THIS · IS · DUMB

I fucking loved you english literature.

What now?

yes!  last night, i got tanked, saw everyone, danced around with the most reserved guy i know to "i think we're alone now", got in a pool match with an old pool shark who wanted to teach me the ways of pool but i was trying to make sure all my friends made it out so i was a terrible pupil, and now i'm going to work still a little drunk.  uh huh.

it is art when i laugh and cry at the same time.  is it art when i laugh and cry at the same time?  there is art.  is there art? i don't love you i Love you.  I dont' love you i just love you.  I love ya.  I don't love you.

i guess eyes can be renewed.  because yesterday was the same as days previous, but beautiful without compair.  and i felt blessed to be given image after image to behold.  and people.

oh my GOD.  i woke up this morning and even my left hand is sore and i don't know WHY!? why huh?  why? 

and what else. . . what else. . .

life totally kind of worked out for the moment.  and i was super hyper yesterday because i was pretty pleased with myself and everything and then i had  lawrence of arabia flash back and decided to thank the powers that be instead of myself so i didn't lose my mind and my soul in the passions of conquest.  and it just made me glad i toughed stuff out. 

also, someone called me dissillusioned about love.  which i think is kind of shitty and stupid, because i just don't get it, like what is the point of illusioning yourself?  other than temporary insanity, which is fun, but also wastes time unless maybe you get illusioned by someone who is fun to hang out with and doesn't waste your time.  but that happens like  . . . .extremely infrequently.  and i find is only ever so infrequently having to do with sex.  the two circles of awesome temporary insanity friends and sex friends don't overlap in the ven diagram of life very frequently.  i mean, and when they do, they are a very interesting kind of friend.  and say i'm really nutz in the first place, and so the kind of people who make me lose my mind are even more nuts, for example, my boyfriend when i was 19 who made me a heart that looked like a really long log of poop for valentines day and who i had my first kiss with under the sea, but who still lived with his parents at age 25 because he was incapable of realizing any pragmatic parts of life . . . i get why i lost it over him, but now i look back with shame.  and don't want that to happen again, but i still think that he, with his future path almost certainly leading into some sort of dirty bum hood, was one of the only people to tap into my whole. . . favorite part of myself.  but i lost my mind.  and i felt like when we broke up, i didn't need to eat or sleep and a vaccuum was coming out of my chest and it was the worst thing ever. 

and now, i don't even know that person i was.  i don't even belong to that person anymore.  you can only be that stupid once.  and now where am i?  i suppose i'm grappling with pragmatism and marriage and kids and jobs and survival and career paths and fitness levels and medical bills and post college dreams and success and a failing economy and the prospects of the environment in 30 years and how would love fit into such attempts at being a practical person.  since the part of me that falls in love is aparently absolutely insane. 

welp!  no insights here.  except time. 

She was staring at washed out flowers on a yellow papered wall.
There was nothing left to stare at but the shadow of leaves
being shaken by the afternoon winds.  All silent but the passing of time,

iWORRYIWORRYIWORRYIWORRYIWORRY.

yesterday i rode my bike to work and then when i got to work my shoulder felt weird and i think i drank too much coffee and my hands were shaking and i couldn't focus on anything except how worried i was about my shoulder (which as been troubling me for a while now, in a bad sort of way, one that scares the shit out of me, one that i hope doesn't require surgury) and i called my doctors office and talked to the triage nurse and she sounded worried and wanted me to make an appointment and then i made one and i went back to work and my co-workder who (maybe) doesn't have a soul was telling me about people having shoulder injuries and how her boyfriend just tore his ACL and how her brother had to have shoulder surgury and how it takes a really long time to recover from it and i'm just thinking . . . oh my god, i just got done having a crazy stupid injury, i can't have another one, and surgury is the worst feeling/worst pain i've ever had, i don't want to do it again, but maybe knowing it's coming will be better, and maybe i can still do the things i wanted to do this spring like ride my bike a lot and climb rainier (which i can't spell) and finally be in shape again for the first time in 6 months because of all my other injuries.  and maybe it doesn't matter you know, maybe it doesn't, but i just miss that and i don't know how to get rid of stress well by other means than by physical activity and i . . . and whatever.  i feel like something IS wrong with my shoulder and there is a corner of my heart of hearts that truly believes on a regular basis that there might be a good cause for surgury.  andit's so werid because i don't even remember the moment i knew my shoulder was seriously boofed.  i mean. . . i knew it hurt and i thought it would be ok.  and then suddenly, it was like, way out of control and i was like. . . what the fuck!  what the fuck did i do!!  oh my god. . . i'm doomed.

so that's me.  and then my boss mary tells me i must be living my life in some wrong way.  and i was like, you can't criticize my life mary!  and she was like, well, yes I can.  I mean, you must be doing something wrong.  exactally what i need to hear.  what i need to do is find a dirty pair of underwear and put it over her head so she has real shit to smell all day.  gah.  she'd probably make the same goddamn face.  i don't know what i did to her, but it doesn't seem real how bananas she has gone lately.  whatever lady.

ok, i'm going to bed. 

we're all slowly waddling our ways home.  the stack of papers and letters in your inbox, coupled with your e-mail inbox, is punctuated by phone calls and eventually like an orchestra washing through movements and variations you complete your tasks for the day.  medical bills accrue from an accident.  one big splash belts out gentle waves for a long time.  the panic fades fast and i thought i would be flooded with medical bills but i wasn't, it was a slow leak in the bottom of my boat.  and usually when i needed money I had it.  i did the things asked from me to do, i got a college degree, but i got it in something as unmarketable as unstructured musing ever has been in this world built of companies and work ethics.  i dream of passing through wheat feilds on silent wheels and knowing america and dying confused. 

he said, the difference between him and him, was: he was ok with being content at some points in his life.  i'm spinning my wheels sometimes, and i don't see the big picture and i dont' see reality, fifty percent of my life is me, caught in a daydream.  i went to the bathroom right after that statement and pissed and pulled up my tights and remembered i wasn't content either.  and maybe being content was how you get to be all the things that i watch on tv.  and i thought i just would partly rather die than that.

when i see jorge on american idol.  crying and speaking in spanish.  humble and small feeling --half way between really believing and sort of disbelieving.  all of them, ryan, simon, randy, paula, and that other lady, seem bourgeoisie and bloated.  they have been floating in a sea of money too long.  they are water-swollen zombies of celebrity, used to living near hot trenches with superheated ocean floor vents, and jorge is a man who still remembers the sun.

two things:

1.  i think that last thursday i was sitting across the table in a restaurant with a guy and i was onto my second or t hird glass of wine.  the music was loud and we were having trouble hearing eachother.  i yelled how i was always questioning whether i was smart enough -- i believe we were talking about admissions into a grad school program at berkley -- and he paused and said, 'well that's probably because," and trailed off.  And smiled.  In retrospect, I believe he was maybe going to say, "because you aren't."  And I believe that because he's a pompus man who knows how to maniuplate people.

2.  I feel like I'm on the brink of getting fired.  And I don't especially know why.  I hope I don't.  I hope I can quit first with solid plans behind quitting and then I will have won.

3.  I was thinking about firing salt kilns today.  I was the salt kiln cowboy.  Some people fire salt kilns like cautious, meticulous, data worshiping scientists.  Especially their first time when their final projects are cooking away inside.  And it is doubly recommended one does not cowboy fire a salt kiln when they are single-firing greenware to stoneware the first time they fire a salt kiln when their final project is in the kiln.  But I fired the shit out of that bust ass old delapitated salt kiln.  It was like riding a buckin bronco, if that 30 second ride was elongated into the 6.5 hour time it takes to fire a very small salt kiln as fast as possible.  Yeah.  I'm going to live my life like how i fire salt kilns.  whether i like it or not, it's just how i do. 

i got the greatest pair of wool pants for a dollar.  they are high waisted and fit me like a glove and i hemmed them so that they are kind of capris because i wanted to ride my bike in them.  but they are more than just bike riding pants, they are pretty pants.  they are perfect pants.

i have been thinking about this for two days,
how bikeriding is like a thumbprint.
i ride my bike like no one else. 
we all come to it for different reasons
ride a multitude of bikes, some to be fast--some to be art
and everywehre in between.
and participate in different ways.
it's an unconcious self portriat.

What about, this guy I dated all summer and really liked, was standing in a bathtub a quarter full of tepid water in a hotel with another man, both in speedos, getting ready for their regional swim meet shaving their legs.  I imagined myself standing in the same bathtub, and thought that something about the off yellow light would have been an indicator for me that things were not as good as they should have been. I felt uneasy imagining myself shaving and anticipating and being lit poorly by a hotel far away from comfortable home. But knowing him I bet he loved every second.  And maybe he noticed the lighting but what he noticed more was camaraderie.

I got the impression that there were other men waiting outside the bathroom door, one with the camera of course, paired up, ready to step into the water and shave their bodies.  Come to think of it, they would be shaving their whole bodies.  And the weirdest part is two men, bent over, both practicing the same sport are near identical.  I dated the one, but I initially speculated that his body was the other man's body since they both had downturned faces.  They were both tall and muscular and caucasian.  I may have assumed that the guy I dated would naturally have been in the forefront of the picture.  But he wasn't.  He was partially hidden behind a thin offwhite bathcurtain.

The only reason I knew who was who was because the picture had tags and I let my mouse sit on his shoulder for a moment before it said his name. 

I've spent the last 30 minutes browsing a muder mystery by Robert B Parker but had to stop to write down the most amusing thing I've read in a while so I could recall this quote directly later in life. This is in chapter 3 where the P.I. and his sexy girlfriend Sarah, who is on a theater board, go to see a play that is 4.5 hours long and directed by Lou who thinks a play is, "is not required to be about anything".

"The lead actor was in fool's motley, divided in two vertical halves. One side was explicitly female, the other side explicitly male. He/she came downstage and began to speak directly to the audience. 'I am Tiresias,' he/she said. 'An old man with wrinkled dugs.' He/she half turned and looked at a figure in some sort of triangulated costume downstage left. The orchestra suddenly began to play up tempo and he/she began to sing.

'Lucky in love, lucky in love,
what else matters if you're lucky in love?'

The actor sopped. Simultaneously there was a flat crack from the back of the theater . . . the actor took a silent step backwards and a red stain began to soak through the costume. . . (a page later). . .'Bullet should be right in his heart,' I said, between breaths. 'Given the location of the entry wound.'

Probably,' the doctor said. 'Which makes it pretty much academic.'"

-Pages 13-15, Robert B Parker

Reading this passage, I have a feeling Mr. Parker maybe has a little hate affair with modern art/poetry and wants it to die a visceral and immediate death in the pages of his New York Times best selling murder mystery, Walking Shadow. I am especially into the poetic ambiguity of the doctor's statement. He is talking about the fact that a bullet directly to the heart would kill a man. No disputes, an academic case. But then, could he be also referring to the type of art being produced on that stage, the art Mr. Parker wants to kill, art that could only be appreciated by academia?

the blues are on the radio, i drew a picture of tulips.
it's a sign of impending spring.  with a unicorn on it.

i want to run and dance, but i'll sit inside.
it's raining and this neighborhood has loose dogs.

my grandma went walking yesterday, and this
black dog growled and charged, grandma picked
rocks off the road and threw them at him, hard.

we looked through old photos, sitting on the floor,
i went to church this morning and got really bored.
and also disgusted because the paster made a claim
that a problem we all face is the rampant gays.

so f*** him.

I am jealous that my friend Tynan K. is living in his dad's office in historic Ballard and reading and writing all day.  I wonder if he will get anything at all done.

Working hard and knowing you are doing it, produces odd results.  But it is important.  Later he'll work less hard and words will come like nothing.  Now he'll work hard.  There might come a point where he temporarily breaks and gets bitter.  I think his writing right now is self aware and aware of all the other kids on the block.  Later, after things suck really bad, and he gets real lonely and returns to where he started with nothing but himself, it will be gentler. 

But I am jealous. 

Noah, a different friend, applied to 70 jobs his senior year of college.  He was an economics major.  For the 70 jobs, he made a spreadsheet to mark progress, there was simply no orderly way to monitor 70 potentials with one brain and do it well.  Finally, he was hired on at the Internal Revinue Service in downtown Seattle.  He works 40 hours.  He sometimes works on Saturday.  He is what parents want kids to be (perhaps): womb, to school, to work. 

I am not so jelous of him.  Except that he has money and health insurance.  I am half trying to do what he is doing.
I'm also half trying to do what Tynan is doing.

I'm half assing. 

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yesterday I was walking in the QFC parkinglot when i heard and saw the shadow of a car pull up behind me very quickly.  the car then honked at me.  i turned to find an exastribated fat older woman behind the wheel.  she yelled at me for being in the road so i stood directly in her way and kicked her bumper.  her response to this was to charge me a little bit in her car.  this brought me to the side of her vehicle--i almost opened her passenger side door to scare her and maybe start a yelling match.  insead, i just yelled, "what?!" and shook my fist at her as she accelerated away from me wildly, leaving me in her dust, wondering what anyone had to be so aggrivated about. 

Riding bikes afterwork today (every day at work, i stare at people in the elevators as we ride and imagine what they looked like 20 years younger and 20 lbs lighter and wonder who i will be when i'm 43) .  Yo, we work hard, we work so damn hard, and some people work hard at being fit so that when they are 40,they look GOOD.  and some people work hard at work so when they are 40 they look GOOD on paper.  and some people have sunken into their skin, and now they are sack like people who might inflate in a wind--puff up and float off on a low pressure front leaving behind them a trail of stale cigarette smoke and the sour smell of hair dye. 

I was riding up this hill, and feeling bitter about having SAT in one place in front of a computer all day.  Plotting how to not turn into a ball of flesh with a brain attached but remain a body, a body who moves and breathese and feels good at untold ages.  The sky was blue green, on the verge of dusk, and hazy since air quality was level orange alert (affects sensitive people).  I am a sensitive person.  Good thing I rode my bike so I could feel my sensitivity to the murky blue green pastel sky.  I turned around once at the top of the hill at 5:45 pm and the sky was dark purple with glowering red clouds where the sun was setting into the smog. 

What a strange day it had been.  I bumbled through lunch, intent on spending as little time as possible sitting down.  I walked and didn't catch anyone's eyes.  Or few, few eyes.  The sun was out but the air was dirty and cold.  I was sinking inside a bit.  And i wondered, WHY?  I've recently been on asthma steroids and I'm recently off.  Maybe I miss the roids. 

I was riding up the hill, slowly, hitting pot holes, viewing the trail of red traffic lights ahead of me, the traffic to either side, the exhaust curling up into the murky air, adding to the mist.  i was riding in heels.  i was going to yoga.  yoga is something i haven't done in years.  and i realize i'm doing it because i'm bitter about sitting down and because i'm bitter about how i broke my knee riding bikes and i'm looking for another answer to that quesetionL how to i remain a body not just a sack of organs with a brain.  and i'll assert a sack of organs with a brain can be really fucking hot.  like, i could be a super toned sack of organs, but i wouldn't be a body.  i'd just be a machine and my brain knows how to maniuplate the machine into looking GOOD.  i've done that.  i'm happy now.  i wish i could be happy and not have this little belly fat roll.  but maybe i will just have to get over that in order to be real.

i did the yoga.  i noticed i used to do yoga for other people.  i would worry about doing it right.  tonight, the theme was do what you can with what you've got.  i have a recently broken knee.  i said fuck you to pidgen pose and did front bends instead.  liberation!  my back is so tired now.  and i fell asleep in savasana and the teacher pushed on my back in downward dog-like they do, and i felt her take all the weight out of my hands and pull it back onto my feet.  the warm room, the warm light, the smell of garlic out of someone's prores very faintly.  and to have spae in a crowded room.  it was liberation.

then riding my bike in the dark off capitol hill into ballard, i felt empty and just as different as i did bumbling around in pioneer square at lunch time.  i felt like. . . if you were hungry, but it  was a clean hunger, i feel that way about my self today.  maybe it's the moon.  maybe it's the roids.  and in the dark, over a bump in the birke gilman trail caused by a root, i remembered that between every different facet of me is writing.  so i thought, go home and write.