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Archive for December, 2001

 
|| December 12, 2001 || 6:53 pm || Comments (0) ||

Sometimes I wonder why it is such an effort for me to speak to strangers and why I feel so annoyed when they break the silence
and speak to me (save, of course,for elderly people and children….they usually have something worthwhile to say). I am part of humanity and then again I’m not. I think that maybe I should raise my head above the muck and listen for somebody who needs a simple hello….

I never have a problem being the initiator of smiles, of friendly nods. I am always watching and never paying attention. I owe somebody somewhere something. At least that’s how I feel today. Every other day it’s a big “fuck you” to the world and “Every man for himself!”, although I cannot bear the suffering so I lend whatever time and effort and money I can spare to various causes.

I heard somebody describing a woman of power one time (Hilary Clinton -and I am no great fan, let me tell
you- if you MUST know) in an interview. The interviewer spoke of HC’s seeming disdain/dislike of people as a whole and the interviewee said that was on target, but there was more to HC than people realized. She said that while HC was not fond of people, she could not stand their suffering and would do everything in her power to alleviate it. She then referred to HC as a “compassionate misanthrope”.

That term struck a chord with me, as that is as accurate a description of my own self as any I’ve ever heard. I’ve hung onto it in my memory banks since the day I heard it some three or four years ago. Perhaps that is the term I would like to see sported on my headstone when I decide to shuck my body for something more fully functional.

Lately and oddly enough, I have felt a pull to connect with someone on a more visceral level. Maybe this is a sign of growing in some way. Who that person is, I don’t know.

I know lots of people who have been hurt in one way or another, in varying degrees, that shut themselves off from people in an effort to not feel that rawness again. I can honestly say that I am not one of those people. I’ve always been a little aloof (kindly do not confuse aloof behavior with snobbery….) and a little scientifically detached, even before life knocked me around some. I have gone through some massive hurts in my short span here on the planet and it’s not left me any more or less open, any more or less needy. People, when given the chance to earnestly know me, are surprised at my exuberance and my fierce protectiveness of them. To my way of thinking, being a proper friend and loved one requires immense amounts of tenacity and resolve and loyalty and love. That’s why I don’t go around flinging my affections at people randomly. It’s because I want to expend energy on people that are ‘worthy’.

One thing I have discovered is that everybody is fucked up in their own way. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I personally am no more or less fucked up than any one person that I could pick out of a crowd. I’m just fucked up differently, that’s all. And so are you. And so is the d00d standing next to you. And her over there in the corner? Yeah, her too….

I guess I don’t have a point here, besides the one that’s on the top of my head. I love everyone and I hate everyone and while I have no real desire to be a ‘part’ of anything, I do enjoy the antics and the tricks and the niceties that comprise it all.

Go ahead, sing “I Am A Rock” by Simon and Garfunkel, because it’s already making the loop in my head.

I am laughing. I really am.

 
|| December 12, 2001 || 3:00 pm || Comments (0) ||

This place used to look like this. It may well look similar soon.

 
|| December 12, 2001 || 12:54 pm || Comments (0) ||

Normally I don’t do this, but I’m going to do so today.

Hey, if you visit this site covertly and I don’t know it, if you sneak in and slip out, if you’ve never contacted me via e-mail or the comments system, could you introduce yourself to me today? If you have a place to peruse, I’d like to see it as well. I hope this isn’t too much to ask.

Okay.

 
|| December 12, 2001 || 11:36 am || Comments (0) ||

And today I found Spit When You Sing. So far so good.

 
|| December 12, 2001 || 11:03 am || Comments (0) ||

Okay, lately I haven’t given two yippity-fucks about blogging and I’ll openly admit it, as well as the supporting reasons.

Firstly, I lied on the emo test; I didn’t stop listening to Dashboard Confessional, I started listening to them more, if anything. My choice of music doesn’t fuel my mood…my moooood fuels my choice of music. That’s exactly what I’ve been in lately, exactly how I would describe it: a moooood.

Anyway, I’ve not been writing here, nor have I been writing anywhere, because I have been too busy doing culturally-enlightening things like scouring eBay for a home brew kit (one of Maxim’s gifts, of course….I finally gave up and bought one from BrewCat) and hanging out at the old dilapidated mansion by the river. You know the one; it houses the hippie duo that I found via my artist friend Matte. The hippies are annoying to talk to for too long (cheese-grater-on-spinal-cord annoying), but they make some seriously fine music by my estimation and they don’t give my kids candy if I happen to bring them along. They feed them chicken salad on crusty grain bread and homemade granola bars, thus negating my need to go home and drag out the pots and pans.

Also, I’ve been busy getting screwed by life. And how was your day, sweetness?

So, I’ve not been blogging, nor have I been reading anyone else’s lately. Sue me. I’ve even been giving the ole stinkeye to e-mail, wandering nowhere near my hotmail account for a little over a week or so. When I finally arrived there this morning I did it only begrudgingly and I found nearly a hundred messages there waiting. I began to wade through, going through the point-and-click motions, gullet grinding.

I emerged with a handful of praise for my prose, welcome correspondence from an old web pal (whose Christmas box will be late but worth it, I’d like to tell him ‘cos he’ll be reading this) and not one but TWO offers for hosting. And I didn’t even threaten the people who offered. Or wheedle. Or cajole. Or show my ta-tas. Coooool.

This is the part where I am supposed to tell you that I was given a new lease on life by all this web-lovin’ and came straight out here to scribble something because of it, but that isn’t so. Once again I have let you down. I can’t help it. My moon is in Saturn or some shit and there is internal conflict and life is in transition and I have two options: muddle through or check out. I can’t check out because (laugh if you must) of an earnest promise I made to God some time ago, so here I sits and there you sits and we’ll suffer the hangtime boldly -albeit a little bitchily- because that’s the stuff we’re made of.

Isn’t it??

 
|| December 7, 2001 || 2:43 pm || Comments (0) ||

If I were a work of art, I would be Heironymous Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights.

I am decadent and depraved. I have an eye for small details and love to fit in as much hedonistic pleasure as possible in everything I do. I buck authority and am not afraid to make a statement outside approved channels.

Which work of art would you be? The Art Test

 
|| December 6, 2001 || 3:10 pm || Comments (0) ||

Had my wisdom teeth out. OW-OW-OW. I am presently leery of the baker’s dozen percocet left in my ‘feel-good bottle’; not sure whether it’s because they make me nauseous if I stand for more than two minutes at a stretch or if it’s because I like the way they smoothly assist me in checking out of yon reality. At any rate, I suffer while those fucking percocet sit in the bottle mocking me.

Heath called yesterday to ‘check’ on me….yeah, right. Haven’t heard from him in two months, Maxim bumps into him and mentions that I am getting teeth yanked and now he’s ‘checking’ on me. And asking what I plan to do with the rest of the percocet in the ‘feel-good bottle’. I tell him that I imagine it will sit in my bathroom cabinet until such time as they begin to rot and lose their potency, and then I will chuck them out. He sounds mortally wounded at the thought and asks whether or not I might sell them.

“To you, you mean?” I guffaw.

“What?” he asks, “WHAT?? What’s so funny?”

“You’re a fucking junkie, Heath-a-roo, and I ain’t sellin’ my pills to YOU.”

“A junkie?” he responds with measured incredulity, “A junkie??? Whaddaya mean by that?”

“Oh c’mon, Heath, gimme a fucking break here….don’t insult me. Like knows like. The only difference is, I’m non-practicing, the hollow look to my eyes has filled in, and the pits in the crooks of my elbows aren’t so noticeable as the bruises in yours.”

He kept his jovial tone, but it was jerky and stilted and I could tell that I hit home but he was doing his best to not let me know that. And –the most pathetic of all– he still tries to get me to sell him the pills.

“Heath,” I counter, “I would go down to the college campus, set up a table with lemonade and a sign that says ‘FREE DRUGS AND LEMONADE HERE’ and hand them out to passers-by before I would EVER assist you in furthering the downward spiral. I won’t ever need the money that bad again.”

“Okay, but let me know if you change your mind.”

“Darlin’, I’d rather put a bullet in your skull first and save us all some time and trouble.” And I hung up. Maybe this approach will work. No others have.