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