Wednesday, August 31, 2005
I am now the President's number one fan.
It appears that I, a silly Probation Officer in charge of roughly five hundred convicted felons, may be dispatched to the Sinking Stinking City known as New Orleans.
While I dread this event, because New Orleans stinks like vomit, urine, and dead people, I am charged with hope due to our brave leader, Prezzy Bushy.
See, it appears he has decided to cut his vacation three days short.
Three whole days.
Don't panic, friends, please. Yes, we are at war with the entire world (pretty much). Yes, oil costs a small fortune and only the folks who drive Hummers can afford it. Yes, the South is getting barraged by storms and flooding (even worse: Alabamians and Mississipians have been displaced and are coming to Georgia for relief). Yes, dead bodies are floating throughout the streets of Louisiana while living humans hail relief from rooftops.
But the President took Air Force One over the city of New Orleans to assess the damage. After he cut his vacation three days short.
So, as I got in my car today and headed to the gas station, I praised Georgie for his charity. And as I waited for forty minutes to get to the pump, I thanked him. And when I spent thirty dollars to fill up my ten gallon tank car, I blessed him. Over and over and over.
When I am called to duty to pick up dead bodies in New Orleans because F.E.M.A. doesn't have enough resources to assist Louisiana, Georgia, Mississippi, and Alabama, I will think fondly on Georgie Porgie. If I get dysentery or the plague while wading through gallons of stagnant, foul water, I'll sing to George.
God Bless George Bush. Let's all take a moment to thank him for such a noble sacrifice. Three days off from his scheduled vacation.
"No one can say they didn't see it coming"
In 2001, FEMA warned that a hurricane striking New Orleans was one of the three most likely disasters in the U.S. But the Bush administration cut New Orleans flood control funding by 44 percent to pay for the Iraq war.
Thank You, President Bush!
We are all worms, but I do believe I am a glowworm.
Oh, Hell, I have sinned again.
I wish for a Father of Time to hear my confession.
Oh, Heaven, how I wish forgiveness granted
could have a flavor
It would taste of pomegranites:
bitter, fertile, hopeful.
O Heart, how I pray
the inside capitulations could be seen
by common man.
Alas, I am no saint.
My words shriek to the world,
my heart beats to the soul.
No words are heard more passionately
than my own tears.
I listen to them with quiet reserve.
~Elizabeth Anne Fritz
In lieu of certain blogging events, I had to eat some humble pie. It tasted a little stale, but kind of like Grandma's rhubarb pies.
On the upside of it, I know how to apologize. Not enough people in the world know this skill. It takes a lot of guts. I have those.
So, I had to give myself my own props. Cheers, Fritz! You're forgiven.
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Oh, another thing happened today.
My boss told me that since Dubya has called all the National Guard people off to Iraq, there isn't any assistance around for the hurricane season.
"New Orleans is drowning, and there's no one to help?" you ask, timidly.
Not so, my friends! For, before the Boy Scouts run to the aid of sinking cities, it is we, Georgia Department of Corruption Officers, who are next in line to stack sandbags all over the place and clean up the smell of floating dead.
They're recruiting the youngest first. So, since I'm the only one in the office under the age of thirty...off I go, perhaps.
Aiding my country.
Well, don't get all fussy. We've all known I'm a patriot, through and through.
Anyway, I let him come in and look around the new place. He got comfortable here quite quickly.
Of course, it had been awhile since he had had a karma cleansing, so we both meditated for awhile and then, Tomm practiced some Zen, which was very relaxing.
Delilah and Tomm spent a lot of time chatting it up. I think they planned a date, but I'm going to be talking Tomm out of it, since she's known to bite things and people, alike.
After some conversation, wine, and reading, Tomm and I considered the state of things. All in all, life looks pretty decent from here, if only we could just get some R&R.
First of all, B.O.B.I. really pissed me off with his whole mantra against women and their gonads.
Then, his boy Justin and some Logtar dude had to 'get their man's back' and like, you know, dis on me. So I argued with them for while, and inside, my little Buddha is saying, "Tsk.Tsk. Take the High Road."
But the bitchy she-devil inside of me doesn't want to let it go.
So, I got in my new Scion that doesn't look like the ugly thing in the picture this morning, feeling all grouchy and woman-y, and even Michael laid low (well, he left before I got up, but if he HAD been there, he would have been laying low). And I promptly ran over CRUSH you.
The above picture is a rendering of that scene.
I feel kinda bad about it, because CRUSH is really the most consistent nihilist I've ever met. He doesn't have a problem with women, specifically; he kind of hates everyone as a basis. He's pretty immoral and laughs at me a lot. He also thinks God has Six Fingers.
I did call 9-1-1 and explained the situation. They pretty much understood. One dispatcher-guy was from Minnesota, and he totally backed up B.O.B.I.'s argument, but he had a really silly accent, so I just laughed at him. About CRUSH, though, there's not much that could be done.
I did call Michael at work and asked him if he thought I was a man-hater. He hesitated for awhile and said, "No." Then, I asked him if I was too sensitive, and this time, he didn't hesitate.
"Yes," he said, "You are too sensitive. But it makes you dramatic, and everything is a soap opera with you. And I love you."
So, I'm just now getting to work. I feel better already. I helped the sex offender officer out and wrote a few warrants for rapists and child molesters. There. Now life is good again.
Sorry, CRUSH you, about running over you.
Monday, August 29, 2005
2. My Car Payments got screwed up by the Dealership
3. I vomited last night and didn't sleep very well.
THIS CHEERED ME UP:
Didn't it cheer you up?
Actually, this post is not about the Pixies, nor Devo, nor New Order.
This Post is All About Being a Cartoon Character.
Go check out CRUSH you's artistic rendering of me. And read his ode to me outloud.
There, now aren't you jealous you don't have a Blogging Acquaintance?
My boyfriend looks over all my posts, and is gracious enough to not get concerned about this kind of thing. That is because he trusts and loves me immensely.
That's because I am as Lucky as Paris Hilton.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
If you have not wondered these things you are 1. Crazy or B. Buddhist.
I just hopped over to Spinning Girl's site. She's really popular. I guess she is part of the London Zoo Human Exhibit, but who can say for sure? I know she is really popular amongst bloggers because she is witty, intelligent, friendly, and a little wierd.
She has recently taken a picture of her feet. My first thought was: How the hell did she get so much of her legs in the picture? Because she's thin, and her breasts don't balloon over every inch of her body the way mine do. My second thought was: My God, she has skinny feet. You can compare our feet at the bottom of my site, since we're both apparently strange enough to photograph our feet. And then I saw that whole picture of the Human Zoo exhibit, and how skinny she is (if that's really her), and I thought, "What is her life like?"
See, I'm a fatty. I try to say things to myself to make myself feel better, like, "You just have a big frame," or "It's your lower half that needs work, not your upper half." But the simple, plain, God's honest truth is: I'm overwieght. By a lot. And I need to lose weight, quickly.
I've been a fatty my whole life except for my seventeenth year; somehow, I found the money to join Jenny Craig and lost fifty or sixty pounds (I can't remember). I got down to 125 pounds and I looked sick. But My God, I was thin. And when I lost all that weight, I looked in the mirror and realized what a beautiful face I had. Really. I'm not just saying; I mean, I have the classic looks of old-time movie actresses. Naturally blonde hair, round lips, big green eyes shadowed by long eyelashes, and good facial proportions. In short, I was a hottie.
I got a lot of attention from guys. When I went shopping, people came out to greet me and were warm and friendly. When I went exercising, older guys asked me out on dates.
And then, I got fat again. Now, I'm the largest I've ever been in my life, and I am disgusted with myself. Last week I lost five pounds, since Michael and I are both on diets. This week, I didn't lose anything. This is going to be me for the rest of my life--struggling to not hate my fat and not kill myself with food.
So, I read Spinning Girl's site and immediately got jealous of her wit, intelligence, and oddly enough, her FEET. And then, I scrolled down some more. Spinning Girl beautifully talks of her sobriety; it seems for many a year, she was an alcoholic. I bet when she first recovered, she asked herself, "What would life be like if I were sober?" And sober folks wouldn't really be able to describe it to her. She's the only one who could find out that information.
In conclusion, I'm working toward that girl I was--with long blonde hair, a bodacious body, and green eyes the size of marbles. But more importantly, I'm remembering that life is what I make of it, not what it would be like if...
Spinning Girl's Skinny Feet...
Saturday, August 27, 2005
So, CRUSH you: Here you go.
1. Why haven't you posted on my ode to you?
2. If you were a car, what would you be and why?
3. Do you believe God is a Clockmaker that set the world into motion and sits back to watch, or are you an atheist? Tell me why you made your choice or expound on your belief about God.
4. What would be a better way to die: car accident or drowning? Discuss.
5. Compare and contrast Cheese-Nips to Cheezits. Why would you buy the brand of one over the other?
And for Anonymous:
1. What are you afraid of that you don't post your name?
2. If you are my Dad, do you have anything pleasant to say to the rest of the blogger world?
3. If you were a book, what kind would you be and why?
4. If you had all the money in the world but still had to pick a career, what would it be?
5. What's better: Coke or Pepsi?
Friday, August 26, 2005
If you want a quiz, make a wisecrack. Otherwise, I don't expect anyone to read my Eeyore blog. So, there. Nahy.
Fritz, your questions are:
1. What is your favorite movie and why?
2. If you were given the choice of the blue pill or the red pill, as in the Matrix, which would you take? Blissful ignorance or harsh reality?
3. Do you believe that you are real, and if so, how would you prove it?
4. If you could go back in time to correct a mistake, would you and what mistake would you correct?
5. If you wrote a book, to whom would you dedicate it?
1. My favorite movie is American Beauty. It's darkly humorous, with a wonderful philosophical slant to it. The scene where Kevin Spacey dies is incredible. It is a life-affirming movie. Plus, there's that part when the daughter screams at her friend, "You'll never understand us because you're just too...perfect!" and the blonde chick yells back, "At least I'm not ugly!" and the boyfriend says to her, "Yes, you are, on the inside, because you know you are just ordinary." And that's the whole point of the movie, in a way. Beauty is in the ordinary. Take a chance. See it everyday, because we only have this tiny little bit of time on Earth.
2. I'm taking the red. It's harder to live in the real world. It's harder to know the truth. But it is essential to human development. It is evolution. Gimmee Zion.
3. Descartes said, "I think, therefore I am". This was quite a summation of intellect. I don't want to copy it, but there it is. I must be real, because even if all the events that surround me are nothing but wisps and images, I am still making decisions, living out my life, seeing consequences. Whether I dream or not, I do act upon intellect (or lack thereof). I am real because I am one with the Great Other (God, you, the world, everyone). However, the other question to ask is: If I am not real, then is history, in fact, real? Ontologically speaking, I mean. Oh, God Bless those stupid philosophy classes...
4. A mistake to correct: Oh, Lord. Just one? But there are so many! See, the thing is, all those mistakes I made...I wouldn't be sitting here, now, with this life I have...oh, wait. I've got an answer...Taking the job with the Georgia Department of Corrections. No, because if that was so, I would not have met you and other friends. Hmmm. I don't regret things I've done, even when I was wrong. Because I learned from them.
5. If I wrote a book (that would be dreamy), I would dedicate it to: my father for instilling discipline, my mother for instilling faith, my friends for instilling support, Michael for instilling love, and Father Schultenover, a teacher at Creighton, for being an inspiration of humanity. And Delilah. Of course.
Dearest Crush You
Thursday, August 25, 2005
We regret to inform you that Fritz has been detained for questioning. Execution may be in order. We find her 'free speech' agenda against Bush and Kim Soo so offensive, nay, treasonist, we must deter her from any more gratuitous liberations.
The Patriot Act protects our rights, Americans. No, no, I know you suggest it may hinder freedom, but we at the Department of Offensive Material know the more smut is off the air, the greater chance we all have of defeating terrorism.
Be not dismayed. Fritz may return to her posting, but for now, she is being disciplined in a most humane and endearing manner. We're making her watch hours of Fox News, non-stop, with only sardines and ketchup for nourishment. Ketchup, as you know is a vegetable. (Note: It's hilarious that another blogger actually named this as a URL).
Until Fritz's return, we urge you to eat your Wheaties and buy American cars. Big, gas guzzling monsters. The kind that sucks gas up faster than you can say "Civil Rights Violation"
I came across a cloud, this day, and it sang
of Sad Thursdays. What a cluttered feeling
I have in the bottom of my stomach--
I'm cut of a different cloth, and the week tends
to drain me of hope.
I came across the hole in the ground and wondered
at its expanse, and leaned
my head to the side, imagining all the people
who fell in long ago.
I came across the face of God at the jail; she wept
for all the mothers of dying children.
No, I could not help her.
No, I could not help her.
I've left the day behind, retreating
into the cave of myself, behind the glass-eyed television.
I've happened across
the lovliest girl in the world, underneath these
gray green hazel eyes.
What a wonder to happen upon myself.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Gack. I'm so bad at this Photoshop thing. I just want to be cool and end up being plain arcane. Yeah.
I was thinking about this because I was also thinking about the Chicago Cubs. I grew up pretty close to Wrigley Field, and one of my favorite things to do while riding the El was look at ole' Wrigley Field, with its sad siding and the nostalgia that invoked the smell of peanuts and Chicago style dogs.
We all know the Cubbies are a sad sack of a baseball team. They haven't won a world series since what, something like ninety plus years ago? They suck! Not only do they suck, but their fans suck. Remember that guy--who screwed up the foul ball? Whatta loser! This is what the Cubbies get--years of agonizing loss followed by a short stint of glory, only to be ousted from that position by some grubby-handed Chicagoan hungry for a souvenir.
Yeah, it takes a real loser to root for the Cubs, especially when the White Sox are right around the corner from the Cubs and they often have a fighting chance at winning. But there I am, rooting for the Cubs day in and out.
That's what stoics do. We hang in there with the worst and hope for the best. We take a more Platonic view of the world: baseball has a higher Form, and if that Form could be perceived by the human eye, then the Cubs would be the model team. The Cubs teach their fans patience. The Cubs teach their fans to love unconditionally. The failure the Cubs have suffered through all these years has brought families and generations together. My mother was a mover and shaked during the '60's. She shook Martin Luther King, Jr's hand. Her father was still calling black folks 'jungle bunnies'. Talk about tension in the family. But through it all, both remained fans of the Cubs. And they kept hanging in there, waiting for the Cubs to get what was due, waiting for the suffering to pay off.
It's true. My favorite baseball team doesn't have any homerun heroes like Mark McGwire. They don't have the Series tucked in their belts. They lost Wrigley Field, no longer in use. They have crappy fans and (borrowing from Seinfeld) cotton jerseys that shrink. But you can't tell me that not one guy on that team is any good. Hell, no. They're ALL good; otherwise, they wouldn't be playing for the world's most infamous team for losing. It takes some pride to do that. It takes a little humiliation, as well. If we could all learn to lose like the Cubs, but get up the next morning and throw fast balls, anyway.
Down and Out--the Cubs lose again.
That's it. I'm going for sheer popularity now. I put this counter on, thinking it would be flying well into the hundreds at this point. No such luck. I'm sorry to those of you who read my blog for introspective, pseudointellectual moments. From now on, it's whatever is eyecatching. I am now a mere materialist. I want attention, and lots of it. Start looking.
I wanted Kitty to read this poem from beginning to end, but it is incredibly long and intricate. It is T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland, and it is an incredible peice. But here I quote the beginning of the peice:
I. The Burial of the Dead
April is the cruelest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
So, Kitty, remember: you will be kept warm even though you're a bit cold right now. Hang in there. I am thinking of you.
Anyway, last night, I had that getting-sick feeling. You know what I am talking about--when you're so tired, you're throat is pricking you when you swallow, your limbs weigh about one hundred pounds...each. So, I took some Nyquil. Two gulps of the stuff. What, don't look at me like that! I don't have a problem, I just wanted to sleep.
Man, did I have the strangest dreams.
I met Joy Division, the New Wave band. We all held hands and walked through a meadow while listening to Orbital. Of course, if you've seen the movie 24 Hour Party People, you'd know why the first New Wave band was enjoying electronica. That' s not much of a stretch. I jumped in the field and started flying. Then, we all went to a concert/movie where Ray Charles was singing and dancing. I felt out of place, but I still tried to dance along with the crowd. One guy threw up while dancing. Harriet Tubman was there, in the back, staring up at the moon in a sad way while the rest of the crowd kept singing and dancing. In the end, Michael was there. He suddenly kidnapped a white cat from a mean old lady, and set the cat down. The cat raced back home and picked up a white mouse by the tail, flinging it in the air. Children were laughing, and then, it was Christmas Eve, and Michael got on his knees and gave me a diamond...necklace. Very wierd stuff.
I awoke to the sound of the shower; Michael was up, already. Now, my fingers are sluggish and my head is still fuzzy. Everything feels deadened. But I can't help think about Ian Curtis, the lead singer of Joy Division, and that sad look on Harriet Tubman's face. I feel so grateful both visited my dreams, as though they were coming to me in particular, to assist me through the day.
Now, I'm still feeling drugged and a little too exhausted to think about work, but I'll trudge forward. After all, it's what Harriet and Ian would have done.
Oh, and of course, I've slipped Joy Division into the CD player.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself.
Choose your future.
I looked at this mug. It was one that Katie gave to me as a souvenir from her trip to New York. It has a big yellow taxi cab on it, and I love it. I took it back inside. Then, I went to sit down on the bed for a moment. On the nightstand was another coffee mug, next to a glass of water. I had left those there two nights before.
Then, inspiration struck, so I went into the office, where I presently sit, and, lo and behold, sits yet another discarded coffee cup. So, now, I've counted three coffee cups besides the one I'm drinking from that I have left about the house.
As a kid, my mother would remind me at least once a week to bring down all the dishes from my bedroom. I didn't have actual dishes, mind you, I just had cups. Lots of them. This was around the time that life in my home was really ape-shit weird. My mother and father were having marital problems, and I often heard them yelling at each other late at night. One night, I snuck down the stairs and stood in the shadows of the refrigerator, watching these two people fling words at one another like throwing knives. I folded a note into an airplane and flew it into the kitchen. The note said, "Please stop fighting." My mother stopped her tirade and my father took a sip of his martini. My mother read the note quietly and turned around to see me in the shadows, a wisp of a thing in a nightgown. Everything got very quiet, and for a moment, I thought I was in trouble.
"Go back to bed, honey," my mother said, and my father nodded. Shortly after, the argument ended, and I heard the clink of my father's glass on the counter. It was still half-full.
The arguments didn't end forever, of course, but that night, Dad put the drink down.
When I was seventeen, my father and mother separated. My mother told my father if he didn't stop drinking, she would leave him for good. I was happy about the separation in a way, because I was so tired of seeing them fight and seeing my father stumble around the home, intoxicated. Two weeks after the separation, I visited Dad at our home. We were sitting on the porch. I remember vividly how tired Dad looked.
Dad said, "Well, I know I've got a problem drinking." This was a shock, as he never intoned so much before.
"Yeah?" I said.
Dad told me he knew he had a problem when he went to a friend's house the night Mom and I left. His friend offered Dad a beer, and Dad realized he NEEDED that beer. Needed it like air.
When he told me this, he told me he was two weeks sober.
My father has only relapsed once, as I recall. And that was just a short time after this separation. I think it's been about six years since he has last had a drink. I admire him much for being able to let go of his crutch and take action. I admire him for being the intelligent kind person he is and the talks we have, now that he is sober.
As I go from room to room of my house, picking up discarded coffee cups and stacking them on the counter, I can't help but think about the things in my life I need to discard. It's time for me to grab life by the horns, get out of my job, and face the reality of things. It's time for me to stop fighting with nature and just get on with the show. It's time for me to leave what is broken behind and just pick up and move forward. Some people might harbor resentment against an alcoholic parent, but I just find that's a waste of time. In fact, I see a man who laid aside the half-full glass to pick up the cup which is bottomless.
There is a little town in Kansas. It is very small, with only one narrow main street and old, dusty farm roads.
The people in this little town are farmers, and not much else. There are two churches in the town, and on Sunday, nary a soul is found at home (except for the old and invalid, who can't get to church regular-like).
Outside of town is an old abandoned farm, and past the old barn with the rotted boards and the smell of decomposing hay is a fallow field. In the field is a great hole in the ground, thousands of feet deep, thousands of feet wide. It is a scary place, and none of the townpeople or farmers go near this old place.
When I went to Kansas to visit the people of this town, I asked Job (the barber) why no one went near the hole. He looked at me funny-like.
"Why would some fool body go near the hole in that ole' fallow field?" he asked.
I said someone might want to take a picture of the hole, and send it into a magazine, and get some money.
"Well, that's jus' foolish talk," Job said. He went back to clipping Mr. Harper's hair. Mr. Harper is the banker of this little town in Kansas.
Mr. Harper cocked his head and adjusted the paper napkin clipped to his collar.
"You, young lady," he said to me, "need to go for a walk about this little town."
So, I went for a walk along the little road. It was very empty and sad and forlorn. The people who lived in town were all far older than me, by about twenty years or so. There were no children. There were hardly any men in the town at all, save for the old and invalid. I walked outside of town and down a dusty road. I saw the farmhomes, most of them in need of paint and love. I saw the thin looking horses and the old plows stuck in the fields, because there were not enough hands to work the wheat. I saw the silos, standing alone in the fields like sad missles. I saw the empty sky blow hollow clouds across the land. I felt very sad for this little town in the middle of Kansas.
I kept walking, and by and by, I found the old farm, and the deserted farmhouse, and the fallow field. So I walked nearer the fallow field and stared into the great hole in the ground. I looked at its great big depth and black, black soil, and how it seemed nearly bottomless. Nearly. And I saw, way on the opposite side of the hole, a little figure.
I began to walk around the great hole in the ground. It took a long time, because that hole was so big. But that figure never moved.
Finally, I got to the figure. It was a little woman, older than me by about twenty years. She was sitting in a camping chair. She wasn't doing a thing but sitting by that great big hole in the ground, in the middle of a fallow field, in the middle of Kansas.
I sat down next to her. She didn't speak, and neither did I. We both stared at the hole in the ground.
"They aren't coming back," the lady said after awhile.
"Who isn't coming back?" I asked.
"The children," she said, and she sat some more.
I crossed my legs and looked at the bleak sky and the bleak hole and thought about the little town with the tiny schoolhouse and the sad looking old people.
"Why, " I asked after a while, "aren't the children coming back?"
The woman started to cry a little, in a way that showed she'd cried a lot about the children.
"Well, we was all told two, three years ago a big monster lived in the hole in the ground," she said. "And all the politicians came to our town and had a big meeting and gave out funnel cake, and they told the younguns', like my children, they all needed to go down the hole and find the monster and kill it. And if they did this, the politicians and all the high and mighty folks would congratulate the children, and give them medals and certificates and better jobs. So, the children started to leave. One by one, they went down the hole."
The little lady adjusted herself in the chair. "And the preachers said it was the right thing to do, because it was Satan's monster, and we had to protect our town and our old folks and our ways 'round here. So, the children kept going. Husbands went, then wives, then teens. The school just about is closed, now, because there ain't no teenagers left, and no teachers to teach 'em, seeing how they all went down into the hole in the ground."
I leaned toward the little woman in the chair and saw the wrinkles in her face, like little iron lines in linen. The little woman kept talking.
"Both of my boys went down the hole. My daughter did, too, and that was last year."
"No one came back?" I asked.
"Nope, " the woman said, "not a one. Now, the politicians come to town time to time, and the preachers stand up with them, and they all tell us that the children will come back, but they are still fighting that monster in the hole in this here ground. And they tell us the children will come back sometime, but no one knows when. The children have to stay there until the monster is killed."
"What did the monster do?" I asked. The little lady just looked at me and said,
"I've been trying to figure that out a peice, while I've been sitting here. And so far, I can't quite remember what he done. But it was bad, according to the preachers and the politicians. And like I says, the politicians say the monster would make our life real bad, and we had to protect our little town and our ways, and that's why the children had to go."
We sat a little while longer. When the sun hit the back of the old abandoned barn and glowed like a warhead exploded about us, the old lady turned into a silouhette, and she took my hand. The night got cooler and that hole seemed to get blacker. The sky turned into pinpoints of light, where the stars shined. And we waited some more.
"The funny thing is," the lady said, "is that ever since those children went into the hole, everything has changed. Now, I knew that monster wasn't up to much good, but he ain't never bothered us. In fact, mos' of the town reckons they ain't never seen the monster. But now the children are gone, and our whole town has changed. Changed for the worse. And we can't seem to get our children back. Ever."
Soon enough, I had to leave the hole in the ground so I could go back to the hotel and pack my bags and go on to Nebraska, where I went to school for awhile. But I tell you what, while I wandered the untended farms of that little town, and looked at the faces of the old and invalid, I thought about those children. They still haven't come back. In fact, the politicians don't talk much about the monster anymore, hoping that everyone in the little town will forget about the missing children.
But people don't forget about missing children. Not ever.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Who the hell sits around and figures these things? More importantly, why the hell did I take this quiz?
Somehow, I got through high school with only a few battle scars.
Today, the front page of CNN.COM declares the Army will be in Iraq for four more years. I'm filled with the same sense of dread as that chubby thirteen year old girl facing her own war.
Americans, I ask you: four more years for what? For more troops to die? For more insurgency? For more mortar rounds going into flesh?
Since when does the administration of this country get to decide so carelessly what to do with human lives? Oh, I guess since Bush is the best new jock in the class. He doesn't really care what the nerds and dorks of the country think about him, because he can throw them into the proverbial lockers of middle class abandon, and promote his jock friends to high status with the cheerleaders. He has an on-going vendetta against another school district, and that school district has the prize mascot Bush desires--oil. He'll use all the school funds to get what he wants, and proclaim it is for everyone in the school. The gain, however, will only help the athletic department. The rest of the students are screwed.
Four more years. This time, however, it's not about me surviving others. It's about America surviving through deficit, deceit, and immorality. It's about men and women losing their lives or limbs. It's about troops returning home to a land that gives veterans little assitance. It's about the middle class bailing the wealthy out again. It's about gas prices soaring high above three dollars a gallon. In short, it's another Vietnam. There is nothing to win, friends. We have nothing to gain from this war. In the history books, this will be another failure--by the end of these four years, we will have lost so much human life that we can erect another memorial wall.
I hope we can hang in there, and fight for ourselves against the jocks overrunning this school. I hope we have the tenacity to endure the torture, praying for redemption, praying for someone to step in and control this maniacal president.
Do we have the guts to start demanding action?
Saturday, August 20, 2005
No, I don't really know the whole story of Bettie Page. I'm sure not many people do. I do know that Bettie Page was as much an icon of American sexuality as Marilyn Monroe. The difference was Bettie was less of a flirt and more of a come-and-see girl. She practically took burlesque to a whole new level of pin-up, and added an element of dominance/submission, a topic not suitable for the Cleaver's of the world.
Yesterday, Michael and I went malling and stepped inside Hot Topic and milled about amongst the teenage 'punkers' who have marketed mohawks to the extreme. Michael tried on a jacket that was made to look ripped and torn up, with some airbrushed skulls on it. Of course, I thought it rocked, but it also looked like whoever made the jacket was trying just a little too hard, right down to the pins on the lapel and the bandana sewn into the pocket. So, I meandered through the women's section of fake corsets and arm sleeves and hot pink and black dresses, all of which were cut for twelve year old girls. I stopped in front of a T-shirt display, and there, pasted on about thirty black t-shirts, was Bettie Page's mug. Apparently, an internet company, Bettiepage.com, is making a fortune off of cheap t-shirts marketed to teenage goth-type girls who know nothing of the real, sad life of Bettie Page.
Poor and abused, she found fame the way out of the Depression. Her father abused her sexually for years before that. Her photographers expolited her pictures. And Bettie eventually dropped off the face of the earth. Up until her death, she would not speak of her prior life as a pinup girl and the 'Queen of Bondage'. For her, it carried so much pain and reminders of lust and sin.
Now, women like myself admire this brazen woman with curves. We admire the strength she emits from the photos, and the impish smile on her face. Trully a beautiful woman made into mannequin for male dominance, her life became less of a fairy tale and more of a sad slavery to abusive men. She could not reconcile her own sexuality, and so banished it entirely from her life.
I just wish these thin, wasted looking teenagers really understood the pain of their fleshy, curved 'icon'. That Bettie Page would never want a girl to go through the manipulation she suffered is enough for me to wince when I see these T-shirts depicting Bettie in some of her more provactive poses. Women must learn to be in-tune with their sexuality without abusing it, or allowing anyone to take control of it. I don't think Bettie or Marilyn would want any girl to emulate them. Their lives were far sadder than any picture shown of them.
In other news: in one week, I have lost five pounds. Ha!
Thursday, August 18, 2005
99. Hot chocolate
98. Bossing people around
97. Billie Holiday
96. Michael's gray hairs
95. Looking at babies
91. Mochas from Starbucks
89. Cheating on tests
88. Daydreaming I am famous
87. Daydreaming I am Indiana Jones
86. The Truffle Shuffle
85. Writing...a lot
84. e.e. cummings
83. a good book in a rainstorm
81. The Magic Flute, an opera by Motzart
80. The smell of my pillow
79. Driving a stick shift
78. Riding my motorcycle
77. Being smarter than a lot of people
76. Being dumber than a lot more people
75. Getting flowers from Michael
74. Knowing that I don't have to talk but Katie still knows how I feel
73. Knowing that everytime I see Anna, I'm going to laugh so hard my sides hurt
72. Looking at tabloids at the grocery store but never buying them
70. My hair
69. When my cat 'barks'...and she does, I promise
68. Telling Michael he's my rock
67. Watching back to back episodes of 'X Files'
66. Making fun of my boss to his face
65. My boss making fun of me to my face
64. Writing poems that are no good
63. Drawing stick figures
62. The smell of my shampoo
60. Reno 911
59. Spying on my neighbors...but not peeping on them, just spying.
58. When my mom tries to act cool
57. When my dad refuses to be cool
56. High heel shoes
55. Hot Pink
54. Anything gothic looking
53. Telling bad jokes
52. The way the cat scratches in the catbox. She's very industrious.
51. Taking pictures
49. Getting tattoos
48. Getting older and smarter
47. Getting stupider about computers
46. Arguing with Katie
45. Wizard of Oz
44. Having a neat desk at work
43. Having just a few good friends
41. melted cheese
40. the smell of my mother's sweaters
39. the smell of Michael
37. completing lists
36. quiet time in the morning
35. Delilah's purring
34. curvy, tree lined roads
33. Salvador Dali
29. the smell of fresh baked brownies
28. reading Allen Ginsberg
27. getting a manicure
26. shocking people
24. mounds of ketchup
23. when people make comments on my blog
22. balancing my checkbook within one dollar
21. tickling Michael
20. choral music
19. My Fair Lady
18. new car smell
17. 'Tuner Transformation' on the Speed channel
16. F-1 racing
13. children sucking their thumbs
12. watching people at airports
10. shirking responsibility
9. talks about God
7. mixing ketchup and mayonnaise together for dipping french fries
6. making fun of golfers, including Michael
4. living within one mile of three Starbuck's
3. sleeping through the snooze alarm
2. listening to my father say "I love you"
1. listening to Michael say "I love you".
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
It's been one of those days, and just a few hours ago, I was having one of those moments.
You know the kind. When you question everything about your life, and think you're this big waste of flesh, and wonder what other glamorous things could be happening to you if you just weren't...you.
I was so bored with myself I was in tears. I didn't want to draw. I didn't want to Blog. I didn't even want to go to Border's. I didn't want to cook, eat, or watch TV. I didn't want to read. I didn't want to look at myself because I felt so stagnant. Michael took me out anyway, even though I was being a complete moron. He kept asking, "Is there something I can do?" And I kept saying, "No, no. It's me. "
And then we get to the Border's parking lot and it started to rain. Michael's bright yellow car stood out like a sunflower. We sat in the car and listened to the rain. It splattered in little rockets on the windshield.
"Are you bored with me?" Michael asked. I thought for a moment. I thought about people in my life telling me I wasn't doing enough with it--that I was running in place. I thought about my new car and my newfound domesticity. I thought about my cat and all the other boyfriends who have bored me. I thought.
And I turned to look at him, and I said, "No. I'm not bored with you."
Because how could I be bored with the one person in my life who finds me exhilirating? Exciting? Hilarious? Beautiful? How could I ever be bored with the mystery of love? How could I ever think that Michael and his consistency could be anything less than the adventure of humanity?
We went into Border's, and I got my coffee (as usual) and he read his magazines (as usual). And we sat quietly together. As we sat, I pondered how I could ever think of myself as a boring person. If I could gain a love like Michael's, then I must be a good-sight more fascinating than the average gal.
I have to tell myself: only ignorant people truly get bored. I have the power to change my life, and I have a mate ready to help me.
Yesterday, while at work, my computer died. I think it was infected by that worm that got America, Germany, and other parts of the world. I was so relieved it wasn't my fault when I heard about the worm. Unfortunatley, I didn't get my typical 'surf the news' hour that I am so used to while at work. (Yes, it's true. I surf at work). So, I missed out on the developments in the Gaza Strip.
I took two influential classes in college from Dr. John Calvert, a brilliant man who has traveled the Middle Eastern world with a fondness and intensity hard to find in most folks. The Middle East is this man's passion. From the stories of the Palestinian farmers uprooted in 1967 by the Israelites to the gnostic gospels to myths of Islam, Dr. Calvert brought this muddy, poorly investigated world to college students in Nebraska. I have him to thank for any amount of knowledge I have regarding the Middle East and its conflicts.
In college, after learning about the founding of Israel, I was disgusted with the United States and United Kingdom's policy regarding Jews and the typical Westernization of the East. You see, after World War II and the horrible Holocaust, a group of Jews demanded they be given their own country. For awhile, they were going to set up camp in Brazil. Of course, many Jews, displaced by Hitler, couldn't return to their homelands throughout Europe. But America didn't want them, either, nor Britain. Of course, at this time, the Middle East was divided up like subdivisions in Atlanta. Britain controlled some parts, France others, and a myriad of Western ideals infiltrated the land, assumingly to 'benefit' the natives. Mmm Hmm. Did about as much benefitting as a hole in the head.
So, it was decided: the Jews displaced from WWII, looking for a new Jerusalem, were given the new formed Israel. Sounds great, right?
Wrong. Palestinians lived there. So, the Jews came in force with their British politicians and American support, and said, "Yeah, leave. This is our land, now." To the rest of the world, the Israelites proclaimed there 'weren't that many Palestinians out here'. Wrong again. While a couple of goat herders were wandering around the West Bank and Gaza Strip, it is important to remember that Jerusalem is a holy city to the Islamic world as well as the Christian and Jewish. So now, the Palestinians are told to vamoose, get out, it's not your place anymore.
In short, the development of Israel led to dispossessed people. People who were placed in 'refugee' camps and given pathetic living conditions. People who had nowhere to go. People who couldn't go into Syria or other surrounding lands, because they were just too much of a political liability. We've seen this same treatment in Serbia as well as the current atmosphere practically damning Muslims. No wonder groups such as the Palestinan Liberation Organization sprung forth. The dispossessed were probably wondering how the Jews, or Israelites, could be so cruel after being the victims of a tyrant like Hitler.
But the Israelites did not compromise. And once again, the two people began to fight in earnest, much as they had since Jesus' time. My lifetime has been speckled with events in the Middle East, leading to violence and catastrophe for both Palestinans and Israelites.
Now, finally, Israel's P.M. Sharon has opted to 'give over' the Gaza Strip to the Palestinians. The Strip is a small patch of land originally settled by the Philistines, the ancestors to the Palestinians. The Gaza Strip has always been a seat of controversey for both Israel and Palestinians.
I read the news about the soldiers coming to force the Jewish settlers off the Strip. Of course, the Palestinians must be rejoicing, at least a little. Some step has been made. Some land has been regained. But, there again, I cannot help but feel immense sadness for those Jews forced to leave their homes.
You see, I never liked the carving of the Middle East by Westeners. I never liked the motive behind Israel (keep the Jews out of the West). I never liked the blindness of Israel to its neighbors' strife. But now, I am so sad for them.
I would ask Dr. Calvert, is it completely ridiculous to wonder why these people cannot live next door to one another in peace, or has the history of the world contorted and disfigured a hope for tolerance?
Monday, August 15, 2005
Ode to Delilah
Delilah, you are screwed up.
You run about like a wind-up toy
until you hit the wall with your head.
And for awhile, you are quiet.
Then, you yowl for hours upon hours
and bite my leg over and over in the same spot
because you cannot reach any higher.
After snacking on my skin, you drink
water out of the toilet
and fall asleep in the bathtub.
People remember you more than me.
They ask, "How is your crazy cat?" and say
mildly patronizing comments.
"You know craziness is catching!"
As if I could ever be as mind-numbingly
insane as you, dear cat.
My father calls you 'she-demon from hell'
and that is an accurate description.
Sometimes, I wish you would fall
into a catatonic state, and I could write
an article about it and get paid a lot of money.
You persist on being
the most annoying mammal in the world.
Thank God I got you fixed
so that you would not reproduce.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
The obligatory "I am now one Bad Ass" shot. These wheels are 18". I actually paid for the fifteen inch alloy wheels. Get this...they had the rims but not the tires. So the dealership put on the rims and then said, "Okay, you're ready!" Me:"Umm. Yeah. Where are the tires?" "Oh, you wanted the tires, too? We don't have those in right now." So they put the 18" back on and I have to bring back the car for the 15". I'm getting a lotta looks from cool cats. You think it's the tires or the car?
I GOT A NEW CAR~ This is my Scion XA..I am so cool, and so not an owner of a Hyundai Accent ANYMORE!! Ugghhh...mmmhmmm..yeah, it's my BIRTHDAY...not really, but it feels like it..
Friday, August 12, 2005
I really like strange stuff. It started with Edward Gorey and went on from there. Then, I started doodling wierd stuff myself. I don't know how to get my sketches on the computer without a scanner, and scanners are the devil's devise, but I'm working on that. In the meantime, please visit Baron Von CRUSH you's webblog. He's got some really wierd, disgusting stuff. I like it. And check out Roman Dirge's spookyland.com.
What am I, a freakin' advertisement?
I'm a rebel. I AM a rebel. Yeah, I know. I work for the Man and have natural colored hair, but I still have more tattoos than Britney Spears and Paris Hilton put together, and I listen to angry music. I even go for some thrash metal from time to time, if the mood is right.
Things have recently been calming down. I moved from my funky studio loft apartment to a two bedroom traditional place with my boyfriend. We like to shop at Ikea. From time to time, we drive through Atlanta on Sundays. We don't like the way teenagers are dressing anymore, and when asking a seventeen year old if he really DID like the Ramones the way his T-Shirt proclaimed, he said, "Who are the Ramones?". I'm wearing more dresses to work and haven't quite figured out if I can get away with a lip peircing at work of if I should just start quoting "Bowling for Columbine"over and over.
My reading interests have veered away from Jack Kerouac to Sue Monk Kidd. Of course, I still like my classics. But I find myself glancing at 'US Weekly' more often, when I shop at Publix for lean chicken and vegetable medlies. I don't like the fact that the Supreme Court passed a law that allows government to take private property away from owners in order to put up malls and over-priced condos. I'm pretty sure I'm anti-death penalty and I'm very sure that a woman has a choice...but I wouldn't choose abortion. I want the right to smoke protected, and I want to make sure kids have good educations. I don't want to worry about endless sales at Sears...but I'm flipping through the catalog recently.
I don't like it when people have excuses for their lives--when everyone can get out and suffer and sweat a little bit. But I don't like it when people don't have mercy on the homeless or the addict. I don't like the fact that most teenagers have much nicer cars than I do, and plenty of people who don't work are still finding money to fill up their S.U.V.s and drive about listening to loud music. I think Ralph Nader shot his foot off in the last election, and I've lost all my respect for him.
I think people should riot more often, but riot peacefully. I don't think Christianity is the only religion, but I think everyone should have a religion. I hate Bush and everything he stands for, except in a few years, he might stand for some of the same things I do...
Just tell me: am I still a rebel? Or is it true? Do we all become calm, moderate laborers when we were sparks of liberty before? God, grant me the strength to remain myself: crazy, funny, rebellious, and strong. Don't let me get swept in the tide of mediocrity. And please don't let my idea of a good day become taking Suzy and Bobbi to soccer practice in my American S.U.V. before going to tennis and yoga lessons.
My good days, hopefully, will remain those spent on the dirty streets of some city, feeling the grit beneath my feet and smelling the scents of a collage of people. My good days will be art galleries, coffees, cigarettes, and walks at midnight. Graveyard slumming and picture taking.
Please let that be so.
Location: Detroit Rock City!
Where the weak are killed and eaten
Click here to find out
Teach me, Arachnae
A Woman for All Seasons
Somewhere in Middle America
Super Uber MILF
Death Wore A Feathered Mullet
Miss Kendra's Golden State
Corley's Blue Texas
Sysm's Systemic Statements
A Dude and His Dogs in Detroit
My husband might sue me for HIPPA violations.
Upon Finishing A Shrug
Well, that's Poopy
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, alwaysâ A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one. -T.S. Eliot "Little Gidding"