If my life gets any more interesting, I’ll be a great case study soon. But until then, I’m rather enjoying the oddness.
First, I’ve found out that my intermediate belly dance class will be performing in the first two weeks of March. The choreography is awesome, and the music is everything I’d hoped for. It starts out sounding really tribal, then this heavy bass kicks in… hell yeah. My teacher Natalie is a sweetheart AND a good teacher. Very patient.
Then, there’s the explanation for this picture:
(That’s me in my funny hat on the djembe and Matt on didgeridoo, Angela on violin, Glen on djembe/ banjo, and that one guy I just met on doumbek and effects pedals. No, the drum set wasn’t played and I have no idea what the skillet is for.) Matt and I were asked if we wanted to perform with our friend’s band, Delphi Quorum, on Feb. 5. Sure, why not, an excuse to play music is an excuse to play music. This is an…. interesting musical experiment- some guy is using effects pedals (including a loop) on some odd sounding vocals and Matt’s didgeridoo. Then there’s a few djembes (including mine) and my Remo klong yaw that Matt is pretty good at using as a “talking drum” because it’s so out of tune.. I guess you have to hear it and know a little about tuning drums to understand why. But anyway, there’s a banjo and a violin as well. Yeah. Experimental. It’s fun, but I’m sure plenty of folks might see it is strange or just plain creepy.
So, I was at my acupuncture appointment getting jabbed when for some reason, in a conversation between me and Brent and Allie, it was mentioned that Brent knows an Incan Shaman. I’m about to start writing a research paper on medicines and hallucinogens in the ancient Andes, so it seemed quite serendipitous. He hasn’t seen her for a bit but says he’ll look her up for me. Meanwhile, I’m also doing a research paper on NAGPRA, and Ana just revealed to me that her best friend’s father is a Lakota Shaman. Perfect. And weird. But cool… I’ll be attempting to set up some interviews soon.
Meanwhile…
I’ll be doing a photo shoot this Sunday with a few models. It will hopefully involve a collection of antique tools, really colorful clothing, railroad tracks, possibly a raccoon skin coat, and a crumbling silo. Sounds like fun to me.
If you’re not calling your favorite legal drug dealer (i.e. psychiatrist) for some Prozac on my behalf yet, it’s only because you know me well enough. I guess. Thanks.
I’m making some Pozole and hoping the damn hominy is done before the cornbread is. I need to get to sleep soon… long day tomorrow…
Oh, yeah. The top picture is my friend and tattoo artist Randal, playing a variation of chess invented by our friend Kurray and some other guys. Possibly including Randal. Matt helped make the board a couple years ago. The board they’re playing on has elevated squares in a roughly pyramid shape, and the corners are decorated each with tropical island, Antarctic, desert, and jungle scenes. No idea how it’s played. I always lose chess. And Hearts. And Gin. And… well, everything but scrabble and connect four.
Just in case you’ve wondered why everything is Made In China these days, and you’ve just figured that labor there is cheaper and blown it off, here’s a news article you need to read, from today’s news.
Chinese Protest Lack of Human Rights
Apparently, if you live in China and you have land they want, they can just knock your house down and stick you in a labor camp. And they do it all the time. They probably do it all over the world.
Maybe protesting won’t put a dent in it, but that doesn’t make the “made in China” labels on everything any nicer to look at.
I try to find as much locally handmade stuff as I can. So my dishes don’t all stack perfectly. Big deal.
I’ve been pretty busy with the holiday stuff- even more busy trying to get all my schoolwork finished and turned in. My brain has had the hardest time getting in the right mode for answering complex questions- at least the panic attacks have all but stopped, but the undercurrent of fear is still there and will be until I can figure out where it’s coming from and de- program it. It seems my panic/ anxiety is an evolving machine, rather than a revolving one. It’s not cyclical- it just adapts to my ways of dealing with it. But as it evolves, so do I- it seems to be a strange mechanism for generating new and different perspectives. Unfortunately, this makes day- to- day life a bit more challenging.
I made something special for my sister that I hope I can get mailed in time. I won’t tell her what it is, but here’s a hint:
Finally, here’s a guinea pig with a strange appetite- his name is Juniper and he lives in Ana’s room:
A few weeks back, a friend of ours was pulled over and arrested while driving without a license to get food for people at a party. We paid her bail on the condition that she follows the rules so we can get our money back. Her court date was days away. And guess what? She’s back in jail. We’re not sure why yet, but the last time Matt stopped her from driving without a license AGAIN was because she wanted to go to the mall to get her nails done.
Most likely, we’re not getting that $200 back, and they’ve just cut Matt’s hours by half- and my pay is going down as well due to the fact that no papers come out over holiday breaks. One of those breaks goes for almost a month. Where’s that good karma?!
Yesterday, I somehow miscalculated my rent amount (big shocker, for those of you who have had the misfortune of meeting my math disability)- and paid a little too much. “That’s okay,” said the landlord’s manager, “I’ll just shred this check…”
“Don’t shred it!” I said, “It’s a money order!”
“Okay, well, I can just shred the money order…”
I managed to get her to return it to me so I could remedy the situation. Thankfully, I was able to just write “not used for purpose intended” on the back, sign it, and get my money back. I then had a CHECK made. Never will I send that woman a money order again.
Yeah, and I’M the one with the learning disabilities and anxiety disorders… no criminal record, never shredded anything important… yet I feel like the moron.
For your viewing pleasure, here’s a butterfly I met this morning.
The internet is finally back! WOOHOO!! Just in time- I start school tomorrow, and I’ve got three articles for the paper in mind that just can’t wait to spew forth from my fingertips. And I know at least one of my teachers has assignments every session- lots of writing.
I can’t post ALL of what I’ve been writing while attempting to keep my sanity, but here are some snippets:
August 25.
4:15 am. The T- Mobile jingle wakes me up.
Snooze.
4:29. Why hasn’t that stupid thing gone off yet?
4:35. There it is.
Matt turns his lamp on and beats me to the bathroom.
I get his lunch ready- two bottles of Ensure and a yogurt. He won’t be able to chew for another week still. His 100 oz refill mug is all ready to go with grape punch.
4:50. Matt is showing remarkable fortitude and self- discipline. He’s in pain, he’s always beyond grumpy in the morning, and once again I’ve made a ridiculous mathematical error in our finances. Yet he wasn’t squawked at me. Is it because of all my apologizing, or is it just too painful for him to talk?
When I thank him for not killing me, he says he loves me and holds my hand.
5:00 am. Matt saunters into the office, and I saunter off toward home. I turn the radio on.
“Young and dumb and full of “oh!” with a sugar coated candy cane…” Yeeauchh. -click-
“She’s sixteen and sexy…” -click. Why are all the pedophiles recording music and not in jail?
White Zombie’s “Thunder Kiss 65″ tails off and is followed by ads. -click-
NPR. Plane crashes in Guatemala and Kyrzykstan. Russia vs Gorgia. Russia vs Russia. Kashmir vs. India. Palestine rejoices as Israel releases prisoners. Closing ceremonies at the Bird’s Nest in Bejing. Women’s tennis.
Knowing my uncle is way into women’s tennis, I try to pay attention, and space out. Uncle Frank makes it sound much more interesting than the radio does. “At the end of the day, it’s not about a banana,” indeed.
-click-
Just in time to hear the end of Ozzy’s “Flying High again.” Oh well, I have three copies of it at home in various states of media.
I pull into my parking space and saunter back toward the bedroom, hunt for the remote, turn on BBC news.
Bejing, Bejing, Bejing. Lamenting women at the Kyrgyzstan airport.
Matt’s ring floats from my phone. He’s forgotten his ibuprofen.
Back in the car. 50 mph down the highway and something that looks and runs kind of like a badger but is the size of a german shepherd and covered in shaggy brown hair darts in front of the car. I manage to miss it without losing control.
Matt is cleaning the blue screens. I hand him the bottle. He thanks me and shows me the swelling in his face. I hope he’ll be okay.
Back in the car.
Black Sabbath’s Iron Man… classic but overplayed. -click-
Crap. The talk shows have started. -click-
Niel Young’s “Heart of Gold.” Another overplayed classic. -click-
Ads. -click-
That song with that guy who wants to put his dick in a blender or something while tied to a bedpost. Well, at least he’s not drooling over jailbait.
August 26.
4:42 am. I order myself to stop hitting snooze and get the hell out of bed.
Matt gets up and beats me to the bathroom again.
He informs me sourly that I left my floss in his hairbrush, and I apologize. I’ve actually never been tired enough to do that before.
Apparently there really is a first time for everything.
4:47 am. Dump ice and gatorade in Matt’s 100 oz refill mug. Grab him some yogurt and Ensure. Chewing is still not recommended.
4:57 am. Matt wants more kisses than usual before going in to work.
4:58. Nirvana’s “About a Girl.” “Long Road to Ruin.” G nR’s cover of “Knocking on Heaven’s Door” takes prescedent above Aerosmith’s “Dude looks like a Lady,” one of my least favorite Aerosmith songs.
I reflect on how I miss having a CD player in my car- I could choose my own mood soundtrack in the morning rather than having it chosen for me considering the impact music has on my moods…
Aha. So that’s what “highway hypnosis” is.
I reflect on the myriad aspects of what the hell might be wrong with me today.
5:09. Home again home again jiggity jig. Wow, I really am on an odd one today. I think I’ll go back to bed.
Why, what a spendid idea if I do think so myself….
8:32 am. I’m startled awake by Matt’s text. “Can you come get me?”
I can. Though I’m so damn tired I probably shouldn’t.
He’s been so like a zombie at work for lack of sleep and solid food that he’s been sent hope to re- coup.
8:40. We’re driving over the bridge when I see a bill float over the car at a high rate of speed. “Holy shit, that was money!” I said. But Matt’s on the phone with Jeff and can’t hear me. I take the roundabout way and we end up walking up and down that street.
We never found it. Sigh. It looked like a fifty.
I lament the seven bucks in my checking account, but at the same time I’m glad it’s there.
9:ish. Matt’s in bed. I’m installing updates. I should probably be sleeping, too, but I’m not.
The scale reads 127.4. That’s the lowest I’ve seen it in almost two years- I’m very close to my first goal of 125. Then, I’ll try for 115. Hooray.
Food food food! I’m starving! Matt has brought home a package of smoked sausages he’d had at work but can’t eat them anymore. For a while at least. Since he’s turned in for the day, I won’t feel guilty for eating one! I hate eating in front of him these days.
I call Brent at work and leave a message, hoping he wan’t expecting me to come in today.
Interesting. An article about a near plane crash above France when an unexpected depressurization occurs in mid flight. But what I think is funny are the ads surrounding the article, subtitled “Passengers expected to “meet their maker” as plane plummets 26,000 feet.” Directly beliw the picture, an ad for flight searches- next to that, “Save up to 50% on travel! Airfare included!” Below that ad, the story continues with passengers “properly terrified.”
I hadn’t known there was a proper way to be terrified, or that it was proper to be terrified. Appropriate, maybe- unavoidable without being under the influence, definitely- but now I know that if I’m ever almost in a plane crash in Euorope, being terrified is good etiquette as well.
10:43. The internet is working on the laptop, but it’s not nearly as maneuverable as the desktop. So I’m signing off for a snack and a nap and maybe a nice shower.
August 27.
4:15 am. Snooze.
4:something. Snooze.
4:40. Shit.
I force myself awake. “Last night was hell,” Matt tells me.
We get all his stuff together and take off, but he forgets his mug. I have to go back for it.
5:01 am. Heading back. Def Leppard’s “Armageddon It” is playing. It was one of my favorite songs when I was in middle school, and probably the most light- hearted of the songs I listened to then. When it’s over, I hope they play something else not depressing.
Aerosmith’s “Cryin.’” Go figure.
-click- (just to see what else is on) Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name.” An old guilty pleasure.
I haven’t heard these songs in years but I still have all the lyrics memorized.
5:10. I throw ice in Matt’s drink, grab a sweater and run back to the car.
Ads. -click-
More ads. -click-
Even more goddamn ads. -click-
Eddie Money’s “Take Me Home Tonight.” Ahhh. Talk about your guilty pleasures. Of course, I’m starved for good vocals, and Ronnie Spector is a nice break from the one- type- fits- all approach to female vocals these days.
I run in to Matt’s work where he’s cleaning screens like every morning, give him his drink and a kiss, and I’m off again.
Stone Temple Pilots, “Plush.”
Some happy song about the good ol’ days and a girl he used to know. I reflect on how I always wanted to be that girl they sang about- the one they fell in love with and how they remember her smile and her hair and wish they could see her again…
All the guys I dated in middle and high school were 5- 10 years older than me and just wanted to fuck. There were a couple of guys who I dated for a couple of weeks at a time who were my age and nicer, but easily drifted away when they saw something better, which wasn’t uncommon. Seemed like the only guys interested in me were in their twenties and not wanting anything long- term. As much as I tried to get someone to love me… there just isn’t anything romantic about pedophilia. Especially being on the receiving end of it.
The Good ol’ days for us weren’t anything to sing about, either. I was always surrounded either by tweekers or bible thumpers (we even had a few tweeking bible thumpers). I had the most fun when me and Karin would take off by ourselves. Whenever we were around other people, everyone just wanted to be bitches and get drunk or high or try to get in someone’s pants or climb out a car window at 60 miles per hour on the highway or, worst of all, try to take our music away and tell us we’re going to hell for listening to it. I remember those videos they showed us about how all heavy metal artists were Satanists and they’d backmask everything from Motley Crue to the Bee Gees. Yep, ALL secular music is evil, evil, evil.
It was great when we could get away from it all and laugh our asses off at them. When it was just us hanging out, I wasn’t on edge. I could actually fucking relax and be myself.
It is suddenly no big mystery why listening to Slayer and Pantera helps me out of my bad moods.
::end snippets::
Don’t worry, I’m not so depressed at the moment. I’ve learned how to reflect on things from an objective point of view so I don’t walk around feeling like shit all day.
Since Matt’s had those teeth pulled, it’s not as easy to to keep his energy up. In a couple of days, he’ll be able to eat more solid food. Neither of us can wait. Hopefully he’ll have his dentures in a few months, and that will be one less huge worry on our minds.
“Afterism (n) – A concise, clever statement you don’t think of until too late. — John Alexander Thom”
Aren’t I cute? I think I was between 7 and 10 in this picture, baking peanut butter cookies at our home school moderator’s place. Home schooling didn’t last long for us. I think my mom realized pretty quickly what a pain I am to teach. Of course, this was back when something called a “math disability” was quite unheard of. Now that I’ve actually been diagnosed with one at the ripe old age of 34, it’s a bit too late to get any help for my grade- school self.
But I have a very long memory, and a very clear one at that. I can remember details from ages ago that people have long since forgotten. (Strange how I lose sunglasses, keys, and other small objects constantly.) There are all kinds of things I wish I could go back and respond to a bit differently. I don’t regret much anymore, seeing what a waste of time that’s turned out to be- but trying to get people to understand my point of view- as much of a lost cause as it’s always been- is always worth the effort, isn’t it?
Afterism 1.
Situation: I’m twelve, and we’re at my mom’s bible study, where everyone suddenly sticks their hands all over me and starts speaking in tongues. (For anyone unfamiliar with the phrase, “speaking in tongues” is mentioned in the New Testament in the book of Acts as “Speaking in the Tongues of Angels.” Born Again Christians believe this is a sacred and powerful act of prayer.)
What I said: Nothing.
What I would have liked to say: “Whoa! OK, I know you all mean well, but you’re starting to freak me out here. I only came because I heard there were brownies.” Indeed, desserts were piled high on the table. I should have known it was a trap.
Afterism 2.
Situation: I’m fourteen and I’m a block away from the middle school, hanging out with the rest of the ne’er-do- wells on a corner, smoking a cigarette, when my mom’s friend pulls up and lectures me. “Your mother will be very upset when she hears in Church that you’ve been smoking!!” she yelped.
What I said: “Um… I’m holding it for someone.”
What I should have said: “Yes. Please inform my mother in front of the ENTIRE CONGREGATION that I’m some evil, demon- infested snot. After all, this cigarette couldn’t possibly be a symptom of depression or an anxiety disorder- after all, I listen to heavy metal! It’s for the best that everyone thinks of me as a terrible person right when I hit puberty. Go tell it on the Mountain, Sister.”
Afterism 3.
Situation: I’m still fourteen, and apparently evil. My mother has recruited a friend of hers to attempt to mentor me, and she begins with a lecture on how evil my music is. She writes down all the lyrics to Bon Jovi’s “Slippery When Wet” (MUCH more wicked than Slayer or Mercyful Fate) and nitpicks them down to the bone.
What I said: Not much. I’d learned that people don’t listen to what they don’t want to hear.
What I should have said anyway: “You’re so right. All the experiences that make songwriting what it is, all the soul- searching and perspective- it all pales in the light of the references to sex. How will we EVER get people to stop having sex? Or having perspectives that -gasp- aren’t like YOURS??!!”
Afterism 4.
I don’t remember exactly how old I am, but I think I’m 14 or 15. I’m at one of those Christian summer camps- I’d actually volunteered because I love the mountains and I hardly ever got to see them. The next year, it was at the beach. Unfortunately, word has gotten around that I’m a horrifyingly evil person. One of my roommates can’t find her money, and they immediately accuse me of stealing it. She looked again, and found it. “So obviously I didn’t steal it!” I said. “No, you got scared and put it back,” they told me.
How I reacted: I was bloody furious. I don’t remember if I said anything or not- I just took a long walk in the woods and wished I could get lost, but noooo I’d studied to much on survivalism. Dammit.
How I wish I had reacted: I should have sat in the woods and waited for helicopters and demanded to be taken home when they arrived. I should have cost that stupid camp thousands of dollars for accusing me of that shit. I should have refused to ever see any of them, talk to them, or take any of them bloody seriously, ever. Hell, I should have torched the cabin and danced around it like a Voodoo queen. But I didn’t. I went the next year to enjoy the beach, and they still thought of me as a thief and forced me to room with the counselor. I hated them all SO MUCH. -sigh- the things I do for nature.
Afterism 5.
Situation: I’m sixteen and pregnant. Everyone has deserted me but two people, so I’ve decided to try Christianity again (big mistake). I end up hanging out with this kid who thinks he’s awesome. Everyone calls him “Hollywood” for some reason. He listens to Christian metal and dresses like a rock star- and acts like an asshole. He constantly tears me down, tells me how ugly I am, treats me like absolute shit. Meanwhile he goes around “ministering” to people on the bus.
How I reacted: Well, I sat there and took it like a wuss. Turned the other cheek, if you will.
What I should have said: “You know, I think I’ve had it with this nonsensical religious bullshit. You can treat people like ass, but it’s okay because you’re trying to convert people. I’ve taken all kinds of shit from you and I haven’t put your head through a single window, yet I’m the bad person? Because I don’t know how to stand up for myself? I don’t need to know what’s in the bible, I don’t need to be told what I’m doing wrong all the time. I need to get the fuck away from people like YOU.”
Afterism 6.
Situation: I’m seventeen, and a friend of mine has just gotten out of a mental hospital. Her father had put her in there for running away, and after attempting to “rehabilitate” her, they’d given her the nickname “pit bull.” She had been very sweet before going in, she came out a raving madwoman, and I was her new target. Why? Because it was a “counseling” facility, and I dared to express the idea that they would try to help the relationship between her and her father. Apparently counseling is more about brainwashing the kid than strengthening familial relationships. She tears into me, telling me that everyone hates my guts, even my best friend. She rants and raves at me for the next three months while I try in vain to understand where she’s coming from.
What I said, “I’m sorry.”
What I should have said: “Look, it’s not my fault things went badly for you and I made the mistake of suggesting it’s their JOB to help you. So they failed. I’m not responsible for it, and the way I see it, you’ve turned into exactly what they told you you are. You’ve effectively been brainwashed, I don’t know who the hell you are anymore. Keep your bullshit excuses away from me, and go find friends willing to take your shit because I’m not anymore.”
Getting a tad bitter, am I?
Here’s a nice little Zen moment:
…and we’re back to reality.
I think if I’d figured out how not to take people’s shit I wouldn’t have ended up in abusive relationships or parasitic friendships or situations anyone in their right mind would have avoided because they learned how to say “NO.”
You know all that psychological bullshit they started teaching kids in the late 80’s- early 90’s about how wonderful they all are- and these little snots somehow all ended up with this ridiculous sense of entitlement? Well, it looks like they’re all enrolling in college this year, and god damn, are they annoying. If we’re ever hit with some kind of catastrophic event, these will be the ones crying in the gutter, begging for food, completely unable to fend for themselves. After all, the world owes them a living. They’re not really as interested in actually learning anything in college- just making fun of everyone’s clothes.
Today, I was giving a presentation on heat waves in my meteorology class. I wore a pink patterned skirt, a white top, a blue sweater (I was cold) and my clogs. Most people in my class seemed much more interested in atmospheric conditions of heat waves and what to do about heat exhaustion- except these two girls that sat there giggling like idiots every time I said something. The poor lady sitting next to them seemed as if she were on the brink of physically restraining herself from slapping the shit out of them.
My high- pressure system on the chalkboard may not have been the most artistically inspired, but I think I did pretty well. I have two tests on Monday. I hope it’s worth studying for, as the folks in Financial Aid seem to have screwed up my paperwork somehow. Some of them say I’m not getting any. Others say I am and just hang tight. Then some snot of the High School bitch persuasion- apparently a new hire in the FA office, told me I’m going to have to pay for my classes out of pocket because the withdrawal deadline has expired. Bullshit! I was told several times NOT to drop my classes. If I end up owing, SOMEone’s going down.
I have to stop thinking about this shit before I really start hating people again.
Yesterday, I had all kinds of ideas for today’s blog. I should have written them down, considering the fact that I have a brain cloud.* My brain cloud is special. It fogs through my mind and randomly deletes 90% of mental notes scrawled anywhere in the gray matter at any given time. I can be thinking, “Note to self, pick up trash bags after class” and before I get to the word “bags” the whole sentence has been wiped clean away by the meandering brain cloud. This poses serious problems while driving. Matt will get in the car and say something like, “we need to pick Bo up.” A common occurrence. Just as often, I’ll drive right by where I’m supposed to turn. “Okaaay, so we’re NOT picking Bo up?” Matt will say, and I’ll swear under my breath and turn around. I have tried since 2001 to get a diagnosis of some sort from anyone, and both Matt and I have discovered a disturbing phenomena at Utah doctor’s offices- they do everything they can NOT to come up with a diagnosis. In my case, they just change the subject to what drugs I’d like to try, and in Matt’s case, they beat around the bush THEN prescribe him something for his kidney pain. As of yet, no one has been able to give us any clue why Matt feels like he’s trying to pass a stone when none of his stones are obstructive, and no one has even humored me by acknowledging what a space cadet I am. If I went there and said, “you know, I kind of felt like painting my legs purple and running through wal- mart in a Hamburgler costume,” they’d say, “that’s nice. Have some Adderol.” (That’s an amphetamine, by the way. Prescription meth. Does NOT help me.) I think the only pill I need is one of these: I hate being such a space cadet. I tried those self- help books, and found them full of cheesy BS. So I tried professional help. You just read about that, right? OK, so I took some of those “self- esteem” and “life- management” classes a few years back. They were a little helpful with the group support aspect sometimes, and it was fun to vent to people who actually listened, but on the last day, what did they do? Promote cheesy self- help books. Feeling better about myself is all well and good but doesn’t do jack for my brain cloud problem. I need a REAL solution. Anyone?
*The term Brain Cloud was first conceived of by the writers of this particular cinematic masterpiece, and one of my all- time favorite classics:
It seems as if I’ve always surrounded myself with references, dictionaries, and literature on psychological possibilities in an attempt to prevent being misunderstood in my own various methods of expression.
It hasn’t worked.
If anything, I’d have to conclude that it is human fallacy to misunderstand and misinterpret anything and everything one happens to encounter in a very human, if befuddled, attempt to understand what one has the mental/ emotional/ spiritual/ what- have- you capacity to understand.
In fact, it surprises me quite often when, upon stumbling across a particularly verbose yet somehow familiar article of some persuasion, it takes the inner workings of my cerebellum a few moments too long to process the realization that I was the author. Ergo, if I confuse myself so easily, how can I not expect to be horribly misrepresented by my fellow human beings?
I’ve no interest in annoying, befuddling, or infuriating the masses- but it is my misfortune to have been born with the more baffling and irritating qualities of figures such as Socrates and Nietzsche- and without their brains.
And so, from this point, I will no longer be irritated by those who misunderstand me as they cannot help but do so. I will instead sigh inwardly and attempt to decode my thoughts with even more intricate, confusing, and altogether useless methods until they give up in utter frustration and leave me to my myriad rambling contemplations.
