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.