This is squirrel tv. The kitties spend many anxious moments waiting for us to get out of bed in the morning and produce peanuts to turn on squirrel tv. The squirrel in the photo is named Simone. She was initially Sartre, but then we saw the nipples- and realized that she is a mommy squirrel. So she really needs the peanuts.

And I gotta say, once and for all time- that big DELETE BLOG button is so damned tempting some times.

So my mother's newish hobby of genealogy has hit a wall. Seems that too many of our illustrious forbears are not so illustrious after all. They remain anonymous, faceless, and traceless. She's giving up.

What's important about that for me isn't the revelation that my ancestors were no doubt peasant farmers who didn't accomplish much. It's that there is ever any real illusion that the majority of humanity falls into that category. My great-grandfather was mayor of a small MT town. Long before I was born. The only people who remember this are either family members, old timers (who are quickly leaving the table, so to speak) and historians of the obscure and not horribly important. No doubt he was important to those who knew him. Otherwise, not so much.

It's just like that. The dead leave, and all that is left are our memories, no? Ditto ourselves. Nothing left. But what we did to others. Those summer days stored in my memory, along with the good dinners, great sex, happy birthdays, favorite toys, rainy roadtrips, et. al. all go to the grave with me. Because no one else has them stored in quite the same sequence. And human memory is so notoriously quirky, after all.

So those people who are untrackable- the distant ones. They shared the same individuality, and no doubt many of the same feelings. All gone. All lost. And really, that's ok. Because I don't suppose history, despite the scholastic zeal of the deconstructionalists, can be composed of the teeming anonymous masses. There is no distinctly heard voice from all of that. Nothing that can be clearly transcribed. And overwhelmingly, nothing important. Because it's all the same striving. Nothing unique. Been there. And it's not all that depressing, when you think about it. Because it's just not lonely being anonymous- it's actually very normal.

Angst might not be in order- because see, there's really nothing to see here. Move along folks.

Now really, if that were true, I wouldn't be here. Because overall the point of this little exercise is to draw attention to myself. Look at what I can do! I can string words together in a somewhat interesting and fun way! How cool is that!

I can't stand on my head. Can't do a cartwheel- never could. Can't do anything that's really all that interesting. But I can tell stories. Sometimes. And I can make words come out. Like most people.

So probably not compelling. But like almost every other closet narcissist out there, I insist on thinking of myself as unique and interesting. Uncommonly interesting. It's just that simple, really.

Also, this is one hell of a lot cheaper to come by than therapy, and keeps the bad dreams at bay. Most of the time, that is.

I do have to say that there are days though, where I wish I didn't keep it under wraps- and could unleash the venom that I maintain inside in secret and closely held ponds. It doesn't go anywhere- just pools in the pancreas. Or some other mysterious organ- maybe the spleen. Some part that doesn't have a clear excuse for being in my body. I imagine the pools being relatively shallow, but very still. And very bad for me to keep in there. But the resultant shit storm of letting it all out is beyond what I want to cope with. So there it is. Like I said elsewhere today, blood makes noise. And I can't really hear you in the thickening of fear.

I know I promised angst. But don't have any on offer today. Come back tomorrow.

Landscaping tip of the week

If you live in Washington, where everything grows like bloody weeks, including the weeds, do NOT, I must repeat, do NOT cultivate ivy. It is evil. It contains pockets of true evil. It kills trees, shrubs, flowers- it smothers, eats away and destroys.

Ivy is a very bad thing. The only thing worse is blackberry bushes. They are beyond evil. Much like Dick Cheney is beyond the president on the evil scale. I think it's the brambles. And the general woodiness of the plant. But evil nevertheless.

We are attempting to save numerous trees in our yard from years of neglect. They were overgrown by the ivy. Blackberries were starting to grow. We got a lot done, but got tired, and had to quit after several hours. It was very hard work, and no doubt the landlord will protest. He probably thinks the ivy is good ground cover. I'll have to do some explaining about landscaping 101. Weeds = bad. Ridding yourself of weeds = good. But seeing how he planted the place in the first place just illustrates that he knows nothing about the old gardening.

And now that I've bored my regular readership silly, back to the scheduled dose of daily angst.

What the hell really matters right now? Nothing important. Seriously.
It's all just droning on. Same old same old same old.
Makes me just want to crawl back in bed and start the same day over.
Because in this movie, I am played by Bill Murray, and there are no
Andie McDowells. Kbot is a contender, but he has the same repetitive
pattern, so not the same. Different movie. Different day. But not really.

So, I'll get ready for work. Same. Then I'll go there and park in the same area- so I can actually find my car- not like it's the same- wrong make and model- too low rent.
So then I'll hit the elevator with a revolving cast of the same people- all arriving at the same
time. Then I'll plug in the computer, log in, and cast the net wide. Then I'll get coffee. Same people in the kitchen. Same coffee. Same walk back, avoiding running into people in the blind corners.
Then the rest remains the same, with slight modifications. A millimeter here. A millimeter there. Same results in the wind tunnel. Same results in Qualifying. Never on pole position. But always in the top 10. How does it feel to remain in mid-field? The same.

All through the night I enjoyed vivid and inexplicable dreams.
They just kept coming. Nonstop action in the cranium.
If there were a way to film it, I could replay it for you, and watch
the boredom glaze your eyes.
Because obviously you would miss the references and cues.
You wouldn't sense the ominous or the evil.
You might enjoy the bright colors and the action.
But otherwise it might resemble any other Bruce Willis movie-
without the saving grace of Samuel L. and Jeremy Irons.

Good question- why are all of these desperately unhappy people lashing out in violent ways? Didn't they used to just jump off of bridges? Or walk into the wilderness and not come back? Or drink themselves to death? Or quietly live lives of anguish- punishing their unfortunate families for the pain?

Yeah. Weren't those the good old days.

Still. Seems like a tidal change. Suddenly they lash out. Were they there all along, and something societal kept them under wraps? Or did they all view Taxi Driver and become liberated? Was it in the music? The water? The television? The internet?

Or is it that we are getting worse and worse at dealing with them in a constructive way and defusing the bomb, so to speak? Should we blame ourselves? Should we blame them? Should we blame God? Hello God, what the hell, dude?

There's your Sunday morning conundrum. Brought to you by events beyond my control.

Yesterday was...

Hooky. With permission. And free tickets to a Mariner's game.

Baseball is fucking boring. Boring. I kept losing track of what I was supposed to be watching. And I wasn't even drunk. I kept cheering for the wrong team. Because I was confused. Because I wasn't paying attention. It was worse than math class in grade school.

But it was sunny. And there were circling birds overhead. And a breeze from the Sound. And Ichiro in center field doing his little upstaging warm up moves. I explained to Kbot what he was doing out there, and it was funny. Old theater trick- keep moving during the action, and you'll draw the audience's attention. Thus his constant state of activity. And his distinctive pants in socks thing- only one on the field. So you can spot him. Very nice.

But still, without the g forces, cornering, traction control, race gas, road race action, it's just not...compelling. But it was sunny. And the tickets were very, very good.

All right, darling one.

I thought about our conversation all night. And think that first, just breathe. Because that is important. He is nice. But probably not the one. Ditto the other one. 2 years in is about the time things get winky when they're not right. And that's normal.

Did I ever tell you about my 24th birthday? I spent the day crying. Because I was scared, alone and very, very unhappy. I had just kicked G. out after 4 years of not so greatness. I didn't know where I was going. I was out of money. I was just so unhappy. I don't think I've been that sad since.

So the point of that- well- you're of that age. When all becomes either determined or not. And the not isn't a negative thing- just another set of choices. In many ways, probably a braver and more challenging set of choices. Ultimately, you are on the track to figuring yourself out. If you succeed (and by that I mean get at least a partial handle on yourself- because more than that isn't possible, in my view), you'll have more to offer. To anyone else and to yourself. Because the goal at hand, again in my opinion, is to get as comfortable as possible in your own skin. I know people who have done this. I love them. They are my beacons of hope on bad days. They give me the confidence to know that it can be achieved. They aren't blissfully happy all the time. Only an idiot or a delusional would be that. But they have what so many lack- perspective. They understand how very temporary sadness can be. And that often it's a choice. They have the ability to spin. On a dime. And re-assess.

Now I'm really going to date myself. When I was little there was a song on the radio. My mother loved it, and sang along. I know the words too. Because I have that kind of memory, remember.

When I was just a little girl
I asked my mother, what will I be
Will I be pretty, will I be rich
Here's what she said to me.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

When I was young, I fell in love
I asked my sweetheart what lies ahead
Will we have rainbows, day after day
Here's what my sweetheart said.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

Now I have children of my own
They ask their mother, what will I be
Will I be handsome, will I be rich
I tell them tenderly.

Que Sera, Sera,
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours, to see
Que Sera, Sera
What will be, will be.

The song makes me cry. Because I remember the little girl. And I remember the mother. And I remember the uncertainty. And I remember the hope. And I remember it all...and it's not bad now. It's very good. But the path here was sometimes hard. Harder than I care to relate. But it was all worth it. All of it.

"How the hell do you know that?"

"Seminar class, back in the day."

"Jesus Christ. Amazing."

"Whatever. Takes up too much real estate. Can't clean house up there and
get rid of the out of date crap."

"The fucking Peace of Westphalia. Where is Westphalia?"

"Do you really want to know, or are you just getting off on watching the parlor
tricks?"

"Right."

"Right."

Weekend update

Just quick. Because work awaits. And I didn't fix everything before I left for the weekend. And I didn't fire up the computer all weekend. Because I am attempting to curb the addiction.

Saw Modest Mouse last night. Too late getting home. Too tired today. But overall fine. Crappy sound tech. They need to hire someone. Muddy. Garbled. Poorly mixed. But overall fine.

Hurt my tooth. Smacked it good. It was loose in the head. Scared me. I have a thing about my teeth. Cut my hand cooking a few minutes later. Much ado. Much blood. I think I'll live.

Went to an art opening. Saw some good stuff. Bought a couple of small pieces. 1) it was nice to show interest in art again, after all of these bitter years. 2) it is nice to have some disposable income to buy art. The show was for a friend. She was happy. Shy and drunk.

Went to a work related party and networked my ass off. Because it might work. Being out there and recognized. If nothing else, it might help get the job if this one doesn't happen. All contingencies planned out. Because that is what keeps me awake at night.

Didn't do much else. Just that. And the finger hurts now, and seems to be bleeding again. Fuckity fuck fuck. Better go get another bandaid, before coating the keyboard with blood. It would be nasty to catch the kitties licking the keyboard- all purring and happy about the snack Mommy left behind.....

Weighing in

Not like anyone really wants my opinion on this, but I feel compelled. And why the hell not? After all, I am the boss hereabouts.

So. About this Don Imus thing. Contemptible man. I have that total Jimmy the Greek feeling. If you don't remember old Jimmy, go to Wikepedia and look him up. I don't feel like rehashing. Nevertheless. Don Imus. Fucking idiot.
I was listening to a pundit on NPR discussing the cultural issues- and he made a comment about the free ride given by rap artists who speak about the ladies like that. And he said that it's a shame. I agree. But I would take this exception to his argument. Imus is different from the rappers in one HUGE area. He attacked, in a nasty and evil spirited way, a group of women- individuals. He called them ugly. He was just rude. Not that that is unusual. But he finally got called out for it. Because the times, they are definitely sensitive. And skins just aren't as thick as they needed to be and generally were back in the day. And this is probably for the better in some ways, and for the worse in others. But I digress.
Rappers are offensive. But they don't usually target specific individuals for their poison. Unless you're talking about Marshall Mathers. But then it's mainly his wife/ex-wife/wife/ex-wife...and she's fair game- he probably knows what he's talking about. I just think that the argument lumping them all together has some pretty apparent holes when pulled apart.
And I feel like arguing, for some reason. Maybe that should be a new Friday feature. Argument Fridays. Sounds like a real hootenanny.
I just wonder what some of the other countries think about the kerfluffle about this event. Just out of curiosity. Betcha Britain is bewildered. Seems to me that those kinds of things get said over there with some frequency. I dunno though. Probably talking out of my ass again- that's another feature on Friday. Maybe. Ass talking Fridays. That's an attractive visual. And with that, I have to go. Try the veal. We'll be here all week.

What keeps me busy lately

Besides work, and my active social life (snort)- would be tv. And besides tv, would be the writing project I put down earlier this year. Seems that the book I was writing had already been written. By someone else. Not identical, but close enough that I thought it prudent to start over. Only 50+ pages in. And some is reusable.

So there it sat. Until about 2 weeks ago, when I had a revelation while waking up on Sunday morning. And the whole thing has been percolating since. Even have a name for the main character- which hadn't occurred before. So maybe this is the one. The story. That's been waiting to be told. By me. No one else.

I have hope. For now. In a week when I've read the book written by someone else, that'll be over.

Yesterday's news

We went to Tulip land (Mt. Vernon) yesterday while everyone else was at church.

We saw flowers.

We left before they all got there.

Then it rained. Very hard.

Belated wishes

Because of that eternal demon, sloth, I didn't post yesterday, as I had intended.

Courtesy of Jacob- who gave us this idea:

Belated Happy Zombie Jesus Day!!!

(think about it if it's not immediately obvious. Then thank Jacob. Because he is brilliant.)

Brains.....

Pleasure and pain, it's a gravy train

F1 weekend. Tea Ceremony class. Lunch with friends. Evening by the lake. Nice new ice cream flavor. Care package from Mom- including black licorice.

Job insecurity. Re-org. Exercise induced asthma. Not enough time to do things that I want to do- at least not well. Feeling like a cloddish Gaijin. Knowing that I am a cloddish Gaijin. Keeping too many secrets. Telling too many lies.

Two paths went into the woods. And I, well I took them both. Because if the woods are figurative, then the laws of physics don't apply. Fuck you Robert Frost.

By now I've figured it out

They just don't want to hear about it. So keep your mouth shut. Please the people. Because otherwise they'll tune out. And ignore you. Which hurts. So please the people. Be funny. They like that. Be nice. They like that. Only be sarcastic sometimes. Because they like that. Keep your problems to yourself. Because Mama says. No one wants to hear about your problems. They want to tell you theirs. Over and over. Unresolved. Continual. And you can see the patterns emerging. But they are blind to those. Just on the treadmill. You see the endless pattern. And know with that sinking feeling that will lead to depression if you let it that inside you have your own endless pattern. But you can't see that. Too close, out of focus. Keep it to yourself, though. Because Mama says that no one wants to hear about your problems.

Be funny. They like that.

Saddest gladdest

Saddest thing of the day=

At the Dr.'s office, witnessing a batshit retarded girl singing a song about blood antibodies (impressed with her vocabulary, yes), and the pledge of allegiance- onward and upward, endless looping in of her own private Idahoan language- kept up the babble long after I left the room- kept a steady gaze on the magazine in my lap- because crazy is contagious- and she placed extra magazines on the table next to me in an attempt to gain attention- and I squirmed inside- ashamed of ignoring her, but afraid of engaging her. Not wanting to get involved.

Gladdest thing of the day= wine + sunshine after work. No more, no less. Kitties were enjoying squirrel tv out the back window, and I sat. And did resolutely nothing. For a while.