No challenge today, kiddies. Take a break and play outside.
Today has been crammed full of shit, suctioned shut, and filled with more shit. I feel like I am nine knives flying through the air, almost but not just yet hitting their target; was that apparent in the opening?
One thing; I hate it when people give you just enough information so that you can start a task, but just little enough so that you do a bad job of it. (Brace yourselves for some complaining.) I have a temp job. It is quietly beginning to suck the life from the very inside of my bones. The people I work with are nice, I like them as people, honest. However (you knew the however was coming) I posit that spending years in an office job which doesn't greatly challenge the critical thinking skills you developed whilst reading Neitsche in college is BAD in the long run. Okay. This is the thing. We humans, we like to know where we stand in the hierarchical scheme of things. We need to feel like we're better than the people around us so, like Wiley Coyote, we throw grease on the road every chance we get.
So this is what happens. (This is an imaginary scenario, but it plays out about once a day, sometimes more, sometimes less, in my office.) Somebody gives me a task involving contacting people/shuffling through paperwork and logging that contact or paperwork somehow into a database. This is stuff that I'm good at, because I was a monkey in a former life. SO. The task is explained to me and demonstrated. I begin the task, and cruise through the stack of paper on my desk. I take a break and eat a banana, because that's what we monkeys do. Later in the day the task is re-assessed and it's discovered that many of the steps I was supposed to have taken were left out during the explanation phase of the task so now I have to go back and complete all the forgotten steps. But this part of the task is done in a weird "it's kind of your fault because you didn't assume we forgot to explain part of the process" way. Okay, no big deal, I hate feeling like I've messed something up, and I try to throw those feelings off my shoulders because, obviously, I haven't. So I restart the task in earnest, with a new desire to hold myself to exacting grammatical and punctuational (probably not a word) standards, because I enjoy punishing myself for wrongs that I did not commit. Then, usually five minutes later, some other forgotten detail is remembered, and shared with me in the same weird, guilty way.
It is at this point that I lose all propriety and start taking mothafuckas down.
YAR$%@#GHGLYARGH@#$!!!!!!!!!!!
My frustration has been building, and today has been like the culmination of the shit-tasticness of this "interim" period in my work history. Now that I've ranted, I feel better.
Tomorrow I plan on taking out the sailboat I built in my imagination when I was a kid and circumnavigating the globe. There will be so many places to visit and amazing people to meet! Would anyone like to join me?
=/ I feel so very disaffected.
15.2.06
13.2.06
But of all things
truth beareth away the victory. (Engraved on Fairchild Chapel)
************
My father looks remarkably Irish in a suit, especially when he wears his black wool trench coat. The lilting step and mischievous glance stand out against the ridiculous formality of the suit, against the monochromatic backdrop of a frozen Ohio. Walking behind my father and mother, arm in arm, it hits me how important the image is, this silhouette, made stark in contrast with the icy wastes of our northern landscape. He is a study of duality (the man who wears Sponge Bob pajamas is the same man who carried a gun and badge for so many years), and like the long nose and red ears, the duality is one of the traits that he passed on to me and my sisters. I follow him, down the ice-slick road to its end, to the wake of a friend’s father, the impermanence of life sinking in with each carefully placed step.
Someday it will be my father’s wake that we’re lined up for. The thought enters my brain like a dose of poison; my body reacts and forces the image of it from my mind. That day is not this day.
Inside the house at the end of the road there is a huge gathering of people, noise, emotion, alcohol. The day was designed to be a celebration of the life of the father, and most surfaces are lined with years-old photos and memories piled up like so much bric-a-brac. As I look for my friend in the sprawling house I steal a few cursory glances into the pictures that capture him as a child, as the kid I still know, as the only person he will ever be to me. Thin, short and like a fire-cracker, it’s his presence that the film captures, his radiance, not his father’s. I sneak down an empty hall and can’t help but feel guilty for my lack of emotion at his father’s passing. I am not here for the dead, I’m here for the living.
When I find him it strikes me that he’s grown up now, a real man, thick and with a deep voice. When I hug him he fills my arms and squeezes, gently, back. I let go and wonder what it feels like to lose a father who was nothing like my father. I wonder how much the loss hurts him and where. I remember my friend crying behind our garage when Big Kitty died, I remember hugging him, and I wonder where he does his crying now, and whether it’s the girl with all the makeup and hair dye who hugs him. The emotion rises in me now, but it’s not for the father, it’s for my loss – the selfish loss of my place in the life of this friend.
I let myself fold back into the periphery, out of conversation and into the role of observer (which I covet perhaps too much). I scan the enormous room and let my eyes fall on my father, discussing something with a Scotsman, a man who I know he dislikes. There’s the glint in his eye which means he’s passing all kinds of unholy judgment, and there’s that mischievous smile that tells me he’ll give us his comic rendering of their conversation later. My eyes drift left and I see the rest of my family, congregated in front of one of the room’s floor to ceiling windows. Their profiles stand out darkly against the waning sun, lighting their backs with the brilliance of a million lit candles – an image now planted in the most fertile soil in my heart. They are a mountain, I am one of them.
And then the weight of my friend’s loss resounds in the hollow of my chest. Which is the more tragic fate: to lose a family member whom you love intensely, or to never have that love at all?
I pick up my now heavy feet and walk over to my father who looks more Irish than ever with his long ruddy cheeks and easy smile. When I approach, the Scotsman turns to another bystander to initiate stale conversation and my father and I drift back over to the rest of our family. Standing with them, in a room full of mourners, on a desolate winter evening I am home, I am safe, I am surrounded. A feeling crashes down on me which is like all of the hope in the entire world, radiating out of my solar plexus, pulsing, leaving, washing back over me again, transfixing me there in a moment of random perfection on the powder-blue shag rug that belongs to my friend’s mother, the widow. We will never be here again, my family, like this. There is so much convulsive beauty in the knowing of that.
Moments later I have sequestered myself next to the window, looking out on an expansive garden that borders a snowy wood. There is a stand of shaggy Hickory trees not far from the house, and perched upside down on one of them is a diminutive blue jay. Digging for a meal beneath the tough outer bark. The last thought that passes through my mind before we head back into the cold together is that this bleakness is not beautiful to everyone. But it is to me.
************
My father looks remarkably Irish in a suit, especially when he wears his black wool trench coat. The lilting step and mischievous glance stand out against the ridiculous formality of the suit, against the monochromatic backdrop of a frozen Ohio. Walking behind my father and mother, arm in arm, it hits me how important the image is, this silhouette, made stark in contrast with the icy wastes of our northern landscape. He is a study of duality (the man who wears Sponge Bob pajamas is the same man who carried a gun and badge for so many years), and like the long nose and red ears, the duality is one of the traits that he passed on to me and my sisters. I follow him, down the ice-slick road to its end, to the wake of a friend’s father, the impermanence of life sinking in with each carefully placed step.
Someday it will be my father’s wake that we’re lined up for. The thought enters my brain like a dose of poison; my body reacts and forces the image of it from my mind. That day is not this day.
Inside the house at the end of the road there is a huge gathering of people, noise, emotion, alcohol. The day was designed to be a celebration of the life of the father, and most surfaces are lined with years-old photos and memories piled up like so much bric-a-brac. As I look for my friend in the sprawling house I steal a few cursory glances into the pictures that capture him as a child, as the kid I still know, as the only person he will ever be to me. Thin, short and like a fire-cracker, it’s his presence that the film captures, his radiance, not his father’s. I sneak down an empty hall and can’t help but feel guilty for my lack of emotion at his father’s passing. I am not here for the dead, I’m here for the living.
When I find him it strikes me that he’s grown up now, a real man, thick and with a deep voice. When I hug him he fills my arms and squeezes, gently, back. I let go and wonder what it feels like to lose a father who was nothing like my father. I wonder how much the loss hurts him and where. I remember my friend crying behind our garage when Big Kitty died, I remember hugging him, and I wonder where he does his crying now, and whether it’s the girl with all the makeup and hair dye who hugs him. The emotion rises in me now, but it’s not for the father, it’s for my loss – the selfish loss of my place in the life of this friend.
I let myself fold back into the periphery, out of conversation and into the role of observer (which I covet perhaps too much). I scan the enormous room and let my eyes fall on my father, discussing something with a Scotsman, a man who I know he dislikes. There’s the glint in his eye which means he’s passing all kinds of unholy judgment, and there’s that mischievous smile that tells me he’ll give us his comic rendering of their conversation later. My eyes drift left and I see the rest of my family, congregated in front of one of the room’s floor to ceiling windows. Their profiles stand out darkly against the waning sun, lighting their backs with the brilliance of a million lit candles – an image now planted in the most fertile soil in my heart. They are a mountain, I am one of them.
And then the weight of my friend’s loss resounds in the hollow of my chest. Which is the more tragic fate: to lose a family member whom you love intensely, or to never have that love at all?
I pick up my now heavy feet and walk over to my father who looks more Irish than ever with his long ruddy cheeks and easy smile. When I approach, the Scotsman turns to another bystander to initiate stale conversation and my father and I drift back over to the rest of our family. Standing with them, in a room full of mourners, on a desolate winter evening I am home, I am safe, I am surrounded. A feeling crashes down on me which is like all of the hope in the entire world, radiating out of my solar plexus, pulsing, leaving, washing back over me again, transfixing me there in a moment of random perfection on the powder-blue shag rug that belongs to my friend’s mother, the widow. We will never be here again, my family, like this. There is so much convulsive beauty in the knowing of that.
Moments later I have sequestered myself next to the window, looking out on an expansive garden that borders a snowy wood. There is a stand of shaggy Hickory trees not far from the house, and perched upside down on one of them is a diminutive blue jay. Digging for a meal beneath the tough outer bark. The last thought that passes through my mind before we head back into the cold together is that this bleakness is not beautiful to everyone. But it is to me.
10.2.06
Who am I?
This is an ambiguous and, well, kind of lame question that I've been struggling with lately. (Lately being the last 15 or so years of my life.) Most recently the question has "cropped up" because of the vast and pending change for Patrick and myself. I feel as though I'll have to (soon) make a decision about what I want my future to look like, but I feel that before I can draw a picture of it, I have to be firmly aware of my foundation... of who I am. Because how can you know where you're heading if you don't know where you are?
So, basically, instead of doing anything proactive that could lead to making an informed decision about my life, I've been cracking out on craftster.org and reading people's blogs. I was perusing Ahniwa's blog today, when I found a link to a personality test. Perfect!
(Although I should mention that I think most personality tests are crap and they ask totally obvious questions like, '1. If you saw an old lady trying to cross a road would you, A. Help her along or B. Push her down' I mean, come on.) So I took the test and it actually seemed to be pretty good. In that it asked random questions and I had no idea what to expect with the outcome. So.....
It then went on to say all kinds of things that I felt were pretty accurate about me. Like, Idealists strive to discover who they are and how they can become their best possible self -- and they want to help others make the journey and also The idea of a spiritual dimension to life, the "not visible" or the "not yet" that can only be known through intuition or by a leap of faith, is far more important to Idealists than the world of material things and also Highly ethical in their actions, Idealists hold themselves to a strict standard of personal integrity. They must be true to themselves and to others, and they can be quite hard on themselves when they are dishonest, or when they are false or insincere.
This is me. I mean, as far as generalizations go, you know. I was quite surprised by how much of the four-paragraph description really suited me. It went on to say that Idealists make good healers, teachers, counselors, journalists. That the most important thing to them is that their work provides them the opportunity to help others, and to help guide others towards that elusive "not visibile" in the above description. Yes, exactly! That is the kind of job I'm looking for.
Like spiritual social work. Instead of handing out money to pay a gas bill, I'd like to hand out the inter-connectedness to all beings near and far. Anyone have any suggestions on where I could post my resume?!
But seriously, this has me re-thinking my whole plan. Not that it was much of a plan to begin with. I must not ever put money or security ahead of spiritual purpose. Remind yourself of this post in six months. (And thank you to Ahniwa for posting the survey. If y'all want to take it, go visit his blog.)
So, basically, instead of doing anything proactive that could lead to making an informed decision about my life, I've been cracking out on craftster.org and reading people's blogs. I was perusing Ahniwa's blog today, when I found a link to a personality test. Perfect!
(Although I should mention that I think most personality tests are crap and they ask totally obvious questions like, '1. If you saw an old lady trying to cross a road would you, A. Help her along or B. Push her down' I mean, come on.) So I took the test and it actually seemed to be pretty good. In that it asked random questions and I had no idea what to expect with the outcome. So.....
It then went on to say all kinds of things that I felt were pretty accurate about me. Like, Idealists strive to discover who they are and how they can become their best possible self -- and they want to help others make the journey and also The idea of a spiritual dimension to life, the "not visible" or the "not yet" that can only be known through intuition or by a leap of faith, is far more important to Idealists than the world of material things and also Highly ethical in their actions, Idealists hold themselves to a strict standard of personal integrity. They must be true to themselves and to others, and they can be quite hard on themselves when they are dishonest, or when they are false or insincere.
This is me. I mean, as far as generalizations go, you know. I was quite surprised by how much of the four-paragraph description really suited me. It went on to say that Idealists make good healers, teachers, counselors, journalists. That the most important thing to them is that their work provides them the opportunity to help others, and to help guide others towards that elusive "not visibile" in the above description. Yes, exactly! That is the kind of job I'm looking for.
Like spiritual social work. Instead of handing out money to pay a gas bill, I'd like to hand out the inter-connectedness to all beings near and far. Anyone have any suggestions on where I could post my resume?!
But seriously, this has me re-thinking my whole plan. Not that it was much of a plan to begin with. I must not ever put money or security ahead of spiritual purpose. Remind yourself of this post in six months. (And thank you to Ahniwa for posting the survey. If y'all want to take it, go visit his blog.)
8.2.06
Wednesday's challenge!
I had a lot of reservations about posting this challenge. The topic I decided upon turned out to be hard for me to write about because I feel so uncomfortable with it. I never talk about it. I think that’s why I ultimately decided upon it, though. Sometimes shedding light on the dark places is enough to make them dissipate. So, here goes.
Blog Challenge Number Three:
Name the physical trait that you are most insecure about and explain why. To end with some positivity, describe something physical about yourself that you love.
My answer:
My complexion. I had great skin until I was about eleven, maybe twelve, then the acne started coming and things (mostly inside my head) became hellish. When I was in the ninth grade my face was red because I had so many pimples. It was horrible, embarrassing, confidence-debilitating, you get the idea. I don’t remember being teased or anything by other kids (I think my school was sort of amazing in that respect) but I mentally punished myself everyday for it. I would and still do obsess about it. For instance, I know that fluorescent lighting exaggerates bad skin, so if I’m under fluorescent light my insecurity sky-rockets. Also, a person’s complexion is usually the first thing that I notice.
I think I kind of always felt like I was doing something wrong, which was causing the acne. I associated so much guilt with having a bad complexion. Like I wasn’t clean enough, or I had done something bad to karmically induce the pimples. I still think this way sometimes! (When I was little, a member of my family who will remain nameless said, “it will be my fault if you ever have acne”… I believe that was the precise moment that the guilt started!)
Starting in seventh or eighth grade Euc and I had regular visits with dermatologists who prescribed all kinds of antibiotics and freakish sorts of ointments. None of it really worked (and I am afraid of how resistant to antibiotics my body must be now!!) After the ninth grade my skin chilled out, and I would go for periods without any pimples, but I would always have the occasional break-out, and by that time I had scars. And that’s what I hate the most – the scars. They’re like permanent fleshy reminders of so much guilt and self-consciousness and imperfection. I will never not have them. Some days, when I’m feeling especially down about myself, they are all that I see when I look in the mirror. I’m 26 now, and I still break-out sometimes. It can get very frustrating…
Wow, what a hard thing to write. I really don’t talk about this at all. I was inspired to write this after I read something that Rodney Yee wrote. I’ve been practicing yoga more and more lately, which has definitely helped me feel more comfortable in my body. I was perusing his website and he wrote something like, “we have to find a way to accept our bodies for what they are. We were not all destined to be super-models and that is perfectly okay.” I know, it’s obvious, but it’s worth repeating and remembering. In America, especially as women, we’re under near constant pressure to be thinner, to have longer more voluminous hair, to be more attractive, to wear tighter clothing, to not look like our normal selves at all. We have, for years, felt so self-conscious that insecurity has become second nature. It’s unhealthy, and frankly, I’m tired of having a horrible self-image. It’s stressful and takes too much of my energy. Time to try and heal, and it starts with this post.
Something I like about myself:
I love how strong I am. I was lucky to be born into a muscular frame! I have large biceps and triceps and can lift more than your average woman. I love knowing that I can lift/move/shove most anything by myself, and it’s nice to not feel hampered by things that might be heavy. I love to be at the gym, curling more than the guy next to me!
Okay, now it’s your turn. Believe me, if you get it out, you’ll feel better. If you respond on your blog, tell me that you did in a comment. Or, if you don’t have your own blog, just respond in the comments below.
Blog Challenge Number Three:
Name the physical trait that you are most insecure about and explain why. To end with some positivity, describe something physical about yourself that you love.
My answer:
My complexion. I had great skin until I was about eleven, maybe twelve, then the acne started coming and things (mostly inside my head) became hellish. When I was in the ninth grade my face was red because I had so many pimples. It was horrible, embarrassing, confidence-debilitating, you get the idea. I don’t remember being teased or anything by other kids (I think my school was sort of amazing in that respect) but I mentally punished myself everyday for it. I would and still do obsess about it. For instance, I know that fluorescent lighting exaggerates bad skin, so if I’m under fluorescent light my insecurity sky-rockets. Also, a person’s complexion is usually the first thing that I notice.
I think I kind of always felt like I was doing something wrong, which was causing the acne. I associated so much guilt with having a bad complexion. Like I wasn’t clean enough, or I had done something bad to karmically induce the pimples. I still think this way sometimes! (When I was little, a member of my family who will remain nameless said, “it will be my fault if you ever have acne”… I believe that was the precise moment that the guilt started!)
Starting in seventh or eighth grade Euc and I had regular visits with dermatologists who prescribed all kinds of antibiotics and freakish sorts of ointments. None of it really worked (and I am afraid of how resistant to antibiotics my body must be now!!) After the ninth grade my skin chilled out, and I would go for periods without any pimples, but I would always have the occasional break-out, and by that time I had scars. And that’s what I hate the most – the scars. They’re like permanent fleshy reminders of so much guilt and self-consciousness and imperfection. I will never not have them. Some days, when I’m feeling especially down about myself, they are all that I see when I look in the mirror. I’m 26 now, and I still break-out sometimes. It can get very frustrating…
Wow, what a hard thing to write. I really don’t talk about this at all. I was inspired to write this after I read something that Rodney Yee wrote. I’ve been practicing yoga more and more lately, which has definitely helped me feel more comfortable in my body. I was perusing his website and he wrote something like, “we have to find a way to accept our bodies for what they are. We were not all destined to be super-models and that is perfectly okay.” I know, it’s obvious, but it’s worth repeating and remembering. In America, especially as women, we’re under near constant pressure to be thinner, to have longer more voluminous hair, to be more attractive, to wear tighter clothing, to not look like our normal selves at all. We have, for years, felt so self-conscious that insecurity has become second nature. It’s unhealthy, and frankly, I’m tired of having a horrible self-image. It’s stressful and takes too much of my energy. Time to try and heal, and it starts with this post.
Something I like about myself:
I love how strong I am. I was lucky to be born into a muscular frame! I have large biceps and triceps and can lift more than your average woman. I love knowing that I can lift/move/shove most anything by myself, and it’s nice to not feel hampered by things that might be heavy. I love to be at the gym, curling more than the guy next to me!
Okay, now it’s your turn. Believe me, if you get it out, you’ll feel better. If you respond on your blog, tell me that you did in a comment. Or, if you don’t have your own blog, just respond in the comments below.
6.2.06
Random scraps.
I have ingested far too much caffeine today. I feel, kinda, wiggy. Last night I slept like crap, I kept waking and tossing and turning and over-heating. Should not have had two cups of coffee during the game last night, but, I think I'm some kind of caffeinated super-hero, like the chemical doesn't affect me, like coffee is the deisel to my mack truck, like life doesn't taste as good if it's not covered with a caffeine-induced fog. Yeah, well, I'm wrong on all counts.
(But I kinda like to suffer for the over-indulgence.)
Okay, you guys, here's the deal. I'm going to post a challenge every Wednesday afternoon. It doesn't matter how long it takes you to respond to it, I figure anything to get our collective creative juices flowing is a good thing. (Although you better finish it at some point during the week, 'cause I keep a crowbar under my desk and I'm not afraid of smashing...!) Anyone is welcome to participate in the challenge, especially the three of you who read my blog. =D It's cool, and it'll keep us reading each other.
I have this quote that keeps running around in my head, Most people seek after what they do not possess and are thus enslaved by the very things they want to acquire. Here's my salient distillation of the above: If you want it, make it.
Final memory for the quickly diminishing day: When we were in second grade, Euc and I used to make a fort underneath the jungle gym at school, call to what few close friends we had, and power-up Thundercats' style. (Do you remember this ritual, Euc?) Then we'd branch out, and beat up whatever boys we could find. We'd yell, "Thunder-ho!" and "Sword of omens, give me sight beyond sight!" and I swear to god, those mantras gave my eight-year-old frame more power. I must try to reconnect to that inter-connectedness that I had.
(But I kinda like to suffer for the over-indulgence.)
Okay, you guys, here's the deal. I'm going to post a challenge every Wednesday afternoon. It doesn't matter how long it takes you to respond to it, I figure anything to get our collective creative juices flowing is a good thing. (Although you better finish it at some point during the week, 'cause I keep a crowbar under my desk and I'm not afraid of smashing...!) Anyone is welcome to participate in the challenge, especially the three of you who read my blog. =D It's cool, and it'll keep us reading each other.
I have this quote that keeps running around in my head, Most people seek after what they do not possess and are thus enslaved by the very things they want to acquire. Here's my salient distillation of the above: If you want it, make it.
Final memory for the quickly diminishing day: When we were in second grade, Euc and I used to make a fort underneath the jungle gym at school, call to what few close friends we had, and power-up Thundercats' style. (Do you remember this ritual, Euc?) Then we'd branch out, and beat up whatever boys we could find. We'd yell, "Thunder-ho!" and "Sword of omens, give me sight beyond sight!" and I swear to god, those mantras gave my eight-year-old frame more power. I must try to reconnect to that inter-connectedness that I had.
31.1.06
Another challenge!
What if you were stuck in some bizarro commune and in order to be a participating member of said community, you had to pick a theme song that would express to everyone else living there who you are. It would be the only way for them to analyze and sort you in their plebeian brains (because I mean, c’mon, who would think up a system like that?) so it would have to be a POTENT song. Okay, pick one and explain. On your own blog, euc, howlie, and libs. Thank you.
*I have to preface my selection because, well, I’m a fan of circumlocution and my explanations need explanations. First of all, I would not live in such a community because, well, picking a theme song is fucking hard, okay? I mean, should one go with Jazz? Punk? New-wave? Something timeless? Lyrics or no? I almost had an emotional breakdown trying to decide. Really. Secondly, the fact that I am the one who came up with the idea for this post unnerves me. Maybe I secretly want to live in a community like this. Maybe I would make people wear necklaces that played their theme song. And if I didn’t like what they chose, maybe I would kick them out of the commune. This is, ultimately, why I believe in democracy. Because deep down, I’m a scary-ass motha-fucka.
**One more brief preface. I didn’t really think that hard about it. I picked the song I’ve listened to the most on my i-tunes today. If I lived in this commune, my theme song would probably change, like, every day.
My theme song: In A Sentimental Mood
Version: the one Duke Ellington & John Coltrane recorded together
Oh yeah, why?: This tune is usually syrupy and has been covered by a lot of corny acts. But the Duke/Coltrane version takes the song and turns it into something completely different. Duke plays this haunting three chord rhythm behind Coltrane’s melody, and the result is a very anxious sounding ballad. It’s the song that your mind plays when you have to say goodbye to someone you love bitterly, or when your heart fills with loving-kindness for someone/ something that you pass on the street, or any other type of situation where you’re likely to be filled with emotion so intense that it raises your awareness. You know what I’m talking about. I have been feeling very wacky lately, and the discordant feel to the song really reflects what it’s like in my body. And if those assholes at the commune don’t like it, well, you know what they can do.
*I have to preface my selection because, well, I’m a fan of circumlocution and my explanations need explanations. First of all, I would not live in such a community because, well, picking a theme song is fucking hard, okay? I mean, should one go with Jazz? Punk? New-wave? Something timeless? Lyrics or no? I almost had an emotional breakdown trying to decide. Really. Secondly, the fact that I am the one who came up with the idea for this post unnerves me. Maybe I secretly want to live in a community like this. Maybe I would make people wear necklaces that played their theme song. And if I didn’t like what they chose, maybe I would kick them out of the commune. This is, ultimately, why I believe in democracy. Because deep down, I’m a scary-ass motha-fucka.
**One more brief preface. I didn’t really think that hard about it. I picked the song I’ve listened to the most on my i-tunes today. If I lived in this commune, my theme song would probably change, like, every day.
My theme song: In A Sentimental Mood
Version: the one Duke Ellington & John Coltrane recorded together
Oh yeah, why?: This tune is usually syrupy and has been covered by a lot of corny acts. But the Duke/Coltrane version takes the song and turns it into something completely different. Duke plays this haunting three chord rhythm behind Coltrane’s melody, and the result is a very anxious sounding ballad. It’s the song that your mind plays when you have to say goodbye to someone you love bitterly, or when your heart fills with loving-kindness for someone/ something that you pass on the street, or any other type of situation where you’re likely to be filled with emotion so intense that it raises your awareness. You know what I’m talking about. I have been feeling very wacky lately, and the discordant feel to the song really reflects what it’s like in my body. And if those assholes at the commune don’t like it, well, you know what they can do.
Mushy brain like applesauce.
I haven't written. I've kept my distance. I've barely checked on you lately. It's not you, blogger, it's me. I have been so incredibly impotent in all facets of my life this past week. I feel like a peice of over-cooked spaghetti. I flop around a lot, fall down, the cats lick me, I need to sleep.
BUT, last night I made a skirt. Yesthatisright. I made it out of green courduroy fabric and I love it. Maybe I will post a picture later. Also, a week ago I made a bright orange origami fish. I was going to send it to Beth, because it looked like the clownfish that I saw and that she didn't. (Nyah nyah.) I took a shower. That was a mistake. When I came out of the shower, I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. My beautiful fish was in the cats' water bowl, soaked, halfway unfolded. Little sneak looked up at me asiftosay, "Look, I am so smart, I put that fishy in water!"
I wanted to smash his guts out. (I didn't.) It freaks me out though - a cat, putting a symbolic expression of 'fish' in a water bowl. Part of me thinks it was him trying to reveal his intelligence to me. I watch him out of the corner of my eye at all times now.
OoOoOo, I just had an idea for something creative to right. Read the next post and then follow the instructions accordingly.
O_o
BUT, last night I made a skirt. Yesthatisright. I made it out of green courduroy fabric and I love it. Maybe I will post a picture later. Also, a week ago I made a bright orange origami fish. I was going to send it to Beth, because it looked like the clownfish that I saw and that she didn't. (Nyah nyah.) I took a shower. That was a mistake. When I came out of the shower, I went into the kitchen for a glass of water. My beautiful fish was in the cats' water bowl, soaked, halfway unfolded. Little sneak looked up at me asiftosay, "Look, I am so smart, I put that fishy in water!"
I wanted to smash his guts out. (I didn't.) It freaks me out though - a cat, putting a symbolic expression of 'fish' in a water bowl. Part of me thinks it was him trying to reveal his intelligence to me. I watch him out of the corner of my eye at all times now.
OoOoOo, I just had an idea for something creative to right. Read the next post and then follow the instructions accordingly.
O_o
26.1.06
A challenge!
Ten random things:
1. I am an occasional smoker.
2. The relative I most look up to was Anton, the anarchist.
3. I'm glad I have little breasts.
4. I'm glad I have huge hands.
5. Although sometimes my lack of femininity makes me feel insecure.
6. BUT, I have curvy hips.
7. Sneak and I cuddle when no one's around. I don't do it in public because I don't want to play into his "I am the cutest cat in the world" image.
8. I like to anthropomorphize animals.
9. I think that someday computers WILL become self aware.
10. I don't think it would be the worst thing in the world if humans went extinct because of global warming. I mean, we've made quite a mess of it. Maybe a different species would rise and be better at not destroying the world.
OKAY, I'm tagging three people to write ten random things about themselves: Euc, Howling Monkey, and Libby. Come on, Libby, it's high time we saw a new post on your blog.
If you don't comply your computer will blow up in ten days. I swear to god. 'Cause I'ma come over with my crowbar.
1. I am an occasional smoker.
2. The relative I most look up to was Anton, the anarchist.
3. I'm glad I have little breasts.
4. I'm glad I have huge hands.
5. Although sometimes my lack of femininity makes me feel insecure.
6. BUT, I have curvy hips.
7. Sneak and I cuddle when no one's around. I don't do it in public because I don't want to play into his "I am the cutest cat in the world" image.
8. I like to anthropomorphize animals.
9. I think that someday computers WILL become self aware.
10. I don't think it would be the worst thing in the world if humans went extinct because of global warming. I mean, we've made quite a mess of it. Maybe a different species would rise and be better at not destroying the world.
OKAY, I'm tagging three people to write ten random things about themselves: Euc, Howling Monkey, and Libby. Come on, Libby, it's high time we saw a new post on your blog.
If you don't comply your computer will blow up in ten days. I swear to god. 'Cause I'ma come over with my crowbar.
Free write.
When we were younger most Friday and Saturday nights had to do with Jazz somehow, either trying to fake it like we were college students at the cat in the cream, or listening to vinyls of the musicians our teachers admired or accompanying each other in what were occasionally some pretty dischordant improvisations. Sometimes we'd go to the Feve and order hot fries and tang and the memory of it always smells like it's just finished raining. And there's all this extra energy hanging around in the air. Once I remember going to The Mandarin just for two bowls of egg drop soup that set us back a dollar each. My memory replays it and we're constantly surrounded by this powerful magic, this smell in the air that assured us we had the entire world in store for us. Josh and Rudy used to play in the Java Zone for food which is a ridiculous idea now. We would stumble upon them and they always thought it was some kind of miracle that we were twins. The universal ice-breaker. And Farnell, I remember him doing a little student teaching in Mr. Arco's class and me being mortified when they discovered I was just a high schooler. The cover blown. The senior recital series of 1996 where Dave played Devotion and I've never again heard brushes on a snare drum like that. I gave a little piece of my insides as an offering to that night so that I'd never forget it. Dave was the best act, and that was a big surprise. And all those professors who sat in the back row on broken down couches who were too cool to even let on how proud they were of their almost graduated students. Then back to the Feve for a coffee or maybe just to a semi-obscure vantage point to smoke. When I remember it the nights lasted for 20 hours each and even that wasn't long enough.
I miss it.
I miss it.
24.1.06
Continued, not as good.
It was not long before Jane broke through the low clouds into the bright VFR airspace. The 150 climbed to 4500 feet and Jane guided its nose southeast. The sun was endless above the clouds, and the world seemed encouragingly far away. Time passes gently in the sky, and Jane let herself slip into the somnambulistic rhythm of flight. Her first stop was an easy three hours and the morning aloft was beautiful.
As she sailed through the azure, her thoughts drifted among the bric-a-brac she kept stored up in the dusty areas of her mind; they were made of memories she had tried to forget, adventures she planned but never lived, and emotions suppressed by her habit of hiding from others what she thought made herself look weak. Mostly they were about her father. For two hours of self-indulgent day dreaming she let her awareness wane. The remembrance of her father crashed down on her, washed her out to a vulnerable place, and left her, unguarded. He used to let me take the controls once we were up, as long as I promised to not tell mother. If it was cold, he would pour me hot chocolate while he drank coffee in the pilots’ lounge while we waited for the weather to clear up. Once the memories started coming Jane didn’t fight them. After my first solo he told everyone at the airport that I’d be a famous pilot someday. Just like her old man, he had boasted. The empty place inside her glowed for a moment and Jane unearthed her most sacred childhood yearning. Someday I will be flying and in an instant the steel and gas and circuitry will turn into flesh and bone and feather and there will be no more of life, no more of death, just an endless expanse of horizon.
A shudder and a bang snapped Jane violently back into the cockpit. The left magneto seemed to be misfiring and the engine responded by running rough and choking on too much fuel. Jane tried thinning out the mixture, then tried running the engine on full, then – with a silent prayer to gods of aviation – switched off the engine entirely. For a second before she turned the ignition back over, a thick silence filled her ears and she imagined stretching out her arms, freeing her body from the plane, gliding on the edge of the air currents, riding them down. She cranked the key and the 150 spirited back to life, but not without the turbulent misfiring. She felt trapped and upset and decided to land; there were always more options on the ground.
She had been in the air for a little over two hours and her charts showed that she was about 80 nautical miles from her intended first stop. There was no way she would risk life and limb to fulfill her flight plan, and she located an airstrip on a small island five miles to the east. She radioed her intention to land, entered downwind, and set the 150 down on a stretch of sand that overlooked a few stands of palm trees, two small buildings, and an expanse of turquoise ocean that was broken, in all directions, by the horizon. Dear god let them have a mechanic, Jane thought to herself as she climbed out of the cockpit.
*************************
To be continued.
As she sailed through the azure, her thoughts drifted among the bric-a-brac she kept stored up in the dusty areas of her mind; they were made of memories she had tried to forget, adventures she planned but never lived, and emotions suppressed by her habit of hiding from others what she thought made herself look weak. Mostly they were about her father. For two hours of self-indulgent day dreaming she let her awareness wane. The remembrance of her father crashed down on her, washed her out to a vulnerable place, and left her, unguarded. He used to let me take the controls once we were up, as long as I promised to not tell mother. If it was cold, he would pour me hot chocolate while he drank coffee in the pilots’ lounge while we waited for the weather to clear up. Once the memories started coming Jane didn’t fight them. After my first solo he told everyone at the airport that I’d be a famous pilot someday. Just like her old man, he had boasted. The empty place inside her glowed for a moment and Jane unearthed her most sacred childhood yearning. Someday I will be flying and in an instant the steel and gas and circuitry will turn into flesh and bone and feather and there will be no more of life, no more of death, just an endless expanse of horizon.
A shudder and a bang snapped Jane violently back into the cockpit. The left magneto seemed to be misfiring and the engine responded by running rough and choking on too much fuel. Jane tried thinning out the mixture, then tried running the engine on full, then – with a silent prayer to gods of aviation – switched off the engine entirely. For a second before she turned the ignition back over, a thick silence filled her ears and she imagined stretching out her arms, freeing her body from the plane, gliding on the edge of the air currents, riding them down. She cranked the key and the 150 spirited back to life, but not without the turbulent misfiring. She felt trapped and upset and decided to land; there were always more options on the ground.
She had been in the air for a little over two hours and her charts showed that she was about 80 nautical miles from her intended first stop. There was no way she would risk life and limb to fulfill her flight plan, and she located an airstrip on a small island five miles to the east. She radioed her intention to land, entered downwind, and set the 150 down on a stretch of sand that overlooked a few stands of palm trees, two small buildings, and an expanse of turquoise ocean that was broken, in all directions, by the horizon. Dear god let them have a mechanic, Jane thought to herself as she climbed out of the cockpit.
*************************
To be continued.
Caffeinated ramble
The days are getting longer and it’s starting to feel like spring, although fleetingly – it is still only January, after all. The walk to work this morning was illuminated by a pink and gold and orange sky, the sun and clouds were showing off. I got to the square and, even though I told myself it was silly, I looked for the red-tail that watched me yesterday. He wasn’t there and I couldn’t blame him for his absence, the town was unusually noisy for that early in the morning. I missed him anyway.
When I was a kid I used to tell myself that I’d like to come back as a hawk.
Sometimes when I’m in the shower, eyes closed, rinsing my hair, I see a shadow move across the inside of my eyelids and feel the presence of someone else, with me. I open my eyes and he’s never there, but I’ve become almost convinced that it’s my grandfather. I close my eyes again and he whispers things that I can’t make out, information that is important I understand. I never do. It makes me feel guilty for all the time I haven’t spent with my grandmother. All the phone calls I’ve not picked up. Then again, I should never spend time with another person to ease my conscience. It would only make it worse.
The house is quiet, empty; I go for long stretches in silence and then realize it’s been hours since I used my voice. The past two nights I’ve been jarred awake by the death-calls of my two ferocious allies – the cats. The first night it was Sneak, defending the house from invaders, last night it was the two of them fighting each other. They go on their nocturnal prowls and then come back to melt into the fluffy down of my comforter. When I lay down the bed is our ship, and the three of us sail to different ports together. We fly a pirate flag, and anything could happen.
Last night I had a dream that my face swelled, well, no, actually it was just my nose. It started out in my left nostril, and then the whole left side of my nose filled to horrendous proportion. It looked like someone had taken a Twinkie and buried it under the skin. I was panicked, and yelled to Pat to find an antihistamine for me to take. I looked in the mirror and my brain started to swim, and I couldn’t make sense of the thoughts that were piling up, unprocessed by fried synapses. I woke up and it was only with great difficulty that I shook the dream from my mind. I am still slightly worried that it’s my body’s way of telling me I have a brain tumor.
Wherever you are, I hope you’re smiling.
When I was a kid I used to tell myself that I’d like to come back as a hawk.
Sometimes when I’m in the shower, eyes closed, rinsing my hair, I see a shadow move across the inside of my eyelids and feel the presence of someone else, with me. I open my eyes and he’s never there, but I’ve become almost convinced that it’s my grandfather. I close my eyes again and he whispers things that I can’t make out, information that is important I understand. I never do. It makes me feel guilty for all the time I haven’t spent with my grandmother. All the phone calls I’ve not picked up. Then again, I should never spend time with another person to ease my conscience. It would only make it worse.
The house is quiet, empty; I go for long stretches in silence and then realize it’s been hours since I used my voice. The past two nights I’ve been jarred awake by the death-calls of my two ferocious allies – the cats. The first night it was Sneak, defending the house from invaders, last night it was the two of them fighting each other. They go on their nocturnal prowls and then come back to melt into the fluffy down of my comforter. When I lay down the bed is our ship, and the three of us sail to different ports together. We fly a pirate flag, and anything could happen.
Last night I had a dream that my face swelled, well, no, actually it was just my nose. It started out in my left nostril, and then the whole left side of my nose filled to horrendous proportion. It looked like someone had taken a Twinkie and buried it under the skin. I was panicked, and yelled to Pat to find an antihistamine for me to take. I looked in the mirror and my brain started to swim, and I couldn’t make sense of the thoughts that were piling up, unprocessed by fried synapses. I woke up and it was only with great difficulty that I shook the dream from my mind. I am still slightly worried that it’s my body’s way of telling me I have a brain tumor.
Wherever you are, I hope you’re smiling.
19.1.06
A beginning.
Winter clouds hovered low to the ground and covered everything in an oppressive dampness -- the worst kind of weather for flying, Jane thought as she fumbled through the early morning darkness towards her 1960 Cessna 150. The cherry-red airplane was a college graduation gift from her father, and was Jane's last remaining proof of his existence. More of him was in the plane than all of the memories that she carried – he had worked in secret for a year to bring the 150 back to life, and then died two weeks after their first flight together. But that was more than ten years ago and the recollection won’t help me get this plane off the ground, Jane told herself as she tried to force his ghost from her mind. Her hands went to work on the pre-flight checklist and her mind let the memory of him slowly fade to nothing.
There had been no other pilots at the small airport when Jane arrived, and the garage was still dark, which meant that Deacon, the mechanic, had probably slept in. Jane could find no fault with him for that – if it hadn’t been for the flight plan already on file she would most likely have spent the day in her pajamas. She imagined herself still asleep in a warm bed, then inhaled a deep and intentional breath to fill her lungs with winter and ground her body to the tarmac. In nine hours she would be in an eighty-degree sun.
Jane taxied out to the end of the runway, radioed for clearance to depart and steeled herself for her least favorite part of flying – the takeoff. The moment that the 150’s wings overcame gravity and lifted itself free of the runway was glorious to her, but the long seconds before taking off, when she and the plane went 50 knots down a bumpy stretch of asphalt on rickety wheels, always made her nervous. She indulged herself another deep breath, then eased the throttle all the way open. The 150 traveled like a sparrow, and she had to hold steady pressure on the yoke to keep the plane from jumping into the sky. Halfway down the runway and the windsock looked like a deflated balloon. With a quick glance at the airspeed indicator, Jane eased up on the yoke and the world immediately fell away.
******************
To be continued.
There had been no other pilots at the small airport when Jane arrived, and the garage was still dark, which meant that Deacon, the mechanic, had probably slept in. Jane could find no fault with him for that – if it hadn’t been for the flight plan already on file she would most likely have spent the day in her pajamas. She imagined herself still asleep in a warm bed, then inhaled a deep and intentional breath to fill her lungs with winter and ground her body to the tarmac. In nine hours she would be in an eighty-degree sun.
Jane taxied out to the end of the runway, radioed for clearance to depart and steeled herself for her least favorite part of flying – the takeoff. The moment that the 150’s wings overcame gravity and lifted itself free of the runway was glorious to her, but the long seconds before taking off, when she and the plane went 50 knots down a bumpy stretch of asphalt on rickety wheels, always made her nervous. She indulged herself another deep breath, then eased the throttle all the way open. The 150 traveled like a sparrow, and she had to hold steady pressure on the yoke to keep the plane from jumping into the sky. Halfway down the runway and the windsock looked like a deflated balloon. With a quick glance at the airspeed indicator, Jane eased up on the yoke and the world immediately fell away.
******************
To be continued.
12.1.06
Night Flight
I have occupied such a strange head-space these past two days. Sometimes I feel dizzy, sometimes disoriented, my perception is off and I've had a little trouble with spatial orientation. My theory is that I've had a small stroke (always the worst!) while Patrick maintains that I've caught his head cold, and that my internal gyroscope has been a bit affected. It's worst at night.
Last evening we had to pick up a co-worker of his from the airport and return an out-of-town video rental, so we made a triangular journey around a dark and windy northern Ohio. Part of the drive was on a rural two-lane highway, and every time a car came toward us from the other direction my mind convinced my body that it was going to come careening into us, that we were both moments away from death, that life was just one short moment away from changing completely. (Obviously nothing happened.) It made me consider how obscene all of it is, though, the impermanence of this life. It can end so quickly and unimportantly. Like a wave in the middle of the night it will recede back into the sea quietly, without anyone watching. Even if you have plans for tomorrow.
It's obvious, I know, but worth remembering.
The lights at night with my broken gyroscope were beautiful, though. The airport was a sea of color and flash which I'm not sure I've ever completely appreciated. And there was a man standing on a hill watching planes land. Their final descent started a few miles behind him, so when they got close he was shrouded in a runway's worth of backlight. He looked like Jesus, or Saskwatch, standing tall on the hill, a sillhouette in black, with light pouring out in all directions from his back.
Last evening we had to pick up a co-worker of his from the airport and return an out-of-town video rental, so we made a triangular journey around a dark and windy northern Ohio. Part of the drive was on a rural two-lane highway, and every time a car came toward us from the other direction my mind convinced my body that it was going to come careening into us, that we were both moments away from death, that life was just one short moment away from changing completely. (Obviously nothing happened.) It made me consider how obscene all of it is, though, the impermanence of this life. It can end so quickly and unimportantly. Like a wave in the middle of the night it will recede back into the sea quietly, without anyone watching. Even if you have plans for tomorrow.
It's obvious, I know, but worth remembering.
The lights at night with my broken gyroscope were beautiful, though. The airport was a sea of color and flash which I'm not sure I've ever completely appreciated. And there was a man standing on a hill watching planes land. Their final descent started a few miles behind him, so when they got close he was shrouded in a runway's worth of backlight. He looked like Jesus, or Saskwatch, standing tall on the hill, a sillhouette in black, with light pouring out in all directions from his back.
6.1.06
4.1.06
Finney's bell
Like my dad said about my grandmother, my eyes feel like two piss holes in the snow. The computer has been emitting a high-pitched whirr sound all day and the air is thick with the smell of toner. Half an hour to go, my head is full of rocks.
Sometimes, when I am here, I feel like a pirate. I have sabotaged this office. The photos of children are not mine, the music files are strange, and the inspirational posters make me think of euc and I smile mischeviously each time I read them. I've bivouaced under a foreign desk, and it's a constant job to make sure the wind remains strong in my sails and that I steer myself into the waves. Lest one should broadside me. Lest the boat should rot away and sink all the way to the bottom.
I had this image of myself, standing tall and dark and proud in the middle of the night, outside the exit doors of a far-away airport. A black duffel in one hand, flanked by my companions, all of us making our way like gods into the foreign darkness. We will live like stray dogs on the beach, we will follow the milky way to its end.
Just don't let me lose my conviction.
Sometimes, when I am here, I feel like a pirate. I have sabotaged this office. The photos of children are not mine, the music files are strange, and the inspirational posters make me think of euc and I smile mischeviously each time I read them. I've bivouaced under a foreign desk, and it's a constant job to make sure the wind remains strong in my sails and that I steer myself into the waves. Lest one should broadside me. Lest the boat should rot away and sink all the way to the bottom.
I had this image of myself, standing tall and dark and proud in the middle of the night, outside the exit doors of a far-away airport. A black duffel in one hand, flanked by my companions, all of us making our way like gods into the foreign darkness. We will live like stray dogs on the beach, we will follow the milky way to its end.
Just don't let me lose my conviction.
20.12.05
Too cold to snow.
If I’d been brave I would’ve looked him in the eye and said that I didn’t want to work with people who didn’t value my time but instead I waited and waited. Twenty minutes late the interview was, and there was I, perpetually early. But the best part of all was that I didn’t really want the job anyway, I found out that I’d gotten another job, a far better job, higher paying and in a college, a man from financial aid called to tell me about it an hour before I ventured out into the negative-five-wind-chill-factor Ohio afternoon. I decided to go to the interview anyway, I had already gussied myself up, ironed the suit and curled the hair, and to hell with them anyway. I knew they’d keep me waiting but I didn’t have to take them seriously, I didn’t have to give a fart about what they thought of me, and there was a delicious victory in knowing that but answering their stupid questions anyway.
Before he let me into the room with the questions and answers the secretary announced to him that I was there, that I had been waiting. He looked at her and said in the most condescending voice he could muster that he knew Ms. J was there, that he had seen me. He left for a trifle longer and the secretary looked at me and we each rolled our eyes and laughed and then he finally called my name, all formal-like, and I walked in wondering why we can’t at least be nice to each other on the surface. This is what the kids see, these meaningless little power struggles. So I answered their questions, knowing full well what an ass he was, thinking that he probably wasn’t listening anyway, and at the end I told a joke and everyone laughed. I got up and left, all of us smiling, and me thinking that I never fucking had to come back here.
Choosing what one does with oneself is a glorious and powerful thing.
*************************************
For the holidays I will be warm in spirit and in body because I am going to the Bahamas where the sun always shines, the seas are the color of fluorescent turquoise, and the rivers flow with milk and honey. And if ye are good, and love one another, I will post pictures of the magical tropics when I return. May you all write bravely on, in my absence.
Before he let me into the room with the questions and answers the secretary announced to him that I was there, that I had been waiting. He looked at her and said in the most condescending voice he could muster that he knew Ms. J was there, that he had seen me. He left for a trifle longer and the secretary looked at me and we each rolled our eyes and laughed and then he finally called my name, all formal-like, and I walked in wondering why we can’t at least be nice to each other on the surface. This is what the kids see, these meaningless little power struggles. So I answered their questions, knowing full well what an ass he was, thinking that he probably wasn’t listening anyway, and at the end I told a joke and everyone laughed. I got up and left, all of us smiling, and me thinking that I never fucking had to come back here.
Choosing what one does with oneself is a glorious and powerful thing.
*************************************
For the holidays I will be warm in spirit and in body because I am going to the Bahamas where the sun always shines, the seas are the color of fluorescent turquoise, and the rivers flow with milk and honey. And if ye are good, and love one another, I will post pictures of the magical tropics when I return. May you all write bravely on, in my absence.
14.12.05
That's the way the world ends,
Driving to Elyria this afternoon, to pick up the Honda, riding with my father in his truck, where the world is far away and everything is safe and put off for a time. Beyond the windows a desolate expanse of snow-covered corn fields, barren tree lines and rusted farm machinery slipped by, the lonely vistas of winter that only a native of these farmlands would find crushingly beautiful. We climb the hill over the train tracks and come upon several ambulances and fire trucks blocking the intersection where we're going to make a left. We slow with the rest of traffic, the grey sky weighing heavily on us all, and wait through a few changes of the light.
There is a truck off the side of the road in the snow-filled bank, there is also a car in the middle of the intersection and the entire front of it is completely smashed and ruined and as we make the turn to the left I peer into it and can see blood on the airbags and they're wheeling somebody away on a stretcher and their face is covered with a towel and I don't know if they're dead or alive or if it's a man or a woman. We continue on, to pick up the car, and the firemen and paramedics remain, to work on the dying, and the grey sky shows no sign of breaking up.
On the way back now, I'm in my car with dad following me in the truck, and I can see the lights of the ambulances off in the distance as I approach the intersection to make my way home. They've towed away the car since I've been gone and the State Patrol has arrived. And then there is a mighty gust of wind and snow like ice daggers are kicked into the air in cylindrical cones and there is only one thing that would make snow fly like that, and it's a helicopter. Its rotor comes into view, about 100 feet from where I'm sitting in my car waiting for the State Patrol to wave me on towards home. It hovers and turns and thinks about how its going to get its belly off the freezing ground for a few pregnant moments and then points its nose down and is gone. I watch it fly away and remember how Emily used to say that she says a little prayer when she hears the sirens of an ambulance, and I say a little prayer now, as I watch the helicopter glide through the grey sky with someone dying inside.
The State Patrol waves me on and I make the right towards home and I'm back into the vast expanses of Northern Ohio emptiness and I wonder how many deaths it takes for the paramedics to not cry. Five? Ten? The first one? And I think that I would have made a horrible paramedic because I would cry every time. And then I think a thought which is a stray, which comes from nowhere I can trace and leaves me without much explanation. I think that winter is the perfect time to die. But only in Northern Ohio, and only on a day like today, when the sky is grey and hovering low to the world and wondering whether it should release its snow on us or not.
not with a bang, but a whimper.
There is a truck off the side of the road in the snow-filled bank, there is also a car in the middle of the intersection and the entire front of it is completely smashed and ruined and as we make the turn to the left I peer into it and can see blood on the airbags and they're wheeling somebody away on a stretcher and their face is covered with a towel and I don't know if they're dead or alive or if it's a man or a woman. We continue on, to pick up the car, and the firemen and paramedics remain, to work on the dying, and the grey sky shows no sign of breaking up.
On the way back now, I'm in my car with dad following me in the truck, and I can see the lights of the ambulances off in the distance as I approach the intersection to make my way home. They've towed away the car since I've been gone and the State Patrol has arrived. And then there is a mighty gust of wind and snow like ice daggers are kicked into the air in cylindrical cones and there is only one thing that would make snow fly like that, and it's a helicopter. Its rotor comes into view, about 100 feet from where I'm sitting in my car waiting for the State Patrol to wave me on towards home. It hovers and turns and thinks about how its going to get its belly off the freezing ground for a few pregnant moments and then points its nose down and is gone. I watch it fly away and remember how Emily used to say that she says a little prayer when she hears the sirens of an ambulance, and I say a little prayer now, as I watch the helicopter glide through the grey sky with someone dying inside.
The State Patrol waves me on and I make the right towards home and I'm back into the vast expanses of Northern Ohio emptiness and I wonder how many deaths it takes for the paramedics to not cry. Five? Ten? The first one? And I think that I would have made a horrible paramedic because I would cry every time. And then I think a thought which is a stray, which comes from nowhere I can trace and leaves me without much explanation. I think that winter is the perfect time to die. But only in Northern Ohio, and only on a day like today, when the sky is grey and hovering low to the world and wondering whether it should release its snow on us or not.
not with a bang, but a whimper.
8.12.05
the dark veil.
You don't know when or how it started, the forgetting. One day it was easy to be cruel, one day you wanted to show them that they were stupid, that you were smart. Once you uttered the words, you realized that there was a time in the past that you wouldn't have recognized yourself.
Jaysus, you say in your head. Jaysus, in your always lilting commentary, what the feck hev I doon?
And still you can't help yourself. There is a big teacher, her face shows the wrinkles of a nearly constant hateful sneer, she is to be feared, she does not appear to be there for the wee children. In the office at the end of the day, casual conversation, she relates the story of the retribution enacted after a particularly raucous few days with a substitute. Me, the substitute. She tells me about the wee ones, fourteen referrals written up in all, Saturday school for most, a suspension for one, the verbal lashing, the destroying of smugness, the breaking, the breaking. Like an animal, I savor the particularly bloody morsels of her style of justice, remembering each wee one and their taunts (stupid, liar, liar, shut-up) and rejoicing in the news of their suffering.
Jaysus, Mary and St. Joseph. And who will suffer for the wee ones? Let ye who be without sin cast the first stone.
I'm standing in my coat and I'm suffocating, the smell of the school (pencil shavings and old carpet), the high-pitched chatter of the after school hangers-on, the florescent lights, the teachers, the yelling. And this woman's face and her telling me about the righteous suffering of the offenders. They are wild and we are to step on them, to crush them until there is no more resistance, until the path is made clear to them or until they are broken completely. My forehead is dotted with sweat and my eyes are swimming, drunk in the florescent hell of insecurity and unearned power. I hate the school, I hate the teachers, I hate the students, I hate the overpaid administrators who are never there anyway, I hate the system set up for failure. I run out as fast as I can and the cold outside hits my sweaty face like a ton of bricks.
'Tis a feckin waste. 'Tis a feckin Yank waste with the soul squished out flat with naught left but the steam of yer piss.
Aye, 'tis, 'tis.
*******************
I had a dream yesterday afternoon (I took a nap) and in the end I was drowning. It started out with some kids somehow and ended up with just me and this one kid, this little kid who used to come to the Saturday food distributions and who was probably seven years old but looked like a grown man of thirty squished into the body of a little boy. Too much worry for one so young. We were walking through an Ohio-type forest, looking for safety, it was raining and we were winding down a path that followed a swollen river. I misplaced a step and fell into the river, slow like, with enough time to look up and see the loss in his face as my head slipped below the surface. In the water all was warm and wet and mushy and I could scarcely move and I knew I was a goner. Take a moment to think, I thought, and clarity came upon me and I remembered someone once told me that in the end drowning is a peaceful way to go. I put my awareness on the top of my head and though to myself, okay, let's do this.
Here's to you, and here's to me, and here's to the both of us dying just like this.
Jaysus, you say in your head. Jaysus, in your always lilting commentary, what the feck hev I doon?
And still you can't help yourself. There is a big teacher, her face shows the wrinkles of a nearly constant hateful sneer, she is to be feared, she does not appear to be there for the wee children. In the office at the end of the day, casual conversation, she relates the story of the retribution enacted after a particularly raucous few days with a substitute. Me, the substitute. She tells me about the wee ones, fourteen referrals written up in all, Saturday school for most, a suspension for one, the verbal lashing, the destroying of smugness, the breaking, the breaking. Like an animal, I savor the particularly bloody morsels of her style of justice, remembering each wee one and their taunts (stupid, liar, liar, shut-up) and rejoicing in the news of their suffering.
Jaysus, Mary and St. Joseph. And who will suffer for the wee ones? Let ye who be without sin cast the first stone.
I'm standing in my coat and I'm suffocating, the smell of the school (pencil shavings and old carpet), the high-pitched chatter of the after school hangers-on, the florescent lights, the teachers, the yelling. And this woman's face and her telling me about the righteous suffering of the offenders. They are wild and we are to step on them, to crush them until there is no more resistance, until the path is made clear to them or until they are broken completely. My forehead is dotted with sweat and my eyes are swimming, drunk in the florescent hell of insecurity and unearned power. I hate the school, I hate the teachers, I hate the students, I hate the overpaid administrators who are never there anyway, I hate the system set up for failure. I run out as fast as I can and the cold outside hits my sweaty face like a ton of bricks.
'Tis a feckin waste. 'Tis a feckin Yank waste with the soul squished out flat with naught left but the steam of yer piss.
Aye, 'tis, 'tis.
*******************
I had a dream yesterday afternoon (I took a nap) and in the end I was drowning. It started out with some kids somehow and ended up with just me and this one kid, this little kid who used to come to the Saturday food distributions and who was probably seven years old but looked like a grown man of thirty squished into the body of a little boy. Too much worry for one so young. We were walking through an Ohio-type forest, looking for safety, it was raining and we were winding down a path that followed a swollen river. I misplaced a step and fell into the river, slow like, with enough time to look up and see the loss in his face as my head slipped below the surface. In the water all was warm and wet and mushy and I could scarcely move and I knew I was a goner. Take a moment to think, I thought, and clarity came upon me and I remembered someone once told me that in the end drowning is a peaceful way to go. I put my awareness on the top of my head and though to myself, okay, let's do this.
Here's to you, and here's to me, and here's to the both of us dying just like this.
5.12.05
suckerpunch.
This big goddamn kid, huge for his twelve years, unruly, belligerent, loud. Stupid. He has a place in most of the “special” ed classes in his junior high school, and more than likely he had a place in those “special” classes that they offered in his grade school, too. So many years of being special and dammit if he’s not insecure now. Dammit if he doesn’t have a shell three feet thick and tough as christ.
He has devised a way of mucking through the daily hell that is being the stupid kid in school; he is an outrageous and sometimes even violent clown. He pulls his nylon blue cap tight down around his afro, over his face, asks at the top of his lungs if he has the respect of the class literacy aide. And for a moment the teacher stops asking him to answer the question already and is busy yelling at the other kids to stop laughing. (Clown one, school zero.)
He is sad, he is pathetic, he is alone, he is someone who will never make it out of this working-class county in this working-class state, he will end up in jail with his uncle, his future does not belong to him anymore.
It’s freezing in the classroom, part of the board of education’s budget cuts. At the beginning of the school year they told the teachers to be tolerant of the cold this winter because it’s saving them five-thousand dollars. It’s the last period, it’s just the clown and another kid, just an easy and pointless worksheet to finish, one more day out of an impossible number of days, over. But not quite. The clown yells at the literacy aide, tells him to brush off his dirty shoes. He yells because I had asked him a question. Because he didn’t want to read. Because he is more insecure than I can ever possibly imagine. I sit down in the low chair next to him. I look him in the eye and I stare at him. He yells another pathetic joke. I stare at him still. He covers his face in his blue nylon cap again, pulling it tight, looking at me through the fibers. I stare where I know his eyes are. He looks away. Looks down at his worksheet. Pulls the cap halfway off and asks, in a very bossy and self-important voice, for help with the rest of the assignment.
The whole thing, from beginning to end, is a goddamn fucking shame.
He has devised a way of mucking through the daily hell that is being the stupid kid in school; he is an outrageous and sometimes even violent clown. He pulls his nylon blue cap tight down around his afro, over his face, asks at the top of his lungs if he has the respect of the class literacy aide. And for a moment the teacher stops asking him to answer the question already and is busy yelling at the other kids to stop laughing. (Clown one, school zero.)
He is sad, he is pathetic, he is alone, he is someone who will never make it out of this working-class county in this working-class state, he will end up in jail with his uncle, his future does not belong to him anymore.
It’s freezing in the classroom, part of the board of education’s budget cuts. At the beginning of the school year they told the teachers to be tolerant of the cold this winter because it’s saving them five-thousand dollars. It’s the last period, it’s just the clown and another kid, just an easy and pointless worksheet to finish, one more day out of an impossible number of days, over. But not quite. The clown yells at the literacy aide, tells him to brush off his dirty shoes. He yells because I had asked him a question. Because he didn’t want to read. Because he is more insecure than I can ever possibly imagine. I sit down in the low chair next to him. I look him in the eye and I stare at him. He yells another pathetic joke. I stare at him still. He covers his face in his blue nylon cap again, pulling it tight, looking at me through the fibers. I stare where I know his eyes are. He looks away. Looks down at his worksheet. Pulls the cap halfway off and asks, in a very bossy and self-important voice, for help with the rest of the assignment.
The whole thing, from beginning to end, is a goddamn fucking shame.
4.12.05
Rumi, for the remembering.
All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I'm like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.
This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it.
When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.
*************
We have a huge barrel of wine, but no cups.
That's fine with us. Every morning
we glow and in the evening we glow again.
They say there's no future for us. They're right.
Which is fine with us.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I'm like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.
This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it.
When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.
*************
We have a huge barrel of wine, but no cups.
That's fine with us. Every morning
we glow and in the evening we glow again.
They say there's no future for us. They're right.
Which is fine with us.
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