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The Cunt is Mightier Than the Sword

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Tuesday, June 23rd, 2009
12:10 am - LONG survey is LONG
TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF - The Survey
Name:Chance. Yes, for realsies. Chance.
Birthday:October 12, 1984. 1984, oh noes!
Birthplace:My mother's vagina? Also, a hospital. And also, San Diego.
Current Location:Your mom's couch.
Eye Color:Caca colored. Kind of sexy, in a 2 girls 1 cup sort of way, I suppose. If you don't know, GO. Google. NOW. You may never forgive me....and you may never be the same again.
Hair Color:Not not not my real color! A reddish brownish...ah shit. My hair is so huge. Hugey McHairsALot.
Height:5 foot, 1.5 inches. FUCK, I'm short. Do NOT dis that half an inch!
Right Handed or Left Handed:Righty for writing, lefty for throwing heavy objects at you, flipping the bird at unsuspecting bystanders, and painting.
Your Heritage:Filipina, German, French, Mexican, Cherokee - and probably something else.
The Shoes You Wore Today:Ones that make me taller than YOU. Or at least as tall as the average woman.
Your Weakness:The Spoony One. He is.....freaking awesome. And the hugest nerd. EVER. WIN.
Your Fears:I'd say "garlic" but then Marie would shank me in heart.
Your Perfect Pizza:I like how this comes right after "Your Fears".
Goal You Would Like To Achieve This Year:Maintain employment.....my job is dumping me for a younger, thinner, sexier employee.
Your Most Overused Phrase On an instant messenger:LAWLZ. LULZ.
Thoughts First Waking Up:Why the FUCK am I awake this early if I just went to bed!?
Your Best Physical Feature:My breasts are A-MAZ-ING. Then again, breasts are ipretty much the best thing Mother Nature even invented. Clearly, I'm biased.
Your Bedtime:Whenever I feel like it, GOSH!
Your Most Missed Memory:My mom.
Pepsi or Coke:Survey, you silly bitch! You forgot DR. PEPPER.
MacDonalds or Burger King:The KING will end you!
Single or Group Dates:I prefer to get straight to the sheets, biotch.
Lipton Ice Tea or Nestea:Lipton is made of WIN.
Chocolate or Vanilla:Fruit Mango. LAWL.
Cappuccino or Coffee:Every time I come across the word cappuccino, all I can think about his Robert Schimmel talking about dick cappuccino.
Do you Smoke:Hahahhahaa GOD no! Smoking is SO bad for you. It gives you cancer. Oh wait. Yes, yes I do.
Do you Swear:FUCKING every other word. I'm ladylike.
Do you Sing:Terribly. And often. In the shower and the car.
Do you Shower Daily:Indeed, I do.
Have you Been in Love:For sho.
Do you want to go to College:Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa.
Do you want to get Married:Depends. Is it THE LAW YET!??!
Do you belive in yourself:I believe in Teal'c.
Do you get Motion Sickness:Vertigo when I get up very fast. It's freaking SWEET! No. It's not. It sucks, actually.
Do you think you are Attractive:Not exactly....
Are you a Health Freak:*takes a drag on a Camel* LUL WUT?
Do you get along with your Parents:Octopus.
Do you like Thunderstorms:Uh, YEAH. San Diego has been deprived of thunder and lightning.
Do you play an Instrument:I used to toy on the piano by ear. I've since lost the awesome. Saaaad.
In the past month have you Drank Alcohol:Unfortunately not.
In the past month have you Smoked:I am pretty much a Tobacco CEO's wet dream.
In the past month have you been on Drugs:TABACKY IS WACKY! M I RITE!?
In the past month have you gone on a Date:Does going with Jessie to see UP count?
In the past month have you gone to a Mall:The outskirts of the mall yes. I try to avoid the gooey, sloppy center.
In the past month have you eaten a box of Oreos:That is fucking disgusting, survey.
In the past month have you eaten Sushi:Kabuki in PB owns my soul.
In the past month have you been on Stage:All the world's a stage...
In the past month have you been Dumped:Yes. Unemployment, here I come!
In the past month have you gone Skinny Dipping:Awww. No.
In the past month have you Stolen Anything:A couple of souls here and there.
Ever been Drunk:Two words: Trailer trash. Another two words: Vegas Anus.
Ever been called a Tease:Maaaybeeee. Tee hee!
Ever been Beaten up:No, but I've had others feel compelled to beat someone up for me.
Ever Shoplifted:I accidentally walked out with a pack of soda at the bottom of my cart.
How do you want to Die:Trying to steal a monkey birthday cake.
What do you want to be when you Grow Up:Pornstar.
What country would you most like to Visit:Peru. Japan. India.
In a Boy/Girl..
Favourite Eye Color:In a boy/girl?
Favourite Hair Color:Does that mean, like, someone of mixed sex?
Short or Long Hair:Or are we just talking gender here?
Height:Gender, I guess.
Weight:Because if we were talking sex, it would say, "male/female".
Best Clothing Style:NUDE.
Number of Drugs I have taken:79.
Number of CDs I own:Not enough.
Number of Piercings:1. Right nostril. Take that, lefty!
Number of Tattoos:Real? 0. Imaginary? Like 3.
Number of things in my Past I Regret:Nothing. Suck it, Trebek.

CREATE YOUR OWN! - or - GET PAID TO TAKE SURVEYS!

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Friday, February 1st, 2008
1:40 am - Dedicated to the two who know who they are - taken from my myspace blog b/c it should go here too.
When we suddenly disengage from a serious relationship, the separation can be overwhelming. The shock is icy, bringing our better senses to a blistering halt. In the flash freeze, we even forget who we are. Meanwhile, bitterness, anger, and grief flood the emptiness until nothing is left alive - except the ugly parts.

We are hardly recognizable.

After the disaster, it is easy, even natural to allow the ugly parts to govern our actions. War commences between the two people, twice as ugly because it mirrors the worst in each person.

Perhaps we get drawn into this hideous pattern because it so quickly fills the void leftover from the death of "us". We trash talk. Or shriek out the last word with the razor precision we owe to the intimate connection once shared.

The power struggle ensues to survive the traumatizing alienation so that the two people alternate by holding the other's emotional head under the water in a panic to catch a breath. Clear thought is almost laughably impossible while the walls begin to implode on our sense of self.

This narrowness takes precedent, reflected in the fact that we launch into cutting into each other mercilessly. It seems, at the time, the only way to cope with painful alienation, to relieve the asphixiating powerlessness and despair, if we can only make that person understand, FEEL the same agony we do!

But it is not. And THEY DO so our efforts are futile. Anyone with sufficient emotional distance from a hardcore break-up will attest to that.

The truth is that the casualties these actions incur are more damaging than the initial break up itself.

The truth is that both people are left with their own demons, just as nasty as the other's.

Dispel and struggle with those! But don't fight each other in misdirected energies.

Forfeit, walk away, do NOT respond to that last electronic burst of bile. There is a point where it should just be left alone. Yes, it will be a shitstorm to brave but don't give in to another game of "who fucked up more" volley ball where everyone loses.

You will not be alone in this. Your friends will be a shelter, so in the end - eventually - you really will come back out smelling like roses, if not a little worse for wear. The "better senses" will thaw and revive to remind you that this is who you truly are.

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Tuesday, December 25th, 2007
9:49 am - Ahead of the rest: Christmas Eve dreams
I dreamt of being in some South American or European city. It did not feel like the United States in any case. We were a fairly large group, comprising many people I know today through socializing, through work.....and from the past. The lot were being led by my high school IB Theory of Knowledge class teacher, Mr. Jon Icardo. Clusters formed off the greater whole as we traipsed down sidewalks and streets alternating between cobblestone, dirt with grassy oases, and , but we were still clearly one, a class.

The details are fuzzy like 5'o clock shadow on the brain upon waking. My general impression is the group was given an assignment that required us to complete tasks amidst obstacles. These obstacles called for more thought, strategy than physical prowess. Perhaps this was why I ended up straying further up ahead than every other person in this class. The physical distance between me and the rest was a little unsettling. Mr. Icardo enthusiastically encouraged me to go forth and continue but I think I ended up lolly gagging a bit, trying to "neaten" things up for when the others got to this point. I made conversation with other people who were not in my class and had a good time. Mr. Icardo, laughed and spoke to me casually. I forget what he said now, but I remember that afterward, I was motivated to continue on my way.

Despite all the time I spent in this one task, I could only hear far-off echoes of the others. I continued on my way.

It's funny but I have not thought of Mr. Icardo in a great while. He was one of my favorite teachers, next to Wroblewski and Steussy. There's significance in the fact he was my Theory of Knowledge teacher - that was the first time in my high school career that I opened up and shared my thoughts. My mother was in the dream but I can't remember much of our time together. I think she was half-spirit and half-physical. I also remember floods to the streets as part of a task or 2. I wish it wasn't so hazy.

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Sunday, December 23rd, 2007
11:18 pm - Scarlet's Walk and Virginia
I sang the words in my tuneless voice, cracking over tears generations old...

Scarlet's Walk by Tori Amos

Leaving terra,
leaving terra.

If you're a thought
You will want me
to think you
and I did.

Invited a Guest
Up until you announced
that
you had moved in
"What do you plan to do
with all your freedom?"
the new sheriff said,
quite proud of his
Badge.
"You must admit the Land is now
in good hands."

Yes, time will tell that
you just lift your lamp.

I will follow
Her on her path,
Scarlet's Walk
through the violets.
Just tell your
gods for me
all debts are off this year,
they're free to leave
yes, they're free
to leave

Leaving terra,
leaving terra.

There was a time
when I thought that
Her destiny
should've been
mine.
Big Brave Nation
but instead her Medicine
now forgotten.

"What do you plan to do
with all your stories,"
the new sheriff said,
quite proud of his Badge.
We'll weave them through
every
rocket's red glare
and
huddled masses.
You just lift your lamp.

I will follow
Her on her path,
Scarlet's Walk
through the violets.
Just tell your
gods for me
all debts are off this year,
they're free to leave
yes, they're free
to leave.

Leaving terra,
leaving terra.

If you're a thought
you will want me
to think you
and I did
and I did.

Virginia by Tori Amos

In the Lush
Virginia hills
they kept her as
long as they could
Cause they knew
when the white
brother found
white shell Beads
wrapped around
her skin -- a life
giving river --
Her body open
as will his hand
And with a
"goodbye"
there she goes

she may Betray
All that she loves
and even wait
for their
Savior
to come
And in some things,
maybe he'll be
right
But as always
The thing that he
Loves
he will change
from her sunrise
to clockwise to soul trading
still she'll lay down
her Body
covering him
all the same

so Hundreds of
years go by
(the Red Road carved
up by Sharp Knife)
She's a girl
out working her
Trade
and she loses
a little each
day
to ghetto pimps
and presidents
who try and
arouse
her turquoise
serpents
She can't recall
what they represent
and when you
ask, she won't know

she will Betray
All that she loves
and even wait
for their
Saviour
to come
And in some things
maybe he'll be right
But as always
The thing that be
Loves he will
change from her
sunwise to clockwise
to soul trading
still she'll lay
down her Body
covering him all
the same
oh Virginia
do you remember
when the Land held
your hand
oh Virginia
she will let you back in
oh Virginia
you can't remember
your name

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Thursday, December 20th, 2007
12:04 am
Hearing my dad talk about how I moved on after mom died and he did not. She wanted her ashes released over the ocean - I did not know that until tonight. Her remains currently sit stale in an aging black urn with delicate gold, pin-width filegree, next to my father's bedside.

He thinks I've "moved on" because since Mommy died, I have "become an adult" in many ways, so far as the typical sense of that term. Full time work in a cubicle with benefits, driving my OWN car, paying the monthly bills, involved in a long-term romantic relationship.

But every time he goes on one of these tangents about his grief, my heart fills with anger and numbness. I just want him to shut the fuck up. Is that evil of me? Just. Shut. The. FUCK. Up. And then.....its all swallowed back. My mind stills, sometimes freezes. I get so mad at him. Even when he cries. Senseless and perfectly clear at the same time.

He's still talking. About how he needs to see a psychiatrist. I have told him this before. The response usually resulted in a screaming match, cruel laughter and insult. In fact, when I saw a psychiatrist right before and during my mother's diagnosis (originally for other reasons)- he abandoned me in the middle of Kearny Mesa in the beginning of rain with no car, no means of getting home and, as he likes to do, denounced my tie to him as his daughter. I learned to shut up.

Now he turns to me for advice. Sparingly, I relent and am rewarded with the resistance of a five year old. I know I chose this living situation and that I am supposed to learn from it. But I am resisting too. A voice inside of me asks, "What if the lesson you are supposed to learn is to let go instead of stay behind?" I have to wonder.

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Monday, December 17th, 2007
10:14 pm - Brain spasm
I should just write about whatever comes in my head, no matter how ridiculously mundane.

Lately, I am compelled to become....efficient. Hey, I never said I actually accomplished "efficiency." My goals have become tethered to work and it has consumed my life. Is this terrible? I used to think this would automatically render me some shell person without a soul. But somehow, I find comfort in it. Is this bad? Why do I feel the need to question these stages every step of the way? I felt a lot differently five years ago when I aspired to be a teacher or a historian or a writer or...an archaeologist. Or. Something. I just never found a calling that I could decide on. And after all this time, I have not broken the "this or that" - the "or" paradigm. How disappointing. I should just let go and become a Renaissance woman and hold the Faire please.

Funny when I let the thoughts just translate through my fingers I question myself every five seconds. It's a habit of which I thought I was aware. Apparently not. Anthony just said my writing style makes me sound like a "pompous ass." That's too bad, considering "pompous" implies an overinflated sense of self and ability. Then again, this is usually overcompensation. So. There you go. Or I go since I write to gather my thoughts which currently, float strewn across my brain into something less cohesive than quicksand.

It feels like quicksand sometime which is sad because I feel that I've taken a backtracking path away from some unambiguous but all-important goal. But again, my theory is life runs in spirals. I have all these cerebral constructs I use to bar myself from development. Damn.

I think I'm going to stop now because my stomach hurts. That was easy.

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Saturday, December 15th, 2007
1:44 am - Holy shit it's Christmasyishtime
1:46 AM and I'm still sitting here awake. The cursor has been winking me for 2 minutes now. Anthony is shuffling through Boards of Canada tracks at my request for him to drag me out of music listening rut.

Tomasita, Jessie and I rode around La Jolla, Pacific Beach and Clairemont through "Candy Cane Lane" in hopes of discovering the most light laden homes. It's such a strange custom to string lights outside of a building. No 2 shades of blue or white are the same; turquoise seems the most beautiful, then cobalt blue seems much more soulful the next. Electric whites. Abstract patterns and familiar archetypes litter lawns in trees and skirting or criss-crossing rooftops. Is it weird that this scenic drive churned up thoughts of death?

I never believed in Santa Claus. My father saw to that. As I ride this train out, my childhood seems like a small blip behind a tunnel at least 1 quarter through. Ahead, everything seems cloaked; behind, fog swallows memories in tact but whole. All I can feel is motion.

Anthony says that Santa Claus is retarded. But I think I actually know what he means. It can be ridiculous.

I am sleepy and though I doubt there was a point to any of this, any semblance of one is completely gone. So. Bye.

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Tuesday, December 4th, 2007
11:04 pm - Blasphemy
She's addicted to nicotine patches....she's afraid of a light in the dark. 6:58 are you sure where my spark is? Here, here, herrre!

I see Tori on the twelfth - goddess incarnate like the rest of us - only she is self-realized. I spend time wondering when that moment will arrive for myself....and then I remember that The Now is the time....and it is not really as far off as I imagine it to be.

Why do I even allow "some day" - or "someday" depending on how you like to write it - continue to exist in my vocabulary? Why should I nurture it when it just becomes a rigid excuse? Some Day can be empowering. But I remember how Celie from The Color Purple spoke to Sofia after Harpo bashed her eye in, "This life be over soon. Heaven last always." Sofia rejected this paradigm. Her character personified motion, strength, power in one voluptuous, womanly package.

Really, when did it become okay to separate the human from the divine? I don't think we were ever ousted out of Eden. I also don't think eating from the tree of knowledge is our original sin but rather an honorable decision to awaken the greatest powers infused within to create, experience, mess up and make things beautiful again. The human psyche can be a glorious thing if we allow it to be.

Devils and gods, now that's an idea. But if we believe it's they who decide, that's the ultimate detractor of crimes 'cause devils and gods they are you and I. So sings Tori.

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Monday, December 3rd, 2007
10:00 pm - Cranky pants
The tops of my feet are itchy with the indentations from the socks being pressed too long into the skin. My eyes are rubbery when I blink.

Today was a day from hell. I am so glad I'm off tomorrow. Only wait. There's a "mandatory" meeting at 6 PM. So I have to go to work anyway. For 2 bleeding hours.

I am so cranky. I kept jerking out of sleep last night because of nightmares which I no longer remember. I spoke to some pushy asshole and had to push back. He teemed with paranoia and was obtuse as they come. He continued to interrupt - LOUDLY - to "stay in power". It went downhill from there despite my best efforts. Usually it works and I get over it because really, where is the use in letting someone get to you? It probably would have gone differently had I been better rested. So my "best efforts" were fairly diffuse. Unfortunate.

I think right now I am going to curl up in bed to read the third book in the Anne of Green Gables series. Or maybe not.

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Sunday, December 2nd, 2007
10:45 am - Suitcase Messages
When open, the dream suitcase did not have a faux silk, elastic pocket lining its top shell. It was lined with a design giving the illusion of viewing a pyramid from above, with the center being a square. There were messages handwritten between the lines from my mother, imperfect and slightly uneven following the lines bending abruptly at right angles so that I tilted my head to read the contents. I can't remember these messages in waking but they were very detailed and more like jotted thoughts.

I wish I could remember. I don't even remember what was in the suitcase but that held less importance than the words. And for some reason, I remember reading the date 8/1 - the year included but I cannot remember now.

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Saturday, December 1st, 2007
11:10 pm - Stretched
Debbie is watching Amercia's Most Wanted and the woman speaking being interviewed earlier looked so motherly and sweet - with a full fleshy face and round eyes - very calm looking with little or no make up. She was probably in her forties.

Calls were more overwhelming than they have been in a long time today, due to it being a weekend day and the few of us scheduled today were streeeetched to compensate for those who went to the Holiday Ball instead. Weekends are already understaffed as it is. So, as you can imagine, hell in a fucking headset, updated and modern and it wraps around the top of your skull like a headband of doom.

My father still insists we celebrate my mother's birthday - he has reinstated it as his own. I suppose whatever works.

I planned on writing more but as always I am tired.

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10:40 am - Working on a Saturday, as always.
The company is going to the Holiday Ball. Not really my deal but I'm working 12 to 9 while everyone socializes in their best formal clothing.

I dreamt of a large house, connected to an airport where Jessie and some other girl were weaving through mazes of rooms and hallways with me to make our flight to Las Vegas. The unknown girl and I were playing hide and seek in the house with my cousin Chris. We chose a long closet full of clothes hanging and piled in heaps with blankets. She covered herself well but for some reason as soon as I reached the deepest point in the closet, I could hardly move, let alone pile clothes and blankets on me. Chris found us easy because of me.

Jason and Lee were bickering and the right side of Jason's face looked deformed by burn scars - his eyebrow was merely implied and it looked my like a river etched landscape in beige more than the right side of a face. They were both trying to get me to side with them while some random dude friend of theirs sat by with glazed eyes and nothing to say. Too high to give a shit. I told them both to shut the fuck up because Jessie and unknown girl were waiting for me - I'd returned into the labyrinth house to pick up my red duffel bag. But somewhere between me finding it deep in the house and going back out to the walkway to our flight (connected to one part of our house), the walls had cinched in and I was having trouble making it out alive.

I forget the last part of the dream - but no matter. After this cigarette I need to get dressed for work.

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Friday, November 30th, 2007
8:45 pm - Scariest drive of my entire life
As a Southern Californian, I do not have much experience driving in rain relative to the majority of the country. However, I have driven through some nasty, tropical shit.

Tonight was the most scared I have ever been in my life driving in the rain. Every 10 to 20 seconds it seemed I was passing two cars that had crashed into each other. I can't remember such intense rain in San Diego. I finally fully comprehend what it's like to have "buckets of water" rain onto my windshield. Thank heavens I had applied Rain X water repellant a couple of months ago. Visually, it still seemed like I was driving underwater. The wind did not help and for once, despite all of the accidents, 95% of other San Diegan drivers around me actually drove with the proper sense of speed and caution when it comes to rain. I am used to a good 25% of assholes speeding and weaving because their figurative dicks are too small to go with a "slower speed" to match wet/windy conditions.

Holy crap. Be careful. I hope everyone is safe.

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1:26 am - Sleep
Why do I find myself typing a few words before deleting them and starting over again? Then again, why am I listening to the Dandy Warhols wail "Sleep" instead of sleeping myself? Biting my nails and tonguing the slivers off the edge of my lips into oblivion.

I have spoken to thousands of people over the past year. Faceless voices ranging from simple update requests to full blown schizophrenic meltdowns, probably over some perceived wrong pertaining to an aquarium sale and an overworked manager who was too depleted to lay the courtesy service on thick enough. Meaningless situations like this occasionally haunt my dreams. They start dim, like neon light seeping through several layers of black gauze....and then, fade away.

And that godawful Tibetan bell, desecrated in the name of productivity, quantity, the trusty ol' statistic VPs go ga-ga for. Useless. I should be insulted at how ridiculously Pavlovian it is - yes, as in the salivating dog. Ruff ruff. Seriously this aural addition to their "arsenal" has only accomplished permanently sautering off any remaining neural pathways associating this chime with peace or groundedness.

Despite these complaints - among others I don't care to re-examine in any more detail than I am guilty for already - this....is good for me. Passive and anxious by nature, this job calls for my mandatory use and development of the former's qualitative counterparts. I do (did?) not naturally enjoy on-the-spot problem solving, not having advance notice, skipping rehearsal or research time. Who knew developing a mindset receptive to improv could be slightly exhilarating, occasionally fun - in spite of once flash freezing fear?

There are lots of cynical observations that could snuff that previous paragraph with so little effort. What keeps me going is that I refuse to let it completely crush that notion. On the contrary, I uproot weeds that threaten suffocation and encircle it at the center of my will, hoping enough sunlight and patience will serve up strength and wisdom in the end. I will allow the big picture to unfold around me and maintain integrity, my voice. Even within a cubicle cocoon of blurry, fraying gray.

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Wednesday, November 28th, 2007
9:58 pm - Yearning to be addicted
"Addiction" does not typically conjure the most sought after states of being to mind. To be sure, its use might even be an inconsiderate means of describing my yearning to write. I want to write so well and so often that its beckoning only competes with nicotine's effect on me. Although, I don't imagine writing has ever been linked to shorter lifespans and cancer.

A teacher once told me I wrote well. Then another, and another - as though the universe was growing impatient waiting for self-realization to illuminate some magical path where creation and destiny mingle.

For some reason, I get tripped up in analysis: What is it to write well? What's so special about what I do? Everyone else can write and many write far better than I could ever hope to accomplish. My brain spins so fast in self doubt, there's a black hole sucking up any semblance of creative energy.

And now my father is drunk, spraying his depressing verbal diarrhea all over me. I can't even finish a thought.

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Tuesday, November 20th, 2007
11:01 pm
His laughter should fill me with joy. But I think I'd rather go to sleep.

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Friday, November 2nd, 2007
12:27 am - Ripe
Tripping on these honey gypsies jangling
Swinging heavy hips
"One coin for your troubles, buttecup."
Grip it through teeth
Swallowing copper in throatfulls
To spit at that ferryman who watches
While fingers make good patchwork of this soul
Tearing 'round this needle called distract
Retract
I'm too poor to afford
The round trip back.

~

Isn't wisdom supposed to ripen with age? But then again, that's linear 1-2-3 logic and life really isn't like that. No, it really runs more akin to a spiral or a circle. Maybe even more chaotically and in more unfathomable paths than that. Wisdom flows easily and more generously at some points than others and does not necessarily manifest in chronological order.

How limiting of me to address something qualitative like wisdom is spatial terms.

Reading what I was inspired enough to record and save years ago, it seems blatantly clear that all these words intended for self affirmation or for others, in some cases, are wiser than all outside advice combined so far.

A snoozing Newton, I am still waiting for the fruit to fall from the tree planted so long ago. But I have hope. Outside of it all, I resort back to nudging and shaking myself into consciousness. Why does Now seem so ironically elusive? Why not halt the passive waiting for gravity/karma to do its work? Why not rub the sleep sand from my eyes to reach out and pluck the fruit before it rots?

But that's the thing - it never rots and it has always been ripe. Before you. Before me. Outside of time, in the now that has always been.

current mood: contemplative

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Monday, October 22nd, 2007
7:58 pm - Fire memories
I remember how Micheal and I huddled together on his cramped patio in La Mesa, dazed by the red skies signifying the Cedar Fire. Smoking Misty 120s to spite charred air thicker than cotton from the wafted smoke and heat. We drew meaningless squiggles on the ash carpet with our big toes, blinking against the burn. This was the first year I smoked, the first year out of high school, the first year I drove....the first year without Momma. I can't speak for him but I distanced my mind from the approaching firewaves - and I kept thinking how beautiful the sky was, bloody like heavily layered watercolours, the sun, when visible, a flared pumpkin distorted by heat mirage.

The city is on fire again and I worry more this time around. We were evacuated at work but no one dared whisper the word "evacuation." We were simply "closing for the day." Possibly longer, indicated by the message recorded in our director's voice, informing callers to call us back for assistance "within the next few days."

It has been reported somewhere the fires are thought to reach the actual city of San Diego tomorrow. I see Kaleena read that somewhere too. Fire is my hugest fear too.

My lower abdomen is cramping for no discernible reason. I am strangely anxious and calm.

current mood: anxious

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Tuesday, October 9th, 2007
10:38 pm - Schlane
Saturday, October 6, 2007 9:15 PM PDT

Daily News staff

FATAL TRAFFIC COLLISION, NEEDLES - On Thursday at 4:25 p.m., Schlane Flynn, 58, of Lemon Grove, Calif., was driving a 2003 Ford pickup northbound on Highway 95, south of milepost marker 52 (south of Five Mile Road.) For unknown reasons, she let her vehicle drift to the right, run off of the east road edge and onto the soft dirt shoulder. Flynn overcorrected to the left and lost control of the vehicle, veering across both lanes of the highway in a northwesterly direction and colliding head-on with a dirt embankment. The impact caused the vehicle to roll over onto its roof, trapping Flynn inside. She was wearing a shoulder and lap style seat belt. She was removed from the vehicle and shortly thereafter stopped breathing. Flynn was transported from the scene to the Colorado River Medical Center in Needles, where she was pronounced dead.

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Thursday, October 4th, 2007
11:51 pm - Boys For Pele
My intestines are coming undone - but that's cool. Spicy noodles - that was such a GREAT idea. I don't regret it. At all.

Only I do.

So here I am awake in my hopes that getting it all out of my system and letting my body settle down before sleeping will ensure I make it calmly and comfortably to work in the morning.

Insert segue here.

I love Jessie. Nearly four years have passed and I can't help but envision a 4 year old girl parallel to thoughts of how long we have endured - and in some cases, almost not endured. I hope that her patience for me isn't wearing thin. This depression patch is thicker than I anticipated but I guess it's not so bad since I can still function.

On an unrelated note, apparently imitating grating farts helps my brother collect his thoughts as he struggles to remember the name of a video game featuring Sonic the Hedgehog. And people wonder why I'm as weird as I am. Some things, you're just born with.

You know that grainy heaviness that impregnates your eyelids so that every time you blink it feels like you're caressing your delicate ocular surfaces with nothing but the very best SANDPAPER? Yeah. Like butter. Or silk. With sharp sand granules hot glued to the surface. Only I think hot gluing sand grains to butter would be a physical impossibility. Or setting yourself up for epic failure.

I think it's shower then sleep time. Go me.

Started listening to Boys for Pele; ended listening to Baime from Tribal Sutras by TYA.

current mood: drained

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