This Blog Has Been Abandoned

Tea and light refreshments now being served over at the New Blog.

Thanks for stopping by.

Cheers!

"One can survive everything nowadays except death."  ~Oscar Wilde

Cazzata!

So Italians are dramatic. Since when is that a crime?

Compromised

Hey, what are you listening to?

I think it's French Hip Hop.

French Hip Hop?! It sounds like Justin Timberlake.

Does it really? I've never actually heard Justin Timberlake.

Why are you listening to French Hip Hop? Why aren't you listening to Irish Rap?

(silence. laughter. more laughter.)

I don't think there is such a thing.

(silence.)

Maybe Irish Hip Hop.

(silence.)

Why don't you look it up on the internet?

I already did, whorehead.

I am not a whorehead. But you are listening to Jamaican Hip Hop. Why can't there be Irish Hip Hop?

Are you trying to tell me that you would like me to play some Irish music instead?

Yeah. Play something Irish.

(plays the Pogues.)

Sounds like fairies dancing.

So you're saying you don't want me to play Irish music anymore?

Do you think there's African Hip Hop?

(deep silence.)

Oh wait. Never mind!

Would you prefer we go back to the French Hip Hop?

I don't care. It's all foreign to me.

(silence.)

Do you have any Celtic music?

You want to hear Celtic music now?

Yeah. It's relaxing.

(plays Clannad.)

Sounds like something. Maybe like Riverdance or something.

Oh dear. Well, that's ruined now, isn't it? How 'bout a compromise?

(plays Damien Rice.)

And so it is
Just like you said it would be
Life goes easy on me
Most of the time
And so it is
The shorter story
No love, no glory
No hero in her sky

I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

And so it is
Just like you said it should be
We'll both forget the breeze
Most of the time
And so it is
The colder water
The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial

I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I want to
Leave it all behind?

I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off of you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind off you
I can't take my mind...
My mind...my mind...
'Til I find somebody new

Incomplete Profile: The Teen Years

Temporal Lobe Failure

I just used the word "Macinsoft" in a sentence. Quite accidentally, I have to add.

I have to say, however, that this happened after I banged my head on the desk.

I think I need some Morphine.

Ennui's Cove, circa 1986

That's the Lisa who has the only known photos of Ennui as a blonde. Aye!

The Peach's Pit

Gainesville, Georgia. Fucking Hilarious. Four hours of my life wasted here.

Ladies

Gents

Stallions

Open, but not an option.

Washington, D.C.

Immediately, there were many signs...

Just look at that red fire hydrant!

All sorts of pretty, eh?

Speaks for itself.

The Road to Damascus

Someone is going to be talking about me on Saturday. I knew about this, but I had forgotten all about it until I stopped by the house in Five Points last night. The house I still own a key to. It's the closest thing to a real home that I have had in ages and I don't think I will ever be asked to return that key. While I'm there, my old roommate reminds me about Saturday. Every year, sometimes twice a year, she gives these talks. She's at Candler now, over at Emory, preparing to save souls. Or whatever kind of magic those Methodists do. She does just about anything and everything. I can tell you honestly, it would take a miracle to slow her down. She's the reason I think I can do more than I can.

These talks that she gives are of the spiritual and inspirational kind. When she told me she was going to be talking about me this time around, I didn't say much but, "Alrighty then."

If a body catch a body coming through the rye...

What else am I going to say?

No use arguing with the woman anyway. She's pretty thick. And I don't bother to ask. I already know the story. I've lived it.

So we got to talking last night, and I said something about how much has happened in both our lives over the past two years. Me with, well, my stuff, and her with, well, her cancer. We just smiled. It feels good to have a victory.

She knew when she got the news that telling me about it was going to be different than telling everybody else because I have an issue with cancer. I hate it with all my heart. She knew that I would want to run away from it. I don't want to know about it, I don't want to think about it. I don't want to watch and I don't want to remember. Why would I want to go through that all over again? But she sat me down one night, she was fairly liquored up, and she said to me, "Now look, I need all the support that I can get, and you need to heal."

Here's your cross. Now carry it.

I'll admit I was agitated with her, but she was right. I needed to see first hand that cancer does not always have to be a bad thing. It doesn't always have to mean death.

That's the kind of stuff that she does. She says things like, "Now look, you know better than that, you're a smart girl." Always makes you feel real dumb, though. She puts the nails in until you bleed, and you're pissed off as hell at her. But the wounds heal and the scars fade and you stop playing your fiddle. "You over yourself yet?" she'll ask.

About two months ago she called me up and said, "Now look, you need to go to this thing." I never argue anymore. I just go. While I'm there, she says to me, "Now look, you need to meet so and so. They're from New York."

I run into people from New York all the time, and it's always the same conversation. Inevitably, they'll be from upstate, but they'll know someone who lives in Bay Shore, which means nothing really. No big deal. Besides, I already know a lot of people from New York. How is meeting one more going to churn my butter any better? Turns out, however, that I went to college with these particular New Yorkers. Now what are the chances of that?

About three months ago she called me up and said, "Now look, meet me for dinner on Friday. I need to pick your brain about something." So I go. And I let her pick my brain about this thing she was planning to do, a one day walk to benefit the cancer center. I gave her my ideas, the kind of stuff people will call me up for. People know I work for free for good causes. I suggested a few names. I conceptualized a logo. And she went off with a page of ideas to put this thing into action.

Several weeks later, she called me again. "Now look, first committee meeting is Monday. Be there." And so I went. And I sat at this table full of some very amazing women. Some from the cancer center, some from Athens Regional. Some from areas of Athens society that I never thought I would touch. She knows them all. And they all showed up for her when she called.

November 18, 2006. "In Their Shoes." A 13 mile walk on the Athens Greenway. All proceeds will go directly to the Loran Smith Cancer Center. I won't be here when it happens, but my part will already be done. She's promised me that I won't have to do the website. She knows that I need limitations put upon me.

So I stopped by the house last night to approve the logo. While I'm there, she reminds me that she is going to be talking about me on Saturday. To inspire people, I suppose. But tonight, I decided to talk about her, carrying that damn cross of hers all the way to Mt. Sinai.

Les blogs, nouveaux maîtres à penser.

Why Are You Such a Pony?

I watched a lot of Happy Days when I was growing up. It was my opium. It really messed me up, too. I credit Ritchie Cunningham with giving me lots of false hopes and unrealistic dreams. Nobody has a moral fiber that strong. Nobody. Ron Howard might come close. Ron is a Pisces. Pisces are special people.

One day, I'm telling my brother about how the Jackson Five are living in our neighbor's garage. At least, that's what they told me. "And you believed that?" asks my brother, in shock, disbelief, and disappointment. Why are you such a pony?

Hey, I was 8. Cut me some slack.

Anyhow, the second big disappointment in my life was the South of the Border. In case you were wondering, the SOB website is www.pedroland.com. I kid you not.

I was so excited about my very first trip down south. Two days in a car with your brother and that imaginary line, the one that I was always crossing, is totally worth whatever adventure awaits in a place far, far away and different. It was different alright, but not in a good way.

The tragedy of SOB prepared me for this. It's about the most horrible experience a person can have. Whenever I am heading north, I overestimate my ability to deal with this experience. I love the ride there. Start off in Chattanooga. Not so bad. Fairly calm. You can drive through it easy enough. If you do have to make a stop, you can appreciate its charm as long as you don't expect too much from it. Decent enough aquarium. OK. Then, you follow the Blue Ridge Parkway. They call it America's favorite drive. It is definitely awesome. But I think they exaggerate a little.

I always fool myself. I think a little time away will make things better, and any kind of away is good enough. As soon as the weather starts to get warm, I tell myself not to give in. Who needs the water anyway? I can make it. I've gone nine months already. But then someone says, "Hey, wanna go to the beach this weekend?" and I'm halfway to Macon before I realize what I've done.

I've had my share of sunburns and sun poisoning, but I'm pretty darn happy when I am by the water. You never hear people say how the sound of the waves crashing on the shore makes them nuts. There's a reason for that.

So I go to Florida a lot now, because, when you live in Georgia, you have to go that distance to be on the water. Never really know what you've got till it's gone, as they say. I lived most of my life in a port town, but I have spent more time in boats since I've lived in Georgia than I spent even looking at the boats back home.

But you go to the beaches in Florida and you get two things: tourists and white trash. The white trash are the ones with the bad haircuts and the leathery skin. The sub-culture of America. Lovely.

I was in the Panhandle last summer in the midst of the shark attacks. There were bacteria warnings posted everywhere. So I tried my best not to get in. I was being cautious. I had even gone to the limits to protect my Irish skin. SPF 150. Covered every inch, except for my ears, which did get burnt. My brother, who is as pale as me in the winter, has a secret olive complextion that mocks me every summer.

I think it was 15 minutes of looking at the water before I was feeling the waves on my skin. Will power. Who needs it? I wonder how long I will make it this year?

But something else that I did last summer was this. You have to know somebody to get onto Cumberland Island the way that I did. I'm told this is where John John and Carolyn were married. It's a beautiful place. To get to the beach, you have to go several miles through the trees dripping with Spanish Moss. Every now and then, you meet up with some wild horses. You can sit on the beach and watch them walk along the shore. They don't seem to notice the small population of people. They are quite confident that they own this place. It's bliss, I tell ya. Pure ignorance and bliss.

Being a pony isn't so bad.

She started this obsession at an early age.

Dogs know all about puppy love.

The Seventh Sense: I See Dumb People

I'm busy filling up my water bottle at the water fountain (which has some pinkish stuff growing on it that I am not going to talk about), when the phone rings.

Ring, ring!

I look around. No one is there. I think I saw the receptionist running into the bathroom, but I can't think about that now. What I have to think about now is if it is worth it for me to stop doing what I am doing to answer the phone, or if someone else is going to come by and pick it up.

Ring, ring!

Water bottle is almost full. I am thirsty.

Ring, ring!

No. One.

Ring, ring!

Mon Dieu!

'Allo?

Hello. This is so and so with such and such at Another University.

Have you tried turning it off and on again?

I need to speak to someone that can answer a question about Adobe Acrobat Professional version 7 point oh.

Um... that is normally me. I'm already on the line. What is your question?

I purchased a license for this and now I need to know how to install it.

You just put the disc into the disc drive and follow the instructions.

The disc?

Yes, ma'am. Do you have a CD?

Do you mean a diskette?

No. I mean a CD.

And what does that do?

Well, for one, you can sharpen the edges of it with a scissor and use it to kill your coworkers. Also, you can install your software with it.

And how does that work?

You just put the disc into the disc drive and follow the instructions.

So this is a CD ROM thing?

Yes, ma'am.

Oh. OK. I think I did receive a diskette with the license and I gave it to Shirley. Maybe I will go ask her what she did with it.

Yes, ma'am. That will work.

Thank you for your help.

No problem. Good luck!

Only my words have been changed to protect the ignorant. I did not actually say all of these things to her, but, be certain, she did say all of these things to me. Poor dear. If she can't figure this part out, how the hell is she going to actually run this program?

I wonder what she thought that circular object that said Adobe Acrobat Pro 7.0 was. A wall ornament? A Golden Ticket to the Adobe Factory? A free gift for Shirley?

This is not the most inane call that I have had to endure, which is why I avoid answering the phone at all costs. I would never get anything done for all the time spent dealing with Those Who Should Not Be Near The Computers.

this is a test

Breakfast at My Desk

Just so you know, the amount of water that they tell you to put in your Quaker Instant Oatmeal Express is waaaaay too much water. Unless you like oatmeal soup, which I don't. The plus side is that if you can't find a spoon, you can easily drink your oatmeal. Maybe that's what they were thinking over at Quaker. "If we make these handy little on-the-go oatmeals, how are people going to eat them? Attach a wooden spoon stick? Nah? Too many lawsuits due to tongue splinters. Include instructions for making an origami spoon out of the lid? Nah. Folks have a hard enough time with the directions Heat and Serve. We could always have them add enough H2O (as the lab guys at Quaker like to call it) that they would actually have liquid oatmeal."

Too lumpy for a straw, but fast and efficient nonetheless. But the experience is a bit like the first time I had grits. I'm too overwhelmed by the texture to even notice the taste. I like grits now, mostly for the texture. Without all that cheese, I'm not sure grits have any taste. Not even like chicken.

Well, breakfast is over now. Time to do some work.

Ode to Billy Joel

Going home is always so bittersweet for me. I can always tell when I am getting close to home because of the memory factor. I'll start to remember small moments of my life in New York. Yesterday, I kept smelling the Long Island Sound. Not a very pleasant smell, but much better than the Hudson River. I started thinking about the Hamptons. I hated the Hamptons. But that was when I thought they would always be right there for me to hate. And the rocky beaches on the north shore... my beaches. That church in Brooklyn where I was baptized. Someone always points that out to me. I think something magical happened in there.

Today, I can smell August. Hazy. Hot. Humid. That is the forecast for everyday that it does not rain in the summertime in New York. This might seem like a bad smell. In fact, it is. It is accompanied by the scent of car exhaust and the various other fumes that hit you when you drive the LIE to the Belt and the BQE. The closer you get to Queens, the more there is to see and smell. If I had a penny for everytime I said they should bomb Queens, I would be driving that Mini I've been drooling over. But I miss that drive through Queens. I miss that stench and the hazy, hot and humid summer days. I miss the people that suck so much and the ones that I love so much. I miss that energy, that vibe, that sense of possibility. I miss it so much sometimes, that I am willing to suffer for my sense of smell.

I miss having all of that every day and getting into my car on a whim and driving up to New England for some fresh air. I miss apple picking in Albany. I miss coffee in Danbury. I miss Yankee games and St. Patrick's Day parades with Hibernians in kilts and bagpipes and firemen and field trips to the Natural Museum of History and the Bronx Zoo and little kids who don't yet know that there is more to life than New York. They will go to the Vanderbilt planetarium one day, and their eyes will open real wide. Their senses will turn on. They will absorb it all. They will want more and more and more.

Bookmarking this here so I can work it into my plans later.

The Problem of Lent

God can be so needy sometimes.
What am I going to give up that I haven't already?

Oh, bother.

Happy Ash Wednesday!

Me and De Nephew (a.k.a. #2)

De Nephew: There’s this level in my Spiderman 2 game that I can’t beat.

Me: Yeah, so?

De Nephew: So I need you to help me.

Me: Help you with what?

De Nephew: Help me beat it. I can’t get to the next level.

Me: I don’t know why you always think you need me for that. I’m no better at that game than you are.

De Nephew: Yes you are!

Me: No, I’m not.

De Nephew: Yes, you are.

Me: No, I’m not.

De Nephew: Yes, you are.

Me: No, I’m not.

De Nephew: Yes…

Me: You know what we need to do here?

De Nephew: What?

Me: We need to hook you up with some cheat codes.

De Nephew: But they don’t have cheat codes for PlayStation.

Me: Yes, they do.

De Nephew: No, they don’t.

Me: Yes, they do.

De Nephew: No, they don’t.

Me: Yes, they do.

De Nephew: No, they don’t.

Me: Yes, they do.

De Nephew: No, they don’t.

Me: Yes, they do. Circle, triangle. X. Square. R2. Yes, they do.

De Nephew: They do?

I am now in a bit of an ethical bind. Is it really a good idea to be pushing cheat codes on my 7 year old nephew? I mean, shouldn’t he learn how to get through the game without having to cheat? What kind of life skills will he have if he thinks he can get unlimited ammo from his dipshit aunt whom he thinks is cool?

I don't get him the cheat codes. Instead, I sit with him, my favorite little 3 year old (complete with runny nose) sitting on my lap, and I talk him through the level. I don’t know why he always tells me that he needs me to do it for him, when he is fully capable of doing it for himself. I suspect it is just a ploy to get me to play with him. After all, I am the one who taught him about video games, so it’s a thing that we share. He thinks that I like to strategically shoot things. But I don’t. I’m more of a Crash Bandicoot kind of girl. I just press the X and run for it. The fact that it works says very little about me.

Me: So are you going to design really cool video games when you grow up?

De Nephew: No.

Me: You’re not? Why not? I think that would be neat.

De Nephew: I don’t know.

Me: So what are you going to do when you grow up?

De Nephew: Be a priest.

Me: Ah. No cheat codes for you.

He never brought it up again anyhow.

Is This Thing On?

I forgot that I had this blog. I was so impressed with how much attention I have been able to give to BA these past few days, and then it occured to me that Ennui has this thing. This whole blog thing happened by accident. It was just a little bubble that popped out of David's head one day. He pitched it to me and Shawn, and the next thing I knew, voilà , Bored Athenians was born. We have struggled a bit with this blog. There have been issues. We never once thought about the consequences of other people actually reading our blog. And there have been consequences. In my head, though, I still think that I am just talking to Dave and Shawn, or Kool Kity up in NYC, who has been my unrelenting link to the past, when I was saner or smarter or both or neither. But I hold back on a lot, because I know that other people don't understand like Dave and Shawn understand. David and I had a lot of fun designing and redesigning and playing with the code, and the back and forth banter that we used to share with Shawn still comes around sometimes... but it's gone back to email form, and we get pissed everytime we realize what has happened. Inevitably, one of us will jump in with the thought of, hey, we should start another blog, just for us. David has dismantled his personal blog (though he tells me that it is safely hanging out on the server, waiting to exhale), and Shawn has completely abandoned his. Our lives have gotten too busy to be too bored, though we are still bored enough with that. Unsatisfied with the status quo, really. And we are focused on our futures, but not so much on our blog. I guess we're just doing our things.

Although I have, in the past, been an avid journal keeper (once upon a time, it was an art form), I hardly ever write about myself. But, once upon a time, it was highly therapeutic. I have a box full of old journals and they are hardly interesting. My high school journals say things like, "We hung out at the Pit tonight and then the cemetery after someone called the Fire Dept. I think it was Scott and Doug because they weren't there when it happened. We all ran into the woods and my crinoline got stuck in the thorn bush and sweet, adorable Matt had to pick me up out of it. The guys all hate Matt because he is so hot, but they call him an art-fuck Zeppelin hippy. Tomorrow we are going to The Ritz to see a hardcore band, but I'd much rather go see the Cure in the Village, but they guys hate Robert Smith because they think he's a poser. I guess if it doesn't have a mohawk or a devilock, it isn't cool. The guys are such dicks sometimes."

No, really. That's how lame it was.

College journals talk mostly about my studies and a certain person who had a tremendous impact on my life. Also lots of talk about going to Ireland and meeting Seamus Heaney in a VW bus. Not sure where that came from, but I remember thinking a lot about it. If you're going to meet a poet, you won't want them to be driving a Jag. I also pined a lot about not being challenged enough in a state university, and there are pages of me fretting over my acceptance to Smith. The semester that I was to start at Smith is the time when Milo died from a heroin overdose. That was a totally crappy and unnecessary event. I took that semester off. When I headed back to Stony Brook in the spring, someone had spray painted Milo's name on the bridge by the student union. Randy was with me when we came across it. It said something about Milo and jazz, a thing he had gotten into playing just before he died. When Joanne and I went to USB last year, that bridge had just been torn down. Joanne was in such disbelief that she had to stop a student and ask them about it. It was odd watching Joanne frantically asking this young boy about a brick structure that seemed so trivial, yet meant so much to both of us for different reasons. Oh shit. The bridge is gone. A whole lifetime seemed to crumble away with it.

At eighteen, I took myself too seriously. At twenty, I took the world too seriously. I can't take very much too seriously these days, which has been known to annoy the heck out of a lot of people. But I spent most of this day writing in French, so I thought that a little jaunt into my blog might keep my native tongue satisfied. That, and I'm trying to keep my fingers busy so they won't light up a cigarette. I am going to quit smoking if it kills me (and it might). Something I never would have said in my journal writing days (save for the days when I was suffering from stressed-out, smoked-up headaches). It wasn't until Milo died that I began to realize that things, contrary to popular juvenile thinking, do not last forever.

Well, I suppose I also thought that, I've got this here blog, I might as well blog something.

Speak No Evil

I guess the result of publicly and politically disarming a rebel sanction is that the rebels now have to resort to "alternative" means of income. Let's face it, there are several prominent Americans who have supported the IRA for many years. It's all OK when it is legal(the support, not the IRA). But who is going to send a cheque to the IRA at the height of the war on terror?

'Moment of truth' for SF over bank robbery
13/10/2005 - 15:55:02

Sinn Féin faces a moment of truth after police chiefs confirmed they believe the IRA carried out the Northern Bank robbery, Minister for Justice Michael McDowell said today.

Garda Commissioner Noel Conroy said yesterday there was evidence money seized during a probe into alleged IRA criminality in Cork was part of the £26.5m (€38.8m) stolen in the raid in Belfast.

Mr McDowell accused Sinn Féin leaders, who claimed they asked the IRA whether it was responsible for last December’s theft and believed its denials, of misleading the public.

“The moment of truth is now coming for those people,” he said.

“There’s clear evidence now that the IRA did the Northern Bank robbery and all the denials and all the people who said that they went back and checked out the story and that it was untrue and all the Army Council members who spoke in public and said there was no truth in it, now they are getting their comeuppance.”

Sinn Féin chief negotiator Martin McGuinness was among those who said the IRA told him it did not carry out the robbery.

But Mr McDowell said Commissioner Conroy has proved the IRA was responsible.

(the whole story...)

Comeuppance. That's a great word.

I have known many, liked not a few, loved only one, I drink to you.

Death is that univited guest that always comes calling when we are not up for opening the door. Death is a bastard. He calls on us all. When someone dies, those of us who are left behind have to deal with the loss. We also have to face our own mortality. It is the certainty of the inevitable standing right in front of us. Death is the thing we are trying to avoid with our idle distractions. The more trivial the distraction, the less likely we are to focus on the seriousness of death. Death brings an end to one thing and gives birth to a whole new world. Like most things, it begins with chaos. The settling takes time.

For those who are directly affected, the loss of a person creates a terrible void. The time immediately following a death is full of moments of clarity and of harsh reality when we come to terms, over and over, with the fact that this person no longer exists. There are no more moments with this person. They are gone, and in their place is the silence of the space that they once owned. Whatever words we have for them are lost in the air. At least, that is how it feels. Faith gives us hope that our words are heard. Many of us trust in this. Regardless, whatever knowledge that we previously had of this person has been forever altered. They may live on in some fantastic place, but not as the flesh and blood that once touched us. That we can be sure of.

My thoughts are with Billy and Anne everyone at Le Maison Bleu who are dealing with the sudden loss of Peter Anderson. I brought Billy to Athens because he is one of my dearest friends and I cannot imagine my life without him. Billy was by my side when my mother died. I remember very clearly the moments after her funeral when my grief became too overwhelming for me to even open my eyes and Billy's voice in my ear gave me comfort. Whatever parts of myself that I let drift away from me that day, Billy knew those parts. I made the terrible mistake of letting someone else help me put those parts back in place. I payed the price.

While I believe that Anne is one of the strongest women I have ever met, I know that she will benefit from the comfort of Billy. For all of the joy that he has brought into my life over the years, I feel helpless in my inability to repay him now. Indeed, I may have brought him more grief over the years than was allowed.

I made a promise to Billy today that I will do something that has been in my heart to do for a long time. It is a small celebration of the time and tie that binds us. Flesh and blood may be fleeting, but memory is immortal.

Here's to Billy for making me laugh and for letting me cry. For the good times and the bad times. For holding me up and for putting me in my place. For all the road trips and head trips and tripping out. For scolding me when I was a bad girl and for talking me out of running off to Ireland in a fit of passion. For bringing a little bit of Ireland to me and for showing me the stars. T'a gr'a agam dhuit!

A horse! A horse!

My kingdom for a horse!

Damn those Yankees! They let this guy go to Houston and Angels Beat Yankees, Advance to ALCS.

Je sais que vous entendrez ceci...

Je sais que vous êtes toujours avec moi. Je me rappelle comment vous vous sentez. Tout n’est pas perdu. Il y a des choses à dire et des vérités à connaître. Vous étiez avec moi dans le verger. Oui, je sais. J'ai demandé, et vous étiez là. Oui, je sais. Je reviendrai à vous. Je suis désolé pour la manière que je vous ai laissé. Vous m'incitez à perdre mes mots mais pour vous il y a tant de mots. Je ne pourrais pas vous les donner alors. Je ne peux pas vous les donner maintenant. Mais je vous les donnerai un jour. Je promets. Je trouverai mon chemin de nouveau à vous. Oui, vous savez.

Mother's Day

Yes, it's Mother's Day, and I no longer have a mother to call or to visit or to send flowers to. So I spent my day working on various things I had been neglecting. Good for me. But I did think about my mother, so I hope that counts for something.

I have actually been reading a book about mothers lately. More particularly, it is about dead mothers and the daughters they leave behind. Someone recommended it to me recently. Someone who thought that it might help me to understand what I have been going through since my mother died. Because, of course, I assumed that I was doing something wrong in the "grieve and move on" dept. Seems you can do it like that. Seems that's what's the matter here. And I am not as alone as I once thought.

According to this book, there is a connection between mothers and daughters that plays a large role in a woman's connection to the world. Disconnected is a word that I am quite familiar with. It is hard for others to understand me, because most people are fortunate enough to not understand what I have been through. When my mom died, people did not know what to say to me. Not only about her death, but about my life in general. It affects everything. Seven years later, and I am still waiting for the dust to settle.

It never does.

The book also mentions how milestones become difficult for us after our mothers die. I remember thinking on the day of my mother's funeral, sitting in church, that I could not bear the thought of getting married anymore. The concept of childbirth without my mother to help me along became ridiculous. And when I do accomplish something, she is still the first person that I think to call.

"What's up, cookie?"

"Guess what I did today."

"I know what you did. I know what you are capable of, even if you don't. I saw you take your first steps. I nursed you through the chicken pox twice. I followed you to school for your first week and watched you through the window. I made dresses for you. I wiped your tears. I drove you to your best friend's house. I cried when you got let down. I always knew just what you wanted for Christmas. I taught you how to smile when you needed to. I visited you every day in the hospital. I bragged about you. I confided in you. I taught you almost everything that I know. I loved you just the way you are. Of course I know what you did today. I am your mother."

What else is there to say?

I have been reading all about copylefting today. Why? Because that's the kind of bane and useless thing I tend to do in order to avoid having to do something else. Today I am avoiding reality altogether. Let me tell you why: because it sucks. It is boring and it makes me sick. Why would I want too much of that?

Reading Wikipedia can be a great way to spend the day. Wikipedia is more living than the Bible.

Wikipedia's volunteers enforce a policy of "neutral point of view." Under this, the views presented by notable persons or literature are summarized without attempting to determine an objective truth. Because of its open nature, vandalism and inaccuracy are problems in Wikipedia.

I'm all about the neutral POV, and have often mused about the vandalism and inaccuracy. In short, I find Wikipedia to be fascinating.

Just a bit glum and nostalgic today. Go figure.

Thanks to the Evil Overload for mending my broken archives and comments!

This pup's for you!

Give Me a Song

I am currently listening to a Travis cover of "Hit Me Baby, One More Time."

And this has made my day.

Post-Grunge - (adj) The day after, with guitars.

I want to own a pair of sunglasses that can let me look at the other side. I want to see what the other people see. I want to understand.

Except, sometimes, I think that I do, and it ain't pretty. There is no shade of rose that can sweeten the bitterness in our minds.

I think there are more than two sides to every story. I think there are more than three. I think that, however many sides there are, there is that much less truth to them all.

I once tried to do a Descartes and not think about anything. All I could think about was me. It was then that I concluded that I am nothing.

It is important, you see, to properly heat your tea. Either too hot or too cold is okay, but never, ever lukewarm. Do not attempt to cook tea in the microwave. Not that you can't, but that it will always, always taste like absolute crap. Which breaks my heart (I'm a sensitive girl), because I have been a tea fiend for years, and not everyone in America owns a tea kettle. To carry one's own tea kettle around is silly. Not that I haven't, but I wouldn't recommend it.

And, of course, when tea is cold, it should be sweetened. When it is hot, it should be smothered in cream. Like the good kind of cream that you can get in the UK. Their cows are mad, but their cream is delightful.

Tea is good for days when you have no appetite. Although, this is really what God invented cigarettes for, a lot of people frown upon this particular food substitute. It's not like there's no variety. Sometimes I have Camels, and sometimes I do the Parliament. I've even been known to smoke a Red.

Cloves are nobody's friend, no matter what the kids all say. Just ask the Evil Overload. He'll give you a Camel for a Clove and then regret it. But he's the Candyman, and the Candyman can.

When trying to quit smoking, it is very good to have several hobbies. Certain hobbies are small and easy to break. So always have a spare hobby.

If you do get depressed, and tea does not do the trick, you can always get a newly pregnant pal to cheer you up. She will try to feed you ice cream and logic, both of which you will refuse. In the end, you will discover that laughter truly is the best medicine.

It's all temporary anyway.

I Heart Hate Shopping

No, really, I do. I hate to shop. Today I figured out that it must be all those stupid women that do like to shop and who do it all of the damn time. Something about them seems to irritate me and makes me want to run away and become a hermit.

So I am in a bad mood today because I've been having to go shopping. I have not been successful. I don't expect that I will be.

I think I would prefer to shop in Tuscany.

There are tiny cracks in your heart where the fear slips in
when you realize that the people who have prayed for you
have left you to pray for yourself.

Dad

There is a part of my life
that still walks down this road
and it knows me.
It knows why I say no
when I mean yes
and it reminds me.

How It Happens

Two o’clock came like a bullet through her heart. She waited for the phone to ring ding-a-ling.

“I’m the ding-a-ling,” she thought once five o’clock finally arrived to mock her.

Sure, she knew there was a chance this would happen. She had even prepared herself for this like a coach rallying the team. It is not the end of the world, she spirited; it is always the beginning.

But she knew now that this was over. The affair that had begun in the spring now ended in her heart.

She saw him again in the bus shelter on a cold, cold night. In her heart she knew it would be wrong to ignore him, but there were no words to present that did not leak of her devotion. The chill she had previously felt now gave a soft glow to her cheeks, and the thump of her panicked heart warmed her bones. Say what, say what, and say what?

What could she say? He never knew of her mistrust and lack of confidence in their affair. To him, it was simply a matter of fact. He never looked back.

But she would get on the bus behind him, her skill at being a shadow making the distance seem that much more extensive. He never noticed her anymore.

In six months time she would return to the states. To him, she was already gone.

The Story of Joe

in the quiet of the nights that you always forget about, something moves inside the house in the room beside you. you lay sleeping. dreams come and go. who knows. but something is coming to get you, barbara. you always know.

hello, joe, whad'ya know? that's what she was saying, over and over. a report on the effect of living haphazardly. who's that looking in my window trying to see me be me?

and Joe just looked at her. empty as a coconut. she was spinning circles in the air with her finger. ohmigod, look at that, a bee.

young joe, said our friend the enemy, i see you've just finished the book. on to something new, yet, are you? always something good. always something good.

young joe leaned against the banister and pressed his lips. i'm thinking about what you just said, and given the latest events, i believe you are manure hauling it way back to texas. so shut up, why don't ya?

in the office, joe sat above the balding man and studied the energy in the room. way up in the corner of the room there was a tiny shelf with a statue on it. joe remarked about it's highness. that's socrates, said the man. i revere him as god. together they thought, let's look at it. and one last note: where else would you expect god to be but hiding in the corner of the sky?

finally, the documents, and joe was free to go. free to go and roam the earth as another one of its demands. life in the funny lane will certainly make you aware of that.

one last thing, before you go, joe: why did you come here in the first place?

one day joe was in the garden picking fruit. from out of nowhere came this beautiful creature. she whispered to him softly, i love you, joe. come, take me, take me away, away from all this evil that i see. and just as Joe was about to get up on his horse and go, she kissed him softly and she said tenderly, in case i should forget, thank you for the mortgage and the big screen tv.

and maybe this is the reason why, on one grey day six months ago, joe walked into the bedlam of the politically correct and signed up in the unarmed forces of nature. and, while all of this may be true, it is perhaps best to warn the reader that many discrepencies may occur. not even joe himself could tell you the story of his dreamwise demise in full detail. nevertheless, let's move on.

on his first day in, joe met his neighbors. the first one being mrjambor, a very small man from jamaica. mrjambor said, i'm not nuts, i'm just crazy about them. let's all go to the mess hall.

once the weather is nice we will take you to the park and show you the people. look, mommy, a man with a gun. don't talk about the weather when there's money to be won. these are the things you asked for, so we put them in a jar. you can find it on your grocer's shelf in his closet with his potted g. a pot for you and some pot for me.

we are highly unproductive. you cannot say we don't succeed.

i say, joe, how wouldn't you like to be free?

Happiness passes us by like tomorrow come and gone.

Day after day she rides the bus. The sun is always in her eyes making her blind to the easy way of getting by. Just getting by; the motto of our young america. Lady liberty lights the way for the hungriest, the meager mourn her soul. Here we are in america ladies and gentlemen please don't block the door. She opens a book of daydreams and stares at pictures of time captured, time she will never know. Day after day she walks the corridors. These are the halls of depression. These are the doors that will never open. This is the maze to nothing. I'm a little teapot short and smart. I have no handles. I've lost my heart. Day after day.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is america. Land of the idle, home of the bored.

Man I Pul Ate This!

Sometimes I look around and I think, "None of this is real. I've gone and made it all up." But if that's true, I should have more control over it than I do. Certain things cannot be controlled, like volcanoes and bad phone connections. I hear that other people can be controlled, but I'm too busy trying to decide if this is all real to figure that one out.

Anyhow, here's that 100th Strong Bad email that you were looking for. Enjoy.

Britain Attacks IRA, Sinn Fein Over Criminality

LONDON (Reuters) - Britain said Tuesday that hopes of a political settlement in Northern Ireland have been "very seriously damaged" by accusations of IRA criminality that have put Republican politicians on the defensive.

Oh yay.

Hey kids, it's Time for Timer!

Run for your lives!!


File under: I still don't know what the heck it is, and it still creeps me the hell out.


Extra special thanks to the super Kool Kity!

Sometimes the 70's Come Back to Haunt You

Raise your hand if you were one of those kids who thought that there was a little light keeper man living inside of your fridge that would turn the fridge light on and off as you opened and closed the fridge door.

If so, you were also the kid who thought that the Partridge family played music live from inside your speakers every time you played the record The Partridge Family Notebook featuring the cover of the Animals' "We Gotta Get Out Of This Place."

Anyone?

Liar.

So I have now invented the internet scapegoat, Iggi (a.k.a Internet Glitch Generator Idiot). Iggi is an imaginary bastard responsible for all the intangible crap that happens in this place known as Cyber Space. Iggi sucks. Big ones. I give him the finger on a weekly basis, and sometimes I start to write him nasty, hateful letters that I do not finish on account of me coming to my senses and all. So...

Iggi, the bastard, has a name, but no face. Any suggestions?

For some reason, I think he kind of looks like that very annoying piece of singing food/toothpick/icepop guy from those highly informative nutrition clips they used to hit us with during our Saturday morning cartoons. Who was that guy?

Happy Valentine's Day

Stop taking yourselves so seriously, folks.

Ahem.

Is this thing on?

So I've been enjoying this lately, and I started thinking about how funny it would be if you stumbled upon a blog like this and you started to read it and you were really enjoying it and you thought it was hella funny shite and all and then suddenly, as you went futher and further along, it occured to you that it might be you. How funny would that be? Freaking hilarious, to be sure.

I discovered yesterday that there is a picture of Joyce Carol Oates in my little dictionary. I wonder why that is. I think I would rather have a picture of hemlock so that I could know what that looks like in order to avoid it. I mean, did they get to the O's and they had a meeting about What Kinda Stuff Do We Put In Our Book, and they thought Orange and Omaha and Joyce Carol Oates and then somebody said, "Oh, let's get a picture of that!"?

I once knew a guy who wrote dictionaries. These are the kinds of things I would ask him.

Wouldn't you?

Metaphor

Albert Lundy woke up one day to the smile of his guardian angel standing over his bed.

"Hey," said the angel, "Can you turn on the t.v. for me?"

"I'm sleeping," Albert replied as he rolled over and fell back into his dreams.

The second time Albert Lundy woke up that morning, he found his guardian angel in the living room trying to manipulate the remote control.

"What are you doing?" he asked the angel.

"There's this great program coming on Lifetime that I don't want to miss. Would you mind..?"

"Yes, I would. You woke me up. Twice."

"Sorry about that," said the angel.

When Albert Lundy arrived home from work that day, he found his guardian angel in the kitchen hovering over a pot on the stove. Normally, Albert would find this whole matter curious, but today was the day that Albert found he no longer cared.The angel knew this. He could feel the grief in Albert's mind like a blade through his own chest. The angel knew that Albert needed a home cooked meal and a good night's rest, but he also knew that neither of those things would make Albert better.

A Nation Once Again?

From Guardian Unlimited comes the news that Charles and Camilla will make their fornication official. But, much more interesting than that, is this:

Sinn Fein members 'sanctioned bank raid'
Senior members of Sinn Fein sanctioned the £26.5m Northern Bank robbery in Belfast, a new report claimed today.
The Independent Monitoring Commission (IMC) report said the senior members were also part of the IRA leadership that gave the go-ahead for three other raids resulting in the theft of more than £3m of goods last year. Read more...

For those who don't know, Sein Fein (Gaelic for "Ourselves Alone") is the legal sanction of the IRA and the group that is responsible for bringing about the Irish Peace Initiative in '94 that finally put the cork on the long and bloody war between the English and the Irish.

I think what I love the most about the Irish is their beautiful passion for just about anything. They can make dying for one's country seem like the most gorgeous thing one could ever do. Never boring and always fighting - 'tis the Irish way.

I used to get Irish newspapers from the deli by the train station near my house in NY so I could keep up with what was going on across the Ocean. There was a large community of Irish Americans in my area who were quite sensitive to the activity in Northern Ireland. It was around the time of Joe Doherty's capture that I became one of them. I was loyal to the cause, and willing to stand up for Irish rights. But the dirty deeds of the IRA cannot be excused. Terrorism is terrorism is terrorism, and, no matter how noble or romantic you make it, it is a tragedy. So I was relieved when England and Ireland finally reached a stalemate.

What is the result of a war with no winner?

Things are getting hot again in the Emerald Isle. Éireann go Brách

I recently switched my toothpaste to the average C-named brand to the new C-named brand *Refreshing Vanilla Mint flavor. And, yes, I will admit that the experience is much like brushing your teeth with cream cheese cake frosting, but I don't have to wait as long as usual to drink my OJ. And sometimes I just use someone else's toothpaste.

*Scratch & Sniff plug-in required.

5 AM and the Art of Yoga Breathing

Something must be wrong with the program. It wakes up at 5 am barely able to breathe complaining of a sore throat palpitations cold sweats and nausea. Maybe it is broken. But it hasn't smoked a cigarette in 7 DAYS and it feels good about that.

5 AM and the Art of Yoga Breathing.

Innnnnnn...ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuut.
Innnnnnnn...ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut.

If it continues to run on such anxiety, Jim, I'm afraid we'll have to shut her down. She's no good to us like this.

Very well then...

They need to put a snooze button on the cell phone. What if I wanted to go back to sleep? Geez. I was having such crazy dreams.

Innnnnnn...ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuut.
Innnnnnnn...ouuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut.

Time to make the world go 'round.

Aw, nuts!

I want the peanuts on the plane because the peanuts on the plane are a part of the whole plane experience. At least, it used to be. I don't even like peanuts. In fact, I resent them. They are like too many pennies and not enough dimes, and even though they may advertise this jug of mixed nuts as being only 50% peanuts, by the time all the good ones are gone, you are still left with a full jug of nuts. Peanuts, that is.

When I was a kid, I made mental images of how the world must really be. They were things that I wanted to fully experience when I grew up and understood...I am still waiting for that day. I used to think, watching my mom and dad with their peers, that adults don't have mixed emotions. I used to believe that adults could not only see above the kitchen counters, they were not at all confused by what they could see. I used to climb the drawers and hang on the edge hoping to get a glimpse of what I was missing. Someday, I will look down upon it all, and I will know what it all means.

I am still waiting for that day.

All I know now is that I need to have peanuts when I am on a plane so that I know this moment is real. I need something to keep telling me that it's not all just a dream. I keep telling myself, but I'm not really one to believe.

And so this is Christmas...

First year ever will not be shopping on Christmas Eve. Excellent!

Third Christmas have purchased Neil Peart book for ever grateful brother that I shall first read and then give out as birthday gift in March. Am consistent, at least.

Third Christmas have gotten LOTR extended DVD. This time, from roommate. Also gave nice smelly box of decaf chai. Very good.

Bought tiny versions of cars for little boy named Tino who shall also received one well knitted (well, with love) hat in various shades of soft blue and gentle green. Not sure how he feels about having things put on his head, but is very cute nonetheless.

Various other gifts include dinosaur fossils and purple bed canopy covered with butterflies and little bits of glitter.

Have too much paper scattered about with lists of things to get done and things to look into doing and things to never forget. Never use the same pen as pens are always moving about. Silly pens.

Christmas cards = bought
Address book = MIA

Could be worse.

Patch Errors

It is not recommended to wear the patch on your ass. Not even when you have to shove it down your underwear because it has lost its stick and won't stay stuck to the small of your back. Patches that fall to the floor when you walk to the door are not a very effective way to quit smoking.

If you should happen to wear the patch on your ass, please remember to remove said patch before using the loo. Flushing a patch down the toilet is like watching your future, healthier self float into the distance in a sea of wasted money and effort.

C'est la vie.

So I was eating breakfast this morning, thoughts buried deep into the world of a really good book, when I looked around me and noticed that this restaurant I had been sitting in was suddenly full of middle-aged, upper-class Christians fresh out of their morning services. And they were all talking. Very loudly. But I went back to my really good book world. Then I noticed how I was occasionally picking up on the conversations around me. I tried to ignore them. But then, and I swear to you this happened, this woman said the words "Soft Cell" in a normal sentence.

Of course I looked up at this. And that was when I began to realize that all of the conversations going around me involved music:

"She knew that I knew that he was always there with Heaven 17."

"You must ask Nathan about that. He can always recommend a good Squeeze."

"I'm not saying I would never, but why would I go with Naked Eyes?"

"Oh, that's fabulous. Roxy Music!"

Funny. I wouldn't have pegged this crowd for remarkable new wave literacy, but life is funny that way. What else are they going to talk about anyway? Their aging bodies? That would just be too Kajagoogoo.

Did I have the dream, or did the dream have me?

Last night I had a dream that my mother called me on the phone to tell me where she hid some Christmas presents for my niece, Sofia. After we hung up, it occured to me that I wanted to tell her to come and visit me. Then, when I woke up, I was a little bit angry with myself for not thinking fast enough. As if telling her to come and visit me would do away with the being dead part.

As if.

This is Kayla, the daughter of my best friend, Cindy.

When we were twelve, Cindy and I used to spend hours on the phone planning our futures. She was going to marry Joe Elliott (of Def Leppard fame), and I think I was going to be Stevie Nicks. Of course, all of these plans changed as we got a little older and wiser. By tenth grade, she had moved on from Joe Elliott and was making plans to marry her then boyfriend (who shall remain nameless) in the Himalayas, and I was going to run away from home and live in Penn Station and write really horrible poetry.

Yeah, we were clueless. None of our plans came to fruition. So then we learned how to stop making plans and just go with the flow. After all, how can you plan a Kayla?

Now we spend hours on the phone laughing about how clueless we were, and our future plans don't go any further than going to see Spamalot for my birthday.