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.