Favorite things to do with words : tell funny stories, cuss loudly, write a limerick, tell a secret, express anger (or joy or sadness...), make a manly man feel intellectually inferior, sing songs....
Can you imagine the level of frustration you would feel if you had a fully functioning brain, but couldn't express yourself using language. I wanted to see this movie The Diving Bell and Butterfly, it is a French film about this fancy magazine executive guy who has a stroke and is left with no functional means of communication. The only thing he has left is ONE of his eyes... he writes an entire book using code to blink words and letters... an entire book's worth of blinks. Fascinating. Sorry I missed it during it's brief stay at the theater.
Plus, I love love love listening to people speak French (and Italian for that matter). It sounds like buttery sweet sex rolling off the tongue. Mmmmm.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Future Problem Solvers
So, I figure that if I am going to have a blog, a blog which is an open forum for public humiliation... I might as well admit that I was the leader of my Future Problem Solvers group back in grade school.
We humbly referred to ourselves as FPS, and we took on broad scheming issues like (and I remember the process of trying to solve this one vividly) "How to get power lines to Antarctica". As a fifth grader this was a daunting task-- a carnival for the imagination. We began to dream of how we could involve dolphins or penguins... how we could travel with sleds and packs of dogs... use spaceships and submarines. We were there. I imagined myself in a fur hooded parka as I sat in my 5th grade classroom. My fellow FPSers and I wrote feverishly-- we brainstormed-- we crafted a plan. Nothing was impossible. This was at a time in my life when I thought I could be an astronaut or the first woman president.
It seems Hillary has beaten me to the summit on that one.
Where has all my sparkly optimism gone? I'm still convinced I will be a part of a rescue mission that involves me catching a ride on a dolphin... but when did I stop believing I could be president or a rocket scientist?
We humbly referred to ourselves as FPS, and we took on broad scheming issues like (and I remember the process of trying to solve this one vividly) "How to get power lines to Antarctica". As a fifth grader this was a daunting task-- a carnival for the imagination. We began to dream of how we could involve dolphins or penguins... how we could travel with sleds and packs of dogs... use spaceships and submarines. We were there. I imagined myself in a fur hooded parka as I sat in my 5th grade classroom. My fellow FPSers and I wrote feverishly-- we brainstormed-- we crafted a plan. Nothing was impossible. This was at a time in my life when I thought I could be an astronaut or the first woman president.
It seems Hillary has beaten me to the summit on that one.
Where has all my sparkly optimism gone? I'm still convinced I will be a part of a rescue mission that involves me catching a ride on a dolphin... but when did I stop believing I could be president or a rocket scientist?
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Playing Pretend.
Pretend land is where I live.
I pretend things don't bother me. I pretend I'm on a diet. I pretend like I understand my statistics class. I pretend I'm confident. I pretend that having sex with myself is as good as the real thing. I pretend to be artistic. I pretend I'm not interested in bullshit Hollywood pop culture. I pretend I'm okay with living in Indianapolis. I pretend my Mimi is in better health than she is. I pretend I have ankles. I pretend I'm interested in the stories my boss tells me. I pretend my Dad doesn't make me uncomfortable. I pretend to be knowledgeable about sports. I pretend everything is "ok". Sometimes I pretend I'm British. Mostly, I pretend I'm not myself.
I pretend things don't bother me. I pretend I'm on a diet. I pretend like I understand my statistics class. I pretend I'm confident. I pretend that having sex with myself is as good as the real thing. I pretend to be artistic. I pretend I'm not interested in bullshit Hollywood pop culture. I pretend I'm okay with living in Indianapolis. I pretend my Mimi is in better health than she is. I pretend I have ankles. I pretend I'm interested in the stories my boss tells me. I pretend my Dad doesn't make me uncomfortable. I pretend to be knowledgeable about sports. I pretend everything is "ok". Sometimes I pretend I'm British. Mostly, I pretend I'm not myself.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Tengo un nuevo gato.
My parents gave me a kitty to ward off the ghosts in my haunted apartment. His name is Meow Meow Head Maximillus Morgan. He is furry and does cute kitty things with his paws. I like him. I've never claimed to be a "cat person" but being that I am on my path toward becoming that single lady that spends all her time at the library, mumbling to herself and hiding under loose draping clothes... I figured I ought to bring things full circle and foster an intense relationship with a cat. Don't start worrying about me until I start wearing oversized moo-moo style t-shirts with kitties on them or hanging kitty calendars in my office. I'm going to be okay.
meow.
meow.
I knew this guy...
Journal Entry... dated about 2 months back......before Christmas. Before a lot.
Today I’m feeling what I believe to be anxiety. If anxiety is that thing that makes me feel like my clothes are choking me and I am standing outside of my body looking at myself and all the other feckless rubes wandering aimlessly around this planet—overly sensitized to the trivial nature of most things—worried that none of what I do will ever matter… if that characterizes anxiety then anxiety is what I have. Anxiety is supposed to be a bad thing. A thing that requires medication. I believe that without it nothing would ever change. People would walk around numbed and contented with the status quo. I am NOT okay with the current situation, my life. My life tastes of stagnant water.
THIS is not about to head into a detailed account of all my “Daddy issues”, failed relationships, blame placing etcetera… okay, well no promises… it might… we, my beloved friends, are about to dive into my imagination. My subconscious and on rare occasions a state of heightened consciousness (these moments of increased self awareness are treasured). I think the point of living is to be able to achieve this state of amplified awareness in every moment of your life. Ultimately, the goal is to be awakened to the beauty of love, the power and awe of nature and the uniqueness of each human struggle. Awakened every day, in every interaction, in every word spoken. Aware of the footprints you leave during your “walk” about this planet.
The man (side note: I’m at a weird stage in my life where I find it hard to refer to myself as a woman, though I know I am a woman… a woman in my early stages of womanhood—the early definitive stages—clearly confused and easily thrown off course) The person I’m currently involved with sees things in people. Strange things. He talks to homeless people on the street. He hugs them. He shakes their hands. These people make ME take a few steps back. They make ME feel dirty. That pisses me off.
He is wonderfully different. He is like adding one of those little packets of Crystal Light to my glass of stagnant water… he adds color and flavor. Crystal Light insinuates that HE is low calorie, safe, etc. We shall refer to him as hot cocoa powder instead. But, you add the cocoa to milk and the idea of stagnant milk is way disgusting. And, cocoa makes him sound like he is of African American descent, which he is not. Okay, I’m done with beverage metaphors. Not that black is bad. I’m no racist. It’s just that he is white and I don’t want to mislead anyone into thinking I’m carrying on a saucy affair with an exotic cocoa skinned man when I am really just dating a whitey.
I’m scared. Sometimes I want to be sure that my life is colorful without the help of another person. I want to be certain that I’m not using a man to light my room. They cast such a lovely light though…
When he touches things he uses his fingers in such a delicate way. He uses the pads of skin on the tips of his fingers in the same way a cat uses whiskers. It’s as though the colors and textures of objects are amplified by his touch. It’s beautiful to watch him do just about anything.
Today I’m feeling what I believe to be anxiety. If anxiety is that thing that makes me feel like my clothes are choking me and I am standing outside of my body looking at myself and all the other feckless rubes wandering aimlessly around this planet—overly sensitized to the trivial nature of most things—worried that none of what I do will ever matter… if that characterizes anxiety then anxiety is what I have. Anxiety is supposed to be a bad thing. A thing that requires medication. I believe that without it nothing would ever change. People would walk around numbed and contented with the status quo. I am NOT okay with the current situation, my life. My life tastes of stagnant water.
THIS is not about to head into a detailed account of all my “Daddy issues”, failed relationships, blame placing etcetera… okay, well no promises… it might… we, my beloved friends, are about to dive into my imagination. My subconscious and on rare occasions a state of heightened consciousness (these moments of increased self awareness are treasured). I think the point of living is to be able to achieve this state of amplified awareness in every moment of your life. Ultimately, the goal is to be awakened to the beauty of love, the power and awe of nature and the uniqueness of each human struggle. Awakened every day, in every interaction, in every word spoken. Aware of the footprints you leave during your “walk” about this planet.
The man (side note: I’m at a weird stage in my life where I find it hard to refer to myself as a woman, though I know I am a woman… a woman in my early stages of womanhood—the early definitive stages—clearly confused and easily thrown off course) The person I’m currently involved with sees things in people. Strange things. He talks to homeless people on the street. He hugs them. He shakes their hands. These people make ME take a few steps back. They make ME feel dirty. That pisses me off.
He is wonderfully different. He is like adding one of those little packets of Crystal Light to my glass of stagnant water… he adds color and flavor. Crystal Light insinuates that HE is low calorie, safe, etc. We shall refer to him as hot cocoa powder instead. But, you add the cocoa to milk and the idea of stagnant milk is way disgusting. And, cocoa makes him sound like he is of African American descent, which he is not. Okay, I’m done with beverage metaphors. Not that black is bad. I’m no racist. It’s just that he is white and I don’t want to mislead anyone into thinking I’m carrying on a saucy affair with an exotic cocoa skinned man when I am really just dating a whitey.
I’m scared. Sometimes I want to be sure that my life is colorful without the help of another person. I want to be certain that I’m not using a man to light my room. They cast such a lovely light though…
When he touches things he uses his fingers in such a delicate way. He uses the pads of skin on the tips of his fingers in the same way a cat uses whiskers. It’s as though the colors and textures of objects are amplified by his touch. It’s beautiful to watch him do just about anything.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Transitions
Transitions. Life is about transitions. For example, before you head into work in the morning there are a series of transitions to be made.
Phase 1. A "checklist" if you will. 1) Appropriate volume fade out of rocking tune you drove in listening to. 2) Make sure fly is zipped. 3) Check for boogies (come on people, both EYES and NOSE, I'm so over seeing your eye boogies). It's a go. Now for the walk into the building. This is your opportunity to mentally prepare yourself for a mentally unstimulated day on the job. The building is with in vision range. Anxiety sets it... do I abort? ShiT. No, no, no... it's cool. Just go in. Make a smooth transition into the office. Be charming and cheerful. Be "yourself". Eye contact with smokers = half grin/head nod combo. You're in. It wreaks of fax, pleated front dockers and quarterly figures. MMMmmm... now for that black piss they call coffee in the cafeteria. Wonderful. There are 6 people in line ahead of me. Aren't these people at all embarrassed to order ONLY bacon? "Um yes, I'd like 5 pieces of bacon and 2 hard boiled eggs." I'm sorry, but I can actually hear the plaque coagulating in your arteries. I choke back vomit as I accidentally imagine a humpbacked middle aged black woman naked. I should have aborted this mission earlier during phase 1 of my transition. The woman ahead of me is one of those super organized people. She has a holster for her antibacterial hand elixir on the outside of her purse. She has the exact amount of change counted and in her hand (tax included, she's done this before folks). She has her own special cup that she fills with ice and soda. Her bangs are immaculate. Lots of lipstick. Finally, eye contact with the counter girl. I like her because she despises fucking with these people too. We understand each other, and as such my coffee is free of charge. Merci. I'd go for creamer, but there are always these really disgusting little chunks of dried up crusty dairy product on the edge of the spout. No thanks. ( Quick side note: do you realize that we drink a liquid that is produced by a cow's mammary gland? A mammary gland is essentially a glorified sweat gland. Whose idea was this?)
Being that I am currently at work, I think if I continue writing about this and then reflect upon it... there is a good chance the abortion of my job will come to fruition. And, I'm not sure I'm down with abortion. It only gets worse. Maybe later.
Phase 1. A "checklist" if you will. 1) Appropriate volume fade out of rocking tune you drove in listening to. 2) Make sure fly is zipped. 3) Check for boogies (come on people, both EYES and NOSE, I'm so over seeing your eye boogies). It's a go. Now for the walk into the building. This is your opportunity to mentally prepare yourself for a mentally unstimulated day on the job. The building is with in vision range. Anxiety sets it... do I abort? ShiT. No, no, no... it's cool. Just go in. Make a smooth transition into the office. Be charming and cheerful. Be "yourself". Eye contact with smokers = half grin/head nod combo. You're in. It wreaks of fax, pleated front dockers and quarterly figures. MMMmmm... now for that black piss they call coffee in the cafeteria. Wonderful. There are 6 people in line ahead of me. Aren't these people at all embarrassed to order ONLY bacon? "Um yes, I'd like 5 pieces of bacon and 2 hard boiled eggs." I'm sorry, but I can actually hear the plaque coagulating in your arteries. I choke back vomit as I accidentally imagine a humpbacked middle aged black woman naked. I should have aborted this mission earlier during phase 1 of my transition. The woman ahead of me is one of those super organized people. She has a holster for her antibacterial hand elixir on the outside of her purse. She has the exact amount of change counted and in her hand (tax included, she's done this before folks). She has her own special cup that she fills with ice and soda. Her bangs are immaculate. Lots of lipstick. Finally, eye contact with the counter girl. I like her because she despises fucking with these people too. We understand each other, and as such my coffee is free of charge. Merci. I'd go for creamer, but there are always these really disgusting little chunks of dried up crusty dairy product on the edge of the spout. No thanks. ( Quick side note: do you realize that we drink a liquid that is produced by a cow's mammary gland? A mammary gland is essentially a glorified sweat gland. Whose idea was this?)
Being that I am currently at work, I think if I continue writing about this and then reflect upon it... there is a good chance the abortion of my job will come to fruition. And, I'm not sure I'm down with abortion. It only gets worse. Maybe later.
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