As if life didn't suck enough, now I have a toothache. What a royal pain in the ass that I don't need and god knows how I'm going to find a dentist who'll see me tomorrow or Friday because I don't want to go through the weekend with a toothache. And this is going to cost a small fortune, you know it is, a small fortune I don't, naturally, have. In other great and wonderful news, my furnace is broken and so we have no heat except the fireplace and the Darth Vader helmet style heater, both of which are going in the living room, where N is asleep on the couch and M is wrapped up in blankets on the papa san chair watching Old Boy (which is too weird and violent for me to cope with right now.) I'm sitting here cold in the kitchen, worrying that the broken furnace is filling the house with carbon monoxide (or dioxide, I never can remember which one it is that kills you - both, I think) and that's why everyone is sleepy and we're all gonna die. Granted this house is so far from air tight that it seems it would take a while to kill us, months possibly, one would think, but maybe not Granted also that the furnace is making no noises whatsoever, and if it was emitting something you'd think it would also be clanking ominously or whirring rather than lying there on its metaphorical back with its metaphorical feet straight up in the air with metaphorical rigor mortis, but then one never knows and furnaces are mysterious beasts. N and I went down there and poked around and pushed a bunch of buttons and made a green blinking light come on for a while and even made the furnace, twice, emit a sort of whirring groaning almost working mechanical noise, but then it lapsed into a coma again. Probably N & M killed it with their pellet guns when they were hunting each other in the basement the other night, although I spotted no bullet holes. In the furnace, that is - N & M each have a few welts. So now I have to call my landlord and clean the whole house so the landlord will not guess at the state of chaos and destruction in which we usually exist.
Rains, pours, yeah. Got that down. Oh and this is a dumbass picture of the view in front of the Haywood laundromat because I just didn't shoot anything else much today. Not, you know, that I don't want to. Shoot something.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
More Good Drugs
So I went to see my therapist today and I became a sobbing puddle of goo which I think alarmed him a bit. Alarmed me too, hell. He wants me back on antidepressants, which is a good idea no doubt, and off of alcohol, which solution I had also already twigged to myself and honestly, as is usual when I get this down, that's not hard. The last thing I want right now is alcohol. What I do want - a desert island, a small safe cave far far away, an enchanted century long sleep, a machine to alter space and time - is a little harder to come by. Although not much harder than antidepressants because, for all the shouting about Prozac nation and our overmedicated American selves, it's just not that simple.
Nothing can be simple. No, I have to find some weird backdoor way to get some doctor to prescribe me drugs - drugs I've taken before, mind you, nothing new - for a month because the other doctor, the one my therapist works with, can't see me until April and clearly, waiting until April to get me on good drugs is not a possibility because it exacerbates the possibility that I will turn to bad drugs, which possibility is, if you get my drift, getting more possible all the time, since I'm already in a black hole full of howling winds and a pharmaceutical grade companion would be welcome. So now I must hit the gray market for legal drugs. I tell you what, my life gets more like a Philip K. Dick short story all the time.
Nothing can be simple. No, I have to find some weird backdoor way to get some doctor to prescribe me drugs - drugs I've taken before, mind you, nothing new - for a month because the other doctor, the one my therapist works with, can't see me until April and clearly, waiting until April to get me on good drugs is not a possibility because it exacerbates the possibility that I will turn to bad drugs, which possibility is, if you get my drift, getting more possible all the time, since I'm already in a black hole full of howling winds and a pharmaceutical grade companion would be welcome. So now I must hit the gray market for legal drugs. I tell you what, my life gets more like a Philip K. Dick short story all the time.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
project 365 #58: walkway
Another day at work and things are a little better today. Also, I had lunch with my mother and her completely gaga British friend, which is always entertaining. There's just nothing quite like having lunch with a stunningly beautiful 80something who keeps saying "Oh dear, I'm afraid I don't quite know where I am!" After lunch they went shopping and my mom came by work with some new clothes from Stein mart for me - a strange, strange little knitted black cape-ish cloak cardigan thing that I don't know what the hell to do with and a shirt I already own. Yes. A duplicate of the screamingly hideous long sleeved black t-shirt covered with sequins that she bought me from Stein Mart like 2 years ago that I never, but never, no never will wear. Because, honestly, there are few occasions in my life when sequins are appropriate, and when they are I want them on something funkier than a high necked black t-shirt. Like, I want cleavage. Or at least a low back. But I said thank you and all. Yes, yes I did.
In breaking news, also, my therapist is going to see me tomorrow. Let's all breathe a huge fucking sigh of relief.
In breaking news, also, my therapist is going to see me tomorrow. Let's all breathe a huge fucking sigh of relief.
My Therapist Won't Call Me Back So I'm Analyzing Myself
Do you remember the blog post a while back where I was saying that I had ended up being the kind of older woman I wanted to be? Like, all wise and shit and living in an ivy covered cottage full of happy animals? Yeah. That didn’t work out. Lately I feel like my aging process is involving all the less attractive characteristics of Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard and Baba Yaga, the Russian witch. In other words, I’m going around drunk and on pills, desperately seducing young men in a hopeless attempt to recapture my misspent youth while occasionally crouching in a corner of my chicken legged hut, gnawing on babies and turning puppydogs into poison dart frogs. It’s a career, what can I say? Besides, maybe, help. Or, fuck it, come too close and I will so totally turn you into something small and slimy.
I’ve been spending a lot of time with people in their teens and early twenties lately. Part of this involves me sitting at the computer while they shoot each other with pellet guns in the basement (don’t ask) which is all fine and stuff, but part of it also involves me remembering my own early 20s and where I was then and where I am now and stuff like that, which is uncomfortably weird. I’ve often thought that if I hadn’t had a child when I was so young (cue the Specials here) I might well be dead. I got pretty wild in my late teens and I’ve always had this schizophrenic combination of total disregard for the rules and my own safety AND near crippling anxiety, guilt, paranoia and some kind of doomed attempt to fit in. Put more simply, I have no problem really liking both NOFX and Gillian Welch. Never have had and thus, somehow, my left brain and my right brain are sort of constantly at war. Part of me wants to be all mature and sophisticated and motherly and wise and so on while the other part just wants to totally tear loose and kick ass. Is this weird? Am I crazy? Do I even care? Usually, not much.
When my daughter was born, I had to kind of pull my shit together and raise her. Same went when I had my son. Now, they're pretty much raised (look, I give up on M. It's not so much that he's being raised by wolves as that he, the wolf, has challenged my human parenting abilities to a duel and they have, like, totally ceded the contest. He's a changeling or something. I tried. I swear it's not entirely my fault that he's growing up to be, well, whatever new mutant species of rock star or revolutionary that he is.) and there's a big part of me that would very much like to return to the East Village in the mid 80s and do all the drugs I didn't get around to then because I was trying to be responsible and grown up. Granted, I managed to get around to quite a few. Still. There are more. I'd also like to just drink myself into oblivion on a Greek island somewhere. I'm well aware that neither of these are a) healthy choices or b) options, unless someone has invented a time machine, in which case I think I'll go hang around Alexandria in the 20s with Lawrence Durrell, bye.
Where the hell am I going with all this? I have no idea. I feel like I'm being pulled in a bunch of different directions lately and all of them are making me miserable. Sigh. Presumably, this too shall pass and I'll regain whatever slim measure of sanity and/or control I ordinarily or at least sometimes possess. Or I'll cash in my last remaining meagre retirement account and go AWOL, which option gets more attractive every day, even though it would be a pretty short and pathetic AWOLness, given the paucity of that account. Like, forget the Greek island and perhaps consider the green way in the center of I-85 near Orangeburg.
I’ve been spending a lot of time with people in their teens and early twenties lately. Part of this involves me sitting at the computer while they shoot each other with pellet guns in the basement (don’t ask) which is all fine and stuff, but part of it also involves me remembering my own early 20s and where I was then and where I am now and stuff like that, which is uncomfortably weird. I’ve often thought that if I hadn’t had a child when I was so young (cue the Specials here) I might well be dead. I got pretty wild in my late teens and I’ve always had this schizophrenic combination of total disregard for the rules and my own safety AND near crippling anxiety, guilt, paranoia and some kind of doomed attempt to fit in. Put more simply, I have no problem really liking both NOFX and Gillian Welch. Never have had and thus, somehow, my left brain and my right brain are sort of constantly at war. Part of me wants to be all mature and sophisticated and motherly and wise and so on while the other part just wants to totally tear loose and kick ass. Is this weird? Am I crazy? Do I even care? Usually, not much.
When my daughter was born, I had to kind of pull my shit together and raise her. Same went when I had my son. Now, they're pretty much raised (look, I give up on M. It's not so much that he's being raised by wolves as that he, the wolf, has challenged my human parenting abilities to a duel and they have, like, totally ceded the contest. He's a changeling or something. I tried. I swear it's not entirely my fault that he's growing up to be, well, whatever new mutant species of rock star or revolutionary that he is.) and there's a big part of me that would very much like to return to the East Village in the mid 80s and do all the drugs I didn't get around to then because I was trying to be responsible and grown up. Granted, I managed to get around to quite a few. Still. There are more. I'd also like to just drink myself into oblivion on a Greek island somewhere. I'm well aware that neither of these are a) healthy choices or b) options, unless someone has invented a time machine, in which case I think I'll go hang around Alexandria in the 20s with Lawrence Durrell, bye.
Where the hell am I going with all this? I have no idea. I feel like I'm being pulled in a bunch of different directions lately and all of them are making me miserable. Sigh. Presumably, this too shall pass and I'll regain whatever slim measure of sanity and/or control I ordinarily or at least sometimes possess. Or I'll cash in my last remaining meagre retirement account and go AWOL, which option gets more attractive every day, even though it would be a pretty short and pathetic AWOLness, given the paucity of that account. Like, forget the Greek island and perhaps consider the green way in the center of I-85 near Orangeburg.
Monday, February 26, 2007
project 365 #57: blurry spinny self portrait
Well, I'm still a fucking basket case, which I think this self portrait fairly well reflects. I really screwed up on Friday night, in case anyone was in the least bit of doubt, and it's still angsting me way out. Gah. Yuck. I hate this. I'm starting to wonder if I'm going crazy, or went crazy a long time ago and nobody told me: maybe I've been totally psycho for ages and just didn't know it. Perhaps you're all just in my mind, or I'm sitting in a coma somewhere imagining all this stuff, in which case you'd think that rather than making myself utterly miserable with my despicable drunken behavior, I'd come up with something involving Nicolas Cage, a desert island, a pitcher of margaritas and a swimming pool full of raspberry jell-o. Not, uh, that I have ever put any thought into such a thing.
On the brighter side, I met somebody who recognized me off this blog (this blog. Don't you love it? It's like being the New Yorker. Oh, the power.) today, which was kind of shock, but a nice one. I had to go to the Chamber of Commerce for a meet n' greet, one of those PR type things I loathe and detest (which is one of the reasons I'm not, actually, very good at being a PR person - I hate to schmooze) and I had forgotten all about it this morning, which meant that, since it was Monday and the museum was closed, I was dressed in basic black grunge. Granted, at least those are my honest clothes as opposed to my no doubt laughable attempts at vaguely corporate chic, but still. A little too dark and grotty for the chamber of commerce, which has built itself a palace in Montford that I hadn't been in before. Anyway. I was waiting for the elevator when this young woman caught a look at my Hello, My Name Is tag and said, "I love your blog!" It kind of freaked me out, to be honest, like, maybe I really should dye my hair purple, change my name and move to Oregon, but she was very nice and very complimentary. Thank the gods she didn't, like, throw trash at me and scream "You suck!" That would have been terrible. I'm always glad when noone does stuff like that.
On the brighter side, I met somebody who recognized me off this blog (this blog. Don't you love it? It's like being the New Yorker. Oh, the power.) today, which was kind of shock, but a nice one. I had to go to the Chamber of Commerce for a meet n' greet, one of those PR type things I loathe and detest (which is one of the reasons I'm not, actually, very good at being a PR person - I hate to schmooze) and I had forgotten all about it this morning, which meant that, since it was Monday and the museum was closed, I was dressed in basic black grunge. Granted, at least those are my honest clothes as opposed to my no doubt laughable attempts at vaguely corporate chic, but still. A little too dark and grotty for the chamber of commerce, which has built itself a palace in Montford that I hadn't been in before. Anyway. I was waiting for the elevator when this young woman caught a look at my Hello, My Name Is tag and said, "I love your blog!" It kind of freaked me out, to be honest, like, maybe I really should dye my hair purple, change my name and move to Oregon, but she was very nice and very complimentary. Thank the gods she didn't, like, throw trash at me and scream "You suck!" That would have been terrible. I'm always glad when noone does stuff like that.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
project 365 #56: miniature iris blooming 3
The miniature iris are blooming like crazy in the front flower garden already and I guess that means it's getting to be time to start thinking about digging and raking and all that spring-ish stuff. Seems early. Seems like it's still winter. Seems like it's dark and gloomy and cold, or maybe that's just me.
I'm not enthused this year about gardening. The whole vegetable garden needs to be moved because of a tree that's grown up over the last six years and that's a monumental task I can't quite face. I know I'll snap out of the current doldrums eventually but at this exact moment in time I can't believe anything is brave enough to climb out of a blanket of damp leaves and bloom. It's hope though. I guess.
I'm not enthused this year about gardening. The whole vegetable garden needs to be moved because of a tree that's grown up over the last six years and that's a monumental task I can't quite face. I know I'll snap out of the current doldrums eventually but at this exact moment in time I can't believe anything is brave enough to climb out of a blanket of damp leaves and bloom. It's hope though. I guess.
Bummer Theatre
I have an old cartoon from the New Yorker in a scrapbook - it's Roz Chast and it shows a TV set that's saying "Welcome to Bummer Theatre! Every week something else that's not so hot happens!" In the next panel a man is looking from the TV and saying, "Well, I guess we're going to have to sell the farm." I love this cartoon. I love Bummer Theatre. And right now, I'm in it, drinking black coffee and smoking cigarettes and shaking because I am not, quite honestly, doing real well lately, so I made a mix CD from some random mp3s that were floating around my computer and uploaded it and if you would like them than here, for the next week only, they are. You will note that the Cranberries, Linger, is on this mix because it is one of my favorite bum out tunes but I have to say that if I ever find the person who decided to put it on heavy rotation at Ingles supermarkets, their life will not be happy for some time. I just went to the store and got ambushed by it yet again and this is not, alas, the first time this has happened and I hate it when it happens, argh, because I do not want to get all snuffly eyed in the fucking egg aisle.Note: Click on the picture and it will become large enough to read the setlist so you can decide if you want this ginormous file or not.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
project 365 #55: enka candler sonic
Young M spent the night at some friends house out in Enka/Candler. These friends recently moved and can't find their own house, so after N & I drove all over Sand Hill Road for a while looking for them, we bailed and went to Sonic. I like Sonic - if you're doing fast food, you might as well go whole hog, with the drive up thing and the bad music over the loudspeaker and the weird jalapeno burgers and texas toast. Also, the guy who was taking our order had a heavy Indian accent and the way he said "Would you like to make that a larrrrrrrrge coke?" made us both giggle uncontrollably.
N wants to build a raft out of bottles and coolers and PVC and assorted other junk and then live on it under a bridge on the French Broad river. I think this is an excellent idea and I wonder if it's possible (nobody owns the river, right? Do the cops even have jurisdiction? Does the Coast Guard? Why don't more people just live on the river?, ) so we wandered around Lowes for a while, discussing the rafting possibilities of giant plastic trash cans caulked shut and how to make a frame out of PVC and how, definitely, it would need a pirate flag. It was fun and I also got some pansies, which will look nice growing on the raft.
N wants to build a raft out of bottles and coolers and PVC and assorted other junk and then live on it under a bridge on the French Broad river. I think this is an excellent idea and I wonder if it's possible (nobody owns the river, right? Do the cops even have jurisdiction? Does the Coast Guard? Why don't more people just live on the river?, ) so we wandered around Lowes for a while, discussing the rafting possibilities of giant plastic trash cans caulked shut and how to make a frame out of PVC and how, definitely, it would need a pirate flag. It was fun and I also got some pansies, which will look nice growing on the raft.
project 365 #54: neon in broadways window
Well, last night was it, the ne plus ultra, the end: my liver and no doubt many of my friends and acquaintances will be pleased to learn that I'm on the wagon for a while now. It's amazing that I'm not more hungover, but my car is sitting downtown on Lexington Avenue, my head hurts and I am full of remorseful shame and determined to start being a better human being. Or a less alcoholic one anyway. I hereby declare this particular nervous breakdown over. Done. Finished.
Either that or I'll have to throw myself off a bridge or into rehab or something.
Either that or I'll have to throw myself off a bridge or into rehab or something.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
project 365 #53: daffodil shoots
I am having a shit night, a shit month and a shit year and I'm so angry and miserable and depressed I could scream and cry and in fact, actually, I am. And fuck the fact that everyone knows who I am and I'm supposed to be all funny and happy and shit because sorry, I'm fucking not. I'm miserable. I'm totally miserable and angry and I am posting a picture of daffodil shoots because jesus christ, I have to have something to hang onto to make myself believe that this too, jesus fuck, shall pass, and eventually perhaps I will go an entire goddamn week without another email telling me that someone I loved has died. A week. One goddamn week. Is that too much to ask? Should I be happy that we'll all be pushing up the fucking daffodils soon enough?
Because I'm not. I'm angry and I hate everyone. I hate that I can't get laid and I hate that the guy I really care about is impossible and I hate that the other guy who I have kind of liked for months now shot me entirely the fuck down tonight because, you know, I'm the kind of girl who's everybody's drinking buddy and fun friend and nobody's lover. I hate that a guy who I like but not in that way asked me out tonight and I couldn't figure out a way to say no (yeah, I can be desperate and picky, fuck you, if there's no chemistry there's no chemistry) and I hate that three men who I loved in my life are gone now.
And they were smart and funny and cynical dark men, like I like, who made me into what I am, which is I hope unto some maybe existing god is a smart and tough and cynical and funny dame, because that's what they liked. And tonight when a well meaning new acquaintance, on hearing of my month of loss and fucking death everywhere, leaned over and recited unto me an extremely soppy theoretically native american poem about how I shouldn't be mourning at their graves (which I'm totally not, not to mention that according to current human practice they've all been hygienically cremated and for what it's worth, if I have a tragic accident tonight getting into bed and clonk my head one time too hard on the door or something, I do NOT want to be cremated OR embalmed, no, motherfuckers, bury my ass deep in a garden somewhere. I'd prefer a barrow and my grave goods and a slave or two around me but failing that I want to decompose and leave my bones to this good or not so goddamn good earth, okay? No burning. No wax. No fake shit. Just bury me.) But anyway. It was a soppy sentimental poem and about three lines in I could see all three of these men turning disgusted to the bar, which was lovely and comforting. Because THEY HATED THAT SHIT AND SO DO I.
I'm sorry for the rant but you know what? I really can't handle another email of death and I really can't handle another man telling me that he only wants to be friends. I'm sorry, but I can't. I'm at my limit. One more and I don't know what the hell happens, but it isnt' going to be pretty. My mother used to say that the good lord only gives you as much as you can handle. I don't believe in the good lord, but I believe in a consortium of interested nature spirits, at least I used to think I do, and, please, I'm done.
I'm done. I can't take any more. Seriously. I am so done.
Because I'm not. I'm angry and I hate everyone. I hate that I can't get laid and I hate that the guy I really care about is impossible and I hate that the other guy who I have kind of liked for months now shot me entirely the fuck down tonight because, you know, I'm the kind of girl who's everybody's drinking buddy and fun friend and nobody's lover. I hate that a guy who I like but not in that way asked me out tonight and I couldn't figure out a way to say no (yeah, I can be desperate and picky, fuck you, if there's no chemistry there's no chemistry) and I hate that three men who I loved in my life are gone now.
And they were smart and funny and cynical dark men, like I like, who made me into what I am, which is I hope unto some maybe existing god is a smart and tough and cynical and funny dame, because that's what they liked. And tonight when a well meaning new acquaintance, on hearing of my month of loss and fucking death everywhere, leaned over and recited unto me an extremely soppy theoretically native american poem about how I shouldn't be mourning at their graves (which I'm totally not, not to mention that according to current human practice they've all been hygienically cremated and for what it's worth, if I have a tragic accident tonight getting into bed and clonk my head one time too hard on the door or something, I do NOT want to be cremated OR embalmed, no, motherfuckers, bury my ass deep in a garden somewhere. I'd prefer a barrow and my grave goods and a slave or two around me but failing that I want to decompose and leave my bones to this good or not so goddamn good earth, okay? No burning. No wax. No fake shit. Just bury me.) But anyway. It was a soppy sentimental poem and about three lines in I could see all three of these men turning disgusted to the bar, which was lovely and comforting. Because THEY HATED THAT SHIT AND SO DO I.
I'm sorry for the rant but you know what? I really can't handle another email of death and I really can't handle another man telling me that he only wants to be friends. I'm sorry, but I can't. I'm at my limit. One more and I don't know what the hell happens, but it isnt' going to be pretty. My mother used to say that the good lord only gives you as much as you can handle. I don't believe in the good lord, but I believe in a consortium of interested nature spirits, at least I used to think I do, and, please, I'm done.
I'm done. I can't take any more. Seriously. I am so done.
Third Shoe
Well, the third shoe in my triumvirate of death has dropped with the loss of Jakov Lind, my crazy bohemian painter auntie's long term love. Jesus. On a pogostick and with a crutch, and so on, and godspeed and fare thee well and the last time I saw Jakov was about 1993 or 4 in the Chelsea Hotel in New York. We sat and drank some wine and smoked a little and, ah fuck, another funny, smart, interesting guy gone. I'll try to scan a truly wonderful picture I have at home tonight and put it up, of he and Annie sitting at a party, smoking, being hippie glamourous.It's tough to lose people like this; people you meet when you're young and admire, people 30 and 40 years older than you. Michel was a father and a dear friend to me; Michael was a teacher and a lover; Jakov was my uncle, really, and gave me mild uncle-y shit and dinner now and then and told me stories and why I shouldn't be a writer. I guess this loss is natural, this is life, a progression for my age or my generation as we begin to lose the people who are our parents, our guides: the generation and a half or so before us. It's sad to lose them and even sadder, in a horrible way, to think that this is just the beginning, and then you get to the point where my mother is, attending a funeral every week. The lucky ones get there, anyway. Lucky is a funny word.
Why do things happen in threes and fives and sevens? What weird numerical practical joking gods send waves of loss in kabbalistic code? 2007 is shaping up to be a banner fucking year.
Coda & post script: Here's the promised picture. Annie & Jakov from I think the late 70s, in fine form and amazing clothes, as I like to remember them. My scanner died some time back so I took a digital picture of my 1980 scrapbook, the year I lived with them and they tolerated me. The blue on the bottom is from a carton of Ducados, my Spanish cheap cigarette.
I hate time and loss and mortality and change. I hate them and this whole entire thing is some kind of sick fucking joke.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
project 365 #52: ingles parking lot evening
Went to see my mom tonight and took a whole lot of atrocious pictures on the way and then there. It was such a beautiful day and I didn't even get my shit together to walk around with the camera, more's the pity, because all the people with the giddy looks on their faces carrying their coats would have made for some good shots. Then this one, though, I thought turned out okay - stopping at the Biltmore Forest Ingles, which is where I go after I leave my mom's. Inevitably I leave my mother's house and have to get groceries and get home to make some kind of dinner which often doesn't turn out well and gets served at 8:30, which is to say, like 2 hours after you're supposed to eat dinner. Oh well, what the hell, and tonight was no exception and dinner sucked and every night can't be great, right?
I always feel kind of like an imposter at that Ingles, which is dumb, because actually even though it is large and lush and has one of those mega produce sections that inspire awe and envy in people like me, who shop at the truly ghetto Ingleses that are West Asheville's nod to supermarkets, it's actually in some ways more ghetto than mine. They have all that space and yet don't have all that much stuff in the store, whereas the small, grotty West Asheville Ingles is crammed with weird Mexican food and hillbilly food like pickled pigs feet and the occasional surprising pile of hippie food in a nod to the changing neighborhood. The people at the Biltmore Ingles, who you would expect to be called Muffy & Bob and wearing tennis sweaters, actually tend to be older black men buying dog food. I think all the genuine Biltmore Forest people shop up in Arden where everyone is white and has good teeth.
One thing I like about Ingles, though, even though it is a terrible monopoly and I have heard all the usual calumnies about the ultra tackiness of the Ingles clan, is that they always hire mentally or otherwise handicapped people to bag groceries and I think, somehow, that that is kind. Although on the other hand for all I know they're paying them like 12 cents an hour or something. It's always kind of amusing: the contrast between the terribly world weary teenage cashier in giant African earrings and the very earnest DD bag boy. And I like it and I like talking to the bag boys because it makes them both very happy and very serious, like, they're talking to a Customer now and they have to remember exactly what to say. I usually say things that are nonconsequential and so do they but you can tell that these conversations are important to them and they want to do them exactly right and I like that they are trying so hard to navigate these mysterious small talk waters.
I always feel kind of like an imposter at that Ingles, which is dumb, because actually even though it is large and lush and has one of those mega produce sections that inspire awe and envy in people like me, who shop at the truly ghetto Ingleses that are West Asheville's nod to supermarkets, it's actually in some ways more ghetto than mine. They have all that space and yet don't have all that much stuff in the store, whereas the small, grotty West Asheville Ingles is crammed with weird Mexican food and hillbilly food like pickled pigs feet and the occasional surprising pile of hippie food in a nod to the changing neighborhood. The people at the Biltmore Ingles, who you would expect to be called Muffy & Bob and wearing tennis sweaters, actually tend to be older black men buying dog food. I think all the genuine Biltmore Forest people shop up in Arden where everyone is white and has good teeth.
One thing I like about Ingles, though, even though it is a terrible monopoly and I have heard all the usual calumnies about the ultra tackiness of the Ingles clan, is that they always hire mentally or otherwise handicapped people to bag groceries and I think, somehow, that that is kind. Although on the other hand for all I know they're paying them like 12 cents an hour or something. It's always kind of amusing: the contrast between the terribly world weary teenage cashier in giant African earrings and the very earnest DD bag boy. And I like it and I like talking to the bag boys because it makes them both very happy and very serious, like, they're talking to a Customer now and they have to remember exactly what to say. I usually say things that are nonconsequential and so do they but you can tell that these conversations are important to them and they want to do them exactly right and I like that they are trying so hard to navigate these mysterious small talk waters.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
project 365 #51: asheville high school
M is sick; N is getting sick; I am sick and tired, but otherwise just fine. A had it last week; the dogs are sickening and the state of my kitchen would make anyone sicker than hell. So I had to go pick up M from school around noon, since, as he martyredly noted in the car, I had yelled at him this morning and forced him to the halls of academe, pictured here. I am evil that way and he didn't have a fever. But then when the nurse calls I always get consumed by guilt and so, on the way there, I stopped at Kerr Drug and picked up $30 worth of cold medicine, cough drops and kleenex - the last of which I left on the kitchen table and then discovered this evening, opened from the side. From the side. I love my son but good lord, the boy does not know how to open a kleenex box. No wonder he's doing so miserably in school. Maybe I should be kinder to him and use words of one syllable in a soothing voice instead of screaming about jesus, His crutch and sacred pogostick at 7:45 every morning.
I also had to sign my soul away to receive sudafed, now that it's become a controlled substance. This is ridiculous. Nyquil doesn't work anymore and sudafed, which is so harmless that even I, notoriously afraid of pills, will take it without qualms, gets me more evil looks and signing of forms than the damn percodans and morphine I picked up for my mom last summer. Which is utterly stupid, since, among other things, you'd think the clerk would have realized that if I was planning to come on home to the trailer and cook up some nice meth for dinner I wouldn't have bothered spending all the rest of my money on new, unimproved Nyquil, cough syrup, echinacea lozenges and, of course, the aforementioned giant boxes of kleenex.
In other news I reread my blog myself and yeah, okay, I guess I have been a bit insane lately. I felt like Homer Simpson - I wanted to beat the monitor and yell "Be more funny!" So I will try. Not that I'm not secretly grieving all sad like and adolescent and pathetic, okay, because I am, like, so fucking emo that it would blow your head off and make Morrissey (the old, interesting Morrissey) look like the teen leader of Up for America but still. I will attempt a return to making more funny. And I have a call into my guru therapist so that he can take up the angst slack, so everyone can breathe a big old sigh of relief.
Have I mentioned lately how much I hate February?
I also had to sign my soul away to receive sudafed, now that it's become a controlled substance. This is ridiculous. Nyquil doesn't work anymore and sudafed, which is so harmless that even I, notoriously afraid of pills, will take it without qualms, gets me more evil looks and signing of forms than the damn percodans and morphine I picked up for my mom last summer. Which is utterly stupid, since, among other things, you'd think the clerk would have realized that if I was planning to come on home to the trailer and cook up some nice meth for dinner I wouldn't have bothered spending all the rest of my money on new, unimproved Nyquil, cough syrup, echinacea lozenges and, of course, the aforementioned giant boxes of kleenex.
In other news I reread my blog myself and yeah, okay, I guess I have been a bit insane lately. I felt like Homer Simpson - I wanted to beat the monitor and yell "Be more funny!" So I will try. Not that I'm not secretly grieving all sad like and adolescent and pathetic, okay, because I am, like, so fucking emo that it would blow your head off and make Morrissey (the old, interesting Morrissey) look like the teen leader of Up for America but still. I will attempt a return to making more funny. And I have a call into my guru therapist so that he can take up the angst slack, so everyone can breathe a big old sigh of relief.
Have I mentioned lately how much I hate February?
Monday, February 19, 2007
project 365 #50: stripes
I feel a bit boxed in right now. . . jailed. BY LACK OF LOVE AND, AND, AND SOMETHING ELSE ALL DARK AND EMO AND STUFF. Rejection! I want to listen to sad love songs and go off on my own personal Asheville rejection tour, whereby I wander around to see all the men in this stupid fucking town who have decided for one reason or another that a relationship with me is just a really bad idea. I AM ALL BUMMED OUT! Or, well, something.
Actually I'm just hungover and miserable and fed up with my own dysfunction and the dysfunction I'm allowing to happen all around me, argh. I just got home from work only to realize that this place looks like something that was rejected from Animal House as too appalling; there seem to be people asleep on every piece of furniture and they ate all the frozen pizza. Yet again I hit that weird central conundrum of my whole life: I somehow failed to grow up. Somewhere, somehow, along the way I got stuck at about age 23 and I have never managed to break out of it. Which most of the time is a good thing - and I have been trying to make peace with it, or at least stay drunk and stoned enough where it no longer bothers me - but when it comes to after party cleanup?
An inner grownup would be handy.
Actually I'm just hungover and miserable and fed up with my own dysfunction and the dysfunction I'm allowing to happen all around me, argh. I just got home from work only to realize that this place looks like something that was rejected from Animal House as too appalling; there seem to be people asleep on every piece of furniture and they ate all the frozen pizza. Yet again I hit that weird central conundrum of my whole life: I somehow failed to grow up. Somewhere, somehow, along the way I got stuck at about age 23 and I have never managed to break out of it. Which most of the time is a good thing - and I have been trying to make peace with it, or at least stay drunk and stoned enough where it no longer bothers me - but when it comes to after party cleanup?
An inner grownup would be handy.
project 365 #49: dinner party
It was one of those weekends. You know, one of those weekends where you drink way too much, steadily, continuously, and things go from one emotional extreme to the other and back again? It was both wonderful and hellish (with a lean to the hellish) and right now, Monday morning, I'm exhausted and drained and, well, sad.
The fun is all over for me again. I'm back to having to be a grownup and I'm also back to being as alone as I've ever been. Not that this is surprising; I expected it; maybe not quite so soon. That's why I have to be cryptic sometimes: things can change in the proverbial twinkling of some huge and glaring red eye. And they have. Not really for the better. The spider who was living in my shower is dead and a curled husk on the ceiling. The gates to the doors of perception have slammed closed yet again and it's back to business as usual at Hangover Headquarters.
Sometimes I wonder what gods I offended so powerfully in my last life or two, or maybe it's something I did in this one and no longer remember or maybe it's just that I'm a fuckup. There you have it and life just goes on because it must. Next year around this time I think I'll take an extended vacation in a concrete bunker under a bleak mountain somewhere because while you can live on indefinitely hopeless, happiness is a painful fucking thing.
In other news I had a party last night; it was really nice; my friends came down from Bat Cave bringing a load of firewood which was excellent and, also excellently, my friend A, using a rake and the whirlwind ADD abilities that are his trademark, totally cleaned up the horrific Dog Bosnia that Django had turned my backyard into.
The fun is all over for me again. I'm back to having to be a grownup and I'm also back to being as alone as I've ever been. Not that this is surprising; I expected it; maybe not quite so soon. That's why I have to be cryptic sometimes: things can change in the proverbial twinkling of some huge and glaring red eye. And they have. Not really for the better. The spider who was living in my shower is dead and a curled husk on the ceiling. The gates to the doors of perception have slammed closed yet again and it's back to business as usual at Hangover Headquarters.
Sometimes I wonder what gods I offended so powerfully in my last life or two, or maybe it's something I did in this one and no longer remember or maybe it's just that I'm a fuckup. There you have it and life just goes on because it must. Next year around this time I think I'll take an extended vacation in a concrete bunker under a bleak mountain somewhere because while you can live on indefinitely hopeless, happiness is a painful fucking thing.
In other news I had a party last night; it was really nice; my friends came down from Bat Cave bringing a load of firewood which was excellent and, also excellently, my friend A, using a rake and the whirlwind ADD abilities that are his trademark, totally cleaned up the horrific Dog Bosnia that Django had turned my backyard into.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
project 365 #48: nate and django on yellow chair
Went to the DILO Asheville Flickr meetup and drank waaaay too much on an empty stomach, naturally. Came home and drank more because I'm an idiot. Now I have to clean my house, ick, yuck, bah, I hate Sundays.
Friday, February 16, 2007
project 365 #47: ice
The ice that somebody dumped in the Rhino courtyard after an event isn't going anywhere. No, those cubes are sitting happily, fully formed and almost sentient, like they're about to take on some kind of creepy ersatz life, like Frosty, only more debauched. Ice Cube Guy, a demented creature built of cubed ice, lurching around looking for a nice rum drink to bury itself in. No luck, Icey, no, sorry, Ice, Ice, baby - we're drinking hot toddies and rum and hot chocolate, curling up on the couch under a sleeping bag, spending the majority of our paychecks on heating oil (fuck, that hurt too) and in general hoping something resembling spring hits soon.
Fuck February. Fuck days where it's 24 degrees when I get to work and 20 when I leave. I don't recall signing on for the Yukon.
However, Ashevillains are getting out. N & I tried to go see Casino Royale at the Brew N' View and it was sold out & the place was packed. Then we went to Burgermeister, which was great, but also jammed full of people. Why aren't they all at home huddled around a blow dryer like sane folk?
Fuck February. Fuck days where it's 24 degrees when I get to work and 20 when I leave. I don't recall signing on for the Yukon.
However, Ashevillains are getting out. N & I tried to go see Casino Royale at the Brew N' View and it was sold out & the place was packed. Then we went to Burgermeister, which was great, but also jammed full of people. Why aren't they all at home huddled around a blow dryer like sane folk?
Thursday, February 15, 2007
project 365 #46: hangover breakfast
It was a coca cola in a pepsi cup morning for sure and this was the only picture I took today; taken by the crazy hippie chick in the long black skirt and big fur hat, with her pajama bottoms sticking out under the skirt and purple plastic clogs. The only woman among the cold and half awake construction workers at 8:15 in the morning who also like the bacon and egg biscuits at the Eblen gas station on Amboy Road. You expect a person like that to whip out a big camera and take a picture of sodas on the roof of her car because, clearly, she nuts. Yeah, she crazy. It's okay.
It was a long miserable day at work, too, but you know what?
No regrets.
It was a long miserable day at work, too, but you know what?
No regrets.
Uh Oh
You know how you can have this incredible fabulous wonderful night and drink waaaay too much and stay up waaaaaay too late and everything is incredible and great and you're all happy? And you make an idiot out of yourself but it's totally okay?
Then morning comes and then you have to go to work.
THAT is a problem.
Then morning comes and then you have to go to work.
THAT is a problem.
project 365 #45: my hip
This is like the best valentines day of my life. So I totally cannot blog about it. Just, uh, if you think you're having fun?
You're not having as much fun as me.
You're not having as much fun as me.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Better
It's funny; I normally hate Valentine's Day with a passion and my life hasn't changed that much, but this year I just really don't care about it. It is not bothering me. I do not wish to take to the tower with a 12 gauge. Somehow, miraculously, I woke up in a far, far better mood than I was in yesterday. I feel calmer and mellower and more in control. Naturally, this transformation required alcohol: first, a two decanter sake lunch at Doc Cheys with my wonderful friend J who calmed me down, and then, after I got home last night, a vodka and cigarette on my front porch by myself. During which I realized that yesterday -
I wrote a poem AND
I took a pretty good picture AND
I made a broccoli quiche (a really good broccoli quiche.)
Thus, my life is not, after all, a waste. It's the little things. Also, then A & I went to Target to wander dazedly around in the fluorescent lights and somehow we had a really great time, laughing hysterically at all the hideous tacky valentines stuff and inspecting the housewares and just in general getting along. It was nice. It was good. And I bought a dark chocolate bar with crushed espresso beans AND a really cute little black dress really cheap. And A gave me a valentine that she had put together with her clients (she works with DD and autistic people) which was also completely hilarious. Maybe Valentine's Day will be bearable after all.
I wrote a poem AND
I took a pretty good picture AND
I made a broccoli quiche (a really good broccoli quiche.)
Thus, my life is not, after all, a waste. It's the little things. Also, then A & I went to Target to wander dazedly around in the fluorescent lights and somehow we had a really great time, laughing hysterically at all the hideous tacky valentines stuff and inspecting the housewares and just in general getting along. It was nice. It was good. And I bought a dark chocolate bar with crushed espresso beans AND a really cute little black dress really cheap. And A gave me a valentine that she had put together with her clients (she works with DD and autistic people) which was also completely hilarious. Maybe Valentine's Day will be bearable after all.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
project 365 #44: coming home in the rain
The rain started coming down hard as I was on my way home from work and it matches my mood perfectly. I've been on some kind of crazy emotional roller coaster the last few days and I'm tired of it and sad and blue and wishing I was someone else, somewhere else and that I didn't get like this occasionally - off balance, out of the flow, non Tao.
But I do. And then I get better again. Which is sometimes hard to remember, in the rain.
But I do. And then I get better again. Which is sometimes hard to remember, in the rain.
Another Loss
Another old friend - and more - has left the planet Michael Tyzack, I have already missed you for a long time and now. . fuck, fuck and so on and I'm just too goddamn tired of loss to write another eulogy, to pass on memories (once, I saw you naked play the trumpet in a Soho loft, back when I thought the world was still kind) or even to shout or scream or cry. Much. Some. A little. This is a harsh season, this February. This turning gyre is not spinning where I wish it would go.
Poem
Spider in the shower
this foggy morning
my startled eep and instructions
go backup to the ceiling
small one
please do not eat the ladybugs
were heeded.
But.
What part of that vast rumbling
earthquake susurrus and breaking wave
did you hear?
My nose, the patch of skin you eight eyed saw
is a bit of grass or rock
a part of the moving world too vast
for comprehension
not one animal but a million million
The breaking edge of the lawn
concrete
wind and a squirrel in a tree
are all I can perceive
a fragmentary glimpse
a rushing shouting of surf and highways and air
vast directions
that I only hear part of.
this foggy morning
my startled eep and instructions
go backup to the ceiling
small one
please do not eat the ladybugs
were heeded.
But.
What part of that vast rumbling
earthquake susurrus and breaking wave
did you hear?
My nose, the patch of skin you eight eyed saw
is a bit of grass or rock
a part of the moving world too vast
for comprehension
not one animal but a million million
The breaking edge of the lawn
concrete
wind and a squirrel in a tree
are all I can perceive
a fragmentary glimpse
a rushing shouting of surf and highways and air
vast directions
that I only hear part of.
Monday, February 12, 2007
project 365 #43: dog
Totally forgot my camera today and then went to see my mother for a while, cursing the perfect warm day and skies that were oh so photogenic all the way. I even got windshield washer fluid for the car the other day so I could continue endangering the lives of innocent motorists by shooting over the steering wheel without the whole thing looking like a pile of weird white amoebae, but all to no avail. So I came home and made mashed potatoes, pork chops and collards to appease young M, who is in open rebellion against all the vegetarian hippie food I've been serving lately, and took a lot of heinous kitchen still lives. They all sucked, even the ones with the Silver Surfer action figure in them (Yes. I have the Silver Surfer in my kitchen; an 11" high model suitable to date Barbie, should Barbie suddenly find herself in the mood for a bald guy with improbable silver muscles on an out of scale surfboard) which proves that while you would think that the Silver Surfer would, like, totally make any photo of onions far more worthwhile, you would be wrong, because a boring picture of onions with the Silver Surfer is still, alas, a boring picture. So in desperation I ran over and took a bunch of close up macros of Djangos' nose (which I am too kind to share: they're good photos from a creepy scientific point of view, but honestly you don't want to look at a dogs nose that close and neither do I) and then this one. Which will do. After all, it was Monday.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
project 365 #42: vaguely thai stir fry for dinner tonight
One of those Sundays: clean the kitchen, chase the dog around the block in high confusion, make pancakes, clean the kitchen again, chase the dog again and so on. Laundry. Floor mopping. The dog getting out of the fence repeatedly and all of us fanning out around the neighborhood to find him, fearing for the worst while he was having the time of his life with a similarly un-human-encumbered doggie and, somehow, swimming. The dog was swimming, I mean, not us, thank god, although it was a beautiful day.
Now, dinner & the kids watching a really horribly gruesome slasher flick: how comfortable and American and normal! Yes, there's nothing like watching people saw their own limbs off to work up an appetite. I can only hear it, thank the gods, not see it, and occasionally I get to shout a plaintive Mom-ish "Why are y'all watching something like that?" into the living room, which naturally goes unanswered. It's all in the mix, I guess - we did all watch Pink Flamingos earlier and upping the grossness ante after that is damn tough.
Now, dinner & the kids watching a really horribly gruesome slasher flick: how comfortable and American and normal! Yes, there's nothing like watching people saw their own limbs off to work up an appetite. I can only hear it, thank the gods, not see it, and occasionally I get to shout a plaintive Mom-ish "Why are y'all watching something like that?" into the living room, which naturally goes unanswered. It's all in the mix, I guess - we did all watch Pink Flamingos earlier and upping the grossness ante after that is damn tough.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
project 365 #41: N at daniel ridge falls
For a day that started out hungover and weird, wow, did it get nice. N & I ate food, lay around and then eventually got our shit together to go "hiking." Yes, by hiking I mean we drove around through Pisgah National Forest, occasionally getting out of the car to take in some of the closer sights, such as Looking Glass Falls and the trout hatchery. I love the trout hatchery. Something about all those fish just is so. . so. . I don't know what. N loved it too, which is brilliant, because it's so depressing to go to the trout hatchery with people who are all like, uh huh, big tanks full of large fish, so what? The trout hatchery always makes me want to get naked and jump in, just to, um, see what it would be like. For, um, science. Ooops. Now I have outed myself as a creepy fish pervert. What 
do they call those, anyway? Scalies?
Then we went on over to the waterfall at the end of the Daniel Ridge loop trail (I know it has a name but I can never remember it) which is one of my favorite waterfalls in the world and then we drove forever to get up to Bat Cave to hang out for a bit with D & A & R, which was lovely, and then we came home to drink beer & listen to Lou Reed. A perfect day, really. Damn. Dag. And all those things.
do they call those, anyway? Scalies?Then we went on over to the waterfall at the end of the Daniel Ridge loop trail (I know it has a name but I can never remember it) which is one of my favorite waterfalls in the world and then we drove forever to get up to Bat Cave to hang out for a bit with D & A & R, which was lovely, and then we came home to drink beer & listen to Lou Reed. A perfect day, really. Damn. Dag. And all those things.
project 365 #40: theo by the river in the morning
This is a boring picture for yesterday, Friday: what turned out to be a decidedly unboring day and evening. Do you realize that just three weeks ago I was bemoaning my dull and boring life and how every day things were just exactly the same, starting with taking the dogs to the park in the morning and then going to work and so on? Jesus. Imagine that. Somehow or other, in the last three weeks my whole life has changed weirdly and my head is all full of crazy stuff which I won't go into in this blog (sorry, dear readers. Sucks to be you when I'm on a confidentiality kick.) and then, of course, there's still, at the bottom, loss and grief and shit.
It's weird how life can bushwhack your ass, sneak up on you and toss you in the pigpen. You know, for a moment there you're flying - and then you're in a world of shit. Some of the shit I am currently experiencing is fun, if somewhat dangerous, shit and some of it just makes me sad and some of it is, like, holy shit! But at least I'm not, for the nonce, bored.
Hungover, yes. Bored, no.
It's weird how life can bushwhack your ass, sneak up on you and toss you in the pigpen. You know, for a moment there you're flying - and then you're in a world of shit. Some of the shit I am currently experiencing is fun, if somewhat dangerous, shit and some of it just makes me sad and some of it is, like, holy shit! But at least I'm not, for the nonce, bored.
Hungover, yes. Bored, no.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
project 365 #39: nate at ed boudreaux
Took the boys - young M, and youngish N, who has joined our crazed household for the nonce - to Ed Boudreaux for dinner. Yay good barbecue and Mardi Gras decorations (purple & shiny!) and then I took them home and went on to Drinking Liberally, where there was a huge turnout and a group of Democracy for America people telling us all about the arcanities of precinct meetings and so on and so forth. All good, but the best part was sneaking out to smoke with my friends S & J & L . They're all beautiful, brilliant, funny, interesting women and I thought to myself that it's one of the perks of growing a bit older - getting to hang out with women like this. We do tend to come into our own at our age, and we're one hell of a lot of fun to boot. They blow me away. So yay, also, for amazing women.
Work is Kind of Sucking
Work is kind of sucking but my lack of anonymity does not allow me to digress further. Which also sort of sucks - sometimes I regret not cloaking myself behind a big black mask and cape, which would give me the latitude to rant on about work and sex and that really mean thing so and so said to me, the bitch. Alas, though, because I have never, ever been any good at keeping my own secrets (other peoples, I can keep for years, but my own are an open book) I never even stepped fully into the closet but instead let it all hang out. So everybody knows who I am and where I live and where I work and so I must be discreet.
Bah. Sometimes I don't want to be discreet. Sometimes I want to cathartically holler about how underappreciated I am and how tired I am of being celibate and how sick I am of the fact that every single guy I'm attracted to is never attracted to me back, no, the only guys who are interested in me are hopeless substance abusing psychotic short fat greasy creeps (okay this actually is only a description of like the one guy who has come on to me at a bar recently but I must say, dude, he was the ONLY ONE so you see how it could get a girl down) and how all around me there are ugly crazy women with great boyfriends while I, who am not ugly and not all that damn crazy really cannot get even a stupid date to save my life, and also how I've been placed in a professionally untenable situation and how much, goddamn it, I really, really want to stop being responsible and go off on at least one crazed sex, drugs and rock and roll rampage just one more time before I have to be hauled off to the ice floe. You know. Stuff like that.
Also, I started smoking again. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. My son is calling me a failure and he has a point. I'm going to quit again though, I promise. I swear. I just don't know exactly when, but I did get a prescription for some kind of nifty new wonder drug that makes you not crave nicotine or get fat or any of the other miserable shit that happens when you quit. On the bright side of all this, though, is the simple fact that added nicotine will make me far less likely to take to the tower with a shotgun next Wednesday, and we should all be glad about that.
Bah. Sometimes I don't want to be discreet. Sometimes I want to cathartically holler about how underappreciated I am and how tired I am of being celibate and how sick I am of the fact that every single guy I'm attracted to is never attracted to me back, no, the only guys who are interested in me are hopeless substance abusing psychotic short fat greasy creeps (okay this actually is only a description of like the one guy who has come on to me at a bar recently but I must say, dude, he was the ONLY ONE so you see how it could get a girl down) and how all around me there are ugly crazy women with great boyfriends while I, who am not ugly and not all that damn crazy really cannot get even a stupid date to save my life, and also how I've been placed in a professionally untenable situation and how much, goddamn it, I really, really want to stop being responsible and go off on at least one crazed sex, drugs and rock and roll rampage just one more time before I have to be hauled off to the ice floe. You know. Stuff like that.
Also, I started smoking again. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck. My son is calling me a failure and he has a point. I'm going to quit again though, I promise. I swear. I just don't know exactly when, but I did get a prescription for some kind of nifty new wonder drug that makes you not crave nicotine or get fat or any of the other miserable shit that happens when you quit. On the bright side of all this, though, is the simple fact that added nicotine will make me far less likely to take to the tower with a shotgun next Wednesday, and we should all be glad about that.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
project 365 #38: park morning shadows
Woot! I actually got my project 365 thingie done before 9:00 am! Yowza! Now I must run and in the next 12 minutes shower, get dressed, and get to work. . . .uh oh.
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
project 365 #37: living room bookcase
I was going to clean my awful messy house and/or be all good tonight and in fact I was kind of good in that I made a big pot of hippie lentils for everyone. Unfortunately, my kids all see hippie lentils coming and vacate the premises promptly. Which is dumb, because they are delicious - granted, in their own hippie lentilly way, which is to say with tamari and yeast, because that is the old hippie way and well, fuck, I'm in my own old hippie self right now. Also, I'm broke, and that pot of lentils will feed us all for like four days. Four gassy days, yeah, but four days.
However I am sick as shit of being good and thoughtful and nice and so fuck it, after I put the lentils on and failed utterly at getting the free dell printer to work I decided to drink vodka. Vodka is awesome. The hell with being Irish, I think I'll be Russian instead. Vodka beats Jamesons (I'm Catholic. We're not allowed to drink Bushmills, or at least we weren't back in the day.) hands down - it's clear, it comes in exciting nifty funky postmodern marketing department bottles and it (so far) doesn't give me a hangover. Also, you can mix it with juice. Not, though, with that $2 bottle of red stuff called Cosmopolitan mix that I unfortunately bought at Ingles last night. That stuff, mixed with vodka, turns into a kind of hideous imitation Cherry Nyquil, and if there was ever anything that didn't need a clone, it's cherry nyquil. I prefer the original dark green evil flavor myself.
In other news, I'm still discombobulated, which I'm medicating with alcohol (vodka rocks! I feel all depressed and wintery! I want to write short brutal poems about birch trees! I'm down with the post Soviet angst thing! All is bleak!) and my kids are running wild and oh, by the way, I am taking in a few new kids, or people, or whatever, and my house is messy and full and a bit chaotic - which is actually, if we're going to be all honest and shit, exactly the atmosphere on which I thrive.
However I am sick as shit of being good and thoughtful and nice and so fuck it, after I put the lentils on and failed utterly at getting the free dell printer to work I decided to drink vodka. Vodka is awesome. The hell with being Irish, I think I'll be Russian instead. Vodka beats Jamesons (I'm Catholic. We're not allowed to drink Bushmills, or at least we weren't back in the day.) hands down - it's clear, it comes in exciting nifty funky postmodern marketing department bottles and it (so far) doesn't give me a hangover. Also, you can mix it with juice. Not, though, with that $2 bottle of red stuff called Cosmopolitan mix that I unfortunately bought at Ingles last night. That stuff, mixed with vodka, turns into a kind of hideous imitation Cherry Nyquil, and if there was ever anything that didn't need a clone, it's cherry nyquil. I prefer the original dark green evil flavor myself.
In other news, I'm still discombobulated, which I'm medicating with alcohol (vodka rocks! I feel all depressed and wintery! I want to write short brutal poems about birch trees! I'm down with the post Soviet angst thing! All is bleak!) and my kids are running wild and oh, by the way, I am taking in a few new kids, or people, or whatever, and my house is messy and full and a bit chaotic - which is actually, if we're going to be all honest and shit, exactly the atmosphere on which I thrive.
Monday, February 05, 2007
project 365 #36: two dog couch
It's cold and I'm tired. That's pretty much it - cold, check. Tired, check. Two dogs, check. And a photo of the day - check.
project 365 #33: walters art museum kunst und wunderkamera
I made it to the Walters on Friday. I used to work there in what now seems like the impossibly distant past which made it strange when a whole bunch of people recognized me. When I left to move down here (when I got here I discovered that I had just left what was actually, like, one of the single best jobs in the country and I would never, ever get another job with benefits and perks and all like that one, damn, damn, damn, not to mention amazing, incredible art around you all day long, every day, argh) the museum was in the painful throes of complete reconstruction and I hadn't been back since. They did an awesome job. The museum looks AMAZING. And this idea, which I remember hearing about back in the day, of creating a sort of kunst und wunder kamera (which is German and therefore intellectual for Room Full of Cool Shit) is just so awesome you wouldn't believe it. I wish I'd had more time to spend in there.
One of the many, many very difficult things about a trip like the one I just took is the weird dichotomy between sorrow and joy, vacation and memorial - it was great to go back to the Walters, it was great to see so many old friends, it was great to be in Baltimore for a few days, but it was terrible, too, because we were (and are; I personally am a complete fucking basket case right now) all so sad and shell shocked and wandering around in just a sort of wide eyed stunned misery. It was hard to run into former coworkers and explain what I was doing in Baltimore in the beginning of February. It was hard all the way through - I went from the museum to the Safeway, where I sat in the snowy parking lot and cried my eyes out for 15 minutes.
One of the many, many very difficult things about a trip like the one I just took is the weird dichotomy between sorrow and joy, vacation and memorial - it was great to go back to the Walters, it was great to see so many old friends, it was great to be in Baltimore for a few days, but it was terrible, too, because we were (and are; I personally am a complete fucking basket case right now) all so sad and shell shocked and wandering around in just a sort of wide eyed stunned misery. It was hard to run into former coworkers and explain what I was doing in Baltimore in the beginning of February. It was hard all the way through - I went from the museum to the Safeway, where I sat in the snowy parking lot and cried my eyes out for 15 minutes.
project 365 #34: michels memorial reception audrey and ariel
This was taken at the reception after Michel's memorial service, which was packed with many, many old friends. It was heart wrenching and beautiful and sad and awkward and awful and great all at once as these kinds of things so often are. I felt weird taking photos but I was glad to get these two together: my daughter and her erstwhile best friend, who we see all too rarely these days.,
project 365 #32: going to the sip and bite
We got to Baltimore on Thursday, 2/1, around 1:00 and naturally had to go directly to the Sip N' Bite for crab cake subs and fries with gravy. Well, that's what my kids and I had - the other two girls, health nuts that they are, had rice pudding and bacon. Young M, seen here under his coat, has been making angry noises about being followed by the paparazzi. . . he's terribly embarrassed to be in the company of anyone wielding a camera and if it's directed at him, well then, it's clearly going to steal his soul.
project 365 #31: haywood road
I'm going to quickly blog all the photos I uploaded to Flickr for project 365 now and hope to come up with an actual blog entry later. So. This one was a stressed out throwaway from Wednesday, 1/31, when I was freaking out getting ready to leave for Baltimore that night since there was going to be, you know, the storm of the century the next day. There was no storm. I went back to Baltimore. And now I'm back in Asheville, a little shell shocked.
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