Drip drip drip

Caught on the Barbed Wire of Sensation

Thursday, November 29, 2007

Magic



Sometimes only a poem will do. Just some leaves from a tree, or some shavings of bark, but certainly not the branches, the trunk and all the many twigs in their entirety- together all of these things paint too clear a picture.

Here is the procedure: you sit in an empty room.
You wait, with the clicking of the clock, and its little echo.
The inconsequential presses your shoulders down, forward,
your neck bending too,
until your eyes are staring in your lap
and you feel it, the small cool thread, lifting that perilous thing
out from the crown of your head, pulling it out, like a magician's scarf,
upward toward the heavens.

A sudden halt and your head snaps up.
It is sudden waking from a dream, and the prickly voice,
the one that asks you to stand tall,
the one that asks that you use your voice
and ask for admiring eyes
is gone
all gone.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

A Bird's Eye View of Life



Last night I came home and discovered that one of my dogs had escaped. For the third time in three weeks. She pushed open a window and busted out the screen and then went off gallivanting sometime not too long before I made it home. A sickening pitch of panic set in as soon as I realized she was gone again. I came down from my adrenaline wave when I received a phone call from a woman several blocks down the hill who had my dog.

The night before last as I walked home from the bus I saw a deer get hit by a car. Its hind quarters were struck by a Jeep Cherokee and it lay quivering in shock and pain on the side of the road as I stood there horrified, flummoxed. Finally I got my wits about me and tracked down animal control who came and got the deer, most likely for prompt euthanasia, which sure beats out a slow and painful death on the side of the road.

I am almost afraid to go home this evening for fear of seeing what travesties await me. Will there be a burst pipe under the house as there was a few months back, with water pooling around our boxes stored in the basement? Sewage on the front step from a burst pipe? A rejection notice in the mail that dashes all my hopes for a year and sentences me to another summer of studying to take a standardized test? Would a pleasant surprise be too much to ask? I guess there's always the mild thrill of getting a Netflix in the mail, that is, when they're not throttling me, i.e. purposely slowing down the rate at which they deliver movies to my mailbox, a practice that they now disclaim per the terms of a law suit over the matter.

So silver lining, I seek thee out. Art thou the friendly swarming of my dogs around my legs when I arrive home (if they haven't already escaped)? The comfort of my couch and the relief of removing heeled shoes? A glass of wine and a seat on the deck with a view of the city? I cradle now, these fragile little pieces of enjoyment. I suppose I could imagine myself like a bird, or some other indifferent, aerial animal, surveying the trivial wreckage and treasure of my day-to-day. That's what I need: a bird's eye view on life.

Monday, November 26, 2007

God Love the Holidays



Today is very workaday. It feels like the beginning of a dry period. It is the holidays, a time that always feels like a music video, with days like flashing images, one after the other, like Moulin Rouge- bright colors, frenzy, singing (but less romance and fewer beautiful people). It is the Monday after Thanksgiving and people have a sort of bloated silence to them. I haven't personally spoken to one coworker today. Everyone seems to be cloistered in their offices, numbly tapping out emails as they sit hunched in front of the computer.

Soon, the constant stampede of Christmas parties, and harried holiday preparations will begin. And it all makes me wonder: what the fuck happened to slow Christmas? You know, the Christmas where you ponder the snow, where you lazily bake sugar cookies and sip apple cider in front of a fire. It seems only to exist in the perfectly lit world of holiday movies and commercials, the supreme distillation of a collective holiday fantasy. Or it exists for children, because children get Christmas break (without preparation for finals) and have little responsibility in the way of gift buying, Christmas tree procuring and holiday party and food preparations. And to add to this conundrum is the implied guilt one must feel for not enjoying all the hubbub. Never mind your twelve hour day and the filthy kitchen- YOU BETTER MAKE SOME GODDAMNED COOKIES!

Yeah, I know. Scrooge is tired shtick, a pose aped by many. But I can't help but clinch my fists in anticipation of being put through the Christmas Grinder once again this year. Despite resolutions to forego the anxieties, to shun the trivialities and focus on the higher virtues of the holidays, like family and merriment, peace and graciousness . . . hot buttered rum (I'm not religious, so I only give Jesus a passing thought), I inevitably succumb to last minute panic when I realize I have not, as usual, planned sufficient time for making all the homemade goodies and buying all the wrapping paper/bows/bags/tissue/cards/ribbon/dazzles/frillies/boxes/candies . . . somehow or other, I seem to remember to buy something for a little liquid holiday cheer. I'm not stupid, after all, and one good strong drink seems appropriate in dealing with the hyper-glut fest and poverty-inducing gift exchange that typifies a Christmas gathering for my family.

So now that I've unleashed all that dread into the blogosphere I can continue on in my less-than merry way and go through the motions with a stiff upper lip, after all, there's a Christmas tree to be put up tonight.

Thursday, November 15, 2007

The Existential Papaya



I am plagued by paper. I don't know why clerical tasks bring out the existentialist in me, but there you go, existential mocking popping into my brain like a jack in a box, except even more obnoxious (if such a thing were possible). I feel as if I'm being punished, which I acknowledge is juvenile at best, hopelessly self-pitying at worst. What a jumping off point! What joy-inspired words!

In order to perform the tasks at hand I surprise myself with the wish to drain myself, like a bottle, of all vestiges of humanity or primordial spark and to become. the machine. that I am. supposed to be. I imagine my speech changing to flawless monotone . . . like the rhythm of a roll call: paper here typing here killing here with a here noose here arsenic here soul mutilation here vivisection here

In some places the heart, the mind is only a disease, something sickly to be gauged out with a surgical tool and placed in a biohazard bin. And if only I didn't have it to begin with, I wouldn't miss it when it's gone. But I do and I did.

Okay, so maybe this is my blue period. The worst kind, so that if you glance at it, instead of the word "blue" you see the word "bored". It is not blue, but beigey grey. The color of milky vomit mixed with mercury. In contrast, I appreciate the verdant: the drippy dewy green of close up photos of grass blades, the rich, crumbly chocolate of garden beds and the provocative pink moistness of strawberry papaya flesh cupping little eggy black beaded seeds. You see? This is proof that I've lost it.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

One brain, two brain, three brain, four.


So, I'm not in an uplifted mood today. More like a Debbie Downer day. I hope that if anyone is looking for a little dose of negativity to temper their unwarranted happiness, that they will visit my obscure blog. Obscure almost makes it sound cool. Like something rare that someone is looking for . . . but no one is looking for my little inane ramblings. I know that.

So here's the reality: we are not as smart as we think we are. Most of us. Really. I mean, there are some really gifted people out there (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE . . . though why you would be reading this puzzles me), but so many of us can be described by the very loathsome word "average". I'm average. There, I said it. Average person. Average intelligence (sometimes). There are a lot of us folk out there, but despite that, I feel like I keep getting surrounded by the "above average" folks. They kind of make you want to kick trash cans or take a bong rip. So what? You've got more dendrites in your brain? That's what I feel like saying. Like everything, so much of intelligence is luck. And so much of "intelligence" also counts for nothing. You can be smart, but your life can still be a wreck, and well, would you call that smart? You see where I'm going with this? It's fucking tricky.

Now, I know what you balanced, spiritually and emotionally evolved world view people are thinking: what's intelligence? That's actually a good question. I don't know. And I certainly don't think it's an ability to perform well on standardized tests, though, all things being fair, really, really bright people usually don't have a problem with those tests. Unfortunately for me, law schools know this (though the jury's still out on whether or not these bright people will also be good attorneys).

I just want a way out of the paradigm sometimes- the "what is valuable and what is not valuable" paradigm, and the "what is talent/intelligence and what is not" paradigm. To hell with it all! That paradigm has taken up root in my brain, and I'd like to extricate it. I imagine a surgical procedure, and a neurosurgeon delicately pulling something dark and slimey out of my brain tissue . . . and then poof! It would be gone. I would awake from surgery, bald and full of bliss . . .

But for now I'm here. And there's work to be done.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

The problem with being über-important . . .


I don't want to be a bitter, nasty person. Really. I want to see the delusions of grandeur of others and slough it off and not take it personally even when I'm directly confronted with it. I want to laugh. That's what this entry is all about. Laughing it off.

I'm surrounded by the über-important robots. They march, march, march down the hall. They hold their heads very high and don't say hi. They are appropriately somber and boringly dressed. They are a black cup of coffee in a styrofoam cup. They are hard-boiled wannabes in their twenties, thirties . . . only a few in their forties like that. It seems a lot of people get a little older and wiser and stop taking themselves quite as seriously. It's a sign of character. Some, however, will be a caricature till the day they die. They need it. It's part of their composition, their identity.

I think to reject softness, kindness shows true weakness. It takes courage to be vulnerable and it takes confidence to not have the need to prove how important, how powerful you are.

And so, if it weren't so irritating, I would feel sorry for these people. Yes, ironically I feel sorry for these people who probably feel sorry for me, because they probably see me as weak because I don't work hard to appear strong or to hide my idiosyncrasies. I can be quirky, make odd comments and wear inappropriate clothing. It's easy and it comes naturally. Maybe these folks don't have quirks or odd desires. Perhaps they truly are the robots they seem to be . . . the thought petrifies me.

And now, instead of laughing, I feel like running for the hills!