Sometimes a blowjob is just a blowjob. (The phone conversation.)
It is Christmas Time, again. That's a holiday that never goes away. Oh yes, the emotions were high this year. Nothing like a holiday already fired with everyone's weird, built up, scarred shit, and then just add the fuel. Fanfuckingtastic. Trying to fool yourselves that you're not leaving THAT much of a scar on the child. (Secretly wondering if that's what everyone's parents told themselves.)
What's everyone doing for Christmas? Shit, I don't know. Right now, it's Christmas Eve and everyone is in separate rooms. Does that count for closeness if we're in the same house? That's probably as good as it's going to get.
How are you doing? Okay. I'm drinking all of the whiskey in the house, listening to angry music, and some sad music, smoking, and probably not leaving any of the eggnog either. That sounds sad and stupid. Does it? I'm telling you, right now, I feel so much better, way better than the whole last month. In fact, whoever said that drinking doesn't help was lying. It totally helps. Okay, if you say so. Why yes, I do say so. I like myself, and I really super like myself when I'm drunk.
What was said? Oh yeah, it was so confusing. We sort of did it. And I liked it. But, it was super confusing for the other party. Why? Well, some people have resided themselves to not being happy here, and certainly not happy with me, the way I think, the way I am, the way I look, etc. So, the act was very confusing. And we had to have yet another talk about it.
Seriously? Yeah. I'm worn out. And how do you tell someone that a blowjob is just sometimes a blowjob...and not to read too much into it. And that even shitty people can still have some talents.
What about tomorrow, still going to Mass? Probably not, I'm going to probably still be drunk. And if I remember correctly, no one likes drunk, stinky people at church. And you know I don't believe, but sometimes I do like the idea and the ceremony. Maybe I'll make it later in the week. We'll just open presents and then sit there, I'm guessing....in different rooms, of course.
Coming over on New Year's? Yeah. Can I get drunk and just sleep over? Yeah, you can even take naps if you want. Thanks. You're a good friend.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Driving Down Memory Lane in My Green Machine
I can't seem to control my memories these days. Things that I want to immediately remember for a conversation quote seem to elude me; and other things seem to come to me for reasons unknown, triggered by the smells?, the glances?, the weather?....And for what purpose? No idea. But, today is one of those days. So, I will record the story and see if I am supposed to get anything out of it other than simply putting it to paper in solid form.
On a recent drive across the large State of Texas to visit family, I had to drive through Big Springs. I lived there briefly as a small child with my mother, in a trailer park. My mother was mentally ill and spent a great deal of my life bouncing from one State Mental Institution to another. I know the town I live in now, the place is old, and gross and scary. And I always felt a certain amount of sadness for my mother being stuck, first in her own head, and second being in that state in a place like that. It is easier for us to dismiss the mentally ill, tuck them away in jail-like quarters. We never seem to take care of those places.
The funny thing about Texas, and maybe the United States in general, is we're so quick to erase out history and develop the newer, the better, the more shiny. In the town I live in now, giant, shiny high rises have knocked down the former lives of so many. You only get to stay if you're considered famous - the building has your name on it. Never mind, that in order for you to be so famous, there were so many other lives involved in your getting there....but, those are not important...just erase them.
But, in the small towns, you can see them. Where the big money and influence hasn't reached yet. The buildings half-broken down with faded signs. But, here in the US those are also a bit funny to me. Nothing here is ancient yet. Our country is so new still. Nothing is thousands of years old. So rather than being kept up like the Seven Wonders, these buildings and spots are more like items you find in some old person's attic with years of dust and cobwebs. Yes, there were lives in those places with stories and memories. Maybe better than the famous. Yes, better.
As I drove through the town, I saw Big Springs Mental Hospital. It was a very old building, but much to my surprise is was beautifully kept. Old architecture with gardens and a beautiful lawn. I teared up a bit. Maybe this was a least one place that wasn't so horrible for my mother to be at. Maybe. There was just a tiny bit of relief there. Oh mother, was this place ok for you? Just this one time?
I didn't have that many memories of this town, just a couple. I think when we lived here, I was maybe 3 or 4 years old. I remember the trailer a bit. We shared the trailer with a male roommate. I don't remember his name. My mother and I slept on one side of the house and the man took the other side. The only things I remember about him were really snip its. I remember one time he showed me that you could eat these parts of the pine tree outside. And I did. It was sticky and very full of pine flavor. And he said that if I was ever out in the woods stuck, this would be a plant I could eat. I remember thinking that was so silly. I had never seen the woods, ever. So, how would I be stuck in them, sometime? But, still I stored the knowledge away, just in case...just in case.
I also remember that he did something my mother did not like. And she was so mad at him, and yelled at him not to do it in front of me, or he'd be sorry. I didn't know what it was, but I knew he would be in big trouble if he did it.
One day, my mother was at the store, and he told me I couldn't go outside and play yet, because he had to do something first. I was mad. I had my new Green Machine. I started for the door, but he grabbed me under the arms and took me to his room and shut and locked the door. He told me, just a minute and we can go outside. I was really mad then, I was big enough to go by myself. I didn't need him watching me and babying me.
He got something from under his bed and lit it. I heard my mother's car drive up. I knew he was doing the bad thing. And I was so mad at him, I was going to tell. See how he liked that. I turned around, unlocked the door and ran outside. Yelling, "He's doing it again!!! Mom, he's doing that bad thing!!! He's doing it!!! Right in front of me, after you told him not to!!!"
My mother went inside and put the groceries down, and started yelling. They proceeded to fight, back and forth. And I smiled and stayed outside. I had my own parking spot for my Green Machine. I wouldn't let any of the other kids play on it. I also had a plain old, Big Wheel. So, if you wanted to play with me, you could ride that one. But, not the Green Machine. I got on and went down the sidewalk. Faster and faster and faster. Sometimes, pulling the break on the side so hard I might spin around, or I might crash, either was good. But, I was forgotten for a bit and could just play by myself. It was awesome. It wouldn't be until years later that I would figure out that what the "bad thing" the man was doing was smoking pot. And, when I did it, sometimes I would hear my mother's voice yelling at that guy, and feel a tiny bit a guilt. But, not enough, I guess.
I also remembered my Bert and Ernie shoes. Man, I loved those shoes. Bert was one foot and Ernie was the other. I LOVED THOSE SHOES!!!! I wore them with everything, and never wanted to wear anything else. EVER.
One day, at the trailer, there was a knock at the door. It was the neighbor's daughters. They hadn't seen their father or heard from him in a bit and wanted to know if my mother had seen him; she hadn't. They left their contact number and were on their way.
There was a smell. It was so bad. My mother and the roommate thought we might have rats. But, the smell got worse and worse. A bunch of the neighbors could smell it. My mother was a nurse. One morning, she walked over to the old man's house. He had a bad drinking problem, I'd heard them say. I walked with her. I remember my mother gasping as she looked in the window. She bent down and took my Bert shoe off, and threw it at the window. When it broke, there was this wave of smell that hit me like a ton of bricks. I got sick, and light headed and threw up on my Ernie shoe and my other sock foot. My mother grabbed me, and ran back to the house and called the police. Turned out that the old man was dead, and had been for days. he was drunk and threw up and drowned on his own vomit. I cried and cried. And everyone thought I was so sad about the old man's death. But, I wasn't. It was the loss of my favorite shoes. I never said anything about it, but I was so mad at my mother, probably for years. They were my favorite shoes.
That's all I remember. So, now it's to paper. Yes, there were people there, not famous, but they lived, and they had stories.
On a recent drive across the large State of Texas to visit family, I had to drive through Big Springs. I lived there briefly as a small child with my mother, in a trailer park. My mother was mentally ill and spent a great deal of my life bouncing from one State Mental Institution to another. I know the town I live in now, the place is old, and gross and scary. And I always felt a certain amount of sadness for my mother being stuck, first in her own head, and second being in that state in a place like that. It is easier for us to dismiss the mentally ill, tuck them away in jail-like quarters. We never seem to take care of those places.
The funny thing about Texas, and maybe the United States in general, is we're so quick to erase out history and develop the newer, the better, the more shiny. In the town I live in now, giant, shiny high rises have knocked down the former lives of so many. You only get to stay if you're considered famous - the building has your name on it. Never mind, that in order for you to be so famous, there were so many other lives involved in your getting there....but, those are not important...just erase them.
But, in the small towns, you can see them. Where the big money and influence hasn't reached yet. The buildings half-broken down with faded signs. But, here in the US those are also a bit funny to me. Nothing here is ancient yet. Our country is so new still. Nothing is thousands of years old. So rather than being kept up like the Seven Wonders, these buildings and spots are more like items you find in some old person's attic with years of dust and cobwebs. Yes, there were lives in those places with stories and memories. Maybe better than the famous. Yes, better.
As I drove through the town, I saw Big Springs Mental Hospital. It was a very old building, but much to my surprise is was beautifully kept. Old architecture with gardens and a beautiful lawn. I teared up a bit. Maybe this was a least one place that wasn't so horrible for my mother to be at. Maybe. There was just a tiny bit of relief there. Oh mother, was this place ok for you? Just this one time?
I didn't have that many memories of this town, just a couple. I think when we lived here, I was maybe 3 or 4 years old. I remember the trailer a bit. We shared the trailer with a male roommate. I don't remember his name. My mother and I slept on one side of the house and the man took the other side. The only things I remember about him were really snip its. I remember one time he showed me that you could eat these parts of the pine tree outside. And I did. It was sticky and very full of pine flavor. And he said that if I was ever out in the woods stuck, this would be a plant I could eat. I remember thinking that was so silly. I had never seen the woods, ever. So, how would I be stuck in them, sometime? But, still I stored the knowledge away, just in case...just in case.
I also remember that he did something my mother did not like. And she was so mad at him, and yelled at him not to do it in front of me, or he'd be sorry. I didn't know what it was, but I knew he would be in big trouble if he did it.
One day, my mother was at the store, and he told me I couldn't go outside and play yet, because he had to do something first. I was mad. I had my new Green Machine. I started for the door, but he grabbed me under the arms and took me to his room and shut and locked the door. He told me, just a minute and we can go outside. I was really mad then, I was big enough to go by myself. I didn't need him watching me and babying me.
He got something from under his bed and lit it. I heard my mother's car drive up. I knew he was doing the bad thing. And I was so mad at him, I was going to tell. See how he liked that. I turned around, unlocked the door and ran outside. Yelling, "He's doing it again!!! Mom, he's doing that bad thing!!! He's doing it!!! Right in front of me, after you told him not to!!!"
My mother went inside and put the groceries down, and started yelling. They proceeded to fight, back and forth. And I smiled and stayed outside. I had my own parking spot for my Green Machine. I wouldn't let any of the other kids play on it. I also had a plain old, Big Wheel. So, if you wanted to play with me, you could ride that one. But, not the Green Machine. I got on and went down the sidewalk. Faster and faster and faster. Sometimes, pulling the break on the side so hard I might spin around, or I might crash, either was good. But, I was forgotten for a bit and could just play by myself. It was awesome. It wouldn't be until years later that I would figure out that what the "bad thing" the man was doing was smoking pot. And, when I did it, sometimes I would hear my mother's voice yelling at that guy, and feel a tiny bit a guilt. But, not enough, I guess.
I also remembered my Bert and Ernie shoes. Man, I loved those shoes. Bert was one foot and Ernie was the other. I LOVED THOSE SHOES!!!! I wore them with everything, and never wanted to wear anything else. EVER.
One day, at the trailer, there was a knock at the door. It was the neighbor's daughters. They hadn't seen their father or heard from him in a bit and wanted to know if my mother had seen him; she hadn't. They left their contact number and were on their way.
There was a smell. It was so bad. My mother and the roommate thought we might have rats. But, the smell got worse and worse. A bunch of the neighbors could smell it. My mother was a nurse. One morning, she walked over to the old man's house. He had a bad drinking problem, I'd heard them say. I walked with her. I remember my mother gasping as she looked in the window. She bent down and took my Bert shoe off, and threw it at the window. When it broke, there was this wave of smell that hit me like a ton of bricks. I got sick, and light headed and threw up on my Ernie shoe and my other sock foot. My mother grabbed me, and ran back to the house and called the police. Turned out that the old man was dead, and had been for days. he was drunk and threw up and drowned on his own vomit. I cried and cried. And everyone thought I was so sad about the old man's death. But, I wasn't. It was the loss of my favorite shoes. I never said anything about it, but I was so mad at my mother, probably for years. They were my favorite shoes.
That's all I remember. So, now it's to paper. Yes, there were people there, not famous, but they lived, and they had stories.
Friday, September 09, 2011
Still sitting facing the corner, In the Quiet Chair.
I haven't been writing. What most people don't get about me, maybe some do, when I'm not talking/writing it's because whatever I'm not wanting to talk about is a secret to myself. Ok, Ok, now having put it on page, out on the Internet, everyone is going to know. I don't talk when I'm thinking of personal, secret things....the things I keep to myself. That's when I'm the most quiet. So, want to know when I'm keeping my secrets? Watch for when I'm not talking.
I talked to an ex-coworker yesterday. He read my blog. And he wanted to know why I never told him that I was a stripper. I didn't tell him because first of all, I never thought it very interesting. I was a horrible stripper, and only did it for a bit, before becoming a successful waitress - that's where the real money is at. And people like to pretend that there's something different about working in a strip club vs. working in an office. It's not different, same plots and politics. So, I didn't think it made for entertaining stories. I don't really talk much about working in an office either. Neither are the particularly interesting parts about myself; aside from the occasional memory of a instance at either place. To me, the stories where never in the jobs themselves, maybe not even me in the stories, but the people or the events I witnessed to regale later. Hard to say.
The past couple of years have been hard. Maybe harder than I wanted to admit. My MS has started to take my brain and strength...as it's supposed to. And time and fate have taken some friends and family, as it too is supposed to. Well, the MS has also taken people from me...You really do find out who's in it for the long hall when you turn gimp, sure do. I had to quit working, a couple of people died, I've gained weight, etc., etc., etc. My doctor thinks I need counseling. Oh, that old thing again. I've been enough times in my life to know what they're going to say. I actually know already what to do. So, given my current state of finances, I don't really see the need to spend the money on things I already know. I just need to be quiet a little while longer, that's all. Quiet and distracted by things unimportant. There's been a lot of grief there, these past couple of years. So, is it the depression acting up again? Is it the MS, playing with my brain. Maybe. Or maybe, I've just needed to be quiet. Quiet thought and the grief process go hand in hand.
I was always loud and funny, and an ace at deflection. I'm not sure just how many people I've encountered actually know just how very sensitive I actually am.
I'm not ready to write yet about all the things that are mine, that I'm grieving about. I will, just not yet. I'm close, but just not yet. And even if I wrote it all done, would it really be that interesting? Would it make me feel better?
And these past couple of years, I'm not the only one who's been grieving. I've been watching a dear friend in the process of loosing his mother. I love this man, very much, such a good friend. And I'm only just able to watch and talk. But, I'm not magic, I can't wash this pain away for him. So, I find that there are certain unfair inadequacies in friendships. I've watched as my father lost his sister, his mother, and now is brother - the last of his nuclear family go. And no really concrete words exchange between us, because we're just not that close. I watched another friend take care of her ex-husband, who had a stroke after o.d.ing on drugs. She did it so her children, who are still busy growing up, didn't have to do it. (This one story was super admirable, and amazing.) I bought BBQ sauce from New Jersey because a gaming friend needed the money, and what doing what he could to survive. I watched neighborhoods flood and the burn, people loosing friends, family members, pets, homes. I even watched the Government argue over the most ridiculous items for what?....the betterment of what?...the moral structure of the nation?, the world? Yeah, good luck with that. I'm not sure we truly ever had morals per say. Just awesome oneupmanship.
Boy, I do sound depressed...all doom and gloom. But, that's not all of it. It's really not. There have been babies born. And some neighbors helping neighbors. My hair actually grew out a bit. My home is good, my man is good, my child is good. So, not it's not all doom and gloom. I'm not at my whits end or anything. I'm just quiet about the secret stuff. And when I'm done being quiet, I will talk about it. But, not today.
Today, well, I wrote this. And today, I'm going to gather some items for the people who recently lost their stuff in a fire. Today, I've got some stuff to do. And when I feel like talking, I'll let you know.
I talked to an ex-coworker yesterday. He read my blog. And he wanted to know why I never told him that I was a stripper. I didn't tell him because first of all, I never thought it very interesting. I was a horrible stripper, and only did it for a bit, before becoming a successful waitress - that's where the real money is at. And people like to pretend that there's something different about working in a strip club vs. working in an office. It's not different, same plots and politics. So, I didn't think it made for entertaining stories. I don't really talk much about working in an office either. Neither are the particularly interesting parts about myself; aside from the occasional memory of a instance at either place. To me, the stories where never in the jobs themselves, maybe not even me in the stories, but the people or the events I witnessed to regale later. Hard to say.
The past couple of years have been hard. Maybe harder than I wanted to admit. My MS has started to take my brain and strength...as it's supposed to. And time and fate have taken some friends and family, as it too is supposed to. Well, the MS has also taken people from me...You really do find out who's in it for the long hall when you turn gimp, sure do. I had to quit working, a couple of people died, I've gained weight, etc., etc., etc. My doctor thinks I need counseling. Oh, that old thing again. I've been enough times in my life to know what they're going to say. I actually know already what to do. So, given my current state of finances, I don't really see the need to spend the money on things I already know. I just need to be quiet a little while longer, that's all. Quiet and distracted by things unimportant. There's been a lot of grief there, these past couple of years. So, is it the depression acting up again? Is it the MS, playing with my brain. Maybe. Or maybe, I've just needed to be quiet. Quiet thought and the grief process go hand in hand.
I was always loud and funny, and an ace at deflection. I'm not sure just how many people I've encountered actually know just how very sensitive I actually am.
I'm not ready to write yet about all the things that are mine, that I'm grieving about. I will, just not yet. I'm close, but just not yet. And even if I wrote it all done, would it really be that interesting? Would it make me feel better?
And these past couple of years, I'm not the only one who's been grieving. I've been watching a dear friend in the process of loosing his mother. I love this man, very much, such a good friend. And I'm only just able to watch and talk. But, I'm not magic, I can't wash this pain away for him. So, I find that there are certain unfair inadequacies in friendships. I've watched as my father lost his sister, his mother, and now is brother - the last of his nuclear family go. And no really concrete words exchange between us, because we're just not that close. I watched another friend take care of her ex-husband, who had a stroke after o.d.ing on drugs. She did it so her children, who are still busy growing up, didn't have to do it. (This one story was super admirable, and amazing.) I bought BBQ sauce from New Jersey because a gaming friend needed the money, and what doing what he could to survive. I watched neighborhoods flood and the burn, people loosing friends, family members, pets, homes. I even watched the Government argue over the most ridiculous items for what?....the betterment of what?...the moral structure of the nation?, the world? Yeah, good luck with that. I'm not sure we truly ever had morals per say. Just awesome oneupmanship.
Boy, I do sound depressed...all doom and gloom. But, that's not all of it. It's really not. There have been babies born. And some neighbors helping neighbors. My hair actually grew out a bit. My home is good, my man is good, my child is good. So, not it's not all doom and gloom. I'm not at my whits end or anything. I'm just quiet about the secret stuff. And when I'm done being quiet, I will talk about it. But, not today.
Today, well, I wrote this. And today, I'm going to gather some items for the people who recently lost their stuff in a fire. Today, I've got some stuff to do. And when I feel like talking, I'll let you know.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
I have the flu...the story of the gingy amputee
I've had the flu for about a week now. It feels like a month. I can't keep track of the days vs. the nights. What time is it now? Did I take a bath today? Did I eat? Should I bathe? Should I eat? The boredom of it all...listless, feeling like shit....not caring too much that I'm bored, but then completely overwhelmed by being bored. Thankfully, I have TiVo to remind me what day it actually is by my recorded series manager and reality shows. Yes, thank God for that.
Being high on fever, my mind wanders. I opened a thing of applesauce, and almost put it in my cup of Miso soup. In my head that seemed normal, completely normal....catching myself at the last minute...feeling like I needed to check myself and realizing that I just needed a spoon for the apple sauce....and, rebelling completely against the feeling that it was still the right action to put it in the soup. Yeah, I'd better not drive anywhere right now. Better not....but, jesus, I feel like shit and am so bored. I don't have anywhere to go, but my own sick head. I want to smoke, can't. I want to eat pie, can't. I can't do anything. Even the cats are yelling at my blank stare. No, kitties, I can't change your cat box right now. Yeah, just go on the floor. The guys won't help me with you, because I'm the one that brought you all home. And you can't just go outside, you all took off your collars, remember? Just a few days. I feel like shit.
I saw a gingy on the television. I've never been a fan of the redhaired. Not really, at all. Yuck. White pasty skin with bright read hair....seems so wrong. Like the color wheel of human evolution got offended by something we did, or somewhere we went....yep, got pissed off and made the gingies. Oh, don't get so made at me....it's just a personal preference. And of course, there are exceptions to every group, even the gingies. It's just super rare that there's a hot gingy....I didn't make the fucking rules. The color orange doesn't look good anywhere but on a fucking orange, and maybe the sun....but, that's it. I didn't make the rules, sad gingy.
I knew a gingy once, when I was homeless. I chose some pretty bad places to be...anywhere but some place that used to be home. I don't remember his name. He was a drug dealer, and had been in prison. Not a high level dealer....not hanging with the likes of me. A bit white trash, and he was an amputee. His right arm just didn't have a hand. He was short and thin. And his one arm was just a bit smaller than the other, and it just stopped, no hand. It was slightly rounded around the edges of the nub, and normal pallor. It just looked like it was normal that way, all short and nubby, but your brain knew it wasn't normal and something seriously wrong had happened there. I did stare sometimes, wondering things like how the blood flowed in less time. I never wanted to touch it, like I might catch the nubbiness of it. And watching him move around with it. Yeah, he could move around with it, but he couldn't write with it....let's be reasonable....thumbs just do come in handy for some things.
I think it was some farm accident. Which is kind of funny in itself....all the accidents with farm equipment. You'd think we'd learn to turn things off before we put our hands in.
We got along alright. He told me once, when he was drunk and making a pass at me, about his sexual prowess with his amputated stump. I was a bit drunk, too. He told me how he would put his stump inside of the chick, and how much they loved it. I just blew it off....guys always like to tell stories of all the "awesome" stuff they can do. Blah, blah, blah.....That ole story again, like a broken record.
Years later, I was working at a bar. It was dark, and late, and I had my tray full of shots and beers. Holy shit. There was the gingy amputee, right there....the night lights passing back and forth over him. Even though it didn't seem like it, I was along way away from where I was when we knew each other back then. Yeah, I could be a little more picky about the company I kept. I had some things to loose now. I didn't want to have the reunion. I didn't want to have the so what are you doing now talk. Jesus, he still had a nub and red hair. The crowd was growing anyway, and it was dark, and I was busy. I could avoid it. I kept an eye on him, off and on, to see where he was, to adjust my space to not be in his.
Behind the wait station, I watched him wave his god damned nub in the air for service. Wow, another thing a nub was good for. I remembered what he said about women and his nub. Nub fucking.
I never saw him again. But, seeing the gingy on TV brought it all back. I used to work at a pretty sleazy porn shop for a bit. But, I couldn't remember any amputee porn. There had to be some, given all the other complete craziness I've seen....there had to be, right?!?!!
I called a trusted friend. This friend is trusted because I could call up and ask questions about things like amputee porn, and he would still love me, and not hang up the phone.....now, that's a friend.
I told him about the gingy amputee guy I knew. And what he had said. My friend searched for me, and sent me a couple of links to view.
And there it all was, all laid out, people with nubs having sex...using their nubs to have sex....nubby projectiles. I watched all the links a few times each...my mind turning them over and over.
I wasn't turned on. Maybe because of the harshness of all these examples of nub sex. I had to wonder if there was some kind of softcore nub porn with a back story of love that might get to me. Maybe, but, I doubted it. If someone I loved suddenly had a nub, could I do it? I'm not sure I could. And then how sad is that?....What kind of asshole am I that I couldn't even had nub sex with someone I loved? I would just be grossed out and tell them no. What kid of asshole was I?
On the other hand, what kind of pervert are you to want to fuck a nub? Do you have to put everything weird in every orifice just because there's a hole there? We are really stupid when it comes to sex. Now, I can't get all holier than thou.....but, we are ALL pretty stupid when it comes to sex.
I was horrified and fascinated and giggled. Stupid fever. Stupid nub fuckers.
I'm so glad I was never drunk enough to have sex with that gingy amputee. Still got a few things I can look down on.
Being high on fever, my mind wanders. I opened a thing of applesauce, and almost put it in my cup of Miso soup. In my head that seemed normal, completely normal....catching myself at the last minute...feeling like I needed to check myself and realizing that I just needed a spoon for the apple sauce....and, rebelling completely against the feeling that it was still the right action to put it in the soup. Yeah, I'd better not drive anywhere right now. Better not....but, jesus, I feel like shit and am so bored. I don't have anywhere to go, but my own sick head. I want to smoke, can't. I want to eat pie, can't. I can't do anything. Even the cats are yelling at my blank stare. No, kitties, I can't change your cat box right now. Yeah, just go on the floor. The guys won't help me with you, because I'm the one that brought you all home. And you can't just go outside, you all took off your collars, remember? Just a few days. I feel like shit.
I saw a gingy on the television. I've never been a fan of the redhaired. Not really, at all. Yuck. White pasty skin with bright read hair....seems so wrong. Like the color wheel of human evolution got offended by something we did, or somewhere we went....yep, got pissed off and made the gingies. Oh, don't get so made at me....it's just a personal preference. And of course, there are exceptions to every group, even the gingies. It's just super rare that there's a hot gingy....I didn't make the fucking rules. The color orange doesn't look good anywhere but on a fucking orange, and maybe the sun....but, that's it. I didn't make the rules, sad gingy.
I knew a gingy once, when I was homeless. I chose some pretty bad places to be...anywhere but some place that used to be home. I don't remember his name. He was a drug dealer, and had been in prison. Not a high level dealer....not hanging with the likes of me. A bit white trash, and he was an amputee. His right arm just didn't have a hand. He was short and thin. And his one arm was just a bit smaller than the other, and it just stopped, no hand. It was slightly rounded around the edges of the nub, and normal pallor. It just looked like it was normal that way, all short and nubby, but your brain knew it wasn't normal and something seriously wrong had happened there. I did stare sometimes, wondering things like how the blood flowed in less time. I never wanted to touch it, like I might catch the nubbiness of it. And watching him move around with it. Yeah, he could move around with it, but he couldn't write with it....let's be reasonable....thumbs just do come in handy for some things.
I think it was some farm accident. Which is kind of funny in itself....all the accidents with farm equipment. You'd think we'd learn to turn things off before we put our hands in.
We got along alright. He told me once, when he was drunk and making a pass at me, about his sexual prowess with his amputated stump. I was a bit drunk, too. He told me how he would put his stump inside of the chick, and how much they loved it. I just blew it off....guys always like to tell stories of all the "awesome" stuff they can do. Blah, blah, blah.....That ole story again, like a broken record.
Years later, I was working at a bar. It was dark, and late, and I had my tray full of shots and beers. Holy shit. There was the gingy amputee, right there....the night lights passing back and forth over him. Even though it didn't seem like it, I was along way away from where I was when we knew each other back then. Yeah, I could be a little more picky about the company I kept. I had some things to loose now. I didn't want to have the reunion. I didn't want to have the so what are you doing now talk. Jesus, he still had a nub and red hair. The crowd was growing anyway, and it was dark, and I was busy. I could avoid it. I kept an eye on him, off and on, to see where he was, to adjust my space to not be in his.
Behind the wait station, I watched him wave his god damned nub in the air for service. Wow, another thing a nub was good for. I remembered what he said about women and his nub. Nub fucking.
I never saw him again. But, seeing the gingy on TV brought it all back. I used to work at a pretty sleazy porn shop for a bit. But, I couldn't remember any amputee porn. There had to be some, given all the other complete craziness I've seen....there had to be, right?!?!!
I called a trusted friend. This friend is trusted because I could call up and ask questions about things like amputee porn, and he would still love me, and not hang up the phone.....now, that's a friend.
I told him about the gingy amputee guy I knew. And what he had said. My friend searched for me, and sent me a couple of links to view.
And there it all was, all laid out, people with nubs having sex...using their nubs to have sex....nubby projectiles. I watched all the links a few times each...my mind turning them over and over.
I wasn't turned on. Maybe because of the harshness of all these examples of nub sex. I had to wonder if there was some kind of softcore nub porn with a back story of love that might get to me. Maybe, but, I doubted it. If someone I loved suddenly had a nub, could I do it? I'm not sure I could. And then how sad is that?....What kind of asshole am I that I couldn't even had nub sex with someone I loved? I would just be grossed out and tell them no. What kid of asshole was I?
On the other hand, what kind of pervert are you to want to fuck a nub? Do you have to put everything weird in every orifice just because there's a hole there? We are really stupid when it comes to sex. Now, I can't get all holier than thou.....but, we are ALL pretty stupid when it comes to sex.
I was horrified and fascinated and giggled. Stupid fever. Stupid nub fuckers.
I'm so glad I was never drunk enough to have sex with that gingy amputee. Still got a few things I can look down on.
Monday, August 30, 2010
The thread that binds.
There are some details that I will share with you, and some that I will only keep for myself. Some are truths, some are embellishments, not on purpose, maybe just for flair or just my own brain fooling both of us.
What do I have of my own personal history. Really only my own thoughts and examinations. It is not clouded by what others have shared or told me. There are not many records or pictures. It is only my thoughts and my words.
I do have a picture of my Grandfather. I took is when I went back home before he passed. It is one of my favorites. It is exactly how I remember him. Yes, that one snapshot embodies almost everything that I defined him by.
He is standing tall, even though I do not suppose he was really that tall. He is standing tall in front of his garage with his red hair fading to white in his coveralls. He worked on cars, and that was his shop. One of the first buildings to be built in this small town. He built his home, too.
I remember being at his shop with him when I was so small. He would pick me up, and his red chest hair would just be peaking out of the top of his coveralls where the zipper stopped. Not much for fashion, but comfortable, purposeful, determined, ready wear.
My grandmother would hem the pants of these coveralls for him. And when the zipper broke, she would put in a new one. She did a lot of sewing.
My grandparents are both past now. My grandmother the last to go. The chore of going through the things of the dead. That chore is such a strange chore. It brings out the greed in some, the sadness in some, the joy in others....all the while, the dead don't care - they are beyond material things. All the items we amass left to beggars, robbers, hoarders.
I was of the later, a hoarder. A hoarder of memories, and scents, and touches. Yes, I am a hoarder of such things.
In one box, was a pile of my grandfather's coveralls. I took several pairs. No, I did not have a plan for these items. There is no reasoning in hording, only shame - the shame that I wouldn't have a purpose for them. These items would lay waste in my own boxes, in my own closest and I would die and any memory of their purpose would cease with me.
But, there they were. The two pairs of coveralls, these particular pair - in bright colors - Colors that I was familiar with. And my hording shame turned to laughter and glee - so, much that I almost cried from laughter. These coveralls were in the colors of my own man's football team.
I would make him a gift. This gift would be funny and cause celebration and laughter. This gift would be from my family history of past, to my family history of the present. The coveralls would live and start a new tradition. I was so excited.
I never cared for sports. But, my man does. I supported him before, by making pigs in a blanket, and getting beer, and a large TV, and even a tattoo. We were good to each other like that. Both of us different and supportive.
When I got home with all of my things, I went straight away for the bag containing the coveralls. I showed my man the bag, and told him that it was a surprise for him. I made him promise to try them on as soon as he took them out of the bag. And not to argue with me, because it was important.
I shouldn't have worried that he wouldn't like them. Once he saw what they were, he stripped and donned the first pair immediately. He's a bit taller than my grandfather was, I would have to let out the hem. I showed him the picture of my grandfather. He understood the importance and hugged me; however, not without hiding his own delight with the gift. Although, their purpose would change, the history of past and future would remain and begin - A fantastic collision.
He went to get a patch of his football team to put on one of the pair of coveralls. But, he couldn't sew, not to say he didn't try. I awoke the next morning with the plea of help and a crudely placed patch.
I had not sewn for years. Although, I had been taught by my grandmother. It wasn't a skill that I particularly concentrated on. It didn't hold an interest for me, in the least. So, slow and boring. But, now, my man and the coveralls depended on me. In good conscious, I could not let my man go to his fantasy football draft in his fantastic coveralls with some half-assed patch. It was my blood that depended on this moment.
I still had the sewing kit my grandmother gave me. The coveralls were so cumbersome to work with, already sewn and divided into their folds. I couldn't find a place to put them, to lay them out straight to line of the patch with the pocket. I searched my home in vain for hours.
Then I found it, my eyes fell on it. Within the boxes of my grandparents things was my Great-Grandmother's sewing kit. Actually, it was right on top of the box that I hadn't put away yet. My Great-Grandmother had really been the super star of sewing - so, it's been mentioned. I found her old embroidery hoop and some thicker thread. I worked beautifully in holding the fabric still.
I squinted to thread the needle, just as I remembered my grandmother doing. I tacked the patch down with the stick pens from my kit. I knotted the thread at one end. And recalled the stitch my grandmother taught me to do.
As it would turn out, I had estimated the thread to be the exact amount that I needed to do the entire patch and only pricked my finger once... It was just a tiny drop of blood on the inside, no one would see. It was finished and secure. My man would be ready. He would look good. He would look proper.
I sat eyeing my work with some degree of pride. It was such a small thing. Such a small thing that represented three generations of the making. I was suddenly connected to so many threads. The thread that was the women in my family. The thread that was the men in my family. The thread that was my family now.
I took a picture.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Fight Club and 1st Cup of Coffee
My mind is fragmented this morning. That's is not unusual. I've really been a person who doesn't complete any one thing, completely unreliable and well meaning, filled with ideas, and distracted by shiny baubles.
Today I was thinking about the words: Respect, Non-Discrimination and Compassion.
Then my thoughts were were clouded with other words like: Control, Fear, Adrenaline, Greed.
This week I watched the news and an old man's first thought about his small town gasoline spill, and it was a VERY small town, was Terrorists. I thought how the words Control and Fear played a roll in this man's life, and how the word rebel has been replaced by the word terrorist. How the word accident has been replaced by terrorist. And in the same talk he used the word God.
I watched famous people fighting for control of government power seats talking about getting back to were our country was founded on. Really?!? We were drunk, ignorant, and full of hate for women and any race not white. I must be exhausting to be that needy for power, and ALWAYS having to be working. I was so tired just watching it all, and watching the destruction of the human spirit and free thought, right in front of me. ALL the Repetition over and over and over - not even new, it had all been said before. Fuck, that's boring. They all, also used the word God.
Then I have watched the building of other churches, and people rose to claim their evil...and all I could think of was people on racks being stretched until they broke, screaming in pain and fear, soiling themselves for God, in a prior time. How we all forget that history.
So, this morning I'm still waking up, and I'm still a bit sleepy. I thought of my own favorite fight lines, from my own history.
"I don't have to take this shit from a cross-eyed mother fucker."
"Eat dirty clothes, you bitch."
"Are we really going to fight over a burrito? How do you know I don't have a gun in my Honda?"
"Well, fuck you, you fucking fuck."
"Just shut-up, you scrotum-faced only hag."
Yeah, I have known the art of a fight or two. And fights are fun. But, then coming down after the adrenaline has stopped flowing, and the shame of hurting someone else, and the self badges of honor for hurting someone else....yeah, all that. Only to really gain much of nothing permanent.
So, this morning, I'm not positive if I want to join the fights for good, like education reform, etc. OR, do I just want to stock up on bullets for myself and the day when it all crashes because of the lack of those other three words.
I just don't know if I have it in me for either....let me finish my coffee first.
Today I was thinking about the words: Respect, Non-Discrimination and Compassion.
Then my thoughts were were clouded with other words like: Control, Fear, Adrenaline, Greed.
This week I watched the news and an old man's first thought about his small town gasoline spill, and it was a VERY small town, was Terrorists. I thought how the words Control and Fear played a roll in this man's life, and how the word rebel has been replaced by the word terrorist. How the word accident has been replaced by terrorist. And in the same talk he used the word God.
I watched famous people fighting for control of government power seats talking about getting back to were our country was founded on. Really?!? We were drunk, ignorant, and full of hate for women and any race not white. I must be exhausting to be that needy for power, and ALWAYS having to be working. I was so tired just watching it all, and watching the destruction of the human spirit and free thought, right in front of me. ALL the Repetition over and over and over - not even new, it had all been said before. Fuck, that's boring. They all, also used the word God.
Then I have watched the building of other churches, and people rose to claim their evil...and all I could think of was people on racks being stretched until they broke, screaming in pain and fear, soiling themselves for God, in a prior time. How we all forget that history.
So, this morning I'm still waking up, and I'm still a bit sleepy. I thought of my own favorite fight lines, from my own history.
"I don't have to take this shit from a cross-eyed mother fucker."
"Eat dirty clothes, you bitch."
"Are we really going to fight over a burrito? How do you know I don't have a gun in my Honda?"
"Well, fuck you, you fucking fuck."
"Just shut-up, you scrotum-faced only hag."
Yeah, I have known the art of a fight or two. And fights are fun. But, then coming down after the adrenaline has stopped flowing, and the shame of hurting someone else, and the self badges of honor for hurting someone else....yeah, all that. Only to really gain much of nothing permanent.
So, this morning, I'm not positive if I want to join the fights for good, like education reform, etc. OR, do I just want to stock up on bullets for myself and the day when it all crashes because of the lack of those other three words.
I just don't know if I have it in me for either....let me finish my coffee first.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Silver Spiders
If there is truly order in chaos, than that does negate the very thing. Maybe there is ONLY chaos, or maybe there is ONLY order.
I am supposed to be watching my son perform his movie, he did make us tickets, but sometimes he pretends the same...and it is so hot, and my clothes are sticking to me, my brain is a bit foggy. I am distracted by the giant spider web to my right, hanging from my three story tree. The tree was so damaged in the storm, gnarled up, I'm glad to see the spider has some use for it. I watch the spider go around and around making the web, so fast, so busy, in the humidity. She finally sits in the center and waits; her body reflecting the light, making her completely silver, as though she was her own welcoming beacon for the suicidal insects....a whisper of comfort. I was torn. I wanted to strum my finger just once or shoo a bug into her web - but the nagging fear that I would upset something halfway across the world, those theories written by madmen with OCD. Did they see the silver spider, too? And then the oil spilled for them as well?
My son fired off his gun against the insurmountable foes of our backyard. I turned my head, never seeing the spider capture anything. And the web was gone by morning. I never tested one theory, or by the nature of it, had I.
I am supposed to be watching my son perform his movie, he did make us tickets, but sometimes he pretends the same...and it is so hot, and my clothes are sticking to me, my brain is a bit foggy. I am distracted by the giant spider web to my right, hanging from my three story tree. The tree was so damaged in the storm, gnarled up, I'm glad to see the spider has some use for it. I watch the spider go around and around making the web, so fast, so busy, in the humidity. She finally sits in the center and waits; her body reflecting the light, making her completely silver, as though she was her own welcoming beacon for the suicidal insects....a whisper of comfort. I was torn. I wanted to strum my finger just once or shoo a bug into her web - but the nagging fear that I would upset something halfway across the world, those theories written by madmen with OCD. Did they see the silver spider, too? And then the oil spilled for them as well?
My son fired off his gun against the insurmountable foes of our backyard. I turned my head, never seeing the spider capture anything. And the web was gone by morning. I never tested one theory, or by the nature of it, had I.
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