….with your cock out.

:: lemmy. sam. metal (hiding in the bg). ::

(hope your Monday rocks)

I think I want a tee-shirt that says I’M A WARRIOR. BACK THE FUCK UP.

Two words that trouble me and rub up against me in all the wrong ways: PLACATE and TOLERANCE. That tolerance, it’s a hostile word, ain’t it? Tolerance. It puts me in mind of times spent resolved, teeth gritting, putting up with –tolerating– something that I would not otherwise grant any quarter for. Like, ‘I’m tolerating this rock in my shoe.’ Or even, ‘I am tolerating this sliver of glass in my finger.’ It’s unpleasant as hell.

Placate has the sniff of false comfort, and by that I mean comfort not given in earnest. Kind of, ‘Let me pet you enough to get you to shut up.’

Next week? Mortified versus mollified.

I just got through watching a rerun of Gray’s Anatomy. This is not a show that I can say I’ve ever watched before. However, tonight’s episode roped me right in. One subplot dealt with a man and woman that were neighboring passengers on a train. There was an accident, and it left them both impaled on a pole, face to face, these two strangers. They were, effectively, in one another’s arms.

They became very, very intimate quite fast.

Of course they were ridiculously noble and calm in the face of some very terrible odds; I imagine if one of them were thrashing about, it would make for a very quick and noisy death for both parties. And that would eradicate an opportunity to produce some prime dialogue.

HER: Do you believe in heaven?

HIM: I do. …..Do you?

HER: I want to.

Her time of death was 3:49.

The good Doctor Dempsey even got to cry.

I get to sit here and draw parallels between the circumstances of those celluloid characters and my own. Symbolically, of course.

I got a long-overdue massage yesterday afternoon. Working between my shoulder blades, she paused, knuckling-down, and asked, “Um, is there something you need to tell somebody?

I paused before answering, and what shot out of me just nearly unbidden was, “Yeah.

“I got alotta somethings to say to alotta somebodies.”

The yeah came out too incredulous, too sharp and barky. The rest just tumbled out lazy behind it.

So that’s what I’ve been doing: Saying Somethings to their assigned Somebodies. I’m on a tear. Still, I don’t want to make anybody cry. But in all honesty, I’m not gonna be all assed about it if I do.

Portmanteau

I would not pretend

it was never imagined

if hard-pressed for answer:

I would have to note

what your lips said to

my collarbone,

(which is)

now forlorn for the want of them;

your quiet, wretched promises

ringing, high-pitched, through

my marrow.

I once had a dream where the trees,

forested for miles in front of me,

began exploding systematically

on a sun-steeped day;

Have you heard the foreward echo

of their boiling sap?

Have you heard it, too?

Those explosions marched right on up

to my very toes (my right boot

was coming untied.) but i,

But ohmightygod, I was

Untouched by shrapnel splinters

Unburned by fiery leaves

Fully unmarred by acrid, scorching wind

There was just a concussion in my middle

A slow-blooming thud

And my eyes wide, horrified

elbows crucified to my ribcage

palms out, fingers locksplayed

Held there,

dull reflective glow of the carnage

But there was no pain

None physical, anyway…

Every heartbreak has its own accent.

They grow in the same soil,

And are tended each one different

one trying harder than the next

to push its way up and out

attempting to be more memorable

than all, yes all, of the rest

Plaintive cries to God, really

For sympathy brings no rest

And healing has to happen sometime

No time like the present, right?

A bag, a sash, your own small army,

a moon’s soft-spoken light

All of these things I have gifted you

Our own iconography

In a time where saints

would be called fools

And fools ran the kingdom

Making the tree-dream even more weighty

on my unblinking eyes

It is so hard to say no.

Everything clangs

“What’s mine is mine! It is!”

And the pendulum began swinging

before the first word was even formed

Who, then, to believe?

I always wanted to wear my Sunday

Best for you.

(just a glorified braindump, really, thank you for your infinite patience while I go all flakey and self-indulgent)

(also, I got impatient with the formatting and punctuation of it all. oh, the shame!)

This versus That

SO, I once had this roommate who was pretty much a whore, only the cost of getting to sleep with her was a trip to the drug store for new cosmetics.

The girl had a ton of make-up, man.

I also once had a stripper for a roommate. Out of the two of them, I much preferred the stripper. Seemed somehow more honest to me.

In other news, sheesh I love some new tube socks.

In even more other news, Tess wants to train for a half-marathon. My everything hurts. MY EVERYTHING. Most annoying, however, is the ache beneath my collar bones. I keep pounding my chest in order to keep it at bay. These efforts are without much success.

I reserve the right to slap random, rambly addenda to this entry as I see fit.

Oh for hellsakes!

Interwebnet, I am pissed.

Remember how I was telling you that I would soon be getting a New Doggie^tm because Ellie the Australian Shepherd is too damn spazzy for words and should be left solely to the devices of the children (because, group the insane with the insane, I always say)?

Also, remember how I was being graceful and inviting Audience Participation in the name-selecting process for the gorgeous Shibu/Akita mix I’d selected? I asked for names with a distinctly Southerin tinge, do you recall?

And then eventually I settled on Coco, as in Coco Robicheaux, little Cajun badchild. Do you remember all that, Cyberia?

That damn Dooce is usurping my life, y’all.

It’s relative. Every bit of it is.

Last night –straight up outta the bowels of nowhere– Mathias flung his arms wide and said, “Marting Luther King set us all FREEEEE!” It was a random, “….the fuck?” moment, as we other five Superiors were ringed around the dinner table and discussing something totally unrelated to MLK Jr. or freedom or even civil rights.

This is the way Mathias, oh He Of Spastic Brain, works. It is also why, some six months into knowing the kid, our pastor gently queried, “How long have you known he is autistic?” This was so great in so very many ways that I cannot even begin the explaining of it to you with any sort of brevity. We’ll just leave it at ‘great in so many ways’ and I’ll follow up by telling you that Maxim and I looked at one another for about a half second, our eyebrows creeping up our foreheads, and burst into barky laughter.

Since I am the wordy one and was also the first one to gain some composure, I told him sweetly, “Oh, he’s not autistic; he’s just a really weird kid. A really brilliant, weird kid.” I didn’t go on to espouse just how goldang handsome he is, because that would be painfully and obviously redundant. And who wants to be a showoff anyway, you know?

So we don’t know what triggered last night’s gleeful outburst, but the whole of the Superior clan exploded into immediate and overwhelmed laughter. Everyone, that is, but me. Oh, killjoy shmilljoy. Shut up.

I reined all the rest of the yayhoos in and began to explain that it was Martin Luther King, Jr. and he didn’t set anybody free, per se, just shoved a few things into the spotlight in order to affect change in those arenas. We talked about what segregation, about suppression. I talked about how he brought civil disobedience to the forefront as a viable means of protest in the United States. There was who he represented and the whys of that to consider.

After I was sure there was at least a foundational understanding there I quit the topic. After a moment, Mathias turned to me, face serious.

“I have a very important question,” he said to me.

“Okay, lay it on me.”

“Can I have a cookie? I haven’t had any sweets today.”

The Prayer of Saint Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace;

where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

and where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love;

for it is in giving that we receive,

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Amen.

….and, amen. Happy New Year, all you folk.