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Archive for March, 2002

 
|| March 13, 2002 || 2:20 am || Comments (0) ||

Nico is fucking radRadRAD.

 
|| March 12, 2002 || 11:49 pm || Comments (0) ||

“Don’t invite me. Don’t, because I will show up there and then only God knows what will happen to your meticulous plans for the future.”

// Ron, 2 June 1989

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In a dark well / I found a kite / Bloodstained, so beautiful / Recognizable / I close my eyes and / I perceive / Marble emptiness / Looking for my soul to bless / Lizards’ eyes reflection / Shows a glimpse of imperfection / Through the spastic sighs of innocence / Of deer’s blood and it’s cruel attraction

White kite fauna, do you feel / White kite fauna, is it real / White kite fauna, do you feel / White kite fauna, will it heal / Will it heal

In a dark well / Late at night / I am crying / I’ve lost my kite / Left with nothing

//K’s Choice, “White Kite Fauna”

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I was no stranger to bearing secrets when I moved to That Little Town On The Outskirts Of A Major Metropolitan Area from The Little Town On The Outskirts Of A Major Metropolitan Area. Rural Parents, have no fear. You either, Urban Parents. It’s Those Suburban Kids that are fucked. Those Suburban Kids have means to find their weekend way out of That Little Town On The Outskirts Of A Major Metropolitan Area and flirt with The Real…..a flirtation that grows into a bonecrunching and they become niggers to their addictions. Wealthy Catholic kids with their psuedo-adult posturing were my bane. Oh, yes.

I managed to slip blithely out of various parts of my identity in the nearly-500-mile move to TLTOTOOAMMA. It was easy….it was my freshman year in a place where everyone conveniently popped out of their respective wombs in a perfect clockwork fashion and were neighbors and schoolmates for their entire waking lives. Easy, yeah, because I was the new girl from a place that was as mysterious as Jupiter to my peers. If it didn’t exist within a hundred-mile radius, it was The Great Unknowntm. To this day I amaze friends from high school with never-before-voiced parts of my past.

Parts, hell. Big fucking chunks. (just ask Rob). By now you should be getting the picture, should be seeing how managing one more hidden part of my existence wasn’t so damned difficult.

With all that said, I’d like to whoosh you into this with the question of whether or not you’ve ever had one of those relationships that was just so much that it nearly devoured both parties alive? You know the kind….every moment is just out there; you’re so fiery with passion that it can only be justified if you’re spending equal time fighting AND fucking? Your brain running a loop of them in the background constantly in the moments that the two of you are apart, torturing you with that pining horseshit that you previously thought only existed in cheap novels…the kind that you would never deign to crawl with your eyes?

I was a senior in high school and I had a plan, so it should be of no surprise that a little Cosmos Fuckingtm was to be afoot shortly. I had prepared wonderfully for that last year of forced ‘education’, pounded the bulk of my curriculum into years Freshman through Junior. When year 12 rolled around, I only had need of 2 classes. This left my schedule wide open for the three jobs I held: ayyemms at a daycare center, afternoons at K-Mart (bankrupt now, boohoo….) and late pee emms Thursday through Sunday deejaying at a club in Overton Square. How cute, me in my black boots and black mini, schlepping a crate of mostly 45s into downtown Memphis to spin at a place that (from a legal standpoint) I was not old enough to set foot in.

Despite my past disdain for females that had no plans for their futures and stepped straight out of their graduation robes and into a wedding gown, I was engaged to be married to a strapping Young Marine a scant six days after I graduated high school. In retrospect, I should’ve taken the scholarships, but it all happens for a purpose. Doesn’t it? Well?

At the time, he (who shall henceforward be known as ‘Michael’) was away in a faraway land called Kaneohe Bay. I was moony with absolute love for the Young Marine, who had also managed to woo nearly the whole of my protective iron-clad, nail-spitting relatives (several of which were Devil Dogs themselves). I was to join the Corps as a spouse rather than going Mustang-style as I had planned.

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I must stay calm you know and I must be clear / It’s gonna take a hundred thoughts to make this one disappear / A train like that could travel a soul for years / A terrible thought could have a terribly long career

// Poe, “Terrible Thought”

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And so Michael was away while I was busy with life; he would return in May for my graduation and for our elaborately-planned militaryesque wedding. The missing him was made easier by occasional (albeit expensive) flights back to me and by the fact that I was leading such a packed-to-the-seams existence.

Originally I got the job at Silky Sullivan’s on the Square because I spent as much time hovering around the booth, talking music with Mojo (the house deejay) as I did on the dance floor or at the bar. My friends and I would spend one night a weekend at the club/tavern/bar despite our obvious underage status…I was sort of grandfathered in, brought along by cousins who were stationed at Millington NAS for schooling. After the first couple of times I was never hassled about getting in the door and I started bringing my small core group of female friends along for the fun. We would slide by the line of guileless females who were ready to barter their way in the door with the strict maven who stood watch there and we’d enter freely after simply handing over our I.D.s and getting the requisite handstamp. Eventually any mention of a cover charge was negated, because we became ‘the regulars’ who brought along the boots (young marines fresh off the rock at Parris Island) by the carload. Silky’s was primarily populated on the weekends by Navy and Marine Corps personnel that were stationed at Millington for tech school before being shipped off to a permanent (laughable term, that one) duty station.

I’d hang out at that elevated booth and eventually I started bringing in vinyl for Mojo to spin. It wasn’t long until he had me in the booth with him, headphones on and running the controls. One night he simply said to me, “I’ll be back” and he left me at the controls for nearly an hour, swapping platters and heckling the crowd and getting the tip jar stuffed to the brim. That very same night, he handed me a twenty and told me to go to the record store, load up, and come back the next evening loaded for bear. Spending someone else’s money on music! How great was that??

I arrived early the next evening to surrender the bounty. The place was not yet crowded with people and noise and the slow sounds of old soul was coming from the overheads. Mojo surveyed my purchases thoughtfully and after a time he looked up at me.

“Very niiiice,” he said in his deep-and-easy voice, “you want a job?” I started that very night, slapping my new purchases on the wheels between the standards from Whodini and Clarence Clemons and Midnight Star and B.B. King. So much fun! Mojo gave me the run of things, making suggestions here and there, but mostly letting me manipulate the crowd any way I saw fit. By the 2 ay emm last call I had emptied the tip jar three times, had received an armful of roses that onlookers had sent via the rose lady, and was three sheets to the wind on the free drinks that got sent up. Alllllll-RIGHT. Every Saturday night was mine in shifts: an hour-and-a-half on the mike and an hour-and-a-half off. In my free time I would wander the different sections of the establishment –the dance floor, the outside patio, the upstairs bar, the courtyard, and the downstairs jukebox-fueled bar– socializing with friends and making new ones.

With any job you enjoy, you sometimes find yourself frequenting the place in off hours and I was no exception. My friends and I would have our regular Friday nights at Silky’s, but a couple of us would sometimes find ourselves there on Thursdays, as well. Eventually I started deejaying the private parties on Sundays and filling in spots on Thursdays and Fridays. It was a big job-party-social melange.

One Friday night found me, Catt, Jacquie, Alex and my jarhead cousin Stevie bored, so we gravitated toward Silky’s. The night started out slow there, and that was good, because we were able to maneuver the crowd easily and visit with various people we all knew. As the night wore on, the place packed out and our collective love of movement found us on the dance floor flailing about and shouting out the words to “Strokin’” by Clarence Clemons. It was then that crowd yielded a gap and I saw him appraising me. Leaning against a battered wooden plank that ran the outskirts of the dance floor was a sailor (you could always tell the the devildogs and the ducks apart) and a couple buddies. He caught my eye because he had a gigantic, five-foot long stuffed snake draped around his neck. He smiled when we made eye contact and I laughed at the brazenness of sporting a large, purple (and cheaply-made) overstuffed snake with a shiny pink ribbon about its’ neck in such a testosterone-filled place.

I was not unaccustomed to being eyeballed or even hit on in Silky’s, but I always made it abundantly clear that I was betrothed and single-minded in that commitment to my lover. Often I gently guided inquiries toward Catt or Alex or Jennie, but never to Jacquie. She was a sweet soul whose inner beauty was as striking as her exterior, and I regarded her in a protective big-sisterly fashion.

We jumped and jived our way through a couple more songs and I would see him lift his drink off of the plank bar and salute me when the crowd split. During the time it rejoined, he leaned there steadily and would find me in the mirrors that surrounded the room. I know this because Alex told me so later.

We took our leave of the floor, collecting a round of drinks, and proceeded to the stairs that led to the downstairs courtyard. While we sat idly by the fountain, I glanced up and there he and that snake and his friends were, some 60 feet away. He raised his eyebrows and smiled a sloppy sideways grin at me. I responded with a distracted smile and went on conversing with those in my company.

Jacquie and I wandered off to the restroom in the downstairs bar. After emerging empty-bladdered and freshly-lipsticked, we spotted Stevie in a big wooden booth. Jac went to join him and I fed the juke, playing the obligatory standards: “Shooting Star” by Bad Company and “La Grange” by ZZ Top (“…Dey gotta lotta nice girls, heh…”). We sat shooting the shit for a few minutes, needling the mock-morose and ever-cynical Steve about finding a piece of his very own to take home. I looked up in the general direction of the bar for a suitable candidate and there against the far wall was the Snake Guy, only now he was waggling the snake’s head at me. Steve and Jac were on the opposite side of the high-backed booth, so they weren’t privy to this display. Snake guy cradled the snake’s big purple head with the ridiculous grin next to his face and offered me a beseeching look. Was this a gross attempt to be ‘cute’, or was this guy just that freewheeling? I looked away quickly, slightly annoyed and mildly discomfitted. I wanted to yell, “Hey, I don’t know what you’re about, but stop it, asshole!”.

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Well, I knocked down on your door, baby / To see if you were at home / Your shade was down, there wasn’t even a sound / But something told me you weren’t alone / What in the world can a nasty dog do / But try to get next to you?

Don’t laugh ’cause it ain’t funny / Look how it happened to me / It could happen to you, you could be a fool too / And it’d leave you in misery / I guess there’s nothin’ more funky king can do / but to try to get next to you

ZZ Top, “Nasty Dogs and Funky Kings”

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:: ::: TO BE CONTINUED ::: ::

 
|| March 11, 2002 || 2:20 am || Comments (0) ||

Oh my darlings, Pin Up Girl clothing is my newest favorite fun place to beeee!

 
|| March 7, 2002 || 10:43 pm || Comments (0) ||

Sam divides his spare time pretty equally between three pursuits: reading, video games and drawing. A major part of his appearance is the sometimes multi-colored, sometimes grey-black smudge of any given medium (chalk, pencil, marker) along the side of his left hand. It runs from the tip of his pinky finger down alongside the heel of his palm and sometimes strays to beneath his pinky nail and the underside of his wrist. I marvel at this, because the child has never been able to stand having dirty hands, even when he was the smallest of small.

That smudge, however, has become as much a part of him as his easy shuffle and his painfully handsome face.

When Sam was very little, about seven months old or so, I would pull out a little book that was a constant diaper bag companion whenever we found ourselves travelling or waiting anywhere. He began studying it fiercely when he was a scant five months, concentrating on it with a single-mindedness that was sort of scary to me, a first-time mother. The fact that it engaged him so, though, kept me from ever leaving it at home when we went places. Eventually I would point to shapes and colors and name them for him as he turned thick cardboard pages with hands that were amazingly adept for his young age. By the time he was seven months old I could ask him where red was or which shape was the triangle and he’d point to them himself.

When he was nine-going-on-ten months old, I brought home a packet of eight thick crayons and a pad of thick, creamy newsprint. The sheets were huge, about twelve inches by sixteen (maybe even eighteen) inches and when I sat Sam down next to the pad and opened it, he looked so damned tiny, even though he was a big boy. As was his way, he stared at me intently as I spoke to him and explained what the strange things I had brought home to him were.

I swear I saw understanding in that baby’s eyes as I told him what purpose the crayons and pad were to serve, and then I opened the friendly-looking box and slid the crayons out, lying them on the opened cover of the pad.

I watched as he examined them with his eyes and -without any encouragement from me- picked up two crayons in one little fist and one in the other and looked them over. I waited for the ‘typical baby’ moment, when his little hamfists would fly straight to his mouth where the crayons would find both purchase and purpose, but that moment never came. Instead, Sam put two of the three crayons back down after a time and kept the fat red one clenched in his right fist, observing it.

I took the crayons one by one and began to write the names of each in big lowercase letters in their respective colors:

o r a n g e
b l u e
g r e e n

“See?” I said to him, “You mark on the paper with the crayons. You can make letters and words like I just did, or you can make pictures.” and I started to doodle, drawing curlicue arrows and a stop sign and bumblebees in flight.

“You can do this, too, Sam…you can make pictures.”

His first attempt was tentative, but as he got bolder it seemed to become more and more awkward for him to try and put mark to page. After a few minutes, he dropped the crayon purposefully and I began to gather the others, thinking that we had reached the limits of delving in for one day. Sam-I-Am surprised me, though, by retrieving the crayon with his left hand. The implement securely in place, he began putting himself to the page in a sure manner. I, of course, watched him in amazed wonder. I had been around/cared for enough small children in my life to know that this was not the general behavior of a ten-month-old. It was thrilling and frightening at the same time.

From then on, as long as the kid had something to create with and something to create on, he was completely engaged for solid chunks of time. To the amazement of his Sunday School teacher and his part-time nanny and parents of other children, his little works of art contained very striking detail. By the time Sam was two he was putting folds and shadows in the garments his creations wore; he was putting pupils in big, round (and startlingly bewildered-looking) eyes and this one had long, wavy hair, while that one had a short, severely straight coif. Hands were square-round and sported digits. Houses had texture of brick or stucco. Trees had dark, elaborate branches beneath the pale of the greenery. I swear on my eyeballs that the kid never once drew a stick figure or even anything remotely resembling one.

One time, when Sam was around three-and-a-half, I was going through a sheaf of papers, trying to organize them. It was the point in time when Biff and I were being extraordinarily, hellishly asshead-like to one another, a time of mental disarray and emotional dismay. Through it all I cocooned Sam and Scout against the shipwreck that was happening in our home. I was the fierce lover and protector and teacher of them that I had always been, but to the tenth degree. I was so intent on making their equilibrium go uninterrupted that I was slapped in the face -and HARD- by the drawing that I found amidst the papers that I was sorting.

It was like no other that Sam had ever crafted, and though it’s been put away for ages, I can still see the sweep of every line and the magic of the details in my mind’s eye. It was a rendering of mother and child done mostly in pale turquoise and a peachy-orange.

Mother, in sweeping columnar robes that began at her head and draped past her feet, was holding a rather large baby who was wrapped papoose-style. The mother had a single strand of blonde hair emerging from her head covering and fixed on her face was a vacant look tinged with sorrow. Her eyes were grey. The baby held in her arms did not cry, but had a look of open sadness reflected in almond-brown eyes and gently downturned mouth. As a matter of fact, it was a look of such profound sadness that I began to shake and get sick to my stomach.

And there (with me, anyway) the battle was over. I resolved to put all the crap in my life to rest and unfortunately, most of it revolved around Biff. There in my life evolved an epiphany and the maxim that “I can be miserable by my fucking self….I don’t need anybody’s grand touch to do so.” And thus, the deceptively simple end to the marriage that was already so perilously close to gnawing itself to the bone. So pat and so simple that the clincher ending my fight to gain ground and hold my family together hinged on a preschooler’s drawing of his honest perceptions.

Let the struggle cease; let there be peace. Let there be peace in whatever way it can raise its weary head and manifest itself.

And there you have it.

I guess all this spill was predicated by a trip to the courthouse this morning. I needed an extra copy of certain divorce papers and while I was standing there waiting on the certified copies to be made I sat at a table, Mathias (ironically) busy scribbling away next to me, and reviewed the file. Well, I SAY I reviewed the file. That suggests that I skimmed it. I did at first, but then things started to catch my eye and I found myself starting at the most appropriate place -the beginning- and reading thoroughly. I sat there intently for nearly an hour (yeah, the file’s that thick….I’ve told you previously that it got really, really ugly before all was said and done) poring over the words of legalese that announced our tearing asunder. I finally closed the file with a weariness that I’ve not felt in a long time and came home to sit quietly and await Sam and Scout’s return from school so that I could make sure that their day was without event…mundane, even.

Sam brought home a very elaborate picture of Spiderman that he gave up his recess break to work on and shared it with me proudly. The outside of his left hand bore smudges of bright crimson and royal blue and a touch of black here and there.

 
|| March 7, 2002 || 3:30 pm || Comments (0) ||

They have GOT to be fucking kidding. No way.

 
|| March 7, 2002 || 3:05 pm || Comments (0) ||

Seth is the cutest.

Beyond compare.

He wouldn’t survive ONE meal at my house. “Eat IT!!!”, I’d shout. Maxim would then say, “That’s enough yelling.”

“I don’t have TIME for this NONSENSE!!!”, I’d declare.

Then Seth’d humbly sample off the goods and go, “Hey, this is yummy. I didn’t mean to make your head hurt. I shall never question your culinary greatness again.”

But Seth is still the cutest, anyway.

 
|| March 5, 2002 || 10:23 am || Comments (0) ||

I suspected this was the result I was gonna get, so y’all watch it!!!!


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