Happy one year my little blog. From the first post to now, you have been a warm lovable little wet spot on the carpet that I could always call my own. For the record, I would like to know how many of you had that social consternation kicked out of your throats? Hmm, bold first lines...
New year, new goals. I've worked love over pretty well, it gave me some aerobics. New year, my baby all growing up, just figuratively though, unlike the my real life. Gotta have something new, something fresh...
Monday, January 24, 2005
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
our anniversary
It’s January 7th, and somehow I expected things to be different. All the stars are aligned today you see, every planet in a straight course to my heart. Don’t you remember; it’s the one year anniversary of the time you picked that piece of shit law student over me for one scared lonely night of you life.
Its not that I’m upset, I just expected more from today. Maybe I expected to realize how silly it is to keep thinking about it, nonetheless marking its anniversary. Maybe to realize he was doing a favor by filling me with so much passion as he was filling you with semen. Perhaps just to be thankful that our wedding anniversary wasn’t close to the same day, that day that for so long was unmentionable in our lives together.
How did I celebrate? It was purely subconscious, but I can see it now.
I still don’t write in that side of my red notebook that we used to have together. The other side has so much scribbling, is filled nearly full of recollections; yet beyond that yellow divider sits our old and silly doodles , perhaps your inane illustration themed on getting you a diamond and making my kid to stop head butting you. Maybe keeping her as a nice Jewish lesbian while we were at it; to save us all a lot of trouble later in life. Those were our jokes, now my memories.
I remember sitting at your friend’s house and us all getting tipsy on raspberry vodka, everybody turning their eyes on us when you brought up the “rock”. I really though I meant it when I said soon enough. Everyone blushed. Us, just proud and in love…
Nobody knows that story down here. They just know haphazardly that it’s the seventh day of the New Year, and its ushering in all sorts of good stuff for us. Nobody asks me if I got you your ring yet, no one is disappointed when I say no.
It’s really all ok now. No regrets, nothing I can’t salvage, nothing left out in the rain with nobody to care for it. Your shoes fit in that plane ride back to hell, and I dragged mine behind a speeding vehicle.
What the fuck were we thinking kid? Now that everything is sorted out, and what I miss the most is the curiosity of another human being. It’s such a big new year though. It’s a new face, and new home, and a new piece of America to yell out to.
So congratulations, a toast to us!
It’s our anniversary,
You’ve hidden my keys,
This is one anniversary,
You’ll be spending with me.
Here is to a new chapter of my life, as this anniversary can likely be the split between separate types of existence. We were just kids at play when the whole thing started, and here I am giving it all much more air than it should have. Honestly, it was never important enough to devote a volume too. Just a lonely little girl in a new school; looking for someone to run his fingers through her hair, and hold her hand when she crossed the street. And what was not important, was us. We were a product of consumer desire, two objects brought onto the rack at inconvenient times; so much so that our space had no choice but to overlap and therefore conflict.
Wouldn’t I like to believe we found love at last, that we perpetuated all that human garbage of infidelity and detestable spirit in only the fear and inadequacy of ourselves? If only psychology were a science!
…
And today I washed down my vitamins with peppermint schnapps, mainly because it was the only thing at hand. Count four large vitamin E tablets. I heard the mixture as it met at the bottom of the lengthy slalom, and I made out their rather polite greetings.
Vitamin E, being a stately antioxidant, offered the first bit of conversation as he quipped “I haven’t quite seen you here before sir, have we been acquainted?”
Alcohol met the challenge with “Actually I come here often, though this schedule is a bit out of the ordinary.”
E said “True to that, I’m generally a morning person you see.”
They shook hands and went there separate yet identical ways; whilst I proceeded to sleep like a champ... This kid has got heart…
Its not that I’m upset, I just expected more from today. Maybe I expected to realize how silly it is to keep thinking about it, nonetheless marking its anniversary. Maybe to realize he was doing a favor by filling me with so much passion as he was filling you with semen. Perhaps just to be thankful that our wedding anniversary wasn’t close to the same day, that day that for so long was unmentionable in our lives together.
How did I celebrate? It was purely subconscious, but I can see it now.
I still don’t write in that side of my red notebook that we used to have together. The other side has so much scribbling, is filled nearly full of recollections; yet beyond that yellow divider sits our old and silly doodles , perhaps your inane illustration themed on getting you a diamond and making my kid to stop head butting you. Maybe keeping her as a nice Jewish lesbian while we were at it; to save us all a lot of trouble later in life. Those were our jokes, now my memories.
I remember sitting at your friend’s house and us all getting tipsy on raspberry vodka, everybody turning their eyes on us when you brought up the “rock”. I really though I meant it when I said soon enough. Everyone blushed. Us, just proud and in love…
Nobody knows that story down here. They just know haphazardly that it’s the seventh day of the New Year, and its ushering in all sorts of good stuff for us. Nobody asks me if I got you your ring yet, no one is disappointed when I say no.
It’s really all ok now. No regrets, nothing I can’t salvage, nothing left out in the rain with nobody to care for it. Your shoes fit in that plane ride back to hell, and I dragged mine behind a speeding vehicle.
What the fuck were we thinking kid? Now that everything is sorted out, and what I miss the most is the curiosity of another human being. It’s such a big new year though. It’s a new face, and new home, and a new piece of America to yell out to.
So congratulations, a toast to us!
It’s our anniversary,
You’ve hidden my keys,
This is one anniversary,
You’ll be spending with me.
Here is to a new chapter of my life, as this anniversary can likely be the split between separate types of existence. We were just kids at play when the whole thing started, and here I am giving it all much more air than it should have. Honestly, it was never important enough to devote a volume too. Just a lonely little girl in a new school; looking for someone to run his fingers through her hair, and hold her hand when she crossed the street. And what was not important, was us. We were a product of consumer desire, two objects brought onto the rack at inconvenient times; so much so that our space had no choice but to overlap and therefore conflict.
Wouldn’t I like to believe we found love at last, that we perpetuated all that human garbage of infidelity and detestable spirit in only the fear and inadequacy of ourselves? If only psychology were a science!
…
And today I washed down my vitamins with peppermint schnapps, mainly because it was the only thing at hand. Count four large vitamin E tablets. I heard the mixture as it met at the bottom of the lengthy slalom, and I made out their rather polite greetings.
Vitamin E, being a stately antioxidant, offered the first bit of conversation as he quipped “I haven’t quite seen you here before sir, have we been acquainted?”
Alcohol met the challenge with “Actually I come here often, though this schedule is a bit out of the ordinary.”
E said “True to that, I’m generally a morning person you see.”
They shook hands and went there separate yet identical ways; whilst I proceeded to sleep like a champ... This kid has got heart…
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Five Deadly Resolutions
So baby, we made it into another new year, just like this whole collection of stuff started. My kudos to those that have been there since the beginning and to whomever we picked up as a hitch-hiker in this mess of written architecture.
So I though I would start this session with a collection of short, digestible pieces; something I don’t do often enough nowadays. It should forecast what’s in store for this New Year.
Planned we have a big birthday special, letters to famous insects, the public’s response to corpses, fun with ethnic foods and some essays on just how grand it is to be a voyeur in the digital world.
Stay tuned!
(ONE)
I am the Buddha of irony. I am poised with quiet resolve, yet inflicted by common instinct. I am the Buddha or irony who is posed in the half lotus and watches the wet snow slip through gray clouds ad land solid on the ground.
I live somewhere that hasn’t seen snow in over one hundred years. Wait, correction, two days. I won’t over exaggerate my connection, because it is merely unfortunate that my spite of snow is so fruitless that it seems to follow me well into the tropics. This is so much to the chagrin of my local compatriots that I am introduced to new people as the guy who brought a white Christmas.
And then there is,
- Hello?
- Ya, hey, merry Christmas - so how’s the weather?
- ... So, I guess you heard...
This is also the day where you will find corpses roaming the stores like bulimics strolling the buffet line, just and obedience to routine but no desire left in their eyes. Tired faces that have been masturbating to QVC since the onset of last New Year and they suddenly find they own the whole goddamn color coordinated collection. There is no greater sorrow than the distended consumerist.
So today every wire wise man and porcelain camel are perfectly painted and nestled in nativity scenes, no a creature is stirring, aside from the Bose acoustic radio.
(TWO)
It’s still the twilight of December, and the beat of fireworks thrum in the background on the horizon of noise. They open like petals and fall oblivious to their own flame. They prey on tender altitude and fizzle on the inspection of their obvious phobia of heights. Embers so ecstatic, whirling and dropping like heavenly carousels and scaring the shit out of the unexpecting.
Home detonated sparklers hiss with a colorful inferno. Hand lit crackers tossed out on the street feel like a gunshot through you; tapping for long moments after in your head. You look for holes… keep walking.
Children grin with something much like fright while dad sets the car on fire or blows off his knuckles with a bottle rocket and a hair spray can. Let’s bring in the New Year.
In mere moments the night will buckle and change into a much more fitting number for our emerging age. We will continue our crawl from the birth of Jesus, thought the computers can count it now for Eons. What’s a couple thousand more years between visits of a sandaled carrier pigeon?
2000 was really the year of Armageddon; like every other year. Just keep counting the days: it keeps us distracted. Just like simulating gunshots, it keeps you numb for when the real thing gets here. It keeps everything just like another fact of life, like another fart joke gone wrong.
Now my thumb is a meaty hammer that falls down upon the pin and sequentially the powder loaded and pressed shell in the chamber of my fist. Here's looking at you kid; but it still looks like I’m going to shoot your face off.
Suddenly I’m looking up as the ball come crashing down, and I hope that it won't crush me this year. I’m ready to drink up just enough life to give me the hangover that will last well into next year, except it’s a headache called restlessness. There is no damn cure for that; I’ve tried water and aspirin, a shower, meditation, a walk by the canal, smelling salts, eating healthy and new age music.
Somewhere they are shooting off their flare guns; restless souls who need real guns instead, so they can say I’m armed now, let’s talk one on one. Maybe it would make a difference; instead of just pointing harshly they could drop us dead. Ah, keep your firecrackers.
The bell chimes and countless platters of dry, dry champagne and raised to salty lips, cheering lips, lips abstained from these substances since all but a year ago...
(THREE)
Another puzzling situation is when a well-meaning and/or polite older person enters the shop with an armful of old video reels or some ancient photographs to be retouched. The pictures are generally worn and water stained; that typical faux sepia of an authentic antique. They want them manipulated and manhandled, i.e. restored to better than original condition, and we are the people to do it.
The one problem remains; as they pull from dank old envelopes this tattered last memory of the years gone by, you can see a young face peering out. It strikes you familiar, and in looking up you can nearly mouth the words coming out.
“I’ve changed a lot in forty years…”
What do you say to that? No? You just look between these two captures, one on old acidy paper and another with light bouncing off a three dimensional person, and assess the work of aging. It’s almost as though they are handing you a before and after photo of life, and the worst part is that there is no product they are carrying in that old envelope that will help slow it down.
I think it’s just the instant gratification of angst that kicks in at that moment, and you try to choke it down as you play them for how much it’s worth to them to get this picture back to the way it was.
They joke about adding five bucks to get rid of some weight, or the mole on their nose and you can’t help but laugh together. Hell, we’re all victims; life is a support group sitting in itself.
Half of you has to wonder though if maybe they are here with that envelope to relive it with someone, keep that now abstract photograph a more vivid memory by making it important to you too. In that way it works. It’s a communal thing, begging our way out of mortality. Make death so sad it has to leave the room too...
(FOUR)
In an argument of principles I have been known to battle my enemies with a fierce blasphemy, but with shock value aside lets revisit some key points.
First is the date rape mentality of god, which urges me to think less in the vein of divinity as that of a slightly stoned and beer engorged Penn State College frat boy.
The facts are that god’s sightings are few and far between, generally just stops here and there for conjugal visits. Albeit sexing a married woman he is careless enough to beget offspring and instead of admitting defeat he says, “Yes, he’s my son, but look how great he is to play with!”
Well with all this catholic shit going on, I have to be a little uptight. It’s such a raunchy book anyhow. And of course Jesus loves me; he will say anything to get into my pants.
(FIVE)
I just took a long shower to wash the salts off my body, put there by ocean waves from swimming in the brisk sea. It’s the second week of January. This is a dream typically only realized by retired northerners. Damn their luck. I still have a libido and I can drive at night. Get out of my way; I’m not stopping at the ocean.
So I though I would start this session with a collection of short, digestible pieces; something I don’t do often enough nowadays. It should forecast what’s in store for this New Year.
Planned we have a big birthday special, letters to famous insects, the public’s response to corpses, fun with ethnic foods and some essays on just how grand it is to be a voyeur in the digital world.
Stay tuned!
(ONE)
I am the Buddha of irony. I am poised with quiet resolve, yet inflicted by common instinct. I am the Buddha or irony who is posed in the half lotus and watches the wet snow slip through gray clouds ad land solid on the ground.
I live somewhere that hasn’t seen snow in over one hundred years. Wait, correction, two days. I won’t over exaggerate my connection, because it is merely unfortunate that my spite of snow is so fruitless that it seems to follow me well into the tropics. This is so much to the chagrin of my local compatriots that I am introduced to new people as the guy who brought a white Christmas.
And then there is,
- Hello?
- Ya, hey, merry Christmas - so how’s the weather?
- ... So, I guess you heard...
This is also the day where you will find corpses roaming the stores like bulimics strolling the buffet line, just and obedience to routine but no desire left in their eyes. Tired faces that have been masturbating to QVC since the onset of last New Year and they suddenly find they own the whole goddamn color coordinated collection. There is no greater sorrow than the distended consumerist.
So today every wire wise man and porcelain camel are perfectly painted and nestled in nativity scenes, no a creature is stirring, aside from the Bose acoustic radio.
(TWO)
It’s still the twilight of December, and the beat of fireworks thrum in the background on the horizon of noise. They open like petals and fall oblivious to their own flame. They prey on tender altitude and fizzle on the inspection of their obvious phobia of heights. Embers so ecstatic, whirling and dropping like heavenly carousels and scaring the shit out of the unexpecting.
Home detonated sparklers hiss with a colorful inferno. Hand lit crackers tossed out on the street feel like a gunshot through you; tapping for long moments after in your head. You look for holes… keep walking.
Children grin with something much like fright while dad sets the car on fire or blows off his knuckles with a bottle rocket and a hair spray can. Let’s bring in the New Year.
In mere moments the night will buckle and change into a much more fitting number for our emerging age. We will continue our crawl from the birth of Jesus, thought the computers can count it now for Eons. What’s a couple thousand more years between visits of a sandaled carrier pigeon?
2000 was really the year of Armageddon; like every other year. Just keep counting the days: it keeps us distracted. Just like simulating gunshots, it keeps you numb for when the real thing gets here. It keeps everything just like another fact of life, like another fart joke gone wrong.
Now my thumb is a meaty hammer that falls down upon the pin and sequentially the powder loaded and pressed shell in the chamber of my fist. Here's looking at you kid; but it still looks like I’m going to shoot your face off.
Suddenly I’m looking up as the ball come crashing down, and I hope that it won't crush me this year. I’m ready to drink up just enough life to give me the hangover that will last well into next year, except it’s a headache called restlessness. There is no damn cure for that; I’ve tried water and aspirin, a shower, meditation, a walk by the canal, smelling salts, eating healthy and new age music.
Somewhere they are shooting off their flare guns; restless souls who need real guns instead, so they can say I’m armed now, let’s talk one on one. Maybe it would make a difference; instead of just pointing harshly they could drop us dead. Ah, keep your firecrackers.
The bell chimes and countless platters of dry, dry champagne and raised to salty lips, cheering lips, lips abstained from these substances since all but a year ago...
(THREE)
Another puzzling situation is when a well-meaning and/or polite older person enters the shop with an armful of old video reels or some ancient photographs to be retouched. The pictures are generally worn and water stained; that typical faux sepia of an authentic antique. They want them manipulated and manhandled, i.e. restored to better than original condition, and we are the people to do it.
The one problem remains; as they pull from dank old envelopes this tattered last memory of the years gone by, you can see a young face peering out. It strikes you familiar, and in looking up you can nearly mouth the words coming out.
“I’ve changed a lot in forty years…”
What do you say to that? No? You just look between these two captures, one on old acidy paper and another with light bouncing off a three dimensional person, and assess the work of aging. It’s almost as though they are handing you a before and after photo of life, and the worst part is that there is no product they are carrying in that old envelope that will help slow it down.
I think it’s just the instant gratification of angst that kicks in at that moment, and you try to choke it down as you play them for how much it’s worth to them to get this picture back to the way it was.
They joke about adding five bucks to get rid of some weight, or the mole on their nose and you can’t help but laugh together. Hell, we’re all victims; life is a support group sitting in itself.
Half of you has to wonder though if maybe they are here with that envelope to relive it with someone, keep that now abstract photograph a more vivid memory by making it important to you too. In that way it works. It’s a communal thing, begging our way out of mortality. Make death so sad it has to leave the room too...
(FOUR)
In an argument of principles I have been known to battle my enemies with a fierce blasphemy, but with shock value aside lets revisit some key points.
First is the date rape mentality of god, which urges me to think less in the vein of divinity as that of a slightly stoned and beer engorged Penn State College frat boy.
The facts are that god’s sightings are few and far between, generally just stops here and there for conjugal visits. Albeit sexing a married woman he is careless enough to beget offspring and instead of admitting defeat he says, “Yes, he’s my son, but look how great he is to play with!”
Well with all this catholic shit going on, I have to be a little uptight. It’s such a raunchy book anyhow. And of course Jesus loves me; he will say anything to get into my pants.
(FIVE)
I just took a long shower to wash the salts off my body, put there by ocean waves from swimming in the brisk sea. It’s the second week of January. This is a dream typically only realized by retired northerners. Damn their luck. I still have a libido and I can drive at night. Get out of my way; I’m not stopping at the ocean.
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