A Random Image

Archive for July, 2003

 
|| July 31, 2003 || 11:32 pm || Comments (5) ||

Just another day in Honolulu, a different life, a different plane altogether. No longer the wild child from Memphis; a business-attired woman (though young as she was) supplanting the other. Balmy, bright-sun day, and I was sunglassed, heels clacking easily on the pavement as I went in search of some little something, a token to send to my mother to let her know I was thinking of her. Nibbling a croissant plucked from the corner patisserie, tearing small bits from the flaky whole, inserting them in my mouth and chewing thoughtfully, easily.

The shop caught my eye and I went in the south entrance, the far side away from the cash registers, placing the paper-wrapped snack into the bag over my shoulder, meandering. I passed a good five minutes wandering around the store, glasses pushed back atop my head, looking, smiling to myself at this thing and that thing, thinking of relatively nothing at all. When I finally made a selection, some dainty pretty that I cannot even recollect now, I turned to traverse the store, which was not narrow but claimed a depth that lent to that illusion. Rounding the end of an aisle, about to proceed up it, and I caught sight of you.

Down there. By the north entrance. Next to the registers. Ohgodohgod, itcan’tbe, ho-ohhhly sheee-yut, oh,oh,oh.

My stomach fell into my ankles and I gathered myself slighty (but not much, after all…how could I have known composure at such a time?) so as to look more closely, so as to confirm to myself that no, it was not you, when in fact I could do no such thing. It was you, and a mild form of blind panic welled up in me as I stepped neatly back from whence I came (such a lovely repeating theme with you and me, eh?). Nearly a whole continent and part of an ocean away and there you stood, smiling at the center of a laughing gaggle of others, as always. Natural-born center of whatever space you inhabited. I never realized until fate brought me you that it was that way with me, as well. Not the center by choice, by struggle or command, but by some unspoken default. I wrestled with the explanation of how we could occupy that space together when there is supposed to be only room for one, grasped at understanding the machinations of you and me, struggled with the concept of us. How could something so powerful even be?

My best friend posed it differently to me: How could it not?

“I can explain it,” Catt said to me once, “and everyone can feel the pull when you two occupy a room together….like if you each stand in opposing corners, whoever is haphazard enough to wander into that direct line between you will be sucked apart with the force of it. Too much, but you two never get enough… (Like a fucking movie, for Chrissakes. Overblown and inevitable, the ride toward the climax.)

“I don’t like it. Not one bit.” (She wasn’t my best friend for long after that, and I pined for and begged after her for several years afterward. She would have none of it, and by the time she would, I had buried it, stopped fingering the scar and moved on. I use commas ambiguously, but I certainly don’t waffle periods. The words, they mirror the life; I know no other way of doing things.)

And I know now, in retrospect, that neither of us knew what to make of it, really. Neither of us had encountered someone so forceful –so full of some undefinable something– as our own selves in our lives. Bewildering, when two torches come together to make a bonfire. Frightening, the recognition from word go. Agonizing, the reality while I was walking away that it would never be like this again. Nothing, ever. Sounds so laughable and cliche, but I know the difference between sound and substance. And I could give one fat fuck-all if others mock me during the telling of it, because I know that no words could ever do it justice.

I ran from you that day. I have known fear in my life, but I have never flat-out fled something, anything. Not once that I can recall or have been told about.

I fled you. You never even knew; you didn’t see me, laughing with your friends as you were. Nearly a whole continent and part of an ocean away…how do these things happen? The whys I know; the hows have always amazed me to no end.

So, there weren’t two times, as you have supposed all these years. There were three: once when I turned, firmly but full of sick. Once when I ran –near-literally– like hell, and once when I closed the door sadly but firmly for what I thought would be the last time. I should know. I should know by now that sometimes it doesn’t matter what the fuck we think. We only get a small line of sight where the bigger picture is concerned.

No, it doesn’t matter what we think at all. It matters what the universe knows.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

If you wait for me then I’ll come for you / Although I’ve traveled far / I always hold a place for you in my heart / If you think of me, If you miss me once in awhile / Then I’ll return to you / I’ll return and fill that space in your heart

Remembering / Your touch / Your kiss / Your warm embrace / I’ll find my way back to you / If you’ll be waiting / If you dream of me like I dream of you / In a place that’s warm and dark / In a place where I can feel the beating of your heart

Remembering / Your touch / Your kiss / Your warm embrace / I’ll find my way back to you / If you’ll be waiting / I’ve longed for you and I have desired / To see your face your smile / To be with you wherever you are

Remembering / Your touch / Your kiss / Your warm embrace / I’ll find my way back to you / If you’ll be waiting /
Oh, I’ve longed for you and I have desired / To see your face, your smile / To be with you wherever you are

Remembering / Your touch / Your kiss / Your warm embrace / I’ll find my way back to you / Please say you’ll be waiting

Together again / It would feel so good to be / In your arms / Where all my journeys end / If you can make a promise / If it’s one that you can keep / I vow to come for you / If you wait for me and say you’ll hold / A place for me in your heart.

// Tracy Chapman, “The Promise”

 
|| July 29, 2003 || 8:52 pm || Comments (28) ||

I was talking with my mother late Sunday afternoon, still punchy from Blogathon happenings and just a little froggy.

Conversation, as it always does, turned to the three-pack and their goings-on. We began discussing ten-year-old Scout’s upcoming scuba certification and my constant amazement at her boldness (she is the only female in the class, and the only person under twenty), at her take-no-prisoners approach to seizing life, of her tendency to voracious appetite where trying on new things to see what fits is concerned.

“You know what that is,” momma remarked to me, “It’s the manifestation of her fear of failure.”

I’m sure, despite only fiber optics as a mode of communication, my mother could feel the exaggerated roll of my eyeballs. I love my momma. I respect my momma like no other person that strolls this Earth. One of the reasons for both of these is that she taught me how to call ‘bullshit’ when such a thing is necessary. So I did.

“No mom,” I said with a measure of annoyance in my voice (more annoyance, in fact, than I truly felt) “it’s not.

“It’s not a fear of failure, it’s a fear of not being enough.” Those two things are entirely different, but they are separate entities that are oftentimes mistaken for one another or cited interchangeably. This is a grievous error.

Then, early this morning, I found this over at Venomous Kate’s, and it made me both sad and uncomfortable. The one thought that rose above all others after taking in Kate’s post and subsequent reader commentary in was -are you paying attention, people?-

We do this to ourselves.

How many times do I have to say it? Men are not the fucking enemy.

They may not always understand us, because the way we are hard-wired is inherently gender-specific (regardless of what feminism and its proponents would have you believe) and different but different is goooood.

Repeat after me, ladies:

DIFFERENT IS GOOD.

Isn’t enough of life boiled-down, washed-out, homogenized, hurry-hurry, no quality nowadays? Must we impose the same sanctions on our dealings between the sexes? Once again, with gusto, lather, rinse, repeat: DIFFERENT….IIIIIS….GOOOOOD. Were it not, so many of us would not keep finding a man to keep around, to grow dissatisfied with, to discard and attempt to find another. We’d (well, maybe you…not me, man) be whiling away life on some estrogen farm somewhere, drinking pastel-colored concotions of weak alcohol content and trading pumpkin pie recipes.

Me, I like straight tequila and talking about sex. And I hate punkin pie.

We don’t have too much on our plates for no reason. We have too much on there because we are not smart enough or bold enough to veer from what is supposed to be the ‘liberated (HA!) standard’ and say, “You know what? No thanks. I’ve enough.”

My grandmother –who was, in all actuality, old enough to be my great-grandmother by the time I came along– had no less to do than we do now, just a different framework to do it in. And a different mindset to do it with. The woman herded nine children daily; granted, she could have had less, but she was poor (birth control, apparently, came with monetary gentility rather than spiritual nobility): Birth control wasn’t easy to come by, was generally frowned upon and besides, the frank matter of it is that you needed a large family in those days.

That woman rose before dawn each morning to do washing and get it up on the line in time for the morning sun to dry it so that it could be pressed and folded before midday. She hand-heated her heavy black iron, mixed her starch from scratch. Everything got ironed: T-shirts, underwear, sheets. There were no wrinkle-resistant percales back then. Poor people had cheap cotton things, which were used until they were threadbare sheaths of bedcovering and garment. When the sixties finally arrived, my memaw received a couple of chenille bedcovers as gifts. They were prized posessions until she died.

She cooked three meals a day, three full meals. This was done without the benefit of cans or boxes or any manner of processed food save for the sausage she had ground and stuffed into gut herself or the chow-chow carefully put up into jars twice a year. She baked the biscuits, strained the tea, stirred the gravy, broiled the meat if there was meat to broil. She then served it all to men that would take second and even third helpings before excusing themselves from the table without so much as a glance toward her. She would seat her children then, and only after they had gotten their fill from what was left by the menfolk would she sit down quietly to fold her hands and say grace over a (largely decimated) meal for the third time. Then she’d pick from the remains; I imagine there was probably little of satisfaction for her belly there, and barely little more of sustenance.

She washed all the pots and pans and dishes and cutlery, as well as dried them and put them away.

She tilled, planted, tended and harvested a rather large garden; she cleaned and shucked and snapped and peeled and boiled and canned. Had she not, there never would have been enough to eat.

She made time to pray each day, but I learned from her that you don’t have to make a show of hitting your knees each day to commune with God. You can have an ongoing dialog with Him no matter your doings. God was her comfort, and Jesus was my memaw’s best friend. He helped her through a lot of long, hard, sweaty, exhausting days.

She had a sweet spirit and she smiled an awful lot. She never went to a restaurant until she was in her late thirties, when my Uncle Alphons (old enough to my my granddad) took her. She ordered a hamburger and it tickled her so much that one of the kids took her for a burger once a week thereafter for the rest of her functioning life.

Add to all she did and all she was ‘without’ the daily machinations of dusting and sweeping and airing mattresses and making beds and accounting for her spirited German-Irish-Italian brood (making sure that they did not kill one another in mirth or –more importantly– maim somebody who was not kin and therefore, would not be so understanding were something injurious to occur), scrubbing them, bathing them, laying on the switch as necessary and liberally showering them with the purest of mothers’ loves, and it’s amazing to hear that she never once complained. There was just that sweet spirit, that gentle smile, and a quiet control that was unsettling to behold…

Especially when compared to the shrill, hysterical natures of many women today.

Ladies, it is not that there is far too much to do, it is that we’re trying to be too much.

It’s difficult to be female. By the same token, it’s difficult to be male. It’s difficult to be human, folks, to get out of bed each morning, breathe deeply, put your britches on and do what you have to do. Yes, men and women are different psychologically, emotionally, spiritually, but that’s by and large A Good Thing. If men were anything like the bulk of women I know, I would run around choking everyone within reach.

I don’t understand women that are set at ‘BlameThingsWithPenis’ as their default. It worries me to no end. I worry about women in general, and what we are teaching our daughters with regard to men. Part of this is selfish, as I have sons and I want young women to be crafted who are worthy of the young men I am raising.

More importantly, I worry about what we are teaching our sons. You know, the boys who will grow up to court and marry our daughters. What things of worth are we imparting upon them as to how they are to view women?

Men are linear-thinking creatures. Ambiguity does not sit well with them. Emotional storms (though admittedly sometimes necessary) confuse and frighten them. What good will our sons be to their future womenfolk if what they see of us is a maelstrom of hormonal reactionism? God help us all.

If you’ve taken none of the rest of this to heart, or have been resistant to it because what I speak angers you, please set aside your prejudices and hear what I’m saying to you now: In our rabid quest(s) to evolve, we are leaving behind certain parts that are integral to the system. A system cannot survive nor function nor continue to evolve at acceptable rates if the integral parts are shed.

Rein yourselves in, ladies, before you find yourselves ‘beyond the beyonds’ and there is no longer quality to your life, only quantity. Do not abandon your sweet spirit, your gentle smile, your quiet control in your quest to have it all and be it all. Be still and know the pleasure of being the grand you that the universe saw fit to place here. That may be your only function in this world, and it may be of comfort to others. Why can’t that be enough?

Do we REALLY want to do to future generations of women what has been done to us? It was John Lennon that said “Woman is the nigger of the world”, and for once in my life I’ll agree with a smelly hippie. Only, we subjugate ourselves FAR more nowadays than anyone else ever has in the past. We are slaves to convention, pushed and pulled by some bullshit status quo that not many of us had any say-so in. Why have we (and are still continuing to) allowed this? I resent the fuck out of it. Why am I told who I have to be because I have tits and a twat, most especially by others sharing the same anatomy? I’ve felt ten times more pressure in my life to live to this woman’s or that woman’s standards than I have to live to any man’s.

Shame on us for waggling fingers at men over what some of us pushed for without consulting the whole. Put the blame back where the bulk of it lies.

Gloria Steinem, et al. do not speak to or for me any more than the man in the moon does and they never have in the past: I am perfectly capable of conveying my thoughts and feelings for my very own fucking self, thank you. I look really fucking good in a skirt, and you can open a door for me ANYtime. Neither of those things diminishes the exceptional me that I am. They don’t have to diminish you, either.

 
|| July 28, 2003 || 7:29 pm || Comments (3) ||

So I’m listening to this Irish radio station.

Did you know that over in Ireland, they put on re-enactments of football (soccer, feh) games? Re-enactments. Of football games. Damn, cable internet and a girl living in Hellabammy is exposed to all SORTS of foolishness.

And people think playacting at the Civil War is stupid. Hell, at least that changed the course of American –and dare I say by extension, world– history!

Looky, Ireland. I’ve great affection fahr ye. (<--see? I'm willing to adopt some of the speech patterins) I mean, you're one of me mudderlans. I fhookinh love puhtaytuhs, fhookinh starchy and drawn to me hips as dey arrr. I’ve fiery drawrs for some Cat’lic byes. I’ve the feemed Ireesh tempur.

But I gotta tell ya, Ireland, to re-enact a ballgame is mighty damned stupid. STOOO. PID. You’re gonna need to cut that shit out.

Barring that, I’m just gonna have to make some fun of you.

 
|| July 28, 2003 || 4:03 pm || Comments (3) ||

Some letters:

Dear Wal-Mart,

Please, I beg of you, stop putting the inbreds behind the registers marked ‘Express Checkout’. I know this is probably very funny to you in a passive-aggressive sort of way, but crazily and with a touch of naivete, I believe your signs that say this is a faster lane.

Not too terribly annoyed this time, but you might want to watch that shit,

Jett BG Superior

::: :: ::: :: :::

Dear Irritable Chinese Guy,

You know I love you, you surly, effeminate piece of work you. You know I love your food, because my family and I get take-out from you at least once every coupla weeks. I think it’s funny how you begrudgingly take my phone order (KNOWing it’s me all the while) and then are sweet as pie when I pick up my meal(s), I adore the subtle way you have of poking fun at my Southerin accent whilst speaking in your heavy Chinese one, I look forward to seeing you. You pack one hell of a carry-out sack, m’brotha. You make my day in a deranged-fun kind of way (one day you’ll make it into a book or a screenplay, bank on it) each time I get to interact with you.

BUT, dear ICG, if you, for shits and giggles (as surely must have been the case today) EVER overfill my Szechuan vegetables with the sticky-hot sauce so that it overflows the the foil container, soaks the bag and ends up all over me and the car seats again…well, let’s just say that you an’ me’s goan tumble, and not in a fun, sexy way. My car smells like a rabid duck’s ass and there’s a huge grease stain that even the car seat can’t cover.

Damn you despite my affection for you,

Jett-ah Soopeeyee-ah

::: :: ::: :: :::

Dear GeeEmmAySee,

You know what, you fuckers? I know the fucking car payment is twelve fucking days late, you fuckjobbers. I know when the sonofabitching payments are due! You should too, seeing as how I’ve made them in a timely manner for three years now. And this is what, the THIRD vehicle I’ve financed with you, with nary a glitch in my past payment histories?

Cut a girl some slack. I explained to you that I’ve lost my job; I’ve explained to you that you’ll have the payment on the first. Youjustquickfuckingcallingme, okay you toady mothereffers? O-K-A-Y?

When I have my title in one hand, I’ll be flipping you the bird with the other,

Jett “BuddyGoFuckYourself” Superior

There. That’s a little better. And how are all my little Muffinasses today?

 
|| July 28, 2003 || 8:41 am || Comments (3) ||

You know, I could almost buy this (and maybe even rally behind the family) had they not hit the casinos afterward. Fuckers.

 
|| July 26, 2003 || 6:08 am || Comments (6) ||

Welcome to [All blogged up and nowhere to go.] Today is D-Day.

If you’re new here and have no idea what I’m talking about, well, I’m participating in Blogathon 2003 (if you’re here with the ‘thon bunch, then WOOOOO! CAFFEEEEEEIIIIINE!). In a nutshell, this means that I will be sitting in front of this here computer for a minimum of twenty-four hours straight, posting an entry at least twice an hour. Lunatic stuff, I know….but I am an elite lunatic. I’ve been doing this for all three years now.

I am one of the Original 101 bloggers from 2001.

I am blogging for the Tourette Syndrome Association. The TSA does excellent work in research, education and crisis management with regard to Tourette. They have been a blessing to my family in times of need (my son is a Touretter….you can read his story here). If I could write them a thousand-dollar check I would, but I’m unable to do so and that’s why I do this. You can sponsor me, in any dollar amount, up until the very end of the Blogathon–even twenty-four hours past it (but I sure would like to know about it before I go all comatose tomorrow).

This year I’m on the Blogathon team, so rather than write on the fly as I have in years past, I’ve decided to do a project. You can find my project page here….it’s where I’ll be posting throughout the duration of the ‘thon.

'Good for the body is the work of the body, good for the soul the work of the soul, and good for either the work of the other.' ~Henry David Thoreau

At the top of the page you’ll notice a webring. You can surf the ring and discover all sorts of people with great causes doing cool stuff for the next twenty-four hours. If my cause doesn’t suit you, maybe theirs does. Have fun!


Won’t you sponsor me?

 
|| July 25, 2003 || 11:01 am || Comments (13) ||

Apparently, pictures of Dave Mustaine (hippies and hosers not withstanding) are very popular in Denmark.

*waves pleasantly to any Danes strolling through*

QUICK! Does anyone speak the native tongue? Gimme something Dutch (I’m a fucking id-i-ot) Danish to say!

And oh yes, apparently pictures of Dave Mustaine are very popular with Patti, as well.

Patti and I had a half-hour conversation about penis the other night (not Dave Mustaine’s). Melly and I talk about necrophilia and clown porn and word fetishes, so it is actually kind of titillating to talk about something so normal as a male member. Patti and I are dirtygirls, giggling behind our hands about boys’ naughty bits. Patti and I need to get drunk together in person. I will find a means to do that some day.

But I can’t tell you about who the penis in question belongs to, for shitsakes, because that’s sacrosanct. Your imaginations are better than anything I could write anyway.