A Random Image

Archive for September, 2003

 
|| September 30, 2003 || 1:57 pm || Comments (7) ||

For those of you that enjoy language as much as I do, a brief but informative piece.

 
|| September 29, 2003 || 9:55 am || Comments (7) ||

Regrettably, I am a little hung over today.

Okay, more than a little. Thankfully, the morning is blessedly cool. Conversely, I am cursed: It’s one of those infernally bright fall days. The lab, blinds drawn, is mercifully dark, but coursework is torture. In short,

hangover + detailed lecture (verygraphic, WOO!) on marrow extraction via sternum = Jett painfully close to ‘herking’

…yeah, Davey, it were a loverly pah-tee.

Note to self: Once you start clinicals, ole girl, you cannot and must not host, attend, nor be anywhere in the near vicinity of ‘gatherings’ on school nights; I guess my auspicious Greek career will have to be waylaid.

 
|| September 28, 2003 || 12:00 pm || Comments (11) ||

Okay, granted, Mathias’ future as a portrait artist may be precarious, but I had to turn my head so my eyes could tear up when he showed me this picture he drew of the two of us.*

The thin patch of butch-cut hair I am sporting doesn’t make much sense, but the googly crazyeyes certainly do and I am unsure of what he seems to be pointing at. None of these factors triggered the well-up mechanism.

The fact that he depicts us with smiles roughly two miles past our heads did.

*It was originally rendered in ‘Gweem’, his most favorite color, but I had to darken it up a bit in order to catch the detail.

 
|| September 26, 2003 || 9:03 pm || Comments (8) ||

Now then, before I push off to caress a gheetahr and laugh with friends and pound back takillya, I’d like to direct your attention to the little counter-dealie at the bottom of this page. Sometime last night, someone pushed it over the 50K mark. Cool. Thanks, you guys, for showing an interest in the goings-on around here for the last three years. I never really imagined I’d build an audience, and had no earthly idea that I’d still be doing it after three years’ time…

And oh my, there’ve been some delightful friendships that have developed as a result; I’d have never banked on that, either.

I’m constantly fascinated to have people like Mandy (comments, two entries ago) turn up and say, “Hey, I been here for a couple years now; you don’t suck alla time.” As I stated before, I wonder how they get here, why they stay (what was/is ‘the hook’?), are they okay, did I give them reason to smile on a shitty fucking day? I hope so. I hope I dole out food for thought sometimes, as well. I don’t mind being the dancing monkey, if sometimes I can impart a wee message whilst doing so.

This medium has been strangely cathartic for me, and the most committed I’ve ever been to a journal in my life. That in and of itself is an oddity, because I love the heft of a pen in my hand, I adore the act of drawing it across a creamy sheet of paper and magically seating content there. I’ve just recently taken on a penpal on the other side of the world so as to put myself in the habit of forming sentences that aren’t mere bits and scraps of a future typewritten piece. I’m looking forward to dropping fat envelopes off at the post office, looking forward to running to my own mailbox and peering in like an expectant child waiting for Christmas-morn magic.

To be quite honest, I’ve thought more than once lately about pulling the plug here at [Abuantg.]; I get nervous-nervous-nervous as the hits climb slowly and surely. Most of the time I simply turn my attentions away from it: I try not to look at the numbers as I’m looking at the referrer logs, seeing where people come from, looking for juicy bits to slide my eyeballs across and savor in my brain. I like hearing your take on things, too, and quite immensely.

I tell this to my friends; tell them that the more people come here, the more awkward and uncomfortable I feel, but I can’t not write, and this medium, this blog-thing, makes it so deliciously easy and smooth. The discomfort at not putting it out there is greater than the discomfort of doing so, so I keep doing it until I reach the tipping point, wherever that may be.

So, most of my friends understand when I tell them about my itchy-sweater feeling. They know what I mean, because they have felt it too; likely as not, this is why they are my friends….at least partly. redclay said to me one day on the phone, “If you don’t do it for the hits, then why DO you do it?” Apparently this is a question he’s asked of several keepers o’ the weblog.

“I do it,” I said emphatically, “because I’m afraid if I don’t grab it and get it down, I will forget.”

“That’s the best answer I’ve ever gotten to that question, sugar,” is what he said to me.

So yeah, this is a working scrapbook of my life; a collage with icky bits and tender bits and bawdy bits and thoughtful bits, sometimes smoothly presented and flowing like the ole Mississippi, sometimes clumpy with glue and bits of stray fuzz, distracted. In some way, I feel like some of the purest parts of me are represented here on your screen, and it freaks me out and delights me all at the same time to know this.

I can’t for the life of me say how long this particular ride will last; I guess I just wanted to tell all of you thank you for making it a fun and interesting and meaningful one thus far. I honestly and truly believe that I have some of the best readers in Cyberia: You fuckers are thoughtful and witty and passionate and intelligent; you’ve evidenced this to me time and time again in the comments and e-mails you gift me with. To those of you that have not yet gifted me with your voice, for whatever reason: Well, thank you just as much, and if you’re ever ready to step forward from the shadows and grin shyly at me, you will be received warmly.

So, there’s that. And on today, the Day Of Fifty-Thousand, I would be remiss to not share with you this, a most awesome google referrer:

Larry Mullen never smiles

I am –remarkably enough– number seven.

And less powerful, but equally as stunning, is the number three spot I hold for baz luhrmann long toenails. Rock on.

 
|| September 25, 2003 || 10:14 pm || Comments (9) ||

File under:
I Allus Wanted An Insurance Man With A Nickname That Is Synonymous With Slang For Female Genitalia

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(hint: click the image in order to better read the sign)

Gotta love you some Hellabama, folks.

 
|| September 24, 2003 || 12:15 pm || Comments (25) ||

When there is only one square of toilet tissue left in the whole freaking house and you are sitting on the potty (whose fault is this, huh?? WHOSE?), you must do as our Marine Corps brethren do and ‘improvise, adapt, overcome’:

Start hollering for the cocktail napkins.

In other news, I think that I’ve got the first audio post ramped up and ready to roll. There is no ‘revise’ feature with VoiceMonkey (I LOVE IT! what an apt term) so what gets babbled and slapped up will be unedited, wooo! Doing something by the seat of my pants, imagine that.

Contrary to what you’ve cooked up in your head(s), I don’t sound like Flo from Mel’s Diner, or even a burly truckdriverwoman as some –prior to speaking with me– have surmised in the past. Heh.

Update: Damn, there’re a lot of ‘uhs’ and ‘and uhs’ in that message: “HI! I’M A LESS-THAN-LITERATE FUUUUCKTARD!” I feel really, really bad today, so bad that I skipped skoo. Pity me.

 
|| September 23, 2003 || 9:05 pm || Comments (6) ||

“I usedta daints,” she said, her head trailing off away from the words.

“I usedta daints an’ they’d clear the flar far me.” I had heard this story before, but this time was different. This time it was being told as if it were an epitaph on a life hard-pressed to offer up any more moments of pure joy. All the other times she’d told me there had been this sense of glee: Baited breath and a twinkle in her green eyes, the excited flush of memory rising in patches across her cheekbones….

Now the breath struggled in and out of her and even the daily running stab she took at cosmetic enhancement couldn’t draw off the underlying pallor. She had been raven-haired, and even when I came along –despite the iron and snow dressing her tresses– there were traces of the shiny blue-black of it there in her hair’s thickness. Now there was only an ashen white mottled with dull grey; it was thin from a formidable combination of age and the running through of unbusy, distracted fingers.

“Ayuh, they’d clear that flar and the music would well up inside-a me, too much ta contain, too pahrful ta ignar.

“My laigs –they’s like stone then, stone on fahr, red-hot and ready ta move– couldn’t hold that music and it was like some sort of wilding, them takin’ over and m’body got no choice but ta folla, you know?

“My lips glowed scarlet from being bitten; the surge started at my laigs and ended there at my lips, the bottom one sucked in under a smile that I couldn’t deny by half, so why ebem try, fetch?

“Just daints, daints until they called the last, daints until my eyes shone like the dashboard lahts of the devil hissef, daints until everbody innat hall disappeared an’ it was just me an’ the music an’ the air.”

Normally there was an accompanying chuckle at this pause. Normally there was pleasure and pride in this memory, at this tale. This time, though — this time it was all heavy sighs and muted sorrow.

“You daints, gull?” This was a new question. Something about it made me uneasy.

I confessed that I used to dance, quite often, but never seemed to find the time any more.

“Pssshh,” she hissed at me, “time ain’t yourn, and it ain’t lost, neither. It’s goan stomp all through your life before you even know what’s happ’ned an’ you’ll be sittin’ up half-blind and none too pretty for it, jes’ like me.

“No, it ain’t lost at all, an’ you better grab holt ‘fore it makes its reckoning and then forgets ya.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. We sat –me in uneasy silence, her in unbidden truth– until it was time for me to go. I tried to smile (not that she could see it anyway, but she could certainly feel it, oh yes she could) as I rose, tendering my good-bye, sealing it with a kiss passed across her too-cool, papery cheek. I wanted to scream on the way home, so I did. I rolled the windows down and cut the air with high-pitched, extended yowls intermittently as I pushed my car to go faster and faster around the mountain curves. The evergreens swallowed up my invectives, the birds took to wing out of fright. I felt savagely calm as I pulled into my drive.

One hot shower, one eensy black dress, one ruby coat of lipstick, one pair of come-fuck-me boots later and I was out on the town, heading for any and every dance floor that would have me, blue-black hair shining, spilling over decollette, pasted in wisps and chunks to my neck. My legs, they were (hers) stones on fire, my eyes glittered primal, my teeth, bared at time, shone in the half-dark.

Come get me, I defied. Come get me now, come get me then, but I will live….just me in the music and the air, swallowed and forgetting until you claim me, until there is nothing but a story.