Physical Evidence

"You don't have to come and confess;

we're gonna find you."

____________________________________________

This morning I ate the last

of the reheated leftovers from the feast

that we all eagerly shared

and you prepared.

Soon, I will dutifully wash off

the final oily remains

of your residual scent;

your fluids intermixed with mine.

Then, as I immerse myself

back into piles of work and

the everpresent musical

mayhem of mundane life,

the only physical evidence

to remind me of your stay

will be so many empty bottles in a row

and the random long silver hairs

            scattered on the pillows.

Vexation Abounds

Well, I'm exaggerating a little for effect, but I am vexed right now.  I am not altogether vexed, but the word ABOUNDS fit nicely with the word VEXATION, so there ya go.

I'm recoiling from yet another unhappy episode between myself and my headstrong son.  We disagree on many issues, and sometimes it causes us both much stress.  I'm feeling it right now.  I'm not going to elaborate on that here though, because it "aint nobody's business" and because I like to keep some aspects of my private life private, both because I am a somewhat private person, and also out of respect for my son, whom I do love and respect.  Do unto others, and all that.

What I will do instead is try to calm myself and vent a little stress by writing, which has always been good for me in my life.  Writing saved me in the torment of my adolescence, and I'm hoping it can help me out now.  Verbal vomit soothes my troubled soul.  That and music.

But now that the dust is starting to settle a little bit, I doubt my ability to write without fixating on the troubling event that preceded this writing.  It's not epic or amazing, just another straw, another back.  Still, it's increased my heart rate and caused me distress.  I'm bothered.  I care.  I can't fix it though, so I'll let it go until another time.

It's almost a new year, so that's something worthy of writing about, I suppose.  I could write about what has transpired this year, what I hope to have happen next year, and compare notes with my past self and my present self, but I'm not really feeling it right now.  I'm too angry to be reflective and there's so much I don't want to say.  I'm stuck between wanting to be open, and wanting to be discrete; wanting to bare all, and wanting to shut the damn door and stop the breeze from chilling me.

So I'm listening to David Sylvian and feeling my breathing slow, writing about writing and not writing, and feeling my throat and heart both ache.  It's late and I have much to do.  Much to ponder, much to begin, much to end, much to sleep.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."

Theme # 5: Old Pomes

For posterity, or something, a few old pomes I think aren't absolutely horrid...

_____________________________________________________________

To begin with, a rare rhyming pome. I can't tell if I like it, but it rhymes.

(Written 2/12/1990)

let us go then, you and i

away from this wasteland deep

go where all you see is sky

and angels watch o'er our sleep

this place of ours won't be too far

i can almost smell the air

all we do is wish on a star

and soon we will be there

so let us go far away from this

where we can at last be free

and i will sleep rememb'ring a kiss

deep where no mortal eyes see

___________________________________

Here's a super cheesy one I wrote in Santa Fe, with the raw pitiful emotion only a 15-year-old female can feel. My broseph made it into a song that his band performed, I think.

(Written 10/30/1987)

i look out the window

and see your face

then it's gone

tears fall like rain

when can i see you again?

why is the world this way?

always the punisher-

never the punished

i want you with me

i need to feel you next to me

your love keeps me alive

where would i be without you?

life is so confusing

why lock people up?

too young to make a difference

too young to vote

magic age-

twenty-one

but what of sixteen?

why?

how can you be good

and happy

when the government considers you

dead?

____________________________________

Here's one I wrote about mild schizophrenia, a few months later.

(Written 1/15/1988)

i have voices

echoing inside my head

not mine

there's someone

telling me i'm nothing

just an illusion

CRAZY

my nightmare has returned

it wants to control me

something inside tells me to let it

let it run my life

destroy my sanity

if any is left

i must know

am i crazy?

or is it all in my mind

is it the life i've led

is it the way i see

the lies i've told

or is it all a lie

has my mind really gone

am i really insane

help me to sort out my mind

help me to be sane

to be young again

young and innocent

while

amidst the confusion

a baby cries

__________________________________________

About a one night stand.

(Written 2/7/1988)

it begins,

frantic touching

confused kisses

cold fingers, feet

stripped bodies, minds

making quick love

or fast fucking

"thank you"

it ends

as suddenly and hopeless

as it began

"goodnight"

goodbye

__________________________________________________

About loneliness.

(Written 5/21/1988)

*of someone*

i don't know what you see

yet i find myself looking for you

i don't know how you live

yet i'm always near your home

i don't know your views

yet i always miss you

i don't know your smile

yet i think of it and am content

i don't know your voice

yet i often hear it call my name

i don't know your touch

yet i long for your presence

i don't know you at all

yet without you i'm lonely

i must find who you are

so i may be whole

_____________________________________________________

A self portrait of sorts.

(Written 7/11/1988)

*i, me, my, solo*

so you want to know me, then i will tell you who and what i am.

i am the void. i am the moon. i am the sky. i am the sword that severs. i am your coffee. i am the first lucky in a pack of cigarettes. i am the last country conquered in a game of war. i am the last building to fall in the end of the world. i am the pen you write with while it runs out of ink; the pen you toss aside in frustration. i am the song that you hate, but gets stuck in your mind. i am the wood you burn to start a fire; the branch broken off a dead tree, the burning flame, struggling to remain bright and alive. i am the first bite you eat in the morning, the food you enjoy yet take for granted. i am the dream you remember when you awaken, yet forget after you've spoken. i am the broken ring in your pocket, the one you put back together when bored. i am the teacher who put up with you in high school; the student alone in the front row. i am the quiet between songs on an album, the dreaded silence, the momentary lull in time. i am the tear you prevent from escaping your eyelid, the pain felt but not seen. i am the table centerpiece hidden by food and ignored. i am your looking glass. i am you.

____________________________________________________

About a memory, but it might have been a dream. Who can say?

(Written 2/27/90)

i'm remembering. it was in a bathroom, and the walls were covered all over with red and blue and purple and yellow and orange and green hand prints. i was running in circles trying to fit my hands in every spot that someone else had once painted there, and i was thinking about you. i ran all around until i lost my breath and lost count of how many hands i had already splatted, so i opened the door and walked about thirty-five steps, and you were still right where you used to be, and you were still laughing at the drunk bum that somersaulted into the flowerbed and passed out. it wasn't that funny, really. but still you laughed until you couldn't breathe, and your body shook, and you still kept on laughing until a cop took the bum to where he could sleep on a bed, then i started laughing and you stopped. jumping into flowerbeds to sleep and be part of nature so to wake up staring at the polished boots of a cop must be a very frightening experience.

you're still laughing.

still laughing.

laughing.

________________________________________________

On an old lover.

(Written 10/9/1990)

i heard you want to see me.

why?

is there something left unsaid

that you wish to voice?

i thought we had said all there was

and more yet.

no, i don't very much

want to see you.

you make my gullet swell

you cause my fists to tighten

my fractured brain to hurt

again.

i find it hard to breathe

when you are near.

i smoke a lot

if you're around.

my feelings turn off

my voice catches an evil twinge

i chew my nails

look into my lap, away

bite my lip

scribble on good paper

and above all

most important

i almost cry.

__________________________________________

An attempt at optimism.

(Written 10/11/89)

oh so wondrous

when you reach the point

where you've lost all hope

for humanity

when you decide there is not one

worth smiling for

living for

and suddenly

out of nowhere

you see a face

filled with such beauty

that you smile

without even realizing it

and remain content again

for a time.

_______________________________________________

Another attempt at a self portrait.

(Written 10/19/89)

i am arabian nights

cambodian daze

i am starving little people

in a melancholy haze

i am the prostitute on the corner

the mother with her child

i am the pristine little mormon

gone absolutely wild

the sheltered little rich kid

the slovering, insanely lonely bum

i am the bully in the fourth grade

that hit and called you dumb

i am the sun that blinds you while you drive

trying to cause a wreck

i am the shades you wear to shield the glare

that hang around your neck

i am the lively happy hyper girl

that always wants to play

i am the sickly dying body

just waiting to decay

i am not a moron or a genius

i am not a happy girl

i am not here to please anyone

in my stinky shallow world

____________________________________________

Another attempt at optimism.

(Written 5/19/90)

*hang on; keep watch*

if you could see the sunrise

from your blue balcony

observing colour coming to life

night's orgasm,

you'd think differently.

if you could hear rainfall

outside your barred window

glorious drip-drop-drip

of summer's first rain,

you'd smile at it.

embrace the storm;

grieve it's absence.

for the thunderclap;

nature's tantrum.

lightening's screaming light;

her last word.

raindrops falling down;

her cry when it's over.

rainbow's rich spectrum;

her humble apology.

take in these fits of nature;

hang on; keep watch;

learn from observance.

_____________________________________________

About a relationship at it's end.

(Written 5/15/1990)

*stagnation*

you have become habit

all too soon

i pace your floor in frustration

habits are hard to break

you pamper me materially

trash i do not need

and each day brings more gifts

you're the ring around my finger

they say a marriage turns habitual

it usually takes a year

it's been a long hot three weeks

i tire at the sight of you

you encourage my smoking habit

i smoke you through with each stick

inhaling your skin and bones, dry

exhaling your soul, ashes ashes we all fall down

the problem lies in one small fact

i've never broken any habits

they stay with me, reminding, constant

and you're my habit to break, tomorrow

__________________________________________________

Same story, different pome.

(Written 5/15/1990)

i sit on your couch in the dark

your eyes aim toward me, i avoid

sipping on some alcoholic concoction

(i won't care about you at all)

you wonder what's bothering me

only that you are here and i am

i reply some useless lie, "nothing"

(and i won't care about you at all)

smoking the tobacco you buy me

wearing your clothes, dry, hanging

eating your food; stale, cold, artificial

(i won't care about you at all)

i lounge on this hard sofa

red bulb swings overhead

you skim your music collection, humming

(and i won't care about you at all)

your kiss chaps my wet lips

your touch burns on my cold skin

you crawl up beside me, questioning

(i won't care about you at all)

___________________________________________

About Las Vegas, NV.

(Written 5/22/1990)

heat, like a furnace;

boils my blood

dries my throat

can't get enough water;

bloating my stomach

yet still needing more,

more

i'd light this city;

land of decadence

palace of lights

all of it

i'd light it on fire

but the sun beat me to it

this city;

drawing people like flies

come here to get rich

winning the lottery

electric lottery

sucks people dry

dry

this heat;

streets of flame

boiling the air

not enough water

to put it out

_____________________________________________

On hearing about a friend's demise.

(Written 6/19/1990)

screaming;

as loud as i fucking can

then i realize

i forgot to open my mouth

but in the corner

your hand beckons

somthing else

open a beer

and forget

"did you hear what happened

to him?"

no. and i won't. so shut up.

shut up.

__________________________________________

About apathy.

(Written 6/26/1990)

rat in my hand

explaining the importance of stale beer

(only so the carbonation doesn't get him)

i don't care

at least he's talking

so you sleep in your hole

small overpriced flat

while i sit waiting

for the moon

the longer you sleep

you said

the younger you look

(only because your eyes are closed)

but you better get up now

there's only one more beer

and i'm not going to the store

alone

not with the heat

turned up high

outside

not without

you

_____________________________________________

Theme # 4: Dream Home

Casa de Seguridad

  Okay, here’s how it goes:  there is a house, laid out in parts that make up a whole.  The parts are stretched out across the desert, laid bare.  Part one:  a haven for her.  There’s a sleeping area with plenty of pillows and windows and a fan running to keep the air fresh.  There are drapes and burnt reds and ambers, tans and sepias.  There are wardrobes with clothing, lots of shoes.  Off the room is a library full of books and music, stereo with turntable, sit down easel, stand up easel, and art supplies aplenty.  Another nearby room/corner:  Computer station:  external hard drives full of photographs and music, a laptop with media editing software, the Adobe suite updated and working wonders.  Another corner/shelf:  Camera equipment.  Lenses, filters, tripods, monopods, flashes, light equipment, memory cards.  Another area:  games- board games, of the best, oldest varieties.  Another area:  Musical instruments:  Bodhrans & tippers, spoons, bones, drum kit, standup bass, electric bass, banjo, acoustic guitar, washboard.  Good speakers.  Another area:  recreation equipment:  bicycle/s, long board, boogie board, quad skates & derby gear, Frisbees.

Then there’s a passageway to the central area of the house.  This is where the big gathering room is.  It’s big enough to entertain several select friends, small enough to keep it cozy.  There’s a pool table somewhere nearby and a TV for watching movies (not for television or video games).  Upstairs is another, smaller gathering area with a big round bed.

Through the other passageway, there is the male part of the house, with whatever needs to be in there.  It’s probably angular in design, while the female part of the house is more rounded.  The central area is also round, around the sides and the top.  It’s shaped like a big upside down bowl, or the “Flintstone house” of Duane’s in Silverlakes, CA. 

The outer yard is fairly barren, but there are some domestic animals:  chickens mostly, an outside dog or two, maybe a couple horses.  There is a light fence around the perimeter of the land around the house.  There is a trail about 100 yards away from the front of the house, to the main road where the mailbox is.  The opening to the property has a big welcoming gate opening, made of dried tree branches and reaching up into- not an arch over the doorway, but arched sides of the entry.  The opening is about 8-10 feet wide - wide enough for a car/truck/few people.  The gate doesn’t really shut, I think, but just shows where the home begins.

Theme # 3: Hair

I find I want to be free of my hair, or at least some of it.  At least a lot of it.  There is so much of it around, about my head nowadays, it has almost become an oppressive weight of hair and need to keep and hold on to something dear and soft and useless.

But what to do then, once it is shorn?  Where do I put the old locks, even more useless now that they have no roots to hold them to their purpose?  What do I do with what remains?  Do I style it to make it look feminine, youthful?  Do I cut it short in an old ladies style, admit to my aging?  Do I do what I’ve always done with it - cut it randomly, roughly with haste and anger, with mania in my eagerness to be RID OF what has outgrown its usefulness, only to end up with a rough-hewn cut that needs a professional’s care to make it presentable again?

What if I go too far?  What if I sever too much and it NEVER comes back ever, and I’m stuck with the raw scars of a bad haircut, the raw scars of a bad mood that went too far? 

No, better to just let it remain, attached and useless; safe where I can tie it up and feel my neck is not being choked by some oppressive tickling breeze, touching my skin and reminding me of what I don’t have.  Better to leave well enough alone and wrap it up, twist it around, wind it onto the back of my head and stab a pin through it so it won’t escape.  Some things are better left alone.

Theme # 2: Music

Music has always been a huge part of my life.  My father’s father was a music leader and worked in a music store, repairing and selling band instruments.  My father could play almost any instrument with skill.  My family always sang in the car while on road trips (which were plentiful), there was always a record player and a radio/tape player around, always music in the background of my life.  Thus, it’s hard to isolate the first impressions, or most meaningful impressions, that music has left on my soul.  That said, I shall endeavor to do just that.  Listen.

           

Provo:  The first revenge I ever played on my mother involved music.  I loved to listen to her Johnny Cash album and play the song Ring of Fire over and over again when I was about 5.  I listened to it so much, my mother finally forbade me to play it- it had previously been her favorite song.  Sadly, I had to move on to other songs, other gems.  My father had a lot of records: 45s and LPs, even a few 78s.  He didn’t have the widest variety of types, which was a disappointment, but he did have a good amount of variety within the 50s-70s pop music realm.  I still have a love for good pop music, to this day. 

           

Minneapolis:  When I was 11, I was sexually molested by my older brother (who was sexually molested by a family friend).  I was traumatized by the event, which thankfully only happened once.  While my brother received some meager counseling and sympathy for the event, I was largely ignored and felt shunned by my parents who didn’t know how else to respond.  I hid out in my room in the basement and tried to work through my trauma alone, with the help of my Barbie dolls.  The horrible scenarios I acted out with those dolls still embarrass me a little to this day, but they were necessary parts of my healing.  All of that healing took place with the backdrop of the pop radio music of 1983 and 1984.  Human League, Genesis, The Police, and their ilk serenaded me through the painful nightmare of my own personal Barbie torture dungeon.  It’s kind of funny now, looking back at those tortured dolls, red nail polish painted on their necks, heads shorn of hair, Human League singing “Don’t You Want me Baby?” in the background.

Hurricane:  When I was 13, I discovered punk music, thanks to the boyfriend of my older sister.  He made her a tape of Dead Kennedys, Minor Threat, Ill Repute, and Black Flag, and I found my solace in music that was as fed up and angry about the bullshit falseness of the world as I was.  I’ve never let it go.  That music has helped me find ways to express myself, to assert myself, to be strong and solid and brave.  It saved my life.

           

Albuquerque:  When I was 15, I discovered live punk rock shows that were happening locally.  I also learned to make friends, and we went out dancing at The Big Apple every weekend we could.  We’d sneak in fifths of whiskey and vodka, get wasted and dance our asses off to the New Wave music of the 80s.  Sometimes there would be a party at someone’s house or at the abandoned airport runway, and bands would play for us while we got drunk and forgot about the pain of being alive.  Cracks in The Sidewalk is just one of the bands I remember being around a lot back then.  Days I would sit on the floor of my living room with my pair of drumsticks, watching The Cure videos while I tried to play along on my pillow drums, wishing for a drum kit of my own.

Santa Fe:  When I was 16, I gave up on my family all together and aligned myself with my friends on the streets, who listened to me and didn’t hurt me so much.  We would sing together, go to shows to hear our friends’ bands play, and talk about music constantly.  I found a few boyfriends who spoke the language of music, and soaked up their magic like a sponge.  I longed to play, to sing, to write music, but I lacked the courage to be in front of others performing, so I kept it to myself and remained on the perimeter. 

Boulder:  When I was 17, I lived all alone, two states away from my family, in a dark dank basement.  It was marvelous and magical, as soon as I acquired a stereo to keep me company.  The walls were crumbling rocks, piled atop each other and smelling damp and musty.  The light was dim, the air cool.  It was perfect for being gloomy and dramatic, writing dark poetry, and drowning in the music of the time:  Alien Sex Fiend, Ministry, David Sylvian, Japan, Dead Can Dance, Foetus, and others.  I still went to local punk shows whenever I could, mostly at Penny Lane Café, and went dancing at Rock Island and other venues that played LOUD music and provided a lot of eye candy.  I gave up the idea of being a musician, and became a writer.

Las Vegas:  When I was 19, I lived in a house with about 12 other punk rock kids, sleeping in the closet with my boyfriend, who played drums and was as passionate about music as I was.  We slept with our arms wrapped around each other, covered by the safety of Leonard Cohen and David Sylvian, then were roused from sweet slumber by Butthole Surfers, Operation Ivy, Bad Religion and NOFX.  We made musical poetic zines that featured our art and lyrics and poetry, and I felt like a goddess at last.

Salt Lake City:  I was 20, and in another house full of punk rock kids, but this time I had a baby of my own.  Being a parent made living around a bunch of drunks a lot less fun.  Especially when they all turned to me to be the adult one, the one who made sure food was made, people ate, and the cops weren’t called.  One night, after a brick was thrown through our front window, I chased the thugs down the street, yelling and shaking my fists, only to be dragged away by my “children” who had noticed that one of the thugs was “packing”.   All of these memories took place with the ever-present background of music:  Poison Idea, Billie Holiday, Leadbelly.  Then my husband and his friends set up a band practice space in the basement, and the sounds of angry punk music were everywhere, all the time.  Beers flowed, cigarettes were smoked, and stagnation became thick.  I couldn’t take it anymore and fled.

Springfield:  When I was 24, I became a widow.  I had spent several years hiding out trying to be a mother and going to school to learn to be an adult.  It wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be, but was certainly easier than living on the streets and panhandling for money every day.  By the time I was 25, I couldn’t take any more living without live music, so I started taking Raven to shows at the local all-ages venue.  He would sometimes nap safely in the back while I slammed to DRI, NoMeansNo, Black Fire, and other punk bands.  He danced with me for The Groovie Ghoulies, Jonathan Richman, and others.  He grew up immersed in music as I was, and we shared a passion and hunger for music that always provides lively and stimulating conversations.

Theme # 1: Cold/Hot

Winter 1986:  Albuquerque, NM, age 14

            

Fighting with my mother one night.  I can’t even remember over what, of course.  It was so trivial and pointless, like any other fight ever in the face of parents/teenagers; filled with emotion and irrationalities.  It was made worse by my mother’s mental issues, and by my probable schizophrenia.  Anyways, it was a shouting match.  I felt wronged, and I stormed out of the house to take a walk, to let off steam - to find someone, anyone, who I could talk to or find solace in.  I stomped off down the street, wishing I had a warmer jacket.  It was dark, cold, winter.  There were remnants of snow on the ground, but it was dry – New Mexico dry.  I began to feel depressed as I realized that I could not think of one person to whom I could actually find peace with.  There was nobody who I could curl up into and cry and sleep and be safe.  Filled to overflowing with loneliness, I started scanning the ground for a sign.  I found a cigarette; dry, unsmoked.  How strange.  I didn’t smoke.  I started searching for matches now; scanning the sides of the road, wracking my brain to think of who might have a light for me, because I knew I had to smoke that cigarette.  Had to.  My hunt made me forget my sorrow and loneliness for a while, which was comforting.  Apparently, you can find anything if you look hard enough (another lesson learned), in the Valley of Albuquerque.  I opened up the ragged matchbook, amazed at my luck.  Only three matches!  Of course, the last one finally lit the cigarette, and I took a puff.  I got a hot heady rush that spun my head around, raced my heart, and made me feel energized.  This smoking stuff is awesome!  My mind cleared.  I turned around and started home.  I never made it home that night.  I was intercepted by a carload of my friends and my older brother.  They scooped me up and rejoiced that I was now a smoker, offering me cigarettes and laughing at my clumsiness with inhaling.  Bloated with our own amazingness, we ended up at my “boyfriend’s” house, crashed out on his couches and floor after watching The Wall again.

Writing Themes Alert

Last year a friend and I did some small writing exercises wherein we would pick a random topic and write a bit about it.  I am going to post some of what I wrote for those exercises.  Thus, there will be 4 new blog posts today, all written last Spring, and one post of really old poems that I wrote when I was a teenager.  Stay tuned.

November Blue

I like the sound of that title.  I'm not really blue.  It's a song by The Avett Brothers.

I am in the mood for some rambling writing, so what follows is some semi-random mind-flow leftovers from a couple months of quiet.  Be wary.

Today is the second real day off I've had in what seems like forever, but really it hasn't been that long.  It's just the first day off where I feel like it's a day off.  I'm snuggled on my couch in sweats and slippers, sifting through photos and videos, uploading the good ones, and generally trying to put things in order.  Turns out I used to take a lot of photos of stuff.  I have been lagging in my extra-curricular duties of late.  Ever since I got back from my small summer vacation to New Mexico, it seems I've been struggling with fighting depression, being broke, keeping the house together, and having a few friends who are overly dramatic.  It feels like my first day to breathe today, and I'm feeling good.

I have had to cut off a few dead branches, so to speak, and slow down a bit.  I think I was trying to spread myself too thin, grabbing wildly at ethereal wisps that were way too far out of my reach.  Dreaming dreams that led me too far out of my normal pathways and familiar halls.  I love (and need) to stray, but I also need to find my way home and sometimes that takes longer than I like.  Sometimes I take the journey too personally.

I made my first eyelash wish in a long time the other day; I wished for clarity.  That's what I used to always wish for, as it's usually what I am most in need of.  I tend to flutter around and get scattered and shattered.  I require a concerted effort to stay grounded in some muddy form of reality.  Reality is my anchor, sirs and madams.  It's solid.  Being an air sign (or whatever), I tend to float away into the ethereal and obscure whenever there is a lull in my schedule.

I love to sleep and dream because of this.  I abhor waking up.  Once awake, I'm grand, but it's a struggle to get there.  I have had to set up some tricks for myself to get me out of bed in the morning:  I set my alarm clock an hour and 3 minutes ahead so when I look at it in the morning I have to do the little bit of math to figure the time; I run a fan in my room all night, only while I sleep, so that when I wake up and turn off the fan I can't get back to sleep; I don't read in my bed unless I am lying upside down on the bed.  Using these tricks has greatly reduced my insomnia and also improved my ability to get up in the morning when I need to.  Having a job I love also helps considerably.  

I'm also susceptible to blood sugar drops, which affect me greatly.  Thus, I always have snacks around in order to keep my brain running a bit more smoothly.  "Minimize the agony" is my motto.  I try to accommodate my physiological needs so that I have a better chance with battling/navigating my emotional/mental chaos.  It's worked out fairly well so far, and I think I might be finally getting the hang of this "life" stuff.  Of course, there are ebbs and flows, challenges (which I love) and whatnot.  Life is life.  Blah.

Speaking of blood sugar drops, it is time for me to eat.  Until next time...

(not so) Wee Update

Greetings faithful friends!

It's been a while.  Alas, it appears that once again I start something and don't follow through on keeping up with it regularly.  C'est la vie, as "they" say.  Indeed.

School has begun and I am really enjoying my students and getting to know them better.  I'm optimistic and hopeful, and also not as organized as I'd like to be.  This is all normal.  I am finding some successes with some goals I set for myself this year though, which is nice.  Today I am supposed to be working on my plans for the quarter, and here I sit writing on my blog.  This is also normal.  I'm a first rate procrastinator, and it seems to work okay for me, so why change?

Life with my son back in town is about how I expected it to be, which is not wonderful, but is still a little better than before as the lad matures a little and his phases of heinous tend to pass more quickly than previously.  Of course, they are also a bit more intense, but hopefully that will mellow as he finds more pride in what he is doing.  I am trying to learn to be better at my task as parent of a semi-adult.  It's a challenge, as always, so I love it.  I am a sucker for anything that challenges me to stretch and grow and improve.

Having a house-mate is also getting easier.  I'm adapting.  Life is smoothing out.  I'm always happier when I'm busy, so I'm feeling pretty upbeat now that life is busier.  Yippee.

I am super stoked because I'm getting tattoo number 5 this week.  It's nice to be getting back to an odd number, and to bring my body art back into balance with the type of symmetry that makes me smile with joy each time I think of it.  In less than 5 days, I will have both arms, both calves, and my upper back inked with cool pieces of me.

My legs will have imagery that represents what grounds me, where I came from, and what gives me my foundation:  Raven on the right, representing both my son and the Pacific Northwest where we finally found our home; a Jose Posada print of a Zapatista revolutionary lady charging the world on her steed will grace my left calf, representing my roots in the Southwest US, which coloured my history and still flavour my present and future with the warm tang of chili powder and the wide open spaces of possibility.

My upper arms have representations of who inspires me to be true and strong:  Pippi and Mr. Nelson on the left, Tank Girl and Booga on the right.  The ladies are my strong, feisty, childlike and loyal souls, and their companions are my friends/lovers who have helped me be strong and centered; my monkeys and mutants and freaky comrades.

My back is my center and my ancestry and the universe:  my triskele with the immortal trinity of all, and all of the ways that the number three echo in the universe throughout time.  The most powerful number of all:  3.


I'm excited to see how the new lady looks on my leg.  Yessirree.
Enough gushing for now.

More Political Ranting.

I generally try to keep out of current events and dramatic news because I get too worked up about how fucked up everything is, how stupid most Americans are, and how horrible the media is in general.  That said, I also feel the need to share my holy opinion sometimes (see previous post).  It's my duty as an American to blather on about how right I am.  Even better if it's in a blog, right?

SO- I've come to discover (through a friend on Facebook- my news source) that Sarah Palin Tweets.  I've also come to learn that "Dr. Laura" Schlessinger chose to step down from her job as ranting radio bigot.  Awesome!  It's about time!  Apparently Ms. Palin is very worked up about Dr. Laura's retirement, and that has a lot of people up in arms.  I did a little research and found the audio clip of Dr. Laura using the word "nigger" repeatedly while talking to a lady who called in to complain about how she (an African American) is tired of her husband's (he's white) brother making racist comments.  This is what got Dr. Laura in trouble and led to her choice to "retire":  She said "nigger" on the radio (11 times) and people were outraged, sponsors pulled their support of her show, and she chose not to renew her contract when it expires.  Now, before I heard the actual sound clip, I was outraged too.  Especially after reading my friend's intro to the article:

So Dr. Laura goes off on a racist rant calling an African-American woman the N word over and over, loses her sponsors and leaves her radio show, and what is Sarah Palin's advice to her? "Don't retreat...reload!" Once again, Sarah Palin shows that she won't "refudiate" racist comments, and she supports the racists who make them.

If someone is calling someone else a "nigger" on a syndicated radio show, I agree that s/he should be censured.  Dr. Laura didn't call anyone a "nigger".  She merely said the word, repeatedly, to make her point that "black people" use the word a lot with each other; in comedy acts, and in general. An irrelevant point, really, but not the same as calling someone a "nigger".

Anyways, I really like what I wrote in a comment on the thread following my friend's outraged post complaining about how awful Palin and Schlessinger are (with a link to an article about the issue), so I'm copying it here (I'm so in love with myself):


Now believe me, I do not have any love for Ms. Palin or Dr. Laura, both of whom I think are shallow misogynistic racist bigots who scare me a little with their power over others' minds. HOWEVER, I listened to the clip of the "offensive" language, and I have to say that I don't think that Dr. Laura should get in trouble for saying nigger in that context. She wasn't calling anyone a nigger. She said that "black people" use the word nigger all the time. It's true. Lots of people use the word a lot. The clip did do a fine job of highlighting Dr. Laura's inherent racism and defense of it, but every word she utters on her show does that. She's a known bigot and has been for YEARS. I'm glad she's stepping down, but sad that now she'll be a martyr for bigots to wave around as someone who got skewered unjustly.


Indeed.

Thank you for your time.

Self-induced Alienation Can Be Comforting

Or something.

I seem to be all over the place today.  I woke up feeling excited and happy about the day's possibilities, amazed at how I always do seem to hop out of bed at right about 11:11, as I stated in an earlier blog entry.  It must be my natural waking point.  Or maybe it's the point at which the indoor temperature becomes a bit too stifling and I need to take the fans out of the windows before it gets worse.  Who knows?  Who cares?  Not I.

I made some iced coffee, and sat down to see what amazing things had transpired on Facebook while I was sleeping.  A dear friend who I've known for 25 years (my personal friendship-length record) hit me up on the Facebook chat, and we shared some friendly banter and music suggestions.  Awesome.

Then, another friend, a newer one, posted something that I found offensive, so I commented on it.  I can not be silent when I am offended in a way that I feel is justified or somewhat righteous.  I'm arrogant and self-righteous, like most any other American, and I feel it's my civic and moral duty to inflict my holy opinion of What is Right and Just onto others, especially onto my friends.  The exchange didn't go well, as often happens with internet conversations on topics that are potentially hurtful or sensitive:  Meaning is muddled, often lost; friendly smiles are unseen; lighthearted criticism turns into public, embarrassing, defamation; and people get defensive and feel hurt.  It happens all the time and I really should learn to just stop being such an arrogant self-righteous asshole in such a public forum where misunderstandings are pretty much guaranteed, but I'm a sucker for challenges and I felt righteous.  Dangerous combo.  Anyways, like I said, it didn't go as well as I had hoped it would, and now I feel a little guilty for speaking up, which also annoys me because I was RIGHT, dammit!  Sure, I could have handled it differently; probably even much better; but I am still torn between righteous indignation and shame at behaving thoughtlessly/without enough purpose.  I should be better than that.  Damn me and my conflicting purposes of care-free/sassy spontaneity and kindness to all other beings.  Sigh.

Band practice was again cancelled today.  We've probably practiced fewer than 3 times in the past two months.  But the show Friday seemed to go well, and we don't really have any new material to go over, or any shows booked, so I guess it doesn't matter.  I was looking forward to it though.  I always (nearly) enjoy getting together with my band, which luckily consists of a few of my very favorite local friends.  We goof around and play music (two of my very favorite things), and often afterwards we get to eat yummy food catered by another of my favorite local friends.

I guess I really do need to try to focus on preparing for going back to work in less than two weeks, so it's probably better to have practice cancelled.  I am teaching three subjects, and really need to figure out my plan for at least the next 10 weeks.  I've got a general idea for most of it, but not a real concrete map.  A map of sorts is important so that I can ensure I have everything I need BEFORE it's too late to get it.  Blah.  Even writing about it is boring to me right now.

One thing I need to figure out though, is how to acquire (for free folks, I'm pretty darn broke) about 150-200 folders for my students to use in my classes.  Any ideas/suggestions?  I need the kind pictured on the right:  The Twin-Pocket Portfolios w/Tang Fasteners.  Pretty please.  The colors are irrelevant.  We accept all colors of folders at my school.  That's one of the great things about where I work.

Well, that's probably more than enough words for today.  If you got this far, good for you!  Thanks for reading.  I love you.

Have a fabulous day!

Music and Politics.

I really love that song by Michael Franti.  Check it out:  Music and Politics, by The Disposable Heroes Of Hiphoprisy.


ANYWAYS.  This post isn't really going to be about the title.  I'm just listening to/in love with music, as usual, and I'm going to share a great semi-political musical video with you all.  Praise java.  So actually, I guess this post has everything to do with the title.  I apologize for telling lies earlier.  

"Prop 8 - The Musical" starring Jack Black, John C. Reilly, and many more... from Jack Black

Instant Pleasure

"I don't want somebody to love me; just give me sex whenever I want it; 'cuz all I ask for is instant pleasure, instant pleasure, instant pleasure."  Rufus Wainwright

"I woke up this morning at 11:11."  Rufus Wainwright

But really folks, I did wake up this morning at 11:11.  It was awesome.  I had a small friendly BBQ yesterday at my house.  It went well.  I was nervous and stressed at first, as I always am when I invite people to my house.  I figured that only Elizabeth and Don would show up, and I wanted a few more guests to be there, but I forgot to promote the BBQ.  Also, I was afraid that TOO many people would show up, and that I wouldn't have enough chairs or food.  Turns out it was fine.  Food was consumed with fervor, people got along well, everyone behaved in a legal manner, and the mess is not that bad.  Thanks for showing up go out to:  Kaleigh, Isaac, Elizabeth, and Don.  Thanks to Dennis for helping me purchase the food.  Yep.

It's a bummer I have so many friends who live far away.  The BBQ would have been much bigger if it was held simultaneously at my house, in Hillsboro, and in Santa Fe/Pojoaque.  Oh well.  Damn those laws of physics; always interfering with my fun!

I've been having a lot of stressful work-related dreams lately.  It must be time to start prepping for the next school year.  I hate those dreams- I show up to work unprepared in some way (not dressed right, not fed, needing to pee, no idea who/what I'm teaching, can't find the classroom, find the classroom and it's full of random drama/music furniture, have evil and hateful students who won't behave, get in trouble with the boss/principal for something, or forget something important), and can't figure out how to fix my predicament.  This most recent one, I ended up being assigned a classroom in the HALLWAY for some reason, and had a class of about 45 obnoxious ruffians who wouldn't shut up so I could take attendance. I ended up SHOUTING at them, which I never do, and even cursed at them, which I also never do.  It was embarrassing.  I woke up annoyed and stressed out.  Bummer.  SO, I guess I need to start planning for next year.  Heh heh.

But first, dunch.

Lifestyle Improvement Program

Greetings!

Today I finally got around to beginning my goal of improving my lifestyle/health/diet.  I need to eat healthier, exercise more, and dance WAY more.  Also, I need to practice my instruments (heh heh) more.  Luckily, my work/health insurance provider is AWESOME, and has created a FREE (with insurance, of course) entire incredible system to help me out with the first three (health/diet/exercise) items.  It includes a lot of groovy extras to help me be more organized and conscious of my lifestyle, and also has a menu planner, an exercise planner, a walking planner, a health journal, and material for reading.  I can pick which exercises I want to do, how often and many I will do, and find out how many calories they typically burn.  I can pick menus/food items to eat, get recipes, shuffle ingredients and amounts, and find out how much each protein, calories, fiber, etc each item has.  It's impressive.  Also, it's damn time consuming.  I just spent about 3 hours getting started and entering in my data.  Admittedly, future use will take less time, but dang!  It's a good thing I burned 360 calories just by sitting on my butt perusing/entering data on the site!  Yowza!

I'm stoked because it turns out someone actually reads/read my blog.  Cool!  Thanks Brooke!

Well, the camping trip was not as active as I had hoped, and I never actually got to swim, even though I spent most of Saturday dressed in my swimming outfit.  HOWEVER, I did get to spend a lot of great time being silly with my family and some choice friends (thanks to the Meehans & Brooke for coming along!), and enjoyed getting out of the city for a bit.  We have resolved to try again in a couple weeks.  The drive-in idea was a total bust.  Everyone flaked out.  Brooke and I had fun at Skot & Maggie's BBQ though, and enjoyed precious moments watching a snake rescue,

mocking Stan the cretin, and catching up with everyone.

My band will MOST LIKELY be playing on Friday the 13th at Keystone Cafe.  Yippee!  I enjoy playing music for people who dig us.  It's very fun.  Plus we get free beer and dinner.  YAY!

Come on down and cheer us on!  Buy me a beer!  Heckle us!

Now I must go move around and perhaps PERHAPS go ride my bike for 30 or so minutes.  Then, dinner at my sister's house, hopefully followed by Bananagrams and Master Boggle.

Slainte-
H

Token New Post

Greetings fellow humans.

I decided that since I had the audacity to post this blog's existence on Facebook, I had better get at least one post that was written within the past two years up.  This is that post.  You're welcome.

Well, it seems I've gone from a simpering female writing about her dead husbands' old punk bands, to being a band member and now having lots of potential complaints about the tribulations of that.  Also, I've been working the same awesome dream job for what is soon to be five years, and have finally made a bunch of local friends with whom to do fun stuff.  My life has become exceedingly busy, which is great.  My son is now 18 and has moved out after getting his GED at 16 (GOOD JOB RAVEN!!!) and walking with the GHS Night School graduates at age 17.  He showed me up.  Now if he gets himself a Masters degree before he's 30, he'll really show me up.  I hope he does.

I'm sure I'll have more amazing things to write.  but for now, I must try to get sleepy.  I am going camping tomorrow and need to be ready to roll by 11AM.  No small feat for someone who loves sleeping in until 11:11 so she can wake up thinking about Rufus Wainwright.

Goodnight dear world.  I shall share more another time, hopefully before another three years have passed.