Interlude

"And what happens if I go crazy?"

"Whaa?"

He is halfway to sleep, holding my right hip like a life preserver. I've asked him this specific question at this specific moment for a reason. So I ask again.

"What happens if I go crazy?"

There is a pause. And I can tell by his breathing - that lean stomach beating against my soft back with more determination - he is awakened. Perfectly lucid.

"We'll deal with that if we get to that."

He falls asleep again. More calm than a baby in mother's arms. Hand on my hip, content. Nothing short of catastrophe could wake him up now.

Even as I type this I feel him falling deeper into dreams.

I wish sometimes that I could sleep like a man.

Under My Thumb

Yawn. Seriously not getting more than 3 hours of sleep a night between the worrying and the working and the not feeling very connected to myself. Or anyone else, actually.

I mean I am. But it's by a very long string. Like a balloon, or my Yahoo mail account.

I stayed up late enough last night to catch "Honey" on Bravo and some infomercial about a hair care system that will change my fucking life. But not long enough to think that "Honey" was a good movie, or order the hair care system. I woke up at 6. I tried for 2 hours to go to sleep before giving in, cause on a Saturday at least there are naps.

I got a place to live, but now I'm not sure I want to live there. I realized a bit too late how much I'll miss my windows. Then I realized that maybe I'm hiding behind them.

Then I realized that I don't care. Then I checked out on decision making for a bit, and it's an expensive checkout. I've yet to give notice on my current place, which means paying rent on 2 spots this month. And next month too, if I don't decide soon.

Those pro/con lists that people are always making in movies and TV are actually pretty useless in real life. One thing's pro is another thing's con. It's a zero sum game.

I guess the basic tradeoff is cheap-ish rent in a place filled with sunlight and horizons out in the boondocks for pricey-ish rent in a place with no view, but more brown people and something cool to do everywhere I turn. A comic book store just a block away, but the tiniest bedroom known to man.

I can rollerskate in my current apartment. In the new place I'm closer to the rink.

Suggestions are welcome. I really need an advisor on this, as my closest friend has abandoned me to cupcake with some dude who seems like a big fucking flake and doesn't contact her consistently. Which of course is why she's got to be flakey with me. I understand the system. It's just not working in my favor right now.

It's come to this because I was raised by wolves. If I had half a family member with a solid background in decision-making I could bounce the whole thing off of them. Instead I have a therapist and a public diary. Plus sleep deprivation and a bit of depression.

Le hot. You know that makes you want to date me.

Yesterday I was in North Oakland making a left turn and this kid on the median looked so Slim Shady I had to think REALLY hard about my boyfriend to avoid pulling over to holler at him. Vainglorious, emotionally unavailable and comfortable around black men = truly my favorite kind of white guy. But I just sighed, and continued my travels.

Then last night I met my homegirl at this bar downtown and there were twenty types of fine motherfuckers in that place. The Town never ceases to amaze me that way. The DJ played Gangstarr one second and 80s classic pop the next. I drank rum but punched my weight to avoid a hangover and wrapping my Jeep. All went well.

There's more to this, but I feel sleep coming on finally. I'm tuning out and dropping in. Adieu.

Over My Shoulder

I have new adventures to tell you. Pictures as well. Do you even know what I look like, anymore? I'll show you.

But for now I am remembering.

I remember watching Rabbit Proof Fence with my grandfather and crying when it ended. I remember him sitting me on his lap and rocking me and shushing me and telling me it was going to be alright. I was in my twenties, then.

Some years later I remember sitting by his bed, shushing him and telling him the same.

I also remember telling some of you about two dreams I had. It was almost a lifetime ago:

in the first, there was a man who wanted to murder all of his daughters. he had several. i was one of them. there were two of us left and we were twins, on the run together. in the end we constructed a clever escape with the unwitting help of two trickster fieldsmen. they aided us in making hideouts from corn husks. we destroyed the one they told us to use and left the other for ourselves. we eventually emerged, we were victorious. 

in the second i was hard knock life. off in the snow somewhere, and due at some function but dreading it. my handbag did not match my shoes, if you get my drift. socioeconomic stratification that did not behoove me. made me aware of a tear in my dress or something. plus, there was snow as far as the eye could see.

i found myself in a limousine with a man outside knocking on the window. i rolled down the window to find a huge mafioso looking gent in a three piece suit. my fairy godfather, he told me that i could summon him whenever i needed his assistance just by making a certain hand signal. 

moments later, when i found myself on some snowy corner somewhere lost and confused, there he was in a shiny camaro to pick me up.

i never made it to the ball and didn't want to.

which reminds me. i used to jump rope to this little rhyme:

cinderella
dressed in yella
went upstairs to kiss her fella
made a mistake and kissed a snake
how many doctors did it take?
one, two, three... 

the rope turners would speed up. survival of the fittest. more doctors meant you were better at it. i suppose it meant that the snake was more venomous, too. by some strange logic, that works for me. a lesson for the little ones in all of us:

don't kiss snakes. be certain of your footing. make your mistakes, but make them worthwhile.

Moves.

Trying to relocate myself. Conventional wisdom says that it should be easy to go from where I am to where I want to be.

But I'm not sure God got the memo about how I don't need to be tested at this point in my life. I had the perfect place all picked out and it was well within my means and I found out today that I didn't get it.

I'd already moved my heart in there.

Oh God, you so crazy.

I'm not very good at disappointment. It's for pussies.

Hardcovers.

Browsing the last 100 or so posts for this thing I found an interesting entry hanging out in Draft purgatory called "Steady as She Goes: a Hetero Lady's Guide to Abstinence".

While that previous sentence may have been grammatically incorrect, rest assured that none of it was a typo.

I'm off that hype now and actually fucking on the regular, but reading the entry brought me back to a time when I wasn't so self-conscious here. Even though it stayed in Draft mode, the gist of the thing made me wistful for a time when clicking Publish didn't feel so daunting and permanent. One of the first blogs I ever wrote was called "A Guide to Pussy", or something else similarly irreverent.

I feel like I'm writing my resume nowadays.

But it's even more depressing. Cause at least my resume would focus on the high points. My professional website talks about me like I'm some sort of goddamn superhero. And on my best days I actually feel like one. One would think that on my worst days I could at least summon supervillainy.

One of my new favorite places to go is this comic book store in Berkeley. After a year or so of letting Amazon turn me into the worst kind of consumer I realized that there is a list of actual brick and mortar retail businesses that I'd like to see remain standing even if every shopping mall in this fine nation is turned into a massive Starbucks. The list is short. Comic stores are on the list.

So anyway, I Google the things I'm interested in and then go into the actual comic store to ask a live person for them. If they don't have the thing in stock they order it for me and send me a note when it arrives. The first thing I ordered was like 5 or 6 library edition Hellboy books. They are fucking massive and comprise several stories each plus all kinds of over-sized goodies and character studies and back stories and whatnot. Wireframes. Concepts that didn't make it. That sort of shit. I love these things.

The last thing I ordered was the third Omnivore edition of Chew, which is a comic that is still being written and released. Another hardcover edition, it's one step up from the little softcover 3-issue compilations and each of them has 2 of those editions, meaning 6 of the original issue episodes each. I read it in about a day and then have to wait 4 months for the next one to come out because that's how I consume comics.

I'm horrible with softcover books. I wreck them by slamming them into backpacks or leaving them tangled in my bed covers or kicking them across the floor while I'm doing Michael Jackson dance moves in my living room. Something about a soft cover inherently garners less respect from me. Poor things. So yeah. I wait 4 months and order the next hardcover.

Anyway, picking up big boy Chew #3 meant a visit to my new favorite comic store. All of my previous visits I'd been helped by really awesome but also stereotypical comic store employee/owner types. Like. Awesome sources of knowledge on anything comic lore related, but also socially awkward in that way that people who live in fantasy worlds can be.

But not the guy who dug up my Chew #3. I don't know where the fuck he came from, but he was sort of cool with a little bit of dashing and I-don't-give-a-damn thrown in. And now I'm a little obsessed. Not in the "I'd date the hell out of him" sort of way, but in the "I didn't know people like you existed" sort of way. So I must find out what his deal is. I'm totally gonna get all detective on him the next time we cross paths. But I need to come up with something subtler than "where the fuck did you come from?" as an opening line, I think.

While I was waiting to be rung up by the cashier with the awesome rack (another comic book store staple I've grown fond of: intensely nerdy but you know that if someone took her into the girls' bathroom with some lip-liner, a pair of scissors and a couple of scrunchies she'd come out looking like a car show model) I saw a Punisher belt buckle and fell in love with that insignia. It's the old school icon, all straight edges and not trying to be punk rock.

I bought one immediately, but now I'm a poser cause I haven't read a single Punisher comic book. I did read all that I could about him otherwise, but I'm planning a manicure in his honor so I kinda need to dig in deeper in case someone calls me out on that. A mission that will bring me right back to the comic book store, I guess. Ahem.

If it sounds like my life is intensely uneventful, that's because it kind of is right now. I spend a lot of time with my boyfriend watching crazy shit on Netflix, occasionally sitting on his lap to play Diablo. When I'm not doing that I'm selling people things they do not need in rather unexciting ways or critiquing the outfits of Berkeley freshmen as I pass them on the sidewalks.

Oh. On that note. I've started wondering whether or not it would be good for people's self esteem if I walked up to them and yelled "YOU ARE GODDAMN *FIERCE*, HONEY. YOU BETTER *WORK*!" out of the blue for no reason whatsoever. Or if it would simply get me arrested.

I'll keep you posted on that.

Math.

My sleep goes one of two ways: I get none and spend the day feeling like a zombie, or I get lots and I'm fucking loath to get out of bed. My dreamscape is goddamn *vivid*, y'all. Filled with rich adventure and heroic types. This has been the case for as long as I can remember, but in the last couple of years it's driven me to distraction.

Why can't my always be like my dreams?

But that's not why I'm here. I mean. That's why I'm here, I'm in the former stage and possibly soon to be slipping into the latter and so I am writing. But I'm not here to discuss that.

Tonight it's math that's bugging me.

Because I was poor for a lot of my growing up I used to attribute my emotional distress to a lack of dough. Bread. Ducats. I quantified my unhappiness based on income for some of the same reasons I imagine an anorexic person fixates on their BMI. It allows a person to put the pain of existing into a manageable little column of figures and stats. It's almost soothing, as it provides the illusion that all you need to do is pull a few levers and you'll turn the corner. You'll wake up Free.

So I assigned myself some numbers. An amount I should be making. An amount I required my boyfriends to be making. An amount I wanted on hand at all times. These numbers allowed me to set hard and fast rules about whether or not I was happy without doing any real introspection.

It was about a million times easier to calculate the difference between what I was making and what I wanted to make than it was to determine how much soothing and loving and soul searching it would take to get over the fact that neither of my parents ever really gave a fuck about me, ya know?

So there you have it. That was my logic.

And I lived hard by those numbers. Justified insane amounts of soul-sucking work to the point that all I ever knew was rat racing. Showed some good guys the door. Climbed that fucking ladder. Boy howdy, did I ever climb that fucking ladder.

Before I knew it I was operating on the assumption that I was at a deficit every single day. I lost track, and for quite some time I kept acting like I was poor even though I had not only met my numbers, but exceeded them to an extent I'd never even thought possible.

Mind you: I'm still no baller. I can't walk into British Motor Cars and buy some brand new fantastic and glimmering shit right off the lot like people do in the movies. I can't afford a mansion in the hills and a clydesdale named Buttercup. But for a solo chick with no education to speak of and no shorties snatching my crumbs I do a-motherfucking-okay.

But you know what that means, don't you? The jig is up. Because according to my math I Should Be Just Fine.

I should be. Free.

And I'm not.

I'd say I feel disillusioned, but I never really believed in the numbers. They always felt a little like saying the same word over and over again until it doesn't feel like a real word anymore. They were more veils.

Even still, I am scrambling now. Intimidated by recovery's blank pages. Because all that's left to do is The Real Work. The time for measuring in dollars is passed, and I'm not sure I trust myself with any other method of gauging how far I've come.

Want.

In response to any environment of extraordinary gratification and pampering, this insatiable-infant part of me will simply adjust its desires upward until it once again levels out at its homeostasis of terrible dissatisfaction. - David Foster Wallace, "Shipping Out"

I've been contemplating a cruise, so I read Mr. Wallace's article again in hopes of Getting a Grip. A few things happened after that.

1) I decided that cruise ships aren't my bag, baby.
2) I was reminded of the horrible truth in the passage containing the quote above.
3) I remembered that I like writing. Like, a lot.

But bear with me. I'm rusty. I've been writing emails and contracts and nothing much else for almost a year now. I'm bound to be clumsy.

Not that it matters. This is tumbleweed zone.

I could catch no one in particular up on what's been happening in my life, but now doesn't seem like the time for that. Because really I'm just obsessing over this idea of insatiability and am hoping this miniscule act of yelling into the void will help me rest tonight.

Anymore, all my mind seems able to settle on is a single question:

Is this it?

I ask this question about 8 times a day and then I feel stupid, wondering if I'm actually expecting an answer and if so, from whom?

Then I spend about 10 minutes to 8 hours wondering what God would sound like if she chimed in on the subject. A whisper? A door slamming? Waves crashing? A bird flying into a window? 2 Chainz?

I have no idea. So for all I know the question has already been answered.

But it doesn't matter. Because of that stupid truth above. I get answers and set goals all of the time and I always end up right back where I started, emotionally speaking. Want, want, want.

The best and the brightest. Only ever always that.

The idea of a cruise ship seemed appealing to me because I thought for a second I could lose all accountability at sea. Shake things up a bit. Out in the middle of nowhere without land in sight has to change a person's priorities, right?

But a couple of pages into "Shipping Out" I realized that it would probably be dangerous for me. An unreasonable sense of despair comes easily enough when I'm on stable footing. The last thing I need is aimless pampered drifting for 10 days to make it critical.

I imagine myself surrounded by gorgeous turquoise water, wearing the most perfect lady-sailor outfits and indulging in daily poolside massages. Yet at some point in those 10 days I would inevitably ask

Is this it?

And God might actually bitch slap me.

So I guess it's not a sailor's life for me, after all.

Blink and You'll Miss It

This post was previously me over-sharing about what's taken me so long to creep through and say "hullo". But it was a little. Um. Brazen.

No, I have not turned shrinking violet since I've been gone. Quite the opposite, actually.

But more on that later. I'm worked up about work and can't sleep. Bummer, that.

Gonna focus power, get some Zs, and holler in the morning.

Or um. Afternoon.

Good night. I missed you.

Know When to Fold 'em

Too tired to sleep. Like Willie Nelson and his Gambler. Except there's no mystic traveler beside me to remind me that life is like rolling dice. Nothing is guaranteed any time ever. Except for the fact that nothing is guaranteed.

No One Alive Can Always Be An Angel

Someone I knew has become someone I used to know. That is all I have to report, tonight. It's a shame because it makes me a little sad. But it also means something brand new is around the corner.

The burn. Well. It reminds me I'm alive.

I'm ready. Life, love. Bring it.

Sorry I'm Not Home Right Now

Internet spiderwebs. Worse than the telephone kind, if you can believe it?



And oh man. What a few days it's been. 

Weeks? Week? Like I said, my concept of time has done a little changing lately. For better and worse, but I figure I am just doing some settling into The Real Me.

You see. What happened was that I started working full time when I was 17 years old. And with a good deal of moxie and a lot more blessing and good will I have kept doing so for 20 years straight. 20 fucking years. I think in those 20 years I may have seen about 6 months of unemployment? Even when everyone in my industry was floundering. I kept getting lucky, I stayed blessed.

And I worked hard. Hellllla hard. And made a gang of mistakes. Bowed and withdrawn, when I should have drawn my sword! And possibly worse: drawn my sword when I should have bowed out peacefully.

I did that for 20 years straight and started thinking to myself that it was my life, you know? 8-12 hour days, 5 day weeks, 4 week months, guilty vacations and even guilty sick days sometimes. You know the drill. Until.

Until.



Until it broke down. Until I realized that I couldn't see any further than those tiny windows of life. I looked up one day and I was deep in a forest but I didn't know which forest and I wasn't sure how I'd gotten there or even if I'd wanted to go there in the first place.

It all stopped so abruptly, but it needed to happen. I'll spare you the details, except that I cried my ass off heading home that night and straight through the night and on into sleep. And when I woke up the next day I had the puffiest eyes ever, but I also had the hugest fucking sense of relief.



The clouds had parted. Daylight was mine. No more vampire living and no more being told what to do and when and watching my essence drain away as my hands and face got paler and paler from lack of smiling and daylight. None of that. At least not for a bit.

But I've had an even better realization.

Yes. I'm in a forest and maybe I'm not quite sure where it is located. But I've set up a nice camp for myself. Cleared just enough of the wood. Made friends with the flora and fauna. Found my niches for hunting and making and hiding. And well.

I'm like Snow White in this bitch. Bunnies and squirrels and rabbits and raccoons and all manner of wild beasts are in my favor. I got birds weaving bows into my braids, these days.

Or so I like to think. And so I must think, as I am banking on myself right now. Counting on the tide. When it ebbs. When it floods. What washes up. What's left behind.



There I go mixing up my metaphors again.

My days are not exactly ALL mine, but I'm reclaiming a good lot of them. I'm dressing like a pirate more often than not, at this point. Going on walkabouts and finding treasures. For instance, I found a working Wurlitzer organ on the side of the street the other day on my way to the playground. She's gorgeous. I've named her Alabama, after free associating a bit she's 2 degrees from one of my favorite movies of all time, and strangely reminiscent of one I can't love but have lived too much to hate.

So yes. There is magic afoot. Time to reclaim some things.




Don't look ahead there's stormy weather/
Another road block in our way

But if we go, we go together/
Our hands are tied here if we stay

Oh, we said our dreams will carry us/
And if they don't fly we will run

Now we push right past to find out/
How to win what they all lost

Ummmm. Yeah.

I walked out of my apartment to find her doing back-bends and splits in my hallway. I was overjoyed. These are the things to which I have opened my life, since it has opened itself up to whatever. I've had no choice. I'm okay with that.

I also had a few hours this afternoon with like. The dreamiest six foot plus tall well-groomed crisp and gallant man . So yeah. That also happened. So. Um.

Will Ferrell on Saturday Night Live. And well. How about those Giants, eh? Yeah. Woo. Heh. Ha. Yeah.
Night.

Sweet Reunion, Jamaica and Spain

we're like how we were again

So much has changed about me lately. I cannot comprehend a steady daily rhythm any longer. It's not in my best interest. No two days are alike and there's never any telling when something will have to happen.

 Or when I won't do a damn thing but kick my feet up and watch cartoons for an hour. Or walk to the park and leave the phone at home.




These things.

I want to tell all of them to you but right now I am mega tired but in just can't sleep mode. Now that I can define my own schedule I allow siestas. There is a ripple effect.

 I'm dressing like a pirate more often lately. That's pretty rad.

 

More later.

Gnight.

Angelina

Emotional Signaling

Emotional signaling. That's where I eventually got to on last night's research and this afternoon's outing. The thing I was trying to identify is called emotional signaling and that's not really the problem. The problem is me, actually.

Last night I was supposed to go to this show, and I was making a dress to wear for it to go with my gold Nikes and everything was copacetic until the dress didn't get done just right and my hair wasn't as springy as I wanted it to be and I got 2 really fucked up text messages and I just said fuck it.

Trisha went in my stead. She's so tiny and still big enough for both of us. She even hung with my little bro for the night. He's a golden one. But that's another story entirely.

Today she insisted that we hang out. We were gonna see a movie. I couldn't get it together to sit in one place for that long. We went to a cafe. She brought a dog. The day was completely different and just what I needed.

That. And a muse. I used to be my own muse, you see. Minuesque* in little custom jumpsuits and always available for testing. Right now I just don't want to make anything for me. I feel like I'm in an in-between state.



Want to know something funny? Back when I was making stuff a few years ago I didn't have a dress form and I thought I was bigger than I was, so none of it fit me. It was all just a size too big. I found a load of that crap today while I was going through my fabric and tried it on again. It fit like gloves. Amazing a little, ya?

Still. No need to make clothes for this version of me, the unhappy times. Nothing too complicated. Simple little dresses that make me feel like Mary Tyler Moore or a Flashdance extra, you know?

I need a real muse, though. Someone willing to try the prototypes while I am not the prototype. Someone whose shape inspires me and is around. A living doll.

Or a faerie.

Today it took some strong words from Trisha's little self and an impossibly novel walk down a street named after her to get me back on firm earth again. She reminded me of a few things. Pointed out that artificial cliff I've been shading in daily for the past few weeks as everything I thought was clear kinda got foggy and vice versa.

This time. This time is a lot to deal with. But fucking a. At least it's MY TIME now, dude.

Time to make it happen, captain.





Tonight I finished the dress, I have to get the words on it then I'll show you where I ended up. After that it's a turquoise mini skirt for the birthday girl.

Oh and on a lighter note?

Pop culturally, I am finally understanding The Boondocks - I think it took the graphic novel reading to help me get it. Now I do. I'm sprung.

And I never thought I'd sign off on a black man's version of Jackass cause I thought Jackass was possibly the dumbest show ever on television but um.

I like Loiter Squad. It's silly. And 15 minutes. And those boys are cute. I want to make them hot chocolate with Courvoisier in it. Yum.

I'm going to be okay with losing shoes in plants but I think I might just give the cat a name. We'll see.

Night.


*yes i made that word up and it's not quite right but i'll refine it until it is

Visual Cliff

This is ramblings for you Midnight Marauders. This is what's left after today because I decided to stay in instead of go out dancing tonight. This is why I still can't sleep because I refuse to take pills for that sort of thing anymore. This is for those of you perhaps reading with one eye open, tucked in with some sleek device. This is me without many boundaries.

This is me on a Visual Cliff.

*********

Today at lunch Liz asked me the question that I fear more than any other

What do you want?

And I didn't skip a beat telling her that I have no clue. None whatsoever.

Frankly? That terrifies me - but I also find it exhilarating.

I rattled off a handful of places. Los Angeles. New York. Amsterdam. Hawaii. Miami. Atlanta. We settled on Atlanta as the most intriguing.

But I am Peck's Bad Girl, so there is no telling how that could turn out.

*********

Nina has this habit of telling me things about myself that I wouldn't let anyone else say without reading them the riot act. I guess that's what I pay her for.

She likens me to Scarlett O'Hara - fiddle dee dee and all of that. And though I wouldn't shrug at using my drapes to make a fantastic gown, I think I am more Holly Golightly.

I remember distinctly that very scene where I identified with her. She was having a surprise visit by that pseudo handsome neighbor boy and in a scramble to get ready. She had him zip her up, I think. She was putting her hair into some sort of glamorous french twist and couldn't find her shoe and she got fancier and fancier even as her conversation and searching grew more hectic.

She was getting ready to visit someone in Sing Sing.

Oh, I don't know when it was that I first saw that movie. 10 years ago? Maybe more?

But it started way prior to that, you see. And I do exhibit some symptoms. So I will partially accept this label, this Peck's Bad Girl syndrome, for as long as it takes to feel I've shaken it. Or at least made it a pretty gown out of my curtains and gotten it into a cab to Sing Sing.

Maybe then I'll buy some furniture and give the cat a name.

Or so I was thinking.

**********

I'm no expert, but there's this thing that happens with babies. When they fall and look up at you and if you're all lighthearted and "hey there little foot, took a tumble?" they kinda dust off and get up and go about their business. But if you're all freaked out and gasping or rushing over, they start bawling like they broke a bone or something.

You know that thing? I'm googling left and right but all I can find is The Moro Reflex and something called a Visual Cliff. Both interesting. But neither is the thing that I was talking about just now.

But that got me started in another direction. So maybe this makes sense after all.

I'm up against a Visual Cliff, you see. No real danger - just a vague sketch of an edge that could *maybe* *possibly* be something I should worry about.

And then in a single day 4 of my friends tell me that they are concerned for me. And all of a sudden I feel like that baby and I understand now why they cry when they see that worried look on our faces.

A lack of faith is tragic. Worth crying about. More so when you are the cause of it.

*********

What do I want?

That's the Visual Cliff, I think. This should be a simple enough decision. I just have to stop looking back over my shoulder, as it isn't doing me much good.

Onward, upward and hopefully to sleep with me.

G'night.

time machine - 12/15/03

my love



there's numerous ways you can choose to earn funds

mothers, keep your sons tucked away in my presence. i'll corrupt.

someone stylized by scars external and internal, i think. breathtaking and aesthetically pleasing damage. i don't go in for that thoughtless bruising and dismantling of self that the kids seem so into these days. i want reverence. tradition. ritual.

an assassin and i would make a good couple. i'd make wholesome dinners and polish the knives. he'd bring me stolen jewelry almost daily. he'd cut out his own tongue before he'd disrespect me. i'd vow to do the same.

i'd wear four men's rolex watches on each arm plus one on each ankle, one for every murder committed during our honeymoon. i'd know the time in every major city we'd visited during our courtship, our birthplaces and those of our parents.

i'd wear always and exclusively homemade leather goods (that'd be how i'd make my living and clean our money: selling leather superhero costumes). i'd spend most of my day with no shoes on. i'd perfect my massage technique and maintain our investments plus keep strict guard of the boxes and boxes of money stashed under the mattresses. plus learn to use a gun.

did i mention that i'd cook and polish the knives?

we'd vacation in warm places among people who looked like us. we'd smoke hand-rolled cigarettes. we'd have our own sauna and jacuzzi. our towels, instead of reading "his" and "hers" would just say, "not yours".



not yours.

You Can't Miss What You Never Had

so how exactly to describe what i am feeling now? is it regret? nostalgia? longing? that magic wishful state of mind that's led me astray so very many times before?

i don't know.

work is fine, though. better than fine. fantastic.

and i'm getting my art back. bit by bit.



yes ms. sevigny, it certainly will.

My Pretty Little Sky

I love you.

And it won't make any sense, you know. Like. Six months from now. Or even four weeks. Why I spent this evening or rather this morning laying on the Tangerine Dream feeling all languid, watching Three's Company (the Terri years) and wishing I was somewhere else but instead deciding to write to you.

It won't make any sense at all. I've found lately that it is a task: stringing each day together in a way that makes sense. Sliding these bones along this twine one by one and trying to make it into a graceful pattern of some kind. Trying to make it feel at least a little like it matters.

The Terri Years don't help much. She's all fake stern and intelligent. Nothing like that bouncy little Chrissy Snow. And nowhere near as cool as that classically trained actress, the lovely and dark Janet.

Terri is.

Filler. J Crew catalogs in your mailbox addressed to your neighbor.

I can say this only because at one point in my life I was filler, too. And I wonder often day by day if I'm filler even still.

Nights like tonight I notice only the absence of one or three key figures. People who always make it a point to give me a proper greeting.

At the same time I'm swept away by the presence of one or three key figures. These are the ones who see me just as well. I might say that tonight there were probably five of them. Tonight was saturated in so many ways. And in only one way that really mattered.

I love the way I do anything else. Very stubbornly. Very precisely. Very much as though it's the only thing in the world that actually really needs to be done, at the time.

That single-mindedness kept me solo. I drove across town for my first meal of the day. I spent Saturday in bed and had some peanut butter on Ak Mak and finally got up and out and into my Jordans for work and by that time I was actually running late, if you can believe that. And still no real food. So tonight I drove past my house into the avenues and back past my house into what's left of the Fillmore and finally made it home with food.

So much to say and no one to whom I could say it.

Lately when I dream I'm almost always in a room with two walls of windows each facing the ocean as the tide rises higher and higher and then much higher. It rises and rises far past the point that it is meant to rise until I'm surrounded by foaming swirls of it. With sea stars and sea weed and flotsam and jetsam all around.

But I'm perfectly safe. Not a bit of it touches me. Or even threatens to.

I dream almost every night that I'm in a reverse aquarium.

I fear that maybe I live every day in that very same fashion.

I know that it matters not, as I'm only striving toward a state of grace, and who could blame me for that?

Not you. I know that, at least.

Cielito lindo, yo te amo.

trouble

tonight finds me wondering how exactly i would dig myself out of a deep and muddy hole, if i found myself at the bottom of a well or something. or quicksand. how would i get myself out of some shit like that?

well see. logic then interferes and i have to ask myself how the fuck i got stuck in mud in the first place. i mean. i have 20/20. shouldn't be any issues noticing pitfalls in my path over here.

that takes me back further, and then i get uncomfortable and change the subject with myself.

but oh. see how i digress?

this is me, some people think, at my best. wound like a top. just *finally* finished working but still thinking about it. with a list of things to do about a mile long and no time for introspection.

but good god. where've i got to?

and oh. oh hell no.

don't get it twisted i am not about to get all "poor me" on your ass. playing victim to some prior circumstances or pre-conditioning or poor choices or too much too short growing up. or like. what the fuck ever.





i transcend. this muck i am raking is all of my own creation and also pretty way down there. at least in enough non-practical ways that it tends to balance out quite well the metaphorical but practical and daily bullshit.

and i exercise my right to elevate my presence with attention paid to small details as often as possible.

but is that it, though? no.

this is where i raise one finger in the air and it's a lightbulb moment for me, really. i go

or!

or. alternatively.

i *could* go move somewhere and buy a small house and be a farmer. or grow vegetables in my backyard and crochet bikinis for a living and stop watching cable television. deal with literal shit to earn my keep and metaphorical shit only as desired. only as it enriches me and no more. never more.

but see. where would those nikes fit in there? or these nails?

i have to build my own jungle and find my own beach. it's not far away. not in 7 league gold sneakers.





but back to my problem. getting unstuck. that's my meditation for the night. i have to focus, children.

it isn't sweet dreams material but i'm over lullabies, a little. a lot.


*********


I want to wake up.

Good Night.

Fish in the Sea, You Know How I Feel

Spent so much time composing the setting for writing this that I plumb forgot what I was gonna write. Almost. I think.

One thing to note: this song looks like this on my ceiling when played on my new silly cheap fantastic speakers.




Yes. Most often I use them at work, to keep things active once it gets dark and starts feeling like I should be headed home.

They flash many colors. Water shoots up and all of that. If you focus hard enough, it's like taking a trip to Vegas, but only experiencing the good parts.

Dragonfly out in the sun, you know what I mean don't you know
Butterflies all havin fun, you know what I mean

I keep coming back to the analogy of shedding my skin. Because when I am uncomfortable in it, when I'm trying to get out of it? Boy howdy, am I ever uncomfortable.

But in my element and with old things left behind in the shrubs I am as nimble as whatever it is I am slinking through.

Or hiding in.

All depends on the moment.





One thing I have come to realize at thirty seven years of age is that I got where I am by doing things *in spite* of things. By absolutely *not* conforming.

And for some very long time that habit served me well. I'd go so far as to call it a survival instinct. Some superior adaptive Darwin bullshit, like my mega-small pinkie toes.

Except that the whole fucking theory breaks down in real life. It doesn't pass inspection now that I am a grown up.

Because very simply: I do not have to fight anymore. I got it. I got where I wanted to get and I have what I wanted to have.

And moving forward I hope to live up to that knowledge on a daily basis. Rebels without causes die young and don't change a whole lot of anything worth remembering.

But also. But also, and paramount:

There is just simply the resolution to be me. Whatever that happens to mean when I wake up each morning. If that's not enough for the whole wide world then I gotta just say "fuck the whole wide world".

That is not a rebellion. That is a decision.

And I can make those too, now that I'm all grown up.

Sweet Dreams and Stay Gold,

Angelina

Sleep in peace when day is done, that's what I mean

Oh the Weather Outside is Frightful

but the fire is so delightful.

The monthly party I work was on Friday instead of Saturday this month. It took some getting used to, and I was dressed like a 1950s divorcee. That said, it was pretty grand.

And in passing I said to some cowboy-looking gentleman:

You're really handsome.

Because Nina told me she knew a woman who met her husband that very same way. I am not certain my intent was the same, but I realized recently that I talk enough shit about people needing to make things happen that I gotta put my money where my mouth is.

Fully invested I am, in this particular lifetime. Talk like Yoda I do, because it's that sacred to me.

Ha.

As a result I have made myself calling cards. They are more like business cards because they are TMI, but still. A lady needs to leave her mark if she wants to be taken seriously.





Yet and still. My dreamy and tall square-jawed Prince Charming dashed away into the night. I didn't even get the chance to offer him a calling card. I put myself out there and was rejected. I lost one.

One of many, I am sure. But more will be gotten and lost and/or one will be gotten and kept before all is said and done. There will be flurries. There will be storms. There will be silent moments, too.

At all times I promise you that I will put my bid in. Solid.

And since there's no place to go?



Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.

Bonsoir.

Time Machine - 8/30/2003 - Frantic Dismantlers of Kindness

this is the holding taketank for all the rummies...

flagrant disregarders, smack-talkers, angry young things and self-destructors. four a.m.ers, tweaking losers, frantic dismantlers of kindness. street sweepers, nightclub creepers and secret keepers.

the not-so-fine line between knowing the lyrics to "mr. brownstone" and having them tattooed on your back.

the lack of perfection in my personal selection has led me toward the latter, as of late. wanting something bigger than life. wanting something worth conquering, not these tired sad old quests that begin in a circle drawn around the words so what's it all about?

fuck what it's all about. give me action.

this moment in time and sorry facial expression courtesy of a boy who spoke to me explicitly last night. as i tried to chill it all out for long enough to watch cartoons in my bedroom, he says to me he says i'm really lovely. really. absolutely sweet and kind and fun. and oh how he'd love to hang out with me. but he'd rather be abusing himself right now.

that's the prettiest thing i've heard in months.

i walked him downstairs and felt much calmer after he'd left. my god. how rare is that honesty? he's honey-throated, gravel-voiced and pure mannish. hats off to the baggage claim early enough in the game for me to check my own luggage.

and for the beautiful people...

three quarters of the busta rhymes crew otherwise known as the united nations of sexy. missing from this picture is miss alyss, who i believe was on the other side of the lens. daughters and sons were not safe that evening, believe you me.



all i can really say about this picture is that i don't know what we're advertising, but i'll take three of them. no. make that four. thanks.

and now. hmmmm. i've got something in the works today. something unimaginable. gonna finish it up and play show and tell later. i'm off to the attic. hold my calls.

and i wiiiish i neeever met her at all

you call my name, oh so sweet
to make your kiss incomplete

when your mood is clear
you quickly change your ways

which is essentially a supernaturally accurate description of everyone we all know. how many people are you really familiar with that are absolutely not fair weather friends?

once you come up with that number, re-examine the posse. imagine a shark attack, or some sexy and eligible possible soul mate or a million dollar lottery ticket or 25 to life v. snitching.

then, divide that number in half.

at that point - if you have anyone left, of course - you've got about half the people that will actually back you when the things you want are in direct opposition to the things that maintain their status quo.

myself. well. my status quo doesn't hurt anyone else too much. on nights like this i think that perhaps it's the best of several evils.

but i'm just 2 days away from real work, and i know that once i'm back there nothing i say now will actually matter much and so.

without further ado

adieu.

scripted

there's something about a script. there's nothing in my past that's happened often enough for me to be able to compare it. it becomes a way of thinking. there is a specificity to every sidenote that makes it feel like a way of life.

just now. just tonight i think i got past the feeling that i was reading some holy text.
i have been hesitating to mark my place as though i was reading Buddha's Teachings, or The Bible, or The Holy Qur'an. i pick those books up and let pages find me.

and when i read something even for a few moments i take on the cadence of the thing i was reading for a few paragraphs. this allows me to express things in ways i've never done before, and as a result allows me to express things i have never expressed before. it is cathartic. it is like going to church.

it is like channeling.

which is why it has taken me a month to realize that i can just dog ear a page of this script i am reading instead of finding myself starting at odd places each time i pick it up.

and it isn't actually that it's not a holy thing. it certainly is.



it's that it's a thought. and it took me a second to realize that with paper i can physically bend a place in it to dip myself back in without affecting its structure.

if you catch my drift.

also: there has been work. my work. my hustle. still tons of it.

but i *am* pulling back some. work is no longer every single waking moment. i'm wrapping things up. i'm closing the curtains and putting things into storage.

finalizing.

i take nights like this and at about 7 pm i think to myself

fuckit

and i keep doing whatever it is i'm doing and realize that no orphanages will burn down if i don''t create a schedule this very friday night.

it's a nice feeling. it's brand new to me and a bit of a surprise, at the moment.

blessed be.

now i'm gonna veg out further. no reading. just video games til i'm just drowsy enough to have a lucid dream. i can pick up where i left off tomorrow.

my place has been marked.

A Skewed View

I never mean to discount anyone's experience. I think grouping people up is a bullshit waste of time.

And yet I'm pretty certain that my friends are almost always one of two types of people.

Some of them were raised and bred to be successful, in the most traditional sense of the word. They had concerned and present parents. They had sisters and brothers and mothers and fathers who all finished high school and went on to college, or some hobby turned into a career that they loved.

Their parents stayed married - if not out of love then out of a sense of duty that is just as awe-inspiring as actual love is, a lot of the time. They grew up to understand dedication.

Those folks, at the very least, were sort of shown the way to a very stable means of living and co-existing. They saw a sketch of happiness growing up. In extreme cases they got everything they ever could have asked for and then even more.

And then they said "fuck it."

And then they decided to take another path.

And then they decided that maybe not college but maybe instead rapping or painting or selling drugs or bumming around or adventuring or anything else other than a straight and narrow life was a better use of their time.

That's one group.

The other group is the opposite and exactly the same. We came from not very much. We saw sporadic role modeling and faulty day to day functioning as the norm. Our parents tuned out. Spaced out. Dropped out of not just parenthood, but responsibility altogether.

For those kids. Those kids like me.

Our desires to be More and Better and Loved don't come from what we have seen. They come from what we never saw.

We didn't grow up around folks who could set examples of happiness, or dedication, or faith, or love.

We made all of those things up ourselves, often based on just imagining the exact opposite of what we saw in front of us.

Does that skew the view a bit?

Fuck yes, it does.

So yeah. Those are the 2 kinds of people I gravitate toward. I tend to identify more with one type than the other.

And then there are the Others.

So I guess maybe all of this amounts to not very much at all. Just some random thoughts for a random Wednesday night.

Here's to a random Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday too - right?

Right.

Night.

interlude

my therapist has this thing she does where i'll tell her that something i'm doing isn't satisfactory for some reason. like. my apartment isn't clean enough. i don't remember tax season. i get parking tickets constantly.

she'll ask

and does that *bother* you?

all serious, as though she really wonders. and i'll say something akin to

of course it fucking does.

and then she drops the hammer

but not enough for you to *do* anything about it.

end conversation.

*********

i hate it when someone uses my own logic on me. makes me want to scream at them for no reason.

i wonder if that's how people feel about me? hm.

food for thought. so fucking glad it's friday tomorrow i can't even express it.

bonsoir.

ehhh later for you

it's been a kind of whirlwind, the last couple of weeks. and tonight i am feeling lazy. the kind of lazy that makes me wonder how awesome must it be to awake each morning when you feel naturally refreshed and then hop out of bed to do a thing that feeds your soul all day long and then lather, rinse repeat...

but i am also feeling very navel-gazingly satisfied, overall.

and i am also feeling tired and wired simultaneously.

and well.

i just shed my skin again, i think. and that's no small business to get done with.

glossing my coat, back shortly.

in the meantime, please do enjoy some of ye olde me - fresh and clean, before these tendrils had got all the way up to my eyes and ears and such.

Once upon a time:



160 eyelets. inserted by hand. do you know what that act is? first an awl, to make a small hole. then a chopstick, to make the small hole bigger (sometimes the chopstick squeaks and sticks, which is irritating).

then take one of those tiny metal grommet things, about the size of the holes you use to lace shoes if you aren't into velcro. it's got sharp edges. force it through the hole, make sure every thread around it is laying as flat as possible (use the awl). put the tiny metal cap on, then hammer the die or use the pliers to finish it off. about 90 seconds of work, if you're doing it while you're watching gary oldman play beethoven.

one more seam and this is complete. i'm done with this project. my hands are mangled from it. working with the vinyl i cut a deep v into the middle finger of my left hand that's still not fully healed.

and i have a hand fetish. mine are scarred now, from this.

but it is done, at least. almost done. my "boss" was abrasive and at times insulting and more than once or twice flaky but tomorrow i deliver and it's back to corsets and miniskirts like hand grenades.

i don't know what to say except to quote immortal beloved. hearing someone say

i could not hate a man that could write such music

or whatever. yes. yes. we all say that. most of us.

i couldn't hate a person who made something of note. couldn't hold a grudge against a person with talent or beauty or kindness or a way with words. couldn't hate a man that wrote a song that bumped on every block while i was in highschool. couldn't hate a man who built a waterfall. couldn't hate a man who made a mural for a little girl's bedroom.



we crawl to artists. all of them. we say

render me

and hope to learn something that we didn't already know about ourselves. how we look in certain light. what we say that is noteworthy. what makes us attractive or unattractive. natural curiosity. my roommate handed me a picture of myself today and i was like "who is this woman?"

like those eyes over there. alyssa sees me as a fairy princess so she gives me enchantress eyes. i was underslept in that photo, having been on a bender. but alyssa is beauty so she rendered me beautifully.

this has been discussed before. artists only render themselves, with any luck more and more accurately as they hone their craft.

with any blessing, what they create becomes more and more flattering, also. i don't see pretty or ugly most times. tall or short or thin or anything. i fall in love with genius or what i suspect is genius, hoping to learn a thing or two. sometimes i do.

a complete. mental. landscape.

i want to see my own terrain, so i must make things. i must write and speak and curtsy and dance and sew and write some more. i've no choice cause no one else can make that map. no one else would know what it should look like.

finis.

savage is okay. better than okay. it is dips on the dancefloor and growling, plus more than that. i don't know what it is but i find it, lose it, love it, choose it.

i wish on a star and burn my candles.



and poe is all:

i am come of a race noted for vigour of fancy and ardour of passion. men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence -- whether much that is glorious -- whether all that is profound -- does not spring from disease of thought -- from moods of mind exalted at the expense of general intellect. they who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who only dream by night.

and i'm all. preach it poe, word to the mother.

did i ever tell you about singing backup at the marley festival in long beach at the arena when i was 19 years old? remind me to tell you that some time.

Serendipity

I had a book about a dragon named Serendipity when I was a very young girl. If I recall correctly, it was a purple dragon. I read that book at least five hundred times.

*********

Going on trips that require air travel for me is like this.

I don't like flying. To be honest, I can't possibly feel totally at peace while I'm flying in a plane without a degree in aerospace engineering. That's just the kinda person I am. Working on it though, pinky swear.

But word: Something that big shouldn't go that high, you know?

On lift off there's this one second when I feel like I can't breathe. I focus all of my faith in that moment, even though it's not the main thing to be focused on.

But if I focused on the main thing, I'd never fly anywhere ever.

*********

The girl sitting next to me looks like she belongs in First Class. I wonder if I do too. I'm dressed like a sexy librarian and carrying a lap top and a 70s stewardess bag in a shade of blue that I don't think they make anymore.

I am on a mission.

She gets up to go to the restroom, and it isn't awkward because there's easily 3 feet of space between our row and the row in front of us, which is filled with family vacation types and 1 iPad per child, etc.

I watch my seatmate walk away, impossibly skinny but not unhealthy looking. Dark and a teeny bit somber in a way that manifests extraordinarily in the context of a playful little face like hers.

Skinny black jeans, black sweater, black leather jacket and greyish chuck taylors with her left heel coming out of the side of one of them, either walked to shreds or purchased walked almost to shreds. And also? Awesome red rimmed sun glasses, which I adore. But they are out of place because it isn't that bright.

Thankfully, when she sits down next to me she takes them off. We talk for a long time. She does what I do. A little. Well. She's on another level and in another game entirely, but her soul has been measured by changes and not years, so we have much in common.

Fresh faced and pretty as a Noxema commercial she was. And we talked about ayhuasca and social media and spotify and dmt and salvia divinorum and transcendental meditation and female ejaculation and the Age of Aquarius and rebellion and being self-made and the need to fuck this whole system and our favorite documentaries and bob dylan and mostly how very important it is to really really really fuck this whole system.

Her gorgeousness combined with an amazing capacity to rattle off thoughts freestyle that *actually made sense* astounded me. I was transfixed. We traded stories. We're similar. We're very different. I see the internet component to the film endeavor she is building.

The flight to LA felt like a 5 minute flight, because of her.

Moral of the story: ya gotta put yourself where you wanna be, dear heart. plan for it, and plan for what you'll do if it isn't as easy as you thought it would be.

Tomorrow this may prove to be just a dream, but you know what? I can say the same about anything else in my life. Ha! Equal footing for all, in 2011.


But one way or the other, your girl is coming back with a digital vengeance.

Was looking for Chuck D's Digitize or Die and found this instead. I'm not mad.

Descansos. Again.

There will only be very small clues to look back on when I want to recollect this moment in my life. It won't be easy. I have only To Do lists.

Binders full of them. Multi-colored and with various themes. Organized and completely illegible. Half completed and crossed off methodically line after line.

So maybe then again I do have clues. Just not too very much worth remembering at all.

I can tell, for instance, looking at the one I have now: 2 days ago I was on an insanely long and tedious phone call. I can tell that by the vines and hearts and scary vignettes I've drawn along the border of it.

40 minutes? Maybe an hour?

But I've no idea with whom I had it or what we discussed.

I will remember the Love Vines I drew, and the miniature creepsters in a clearing in the middle of a forest.

Those things. Those things are what I will have.

*********





Some poor and wise boy attempting to flirt with me once asked me what I'd really walk away with - spiritually speaking - if I spent a day being driven around town in a Phantom as I shopped for handbags and bento accessories and over-the-knee boots and vintage mini-dresses and fingernail polish and sneakers and perfume and legos and ostrich feathers and a thousand other frivolous things.

What would that experience leave with me that would resonate and make some sense of the open spaces I am filled with?

I was working a door in all white under a black light. I was blinding. Feeling ethereal, I cupped his face in my hands and flashed my animal eyes and teeth at him. I said this lovingly:

"A memory, booboo. A golden and shining memory. Isn't that all we ever have left of anything, anyway?"

And yeah I was a little tipsy off that ketel, but drunks and children don't lie. I kissed him on his cheek, bid him adieu and I have been thoroughly on my grind since. I still believe what I believed, a couple years later.

And I bet that kid does too.


*********


Not sure if I'm defending the way that I live right now: with so very few little moments all to myself, or applauding the sheer amount of action I have been able to pack into every waking moment.

Working or shopping. It's all a hustle.

And what would it feel like, I wonder, to just be still?

Fiddle dee dee.





*********


Working like an insane person lately. Two launches in two weeks and both are pretty massive in terms of the amount of effort going into them. And very recently I have made some mistakes. Nothing major, but just like. Not up to my personal standards.

And really the whole reason I started writing this was that I have finally realized in the midst of fucking up how much it really does not pay off to keep kicking yourself over fucking up. Yeah. Hurts in real time. No need to rehash it, you know?

It's why I don't watch the news.

It's also why tonight I feel free to release a good deal of guilt that I've been harboring for no good reason. I'm done with it. Don't get me wrong: nothing is ever not at all my fault.

But a good deal of most things are very simply human, and should be seen as such.

So with an easy conscience I bid you goodnight, fellow humans.

Guidelines

On a night like tonight when I have spoken to what feels like a million people - all of them nubile and almost all of them on the prowl - I feel flooded. I am whelmed.

Men: I think it's important for you to know that by the time you meet a woman she has likely been subjected to all manner of wild subterfuge having to do with her femininity. Regardless of her station and social standing. Regardless of her chosen or imposed lifestyle.

You can be the sweetest and kindest and most honorable creature in the world and really, it's likely going to take a bit of time to make that crystal clear all the way to the bone for any single one of us.

Some famous woman once compared being female to walking around holding a hi def television with you at all times no matter where you go.

Or maybe more like walking around with a priceless diamond tucked away in your pocket and that's just fine except that *everyone fucking knows you have it*.

And a lot of times it really is like those things. It is also about a thousand other things much less stress-inducing. And I'm mixing up my quotes. But it does not matter. You get my drift.

Women: for a few seconds every day imagine what it is like to feel as though your wanting to have tea with a woman means (while at the same time totally does NOT mean, but in a confusing and inconsistent way) that you have to approach her and request her presence at your tea party. And that even if all signs point to a green light, the asking is a daunting task.

Especially when she knows and you know and she knows that you know that she has this special and coveted and desirable fortune with her everywhere she goes.

And if she says yes? And she's at your tea party? If she has so much as a frantic moth encounter you are responsible (while at the same time totally NOT responsible, but in a confusing and inconsistent way) for the outcome of it and whether or not she makes it through sans traumatic after-effects.

The responsibility of being male makes a lot of me think "cry me a fucking river" but makes another part of me think I'm glad at least that I don't have THAT to deal with.

And yes. Normally I skew toward sympathizing with one over another. I don't need to go further into that. I am human.

It's all of these preconditions.

It's also the fact that I've only just now described my very own experiences. So multiply that by a couple billion and you have the number of takes on this subject that exist.

Get to reading. We have a lot of catching up to do.

null

things tend to end the way they start. so it makes sense that right now i am feeling particularly alone and overworked and whatever.

nervous to turn the radio on. video gaming. playing catchup. feeling like a bird in the rooms full of windows. nothing is safe.

the good things can be temporary and the bad things can become luggage. it makes no sense at all, and it makes perfect sense.



we grow up around tones of voice, and those tones mean something to us. we bring our ears for sarcasm or a lack of concern along with us everywhere we go. that is us at our most average.

it's a funny thing that gets us questioning things that should be a given.

another funny thing: the characteristics you find yourself loving most about a person or situation can end up being the same things that drive you farther and farther away if the chemistry isn't just right.

but then again, i think maybe that makes perfect sense, too.

it makes perfect sense.

bonchance.

Instructions

What to do when you have miscalculated grandly. Every person needs some best practices in their back pocket in case of emergency. So open up, buttercup.

*********

1) Draw back as many curtains as possible in an order that makes sense to you and in accordance with practicality. Temperature, visibility, required privacy and all of those things should be kept in mind.

2) Reconfigure your space a bit. As much as needed. Could be a little, could be a lot. Could be only what you have time for. Could be not a single shift in anything, as well.

3) Tend all of your plants lovingly. No constraints on this one.

4) Pay your dues.

5) Having done the above, sit still for a bit. Case your space.

6) Hustle. This too shall pass, especially if you keep it movin.

*********

Lather, rinse and repeat as needed. If you're lucky, you'll have the chance to do this many many many more times.

Blessed be.

Time Machine 9/24/2009 - Most Quiet Need

Best not to snap your neck trying to tell someone all of the different ways that you love them. Even if you are trying to be poetic, or save the moment, or get them to have sex with you. I'm telling you this because I know it. That sort of inventory never pays off because:

a) y'all two have totally different definitions of what love is, that is guaranteed
b) to top that you also both have totally different definitions of yourselves, which makes things even more complicated

So it's all wah wah wah wah like Charlie Brown's teachers. Realize now that true communication of what you are feeling isn't possible. It's just not. Not yet.

Some day though I'll be able to plug my brain into your brain, or vice versa. Some day we'll both get to feel the same things at the same exact time. That will end some of the alone-ness, but then we'll find that isolation takes place in other ways. Because that's being human and that trumps everything else.



All day lately I've been thinking about the Future. With a capital "F", as in everyone's. Not just what I'm going to wear tomorrow, or whether or not I'm going to order katsu from the sushi place when I get home from work.

The real future. What's that actually gonna be like?

For now I have a fishnet obsession, and my sneaker collection is growing. And did I tell you? That job I took that was just a contract turned full-time this week. Cause they like me. They really like me.

Do I like me?

Working on that.

In the meantime it is just hustle, and one foot in front of the other. And negotiations and predictions and educated guesses and calculated risks. And jazzy outfits.

xoxoxo.

Sleep Well.