ironically enough

My horoscope for today:

When therapists want to take their patients beyond a psychological barrier, they encourage them to 'get in touch' with their anger. Deep down within, we are all cross about something. Such emotions have their purpose and their value. They can provide us with the motivation that drives us forward and prevents us from getting stuck in a rut. Right now, you are more than a little agitated about something or someone. Understandably so. You hardly need to get in touch with your anger, but if you now 'channel that anger' into a constructive plan of action, you can yet profit immensely from your source of discomfort.


Ah. Dreams and portents. Maybe the blackbirds are on to something. I don't really want to play with their entrails to find out, though...

Not that I usually share like this

I had a strange dream. I am not in the habit of writing about my dreams. Because they basically bore the shit out of others. But this one was different.

I met an angel in my dream. He was the rulekeeper. He said that we (K and I) were angels too. I was the angel of anger. Which is important, because anger gets things done. But it should be tempered with compassion, or it becomes wrath, which is not very angelic. Something about deadly sins there, I suspect. Ask the rulekeeper.

K is the angel of joy. Which was appropriate. He can also stop traffic in my dream. The jerk. I can't. I have "other gifts". Which totally sucks. I would love to stop traffic. Anyway, he is joy. And that poses problems because people don't take joy and laughter seriously enough. But I need him. And that's why we found eachother, despite the fact that we weren't supposed to be together. That's what the rulekeeper said.

I'm still pissed about the traffic thing.

But it was a really cool dream.

And then I had another dream about a huge storm speeding across the valley in home town. Just a wall of black.

My guess- nachos for dinner caused all of this.

Not my words, but they work

At least for the day:

Tied to the tracks and the train's fast coming
Strapped to the wing with the engine running
You say that this wasn't in your plan
Don't mess around with the demolition man

Tied to a chair, and the bomb is ticking
This situation was not of your picking
You say that this wasn't in your plan
Don't mess around with the demolition man

I'm a walking nightmare, an arsenal of doom
I kill conversation as I walk into the room
I'm a three line whip, I'm the sort of thing they ban
I'm a walking disaster, I'm a demolition man

Tied to a chair, and the bomb is ticking
This situation was not of your picking
You say that this wasn't in your plan
Don't mess around with the demolition man

You come to me like a moth to the flame
It's love you need but I don't play that game
'Cause you could be my greatest fan
But I'm nobody's friend, I'm a demolition man

I'm a walking nightmare, an arsenal of doom
I kill conversation as I walk into the room
I'm a three line whip, I'm the sort of thing they ban
I'm a walking disaster, I'm a demolition man

And then there are the most ephemeral and beautiful ones of all. Like butterfly wings. Just don't touch them- they are too fragile for that.

Like the day that I walked from the UC to Rankin Hall on campus in Missoula in the rain. The smell of the dirt by the horticultural fern garden combined with the sound of the rain on my umbrella cued something deep inside. It was that rare form of happiness that transcends place and time, and embeds itself on the soul (if there is such a thing). It's still there, when I take it out and look.

There was the raspberries in the back yard, glowing in the sun, warm, and still kind of cool, because it was still kind of early in the morning (once upon a time, I was a morning person). The feeling of them when I pulled the berries from the bushes, avoiding the prickles most of the time, and the feeling of them between my little teeth, crunchy and squishy all at once. All the while the hose ran in the background, because I was watering the raspberry bushes to "help" Mom. No doubt it was a clever way to get me out of the house.

There was the time spent looking at the pilot light in the basement. Doesn't sound particularly happy. But I was imagining dragons and genies within. And that was wonderful. The colors of the flame didn't translate to anything in reality.

Taking Elsa out of her box for the first time in her new home, placing her on the bed, and hearing her start to purr instantly- in her glorious rumbling purring way. Knowing that she was home. And that she was mine.

Watching the blackbirds flying through the sky against the grey rainclouds and pine trees from my window. What might seem depressing, is really just a stark beauty. Almost like a Kurosawa film- something so simple, but elegant. If I were a Roman, I would be watching with portents in mind. But I'm not. So I'm not.

More of these fill the back spaces and the card catalog. And that makes me much happier to trot them out and share. Not demons. Just different kinds of ghosts. The ones I carry gladly. And I suppose if the other ones are the price to pay, I pay it gladly. I wouldn't trade the sheer joy of it all for anything in the world. Even the sheer sadness of it all.

The latest encounter that I had was over the weekend. I got in touch with a friend from high school. We hadn't talked in probably 10 years. Mainly because the last conversation that we had revealed that she was a big old homophobe. Which doesn't jive with my world. So I quit talking to her. But then things happened. And the world kept turning. And she ran into my mother, who blah, blah, blah.

So where is this going? Well, funny you would ask. Talking to her raised some of the spirits that I thought were pretty handily dispatched. Mainly the oldest of my resident ghosts. Those of me. They skirt around the edges all the time. But the ones from my troubled teen years are buried deepest, and in the darkest forested edges. I don't want to find the bodies. And I don't want to encourage the possession. If you ignore them, they'll go away. Just ask them nicely to stop breaking the crockery.

She had attended our last reunion. And I had no idea how much of a grudge she held against many of our classmates. I considered myself the resident queen of those- thus I avoided the occasion. Figuring that Miss Bitterness doesn't send her regrets, and there are probably a dozen better things to do on that particular weekend. Plus Kboy and I have this arrangement. But she went. And she got a few shots in. I would've enjoyed that. I suppose. Or I would've been sad. Because after all these years, to still keep it all alive...but then what kind of hypocrite am I, anyway? I nurture this crap. Feed it and keep it all tidy and labeled in file folders.

Just like the assortment of ghosts. They all have their homes, places and times. And I typically enjoy visiting with a few of them on a regular basis. Despite my words to the contrary. It's just so comforting. And so much less lonely. And I think that I can understand why exorcisms became relatively common back in the day. Who the hell wants to live with only your own voice in your head? It's cheery to store a legion up there.

Not to worry, my doves. It's all good. Someone, oh, I don't know who- ME, silly, has been stuck in the house for 4 days with a nasty cold, and is starting to fray around the edges a bit. Echoes of the great unemployed days of yore. So if I were to win the lotto, odds are so very good that I would keep the day job. Just for sanity, more than anything else.

But the combined not sleeping (coughing, ain't that a fun substitute?), and the isolation, make me think too much. And the girls in my head all start coming out of the inbetween places. Just to visit. Just to get a little attention.

I think it's time to go back to work and spread some disease.

Been thinking a lot about what gets carried around under the carapace, and what gets jettisoned along the way. I like the idea of having a hard shell, and softness inside. I like the idea of connecting to the Kafkaesque horror of knowing that one good impact, and it's all over. And that there is no hope of belonging or turning back the clock to where it was all normal.

Those pivot points fascinate me. The minute tipping points between before and after. And they are always to be relived. Not often jettisoned. So they go in the book, under the shell.

Joining those moments, I'm pretty sure, are faces. The faces that you get to see when someone really trusts you and lets you in. And if that ended, those are the faces that haunt you. If you aren't lucky, that is. I am not lucky. I see those faces. And I know that I can't ever go back. Mostly I don't want to. Ever. But some times, that certainty seems a tad precarious. Because I am human. Like that needed to be said.

Another thing to carry around, at least for a while are the arguments that can't be relived and won. I hate those almost most of all. Because while I can think on my feet pretty well, and rarely resort to stuttering rage, there are times when I think of the perfect thing much later. And really wish I could rewind the tape and deliver the appropriate coup de grace. So those voices, all internal, clutter up the landscape. Like a minefield. And when they get tripped, reliving those moments is obligatory.

Other ghosts are more benign. They are built on happiness, and have a tinge of nostalgia mixed with sadness. Because those moments and people aren't ever coming back. They just can't. Those are probably the most pernicious and dangerous ones for me. Because while they lack the recriminating quality of the others, they could easily lull me onto the shoals. And there I will be. Stranded with a broken back, belly to the sun, cracked shell, waiting for the end. All the while tasting the memories. And wishing that they never became memories at all- but had remained static. That's pure evil on a half shell, if you ask me. Because I can wallow there all day long. I can get very angry and wrapped up in the resentment that life forced change. I can look with appraising eyes at the philosophy that life is pain, and understand what it's all about on that level. But I want to go back. Still.

And then the reality of it all hits, and it's time to get up and move forward. With a bright shiny piece of sparkly glass in my hand to provide illumination and luck. With a bright funny smart boy at my side to provide strength. With the knowledge that there are no other options filling my heart to provide me with the shield.

So to hell with ghosts for today. Tomorrow is something else entirely. But today. That's enough.

More on ghosts

Kboy wants to make it clear that the following came from a magazine he stole from work. (why this is important, well, not sure. But he wanted to contribute.)

From Guitar World, August, 2007:

GW: Yet another thing about "300 MPH": it has the ghost motif. Almost every White Stripes album has a ghost somewhere in the machine.

JW: Hmmm. I think I'm one of those guys who has a hard time blowing people off. I envy those people who can say, "so and so is a jerk. Forget him." My problem is that I can't forget. If I say, "so and so is a jerk, Forget him," then sit and think about him all the time. That's something I've always tried to figure out. What should I do about that? Those people are ghosts. They just stick around. But I like these ghosts, because they compel me to write about them and try and explore whether I should care or not. It's kind of hard to make a ghost go away....

And there you have it. From another source- another collector of random ghosts.

So there was a woman. By the time I met her, she was dying. I guess she always was, if you want to look at it like that. But she was seriously dying when I met her. We didn't have nearly long enough together. But it's like that, no?

She had been young once. In pictures, she is laughing. Always. A smile in her eyes- the ones that look like mine. She was rounded and healthy. When I knew her she was worn out. She had a broken and hurt ankle. She limped and wore a brace. She was very heavy. She looked like she had been pressed between heavy books- spread out and flattened somehow. She looked tired and in pain. And then she died.

When she laughed, the world was a good place to be. She loved me. I loved her back. When she died everything changed. Everything. And it never was quite right again. It took me years to understand the role she played, and what died with her. And that's what I get to carry around with me.

What I would like to hear from her is a story. All about who she really was. The context that I missed because I was too young to know or care. I would love to know what her favorite color was. I would love to know if she really liked diamonds, or if that was someone else's thing. I would love to know what she would have said about many things. She has assumed mythic proportions in my mind, because of the unanswered questions. I can fill her into a fantasy mythic uber-mother role. Which no doubt does a great disservice to her as a person. But I just don't know the person. Never really did. Never really could. She died.

Who you gonna call?

All I want is a message from the dead. For the ghosts to either say something, finally, or shut the fuck up forever. Because I'm tired. Just tired. Of waiting for them to fade. Of waiting for them to stop mattering. Of the time when I can just get on with it.

And I suspect that the time will never come. That they get to hitch a ride with me for always. And if I ever were to cross Heaven's doorstep, it would be carrying them along. Not alone. But there is no real comfort in that. It's not like they provide a sense of belonging. Like I said, they are maddeningly silent. Which is probably good- people who spend their time talking to dead people don't last long on the outside world. Unless they go the charlatan route. I don't think my ghosts have anything to say that would provide an assist- just nothing...

So, perhaps the speak now or forever hold your peace dialogue makes some sense somewhere. Because waiting for them to open their pie holes is stupid.

Once upon a time

This was a house. People I loved lived there. I was happy there. I wasn't happy there. There was a pool table in the basement. They had candy.

Then most of them died. And the rest moved away. And now it is gone.

Don't tell me it remains in my heart. That is foolish. What remains is nothing.

Ah, today we shall ponder male versus female. Specifics? You want specifics? All right.

When a woman does something out of the ordinary, and nice, she likes recognition. A lot. Perhaps with a pretty bow on top. Just because. I suspect that even though I am a roughly-hewn female in many ways, this is just hardwired in.

When a man does something out of the ordinary, and nice, I don't think he generally gives a rat's ass if he gets more than a "thanks, man." and that is that.

Feeling disgruntled. Just a touch. But I work for a couple of guys. Who are just that. Guys. I need to get over it. And I will. That's all.

Over and out.

Revisiting the pain every time I close my eyes.
The voices of devils in the desert- telling me all the things I don't want to hear
And the things I want to hear.
Offering no middle ground, and no interpretation.
Offering no perspective.
That comes in greener climes, and firmer footing.
Offering nothing but the dry heat and the anger.
The rift causing questions to form that weren't there a week ago.
Questions I am not ready to ponder, much less discuss.
Overall attributing it to fatigue won't really work.
It provided an assist only.
All of it proved for all time that it's impossible to both walk on water
and impossible to travel backwards in time.

Howling at the moon

Summation of last week in a word- difficult.

Today has been mainly spent trying to re-establish my equilibrium. Necessary and also difficult.

Now for a more detailed version of what went down.

I arrived in Phoenix, picked up my car (more on that later), and went to the Phoenician. I had never actually been there before- as an art student, 5 star accommodations are a bit out of reach. But it was lovely that evening. Then I took some of my co-workers (boss included) to one of my favorite pubs from school days. It was a fun and relaxing evening. I wish the rest of the week had been likewise fun and relaxing, but thems the breaks.

I had forgotten one of the key bete noirs of Phoenix and the desert (besides sun + my skin = very bad things) - the pollen count. It kept me awake nights with allergies. Who needs sleep, anyway? We were there to conquer the world. Only I was there to really work.

Now, I am not really complaining that I was there for a purpose. I really am not. Only I would have hoped that the workload would have commiserate rewards. Only, alas, because of the overwhelming incompetence of the events staff with whom I was working, and the organizational pratfalls of others, it was not to be. I got tarred and feathered by residual event mishaps. I owned a couple- but they wouldn't have registered on the radar, if there hadn't been a cumulative effect in action. And that sucks. And that has made me howl at the moon for several days. All prickly and evil inside.

But probably the most difficult part of the trip had nothing to do with work, assorted difficulties, and angry bosses. It had to do with revisiting the scene of the crime, if you will. I hadn't been back since The Boy graduated, got a job, and sprung us from the desert. I got to re-establish contact with the angry, and very unhappy girl who lived there on Ash in a dumpy little apartment without air conditioning. There was so much to sift through that I am still trying to figure it all out. It was sad. It was not so sad. It was confusing in all.

I went to visit my favorite art in a couple of museums. That made things considerably better. It was also when I discovered that someone prior to me had peed in the driver's seat of my car. And the 93 degree heat made it very obvious. And very odious. And just odoriferous. When I returned it, I did get a refund. But it was something to be endured prior.

What I came away with is the realization that I am further along in the battle to feel comfortable in my skin. Most of the generalized anger has been defused, and what remains tends to be more specific and limited. And I don't like the desert. Everything looks dusty and shabby. I don't like the sun. I don't like the evil mountains, where people can die on a hike if they lack water. I don't particularly like who I was. And today, am fighting back to liking who I am.

The plane trip back was delayed for 2 hours, and I sat next to a man who talked continually the whole time back about himself. Funny thing, though- I feel like I gave him a gift of listening to him. He probably didn't notice, but I feel better than if I had shut him down. Besides, what else was I going to do? Sleep? Not likely. That is returning slowly- as I get all of the spinning words out of my head.

Overall, glad as hell to be home. And I hope to put all of the difficulties in tidy little consumable packages- lessons to be learned, mistakes not to be re-made, things I refuse to own, character flaws to remember, and my own personal re-acquaintance with demons of yore.

And then I bought sweaters. And a lovely coat. For very, very cheap. Because I still remember where the deals lie in the Valley of the Sun.

Back in black

And yes. I've been whistling that song all morning. Can't help it. Hope it annoyed the hell out of the people at work. I'm in that kind of mood.

The week was challenging. I'll take more time later to discuss in depth. Just suffice it to say, the Phoenician is a rip off, Phoenix is dry as hell, and Alaska airlines is on my shitlist.

So my little dumplings, it's adios for a while. I will not be blogging from the desert- I don't let this site anywhere near my work computer. Too paranoid by far for that. Something about the rabbit leading the fox to its home. Bad idea, no?

So, will be out of it until Friday. Think happy thoughts, send me luck when you remember, and be good.

Now all I have to do is pick a good book for the airport, and hope that traffic holds up all right.

Ta!

So the thing is that I appear to be actually sick. And I get on a plane to Phoenix tomorrow afternoon. For a week-long business trip thingy. Not for the faint of heart, or the weak of body. But there you have it. The ticket got me off of a jury, so I guess I get to suck it up and just go.

Plenty of fluids today. And a nap. Or two.

Not feeling good. Had food for lunch yesterday that made me sick. Now I will go and whine to the Boy. Because God knows, he can fix it if I whine hard enough. (probably makes him want to cold cock me in the throat, but he is a bona-fide saint)

I feel baaaaadddddd.....