hundredtwenny milesanhour maybemore allfuckingday longmonday. clientscalling whiningwhatnotyet nohellno payrolllate depositwhatever goodgod. home. email. air? right. breathe. deadlinetomorrow noclue ifitcan bedone letalone when. otherdeadline thursdayareyou fuckingkidding?
hungrydizzy. smellygrubby. shower? food? umno. deoderantanda canofrockstar andsomecookies. *chokechoke* ohyeah eatfood breatheair nottheother wayaround.
ok, break's over.
i'm pretty sure he's dead. which is good, i'm exhausted & i damn near killed my ownself standing on a swively chair so i could reach.
but what if he's faking it till i sleep, waiting patiently until the lights are out to avenge this, the latest of several attempts on his life? i thought i got him hours ago, i would swear it, and yet there he was, hovering over me, woozy but most assuredly not dead. not dead = not good.
i know. sure, i must be sure. garbage disposal? is that really necessary? yeah yeah fine i will. i will! damn you, leave me be, i'll do it.
it's just never easy, is it?
but easier than you'd think. still, i can feel one of the more unwell aspects of my self sliding down into a defensive little ball, back against the wall, sullen & shaken & radiant with potential hysteria. everything is deserved here except release, which will most likely be taken by force at some point & so why wait?
waiting is.
a magnificent shiny black bumblebee met a grisly end this afternoon at my hands. well, it was my doing, my hands were holding only the trigger of the kitchen cleaner, pumping away until he flailed into the sink, at which point i finished him with hot water and dish liquid, yes i'm deadly with a variety of ordinary household products. a gangly spider behind the refrigerator was allowed to live, there had been enough carnage in that kitchen for one day. besides, my insecticidal rage is a big chickenshit & i was out of fantastik®.
& there will be no further attempts to mask the sounds of shattering. no word yet about my reasons for trying, insight into my own behavior being entirely inadvisable at this point, i'm betting the why is worse than the what by a long shot.
these words will self destruct the minute it hits me, & if i knew what i meant by 'it' i wouldn't be posting the bloody thing now would i?
fortunately none of this matters. i need to translate that into a dead language & have it inked where i can see it, yes?
nothing like the feeling of being particularly in tune with the universe, some seriously vernal harmonic convergence new age foofoo whatever here, i shit you not, i am just humming with vibes & about to start up with the ohhhhmm & all, any minute now. in almost unrelated but surely somehow connected news, the universe tells me i should shave my legs. curiouser & curiouser.
& it sucks major hiney that i have to abandon all the in-tunedness & be terrestrial. i.e. work. i can stamp my petulant foot until the toes tingle & it won't change practical factual matters. doesn't stop me stamping, or tossing my fetching little bald-spot covering braid, no fuck no.
look! a distraction!
i don't want to work i don't want to fix the internet i don't want to sleep i don't want to make cds i don't want to watch dvds, i want to write. i want to sit here diddle these keys until it happens. i want to go noodle with the seven or so things in draft status, garbage mostly maybe not. maybe a revision of an old old poem that turned into an insane essay. the best version of which? i kicked the plug right before saving.
and i am apparently sick of typing out and. i loved my pretty & and the bastards called her evil. fuck the bastards, fuck the dumb shit, give me words, give me sparse stark things & then some whimsy please & follow that with a lush rush of verbiage & keep it coming until i am whining with the carpal tunnel, i want repetetive fucking stress injuries from the staggering volume of words.
assiduous. pure. harrowing. edifying. obvious. erstwhile. reticence. sex. reverie. unfettered. will. ever. fingertips. sex. after. consume. confound. mate. release. limitless. ephemera. and aside from that this really weird weird hope thing. it has no words, & yet i can't shut the fuck up. unless.
it's windy chilly and wild out, and i am wearing my old tommy hilfiger pants, and my ass looks marvelous. i have no desire to go to work, how many nice young butts in jeans must a lecherous goat such as myself be subjected to in one day? i ask you. gender unimportant, i'm open. minded. and jeans on round behinds is one of those things you just gotta thank the universe for, a thing of booty is a joy forever. um. i'm so sorry about that one.
and i'm not me. there's someone else in here, and she's ... damn. she's kinda hot, considering ... and she's terribly frisky today. terribly. and she is mighty mighty, just lettin' it all hang out. well, she is.
and who wouldn't be, with such an ass? i wish i still had a webcam. it's an ass of substance, but not nearly as much substance as it was, and ... this ass obsession has got to go. got to.
brick. house.
so i read scott facing thirty seven, and it brought memories of me, just after forty, with a similar sense of loss. except mine thought it was a poem.
... cried the subject line, and i was ... distracted. 'hmm,' i thought, 'maybe that's what i need. midget prøn. hell with this work bullshit, gimme nekkid midgets!'
and then it occurred to me ... really nothing, nothing at all, i was blank like the most flabbergasted blank that's ever been blanked. which brings to mind match game, remember match game? gene. gene rayburn. and then i remembered when george carlin, musing on the seven words you can't say on tv (fuck shit piss cunt cocksucker motherfucker and tits), said that it was ok to say boobs because it was a standard answer on match game, or some such.
i guess you had to be there.
where for the love of holy mindfuck has the time gone? work, billable hours, drained down the howling vortex of just-never-know-land. a fact which would call for another interjection of fuck, as in what a fucking potty mouth i am here. and i don't like this, aesthetically, it is coarse, unseemly, rude, crude, (or in the context of this evening in particular, mild, gentle, and understated, but i digress).
i digress, and i cuss gratuitously, to the extent i make my ownself uncomfortable as all hell here, which ... brings me to blank again. blank will be fine, and thanks for nothing is something i would say (not a hint sarcastic intent in it) if only nothing would ever happen, but what are the chances? i'll answer: chances are, it will happen, just not in this lifetime.
so then it felt like i ought to step outside this, adopt a disappointed stance and claim i never meant to write such an uneven unlyrical unlovely unwonderful thing, attempting to elicit encouragement and/or lessen the offense of it (circumstances in mitigation: defendant went ahead and did it, but she didn't like it, no not one itty-bit. nossir, she turned her nose and sniffed askance at it. she did.)
however upon further consideration i believe that would be a pretentious snotload of a thing to try and claim, so i won't. and while i might regret releasing this thing from oblivion, i promised honest when i came to this place, and honest is often ugly. more often than not, really, although we are royally loathe to admit that, aren't we?
horrible. can't imagine what i was thinking drinking like that. and i did the inadvisable email thingy too, pretty sure. haven't confronted that quite yet. not ready. so queasy. and what was i thinking doritos for breakfast? nacho cheese bad idea. monday bad day. bad me.
today jilly's post about love and romance and weddings got me to reminiscing - i used to be such a romantic. i even wrote love poems and shit. one follows, i called it 'the rantings of a fanatic' but i no longer like the title.
hope i have more to say than i think. the emptiness of this text box is demanding i fill it, and whether or not i can comply, i am compelled, impelled, and the next word that occurs is impaled, sometimes i really miss my own point (or nail it, and not know it until well after the fact but not this time. really.) (wait: nail, impale, ... no. nice try though.) the words they fuck with me. occasionally the other way 'round but not this time. no.
the process is frustration in a form pure as the scream screamed screaming down the freeway at something approaching terminal velocity, however these things are memories mostly, i'm slower by far here now at my age although i never touched the brakes, not once.
do i miss fast? is this a loss? am i beyond being that raw? risking it all and more and it was just me, my one bare toe on the pedal feathering the throttle until it was wide fucking open and so was i, flying mindless of consequences, honest i was open to them, i deserved them, whether i was fully aware of it at the time or oblivious. (both. i was both.) this was me seriously bent upon my own destruction, i just failed at it, is all. to this day i never quarrel over getting what's coming to me, i know oh so much better.
i miss the purity of that willingness, that utterly fucked up careless place i survived beyond only by some random accident of fortune. and i miss raw. i miss that reckless existence, fast as the gear ratio would allow at the top end, i miss nothing mattering in the end, this i miss most of all.
no, i don't. yes, no, wait, maybe, yes. yes. no. yes.
fuck if i know.
'tis a day of downloading bad religion and greenday and offspring, a beer before noon day, a wonder if the computer speakers can bother the neighbors, they're such little things but no complaints, none at all. except i might give that impression as i get into it, into the way the past is invoked in all this with absolutely devastating clarity, and by that i mean nothing negative, i believe destruction is almost always for the best.
nice excuse for a lot of things, that is. you may borrow it anytime, no charge.
but if i could go back say ten-ish years, i think i might just go ahead and do that. and all that that entails. shocking i can say that knowing the rewinding would include one child, and the decisions i'd be there to amend, would include walking away when i had the chance from the man who fathered him, and what this means is all in all i'm big talk and entirely full of shit. you could hand me the keys to the time machine right now and it wouldn't matter if i wanted it more than i want this next breath, this one right here, i couldn't accept it. but i'd be absolutely aglow with it much like miss d'arc as the flames rose - the nobility of the sacrifice would make me just insufferable.
and this leaves me here and here is what it is and maybe the pre-noon beer beginning wasn't the best way to face the sunday of a week like the week that just was. whatever _that_ is supposed to mean. (she turns to face her self and snips 'quit fucking whining bitch' ... and this of course changes nothing. nice try, murmurs the whiner in her, and continues.) ... deep breath ... no that was it. for the moment, in any case, since i just found a nearly full pack of cigarettes and this was a relief only someone running out fast and too drunk to go get more could really appreciate, and i'm just much too pleased about that.
if you are a sensitive caring feeling human being, you do not want to read this. i have a somewhat ... um, different outlook on certain things, death being one of them. i have my reasons, i do. and also this is a late late last night rant and it's not representative of the way i see things all the time, or even most of the time. and god i hate it when i need a disclaimer, i'd rather not be deviant about things, but here i am.
however if you choose to read this and it bothers you, don't go whining about it, alright? suck it up and move on. you were warned.
i tire of my own attempts to explain as whimsy what is in fact just irresponsibility tied directly to the fact i expect the world to indulge me, and if it does (and it does usually) it does in ways that send me skittering along the very vertiginous edges of consequence, from which i come away lucky, almost but not quite intact. lessons are contaminated by the panic or obscured by the numbness that follows, and any advantages granted in the reprieve are generally spent indulging my self-inflicted diminished and incapacitated self, a luxury which is surely not due me; this is no less an injustice than anything else i protest against, but let's leave the hypocrisy out of this, please? oh just humor me, i'm fragile dammit.
and i sit here scribbling something intended as penance, which is aviodance disguised in terms of critical analytical self-obsessed rhetoric. and i sit and consider the consequences i have yet to face and find i'm facing the fact i can't imagine my way out of this. and i sit and stall, doing nothing, knowing it will be my undoing and yet i am sitting here still, scribbling.
and still i offer myself absolution in advance of any evidence i've changed, accepting this dubious resolve as all i have to offer in return, even though the gesture is empty at best and it gets worse: already i've begun to fidget and chafe and shift under the burden, alert for avenues of escape to the extent i'm practically frantic, which leaves little energy for change; whatever is left will most likely be applied superficially to the appearance of change.
and if all i can manage is the maintenance of appearances, that might pass for an accomplishment of sorts and would certainly count as change, since the obviousness is often the worst part of this mess. which means change is within reach, and yes this counts. whether i move toward the goal or move the goal toward me, the amount of progress is the same, and this makes all the difference.
thus the urgency of doing the impossible and my scant chance at success are transformed through the magic of lowered expectations, and the resulting relief from the stress of almost hopelessness is an achievement of no small significance: this makes the hours i spent composing this time not spent, but invested. i close this with confidence soaring, knowing if i can dish out this much unmitigated bullshit in just one night, thereby snatching victory out of the jaws of the most egregious flakiness, well, the possibilities are ... limited only by how easy they are. and how many easy things are there? oodles, baby, oodles. well, several. and how many words did it take to turn one pathetic loser into the force of nature you see before you now? yeah. i'm that good.
surreality spent at
the outset &
replenished at the expense
of the evening
dark &
relentless
& the moon in
half-phase
faces down
the dawn
& with no intention
of surrender, retreats
in the rising light
& by & by my
nights & days are
depleted & an almost
imperceptible metamorphosis
occurs, an accumulation
of the effects of
time & exposure
to the elements:
erosion &
other losses,
loose ends,
ex-best friends
& everything
& the weather
grows wilder
every year
as storms rage, refuge
& redemption are offered
in the form of
precautions & prohibitions
an invitation into
the illusion of
safety & warmth
i decline
politely
& continue
to decline while
i run in
the rain
& whirl with
the wind
& dance through
the deluge
i am inspired
by lightning
& fire &
i am more than
alive & the sky
is savage with song
& unless this cataclysm claims me
& it won't, or it would have
already, & this is me
as it seems i am
best & perhaps
meant to be,
thriving in the
aftermath amidst the
damage & tragedy,
energized & again
reborn
-(me)
25 JAN 95
two weeks today with the tongue ring. i can't begin to tell you how much i haven't eaten, it was even more than i hoped for in the preventing eating department. and i've been fine, obviously my body was more than willing to use up the stored reserves, but there are limits, and i hit mine tonight.
or more accurately it hit me. right around sevenish, i just crashed. i was way past a little low blood sugar, past hungry, i was in entirely new territory as far as my feelings for food are concerned. i was of about the same mindset as the donner party when they decided a little roast leg of jebediah would hit the spot, ok? i was that convict in the stand who was salivating at the thought of eating rancid rat meat raw, fur and all, and then randall flagg comes and recruits him as an evil henchman and ... i was stark raving ravenous, probably a little dangerous, and i had to have it. had to have food you chew, had to.
i drove home struggling to stay focused, stopped at the colonel on my way; even as i was navigating the narrow exit of the drivethrough, i was already digging in the box and tearing the into the flesh and stuffing the hot meat into my mouth; i believe i was moaning. it was intense, it was primal. i would say sexual but it was on another level, a different depth, it was survival.
two chicken strips and a side of mashed potatoes and gravy later, i'm rushing out on the feeling of solid food fullness, all atingle and shivery warm and fuzzy headed dizzy giddy and, well, a little gassy -- even that feels just divine.
don't try this at home, folks, it's bad and dangerous and wrong and balanced eating habits blah blah exercise blah ok? and as bad as i know it is, which is very very, i still stand behind my horrible dietary tendencies on the grounds that fitting into my old pants is ... so much more than it sounds like, really trust me on that, i'm too woozy to sense much make more any lack of brain blood probably sleepy-bye?
today mostly felt like being pulled apart by wild horses, which is an awful metaphor and therefore a perfect fit. sometimes only ugly awkward words work.
my poor hungry houseguests have been exceptionally tolerant of the conditions here; they are huddled on the one couch while i annoy them with my insomnia, i can't think of a way to convince them to stay another day, and the way this feels tells me i really need more interaction with people in actual reality. but wishing they'd stay makes hardly any sense, considering tomorrow is already not mine, and i could not take it back if i tried, and i have not made peace with that concept, not one little bit.
it's the way the world works, it either offers up unwanted frighteningly unfilled hours in vast quantities, or it demands your presence in three places before noon, none negotiable. the scheduling involves having nowhere near enough time for some things and much too much for others, and the chances i'll manage everything in a satisfactory fashion: none. can't be done. pessimist? not at all. there are conflicting things, things which would not accept any answer but yes; therefore the best i can hope to accomplish is adequate damage contol. success is not an option! however my expertise in the area of failure will serve me well. do it with grace and it makes what didn't get done much less appealing. it's about style and proper form and a firm, solid stroke. it's the spin and the way you use the wind. it's in the wrist, mostly, the rest you improvise.
i suppose i should mention timing, but that's about all i'll do about it, for now.
so i'm wearing my hair parted to the side and across the front a small braid tied with a twist tie. it's adorable, but more importantly, it hides the bald spots. yes. bald. spots.
well sorta almost here. an hour and a half ago they were in pomona and they thought it would take 45 minutes to get here. i'm thinking that was a tad optimistic, however it should be any minute now, give or take a sig-alert.
so ... i'm nervous.
this rarely rarely rarely ever happens anymore. there are a few pushbuttons left and oh my yes things get ugly. i can't remember the last time, i'm sure it was a year or more since there was one of these escalate immediately to screamfest things and fuck if i know why i'm posting this. nice that it's kind of quiet here.
it's not well written. it's not something i am happy to have written and if i could release it without clicking post, i would. it's as appealing as rancid roadkill, as literate as ass sweat, as intelligent as lint. in short, it stinks. and gives an impression about me that i'd rather not.
for something worth reading, go read the last post. this? eh. you were warned.
sigh. no Jhames & Co till tomorrow, they're in the desert attempting to commit mayhem armed only with cactii and perhaps even poisonous reptiles, i believe. and they won't be here till tomorrow, so i'm being patient about it. i am.
i did hear both their voices, so they are were both still alive as of, oh, sevenish.
i hope i got the right wine. i have no short term memory and am unused to purchasing wine in actual bottles.
hmm, let's see now. i've been up since eight, i've ... i've ... done some very frivolous coding, in fact i broke stuff that was working just because i decided all the functions needed to be in a library and that upset the delicate balance of the odd scripts i'd plugged all over the place and ...
the house is a sty. i mean sty in the most literal sense, i mean pigs would be iffy about it, k?
Jhames & Co will be here in approximately ... 7 hours? with my luck they're hauling major ass and the door's going to ding any second and what i at least had planned was to do a whole messload of cleaning and *then* claim what was left was the normal mess. you know, oh, haha, look dust and all that, oh so untidy, lalala, ...
but no. and the problem is the code library is ... i'm not done. and i had stuff still to find or figure out or do or something like that i mean, why am i blogging? i'm up to my ass in alligators (actually that would be preferable to three day's dishes in a clogged sink full of ickwater, the alligators would smell better.)
ok, so, i'm still sitting here.
nothing's changed yet.
man, i need a nap.
the flayed nerves are skin deep only, and the skin is thinning; the rain drowns out the sounds of old bones. and it is rain which defines the night, not intent.
in spite of this the girl sits and tells us that she meant to go dance in the rain, but it ended before she had her chance. her words change nothing; she winces, understands, and falls silent. the rain fills what follows and she shrugs and begins to ache.
she aches and envisions things and drifts toward the end of night. the rain begins again and the girl begins to realize she has missed her last chances at the things she envisions. she searches the worries which once beset her younger selves and finds nothing resembling a night like this, but nearly everything else. she considers what passed her by while she was preoccupied thinking one unfounded thing after another was after her, toying idly with the irony of it all while resisting regrets with the belief that all she really missed were chances to regret different things.
she dozes and the night passes and the the rain remains and the day begins before the dreams end; the girl lingers between, the storm speaks to her there. she sits and listens intently, sifting through each nuance for any meaning maybe hidden within.
the girl drifts and aches and sifts and finally finds one pure thing but in that exact instant it hits her and she remembers nothing matters and fails to notice the answer as it falls from her hands.
she allows a wry smile and settles into the rest of whatever this is in spite of whatever it was meant to be. she envisions nothing and is interrupted by a lull in the rain, left alone with only the sound of her own breath, wondering when it will end. and the rain begins again and the girl remains silent, still waiting.
firstly: those of you wishing for news of blogfixing, i've requested that they reactivate the old site so i can go in (under the IP) and convert the errant copies of MT to MySQL so that i can fix whatever's wrong with the comments and things.
and so i came home from work and discovered my first season of due south had gotten here from canada - and i am on episode 6 already. i am just delighted. which was a welcome change from the day which ... not worth mentioning. stress and paper cuts. file folder paper cuts. right on the cuticle. but anyway.
and, so, (weeeeeee) the infamous jhames is coming to visit! i've warned him about the mess and everything, which he's ok with, and, and, it's going to be wonderful. and he'll cook. oh mercy.
feverishly springy. moody. mercurial, even, but the thrill goes to the bones, when it's right. and when it's wrong, the adrenaline tingle works ... until it doesn't, and the brain begins to break. but out of the hate that comes out of the breaking, comes the energy and the answer. and upon refresh, the error vanishes and the page displays and the functions function and the query returns results, and in that moment, it's perfect. such power. such magic. nothing compares.
so, what happens when you have something like surreally, a big place that at one point had lots of email addys, and they were (choke) linked on the site. uh, duh me? yeah. anyway, what happens if you switch servers and your cPanel offers to auto-configure your "master" email account to download to your outlook express, and suddenly you are getting all the stray email that goes to surreally?
i'll tell you what happens. about a spam every two mintes, ALL DAY AND NIGHT. that's right SEVEN HUNDRED SOME-ODD GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING SPAMS. IN ONE DAY.
*ahem*
enough inauspicious signs recently to shift the mood and shake the confidence. around the edges, the stirrings of early resignation have begun: this would be the defeatist faction assuming the position. eh, it's ok, let 'em cower. however we've been a wee bit full of ourselves lately, perhaps so much so that a bit of humility had to be restored? is this the universe keeping the feckless ego in check?
the feckless ego mutters expletives and assumes a disdainful expression, somehow managing to concede without admitting anything or changing position. oh, it's ok, let her highness carry on, all affronted and quiet indignant, after all we need that attitude around, right?
sweetness and light couldn't be with us tonight, so the misanthropic and disgruntled elements have the floor, but there is no consensus among their discordant voices, and in the end no clear purpose emerges. each view has its point but misses making sense from any other perspective; the voice of reason is also absent this evening.
we will sort this out eventually, or rather it will sort itself, this loosely associated multiplicity never solves anything beyond the occasional crossword in a waiting room, it is what they do, they wait. if any agreement exists, it is that most things are out of all our hands. waiting is.
i made a dream almost real today. i dreamt this code and woke up and ... wanted the lyrics to the songs i reference in the categories here, and ... i wanted more, more being something i often want. and so i spent the day up to the bendy places in code, and came out with a small simple database in which i input approximately eleven song lyrics.
and then made a place for random, anonymous lyrical submissions, because ... more, remember? and so i invite ... well, all two of the folks who've found this place, and anyone else who happens by, to add lyrics here. if there are enough of them i'll have to write a search function and i very much want to need to do that.
and do you know that it was pythagoras, the triangle guy, who coined the phrase music of the spheres? i get so blissful thinking of such things.
and on my way down i was startled to find a young man standing outside the glass reading something intently, two thirty am. and i had to wonder, while i waited for him to go, for i had forgotten the oddness of the hour and now (later i mean) it occurs to me my mother's voice had a hand in this, there are weird people out at that time of night, it whispers; i remember my smartass backsass response, yes i'm one of them.
and i was all nerves across the parking lot i mean i fled, breathless, suddenly a stranger to the night's weirdos, having crossed over to the sensible, weird-fearing portion of the populace.
a small loss, probably for the best.
and home is of course brooding over my absence. however here things need doing and finding and arranging into logic. here the spaces are thick with energy, not at all unlike the humming compressor of the displaced refrigeration unit amidst the clutter, which is anything but random. here illumination falls in deliberate ways without revealing any reason. here a tiring and difficult day hangs heavy in the air not at all unlike the smoke wafting from my ashtray, dammit. i could expend all my healing energy flinging it into the shadows and know it is not my place to do so, and then do it, defiant, on my slow unsteady way down, out, and on home.
it was becoming seven-ish and things were in the air, winged things which always seemed to have forgotten the way.
i followed, i always seem to follow.
well good morning. wasn't it ben franklin who said, in bed before dawn and up by the crack of three, makes you ... something? well, for one thing it pisses off the cat.
so, with a procrastinating optimistic heart, i go to google images to find some rocky horror pictures for the label of the cd i hope to soon fill up with the movie i'm downloading, my -- get this -- first foray into kazaa in at *least* a week. maybe longer. errands loom in the too near future, much too near. much much.
eh. life rocks, it really does. 16 hours yesterday (got home five am) and gonna do maybe another nine tonight -- and this is me digging myself out of a bit of a hole i got into being sick and buying that very fancy inhaler and my bank lowering my overdraft protection limit without notice and ... enough of that noise, eh? i am as grateful as can be to have the ability to work my way out of a jam, especially to have jobs flexible enough and ... i'm an extremely lucky girl, i am.
i'm kinda cute too.
if i could describe the sensation of abject panic without revealing the wildly unflattering personal details at the heart of the attack, i would, but i'm lost for words. digression: the hot-cold air-blower here is a psychotic bastard and my peeps are becoming dessicated. my peeps, dammit.
so i fight panic with denial and mad bargaining, and within minutes (well, a hundred twenty of them anyway) i am back to my peeps and froststroke and heatbite and ... dammit my peeps. i'll have to eat the entire exposed tray within the next few minutes or all's lost.
and as to that panic, i have hatched a wacky plan and much hilarity will ensue, so cue the applause sign and cut to commercial, gotta pay the bills on this sitcom.
woo. ok - job one, 10:30 am to 6 pm. job two, 8 pm to 1 am. see? not so bad. couple more days like this and i will be caught up at job two, and this will be a great comfort.
damn i wish i was sleepy. my brain just started kicking in around 11ish, and i was seriously into the whole 'lets balance this month' vibe and it was all just flowing - but the thought i'd hate myself in the morning kept bugging me.
cigarette. c-i-g-a-r-e-t-t-e. i have some. in my car. cold out, bare feet, probably don't care, even though the whole piercing as reward/pacifier for a week w/o cigarettes (not without them, they were with me, in my car, on the floor, i just wasn't smoking them) but i am so fucking hungry. more or less fasting at this point, the smoothie didn't appeal, nothing does, except things that need chewing and me not ready to be doing that and hungry i am hungry ... and oh you know a ciggie'd fix that at least a little bit.
the sprint across the cold yard did drive a point home about my desperate mindset. think if i could just stop this here and say no i will not be reduced to this! that is if you want to think about that, i myself need to find a lighter.
and in that instant take the day counter back to zero but you know i'll just lay a little spin on it instead - hey one ciggie in eight days. go me.
fucked up part about cigarettes is that they do, indeed, fix whatever's wrong with me that made me think i needed them, it's never about oh shit this ain't cuttin' it. it's ahh.
fuck.
right now i'm getting ready to leave work and go take my un-jacket-wearing ass out to the cold car and go home. it would be a fifteen hour day if you counted the client meeting i had in another city this morning, and i do count that. there is so much more needing done and i want to stay and do just a thing or two more, but i ache.
so you know if you're wondering, about anything, hopefully this will explain why or what or you know, whatever.
ok maybe the january journal entry. and february, it would be such a weight off me if they computer had the actual bank balance. then i looked at the february report vs. the actual and good god. never mind.
well, no, let me try just one thing ...
i could not explain it, but google knew who could:
This is not something new, it's not a "fad" either. Man has been modifying his body forever. The Aztecs performed modifications to their genitals. Elizabethans practiced corsetry. The Native Americans practice the O-Kee-Pa. When one takes their flesh into their control, they have the power to change their world. Most people never have the fortune of experiencing enough pain to reach an altered state. Never experiencing such a powerful sensation is like going through life without ever opening ones eyes. The act of changing ones body for pleasure be it aesthetic or spiritual or ritual should be embraced by our society. [source]
When one takes their flesh into their control, they have the power to change their world.
oh fuck yeah.
and i love this. love it. it hurts, and i love it, and my kink is not for pain, i don't do pain for recreation, but pain for decoration, there is nothing that compares. i guess you either 'get' this or you don't, either the thought of honoring your body with ornamental injuries makes almost sacred sense, or you think the whole thing's whacked.
i am feeling. amazing.
and exactly what in the name of all holy fuck will i do if/when i get what i want?
in my life i have wanted, and i have gotten, and in general there was little or no aforethought given to the aftermath of the getting. nedless to say there has been some ... unpleasantness? generally involving me bitterly muttering 'be careful what you wish for' and then forgetting all about that and doing more wishing and, well, this time is different. it is. shut up. no, really, this time i'm going to brace for the impact. anecdotal evidence suggests that the resulting ruin increases in direct proportion to the intensity of the initial want, which in this case would bode ill except that the usual delusional emotional component is mostly absent, replaced with a rational practical approach which ...
is doomed. how doomed? utterly. and completely. doomed. measurably doomed. think richter scale. so what i'm saying here is i want ... doom? well, no, i mean yes, well, you see for years i've been deliberately settling, a sedimentary process and yes it was a relief at first and now? now i am damn near insensate underneath layers upon layer and i am longing for cataclysm. (saying this i accept it and yet i would also welcome any non-ruinous outcome. as long as i can feel again.)
i am as aware of consequences as i am ... aware, for what that's worth and with this in mind understand that the specifics of the outcome do not matter, as long as i'm not numb while whatever happens ravages me. also i ought to mention that this does not in any way interfere with the wild optimism of these dreams i'm hiding underneath the steaming pile of fatalistic cheer. not that it's steaming, or even a pile, it's just that it would be disingenous of me not to mention steam. or piles. so let the record show that they were mentioned. offhandly. in passing.
so. ah. mm.
except of course here i am, home, unwasted; the nausea is entirely unrelated. it's simply what happens with the goddamn gravity forever in flux, don't you just hate that? never knowing what force is necessary and ending up either floaty and uncontrolled or leaden-limbed and overwhelmed, and you just never know.
but this is my new normal and i am learning to begin considering these aberrant forces as an enhancement of sorts, a woof in the fabric of my existence (and at right angles to the warp threads, that's what a woof is, which makes woof the word of the moment and the moment resonant with woof and this pleases me greatly, you have no idea) and i am almost not nauseous now well a little but i've had a bit of an epiphany there: between the demanding pangs of hunger and the vague urge to puke, i will pick the i-might-puke every time and consider it serendipity, and yes i have issues, such issues, the issues i suppose are the warp threads and the gravity woof woven in subtle relief providing the pattern, do you see it? have you seen it before? i am seeing it now, and it is my very first time, excuse me i am rapt and i am willing to call this rapture.
woof.
there are more categories than posts. various themes have been considered but no one theme would suffice; there are two, maybe three of them in use at this point, though i am not convinced the 'lyrics from metal songs about cars' categories will ever prove useful; just not my cup of innuendo anymore. the thesaurus theme's here to stay, since this very URL happened during one of my extensive synonym binges. (the feckless dot com is a blog too, but has fallen into disuse) (which makes me want it very badly) (in fact my e-loins are tingling just thinking about it) (i wonder if e-loins.com is available?) (it is.)
i could sit here all night attempting to arrange the contents of my brain into lexical and inflectional derivations, forming them into the phonological realization of the morphological categories they represent, thereby discovering which lexical stems have undergone derivation and why sweedish cats are un-suffixed, and never manage to prove one single thing exists, not even a word. [source]
and i would still have categories left over.
tonight I feel ambitious and so does my foot as it sinks on the pedal, i press it to the floor, adding a little extra-grammatical referent right here at the end.
so i've had to submit a work request for zero dollars in order to be restored the access i need to move surreally.
and i'm going to move all of them while i'm at it, i'm just in that sort of mood.
so, this is going to hurt just a little. that weird part when the DNS is resolving, and there will be things posted on the old server that get left there. keep copies of anything you post in these next days, just in case.
new servers have utilities that protect against bots, but don't get complacent and be letting those hackers in -- you know they think of surreally as an easy target, it's why they keep coming back.
you will need to reconfigure your MT to point at ... i have to look that up. but i'll let you know before you need it.
updates will be here, since this is already on the new servers, and will be here as other things move.
funfunfun