Sinister Crank

Broken again-but fixed. Ingenuity, metaphorical and otherwise. Been a long couple of weeks-I won't even bother w/ the sick cat (pussy) and the straws in his head to drain the fluid. And you've probably already heard the one about Dave and I and Midnight Mass, so I'll leave that out too. Except to say that it's a thoughtful place that puts schematics of itself on the internet. Wish everywhere did that. It's so nice to have an escape plan ahead of time.

And people, new and old. Katamari Damacy is life, all sorts of folks getting rolled up in my days. Human drama and schadenfreude gets me through-I can even enjoy my own suffering, which is a handy survival skill. Accomplished with a high degree of difficulty.

So here's to the end of your year, not yet the end of mine. My year begins on my 46th birthday in a week's time-this week is the Calibration (yes they're related) betwixt your calendar and my colander. The stars wink out one by one tonight, and the streets will fill with bad joss...like the oatmeal smell that's coming to a close. I'm an Eighth Day Adventist, and my years have only 51 weeks.

3x17x7x(23h 56m 4.091s)=strained, I know. We'll steal that millstone yet.

Happy New Year.

LOLGMLLN

Zevon again. Christmas Adam, tired and sore. Lots of drama, lots of pus. My cat's head smells like a corpse. That's just as pleasant as it sounds, believe me. Still, accomplished and eventful was my day, and I can't look directly at tomorrow. It's like staring at the sun.

Wish me luck.

Navel/Naval

Are the oranges/are not the oranges. Like a chakra, not a ship.

There aren't any more boring days, no smooth grey days. All of them loom and peak and trough. I am beginning to be afraid that this is how it has to be all the goddamn time. Let me begin again.

Most of the time, I find myself at one end of a hard conversation. Troubles and drama-not mine, but borrowed for a minute. And it is what I've gotten good at.

Sometimes, though, like today...there's no one else. Nobody's problems, no confessions or fears or tears or interventions of various proportions. There's just me and mine, alone at the end of the day.

These are the moments when I'd drag myself out of bed, storm out to my stoop. Smoke like the angst was bees in my lungs, and try and measure out what self-destruction I have left in discrete, hot little clocks. I miss the winter, cigarettes and the cold blue moon. And my stoop, and my self destruction. I miss not knowing, and I miss waxing. Like the moon isn't.

Groggy

World went all honky this morning. Snow everywhere, thick and inconvenient. Oregonians don't handle snow well, and it showed when I went out walking today. Had errands to run (that word throws me off, by the way) and places to go on foot. I have the walking meme currently, caught it from someone, so I wandered out around noon.

Beautiful day, crisp and bright. Quiet like a weekday, quiet like snow. Streets packed with dirty ice that used to be snow, saw three near-accidents on my way. Got a lot done, walked a few miles, smiled at all sorts of people. Not bad, not bad. Then I got a nap, then I woke up. Now I'm barely literate, sitting here typing. For you.

Everclear

Is what I'm drinking-I keep it on hand, for those of you unfamiliar. It's convenient, the 7-11 of liquor. $14 for a 1/5th, and while I don't generally drink (been at least 6 months since I was intoxicated enough to call myself drunk) I find it handy to keep around the house for various purposes. Shots have long been part of Casa del Impossible's traditions, and I'm three in at this point. So...drunk and blogging. Been a while.

Hard day. Strange day. Rich and terrible and bittersweet and thick, like cake or mail. I haven't cried, but I thought I would, and still may. Tiramisu.

I compose these in my head throughout, try and render down the anecdotal (and I am a man made entirely of anecdotes) moments and offer you the distilled essence(lettuce schnapps) of my day...I am trying to be apparent, and succeeding/failing all at once.

Great.

Here is my sorrow and my joy and my triumph and vindication and prescience...I am the kwisatz haderach, and one-winged, and El-ahrairah all at once. I have lycanthrophilia-I have been diagnosed by a specialist. I'd be a pro, we're all pros...at poetry. I have a knife, no stiletto. I don't make puppets-no Gepetto. I've never sung opera-I've got no libretto.

These are my stories, my touchstones and my moments. There are so many, and I wouldn't have them any other way. When I think back, when I turn to those tactics and methods that would have been what I thought I wanted...before. I would have torn into someone, sharpened my claws on someone. I would have wallowed, I would have felt like I needed to be rescued, needed an audience, needed to be saved.

But no one can save me-I can only save myself. That counts for the rest of you as well. And here I am, squalid and sad and lonely and proud. I am so many things. Here they are, for you all to peruse. Take your time-I'm not dead yet. And I am so happy.

I made a list. A list of the things that I am up for.

Everything.

Living in infamy

Nothing to sneeze at indeed. I've been well, been wrapping things up...or at least tying them down. I feel like I've calved great bergs of jade that lay betwixt us, sat squarely in the path of my relationships with other people. And it's good, it is.

But I imagined that by learning to be less judgmental, having fewer expectations...well, things would even out, you know? What could be unsettling or weird or off if I don't bring my own biases and presumptions to Everything Else. And while I've found it to be an effective method in my everyday interpersonal interactions, there is this unfortunate side effect.

It doesn't make things less weird...it makes everything weird. Strange and beautiful and unexpected. Moments and conversations and relationships all rare and rich. Pearls of great price, over and over and over again. And sometimes all I want to do is hold them in my hand, and stare. I don't know how people do this for years and decades. Be alive, I mean. But I'm still giving it a shot. And doing surprisingly well, if I do say so myself.

My Struggle.

Christ, all misanthropic today. Tired of myself. Everybody else. And "from the ground up". Fuck whoever came up with that goddamn phrase.

Tired, just tired. I've been grappling (fairly successfully, I might add) with myself for far too long, at this point, and I need a break. Closure, you know? And I had a good day-all sorts of good. But I'm bored with my own thoughts, and I'm considering my alternatives...I need a hobby. Fortunately I have at least two, so I'm turning to that as soon as possible.

Keep in touch.

Discussion

So usually I just pop these up and let you drink it in-I take a certain pride in my taste in crazy...and this qualifies as crazy. However...it does beg the question...who are these people? I don't know anyone like this. Don't think I ever talk to people like this on the street, don't frequent the same spots...how parallel are these two (or more?) Americas, and what can I do about it? Please...discuss.

Solitude

Dave's out of town, I'm sick, and the damn cats are taking advantage. I forget how much we divide their attention-with only one of us here, I've got this whole clowder to contend with.

That's OK, livens up my otherwise quiet day, and gives me an excuse to speak...otherwise I'm just talking to myself, and that's crazy.

Nice days, days off. In the morning, the living room fills with soft white light. In the afternoon, my bedroom's golden and gleaming as the sun sets. High crisp skies and the breeze down my avenue. Neighbors I barely know and the man down the street who cries as he paints his brand new white picket fence. Three thanksgivings worth of leftovers courtesy of my community. Not bad, even ill.

At long last.

Christ, the world just keeps topping itself. Best thing all week.

Criticality

Triticali. Cross indeed. All in the middle of everyone else's variegated crazy...and the mists, night and morning and the incandescent halos of the streetlights and the sun. The river in the air, again.

Tonight, I am very sad.

For your consideration this week.

Eustress

I haven't been sleeping. Been wandering the streets of the Whitaker at night, getting to know my neighborhood again for the umpteenth time. Lots of nooks and crannys, lots of sights and smells.

There's been periods-a few months at a time, maybe-when I've felt as though my life was sort of...meh. Bland and uninteresting. Whatever the opposite of novel is-I've had those days and weeks and months. And that's OK, it is.

But lately (and I'm going to abandon my usual cryptic nonsense here for this post...which is in itself, perhaps, cryptic and nonsensical. Ourouboran, I am.) each day tops the last, and my hours and minutes and moments are just crammed with the extraordinary. There's a double rainbow in the western sky when I come to work in the morning. My coworker and I talk about Daisy Bell with a customer who knows all the words, teaches it to us...and then the three of us sing it among the lettuce and the radishes. I have no fewer than three people cry on my shoulder and my couch in the space of a few hours.

It's not for me, you understand. But I get to be there to see it, get to appreciate the significance of all these events that are everyday, but not the least bit quotidian*. I lead a charmed and magical life, and I wouldn't have it any other way. Even at the cost of a few hours of sleep. It's cheap at any price.

So I'm well, tired, troubled and pleased. I have a big heavy plate at the moment. And I will bring the best of myself to bear.



*I'll be straightforward, but I'll be damned if I'm going to give up my $10 words. You can pry them from my cold, dead Broca's area.

Allfather

I should have lost my eye, should be blind in the right. I'd trade it to that fiery fountain, for wisdom and hope. Thought and Memory are drifting in and out of my house right now, and I'll call the third one Sleipnir. I'm pedestrian enough for eight legs, that's for sure. And all the rest, all the lost sleep and tears and casting my own weird shadows in the corner of my untaken unbroken eye. I know so many valkyries at this point-I'd be slain, and chosen. My own Dick Cheney, my own psychopomp.

Obfuscation

Moon's behind the clouds, behind the mists. Like a big shiny gorilla in the sky. The sun did shake and the pale moon quake. Tonight I'll go a-murdering the man in the moon to a powder.

I'm still here-still drawing breath, still have suffering to take. Still warm, the blood that courses through my veins. My bones are made of iron, and my heart is made of gold. Once a week, I cleave open my golden heart and pour out sweet and puissant guacamole.

Recent Events.

Things that happened last night...

My new neighbor, who is puissant and awesome, rode a unicycle up and down my street in the rain-slick darkness.

The fireworks I so half-assedly tried to light off in celebration shot me in the face (I'm fine-I'm invulnerable)

I was brought a host of home-made jams and jellies that they were getting rid of because they'd been made by someone who turned out to be a pedophile.

And Barack Obama was elected President of the United States. Thanks to all the fine and remarkable people who spent the election with me-I had a marvelous time sharing an historic moment, and I'm glad to have played host to so many great folks. Yes, we did.

Settle down, Ron Howard

See more Ron Howard videos at Funny or Die

See more funny videos at Funny or Die

The first Tuesday after the first Monday in November

It's been 20 months. Hours and hours of news. Twists and turns and issue after issue after issue. Like the man says, there are children who were born, learned to walk and talk while this election's been going. And it's all going to be over tomorrow. And we're going to win.

This is the most important election in my lifetime. It's the most exciting election of my lifetime. It's going to be worth celebrating. I'll be home all day tomorrow-you should drop by, watch it happen.

Mundane

I feel as though I can navigate, can accomplish tasks with a high degree of Real difficulty. This is my metric. One of them.

Chronicle

Again, with the poor choices. This is tops, I think. First and foremost. Which is not to say, I couldn't do worse.

I'm not voting until the 4th, in case Obama's a Vampire

Evangelize

I feel like I know what it's like to have religion. Angels and demons and Commandments and the Wonder Working Power. Life's by way of Gabriel Garcia Marquez-luminously banal and surreal, ur-real. My squalor is eclipsed by my joy, and I will rise to meet the road. I cannot believe my life.

Wolf's Milk

Lots to say, lots going on. My bicycle continues to drift in and out of operation, this time a deformed back tire that twitches and writhes as I ride from place to place. It's very disconcerting. Constant and persistent peripheral hallucinations...strange things at the corner of my eye. New people, new people. Strange and spontaneous moments with, and the usual run of Things that already occupy my plate. Gotta do some triage, line up the wounded and the wounds in the correct order, alphabetical or otherwise. And I've quit smoking. Seriously. I figured my life wasn't complicated enough.

Autumnal

It is the sabbath, and the season of mists. Living by the river, the fog is thicker and more prevalent here-many days when I leave the comfort of the neighborhood, it's clear and sunny everywhere else, but my block is covered with a thick bank of cloud when I come back. Like this morning. I can barely see the houses across the street, and when I just called in my gray cat, it seemed as though a tiny slice of river-fog came fuzzily into my living room. Then he started yowling. Sort of ruined it. Damn chatty cat.

Hep-C Cola. For my favorite counterfeiter.

John McCain, Salad Tossing Dragon

Consumption

Surprises

The last debate, the only one I've been able to watch live at home. And it was a doozy. Lots of good stuff, but right now, watching MSNBC, Chris (is that a head or a container for a head?) Matthews is talking about how this election has taught him about women and their rights and their authority in society. This just after pointing out a quote from McCain about abortions that I wouldn't have noticed off the top of my head.

Let me just say-whoever's been giving Chris Matthews lessons in feminism, I owe you a meal. Good for you.

The Coldest Cut
Ramblin' Chinmerkin Steve
Invisible Knapsack of White Privilege Anethyst

I made an agreement with my neighbor who's been upbraiding me about my support of Gordon Smith. I told her that I'll vote for Jeff Merkley if she takes me to see Gordon Smith so I can give him a hug.

Fever, sick, and physically rejecting the sweet oily black that keeps me sane and swift. My magic wand's betrayed me-a fire on one end and a fool on the other.

Diversion

So Dave and I have a working theory that goes something like this: There are certain phrases that should they come out of your mouth...you're a douchebag. Right now we've got three...

I'm a cage fighter.
My favorite philosopher...
I'd call myself a theologian.

I'm soliciting nominations for further induction. My first survey-discuss, my glorious hobo colleagues.

Titleist

The cold is sharp against my skin. Lovingly, sweetly, affectionately sharp. Sharp like the bowl of razor blades I had for breakfast. Bowl of razor blades, bowl of cheetos. Cheetos and milk. Eat the cheetos with chopsticks, one chopstick's a straw. For the milk. The orange, tangy, vile cheeto milk. As opposed to cheetah milk. Which makes you fast.

Constance Nonsense
Judy Thorburglar, who steals your thunder.

I've made myself fast, pinned my flag to the ground. Full of notions and sundries. Sundried tomatoes, sundered and roasted. Forgotten. If I had an A.I. I'd name it Albert, for The Stranger. Or maybe Willie, for the same reason.

One day left.

Hate

Please accept this with the caveat that I am sleep-deprived and angry-accept it in the spirit with which it is intended: I hope you fuckers all get cancer.

Let me start again.

I have been on an adventure. This is not unusual-I have adventures regular. Usually of the 10-15 minute variety, sometimes along the lines of a few hours, or a day. This one's more like five or six days, and sometime-probably tomorrow-I'll tell you its story.

As is my wont. As is my sad affliction.

But for now, know that my adventure has been bookended. Bookended by what? I hear you say. I'm glad you asked.

I find I measure my life in days. As in the-moment-I-rise-until-the-moment-I-fall-asleep days. And I have frittered, murdered, wasted and pissed away some of those days. I've burgled time, and had it burgled by Time Burglers. Not Time Bandits, though. Midgets are a hack move.

Rarely, though, have I seen days like these. Aborted days. Bloody days, punctured and vacuumed from the womb that is my newly opened eyes in the morning, drawn dead and awful through a ragged birth canal that is the narrow hours I spent awake when I should have been asleep. I make the mudra of travel, and scatter the three-horned mudra of damnation like poison birdseed everywhere I step.

See you tomorrow.

Interstitial

I'm pausing my vacation just long enough to confirm my arrival and safety here on Orcas Island. I'll be your San Juanderer for the moment. Full account come Monday, when I return to the Euge. As of right now, I'm well and wet and tired. I'm relaxing my body, which is the next best thing to actually relaxing my mind. Look me up, clade, when I come back. I'll be receiving. 

Bridges and Ferries

Burn the one, cross on the other. I leave early...I may not sleep. This can only be a bad idea. I'll be back Monday.

If I'm not, avenge my death.

Puzzled

I have two identical remote controls, only one of which works. My bathroom fan sounds like a rock tumbler full of legos-jarring, if you're not used to it. I live on the only block of N. Monroe in town. It's like some sort of delivery Bermuda Triangle. Not one of the five clocks in my living room/kitchen is accurate to within even an hour. My house is one big booby-trap...Casa del Impossible.

I love it.

I'm going, going away. Up north to the sea and the Sound. It's good, I need to vanish, need to abandon the suddenly eerie events of my life. Dawn and Dusk and the Fiery Twilight. Too many cusps, not enough calendar. All is well, but all is weird. It'll do me good to go. I'll leave you a list.

Silverback Danny
Poisonfinger Pickles
Ephemeral Eddie
Fedonkulous Monk
Clamapple George
Tiny Toast
Skeetster Latefee
Chestnut McWhiskeyskirt
Noodles Pasta, the Hobo Ninja
Yurts Akimbo
Bathtub Midori
Jennie Emobreaker
Skullfucker Katie
Honky-Crotch Fingers
Aliza Three-Ovaries
Queequeg the 'Poonist
Nice Marmot Camino
Spookypants McFavors
Captain Lowjack, the Ginger Ninja
History's Greatest Muenster
Cinnamon Scream
Mr. Chartreuse
Squirrelball Wednesday, the Weirdo with the Beardo
Living Language Aaron, the Ladle King

Horse

Ridden by the loa, houngans and Ogoun. It's Saturday. Je suis le Tenebreaux.

Weight and terror. Pushy Jesus and one colossal social clusterfuck. My friend is leaving, new ones spring up as though sown from dragon's teeth. All I ever find are orphans-you can call me Rachel. Rarely have I struggled so, through so few days-only a couple, but hard and deep and rigorous. I love the election, revel in the history so terrible. It's a good time to be alive, a good time to pay attention. I've cost myself sleep and dry eyes and safety in the last three days. Good.

You are all a beautiful chore.

Operation Bindlefuck

Denmark's a Prison

Trying

Trials and tribunals, libations and libertarians. Life's been rich and full lately, mostly good, never boring. Still wrangling my bike, still whelmed with the people I see and the people I don't. The bike thing's very frustrating at the same time that it's empowering. I have to do all of these things that I've never done before, and frankly don't feel comfortable doing...and then I do them, and I'm thrilled. Keeps happening, not bad. 'Course, it takes forever, hours and hours I hadn't planned on taking. Still not done, either.

It's monday, I'm off to work in a moment. Last night, had potluck with the neighbors, talked and ate for hours. I can't complain, try as I might.

Options

I never know whether to blame your eyes, or my bushel. Regardless, I am unbroken, unbowed. I still lead my charmed life.

Identify

I am an incandescent pillar of golden fire. I am the finest turnip in all the land. I am the opposite of rainbows. I am the Keeper. I am a 9th level greengrocer-I have cruciferous testicles, and can see through the eyes of potatoes, hear through the ears of corn. Some men call me arugula. I am Duke of Nomenclature, President of Twelve Minutes from Now. I am the Kwisatz Haderach-I can be in many places at once. I am the regularly filled with a christlike love for all creation. I am unmuggable. I am Czar of All Mangoes. I am as full of shit as fifty horses. 

Bong. Burns-his-bridges. Q. Living Language Aaron. Sendero Luminoso. fimbulwinter. Takes-a-second. Esprit de Escalier. 

That's what I got. Today, anyhow. Here's a little soupcon of Hope. 

Republican National Convention

Christ, they can't be happy just torturing prisoners, they have to go a-waterboardin' metaphors as well. How Mitt Romney ever got anywhere with that attitude reminds me that there are so many millions of motherfuckers who look/think/speak nothing like me. He's talking about (Adam Smith on steroids? WTF) what it is to be Liberal. Sigh...these people need a little Seven-7.

Cusps

I can't decide whether I prefer sunrises or sunsets. Both are not uncommon, given my schedule, and I have seen stellar examples of both, recently. I feel as though I'm not able to render a fair judgement, tainted as they both are by the flavor of the day I've had/am about to be having. I envision some sort of scientific experiment in which my circadian rhythms are toyed with to the point I can't determine AM or PM. Then, control in hand, I can see which are the superior liminal moments. Borders and the snail on the edge of the straight razor.

I'm doing it, I'm naming and dancing and rising to meet the road. I'm better, lately, though not like I'd expected. I lead a charmed life (in every way except the one that matters) but I've suffered so many misfortunes lately that it feels like a vacation, a fine distraction from the problems that fill my head. Reality intruding on the story I tell myself. I'm rambling. That's fine.

By misfortune, I mean genuine happenstance, real random shenanigans. The composition of my continuum (vacuum, menstruum, duumvirate. You're welcome) is failing, but not because of me or mine, and that strikes me as close to fate/luck/fortune-mis as I get lately. I'm (also) not above believing that I'm burning it, spending my goodwill in the eyes of Urd, Skuld, and Verthandi, to compensate for previous point expenditures. XP, my friends, God's XP. We all dole it out, sometimes. I do feel like I have a surfeit of Grace.

They tried and failed?

Convictions

So I'm suffering from a dearth of narrative. As opposed to the other, which is reality, which is me being all fucking dualist and symmetrical, which bugs the shit out of me. C'est la guerre.

And stairs, and the spirit of. I'm inclined to change my deed name (I can do that) but I'm holding off. Been all gypsy-curse around here lately, as all things mechanical (Mccainical) are failing around and about. My bike, long suffering, over-used and under-repaired, finally made its way to the bike kitchen 'round the corner, and I spent the most productive hour-and-a-half of my recent life fixing no fewer than four different things that I have wanted to be fixed forever.

Then, the next day, I tore the left crank off. Like, tore-ripped the metal. Crap. Gonna try for fixing that tomorrow.

On the plus side, game's been epic. New players (nine, at the moment) and regular Sabbath Storytelling that, while not strictly Biblical, deserves capitalization.

SO...there's that, informative, relevant. Pertinent and punctual. That's what you get. Also this. AND...

SORRY-Links

Biden's it-VP. I am thrilled. Also, this is good.

I love the New York Times

Really.

Karass

There are hummingbirds in my yard. And they are at war.

Appliances

First of a trio of busy days, and it went off like three hitches. It may surprise you (it may not) but I know so many magical, marvelous motherfuckers. You all are my barometers sometimes, and right now, I'm tremendously sure of my own value.

Thanks, and see you anon.

Peaks and Troughs

I have mine, and yours, and some that I think belong to the unborn. I'm still here, still making my way. Well worn and worn out. Long day, but shorter than it might have been.

Sometimes I'm seized by the urge to blog, but other times (like now) I just feel a certain obligation just to keep it current. More than a week seems like too little, and as I prune and gather and cultivate my IRL relationships, so too must I keep this window open on those of you who dwell (for me) in the great white waste marketing (and market research) tells us is cyberspace.

Reading Moby Dick again, loving it more and more. The first book I've taken a deciliter (that's what spellcheck wants "highlighter" to be) to bed for. Taking stock of my neighbors lately, as I've suddenly acquired a handful of marvelous people to live next to, and I want to treasure it while it lasts. I come home to no fewer than 4 or 5 people who are glad to see me, and that's fucking fantastic. I highly recommend it-it's like living in a dorm...except they're all adults, which is orders of magnitude better.

Failures of mechanics lately. Broken bike, kaput phone, broken comp (as I write this, I think my hard drive is failing. This is very, very bad, those of you not-nerds), but prospects for their eventual repair loom large on my hungry horizon. Dunsany'd say I invoked a Yozi, but I'll remind you all, they're neverborn.

I am the fine hammered steel of woe.

Retroactive Abortion

Mess

Productive week, destructive week. Messes made and cleaned. Trip to WINCO, always welcome, and w/ a new and pleasant companion. Bought a TON of shit, and remembered how pleasant it is to not be out of essentials like cheese, flour, and toilet paper. Keep setting my face to hate my job, but it's been fine lately, so I get confused about an hour in. Can't complain about that-just have to adjust my face settings. AND, I broke a toe. Little, right. Stubbed it. I can feel the bones moving and clicking like Legos in there. And it fucking hurts.

Seven, if you're curious

Heroic Patterns

It's hard to say what I like best. The visceral, vivid sensation. That wave of premeditated schizophrenia. The soft edges of things and the way the world breathes at you. Reminding myself that I am capable of tremendously poor judgment. Not my usual dipshittery either. Genuine clear-eyed, true-believer poor judgement. I said Amen, and thought of Josh.

It's familiar, all at the same time. Like a family member you only think of when you see them, and then all the feelings come rushing back.

The egoism of it. Standing in the middle of a field, at noon, with the sun bright and hot and directly above my head. Wind and clouds and birds orbiting...like the world revolves around me. In my own defense, without that arrogance, I don't think I'd make it through.

But I do. Every time. And I'm pleased as fucking punch with myself. Every time.

There's more, there's always more.

Changing gears, and by way of apology, you should know I don't feel as though there's value in trying to make this relevant*. Sometimes these are wholeheartedly broadband-sometime's they're a cheap alternative to a conversation with a specific "you". I was able to say the same thing to two different people at once recently. In real life, I mean. Call this that, again.

Regardless, I feel like I've been mirroring the rest of you, and I have a terrible feeling this is not a good idea. I couldn't say for whom.

So this isn't important, per se, in as much as it's meant to convey anything relevant.** It's just my attempt at rendering down what I'm thinking about, as clear a sense of me as I can provide at the moment, in the state I'm in. And I'm hoping that in itself lends relevance to those of you who I imagine reading this. I won't sleep, wouldn't sleep. Sunrise.



*I would not discourage you from assuming that "this" may be broader than the scope of my blog.

**I hope to retire off the irony I manufacture trying to put caveats on my cryptic. You've been here before, you know what to expect.

Days

No calendar for how many I have left, but if all, or most, or even a few of them were like today...I could be happy.

Giving Up

And fuck this for a lark anyhow.

There are things in my head that I've spent years inspecting, analyzing, scrutinizing...then gutting like a fish. I recommend this technique, by the way. Finding and knowing the things about myself that hurt me, and smothering them with a pillow whenever we meet. I'm mixing my murderous metaphors.

They don't die, but their corpses, lich-like, are far more manageable than the living breathing horrors they once were. And I'm better, carrying their phylacteries around with me. They rise unbidden, but familiar and easily broken.

I know better, and that's what works.

There are lots of them, and I'm better, and happy as I am...except for this one thing, a barrier and a failure. And it breaks me fucking consistently and always the same way, and I'm fucking tired of it. So I know it. And I'm killing it like all the others. I've decided.

Once more, with feeling

I hate it when this communicates less than even my mood. Much less than my particulars, all of which I'd like to relate to you. In a witty, coherent, pithy way.

But I'm not up to much, tell you the truth. All my best bits are leached away in the sun and my sweat, and I won't have more for at least a minute. I'm even out of puns, which I didn't think was possible.

I had a grand, spectacular day with myself. An even better one with some of you. You know who you are.

Metaphors

Wait.

Rising Up

It's strangely familiar, eventually. Surprising and predictable all at once, and that third flavor right at the corner of your eye. Meet it like the road, and the shower I'm about to take. Again.

Liveblogging

Sort of. It depends on your scale, I suppose. What metric you're using. You might expect more of these in the near future. Or not, depending. Regardless, you can be sure...I'm having more fun than you are.

My House is Suddenly Treacherous

You wouldn't believe how many of these I write in my head throughout the week, compositions that never see the other side of my eyes, forgotten before I could get them down. Misremembered, misheard, abandoned and aborted. All the things that are born and die in my head.

I can only imagine the smell.

Anecdotes too, the moments of my week, observed and occupied by me and worth noting, even for a day or two. And all my artificial mythology, as long as it's Monday and right after Sunday. I'm often reminded of a story or a legend or an adventure we've had, and it's been so long, and there've been so many, that I can't even remember what I meant in the first place, much less what happened.

Lots of sky lately, lots of sun and haze and even lightning. We rarely get lightning, one of my only complaints* about Eugene. Woke up from sitting in the sun with all my reds turned down, rods and cones off kilter. Everything was washed out and pale, like in an old movie. That doesn't happen every day.


*There's only a few...but they're big.

Ju-Months

I just got back from a movie-first out in a while. I really haven't been compelled to see anything recently, so when I saw that The Fall was premiering tonight at the Bijou I had to go. Dragged bones with me, saw another two people whose blogs may or may not be private or unknown...I don't know where that was going, other than to paint you a fine word picture of my evening. This is, after all, the theatre of the mind. Even if it's pretty much just community theatre.

ANYWAY...this is rapidly becoming an archive for my anecdotes, and I'd like to preserve this one, as well as share it with the rest of you. Upon arriving at the Bijou, the lobby was crammed with people waiting to get into the theatre...the woman at the head of the queue (man, that's a great word) was asking out loud "can we go in yet?". I, just walking through the front door, said in my best customer-service confident voice "yeah, go ahead, it's fine".

And they all did. Even though it wasn't. How do you like that? I'm reconsidering my flirtation with grifting.

Mornin', with a nod, and a smile.

Jim Henson's in Heaven

Tonight, The Daily Show featured a Guantanamo Bay themed muppet named "gitmo". As many of you may know, I have a personal affinity for muppets, from John Hodgman's take on "The Muppet Movie", to The State...and let's face it "Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem" may be the best band name ever set to foam rubber, and felt.

Well, except for Gwar.

No, no. It's better than Gwar.

In that spirit, let me offer you all my own take on muppets. Many of you have heard this before-however, I feel like putting it down-gotta preserve my bits. So many of them have vanished in the wind. My own passenger pigeons.

Every muppet is born into the world with a perfect knowledge of the moment of it's own death. It's why they're so happy. Every minute of every day has to be crammed with meaning, and joy. They grin and caper and teach children to read in a frantic and ultimately futile attempt to add relevance to a life whose end the muppet cannot help but see, and feel, and know. Life is short-this is true, but a muppet knows just how short.

"But Aaron", I hear you saying, "This doesn't add up at all. What about Oscar? He's not happy, he's not even pleasant. He's a grouch, it's right there in his name."


That's true.


Oscar is immortal.

I hate to keep doing this...

But motherfucker is just so fantastic. Watch the whole thing.

Touch and Corner and Key

Notes from my days...

Out and about, swift and sure and unsafe at any speed. Miles in the sun and hot and happy. I shaved today, made biscuits yesterday. Talked and spoke on the phone for more than 30 minutes with more than one person I'm related to. By blood, I mean.

I'm related to all of you, here, aren't I?

Sat through a speech about bananas and not bananas that was surprisingly professional/convivial. Talked about my haircut, and its unfairness. I look forward to the parties tomorrow, for the graduates I know. I shook Steve Novick's hand today...not the claw, the other one. Caught up on my roof-and-head situation, played NERD my morlock, was drunk by noon. That's backwards, like Tim Roth or Merlin. Napped, not once, but twice. Listened to the sussurus. Bloody dictionary knows "Quetzalcoatl", but not "sussurus".

Punned and punned and punned some more. It's funny what functions and tactics remain as parts of my brain shut down from fatigue and ennui. I fully believe that I could pun my way through a coma. Also, the weird feint. With the "ei" twice. I do believe I've developed a theme here, without even meaning to.

Battle

It's not me versus the people on the other side, the people on the right, people who believe differently from me. Nope.

It's me versus the douchebags. The manipulative, the righteous, the aggressive, passive and otherwise. These guys, for example. I cannot believe some people's capacity for umbrage.

On a totally different note, please enjoy this...or not, depending on your sensibilities.

No News

Still up, still standing. Sitting, but standing. Better than I was, those of you who are in the know to my hard-to-find far-flung nooks and crannies. Most of my love to Josh, this week, who has more than enough on his plate than to drop everything on my behalf...except he did, and simultaneously surprised me, and confirmed everything about himself that is contained in the imaginary Platonic Josh that lives in my head, extrapolated from his file.

You all have files, by the way. Someday I may trepan myself, and give you all a look.

'Till then, clade, consider this your conduit, your bloody shunt into my forebrain. And it says, I'm OK. Thanks for all your help.

Zero Hour

I've gone right through the bad and out the other side. Really. I can see my house from here...and it looks like somebody lost their keys. More tomorrow, if I've still got fingers and a face. My aztec god's back for blood, and I'm no Quetzalcoatl(fucking dictionary's got "Quetzalcoatl" in it). Blurg.

Still warm, the blood that courses through my veins. Still drawing breath, still have suffering to take. Wish me luck, and check back later. Also, I can not figure this out. Let me know what you think.

She-Beared

Hiding in a Dead Whale

Worst day I've had in years. Really. A great collapsible nightmare of a day, origami-like in its unfolding moments of horror and regret. It may be I've hit bottom.

Sesquicentennial

Up. Up, and out. On the road as you read this, so imagine the keyboard and the steering wheel fused, like some outlandish modern appliance. Off to a weddding, three dddays with my family. Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

If I don't come back, avenge my death.

One Thing, Then Another

We're all victims of causality, ain't we now. Feeling the pressure, lots of faces, very few names. I'm lyrical, but not poetical. Puns and poor aim, grey skies and secrets and strong work. If you listen, you might hear me sigh.

Check

Just for you, Verthandi.

I am an Incandescent Pillar of Golden Fire

On Olbermann tonight...the first story was about McCain's support from right-wing pastors who have made outlandish, inflammatory statements...

Then god sent a hunter. A hunter is someone with a gun and he forces you. Hitler was a hunter. And the Bible says — Jeremiah writing — 'They shall hunt them from every mountain and from every hill and from the holes of the rocks,' meaning there's no place to hide. And that might be offensive to some people but don't let your heart be offended. I didn't write it, Jeremiah wrote it. It was the truth and it is the truth. How did it happen? Because God allowed it to happen. Why did it happen? Because God said my top priority for the Jewish people is to get them to come back to the land of Israel.

and...

I cannot tell you how important it is that we understand the true nature of Islam, that we see it for what it really is. In fact, I will tell you this: I do not believe our country can truly fulfill its divine purpose until we understand our historical conflict with Islam. I know that this statement sounds extreme, but I do not shrink from its implications. The fact is that America was founded, in part, with the intention of seeing this false religion destroyed, and I believe September 11, 2001, was a generational call to arms that we can no longer ignore.

Now, this by itself isn't necessarily a surprise, nothing worth writing home about. What got me was the pun (I do like puns) that was the caption to the story...

"Preacharound"

On a major cable news network's prime time news show. "Preacharound". We may make it yet.

75,000

Where can Barack Obama draw a crowd of 75,000 people? Portland, OR, of course. I love this state so damn much.

Primary

Now, I realize that I haven't been keeping current on this lately-in my defense, my life's been all caught up and twisted by the threshold of the Spring. The absent Spring, liminal nonetheless. So yes, I have a lot going on, which I will, I imagine, at some point elaborate on.

But in the meantime, I'm OK, well, enjoying the heat and the sun and the lush greenery of Summertime. Walking along the river today, I was struck by the incongruity of the heat and the high river-it's a little thing, but odd in how it was noticeable even though it was so trivial. Living here so long, becoming so intimately involved in the neighborhood...it's a wonderful, adult feeling. All that experience and comfort accumulating...once again(and I know, I know, I'm predictable) I like getting old. I highly recommend it.

Otherwise, it's the hot, long-dayed time of year. I hope I'll see more of most of you as you venture out into the comfortable evenings, and if you find yourselves out in the heat, remember...I have AC.

Bravo for life's little ironies.

I know, I know, I'm lazy. On the plus side, I do hate Glen Beck.

"I'm putting this on my blog!"

Goodness Gracious

Floral Surprise

If you left a yellow dahlia on my porch, sing out. Gifts are lovely, but when they're anonymous, it's a little creepy.

Omens

All sorts in the street, out in the world. Motorcyclists circling my block, a loud and angry murder. Ants rising out of the earth. A perpetual ambulance. Bird shit like a swath across my street, failure of imagination. I saw a truck with a picture of a truck on it. The smell of grain from the looming temple of Ishtar down the block, capped and bound by the flag on its roof.

I ascribe to these things no un- or super- or preter- natural significance, but I respect things they evoke from the habitat of human community. I made an offering today, tried to appease the narrative of my neighborhood. I'm taking myself out of it temporarily, 'till I feel up to going toe-to-toe.

I hope you're OK, Mr. Chartreuse.

Walpurgisnacht

AWFUL day...just terrible. I really had high hopes for this month. At this rate, I'm going all Discordian Calendar. Watch out for the Discoflux.

Waxing

My body's betrayed me on at least three levels lately, my budget's in the toilet, and to top it all off, I haven't got anything going that even resembles a sleep schedule. I take no small pride in being able to sleep like a corpse even in the worst of times, so this isn't just interfering with my day, it's pissing me off. Also, I've had to upgrade/install a whole bunch of new people lately, and my life is fucking complicated enough.

And what freaks me out most is that I've been smiling all day. I'm thrilled, hopeful, chipper. Got up this morning and cleaned my house, mowed my lawn. Enjoyed the sun. I made homemade corn dogs for dinner (they were great). I can't seem to reconcile reality and how I feel-but it's OK. I regularly have these deep, black moods that have nothing to do with how my life actually is. I'm comfortable having a symmetrical peak to my illogical troughs. Heh.

See you tomorrow.

I think my job is trying to kill me.

Literally-I may have broken my toe today, and I have never been subject to so many injuries, indignities and simple assaults on my psyche. It's like one big attempted murder that's cutting my paychecks.

I speak the language of muffins. I know their poetry...and their prose.

I've been practicing my Huggery

March's Marginal Marjoram Margarine

This post, such as it is, is to protect my margins. The video below sprawls uncomfortably over my blog's text and context. Watch it though, it's spectacular.

As opposed to Czech-tacular, like some days I spent recently, and the things over which I was slavering*.

I have had a reap-the-whirlwind sort of month. It's not done yet, I know, but three weeks of April feels like January and February put together. My memory is that March of last year was full of sound and fury. This year, it's April, the cruelest month (if you are, or ever meet, a woman named April, remember that "Cruelest Month" makes a great nichename), which leads me to believe that my personal astro-and-horo logical circumstance wanders through the year like a movable feast, or a Jewish Month. This is fine.

I have a calendar, wholly fictitious, that renders the months around the moon's cycles, so each day of the month (from moon, I think) contains the same phase of the moon. I much prefer my moon cyclical without being regular. Quicksilver, not dead-silver, you know.


*this description is entirely inaccurate...but it's an excellent pun, which gives it a sort of narrative truth where I'm concerned...as opposed to some of you, who shouldn't be at all at my use of the language.

There is no bottom floor in hell

Ouroboros

Every conversation that begins in my house will eventually eat itself. Spent quality time with the finest of people today-some at work, some out in the open air, some cozy and comfortable in my home. Thanks to those of you I saw, and to those of you I didn't...call me. It's been too long.

Marcel Marceau

"It's not my fault no one prepared you for a life of muteness!"

Dave's just finished saying this to me. It's true, it's true. And here I thought I had a good pantomime going. It's a two way street, I'm telling you, and it's funny how even using what I imagine are clear and cogent waves of my arms for things, I still get that blank stare from people. Just like when I talk. Maybe it's just me.

Everybody thinks I'm deaf though, and that's kinda neat. Strangers, I mean. Took the train today, had to hand over paper and ID and not be able to talk. All of a sudden everyone was conducting themselves more politely, and awkwardly gesturing and signing at me. Not bad, I gotta say. And pretending to sign at people? HILARIOUS. If I'm going to have to put up with this, I might as well have some fun.

Spent much of the morning with my mother, and I think I freaked her out. Being a single mom, she and I spent a great deal of time together during my childhood-and later-just driving places and talking. Sitting in the car next to her, listening to her stories, it feels very familiar. But I realize (and she pointed out) that I've never been this quiet, ever. Even as a little kid, I was fucking chatty. It was, I think, a little weird for her. But good, nonetheless. Lord knows it's weird for me-I hadn't realized how much I talk when there's no one else around. Yelling at the cats or swearing or talking to myself. Singing a little song when I cook or clean. And I can't do any of it. It's all very frustrating.

Still, I'm embracing the adventure of it, enjoying the strange. This is an excellent coping skill if you can manage it-I highly recommend it. Things I saw today-man wearing a shirt that said "God's Army". Does God need an army? What the fuck would it do?

This was at WINCO, incidentally, also where I saw "Eastside Crips" written on the bathroom wall. At WINCO. In Eugene. No gang worth the name tags the WINCO bathrooms...this might even be a viable anti-gang tactic. Just leave the problematic gang's name up in suburban hot-spots, the sudden increase in lame-ass ostensible honky membership drives down actual violence. Hmmmm. I wonder if I could get a grant?

Lastly, and this is for all my nerds who are nerdless today as a result of my mutivity...you know that cart droid they have at WINCO? It's actually called a "Cart Wizard", and has a little wizard logo on it. The unlikeliest of places.

It's Official.

I have laryngitis. I can't talk.

I know. I know. Believe me. I've already heard it.

But right now, it's not going anywhere-I wake up every morning feeling like I drank vitriol the night before. Seriously, it hurts. A LOT. And I've been drinking so much tea/water/more tea...lots of tea, really-that I can't get any restful sleep. Up and down, you know.

SO...that's where I'm at, apparently. Cooped up at home, bored out of my mind. Unable to respond to even the easiest and most maddening of outside stimuli...except with the pantomime, gonna work on my pantomime. If you were so inclined, you might visit and pay your respects to my voice gone all christ-like. Take advantage of the opportunity-it'll roll that boulder back any moment now.

Hallelujah!

Demonoid's back up. This makes me tremendously happy.

Bravo for life's little ironies.

I've lost my voice. I'm sick, I mean, and as a consequence it feels as though I've swallowed a handful of razor blades. Can't talk, can't eat fajitas.

It's (unfortunately) effected my work-I don't feel terrible at the moment, though I've developed a fever and a cough...but not being able to talk, man, that's a bummer for me. I'll have to get by on pantomime alone. That and the bloggery. Lots of tea, lots of sleep. Wish me luck-if I don't feel better by tomorrow, I'll have to call in tomorrow. And how the hell am I going to do that?

Getting Lazy

Picture posts, video posts. Losing my touch. Still...











I feel like this all the time.

I'm always wearing the hat.

Paradigmatic Morality

Sidereal Lilacs

Spokane is the Lilac City. The Dead Land.

Just wrapped up the first podcast. Someday it'll be up for public consumption, but in the meantime, you can solicit a copy via my email-binarymoses@gmail.com. We'd welcome the feedback.

Smoke Mirror

I am fucking sleeping in tomorrow. I'm worn thin, like a sheet, or a screen.

Honkies in the Sky

There are times when I feel, as I said to the pale woman last night, as though I have a good handle on the nature of the rest of you. As though you're, if not transparent, at least translucent enough to penetrate. I've gotten good (I think) at interpreting the nature and the motivations (two things one and the same, for are we all not just the product of our motivations) of the people around me. But then something comes along and throws me for a loop, reminds me what enigmas you all are.

Stop it.

But still, there's worse things. And god knows I make very little sense to the rest of you-I know that...in that spirit,

1. You may just have to do a little research, Norn, or bring yourself to look me in the eye and ask.

2. Whomever left the damn Rodman dolls at my house, announce your anonymous self, as the mystery of it's driving me crazy. Also, having two of them seems to provoke me into positioning them in the most gruesome way possible-it's oddly natural, perhaps even reptilian.

3. Should I be in some way, analogous to Terminus Est, Señor Camino, then please enlighten me as to the nature of Baldander's mace. For this intelligence, I will be ever so grateful.

Wrapping up the Present

No more Nornery. Some things are such a shame.

Feel good, feel ready. Years should start in Spring-they used to. What reasonable civilization begins its years in the dead of winter? Damnable two-faced gods, Terminus Est. My life is like quicksilver running down the blade of a beautiful sword. Weight shifting and writhing in my grasp. I'm coming around. I'll tie the presidential election in here somehow.

It's all change right now, echoing all over my day. It's good to be out there on the edge. Maybe I'll see it coming.

Unholy

Just, FYI.

Look, Look!

Late Night Visitors

Had one-a good one-last night. I woke up for no reason...or the obvious reason, take your pick. Woke up, and here he was, one of my favorite neighbors. We usually have to cross town to hang out, even though he's only a block away.

So that was good, good. Life's all up in the air, springing light and trees fucking at night. Bad blood at work and angst all over everything. Big news from La Casa del Difícil. It, like anything else, will be as good or as bad as it needs to be. Clear your calendars, empty your colanders...and reset your clocks.

The Chill Hand of Death

One of my favorite people is older. Wish him well.

Resuscitation

Sometimes you just gotta say things out loud. I hope to god you all have someone to talk to, because I don't know what I'd do without.

...

Come to think of it, if you're reading this, chances are you've got me. I hope I can measure up.

I'm gonna harpoon the chandelier

A man said that to me in all seriousness yesterday. Intense and intent in his intention to 'poon that chandelier. I lead a magical life, I do.

Two straight days of happiness and adventure-the one more spectacular and greater than the other, but in the end, they were both good. I spent Saturday in Portland at an extended function for a vendor of ours. I drove up with Andrea, and we were there until almost midnight. Toured a warehouse, saw a friend, hassled family, and then went to an incredible party. Food and fun and mischief and music and people I know and people I don't and people I won't remember their names even though I shook their hands over and over and over. Sigh. I was up forever, I think I crossed the river 5 or 6 times, and I can honestly say without reservation that it was the most fun I've had since the party last year. Nonstop, endless, ridiculous fun. I'm still worn out.

So that was good, that was nice. Woke up tired the next day and had some of my nerds over for what ended up being one of the best games we've had in a long time.

Now, I've been doing this for a long time-gaming, I mean. And the FIRST rule...I mean first thing, before all of the others (there are others) is that no one wants to hear about it. No one wants to know about your magic sword or how you slew that wyvern (spellcheck don't like that word)...they just don't. So don't go telling stories to the straights, keep it to yourself and your fellow nerds. And it's too bad, straight people. Because some nights you miss out on are like last night, and I am so pleased and proud and happy to be sitting around rolling dice and talking sheer nonsense with the people I am. You know who you are-give yourselves a hand.

And for the rest of you...I'll be back at work on Wednesday. Get yourselves together by then.

Epic

I can't remember the last time I had this much fun. I'm all fucking blissed out.

More later.

Movable Feasts

Good day, phantom day. Ghost of a day we all are living in, only once every four years. I woke up to luminous silver skies and unseasonable warmth. Talked shit to my co-workers, calendars with a rabbi, made the beautiful baker who comes through my line laugh out loud. A good day.

Nice Innacuracies

I should point out that my new header image contains one of my most significant pet peeves as a greengrocer. Note also that I'm waffling on header images-I'll settle on one at some point, but as we traverse the nadir of the year, I've yet to settle on any number of things.

ANYWAY...I love XKCD, it's one of my favorite webcomics. But in this case, he's made a terrible error. I won't quibble with his obviously subjective qualifications of taste-fruit appeals to different people differently, like anything else. And from a strictly professional standpoint he seems to have measured out the "difficulty" scale more or less accurately (though on the actual comic's site, the rollover bemoans the difficulty of cracking coconuts, suggesting they're "off the scale". This inaccuracy can be attributed to a layman's unfamiliarity with coconuts' numerous mysteries. When you know what you're doing, a coconut's no harder to open than a dead man's wallet.)

No, dear friends, my objection, the thing which fills me with a terrible rage, is his arbitrary segregation of apples into only two categories, "red" and "green". I'm shaking, even as I write this. Even now, on the far side of apple season, we currently carry no fewer than 10 different kinds of apple, many of which might be described as either. In my experience, for those people who lack even the most basic education in the taxonomy of produce "red" apples are usually Red Delicious, the nation's most common and most poorly named apple varietal for most of the last century. Delicious apples in general are uninterestingly sweet and universally mealy. Bland, grey, soviet apples.

"Green" apples, on the other hand, are usually Granny Smiths-a tart, crunchy apple that is good for cooking, and is in many respects (should you get a good one) the polar opposite of a Delicious apple. So that's two types, two of the most common. But in this, the Golden Age of Food, I'd think that anyone cosmopolitan enough to have broadband access to the internet would also have at least passing familiarity with Fujis (the bourgeois Red Delicious), Braeburns (a tart and crisp eating apple that keeps well and is also good for cooking) or perhaps this year's celebrity apple, the Honeycrisp (plebian, lowest-common-denominator crap, with a sweetness that recalls corn syrup and a crunchy texture best described as plastic. Still, they are popular). For those of you with whom I do not work, let this be your window on my greengrocery-this rant is almost verbatim my usual response to customers asking for Green or Red apples. 'Ware your local greengrocer, he/she might just be a True Believer.

This town smells like gym socks and marijuana

Riding around-which I have been, as it's now Spring, apparently-riding around on a bike allows you to experience the city very differently. You get to smell it. In a car or the bus you're separated from the outside odors, and walking isn't fast enough to get the sort of...spectrum of smells that being on a bike offers. Damp and hot asphalt in the first warm sun of the year. Diesel fuel from the bus I'm following. Three different clouds of pot smoke in two blocks.

February's no proper month. 28 days, stunted, deformed in the calendar. And this whole Leap Year bullshit. I saw Feb. 29th referred to as "Leap Year Day" in the RG...because "Leap Day" was too complicated? It's a lost day, a limbo day. Watergate had it's 18 1/2 minute gap, Doctor Who his Eleven-Day Empire...every four years, we get a phantom day.

I did laundry yesterday, down to the ghettomat. The realest place for ten blocks. I once sat in on a three-way deal twixt three different homeless guys there, trading guns for money for drugs. Thrilling. But not classy. There's nothing classy about my neighborhood laundromat-after all, it's my neighborhood.

But anyway, the owner just put in a vending machine-soaps, dryer sheets and such. And sundries, things like gum and candy. AND little individual packets of Pepperidge Farm Milano Cookies. It was the most optimistic thing I've seen in forever, and it made me smile. Later, I saw a lime-perfectly good lime-on the ground a few blocks from my house. This, along with the blueberries in the verge last week, lead me to believe there's something going on. I don't know what it is, but fallen produce crossing my path is apropos of something. Ominous, even. AND, last thing...the first honeybee on the blossoming rosemary just outside my door. February's no proper month, but Spring is the most proper of seasons.

On the fly.

Normally, I try to keep y'all updated on my comings and goings, particularly of the internet variety. Let you know where I've been and what I've been doing/seeing/terrified by. Last post, see. I'll try to keep this to a minimum-this is not a scavenger's blog.

But I couldn't keep this to myself, I just had to add it in. Go here, and I'd encourage you to spend a little time-it's worth it.

schadenfreude

Got it in spades-sort of shameful, really. All that joy. But...I find my own angst retreats in the face of the suffering of others, and, well, I have to do something with it. Lately I mean. My angst.

So...without further ado.


http://view.break.com/453711 - Watch more free videos

God is Dead

Hearts are for blood, and for breaking.

I hate being unhappy on a beautiful day. Sun shining and big white clouds(in February), and I can't reach any of it. Misanthropic and angry and bitter, and tired from the pointlessness of all those things. There would have been a time when I might have reached for them thinking that they'd make it better. I've long since learned different, and it wears me out with the failure of it. How wasted are those feelings and how broken I still am that they appear in the first place. I'm not afraid of you-of any of you. I'm the only enemy I have left, and really...the only one I ever had.

If you hadn't guessed yet, I'm going to ramble. There's a good chance most of this won't make sense, and what there is that does...well, too fucking bad. I may be cryptic, but damned if I'm dishonest.

Most of the time, I rise in the morning, and go to sleep each night comfortable in my skin and confident of my humanity*. Then I have a day like today, an inside-out day. Chewing on terrible things and catching myself at every corner. Quiet, because I stop having anything to say. I feel like a pantomime shadow-puppet imitation of myself, sustained only by the momentum of the person I was last night when I went to bed. I believe that my life is what I make it. I am constantly, moment-to-moment, in charge of what I do and say and choose. I am.

...

But I'm just so sad. And I can't choose my way out of that, can't bite down on it or reason with it. All those skills and practice prepare me for my guilt and my shame and my anger and my deception (self and otherwise). I have long transcripts of endlessly repeated conversations with myself about control and choice and accountability and judgment...and up against myself, or you, I'm ready. I have my way, my creed, my architecture.

For this, I've got nothing.

I think about wanting a lot. Someone called it Buddhist once. This thing I'm doing. If I don't want anything, there's no outcome to create, no opportunity for sin(best word I could come up with). Everything has to be on the table, too-choice, again. Desire and suffering, don't you know.

So maybe I should kill this, find the belief that leaves me lonely and take it out and talk it to death like I have so many of the other things that stood between me and being happy. Maybe I'd be happy. Serene and blissful and further up, and out. But I don't want to. I'm afraid to. I don't know what would happen if I pulled it off.

I feel unique, special, thinking about this. I think that none of the rest of you can possibly be wrestling with these things, be as wounded as I am, as clear-eyed and good as this self-inflicted dilemma makes me.

But then, I remember The Man On My Couch, and I know that I'm wrong.

Good luck, to all of you.






*I am a human being, I am a creature of choice. Those things, internal or external, that abrogate that choice don't just diminish me, they make me less human.

Not-so-super-tuesday

Schedule's all fucked up, can't sleep like a civilized person. And writer's block, I think I have writer's block. Lots to say, no wherewithal to say it.

On the plus side, I do believe I'm being more of a nuisance lately than I usually am-this isn't necessarily good for the rest of you, but I do take a certain pride in my capacity for mischief. Every pantheon needs a coyote.

Politics and personalities lately. Watching the news and going to work. Trying to stay one step ahead of my own particular problems, resurrected each time after I think I've killed them for good. And babbling, I do believe I'm babbling.

Meh.

Christ I'm tired.

I was at work from 6:30AM to 5:30PM yesterday...I'm up now, at 5:30 to go to work again. Hard day, toe to toe. Hard night, lots of dreams. Rich and vivid and filled with some of you. I'll shake it off. I have a new coat.

There are things alive in my face.

That's my excuse, don't you know. But I had to say something, and well, I haven't had a video yet. Two things, going into this. Being an agnostic (Motto-We don't know, and we don't care.) I haven't got real objections to religion-it's just not my problem. But with stuff like this...well, this flavor of Christian (Bubblegum) bothers me in that I don't think god's this much of a dick. Really, it's not.

Secondly, once upon a time all of our best stuff was about god. Art and music and literature-some of the greatest honky creations in history were in the name of Christ. And now...all the worst music, movies, television. "Christian". God's not a dick, but I believe it gets a little upset when it's followers use their free will, sentience and imaginations to produce "Seventh Heaven" and Songs for Worship:Country. In that spirit, please enjoy "A Letter from Hell", courtesy of GodTube (I know). I'd like to call attention to Josh's commitment to postmortem correspondence-he keeps writing no matter how terrible his current circumstance. Would that we all keep in touch so well.

Nyquil Sorbet

It might just be the fever talking, but this is one of the stranger and funnier things I've run across lately. Check it out.

Q

Phlegmatic

These are my make-do words, taking up the moments between my last post and a future post in which I will be coherent and pithy. I am terribly ill-I can't remember the last time I was this sick, and it doesn't seem to be moving on. Got out of Blade Runner on Sun. and immediately felt terrible-aches and pains, fever dreams and cold sweats. It's only gotten worse, although I think I've gotten past the worst of it. It's funny-I don't know what proportion of these posts have been written when I was less-than-lucid...but it's interesting to note that I keep finding new influences under which to blog.

Payday.

Back to the prosaic, the political and the peripatetic. Ran across these on Wonkette, and I had to show them off. I like Obama, mostly for his wit and the fact that he likes The Wire, but these are some first-class 1984-esque iconography. Tell me what you think, and which soothing blue variation fits your particular market...

Muharram and a New Moon

I woke a woman from dreaming earlier today (she told me so. I believe her) and find myself similarly pulled groggily from a deep nap to sit, on the last day of my 30th year, and type this out.

I have had a good year, a fine year. A long, full, happy year. Which is odd, as I write this, because by most standards-good, empirical, socially acceptable standards-my life is no better than it was on 1/7/07. I still work at a job that drives me crazy and doesn't come close to paying my bills. I am still persistently, unsuccessfully, lonely. I still fuck up on a regular basis, still fail and frustrate and judge and fear and countless other barriers and barricades I put in my way.

But for all that, it's OK. It really is. I get up every day and can't believe how confident and comfortable and...happy, I am. It's sort of ridiculous, actually. I have a terrible time as it is reconciling my day-to-day with y'all's, but even for myself, as successful as my own long-term gedankenexperiment seems to be...it still feels crazy. But I'm happy. Which, I imagine, is the only really important part.

And, to be fair, it is the lot of you that has contributed to this happy year I'm putting down tomorrow. I wonder, sometimes, whether I'm just lucky to know so many bright, sharp, capable strange people...or if everyone's that way, and you're just the ones I know? Either way, I think the world of each of you, and wouldn't have you any other way.

My birthday's tomorrow. Everyone's asked me what I'm doing...not much, I think. I'll probably get a little drunk, and a little maudlin, and I'll worry a little-with last year excepted, my birthdays are terrible. But I'll be home, and glad for any company. So if you feel like coming by and paying your respects to what will be one year closer to being my corpse...please, feel free.

I am regularly filled with a christ-like love for all creation.