new shit... only, its old after seconds.

dave matthews slits his pasty throat.

..I feel like sometimes, I am
this machine that bashes and fillets wildlife. Every screw and cable
and beltway of me is embedded with sinew and the guts of each minute
launches into this judgmental and shallow header, that hangs
like a hole at my gate, my unholy entrance, and it doesn't stand a chance in my whiz of a meat grinder... I try to shove aside and save every piece of soul before it enters me. I am a mess of my own job at being me.



I drank whiskey tonight. If I had drank Vodka, I wouldn't be sitting at a computer. I would be off punching elders and stabbing delinquents. True stories. Doctor me.

There's something wrong with me. It's not obvious. I mean, yeah... there's obvious shit wrong with me, but here's what isn't wrong with me...

I hate Hootie and the Blowfish.
I hate The Dave Matthews band.
I hate Blind Melon.
I hate Creed.
There's a shitload of other music I hate, but there isn't enough invisible paper to house the listing. That's what I get for being too lazy to change satellite stations while vomiting up 9 midnight paintings.

Back to what's wrong with me.

Where do I begin?

I must be obsessive.
I must be compulsive.

True. You got me. I've faced it. Nurse me.

But I wasn't those things before I melted down. Before I melted down, I was stable, and I could want things whenever it fell into my every day function. I am no longer functioning. I am careening. I am back to bouncing off of the walls of my own stable. I feel fine. I can mother my child. I can answer phones. I can make a 5 star dinner with cabbage and will. I am stressed. I am working my hands like mad to fill in for my mind. It can only last so long, and I fear my heart.

Maybe it isn't fair to say I was stable. I was resting. And I don't fear my heart. I re-introduce myself.

Never saw the lightning.

.
.
.
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I have got to strike a balance or I will go fucking crazy.
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blow out

One time I was riding along a Texas highway with my boyfriend. I have an incredibly selective memory, so the fact that I bring this up, means that recalling the moment is significant especially if I was then able to find a file for it in my dusty ten story internal library... for means of referencing it now.

I wasn't driving the car. I didn't have a car. I had a motorcycle, and that doesn't make for too many cross country conversations with a partner. If Ihad been driving... we would have stopped the car.

It was a boring and typical stretch of Texas highway. We were high on each other's company. Listening to music. Waiting for the next ridiculous billboard to insult. Thankful that we weren't toothless, proud of our intellect. Maybe even satisfied that we hadn't died by 20. Whatever.

I look out my window and I see cotton growing in fields as we cruise along. As soon as I see it, I say, "Stop. It's cotton." My boyfriend laughs and we continue at the same speed. I say, "Seriously. Stop." He keeps his foot metered on the pedal and says "Why?" I say, "I want to pick some." He laughs again and we continue to move at the same pace. I think I start to panic. I can tell that the fields will end soon and I will have blown my chance. I say, "I never picked cotton before." It was true. I had only bought balls of it to wipe off my grease paint and had filled my guilty soul with stories of slaves destroying their fingers from picking it. I had to do it, you understand?

My boyfriend thinks I am kidding, then realizes I am probably serious, only my kind of serious is more insinuation without anger. But once that insinuation has been ignored (since I rarely push people) there is no telling how I will retaliate.

He did not stop. And I was actually really upset about it. I think he was afraid to "lose time" or be caught trespassing. Trespassing? The cotton was growing through the fenceline. I was one girl wanting to feel it in my hands. How could anyone have cared? If anyone had cared, I would have paid that price gladly.

I haven't forgotten about that, and I knew at the time, I should have thrown a fucking fit.

That's one story I want to share.

This other thing, isn't really a story.

I have very light colored eyes. I hate flourescent lights. Can't handle bright lights at all, but I hate talking to people with sunglasses on because I think it is self engrossing. So half the time I wish I could hide my eyes and shoot out the streetlights.

I was telling my sister in law about how people with lighter colored eyes are more affected by light than others. It was something I had read. I was convinced. Then she told me that she had read something about huskys. She said that they had such blue or whitish irises because of the intense amount of light that was let in while enduring long days and snow in the northern regions. I don't know about this. I need to know about this, but opted to make my notes about my sad cotton picking story instead of research.

Cotton... light eyes... the world is full of thoughts and blown out the sides with needs.

mechanical dissent

I was told that there was a scorpion in the driveway this morning and a ladybug hanging upside down in the kitchen window.

My Kurdish friend is going to do my hair tomorrow. I put off carving into my haystack until here because I wanted herto do it. She's a Paul Mitchell big wig who is tired of event planning and wants to get back into the creative aspects of hair. I'm the perfect candidate because I have a shitload of hair and apparently my natural shade is one step removed from the lightest shade possible.. except Albinos I guess.

This house I am staying in is large. 3,000 square feet or so. There is a neighborhood committee that requires that you tell them if you are going to build a deck, soften your water, or do anything funky with the landscaping. Funky might mean something like put a strange bush too close to the curb.

The neighbors on one side are referred to as the Taliban, because they didn't bring a cake when these guys moved in and they didn't wave back. The response? Dress in a burkah and trickor treat and then put a large crucifix in the yard at Xmas time.... Yeah... Not a Metropolis. Apparently these guys have a green beret friend that informed them that "They don't wave becasuse you are the Infidel and they want to kill you." If you could only see this neighborhood... A sleeper cell? How fucking absurd.

I am not saying that I want a purple house. I want the option to paint my house purple. I am not saying that having a zealot for a neighbor bothers me, but I would prefer Muslim to Christian. I would really prefer nothing to everything else. Nothing to everything else.

I am tired of bared teeth and gutted glimpses of little nuclear families... set in their fashion. Set in their diabolical and safe communities in the middle of nowhere. The only additive being fear and consumer comfort and stale renditions of atypical fight songs to ward off the unknown.

How could you sit in a small stadium watcing Junior score a point if everyone on the bleachers next to you were closet fags and openly prickish? How could that be progress? How could that be where you want to go? Tennis? Are you kidding? Do you file that under Athletics or Down Syndrome? (My apologies to Down Syndrome.)

I guess I don't miss it here. I felt like an alien looking at new products on the shelf at the most basic grocery store. Still I was trapped in some ADD like haze as I tried to figure out what the fuck I needed. None of it was to live. I wasn't stealing tortillas and cheese anymore to live an extra day. I have credit cards I was ashamed to display.

I am moving back to pen and paper. Screw this mechanical dissent.

dreamsicle.

I have been tormented with dreams probably no stranger than those visited upon the depressed and beaten upon savages of any era.

Still...

There is a girl who appears in my dreams in the same fashion.

She starts out having fun and partying with the natives... Any natives in Any Nation, and after a spell... I see her start to get out of control. I see the giant rubber mask start to slip off of her head. I don't pay attention too much because my mind is elsewhere at the gathering, but her head gear is most intriguing.

There is a man in a corner along a fenceline out of sight. He occasionally draws the attention of the party goers because he is making some kind of art. They accept him. He seems interesting. I get closer, more out of trying to find a corner to be comfortable because I am not so comfortable here. I feel like every one in the crowd is operating on a different time piece. I feel like they are wolves waiting for a reason to cut my throat... In some ways I welcome it, but it's a dream and I know that if I want to get somewhere I have to be willing to be the victim... and I have to appear as if I can't fight.

I move around the muddy swimming pool and dodge drunkards having the good time I kind of wish I was in on... Kind of, except I hate them. I hate them and I can't tell you why in any way that seems sensitive or giving. I dodge them and I am not afraid at the same time.

As I come upon the artist at the fenceline, I see that he has strung before him several canvasses suspended from a wire. They hold portraits. He has flipped them and is painting from the guides of shadows from the portrait's other side. They are mine. I made those original portraits. I left them amongst friends and strangers and they must have been uncovered as easily as some dumb teen crime novel.. if they were even hiding... He has them now. But I am not angry. I am hungry. I am looking for a comrade in this backyard Poltergeist.

I am fascinated. I don't tell him who I am. I don't tell him that they were mine. I only watch and wait for the wolves to lunge at me when they are too drunk to masturbate and seek violence for pleasure, as they splash and spit from the muddy pool at anything that seems ill fitting. IN this corner with this thief, I feel safe... But I feel like my escape plan lacks space for an unsure brush.

From the corner of my eye I see the girl. I see the girl I have seen before. She wears a rubber mask that covers her head. She jumps into the pool. Her Osiris Horsehead mask starts to slide off and I realize that her skull has been cracked and half of her brain is hanging out.

I move to her and beg her to sit while I check out her skull. She acts happy as if she knows and it isn't a big deal. Her friends are oblivious to the danger and start to harrass me for giving her shit about swimming with a fractured skull and brain exposed. They start to push me around and I can see her laughing with no cares as they move me from the shallow end. I see the artist at the fenceline covering my paintings, stopping only to watch and memorize our expressions...and I go down without a fight.

Because I know they have a 30 second attention span.. ALL OF THEM.

Ruffage.

My brain is a mess. I can't sleep. My mother says it is the time change and the stress of travelling with a toddler. It could be. I prefer not to think literally right now. Literally is a kind of front door "honesty" that doesn't cover everything.

I have been missing something. I am kind of a moron and I guess in a lot of ways I am always missing something. I'm slow to the take on fancy jokes but I can pick up on the unholy ones before the slumlord even knows he was trying to make me laugh. I laugh when people say horrible things that I think are supposed to be funny. They were only meant to be a horrible thing. I knew that. I knew it before I smiled.

I do miss my muse. Don't I have a right to one? If freedom wasn't my right would I fall in line?

I am in line. I have always been in line. Even when I am scraping friends off of the shoulder. I have been lost. I knew I was in the woods. The woods are beautiful, but I am not the wood. I am not the ruffage. I am not the wet earth. I am not the bugs with sharp teeth who burrow into flesh. I am not flowers after rains. I am not a sun scratched upon by highest branches.

I am a desert with a boom box. And I am too hot to stay here.

Poke A Haunt Us.

Essentially I have been making the same entry into a "daily" diary/blog for a few years now. Everytime I start typing, I want to say the same thing, but I always say everything else to avoid saying that thing. And, to be honest, I am not sure I totally know what that thing would be. It would have to be a pretty significant statement wouldn't it? I'm not a philosopher though.

A friend of mine told me one night on a late night village booze cruise that he was astounded by my thought processes.. my art for "critical thinking". He held his head close to his lap to keep the porch light out of his eyes, and I just looked at the back of his head knowing what was truly going on there. I had just told him that all I had gotten out of my primary education was a general education diploma. After the stunning 5 second silence that followed what he thought was my admission, he picked up without hesitating... a rather... thoughtful and missionary tone with me... a sincere and reflective kind of courtesy that generally makes me gag... and I just wanted to start up my tank and go home and finish my beer and listen to my one dimensional "prog-rock" and forget about anyone's needs but my own.

It isn't a matter of feeling insufficient. It's about finding friends. I haven't really been finding them, but you know, Just leave it there. Dropped off. Delivered. Done. Now, bring on the next tomorrow of swimming in a sea of self obsessed and handicapped, base, human interactions and let me act like a retard again who has no goals.. no dreams... no Nobel Prize winning drafts flooding My every cell. And I'll sum it all up with another fucking " Hello. How you doin? ... Oh yeah... Ooooh Truly?? When is this shit going to end? Yeah. .. MMMM I know what you mean. It's insane. Hope you (insert appropriate dog day joke here." Profit from all the loss..... (Right on.).... Left on.

My brain has been on repeat for about 2 months now. I could go into why. I could erase your brain of anything worth remembering for the next 4 hours trying to help you understand the simplest conclusions that I have come up with here. I'm not saying I'm complicated. I am saying that this place is complicated. Each conclusion is like a brick wall and never like an open horizon. You'd think I would be up to the challenge, for all you know about me. And the thing is... I have been doing nothing BUT be up for this unreal challenge every moment of the day since I came here. My reputation is important to me, but more important to me than that, is being able to make people around me comfortable. You might say, "Yeah right. Every time we ever hung out you were so quiet. You would always keep to yourself mostly, or make jokes..." But I know every last one of you, my friends... who I feel slipping away... Have called me FIRST when shit was really fucking bad for you. I was just wondering if .. you know. I could want to call you for a change. I haven't felt like you were there in any way but to use me. Like I said, I could go into why.. Maybe I'll just go my own way.

I am writing all of this as if I expect someone to read it. I guess, because I am not some basket case diary writer who hits the privacy button and thinks that anyone cares more about your thoughts than your credit. I'm also not a novelist. .. Though I do have one story in my head that I have always wanted to write. I might as well share it, because even if the handful of you who came upon this blog "stole" it... I'd like to see what you would do with it, and it would always be more potent in my mind regardless of what you pulled out of your ass. But to address my trepidation with bearing all in this blog, I guess. .. I wonder if my employers read my thoughts... (as an aside). Wonder if my friends and if my enemies read my thoughts here, and truthfully it doesn't give me a boner to think they do. It kind of bothers me. I assume that who I am is obvious to everyone I deal with on a regular basis, but that doesn't mean they really know what they are getting.. and there's always something in me that wants to curse them with the back up black wings.....

I always assume that my ideas are too extreme for business. The strange thing that I am finding is that... the Earth is desperate. If you can form a sentence and ask a question, there is someone out there who wants to answer you. But there's no accounting for communication. Accounting for Taste is like Doing Roll call for Manners. The only people saying "present" are simply the bored assholes who showed up and not people you should ever really want to dine with let alone set your savage swine against.. to gain.

I know better than anyone that my ideas aren't really extreme. My character is extreme.

So, my idea is this. There's this small Alaskan village on the Bering Sea. The weather is wild. The population is 50 at the most any given time of the year. There's no law enforcement. There's no church . There's no grocery store. You look at the black night, devoid of city lit reflective skylines and think of the dark ages. You feel as if you are one step removed from the Dark Ages. IN fact, lately... there's been nothing but death and misery. Strangers are proudly telling you that they are praying for you. Soon people start seeing strange things. They start imagining things. They become far off. They choose their words carefully when they run into other villagers. They want to see if someone else has seen it too. They can't decide if they are seeing blurry and late night alcoholic hallucinations or ghosts or trickery with the lighting. They wonder if what they saw has anything to do with the stories they have all been told. Anything to do with how they talked to their grandchild today, or anything to do with how much fish were in the net. The stories they all heard by gaslight or moonlight.

The sick girl who was sent away to seek medical attention with the strange seaman during a terrible storm. (Terrible storms aren't cliche' here.) They never arrived at their destination and there was no evidence of wreckage.

I have it all layed out in my mind. Scenes. Conversations. Effects. Tension. All of it. But whatever. She's not a ghost, and the joke is on the Village. She's the ship wrecked child, grown, having really lived the subsistance and spiritual life of those "Here's How We Lived Without The World" true stories... creeping out residents who are simply losing their minds.

There's nothing complicated about any of this. Except maybe me in there, and you out there, wanting to help me, and that's not complicated. That's something else....

I keep saying how fucking crazy it is to live here. Is who I am changing?

Anne Lamott quote~Religion

You can safely assume that you've created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.

Annie Dillard Quote

Eskimo: "If I did not know about God and sin, would I go to hell?" Priest: "No, not if you did not know." Eskimo: "Then why did you tell me?"

Lenny Bruce quote

"If Jesus had been killed twenty years ago, Catholic school children would be wearing little electric chairs around their necks instead of crosses. "

Lenny Bruce

Epiphany in a village of untethered dogs

I don't think we use the word "Omega" enough in every day conversation.

General Knowledge questions.

There's a public phone 20 meters from my front door. There's a big sign that I painted, "PHONE". Sometimes I fantasize about destroying the phone, or fucking with the phone booth. Like, painting all the walls white and splashing buckets of red paint on the walls, or plastering it with personal ads from the other side of the planet, or painting glow in the dark messages for the drunks hiding from bears...

For the past two weeks, there's been a guy who is here to help build the harbor. I don't know what his job is. I think it's operating the dredger. Just a guess... but he wears the same clothing day in and day out. A black shirt with a southwestern collar, a white ball cap I haven't seen the advertising on yet and blue jeans. He talks for at least one hour a night. He always has his back to the entrance, leaning on the tiny shelf, probably inhaling urine, rotten wood and beer as he stares down hanging his mouth on the receiver.

Sometimes he sits on the small shelf, which cuts his head off from my view. I prefer him like this.

It has to be a woman he is talking to right?

If I had a different mind, I could think he was the Mujadim, or an alien transmitting coordinates, or a time traveler-risking his every cell to make proofs of us, or an angel trying to save us, or a simple man misplaced and lonely.... or just one blip on a screen that doesn't have more than two dimensions.

I think none of these things.

I wonder if I ever wrote poetry.

Special Meat: Frigid Green Remorse

I was thinking that an ice cream truck who served only meat... Different kinds of meat, and sold no ice cream at all, could do pretty well in some neighborhoods. Boroughs all over the planet. The important gimmick, besides special meats and special treatments would have to be the music though, just like an ice cream truck. And that music would have to be drums. Drum and bass if you stretch it. I'm not saying that every community is ready to make the leap from whimsy to carnage... but, well... You could have fooled me.

This place is the changeling without resolution.

I am overloaded with intense feelings of resentment toward the adults. For half I feel sorry. For the other, I feel a certain cutting edge camaraderie watered down with a sloppy helping of slothful-fleshy-indignant-entitled-going nowhere-one sided "best" friendships. There are certain cards you cannot play when you live as a minority amongst natives. Just saying that thing alone can get you black balled, and the fact that it doesn't make any sense at all, does have meaning. It is meaningful.

So sadly... I must not be the one. I must not be the one to turn my spirit and my gut inside out as if totally impaled, stripped and burnt to all hell for just one lick on a sugary stick, until my years just glue up and leave my mind with a carcass of earnest interests: shoved with some heavy hands wearing disposable gloves into a pit on the edge of the village perimeter like some trash without any kind of god at all. You can't understand unless you have been in a place like here. I have been blasphemous, when all I speak is ... a truth without Earth.

By the ONE, I don't mean Jesus or any other out of body politic. But it might as well be that absurd for the way things just slack and sway. Then the tears come when everyone is full of syrup climbing the walls to Hell and Heaven with eyes alight and hearts ablaze, and then the sun rises and who can we blame now when we can't stand to see each other in the light? I'm not saying anyone should blame themselves, but at least for me... I'm not willing to let my fists fly until I have hated myself with all I possibly can. And all I possibly can is all I possibly will ever have.

What a complete cluster fuck. All of this. This potluck of dressed up best dishes from houses broken and petty who were once brilliant beacons on a long chain of rich and undeserving misery... dragging my wooden spoon into the quagmire to add my secret recipes, with love, and to go untasted. Truly.... Bastards.

I am sure you don't know this one thing I am about to tell you. I believe it so, or certain presences wouldn't be waiting like hungry baby wolves out on the water to come and see for themselves.

3 weeks, to the day... maybe even to the hour... after a body has drowned, it will rise to the surface after traveling the ocean bottom in frigid green remorse, and scan the shoreline with eyes in the back of it's head... for faces still crying.


This place is crawling with moths, on this, the 21st day.

A Cake Walk at Bathory's

There's beauty in the grotesque. But not because I have anything to do with either the beauty or the grotesque in the things I "observe" like a fucking ledge walker. And I can't even separate them, the beautiful and the grotesque. I only have my hands which have done good and terrible things to haul in my ethereal load. I have my eyes which show me what the atmosphere chooses to show me when I choose to keep them open. I have my mind which develops the film it is given and the processing is subject to the quality of supplies and environment.. which means... the final picture is just a picture by just one more person. I will always have my mind and my hands and my equipment, so what good does it do to pretend I can grow and share thoughts with others? Others are one more product of a string of developments who may or may not have had all the chemicals to bring out the grays. Dimensional. Totally dimensional. Why the questions. Why the hope. Why the fuck do I use blogger.

Gag.

mukluk yuk yuk

Didn't get to do the toothbrushing deal yet. Had another emergency. Had to ship a guy out of here who had something serious going on that we just couldn't identify. The on call physician at one of Anchorage's medical hospitals says, "So we pay ten thousand dollars to get them out here for alcohol detoxification.." They're jaded. I get it. I say, "That sounds fine. Because that's not what's going on here. We know this guy. Something is really wrong this time. We don't have the resources or tools to help him if he totally crashes. He looks twice his age. He can't do anything for himself. It's not for us to figure out your financing issues. You need to bring this guy in." etc etc. .... I hate this time of fucking year. It's absurd the preventable accidents and casualties. And all these elders around us are dropping like fucking flies... and they all see it coming and just can't seem to correct their course. People have started t o look at us like a necrotic finger that used to once be bountiful. People feel sorry for us and disgusted, all the while supporting the system that causes this island depression.

Drowned. He Drowned, and here we all are... as we were but without him.

6 nights ago, we lost one of our own villagers to the sea. I have been doing damage control.. counseling grief.... if you knew me, you would probably laugh. Hard. If you were me.... You wouldn't have a laugh left.

In the mornings I run the clinic during June, our Hell month. Quadruple the emergencies and accidents. The village is predominantly elderly and children. I volunteer at the Recreation center every afternoon for a few hours. 15 kids or so from between 1 years and 14. I assign 4 sheriffs at the beginning of each "shift". Juice patrol, chair patrol, stick patrol and janitor control... The kids like the power and it saves me so much time. All great kids... what a fucked up place sometimes. I ordered 600 bucks in rec games and stuff that will hopefully lift some spiritis. We built a giant cardboard robot. His name is M180 "the twirlin pirate robot". Its a candy and soda free zone now.

Tomorrow I will give them a pop tooth brushing quiz. I have the red tablets that expose where you didn't brush. Maybe I'll post pictures.

Life is fucking Purgatory.

dial 555 something something.

I have been waiting for the Hanging call. I will wait for the Hanging call until I receive it. I fight every day against the Hanging call. Each piece of news i receive braids the knot. I fight every day. I hate every day. I hate every day.

I have no one to talk to about the mechanics of strange and life.

Facing Years.. Blowing Yes Men.

The most recent defense attorney claims to be best friends with the Prosecution (as they all have claimed while passing us across the rich knots on their skull and bones stationary sets to the next guy on the list.) The State has offered my little brother 8 years. The return offer may be 2-8 years with possibly 1-2 years release with good behavior. What a fucking joke. I don't even have enough scars to count how many murderers have gotten less for outrageous and heinous crimes, and as of now, I have a fucking score of scars. Not about me though. Kind of about me though, because I am running out of friends and people who will understand this impossible situation without giving the State the right to think for them.

I would have more confidence in the abilities of these private monoliths to take care of kid gloves, if the retired Nuclear Submarine Commander of the extended family hadn't been reduced to helplessness just trying to convince the fair ground guards just to give my brother his anti-psychotic medication after being denied it for two weeks... as if that was a favor to us and not them. I've said it before, but how else could you support the dangerous delusions of a paranoid person than to arrest them at customs and then behave like fucking Neanderthals with no concern for protecting the delicate balance of mental and physical health of a man by ignoring doctors orders? Are they just totally ignorant? What is the fucking deal with getting prisoners with mental health issues their proper care? Doesn't this shit cost us billions? I'm sure it does, and guess what else. ... The billions pay for jackasses to drop the ball. Who the hell runs this crap shoot?

Don't answer that. Sometimes I forget that we execute people and we vote.

I flip through the dial like an insane bitch trying to find some piece of humanity I can tolerate.

And by the way, the defense and prosecution attorneys get along so grandly because they fucking bank and like to spend their down time shooting birdies and tossing the bankrupted "gifts" of desperate people into the painful psychic mix of exclusive cigar bar cocktails- sucking every bit down- just to deal with the "humanity" of our deepest pain with the most detached system possible, while maintaining a Western Front.

It's business for them... and really really personal for me.

The equation for how war starts can be located above.

Los Angeles lovers can have each other.

The facility holding my brother in Los Angeles, has not been giving my brother his anti-psychotic medication, he tells my mother. No word on Extradition yet. Two counties are possibly interested... Meanwhile, a mentally ill young man sees all the fantasies we refused him come to life, and we fall in on the sidelines of the horrordome as part of the bad men crew.