Who Knows Where to Download Blah Blah Blah?

You disappear forever practically and the spam comments creep in like ivy through the windows of an abandoned house. You know what happens when you abandon a house. Demons populate it. And ivy. Demons and ivy. Which is worse? I cast my vote for demons.

I've been thinking about planting some ivy in the hopes that it climbs. I'm supposed to abandon hope, though. Contructs collapse upon constructs. How do I make it through a second of reality when NONE OF IT IS REAL?

Ok. Spam. Spam comments. Emptiness is form and form is emptiness, Shariputra. Spam comments are the finger pointing to the moon. Am I right or aren't I?

LQ Halloween - Lauren & Amber

LQ Halloween - Lauren & Amber
Originally uploaded by shangothecat

I smell armpits now. I stopped writing blogs to smell armpits full-time. Gotta go.

Sniff sniff.

my parent organization

right this second, i feel like throwing my bird through a window. he's sitting in his cage, the door flung wide open, his wings not clipped (i.e. he can go wherever the hell he pleases!), screaming at the top of his lungs. i walk over and offer him a finger (not THE finger), and he rejects it. i sit back down. screaming.
usually it's the cat...
not at all what's on my mind. though related, i suppose. fragments are the sentence. you see how that can be taken a couple of different ways.
so the first tree went up. it's magical. i love it way more than the bird right now.
how do i transition to the topic of freedom? well, there is the bird's cage, i guess. na, no good.
i never really write anymore. it doesn't even bother me. not really. and if i read the right book, it doesn't bother me at all. i still love journals, though. beautiful empty journals with page after page of clean, white potential. it's like half of the breathing the process. well, the first half. stop.
but, to the point, the dreams are driving me crazy. i was writing solomon this morning (emails...i write emails. sometimes.) and thinking about how i don't think i'll ever loose sight of how grateful i am for his presence in my life.
freedom (freedom to think without god giving me the thumbs up, freedom to make decisions, etc) is a privilege i frequently loose in the night. an organization, my parents, or the hybrid that they were in reality commandeers my life in dreams and i struggle to find the thing which, awake, i found some time ago. the tidal wave of relief stymied by hallucinations recurrent. before i escaped the belief box(escaped? exchanged?), i had recurring dreams centered around 16 year old trauma: removal from school, humiliation, suddenly having teary-eyed disappointed affection slathered on me, shit like that.
now, the new EVENT. but the new EVENT heralded good change, not bad change, so why the dreams? huh? how many times do i have to move back in with my parents and sit in the back seat of their car and go to meetings (aka church) and "not pretend" all over again, this time, as an adult? it's exhausting. i guess that's all i have to say about it right now. enough already. are you listening?
i want to put presents under my pagan tree, kill both my pets and stuff them, and let an evening last for eternity.

"Everything that happens will happen today
& nothing has changed, but nothing's the same
and ev'ry tomorrow could be yesterday
& and ev'rything that happens will happen today"
-Byrne/Eno

Eye'm in the mirror

Eye'm in the mirror
Originally uploaded by Belle Manure

yum. fingers.

a revelation (degenerating into despair)

i am no good at writing. i think about it. i ponder it. but it doesn't happen gracefully anymore. there might be bathtub moments of introspective reverie in which words flow from my mind with a mellifluousness (see, i wanted to say mellifluity) that no longer occurs when the whale is beached.
nowhere is this more evident than in academic papers requiring that i expound on textbook knowledge with my own thoughts, opinions, and understanding of civilization. left to my own devices, rarely do i opine on ANYTHING!
i think, but my thoughts are globs of dough that i seldom stick in the oven. when was the last time i buttered the biscuit of mature mental reverie?
my thoughts are those of a child and i wish do the desires of a child. (john 8:44)
my posture is deplorable. there is a nagging itch on the back of my scalp that causes constant fiddling and scratching around. i feel like the kid the obligatory "lice letter" referred to anonymously:
dear parent,
please be advised that some piece of white trash filth has infiltrated our school and exposed us all to disgusting head bugs. clearly his or her family hasn't bathed in weeks and lives in a shit hole. thanks a lot, asshole.

principal ------

ughh. there is nothing worse than being untalented AND itchy. it's positively humiliating.

boo hoo
amber

A Tale Too Shitty: An Autobathography

It was the best of baths; it was the worst of baths. Despite having been reminded, not so much of mortality or aging as of pain itself, by getting up out of bed the wrong way, my bathing satisfaction had, as if to compensate, increased beyond my wildest expectations. As though the waters were expanding through space to equalize universal injustice. Or perhaps just to throw me off the Cynic's path.
Pure Cashmere loomed above me from the shower walls like some Softsoap candle lighting the way to a cleaner, softer me as hot tea spilled down my chin into the waters. No need to stop it. I ignored a voice that told me not to dab my chin with a towel. Strauss' Also Spake Zarathustra so recently reminding me that I am not an ape. (We had been to the symphony the night before.)
A friend, over breakfast, revealed that when Homer (of Simpson, not Odyssey fame) circled the stadium on his motorcycle, he had recalled dreams of flying that he had never before had the opportunity to acknowledge--indeed these dreams had never before revealed themselves to his conscious mind--and opened up memories of imaginary places visited and revisited in the night.
In his story, The Expelled, Beckett says:
Memories are killing. So you must not think of certain things, of those that are
dear to you, or rather you must think of them, for if you don't there is the
danger of finding them, in your mind, little by little. That is to say, you must
think of them for a while, a good while, every day several times a day, until
they sink forever in the mud. That's an order.

I laid the book on the side of the tub when I had finished and, letting my head sink below the water line, listened to the amplified sound of my breathing and the ancient creaking of my spine as I shifted, not uncomfortably, in that limited space. I couldn't get out of the tub because I wasn't in it. It took a while. Finally, if nothing more, my toe returned to reality and flicked the drain. It was disobeying orders, but I spared its life, seeing as I was feeling particularly self-satisfied and artistic at that moment.(Artists are a self-satisfied lot. They like to act like they aren't. Hence, the tortured artist.) My hearing returned to normal as the waters went down. My back formed a suction with the bottom of the tub and I made repeated fart-like noises as I stuck and unstuck my wet back to the bathtub floor. I didn't even giggle.
Albert, the cat, usually flees the bathroom as soon as the blow dryer makes its noisy appearance. Today, he stuck around for a few moments, jumping atop the lattice-work encasing the radiator. I reached down to pet him with my free hand and puffs of hot air must have reached his little pink nose. He ran.

how you lichen me now?

my search for effective antiperspirant/deodorant having left me a bitter, smelly shell of the spring-fresh woman i used to be, i decide instead to search for fresh new underarms. it seems a far simpler task to purchase replacement armpits than to vanquish mine stinky enemy. in desperation, i recently turned to the sparse terrestrial plumage of the tundra to combat my foe and purchased a lichen-based deodorant at the local hippie-mart. its rare and exotic plant extracts inspired new hope in the pit of my arms. "liken plant: natural deodorant" by earth science (and that's what really sold me: earth science. sounds terribly trusty, doesn't it? i like science. i like the earth. i believe in utilizing the flora of our spectacular planet to subdue odors, unwanted fauna and emotional troubles.) promised to "control odor all day long without aluminum or other harsh chemicals." however, a morning stroll in today's sweltering heat left my new toiletry spent--unable to perform in just under two arms and an hour. i think because i've jumped from one deodorant to the next in my search for an effective product, i've created a strain of super-sweat destined to destroy humanity with its knee-buckling stench. or maybe "liken plant" just wasn't designed to aid sweaters outside of its geo-centric area. like how only local honey helps allergies. perhaps i need rochester lilac-based (gag) deodorant. who sweats in the tundra anyway? maybe i'll just move there. i will move away from my sweat to a land flowing with algae and fungus.

on a similar note, i just read about how people are more likely to clean up their cookie crumbs if there is a faint tang of cleaning liquid in the air. this was part of a study on how strong the grip of the subconcious mind is on our actions. this being the case, i am thoroughly shocked that more of our guests don't just piss in the corner of our apartment after walking past the litter box on their way in the door. i'm pissing right now, just thinking about it. imagine how much i'd be pissing if i wasn't thinking about it....whaddaya have to say about that, scientists? and why can't i be part of an experiment that involves cookies? i bet they have some really gross cookies made of recycled paper or garbage on sale for two hundred dollars at the hippie-market. perhaps a sweet-smelling cookie that works on odor from the inside out... that could be helpful.