Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Cat O'Clock is earlier than Dog O'Clock

When the world is still and silent and mice still dare to tiptoe, that is cat o'clock in our household. The first scoops of cat chow, tasty fresh water, a few little treats, and then --- oh but then --- dogs locked with the alpha male. The dogs are alert, they know there is herding and chasing and much to sniff and identify; but not until the alpha is awake.

There is tea, writing, the first sweet kiss of nicotine, an embarrassment of first-world hot water use for cleaning -- last night's dishes, the scurf of yesterday, the muddy paw prints from the kitchen floor.

The city still drowses. Cars do not rumble, bass does not boom. The occasional passerby has an imaginary loud long conversation on a cell phone. Crickets, cicadas, other gentle vermin scutter and scrape, to the delight of felines near and far. Silent pas de deux, as kitties stalk with death himself.

This is my favorite time of day. It is my mother's favorite time of day. Also, a favorite of my grandmother. Without the interruptions and demands of men and society, it is a peaceful time. Accomplishments can be completed with far greater efficiency, a zen like meditation of work. Absolution of sin exists in shining countertops, in freshly scrubbed floors, in glistening bathtubs, in dust removed from surfaces near and far.

This is how I pray.

Monday, September 29, 2008

Dog O'Clock

This means the neighbor pups were invited over to play. So I'm sitting on 2 feet of the futon with a pit bull alpha battling the resident "alpha" two year old Aussie cattle dog mix. He tries to herd her, she tries to sit next to me on the sofa. Eventually (in an hour or so) they'll modify it so they're both napping together, with the pit bull in alpha position with her head in my lap. Next door sitting on the furniture is a privilege the dogs don't have, so when they come over to the rehab house, they revel in furniture sitting, dog treats, and my cooking. There is much battling for primo furniture/lap sitting.

Pit bulls have HUGE jaws, by the way, and I'm glad they play so nicely together. One time my shin bone ended up in the middle of this melee (I had to cross the box farm) and ouch! Fortunately the dogs understand yelping and whimpering and were rather apologetic that I'd been grabbed by accident and enthusiasm. I have a bolster pillow protecting my leg/arm and laptop.

Bomb girl is currently on her back, with Spot half-on, half-off the sofa. Oooh! It looks like Bomb girl has won. Spot abandoned ship for chasing Dede in the back yard. Dede is too small to wrestle, but she loves to play tag. Jack Russel Terriers are fast, amazingly so, talk about an agility course dog if I ever met one. These dogs are just too damn smart. These are the strays that were smart and savvy enough to find a home that loved them; they're some of the happiest dogs I know on this continent. They get to run and play and be dogs, with all the love and dog chow and medical care they need. They wander to M's house, and then they just stay. They have some bad habits.

They're scared that one day there will be no more food. One of them trembles and shivers if you raise your voice or stomp your feet. They all want endless love, and are quick to learn commands. They are dogs who know that some humans are love. These dogs are too smart; they could all jump the fence and leave, but refuse to. They know who their humans are. They take great care of their humans, in spite of sloth claws, dog nose bruises, and ouch. That was just a pitbull sloth claw to the breast. Eeeeyouch. Spot decided that trying to crawl over Bomb girl and onto my already-laptop occupied lap was a great idea. No, not so much.

He's too tired to mess with her though. Dede's trying to lure Bomb girl into the back yard and convince her to abandon me on the sofa so that she can take the primo sweet spot on my lap. None of them are laptop sized, but they sure as hell don't think so.

I've been in love with dooce.com's Chuckacabra/Chuck/Chuckles for years (since France, 2004) and having real dog love affairs is much more rewarding than the electronic version, I must confess.

I'm also writing about dogs today so that I don't write about Sarah Palin. EEEsh. Talk about sick to my stomach, and haven't even watched the interviews or the SNL sketch. I don't want to lose my lunch/dinner, especially not with the H20 off -- new bathroom sink installation. Rehabbers have more fun! (The Brita is full and the neighbors' water is on.

We're all violently fine here. Violently fine. Violently pretending to be fine. Closer to fine. Closer to fine. Closer to fine.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

I Blame the Patriarchy always makes my day...

"The big push to relocate Spinster HQ to points west has begun in earnest. I’m swamped already, but apparently there is a hurricane tearing through the Gulf of Mexico with Texas’ name on it, which really puts a hitch in my gitalong. Everyone in Austin is in a panic. The local news makes sure of that.

“Evacuate! Or stock up on beer and diesel generators!” they warn, genuflecting woodenly before swirling computer graphics with terrifying red centers. “It’s a Level 42 Megacane!”"


"Meanwhile, Stingray’s out in Napa lurking in some wine cellar, and she’s got a wine cellar blog. It’s got great photos of incomprehensible winemaking equipage, as well as of the porta-potties that dot Napa’s picturesque vinyards like the plastic turquoise flowers of spring. Before she biffed out there and began reporting back about the full-blown sexism, classism, and racism attending viticultural culture, I used to think that wineries were pleasant, sun-drenched agrarian paradises. Now I realize that I will have to give up oenophilia on principle and start brewing my own feminist hooch in the bathtub."

http://blog.iblamethepatriarchy.com/ Find this and more right here; bound to tickle your feminist rage/anger and/or your funny bone.

I totally have feminist hooch brewing in my cupboard in mason jars, but not the bathtub. And it's a cordial, so it's even legal. (Bathtub has too much utility for washing dishes.)

The banking institution has decided since I updated my ID with the correct address (first time since 2005) before leaving Indiana and it's not yet 60 days old, and the fact that I don't have bills from St. Louis utility companies arriving at my place of residence (last utility bills from my prior utility companies don't count) I AM A TERRORIST AND NOT DESERVING OF A BANK ACCOUNT. I'm going to go consult the greater credit unions of STL/Missouri and chat with them about the situation.

In other news, blogger Brett Mason mailed me a carte postale from his cross-country voyage with his dad. He's been vlogging the journey on facebook, and I'm past-due to catch up. It's so nice to receive snail mail though, many thanks sent his way, and with luck I'll get my next batch of art-carte-postales out soon too.

Why you/we/I drink...


a pilgrim's progress

Yesterday I found an Arab or Persian (I'm sorry, I didn't ask, and they were speaking mostly English and I couldn't tell from the packaging) bakery/grocery that has fresh flatbread, similar to pita -- apparently it is called bati bread? According to the neighbor. They are in rounds the size of large dinner plates and are pocked with fork marks, but gently yeast raised. Also, homemade locally made fresh yogurt spread/edible. This shop is all of four blocks from me. The bati bread was still warm.

I also filled out exhaustive numbers of applications, and applied for a number of freelance writing gigs. Today I deliver the apps, dressed in my classy best. There's an upscale Indian restaurant in CWE looking for bartenders, and they encouraged applicants to just drop in, so I may.



Yesterday was too productive; I burned out at 9h30 and had to go to bed. It was pathetic.

Saturday, September 20, 2008


Somehow Pasqualina ended up in Martinique. She's not asking questions, and they (pirates) decided to keep her. Was there choice involved? It's negotiable.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

itch duly scratched...

Some solutions and presents come in dumpsters and they purr. Also, yodel. Also, insist. Sometimes they are what NPR calls the "St. Louis cat -- a brown tabby. I didn't see it till Missy said so, but this smidgen of cat-dom totally wears both tabby eyeglasses and also a mustache, with "I stepped in a puddle of milk paws". And yes, he or she can BEAT UP on the pups and when I turn my head for 10 fractions of a milisecond, either Dede or Spot try to NOM NOM NOM her, but she claws the shit out of them, like the spunky 14 oz wonder that she is.

Age is uncertain -- fleas and worms have stunted her growth. I dunked her in a sink of warm water, and it immediately turned shades of brown, then I dedicated many sun-filled minutes on the front porch to coaxing her to cease wiggling so I could detach endless fleas migrating to drier ground. She was not pleased to be so wet, no she wasn't. She is learning to like Shirley Manson, also, Belle and Sebastian. She is learning to beat up on Jack Russel Terriers and to put the stomp down on excited 2-year-old cattle dogs. No one else cares; the pit bull and the resident dame of the house know that their position is not compromised by something that fits in a tea cup.

Even Olivia can't be arsed. At least the kitten doesn't bite her tail when she leaves it artistically dangling.

So I spend my days scrubbing. Dust. Grime. In wonder and amazement -- how is there this much? Also, hoping and praying for a better future, wondering how to save myself. But you see, I was angry and frustrated, and I went and took shots of kitten love, and now? Everything feels more sound, it is clicking into place. I cannot save the world. I cannot save Africa. I cannot save Vietnam. But me? I can save dumpster kittens. I hear, rumors, that sometimes I do an o-kay job.

Wednesday, September 17, 2008

this is a present from cowperthwait.

"abortion, gun control, and religion, each of prime importance for a town ... of fewer than 5,000"

Sarah Palin’s political views are totally cribbed from the "Focus on the Family" website. Pro-life, unless you’re talking about the life of a criminal; limited government involvement in people’s lives, unless those people have a uterus or are gay and want to get married; and guns for whoever wants them, as many as they like, unless they look Islamic, in which case they should be detained indefinitely, preferably naked and arranged in a human pyramid.

—"Sarah Palin", Dickipedia

dial up...

crimp crimp crimp.

This is like a Buddhist exercise in patience. I think I need to go find Coffee. Hellllllllo Cherokee!

dial up. dial up. dial up. Dear Juno, you are MADE OF FAIL.

Monday, September 15, 2008

"Why are they all so beautiful?"

she asked the volunteer, tears in her eyes; unable to stay; unable to go.

"Because they all come here to die."

photography is not allowed. and there is so much pain and suffering.

all that is left? is hope. and love. I have never seen more hope anywhere more dire. If you want to see unconcentrated, pure hope, and the deepest love and affection, GASCONADE has it in spades.

His name is Toby.
His name is Angel.
Her name is Dazzle.

He has been there for three weeks.
She has been there for three days.
He is going to be killed tomorrow.

She will die the next day.
He is rabid. She will bite.
He used to get hit. She used to get chased by dogs.
He's sleeping in his litter box.
He won't come out to play.

I did find Orsino; he was upset. I did find Sir Almadeus, he was a resigned Southern Gentleman. I did find Hershey; who I knew so well. Don Gato was there. So was Smokey. And Bandit was there. So was Bakaryugji. Skitten was there. Sir Oliver Skitten. Hey, and you know who wasn't there? Mirabelle. Because her name is Rose N. Crantz. You know who wasn't there? Casanova. Sailor. Shepherd Buch. The Simon and Garfunkle kittens. Gollum. Fabio. Fortune Cookie; she wasn't there. I did see Mason; I was not surprised. He had shit luck in his last life; and it looks like he's in it again.

There was one of Olivia's cousins, a gentle beautiful buff-coloured Turkish Angora. There were several of Skittens litter mates. There was a Chinese temple cat; tabby and beautiful. There were perfectly swirled Maine Coon Cats.

They didn't let me have my camera; but I will not forget. I will never forget. I cried for two hours and the men and women who worked there understood. They are out of tears; but DON'T WORRY the soft-hearted steam punk engineer still has plenty of tears to share.




I only gave up because of the mold, the dogs, and the juno dial up. shut up. i was tired. thar were so many boxseseses.

we laugh so we don't cry. it's a choice.


omg rly? got attacked by lolz agin.

more animals

i miss purr. olivia is a bit short on it and refuses to come down from the television, where she has been since I put her there at 11 p.m. last night.

it's 8 a.m. in St. Louis. I found the clock; also reality. in one hour i go to GASCONADE the 7th circle of hell. and everything will be okay.

actually, xkcd, channeling my spinal column? already said that.


more animals

we are ready for the rain. we knew the rain was coming. so far, it's just raining cats. so it'll be okay.

and from my jean luc picard:

more animals

oh god. i tried to buy bourbon. at 3 a.m. at schnucks. they, not selling. s'okay. bought orange juice.

more animals

ceci est pour toi, ma belle.

funny pictures
moar funny pictures

the garb, much like the check. iz in the mailz.

also, this? yeah. BOB DITTER I <3 YOU!

more animals

should say:

funny pictures
moar funny pictures

dear universe... chere realite

j'aimerais trop bien si tu m'envoyeras une autre qui comprends SPOON THEORY, parce que celui que j'avais avant devoir habiter dans Bloomington a cause de ses etudes.

s'il te plait? j'ai plus des spoons. j'ai tout utilise. et moi? mise sur le sofa? ici? tout pres de l'infer?

mais attention! j'ai pas confiance en toi. en fait, je crois, j'suis sure, que tu envoyeras aussi encore les predators. JE CROIS CE QUE TU FASSES. et tu envoies LES MEILLEURS ET JE N'ACCEPTE PLUS D'ETRE MANGer.

more animals

yes. yes I am.

finally a leetle bit sleepy.

good morning. whatever the fucking hell time it iz in the universe.

5 a.m. 6 a.m.?

fuck it. good night.

edges and fear of falling.

the fall when I wrote you endless e-mails.
sent you postcards.
the fall and winter and spring
when I talked about you so much, no on understood or knew me.
I loved you so well. I still love you.
"I will love you 'til the day I die."

nervous laughter. a show open now. on cherokee somewhere in the historic district.

today i told a gallery owner that my partner, when he drinks, talks about ART which is awesome.

and i told him i knew his name because A. talked about him when he was DRUNK and doesn't remember telling me so.

he told me to tell A. to continue getting drunk and talking about him.

IT IS AN EXCELLENT GALLERY PHD - phillip ______ designs. it's on Cherokee too! There's a show now, being curated by a Leslie, and Leslie? she does Hello Guernica. Hello Dejeuner II. Hello ...Kitty everywhere, in classic art. Also? the show is called NERVOUS LAUGHTER.

sings modest mouse, "i am trying to drink away the part of the day that i cannot sleep away" and he sings it in polar opposites from the album lonesome crowded west and i have that whole album memorized. thank you, guy vallance, for all of my bad habits. you taught me as only a british son on an american artist could. also, would send you a postcard if you'd give me your address.

la plus ca change...

he said mean things when he was drunk.

it made me cry.

in private though, not in public.

so i screamed at him.

he screamed back.


it's not a party when it happens every night.

halpz! i am surrounded by the sum of my partz.

i can not haz mathses.


They used to feed me a bottle of 2 euro wine. Then they had me call the landlord. Because I had impeccable French and a great accent once I started drinking. Funnily enough, I still do. Also? I was the meanest. I drove a hard bargain.

And when sewage backs up into your shower? He thought we were joking. We didn't pay rent. Nope, no we didn't. je t'ai dit, monsieur, qu'on paiera apres que la douche est repare

We left. Our neighbors ratted us out, there was glue in key holes. There were public hysterics. There was the implication of character flaw, hot sex, scandal, and also? WE HAD A DIRTY ARAB FRIEND HE WAS BROWN. and that? that was a problem.

I love you, Yahya. But you knew that. also? you kept me from killing le monsieur. the one-armed bandit. I WAS A BETTER PIRATE THAN HIM. yes, yes I was.

i am not surprised he went crazy here.

mold will kill you
so will cockroaches.


I used to live in the genteel ghetto in the most EXPENSIVE CITY IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE.
Homeless men would drink beer in the dead-end alley behind my apartment.

One day, when they were loud and boisterous i started chucking things out the window.
we things. smelly things. I WAS TIRED OF THEIR NOISE, BAD TASTE IN MUSIC, AND FOUL LANGUAGE. and it was MY FUCKING HOUSE. I asked them, first, politley, to shut up. okay, so in france i screamed like a fishwife. RATHER SATISFYING.

they tried to throw things at me. but the angle was wrong. AND YOU KNOW WHAT? they left and they didn't make noise the next time they got drunk there. THEY GOT DRUNK VERY QUIETLY.

Sunday, September 14, 2008


these are the lyrics I was looking for.

also, these droids? totally mine. yeah, and I don't share my droids. YOU WOULDN'T ASK A CHEF FOR HER KNIVES OR A MECHANIC FOR HER SOCKET WRENCH SO DON'T TOUCH THE STEAMPUNK PIRATE's DROIDS, OKAY? they open pickle jars for her when she's too hungover to do it for herself.


coming up.

coming up

our father who art in a penthouse
sits in his 37th floor suite
and swivels to gaze down
at the city he made me in
he allows me to stand and
solicit graffiti until
he needs the land i stand on

i in my darkened threshold
am pawing through my pockets
the receipts, the bus schedules
the matchbook phone numbers
the urgent napkin poems
all of which laundering has rendered
pulpy and strange

loose change and a key
ask me
go ahead, ask me if i care
i got the answer here
i wrote it down somewhere
i just gotta find it

i just gotta find it

somebody and their spray paint got too close
somebody came on too heavy
now look at me made ugly
by the drooling letters
i was better off alone
ain't that the way it is
they don't know the first thing
but you don't know that
until they take the first swing

my fingers are red and swollen from the cold
i'm getting bold in my old age
so go ahead, try the door
it doesn't matter anymore
i know the weakhearted are strongwilled
and we are being kept alive
until we're killed

he's up there the ice
is clinking in his glass
he sends me little pieces of paper
i don't ask
i just empty my pockets and wait

it's not fate
it's just circumstance
i don't fool myself with romance
i just live
phone number to phone number
dusting them against my thighs
in the warmth of my pockets
which whisper history incessantly
asking me
where were you

i lower my eyes
wishing i could cry more
and care less,
yes it's true,
i was trying to love someone again,
i was caught caring,
bearing weight

but i love this city, this state
this country is too large
and whoever's in charge up there
had better take the elevator down
and put more than change in our cup
or else we
are coming


a concussion

the story is long. the punchline? GOOD.

"I woke up on the bathroom floor in a fetal ball. My head was covered with blue hairdye, and it looked like I had killed an entire Smurf army to make it so."

Aelred promptly informed me that he was not responsible. Also, that he had not died my hair in revenge; that he had been sleeping. Also? that it was not his fault. Given that he's the reason I was angrily dying my hair at midnight when I slipped, fell, cracked my skull on something porcelain and hard and laid unconscious on the floor for ???:???

Well, the devil IS in the details. And I was the one who had moved the rugs for the demolition. You don't know this, but I can hear Betsy and my little sister, and probably anyone who has EVER lived with me cackling. From here.

These are not the first smurfs I have killed in pursuit of fashion. Also, still trying to be Ariel from the Little Mermaid after all these years. HAVE FUN WITH THAT, FREUD.


At 14 I achieved Princess Leia cinnamon bun hair. At 18 I cried over Queen Amidala's hair because IT WOULD BE SO HARD. This is at the same time I cried joyful tears over her costumes. At 15 I was that lady? from Dune? the father of the main character guy? oh, this is so embarrassing. I just re-read this over the winter. The wife of Lord Atreides? the important one! arggggggh! I was her for Halloween. For fun.

This presupposed the year when I went as an English princess separated at birth from my twin sister, Suzy (hi!) I was raised in Ottoman Byzantine. She, not so neither. I bared my BELLY at school for ART AND I WAS BUSTED and Gillis King gave me his button down shirt to "cover up my nekkid belly" and the tough girls told me to take it right back off again and fuck the administration.

I think I did, actually, if memory serves me right. 'cause I think that last day at school? October 31st, 1999? Was A HELL OF A WAY TO GO OUT WITH A BANG and to say to all the fuckers who dumped me because I wouldn't screw them YOU WILL NEVER GET THIS NOW, NOT EVER EVEN IF YOU TRY. THIS IS MINE AND IT IS PRECIOUS AND GO ROT IN HELL YOU HORRIBLE MEN. yeah. if you think I'm crazy now? imagine me before I was permitted martinis and cigarettes. imagine me ON FIRE FOR GOD because I DID LOVE JESUS, YES I DID.

And to this day? I haven't had Bill-Clinton-style relations with anyone from that high school. Although I did have to stop and think, and not for lack of opportunity or offers. I wrote some of them pretty poetry. Yes, you. you went away to Dartmouth and never came back.

And you? You came out gay and now I'm not allowed to kiss you. *sigh* You asked permission to kiss me more; but you're still an asshole and there are rules. You did leave me for EASY WOMEN IN MUNCIE INDIANA, just SAYING. I DON'T THINK IT REFLECTS WELL ON YOU.

ALSO DID I TELL YOU? THERE IS GOD THERE. although i cried about the Spanish Inquisition and mistranslations of key scriptures from Greek and Aramaic and Hebrew and I cried about the Crusades and I cried about the Salem Witch Trials and I FELT SO MUCH GUILT FOR THE SINS OF MY FATHERS. The church didn't quite know what to do with me. I think, burning at the stake was illegal in Minnesota at the time, also, in Indiana. (just barely) (they still do it in Kentucky, shhhhh).

I also cried, because I DIDN'T THINK GANDHI WENT TO HELL. I didn't think he did.AND I DIDN'T THINK that holocaust survivors Were GOING TO HELL EITHER. That was just not fair. not fair not fair not fair.

I believed in fair.

law 1 of metaphysics, as we understand them today: if there is a god, she doesn't care very much. thank you, to phd gallery on cherokee. thank you, thank you. I LAUGHED SO HARDE.

I believed in VIGILANTE JUSTICE. I believed in Luke Skywalker and the Force. I BELIEVED IN SUPERHEROES. I believed in PETER PAN AND TINKERBELL. I believed. I clapped for fairies. I BELIEVED IN PRINCE CHARMING. I believed in the Wicked Witch and I believed in red shoes and I BELIEVED IN HAPPY ENDINGS.

I was a brown coat before they invented brown coats. browncoat? let's just say that WHEN dearest ninja_turbo called me Enara in my Serenity household Casa di Oakenfold -- that was the NICEST THING anyone has said to me, oh, in ... since I was 17. And Kofi, he said I resembled 4th Book Hermione. Still booksmart and aggravating and TOTALLY THE TEACHER'S PET but not half so bad as she was in books 1-3. It was awfully nice of him. It made me love him for many years. No one said nice things to me that summer at all. I sorted a lot of rotten potatoes and I rolled a lot of lonely baguette and I nursed the most broken heart of all:

watching what you want being destroyed by something else. someone else.

Austin Graves, are you there? Internet, he graduated from GRINNEL or at least he went to school there. And studied. something. Like FRENCH. Also, I loved him with my whole heart. EVERY LAST OUNCE OF A CATHOLIC METHODIST PURITAN REPRESSED SECKRIT MERMAID PRINCESS.

I, of course, was a lion about it. I never told him. I never kissed him. Not that I remember, at least, and that was before I forgot pain by drinking. That was back when I refused weed and alcohol. I was a product of DARE and I did indeed believe in what they told me. It took years of careful education before mumble mumble mumble. ahem? oh, censorship. did you know big brother is watching? you and you and you?

I have been avoiding thinking for too long. I have been hiding. From you. From me. From memory. From my parents. From my family.

Alley Olly ox-en-free!

come out, wherever you are.

because I am. and my friend went and told the kinsey institute all about it. so thar. I know! she at least hid my name all up with numbers. reallzy! it's like I am a fancy human being.

or at least someone meriting your attention. AND WE ALL KNOW THAT GEEKY GIRLS WITH LOW SELF ESTEEM SOME MORNINGS NEED LOTS OF ATTENTION AND LOVE otherwise they melt.

like sugar in rain.
like the witch.
like salt.
they're like meat without salt.

meet without salt. that was my favrit, y'know. cap'orushes? i knew all the variants.

dear coca cola

plz to fix teh headz. it hurts.

also, plz to stop killin' union organizers in 3rd world countriez.

makes mi lyfe complimocated.


is what you say when you fail at your dreams but do GREAT at everything else.

high functioning.



but you aren't happy. You're on prozac. You take X, You eat modern psycotropic chemicals.


rather that you are too damn LAZY


GIVE THEM BREAD CIRCUSESbread and circuses.

holy roman empire, may you rest in peace.

This bloggijng brough to you by...

everyone else is fucking unconscious because they don't have bionic vegan livers.


need sausages and beer; also, CELEBRATOR!
doppel bach.

doppel bach.

ben, c'est quoi? le probleme, j'ai du tabac. dans ma tabatier.

j'ai du tabac et tu ne l'auras, l'auras PAS.


j'ai du chocolat dans mon FRIGIDAIRE
J'ai du chocolat et tu ne l'auras, l'auras pas

conjugates verbs in foreign languages when hung over, YES SHE CAN.

aslo, my 12 ice cubes?

they have a bowl full of water, and also an emergen-C packet.


because they were charging too fucking much for pastis. ANYONE AN IMPORTER? THIS PIRATE NEEDS RICARD 51


thank you.also, je vous remercie!


new amsterdam gin is so tasty you can drink it straight from the bottle from the freezer if you pretend you are winston churchhill and you look at the vermouth in the cabinet.

these are not the lyrics I wanted. aslo, those droids? NOT THE ONES YOU WERE LOOKING FOR

it's rock paper scissors as to whether
i will get over you at all
it's hand against hand and both hands are mine
it's standing in a circular line
which is not to say that i'm not also happy
a happy meal with a surprise inside
surprise surprise here's another bright light in your eyes
exposing all the stuff you're not calculating enough to hide

this melancholy that i carry makes me feel so grown up
at my kitchen table doing shots of resignation
i never thought i'd see the day when i would say i give up
and break the stallions of my wildest expectations

i do not want to know you this way
surrounded by so much pain
but how am i supposed to let go of you this way
like a bird into the sky of my brain?

i think i could accept all these dark colors
as just part of some bigger color scheme
if it wasn't for that drippy string quartet of sadness
underscoring each smiling scene
desire drags me right out of myself
a gas-soaked rope tied to a piece of coal
and i'm getting pretty good at looking at the bright side
while the flames rip along the sand and swallow me whole

blogger works on dial up

but flickr? youtube? pandora? lastfm? media? media? media


Because If I'm suffering? i want there to be hot nekkid lesbian sex with pretty ladies

'cause if you guys get an entire PENIS INDUSTRY OOPS I MEAN PORN INDUSTRY

then can i at least have 1 show on showtime?


engineering fail.

so, this hurricane? ike?

killed the zip ties. ended the wrought iron fence.

and my UMBRELLA? my shade and rain and hookah lounge UMBRELLA? and by that I mean, Aelered's drinking a la PENNSIC umbrella?

is now blocking the door way. my cat ate spot. yes, his name is spot. yes, he looks like a spot. yes, his name is spot. he is a golden retriever/australian cattle dog mix. yes, he herds. yes, he's a working dog. yes, he retrieves. yes, yes yes.

also he is young and foolish and OLIVIA will eat him for breakfast lunch dinner.

It smells like strawberries and sin...

We're making cordial.
You should come play too. I might dip them in chocolate or also make strawberry short cake. With this much vodka?
but I am making alcohol and I have my cat.
I fucking hate listening to npr. It makes me an ANARCHIST THIS FAST.


Hello Birmingham Lyrics
Artist(Band):Ani DiFranco
Hold me down
I am floating away
Into the overcast skies
Over my home town
On election day

What is it about Birmingham?
What is it about Buffalo?
Did the hate filled wanna build bunkers
In your beautiful red earth
They want to build them
In our shiny white snow

Now I've drawn closed the curtain
In this little booth where the truth has no place to stand
And I am feeling oh so powerless
In this stupid booth with this useless
Little lever in my hand
And outside my city is bracing
For the next killing thing
Standing by the bridge and praying
For the next doctor
Martin Luther King

It was just one shot
Through the kitchen window
It was just two miles from here
If you fly like a crow
A bullet came to visit a doctor
In his one safe place
A bullet ensuring the right to life
Whizzed past his kid and his wife
And knocked his glasses
Right off of his face

And the blood poured off the pulpit
Yeah the blood poured down the picket lines
Yeah, the hatred was immediate
And the vengeance was divine
So they went and stuffed god
Down the barrel of a gun
And after him
They stuffed his only son

Hello birmingham
It's Buffalo
I heard you had some trouble
Down there again
And I'm just calling to let to know
That someone understands

I was once escorted
Through the doors of a clinic
By a man in a bulletproof vest
And no bombs went off that day
So I am still here to say Birmingham
I'm wishing you all of my best
Oh Birmingham
I'm wishing you all of my best
Oh Birmingham
I'm wishing you all of my best on this election day




Friday, September 12, 2008

six page love letters and other minor disasters

the question is, do you send them? do you post them? do you break them into several thousand post secrets? erm, not that I do that. nope. don't send to www.postsecret.blogspot.com nope. not me. never. never never.

I sit here in a sea of debris and crises large and small. I sit here on the floor with our baggage and our boxes and our emotional disarray and our art. And I think. Fuck. How is it that I believe? How is it that I still believe in this disaster? This permanency this love this monogamy this reality? What kind of horrid programing do I have that the routine of cleaning house in the morning makes me feel complete? That washing the dishes makes me feel accomplished? That organizing and cleaning and effiecientizing in a fashion that Henry Ford would be proud of? I actually assembly line everything like a twisted and broken Montessori student; programming.

I'm spending a lot of time reading 2nd and 3rd wave feminism and backlash; it doesn't help my mental state much, but if I want to dissertate, then I need to know more and I don't know enough and only books can help. Only books can help, right now. I'm working on
What is a Wife Worth? and also Sexual Suicide and also Reviving Ophelia and ... and ... and ...

I'm in the midst of a true existentialist crisis and fuck it if all of Camus in French when I couldn't read in French is of any use to me. Oh, in crisis? not recommending French Post Colonial Feminism, p.s. BAD IDEA. I don't know that this amount of reading and thinking and writing is a good thing, though it is educational. I mentioned that following this summer I would need some serious decompression, and I'm still writing stories from THE GRAND ADVENTURE so I suppose that's all well and good?

My wristwatch just declared it midnight in CST. Convenient that I never switched it back. It has its own program of beeping which I do not regulate. There are buttons? It is technology. I will leave it for the maesters and worry about dinner. Midnight snack. Feeding starving artists; yes, I am good at that...

Thank you, Jenny Owen Youngs, I bring you, THE DRINKING SONG

Everything I touch turns to shit
Everyone I try to love won’t hear of it
Now my hands are overfull of things I’d like to give
Does anybody want it?
Does anybody want it?
Does anybody want me?

I’ve been mapping it out
I don’t know what’s wrong with me
But I wish that it was something else
I’ve been mapping it out
Maybe you should find a girl who cares about herself

There's solace at the bottom of the bottle
ba da da da da da
There's solace at the bottom of the bottle
ba da da da da da

Everywhere I look I see your face
No button I can push, delete, erase
Got nothing straight but for the emptiness
No one left for me to miss

I’ve been mapping it out
I don’t know what’s wrong with me
But I wish that it was something else
I’ve been mapping it out
Maybe you should find a girl who cares about herself

There's sadness at the bottom of the bottle
ba da da da da da
There's sadness at the bottom of the bottle
ba da da da da da

Down here we’ve got so much time to forget

I wonder if this is how I pay for the things I’ve broken carelessly
Nobody wants to step on it
I guess I just keep drinking

There's solace at the bottom of a bottle
ba da da da da da
There's solace at the bottom of a bottle
ba da da da da da

The problem with falling is
sooner or later you have to hit something.

I first heard this song on a Pandora rotation for my top secret pandora station. It was at work, and it was so happy. After many days and hours of hearing this song, I searched the lyrics; was shocked to find something so happy be the truly saddest and truest words anyone had sung to me in ages. The veracity and beauty was such that the first time I was drunk in ages after an Axis of Evil, this is what I sang to everyone, what I insisted on playing on YouTube, what I was dancing around the house to.

My boyfriend torrented and iTunezed a cd with a lot of her work, some betas, some concert recordings, and several other things. It was brilliant. He had it for me within days and I thought it was awfully sweet that he could hear me sing that song, lost as I was, struggling as I was, in as much pain -- and understand that hearing those words and acknowledging the pain somehow made it easier.

Thank you. You were too good; you still are. Toutes des tes reves, je m'en te souhais.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Pirates know fear.

It is a weakness at the backs of knees.
It is a sickness in the stomach.
It is a bitterness at the back of the throat, the end of the tongue.

There's a crawl space with no entry point. Only rat-sized holes.

I know, god fucking damn it I know, I know my fool of a cat is in there. Where could she go that a pup couldn't follow? Where would feel dark and cozy and secure and safe? How fucking often has she crawled into something she couldn't get out of?
I don't know how many lives she used before she met me.

1) To survive and be picked up by the shelter back in May/June of 2006; then to force my hand into adopting the antithesis of what I wanted.
2) To survive living at the corner of Atwater and Woodlawn; found wandering in the Optometry building.
3) To survive on the stupidest street know to Bloomington, Washington Street, where cops found 60 MPH to be too slow in the pursuit of justice.
4) To survive the killer shooting at semis from interstate over passes on I-69 near to Lafayette.
5) To survive being a barn cat out at Rob's with two horses, one dog, and a very menacing team of barn cats.
6) The crawl space over Bill's garage.
7) The time she upturned the water and went without for four days over Thanksgiving and the toilet lid was down.
8) The time she crawled inside the partially finished dining room wall and we had to cut dry wall with a Sawzall to get her out.
9) Spending 48 hours in the busted, flat-tired conversion van that my neighbors parked in front of my house for eight months, found by me only by accident, because I forced myself to walk to the Farmer's Market.
10) Surviving to reincarnate at the shelter as Sweet Pea (see her on the flyers for August 18th. Lower right.
11) Jumping out the window at 3 a.m. and not sliding down the aluminum shade. I hauled her back in with spunk and pluck.
12) This is life 12. And 10 p.m. is too fucking late to take the Sawzall to the bathroom/entry room floor, though we'd been planning to do it anyway. Tomorrow. I'm moving all the boxes tonight.

All I fear is that I will have failed her. That Dede's friendly nose now pricked with claw marks is the last memory I will have of my beautiful kitty. She was so happily silhouetted in the window, watching the street below. An elegant black form arch with felinicity. And I was too under-caffeinated to remember to put up the fucking baby gate. ONE LITTLE THING. And she would still be there, glaring from the office at the top of the stairs. ONE LITTLE THING.

I want to crawl under the house myself and die with shame; the one creature I had been true to, for so long. Here she is, surrounded by an army of dogs in a house that smells all wrong, far from home and the city she knew and the neighborhood she ruled.

I fret. I fret. I fret. Come home, prodigal kitty! Come home!

Monday, September 8, 2008

Trois Rivieres, J'suis arrive

I'm snugly in St. Louis, arriving with a Pirate Cat as my look-out (perched not in her nest in the passenger seat but rather instead on the stacked boxes behind my head) at a rollicking 3 a.m. in the morning. 3 different semis tried to shoulder me off of the road and a semi and a pick up truck decided to blockade the exit-lane I needed, for apparently no particular reason but spite.

Harrowing journey aside, I would say I feel liberated from possessions, but the box farm I'm living in speaks otherwise. I can hardly seem to empty them but for more of them to appear, materializing out of thin air, apparating into existence in the kitchen, the living room, the hallway, the backyard.

Time for more tea, more patience (they make it in a gel, these days! modernity!), and more slowing of entropy.

Allons! Les enfants de la patrie!

Thursday, September 4, 2008

"I like my caffeine cold and sweet."

The pond doctor is referring to ye olde Coca Cola, made with real honest-to-goodness high fructose corn syrup and the blood of innocent Colombiano unionizers.

I refer to a double shot of espresso on ice, with a tear drop of half and half to watch entropy in action. I think my espresso may involve some sweat and tears, but with luck (especially at SOMA) it's organic and equal exchange and maybe that makes it okay. Guilt trips for a few moments about the carbon footprint of importing coffee from another continent...

Attempts continue to accomplish everything essential before departure. I've gotten a little orderly about this; and certainly had my mother and father's great example. I'm currently wangling over this tedious PIN-# issue with the bank -- forget 3 times in a row, and they *freeze* your account! Gee,whiz,thanx.

I hope there are baristas in St. Louis who pull shots as good as those at SOMA and City Bakery. If not, there will be many tears. Or at least, many creative attempts with the counter-top model I have received as a "cleaning out my basement and oh, would you like this?" present.

I wish my cat and I could sit in an interstitial interpsacial time/space hole for the day to snuggle and write and drink tea. Regrettably, we both must gird our loins for the inevitable box schlepping and packing to begin tomorrow. :: laces on gauntlets ::

Come night! Come boxes! Phaeton's fiery chariot cannot scare me away! Although the remnants of Hurricane Gustav drooling through the Midwest will certain dampen my spirits, books, and boxes...

Monday, September 1, 2008

Internetlocked: the state of not having internet access for more than 72 hours...

And it is not fun. This pirate vows to avoid an internetlocked state for the rest of time near to come.