go. So it isn't until I read down to number six that I found this: "to pursure a positive, satisfying existance." And I wonder why I had to travel down through five defintions including to subsist, to exist, and to support onesself before I reached this particular definiton. What does that say about how we view life and why so many people do not really live it. I ponder this.
I have always believed that language shapes the way the think. The way we feel. The way we act. Our world view. This is why I have an obsession with words. The words we choose to use. The string of words we assemble to create phrases. The meanings attached. All of these things influence our thought process. Some might say it is a chicken or egg question. But I believe we (and others) brainwash our Selves a little bit every day because of the way we use language.
I know people that don't have such a word obsession. In fact, I know people that are so unobsessed with words that that communicating with them is similar to my poor attempt at conversing in Spanish with a native speaker. I never know what tense I'm speaking in and you would be amazed at how profoundly that can impact conversation. Or maybe you wouldn't be amazed. The point is simple. We need words. We need language. And communicating with those who are not cognizant of the ways in which language impacts their thought process can be like sticking bamboo under your fingernails while sitting on a hot tin roof.
And let me also say I am tickled that I was able to use the word cognizant in the previous paragraph. Let's say it together shall we. Cognizant. Beautiful.
So back to life and living. Here's a little story. I used to work for Company F. And I won't go into how much I hated working for Company F. But I did. And those of you who know about my Company F experience understand. You know what I am talking about. You know about my daily vomiting sessions that I somehow justified as normal. But the point. Yes. The point. Company F did stuff. This stuff provided treatment for specific terminally ill diseases to specific terminally ill people. And when I say specific as in people, I mean people who could either pay, or who were so poor that they were able to qualify for state medical assistance, which doesn't seem to be anyone anymore. Essentially, we killed these terminally ill people and brought them back to life. Sometimes.
But I digress. As I always do.
So I had this job with Company F and I worked with terminally ill people at Company F and you would have thought that perhaps this experience taught me a little something about living. And you would have thought that the realization that one should not continue to work in an environment that caused them to vomit on a daily basis would have taught said person something about living.
But it didn't.
Because I wasn't ready.
And that happens I suppose. So I continued to work in misery at Company F until I was forceably thrown back into a yin/yang balance. And I understood. Sort of. But I didn't quite learn. Not completely. Until now.
I wonder if sometimes we are presented with lessons that we are not quite ready to chew and swallow and digest so we store them like squirrels storing nuts for winter. And then one day winter arrives. And the lessons are there. Perfectly preserved and waiting to be injested.
Sometimes the lessons are simple. As if we knew the answers all along on some level of consciousness, but we didn't see, smell, feel, taste, or otherwise become intimate with complete clarity.
So life. It's this funny thing.
Recently, I was having a conversation with a very wise friend. This is an individual I have known for a long time through another very wise friend. But we were never really more than casual acquaintenances until recently. So we are talking at the HMG about the role that art plays in one's life. The passion that accompanies the creative process that is as essential as breathing. And the rung it occupies on the ladder of priorities. And I am explaining something about this and he says something in return that almost knocks me to the ground. He inferred. He implied. He basically stated in a way that I could not overlook or ignore, that I am an artist.
The shock. The horror.
But I'm not an artist. I've never called myself an artist. I have many friends that are artists. I call them artists. But not me. An artist. Nope.
And I wonder why I can have such an open and broadly sweeping definition of what art is and what an artist is, but I have never thought of myself as such.
So here I am. Sitting there. At the HMG. In the freakin' cold because my very wise friend is a smoker and I am such a good friend that I will brave said cold for said smoker. No need to thank me. And I realize in this moment all of the things about living that I have forgotten. Or never knew. Things that I have been fighting. For a long fucking time.
Oh come on. You didn't think I could get through a post without a bit of profanity did you.
And I speak of all these things to the very wise friend that introduced me to the very wise former acquaintenance now friend. And he essentially gave me a pat on the back, albeit verbally, and a "good job kid" as he often does when I finally come to accept things that he has been trying to explain to me for the past nine years.
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.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
Assumptions of Appendage Action
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Direct Line to the Lord
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.
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.
Monday, October 31, 2005
Spirals and Shiny things for the Reverend
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.
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.
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