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Posts Tagged ‘cosmos fucking and related shenanigans’

 
|| October 19, 2000 || 3:41 pm || Comments (0) ||

I don’t always read my e-mailed horoscopes. Oftentimes I simply check them off into Deleteland. I didn’t read them today, but I am almost sure that if I had, they’d have said something like this:

“Communications are at the forefront today. You dwell in the realm of frustration, playing phone tag with God & Everybody from morning till night. Then you spend four hours trying to cover vivid aquamarine-colored walls with pale gray paint.”
Off I go to become a spotty gray mess. Anyone care to help? *sigh*

 
|| October 5, 2000 || 12:47 am || Comments (0) ||

There are times when a person is rudely yanked out of the present by some associative smell, by something seen that triggers a memory, by something uttered from the lips of someone (said someone having had no idea that the turn of the phrase they just gave voice to would cause a minor fold in their listener’s space-time continuum). The past moment, now that the linchpin is pulled, comes banging and clanging into the present without any foreshadowed knowledge or even the slightest peep of a warning. It can be insanely overwhelming, to say the least.

This has been happening to me a whole lot lately.
That having been said, lemme tell you a fucking story, boys and girls.

There was a time in my life when things were really, really off-center in the whole three-squares-a-day department. Three squares a week were not even the norm. Shitty school lunches were the highlight of the day, and God help us on weekends. Dad had bailed to go chase some tail and powder his nose (“Must be a little chalk dust, punkin’…”) and generally live it up in the worst/best midlife crisis fashion. Mom worked her ass off shuffling real estate (or trying her goshdarnedest to in what was at the time a male-dominated market) literally 19 hours a day to keep the heat on in the only home we had ever known.

In the little Oklahoma town that we lived in at the time, there was no such thing as Catholic Relief and my mother was staunchly against joining the welfare rolls. We came from the deep south and there was a large stigma attached. Ma’s reasoning was that her girls may not be garbed in the height of fashion any longer, but they sure weren’t gonna be wearing the almighty cloak of poor white trash. Pride has no nutritional value, you see, so it did no good to swallow it. What was the point, after all? My job was to keep the house tidy, make sure my tomboyish sister didn’t stray too far past the now-empty barn or permanently disfigure herself in her wanderings, proof the homework and guard what little food we had from her constantly-rumbly tummy. I tell you all this not to elicit sympathy, just to give you some background that is instrumental in this particular tale. I survived to become the closet genius and Mountain Dew (proudly manufactured and distributed by Pepsico) lover that I am today.

Quick, throw on the brakes and join me in the ever-present today. I was wandering through a toy store a couple of days ago taking stock of the coming holiday season’s offerings for the young ‘uns. I cruised down the doll aisle and happened to catch sight of some hideous little Campbell’s Kids (you know, like the soup) dolls. This particular pair, adorned garishly in wedding finery, scooped me up and slammed me face-first onto memory lane. It was very, very yucky.

“How can two little dollies do such a thing?” you ask. “They are made to bring companionship and pleasure and many hours of fun play into lives (sounds like a dildo advertisement, right?) all over the free world.” Get comfy, fellas, ’cause here comes the crux of it. Ready?

Pan back to the past: One afternoon, the phone rang. Mom was –as always– at work. My sister was playing (oddly enough) quietly. I picked up the phone to hear the booming, boisterous voice of a gentleman on the other end. He rattled off the call letters to the local radio station and informed me that we were randomly chosen to participate in a promotional contest and that I was live on the air. If I could sing the Campbell’s Soup jingle, I would win TWO WHOLE CASES of Campbell’s Soups.

Oh, this was SO grand! My mind was reeling, but I got hold of my thoughts and managed to drag up the image of those delightful little Campbell’s Kids dancing in grandiose cartoon fashion and sing-songing that WONDERFUL SOUP-WINNING JINGLE! Hallelujah and shave the monkeys, I knew that damned jingle and I sang it with tentative excitement and anticipation. Upon finishing, the DJ loudly and proudly announced me victorious. I had won! We had food at long last! GOOD food and God only knew how long I could stretch two whole cases of soup betwixt the lot of us! Oh, thank you merciful heavens! I have seen the promised land and it is flowing with cream of mushroom, it is strewn with chicken noodle!

I was nearly jumping out of my skin as I dialed my mother’s work number. I was fortunate enough to catch her in the office and not out on a call. I hurriedly related the recently-transpired events to her and I could hear the smile in her voice at my enthusiasm. “Mom, mom, we have some FOOD! I won food for us!” and I started to tell her my plans for rationing and stretching our good fortune. Maybe things were starting to look up…

In the background I heard a male voice begin to sing the Campbell’s jingle. “Hey mom, who is that? Did they hear me on the radio or something?” My mother fell quiet and at that moment, in the best display of bad timing ever in the history of man, my mom’s prankster co-worker picked up the extension and began sing-songing the jingle in a little-girl falsetto.

“Hey girl, I really hadja goin’, huh?” I was stunned into silence and my gut slid down the front of my knees as I slowly settled the receiver in it’s cradle. I slumped into a chair, putting my head down on our heavy oak table. The sobs were so low and big that as I heard them, I was vaguely amazed that they were brought forth from a little-girl body. The phone rang and rang and rang and I never answered it.

Those fucking dolls. Those fucked-up grody-looking dolls. I was okay not remembering that story. Give to Toys for Tots, you fucks, and include a motherfucking ham. And don’t you DARE look into your refrigerator replete with condiments ever again and say you have nothing to eat, because you DO. You and I both know you do. Be thankful, ingrates. The world owes you not a fucking thing.

Postscript to this story….the dude who phoned to prank me was a really great fellow and had no earthly idea what a mindfuck it would be. Had he known our situation afterward, it would have broken his heart to know that he had goofed on me in that regard. Don’t hold it against him. HE SIMPLY DIDN’T KNOW.

 
|| September 17, 2000 || 9:54 am || Comments (0) ||

I woke up and all was well. I got into the shower and all was well. I got out of the shower and somewhere in the process of toweling off and brushing my teeth, the day just took a slide. Happens every so often. I eschewed the family outing to go shopping Huntsville, something that I never do. I don’t really know why this day turned ass-up; I am usually on such an even keel emotionally. The only thing I can figure is that it is about time for my muse (Delores?) to visit and I am gearing up for the creative whirlwind that is about to sweep in by downshifting.

I went to mass. I’m not even Catholic and I went to mass. I pulled on some Levi’s and a Mets cap and a loud orange t-shirt with long sleeves. I ate Doritos and listened to Ned’s Atomic Dustbin on the way there. I think God likes Doritos and Ned’s Atomic Dustbin; how do you think that he feels about the Mets?

 
|| September 14, 2000 || 12:45 pm || Comments (0) ||

I just made a startling realization. My children’s birthdays are all a multiple of 7 (or divisible by 7, however you choose to view it in your own infinite wisdom). The day of the month, I mean. Not the entire birthdate. THAT is not the realization, however. I figured that one out a while back. I also figured out that there must be some greater cosmic spin to all that, but it has yet to be evidenced to me. I can only fantasize in my grandiose way and then go back to being the person who washes the pajamas and cleans up the crumbs in anticipation of the time that they will be completely self-sufficient so that I can go back to performing full-time instead of catch-as-catch-can. I hope that when that time rolls around they will still want to hang out with me ~I think that they are pretty neat people and I would tolerate them even if I didn’t HAVE to~, be it in the living room or backstage.

My realization is this: I started this blog on July the 14th….7/14. SEVEN FOURTEEN. S-E-V-E-N F-O-U-R-T-E-E-N. You know your multiplication (or division, however you choose to view it in your own infinite wisdom) tables, right??

And I am floored. There is some kind of subliminal message about my life in there, but I don’t choose to be analytical at this time. Right now I am just viewing it as an astounding co-inker-dink.

 
|| September 1, 2000 || 12:14 pm || Comments (0) ||

All week I have had some great ponderings to post on this here blog. I have.

All week I have been insanely busy and preoccupied with life in realtime and have not had the energy or spare moments to boot up and scribble on the webwall. Or maybe I have been avoiding it; out of nowhere I am experiencing a sort of spiritual exhaustion and all of my energies and time the past few days have been channelled (sp? fuck) toward getting as much done as possible in the 24 hours that I have been allotted per day. ~I am gassed up on only about 3.5 hours’ worth of snooze each night as of late.~

In the past few weeks I have watched and listened impotently as the following people weathered losses:

+Christie (mentioned in past post) buried her father after a recent sudden job loss and bore all the emotional and financial weight accompanying it
+Louise (nice, boisterous older lady from next door…pseudo gramma to our family) had a handsome late-40’s son who died a mere 2 weeks before his only grandchild was born
+My mom-in-law (ROCK ON, beautiful free spirit) saw two very good friends die in a car accident
+Donald and Vicki (two nicer, more genuine people could not be hand-picked from gazillions) buried their dad and may have to do the same with their brother.

*sigh* *SIGH* Perhaps this was a preparation for me; a ripening of my emotions so that they were ready to ooze thickly, cloying and sweet.So anyway, my mom calls me 2 days ago and tells me that one of my favorite aunts has cancer and her doctor in his infinite wisdom and sophisticated medicalese told her, “It looks really, really bad.” There you have it. Right there.

Now, I know (and I am hoping that you do as well) that docs normally do not leave room in the equation for the human spirit and its’ boundless power, so I usually say “BAH” and eschew the doomsday/naysayer’s point of view in cases like this. This is different. My aunt has had a series of things happen in the past 2 years that have seriously compromised her immunity and she may well die. ‘Die’ is such a succinct word, huh?

When mom told me, I was fairly non-reactive but now it has started to settle. I slipped today into reclusive cyberescape mode and was twiddling around when I clicked through to a site that I normally enjoy immensely. The author apparently has a friend afflicted with the dreaded BIG C and is doing her part to help. As I read along, outta nowhere the tears started to roll and here I am, typing and bawling and backspacing and fixing typos that my tear-induced blurry vision has prompted. Fuck.

All of this putrid softy behaviour is only culminating now; it started last night about 9 p.m. and I felt a need to phone my mom to talk. What’d we converse about?? You see, it boils down to this: I feel that this is a beginning. My parents each have several siblings (mom has 7 and dad has 6). While I feel that I am still way too young to be losing any of them, odds are that it will undoubtedly start happening soon. I, in my profound wisdom, deem this as ‘fucked up’.

As I explained it to my mother, without caring one iota how fucking selfish that it may have sounded, when my family starts dying off, I fear that I will start dying off as well. I was raised in a close-knit familial environment and I am grounded in that, no matter how the miles may separate me from them. A big part of me is defined within and by my family and when they start pushing daisies an important part of me will be gone. I expressed this huge, HUGE thing to my mother and she said, “Oh, my beautiful baby, you don’t have to worry…something else always moves in and takes that place.”

I don’t fucking want it to. I don’t. And don’t tell me I am being unreasonable, damn you. I have never feared death, ever, but now I am coming to the rather fierce revelation that I DO fear its’ aftermath. I have questions that only certain people can answer. Who do I turn to for wisdom and knowledge when they are gone? Not even 2 months ago I made the six-hour drive to visit my aunt and spend a few days with her. She has always been a creative person and we sat on the back patio for hours during that trip, sparking ideas off of each other and firing new ones based on the last one. She spoiled my children and we laughed together at their antics and she marveled at how much like my mother that I had become. We had grown-up conversation; something that I never would have imagined when I was 9 and running through her sprinklers in the yard or pleading for her to buy my favorite popsicles at the grocery. It’s now something that I look forward to with my own nieces and nephews…..

So I get off the phone and call my father. In preparation for that call, I tuck my sorrow and shakiness away neatly, so that he doesn’t think that my calling him is to pirate him emotionally. We just haven’t talked in so long and I want nothing to sully it. Something does anyway. He is himself.

As well-off as I would like to be (hell, merely financially stable would be GREAT), I realize that money doesn’t buy everything. Here is an open question to him that he will never see: When are you gonna wise up, old man? Is it gonna be before or after I am as unavailable to you??? You see, I have wants, but I truly want for nothing. I wish you understood just what you were/are passing up.

And by the way, I have standards of my OWN and in a pure sense they are FAR SUPERIOR to YOURS.

 
|| August 5, 2000 || 12:33 am || Comments (0) ||

I have a wicked ugly cut on my left thumb. It starts around the inside, in the base area, and winds up top, over the knuckle. OWOWOW. It seems to have gotten infected (we played frisbee with the dog today) and is showing signs of conscientious objector status. It is gaping open slightly and –goshdarnit!– has the telltale appearance of “One Who Would be A Scar”.

How’d I get said cut (I thought you’d never ask, dearie!)? I was messing around on the guitar, humming nonsense to meself, when my subconscious snagged on a thought.

“Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses”….yeah, I’ll have a go at that one. This guy I cared for deeply at one time told me the song reminded him of me:

(U2, ya damned dummies) You’re dangerous ’cause you’re honest /
You’re dangerous, you don’t know what you want / Well you left my heart empty as a vacant lot / For any spirit to haunt / Hey hey sha la la / Hey hey / You’re an accident waiting to happen / You’re a piece of glass left there on the beach / Well you tell me things / I know you’re not supposed to / Then you leave me just out of reach / Hey hey sha la la / Hey hey sha la la / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna drown in your blue sea / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna fall at the foot of thee / Well you stole it ’cause I needed the cash / And you killed it ’cause I wanted revenge / Well you lied to me ’cause I asked you to / Baby, can we still be friends / Hey hey sha la la / Hey hey sha la la / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna drown in your blue sea / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna fall at the foot of thee / Oh, the deeper I spin / Oh, the hunter will sin for your ivory skin / Took a drive in the dirty rain / To a place where the wind calls your name / Under the trees the river laughing at you and me / Hallelujah, heavens white rose / The doors you open / I just can’t close / Don’t turn around, don’t turn around again / Don’t turn around, your gypsy heart / Don’t turn around, don’t turn around again / Don’t turn around, and don’t look back / Come on now love, don’t you look back / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna drown in your blue sea / Who’s gonna taste your salt water kisses / Who’s gonna take the place of me / Who’s gonna ride your wild horses / Who’s gonna tame the heart of thee

So I went to tune up and, tear-r-r-r-r-r, I clumsily got caught on the end of a guitar string. Not so much painful as startling.

That’s what I get.

That’s what I damned well get for reminiscing on a boy that’s ages gone, seemingly.

I wish you endless inspiration, a good roof and a full refrigerator, Cris. I hope you are well.

 
|| July 17, 2000 || 8:57 pm || Comments (0) ||

Fiduciary responsibility. Two big, ugly words. Foreboding–even moreso when they are used together.

Owning up. More comfortable and airy, it carries just as much weight and is friendlier on the tongue. Yet seemingly more stark.

This theme has reverberated through my life the last couple of days. I am not being smacked with it. Quite the contrary; I have been watching it rock other people’s quiet little self-deluded idleness. I have been watching it as if in slow motion through the clearest of walls. I have been feeling its’ weighty ripples, riveted in mock-terror mingled with bliss.

Sort of a ‘whipping post after a heavily-piggybacked I.V.’ feeling.

Alas (natch), it is only Monday evening and such happenings don’t occur on Mondays and usually not on Tuesdays. Thursday, for some ungodly** reason, is when a whole lot seems to go down.

**UNGODLY….now THERE’S a concept that I should review later.