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

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.

hell 2

  it was a grey haired bar. all the cocktail waitresses should have had grey hair. they had become a bit long in the tooth for the profession, but they had a place at the grey haired bar.
  economics and sports were discussed over bourbon and beer. wine flowed from little bottles and breathed the air at the grey haired bar.
  confession had left a bitter taste in my mouth. i had really expected to feel better afterward, but i guess i should not have confessed my bitter feelings about religion and god in general.
  the bartenders name was Vicky. she had back problems and a prescription for vicodin.  i ordered a rusty nail and two vicodin.
  “I’m out of vicodin” she said. “i have these little morphine pills. 15 milligram”.
  i dont know anything about morphine.
  “gimmee two.”
   she gave me a handful.
   “no charge. i don’t like them.”
   i wrapped them in a napkin and stuffed them in my pocket.
   i like my rusty nails light on Drambuie but i didn’t complain when Vickie put too much in the first one. she must have remembered on the next three. they were great.
  i was on the Internet soon enough, looking at morphine pills. conventional wisdom had me squirting powdered pills mixed with water up my ass. I’m talking way up my ass.
  ‘PAST THE ANUS.”