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Archive for December, 2001

 
|| December 31, 2001 || 9:58 pm || Comments (0) ||

We opted for a low-key New Year’s this year because the Kwanzaa festivities really tired us out.

Okay, I was kidding about the Kwanzaa thing, but Hannukah sure was a bitch. Ahem.

Anyhoo, we opted for low-key this year, because we are tiiiiiiiired. We are also short on time together, so there will be no parties, no gigs, no cruising the back roads pegging signs with our empty Schlitz bottles.

We got a DVD player for Christmas and I purchased about 20 DVDs for Maxim to get us off to a bangin’ start. One of these was “2001: A Space Odyssey”. In about 15 minutes we will pull out the champagne and pop in that movie.

We figure that if we wait until later to finally watch this movie it would be ludicrous. For two more hours, CST, this movie will still be futuristic. After this two-hour window of opportunity, it will be pastistic and that would be lame since we had the opportunity to see it while it still had the ring of impending whatever to it.

I’ve never seen this movie, save for a couple of the monolith scenes and kooky Hal moments. I am quite looking forward to it.

The thought of the impending bubbly and snuggle time ain’t so bad, either.

 
|| December 31, 2001 || 2:22 pm || Comments (0) ||

The Cube is a construct of 12 steel pipes each measuring 8ft in length and 2-in. in diameter and joined together by 16 perpendicular clamps. The ends of the pipes define an outside perimeter, while the intersecting points circumscribe an inner cube. The cube works in two ways, one is as a transcriber of cubic space and boundries, and the other is as a staging structure. It has been descibed as a portable torture chamber as the performance work itself was based in Sadomasochism and Bondage.”

–excerpt from Mark Snyder’s beautiful site

 
|| December 31, 2001 || 12:57 pm || Comments (0) ||

In the immortal words of Tone Loc,

“Lezz dooowit.”

All mad props to the hella rad timato for fixing my permalink to individual posts.

Two new links in the sidebar. And one fresh discovery: I was being deceived with a re-direct all along (you know who you are, naughty one).

 
|| December 30, 2001 || 10:26 pm || Comments (0) ||
What Video Game Character Are You? I am a <i>Death Chase Rider</i>.” /></a><font size =I am a Death Chase Rider.

I enjoy taking risks, and I get kicks from speed, danger, and death-defying stunts. I drink and drive, I bungee jump, I snowboard, with no regard for my own life, or the lives of those who stand in my way. Trees? I laugh at trees!
What Video Game Character Are You?

 
|| December 28, 2001 || 8:34 pm || Comments (0) ||

My dad just e-mailed me a photo of my mother –an innocuous act, really– and it made me really, really sad. This is strange and goofy, because a picture of my mom should make me happy, right? Right.

But it didn’t, and this is why: if you had shown that photo of my mother to me five or six years ago, I wouldn’t recognize the person in the image as my mom. Her nose is a shiny red, her mouth is a nonexistant slash above her chin and the eyes are vacant and a couple notches shy of flat. My mom looks old.

What’s making me well up and spill over as I write this is NOT the fact that my mother looks old. Hell, we’re all destined for that and I would be foolish to embrace a Peter Pan Complex at this late stage in the game. My mom looks older than her fifty-four years should, and she just looks kind of….well, hopeless is the only word that comes to mind.

My ma, man….she has always been a scrappy thing, feisty and full of life. She’s the type of person that never much worried about her own wants or desires and wouldn’t be satisfied until she was taking care of a half-dozen other people. In the course of constantly going above and beyond for others, I know for a fact that she didn’t take great care of herself. I wonder at times if this is why she is having all the problems she’s having now.

My mom has been sick for a few years now. Not garden-variety sick, either….sick-in-so-many-ways-that-we-just-can’t-pinpoint-it sick. I want to say it gradually crept up on us, but it didn’t. Or maybe it did, and she just wasn’t forthcoming with it. One day she starts having these blackouts. That was about six years ago. After a battery of tests and some scary situations of the “Hey, where’d mom go?” variety, doctors took away her license. They also took away her computer priveleges. No license plus no computer equals early retirement and thank God my stock has rolled and split so much in the last three years.

There was no fanfare, no joy to her retirement. There was anger and frustration and depression that I’m sure would beset any woman of 48 years who was accustomed to being independent and self-sustaining and active. Hell, one of her biggest pleasures of the day used to be coming in the front door, lying down her briefcase, kicking off her pumps, taking off her jacket and being greeted by dad (who got off work at 3 before he started pulling extra hours to compensate for her lack thereof) at the door with coffee and kisses and a “How was your day, hon?”

There is none of that now. Now there is 12 minutes to occasionally e-mail me because that is the extent of her computer time at one whack. Now there is keeping manic house and immaculate yard because those are her boundaries and a body has to keep busy. Now there is waiting patiently for dad to have a day off when she has a real and pressing want. Now there is being hesitant to express that want because she already feels guilty for all she requires. GUILTY, for Chrissakes, for having a want and Iamoutrightsobbingnow.

Now there are repeated trips to the doctor to fall victim to an assload of tests that tell an assload of nothing. Sometimes she is adamant: “NOT ONE MORE NEEDLE.” And I would be adamant as well. They’ve been able to tell us nothing on top of nothing and howfrustratingisTHAT?? The only thing we know for sure is that she has “partial complex seizures” but the almighty medical establishment cannot determine a source.

They cannot determine a source, yet they medicate. And overmedicate. And undermedicate. And medicate yet some more. I am convinced that their medications are the bulk of her troubles now, the cause of the brittle bones (we are tall, strong-framed people with absolutely no history of bone density loss in our lineage) and crazy rashes and degenerating organs. Hell, the organs have been eroded to such an extent that last year she should have died from loss of potassium (she had ZERO when they got her to the hospital and to hear that still puts me agog) and her body was forced potassium over what she described as the longest, most painful night of her life. She actually TOLD me that if that were to ever happen again, I should tell them to let her die, because she never wanted to have that procedure again. She meant it.

I recall something now in the throes of this railing out at nobody that still really, REALLY unnerves me. Mathias was 4 months old and we were visiting Memphis and Maxim and dad and Sam and Scout were out in the back yard enjoying the blossoming spring. I had just taken the baby from the bath and mom asked to hold and rock him while I gathered his things and straightened the bathroom. I travelled through the dining room several times during the next ten minutes and never once sensed anything was amiss. All I saw was a grandmomma rocking and patting her baby and same baby cooing and happy.

When I went to retrieve Mathias from her to finish dressing him, however, I noticed how silent Mom was. I then picked up on how methodical her body rhythms were, how metronome-like she rocked to and fro, how crisp (albeit gentle) her regular pats to the baby’s back were. Her eyes were vacant, and I tried calling out her name at least three times. I asked her for the baby at least as many. I was afraid to touch her –to touch my own mother– lest I screw something up in her reverie and thus her brain, lest I startle her into dropping or –worse– clutching the baby too tightly.

Dad came in and I calmly explained the situation to him and I don’t recall how he retrieved my son, nor how I got my son dressed or even how I ended up in the park down the street alone and sobbing. I just remember the fear and the remorse. “It’s real”, I kept saying to myself, “it’s really and truly REAL.”

I guess the thing that upset me the most was that the one thing that caused her so much joy over the years –the simple act of rocking and patting a grandchild– had triggered a seizure. That one happening enlightened me to the fact that we were not only playing a new ballgame, but it was located in an entirely different park.

Lest ye be deceived, I have taken a proactive stance in my mother’s illness in many ways. They are ways that I don’t feel like getting into right now, so I won’ t. So sorry….

I don’t kid myself about what is going on. In the recesses of my gut there is that eyeball-rolling fear whenever the phone rings at an odd time or I speak to my mother and she sounds far less than par. But Holy Christ, when I see through a camera’s non-loving, impartial eye the naked truth, I cringe and just want to roll up into a ball under my desk here and be sick of heart for all of eternity.

That ain’t no melodrama, kids.

 
|| December 27, 2001 || 9:06 am || Comments (0) ||

My New Year’s Resolutions:
–Announce my sinister plans for invisible friends.
–Magnify the origins of experiments.
–Harass almost all of my mucus membranes.
–Ignore an allegiance with special sleeping pods.
–Prepare gelatinous mounds of marvelous ideas.
–Terminate the world’s marvelous ideas.
–Form gelatinous mounds of warm pudding.
–Ignore gelatinous mounds of marvelous ideas.

And there you have it; as comprehensive a list as any….

 
|| December 25, 2001 || 1:48 am || Comments (0) ||

Merry Christmas to YOU, ‘l33t m00;

Merry Christmas to YOU, jack-loving desert dweller;

Merry Christmas to YOU, divulger of secret code language;

Merry Christmas to YOU (and you CAN celebrate unabashedly/you ARE a family sans bebes), fellow displaced Memphis girl;

Merry Christmas to YOU, kooky Jersey artist,

Merry Christmas to YOU, sage sausage person;

Merry Christmas to YOU, cute little Aussie tart;

Merry Christmas to YOU, sweet Martini garnish;

Merry Christmas to YOU, all of you within the system and the keeper of same;

Merry Christmas to YOU, daaaaaarlin’ lovable punk boy;

Merry Christmas to YOU, precious timato;

Merry Christmas to YOU, everyday heroine (and lover of base words like ‘whore’ and ‘crack’).

And to those of you whose presence I am yet unaware of, Merry-Merry-MERRY….and thanks for stopping by to soak in my inane babblings.