A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || August 9, 2006 || 9:25 pm

Have words, will babble.

When my last machine went belly up some three or four months ago, I just let most of what it contained go. I just didn’t seem to have the energy at that time to save anything. When I set the new computer up, I neglected to load all the Decablog junque onto it.

There have been countless posts including a song or a visual reference that hit a brick wall just as soon as I logged in and remembered, “Oh. Oh, crap.” There was no way to ftp without a significant amount of time lent to Setting Crap Up. As you might know, I’m more of a Doing Crap or Tearing Crap To Pieces kind of girl. Setting Crap Up bores me or pisses me off.

It seems I have a talent for being an optimist, thus my repeated login-and-remember efforts. That, or I’m just a big dummy who forgets the obvious. Let’s all hold hands and pretend it’s the former rather than the latter, shall we?

Man, I have a million and ten projects going right now. I’m fervently trying to fill some void with a maelstrom of creativity, and to be quite frank I’m pretty overwhelmed and freaked out by the knowledge that yes indeedy, darling, it is August. I must be old, because time is doing that flying thing that I only hear the ancients speaking of.

The height of summer, when your skin feels as if it just might bubble up and slide right on off of your sinew, always leaves me feeling grieved, and that’s just crazytalk. Why do you grieve, girl, when there are peaches aplenty and your feet are pretty enough for sandals? Yes, crazytalk. Summer is not traditionally the season of sadness. Hell, I do EVERTHANG backwards. I come alive, my insides taut and humming and wonderful, November through March. Reverse S.A.D., that’s me.

Lots of people I care about have lost people they care about in the last two months or so. This makes me jumpy way down deep. Part of me cannot help but feel it’s somewhat akin to the enemy walking artillery up on me: There are azimuths and trajectories and wind velocities all being accounted for, and the next shell or the next one after that will drop square in the middle of my life.

How did I get so fucking paranoid, you ask? Years and years and years of practice. Maxim has spent much of the last two weeks explaining to me that I overthink everything. Well, whatever. “No, I’m not going to counseling.” My biggest fear, besides the harming of my children, is being officially diagnosed crazy in one of its multihued manifestations being medicated clear out of my mind and myself after I’ve been officially diagnosed crazy in one of its multihued manifestations. Hell, you people have known I’m insane for years. What would you put me on? You know, medicinal-wise; I have to specify because there’s always the smartass waiting to give some rogue, over-clever and hip answer like, “I’d put you on a bed of broken glass, sassy.”

ha. ha. HAAAAAA.

One time I was so angry at someone that I told them I’d love to wrap them in barbed wire, set them on fire and swing them around my head. The whole room exploded in laughter when I professed this, but I was equal parts

a) ashamed that I had such imagery so readily at my fingertips
b) amused at the stellar reaction I’d elicited
c) horrified that certain parts of myself could never seem to contain certain other parts of myself. Shit.

I have a five-day trip scheduled for the first weekend in September. I started counting down the days at eighty, I’m at twenty-three now. It is time desperately needed, and I will use it to snap some pictures and pull some ideas for art in the form of songs and prose and gloppy mixed-media concotions. I will likely drink too much. I will hug damn near anyone who will let me. I will dig my toes in the sand of the Gulf of Mexico, squint out across its green-glass waves and sing along to my iPod loudly and possibly aggressively. I will be singing harmony, which will make no sense to anyone but me, as I’ll be the one with the headphones. There will be night driving and new friends and communing with God. He is right here with me always, yet I always seem to be lovesick for him.

Dear God,

I’m really, really trying. I can’t wait to be greeted by you one day. Tell my Grandmother Susie hello. Shit, I sure do miss her and it’s not getting any better with each passing decade.

Yours, and I’ve never forgotten,

Elizabeth

Do you people think coming here is like wandering up on a trainwreck? gack.

1 worked it out »

  1. chris robinson 8.10.2006

    I’d worry if you weren’t so damn funny and insightful. No trainwreck here — you’re the sane one with resiliency to spare. I tend to crumble silently and on the inside. When a structure collapses catastrophically, engineers wander around the rubble saying things like, “It seemed so strong from the outside.”

     

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