A Random Image

Posts Tagged ‘an awesome waste of potential’

 
|| December 15, 2000 || 10:57 pm || Comments (0) ||

Uhhh, hi.

Reading chum’s journal-thingy made me sad tonight. Made me really sad. I can’t really put my finger on why. If he reads this, I’m sure he’ll get it. He’s special like that—has the whole insight thing pretty down for someone so young. Mayhap that is why he is bored with his courtiers.*chumster, any thoughts on this??*

I really hope that I wasn’t one of the parties that he was referring to. I hope that he still likes my dance. Isn’t that sick and sad? It sounds that way on the surface, I suppose. You’ve got to look deeper, though. There are few people that I respect in a wholesome way/look up to. This cat has a great intellect and wit and seemingly possesses an affection for people that I could never muster. He tries to bury that light under the bushel of sarcasm, but it’s there and I for one can see it.

I haven’t been blogging as much lately. And certainly the content mostly blows now. Someone e-mailed me yesterday and said I seem ’subdued’. You know what, Will? You’re right. I do. Please allow me to explain in this very public of forums; and Jesus-please-us please let me put to rest the suggestion you had as to why. Good assumption, but one that is way off the mark.

I started this thing for me. You see, I hadn’t been devoting the time to any organized creative output beyond business-related stuff, and creativity for creativity’s sake is the most cathartic and rewarding kind. Don’t get me wrong, I am glad that I can get paid for something I enjoy, but sometimes it turns into a washout and you cut corners to get over just a tad bit more. Then it sort of taints your output and things aren’t so shiny and terrific anymore. ANYONE CATCHING THIS TRAIN OF THOUGHT, HUH???

So as I said/say/am saying, I started this for me and did it for me and was pleasantly surprised to find a had a small readership with a decent intellectual capacity. And don’t get me started on the fact that I discovered that I was not alone in some of my most out-there obloquies, opinions and thoughts.

I tend not even to scratch the surface out here. Some of you who know me and correspond with me know that. There are parts to all of us that remain only our own knowledge, even in the presence of those nearest and dearest to us. This is what defines one’s self. Obviously, as this is a public forum, (even though only barely public…) I don’t completely flay myself open or really even point to my exposed jugular. I have said it before and I shall say it again. PEOPLE WILL SUCK YOU MOTHERFUCKING DRY AND THEN WHINE AT YOU TEN YEARS’ WORTH OF SUNDAYS WHEN YOU CANNOT POSSIBLY GIVE THEM ANY FUCKING MORE. It’s true. You heard it here first. I write to amuse myself first and foremost, but I would be a lying-ass bitch to say it didn’t amuse me to amuse you. And you, and you. And you, over there in the corner…yes, YOU, ya little cutie.

I have so much to share. Or maybe reword that to say ’so much I could share’….but I dunno. I just don’t know.

I could swear up and down all day that “Oh, ya know, holidays….so effing busy and time-crazed…wah-WAH-wah, wuh, WUH-wuh, wuh. Not to mention blahblahdyblah-blah and such.” Bullshit, and I won’t pour it on you. I like most of you far too much to fake it.

When I wrote the piece regarding my cousin, I tapped into the most real me that there is. You all seemed to catch that. I got TONS of e-mail, even from people that I never had a clue existed: “….and you don’t know me, but I have been reading you for a while. I finally had to break down and let you know that you really get to me sometimes…”. Whaaaaaa? I have readers in motherfucking BELGIUM???

Scary.

So I back off. I shut down. Whoaaaaa, some distance, fellow commuters, please! I am contagious, okay???

Please don’t take this as I sign that I never want to hear from you people. Humanity just makes me nervous. Lots of people out there are unpredictable (don’t get me wrong, unpredictable is good at times) and atrociously, unforgivably stupid. I am quite pleased to know that people who come here, no matter how few, are intelligent and thoughtful and sincere and comically self-effacing. I like their input, be it commentary, suggestion or hapless sexual innuendo (just kidding about that last one, the air was just getting sorta heavy in here).

The long and the short of it is that I am growing, and I feel a time coming that I may just lay it all out there. It’s all been itching in the back of my brain for a few moons now and I am growing dissatisfied with all else.

SO, if you dare, if you care, hang around and sooner or later we’ll play scratch and sniff with my brain. Consider your dumbass self warned.

And oh yeah, fuck every last one of you. >:oD

I hail from a large, tight-knit family of German-Italian stock. I am proud of my family. I am proud of the far-reaching effects that we have had in our own little corners of the globe, as spread out as we in fact are. I am proud of our diversity of experience and occupation. The running not-so-untrue joke is that we have everything but a preacher in the family and sooner or later one will be brave enough to marry in.

My mom has 8 brothers and sisters, so that makes for lots of cousins. She was also close to HER cousins, so that made for lots of extended cousins. Therefore, my playmates early in life consisted mainly of first, second and third cousins, once-removed, twice-removed, removed only for maintenance, whatever….

There are those people in life who you grow particularly fond of, and in families that tendency is no different. There were five or so that I regularly found myself in the middle of, but only one of whom that I am here to share with you today.

Danny, as we called him way back forever ago, was a really handsome kid, with dark hair and mahogany eyes that could split your soul if you looked into them for too long. He was quiet, but not somber or brooding. He thought about these huge things that kids aren’t supposed to let meander around their brains. His intellectual capacity was equally matched by a rogue wit, and we often goofed on things that other kids our age (or thereabouts) simply couldn’t grasp.

A bunch of us kids would sit under the willows by the creek behind my grandmother’s house. Danny would shag the beat-up guitar that his granddaddy gave him out there, then once we all got settled, he would magically produce a harmonica from his back pocket and mock-cajole my cousin Eric into playing it. He would then demand that I sing, and we would while away the afternoons, a dozen smalltown kids harmonizing to whatever, experimenting with sound. We would also tell stories–large, elaborate tales that would take ages to finish and simple, direct ones that made you want to fall over with the matter-of-factness they rained on you.

Dan told the best stories and kept us all in tow with his words, his inflection, his demeanor, even the older ones. He had a way of just being that drew people in, a spark that shone up through his center and made people take notice. As unassuming as he was, this always amazed me.

My folks moved us away from our hometown in the Delta, as did Dan’s parents. We kept in touch, swapping stories of life as we came up through the ranks in age. Amazingly enough, we both experimented with drugs about the same time and became junkies early on. I kicked long before he did, sick of the desperation of it. He flirted with it on and off throughout his early twenties.

My hands shake as I type this. My fucking head hurts.

When he finally did the big kick, he did it right and round and thoroughly. He cleaned up, got himself a PHAT excellent jobby-job where he coincidentally met his bride. They were married in a small, beautiful ceremony that I was a grooms[wo]man in. Eighteen months later Corinne was born and he had the perfect life. When the baby was fourteen months old, Dan went for an annual physical–a requirement of his job. It was then that he was diagnosed with HIV. His doctor mercifully allowed that information to sink a bit before telling him that he not only had the virus, but was in full-blown mode as well.

NOT FAIR. Notfairnotfairnotfair, you fucks! He had fixed his life…he had swept out all the excess and nonsense. He was Good Guy Number One On A Glittering Steed.

The trumpet sounded and the walls came crashing down. Within 5 months he was utterly wasted physically, drooling and gibbering out of his rotting head. He had turned on his body at one time and it was paying him back in spades. He was an Auschwitz caricature of his former self physically; mentally he was no longer there. I would visit and tell him utterly stupid jokes and play tapes of us making music as children and then I would go home and wash the clothes I wore three times to get that impending death smell out of them. I would scald my skin in the shower and retch over and over. By the time the funeral came I couldn’t even cry.

AIDS is ugly and fetid. I could describe it to you all day and still not really pin down the essence of it. Somebody needs to fix that shit, quick. I am NOT being glib here.

Daniel was a really great dad. I always knew he would be. Corinne sends me a school picture each year. She has a superb stepdad and her father’s eyes.

 
|| November 16, 2000 || 2:25 pm || Comments (0) ||

There was this time in high school where I posse’d up with a bunch of pals, got terribly drunk and went to a haunted house. The line was really long and it was bitter cold, both of which are conducive to taking a piss (at least in my humble case). I just couldn’t hold it, so I headed for the port-a-john. This particular port-a-john had a lid over the opening, which I have never heard of before or since, and I was blissfully unaware of this. So, in my pleasant inebriated fashion, I sat and began the whizzing function before all facts registered clearly.

I pissed all over the lid. D’OH!!!

The really hilarious part, though, is the fact that I simply didn’t care. I was really fucking amused. So much so that I loudly told my friends when I got back into line. I STILL find it hilarious.

I have no idea why that particular story came to me on this particular day. Perhaps the fact that it is raining relentlessly and it is cold. I dunno.

 
|| November 7, 2000 || 9:13 am || Comments (0) ||

Why, why, oh why do I feel so preternaturally guilty when I have not written anything of substance and perceived value for some time?
Sometimes I am SO vexed by lack of content. And, geez Louise, let’s not talk about WORTHY content….

I started this place for me. Hell, it still IS for me. So, the primary reason I feel guilty is still for me. Now that I know I have a small readership, though, the pressure is tenfold.

BUT as always, I will carry on with/for myself and shake off the fact that I know a couple of someones are peeking. That is, after all, what they started peeking at in the first place. And why they remain. So I will stay lame and eclectic, practical and profane and profound.

Welcome to me…I love you all, but I love myself best.

 
|| September 17, 2000 || 12:51 am || Comments (0) ||

Welcome to my latest adventure. I just so happen to be fresh off of it; it is ripe to the touch and ready for the telling.

I went out for a pack of smokes. It was late for around here, 12:30 a.m., so I had to  make a 7-mile trip, passing several darkened stores along the way. I pulled into the parking lot of my destination, a Shell station with a Sneaky Pete’s attached. Just so happens that I was the only patron in attendance at that particular time…. I saw through the plate glass that the guy on duty was working a mop with a great deal of fervor.

I happen to take note of these things, who KNOWS why.

I strolled in, leaving the car running because I really liked the song that was on the radio at the time (“Shout” ~you remember, the Tears for Fears jinga-linga-ling~ as rendered by Disturbed). I had a twenty dollar bill clamped in my hand; the minute my hand hit the doorpull the guy stowed the mop and bucket and he was behind the counter before my clad-in-heavy-boot foot even hit the first tile. He didn’t acknowledge me, and I returned the favor.

I prowled up and down the the aisles created in miniature for the rat race shopper (coincidence that these stores are mindful of mouse mazes when you really think about it? I think not, kind reader…). I really only set out for cigarettes, but my brain saw fit to alert me to the fact that I’d not eaten anything since 10 a.m. on day previous, so I searched for the suitable snack in
Carbohydrate Land. I finally settled on a Hershey’s with almonds and headed for the formica.

I placed the hunka nutty chocolate on the countertop along with my slightly-crumpled bill and said in my mostest politest tone,

“Packa Marbro Lights in a box, please.”
Dude looked me in the face and replied, “I need to see your I.D.”

I muttered, “Just a sec, I gotta go to the car.” and I walked out to find just where the hell it is that I may have stashed my heavily-abused plastic ticket to legal drinking and driving (but not both at the same time, Heavens NO). I placed it on the counter as he was ringing my purchases and said “I KNOW that I look older than 19.” I know he knew so; his eyes had slid all over me the entire time
that I was in the store.

“Yes you DO” was his simpily-delivered reply,”I’m just doing my job.”  Now, normally I would not DREAM of giving someone shit for just trying to do their job, but this was different. He was being a prick. He was doing it just for the sake of doing it, not for
the purpose that it was created. I know this because I have been in this same store any number of times, at any given time of the day. Not ONCE have I ever been carded there. NOT ONCE. Not even the time that 2 cops were standing within 3 feet of me waiting to pay for cappuccino and struedel (DON’T ASK. That’s a whole other rant waiting to boil over).

This guy was a disgruntled peon worker bee and it was my turn to profit from his angst. FUCK a DUCK. I love being in close proximity to the sheep that has just figured out that its collar is way toofucking tight. The word ‘tight’ triggers in him/her/it a physical reaction that prompts his/her/its lips and asshole to illustrate said word.

I stood there and took my change. I unwrapped half the candy bar, broke it off, laid the half down on the counter.

“Here. Sounds like you need a little boost in the serotonin levels.”

I turned to walk out and he called after me,”I have to ask if you are under thirty.”

My reply? “Well, my I.Q. is well above that, so now you know!” He began saying something else, but  I turned to face the slowly-closing door and placed my palm on it. I closed it purposefully. It angers me that someone is so pissy about their job, but they make no effort to change it. Some people willingly stand there while their brains and egos and bodies and attitudes rot. They make no effort to better their position (prone is only suitable for martyrs and sleep, boys and girls…REMEMBER that). Sessile is so convenient, so fucking easy. If you are unhappy, slap it into B for Boogie and get the hell outta there. Can I get an “AMEN”?

I happened to catch sight of his vehicle, a beat-up minivan that spoke of its owner’s lack of a merciful fate/existence and my acidic thoughts in reference to him sort of drained away. My measured clunking across the parking lot softened into steps and I think I thought, “So THAT’s it.”

I turned onto the highway to head home and pulled a final glance in. It was amazing. He picked up the chocolate bar and began to eat it. *boggle*

 
|| September 11, 2000 || 12:22 am || Comments (0) ||

~giggle~ Pneumatic chairs are the bomb. AHEM, now that I have THAT outta my system we can move along, folks.

Ever partake of something the 20th time out and it still seems fresh and new to you? Something about it simply sparkles and it appeals to you on many levels?…I know you know that feeling. We all know that feeling about something in our lives; those of us who are incredibly fortunate have felt it from more than one aspect/in many respects. If you’ve never had it happen, don’t worry. It will occur (even if it takes until your dying day).

One such thing for me is ‘Lawn Dogs’. The fact that Sam Rockwell (some names are so FITTING) sets the old Lust Bus en route notwithstanding, he is one fuck of a performer (sorry, Sam…that’s the best way I coulda put it. I’m at a loss; how cliche). It simply loosens my jaw to know that I have never heard him credited as one of the hottest commodities in Hollystrange. I mean Hollyweird. Nonono, it’s Hollywood. Yeah, that’s it: Hollywood.

So now you know one valuable thing about me: my true feelings about Hollywood. I’d make a shitty entertainment lawyer; or a great one, I dunno….

I should mention that part of the appeal is the character “Devon”; her fancy-schmancy hyphenated last name temporarily escapes me. Yuppies, SHEESH. “We are such full, interesting people that lead such full, interesting lives and live in such full, interesting houses with children who undoubtedly have full, interesting futures ahead of them and we should possess names that are just as full and interesting.”**HEY, HERE’S AN IDEA….perhaps you should earn one more hyphen with each successive ten mil after the first five or so.**

ANYWAY, all kidding aside, I was telling you about Devon…. somebody who knew me as a child talked to some writers and I was incorporated in some aspects into this character. That’s the only possible explanation….tooooo uncanny, mkay? These traits emerge and rub up against me with an air of familiarity that leaves me awestruck. How did they know that I would go out into the moonlight barely clothed on mild nights and look up at the unpolluted sky and feel all those places where I was not? To know that sorrow that accompanies a homesickness for a place you had never seen, a person you’ve never been? Does every little girl know talismans? Is it incorporated into the female makeup? Did we all climb trees and tie ribbons to each branch in need of a shiny piece of satin? Were/are there other young women that knew the disdain of their microsociety? I never pissed on my dad’s car, but had I thought of it, I might’ve. I NEVER would’ve entered a stranger’s house uninvited or unannounced; this was not from fear but from thinking it ill-mannered. I wouldn’t have done the fly-in-the-cookie thing either. Why waste a perfectly good cookie? The dolls, the doll parts, the exacting-punishment-where-punishment-is due…..yeah, toned down a half a click it could’ve been me.

The self-created parallel storyline WAS me. Always ticking out the next string of words in whatever drama I was destined to lay to the page. Not an escape, not a way to enliven a dull existence (for it wasn’t a dull one), just something that was. Like breathing or blinking. Simply an inherent part of the whole.

So watch ‘Lawn Dogs’ and know that it gets me right there, even if it doesn’t do a damned thing for you. Then e-mail me with what holds your multi-layered magic. Or better yet, set up your own blog and tell the world.

Pee ess….I am almost NEVER satisfied with the endings that are unfittingly served to us, but there could not ever in the history of the planet been a more suitable and filling wrap to a story. TRULY.

 
|| September 7, 2000 || 9:52 am || Comments (0) ||

Upon perusal, it’s no wonder that none of them made it past six-and-a-half. Sheesh.