When the days are long, life is short

There is fire under my kettle
and people
people,
(peapole)
keep intigrating themsleves.

Food. Hot Food.

It’s no longer Easter and I seem to have forgotten how to write: that sounded good. I am drunk, more so than I imagined, and am surprised at the fluidity of my former mind. It is funny how minds elapse into detritus—and how quickly. I am sure McDowell would have a hay-day with that sentence. However he’s not been inhabiting my dreams for months, so I'd better leave that English teacher alone.
That is where the crux of existence lays, like a chicken, between morning and afternoon, misspelled and forgotten beyond omelets and ham—which is not kosher, though I am not, nor have ever been, Jewish.
Like the cow dripping from my back in pride: a vintage wearing über vegetarian (my parents raised me that way, I have never tasted {only smelled} bacon. I wear leather and wash my hands of this discussion.

I saw a double rainbow, and I made a wish and it almost came true

Every once in a while something happens in local politics that makes me not want to puke. Recently, Oregonians passed a measure that would allow all people to register as domestic parteners (though Massachutes remains the only state that allows everyone to marry). Naturally there are some jerks who think that their stagnant values should apply to everyone. It Sucks To Be Them! because they were unable to get the votes necessary to put bigotry back on the ballot.

Politics in Oregon have been getting pretty interesting this cycle. For example measure 50, which would force a constitutionaly amendment, set to increase the cigarette tax to help pay for children's health care. I am all for socialized health care, not that I have ever been to the doctor, but I am hoping to go someday. But, I have this rather archaic idea that the purpuse of the constitution is to lay out the jobs of congress, the rights of the people, and the regulation of political power.

I know that's archaic because last election cycle the same afore-mentioned bigots managed to define mariage in Oregon's constitution as between specific genders. I fail to see how that has anything to do with the purpose of the constition's specific purpose.

Intrestingly enough the people against measure 50 (Phillip Morris, et al) are all up in arms about amending the constitution and that it "hasn't been done in 150 years" which is a blatant lie.

In all I am undecided as to how I feel about the combination of something I love—socilised medicine—and something I hate—the misuse of the constitution.

if there is a choice between less to do and more money, chose the later

D. can home with dog today! horray, I am only two parakeets short of a menangerie!

PS I killed Cricket, the puffer fish, when I tried to de-salinate her water. Oh well, I got ten tetras and one hundred snails to replace her. And since, when operating a full-time menangerie, it is numbers over quality that count, I am pleased.

Well that's it from the zoo, more old news later.

having lost everything I found

Somewhere between work and life I have lost track of things that are important. Like my favorite letter: q.

Before the song birds turn to crow

the distant siren of a police car jams down Fessenden Avenue, i live in NoPo. you remember, where you need a gun to walk outside—

Conflicting emotions are a part of the natural adult experience. I find that it is normal to feel confident and solid for hours, then to get stuck in traffic and lose control of my zen-like calm. The beauty of this is that I recognize my rapidly shifting emotions as a product of this culture of instant gratification. I am not pleased about being in traffic, therefor my world is not working for me. WTF? why am I even stuck in traffic for an hour?

A recent conversation went like this (and I am ever the person who realizes hours later what I should have said): "What kind of computer do you have?" a person asked me. "An old G3 I bought in 2002," I replied defensively. "Wow! is that as bright as your screen gets?" Evidently, my computer is ancient. "I guess so." I said tapping the brighten key on top of my keyboard. "Well, ours gets a lot brighter. That makes me feel a whole lot better."

That's when I should have said: "Why? because your consumer product is new, better, and more expensive than mine? does that mean that your life is also better and more fulfilling than mine?" But I didn't because I was ashamed that my computer (which works really well) was older than theirs, so I left and got stuck in traffic and wanted to slam my hand in the door because I was so bored and mad about being poor and having to pay my own way through life.

I used to shop exclusively at goodwill because I thought it was cheap, that was until I went to the mall. I hate malls; the florescent lights make my eyes shiver, the pumping of canned music is sickening, and I hate the smell of cinnabun. I had not been to a mall in years, maybe a decade. I have to admit that I was really tempted to buy really cheap T-shirts—two brightly colored shirts for ten dollars seems to be the norm—I wanted the shirts because I wear T-shirts everyday and I am tired of wearing the same four, but I couldn't stop imagining the tiny fingers that make those tiny stitches. Now that I know how cheap the mall is it is going to be hard to go back to the goodwill bins, but now I have convictions.

the meanwhiles (or, why I want to move to Canada and be a Socialist)

when I read backwards, from bottom to top, I see things in your writing that are not really there

Along with ponies and sandwiches, I also like boats. Especially huge boats with sailors on them. Walking around the periphery of the 100th annual Rose Festival I ogled the boats. They are behemoths, huge towering structures that sit heavily on the water. They carry men and equipment around the world. They protect Our oceans from terrorists. I noticed that there were three sets of boats: American; Canadian; Coast Guard. This would have been of little significance had I not also noticed the accompanying military occupation. The American Boats were heavily guarded. They were docked behind a cyclone fence. The walkway was being patrolled by twenty armed men and women. These people had more than the two regular, right and left arms that you and I have, these people had automatic weapons.

Suddenly, ships and sailors were not as attractive to me. What, I wanted to know, was keeping them from snapping and shooting me? boot camp?

I walked away from them, inland down the esplanade and came to the Canadian ships. There was only one man standing guard and since he only had two regular arms like you and I, I felt safe approaching him. He wasn't even a real sailor, he was a submariner who couldn't wait to get back to Canada and back on his submarine. Sergent Oleander was kind enough to answer some of my questions. I asked him why he didn't have a six-foot fence, why he didn't have armed guards, why he was standing alone (looking ever so handsome). It turns out that they were supposed to have all of those things, but it was too much work and so they decided to not allow civilians on their ships. He was friendly, I did not feel threatened speaking to him.

What I learned from my experience is that though I know I live under martial law, I do not like to be reminded of it. In my heart I know that guns are evil and deadly machines. I do not care who is holding them, I do not believe in the power of so few being held over so many. The army that is supposed to protect and serve is a machine that, if commanded, could easily slam bullets through my house. I do not like guns.

has gone peculiar

I am officially very tired of reading, editing, proofreading. My eyes stick on apostrophes and hover over commas: is that two independent clauses? or, have my hearts been captured by cheese?

The worst thing about spending so much time reading for errors is that I have a hard time turing the internal-editor off. I just read A Case History, by Kate Atkinson. (Which I highly recommend to those of you who enjoy excellent characterization, impeccable grammar, and a good mystery.) As I stuttered through the first chapters, I realized that all pleasure had been lost to my need to understand how and why the author composed her complex compound sentences. I put the book down and picked up my book of grammar exercises. After carefully diagraming the sentence I was surprised to see that she has linked two independent clauses cleverly with subordinate clauses using adverb clauses (damn!); but she didn't stop there, she tossed in some compound predicates for good measure. I remained uncertain about the meat of the sentence. I took the book and my chicken scratches to Doctor M, the grammar professor. He answered the remainder of my questions using yellow and green highlighters (green for independent clauses, yellow for subordinates). The beauty of grammar shines through and I can sleep again.

Trolling the internet, I read friends' blogs. How can I be both envious of their (self-inflated and hyperconscious) talent and yet celebrate in their (latent) mistakes? Is that a noun modifying a noun? I mark their errors, invalidating their attempts at writing. But the truth is that with a good editor they could make something of themselves, maybe. I know all of this, yet I want them to also know this: stop using the thesaurus, a noun is not an adjective and when you use it as such you look like you were reading the thesaurus (I know it, you know it, but do you know I know it?). I could be that editor, swap out the hyphens for em-dashes, replace those semicolons with a comma or two, clarify pronouns. But the truth is that most don't want an editor, don't think they need an editor; I protest! I pray! I insist that everyone do grammar exercises before their spare-tire sentences sink our Nation!

my soul was stoned by flamingos

I am supposed to buy a dress. Not just any dress mind you. This is a special bride's maid dress. My brother is getting married; I get an amazing sister-in-law and an okay dress. Well, I would get a dress if a non-specified store (j-crew) had not discontinued that ephemeral Rosebud Pink dress, style Emma. Now, I will be the bride's maid in Cotton-Candy Jane. Which just goes to show me that I will ever remain the younger sister (who puts things off until the last minute, [the wedding is a month away.] However, I am scouring ebay; do you think I would fit a size 12?). Yep, the same younger sister who has nervous breakdowns at her big brother's graduations, forgets birthdays and thinks christmas is a holiday in early February.

I am taking solace in a bottle of Basil Hayden and the fact that I have the gift all but picked out.

august

for there are those around me who say the things I least expect

I am shocked and saddened by this week's events; I am afraid that we, as living breathing human beings, are watching the fabric of humanity unravel. When America was ripped lovingly from those who had inhabited it, we did our best to stand apart from the oppression of the British Empire. We did fabulous things: a postal system; a constitution; a tertiary form of government.

Goodbye constitution, goodbye postal service, and well I never really believed in checks and balances anyways.

I have begun to consider how the history books will look in 200 years. Will there even be books in 200 years?

akimbo

as I consider the necessity of sleep over the powerful comfort of delirium

I have just wakened to the fact that I sleep, a lot. It is not uncommon for me to go to bed around ten and stay there till seven. This is not just because I am a lazy good for nothing. I often cannot fall asleep or waken to restlessness during the night.

Naps are wonderful. I can nap for upwards of two hours. I nap in the car, on the couch, in the library. I wish my school had a napping room. But this means I am again lazy and unproductive. In trying to justify my ten hour sleeping habits I have come to the conclusion that I must be dying of an anemic disfunction, leukemia, or chronic fatigue syndrome. If I had a doctor, I might go see her. (I am a student; Blue Cross is for people with income.)

In the meantime, I will try to stay out of bed longer. I will stay up until half-past ten, and get up earlier. If I am utterly exhausted by the time I hit the pillow, likely I will not lapse into repetitive thoughts. Sleep is a vicious cycle of catch-up, it is also one of the last (besides sex) free pass times in America.

By sleeping, I am saving voluble resources. I am not driving or eating. (At least, not until I get my prescription to ambien filled.) These productive hours are better filled watching tv, or searching the internet for sites which present live action all the time.

Goodbye naps,nine hour nights,long lucid dreams, free pass-times. Hello productive me.

annuity

the corn is in the kitchen and the hogs are in the barn

I have exactly 120 minutes left of school this term; and some four odd weeks until student loans flush my bank account. This spring break is one of long walks. I will take long walks to avoid the rising cost of gasoline, to deter boredom, and to improve my overall health and well-being.

I will not take walks to look at flowers or houses or sunrises— aesthetics are for people with leisure time. Observing the warming earth and the budding spring is not for a proleterian such as myself. Oh damn, I'm unemployed. I guess that means I am eligable to enjoy the present moment.

walls

i am so tired that my car looks like home

I get to this point when there are eight days left in the term and my mind quits. I string words together and listen as the coherent argument transforms into scripted jargon. This is an ongoing problem in my life. However, it is tiresome.

On a much brighter note, I swam so fast today that fish were jealous. I swim a fair bit— the rhythm of my three beat stroke the closest I come to meditation. The water parts for me, and if I don't fight it, I can jam. There have been days when the pool is an endless hell; my mind is satan who laughs as water splashes up my nose. Oh, I know satan. That shit talker who tells me to get out of the pool 18 laps into a mile; that bastard talks so much, I almost listen. But then where would I be? huddled in the shower sniveling like a quiter. I cowgirl up instead, and finish another 18 laps.

Other days it is effortless. Which is why I keep swimming. The days when my mind has accepted that for thirty minutes I am going to work like mad, and then have a sandwich. There are days when I try to whistle underwater. It doesn't work, but I still try. It is bliss, the water is cool and I pretend I am a mermaid (I whistle a little tune). Or, I pretend that I am a boat or an octopus. I doubt that I will see anyone about my overactive imagination. Instead, I will get a pet turtle.

ash

In which I am forced to reckon with more death

I am 26 and 11/12ths and death follows me. Not in a negative there is a shroud on my life sort of way— but a nice kind of everything I have ever loved I have lost, kind of way. Idesia, the horse I been riding for the last year, died on sunday.

So to the rest of you living breathing friends, please care for yourselves

three jazz standards and a nickle's worth of blues

For all of you who have ever needed an aspirin and had to ask a stranger

Driving down the highway at a brisk and legal 60 MPH, I noticed my temperature gauge creeping up uncomfortably fast. I had replaced my radiator in September: are radiators something like oil-changes which need to be changed quarterly?

I got to the barn and watched steam rise from under the hood. This was going from bad to worse; so I got my horse and ate an apple. Idesia is smarter than me and she told me that ignoring a wound only leads to scarring. I put her away and opened the hood. There are a lot of tubes and gears and wires under there. As a sophomore in High School I had wanted to take auto-mechanics. But my mother forbade me on the grounds that it was "dirty". Her socioeconomic gender limiting reaction led me to take a welding class; I have the innate skills of a seven-year old when it comes to the mystical workings of my car's secret operations. I digress, I am an adult and no longer blame my mother for everything.

On the left side of the engine there is bucket that is supposed to be filled with radiator fluid. I pop the top and it was as empty as an anorexic on prom night. Filling the reservoir with water, I decide to fake like I have radiator fluid all the home. Two miles out, my Taurus Wagon was blowing steam and with the needle creeping up into the red, I stop. The fluid had all but evaporated, again.

Taking my water bottles, I head to the Exxon bathroom. I am in gym pants and not feeling so hot, what with grease on my dirty hands. I fill the chamber and start the motor. I spot the culprit; it's a busted hose. I am elated to have diagnosed the malaise. The prognosis is grim as I don't have a degree from the MacGyver institute— in which case it wouldn't matter that I'm 25 miles from home with out a screwdriver. I chew my lip.

A guy drives up in a red mustang (no, really) and asks if I need help. I am not a feinting maiden. I know my odds. I accept his offer of a tool set. The hose has a dime sized hole an inch from the motor. He drives me to a Napa and they give us a piece of rubber tubing the length of my hand. Attaching the hose took two minutes. After thanking the generous stranger, I was on my way.

Yes, this real life adventure shows my skills of looking under the hood and spotting trouble. More, I am notorious for letting problems simmer until there is an explosion. But not this time.

idealism

I have been trying to decide what to do with my life. The following is a list of my attributes:
1. Language
2. Travel
3. Fashion school dropout

I have found the perfect job. Can't you see me in this?

reflexology

the pain in my knee is from a cut on my heart

I am going to set the record straight: I like classical music. A lot. My appreciation stems not from intellectual snobbery (everyone is a music snob, thinks the music they listen to is cutting edge). By and large I agree. What I would like to know is when did having a taste for dead composers make one less of a connoisseur?

The passion in a good composition escalates and engages my imagination. It is lyrical and poetic, without blessed words. The elitist mentality is a limitation. I understand that listening to Rachmaninov takes acclimation. Jazz does too. Training our ears and minds to hear the relationship between notes and melody is a practice of patience. It is resistance training. We are all brought up with notions that it is pretentious music, written for fine dining and elevators. Admitting to like classical music is akin to the first taste of flesh. At first the body is foreign and exotic, only handled (ha) in morsels. But our appetites, they do grow.

I am not arguing that everyone load their i-pods up with Handel's water music. I am suggesting that there may well be a composition that inspires and titillates you. The ears are organs which like variety. In a world of ever increasing spead and variety, the understanding of historical art is losing to the concupisent seduction of modern replicas.

peregrinate

Chances are that my information is faulty, so don't take my word without a cautionary pause.

I should never, ever complain about anything because I am alive and can breath and have legs that have muscles that are fired by neurons; and I have thick blood that is full of salt and oxygen, it goes coursing through my body and when I bite my lip I taste pennies. Working so very hard to never say the things lurking right below the line for passable social commentary, boil right down to self-interest. Well, that's what we're all about is it not? the valued examination of the self in the ever reflective mirror or, perhaps we are ever so much more. Is there seven or are the seven?

Now that I have that clear, I can move on to more insightful topics. My boyfriend got an x-box that he has spent thirty hours modifying into a media-center. I am not jealous, only lonely...no seriously. But on a much lighter note, he did buy a motorcycle. Now I can listen for the rumbling engine in the afternoons, wake-up quickly from a nap, and pretend never to have been asleep.

Final and bright note: playing cards with a group of couples is awkward. The future looms and tightens and I cannot always breathe and the room gets so damn hot. Which is the worst, because then everyone can read the shame in my cheeks. And the not knowing the people is there too, and the expectation that doesn't quite get spoken is a secret which has never really interested me all that much. And the truth that hides just behind the curtain is that they all know more about each other, have history, that is seperate and does not ever include me.

But all of this is not about my social disfunction. No that would be all to simple. It is that I never get seen, in element, by the man that I love.

why bother?

Well according to the FDA exercise and eating with discretion is no longer enough to slim down the two-thirds of hefty Americans. Thank God for orlistat!
This amazing little pill seems to really be a miracle. It inhibits the bodies ability to absorb 25% of fat consumed. Instead of limiting myself to a diet rich in fruits, vegetables, and whole grains, I can now consume with abandon! Once only available by prescription, I can now purchase orlistat over the counter.
Say goodbye to calorie counting and say hello to orlistat.
Orlistat, taking the fat out of effort.

ten to one

A worm, insidious and noxious, feeding on my organs.

The sheets are fresh and tight, though the bed is old and worn; I sleep on the lumpy imprints of forgotten lovers. Not mine, I never forget you or you or you. It is not my bed, they are not my sheets, they were not my lovers. Am I to mind the past? one cannot have a tail without a dog.

I ate a clove of garlic and the worm lost interest in it's habitation.

Before the sun rises, my feet pad across the floor, it is wooden and quite old, a girl wrote her name in permanent black marker, "Alicia". I find my eyes. They are full of dreams and the morning sweeps down the chimney in a rush of fresh air and sunshine.

I cut it up into bits and fed it to the fish.

temerity

After life, I have an extended vacation

Folding my body into the back seat of my ford taurus wagon, I using a high powered vacuum to suck cheerios from the recesses of the upholstery. How did I ever get here? I don't mean pushing thirty with half a bachelors degree; I know exactly how I got that. One damn quarter at a time, working a job I took because I thought that it would be emotionally fulfilling. Being a nanny is the hardest work I have ever done; it has all of the benefits of dysfunctional family life, minus the vacations and wealthy parents. That was the last time I will suck cheerios from the back seat of my station wagon.

Good that I leave now— it's been sixteen months— before I spill my mind to the unsuspecting, workaholic parents.
What, you may ask, will I do now? that remains to be seen.

My next job will be one in which my nature is respected, not be stifled; one in which joy is the key requirement.

"I say, beware of all enterprises that require new clothes, and not rather a new wearer of clothes. If there is not a new man, how can the new clothes be made to fit?" Thoreau

assimilation

well if truthiness made it, why not weaponize?

The destruction of the English language is a shame. This applies not only to the perversion of shrinking lexicons, but the general failure to accept grammar. I am not one of those high and mighty snobs who rebuffs the youth for attempting to walk. Instead, I wince as peers mangle fragmented sentences. Unaware that their flight is awkward, they seek to soar.

I wade through prodigal works rife with erroneous grammar and the morbid inclination for self-proclamation. I am special, unique, and brilliant: feed me first, they all cry.

There was a time, before the era of the confessional self, when literature had depth. Words had weight; they were measured to deliver meaning and emphasis. The affectation of society is driving me mad.

As to those who have craft and wit? write on christian soldiers

mainstream

My number one recomendation is to do it just like her

The past has a way of creeping up, inflitrating the present with it's insidious poison. Words and their heady aroma, deafen my ears. These same ears with which I hear insistant music in overlit grocery stores. These same ears which cannot not help but ring with painful frequency. The ring is an octive higher than a piano, it never varies in pitch, only in persistency. It interupts activities, wakening me from sleep.

It is this same tenacity that my past persues me. I float between pity and jealousy when I examine the overly dramatic lives of nearly forgotten friends. The pity stems from my pride in thinking that my life has changed, and for the better; jealousy is my natural reaction to competition.

These reactions are real, but narrow.

perspicacious

When I don't say what I think so the case may rest with me

Recently I have found that my minute and idealized world view is not commonly available. I find it difficult, verging on impossible, to persue peace with logic. Peace is not logic; it goes against the natural grain of humanity. It is not impossible for us to rise above our natural instincts to maim and mutilate. Compassion is a truely modern ideal. I am at a standstill. How can I rise above my romantic notions that the world is need, and more, that I can somehow help. Peace is not natural. However nature can be overcome. The question remains: should it?

fractious

there is a debate raging my fifth chakra-- i will leave it there

In passing familiar faces on my small campus, the beginning of the winter quarter seems pedestrian. Peoples lack of consideration is astounding, mine included. I am delighted to see the few people I recognize.

I wonder what I am learning and for what end. I find learning happens in hindsight.

As days lengthen I grow anxious for the seedlings; the moon was in the sky this morning as I left at half-past seven.

Persistant and committed to this life, I push on to my pioneer's dream.

sparta

It is dark well into the morning. The day hides beneath rain; I hide beneath down covers. During this holiday from school, many books have receieved my attention. I am reading at a modest pace, slowly as I know there is time tomorrow as well. Life should not be based on the hectic notion that forty-eight hours are yours weekly, free and clear. That's just not enough. The trap that holds me to my car is the same as holds me to my job. What ever would I do if I were not (unhappily) turning the pages of a calander (waiting for spring). This is my resolution: to live fully and love with all of my heart. In a recent attack of the ever imposing future on my present state, I came to the conclusion that the future is a mutiable dream. This current state of here and now overlap, allowing me to focus.
I wake up and it is raining heavily. January in the northwest is always wet. Walking across the quagmire to my mailbox, I loose a shoe in the muck. I sit and drink tea, and wonder about the bulbs germinating.