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Archive for November, 2005

|| November 17, 2005 || 12:57 am || Comments (3) ||

Today is the seventeenth! Of NOVEMBER! gah.

I just noticed that the school lunch calender from October is still hanging in its assigned place on the left-hand (freezer door) side of the fridge. I am a horrible, horrible mother, it seems.

Also, please note the title and then explain to me just what in flaming damnation happened to this year. Why is it flying by my window all fast-like, and why do I feel like the only myopic passenger on a loaded-down train?

|| November 16, 2005 || 1:29 pm || Comments (3) ||

More avant-garde than you.

I parted my hair with a fork this morning.

Don’t ask.

By the way, wanna come over for dinner?

|| November 15, 2005 || 11:50 pm || Comments (2) ||

I’m afraid of Americans

Sometimes I do believe that we are some of the most wasteful and stupid people on the planet. I hope that the rest of the world does not view the typical American citizen this way. I hope they realize that only the outrageous and ridiculous get press and apply that knowledge to people who pay five-kay for the privilege of wearing socks that look like barber poles.

Shameless, unappreciative jackasses.

|| November 14, 2005 || 2:14 pm || Comments (1) ||

And another thing!

My husband is the shizzle, having put on a rather largish batch of beef stew in the crock for dinner later this evening. Ebbody say it with me:

Thaaaaank yooooou, MaxIM!

Now to get the kids to wipe the table upon completion of their meal.

|| November 14, 2005 || 2:11 pm || Comments (0) ||

Please, God, let the sneezing stahhhhhp.

That is all.

|| November 14, 2005 || 11:45 am || Comments (4) ||

(and don’t forget the blame)

So this weekend brought the kind of sick where you sleep like the dead and speak incoherent, long-forgotten languages when you are somehow roused. I want to conveniently slap the label ‘flu’ on it, but it somehow seems larger than three letters can sum up. So not Flu-Not-Flu still dogs me today, but is not so heinous as yesterday and will most likely surrender me back to the arms of work tomorrow.

It has me feeling all tender today, very extra-sensory if you will, and things seem fever-bright and dimly muted all at the same time. I imagine Alice’s fall down the rabbit hole being just this way. Something yelling, “TECHNICOLOR!” but singing you to sleep all at once.

I saw the good doctor, who was kind to me in the manner of truly good friends, and then I went to procure something to eat. I can say with finality that parts of me were screaming, “Food! Oh thank GOD, food!” while others made art of defiance, “WE DON’T WANT ANY, YOU HEAR??” Surely you’ve known this sensation at least one good time in you own life.

Me, it’s hit four, maybe five times.

The most distinct one I can recall was when I was very young. I had hair like flax and dark peach skin and my father was still affixed firmly in that place where only gods can stand comfortably (later on, I guess his ankles just up and give out). Fine things flowed like a river and there was always someone around to take care of things like sisters and dinners and the locking of doors after dark. I should be scared to be alone in my own home even now as a result of the removal of such persons, but I’m distinctly not; this surprises me greatly.

I’ll try to cut down on the personal asides, but it is such fun to hear that snide, sarcastic tone in the middle of your head grab hold of a voice, even a typewritten one.

I was four, I think, and maybe just barely that. The fever had settled in, having found a comfortable host, and I began to see things out of the corner of my eye. Trying to call for my mother was futile, as I couldn’t seem to force decent sound past my lips. I lie there with my jaw slack, making these strange sort of honking sounds, brain screaming futilely at body to obey its commands.

My mother swirled in, smelling spicy and soft, left hand against her abdomen as the backs of her right fingers read my brow. When alarm registers in my mother’s face, it is a confusing thing. Her blue eyes grow wide with concern even as her jaw draws rigid with resolve.

On this occasion, she abruptly left the room, returning quickly with a towel. She gently but efficiently worked my nightgown over my hips, then bent me into a ninety-degree angle to pull it off of me. It seemed so crazy and sudden when my brain delivered the message that she was doing this because I was soaking wet. It was then that I grew cold, and precisely then my teeth began to chatter. She deftly patted me down with the towel and put me in the softest, warmest nightgown I owned.

I’ll be right back, baby. Don’t you worry.

And then there was my father in his brown leather jacket, soft as butter for my face to rest on once he picked me up.

“Hi sweetie,” he said gently to me while his eyebrows arched in concern, “You are very hot and mommy and I are going to take you to see the doctor.” And then I was in a quilted pink satin robe and matching slippers. How did that happen? I went somewhere else, I guess, because when the fuck did you put these things on me?

My mind wants to tell me it was raining, but my good sense says that feels like an embellishment, so I will tell you only what I do know to be fact: It was around two or three in the morning. It was dark. There were red lights and white lights. I know, because they shone up off the pavement, reflecting so brightly you could cofuse the mirror image with the actual. Holy shit, how beautiful; lights in the dead of the night always have mesmerized me. I am a moth, goo goo g’joob. Or kookookachoo, pick yer poison.

There was outside in the car. Then There Was Inside. I don’t know, again, what happened to the in-between. Where do those darned in-betweens go, anyhow? Is there some In-Between GoGo Room somewhere that none of us are privy to? Are all the In-Betweens taking their leave of us just so they can lounge on striped banquettes with one another, laughing psuedo-hysterically and copping sly feels under the tables? Good lord almighty. I am straying so far from the point that it looks like a church steeple on the horizon.

So there we were, my mother, my dad and I, in a brightish hallway and there were swinging doors and morose people and daddy cradled me for not so long before giving me off to mom and we waited quietly-so-quietly and here he came back and what is that silver and white thing? I didn’t know beds have wheels, really? Oh, I’m very tired and I feel very strange in my heart, I think. Yes, that’s where they say my heart is and I know my skin is hot but I’m not afraid even one little bit. I guess I don’t know any better, but I’d wager to say I just don’t care that much. I am disaffected, as it were, in that way that only age four affords you.

Not long after daddy came back there was A RUCKUS. I always associated that term with capital letters, because that’s always how adults said it, “God, Lawrence, there was A RUCKUS like you wouldn’t believe downtown today!” The phrase was so heavily weighted that you expected to look behind the head of whomever was speaking and see it in marquee lighting, loud and foreboding. A RUCKUS, damn it. It was A complete RUCKUS and can you believe it? There’s no excuse for such A RUCKUS. Now don’t you go raising A RUCKUS. They’re difficult to groom and mighty expensive to feed.

(ha-ha, witty me)

(and isn’t the Enlish language fun?)

So there was this womblike place with a sterile heartbeat, and then the womb was compromised. My parents came up out of the chairs lining the hall before I could parse all available input and acknowledge what was going on. In short order, we were squeezed back into a corner, I was suddenly aware that I was in my father’s arms instead of my mother’s, and we were all huddled together. I think I gathered that daddy’s aim was to protect both me and my mother, while mom cupped her body around mine even as my father wrapped himself over and around both of us. How can men accomplish such magic, especially while holding a fat-faced but long-limbed four-year-old?

Policeman had brought a man in. The man had shaggy hair and bare feet and bare chest. The only clothing he sported were some slightly dirty blue jeans and a rust-brown leather jacket with fringe on it. Something in my head went, “Hey! I have one of those!”

:: jett and dominic, her first catholic-boy object of lust, nineteenseventysomething ::

I loved that jacket, and was immensely drawn to this wildman whose prowess was unmistakable, even at the sexually ignorant age of four.

I could see him clearly, as my parents had left what amounted to be a sizeable opening between them. He was being escorted by the elbows and his hands were behind his back: Even in this captive state he looked very lean and capable, wound up all tight and feral.

It was then that A RUCKUS truly broke out, because the man began yelling and here he was all fringed arms and knife-wielding hand. Circumstances married up just right so that handcuffs slipped off of sweaty wrists and there was an unattended tray nearby just waiting breathlessly to be raided, giving up willingly its contents in service of a good belly-tensing bit of drama.

I was too stoned with sick to be afraid. I was on fire, I glowed, and I saw the same kind of glow all over him though he seemed (and I’m now, three decades later, thankful for that fact) to be oblivious to me. I observed him in a cool, interested fashion that noone else seemed to be capable of at that moment. His entire body was taut, but those arms were outstretched fluid and inviting: ‘C’mon and get stabbed, y’all.’ He stayed that way –poised on the edge of forever– a crazy-long time and I just folded it into me, the haze he threw off, the open drink of his eyes and ohhhh, how delightful is this, even as my parents drew in tighter to protect me. In the panic, nobody thought to shield my eyes. I might well have been terrified had they done so; thank God for small favors.

Out of nowhere there was bravado in the form of a wiry little ambulance driver (afterward, when he spoke, I was appalled by his mousy voice and shaky demeanor) who threw a tackle that had to have been ordained by the Pope or sommat, and before The Man In Leather knew it, he was sprawling on cold white linoleum with several law enforcement personnel aiming to keep him there. He put up a mighty admirable fight, taking on one man per limb (if we’re counting his head, too, as a limb) before being tranqued up, cinched and hauled off.

I only half-heard as people muttered ‘peeseepee’ and ‘junkie’ because momma and daddy fussed over me, stroking my forehead and kissing my fingertips. But I heard, I heard that word ‘junkie’ and somehow I feel that it was unfortunate, because my first associations to that word were of someone who is beautiful while tragic and a terribly fierce warrior, even if he goes down in the end.

Even though I was only four, I recognized poetry when it really visited me for the first time; I never discussed it with my mother and father because that moment in time seemed so intensely private and profound. My first conscious shifting of perceptions, as it were, and I felt greedy with it: “Mine.” while the juice of it squeezed through my fingers and dropped on the round toes of my saddle oxfords.


Dear Catecholamines, I loves you but you gotsta go.

How on earth can I neglect you good and lovely Muffinasses for so long at a stretch? I posted, I turned around and eleven days had passed. What the fuck?

There has been no shortage of material, which does not help an awful lot. Keeps me from being your voyeurtainment, keeps me tied up in knots, keeps me on edge from the sheer weight of the words on my brain and emotions beneath my breastbone that clamor around and beg release. It’s been a frightfully confusing week, y’all.

Just less than a little while ago, I brought my husband to wakefulness with some murmuring here, some touching there. I confessed to him that this period of time, this whatever I’m going through, addles me; it is frustrating and difficult to articulate. Then I told him that I had dry, achey sinuses and a runny nose. Then I asked to be rocked to sleep, the summation of which is neatly boxed up by the phrase ‘all over that’. Only, the standard postcoital* sleep-magic didn’t lay the whammy to me this time. Runny nose. Headache. Sumbitchi’mabesicktomorrow.

Even those, however, could not detract from the sense of pleasure and peace I got from his cheekbone resting both heavy and gently on mine, lips lightly gracing that place on my neck. The world is a good and easily-redeemed place when such things occur. Lately I’ve made a quite conscious decision: I want to try to live in that sweetness.

Wait, maybe that didn’t come across in quite the right way. Fucking lack of tone and inflection the written word sometimes falls prey to. Again: I want to try to LIVE in that sweetness. I’m not so foolish as to believe that every moment of every day can be that way, but what’s stopping me from the attempt?

I’ve come to learn something very important in the past few weeks. That something is the fact that we become addicted to certain emotional behaviors in the way that we can be addicted to certain places, or people, or things. I mean, the logical, thinking side of me was aware of this some time ago, having been made familiar with your basic data and research. It’s one thing to have consumed information. It’s quite another to have it shake hands with awareness. Let’s come back to this here in just a minute. Once again there are rabbits to chase, for hellsakes.

Someone gifted me with a massage, so I scheduled the appointment for yesterday during my lunch break (my new boss gives a very generous –and MUCH APPRECIATED, if you are reading this, Mister Pants!– mini-day in the midst of work hours). I’ve been rolfed before, but don’t count it as your standard pleasureful rubdown because it was a little ‘owie’. So this was to be my first professional massage.

“Hello? I am submitting my naked flesh to a complete stranger of my verysame gender. She is going to rub me with her handses and ebbows, having been paid to do so. Up yours, staunch Babdiss upbrangin’!”

So, we begin the rubdown, and I’m not particularly bowled over, but then like any good ride, the bottom sort of dropped out of the boring and wheeeeeee, what a time we’s a-gonna hab, lawsy yayus. There’s me feeling eh, okay being lightly kneaded and finding a focal point on the table’s base to fixate upon when all of a sudden, sparks shot through my scalp and I choked back a sob, bewildered by its dramatic and unexpected entrance.

“You are experiencing an emotional release, Jett,” the massage therapist said to me.

“You shouldn’t hold it back, it’s not good for you.”

The dam didn’t just break, it threw shards for hundreds of miles and there I was, a mess of a sobbing thing right there on a hideous rose-colored vinyl table covered in overexpensive cotton. Kind of like me, right? The thing is, she was round about my liver when this happened. Coincidence?

I choose to checkmark the box next to ‘not’, you people, you Cyberian friends o’ me.

Lately, a certain question has been pounding and pounding through my head: ‘Why are you afraid of being fulfilled?’ It is followed closely by, ‘Why are you so fucking mean to yourself at times?’ Maybe I wasn’t a bully in school because most of that sort of energy was expended on ME. Maybe my habit of defending those being bullied was a kind of external working-out of my own inner struggle. My outrage on behalf of others’ mistreatments is sometimes difficult for even me to comprehend.

Let’s go back around the loop to the part about being addicted to certain emotional behaviors as strongly as you can be to some physical ones. I’ve found (in my own experience, anyway) that the two can be connected to a great degree.

See, just as it is difficult (but not entirely impossible) to re-shape the body, it is difficult to re-shape the brain. Studies show that you develop certain pathways and actual physical structure(s) in your noggin based on how you do things coupled with how often you do them. So to change behaviors is to stop using one pathway and begin creating another. Construction is two things, my people:

1) painful
2) a bitch

Stuff gets smashed up in the process. This results in debris. Debris gets carted off, eventually. Hell, by the time a project is finished, completely and truly finished, there is no physical evidence of the previous state of affairs whatsoever.

In the case of the human body, we have a behavior or set of behaviors that results in a wash of certain chemicals that influence/reward the body. If the next anticipated move is quashed, where does all the Somatogenic Kool-Aid (trademarked name, because I am going to be a rich motherfucker when they market that shit someday) go? It’s got to be utilized somewhere right? I imagine that this is how some people go slap nuts. They attempt change and then get stuck right in the middle of the molt, adrift in their own chemical hyperactivity with no way to burn it off.

I say all this to set you up for what follows: Lately I’ve been working on my anger no longer being my default emotion. There, I said it, and you can all hold me accountable in the future. I know you’ll do it, you cute little peckerheads. I came to the great and wondrous realization a few weeks back that the broad scope of my anger is just another extension of my chemical dependency. I reason it all down to mush like this: My favored drug of choice (I salivate even now as I merely entertain the notion of pushing the word out of my fingertips) is (WOO-WOO! BELLS AND WHISTLES, WHEEEEE!) cocaine. Cocaine, in me, produces a feeling of power, a singular form of glee, a hyper-awareness, verbal agility, sexual voracity.

When partaking of the ole Columbian marching powder, I am self-possessed and insular. I am capable and on the prowl and no-holds-barred magic. I could command armies and write soliloquies and mustard-seed a mountain four miles to the left of its original position. Seduce the unseducable (see Marc, I make up words, too), sing the unsingable and so on and so forth.

When I am angry, I feel much the same. When I am very, very angry, I feel indestructable. So now I see that I have not been managing my addictions so well over the course of the years after all, as I am an altogether angrier person now than when I first used. The anger produces a similar physiological response in me as the coke: Hyperarousal. Anger, though, flips the pharmacy: The more often you indulge, the easier it is to reach a state of arousal the next time. And, just like with the powdery business, the harder it is to lend your time to anything else.

So, I’ve been working toward chopping off this extension of the junkie in me. It is sometimes physically painful, and definitely has thrown my other emotions all over the canvas. It’s an exhausting thing, this, and sometimes terrifying. Many of the very positive moves in my life have been, as well. I am bound and fucking determined to no longer be a slave to the addictions I was deluded enough to think I was free from just because they were packaged a little differently and maybe a bit more covertly.

I can do this thing; I just know I can. But holy shit, don’t ever ask me to stop swearing.

*dude in chickskin, remember?

pee ess…I have started wearing heels on occasion once again. It is exhilerating and comforting and scary all at the same time. There’s an eensy voice at the back of my brain cautioning me with each fall of my right foot: “DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, TWIST YOUR ANKLE BECAUSE YOU ARE JUST STARTING TO SHED THE QUASIMODO WALK, SASSY McPANTSERSON!” gack. My limp becomes a bit more pronounced (read: noticeable) while wearing them, but I’m getting there in the strength and range-of-motion departments. I’ll give details on recovery and such if popular vote demands it.

pee ess-ess…in ankle-related matters, the entity who shall henceforth be identified as the Tractor Fucker (or Tractor Bastard, you people decide. Again with the popular vote!) has filed suit against me. All the reasons for my righteous indignation (like him calling me five days after the accident to tell me he was fine, juuuuust fine and out in his chicken houses hard at work again the same day) will be herein outlined in the near future. My defending counsel is FUCKING HOT, rowr.