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AussieAri's weblog Edit this message to change the title of your weblog. Tuesday, August 19, 2003
Gus. Who just set a world record for data transfer rates.
Went to the ‘Big Texan’ steakhouse in Amarillo. Had a 7.2 oz steak and imagined devouring ten times as much meat. If I didn’t have to eat the salad and side potato I think I may just have a shot but topping all that meat with something un-meaty would surely ruin the effort. A duo i'd like to see: Ho bag bitch lady with chips.
What do body builders look like at 80? Please kill me if: I become a mental vegetable. Things to do on a long motorcycle ride: Wave at trains and get them to blow their whistle at you (the highlight of my road trip). As Deeply Disturbed As Pygmalion What do you do after you meet the woman of your dreams in your dreams and you also lose them in the same dream, on the same night? Sleep therapy? I either want to meet this person in life or never see them again in any way. The customer isn’t always right, but you do try to satisfy them. One day at Pete’s Pets a long time before I even moved to Santa Fe, they sold more exotic and potentially harmful pets. They once had a Nile monitor lizard. A man came in to the store and asked to see it. Pete took the 3 foot lizard out of his cage in his strong wiry hands and with eyebrows raised began to explain to the man about the lizard, only the lizard had wrenched itself out of his grip and headed directly down the isle for the customer’s three year old son as merchandise was knocked over by the lizard’s thrashing tail. The son’s flip flop was torn to shreds by the now rampaging monitor on a mission of destruction. Pete made a second grab for the lizard but instead the lizard managed to lacerate one of Pete’s forearms and stormed onwards towards the small furry animal section. Behind the cages of hamsters, mice and rats, Max, the assistant manager who told me this story, secured the monitor in a death grip. The monitor convulsed under the tight restriction and coughed up a half mutilated hamster. There was a trail of blood and disturbance. The customer looked at Max holding the lizard and said, “Cool. I’ll take it.” We don’t sell any exotic dangerous pets anymore, certainly nothing over a foot. I think I’ve done worse for money but I’m not sure. We sold the last ferret, or rather I came in this morning and he was gone within the last hour of work I wasn’t there. He is probably not lonely any more but the whole reason I started working at the store is vanished.
“God must love stupid people. He made so many of them.” My two favorite products for sale at the store are: Halt! Dog repellent spray “Used by the US Postal service for over 30 years!” About what I’m going to change my middle name to because it’s not as obvious as the readily available reasons for Talbot “They say a rose is a flower and that it is red. It blooms, it grows and then it is dead.” Mrs. Dalloway, are we having fun yet? Fear and trepedation about throwing a going away party before I bust out of Santa Fe. All the different kinds of people I know here in one room. Vegans, Vegetarians, Bikers, Bicyclers, Non-smokers, smokers, non-drinkers, heavy drinkers, queers, tranzies, Mormons, Russian orthodoxers, Catholics, white boys and girls, Chicano, natives, romantic interests, done and dead romances, unreturned romantic interests in me, dear friends, similar interest acquaintances, bosses, tutors, co-workers. Maybe a local band or two which no one’s particularly crazy about but some people (and me) enjoy. My worry is that all these people that matter to me won’t enjoy themselves, some sort of absolutely severed disjointed social situation will occur with far less appeal than a school dance or a family reunion and definitely less than a party you go to because something or someone special, however small an occurrence, will be about and you know it’s worth it. No one will have fun and they’ll wonder why they even bothered to come.
A road trip of 640 miles each way. We’ll see.
The sensei is demented. Will the school (not the art or the technique) die?
Went shooting with a .22 survival rifle and a shotgun. Even if the .22 did jam far too much it was much more fun. I’ve decided I like target shooting- live or not, just precision instead of punching a whole wad of lead at absurd speeds in the general direction of something. And no, it wasn’t because the shotgun made bruises.
The Floating Henry Rollins Head Haiku. I don't think his neck would fit in the panels.
I took a chrome backrest/rack off of an old Honda 500 from the early 80's that has it’s guts in our front patio and it’s skeleton outside the patio steps. As expected of such an old exposed thing, some of the sockets and edges are rusted, the padding on the top of the backrest has been pulled out and cracked, and the zipper on the back pouch needs some oiling and is missing a pair of teeth. I didn’t think it would work but with some tinkering it actually FIT my little Honda rebel 2002. Amazing, they haven’t changed their nut spacing or size in over 15 years between models. Big Pimpin’.
I smell like a ferret now. Marshals which breeds them and sells a whole huge line of ferret care products also happens to sell things like baseball caps, bow ties, biker jackets, lace hats, t-shirts and bandannas for them. Yeah, like they’d keep those on for more than two seconds. idontcare “I don’t care”
Roads like a river with tributary fingers. How To Drive In the South: Five over or Two under and you won’t get pulled over, Duh. September is another month of summer in Texas anyway... Somehow i don't think they would believe me. Wednesday, August 6, 2003
I slept on my bloody eye somehow. Grumble. Vision blurry for over an hour.
I watched the movie Easy Rider the other night. The ending, as well as saddening me, disturbed me as I will be biking to Texas at least twice. And even if I’ve gone the route before and know the towns I’m going through may be insular and slow paced but safe, it still is a creepy horrific thought to have ending up as reality. 63 seconds/thoughts. Things I will miss in Santa Fe: Disarm me. Modern advertising is evil. It’s exactly what Socrates accused the sophists of. “God damn right it’s a beautiful day.” After numerous volatile experiments with beer cans of varying emptiness being struck by left and right handed golf clubs, loud exclamations and a shower, I think I can finally calm down about being chosen for the IEFS internship. After a month of total “What the fuck?” conditions it’s very nice to know I’ll be doing something I have wanted to for a long time, and have all the living arrangements fall into place for me without effort. Coffee guide to personality: Courtousy of Chris, the last of the Samauri Baristas. God Fuck! Got the internship in Texas with wild cats. It sounds pretty sweet but we’ll see how it is. I leave at the end of this month. And yes, I am a badass. Treatin’ poems like they were lost lovers. Dreamt we were an upper class well established family that had always lived in one big place and mum was an American bitch screwing one of the servants. I also dreamt I got the first joint of my left hand ring finger cut when spelunking in the sewers of this middle America town we lived in, talking to the homeless that lived there, I re-attached the digit somehow. Sometime during the night I kicked the wall and broke my big toe nail. “Shut the fuck up. Learn to buck up.” Sometimes which has turned out to be more often than not recently, the social connections of those active in Santa Fe, particularly as it goes for me, the young, queer, and working students of the city, have closed in on me to what fells like a suffocation. It’s not that I have anything against any one of these people or being social or society or that they harm me in any way but by god- how many pathetic attempts at communication and doing anything of any worth recognizable and memorable to either of us is utterly lost and seemingly impossible as I steam roll by the hours 9-5. How I know just as logically as I do intuitively that I will never know them, how I pass them up and how life simply goes on regardless. Yes things are safe and I’m left with absurdity to try and express my passions, these untamed beast that lives forever on edges and will not settle for another habitat. But when I do die, how do I really know anything will go on let alone how it will manage without me. It makes me want to pack my bags and leave for somewhere- anywhere else. Oh but to what use? I could go to the fucking moon if I needed to. What I desire takes time, I haven’t found what I’m looking for and doubt I ever will, and all this should make the triviality of our actually fragile lives and encumbering circumstances be over come entirely. Yes, you would think that. I still ach unreasonably, my heart quickens when I hear my name unexpectedly and in response I usually act in one of the following ways: cool, cocky, aloof or distant. Is this because my once small community is becoming a society? Where there are people living without great aim or reason for most of the time of their lives? Have I really exiled myself from the larger ways of life out there? Got to be at heart yet who knows. Damn Rumi said all disquiet springs from a search for quiet. “No, Goldfish do not go with any and all fresh water fish; I don’t care what Petco told you.” A lady came into the store today and said ‘poor things’ of the ferrets as I picked one up that was quickly and anxiously escaping from the pen and plopped it back in its weasel palace. She said that ferrets should never have been pets, that we have thousands of dogs and cats anyway. Of course, all animals were once wild, including Homo Sapiens who created their own idea and kind of domesticity. Besides this, it is judiciously down right ILLIGAL to sell dogs and cats of any sort in NM if you are not a shelter or a certified breeder. Now, despite the ferret’s hyper sense of adventure and curiosity, or any breeds specific traits for that matter, I’m for the careful mixing of wild and less wild life. Why? Because I think humans could learn a hell of a lot more respect and grace rather than pride in domination or reliance on the dependence of domesticated life from interacting with exotic not totally domestic animals. Friday night, “It better be big.” Big party at the house old school style. My roommate shaved his raggedy grown out uneven from a previous shaved head hair into the worst mullet it’d ever seen especially for the event. There’s no hair in a large broad strip from his temple and back of his ears and right over the head. Went to bed before the party really began and fell asleep to jarring bass whumps. Needless to say, I didn’t sleep too well. Woke up to survey the damage of eight 30 racks of ‘beast’, 3 guys passed out on couches with their days worn dirty off coloured cotton drab wear rumpled about them (I’m in no way kind to current male fashion trends). Oh let’s not forget there was a blow up doll face down, pantyhose over her head, and a Heineken bottle throat up in her nether region. It only registered as slightly disturbing when I realized it was a bottle not a can. Bloody great morning present. I’d rather have found dead things brought home by a cat, because you know it’s actually meant as a true gift. Consumption and the taming of one’s. A shrew will begin to eat its own body if I can not find enough food for its diet (usually three times it’s own body weight a day). I’m sort of like this when left alone to my own mental devices without stimulation. Fingernails are bitten and the soft inside flesh of the cheeks as well as my jaws maw over the words that would be rattling so quickly out of them. (“No, no man is an island but if you tie a bunch of dead guys together they make a pretty good raft.”) My day dreams feed upon themselves and only become thinner, I tier quickly of re-working the details of such petty wishes for reality- because that is unfortunately the nature of my day dreaming, though not my thinking or contemplating. (There is a modern saying about media, ‘produce more than you consume’ I disagree wholeheartedly- if you just kept on producing for production’s sake, all sorts of quality would be lost in quantity and the fact you hadn’t stuck your head out of your big productive shell would mean you may just be hatching something 50 years too late.) So, on to the digestion of my own contemplating and thinking. (Let’s not forget the people Thucydides described who had such a state of poverty in their country the whole people would all play games for an entire day and eat the next.)
I went in to look at baby Ferrets on a lark, and to ask about Hedgehogs (there’s been a disease that whipped out the breeding population two years ago, or so I was told) and I’m working there two days later. Weee-haw. It’s good, pay is not so good. I’m the third of three short, short haired women. If I discover one more of my workmates is in a similar situation, I’m going to have to start making references to Umpa-Lumpas and cracking midget jokes. Mac Daddies So St. John’s has received another more problematic than useful donation of a non-monetary nature. Outside the senior common room is a brass life like statue of an older man sitting in a reading chair asleep with an econ book on his chest and a mason ring on his hand. There’s even a table beside him with a working lamp and a half drunk cup of tea. It’s heavy and freaky. Not to mention it’s worth as much as a new jag. Hence- it’s not going anywhere any time soon. Just like the wall mural in the dinning hall, the lights in the cafeteria and the Euclid prop shellac thing. The most frightening thing for me is that this statue looks so much like my deceased lab tutor from high school. The Way It's Done. “My song writing process is as follows, I um, smoke a joint, masturbate, write a lyric, take a shit, come back, make a beat, do it all over again and then see which one goes with what.” -Peaches
Shakespeare in comic book form! Rock me Amadeus! Tuesday, August 5, 2003
I lift things when asked nicely, i crush things when not asked nicely.
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