[The Snake, The Cross, The Crown | The Contortionist]
Truth or Dare…
I chose to do 2 of the 3 dares Cheryl so considerately thought of for me to do.
Revealing my inner freak:
First I had to go shopping for a few things.
Hot head, huh? I’m all about it. (Rouge pimpant. Uh huh.)
Voila.
I am auditioning for Sum 41 later.
And Linkin Park.
5pm and it’s still there. My hair hasn’t moved an inch. I took a nap with this stuff in too. Not an inch. Yes I realize there’s some on my ear, thanks for pointing it out.
7pm and it’s still there. I’m washing it out when I’m done with this post.
Tattoo tour
I only have one, so I figured why not.
My ankle revealed (and freakishly narrow looking).
It’s a chinese dragon drawn in celtic style. I got it from a chapter icon in Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series.
Don’t worry Cheryl, you’ll get yours soon enough.
Month: November 2003
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Today I am thankful for:
Family and friends and the love I get from them every day.
Robots both giant and small, monkeys, ninjas, flying kung fu masters, Godzilla (but not the new movie), all the music I love, nanotechnology, Xanga bloggers who post pics of their boobs and boobs in general, kittens, fark.com, photoshop, digital cameras, sunglasses, postcards that say “I feel a sin coming on”, stickers, turkey meat, water, pirates, bash.org, somethingawful.com, Frejaluna’s monkey story, emoticons, Corona, cargo pants, Fugazi, ham.
[...more added as I think of it] -
A Series of Disjointed Autobiographical Entries, pt. II
Part IMy neighbors to the north, the ones whose home was attached to ours were very quiet people. I remember Mrs. G quite clearly; hair gone white, a fair, wrinkled face. Quick and alert eyes, her spine holding her tall, slim body proudly as she walked sure footed to and from those places the grown ups used to go. The deli, the market, the laundromat. Always a smile for the kids who were being good, or sharp words for when we weren’t.
Mr. G was more reclusive, only to be seen (by me) in the Jurassic garden of his back yard. Like his wife, he was white haired, tall and noble in posture. The yard was almost as secretive as he was. Flowers, impossible with their height, blocked the view and gave me only green stemmed tiger striped glimpses of his profile walking to and fro. He would spend time tending the flowers or the big leafy plants and on rare occasions, the monolithic cherry tree.
Late summer comes and the smell was intense. The cherries have been dropping from their tree; way too many to gather and consume. The raspberries have been dropping from the tree in our yard. The smell was cloying in the dead heat. Too heady, too rich.
The dropped berries and cherries stained the small cement walks, my sneakers and bare feet, their garage roof in small smears and spots of purple hues.
Their garage, like the rest of their yard, was huge. The double doors were green gone light and bright and cracked with sun fade. When the doors were open, I could hear Mr. G working; a thump of lumber, clinks and clanks of tools, the buzzing snoring of a saw. A small four paned window gave me glimpses into his shadowy work.
One year, I hadn’t seen Mr. G for latter half of the summer. In the way that children are, I hadn’t thought to ask or to be concerned much. Maybe I did think of it, but it flitted through and out of my head in the time it took me to walk from the back door and jump in the pool.
Late into autumn, I saw Mr. G again. I was in our back yard, playing one of the nameless games made up by an only child.
I’d looked into the garage window, directly at Mr. G’s face. Our eyes had met directly and held. I remember him looking much older, his expression unreadable. We stared.
Then he stepped away from the window, away from my sight.
Autumn turned to winter, then on into spring. No one tended the garden, but it grew. It grew huge and wild and into riotous green and flowers.
Spring turned to summer, and I asked my mother where Mr. G has been.
She crouched, eye to eye with me. “Oh honey, Mr. G was very sick. He’s gone to Heaven now.”
The thought of him being gone, gone forever, made me miss him. His unobtrusive presence as I shot make-believe enemies, mined for make-believe gold, or dug my way to China. It made me sad to think that he’d gotten so sick he’d died. It made me sad to think that no one would gather his cherries and share them with us vicariously through his wife. It made me sad that his wife wouldn’t have a husband any more.
I talked to my mother about it. I talked to my father about it. I didn’t understand, but I’d wanted to. Eventually, I understood and learned maybe too much.
I found out that one winter night, Mr. G had hung himself from a rafter in his garage. Mrs. G had found him the next morning. -
I thought I’d skip the entry about the contents of my refrigerator, since I eat the most boring food ever, and go straight to my junk drawer.
A great deal of the things in here aren’t exactly junk, per se. Many of them are items of sentimental value, some too personal to show (ie, pictures of other people and letters written to me), but here are some of the interesting things (clockwise from top to center…somewhat):
1. Various pictures, some of when I was young (check out the clothes, I was emo even when I was little).
2. A hematite bead necklace that I keep meaning to put back together, but never remember.
3. A really nice pocket watch that doesn’t work.
4. My old pager. I hated this thing. I still do. I hate cell phones too.
5. Guitar pics.
6. My post card collection, exclusively punk bands and 50′s/60′s pin up girls.
6a. The Betty Paige postcard, nude with leopards (or maybe it’s cheetahs).
6b. Handwritten post card from Guy P.(of the band Fugazi)
7. Condoms, including a colored one that I’ll never use…it’s pink.
8. A left handed crescent wrench.
9. The Satanic Jacket Hanger, or The Goat Headed Coat Hanger.
10. A samurai sword letter opener.
11. Little vial thing, made of brass and glass. I have no idea where this came from, but I think it’s neat.
12. My foot. -
I have trouble sleeping. I sleep restless, like it’s a struggle to stay asleep. My brain revolts against the urge to rest, dream and let go of its self control. As a result, or side effect, I have some pretty odd behaviors while asleep. I laugh out loud, sit up, night sweats, sleep walk and sleep eat. Sleep eat; meaning I go to the kitchen and start eating while I’m still asleep. Mostly I go after the sugary comfort foods (which haven’t been around in a while) and the serotonin precursors. Milk and peanut butter are pretty big. The next best thing is the OJ or random fruit juice, for the sugar content I guess.
I have yet to do any of the more dangerous or outright disgusting things I’ve read that sleep eaters do. Like eating a bar of soap, gnawing on raw, still-frozen chicken, or trying to cook something and rather than wait, going back to bed with the food still on the stove. This is all common behavior for the sleep eater.
Last night, I know I did it. There’s no peanut butter left today and the cinnamon raisin bread was open on the counter and stale when I woke up.
The severity is inconsistent, as are the occurrences. Some nights I’ll eat a spoonful of peanut butter, drink something to wash it down and go back to sleep. On the flip side, there have been nights where I’ve spent most likely 30 – 45 min polishing off a half gallon of ice cream, an entire jar of peanut butter, an entire 12″ pie or something else in gut busting quantities. I do mean gut busting in the most literal sense. After the heavy binge nights, I’ll wake up with my stomach cramping, the taste of old milk or ice cream in my mouth and I just want to puke. One of the worst times was the night I’d eaten peanut butter and washed it down with a few glasses of milk. Only…the milk had soured. The next morning I woke up to the spectacular feeling of someone gutting me with a red hot bowie knife and I barely made it to the bathroom before simultaneously puking (into the tub) and shitting like a South American mud slide (I know that’s really gross, but that’s the point. Also, contrary to the metaphor, it wasn’t into an over populated ghetto or village, it was into the toilet). VERY UNFUCKINGPLEASANT to say the least
Like I said, last night wasn’t bad. I know it comes and goes in cycles, and I know it’s just starting again.
In the spirit of things starting again, I took a look around the half written entries I’ve accumulated, thinking to finish at least a few of them. No such luck. So, for the sake of clearing out some hard drive space and for the sake of avoiding photographic overkill, I’m posting them in the bits and pieces and half finished fragments they are.
I read like a junkie. I crave the next book, the next essay, the next blog entry that will get me high, get me off, get me on. Each piece of prose I read is my hand around the hypo, pop the skin and push it in. Thumb the plunger. I want that high, like the first time I realized what I was reading wasn’t only a good story, but beautiful in the way the words ran together, flowed and flowered. Each syllable reflecting and refracting the way a rapid running river plays with sunlight.
I rubbed my eye to try and relieve the dryness, but my contact lens folded and wedged itself into the corner of my eye. “Shit”, I said to myself and made my way to the bathroom. Out fell the contact into my palm on the way in. I rinsed it with my bottled water, but it irritated even more when I put it on. Pulling it out, I cupped it in my hand and walked the hallways to the office of some I talk to sometimes.
I knock quietly (I don’t like intruding), she looks up and I ask “Hey Xxxxxxx, did you say you wore contacts? One of mine is irritating me.”
“No, I don’t. Sorry.” she says. “I’ll try to find someone who does though.”
“Oh cool. I’d ask around, but I don’t really know anyone here.”
I thanked her and as I turned, I asked someone who I’ve seen around the building but have never spoken to before. She doesn’t, but leans into the office next door and asks the woman sitting there if she has her solution. She does and I thankfully borrow it, rinse my contact and return the bottle of solution.
A little while later, I see Xxxxxxx in the hallway. “How’s your eye?” she asked me.
“Much better, I can actually see.” I said.
“You should come eat lunch with all of us (“all of us” being the small group of people around my age in the building), you’ve been here too long to not know anyone.”
the seas of dream(s[ing])
intertwined.
we become solution, suspension, collusion.
would you hold it against me
if i said
i want to fuck your brains out?
or would you let me push it in you
if i said
i want to fuck your brains out?
do you think i could be a gold digging whore
just like you are
and fuck you for books, music, clothes,
a new car and coke money?
not that i do coke.
but if you’d give me that much money,
i’ll take it and pretend i did.
it’s not regret. it just helps me to forget.
Truth and Falsehood went bathing; Falsehood came first out of the water, and dressed in Truth’s garments. Truth, unwilling to take those of Falsehood, went naked.
freedom fries
freedom dressing
freedom toast
freedom ticklers
freedom-Canadian
The Freedom Connection
i see London, i see freedom, i see someones underpants.
freedom poodle
freedom kissing
i Fuckn am DRNK!
70 mph.
“Hang on!” he protested loudly over the music and slapped her scrabbling hands away from his belt. She made a momentary moue, watching him struggle with the buckle and the steering wheel. Pulling it free from the loops, he considered it for a moment and flung it out of the open window. His shirt had already been tossed somewhere behind them, as had her dress and underwear.
“Hurry up…and close the windows for a sec.” as she leaned into the back seat to grab her purse and greedily grabbing the half dozen, thumb sized vials of cocaine and two of trademark tightly rolled bills. Two vials open and the bills stuck in them, they both bump. One for left and one for the right, as the good man says.
Trip hammering heart in his chest, he let up on the gas to kick both of his shoes off and pull at his socks. Feeling the cars slight deceleration, she panicked, screeching at him “Don’t fucking slow down! What the fuck!?” and made a dive for the gas pedal, trying to push it down with her hands. The car swerves slightly.
65 mph
“Stop! Stop! Stop! I’m not slowing down!”, grabbing at her and pulling her out of the way. Then quietly, “Crazy bitch.” Jamming his thumb repeatedly at the button in that too hard too fast way, he tried to roll the windows down. After the third try he slammed one of his shoes into the window, his frustration sending them into hysteria laced laughter.
weird feeling in my
pants. masturbation? no thanks,
i would like some sex.
And finally…some quotes I’ve saved from various instant messaging conversations..well shit, and here i was all bent over and getting pounded in the ass, and you were eating chicken
it’s like an orgy of adorable creatures
Is that a dong?
why do we want your non native bitey bitch chameleon!
fuck you and your entwined sub atomic particles!
i think you should just eat ice cream and be glad you don’t have herpes.
If thy ghetto-ass speakers worketh not, bang thy fist upon thy amp-receiver combo with great fortitude and worketh they shall.
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If I had something more to say than…
“My life is boring”
“I work out a lot”
“I go to sleep early and wake up early”
“I read a lot”
“I’m horny just about all the time”
“I’m alone probably more than I should be”
…I would write something. But I don’t. So there you have it.UPDATE:
I could really give a shit about getting to work on time today.ADDENDUM:
This is fitting. Sort of. From David Lynch’s Blue Velvet.
