fighting for air

Maybe, if you know me, you know that I have a love affair with horses. Sadly, I haven't been riding in the last year owing to death of my noble steed.

I dreamed of horses last night, I was rewiring hot wire and the gelding was snuffling around the pasture. Stroking his head I inhaled the deep scent of sweat, alfalfa, and the magic that is horse. His great brown eyes and velvet nose, so soft and so full.

If I do not sit astride a horse in the near future, I am sure that my heart will explode with sorrow—it is almost as if a portion of my soul is missing and I awoke, only this morning, and realized it.

One can not live in halves and pieces, a fraction of a life, or a portion of a day. I am crying out with every fiber of my being: I must gallop up a meadow as spring turns into summer or lose the part of me which I treasure most dearly.

fourteen years and counting backward

It has been brought to my attention that I am going on thirty and have no womb fruit. This is a good thing in my estimation. Really it is. I admit that my ten year high-school reunion is being planned via myspace, and though I am reticent to join anything as cloistered as an event with 300 people who make my heart rate spike, I do enjoy stalking their profiles. There is a specific satisfaction in seeing the majority of my classmates saddled with the extra baggage of cherub faced poop machines. Not that I don't love changing a nappy as much as the next person, but I paid my dues as a 12 year old babysitter.

There is this bizarre transformation which I notice in the breeders around me. They suddenly cease to exist outside of their infant. Granted, they are sleep deprived and haven't had a lucid dream in months, but that doesn't mean I haven't. This must be why it is that they feel the urge to change that same dirty nappy in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Oddly, if I question their behavior, I am a selfish and un-matronly woman who deplores all things children. Well that's half right. I do approve of children in restaurants, as long as they are not having a fit. I do not approve of anyone crying in public, especially if their is screaming involved.

What happened to the days when children where removed from public when they were making a scene? What happened to finish your meal? What happened to "Please" and "Thank You?" What happened to nap time and tree climbing? What happened to listen to me and this is not up for discussion?

Anyhow not much else has changed; I remain unconvinced of procreation—the majority of people choosing to do so seem so coddling and unfit for life much less parenthood.

if not then, how about now?

If all goes as planned (when does it?) I should be alive and well—happily going on 50—in 2028, and as an avide orange eater, I wonder what an orange will be like in 20 years.

Perhaps history, specifically the history we are living in now, is not static.

Dog Years

Come in Sevens

and Marc Jacobs' flats.

Archly smiling smiling

Behind closed eyes—

Heaven is in those pants.
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Having spent my many, three, days off going about my business, I have decided that today I will drink coffee, read books, have a bath, eat a scone. My coffee is thick, rich with cream and strong from having left the beans in the press for too long. I am reading The Cutting Room, by Louise Welch. It is the perverse book which was made into the film 8mm. The book is terrible, terrifying, and electrically thrilling. I plan to finish it by evening.

commitment is a four letter word

Let's debase our minds for a few moments: I have often heard "oh, he has commitment issues." As if that explains the fucking around. I have also heard, "It's a guy thing." Let's, being meand you, dear reader, set the matter on the log for some examination. Women have commitment issues, too. And we often think about how great it would be if that hunk sitting across the room would take us to the WC and lift us up the wall so that we, too, could f*ck like it didn't matter.
That's it. Fucking is not a male privelage. Everyone of those hot little tickets you see in her tight jeans is one of us. We know it and now you do too.
Infact, evolution dictates that monogomy is bad for genetics. When a woman has multiple partners, it is the strongest and fastest sperm which reaches the egg, thus providing it with the best DNA. So the next time you think damn girl, think quietly because besides being hot, we're also all psychic and nothing is less of a turn on than a man who can't keep it in his pants.

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.