bumping up against it

  memorial day part two. i started drinking again last memorial day. i stopped yesterday (this memorial day).
  i dont know if i’ll stay stopped. i’ve stopped before.
 the big book sits here with the little circles. evidence of coasterism.
all my directories were used for coasters too.
its this god thing. i got thru bill’s story there and i can relate to the spirit of the universe, the mechanism that is as profound as the precision of the game of baseball.
  as far as i know, a human invented baseball.
 i cannot relate to an all knowing conscious god that can permit the horrors of this world to accumulate.
 i cannot drink and take my cholesterol medication. so i quit my lipitor last memorial day. my doctor ordered a blood test and my triglycerides were above 1300. my liver function test was 41.
  he told me to get back on the lipitor.
  we just did another test and my triglycerides are 250, but liver function (alt)? was at 129. off the charts. i can
 1. quit lipitor and have an imminent heart attack (soon).
 2. i can die of liver disease (i  dont think i can spell cirrhosis).
 3. i can quit drinking again and persuade myself  that the same god that put me in this jam can save me.
 4. i can try to rediscover the clockwork of the universe and worship the mechanics of my temple.
   so it looks like its 3 or 4.

carry on

love is coming.
love is coming to a funeral near you.
lonely roads are lonely roads by definition.
no one else is there.
recumbent velocipedes/
now that’s a lonely road.
‘67 dodge dart with an eight track
RUN THRU THE JUNGLE
RUN THRU THE JUNGLE
AW DON’T LOOK BACK
ditches
cornfields
harmonicas
give me a taste
a taste of that strawberry hill
 a taste of that fidelity
innocent fidelity

paralysis by analysis

aurges a child, with a neighbor family on the other side of the wall, Lou stretched  high as he could and chirped, “Big fat Fay; Little skinny Bill; Pee-pants Roberta; Grouchy Sandy.” to the fat mother wife.   I can’t write music, so I can’t sing the tune to that for you.  But it’s been something about him I’ve always remembered, and mimicked at seemingly (to me anyway) appropriate times.  It seems intimate.  I look forward to expressing my love for you to you – instead of being mad all the time.  What a drag.  What a drain.  But you give me a glimmer of hope.  We’ll see how it goes.  All I know is that I spent the happiest 5 – even 6 – years of my life with you.  You’ve “made me happy” as no other human.  You put up with my moodiness and you listen and consider (usually) what I have to say.  But when you drink, it’s all about you.  Now I don’t think much of myself, but I do like a little respect, just like anyone, as a human, or creature, deserves.

Exclusion freaks me out.  I’m claustrophobic.  I’ve tried to face it by making myself stay in an uncomfortably full elevator.  I can actually do it most often now.  But the last few days I’ve had to claw my way out 3 times.  The last 2 times I was hep to it so I

Why are there faux pauxs?  I don’t get so much of this life.  I feel so disconnected. 

We’ve never been this fat together before.  We’re both overweight.  Granted, him more than I, but I’ve got a big rubber fat roll on my belly – and I had abs not 10 years ago! – So in a way, we’re experiencing each other in a way in which we never have before.  It’s awesome when you look at life from different perspectives.

I was a nasty little girl.  I mean I must have learned stuff way before my time that I have no recollection of.  Was I molested?  I’d hate to just imagine that something happened and it all be a ruse, but something must account for it.  Or maybe I was just “advanced”.  At about 5.  It was those books Hazel kept down in the bottom drawer of her dresser in their bedroom.  I’d found then.  I could read.  The horrible perversion that was there.  I know now that it was probably really literary pornography – in a very ill way.  What does that do to a child?  Do you have a memory of seeing a butt pressed against the top window of a hangover camper – the driver & his passenger (the parents) totally unaware?  That was probably my young butt.  Maybe that’s why I have such a big butt.  It bumps into things and I’m surprised.  If any ones there, I have to joke about, ‘oh, I guess I thought I could get by that!”  I remember once my mother, Hazel, and I, went to see “Conan the Barbarian” starring, of course, Arnold S (I don’t want to bother spelling out his name, you know who I mean – he was kind of hot at one time – in a (hheee) barbaric sense -  Writing is so cathartic.  So relaxing and fulfilling.  Satisfying.  I really do wish I could do more.  But it’s those urges I need.  Plus a little help from my friends.

 

 

it bes that way sometimes

Whether or not we contribute to this life or not is our choice.  If we make the most of it – no matter what our circumstances or where we might find ourselves at any given moment.  Why don’t we?  If you want to do someting or call yourself something, why aren’t you?  (Let’s not talk about me this time.)  What frustrates the impitus?

Anticipation rattles the catapult but there’s no release of the pressure.  It seethes and rots, robs you of sleep and joy;  wasted potential makes your life stink and pervades your thoughts.  Not criminal you say?  But why isn’t it?  Pot is!  Um, who makes these rules?  Don’t we have a responsiblity to our fellow bipeds to do our best; to be a vital part of the whole?

Scripture speaks of the body of Christ (I prefer Yeshua, haMeshiach) being made up by its members; the toe  esteemed or needed no less than the heart – all having unique abilities and positions/stations.  Each necessary for the proper function of the whole.

I once heard this joke about which part of the body rules.  Give up?  It’s the anus.  Think about it.  You can’t shit, you can’t think, your stomach hurts, you have a headache, eventually you croak.  But I meander…and just a banana and an apple keep mine soft and moving.  Sorry, but it might just be a valuable tip to somebody who might be stopped up right now.  Like I said, every little possible positivity is worth it.

And to feel the surge, the stomach turning jump, no matter what it is you’re jumping into: it’s  something thrilling, something rewarding, something positive, that has positive effects on our lives.  Improving us, broadening us.  Opening us to who knows what opportunities, adventures, satisfactions, less depression.

It’s so easy to slide down into that pit, though.  And I can feel it happen when it does.  Only rarely can one talk oneself out of such a fall.  The rise and fall.  Rarely centered.  Mostly hills (mountains) and valleys (crevaces).   Life’s no picnic, but it could sure be worse.

Isn’t it funny that the top chain eaters - the least populas on earth,  enjoy eating the savengers of the greatest portion of this planet?  The scum makers eat the scum eaters.

Being human is rather alien, don’t  you think?  My husband says I’m creepy.  Creepy.  Eeeewww.  I don’t want to creep anybody out, although it is bound to happen – probably with everybody in some way.  Who’s perfect anyway?

  Frohawks.  Scalp/hair decorations are so cool.  Body art that isn’t permanent/invasive.  I’ve never pieced my ears (or anything else), never got a tatoo (but only by chance), never dyed or bleached my hair (unless you count lemon).  Somehow, I think our bodies are made just the way they were meant to be made.  Hair and all.  Although if I was a man, I don’t think I’d like having a beard.  Seems so itchy.  Not inviting to my lips.  If I want to kiss something, I might as well kiss all of it – experience it to the fullest.  And maybe it will kiss me back!  Or touchme!

Boyfriend lets his fluffy, soft tail lightly  brush my legs as he asks to be fed, or just want smy attention.  Dogs wanting my attention creep me out.  But a cat is somehow different – certainly doesn’t crave human interaction like a dog does.  Too demanding.  That’s creepy too.  People need space.  At least I do. 

 Since working on the 6th floor of a 12 floor building, I’ve pressed myself to overcome claustrophobia.  Making yourself do something that scares the shit out of you is good for you once in a while.  But Wednesday, I actually took the girl directly between me and the still open elevator door by the shoulders and physically moved her out of my way as I profusely apologized.  I feel like I have to explain, but I hate theose kind of people who always have to explain themselves;  like I care.  So why do I bother?

I must try harder not to hate.  Focus on the parts that are good.  The moments; the excepti0ns.  The inherent beauty of this dimension in time/space (and who knows what else that we have no inkling of) in which we live. 

Some people live such simple lives.  Like the indiginious folk that live on reed islands in the middle of Lake Titicaca.  I was there in ‘76.  Total head trip, but valuable memory. Or Dick Kopekne, who built and lived in his own log cabin, depending on and shipping in only the bare skeleton of what he needed to survive.  Alone in the Wilderness.  But I can’t help wondering what drove him there.  Or maybe it’s just what he always wanted to do and he finally did it. 

Living with an alcoholic isn’t ideal.  But then neiter is living with a creepy, inappropriate. less than desireable chick (why are females referred to as birds?)  Humans can live in isolation but they tend to get kind of weird.  Rather,  weirder.  I know a guy who hasn’t bathed in 30 years.  Thirty years!  And he doesn’t smell like that – whatever that would smell like.  (But then I don’t shower on the weekdays usually.  Is that gross?  I really think Americans tend to wash their bodies a little to much.  And perfume.  Antiperspirspirant.  Smellaphobic.  What the fuck.  Aren’t smells (some anyway) interesing and sometimes pleasant, or at least unique?  Why not make the most of them too? 

Thanks for listening.

i dont want to write

My spouse, yes spouse, has gone to bring me my meds, yes meds; zoloft, amitriptylin; melatonin & diphenhydramine tossed in to top them off.  In the mornings he takes HTN and cholesterol meds, topped with aspirin.  We’re old now.  We were just starting to age when we met, I think.  I remember looking in the odd full length, more or less 10″ x 10″ gold marbled hideous mirror plates, and thinking, It’s sure too bad I couldn’t use this on somebody before it goes bad.  I have image issues.  I just turned 53. 53. 53. 53. 53  I think I’m still a late bloomer.  But enough about me.  What about you?

I don’t write because I write shit.  I want to like what I write – to feel the catharsis.  Perhaps it’s actually a rush.  Always the one to want to experience and feel.

I’m so constipated.  My fingers are itching but receive no urge.  I can only seem to write on an urge (I need the urge to write).  I can’t coax it.  NayNay.  What kind of name is that? What world is this I’m living in.  “Where I am?” (Dennis Jaennette).  Now my spouse is a writer.  If I wasn’t so lazy, I’d have had his book out there way before now.  I feel like such a loser sometimes.  I’m cyclothymic.  yes, Cylothymic.  Diagnosed.  Unbelievable the effect chemicals can have on an individuals life.  Unbelievable I can be so self absorbed.  I’m ashamed of that.  I wish I could dig that shame out of my past, look at it and toss it away; or butt stub it out; just do whatever I need to do to move on.  To progress. (To grab the hair and ripe the roots right out of the scalp (LPJ)

I found at one point in my life that I no longer had the option of bearing a child.  I have resentment and guilt to deal with over 5, yes 5, abortions.  The first at 16 (by my first guy – 21 when I was 15)(got busted on the winding streets above Linda Vista, still wild, van full of contraband (M80s)(probably pot and who can remember what else?  I mean, crimany, we’re talking almost 40 years ago).  I have to remember there are people who are crazier, much, than me.  I wish I would pray more for those whose lives are lived incomprehensibly – beaten, desperate, raped, Dear God rape used as a weapon (though I bet it’s happened all along to some extent in every war or conflict) exploited, sick, hungry, doomed.  There’s no excuse.  No excuse for no compassion with all that we have.  Somebody said there’s enough to go around for everybody but not enough no to.  Or something like that.  I feel such inertia.  What is it I’m supposed to be doing?  Certainly not nothing!!!  But what exactly?  To be.  To be Taoist.  Pooh.  Dennis.  Innocence.  Harmony.  But I rarely feel harmony.  Why can’t our culture be based on encouraging harmony and honesty and trust and care and…Lou keeps yelling, “food!!”  He says, “You know you’d feel better about everything if you just grilled me up some chicken??”  Ya, that way with words of his.  He’s a natural.  Leads a truly unbelievable but charmed life.  Enjoys people (usually).  I hate them mostly.  Yes, I’m one of “them”.  A hater.  A bumper sticker:  “Yes, I’m one of them” with a “Christian” symbol on the back window.  I hate them.  But I am a believer.  A terrible example of one I readily admit.  But I pray for sincerity and God’s goodness to be manifest through me.  I can feel it when It is.  Nothing like it.  That rush thing again.

 I’m glad Lou has a short memory.  But that does tend to make him a starter, rather than a finisher.  But I like to finish lots of stuff, do the detail, tiding up stuff.  Where was I?  Other than stoned…

He lets me burn off his skin tags now.  Like I’ve always done.  He pointed out the other day how furry my face is getting.  That age thing again.  Other than being over menopause, I can’t say much for it other than I hope to one day gain a lot better perspective on life than I have now.  I’m ambitious.

I have no complaint what-so-ever coming.  How dare I take offense at anything, or cry about anything?  After all, relatively speaking, I’m right up near the top of the food chain, way more have I than most.  It’s disgusting.  I’d love to be nomadic and drag my tee pee and stuff behind my second horse, and just move around appropriately, in a less populated time.