Witness to a conversation.

Lights do actually dance, don't they...
Calling attention through their flutters.

The wet streaks had damaged the perfect make-up.
She would have to wipe it all off, 
Completely.
Start over.
Re-Apply.

How many more times?

I did it all for him.
I don't know if he's even going to show up.
I never know.

Do you think I'm still pretty?, she whispered.
Yes. Still.  On the outside.

Catherine the Great Breasts makes money for you.
And I just don't want to hear about you stealing from her.
I don't even want to know that you look at her.
I don't want to hear the stacks stacking comparisons you make of her.

All so plain and dulled....no lights could still possibly dance there.
Doesn't matter, lights just dance for themselves.

Over a Mexican Coke, he said:
Tastes like childhood, doesn't it?

No, it doesn't.
Because, the best parts of that history never repeat themselves.

Olie

He was short, and thin.
His jacket was zipped up to the very top, collar up, so he could just rest the tops of his lips and the bottom of his ear inside, if he wanted to.
He was outside ready.

He fidgeted.
His hands made signs of something.
He squeaked and gargled and hummed.

He can't communicate, she said.
He's autistic, she said.
Don't touch him, he doesn't like that., she said.

He let out a yelpy snarl.
I didn't like labels either.

A plane flew overhead loudly.
We were both distracted.
The boy threw his hands up in the air.
I put my hands up in the air with him.
He paused, only briefly, to stare at me.

He'll take off running, she said.
Why wouldn't he?, I said.
He is a little boy.

He'll run off., she said.
We can watch him., I said.
The boy knew.  
I know he knew.

With a loud squeal, he was off
Lickeity-split.
Running fast.
Back and forth,
Up and down, circles upon circles, 
and free.

Yes, he squawked and yelled....
A boy in a yard.
I followed suit.

Finally, exhausted, we sat
In the yard, drinking juice.

In truth, only I was exhausted.
The boy had more energy than me.

He sat down on top of my lap, hard.
He grabbed my face,
He patted my face and hummed.

He doesn't normally do that., she said.

We will never see each other again.
It was only a tiny chance meeting.

Who knows if we really communicated.
For sure, we didn't talk.
I know that I traded some juice for a sweet pat on the face from a little boy named Olie.
The Olie that ran free in my yard.

There isn't much difference in people or jobs....No matter what anyone says....It's a truth, no matter how you try to slice it.

Does anyone every really know anyone?  We all work to try to discover ourselves and deal with that our whole entire life-span.  Where is the actual room or truth about someone else?  Is it even really possible?  I'm not sure. I don't really think so.  Just when you think you know someone, there is always something new.  Physics and Empaths probably have a leg up. For the rest of us, we just get lucky glimpses....shiny, small, fragments.  Yep, luck...that's all it is.

I learned of story that my friend had never shared before.  He had never told anyone.  And now, I knew the story.  It didn't change my opinion of him.  It wasn't that kind of story.  But, it was one that showed me a little more of how he lived and thought before we met.  A glimpse into and experience that shaped him.  How privileged was I?  Very. I never knew.  Maybe we're getting old enough to talk like that now.  If you don't record it, it will be lost.  That's for sure. I wanted to hear more and more.  Maybe we just need more tequila.

Yes, I worked at a law-firm, and an engineering firm, and other places of respect...that term "respect" I use loosely.  All of my jobs were about the same. The same because people are the same.  Work is work is work. I also had tons of smaller jobs.  Pizza delivery, restaurant work, dog walker, telemarketer, survey taker, secretary, data entry, janitor, plasma giver....so on and so on. And I have stories from each. Why didn't I have a career?...a chosen field?  Well, for the answer to that, we would need more time and  definitely  more tequila.

I tried to be a stripper once.  Well, a couple of times, actually.  Those who know me, already know this. 

I was a horrible stripper.  My body was fine, young, strong, mostly naked.  But, I was a horrible stripper.  I couldn't take it seriously.  Of course I wanted to make money, even the big money.  I was just horrible at it.

I was neither exotic enough, wild enough, or innocent enough.  I didn't learn all the moves or gimmicks. And trying my hardest to look at some guys standing there half-drunk, half-turned on, half- of a lot of things with their tiny dollars in their hands...well, trying to look at them like they were sexy and welcomed, well, I just was not very good at it.   I didn't hate them or the stripping...it really was just another job.  But, a job, nonetheless,  that I was not able to master. Probably partly because I didn't find myself that sexy, I didn't see myself like that...capable of being sexy to others.  And partly because men not capable of seeing tits out in the light of day with their dollars wasn't very appealing to me either.  Drunk, sometimes drugged, sweaty, cheap perfumes,cheap people, vomit, liquor, scamming, t-backs, grabby, laughing, smokey, dim-lights, loud, self-importance, degradation, heartache, sometimes criminal, sometimes funny....and boredom...all the things a good nudie bar entails.  I tried to pick music I liked to dance to, at least.  Show butt left, show but right, shake a little here, shake a little there...take close off slowly, look interested and needy for that dollar....repeat.  Not that glamorous when you break it down. Things I saw probably damaged me way more than the nakedness.  Later I would make way more money as a waitress in those places...part drink-slinger, part psychologist, part "friend".  I could have made way more money if I had been more malicious, too.  If I didn't have the powers of kindness that I have.  Yeah, that part of me, ruined me at times with my chances of earning the big bucks. Don't get me wrong, I made plenty.  But, there were chances I just didn't take. Sigh.

Some times in nudie bar the time goes so fast, like it has been sped up, just catch glimpses fast. Sometimes so slow, you just wanted to keep changing the channel, in hopes of there being something, anything, that wasn't loud snow or reruns.

Sometimes after the one bar would close, my and another waitress (who was a nurse at a hospital by day) would sneak into the bathroom after cleaning up everything, and remove the couple of stashed beers from under the sink and have a quick recap of the night sitting on the sticky, stinking floor of the bathroom with our snuck beers and smoking....counting cash and laughing.  That was good, really good. She was good.

Oh, there was this one other waitress, she was a career nudie bar waitress.  Had tons of plastic surgery, big boobies, bigger attitude.  She was fierce, supper fierce, cut-throat about "her" customers, her job, her boobs. All the long hair flipping.  Frankly, most of the time, she was just a pain in the ass for me and my fellow besty waitress friend.  And she was never successful in getting all the money and ALL the customers. People like different things, and changes...all the things a nudie bar offers.  Most times we just ignored her. Other times, we would poke at her a bit....just to get her all riled up.  Example of her: She liked a small tank top I had, so she bought it and wore it. She told me, not to worry, she wouldn't wear it on the same nights at me, looking down at my natural boobs, as she said it.  lol..  I replied: Is this about your boobs again?  Boobs, boobs, boobs....is that ALL you can think about?!?  You can wear it on the same nights as me, I don't care.  We all know that I still have my original boobs, and I wore it first.  So, no issue. Smile.  She was so mad that she wore it every night for a week and tucked her money in it.  Other waitress and I laughed and laughed. Oh for Pete's Sake!   Besty waitress stole it one night out of her locker and accidentally pored/spilled bleach on the nipple parts, and put it back.  Oh, so sad for here.  The screams, the rampage. All the horror over a $5 tank top.  Too easy. I still had mine. 

Later, at the engineering firm there would be a woman.  She wore high heels, HIGH heels, and boobie exposing outfits every day.  And she was not unlike this waitress.  She hated me, and sometimes tried to get to me.  But, I had already seen it before and it had been done better.  

Yep.  Just lucky glimpses.

We're out of power and the plane is going down....Yeah, that's never repeated much.

It is the day before Thanksgiving. A holiday that was borrowed from another country so we could all be reminded to give thanks that perhaps we weren't the Indians.  We'll just sweep that under the proverbial rug.  Don't get me wrong, I fall into the trap, too.  I find myself reflecting about the year that has passed, the months and days set up as a time count...that may or may not be real.  But, I do it, too. Reflect.

Some years have really been shit.  Others have been golden.  This year felt longer than most. My heart and body tried by loss of loves, some friends...you know that ole stuff.  i am getting to the age where births really are that special and unique, and deaths happen in more frequent occurrence.  I am no longer the invincible youth.  Yes, it has been a long year.  But, I'm not dead. And I didn't kill anyone else. Upon reflection, it has not been too shabby.  I can say that others have it way worse.  I can say that I am thankful that I'm not THAT GUY.

I once spent a summer as an RV Porter.  It paid well, and all I had to do was clean RV's all day. Inside and out...sometimes get things extra shiny for a customer...a make-ready.  The RV Porter before me was apparently a really shitty RV Porter. I'm not completely positive how one becomes a really shitty RV Porter.  There's not much to the job to begin with.  I had a tool belt where I hung my rags and cleaning supplies.  There was extra long brushes, and hoses.  And air fresheners.  Spray, wipe, spray, wipe...then spritz.  How can one truly be a shitty RV Porter? 

I even installed giant, plastic tape carpet.  Yes, they do make it. Oh, I sold it as a must have to protect the carpets in the RV's, since we were located on a big dirt lot.  All the customers and sales people tracking in the dirt into the nice carpets, etc.  But, truly, I was just a bit lazy.  I didn't want to lug the giant RV vacuum around.  Instead I just had a smaller broom.  Carpet tape, problem solved.  Hell, I got a raise and many accolades for my love and special care for the RV's. (Yes, you should question that.)  I even took naps sometimes, on the clock...out on the lot, by one of the giant trees, hidden out in the sea of RV's.  So, no, I really cannot understand how one becomes a shitty RV Porter.  A complete mystery. 

I was the only female on the lot.  This did kind of suck sometimes.  Alone with the rednecks...all the same jokes, over and over and over.  Yeah, you're right, never heard that one before.  And yes, I must like women since I don't want to see your dick.  I had pink or purple hair, didn't shave my arm pits...it was just to much for some.

Generally, I was able to escape the majority of the nonsense.  I was too "rough around the edges" to be considered a little sister of sorts, and to "girlie" to truly be one of the guys. For most of the roughnecks I was a strange anomaly not to be completely understood, but sometimes to poke fun at or be scared of, and possibly fuck. 

In the summer the temperature in  an RV can be about 160-180 degrees Fahrenheit.  No shit. They are all made of metal and more metal, and some plastic and fumes and more metal.  One particular day, it was already incredibly hot, and  I had a make-ready on one of the previously owned RV's to get done.  Now, the used RV's could be kind of tricky...everyone wanted them to look like new.  Well, they aren't new, and they're made of crap plastic and metal.  But, I had all the tricks and RV Porter could possibly have.  By this time, I had full rage of the Supply Catalog at my disposal and was no longer EVER questioned about my buys.  And trust me when I tell you I bought the shit out of that catalog like the RV Porter Apocalypse was going to happen at any moment!!!!! I had every temporary tint for repainting, every scrubber, every special spray bottle, every foaming cleaner, every bleachy cleaner,  every fucking scented air freshener product. EVERYTHING!!!!! I bought the shit out of that catalog.  Yes, I did.  The bosses thought I was just super busy...not bored.  Another raise.

On this particular day, I went out to do the make-ready.  And all the lot guys were kind of standing around, slightly in my area. Oh, they looked suspicious, but not suspicious enough for me to call them out on.  I thought maybe one of them had finally produced that giant blunt.  I did think maybe I was fixing to get it...whatever it was.  So, I did proceed with caution, my ears perked, my spray bottle at the ready.  They continued to stare as I gathered all my special items and walked towards the RV.  I could hear a small giggle as I put my hand on the door latch. Again, giant blunt or trick...didn't know.  I opened the door and stepped in.  Then, I promptly turned right back around and fled from the RV and vomited on the ground. The smell, the horrible smell of death and decay.  I had smelled this before.  I vomited so hard that I pee'd my pants a bit, and it brought tears to my eyes with the sting of the stench.

The lot guys all busted out laughing....giant hoots and belly laughs, beer guts and fat shaking all around. Only one came and dumped some cat litter on my vomit pile and offered and explanation.  The rest dispersed with claps and high-fives and giggles.

Apparently,  the RV had been loaned out for a week for a movie shoot, over the week of the Fourth of July.  Super hot time of year.  And apparently a guy, who drank a lot, and was really fat, died on the Friday of that weekend, and no one found him until the next Monday. No one noticed the fat, drunk guy wasn't answering his phone. No one.  The trailer's AC wasn't on, so basically the guy melted and exploded in the RV.  Now, there had been a cleaning crew who got most of the dead guy stuff out of the trailer, but they had told the RV company probably best to just junk it.  But, the RV company, had already re-sold it.  I'm thinking that the cleaning crew that hired were probably not that professional - cheap yes, professional no.  It became my job, to somehow magically get the dead guy smell out of the RV.  

After all the shit I took from the guys about this, I was somewhat determined. Ok, really determined.  There was a point that needed to be made.  I had to triumph over the lot guys.  I had to prove myself.  It was my life mission.  I became focused...super focused.  No more time to pee myself or vomit.  What and learn boys, watch and learn...I was the one that had installed the tape carpet!!!!  

I took time to review the magic catalog and found nothing.  I made called to other cleaning companies who really would not give me any information - not share any "trade secrets" - but would clean it for a price.  I finally ended up calling a janitorial supply house.  And I was a bit nervous to ask them if they had any products to get the smell of dead guy out of things.  The man calmly replied that the did have such products.  I then asked him, if he got that question a lot.  He replied that he did get that question a far amount.  I felt like I needed to reassure him that I was not a crazed woman with a dead lover or a serial killer, would I need any special ID or anything? Nope.

I took the company credit card and the company truck and nervously made my way across town to the Janitorial Supply.  Upon arrival, I explained who I was, and what had happened, and that I was the one that had called about the dead guy smell.

Not only did I get great customer service, but a lengthy tutorial about dead things and their odors and which products go where and how much and how long, etc., etc., etc. I felt at that moment that I was being respected.  I was with other professionals in my field.  I belonged. So much sharing knowledge and respect.  

I even bought a special mask.  And upon my return to the lot, I dawned my mask and my tool belt and went to work.  By day's end, there was no more dead guy smell.  Everything was shiny and clean and fresh...a hint of cinnamon spice wafted in the air. Well, it was as clean as it could be for a used RV.  

The lot guys didn't say anything.  No high-fives for me, no compliments. A bunch of shut the fuck up. Yeah a huge does of that.

I'm not that guy.  Thankful for that. 

Acceptance and Rejection...How the two dance....

Running late, drinking yesterday's cold coffee, grabbing keys and things....hoping the car didn't break down when I didn't even have a bra on.  

Okay, Mystery Driver, you caught me.  Yes, I was fiddling with my lighter and didn't hurry up and make that turn so fast.  Yes, you caught me!!!  But, the honk AFTER I moved was just stupid. Okay, got it!  You're angry...You're Faster...You're the Best Rapid-Fire Honker in the World!!!! I'll bet you even have piping hot coffee in there, too.  The driver raced around me in anger....so angry.  

At first, I thought about being pissed off, too.  Then, some magical calm came over me.  We, all the cars, just had to stop at another light.  And Speedy, McSpeedy, only got one car ahead.  I suddenly felt sorry for the driver.  What a shitty morning you must be having to drive and honk like that.  I suddenly wished that I had a flower, like that hippy did with the gun, to give this driver.  It will be okay man, just put down the horn, we'll all be okay.  

I never had a nickname...well, one that stuck.  Words only reserved for particularly stunning people, memorable people.  At an early age, I knew that I would not memorable, I would not doing anything of recognition, or greatness. Don't think I'm fishing for compliments, I'm not.  I am simply recalling experiences and facts of my own life.

I realized that at and early age that maybe I didn't need or want a nickname.  Depends on the day, I think.  There are some days that I would so much, so very much, to be special.  For someone to think of me worthy of adoring me with such a thing, a word of my very own.But, then within that longing, that craving, there is also a deep rooted sense of reality and a keen nose for bullshit.  Words can control...and know one likes that - or at least, I don't.

I doubt McSpeedy would have cared for the nickname.  And while my father called me Cookie Monster, I almost called my own child that....maybe for some semblance of a family tradition...for a family ideal that I never had.  I stopped using the nickname.  And in bigger terms we use Serial Killer for some, and Solider for others.  Yet, the two almost function in the same capacity; although one is for selfish reasons, and the other is for the greater good.

Names just isolate us all from distinguishing the multiply parts of any one thing or person.  Words can keep us all with clothes on, layers. Well, save the Emperor.  I think it would have been a much better story if the Emperor had known he was naked all along.  I would like to believe that is possible of all of us...to be naked, to be seen, to be accepted as such.  But, we're not like that.  Maybe we're not even capable of it.  I mean, look the hippies are just dying off.  And I doubt the resurgence of MDMA, since it's no long pure, will offer us more salvation either. 

I have been fortunate enough to see many people naked...not just of clothes, stop giggling.  Some at their most vulnerable times.  And they trusted me, another human, to witness, help, listen.  How magical is that.  Likewise, I have been exposed.  I would think some was by choice. At this point in my life, I try to be as available to experiences; even the ones that come with a cost.

I thought today about my dear, creative, friend.  He had a nickname.  He was special.  He would have done great things.  But, no one was in the same space as he was when he was the most naked.

They found his body, one winter.  Everyone was on Christmas vacation. He was alone.  They found his body, hanging from the ceiling.  

No One Left Standing

I sometimes feel alone...overwhelmed, maybe that's a better word.  Overwhelmed by the masses of things that I probably shouldn't record, but, that's my talent, the observation of it all.  Yes, the observation and recording; without the power to control or change.  Well, what the good in that?I have never figured that out...it just is.  I am not also without that addiction to self inflicting pain to regain some sense of feeling and control. I didn't cut my body or force my fingers down my throat.  I ate too many sugar cookies...so many my stomach hurt, and this morning I took at giant, fully constipated shit in the cat's bathroom.  They all came in, and usually they would make a fuss, but not today. Today, as though they had sympathy for me, they each, one at a time, passed by my straining legs to rub their heads on me.  Sympathy or quiet scenting me to remind me gently it is still their bathroom.  

The older I get and the more my own Multiple Sclerosis rages on, the less important I think most things are. And on the other hand, the vastly more important some things become.  The giant spider web in my yard is not unlike the one we all live on.  And ours doesn't seem sometimes to be growing outward, but filling up with crowded wrapped up bodies awaiting the spider to suck us all dry...flaky, braking carcasses left to the wind. We all try to climb over each other, as though we're going to get somewhere.  That's the joke, we're all stuck on strings...even if you manage to hop strings...you're still on a fucking string. Go ahead, hop a body or two, right?  Okay, it will be our own bodies being hopped over soon enough. 

My elderly neighbor has taken care of her own mother for years.  Her mother has Alzheimer's.  My neighbor dutifully went every day to visit with her mother.  Sometimes we would speak of it, on her porch.  My neighbor is a lovely woman, who raised her own children, who now have their own children.  She has stories of the old days, and loves her plants.  Her back yard is overgrown because she is getting to old herself to do it all.  That growth makes the neighbor's next to her angry, but they never offer to help.  And those neighbors never realize that she rides her lawnmower over the empty lot that's not hers. She does that quietly, well not that quietly because of the mower, for all of us. I told them once, and still they complain and refuse to help.  I don't talk to them anymore.  

My sweet elderly neighbor, I think is also a hoarder.  I've never been invited into her house, but I did catch glimpse of it once.  And her children do not visit her; she visits them.  We have all seen the glorification of the hoarders on television.  Something happened to make her hoard.  And I'm no longer strong enough to help.  So, she and I sometimes sit on her porch and talk.  She doesn't judge me, and I don't judge her either. 

She called last night.  Her mother passed away.  It was peaceful.  And she was there.  The whole family was there.  I could hear how tired she was.  And I'll watch her house and pick up the paper, of course.  I wanted to make that better for her, but you can't really.  We talked about how those moments are when you are most naked, birth and death.  And I told her that I thought there wasn't anything more brave and valiant than being at those moments of another human.  How much I respected her for that.  I will be there when she gets back to sit on her porch with her.  And I wonder sometimes what was so complicated for her - What was her stories that made her pile up the gems that I'm sure are in piles in her house.

*****

My friend broke up with her love and had to move.  I can hear it.  Her sadness, her emptiness, her broken parts.  I can't make that better for her either.  I know her life had to change due to circumstances that only me winning the lottery could have helped with.  And I would have done so freely.  

But, had I been able to do that, would I have fucked up her path then?  Maybe.  This friend is very complicated.  Not a run of the mill human.  Her body gives her troubles, but her mind is vast and processes at lightening speed.  She has been able to make money to live in the best, most inventive ways.  She's not greedy, not money hungry.  She has made her own money through ideas of her own.  I have a deep respect for that - probably more than my words could tell her.  

But, she had to move.  She had to move where she wanted to stay.  And that is a real bitch.  I can hear her thoughts about it.  I can feel her thoughts about it.  That grinding of her soul against making the much needed grown-up decision.  She takes photographs.  She recorded a walk she took the other day; but with words, not photographs.  I could hear the photographs in the words.  I wanted to see the photographs that I know she can take.  

I see the lesson for her.  Where she was before the beauty came easily.  Well, how convenient for the beauty to be right there.  And she got more that most people get of that easy beauty.  Now, she has to work at little more for that beauty.  And sometimes beauty is not that beautiful.  Her photographs can translate the most ordinary and mundane thing into something we need to see...we need to me made aware of.  I can see her lesson, but it's not for me to instruct her on.  I can only see it, and right now, I miss my friend and her brain working for all of us.  My poor soul tired friend.  I await her rise again. Her eyes are the window to all of our souls.You should be waiting, too.

*****

A man asked to speak to me.  We met and talked for a bit.  In the end, I told him, I didn't think he could be my friend.  I was not saying that to be mean.  It just was what it was.  I am open about almost everything in my life.  I don't carry secrets anymore, I gave up that burden years ago.  I don't differentiate between anything public vs. private.  I just don't care about that anymore.  I recognize that those things are so important to a lot of humans, but not me.  I can keep secrets to some degree, but I don't really like it.  Secrets burn my insides.  

I listed once to someone talk about keeping your name clean and the importance of that.  My name wasn't clean to begin with, and it's never going to be that for me.  I have understood that for myself.  And yet, I still have people who love me.  There might be an alternative lesson in that.

He called again.  I repeated what I had said before.  He, kind of, went off.  I couldn't really get a word in edgewise.  I had to ask several times if I could talk and explain.  He wasn't able to allow me that.  His life is very fast paced.  I didn't think we had very much to talk about.  I really didn't get it, why someone would bother.

During the conversation, he said he didn't need to impress me, he had friends already.  I wasn't really needing someone to impress me, I thought, as first.  But, then I thought, well, you do need to impress me, actually.  I have some of the very best humans around me already.  And there are billions upon billions of humans on the planet.  I see tons of humans all the time, and don't have life-force to intake them all. And, frankly, I take in too much already.  Actually, you do need to impress me, or at least catch my attention.  Otherwise, your just background noise.  I didn't say that out loud, but I knew this was not going to end with him reaching whatever goal he had in mind.

He mentioned more that once that his parents were part of the Black Panther movement.  It was important to him.  I thought that was very important, too.  I couldn't relate though, I know very little of my own family history, and cannot imagine that any of my own people did anything particularly great in history.  Maybe personal history, yes, but probably nothing of interest to him.

I also learned from that conversation that I didn't want my own child quoting my accomplishments and my own history.  I profoundly wanted my child to stand on his own history.  My life would not be so grand that he would have that need.  I didn't want that. I wanted only for my child to have his own desire to go over me and above me. I have always felt the protons and electrons of personal history to be more important and eye catching.  The grand history is subject to opinions and conjecture and lies, depending on who's recording it...I have no interest or time - mostly.

He thought I couldn't make it through the bad parts of Detroit.  He stated that opinion without knowing my own abilities to climb out of plenty of horror and violence in my own life, before.  And I have long given up trying to prove myself or my experience to others.  There's nothing of value in that.

I got bored and was busy.  I told him I would talk to him later.  I called him Monkey.  I call everyone Monkey.  I love monkeys.  Monkeys make me happy.  Maybe I wish to come back as a monkey in the wild.  Anyone who knows me, knows that I have always had a deep love for the monkeys.

He got mad.  He said that I should never call a black man a monkey.  He was yelling through the phone, and telling me that I didn't even know him like that.  Well, I can see you don't know me like that either.  I call everyone Monkey.  And why would anyone take offense to that?  Monkeys are awesome.  Monkeys are brilliant and fast, and funny and vicious.  And not all monkeys are black, you stupid man.  You should feel good that I called you Monkey, good because I tried to be inclusive. He completely missed the idea that it wasn't about him. How about that! It wasn't about you.  I take it back.  I will not apologize for using a word...Not when calling someone Monkey hurts their misguided, damaged feelings. Because not everyone is good enough to be called Monkey.

Call me names back, I don't care.  I do not care about words like that, and I can't be around others who do.  It wastes our time.  I don't care about the color of someone's skin.  When will be see the lack of importance in that?  I don't care about someone religion either or weight or height or scars or wealth or anything outside.  What a complete waste of time.  I know what some monkeys throw their poo.  It is funny and a great release of tension.  I'm so sorry we gave that up, and I know there are some people are throwing their shit right now, either because they like poop or are considered to be mentally not all there, but I secretly celebrate them in times of need, like this one. Throw you shit!!!!  Throw you shit!!!!  Be free and throw you shit!!!  I will not judge you, I will celebrate you!!!!

I told him, that I was right, he couldn't be my friend.  And that was okay.  I told him he was too much work and to loose my number, and I hung up.  Jesus f'n Christ!  I'm sorry my precious monkeys, I didn't know.

And the people in Government kept their jobs and their money while punishing everyone else.  I got bored with that, too.  But, life didn't stop for them.  Life continued around them. I wondered if that was an understanding that they got during their tantrum.  Life just went on.  Yes, we all know that you ran the money scheme on us.  You took our money and did nothing for it.  Just took the money and did nothing.  We know what you did.  There was no fooling us.  We understand about the greater world too and what was going on.  I would not want to do that to others.  It was just sad to see happening.  And while it was going on, the woman who crashed gates and died, and the young man who killed himself in the school yard, and the young girls who were raped by connected football players, and the economic struggles of the sex workers in Thailand, all happened.Yes, while the market was low and they stood in their suits, the rich got richer and the poor got poorer, and there were people who went on to live and went on to die. 

***** 

There is more to recall, much more, but I have stuff to do that calls me even as I type.

*****

It rained.  And I stood in my rain boots and watched.  We needed the rain. We need the rain more than the music festival...no matter what people thought.  I stood in my rain boots and ate an entire box of cookies until my stomach hurt. Someday all the rabbit warrens will be empty, and the ant hills closed for business.  I think that some solitude and desolation may be what I need to quiet the voices in my life.  The voices on the stings that I record and cannot control. 

And today, I shit in the cat's bathroom.  

Do I have a heart of glass? Not completely, I think....only compartments.

The normal household items have been boring me like nobody's business.  Just who is the Nobody we always speak of?  I feel like I'm on the verge of something great, but Nobody's business keeps getting in the way. Nosy Nobody.

Yesterday, my helper's man finally went to jail.  Oh, it's been coming for a bit of stretch of time.  I'm sure this will not be good for me. She has been the best helper, thus far, but I'm sure since the 20 hours she works to help take care of me has been difficult for her to achieve any consistency with, it will only be gravely more difficult for her to achieve without her man.  She only has an eighth grade education, and two very small children. This man only had to do forty hours of community service to stay out of jail.  He did not complete this, so back to jail he went. Yes, she will be sticking by her man.  And the cycle continues.  Of course, I imparted my wisdom and connections to her.  But, much like the horse to water, it is to be so. 

There are other items I could list, but some of them are not mine to tell.  But they are on the list. I hear you tsk-tsking me, because when have I even drawn the line?  I will tell you the line has always been there.  There is tons that I do not share.  Yes, there are secrets that will die with me. Wouldn't you just love to know who's so important to me that I would keep those.  Well, very few, very few, I will only reply.

I once read something about the Sagittarius females.  The article read that the Sag women are often seen as more of the tom-boy type and that their feminine side is often overlooked by courting males.  For this reason,

I have thought this week that I would no longer date or allow to court me, anyone who could not hop a fence and hold hands sometimes.  I have no time for anything but the very best for myself now.  Nope, no time.  You may thank Nobody's Business for this revelation.

Why is this so important to be thinking about now?  What is going on with me.  The phone is ringing right now.  It's early and it's already started.  That pesky household business.  It's a nonstop cascade of ridiculous petty pennies showering from the heavens of monkey business.  And as I told you, I can feel it, that I am on the verge of personal greatness.  And by this "greatness", I don't mean like millions of dollars or something all important to the rest of humanity...it's just for me, this personal greatness...the ego of it and all.

A friend shared an article/video of a professor who studies ants.  The tiny industrious of creatures.  To study their homes, their caverns, their secrets of society, he pour molten hot melted metal down their holes to discover their secrets after the metal cooled an the bodies scraped away.  He noted that he took no joy in this, but there must be sacrifices for science and all.  I wondered how the ants felt about his imposed sacrifices.  He has not learned how to communicate with them.  But, his death sculptures hang in museums. And he is known for his scientific contributions.  

When I ware little, I already understood the sanctuary of life.  I have no idea where this came from, or what influenced me to come to these ideals.  I will give you an example.  I was small and spent a lot of time outside with my bike.  I watched the ant lines crossing the sidewalks.  They were always so busy.  And there might be one or two of the hundreds upon hundreds who didn't tow the completely straight lines....bumping into random other ants, who stopped for only a second, maybe half of a second, to regain the straightness of the line.  I wondered if they were mentally compromised or just delivering messages from the Queen, large and safe in her bunker down below.  I never dug her up to ask though.  She was royalty, after all. 

I grew so found of these lines of workers that I didn't want to ride my bike on the sidewalk and murder any of them.  I felt very convicted of this.  I was, however, not allowed to ride my bike on the street.  I was too small, I was told.  Fuck it, I thought.  Well, not really "fuck it", since I was so little, but a pint sized version of "fuck it".  And I road my bike on the street, next to the curb, very carefully, but NOT on the sidewalk.

Of course I was caught.  And my father was so angry at my disobedience.  He tried to take the bike away from me.  But, as soon as I got it back, I just disobeyed him again, and again, and again. I survived groundings and spankings and the like.  Finally, he asked me why I was refusing him on this point. "What was I thinking?!?!!"  I explained about the ants.  He looked so purple angry, and he took of his shoe and started killing lines of ants with it...slapping it randomly at the pavement.  I looked at him, through my tears, my heart breaking for all of those ants dying from the shoe slaughter.  I told him that spanking me, taking the bike away from me, would not change my mind, but what he had just done was murder to make his point.  And I said he could just have the bike back. I would just never ride my bike again, problem solved.  I would never feel the ride faster, ride faster, hope of the pothole, wind in my hair.  I would just give that all up.  It was better than having murder on my conscience. 

My father looked stunned. At that point, he told me, that if I was old enough to understand the concept of murder, I was probably old enough to ride my bike along the street.  

This is one example that came to me today, despite Nobody's Business.  The example of my true nature awakening, well, reminding me that it's always been there.  The nature of chosen sacrifice to be mindful of.

Today I celebrate the ants, who will out-survive us all, no matter how many stupid metal sculptures we make of their homes.  

Directing traffic

Yes, I received that angry text. Oh, it was angry.  It was a hash-mash of hot mess, filled with accusations and blaming, hurt, and violence.

I had to sit there for a few minutes.  I wasn't angry back.  I wasn't anything.  I just needed to figure out how to get back to the actual topic at hand.  There is real art in that, directing the traffic back to normal flow.  

Where did that come from?  Has it been there this whole time? This ability to direct without anger. 

It's not my job to make you understand.  It's not my job to help you.  Is it the relief of that?  Is that why I'm just not anything?

What a lesson to learn, even this late in my life.  Thank you.

Oh Satan, You're kind of a Buzz-kill.

Today, I have to decide whether or not to sign the permission slip from my kid's school, giving him actual permission to play "Role-Playing" Games.  He has joined the Role Playing Game Club. YES, I have to actually sign a PERMISSION SLIP.  lol. This decision is weighing on me so much...like a ton of bricks.  lol.

Let's review my own life, I grew up in a small town, where Catcher in the Rye was still banned, and my father had to order it for me, from the College bookstore. And where we had the Green stamps program from the local market.  It was given to me, as a job, to do every so often, spend an afternoon, licking or (when I finally figured it out) using a damp sponge to moisten the pile of Greenstamps and put them in the booklets.  I would get one book of my own, for every ten I finished.  THAT'S A LOT OF GREEN STAMPS.  These could be traded for items at the illustrious Green stamp Store for various goods and trinkets.   I worked for months and months to save up my booklets.  And when I finally thought I had enough, I asked to go to the Green stamp store.  It was to be a great day, that day.

Upon arrival, I scoured the shelves. I didn't need a coffee pot, or doily, or a toaster.  BUT: What did I find?  On a bottom shelf, covered in dust, sad and lonely, towards the back, one Dungeons and Dragons game.  This game was so popular; but also, completely forbidden by most in the area, because if you played it, Satan would come and get you in the middle of the night, and make you do horrible and unspeakable things, and you would surely end up burning in the fiery pits of Hell - forever. I considered my options.  I only had so many Green Stamps books, you know.  And it was kind of scary, right?!!?  It was Satan, THE SATAN, after all.  

What the hell.  I used my Green stamps to buy this game. I'm not sure if it was because I was really that interested in playing it...or, if I wanted to see if Satan would really come and actually visit me, or if I just wanted to do something others didn't think I should do...probably a little of all.  

What happened, you ask?  Well, I never played the game, I was too small to really understand what to do.  Satan did not ever visit me, not even a little bit. And I did feel pretty cool for doing what I wasn't supposed to...I did it, and nothing happened. And the box finally went to the trash or garage sale or something. All in all, it was kind of a let down. No Satan, no friends to play the game with, no more Green Stamps.  Yeah, bit of a let down.

So, as I sign my own son's "permission slip".  I kind of think it's funny that while Green stamps have long died off, the idea that a game could influence a person into something else still exists.

http://www.gnomestew.com/gming-advice/10-reasons-why-roleplaying-games-are-a-positive-force-for-kids-and-adults-alike/

Always the Pilot.

When I was about three years old, I used to play under the dinning room table with my large stuffed bear.  I would dress my bear in different very fancy outfits, scarfs, and jewelry stolen/borrowed from my mother's stash-collection.  I would move my small, pint sized rocker under the table and carefully place my well dressed bear in it. My mother would tell me later that I was always pretending that I was in a plane. And that I was the pilot and my bear was Jackie-O.   Sometimes we would have tea parties, too.  Those were never in the plane.  But, Jackie-O was always kind enough to let me attend all of her functions.

From idiom to cliche...as it was written before. Of that I'm sure of.

Wind it up, so we can all watch the monkey dance.  Yeah, I sometimes get that feeling...Unsure if I am the winder or the windee or the dancing monkey.  

Okay, I get it.  Sometimes people project their own failures or expectations on others. Sometimes I neither have the energy or the care to help someone see it really is them and not me.  Sometimes I just want it to stop.  I had a boss once, that every single evaluation he wrote up on me, EVERY SINGLE YEAR, he always gave me poor marks for not living up to my potential. he just made stuff up about my potential.  I called him out on it. 

 I directly asked him if he was unsatisfied with the work I had been doing, the actual work that I had been hired to do. 

 He said, "No, You're doing a great job."

 He said, "I think you are smart enough to be moving on and doing more."  (Of course I am, isn't that everyone?)

 I replied, "That the job isn't really where my life's interests lay, and I was actually quite happy where I was.  So, why did he think it was okay to plan my career life for me?"  

He told me, "Well if you're not going to plan for your future, someone should do it for you."

To which I replied, "I guess to be polite, I appreciate the sentiment and all, but I already had parents, and was now pretty much my own adult, who does have plans that maybe I just don't share with you.  And just so we're clear, I don't need additional, unsolicited guidance in the form of a permanent record, and all this was actually complete bullshit."

He replied, "I will note your objections, but I'm not changing my review style."

I still moved up and got raises, maybe just not to where he thought I should go.  I didn't want to end up drunk at work, sneaking off to golf or get a massage and take a Xanax or 3 to make it through the day. I just never wanted all that kind of fun...Nope, not for me. But, I continued to get shitty reviews and we never spoke about it again.  Later, he would be pushed out/fired.  Me, I would still worked there.

It was a fairly recent Wednesday during a week, and three different women  visited me with a vicious need to talk to me about my dead relationship.  Oh, for fuck's sake, I have already sobbed.  I have already been angry.  I have already removed my black veil and uncovered all the mirrors.  I don't miss anything anymore.

Was I wiped out?  Yeah for a chunk.  But shit, no one died. And now I am quite busy.  And I am mostly good.  But, the other women, especially my own mother...They've just been endless on this week.

"I really thought he'd come back.  I was just sure of it.  Maybe he'll come back."  That was the theme.  Ugh! And when I said I didn't want him back, all I got was a flash flood of Tsk-Tsks.

My mother sent me lots of books and called to inform me that she's ordering a few more. She even gathered and sent magazine articles and carefully circled items, and folded pages to send on.  I have quite the pile of shit, I'm never going to read started.  Plus the guilt of my mother's wasted time weighing on my soul.  It is always me, right mother?  It is always my fault?Couldn't have been his.  He's a god damned saint, and I'm still that project you started on all those years ago....Never satisfied that I am making any right choices, ever. When she kind of started to figure out that I really was broken up, she still wanted me to read it ALL, "for the next time, my next relationship".  I will be donating it to some place for some other sod wanting unsolicited motherly advice.  

Sure, I understand that she's trying to help...They are all just trying to help.  And I understand that during their time, there was so much more sacrificing going on with the famine  So much more work for those of us with a vagina then. Oh ladies, I'm never going to be that kind of woman. I'm never going to want to be apart of that old, repeated song and dance.  It's just not in my make-up.  

How about saying some of the things that I'd like to hear instead?  How about that?

1. I know you've never needed anyone to pay for your stuff.  You're strong like that.  But, I hope a guy does something sweet for you like buy you dinner.  So, don't ignore that, my darling. Everyone needs sweetness. You can buy the dinner next time, if you really feel the need to.

2. I think having a couple of whiskeys and playing cards late and for money would be great for you!  Have a good time, I'll watch the kid, no problem.

3. No you don't have a wear another dress or a skirt - EVER to be recognized as a feminine woman.  Besides, there may be a fence you have to hop.  You just never do know. (Then maybe tells me a story of a fence hopped before that I didn't know about. I would love to be shocked and delighted by something like that. )

4. It's just fine that you put up your hair without brushing it.  It's just fine, baby, that it smells like stale cigarette smoke and flowers.  You're just to busy to worry about things like that right now.

5. Go ahead and have random sex with that guy.  Just be sure he's clean and healthy and wears a condom. Oh, and don't bring him to your house, you do have your own child to think about and all. Just go to his house, and don't even tell him where you live and don't stay the night.  Have a good time, my Love.

6. Yes, You are beautiful.  And you are doing so good.  I'm proud of you.

Not this particular week. Nope. Even dancing monkeys can have wishes.  

Waxing the Aspergers...When I brought my milkshake to the yard, it really was just a milkshake.

Did you know that this is real: 

The Paradox of Choice Theory: "Why more is really Less" is book by American psychologist Barry Schwartz. It's about consumer choice in America and the anxiety it all can bring. I'll get to the relevance of this in a minute, not to worry.

I'm newly out in the world, single again.  I'm probably still feeling a bit bruised from the whole mess that led me to being single again, in the first place.  I did get the carpet pulled out from under me, on that one.  Right the fuck out from under me.  I was like a waitress carrying a large table's hot order on stacked plates when I went down, everything flying and violent shards and hot stings flying to cover me, and anyone else nearby.  I did think I had found my soul mate and set up home for the forever.  Boy, was I completely wrong on that one.  Just because you think you found your soul mate - well, the other person has to feel the same way, I guess. Plus, it's completely easy to view a person in the absolute wrong way.  Lesson learned, or at least more study on signals in massively needed.   

I think it was Plato that made up that humans were bodies with two faces, four arms and four legs, separated by Zeus for being pissed off about the whole messing with the Titans  and thus, splitting us in half and dooming us all to search forever for our soul mate.  Who am I to feel more pissed off at then?  Plato or Zeus?  I think it should be pointed out that both are male...Not in an angry way, with all the pointing...just an observation. 

Hey Zeus?...Still mad?... Can't ask Plato about shit. Yep, Plato said all that he was going to say, he's already dead. Well, actually, I guess Zeus is, too. 

I've never been that great at being a "dater" or a "flirter".  Seriously, I don't get it. I think I go a bit Asperger on some asses.  When someone is flirting with me, usually miss it, or don't know what to do with it.  When I'm flirting with someone else, they usually miss it, or it's totally unwanted. Which is both awkward and uncomfortable for all. Trust.  

And I've never been anyone's pin-up girl - that I'm really aware of. Could have happened, I guess. And I would probably be freaked out about it, anyway.  I do have a fabulous personality.  F-A-B-U-L-O-U-S!!!! Yes, I am sure of that.  Just so you get that I'm not putting myself down.  I'm fine with myself.  My personality has been my saving grace...Well, save when I'm waxing the Aspergers. It is rare to see a human with both, it is usually either/or. And how we covet those who have both. At least I do, lucky ducks. Those people never have to buy anyone just the right amount drinks to cloud their judgement enough to take them home and remain somewhat functional. Yeah, lucky ducks.

The point is, I never had suitors lining up asking for a dance. Nope, never a line. Or if there was, I can assure you, I thought it was the line to pay my light bill or get movie tickets.  I'm just saying....

And yet, here I am newly single, and it seems to be like I've put out the "Welcome, Come on In, Have a Taste" sign.  NEVER in my life have I gotten as much sexual attention as I've been getting lately. NEVER!!! And from the most random and unexpected places.   I don't think I'm seeking the attention.  But, it does seem that I've put an accidental call out to the Universe for auditions for the next penis-starring role in my life. It really will not pay that much. And the attention is all- just "Look at my Penis" attention. At least, I think it is.  Not a one has asked for a proper date.  There hasn't been any romance - that I'm aware of.

My dear friend thinks it's all very funny...laughs and laughs and laughs. But, this person has always had a secret love for the crazy. I am always happy to oblige and delight by dear, sweet best friend.   And it was stated that the reoccurring penis signifies that I have strength and a hidden talent emerging.  Really?!?  I'm cool with the strength, I think that already, I am strong.  But the hidden talent emerging?  What talent?!!?!  The talent to help random peni rise to their full potential? Seriously?!?  Like that's even a real talent that anyone would want.  Or, frankly not already be capable of.  Rising peni has already been done. And not that difficult to master.  Books and videos everywhere.   

And why all this now?  I'm still trying to sort out my house.  And the rule is: "If you house isn't sorted, then your really not ready to have others in for visits."  

Also, maybe I shouldn't be so grouchy about the attention, right?  Why are you complaining? Especially when there's wars on and people starving.  Yeah, I know how completely absurd it all is. Absurd doesn't mean it's not real, though.

While trying to sort it all out, and making sure none of the streams cross, the whole mess is a bit concerning. It  is complicated trying to pick one, just one.  If I was years younger and without so many important responsibilities, I would just try them all out. Yes, I would.  I don't care what others would say about me.  But, not these days. And I am a conscious human, I would never want to hurt a penis' feelings. I never want to hurt anyone's feelings about anything.

I am torn between wanting to just fuck a penis, and searching for my next soul-mate, and wanting to be left the fuck alone.  I am having anxiety of the More is Less. 

I will bet my bottom dollar that  psychologist Barry Schwartz wasn't thinking about his dick when he wrote his book.  It would have been more helpful if he had.

Can you drive stick shift?

A new friend just told me in passing, that he liked cars. I went to sleep wondering what kind of car man he was.

 

Lots of questions for him, way after the conversation was over. Do the cars you have work? Did you work on them yourself? Or are they broken and in need of repair, and you'll get around to them at some point? Are they collectible, expensive, and fawned over by others? Or are they just special to you? What color are they? Do you drive them, or do they sit covered? Have you had sex in your cars? Or, no way, because you stand there with a soft rag to hurriedly brush out any fingerprint or mark from anyone touching them.

Men always say "cars are like women", but that's only because, at first, only men were allowed to have and play with cars. I think, because of how I grew up, men can be just like the cars they pick out and drive.

My Grandfather ran his own automotive repair shop. He started on the Model A's and Model T's. He would let me sit in them and pretend I was going somewhere fantastic. Sometimes, when no one was around, he would pretend with me. We would take wonderful imaginary trips together, long drives to China. He would drive them in the town's parades. Sometimes, I got to ride in the parades wearing an brand new outfit my Grandmother sewed for me. I don't even remember what the parades were about...Only the people, the noise, the waves and claps, my new outfit,s and my Grandfather with the car. His was always the best in the parades. He would later die of cancer because of the asbestos brakes he worked on...we just didn't know then. His shop was one of the first buildings to go up in the tiny, dusty, dry, cotton farming town. He would always wear coveralls and didn't talk much. Sometimes, I would get to go to the shop with him. I would help with handing him tools or kind of fixing stuff. He made me feel important and just like any one of the guys. I wasn't different there because I had a vagina. Lots of men hung out at the shop, shooting the shit among the dust and grease covered chairs.

I grew up liking cars. I can work on them, I don't much care to, but I can do it. I don't get swindled much. I wanted to race cars. I wanted a huge dually truck truck with KC lights. I like early Camero's over Mustangs. And old giant Cadillac's with the giant trunks you can either hide yourself or possibly someone else in. 

I have a Honda Civic. Why? It's economical and dependable, it doesn't even have any bells and whistles on it. It's just a get there and back car.  

But, in my dreams I have all the cars that I wanted, and I have my own coverall, too.