Apparently it is open season. Kman and I joke about 4 horsemen showing up in acid-washed jean jackets and assless chaps (a redundancy there), and calling themselves Apocalypss. They would bear guitars, and hammer out Poison guitar solos. No one got the memo that the '80s are over. So they are all pissed the hell off at Pestilenz. He was responsible for the outfits.

And it's open season. While their guitars gently weep, celebs are dropping like flies. We should've known when Mr. Kungfu died. That was a sure sign. Next up, well, not my job to predict. Don't want a reputation as a crow. Or something worse. Accuracy doesn't need to happen here. Not this kind of accuracy. Don't want to play in your dead pool. It's surefire way to catch the attention of the aforementioned band. They don't play nice. Or particularly well. You'd think that they would be taking lessons from Hendrix or something.

Probably ADHD, and they lack Ritulin up thereabouts. Practice isn't their strong suit. Understandable, really. There are bigger fish to fry. Those are still in the making, and with the King dead, there has to be another crowning. Not sure with what. But there again, not my job to predict. Only watch Macaulay Culkin. There has to be a child star out there to pay for the sins of the fathers and the sons. Turgenev would have it no other way. Neither would Tolstoy, truth be told. He was always about the morality play. But he hid it better. Far easier to play the Pater Familia card. You get further in society that way.

Again, not going to predict anything. But keep an eye out for the vulnerable train-wreck ones. Roll call early and often. Courtney, Lindsey are you there girls? Better watch the Twitter deck. Because something is gonna happen. It always does. And if you can scoop your co-worker, so much the better. Those horsemen need the PR machine. They aren't Santa and can't do it all overnight.

Again with the good intentions. Wanted to write a ton. Wanted to do lots of little things. But got sidetracked by actual people. And I will admit that is more important anyway. But still. The writing needs to be done. And the little things. So a tad frustrated, but will certainly get over it. Because it's not worth being pissy about, when there was more fun to be had than not. And the writing will get done. Because it must.

I may call it my annual festival of self-indulgence, but it is actually more than that. Much of it is introspection. It's my solitary day away from most people, and not doing things for others. Just for myself. I call it re-connecting. And recharging.

Thinking about what it was like. When these days were surrounded by surprises and birthday cakes. When the presents weren't overly expensive, just perfect. Because I wasn't picky. I wasn't all that aware, really, of what was out there in retail wonderland. Just that I liked paper dolls and Barbie, and the hand-made Barbie clothes were just as nice as the packaged ones. Especially if there was glittery fabric involved.

I did get to choose the shape of my birthday cake. That was an annual ritual that I miss. I would love to have a birthday cake baked by my mother. But since I live 12 hours away by car, it's not going to happen. And I really don't need the cake. I did spend an ungodly amount of money purchasing the birthday cake cookbook that she used from an online retailer. It was a bitch to find. But now I have my own copy. Ah, nostalgia. Helping me spend my money since time immemorial.

It helps that it's a rainy day. The first in about a month, so no complaining. But it is a rainy day. And that makes me think.

Generally the summers at home were sunny with perhaps an afternoon thunderstorm blowing through. But the heat was there. And the sun. And the sprinkler. And the flowers. And the raspberry bushes. And the green grass under my bare feet. Do I miss all of that? Not in my current form. As a 5 year old in my swimsuit, sure. But now? Not really.

In my inexpert way I am trying to sum up the odd feeling of sharing my skin with other selves- other me's. It's an odd feeling. I don't often go there. But those other me's are fun. They were full of life and joy. They were full of themselves. And they are still in there. Relics of when I was more of an essential self- before getting diluted by the world. Not sullied, but diluted by influences outside myself. There's probably a Freudian term for that. Something about developmental stages. But I don't know it. And I really don't care. It is just an interesting day visiting my ghosts. Overall, I like them.

Watched parts of the very plodding "Benjamin Button" last night. Glad that I didn't sit through the whoooollllleeeee long and interminable thing.

But there was one quote at the end that got me. It got me badly. Benjamin looks at the love of his life, Daisy and says something like, "I think I had a life before, but I don't remember it." I paraphrase because it's not out on Imdb, and I don't feel like watching it again. Actually it's sealed up and ready to return.

What got me, though is that I thought about my grandmother, who sits in a grey fog in a home with others in the same state. She was a vibrant, funny, rather mean woman, who hid her smarts and had a few wonderfully subversive moments. All that is pretty much gone.

My greatest fear is that she has those glimpses of her past, and knows what she has lost. That slays me. It got me last night. I cried for her for the first time. Because even if she doesn't know what she has lost, I sure as hell do.

While falling asleep last night I was thinking about regret.
Not in a harsh way, but in a generally accepting way.
Realizing that over time there is a catalog of regrets
that get carried around and mulled over and trotted out
in festive bows and bells on special occasions.
Nothing bitter about it, really.
Just realizing that the cause and effect that I have had
hasn't always ended well.
And that those effects might've been better served if
I had thought through things better.
But that wasn't my nature.
And it wasn't my nurture.
So that list of regrets slowly grows over time.
And I get to catalog the list and recreate it in the night.

Haven't done much writing at all lately- things just have taken over. Life stuff, like work, travel, family, friends, and sunny weather. It's eating at me a bit, though. I would like to just kick back, drink tea and write. But am finding it hard to fit all of everything in. And add to the conundrum allergy medicine that makes me tired, and shake it up. It's a snowy globe of combined optimism, pessimism, and good intentions falling awry. In the center, holding court and immobile is the project itself. It isn't going anywhere, luckily. Just patiently waiting for everything to settle the fuck down, so I can get some work done. In the meantime, distracted by shiny things.

Not clear on why
most things in my life that have been following me
around and about
and under and through
have all been colored purple.
I don't like purple very much.
But there you have it.

Going on a short vacation- home to be with family- and to do some family stuff. Don't know if I'll be online much (like that has really been a habit lately), but still. Will be there, not here. And out of the general work mayhem. They can take care of themselves for a week. It'll be good for them. Absence will make their hearts fonder. Or they'll think I screw up more than I do. We'll see. But first I need to figure out how to unhook my email updates to my phone. Because I will NOT be reading email from work. Uh uh.

I turn the corner and in the trees
I see his face, lurking
in the green darkness, watching
not interested in me, waiting
wanting darkness when he can run
and play in the yards of suburbia
and eat the rabbits who are unfortunate
enough to cross his path
when he smells the breezes in the morning
and hears the birds start to chuckle, knowingly
in the trees at dawn.

I made the second cut yesterday. That one was harder. They set up a bunch of conference rooms in my building and spent the day telling people they were no longer needed. Two of my team got the axe. I felt a sick sense of relief when I found out I could keep my badge. And combine that feeling with guilt. Because I get to keep my badge.

Overall I hope it's done. And that the remainder, if any, are onesies-twosies. Because these days of mass attrition are really horrific.

Smelling the orchids all week, while they bloom.
Reminding me of Grandma orchids from then.
Only not mixed with the smells of industrial laundry
gas station
dust
undercurrents of loss and other emotions
that I was unaware of at that age
they did a good job of protecting
until later, when it all happened anyway
things have a way of doing that.
Falling apart despite the best intentions
and the determination of the dead to outlast
their life
and control beyond the grave.
Never works, really.
The living have a way of selectively following
and justifying the variance.
And choosing for themselves.

Ok, so the guilt got to me. Well played, sir.

While others are concerned with global politics, pandemics, keeping a job, making a living, etc. I have been in another place. Just dealing with a large writing project. Never tackled something like this before, but am not feeling bad about it at all. Actually the opposite. I've gotten a large proportion of it plotted out in outline form, and the first 8 chapters written. I want to finish the outline this weekend, or come damned close. Then I can swing back into it and do the writing part. It is a shitton of work. I feel burdened when I think about how very much it is. But then I remember Annie Proulx's Bird by Bird, and keep perspective. I got some amazing pointers about the process from (of all people), J. R. Ward, of the vampire book fame. If you like that sort of thing, her vampire books are quite a lot of fun. Her last one was a compendium of material, including some serious writing tips and info. I liked that. Mainly because I have no interest in writing about vampires right now, but can definitely appreciate a look into the world of someone who does it for a living.

I am still on the fence about the writing thing, though. I don' t ever foresee a day when I could happily hole up at home without any personal interaction. I think I would become quite addled, and cause my poor husband undue hardship. I am, however, pursuing a different career track- one that will lead to more income, and more contentment overall. I have been going through a series of informational meetings across the company to see what kinds of options are out there for my skills and interests. I am in no huge hurry to vacate my current position, as I do like it, and it doesn't tax me too much- I enjoy having sufficient mental real estate to come home and function like a human. New jobs at that company don't lend themselves to that at all. Part of the culture.

Anyway, I think I have settled on technical editing. There is much, much to learn before even trying for that goal, but it is a start, and I have a couple of supportive contacts who have offered to help me get there. It is a relief, really, to know that I am not stuck. And that I will get somewhere eventually. And that I know where that somewhere is, so to speak. It's actually a new feeling. Prior to this, I generally had to take what came, and just leap. If I was lucky it worked. If I wasn't there was misery all around. But the infusion of hope into the mix really does help.

So now I'm in a revision state with my resume- it takes so much time to evaluate and really dig into the content with the intent of showcasing a set of skills that I have never really emphasized, but have relied upon heavily. There really is no rest. But that is fine. I can always rest when I'm dead, right?

Otherwise, all is well. All is fine. The sun is finally shining, the cats are happy, Kman is sleeping in, and I am facing a relatively quiet day at work. All the better for a Friday.

Nothing profound. Just the facts.

Been sidetracked by a more demanding writing project lately. Things here are likely to slow down more- got to get more headway on that before I feel that blogging is a priority. Only so many hours...you get the point. Peace out, yo.

Am finding the balance a little more difficult lately. Mainly because the time is just slipping away from me. And I am letting it go. Willingly.

And am finding discretion more difficult lately. Discovering many things about people in my life, and basically ignoring that information. Because I told a couple of people last week, "No one likes a tattle tale." And I include myself in that. Keeping my big mouth shut. Willingly.

Am trying to eliminate the taste of bitterness from my mouth. Figurative, not literal. Just to be clear here. But there seems to be so much loss. So much difficulty. And so much wasted. But then it's all about the hope. Keeping that in mind. I am not dead yet. I keep getting out of bed. Willingly.

Listening to some ass on the Today show discuss saving money. I didn't put the Today show on, by the way. I would never do such a thing. All of the polished, enforced good cheer does me in. First thing in the morning, even. Wears me out. I don't know how to deal with all that. Is it expected? That I induce that kind of cheer in my own life? I don't think I can live up to that expectation. Not really.

Not this early in the morning.

Had an interesting time at the park. We go there to feed the ducks. Evidently this is forbidden. We have never stopped at the kiosks and read the sign saying it is forbidden. We just go and feed them stale bread, and are all happy.

So today, whilst in duck heaven, two children- a boy and a girl, who looked alarmingly like the twins in "The Shining," came up to us and told us that feeding the ducks is forbidden. We saw their parents at a bench nearby watching. We listened to the children, and then Kman did something odd. He walked over to the parents and discussed the duck feeding moratorium directly with them. They were very put off that we would approach them directly. That is why they sent their children to do the heavy lifting. Kman was very nice about it, despite being rather pissed off at them using their children as tools. And the parents were pleasantly uncomfortable.

We then had a very animated discussion about parenting, and putting children into the role of being informers/policemen. I suspect that these folks come from another land, and don't realize that that kind of behavior can cause some serious ramifications in some places. Like parks in other parts of the area. Where the people being told not to feed the ducks might be a little less conciliatory about it. I dunno. It was ballsy and icky. I feel sorry for the kids. And the ducks. Who went hungry.

Oh my. These writing muscles aren't getting the workout they need. Bits and bites of words just don't lend themselves to anything besides the odd quip. Not all that satisfying.

But have been unable to sustain more than a casual relationship with thoughts lately. All the deep thoughts synapses have taken a break. I suppose that isn't too horrible. But it isn't great, either.

So, I just finished a crappy book by a woman who hates her mother. Take that back, it's more than hate. And what I thought was particularly pathological about her, besides the fact that she has children, is that she had so little insight into herself to recognize that she could use a heavy dose of therapy, and needed to lose the narcissistic self-absorption. I can only wonder what kind of train wreck she is inflicting on her children. Oh, and she was also chock-full-of smug self-satisfaction. What a toxic combo. I hope I never run into her when I visit old home town. The urge to punch her in the throat is pretty strong. Which I guess, means her book was successful on some level. It inspired me to hate her. I think that's a strong reaction. Augusten Burroughs didn't do that for me- just thought he was kind of pitiful. Ditto most of the other revelatory memoirs that I have ingested. They tend to have that unfortunate tone of payback rather than anything remotely resembling insight. I also have very little patience for what comes off as a bunch of whiney complaints- when they come from the keyboard of an adult, that is. From children, it's a different story. But I always thought you were supposed to grow out of whiney crap like that.

I am jealous. That she got a book deal in the first place. It doesn't hurt that her father is one hell of a well-connected man in the publishing world. It doesn't hurt that she comes from the kind of old money that Gatsby was so horribly fond of. Nope, doesn't hurt at all. And I am full of toxic sour grapes about it.

I guess this is one of the primary reasons I have always preferred biography to the auto kind. I like the filter of another person's perception. And the illusion of objectivity. Because I did read a long time ago an article by a biographer. The obsession needed to pull off the stunt of researching another human being and writing about them, and becoming an expert on them is something unusual. I don't share it. But I think it is interesting. And I do enjoy trying to parse out what the fixation of the author is. If they are an apologist, or an analyst, or what kind of filter they are trying to apply to thier view of the subject.

I also have always considered autobiographies to be lies. I see them as craven attempts to sway public opinion, by selectively telling the truth. I am not horribly interested in reading PR attempts. Not in my personal time, or in my professional time. I see them as manipulative and sort of crass. If these folks were all that interested in being honestly remembered for posterity, they would leave all of their archives of data to an institution and leave it at that. Let others interpret. Because by the basic premise of being in thier own skin, they aren't able to do so without prejudice.

There have been several autobiographies that I will admit are interesting- mainly because of the side-story that they tell. Julia Phillips in "You'll Never Have Lunch in This Town Again," gets the feeling and texture of Hollywood in the 70s down very well. But I didn't like her. And found her actual writing to be torturous. So in that sense, she got in her own way.

Probably the best of the bunch is Dominick Dunne. He is a star fucker, and always has been. I think he would annoy the piss out of me in real life. But he is very good at the roman a clef, and does a great job of reporting celebrity legal strife. I think that as a recovering addict, he has a better sense of humility in a way than a lot of them do, but still figure that he's up to something when he writes about himself.

I guess that this can serve nicely as my Declaration Not to Write a Memoir. And if I break it some day, anyone who reads this has my full permission to call me out.

I've been wearing my art school shoes to work. I haven't shined them- they are still smudged and scuffed from loading kilns and kicking debris out of the way. They are still in pretty good shape though. I have been trying to remind myself that this is part of my reality too. That it's not all business class and sunshine in a high-rise building.That there are bone deep realities that I can't just ignore and hope will go away.

There is the feral cat issue. Because at core, that is what defines a large part of me. It just is. I am ok with it, but can't spend a lot of time thinking about it or I get sad. Sad because so much is gone. And I miss the ferocity. I miss the passion. I miss the ability to just do things without worrying about cause and effect. I miss the ability to not worry about self-editing all the time.

The pressure mounts, the decisions get postponed, the actual work gets jettisoned in favor of being busy. And tired. Tired all the time. If Charlie Kaufman is right, it's likely cancer, and I will die. But then that is no surprise, really. I expect to end some day. And I don't know if it's really worth the effort to try and accomplish everything first. Futile, indeed. Ah, ennui. Welcome to the club. There are some very nice couches over there. Make yourself at home.

Another good one. There is a friend of ours who plays hockey every winter. He is a tough guy. He survived a plane crash, wherein his friend, the pilot, wound up simple for life, and he had his back broken. His main complaint was that the morphine drip made him horny, and his wife wouldn't accommodate him in the hospital while he was in a body cast.

So, he is playing hockey. And during the game, his hand gets smacked by the puck. He continues to play, until the bitter end. He pulls off his glove, and blood pours out. The puck had taken off the tip of his pinky finger. He went home and washed it, and put on a bandaid. His wife made him go to the doctor and get stitches. He was out for the season.

The following season, he was getting ready to hit the ice, and he put his glove on. The same one, of course, because it was only blood. But there was something in the finger. He shook it out, and something resembling a raisin hit the ice. It was, of course, the end of his finger from the previous year.

We love him.

I've been pondering something for several days now, with varying degrees of anger and perplexed confusion. I have several friends who are all behind the Facebook initiative to provide forgiveness for student loans. And I find myself bone-deep opposed. Just viscerally opposed. It is on such a gut level that I am actually amazed- that something that would benefit me and Kman would inspire such venom in my soul.

Here's my issue. I am not in need of a fucking government handout. I do not want the loan that I signed the promissory note for to become an additional burden on the American taxpayer. I budget to afford the payments, and don't really mind that, as it was part of the overall cost when I signed the papers. I will repeat myself. I don't need a fucking government handout. I understand what that would mean, and think that it would be a travesty. I would prefer that the money goes to people who deserve and need it more.

My interpretation of the effort, which to be fair, is probably a tad jaundiced, is that these are a bunch of college-educated middle-class kids who believe that they should be allowed to re-allocate their loan payments towards something more to their liking. And if it is a true financial hardship to make the payments, ought to consider coming up with a budget, or getting another job. Because no one put a gun to their heads and made them sign the promissory note in the first place. No one said that they had to go into debt to get an education. Plenty of people work their way through school, and yes, it takes one hell of a lot longer. But they do it. Others attend cheaper colleges to afford it. Something about keeping the long-term goal of living debt free in mind seems to have escaped some of these folks. And it pisses me off. Fucking whiners.

Now that I have vented, I know that I am probably being unfair. If so, please educate me. Tell me why it's a priority to provide loan forgiveness and a larger tax burden. Tell me why these college-educated people need money that jobless people also need. Tell me why. I want to understand, but my emotions keep getting in the way. I don't want a fucking government handout. That's what resonates in me right now.

I am unsure how far their efforts will go. I kind of doubt that congress can get this one passed- it seems like a really tough pill to swallow. Especially if there is an across-the-board examination of what these people bring home pay-wise. I suspect that the money would be better spent providing scholarships to kids whose parents have lost their jobs. Or to spend the money on a boosted unemployment system, perhaps. Or to assist people who have lost their jobs in paying their house payments/utility bills, etc. Or to bolster the budgets of local food banks. All more worthy in my opinion than a bunch of people who don't want to be bothered to pay for their own fucking educations.

Ah, and there I go again. Getting all worked up. Nice. I had hoped that writing this down would temper my ire a bit. But I don't think it's going to happen like that. I think I am going to keep getting pissy. So seriously, if you have a differing opinion, please share. I want to understand. And I promise to keep my temper under control and listen. Or do my best to try.