The only difference between a person with Cancer and Diabetes and a cat with Cancer and Diabetes is that they make diapers for people.
And also, people don't get up and pee in the corner of the living room.
My brother texts early in the afternoon that my mother is putting her cat to sleep; and also that everyone is mad at him for having high blood pressure.
Yeah. I relate. Everyone is mad at me for smoking.
And all the books I've read tell me not to listen to people who desire to make me feel worse than I already feel, and it is my role today to try to be in his corner.
It's a side effect of growing up in a war zone. I'd like to make him feel better, since I'm trying to be on his side, so I write that it translates into this: You eat junk food and wig out.
And I also comment that our mother seems to need to make every holiday traumatic and painful.
There is a cure for all of this.
And before the night is out, I am starving to the point of being nauseated, I've applied self-tanner to my face, my hair looks like a lion's mane and I'm looking at my mother sitting next to her cat on the couch thinking things I can't say out loud, like this:
" 80 dollar needle "
" Your time is up. "
"She's going to kill you."
"That cat is kind of cute even if she did hiss at me and bite me for her entire life."
The cat looks up at my mother as she speaks. And I say " You're her whole world. "
My mom starts crying. Fuck I always say the wrong thing!
My mother decides that she is not ready to say goodbye to the cat and I am relieved.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
He's Alive
I heard the entire story by the time I was already late for bed. It started with some banging. I've heard it before. The college kids next door; I imagined someone locked themselves out or there was a creepy stalker girl who visited. The incessant knocking, like hammering. I turned the water off from the shower and listened to the wall like my family taught me to do when curious about neighbors.
I put on my sweatshirt and towel turban and opened the upstairs window. The noise stopped. I listened to the air outside. Two cars went by.
Was there a bird stuck somewhere?
I closed the window.
The noise started again.
I looked down into my dark yard; and then into Nellie's well-lit yard observing for something and then I saw a familiar short shadow moving with intention and frustration.
It was Nellie in her yard. I closed the window and began to dry my hair; hoping to not have drawn much attention to myself. I went downstairs and the noise began again.
Before long, I heard the sound of the air moving through the pump connected to my front Storm door. It was open and the piston thing made a 'seyuuuw' and the rustling noise of the leg or foot next to the aluminum bottom panel. And then a knock. "Meg!"
"Nellie?"
I opened the door and the next hour of my life was in her hands. I have known her for twenty-one years. Our friendship is old enough to drink.
I realize that her situation was desperate and also that if I hadn't opened the window, she probably wouldn't have asked for help and I was considering opening the door and investigating further, and many things went through my head about my own knowledge of being selfish, my own knowledge of knowing better than to interfere in a domestic disturbance, and my own knowledge that I told her that if she is ever in trouble to always knock.
If I'm busy, I'll let you know. She asked to use the phone.
I asked if she wanted the cell phone or the land line and I'm not sure why.
"Noooo. Not the cellular," she dramatically said this as if the cellular phone was some type of expensive luxury. And it reminded me of my grandfather.
It reminded me of Nellie crying outside in her gardening gloves, tears streaming down her face, as always, telling me that she misses my grandfather because he was her best friend, her fists drawn tight facing the ground in the mixture of sad and angry, staring up at my house where my grandfather used to live.
It reminded me of my throat getting tight and starting to cry myself.
I missed him too. And that reminded me of the people at my father's office who spent every day with him. Strangers who were a different type of family to someone I loved, who saw him more than I did and cried like babies at his funeral.
Generous, kind, respected. He would even give people money if they needed it. My father was generous. My grandfather would drive each and every widowed man to their doctor's office as often as they needed it and shovel snow and buy groceries for them. And he would fix things with wire. Pleyers and bandaids on his fingertips, glue, matching crayons or paint to touch things up. Recipes and lists on index cards in his front pocket.
Nellie dialed the phone, which I have nestled in the kitchen pantry. No one answered.
I was thinking her husband might be dead because at this point she had been knocking for a good forty-five minutes. I told her to sit down. It was thirty degrees outside and she had on just a tee shirt and sweatpants.
I made some tea for both of us as her story began about the Philippines and her schooling, her degree. Her career in the United States, how her husband took her savings and went to visit Thailand four times this past year and how his guts were rotting out as punishment from God.
And how we both know what he's doing on the computer late at night.
I hear the story; the WHOLE story every time she comes over. I hear it every time we talk. Last time, she talked about God having grace and putting it in her heart (as she clenches her fist against her chest and raises it up, again, this makes my throat become tight and I can't help but relate---"God. God KNOWS what kind of woman I am," she says.)
I don't know why this happens. My friend calls on my luxurious cell phone and tells me that he is coming to make a payment for the car he bought from me for five hundred dollars. I ask him if he feels like breaking into a house next door and he says 'Yes,' very few of my friends would say No, and I'm pretty glad about it.
The alternative is that Nellie sleeps over in the spare room, so I really got to helping around 11:00pm. Not that I don't trust her, but, I'm just not wild about having a roommate.
For one thing, I don't know why it is when I write that the tense changes from past to present, but it does and I guess I'll have to go back and fix it one day...
My friend and I finally help her into her house after banging on the doors and windows for another twenty minutes. I consider calling 911, since it was a real possibility that her evil husband was dead inside after this much racket, this many phone calls, and my inability to comprehend how a human being could let his wife stand out in the cold for three hours while he is playing with the computer or napping or whatever.
My friend sits at the kitchen table and I finish my tea, and Nellie pops her head into the front door and says, "He's alive."
And then she did an impression of his face pretending to be asleep. She closed her eyes gently and said, "this is how someone looks when they're sleeping."
Then she squinted her eyes closed, and wrinkles formed all over her face, "This is how he looks pretending the be asleep."
I put on my sweatshirt and towel turban and opened the upstairs window. The noise stopped. I listened to the air outside. Two cars went by.
Was there a bird stuck somewhere?
I closed the window.
The noise started again.
I looked down into my dark yard; and then into Nellie's well-lit yard observing for something and then I saw a familiar short shadow moving with intention and frustration.
It was Nellie in her yard. I closed the window and began to dry my hair; hoping to not have drawn much attention to myself. I went downstairs and the noise began again.
Before long, I heard the sound of the air moving through the pump connected to my front Storm door. It was open and the piston thing made a 'seyuuuw' and the rustling noise of the leg or foot next to the aluminum bottom panel. And then a knock. "Meg!"
"Nellie?"
I opened the door and the next hour of my life was in her hands. I have known her for twenty-one years. Our friendship is old enough to drink.
I realize that her situation was desperate and also that if I hadn't opened the window, she probably wouldn't have asked for help and I was considering opening the door and investigating further, and many things went through my head about my own knowledge of being selfish, my own knowledge of knowing better than to interfere in a domestic disturbance, and my own knowledge that I told her that if she is ever in trouble to always knock.
If I'm busy, I'll let you know. She asked to use the phone.
I asked if she wanted the cell phone or the land line and I'm not sure why.
"Noooo. Not the cellular," she dramatically said this as if the cellular phone was some type of expensive luxury. And it reminded me of my grandfather.
It reminded me of Nellie crying outside in her gardening gloves, tears streaming down her face, as always, telling me that she misses my grandfather because he was her best friend, her fists drawn tight facing the ground in the mixture of sad and angry, staring up at my house where my grandfather used to live.
It reminded me of my throat getting tight and starting to cry myself.
I missed him too. And that reminded me of the people at my father's office who spent every day with him. Strangers who were a different type of family to someone I loved, who saw him more than I did and cried like babies at his funeral.
Generous, kind, respected. He would even give people money if they needed it. My father was generous. My grandfather would drive each and every widowed man to their doctor's office as often as they needed it and shovel snow and buy groceries for them. And he would fix things with wire. Pleyers and bandaids on his fingertips, glue, matching crayons or paint to touch things up. Recipes and lists on index cards in his front pocket.
Nellie dialed the phone, which I have nestled in the kitchen pantry. No one answered.
I was thinking her husband might be dead because at this point she had been knocking for a good forty-five minutes. I told her to sit down. It was thirty degrees outside and she had on just a tee shirt and sweatpants.
I made some tea for both of us as her story began about the Philippines and her schooling, her degree. Her career in the United States, how her husband took her savings and went to visit Thailand four times this past year and how his guts were rotting out as punishment from God.
And how we both know what he's doing on the computer late at night.
I hear the story; the WHOLE story every time she comes over. I hear it every time we talk. Last time, she talked about God having grace and putting it in her heart (as she clenches her fist against her chest and raises it up, again, this makes my throat become tight and I can't help but relate---"God. God KNOWS what kind of woman I am," she says.)
I don't know why this happens. My friend calls on my luxurious cell phone and tells me that he is coming to make a payment for the car he bought from me for five hundred dollars. I ask him if he feels like breaking into a house next door and he says 'Yes,' very few of my friends would say No, and I'm pretty glad about it.
The alternative is that Nellie sleeps over in the spare room, so I really got to helping around 11:00pm. Not that I don't trust her, but, I'm just not wild about having a roommate.
For one thing, I don't know why it is when I write that the tense changes from past to present, but it does and I guess I'll have to go back and fix it one day...
My friend and I finally help her into her house after banging on the doors and windows for another twenty minutes. I consider calling 911, since it was a real possibility that her evil husband was dead inside after this much racket, this many phone calls, and my inability to comprehend how a human being could let his wife stand out in the cold for three hours while he is playing with the computer or napping or whatever.
My friend sits at the kitchen table and I finish my tea, and Nellie pops her head into the front door and says, "He's alive."
And then she did an impression of his face pretending to be asleep. She closed her eyes gently and said, "this is how someone looks when they're sleeping."
Then she squinted her eyes closed, and wrinkles formed all over her face, "This is how he looks pretending the be asleep."
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Movie Trailers Explain Life's Eras
Small fingers and licorice, anise to be exact.
Fantasizing about walking around taunting people, saying, 'C'mon, you know you hate it here.' And I still have this twisted joke about suicide like my friend used said there was a time when he was trying to find the most considerate way to kill himself. I was the only person in the room to belt out in laughter. I was the only one who got the joke.
The only one who kind of knew he was talking about 'the least cleanup'.
He meant the least amount of blood, the least imposition.
I knew about the couple gallons of his own blood the sky asked him for right before Katrina blew over our heads on 3rd avenue in the Haitian neighborhood;
The sky opened up and took some blood, but my friend heard a distinct voice in the night circling his block floating about 3 feet over and he could hear it getting closer and going farther away;
sort of like you can hear a helicopter circling, but not quite.
I've been hearing music at night and laughter and women talking. Women asking questions of each other, pitches changing from high to low murmurs. It's the heater in my room, I'm sure, but it still reminds me of Katrina for some reason.
The cold makes me desperately want to sleep all the time.
I remember the line in that vampire movie "Take me away from all this death."
I'd rather this be a poem about the movie " Lean on Me ". But, it's not, it's about suicide and hurricanes.
Fantasizing about walking around taunting people, saying, 'C'mon, you know you hate it here.' And I still have this twisted joke about suicide like my friend used said there was a time when he was trying to find the most considerate way to kill himself. I was the only person in the room to belt out in laughter. I was the only one who got the joke.
The only one who kind of knew he was talking about 'the least cleanup'.
He meant the least amount of blood, the least imposition.
I knew about the couple gallons of his own blood the sky asked him for right before Katrina blew over our heads on 3rd avenue in the Haitian neighborhood;
The sky opened up and took some blood, but my friend heard a distinct voice in the night circling his block floating about 3 feet over and he could hear it getting closer and going farther away;
sort of like you can hear a helicopter circling, but not quite.
I've been hearing music at night and laughter and women talking. Women asking questions of each other, pitches changing from high to low murmurs. It's the heater in my room, I'm sure, but it still reminds me of Katrina for some reason.
The cold makes me desperately want to sleep all the time.
I remember the line in that vampire movie "Take me away from all this death."
I'd rather this be a poem about the movie " Lean on Me ". But, it's not, it's about suicide and hurricanes.
The Ice is Not Your Bathwater
I'm Ivy League wrestling with my laurels.
I have a lot of boxes to keep things in, but everything is on the shelves.
Seven or more pairs of sunglasses. Miracle goggles. When Sundays are too hard to face because Saturday was full of lust and cigarettes and vicarious living.
Sometimes Bruce Springsteen has all the answers to the questions of the universe and homeless people under the boardwalk in New Jersey have it all figured out.
Ten or more cats can keep you warm at night.
The only problem is chapped hands and a wind-burned face;
and wanting to scream at anyone that wants something out of me.
Stop trying to take and give it up, motherfucker. Get off the television crack and stop liking what everyone tells you to pretend to like and spit out the garbage so I can hear the real words fighting through the real world, real wounds, wheel rounded, wicked ruled venus shaped Jupiter heart of late Autumn breaking the ice
in the ashtray the bird mistook for a drink of water.
There are dance moves that can actually break your neck and I think you're scared of them just like I used to be scared to race because I'd run so fast I thought I might start to fly and I was out of practice.
Like tonight, I listen to French Hip Hop songs because the only thing that matters is the momentum.
Same goes for Korean, it's the same flow, it's similar like the Korean kids learned their flow from the French kids.
I just deleted some pictures on my computer and the person died a few days later.
I guess that's why some people are hoarders. They're just superstitious.
Things are symbolic kind of like that bird that thought the ice was bathwater.
Maybe it used to be, but not today.
I have a lot of boxes to keep things in, but everything is on the shelves.
Seven or more pairs of sunglasses. Miracle goggles. When Sundays are too hard to face because Saturday was full of lust and cigarettes and vicarious living.
Sometimes Bruce Springsteen has all the answers to the questions of the universe and homeless people under the boardwalk in New Jersey have it all figured out.
Ten or more cats can keep you warm at night.
The only problem is chapped hands and a wind-burned face;
and wanting to scream at anyone that wants something out of me.
Stop trying to take and give it up, motherfucker. Get off the television crack and stop liking what everyone tells you to pretend to like and spit out the garbage so I can hear the real words fighting through the real world, real wounds, wheel rounded, wicked ruled venus shaped Jupiter heart of late Autumn breaking the ice
in the ashtray the bird mistook for a drink of water.
There are dance moves that can actually break your neck and I think you're scared of them just like I used to be scared to race because I'd run so fast I thought I might start to fly and I was out of practice.
Like tonight, I listen to French Hip Hop songs because the only thing that matters is the momentum.
Same goes for Korean, it's the same flow, it's similar like the Korean kids learned their flow from the French kids.
I just deleted some pictures on my computer and the person died a few days later.
I guess that's why some people are hoarders. They're just superstitious.
Things are symbolic kind of like that bird that thought the ice was bathwater.
Maybe it used to be, but not today.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
You Lucky Elephantitis of the Brain-Havin' Fool
Pineapple agent bran muffin. Disco heads take disco naps.
New lines get drawn on maps.
The same lady waxes my eyebrows with an invisible line like a pencil next to
my nose to be precise.
Legends aren't as cool anymore since facebook came along
and computer injuries
Carpool in the tunnel. Coffee still grows on the Jesus tree and lobotomy ear shots
like q-tips are coming from ear buds.
Stop listening and focus.
Walk around with pulled muscles and lightbulbs over your head for ambiance.
Ideas fade into the background; starting something but rarely finishing.
Starting less things for fear of failure and opposition is dependable.
I stopped listening. I'm doing what I want. You can't stop me.
Editorial comments feed the flames, and dancers go out running naked as jaybirds while the breakfast sandwich shop burns
And floods form on the streets
from five alarms of water hoses raining from the sky like a big trope on what my dad
used to say was the final joke in Thelma and Louise.
An iceskating rink of municipal trashcan babies.
Take up a donation if you want but I'll tax it until your penny becomes unlucky.
Nine lucky pennies since new orleans and three gunshot wounds to match.
There are holes in the wall at the hole in the wall; like mirrors facing each other in a dark room imagining that I can see the shadow of my old dead friend.
But all in all, less sleepless nights than ever because the mojo bag is in the junk drawer with everything else, rubber gloved-beauty treatments make for good medicine and only lucky elephants are in the living room this time.
New lines get drawn on maps.
The same lady waxes my eyebrows with an invisible line like a pencil next to
my nose to be precise.
Legends aren't as cool anymore since facebook came along
and computer injuries
Carpool in the tunnel. Coffee still grows on the Jesus tree and lobotomy ear shots
like q-tips are coming from ear buds.
Stop listening and focus.
Walk around with pulled muscles and lightbulbs over your head for ambiance.
Ideas fade into the background; starting something but rarely finishing.
Starting less things for fear of failure and opposition is dependable.
I stopped listening. I'm doing what I want. You can't stop me.
Editorial comments feed the flames, and dancers go out running naked as jaybirds while the breakfast sandwich shop burns
And floods form on the streets
from five alarms of water hoses raining from the sky like a big trope on what my dad
used to say was the final joke in Thelma and Louise.
An iceskating rink of municipal trashcan babies.
Take up a donation if you want but I'll tax it until your penny becomes unlucky.
Nine lucky pennies since new orleans and three gunshot wounds to match.
There are holes in the wall at the hole in the wall; like mirrors facing each other in a dark room imagining that I can see the shadow of my old dead friend.
But all in all, less sleepless nights than ever because the mojo bag is in the junk drawer with everything else, rubber gloved-beauty treatments make for good medicine and only lucky elephants are in the living room this time.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Super Soup
Tyronsine Green Tea Cranberry Cinamon Flax and Vitamin C cannot make my bones bend better.
Believe me, I've tried.
It's all for the betterment of the easement in the basement.
The endodant mixed with fondont.
There's all types of technology, but nothing works as well as human hands, hand-crafting. Skilled, licensed, bonded.
Craftsmen are in the trashcan.
And why don't they refer to trashmen as 'working the streets'?
Because they actually work in the streets
instead of 'working between the sheets' as do the Patterson Park homosapiens
the vice principal of my highschool used to sweep up and take to the shelter because he said it's really just not right that they are dispairing so much to hurt others--- families, children, wives.
The other day I heard someone refer to a pregnant lady's situation ending when the bottom fell out.
Is that where the phrase came from?
Who coined that phrase?
And what does that mean anyway?
I mostly walk around most days wondering what people REALLY mean past the posturing.
The facade of fondant.
I'm wearing boots and drinking tomato juice, and I don't mean anything by it, I'm just doing what it is that's next on the list.
Believe me, I've tried.
It's all for the betterment of the easement in the basement.
The endodant mixed with fondont.
There's all types of technology, but nothing works as well as human hands, hand-crafting. Skilled, licensed, bonded.
Craftsmen are in the trashcan.
And why don't they refer to trashmen as 'working the streets'?
Because they actually work in the streets
instead of 'working between the sheets' as do the Patterson Park homosapiens
the vice principal of my highschool used to sweep up and take to the shelter because he said it's really just not right that they are dispairing so much to hurt others--- families, children, wives.
The other day I heard someone refer to a pregnant lady's situation ending when the bottom fell out.
Is that where the phrase came from?
Who coined that phrase?
And what does that mean anyway?
I mostly walk around most days wondering what people REALLY mean past the posturing.
The facade of fondant.
I'm wearing boots and drinking tomato juice, and I don't mean anything by it, I'm just doing what it is that's next on the list.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
'mirrors' and the voice (s)
Mirrors and echos. I went to Liberia today and I think it all started in Baltimore.
If you want to trip, just research Liberia's origins, the constitution, etcetera.
I was in a room of mirrors for less than ten minutes today.
I haven't wanted to see photographs of myself. I feel like an ogre. I wear green like shrek.
I listen to the tiny fan in my computer and the crickets outside and I know there is more to life.
Echos, mirrors, smoke.
Smoke and mirrors.
I googled a quote from a friend today and it came up as Dadaist poetry.
And I am NOT AT ALL SURPRISED.
I'm pleased.
The party flopped, it was an all-out failure, and I am not angry.
It was what I expected.
I was able to be a friend because that's my role in the thing.
If you want to trip, just research Liberia's origins, the constitution, etcetera.
I was in a room of mirrors for less than ten minutes today.
I haven't wanted to see photographs of myself. I feel like an ogre. I wear green like shrek.
I listen to the tiny fan in my computer and the crickets outside and I know there is more to life.
Echos, mirrors, smoke.
Smoke and mirrors.
I googled a quote from a friend today and it came up as Dadaist poetry.
And I am NOT AT ALL SURPRISED.
I'm pleased.
The party flopped, it was an all-out failure, and I am not angry.
It was what I expected.
I was able to be a friend because that's my role in the thing.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
If I were a killer...
If I were a killer, I would want you to kill me.
I am reading the news now in a different way than I was while I was working on my New York Times Project.
A few months ago, I read the New York Times like it was my job. I scanned the stories and wrote reports. I boiled things down. Then, I got tired of the perspective of the New York Times and I started reading Viceland magazine and exploring their video journalism about Liberia. It was an intense journey that lead me down the rabbit hole. No one cared except for me, and I instituted no change and made no artistic or creative success. I was just doing it for fun, to entertain myself.
I had finished the third leg of my academic career and was on hiatus. Still desiring to learn and write, I have been reading the news. Somehow, I have compartmentalized the news in my mind. I have divided it from reality. In the age of reality television, I have no other choice but to call the news another form of entertainment. I am playing on the computer, my toy; reading the news, my game.
On the sidelines of the game, there are the 'comments' section, where anyone with fingers and a keyboard can voice their opinion. Often, the comments are more entertaining than the news. People get fired up and agitated. People make jokes.
There are internet groupies. There is media fanfare.
Many times, I get fired up just like the people on the sidelines. But, I get fired up for a different reason. I'm not particularly a snob. I have no reason to feel better than anyone, or more entitled to freedom of speech than any other person. I get into a mode sometimes where I want to tout my credentials. I paid a lot of money for them. As I stated before, no one cares, but it doesn't take away from the fact that I was trained and received a degree to write, to be a writer, and to have a minimum of authority in this area of expertise. I went to school to analyze and study the meaning of different combinations of words. I was trained to boil things down.
What I have read recently about crime in my city has frustrated me. My training and my expertise can be described as 'having learned to re-state what the other person is trying to tell me.'
"So, what you are really saying is..." blank blank blank. "Am I correct?"
Editorial ensues. I state the facts and I ask questions. I've observed people who have been in the business long enough to word their questions to shape the other person's response.
So, this summer was a summer of murder. There are a lot of murders in my town. I have chosen to live in a neighborhood where the murder rate is very low, simply because I like to take my groceries into the house without having to run. I'm getting older and the handles break on the bags when I run. Besides, I've become prone to chronic neck pain, so I can't really afford to be looking over my shoulder WHILE running all the time. Peripheral vision in Baltimore is a MUST, and there are ways to minimize neck strain.
This is beside the point, but I once had a friend who used spatulas to look around corners. I assume this would be a good alternative to looking over my shoulders all the time. If I did live in a dangerous neighborhood, certainly, carrying spatulas around with me all the time would work in my favor to prevent violent robberies. I could carry my bags and have a pair of eyes in the back of my head. Most likely, this would intimidate any would-be attackers. I know how criminals think. When chosing a victim, rarely, does a spatula-weilding white girl rank high on the list. I don't care how badly the bad guys want the four dollars I keep in my bra, they are gonna think twice. Is it really worth it? Is it worth rushing up on the girl with the spatula? Do you really want to take the chance that she is crazier than you? Chances are, she is. Much crazier.
Is it worth being told-off by a girl holding a spatula? Almost every time I've been robbed in Baltimre, I've told them off.
I can give quite the lecture.
Although there was that one time in that Miami Diner where a guy with a gun made me act a little coy. It was early in the morning and I wasn't wearing a bullet-proof vest. I'm not stupid, I'm just pissed off and poor. I'm more pissed off than anyone who would rob me about being poor, because the thing is, I've worked my whole LIFE to be poor. I get up every day and show up to work in order to not have very much. And I will tell you that if you rob me. Try it, you'll see. Something wells up inside me. I can't stand injustice.
The last time I had a run-in was around mid-town. I was walking to my car and a guy just pulled a knife out in a very casual manner. He was near the bus stop, so, it could have just been what he liked to do to pass the time while he waited for the bus. I stopped about eight feet short of him and turned my head to the side. Although belting out an Usher song might have gotten me out of this particular jam, I was at a loss. Michael Jackson had died earlier that afternoon, and I couldn't quite come up with the right lyrics. I remained silent. He said, "Oh, this isn't for YOU."
Gee wilikers, I thought it was. I observed some nearby alleyways and abandoned buildings that I might be spending the next few hours of my life. I won't run that way. Perhaps I could run backwards? And wouldn't a SPATULA be good in this situation? Am I going to jump into the street and get hit by a car to avoid this guy with the knife he said 'wasn't for me'?
I didn't get robbed in this particular situation. I guess what was meant by the 'guy with the knife on Michael Jackson's deathday' story, was to let you know that I don't really think like other people when I'm in dangerous situations. I'm surrealistic about them. I don't think I'm a victim. I think, "This is FUCKED UP. How can I be MORE FUCKED UP than this person who might want to harm me so they get confused?"
It's remarkable that I haven't been robbed more often, but maybe I don't look rich, I just don't.
Whatever. I'm bored writing this. It's really just my way to say that unless you have a solution, don't complain.
I am reading the news now in a different way than I was while I was working on my New York Times Project.
A few months ago, I read the New York Times like it was my job. I scanned the stories and wrote reports. I boiled things down. Then, I got tired of the perspective of the New York Times and I started reading Viceland magazine and exploring their video journalism about Liberia. It was an intense journey that lead me down the rabbit hole. No one cared except for me, and I instituted no change and made no artistic or creative success. I was just doing it for fun, to entertain myself.
I had finished the third leg of my academic career and was on hiatus. Still desiring to learn and write, I have been reading the news. Somehow, I have compartmentalized the news in my mind. I have divided it from reality. In the age of reality television, I have no other choice but to call the news another form of entertainment. I am playing on the computer, my toy; reading the news, my game.
On the sidelines of the game, there are the 'comments' section, where anyone with fingers and a keyboard can voice their opinion. Often, the comments are more entertaining than the news. People get fired up and agitated. People make jokes.
There are internet groupies. There is media fanfare.
Many times, I get fired up just like the people on the sidelines. But, I get fired up for a different reason. I'm not particularly a snob. I have no reason to feel better than anyone, or more entitled to freedom of speech than any other person. I get into a mode sometimes where I want to tout my credentials. I paid a lot of money for them. As I stated before, no one cares, but it doesn't take away from the fact that I was trained and received a degree to write, to be a writer, and to have a minimum of authority in this area of expertise. I went to school to analyze and study the meaning of different combinations of words. I was trained to boil things down.
What I have read recently about crime in my city has frustrated me. My training and my expertise can be described as 'having learned to re-state what the other person is trying to tell me.'
"So, what you are really saying is..." blank blank blank. "Am I correct?"
Editorial ensues. I state the facts and I ask questions. I've observed people who have been in the business long enough to word their questions to shape the other person's response.
So, this summer was a summer of murder. There are a lot of murders in my town. I have chosen to live in a neighborhood where the murder rate is very low, simply because I like to take my groceries into the house without having to run. I'm getting older and the handles break on the bags when I run. Besides, I've become prone to chronic neck pain, so I can't really afford to be looking over my shoulder WHILE running all the time. Peripheral vision in Baltimore is a MUST, and there are ways to minimize neck strain.
This is beside the point, but I once had a friend who used spatulas to look around corners. I assume this would be a good alternative to looking over my shoulders all the time. If I did live in a dangerous neighborhood, certainly, carrying spatulas around with me all the time would work in my favor to prevent violent robberies. I could carry my bags and have a pair of eyes in the back of my head. Most likely, this would intimidate any would-be attackers. I know how criminals think. When chosing a victim, rarely, does a spatula-weilding white girl rank high on the list. I don't care how badly the bad guys want the four dollars I keep in my bra, they are gonna think twice. Is it really worth it? Is it worth rushing up on the girl with the spatula? Do you really want to take the chance that she is crazier than you? Chances are, she is. Much crazier.
Is it worth being told-off by a girl holding a spatula? Almost every time I've been robbed in Baltimre, I've told them off.
I can give quite the lecture.
Although there was that one time in that Miami Diner where a guy with a gun made me act a little coy. It was early in the morning and I wasn't wearing a bullet-proof vest. I'm not stupid, I'm just pissed off and poor. I'm more pissed off than anyone who would rob me about being poor, because the thing is, I've worked my whole LIFE to be poor. I get up every day and show up to work in order to not have very much. And I will tell you that if you rob me. Try it, you'll see. Something wells up inside me. I can't stand injustice.
The last time I had a run-in was around mid-town. I was walking to my car and a guy just pulled a knife out in a very casual manner. He was near the bus stop, so, it could have just been what he liked to do to pass the time while he waited for the bus. I stopped about eight feet short of him and turned my head to the side. Although belting out an Usher song might have gotten me out of this particular jam, I was at a loss. Michael Jackson had died earlier that afternoon, and I couldn't quite come up with the right lyrics. I remained silent. He said, "Oh, this isn't for YOU."
Gee wilikers, I thought it was. I observed some nearby alleyways and abandoned buildings that I might be spending the next few hours of my life. I won't run that way. Perhaps I could run backwards? And wouldn't a SPATULA be good in this situation? Am I going to jump into the street and get hit by a car to avoid this guy with the knife he said 'wasn't for me'?
I didn't get robbed in this particular situation. I guess what was meant by the 'guy with the knife on Michael Jackson's deathday' story, was to let you know that I don't really think like other people when I'm in dangerous situations. I'm surrealistic about them. I don't think I'm a victim. I think, "This is FUCKED UP. How can I be MORE FUCKED UP than this person who might want to harm me so they get confused?"
It's remarkable that I haven't been robbed more often, but maybe I don't look rich, I just don't.
Whatever. I'm bored writing this. It's really just my way to say that unless you have a solution, don't complain.
Monday, August 2, 2010
How many free concerts can you go to?
Blue grass? Really?
I enjoyed it. And I had to look it up.
Why it's called blue grass.
It's something about Kentucky and that's fine with me.
Lincoln logs.
It's because some of the grass is blue there.
The most interesting thing about Kentucky is that you can dig around in the dirt
and find quartz crystals almost anywhere.
I'd fill my house with them if I lived there.
I once knew a guy from Kentucky who said he wanted to breed the biggest cats he could.
A big cat breeder.
It was the coolest thing about him.
The most valuable thing about the people I meet is what I learn from them.
Everyone is a teacher.
I learned about Appalachia.
One person taught me about guitars.
I learned what a riff was and I still appreciate it.
I still appreciate yogurt soda.
I learned how to like dogs.
I learned how not be grumpy by staying hydrated.
I learned that writing takes discipline.
I learned that sometimes it takes over a year to get a power job, and you have to keep applying, even if it takes one year to fill out the application.
I learned that places have spirits,
like the hostile contempt of my region is just the local flavor.
I learned that supporting someone is as good as being supported,
It serves the same purpose.
I keep learning to live better.
I keep learning to not be mean.
I keep learning that I need to explain myself sometimes.
And I learned that not having to explain myself is priceless.
I enjoyed it. And I had to look it up.
Why it's called blue grass.
It's something about Kentucky and that's fine with me.
Lincoln logs.
It's because some of the grass is blue there.
The most interesting thing about Kentucky is that you can dig around in the dirt
and find quartz crystals almost anywhere.
I'd fill my house with them if I lived there.
I once knew a guy from Kentucky who said he wanted to breed the biggest cats he could.
A big cat breeder.
It was the coolest thing about him.
The most valuable thing about the people I meet is what I learn from them.
Everyone is a teacher.
I learned about Appalachia.
One person taught me about guitars.
I learned what a riff was and I still appreciate it.
I still appreciate yogurt soda.
I learned how to like dogs.
I learned how not be grumpy by staying hydrated.
I learned that writing takes discipline.
I learned that sometimes it takes over a year to get a power job, and you have to keep applying, even if it takes one year to fill out the application.
I learned that places have spirits,
like the hostile contempt of my region is just the local flavor.
I learned that supporting someone is as good as being supported,
It serves the same purpose.
I keep learning to live better.
I keep learning to not be mean.
I keep learning that I need to explain myself sometimes.
And I learned that not having to explain myself is priceless.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Friday Walk to the Parking Garage With My Favorite Girl At Work
Paint Job. The Midas touch. Canvas blank page and mess to clean up.
Beach time and winter time far away, never and forever, modem reaches all the way to China when digging a hole.
A whole lot of icepicks and toothpicks and deer ticks and fixodent to forget it.
Store bought lemongrass cakes, crumbs on the carpet, the linoleum treads lightly under asbestos lung migraines. Couch potato, mashed potato.
Red skin-snobs, I beg to differ. Leaving the skins in is the lazy way, the easier way to make a mash-up.
A man who does the dishes is priceless.
A minefield of mishaps makes an evening at home called for and answered to.
The movies are open doors to creaking seats and greasy-fingered diet-coke holding ice rattles in straw detailed wax coated cups.
Taking the last sip of the milkshake and the summertime lemonade, I can't back track.
The history is in the making.
A move to wandering thoughts toward sunset walks watching the pollen and the gnats and the lightening bugs cast a smokey screen along the skyline atmosphere,
one goes up into the nostril to remind me that I am part of this whole picture,
as the rapper parks his dj on the steps in the courtyard outside of city hall and rhymes about closing the rec centers and not having enough money for the 'kids.
There is enough money. There's plenty of money, it's just hidden. It's hidden and burning into the atomosphere
and carbonating the sky like bubbles of heat-infused starlight.
There is plenty of money. Believe me.
Beach time and winter time far away, never and forever, modem reaches all the way to China when digging a hole.
A whole lot of icepicks and toothpicks and deer ticks and fixodent to forget it.
Store bought lemongrass cakes, crumbs on the carpet, the linoleum treads lightly under asbestos lung migraines. Couch potato, mashed potato.
Red skin-snobs, I beg to differ. Leaving the skins in is the lazy way, the easier way to make a mash-up.
A man who does the dishes is priceless.
A minefield of mishaps makes an evening at home called for and answered to.
The movies are open doors to creaking seats and greasy-fingered diet-coke holding ice rattles in straw detailed wax coated cups.
Taking the last sip of the milkshake and the summertime lemonade, I can't back track.
The history is in the making.
A move to wandering thoughts toward sunset walks watching the pollen and the gnats and the lightening bugs cast a smokey screen along the skyline atmosphere,
one goes up into the nostril to remind me that I am part of this whole picture,
as the rapper parks his dj on the steps in the courtyard outside of city hall and rhymes about closing the rec centers and not having enough money for the 'kids.
There is enough money. There's plenty of money, it's just hidden. It's hidden and burning into the atomosphere
and carbonating the sky like bubbles of heat-infused starlight.
There is plenty of money. Believe me.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Until this moment, I had no idea what Jessie meant when he said, "My teeth are itchy."
Oh wow. It's a whole new world, I guess.
I'll never forget that party. I lost him for twenty minutes and he came back saying that shit. And he was happy about it. Like I should know exactly what he meant because itchy teeth was my kind of thing, and he was visiting my club for the night. He brought a friend. It might have been (one of his) sugar daddies. Sugar daddies always have bright ideas when they're out at the club. Like, 'let's try ____' blank'. So, anyway. That's what happened. An hour or so later, Jessie comes running up to me from the parking lot, saying, 'oh my god,'
( oh, well, you know, what now? i think. things are getting crucial and he looks like he is about to pee himself and fidgeting with his hands, but all 'I'm a pro' about it because sugar daddy just did something that made him look very cool calm and collect by comparison )
He / hates this guy / and we saw his car with the windows open / and he is freaking out and then / he just put his ass in the window and / shit in this guy's car.
I really wasn't listening.
I rarely ever hear anything but the last three words of your monologues, so you better make them count.
Two or three years ago everybody on the East and maybe West coast was over-using the word, "Segway"
Probably because mall cops all had those lazy-people scooters by the same name.
Segway is supposed to be the part of a story where you LEAD up to a point.
It's a lost art.
The point is, that I just had my bones scraped underneath my teeth.
And now, it feels a little like an itch. Amen.
Now, my teeth are itchy, and I was thinking about that time when I was fifteen at the nightclub. I haven't thought of it in years.
Oh wow. It's a whole new world, I guess.
I'll never forget that party. I lost him for twenty minutes and he came back saying that shit. And he was happy about it. Like I should know exactly what he meant because itchy teeth was my kind of thing, and he was visiting my club for the night. He brought a friend. It might have been (one of his) sugar daddies. Sugar daddies always have bright ideas when they're out at the club. Like, 'let's try ____' blank'. So, anyway. That's what happened. An hour or so later, Jessie comes running up to me from the parking lot, saying, 'oh my god,'
( oh, well, you know, what now? i think. things are getting crucial and he looks like he is about to pee himself and fidgeting with his hands, but all 'I'm a pro' about it because sugar daddy just did something that made him look very cool calm and collect by comparison )
He / hates this guy / and we saw his car with the windows open / and he is freaking out and then / he just put his ass in the window and / shit in this guy's car.
I really wasn't listening.
I rarely ever hear anything but the last three words of your monologues, so you better make them count.
Two or three years ago everybody on the East and maybe West coast was over-using the word, "Segway"
Probably because mall cops all had those lazy-people scooters by the same name.
Segway is supposed to be the part of a story where you LEAD up to a point.
It's a lost art.
The point is, that I just had my bones scraped underneath my teeth.
And now, it feels a little like an itch. Amen.
Now, my teeth are itchy, and I was thinking about that time when I was fifteen at the nightclub. I haven't thought of it in years.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Simplify
Manifesting in the body, the worry and weight. The waiting for the future.
The appointment and commitment and the hours sitting.
Standing on the wall and the corner,
Waiting for the break out.
Mirroring gentleness.
Mirroring kindness.
Not heard, but speaking the point.
The point is driven across in spades. The wheel turns.
And what comes up must come down.
Wig out on the inside for no reason except a five year old surrounded by doubt.
I simplify the necessities , a hard right turn.
Basic.
Sleep, food, time, hit it and quit it.
The appointment and commitment and the hours sitting.
Standing on the wall and the corner,
Waiting for the break out.
Mirroring gentleness.
Mirroring kindness.
Not heard, but speaking the point.
The point is driven across in spades. The wheel turns.
And what comes up must come down.
Wig out on the inside for no reason except a five year old surrounded by doubt.
I simplify the necessities , a hard right turn.
Basic.
Sleep, food, time, hit it and quit it.
The Next Thing
I was there when the looting began, when the first brick was thrown through the German print shop window.
I was there when the street lights were pulled from the wires by an invisible force, and the same force flung the cross from the top of the steeple.
( Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors and there's all the people. )
I was there when the nurse met the mail man; a.k.a. the beauty and the football player.
I was there when she drank herself to death while her son listened to a Bill Cosby record on headphones in the next room.
I was there to scatter the ashes.
I was there when the piston failed to fire.
I was there when the paint coated the canvas a hundred times.
I was there to speed up the process.
I was there to put the breaks on too.
I was there to offer condolence and make jokes and move on to the next thing.
I was there when the street lights were pulled from the wires by an invisible force, and the same force flung the cross from the top of the steeple.
( Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the doors and there's all the people. )
I was there when the nurse met the mail man; a.k.a. the beauty and the football player.
I was there when she drank herself to death while her son listened to a Bill Cosby record on headphones in the next room.
I was there to scatter the ashes.
I was there when the piston failed to fire.
I was there when the paint coated the canvas a hundred times.
I was there to speed up the process.
I was there to put the breaks on too.
I was there to offer condolence and make jokes and move on to the next thing.
Monday, May 10, 2010
I am not...
Big walk, fast walk, voice, voice, voice.
Wailing from the soul. Hurry.
Hurry up and wait. Vote twice. You double time a freaky Tuesday, silently, for the jump-out.
I get up and go out to crip-walk, to cobble and hobble. It's a metal detector and a name tag, and a bum-chaser running out of space to run to; abscond.
Quick walk. Fast talk. Stoop down. Stand up.
The man on the bike begins yelling, "Bar-ock--O bammma. I am NOT... I am NOT afraid to die."
I try to ignore him as the police officer appears frightened.
I have to much on my mind to worry about this guy.
Wailing from the soul. Hurry.
Hurry up and wait. Vote twice. You double time a freaky Tuesday, silently, for the jump-out.
I get up and go out to crip-walk, to cobble and hobble. It's a metal detector and a name tag, and a bum-chaser running out of space to run to; abscond.
Quick walk. Fast talk. Stoop down. Stand up.
The man on the bike begins yelling, "Bar-ock--O bammma. I am NOT... I am NOT afraid to die."
I try to ignore him as the police officer appears frightened.
I have to much on my mind to worry about this guy.
Firetruck Left Turn
Stop pile up in lines, miles of lines, dotted lines and straight yellow pairs
Hilled driveways lined with perennials and ivy
to the pit of the arm and the rib
and summer carpet
Berber with sand and sweat on your feet
woven underneath the toe-prints
feeling the granules
The smell of iodine on skin, on tee shirt fabric, sleeping, burning eyes,
tasseled hair.
My favorite tank top, wet skin, bikini top pressing my sides underneath the salted weight of the day.
No caffeine, no water, but thirst in the fold.
Hilled driveways lined with perennials and ivy
to the pit of the arm and the rib
and summer carpet
Berber with sand and sweat on your feet
woven underneath the toe-prints
feeling the granules
The smell of iodine on skin, on tee shirt fabric, sleeping, burning eyes,
tasseled hair.
My favorite tank top, wet skin, bikini top pressing my sides underneath the salted weight of the day.
No caffeine, no water, but thirst in the fold.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
My Birthday Poem
Desk jobs make me suicidal and homicidal.
I wanna be a flo-jo, yoga-instructor, jet-setter novelist.
I wanna be on the Nobel List.
I want hot pink and magenta rays to come out of my eyes. I want hi-definition thought bubbles to pop out of my head like I am a cartoon super-hero.
I want all the junkies to nod out when I walk past them; cuz' I'm that dope.
I want clothes that fit right.
( I want my boobs back, except I don't want the extra 50 pounds I lost back. )
I want a birthday balloon ascension with 331 turquoise and yellow spheres of color bursting up into the sky. A hundred and sixty five of each color and
ONE black balloon to
represent the Catholic original sin they said I was born with.
I want all the colored balloons to drift into the distance, while the black one lingers.
I want the black balloon to burst and out of it, I want there to fly a cherub dusted in gold, wielding an arrow that shoots right into my heart and makes me re-born.
I wanna be a flo-jo, yoga-instructor, jet-setter novelist.
I wanna be on the Nobel List.
I want hot pink and magenta rays to come out of my eyes. I want hi-definition thought bubbles to pop out of my head like I am a cartoon super-hero.
I want all the junkies to nod out when I walk past them; cuz' I'm that dope.
I want clothes that fit right.
( I want my boobs back, except I don't want the extra 50 pounds I lost back. )
I want a birthday balloon ascension with 331 turquoise and yellow spheres of color bursting up into the sky. A hundred and sixty five of each color and
ONE black balloon to
represent the Catholic original sin they said I was born with.
I want all the colored balloons to drift into the distance, while the black one lingers.
I want the black balloon to burst and out of it, I want there to fly a cherub dusted in gold, wielding an arrow that shoots right into my heart and makes me re-born.
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Complacent Adjacent
Moving to the top sideways
Forward neck, head first, trying to figure it out.
Push the scapula on the right toward the scapula on the left.
Jinx button is locked like a safety on a gun, so I tilt my head to the side and talk with my hands.
Exaggerate for the comedy routine like nature steps through the woods,
pretending the sewer stream storm drain is a creek,
where magic and graffiti cover the walls of the echo tunnel under the apartments
where there used to be a swim club.
And now there is a laundromat in the McDonald's mansion.
Forward neck, head first, trying to figure it out.
Push the scapula on the right toward the scapula on the left.
Jinx button is locked like a safety on a gun, so I tilt my head to the side and talk with my hands.
Exaggerate for the comedy routine like nature steps through the woods,
pretending the sewer stream storm drain is a creek,
where magic and graffiti cover the walls of the echo tunnel under the apartments
where there used to be a swim club.
And now there is a laundromat in the McDonald's mansion.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
Steadily scanning the news is not the best way to relax and fall asleep on a damp, dank night like tonight. I blog to stay in touch with dearest Jeremy, and to voice the opinion of the inner-me. To review, I am sick and I have taken my "active kids gummie vitamin" because I believe it helps my immune system.
I read everything on the internet this weekend. The whole thing. I read the entire internet. I was stuck inside being sick and it was raining, so I went with it.
If I believed everything I read, I would believe the whole world is in some kind of crisis, but I think there are too many people talking about their feelings and getting 'up in arms' about politics... and as cheesey as it is when my hippie-type friends tell me " it starts within you " I actually believe this.
I really do believe that my perspective is skewed by whatever is going on within me.
I went to my acupuncture doctor the other day and he asked me how I liked my job. I said, " I think they like me...??!!"
He chuckled and responded that of course they like me because I am gentle and kind and they are... basically mirroring me.
When I heard him say that, it was a lightbulb epiphany because I KNEW THAT ONCE and so easily FORGOT!
Whenever I hear or say the word "skewed" I think of skewers and kababs. I can't help it, I just picture red peppers on a skewer.
Either way, these are the ramblings of a sick lady who just spent too much time on twitter and went down the internet rabbit hole yet again. And it's time for sleep.
And this is my diary, today, I suppose.
I read everything on the internet this weekend. The whole thing. I read the entire internet. I was stuck inside being sick and it was raining, so I went with it.
If I believed everything I read, I would believe the whole world is in some kind of crisis, but I think there are too many people talking about their feelings and getting 'up in arms' about politics... and as cheesey as it is when my hippie-type friends tell me " it starts within you " I actually believe this.
I really do believe that my perspective is skewed by whatever is going on within me.
I went to my acupuncture doctor the other day and he asked me how I liked my job. I said, " I think they like me...??!!"
He chuckled and responded that of course they like me because I am gentle and kind and they are... basically mirroring me.
When I heard him say that, it was a lightbulb epiphany because I KNEW THAT ONCE and so easily FORGOT!
Whenever I hear or say the word "skewed" I think of skewers and kababs. I can't help it, I just picture red peppers on a skewer.
Either way, these are the ramblings of a sick lady who just spent too much time on twitter and went down the internet rabbit hole yet again. And it's time for sleep.
And this is my diary, today, I suppose.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Cupid Bullshit
Fetal position this morning instead of a job orientation makes a snowstorm seem easy. I have been reading the news and feeling uninspired to jump into Capitalism. Catapultism.
I want a lovin' spoonful. A catapult of sugar cubes.
The cubicle is not calling,
I want to live in Turkey on the beach with palm trees and I will weave rugs all day to pay for my shack to live in.
I want to live in the ocean on a rock covered in seaweed. I want a crown made of tropical flowers.
I want cinnamon scent to wake me up every morning and cupid to sit on my pillow while I sleep. I want cupid to drink my blood from a syphon.
I want a lovin' spoonful. A catapult of sugar cubes.
The cubicle is not calling,
I want to live in Turkey on the beach with palm trees and I will weave rugs all day to pay for my shack to live in.
I want to live in the ocean on a rock covered in seaweed. I want a crown made of tropical flowers.
I want cinnamon scent to wake me up every morning and cupid to sit on my pillow while I sleep. I want cupid to drink my blood from a syphon.
Cutting Edge Fashion and Being Out West
A few years ago, a psychic told me that I should go to Austen, Texas.
She also said that I wouldn't be ready to get married until I was about 34 years old.
It makes sense to me. I am keeping my eyes open for cheap travel to Texas because what she said is there for me is something I have wanted for a while.
No secret-- it's money. She said there is money 'for me' there.
It would be even cooler if there were some kind of buried treasure or a long lost relative there. I know there were most certainly some relatives of mine who 'went west' back in the day. And the slutty side of the family probably made some babies during the Spanish American war. Slutty, or rapy, whatever you wanna call it. Conception doesn't care.
While I was walking in San Francisco, I couldn't help but notice a store called "The Rapy." Regardless of how many times locals corrected my mispronunciation of the storefront sign, I summoned the power of my English degree and told all of them that the capital 'R' seals the deal on the name. We should all just go with it. Rapy fashion is something in between skater, homo-chic, trust fund-hipster, and just plain old cool.
Gotta stay on the cutting edge, my friends.
She also said that I wouldn't be ready to get married until I was about 34 years old.
It makes sense to me. I am keeping my eyes open for cheap travel to Texas because what she said is there for me is something I have wanted for a while.
No secret-- it's money. She said there is money 'for me' there.
It would be even cooler if there were some kind of buried treasure or a long lost relative there. I know there were most certainly some relatives of mine who 'went west' back in the day. And the slutty side of the family probably made some babies during the Spanish American war. Slutty, or rapy, whatever you wanna call it. Conception doesn't care.
While I was walking in San Francisco, I couldn't help but notice a store called "The Rapy." Regardless of how many times locals corrected my mispronunciation of the storefront sign, I summoned the power of my English degree and told all of them that the capital 'R' seals the deal on the name. We should all just go with it. Rapy fashion is something in between skater, homo-chic, trust fund-hipster, and just plain old cool.
Gotta stay on the cutting edge, my friends.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
The Suffi, The Pastor, the Lawyer and the Chinese lady speaking Russian Going to DC for Work''
I was all excited to write a blog 'from the sky' while flying in an airplane, but I couldn't bring myself to pay for it, or become inspired enough to do a live blog from a cramped space where who knows who could read it over my shoulder.
Yes, writing is personal.
Presently, I am stuck in Milwaukee all night in the airport with a Sufi healer, a pastor, and a lawyer. On my way back from the west coast, where the weather was almost absolute shit, and my host demanded that I shower in front of an open window. By this, I mean, she kept her windows open at night with the lights on to keep the moisture out of the bathroom, and I exaggerate, like always.
And I combated the situation by my personality quirk of turning the heat up to 80 degrees whenever I could get away with it.
God bless anyone who has to be roommates with either of us, but, that's beside the point.
Okay, I just laughed out loud in the airplane concourse because a bird just flew down from the ceiling and landed next to the Sufi from St. Paul's School for Girls.
It's a long story, but one day it will all make sense.
The pastor talked to me while the plane took off from San Francisco. She lives a few doors down from my friend Michael and his dog Fenya. It's the same block the Almighty Senators lived on back in the day. For all I know, they still do.
Both of us, the Pastor and I, had heard that there was a blizzard happening back east. I am certain the snow in inconsequential to most, since it's like Saturday and only people who work at the mall have to get up early on Sunday; and they don't matter much.
( Except the people at Sephora who give me samples, they count, but no one else does. )
Well, it's me and the mall people this snow storm effects. I am sitting on the ground in this airport somewhere in the middle of the country and I have joined a group.
I forgot, approaching is the fifth woman who doesn't speak much English. She was taking a walk. She's been quiet.
There are five of us. We know basics about each other, we have a sense of personality, and for all I know each and every one of us could be full of shit, but,
the important thing is, I am pretty sure we are not going to rob each other.
I might try to nap in a while, but this situation is weird and all I want is a shower and a delousing. You know that movie where the guy has that super-high-tech shower stall that exfoliates him and rubs his finger-prints off everyday because he is impersonating someone else? I want one of those.
My phobias get bigger in circumstances like this and then melt away in an ebb and flow.
I am not self-conscious at all right now. It's me, god, and my desire for creature comforts.
I probably need a cigarette soon. It's weird that they don't sell them here. The sufi was helping me sort of time-out the duration I would need to stretch to make the last three last until 6 am when we leave.
Right now, it's between me and the Pastor to watch out for the sleeping ladies. We'll see what happens. ( who is going to fall asleep first? )
Yes, writing is personal.
Presently, I am stuck in Milwaukee all night in the airport with a Sufi healer, a pastor, and a lawyer. On my way back from the west coast, where the weather was almost absolute shit, and my host demanded that I shower in front of an open window. By this, I mean, she kept her windows open at night with the lights on to keep the moisture out of the bathroom, and I exaggerate, like always.
And I combated the situation by my personality quirk of turning the heat up to 80 degrees whenever I could get away with it.
God bless anyone who has to be roommates with either of us, but, that's beside the point.
Okay, I just laughed out loud in the airplane concourse because a bird just flew down from the ceiling and landed next to the Sufi from St. Paul's School for Girls.
It's a long story, but one day it will all make sense.
The pastor talked to me while the plane took off from San Francisco. She lives a few doors down from my friend Michael and his dog Fenya. It's the same block the Almighty Senators lived on back in the day. For all I know, they still do.
Both of us, the Pastor and I, had heard that there was a blizzard happening back east. I am certain the snow in inconsequential to most, since it's like Saturday and only people who work at the mall have to get up early on Sunday; and they don't matter much.
( Except the people at Sephora who give me samples, they count, but no one else does. )
Well, it's me and the mall people this snow storm effects. I am sitting on the ground in this airport somewhere in the middle of the country and I have joined a group.
I forgot, approaching is the fifth woman who doesn't speak much English. She was taking a walk. She's been quiet.
There are five of us. We know basics about each other, we have a sense of personality, and for all I know each and every one of us could be full of shit, but,
the important thing is, I am pretty sure we are not going to rob each other.
I might try to nap in a while, but this situation is weird and all I want is a shower and a delousing. You know that movie where the guy has that super-high-tech shower stall that exfoliates him and rubs his finger-prints off everyday because he is impersonating someone else? I want one of those.
My phobias get bigger in circumstances like this and then melt away in an ebb and flow.
I am not self-conscious at all right now. It's me, god, and my desire for creature comforts.
I probably need a cigarette soon. It's weird that they don't sell them here. The sufi was helping me sort of time-out the duration I would need to stretch to make the last three last until 6 am when we leave.
Right now, it's between me and the Pastor to watch out for the sleeping ladies. We'll see what happens. ( who is going to fall asleep first? )
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Sunday Post Entertainment
I am tickled pink with amusement. My love for slap stick comedy has completely engaged.
I call it slap stick comedy because once I asked a psychologist if I were perhaps evil for enjoying it when other people were hurt. She said that everyone likes the Three Stooges, so laugh away and feel okay.
Anyway. The only article catching my eye today in the NY Times is that one about the emergency room reports in 2008 tallying the number of people injured while walking and using electronic devices at the same time.
Personally, I feel like a dare-devil when I walk around texting, and I usually "pull over" to do it. No, seriously. It's hard to do in New York because of the pace. It's dangerous to do in Baltimore because of the crime. Regardless, I pull over to text, or I do so in a safely locked car while it's in park.
I also try not to text while I am hanging out with someone unlesss we are both texting and multi-tasking together. That's the only green-light to text-away. Otherwise it's rude. I usually see my partner pull out their phone, then I say, "oh, so it's texting time." We take a break to check in with 'those who are not with us'.
But the injuries are hilarious.
When I went back to school last year to finish my degree I noticed that everyone had their ipods plugged into their heads. I observed that this was potentially dangerous on stairwells.
Usually I am on the lookout for someone clumsy who might fall onto me from behind while traveling down a crowded stairwell. I cherish my ability to hear in this case because with my sense of hearing, I would undoubtedly have a few fractions of a second to get out of the way after I heard a grunt or a sneaker squeak. The ipod kids don't have this defense.
The least amount of electronics related injuries occur to people my age 30-40. I wonder why that is. I guess we are used to the technology just enough to have some experience, but we didn't have it when we were younger, so we learned the rules of walking and driving without the technology first. The old folks are just totally helpless. And the young kids are over-confident. That's my summary.
I call it slap stick comedy because once I asked a psychologist if I were perhaps evil for enjoying it when other people were hurt. She said that everyone likes the Three Stooges, so laugh away and feel okay.
Anyway. The only article catching my eye today in the NY Times is that one about the emergency room reports in 2008 tallying the number of people injured while walking and using electronic devices at the same time.
Personally, I feel like a dare-devil when I walk around texting, and I usually "pull over" to do it. No, seriously. It's hard to do in New York because of the pace. It's dangerous to do in Baltimore because of the crime. Regardless, I pull over to text, or I do so in a safely locked car while it's in park.
I also try not to text while I am hanging out with someone unlesss we are both texting and multi-tasking together. That's the only green-light to text-away. Otherwise it's rude. I usually see my partner pull out their phone, then I say, "oh, so it's texting time." We take a break to check in with 'those who are not with us'.
But the injuries are hilarious.
When I went back to school last year to finish my degree I noticed that everyone had their ipods plugged into their heads. I observed that this was potentially dangerous on stairwells.
Usually I am on the lookout for someone clumsy who might fall onto me from behind while traveling down a crowded stairwell. I cherish my ability to hear in this case because with my sense of hearing, I would undoubtedly have a few fractions of a second to get out of the way after I heard a grunt or a sneaker squeak. The ipod kids don't have this defense.
The least amount of electronics related injuries occur to people my age 30-40. I wonder why that is. I guess we are used to the technology just enough to have some experience, but we didn't have it when we were younger, so we learned the rules of walking and driving without the technology first. The old folks are just totally helpless. And the young kids are over-confident. That's my summary.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
My New York Times Project- Day 1
First, I learned what I already knew:
If Haiti gets money and donations, they won't know what to do with it.
( I knew this days ago. )
I am a big asshole for saying this, but rich people are rich for a reason because they handle money well when they get it, hold onto it and make more. And they will silently murder many to keep it.
That has nothing to do with Haiti.. OR DOES IT? They had a big earthquake and immediately a few things I read (online) drew a parallel between Haiti's earthquake and New Orleans' Katrina hurricane. Yes. It's EVEN more fucked up when a catastrophe hits an already incredibly impoverished area. The whole world feels so bad... but if cameras were there a week prior, the world might feel just as bad. Do I even know the history of Haiti? Only a little, but it is (wince... cringe) what I once read, by definition, a 'slave community'.
But, really no one cared until this week how fucked up things were in Haiti. And Haiti is still effected by the psychological trauma of slavery carried through its culture. So there. Don't even get me started. I could write a book on it, but it's kind of none of my business because I'm not rich and never was, I'm just sayin'.
Next, I read an article about a guy who made it only to the base camp of mountain K-2. I didn't know it before, but now I know the mountain is in Pakistan. Neat. About twenty people died on the mountain while he was there. And he wrote about dead bodies just buried under avalanches of snow with parts sticking out, decaying. He also wrote about North Face equipment, and Germans and an Italian guy who wanted to ski down the mountain, but he died while the writer was at the base camp along with all the others. Interesting, but I don't remember the writer's name because I am a big jerk.
Speaking of big jerks, the most moving article I read was about a little kid in New York who got grounded, but was still allowed to use the Internet. So, she started a facebook 'cause' for no important reason at all other than to get herself out of punishment.
The interjections and inner dialog I had with myself and my computer while reading this article were why it was so emotionally moving for me.
My first instinct was to find her facebook page and comment, " Hey kid, since you have so much energy, why not try to get universal health care? " ( you selfish, selfish human creature with more resources than you know what to do with????)
My god.
Really. Sigh.
When I got to the page, which only took me about three seconds, I saw that I was one of MANY who had the same instinct. When I say many, I mean, hundreds.
Instead of writing my original thoughts, I commented, "This is a waste of everyone's time."
It made me tired just reading the comments.
I don't know what made me more sick:
Was it the article?
Was it the self-involved kid?
Was it the pack of grown adults berating a child for doing what comes naturally to a child?
Or was it the power of the Internet and how much we waste that power every single day for hours on end fulfilling our own whims instead of going out into the world and doing something really *crazy with that power?
Someone suggested that I would find a better job if I read the New York Times every day.
And since I am a college graduate now, I am looking for a job.
It starts today.
*crazy-
amazingly good, delightful, godlike, devilish, mojo, creative, loving, intuitive, communal, and all combinations of words for soul-unity between human beings that the English language doesn't seem to have a word for so I call it crazy for lack of a better word.
If Haiti gets money and donations, they won't know what to do with it.
( I knew this days ago. )
I am a big asshole for saying this, but rich people are rich for a reason because they handle money well when they get it, hold onto it and make more. And they will silently murder many to keep it.
That has nothing to do with Haiti.. OR DOES IT? They had a big earthquake and immediately a few things I read (online) drew a parallel between Haiti's earthquake and New Orleans' Katrina hurricane. Yes. It's EVEN more fucked up when a catastrophe hits an already incredibly impoverished area. The whole world feels so bad... but if cameras were there a week prior, the world might feel just as bad. Do I even know the history of Haiti? Only a little, but it is (wince... cringe) what I once read, by definition, a 'slave community'.
But, really no one cared until this week how fucked up things were in Haiti. And Haiti is still effected by the psychological trauma of slavery carried through its culture. So there. Don't even get me started. I could write a book on it, but it's kind of none of my business because I'm not rich and never was, I'm just sayin'.
Next, I read an article about a guy who made it only to the base camp of mountain K-2. I didn't know it before, but now I know the mountain is in Pakistan. Neat. About twenty people died on the mountain while he was there. And he wrote about dead bodies just buried under avalanches of snow with parts sticking out, decaying. He also wrote about North Face equipment, and Germans and an Italian guy who wanted to ski down the mountain, but he died while the writer was at the base camp along with all the others. Interesting, but I don't remember the writer's name because I am a big jerk.
Speaking of big jerks, the most moving article I read was about a little kid in New York who got grounded, but was still allowed to use the Internet. So, she started a facebook 'cause' for no important reason at all other than to get herself out of punishment.
The interjections and inner dialog I had with myself and my computer while reading this article were why it was so emotionally moving for me.
My first instinct was to find her facebook page and comment, " Hey kid, since you have so much energy, why not try to get universal health care? " ( you selfish, selfish human creature with more resources than you know what to do with????)
My god.
Really. Sigh.
When I got to the page, which only took me about three seconds, I saw that I was one of MANY who had the same instinct. When I say many, I mean, hundreds.
Instead of writing my original thoughts, I commented, "This is a waste of everyone's time."
It made me tired just reading the comments.
I don't know what made me more sick:
Was it the article?
Was it the self-involved kid?
Was it the pack of grown adults berating a child for doing what comes naturally to a child?
Or was it the power of the Internet and how much we waste that power every single day for hours on end fulfilling our own whims instead of going out into the world and doing something really *crazy with that power?
Someone suggested that I would find a better job if I read the New York Times every day.
And since I am a college graduate now, I am looking for a job.
It starts today.
*crazy-
amazingly good, delightful, godlike, devilish, mojo, creative, loving, intuitive, communal, and all combinations of words for soul-unity between human beings that the English language doesn't seem to have a word for so I call it crazy for lack of a better word.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Fried Cheese Cake- Food Snobs Please Leave Now
I once explained to my date that we needed to have the check paid immediately following the
order for fried cheesecake because I was gonna need to leave the scene of the crime as soon as I was finished like it was my dirty little secret.
Fried cheesecake is dirty. And no one should carry that burden alone.
I mean, you need to be putting your coat on as you are still eating it, take the last bite standing, and walk briskly toward the door like you suddenly got called into a late-night work meeting.
It reminds me of working at a restaurant where we served bite-sized pieces of cheesecake to the guests on a shared platter. It was always a dilemma of etiquette until there were two or three of us just standing around the table like vultures looking at what the table had left behind: un-touched cheesecake pieces, allowable by the health department...
order for fried cheesecake because I was gonna need to leave the scene of the crime as soon as I was finished like it was my dirty little secret.
Fried cheesecake is dirty. And no one should carry that burden alone.
I mean, you need to be putting your coat on as you are still eating it, take the last bite standing, and walk briskly toward the door like you suddenly got called into a late-night work meeting.
It reminds me of working at a restaurant where we served bite-sized pieces of cheesecake to the guests on a shared platter. It was always a dilemma of etiquette until there were two or three of us just standing around the table like vultures looking at what the table had left behind: un-touched cheesecake pieces, allowable by the health department...
Thursday, January 14, 2010
An Eight Hour Nap
After one five hour nap during the night,
I took another eight hour nap during the daylight hours.
It was too hot when I woke up the first time, so I opened some windows. And once my feet were frozen, I decided to make some Indian food and watch an Indian movie.
I drank an entire pot of coffee. And then I took another "nap".
During the nap, I had an awful and adventurously vivid dream.
I was on my way to the airport.
I was supposed to fly the plane, I was supposed to ride into the plane on wheels. It was something between a quasi-military- shipping -out and evacuation.
On my way to the airport, my bags kept changing.
Like, in real life when I was on my way to catch a bus to New York last week, I suddenly decided to switch luggage?
I dumped out my back pack in the living room and put everything in a big duffel bag one minute before walking out the door.
In the dream, this happened a few times. I had to pack and re-pack. I had to re-pack on the sidewalk, on the bus and on the plane. I had to dump everything out and do it again.
The climate kept changing at my destination until nothing made sense.
Need a bathing suit? Now you have loafers for your first day of school!
Everything was like that... not making any sense. It was a stressful dream and I hope that when I do actually go on my trip, this doesn't really happen.
My Internet friends were alarmed by my being awake at seven a.m.
Really, the only reason I ever wake up early and stay up is so that I can avoid insomnia later.
It's all part of my sleep-credit plan.
The ultimate sleep credit debt is when you are sleepless for so long the only choice is to "stay up" the whole way through the night and then CRASH hard the following night. It only works sometimes and it is a desperate measure.
I am thinking it had something to do with the acupuncture session I had on Tuesday. My body told my body what it wanted and I had to yield.
Now about to enter another night, I will attempt to sleep 'as if' this whole dirty, obscenely decadent, dream-filled day never happened.
Shameless, I have fresh pajamas on and my socks by the heating vent, drinking Hi-C and tea and chain smoking like nobody's business.
It's all in a day's work.
And I forgot to mention a job application was submitted in the mix... so who knows what could have happened while I dreamed the day away.
The house makes creaking noises like it's alive and waiting to swallow my wintry life in a comforter the size of Texas.
I took another eight hour nap during the daylight hours.
It was too hot when I woke up the first time, so I opened some windows. And once my feet were frozen, I decided to make some Indian food and watch an Indian movie.
I drank an entire pot of coffee. And then I took another "nap".
During the nap, I had an awful and adventurously vivid dream.
I was on my way to the airport.
I was supposed to fly the plane, I was supposed to ride into the plane on wheels. It was something between a quasi-military- shipping -out and evacuation.
On my way to the airport, my bags kept changing.
Like, in real life when I was on my way to catch a bus to New York last week, I suddenly decided to switch luggage?
I dumped out my back pack in the living room and put everything in a big duffel bag one minute before walking out the door.
In the dream, this happened a few times. I had to pack and re-pack. I had to re-pack on the sidewalk, on the bus and on the plane. I had to dump everything out and do it again.
The climate kept changing at my destination until nothing made sense.
Need a bathing suit? Now you have loafers for your first day of school!
Everything was like that... not making any sense. It was a stressful dream and I hope that when I do actually go on my trip, this doesn't really happen.
My Internet friends were alarmed by my being awake at seven a.m.
Really, the only reason I ever wake up early and stay up is so that I can avoid insomnia later.
It's all part of my sleep-credit plan.
The ultimate sleep credit debt is when you are sleepless for so long the only choice is to "stay up" the whole way through the night and then CRASH hard the following night. It only works sometimes and it is a desperate measure.
I am thinking it had something to do with the acupuncture session I had on Tuesday. My body told my body what it wanted and I had to yield.
Now about to enter another night, I will attempt to sleep 'as if' this whole dirty, obscenely decadent, dream-filled day never happened.
Shameless, I have fresh pajamas on and my socks by the heating vent, drinking Hi-C and tea and chain smoking like nobody's business.
It's all in a day's work.
And I forgot to mention a job application was submitted in the mix... so who knows what could have happened while I dreamed the day away.
The house makes creaking noises like it's alive and waiting to swallow my wintry life in a comforter the size of Texas.
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