"TIRED! Tired of being uninspired! Let's face it I'm tired!"
I'm also tired of my nose dumping inordinate amounts of goo. Really! How can a nose as small as mine produce such a profuse amount of...well...stuff.
I have always had snot issues. I've been traumatized by the substance since I was a wee one. To this day I find it one of the most vile substances on the planet.
I have, in time, learned to deal with my nose. For a long while I was unable to put anything in my nose. I could not (gasp) Pick my nose. I have forced myself to learn to deal with this innate aversion to phlegm. Now I am able to maintain the protrusion that torments my face. Yet it will not stop!
If you go to see some one who specializes in rhinoplasty, will they give you a plastic schnozz? Or better yet, if I went to see someone who practices laser hair removal could I get them to remove the hairs from inside of my nose?
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Monday, February 27, 2006
Double blog (rude awakenings)
This is yet another double blog. Seeing as I occasionally write the same blog on this here fancy page as I do on my Myspace blog, I don't feel too horrible about it. If you read both, so be it. If you read either, I'm sorry.
Two to three years ago I wrote a song. I never shared it with anyone as I feared the emotional aftermath that would ensue. This song has been rolling through my head a lot recently (for obvious reasons) and now I feel I should type the lyrics for some reason. I'm choosing to leave out the final verse as it no longer seems to hold any purpose or truth.
Rude Awakenings
Rude awakenings come sit beside me.
Bad news. Bad energy are fraternizing.
The thing you least expect is actualizing.
There's nothing you can do just sit there idly.
When she's resting the silence hurts my ears.
When she's crying it reawakens my old fears.
Who will help us when she's gone?
Who'll guide us when she's gone?
Why does this shit always happen to the strong?
Another morning and the Sun is rising.
And though sleep never came she's packing wildly.
Trying to stop her judgement compromising.
If she could just get there and stop this wondering.
She's not resting. Her eyes are wide with fear.
She's not crying. She won't be able to stop the tears.
Who will listen when she's gone?
Who'lll understand her when she's gone?
This residence distance seems so long.
Rude awakenings come sit beside me.
The strong one's weakened family's loosing its binding.
And though we're all adept at blatant denying.
In this predicament the truth is blinding.
When he's resting. He tries to quash his fears.
When he's crying. I feel lost beside his tears.
Who'll sooth him when she's gone?
Who'll bind us when she's gone?
He's held this pain inside so long.
Rude awakenings come sit beside me.
It seems your life partner is sick, may be dying.
And though your hands are red and raw from trying.
There's nothing you can do; just keep on fighting.
When he's resting. His cries sting my ears.
When he's lying. I hear the truth behind his fears.
Who'll console him when she's gone?
Who'll catch him when she's gone?
How could the cards deal a hand that seems so wrong?
There originally was another verse about how things get better. How she heals herself and those around her. In reality that never happens. Now she's gone. She's become someone else. A beautiful human still. Amazing in all that she has ever been, but not the same.
Days ago, my sister and I were sitting in the backyard talking. My brother came to the back door and said "hey guys, I need you to come inside. Everything is okay, but I need you to come here."
Of course we rushed in to see what was needed. My Brother was sitting by my Mother, as he so often is, holding her hand. My mother has tears sliding down her cheeks and is slowly moving in a semi-writhe. As though her spine is gelatinous and the tectonic movements of the earth below us are causing her to wave.
"Are you guys alright?" Asks RJ.
"Yes we're fine." We respond.
Are you guys going anywhere?" He asks.
"No. We're going to be right here." We respond.
"You see Mom. Sally and Charley are right here and we're all going to be just fine." My brother says.
Somehow, my Mother had decided that her three children were in danger. She had to know that we were going to be okay. She had to see that her three offspring were going to make it.
Even when she's at her most vulnerable, she cares most for those around her. She still tries to mother us, even when we are taking care of her.
This was one of those moments when I looked at the family I was born to. When I realized how amazing my mother really is. Not just the person she has groomed herself to become, but the person she is at her most primal level. That is when I understand how unfathomably amazing a person she really is. She's in excruciating pain and barely lucid, yet she still would try to get out of bed and walk across town to care for someone else who she felt needed her.
That is why I'm scared.
That is why I'm lonely.
That is why I have so much love for so many.
Two to three years ago I wrote a song. I never shared it with anyone as I feared the emotional aftermath that would ensue. This song has been rolling through my head a lot recently (for obvious reasons) and now I feel I should type the lyrics for some reason. I'm choosing to leave out the final verse as it no longer seems to hold any purpose or truth.
Rude awakenings come sit beside me.
Bad news. Bad energy are fraternizing.
The thing you least expect is actualizing.
There's nothing you can do just sit there idly.
When she's resting the silence hurts my ears.
When she's crying it reawakens my old fears.
Who will help us when she's gone?
Who'll guide us when she's gone?
Why does this shit always happen to the strong?
Another morning and the Sun is rising.
And though sleep never came she's packing wildly.
Trying to stop her judgement compromising.
If she could just get there and stop this wondering.
She's not resting. Her eyes are wide with fear.
She's not crying. She won't be able to stop the tears.
Who will listen when she's gone?
Who'lll understand her when she's gone?
This residence distance seems so long.
Rude awakenings come sit beside me.
The strong one's weakened family's loosing its binding.
And though we're all adept at blatant denying.
In this predicament the truth is blinding.
When he's resting. He tries to quash his fears.
When he's crying. I feel lost beside his tears.
Who'll sooth him when she's gone?
Who'll bind us when she's gone?
He's held this pain inside so long.
Rude awakenings come sit beside me.
It seems your life partner is sick, may be dying.
And though your hands are red and raw from trying.
There's nothing you can do; just keep on fighting.
When he's resting. His cries sting my ears.
When he's lying. I hear the truth behind his fears.
Who'll console him when she's gone?
Who'll catch him when she's gone?
How could the cards deal a hand that seems so wrong?
There originally was another verse about how things get better. How she heals herself and those around her. In reality that never happens. Now she's gone. She's become someone else. A beautiful human still. Amazing in all that she has ever been, but not the same.
Days ago, my sister and I were sitting in the backyard talking. My brother came to the back door and said "hey guys, I need you to come inside. Everything is okay, but I need you to come here."
Of course we rushed in to see what was needed. My Brother was sitting by my Mother, as he so often is, holding her hand. My mother has tears sliding down her cheeks and is slowly moving in a semi-writhe. As though her spine is gelatinous and the tectonic movements of the earth below us are causing her to wave.
"Are you guys alright?" Asks RJ.
"Yes we're fine." We respond.
Are you guys going anywhere?" He asks.
"No. We're going to be right here." We respond.
"You see Mom. Sally and Charley are right here and we're all going to be just fine." My brother says.
Somehow, my Mother had decided that her three children were in danger. She had to know that we were going to be okay. She had to see that her three offspring were going to make it.
Even when she's at her most vulnerable, she cares most for those around her. She still tries to mother us, even when we are taking care of her.
This was one of those moments when I looked at the family I was born to. When I realized how amazing my mother really is. Not just the person she has groomed herself to become, but the person she is at her most primal level. That is when I understand how unfathomably amazing a person she really is. She's in excruciating pain and barely lucid, yet she still would try to get out of bed and walk across town to care for someone else who she felt needed her.
That is why I'm scared.
That is why I'm lonely.
That is why I have so much love for so many.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Not quite ironic
(unless you're Alanis Morisette)
When Valentine's day was approaching my sister was sent on a mission. She journeyed to Ralph's (the first grocery store in California apparently) in search of a card for my Mother to give my Father in honor of the ultimate Hallmark holiday.
This was a difficult task for my sister. These times are emotional for me and my family, and here is my sister looking at row upon row of cards speaking of deep love between spouses. No. Sally is not the cry-at-long-distance-commercials type, not usually at least. But there in the store as she perused the cards, she found herself faced with adversity.
My Mother is slipping away. Slowly. And though the three month prognosis has been defied, she is not herself, and the self she is now will probably not be for long. Each of the cards my sister came to had two things in common:
1) "My loving Husband."
&
2)"For many more years."
It was the latter that was so trying on poor Sally.
So, fighting back tears and growing irritated that she had been elected this task, she finally finds the card that is right. On the cover it reads:
"To my Husband. Lucky Me."
There is a picture of a royal flush (cards not toilet cleaner). This is especially fitting seeing as my Father loves to gamble.
The inside reads:
"For having a Husband as wonderful as you! Happy Valentines Day."
It was cute, simple, and avoided all reference to time. Sally brought the card home.
Two days later, my sister having related the story of her grocery store trial, I come down to our kitchen. It is Valentine's day. I'm preparing for another day of small ones learning. A day of tangible excitement for the 1st graders. there will be candy and hearts, and paper cards with cartoon characters and bad puns. A joyous occasion for all who are under 10 (a rather frightening prospect for a cynical man learning the ropes of the classroom). I glance to the table and see on its surface a white envelope. In blue ink there is scrawled in the practiced script of a school teacher my Father's name.
"Larry"
The loops and curves of each letter is perfect. All those years of showing children where to start your line, how large the loop should be, even the spacing between the letters is permanently ingrained in my mothers hand. The steadiness of the line is not. As she has withered her hands have become feeble. The curves and loops and placement are perfect, but the line is softly jagged, as though it was written on sandpaper. I am struck with the image of my mother standing at the blackboard, chalk in hand, and drafting those smooth perfect letters that she was so careful to make. I was struck by the absence of smoothness. "Life is rough now," I thought to myself.
When I returned from work that day my Father had opened his card. It was sitting on the counter on display as all greeting cards are. I open the card and look inside to see the afore mentioned message. I noticed the place where my mother had signed. Gone was the practiced script of the school teacher. Her hands probably tired after writing his name on the envelope. I squinted to read the message she had left before signing.
It read:
"For many more years."
This was a difficult task for my sister. These times are emotional for me and my family, and here is my sister looking at row upon row of cards speaking of deep love between spouses. No. Sally is not the cry-at-long-distance-commercials type, not usually at least. But there in the store as she perused the cards, she found herself faced with adversity.
My Mother is slipping away. Slowly. And though the three month prognosis has been defied, she is not herself, and the self she is now will probably not be for long. Each of the cards my sister came to had two things in common:
&
2)"For many more years."
It was the latter that was so trying on poor Sally.
So, fighting back tears and growing irritated that she had been elected this task, she finally finds the card that is right. On the cover it reads:
There is a picture of a royal flush (cards not toilet cleaner). This is especially fitting seeing as my Father loves to gamble.
The inside reads:
It was cute, simple, and avoided all reference to time. Sally brought the card home.
Two days later, my sister having related the story of her grocery store trial, I come down to our kitchen. It is Valentine's day. I'm preparing for another day of small ones learning. A day of tangible excitement for the 1st graders. there will be candy and hearts, and paper cards with cartoon characters and bad puns. A joyous occasion for all who are under 10 (a rather frightening prospect for a cynical man learning the ropes of the classroom). I glance to the table and see on its surface a white envelope. In blue ink there is scrawled in the practiced script of a school teacher my Father's name.
The loops and curves of each letter is perfect. All those years of showing children where to start your line, how large the loop should be, even the spacing between the letters is permanently ingrained in my mothers hand. The steadiness of the line is not. As she has withered her hands have become feeble. The curves and loops and placement are perfect, but the line is softly jagged, as though it was written on sandpaper. I am struck with the image of my mother standing at the blackboard, chalk in hand, and drafting those smooth perfect letters that she was so careful to make. I was struck by the absence of smoothness. "Life is rough now," I thought to myself.
When I returned from work that day my Father had opened his card. It was sitting on the counter on display as all greeting cards are. I open the card and look inside to see the afore mentioned message. I noticed the place where my mother had signed. Gone was the practiced script of the school teacher. Her hands probably tired after writing his name on the envelope. I squinted to read the message she had left before signing.
It read:
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
The world is closing in.
Perhaps it's the illness talking (who's illness? pick one.) but I've been feeling simultaneously claustrophobic and lonely. I've been reminded of late how wonderfully caring and supportive my friends and especially family are, yet something's missing.
"No shit," I hear you say?
Yes. No shit.
I think my isolation is being magnified by my inability to come in close contact with anyone. Since the illness took me yesterday all my vulnerabilities, and those of my loved ones, have been laid bare for the world to see, yet my contagions will not allow me to be near others.
I cannot kiss my mother.
I cannot sit and hold my sister.
I cannot hug my friends. (I realize it's just a cold, but I'm feeling rather sensitive to illness at the moment. I did, for the record, receive a much appreciated hug from my brother)
My body is craving human contact but all I have is my blanket. My dreams are eluding me as well. I had one rather cryptic night vision last weekend where human contact was made and then broken (by Oxnard's writhing I believe), and it left me wanting. Unfortunately for me, on top of the illness that befouls my being, I also have some rather deeply entrenched feelings about intimacy and whom it is appropriate with.
In times like those my family and I are facing I understand and condone (if not encourage) some intimacy amongst us. Yet I have never been comfortable cuddling platonically. It seems like that level of closeness should be reserved for the closest of bodies. There are only certain situations with certain people in which I allow myself to be that close to another. With the demise of the relationship I shared with Mr. Satán I have no one to hold or hold me. I have no safe place to hide in (hide away in).
This is not to say that I'm still mourning my loss of love, actually I'm mourning other things at the moment and with that mourning comes a renewed feeling of the loss of intimacy. This is why I'll never be the fully sexually liberated. This is why, while surrounded by those I love, I still feel alone and why I so often feel trapped.
"No shit," I hear you say?
Yes. No shit.
I think my isolation is being magnified by my inability to come in close contact with anyone. Since the illness took me yesterday all my vulnerabilities, and those of my loved ones, have been laid bare for the world to see, yet my contagions will not allow me to be near others.
I cannot kiss my mother.
I cannot sit and hold my sister.
I cannot hug my friends. (I realize it's just a cold, but I'm feeling rather sensitive to illness at the moment. I did, for the record, receive a much appreciated hug from my brother)
My body is craving human contact but all I have is my blanket. My dreams are eluding me as well. I had one rather cryptic night vision last weekend where human contact was made and then broken (by Oxnard's writhing I believe), and it left me wanting. Unfortunately for me, on top of the illness that befouls my being, I also have some rather deeply entrenched feelings about intimacy and whom it is appropriate with.
In times like those my family and I are facing I understand and condone (if not encourage) some intimacy amongst us. Yet I have never been comfortable cuddling platonically. It seems like that level of closeness should be reserved for the closest of bodies. There are only certain situations with certain people in which I allow myself to be that close to another. With the demise of the relationship I shared with Mr. Satán I have no one to hold or hold me. I have no safe place to hide in (hide away in).
This is not to say that I'm still mourning my loss of love, actually I'm mourning other things at the moment and with that mourning comes a renewed feeling of the loss of intimacy. This is why I'll never be the fully sexually liberated. This is why, while surrounded by those I love, I still feel alone and why I so often feel trapped.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
sick
As in...I am.
I am sick, as is the rest of the world.
I sometimes wish I could self induce a coma, but that wouldn't solve anything. It would just take me out of the equation, which, believe it or not, would actually hinder rather than aid.
Perhaps the "suebee suck and cut" can solve my phlegm problem?
I am sick, as is the rest of the world.
I sometimes wish I could self induce a coma, but that wouldn't solve anything. It would just take me out of the equation, which, believe it or not, would actually hinder rather than aid.
Perhaps the "suebee suck and cut" can solve my phlegm problem?
Sunday, February 12, 2006
If only
If only Cheney had been the slightest bit more inept (oh believe me it's possible). Then he could have accidentally shot himself too! (no, that's a horrible thing to say.) Then he could have only accidentally shot himself and that 78 year old man would still be wondering consciously how we managed to elect such prime dickheads (much better).
Super mega ultra extended
Last night I sat with Danger(space)kitty and Frankie (says relax) as we watched the newly released DVD of David Lynch's "Dune." It is the special extended version including a lengthy prologue shown using story boards and an odd raspy male narrator. To sum up the entire three hour epic, you need only watch the original theatrical version, and throw in some really drawn out, unfinished, poorly acted, tedium. There is nothing in the extended version that gives a more thorough explanation to the intricacies of Herbert's masterpiece.
I've always been a proponent of the original movie. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I was so disappointed to sit through a grueling never ending version of it. When i think extended, I think "More GOODness." Instead I'm reminded why Lynch chopped the fuck out of it, and then released under the pseudonym Alan Smithee.
Poor David-Lynch.
Poor Frank-Herbert.
Lucky me to have survived it.
I've always been a proponent of the original movie. I thoroughly enjoyed it. I was so disappointed to sit through a grueling never ending version of it. When i think extended, I think "More GOODness." Instead I'm reminded why Lynch chopped the fuck out of it, and then released under the pseudonym Alan Smithee.
Poor David-Lynch.
Poor Frank-Herbert.
Lucky me to have survived it.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Oh....and....
(I should really be sleeping)
The following pictures would have been posted previously, but blogger wasn't in the mood. Hopefully they will appear now.
Again. Top to bottom, left to right.
Frankie says "relax."
J-J-Jimbo has a funny hat. I didn't wear it at Ms Jones' shindig (or as I choose to call it, the Shinanza), but it's still a funny hat.
I choose to call this one, the hot biker chick (yes it's a chick) "Hey MAMI!"
And the final glorious image, J-J-Jimbo, Azure Divina, and Rafa still aren't sure who ate the head cheese.
Again. Top to bottom, left to right.
Frankie says "relax."
J-J-Jimbo has a funny hat. I didn't wear it at Ms Jones' shindig (or as I choose to call it, the Shinanza), but it's still a funny hat.
I choose to call this one, the hot biker chick (yes it's a chick) "Hey MAMI!"
And the final glorious image, J-J-Jimbo, Azure Divina, and Rafa still aren't sure who ate the head cheese.
Drella's B-day (as promised)
In order from top to bottom, left to right.
Danger(space)kitty takes a bath.
Why Ms Drella is Smiling.
I swear that is not a freudian photo.
J-J-Jimbo Debonaire.
Ms Drella. DAMN! bitch is hot!
Monday, February 06, 2006
Blood, sweat, and almost tears.
After a long an tumultuous week off I start my student teaching tomorrow. I'm nervous. The weekend brought out all sorts of emotions for all sorts of reasons, and was capped off by a day with no power in the household. Now after sleeping the afternoon away and spending all evening in the dark, I'm not at all prepared to face the foreign reality that tomorrow will bring. Such is life.
Thanks to Jo-ru. for being the best damn Jo-ru ever (ain't nothin like it in the world).
Thanks to Frank. Sometimes I think I'd lose what little sanity I have were it not for you.
Thanks to Jean-Pierre. I love you.
Thanks to Drella. the hottest piece of lesbian I've ever known. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!! (again for shits and giggles)
Thanks to Diana. For being my hosebeast.
Thanks to the fam-damily for holding up so many scaffolds of support. It's amazing our fragile blood hasn't collapsed yet.
Thanks to me. for not giving up.
Thanks to Jo-ru. for being the best damn Jo-ru ever (ain't nothin like it in the world).
Thanks to Frank. Sometimes I think I'd lose what little sanity I have were it not for you.
Thanks to Jean-Pierre. I love you.
Thanks to Drella. the hottest piece of lesbian I've ever known. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!! (again for shits and giggles)
Thanks to Diana. For being my hosebeast.
Thanks to the fam-damily for holding up so many scaffolds of support. It's amazing our fragile blood hasn't collapsed yet.
Thanks to me. for not giving up.
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