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stoica1117's weblog
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last modified May 27, 2002 at 7:36
Now that everyone knows I am a petalhead daisy with no patience, I shall summarize the last three days' events: Sweat. Sleep. Saying Goodbye. Smoke. Sleep. Saying Hello. Sushi. Smoke. Silver and Tiger's Eye. Silence. Swimming. Sunburnt Lips. Shower Sluicing. Scintillation in the Spotlight. Smoke. Sleep.
I also bought a new beer glass printed with lurid tattoo art and reading, "Stewed, Screwed, & Tattooed!" Hooray for ampersands! Hooray for anchors, Bettie Page lookalikes, and hip flasks as well!
One click ordering won't work here! The book's too big for my mailbox. And then I'd have to get to the post office somehow, and involve at least one middleman. Must find outside, in a tangible bookstore, on foot. Damn you, Parkes!
I have moments when I wish I could sneeze so badly, the desire makes my eyes water. Perhaps this happens to everyone at some time. Suddenly a steel door in the body slides down and the sneeze is halted. You are Mid-Sneeze, to your flushed and congested consternation, and unsure of what to do about your condition. Your "condition," as it were, is inescapable at this point, and either you will shortly sneeze again and loose a vital part of your frontal lobe, or you will remain cranky and edgy for the rest of the day. The unhindered sneeze, the full, unabashed, healthy and cleansing sneeze is occasionally the greatest natural pleasure known to humankind; its evanescent nature makes the pleasure of it all the more excruciating and yearned for.
For those of us for whom common dust and dander have lost their galvanizing charms, I wish many a piquant and aromatic odor. (Freshly ground pepper comes to mind, along with dried pulverized chiles and floating duck fluff.) For me, t'is only a question of finding the right nasal bite, the effortless eye-watering thing I can adore at my leisure.
{Achoo!}...{wink}
Ah, the sneeze! A metaphor for orgasm.
It was Christmas and my Mom and I were staying with some friends in a lovely mansion. There was a pack of dogs. My Mom brought me slabs and slabs of chocolate, like slabs of wax one buys in bulk to make candles: milk chocolate, dark, with almonds, with english toffee, white chocolate, peanut butter fudge...and cookies. It was madness. I was gleeful.
She was making dinner in the kitchen, a festive affair with steam and clanging pots and pans, roasting chicken and all sorts of lovely herbs. I bought a scorpion from a petshop and took it home. It was a persnickety thing and refused to stay caged. I gave chase with a spatula and oven mitts, still too afraid to pick it up.
Handy Dandy Interpretation: Chocolate is a sensual/sexual pleasure, and can also be a sign of hunger. The scorpion is akin to the phoenix as a symbol of rebirth, letting something old and painful go and letting something new come in. Eureka! Sexual rejuvenation!
Or it could just mean that 1. I wanted some chocolate, and 2. I was thinking about big black Emperor scorpions.
A windfall of email to pluck me up from a hot, still, buzzy day! May I say it?! May I?
"Foowah!"
"Attention, class. What have we learned in the last two days of intense astrological scrutiny?"
"We've learned that astrology is another well-intentioned way of grossly overgeneralizing and/or oversimplifying certain dynamics and relationships between people in the name of Insight. We have concluded that these certain dynamics and interpersonal relationships should, and do, remain incomprehensible, alluring, and profoundly moving."
"Well said. Anything else?"
"We've learned that worrying too much is a fruitless waste of energy."
"Fine, that's fine. Any resolutions, class?"
"We resolve not to get carried away by sensationalism if we can help it, and also to be satisfied with not knowing."
"Because?"
"Some things are so far-reaching and vast as to defy knowledge."
"Is that an original thought?"
"No. Mirabai introduced it to us. But it's probably been an idea since humanity gained self-consciousness."
"I appreciate your honesty. Class dismissed."
1. Kindness. Check, check, check. Check!
2. Cleverness. Cash that check. Super check! Check, please. Chekster.
3. Intensity. Friggin' check. Check, man, check! Mercy.
4. Similar interests. House o' checks.
5. Great sex. Hmm!
6. Someone who won't put me down for having a kd lang coffee mug. Gloriously check!
In some of Dali's paintings, he compares a human being to a dandelion stem with fluff at the top.
I think he was right on. {stands under swamp cooler} Foof!
What I really would like, what I really would enjoy, is an astrology program that calculates one's natal chart and *then* calculates the most ideal partner's chart. Then I could spend the rest of my time working dutifully at my own wittle wife's poipose, waiting for the ideal person to trip over me at the supermarket. Grrr.
Shoulda been an accountant. Or an actress; my sense of drama is paralleled only by my wish for fathoms of lovey-dovey crap! Augh!
Funny how "Augh" is only a Charlie Brown and Snoopy sound. It is not a people sound, real people do not express feelings in terms of "augh!". Therefore, this is only a cartoon and I am a silly caricature. Blame the cartoonist for my faults! Rip my page out and turn me into a paper airplane. Give my nose a twist, and I'll twirl.
Epilogue with Breakfast: Joie de vivre and blood sugar are intricately and mysteriously connected. It's good to be alive and recklessly swept away in possibility.
an arrow head, over head
reflecting a white rent
in the night sky - war
head roaring atomically
black to lands unknown?
After a particular phone call, I was simultaneously wiped out and wired. So what does one do in that situation? Go to bed, of course! I dreamt of seeing a star fall in the desert at dawn, exceptionally large and bright. I followed it to the place where it seemed to have landed. At first I thought the star/meteor had landed in a little man-made pond with a fountain, in the middle of a little oasis-like apartment complex (in the middle of the desert!), but it had fallen at water's edge. There was a burn or skid mark on the ground, and a small core of star/meteor left over. Bluish gold? I put it in a vial and kept it.
According to my handy dandy dream dictionary, a falling star is traditionally a sign of the birth of an important person. I can't decide whether this means a literal birth, or a figurative one.
Eureka! Is it a manx or triskele or both? Maybe it depends on the scholar who's holding the damn vase. Achilles dragging Hector through the dust.
Yes, we started chatting about music of the 1980's, all us graduate students. Only a few people remembered It Musta Been Love by Roxette, which was a wicked shame. Good party, although the teriyaki steak bits didn't agree with me. Shigekuni's husband, the cool Jonathan, bonded with me on tattoo's and piercings. We've both been inked by the same woman, Dawn at Four Star in Santa Fe, and apparently this is akin to being blood brothers. So to speak! Heh-heh. The chilluns gave me much candy and bubblegum to supplement the wine, mole, chocolate cream oreos (feh), and lovely spinach dip. Julie accused me of being a gourmand, and I had to hang my head and concede.
I discovered that the manic and likable Katie Landon is a Scorpio, which tickles me fuschia. She wore a short skirt that showed off her sex bruises. Tee-hee! We got along winningly in Poetry 422 together.
Julie is a Sagittarius! I was tipsy and managed to talk to her exactly three times in the course of the evening. But no matter! She was all over the party, bouncing around from flock to flock of English Department Denizens. Wanna talk about energy, man...
They've added a cockapoo to their menagerie. No, not a cockatoo, a poodle/cockerspaniel mix. I thought she was a toy dog at first! Her name is Yoko.
Once I wanted to adopt an italian greyhound and name her/him 'Egon'. And the period, in this case, goes on the outside of the quotie-floatie. Yes?
One-click shopping on the Internet is an invention as beautiful as shining Lucifer and as wicked as the char of hell.
Put me in a cradle and rock me, Ms. Apple.
Professors who drop out of cyberspace and shun their email addresses and retire to tropical islands make me indignant. Hmph. Who do they think they are, anyway? Silly little peons like the rest of us? Hah! The Crumbs are the mean ignorant people, The Cretins are the valiant yet thwartable students, and The Crowns are the teachers! Figureheads for all that is good, underpaid, and underappreciated in the world.
Was that an example of metonomy? Thank you, Professor Bartlett! Now where the hell are you, you crazy royal wretch?!
"Jackie, is that a gun?"
"It's not a gun, it's a camera, Mama."
"It is so a gun, so what is it doing there?"
"Just being gunlike. Gunesque. Gunonic."
"Who put it there?"
"God?"
Salvador Dali compared performing oral sex on his wife, Gala, to eating raw lamb chops. In other words, he loved it??!
What do plastic goldfish eat?
Machievelli should be the name of a really messy pasta dish.
Speaking of pasta, gnocchi and the movie The Fly are inextricably connected in my mind. Yech.
In the office of my dreams, there would exist some hanging plants, along with jade plants and cacti. Several large windows with shutters looking out onto my garden. Poppies, daffodils, and hollyhocks would crowd the foreground beneath my sills.
Inside, one entire wall would be a chalkboard. A U-shaped computer desk. A mini-fridge stocked with grapefruit juice, soymilk, cereal, canned mandarin oranges, neufchatel cheese, cream crackers, and fancy smoked oysters in tins. A coffeemaker with fancy-schmancy coffee. Southern Comfort and smoky glass tumblers.
I would have specific prints on the wall, by Klimt and Dali. The Temptation of St. Anthony. Dream Caused By The Flight Of a Bee Around A Pomegranate, A Second Beforing Waking. Couple With Their Heads Full Of Clouds. And then Birch Wood, Beech Forest, Island At Lake Atter, Judith I and Judith II, Leda, Danae, Pallas Athene, and Water Serpents.
What the heck. I'd require incredible wall-space for all these lovelies, anyway! How about some Alfonse Mucha. Gotta love that Art Nouveau. I dunno why. Tranquil and organic prettification, perhaps.
A Tiffany Lamp would probably be too much. Or is that Art Deco? I get confused. Deco is geometric, Nouveau is organic. Uh. Uh.
Candles! Neutral carpet. An overstuffed wingback chair. A reading lamp of the Art Nouveau persuasion, uh, wrought iron climbing ivy and the like. Freestanding bookcases accessible at the back and front, like library shelves.
And finally, a Dutch door to keep critters out but smiles always accessible. And anyone living with me wouldn't necessarily have to scream to get my attention.
Virginia Woolf had a peculiar talent for making the mundane seem spectacularly intriguing. The same cannot be said for me. Hee-hee! Feel free to leave comments as well!
Found two lumps under Harley's arms. The bad thing about keeping rats is their disturbingly human tendency towards many types of cancer. I dunno particularly if these lumps are even tumors, but my guess would be that they are.
Rats are cheerful, emotional, clever, neurotic little beings. But you require a pharmaceutical cornucopia just to stay on top of things, especially with a rescued feeder rat/pet store rat. Lingering deaths are all too common; I keep a little bottle of chloroform now. Along with a panoply of antibiotics, analgesics, natural supplements, and antihistimines. Cold packs, electrical tape, wire cutters, and a styptic pencil aren't a bad idea, either.
Aside from cancer, Madeline developed cataracts, which is just this rare freak thing in the murine world. Unlucky, but a fantastic old girl. I used to make breakfast with her skulking in my bathrobe. She would hide in my shirt when we went to the Vet. She gave kisses and trimmed my hangnails. When I carried her around the house, she would lean in the direction she wanted me to walk. When she was too small to get off the couch by herself, she would whip her tail back and forth like a testy cat.
Ah! Love and its complications!
Asleep or drunk, and he's still hard. Now that's what I call virility. I prefer something softer than stone myself.
Today the mongrel and I went *outside* for an extended period. Glorious day, partly cloudy with no chance of riff-raff. The mongrel was so enthused, she actually richocheted off the couch. Given enough time, I think she might learn to moonwalk.
Speaking of the 1980's, I've been singing Billy Joel ever since The Longest Time played on the radio this morning. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to find a playable link with which to terrorize you. Curses.
The guy really floats my boat. Here's to a nice birch switch across my bare butt.
My favorite Prof' just called to invite me to a faculty dinner party she doesn't really want to throw. She told me that if I'm there, she'll enjoy the party more. The Real World elbows into my coocoonish little life! How shocking! I may have to put on clothes and actually speak with people. Gad. It would be "stupid" to decline such an invitation, somehow, yes? Ah. She's got great chillun, even though they scare me with their clever little minds, and a lovely couple of parrots called Maimonides and Yuki. I also get to talk with her, Julie, and such is joy and terror intermingled.
But how can I tell her I've left my corporeal body and am now living an impassioned life online? My body strewn across the chair like a shucked rubber suit.
{achoo!} I am not a hypochondriac. I am not a hypochondriac...
I keep a little dream notebook that I paste into with paper and glue. This little tome documents several dreams over the past years that include "bugs" like scorpions, snakes, rats, crustaceans, and cockroaches.
As for snakes and scorpions, my dreams have served to dull and not exacerbate my fears. Rats sometimes attack me in my dreams, but I deal with them matter-o-factly, and most often, they act as my familiars in crisis situations. {grin}
Where is my video of Cher, Live At The Mirage? Where is my unparalleled source of delightful 1980's campiness? Cher, bless her good heart and multiple cosmetic alterations, singing Eagle's songs and swinging a little white sailor hat. It's right up there with the white tigers and Siegfried and Roy. Utter fabulosity, and I shall tolerate no negative comments about Cher in this forum! Some people have Judy Garland. Others have Barbara Streisand. I have Cher. End of story.
Is it just me, or does Uma Thurman remind one of a pretty mantis?
Naked in terrycloth robe with mussed hair, smudgy glasses, drinking juice. Good.
Today's challenge: use the word "concatenation" in a sentence with "geiger counter", "okapi", and "speculum".
Sometimes a day is better slept through than actively wrestled with. No plazzing, there were tons of people and my little teeny book of Wallace Stevens failed to hold my attention. After the finger-stick, I left.
Got my album of Scott Joplin Rags today. I'm still deciding how I feel about the interpretations. The Gladiolus Rag is still my favorite, because some things are just hard to mess with. French Toast, for instance. Or industrial beige carpet. Nylon webbing. Penguins.
Narf. A picture or two. So wrong, so right.
Klutz:
1. A clumsy, awkward person.
2. A person lacking in certain social graces.
3. A Lindsey.
A morning of shopping and apharensis awaits! I try to alternate arms to avoid scarring, but suspect I'll end up with track marks just the same. The whole process only becomes disturbing when the orderlies start making jokes about becoming "addicted" to the "sticking". Otherwise, everyone is very nice, and the secretaries offer you packets of saltines and koolaid.
Shopping List: soymilk, bottle of odwalla (Future Chai, if possible), orange juice, disposable camera with which to document my tattoos, tailcoat, and hirsuteness.
Postscript to rollerblading wipe-out: My knee has full flex and the side of my shin is almost a normal color. The only problem is that I have lost feeling at the footward edge of my patella; an area about the size of a quarter. On the bright side, when and if I ever eat dirt again, I probably won't feel it.
About 9 months ago, I broke up with my now ex-girlfriend and resolved never to have sex again unless I was compelled to by an overwhelming feeling of Yes. Funny how when you get what you want, there's always a catch. Sucked into this Vortex of Yes, I expect to produce at least one disgusting confessional poem which may or may not contain the phrase "kitty-pronging".
I wonder if that dirty old man at the duckpond mistook me for a young Asian boy down on his luck, in lax knee socks and holey running shorts. If he did, I'll take it as a compliment.
Excerpt from Denise Levertov's Song For A Dark Voice:
Wake the violincellos of Lebanon,
rub the bows with cedar resin,
wake the Tundra horsemen
to hunt tigers.
My gawd, what an idea! Theophilus and Aleister. Those names make me think of a long line of upstanding British sons who attended Eton. Or Cambridge. Or Oxford. And then became radicals in tweed. (Now there's the name of a future punk band.) The monocled and tattooed! Huxleys and Learys in the making!
Boys, eh? Or is Theophilus possibly an androgynous name?
Twins! Chaos and Mayhem. Chay and May! Hee-hee. Maybe I'll just get a pair of lovebirds someday and call them Chay and May.
When one is too lazy to get a heating pad from an adjacent room, a small warm dog on the lap is very nice. Happiness.
Blargh. Must. Replace. Lost. Iron. (Not the kind you steam clothes with, stick decals to your backpack with, or use to make grilled cheese sandwiches with...hooray for Benny And Joon!)
I bet Marmite has lots of iron. Hmm.
Sometimes I get strange fruit cravings. The Mangosteen is the fruit of a certain species of tropical evergreen. Lovely, but indescribable. Just the sort of fruit segment one might enjoy crushing between the roof of the mouth and the tongue. Sweet, slightly tart. White flesh with fragile veining...okay. What do you call the tiny seperate juice bubbles in fruits like oranges? Mangosteen fruit doesn't have those separations, it's more tender, with fibers coming off the middle of the wedge.
Explain how one puts off a dirty old man by being dirtier! Is that like making a vomiting noise when teenage boys in monster trucks hit on girls walking by?
Beautiful run, 5:30 in the mornin'. Don't have much wind as I've been smoking and lazing, but what a grand sunrise! Early morning moon through blue spruce! Robins and mourning doves everywhere.
Strolling to the duckpond, I feel grand. Puff my chest a bit and feel dandy. Trip down the stairs and twist my ankle. Don't care!
Three herons at the duckpond! Black-crowned night herons, I looked'em up! Lovely. The big one on the footbridge caught a fat goldfish, and it was something to see that bird swallow something bigger than it's own head! Ducks a-waddle. Bullfrogs boasting. No hummers, no mice in the brush. At least, I didn't have time to seek out the scurrying muridae before an old man in a maintenance uniform pulled up on a bicycle.
"Lookin' for some fun?"
"Not particularly, no."
I dunno! Maybe my face was too open and happy cuz I let the pokerface slide! Ick, riff-raff!
"Whatcha doin' out so early?"
"Goin' for a run. Lookin' at birds."
"Yeah. Listen, I'll give you five dollars if you jerk me off."
"Uh. No."
"C'mon."
"No. No. No. No. No..." I put on my sunglasses and trotted off, still shaking my head, "no, no, no, no..."
"At least I tried!" he calls after me.
But it's such a beautiful day, not even the dirty old men can bring me down! Who do I have to thank for that, who?! I think you know who you are. *smiles* I am buffered against distastefulness, at least for a little while.
Ah, the sun is rising. What a day!
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