A Random Image

Archive for July, 2000

|| July 29, 2000 || 3:54 pm || Comments (0) ||

Hey, just where the hell is everyone? Just where the hell am I?? LOL…somebody post something quasi-entertaining, okay? I am too tired and too busy to this week.

|| July 23, 2000 || 10:15 pm || Comments (0) ||

Red wine does funny things to my senses.

I was dancing with myself on the balcony, allowing the music in my head to murmur throughout my body. I love this state of self-contained beauty, where everything just belongs to the moment. I writhe and I breathe and it is delightfully pagan. It’s easy to forget him standing over there, just outside the squares of light careening off of the french doors. It’s easy to not remember that he is as absorbed as I am, for similar and dissimilar reasons….this dichotomy is pulpy and delicious.

Life itself is in those moments between what we experience and what we choose to dismiss from recollection.

And the stories, fuck me, the stories!

|| July 22, 2000 || 4:09 pm || Comments (0) ||

WHY do I have to learn HTML in order to not have an ugly blog? WHY??? That is soooo fucked. I don’t wanna!! Help me, Dirk! HELP.

|| July 22, 2000 || 1:12 pm || Comments (0) ||

Feeling very squishy and femme today. On days like this I sort of have a “What the hell is going on here?” bewildered demeanor.

Don’t get me wrong…I very much like being a female. We hold strange and mysterious powers –ask any man who’s honest and he will agree– that we as girls and women don’t always or fully understand; we are simply acquainted with the fact that they can be really advantageous, in more than one sense (TO more than one sense?). I LOVE lipstick. I like heels. I dig frilly undies, even if my clothes sometimes belie that. My femininity doesn’t define me, however, but maybe in the larger picture that is what makes me even more feminine.

So I got out of bed this morning all sappy and sentimental and painted my toenails navy blue. After my shave-them-legs-floss-them-teeth (fortunately not vice-versa) routine in the shower, I pulled on a straight-to-the-ankles flowy dress (move over, Ms. Nicks) and mixed up some French clay and peppermint oil and slathered it on my face. I leisurely munched on fruit cocktail while I watched this new program I flipped past on VH1 (LOOK, taking in ONE program in no way makes me the Mtv Networks’ token bitch, okay?). It was called ’soundAffects’ and it made me cry.

YES, ladies and gents, the stone princess cries. Not often, mind you….just often enough to remind me that I am human and vulnerable and reachable by SOMEONE/THING.

Maybe it was just the premise of the show, which I found wonderful and inventive—why they didn’t do it ten years ago during the peak of their lameness, I dunno. Individuals are filmed discussing (and are subsequently spliced with) music that touched or moved or soothed or inflamed them at a pivotal or memorable point in their lives. So I cried, because some of the stuff that they shared was so raw and undiluted. I cried because I empathize and sympathize and I know the magnitude of meaning behind a song to its’ creator. It may not intrinsically mean what the listener has extracted from it, but there is even more glory in that. The words and musical phrases generated by someone/a group of someones, relevant to one circumstance, have touched a whole other part of someone else in regard to another circumstance. That transcendence evokes awe in me. It always has. A vicious, gorgeous power that one is. Seductive, raw and poisonous.

Blah, blah, blah, this doesn’t feel meaty, it smacks of verbose. Clean it up, child. Clean it up.

My grandfather and I had nothing in common, or so I thought until my mid-twenties. Hell, he and I didn’t even have a civil multisyllabic conversation until I was 20 years old. Even then, we were just being snide about someone else, but it was something, you know? He had 38 grandkids and 18 great-grandchildren; at the time I was carrying what would be the 19th before he died. Out of all of those, I was his least favorite (or running a real close second) and one of my sisters was his favorite. I didn’t really care, I don’t guess. Life has a way of evening things out in other areas.

BUT, I remember being astonished at our similarities after his death, both physical and spiritual. We share these traits: a disdain of people with a love of being in their midst, tall stature, fierce determination to meet our ends with purpose, a love of the prosaic, a hearty distemperate strong will, pure voices and an unfailing love of song. Especially the latter.

I used to curl up at his feet on the battered front porch when I was little and listen to him rock and sing for hours upon hours. I would watch his demeanor, my pigtailed head upturned, and I would bask in the depth of his rich bass voice. Sometimes the hand holding the hymnal would shake with the vigor of restraining his sound within the subtle pianissimos and the farm-sharpened tendons in them would leap out as he soared loudly largo, bent on holding the phrase. In retrospect, he was larger-than-life and I loved him immensely. I finally realized that it was not my father that had shaped my misguided image of what a man should be, as much as I adored my dad. Daddy is crisp and clean and cool, the most even person I know. Papaw was loud and gruff and passive-aggressive to a fault. I pursued his likeness in ill-natured relationships for the longest before I finally got it: Not everyone with whom you would fall in love is the person you were meant to be with.

So there you have it, I am the girliest of girls today and I am reflective to boot. Days like these the world should be put on hold. Days like these should be reserved for long, indulgent love-making and lemonade drinking and lying under rustly trees with an old gospel song running a loop through the brain.

|| July 21, 2000 || 11:23 pm || Comments (0) ||

I spit sometimes.

Never in public–eegads–, never when anyone’s around. There’s nothing like a good spit. And by the way, there’s no loogie referral in that. I’ve never loogied in my entire life (it evokes the standard, girlie “ewwww, grossss…”). Sheer saliva is what I’m speaking of. ~say that fast 50x, o ye unfettered plebes~

The Prince Righteous Dude to my Princess CoolChick HATES when I spit. He caught me doing so one spring evening and said (in that wrinkly-nosed, precious way that high society reserves for those in the poorest of taste), “Why do you DO that?”

Before I could even process the question, much less formulate and convey an answer, came this shiny little slip of an interjection: “You do it JUST LIKE a man!”

~Sideways compliment, whether or not he is aware of it~

“Whaddaya expect?” was my quick reply.

“I spent all those years hanging out at rodeos when I was a kid.”

“And My Lord, Papaw LOVED that Mid-South Wresting (Hi, Jerry Lawler, Superstar Bill Dundee and Tojo Yamamoto! Hi!)!”

Say G’nite, Gracie.

|| July 21, 2000 || 5:03 pm || Comments (0) ||

Road trip today with the beautiful monsters…we meandered all over the northern half of the state and had ‘abventhors’. At one point, while everyone slept, I listened to ‘Right Hand Man’ (J. Osborne version) over and over, wailing along with it. Some songs you can never getta nuff uv.

Some songs make me SO envious that I didn’t come up with them first!

Some songs make me never want to speak again….they make me wanna go through life singing everything. Remarkably, (albeit vainly) a couple of my OWN tunes fit that bill.

Ciao for now, Love & Rockets…

|| July 17, 2000 || 8:57 pm || Comments (0) ||

Fiduciary responsibility. Two big, ugly words. Foreboding–even moreso when they are used together.

Owning up. More comfortable and airy, it carries just as much weight and is friendlier on the tongue. Yet seemingly more stark.

This theme has reverberated through my life the last couple of days. I am not being smacked with it. Quite the contrary; I have been watching it rock other people’s quiet little self-deluded idleness. I have been watching it as if in slow motion through the clearest of walls. I have been feeling its’ weighty ripples, riveted in mock-terror mingled with bliss.

Sort of a ‘whipping post after a heavily-piggybacked I.V.’ feeling.

Alas (natch), it is only Monday evening and such happenings don’t occur on Mondays and usually not on Tuesdays. Thursday, for some ungodly** reason, is when a whole lot seems to go down.

**UNGODLY….now THERE’S a concept that I should review later.