Saturday, May 29, 2010

Inspired, on a Saturday

So today I've done something novel: I woke up before noon! I was kinda in the habit of doing this a few months ago, but I fell out as of late.

I've spent today searching for jobs and I applied for a couple, and I'm excited about these jobs, so it felt good to get my application submitted!

I was bumming out last night because I simply do not have enough knowledge of the Rolling Stones. And today, inspired, I searched for some recordings at my Local Public Library . . . alas, someone else had that idea, too, and nothing is currently available to check out.

Additionally, not that anyone will ever care, but the stack of papers that was cluttering my living room floor is so nearly almost gone! I've been Organizing! Filing! Listing!

And I've been reading good books. I'm currently reading my first Vonnegut novel, Cat's Cradle., and a few books on fear and anxiety. I've made a list of other things I want to read and study, and I'm currently accepting applications for people who want to read and think with me! The only thing is we get to read whatever I want and if you say anything dumb, then I get to be condescending. And if you say a lot of smart things, then you'll have to be prepared for my eternal respect.

That was a tangent on the informal book club . . .

Anyway. I'm about to ditch this library, hopefully with a Janis Joplin cd and a book on how to sew old clothes into new, cool stuff. Sassy had found a similar book and told me about it and then, lo, Beamish was giving away a lot of clothes. That's the good news about Beamy; the bad news (for anyone, like me, who will be in Tulsa and adores Beamy), is that she is moving for the summer. That's bad and sad. But it's really good for her and her boyfriend; and since it's good for those two, then it must be good for the world. But I'm still sad!

And, again, anyway. This Memorial Day weekend has me thinking about the US armed forces and the issue of peace. Thoughts to be continued as the weekend progresses, I'm sure.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

"Incredible good fortune," Ursula K. Le Guin

A new find from my local public library--two new favorite poems! Both are by Ursula K. Le Guin (she writes poetry, too?!) in her book, Incredible Good Fortune.

Nine Lines, August 9

The gold of evening is closing,
drawing in, tightening.
The light is losing. It is
a little frightening
how fast August goes.
Others have noticed this.
The cat on his concealed switchblade toes
comes by, and what he says
is silent, but enlightening.

Mount Rainier from Amtrak

We steal on steel through vague terrains
of sheds and fences, weeds and waste.
Over the jumbled, trashy plains

the mountain lifts its owl-skull face,
immensely silent, blind with sun,
inhabitant of another space,

alien to things that run
on tracks and roads, to scurfs of roofs,
crisscrossing wires, confusion:

enormous and indifferent proof
to passing souls in passing trains
that what can bless us stands aloof.

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Job Hunting

Well, I find myself at the library just now finishing my designated hour of applying for jobs. It can be pretty easy for me to feel overwhelmed, but I did get two applications submitted. Come to find out, I cannot apply for one of the positions I did apply for. So, I guess one application was submitted and another is ready just as soon as the appropriate position opens up. My main point is to say: geez, sometimes I feel very confused by information on the internet--especially when an organization is trying to be as clear as possible.

Last week I had been feeling pretty despondent regarding the state of my life. As that mood has lifted, I find myself feeling glad, again, that I have no school obligations and host of things waiting to be created. I'm getting really excited to launch my sewing and crafting business!

I had an idea of hosting a writing/crafting class next month at my apartment for the kids that live in my complex. I decided yesterday to drop that idea. The flier I was making was NOT working out--I kept sounding like a huge tool. I felt guilty dropping this idea. But I've been realizing that part of my deal lately is to let go of things. Just because an idea comes up doesn't mean I'm responsible for forcing its way to fruition. I'm noticing--now that I'm in this better mood--that creating a pleasant existence works just fine for me.

For too long Mary Oliver's words have been forgotten in my head: "You do not have to be good"!

Where does that advice go when I feel so morose?!

Monday, May 24, 2010

Funk: Seen!

As Littlest Sister says regarding me: it's not like you are projecting; you just want everyone to have the same problems you do so that you can give them advice and help them out.

That Littlest Sis--she's pretty smart.

She also says: when I find myself saying the same things to people, it usually means others can't give me what I want.

It just now occurs to me that when I can't get what I want from other people, then I usually think I've done something wrong. Littlest Sis has a real strength in not judging moments like these as right/wrong. The girl is a gem!

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Stunted Facebook Status Posts

I'm kind of falling in love with my general sense of malaise. The Stones are on: "You can't always get what you want . . ." I kind of regret contacting my ex-husband when I was feeling low--I can't help but wonder if I'm trying to out-God that guy. In fact, what if that's what I am doing with every man? Erm. Additionally, I am not looking forward to another summer of people declaring how great and fascinating their lives are. You are drinking a beer near water--that's great. That's what everyone loves to do. I love to do that. I love to do that while thinking about life and death ("that doesn't mean you're deep or anything") and when they took the "k" out of "workship." I am pretty much ready for a baby right now. I am also nearly ready to scheme one. I realized earlier, thanks to Da, that I spent way too much of the summer of my fourteenth year (fifteenth year?) watching the OJ Simpson trial. "Get a life!" He says, either in his own voice or in the voice of my peers, whom I laid-out to tell my story of me making fun of myself. His comment rubs because I realize what has cut me for so many years. What is a life and who determines who has one? [I'll tell you cutting down toothpick in a forest--don't tell me! But I will let him tell me toothpick and Gorilla glue would save my futon. Liability warnings be damned.] "The Bible says a wife should complete him." Sarah is the example. I wish religious radio would taking a leap; I'm just angry because I've been trying to give Christianity another chance and then a whole series of stupid things happen. I get so angry at stupidity and then I look like the huge idiot and that's just a) untrue and b) just like this silly universe. If I could explain, to anyone, to any one person anything at all, then I would believe myself to be an exceptional person. For some reason the message I keep sending is that I don't know anything and that I need someone to fill in the gaps when I'm really just saying I don't know a whole lot, and I'm trying to politely show how you, no offense or anything, just might know even less. No offense. I'm just trying to help. I'm a helpful person and we all know the world would be a whole lot better if I could just engineer things my way for a bit. People are so confusing about how we can't control anything, but that we all have choices. Uh? What? Y'all are making my head hurt. "You are making your head hurt and how about head drugs and how about not and how about you stay in school and have you ever taken a break and maybe you're burned out and maybe I am intensely unhappy and maybe I believe that if you just did this one thing then you will be a lot happier. Just give it to God and give it to God and give it to God and give it to God. And God is yourself and God isn't yourself. It's pretty clear." It's pretty clear that I am angry because the whole world isn't knocking down my door to get my advice. I have to shout it out to strangers, and then even strangers think I'm pretty weird. My whole ability to hide behind my middle-class white girl looks will fade if I keep opening my mouth. But it really is offensive that a woman trying on Kohl's shirts and modeling them in front of her husband would be encouraged to buy the boring yellow, '80s razor-back t-shirt rather than the orange, gauzy cotton v-neck tank--you know, the one that matched her skin-tone and drew the eyes to her still-attractive upper chest? Her husband, no offense, should probably have been set free long ago given a) his desire to keep his wife dependent on his opinion of her appearance, b) his horribly formed (and without any semblance of character or original charm) teeth, c) his sideways glance at the twenty-something who just wanted to try on a shirt without being visually molested, and d) his atrocious--dare I say malicious--fashion advice. For a whole night and a whole day I preen around like a princess when someone invites me to play with him. What makes me happy is very simple and I don't think I mind if I spend a very long time playing hmm hmmm hmmm sitting close, evading hand-holding, thinking dirty. It's a fun game and where do I think it's going? It's probably where my and Love's domino game is going; her luck's turning around because now we know where each other's coming from. It's going round after round after round. I will not regret, I suppose, a life not going the way I imagine it should if I get to play how many smart men are in the world (where the definition of a smart man is that he knows how to treat me nicely). I used to get defiant, then sad, then defiant, then nonchalant, then happy about the lines, "And if that isn't love / then I guess I'll just never know."

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Instead of Calling Delilah

No freaking joke: I put Delilah's phone number in my phone. I hate/love that radio show and that woman. Here's my request tonight that I'd like to go out to a few boys.

Monday, May 17, 2010


I don't know about anyone else, but I would like to give a big fuck you to all the guitars in the world. They are making me fall even more in love with them . . . as if I have that kind of time. As if I didn't already devote enough of myself to guitars. As if. As if!!

I knew trouble was brewing a couple weeks ago when a man left a guitar in my apartment and I moved it to the one sacred space I have, which I had devoted to meditating. I took that little cushion out and moved his guitar into the area. A few days later he implied that I was not to be trusted with his guitar . . . that maybe I was just using him for his guitar. Uh, maybe, but probably not! Of all the things to be used for, though, I think it is near-religious to be used for the guitar.

With such trouble in the air, last week I heard the latest STP release for only the second time. And I thought, "Oh, it's not so bad." Scott Weiland has always been first in my heart (unless he's been tied with Billy Corgan), and I considered that it might be safe to balls-out love him again. And then . . . to what does my wandering ear perceive? Is that Dean DeLeo actually rocking out in a totally heart-wrenching way? Alas, I believe it is. Dean DeLeo. Dean Effin'-DeLeo. I had tried to ignore the rest of STP because I tried so hard to love them; I even bought their album when they were Talk Show, sans Weiland . . . my love is a determined one. . . I tried to hard because they just weren't too good and then here comes freaking Dean DeLeo playing that marvelous instrument marvelously. Goddamn it.

And speaking of horrible things, Ye Olde Ex-Boyfriend (whom I contacted. Because I'm trying to clear out all these ghosts and figure out why every boy ever is in my psychic space), brings my attention to this gem. It turns out that after years of practicing in the basement, The Band is now playing in public. And it's been digitally recorded. So now we can all watch the guitar stylings of a man I was totally in love with, a man who was once called the best guitar player in Colorado. He's amazing; he's great; I'm totally happy that he's successful without me. Totally. Happy.

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Universal Approval Needed: STAT

It seems I have two pairs of pants: the sensitive pants or the I'M AWESOME pants.

Sensitive pants is gettin' purty frustrated with not receiving validation for trying to accomplish some personal growth.

Then I'M AWESOME pants kicks in and says that universal validation does not matter when you are accomplishing some personal growth.

I really like my choice in pants because, either way, I am achieving personal growth.

And it turns out that Personal Growth means I'm going to say whatever I want about how dumb some people are.

Not right now or anything because I don't really have anymore to complain about.

I just mean: IT IS TIME FOR ME AND EVERYONE AROUND ME TO WEAR THE I'M AWESOME PANTS. Or else. Or else I'm going to be way confused.

So I want every day to be like this:
A. Courtney, are you wearing your awesome pants?

yes no

B. Courtney, is so-and-so wearing his/her awesome pants?
yes no

Should question C (who are you to be judging whether someone is wearing awesome pants) arise, then re-ask question A until a yes has been achieved. You, darlin', are a wearer of awesome pants; what you think goes.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Tulsa Public Schools

So my friend was featured in a local news segment last night because she is one of the two hundred some teachers to be "trimmed" by Tulsa Public Schools. I don't know the whole situation because I know Tulsa is waiting for some funding to be voted on June to see who can be afford to come back to teaching.

I'm looking up some information, but in the meantime, I could use some people to put a little more pressure on our government to either provide better-funded public education, or to fully get out of people's business. By that I mean I am surely tired of war happening in my name while people that love to teach our children are getting fired.

We all know it's messed up and I know that something can be done about this. H. D. Thoreau-style, yo!

Here's the link to my friend's news interview: "Tulsa Teacher Calls Non-Renewal Notice 'Heartbreaking'"

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Open Letter to Dr. Watson

May 11, 2010

Dear Dr. Watson,

I’m writing to you from Goldie’s Patio Grill, on 21st, near Utica.

This past weekend i missed you and cried over your passing. From talking to Steve M. about one of his old professors, i finally believe i understand you a little more.

This whole time i’ve known you i’ve been really angry at you. i believed you could have tried harder to understand women, race, and sexuality—i believed you could have tried harder in understanding theory. i was so angry! So angry!

It seemed to me as if you were being cliché by reading and teaching the same old stuff.

Is the canon a canon out of boredom or true love?

Why does it seem that some men are so single-minded about the things they love?!

Can’t men ever add more to their loves?!

i was so angry. And now you are dead, and perhaps this is how men add to their loves.

i want you to know that i knew you were going to die the day i met you—it was so obvious as to not register as a conscious thought.

i read As I Lay Dying over break. It wasn’t on my reading list—Absalom!, Absalom! was, because i had already read that one—but i wanted to read a new Faulkner.

i loved it.

i overheard you tell Dr. J. that you now had to teach As I Lay Dying to your grad seminar; could any of us imagine the irony? is the implied question i heard you ask.

i got angry at your implied question . . .

because if you want to talk irony, then i’m listening! (ha!)

It’s horrible how i have to train the men i’ve listened to the most to listen to me in the way i want to be heard.

It might be the easiest to train a dead man—i imagine you would agree!

i am sorry for boycotting your memorials. i am happy to see you, here, your gravestone (?), whenever i please.

Thank you for listening to me,
with love and care,

Courtney S.

PS: This poem is written by my dear friend, K. A. Hays. It applies now. (It is from her book Dear Apocalypse.)

Dear Apocalypse

Gust through-- good. Give us
over to the oaks, sway the old
sheds, the mansions-- shake them down
to meadows, unmake us, melt off
what was wasted of our waking years—
but know we’re no worse
than former fools. You could have felled us
a millennium back, blasted and bludgeoned—
you’re late. Level us, but let it be
put in stone (or penciled on plastic):
Here lie some bodies who bear no blame
for any faults the future may find
at rest in their ruins. Remember: we had
a god who grumbled through us, gave us
his face, held us-- fisted, we like to feel—
even as he ended us. Excuse him.
He was, like any other man, complicated.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Music music music!

I have a ton to say about music lately! It will never happen all in one blog, so here are just a few things:

1. The sisters from the Dixie Chicks have a new album out?! I saw it in Starbucks--oh, strike me down, I don't care! I go to Starbucks every now and then! I need/want/am dying to hear their work! Also, what is Natalie Maines up to?!

2. I heard a Macy Gray song the other day! She's playing with the images of beauty and booty--I love her. LOVE her!

3. Who wants me to be a country singer?! I DO! I need some tone-deaf musicians who want to cover all the songs I want to sing. Let's make this happen!!

Sunday, May 9, 2010

Is Love a Good Night's Sleep?!

No matter (the answer to that title question doesn't matter).

I just woke up at Mom and Dad's house, and I had the best night of sleep I've had in a really long time. It feels amazing. I worked some bad energy out, and my family is amazing for having me around!

I mean--I just can't explain what a good time I've had with these people! I collapsed by falling asleep on the couch and when everyone left our night of hanging out, they just said goodbye to me--it wasn't a big production, like I am wont to make of goodbyes! [Oh, you used the word "wont"--that's the secret word of the day! Confetti!!!] And then Mom led me to bed, and I crashed with a crash that was more than a crash, I and my annebelsleep.

Anyway . . .

I love my family so much. I wish everyone could be a part of this very family because these people are insanely loving and smart and weird--they are simply perfection in their imperfections!

I have a ton of cute Super G stories to share, and if Emjaq could be any cuter, then I would post a world-wide announcement.

Super G is cute and Emjaq is cute--geez. May a curse (a heavenly, sweet curse) fall upon my sisters for making mothering look so easy! Those sisters! Trying to teach me the one thing, the most important thing, that I don't know! It's just like little sisters to want to show the bossy, annoying, demanding big sister something she doesn't know.

And this time I realize I don't know! So, little sisters, I'm finally paying attention to you! Mother away, sweet mothers!

And to all mothers on this sacred/special/beautiful day--Happy Mother's Day!! Keep up the good work!!!!

Friday, May 7, 2010

PS: Dehydrated Horses

Also, I finally understand more of the metaphor I was working with the other night. If I've been someone's dehydrated horse and now they understand horse hydration better now because of me, then please make sure to always water your horses!

Thanks so much--you're the greatest (if you do what I say and hydrate hydrate hydrate!)!


A Few Things

1. Target is selling a toothbrush called "Preserve," which is made from BPA free, recycled plastic from yogurt containers. The packaging in an paid envelope so you can send the brush back to them to recycle.

I bought a pink one with soft bristles; the thing is designed very nicely and I FUCKING LOVE THIS TOOTHBRUSH! Go buy them!!

2. Preserve brand toothbrushes reminds me of Credo mobile, which I still believe is the best phone company to do business with.

3. I'm not doing anymore drugs, which is to say I'm on the ol' high fructose corn syrup with a side of nicotine right now. But that's it!

4. I get to see a baby soon! And then I get to see my family this weekend!

5. Also, there's so much more to share, but I have no time--I have to go return library books and then SEE A NEW BABY!!! Engage squeal!!!!! squuuuuueeeeeeeeeeeeeeeel!!!

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Warning: I Never Get to My Point on N. Scott Momaday Here.

For what it’s worth, it meant everything.

Two years ago, during the semester of my separation and the last semester of my course work, I went to serious war with myself. I had written a paper on N. Scott Momaday’s [title?!], and I wrote it slant by writing it as a letter to Momaday.

The book was one that I loved—too fucking bad I can’t remember the name of it!—and one that I wanted to write on. Class discussion regarding the book made me tense, angry, and concerned because I was not sure what the overall tone of the discussion was.

I guess when I love something, I want to know if other people love it, too, or not. I just need to know if their comments are coming from a place of love or not. (Sometimes, if I care about you, and you don’t love what I love, then I will put up an argument to try to convince you that you should love what I love. If I don’t care about you enough, then I won’t try to convince; I’ll still fight, but this time I’ll just think you’re stupid. And I’m not an educator. One can only educate oneself.)

Tangent: I was driving today (I’ve been doing some good driving lately, and have been thinking a lot about how driving is just like life. You set some boundaries and do what you want to do. If someone’s in your way, then you avoid him/her. To do what you want to do, though, requires that you don’t act like a goddamned fucking jackass. If you want to drive slower than the other traffic, then stay in the right lane; if you want to drive faster than the other traffic, then move as far left as you can. (Ha ha—move left!) Um, anyway. If you can go no further left, and you still want to drive faster, then check it: are you going the speed limit? If yes, then shut the fuck up, but still get annoyed. If you’re going five miles over the speed limit (because give me a goddamned break—everyone knows the five mile rule), and you still want to drive faster, then, really, shut up. If you are going more than five over and you still want to drive faster, then you better make goddamned sure that you will not hurt anyone else by running into them (so you’ll have to observe everything and have a good sense for how other drivers are going to drive), and—this is key—you better fucking give everyone something beautiful to look at as you ride past.

Otherwise, you’re just being an asshole, and no one likes assholes, except for beautiful women with low self-esteem. It’s weird how that works.

If, my dearest drivers, you are driving in the rightest lane you can without running anyone over, then you have a few things to do. First, start by congratulating yourself! You are a winner at driving and I bet everyone loves that you know your place! Additionally, you need to check to your left and any lane beyond that left lane; are there vehicles in very close proximity to you? If so, then you need to check the space in front of you; if there is an excessive (or overly cautious) space between you and the next car then you need—and this is key—to either speed up or get off that road immediately.

Those are the goddamned rules of driving. When going fast, be nice and/or beautiful about it. When going slow, be happy about it.

I think I choose fast because that allows two options. Interestingly, though, I am happy when I’m going fast. So when I go fast, then am I really going slow?

This kind of question would have sent Old Courtney (or the 20-something Courtney) into a spin, but 30 Year Old Courtney says, “Fuck it. If I’m doing what I want and I get to be nice, beautiful, and happy about it . . .” 30 Year Old Courtney forgets the rest of her sentence because she’s too busy for the comma-then part of the sentence. Then nothing, but nothing—you see? If there were no nothing, then she wouldn’t have started with an “If.” And if she started with an “If,” then she is ready to tell you something. And if she does not comma-then it, then she is lost for words and/or she thinks you’re too stupid to explain anything to.) Anyway, back to my tangent. My tangent was I was driving and thinking about . . .

Out of tangent: this is the point. The point is that whatever someone does when he/she is nice, beautiful, and happy about it, then that person is having a religious experience. That is the unnamable, and that is what takes away words, so it is nothing, but also something.

If I lost you at “religious experience,” then good god, why are you reading this post?! Jesus, I am so boring, and you should be doing something else with your time. Don’t you have work that someone is paying you to do?

Back in tangent: while driving, I was thinking about the cliché, “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him drink.” I have some things to say about that (I was going to say, “I have two things to say about that,” but then I realized I will always—always, always, always—have more than two things to say about that). A) You can’t make a horse drink. That means that you can’t make a horse drink. How does a horse drink? Well, it doesn’t siphon water through you and into its body. B) Why are you leading a horse to water anyway? i) is it because the horse looks thirsty to you? If the horse is thirsty, then why isn’t it already drinking water? Are you already preventing the horse from drinking water? In which case, if you are, then you’re an asshole for not giving the horse water sooner. Or, you are really really really really really grateful for what that horse has been doing for you that he/she would give up water in order to obey what you are telling him/her. ii) are you leading the horse to water because you think he/she should drink? Why do you think the horse should drink? Are you an expert on horse hydration? If so, then how did you get to become an expert on horse hydration? How many dehydrated horses did you have to study in order to learn to think that you think you know when a horse is thirsty? And if you were around dehydrated horses, then why didn’t you give those horses water? Why would you lead this horse to water when you deprived the other horses of water?

I’m just trying to ask: are you leading a horse to water because you’re bossy, stupid, or so exquisitely, beautifully insightful that you know how to provide life to something that is already living?

That is what I want these days; I am already alive and I want to know who wants to add more life to something that is already living.

And I mean that on a few levels (“Oh, more lists please!,” my linear, nerdy, surprisingly pale and attractive (not to mention imaginary) friends wail. “No, imaginary friends,” I respond in reality and not imaginarily, “I will not give anymore lists. It’s bringing back ninth grade English grammar flashbacks. It’s not right, man.).

What the fuck was I even talking about?! I got caught up thinking about my high school English teacher; I loved all of my high school English teachers—where are they now? (I ask that genuinely and in announcer voice. If anyone—anyone, anyone, anyone ever—could tell me if announcer voice is ever—ever, ever, ever, ever—genuine, then do. Immediately—tell me immediately.)

Ok. What?

What was I saying? Do I need to comma-then this?!


“I will,” said the Courtney who never rests, unless she is going on all gears. It is beautiful when she is going by like that. Or, depending on your perspective, she’s a total douche and she’s trying to compensate for her small penis (where “penis” can equal “brain”).

Oh, yeah, I was talking about adding life to life! (So the above-mentioned Courtney says to comma-then this one! God, I love that champion spirit of this girl!)

Add some fucking life to my life. New goddamned rules—IN LIST FORM FOR ALL MY FANS:

1. I promised not to get into a relationship until April 1, 2011. And by relationship, I’m borrowing my friend Sassy’s phrase, I (Sassy) mean: nothing that I can’t get out of quickly. As Sass says, “I know you fall quickly, and don’t change that about yourself--just don’t get married right now.”

Done, Sass. Otherwise I would be married twice—no, three times (maybe four?! BUT DEFINITELY NOT FIVE, WHICH IS AMAZING!)—already this week, and it’s only Tuesday night. Actually, it’s early Wednesday morning! Which means . . .

2. I have completed my second day of not having sex for the next two months! That’s two days down out of approximately sixty! Wow—I’ve never been so close as to realizing an almost impossible dream!

I know I can do this sex thing, too, because for Lent I gave up Craisins in my oatmeal. (I know you know about this already.) My point is: I have never celebrated/observed Lent before and I gave up the best ordinary thing ever. Craisins in the oatmeal had been my ritual; and I had thought ritual was holiness. Meaning: I had thought if I do the same things, then I am being a good person. My consistency was my religion and I thought breakfast was worth worshipping.

It is, of course—it’s goddamned breakfast. Anything you eat in the morning is great. If it’s healthy, then you’re proud of yourself. If it’s unhealthy, then you celebrate or feel guilty, both of which are probably the same anyway.

Anyway, I’m done; sex with men in relation to me is no longer the Craisin in my oatmeal.

Which doesn’t mean I’ll be having sex with women in this Lent II, 2010. I realize I have to make that clarification because of all my adoring lesbian fans and because if I have sex with a woman right now, then I will be hers forever. Which brings me to this . . .

3. Since I’m not going to sleep with anyone, then those that I hang around must be my friends. And if you are my friend then you need to do a few things. I only know what one of those things are right now: 1) you need to stop letting me catch you looking at my boobs. If you aren’t letting me catch you, then you are either stupid (because they are my boobs, they aren’t going anywhere, they will be around for you to catch a glimpse of the next time I’m in front of you but not looking at you for some reason, like maybe I blinked or did something similarly outrageous and un-fucking-predictable, like I’m oh-so-wont to do) or you want me to watch you look at my boobs. And that’s just weird—that’s like Hooters. Why would I want to watch you look at me? I can look at myself all I want. I can stand in front of a mirror, look at my boobs and (nearly, almost) watch myself looking at my boobs. So if I can do something by myself, then why would I want you around?

See above for my treatise on leading a horse to water. I’ll play the role of the horse in that metaphor and my friends will have to play the you. I don’t understand my friends; I don’t understand the you.

4. Here’s the deal, my friends. You—ha—will hear from me when I have something to say to you. If you don’t hear from me, then I’m out of words for you at that particular instant, and you should neither take offense nor relief. Soon, perhaps the following instant, I’m going to have something to say to you.

When I do contact you, decide how you want to respond to me! And let me tell you, you cannot save me because if you’re trying to save me, then why don’t you trust me? And if you don’t trust me, then why are you my friend? And if you can’t answer that question, then maybe you don’t have an entirely complete understanding of what love looks like. I just mean, love is trusting someone to be him/herself. Don’t we all want each other to be ourselves? Because I know we don’t want others to be a mirror for ourselves; I know about one and half people who love to watch themselves in mirrors. Actually, maybe more. Maybe this is why I have loved watching America’s Next Top Model?! It is fascinating to watch other people watching themselves. Since it is fascinating to watch someone watching themselves, then [I think I lost the rest of this sentence, or it may end up as a nice lead-in to number five. Who knows? We need a punctuation mark to convey the end of a lost thought. Maybe a . . . ?! Ha—who knows???].

5. If I catch you looking at my boobs, then I’m going to wonder if you’re going to be a good father for the future kids I want to have. And by father, I mean partner in creation. You’re not ready to be a dad? Then stop looking at my boobs or learn—by god, just learn already!—how to discreetly boob-watch. It ain’t hard.

If you are—dare I colloquially say—ballsy enough to look at my boobs while knowing that I see you (AND YOU MIGHT AS WELL REALIZE I SEE A LOT OF THINGS YOU DO), then you must know that I’m imagining whether or not you’ll be a good father. Or whether you already are a good father. You see?

In which case here’s what I imagine will happen, you’ll stare at my boobs while I stare at everything about you (which may take a long time) to determine whether or not we could build something together.

I’d rather just get on with it, you know.

I guess this is how romance is born. Currently I’m in a romance with Texas Hold ‘Em, guitars (kinda; which is only the best kind of romance. “Oh, is there a romance here? Let’s ponder this one to death.”), and potentially wrestling. I’m in a romance with dog sitting and following through with what I said I was going to do and with holding people to what they said they were going to do. It will be a very civil disobedience, by which I mean: I am angry. I am angry all these men in my life are so loveable and yet they don’t see how loveable they are. I am angry that they somewhere believe that I can show them love or that they would rather use me to make themselves feel more (oh, yes, that word, “more”! Creation is more!) miserable about themselves.

So, that’s my big fuck you (where “fuck you” also means “i love you”) to all the artist men in my life (where “artist” also means “”). That means artist is redundant when it comes to men. Men are artists. Any qualifier to that, I mean any, means non-artist. So, fuck me from fifty paragraphs ago—here’s the one thing I can’t see more than two things about: either artist or non-artist. And if this is the one thing I can’t see more than two ways, then this must be the ultimate truth: I believe life comes down to the artist.

6. In fact, I believe God is an artist. And earlier I was convinced that God is a woman. In fact, I’ve been obsessively thinking about religion and gender. Once Sara told me she thought I was projecting onto the female principle. As in:

Me: “The female principle is lonely and wants to be loved; it doesn’t know it’s beautiful. It gives and gives and gives . . . And then the female principle gets angry.”

Sara: “I think you are projecting onto the female principle.”

Which is, of course, classic Sara.

It is just like Sara to tell me that she thinks I’m projecting onto something we each have our own concepts of and just may or may not actually believe exists.

7. Which leads me to my point: I’m going through a lot of break-ups right now, and my heart is broken. Sara is going on to a Big People’s Job, and she’s not going to be around this summer. Which means for two months of my life she is going to be an hour and a half away. Or, we are going to be hanging out together. Either way, it’s a big transition for her because for some reason she believes she has to save me from all the horrible things that have happened to me and that I get into by myself. Now that she’s moving away this summer and then moving on to be a Real Grown-Up (of which I immensely jealous; all I’ve ever wanted to was be real. That sound facetious, perhaps, or maybe it sounds like I have an undercurrent of arrogance? In truth, I am insanely jealous of her . . and her big girl pants, which are actually a homemade skirt and a shirt that says “comma sutra.” See, her big girl pants are whatever she wants to wear; i’m jealous!), she doesn’t realize that every time I call her doesn’t mean I need her to save me from whatever histrionic emotion I happen to be feeling that second.

8. But enough of me projecting onto the female principle . . .

Relationship transitions are difficult for me because I can actually do them really quickly. It’s so weird as to be unbelievable, and I come across as a cliché almost all the time. But that’s only because everyone else is going through their own shit—right on top of me!

9. Transitions are easy for me because I’m just like everyone else—I crave constancy. I’m just realizing that it’s constant that people’s emotions and thoughts change over time. What is nearly always constant is that someone is going to emote and think almost all of the time.

I am interested in what happens in the space between emotions and thoughts. Can we control that space—that’s what I want to know. What can be separated out? What can be individuated?

I believe that it is the male principle that sees uniqueness and individuality; the male can tell us our own individual talents. The female principle only sees unity. (Or, and this is such a huge or as to be obvious; perhaps I am beyond reductionist and am just being a poor thinker.) We need both, right? Duh. If it is constant that we are always doing thinking and emoting, and that there are distinctions between thoughts and emotions and the types of thoughts and emotions, and if it is possible find a space between varieties of thought with other varieties of thought and varieties of emotions with other varieties of emotions and

[Well, I lost my thought last night. Above is where I just collapsed and fell asleep, and slept for about nine hours—a true miracle! Sleeping when I’m tired is my new religion. Stopping writing when I still have a thought—that is a miracle. Thank you, my dear friends and Universe for letting me, hell, watching, (!) me write. I love you. That’s what love is; when you are willingly watching what I want to show the world.] [See treatise on my boobs; I don’t want to show those right now. Or I would, you know! It would be the easiest thing to take a picture of my tits and post it here. But that is never going to happen. I promise! And not just because my dad reads this blog!]

Monday, May 3, 2010

Ok, Universe!

Dearest sweet Universe, (oh, now I'm just being flattering to get my way, right?!)

Thank you for the last post so that I could tell my dad about the older man who is my new best friend. I'm so glad that I did not have to tell him in person that I am having the best sex of my life.

There. That's not embarrassing.

FOR THAT ONE, DEAR UNIVERSE, how about someone pay for me to have the goddamned (no offense) internet at my house so that I can blog whenever I want!

It might save a trillion people just half a penny on their phone bill from having to check their goddamned voice mails from me.

a) everyone is going to learn to never answer the phone when I call and
b) if one trillion people, just one trillion, gave me half a cent, then I--a poor, starving, privileged, white woman in America--can have access to telling two people (Mom and Vic) how to live their lives. That's . . .

whatever. I'm not doing math today. I just found this! The MegaPenny Project!

Thanks, Universe! You're the best!