a blog without photos

is like a fish without a bicycle.

Cuss Words

Though I don't make it a public practice, I'm really quite good at cursing. The reason I hold back is because I've learned that there are some skills you shouldn't show off. No one is impressed. And if you come across an individual who finds the talent intriguing, it's the sort of interest you might get when admitting to having a tongue ring. Their main point of concern is thinking about where your mouth has been.

Why do I mention the absence of cusses? Because I've been reflecting on my writing voice and notice that I still can't use a good swear word. I can't bring myself to do it because I've watched in horror as my mom strangled herself on a few of them. And like hers did, my public vulgarities tend to get stuck on the roof of my mouth. If they make it onto a page at all, it's a drooling, sticky mess. But you can still give me plenty of credit for enthusiasm, even if the actual delivery falls flat. Believe me, the skill is there.

Add to that ability, a fact: My father was a sailor.

I was born to curse.

But I've been put off by my mother's choked attempts. When given both opportunity and motive to deliver a verbal branding, she'd chill the heated and reckless words. At her angriest, I imagine a sailor's vocabulary did a hot dash up her throat only to a cram on the tip of her tongue. There, she'd strip the Adults Only rating, then free the sanitized version to rush from her lips like a too-big bite of watermelon<

Though mom's vocabulary during these fits was suitable for a saint, her body language suggested a fury on the level of a Cat 5 hurricane. Even in the chilly Northeast, I seemed to repeatedly provide the right atmospheric conditions for those storms to develop.

Conducting chemistry experiments was how I liked to spend my time after school. I'd lock myself in the bathroom and pull out every tube and bottle under the sink, choosing a liquid of each texture and color. I'd mix them one by one and intensely study the bubbles, fizzes, and pops. If my work took too long to complete, mom, suspicious and concerned, broke head first into my laboratory. The sight of the sink's oozing mess seemed to directly result in a lowering of barometric pressure and the light drizzle of profanity.

"Dog_gone It!"

I once got too enthused about the curve in a pair of cuticle scissors and how it neatly fit onto the line of my brow. In response to my trimming, my mother was able to gather herself into a pretty decent sized squall.

"Give me those scissors! Look what you've done, you GOSH [stop] DARN kid!" That was a pretty good bluster considering her earlier attempts resulted in nothing more threatening than, "OH!" (pause for the weather report) "go fly a kite!"

There was a time I made her so mad that she wound herself up like a Kansas wind storm. This happened when I found unexpected success in striking a damp and stubborn match, then tossed the incriminating evidence in the trash. As my mother heaved pots of water into the basket, her expression tornadoed into an unrecognizable rearrangement of features. Roiling clouds of emotion expanded and crackled in the space between us. Moisture gathered around my eyes and I wondered how hard she'd swing when adrenaline finished its pump through her popping veins. I stood frozen while she searched for speech, and when it was located, her tone suffocated me more than the pantry's whirling smoke. The woman had wrung herself into what I thought was a hopelessly tangled knot. I stood balled in tight fear and waited for the whipping sound of fast unraveling, or maybe even a thunderclap release of fury, but she suddenly stopped billowing and gave up. Instead of reaching out and wringing my neck, she opted for a higher road and pulled herself into a posture more proper. I still wasn't sure I should trust her hands, but after flying up high in a LordHaveMercy maneuver, they landed safely, one on each slim hip.

"I cannot bloody be-lieve you've done this!"

What you would have said to yourself, were you standing there with us in the middle of a storming ghetto kitchen, is that she was quite properly and royally pissed. That was the first time I considered the effects of trying on a more White and British voice.

Snake Charmer

A summer party is where I, wrapped in standard issue Clubbing Uniform (breast-ratcheting halter, fat-arresting jeans), pose for the inevitable "aren't we fun? aren't we hawt?!" photographs meant to capture time itself, a singular moment never to be repeated. At least not until next weekend.

A party is also an event I attend while wearing a personalized version of the prescribed uniform only to find that each one of my friends has made a very similar personal choice. The revelation always comes when I see the Windows Vista version of my XP halter, and a copy in each color currently offered by The Limited. Some kind fashionista wearing the amped version will always try to make me feel better about the State of My Chic. I pay no mind to the word emphasis or verb tense.

"Oh, I remember that top in yellow. It looked so cute in that color."

Parties are where I drink just enough to blur the leading edges of an upcoming Monday, and where I dance the precise number of moves to preclude a breakout of frizzy hair. I'm a fairly decent hip jiggler. My riders are always slung low and at the ready, but at last Saturday's festivities I found myself hitching up the waistband. (better to make a run from the dance floor). I was on the lamb to avert a snake-charming professional.

I'll be the first to admit that I really do enjoy making the figure eight movements of a lithe bellydancer, but it's more often the gentle and flowing hand twirls that capture my imagination. I think there's a lot to be said for the smaller, unrehearsed gestures. Last Saturday's hostess was not of the same opinion. She'd invited a professional to treat us to whole body lessons.

As soon as I heard the finger cymbals, I hid behind my sister. Unfortunately, I was spotted. It's not my fault she's small.

A call to the dance floor is one I eagerly answer, but this time the sound of my name was like hearing drive-by Eminem over your Eagles cd, a disruption you try your best to filter. I made a real effort to appear otherwise engaged and suddenly began a one-sided conversation about the proper mojito muddling technique, but the testing of my previous drink trials had made it impossible for me to appear anything less than loose and ready to party. I finally looked up at the chanting group lined on the dance floor and made a dismissive wave. "No.thank.you." I mouthed in silent capitals and with extremely round vowels, then turned back to the topic of lime-to-mint ratios. But the rappers were persistent. By the third request I noticed the group's movement toward me (stage-left!) and made a sudden break for it. I moved toward the kitchen, but was followed by the Poobah. The Grand Mistress. The Empress. The Bellydance Instructor Herself.

Herself found me behind the club soda. She told me she'd heard that I love the snaking movements and was very good at it. She been told (rat faces) that I would love the lessons. I could see the pinched little snarking going on behind her. The act of snarking took a lot of gall coming from girls with scarves around heads and bells around hips.

I don't do well when cornered, and so I lied. I couldn't help it. It just flew right out of my mouth like a trained messenger bird.

"I'm sorry, I can't" I punctuated my apology with a grave look, a semicolon for the benefit of onlookers.

" ; "

"Not since I had that horrible bellydancing accident."

To my (veiled, of course) delight, the confession was met with real horror. I heard a couple of screeches from people with active imaginations (stilettos, rug, snag) or maybe (snakearm, bracelet, bra strap). I can't say. People began to seek verification of the rapidly spreading rumor.

"I heard you had a horrible bellydancing accident." Apparently the idea of such an abomination bears verbatim repeating. I did not falter, just hung my head in an expression of disbelief that was mistaken for shame. What did I care? The trick was working. I was working the trick.

"Yes." I lied in a tone so low that they seemed to hear it in a high volume. And then I grew bold and indignant. "Well it certainly wasn't on purpose." I turned away, snaking hip first.

"Accident" has, as of 11pm Saturday, become my default reason to explain away or avoid anything embarrassing. I've since decided that what really happened to the roof of my car this past February, the day I pulled the roof up to find tears in the seam, was actually a converting accident. The fact I recently had to rip up the carpet in my closet was not due to flooding, it was caused by an air-conditioning accident, and while I'm at it, I'll tell you that if this entry contains any errors in grammar or spelling, it is due to an awful writing mishap.

tung ring

(previously written)

I might have stepped off the edges of my uneventful day-to-day sometime between 8:00 and 8:30pm last night. What I believe happened is that I lost the groove, skipped a beat, hit a scratch in the record. At any rate, I'm kind of worried about this day. And I really need some sleep.

When I discovered I'd swallowed my tongue ring in the middle of eating a gorgeous yellow pepper with all-natural peanut sauce, I panicked just a little. It wasn't just the little pearl at the end that went missing, but the whole barbell. But I've known a few people who have done the same, so I figure I'll survive. David, who was none too pleased with the piercing in the first place, just shook his head, and a search on the internet for "swallowed my tongue ring" produced messages from high schoolers in full-fledged panic.

"OMG I swallowed my tung ring"

The responses did not make me feel better.

"What?! How could u do that? U R an idiot."


Within the next few minutes, my cat fell off the ottoman. What's unusual about that is not that he fell, but that he took a dive off of such a wide surface. It turns out he had a seizure, and then two more. By that time I'd called the vet, but he advised me that the cost would be tremendous if I didn't wait until morning, that I should monitor him and call back if he worsened. He got no worse, I got no sleep. He's at the vet now, and they're running tests. I'm not really feeling optimistic about this.

On the way to work, I did what I usually do when I have a crisis and called my mom. In the middle of telling her about my Troubles So High, my cellphone stopped transmitting my voice. I could hear her just fine, but I was caught in a black hole. Cut off. The new phone up and died.


My vacation starts Tuesday. I'm torn. I'm sorely in need of it. We are going home to visit family, and made plans for the trip because we fully realize that there are a few members we may not see again. But I wonder whether I will be able to leave our cat, even with people checking in on him. Aside from that, we've no idea what the veterinary costs will be and that's a big pill to swallow 5 days before a trip. Especially for a warm-hearted and generous handyman who takes care of elderly customers, and his idiot wife who likes to swallow stainless steel.

Please send good juju. I'm tired and need to get my groove back.

photo shoot

Right after walking out, I told myself that the tipping point began when she mentioned a detail I didn't think worth recalling. And I did it right after Dale posed us in our fifth consecutive group photo, sandwiching shades of blond and red hair between our sloppy brunette waterfalls. Even in the dimness, I noticed that her teeth remained bared well past the shutter's clench, past the break in the photo huddle. Talking through what instantly became a grimace, she leaned into me with a conspiratorial whisper,

"I just remembered that I wore this shirt before. As a matter of fact it was a year ago, in this very bar. Shit."

"Shit." I instantly echoed her sentiment. She understood it as sympathetic. And in truth she was right. Our expletives held the same root, which, were we not in a bar modeling fluffed hair and ratcheted boobs, might have sounded like, "I feel utterly resigned to what the heavy hand of fate has dealt." There we stood, she, accepting the embarrassment of being photographed in same shirt twice, and me, accepting the fact that our gatherings have become routine enough to bemoan that as a horrible turn of events. "Shit", as expletives do, stripped sentiment to such simple form that its universal function was acrobatic. Besides, who am I kidding? "Shit" says it best.

The amateur photo shoots, the horrible shirt or belly dance incidents, and the expletives grow old, but we can't seem to let go of the rituals or begin new ones. We won't let ourselves admit that we're passing time, constructing fun in the easiest (laziest) way we know how. Worse, I can see the same worn expressions on each friend's face when striking the tinny notes in our birthday songs, but we've lost interest in changing the record. Instead, just after everyone hoisted shot glasses in yet another toast, right after Bob offered me a sickly sweet potion with, "You in?" then skipped right past me at the first hint of a "no" headshake, I walked out. The crowd lumbered right, I spun left and kept walking. I made myself push through double doors and ignored the hitch in my step as I reached a Florida summer's perpetually wet pavement. My exit seemed abrupt, but I'd left hints. Like hugging my purse through at least a half hour of telling the stiff and helmet-headed waitress, "No Thanks. I've had enough."

As soon as I'd cleared the parking lot, I phoned David.

"I'm coming home."

The next thing I did was to text message everyone in the group. It was a shitty way out (translate that to: It was a cowardly attempt to save face after a rude exit).

"Drive Safe!" I wrote no "ly" at the end, but included a heartfelt exclamation mark.

Pumpkin

We want pumpkin muffins because we remember living in the place of crispy macintoshes and ribbed globes of deep orange, and because we miss the teasing bite of sweet spice. Mostly, it's because commercialized seasonal offerings make up all of the Autumn we now know.

---

This is the second time our Starbucked paths have crossed today, so I take notice. He's taking his muffin outdoors, letting it carefully balance on a perch of ceramic plate decorated with paper lace. Creamy ivory clangs once as he sets his dish on a table, followed by the distinct rattle of a bouncing fork. His other hand wraps around a throw-away plastic cup that's much better suited for outdoors. Later I'll realize that in positioning the plate, he has precisely calculated the length of his arm's reach. I will understand why his feet are so stiffly planted in front of him to create a perfectly shaped lap.

He's making last minute seating adjustments with a small bit of ceremony, and he begins to try out his snack.

I'm engaged in conversation but remain aware of the images on the periphery. It's windy, and rather than lift the entire muffin to trap a bite in his mouth, he insists on delicately partitioning it with his fork. I take note of this because he's dropping bites that bounce from his lap whenever a strong gust pushes through and the accidental bounty is attracting what look like finches. He tries to catch but misses two forkfuls, then fills the stainless steel with a third and new portion.

Stubborn.

Because I move to a different table to escape some of the strongest breezes, my new seat allows a view of the still pink and deep damage that draws a wide scar around his jawbone. I take in the artificial aid tucked halfway behind his ear and then begin to actually see him even as I'm trying not to look. He takes another forkful and lifts it to a mouth and jaw that can't open wide enough. There's a small and dignified struggle, and a new bite of the pumpkin muffin he has spent his good time waiting for threatens to follow earlier bits and tumble with the next gust.

But he's insisting that he most certainly will harvest this bite of pumpkin and I'm happy to watch as he does just that.

Falcon

When I move, you move.

This town has a facade of sleepy, or quaint. It's called a Village in the "hip" sense of the word. And so it was that Friday night had me stepping through the glass and arched front door of a home built in 1925. It's now a bar where every wall is painted the color of rich and warm red velvet, and black and white photographs don't hang, they're set into the wall and are lit from ethereal light behind.

The 80 year old hardwood floors vibrate under the influence of a state of the art sound system. Vibrations transfer to the barstools, and to me, perched on the edge. Up through the bar, vibrations pump my Amstel. If a place can have a vibe, this one's got it.

I'm looking forward to going back.

Chinese Curse

The other day I got one of those fortunes in a cookie. You know the type.

"You will inherit land or money."

This upsets me. Tricky little fortune cookie, isn't it? It's not a fortune. It's a curse. The damned cookie tried to curse me. It's much like wishing me an interesting life. On one hand, if my life were of interest, lots of folks would flock to this little space to see what's transpired. The problem is that it comes at a price.

And so does an inheritance.

Damned cookie. I don't want it.

2 minute warning

The thought has occurred to me that I will mark my 45th year on the planet Earth come Christmastide.

Sh*t.

Pardon the expletive, but wouldn't you be upset? There's no more room for cute in my world, folks. The low rise jeans I bought at Hollister are about to go all comic on me. I've been able to pull them off with some grace, but soon it's all going to start looking like I'm reaching and stretching just a hair too thin.

Warn me when it starts to happen.

Until then, carry on.

Homage

"There truly is a Method to His Madness, you know."

"Yes, yes, I'm aware of that. It's that his motto is Always Write, and Bomit, half the time his posts have the courage and soul of good street Graffiti. Graffiti writen by some Chairborne Stranger or maybe even a Defective Yeti."

"I'm not sure, but it can be disturbing. I'm hoping Dr. Jayne 2 B lends an academic point of view. "

"True. She does seem to hold a good sense of balance driven, in part, by the "Everything's Relative" philosopy."

"Nice observation. Come on, sit down. Have a Cuppa with this Industry Whore."

"Listen Id love a stiff drink but, I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Wino, you know what I mean?"

"True, but after our last outing last Friday night, you had no trouble with the Kiss & Blog. You wrote about your escapades so vividly. Have you been visiting Language Log?"

"No, not at all. I've just been thinking... you know... reflecting. That's how it is for a girl with a Life in Forsyth. The kind of life that never truly wears it off, but just smears your Lip Schtick. By the way, is it smeared right now?"

"No Pasa Nada, my friend. You look good. Everything's in place. Right as Rain, because you comply and follow THE motto, don't you? Obey."

"Yeah, I know that social virus. What do you say we hit the Pie-N-Monkey for martini's and dessert? And you know what they say, Whatever Happens at Pie-N-Monkey, stays at Pie-N-Monkey."

"Either that or you end up sending a card to PostSecret, complete with a photo of your Sinister Bedfellows which may or may not include that hot hipster you know and love."

"Who? The Assimilated Negro?"

"Duh. Yeah, isn't that just The Blinding Glare of the Obvious?"

"Oh, Shit... Here goes The Daily Rant..."

"No rant. I'm going to chill with The Daly Blog and get a dose of some Visual Narcotics."

"ummm... yeah. Yummy."

When Kunta Met Kinte

I've recently discovered that I'm apparently Black.

Shuttup! I've seen my profile picture.

Don't be alarmed. It's not that I was struck blind before realizing my race or anything so simple as that. It's that my birth certificate has changed. It used to say that I was Cape Verdean, and when I last ordered a copy, my friendly local government office had changed it to Black.

This discovery has been further complicated by the fact that my mother of 44 years has recently also informed me that I am Black. I've always suspected, but there she was, just the other day, confirming it and making things so clear. The conversation in which I stumbled upon this discovery went like this:

"HAHAHAHA... Remember when I asked your brother if there were any other Black kids in his new school and he said he didn't know? How could he not know!" I did not remember this, and wondered when she'd changed races, but I digress...

"Um, Mom... You never told us we were Black. Have you recently decided?"

"What?! What do you mean? You kids didn't know?!"

"No. Why would we? You and dad never discussed it. Our neighbors were interacial couples, or hispanic, or Asian. Blacks in our neighborhood had afros and dark skin. We didn't fit any of those molds."

"Oh yeah.... I guess you kids wouldn't have known." I could hear the bright rays of dawn cracking over her pretty gray head.

I've really got to congratulate my parents on that one, intentional or otherwise. They just plain forgot to put us into a convenient little category and box.

Grace, Charm, and... er... Poise.

Shortly after moving to Daytona Beach, Florida, a woman approached me in a local restaurant and asked if I was Cape Verdean. Since there wasn't a Creole in sight, I figured she was either clairvoyant or knew me from somewhere back in New England. Turns out it was neither.

"I can tell by the way you walk.” she said. "You've got that Cape Verdean walk."

Hmpf. That got me thinking. What she'd said is true. Lots of Cape Verdean women have a slow stride and walk with shoulders back and chin up. It's a proud walk, and maybe sometimes it's a bit too proud. It was my mom who taught me the stride, and without realizing it, I'd apparently taken her lessons to heart.

"Walk on your toes. Don't stomp!" That was the first lesson. "Pick up your feet!" Second lesson.

"Pull your stomach in." came at around the same time as "Point your toes slightly inward and place one foot slightly in front of the other. Slow down a little. Don't clop around in a hurry."

"Are you kidding me, Mom?!" That was usually my whiney protest, but I did as I was told, partly to make her nagging stop and partly because I thought my graceful and slim mother held the power to transform a chubby and awkward me into a glamorous young swan. I became a Suck In The Stomach expert.

But then came the Book. At the time she pulled out a book with the intent of showing me how to balance it on my head, I was around 15 or 16 years old, still sporting 25 extra pounds, and yet very interested in lessons on how to walk like a fashion model. My mom and her sisters had lots of old photos of themselves playing around in my grandfather's yard, modeling the latest fashions and striking poses out of a March, 1959 Glamour magazine. It looked like fun, and so I studied hard.

The lessons on how to properly sit while wearing a dress came at around the same time. I mastered the art of sitting up straight, knees together and tilted to the left, while ankles were pressed together and slightly out to the right. She had me practice this pose on the countless Sunday visits to relatives where we'd sit in a mausoleum of a room called a Parlor and sip coffee, or in my case, Coke. Between sips I sat still, shoulders back, palms resting in my lap.

"Smile." That was the next instruction. "Don't scowl. It looks awful. Trashy." It also highlighted my pudgy cheeks. I couldn't remember all of the instructions all of the time, and slipped a bit. She'd notice and wouldn't hesitate to remind me. Most of the time, I hated the constant nagging. It's not that I didn't like the idea of walking like a model or sitting as if I were posing for a portrait. I just didn't like having to be constantly aware of sucking in my gut and placing a soft smile on my lips. What if I wasn't in the mood to smile in public?

"Smile anyway." She said it with a smile, of course.

My friends, especially the younger ones, don't remember getting these lessons and never knew the chubby and awkward girl, but they inevitably comment on my posture. Lots of little old ladies comment, too. There have been several occasions when I've been walking down the street absorbed in some fluffy and girly thought, obviously relishing in the glory of all that is female, only to have someone's grandmother stop me in my perfectly placed, ball-of-the-foot, never-heel-first footfall.

"You have such great posture!"

That's when the smile my mom trained me to wear is genuine, and the chubby little girl in me gives her a call just to say hello.

Here I am

"See? Told you you'd give this blogging thing up."

"Sit down, Alter Ego. Have a muffin."

I'm having thoughts. Oh yeah, a few of them, too.

It's about the trees here in South Florida. First, let me tell you about the brave little six-footer that hung on for dear life through hours of last year's Wilma lashing only to be snapped in half during the very last 30 minutes of that beeatch's fury. While 30 and 40 footers passed out all around him/it, this young one tried its best. Or maybe it was just stubborn.

So a few months later when an orange band was found wrapped around the trunk, I was pissed. The tree was marked for removal even though it had sprouted new branches and was making a lopsided comeback. He'd been deemed unworthy of adorning the Homeowner Association's common area. A pockmark on the face of a manicured lawn.

Me? A Tree-hugger you say? Mebbe.

And yesterday, while driving my usual route to work, I noticed a line of stumps and timber along the edge of a corporate park where very large, shady, and beautiful trees had been.

Is this how South Florida prepares for hurricane season?

The oddest thing I've seen is a news report in the hours before an oncoming hurricane in which the reporter carried on about the very large trees which could down powerlines. As he spoke, a 40 footer swayed in the increasing breeze, then dropped onto the ground in what seemed like a dead faint. Poor tree had apparently been overcome while listening to the report.

And That's All.

Speechless

It's rare that I'm struck dumb. Wordless. But lately, I just can't help watching the news. I'm waiting and wondering as is a good part of the world. We're just wondering what news will come from the middle east.

This game's been played for years, but this time it seems more real. Maybe it's a post-9/11 kind of thing, or maybe it's just Time.

Tinsel

Last night's fireworks were gorgeous, exploding like tinsel over the Atlantic ocean.

And I couldn't help but wonder what war sounds like. What happens when those sounds continue for weeks and don't signal a celebration?

Rescue

As I parked the car and headed to my downtown Starbucks today for my Sunday morning coffee and tourist-watching, I saw police cars and fire apparatus parked on both sides of the street. Lights were flashing.

I noticed they were right in front of Starbucks. Lord, it looked like there might have been a Latte overdose.

As I got closer I could see boots sticking up out of a storm drain and lots of emergency personnel shouting things down into the hole. There were questions.

"GOT IT?!!"

Voices came up from down the hole.

"YEAH, I THINK I SEE IT."

Holy shit, I was about to witness a rescued kitten. Someone call the local news because this is a heartwarming story right here in the middle of our cute little tourist town.

The firefighter pulled himself up out of the muck of the hole and held his hand up high. The bulldozer operator who'd removed the grate stood by looking hopeful, and so did the man who looked like he had a vested interest. We all looked at the hand, held out for everyone to see and caught sight of shiny metal.

Yup. They'd rescued the Ferrari-driver's keys.

What a piece of work. I hope the city sends him a bill.

Been Missing Me

I've missed my time here, but life itself has been happening and I should consider that both a blessing and curse. It would seem that when things get boring in the world of Everyday, I come here to write about observations, but when life takes a toll, I can't quite find the words or tone to inject anything of meaning.

Who cares about my little dramas? Two things occur to me. One is that nothing I write about is of consequence, but the second thought is that everything in my life is this... and therefore of little consequence. This kind of thinking can lead to a bout of whiny depression if I let it, but seriously, my ego's not that big.

Besides, this blog was started for me. I've got three others, but none have this voice. This is my rant and sarcasm space, but I do have to learn to fill it during times when I'm humbled and don't have much piss and vinegar.

Blog Angels Write Among Us

As I stared at this blog, wondering what in Sam Hill I'd write about next, I decided to click on "comments". Lo, and yes Behold, I'd been tagged. Blog Angels are among us, folks.

I SAID: It would happen and it did. Makes me believe in voodoo.

I WANT: My husband to be with me for a long, long time.

I WISH: My parents had given me the gift of confidence.

I HATE: Seeing a man kicked when he's down. My heart's with the underdog. Always.

I MISS: Opportunites for everyday happiness.

I HEAR: You, Dad. "Eleven", you said.

I WONDER: What my children would have looked like.

I REGRET: Not learning how to lose.

I AM NOT: Going to give up.

I DANCE: With abandon.

I SING: Only in my car.

I CRY: Streaks of black mascara.

I AM NOT ALWAYS: An attentive lover.

I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: Dough. Love.

I WRITE: To purge and to understand. Sometimes just to record.

I CONFUSE: Myself and therefore those around me.

I NEED: To believe in our future.

I SHOULD: Give more hugs. Birthday cards. Thank you's.

I START: Hard and fast, then fade out.

I FINISH: Things that hurt.

I TAG: I suddenly feel too new to tag. You do it. I saw you reading.

Da Vinci, Round 3

I've read The DaVinci Code years ago and did so because I'd already read most of the "research" it's based on. Specifically, I've read nearly every book written by the authors of Holy Blood, Holy Grail. There are quite a few books.

So when "The Code" came along, I knew exactly when Dan Brown's idea had come from and thought that he'd pretty much ripped everything from HBHG and spun it into something the mainstream will swallow. Good for him. Holy Blood, Holy Grail is some fascinating stuff. Theoretical, but with just enough "evidence" to give pause. It had been a controversial and popular book in its own right when published in the 1980's.

We're up on Round 3 of the mainstream wave, and the release of the DVD will probably become the last and final Round. Anyone who's averse to reading will flock to the movie over the coming weeks and "discover" that there's an alternate version of Jesus' life that is titillating and for some, scandalous. I initially expected to see more protests from Christians as the movie's premier approaches, but in considering the notion of Jesus having a bloodline and lineage, I've realized that it probably gives a lot of folks more hope than insult.

How many people, after reading the books HBHG or DVC, wondered if Jesus blood runs through their own veins?

Palm Beach

The funny thing about living with coconut palms and turquoise oceans is that you feel a lot of pressure to be happy. I mean, if you can't find happiness here, then I'm guessing that you're pretty much screwed.

People pay plenty of money to sit by this ocean and under these palms, so who am I to complain about the heat, or even the trying events of plain daily living. Other people have to put up with the same drudgery I do, except they've got bad weather to contend with.

Beach for lunch?

The fact is that no matter where you live, everything becomes part of the routine. Eventually you have to remind yourself to Be Happy, to take a good look at the scenery, or the cultural richness, or whatever it is that's drawn you to a place. When things start to look good on the other side of the fence, it's just boredom settling in. Boredom lives everywhere and isn't partial. Its what robs most people of a good time, and if you give it some leeway, it'll eventually steal happiness from your whole life, one minute at a time.

Bye and Bye

It's Wednesday and Friday is my last day here at work. On Monday I start a new and similar gig, and hope it's got a better work atmosphere. We'll see.

I've got people coming over to pout at me and cry "noooooo." I had no idea, and it makes me feel good, but also a little bad at the same time. Wish I'd known.

Big Bro's Deaf, Apparently

No. No. No, Silly. The NSA is not listening to our calls. And I guess that's (technically) the truth.

Floored

I hit the dancefloor hard Friday night, and as Sean Paul would say, "it was wid me baeksaeed".

Horrors. I wasn't even drunk enough not to remember it. Now, from what I hear falling while dancing is not an uncommon occurrence. I've seen it at least once in my clubbing career, and have heard tell, but seriously, how many people have actually lived that humbling experience for themselves?

::cricket chirp::

I thought not.

The Moon, It Hit My Eye

Dear God,

No disrespect, and I admit that you and I haven't been close lately, so yesterday evening while shopping in our busy little downtown area, I became concerned when I saw groups of people on the street staring up into the sky and pointing. I saw those servers and hostesses at sidewalk cafes stop work to gaze up, then calling other workers over to do the same. I'll bet you noticed that patrons began doing it too. Did you see me obediently looking up to stare? Then, like the Chicken Little that I am, begin calling everyone I know to see if they could confirm what I saw?

Yup. They saw it too. Seems what we saw was one of your sure signs of the Apocalypse.

The moon was turning to blood. And it was daytime. And it was on the wrong side of the sky. You scared the crap out of me.

Of course, some people offered an explanation for all of this... about how the Florida brushfires sent a cloud of smoke and haze high into the atmosphere and it moved between us and the New Moon, refracting light or some such drivel. blah, blah... I know better. I think you're pretty ticked about how we messed up the last two elections. It's a warning, isn't it? You can tell me. Are you mad about George endorsing Jeb? C'mon. I'm getting a little nervous.

Looking for another sign that doesn't say "Exit",

Indiana Jonesing

American Idol-ized

I've never watched a single episode of American Idol, and it's mostly because the show is so popular that it's the subject of morning radio shows. Once you make it to the morning drive, you've become about as mainstream and whitebread as you can get. That status puts you right about at the tipping point, when most freethinking people lose interest.

It's true that the morning drive shows do a lot of catering to those desiring "shock value", but most of the time it's just drivel with topics including one of three things: Sex, Farts, and American Idol's latest vote. Morning radio's been reduced to discussing suburban America's unoriginal pasttimes, and "reality television" has taken the forefront in filling those times. Truthfully, there's nothing more false than the reality portrayed in the shows. It's just the reality we'd rather see.

Am I the only one who leaves the radio on Scan during the entire morning commute?

Why I Loves Me Some Starbucks

I know, I KNOW! I have a problem. But yo, how can I not love my latest daytime haunt when I get to witness latte-making for actors like this!

Sheep Herding

I've never had my land scaped or my hair dressed, but that doesn't stop me from repeated use of the terms. That's because I play follow my leaders like a good Sheep.Sheep.Sheep.

I don't want to celebrate birth days every year because they happen only once in a lifetime.

I've seen a lot of moons since my wedding but not a single one made of honey.

Words paint the promise of a completely different world than the one I've seen and I ought to, but almost never, cry Wolf.

Tinkle Tinkle Little Worry

In the times and spaces I have to remind myself to breathe, my life speeds up. For those minutes or seconds of worry or fear, little chunks in the only lifespan I know fall to the ground and crash with a pretty tinkling sound. There's no glue and no way to repair what's lost.

Anxious minutes waste good time, but I don't stop.

No Deus, No Ex, No Machina

Starbucked is how I've found myself these past afternoons, needlessly sunning myself under the green umbrellas made too high to create any real shade. It's all part of the mise-en-scene.

I choose too-big sunglasses that bury my nose and leave the frame-propping to full cheeks spread into a wide and bland smile. I make it to punctuate uneven lunch chatter, but also to push the lenses back up when they slide down my face. Why am I listening to the balding 30-something middle manager phone in the golf date he needs to stay "connected"? What I want to do is watch his gorgeous sidekick's thick waves of dark hair and lean thighs licked brown by this particular angle of South Florida's sun.

1 SUV, 2 SUV's 3 SUV's 4. The caravan of overpriced shields hump the speedbumps and cocoon their cubiclers. No one, including me, is without a cellphone. Ever connected to what's not going to call.

Playing With Shroedinger's Cat

Living between worlds is titillatingly exhausting. A steady foot on one side of this fissure and the second one, trembling on the other, leaves a possibility for the ground to split wide open between my unsteady legs. I imagine that would be quite a pain in my ass. It's good that I'm not of the male persuasion, precious cargo left dangling too loose and flying free.

My current state of Half is rendering me frigid. I'm immobilized, waiting for the invitation to either cross over the crack, or bring my foot back to the side I started on before easing into that step. It's all about Decisions and they're not entirely mine.

A confession would include the fact that I really did notice the jagged edge of the crack just before stepping right over, and pushed away thoughts as to how I might make my way back if it began to yawn. It seems that from the time I placed that foot out there and let the breeze of the other side stroke its dirty fingers over my calf, I wanted to feel more. The grainy roughness in the tease of that touch is too heady to feel just once. Pulsing, it rasped across what's been lightly sleeping and awakened the black chasm of Want that always, always sits right below the thin film of my Contentment.

If I hold out my hand, will Joy reach out to lick my fingertips or will it grab me by the wrist and push hard into me before swallowing me whole.

I want to be fucking consumed.

Write. Writer. Writes

As I've mentioned, my purpose in creating this space is to write, though I'm not certain what my ultimate plan is. Get published? I've no idea how or where to begin.

Since 4th grade I've been told that I should write. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Write what? Where? Do what with the result?

In college, a professor disgusted with the fact that I'd turned a paper in for his class that I'd turned in for another in a previous semester, lectured me quite thoroughly. He went on for a good half hour about my "talent" and how he could see me as a published writer someday. Write what? Published where? I was too embarassed to ask.

My problem is that I'm too lazy to study structure. Rules. Grammar. I feel as if it would get in the way of writing from the heart if I have to concentrate on constructing proper sentences. On the other hand, I see the benefit. If you can't get out of what I've strung together, the meaning or timbre I've tried to inject into it, well what's the point?

This entire topic is not one I'd file under "Interesting Blog Posts", that's for sure.

What's it take to be a published writer? Fiction or Non? Short story or Novel? Magazine article?

I should consider using spellcheck.

I use too many commas.

Feck it. I'll just continue down this blog road. See where it takes me.

On Badassery

I'm very good in a crisis situation. Calm. Clear-headed.

There was a time when I thought I was a badass. I'd chase thieves or others who comitted a wrongdoing without a second thought. On foot or in a car, it didn't matter.

I'd also be the first to react. Whether it was a car accident or someone running from a crime just committed, I'd jump to action without a thought as to what I'd do once I caught up with them. I once pulled over for two cars whose drivers had lost control while racing. They tumbled off the highway then into the woods. My reaction was immediate and angry and when one of them crawled out of the car and began to wobble toward me, covered in mud and debris, I very angrily and forcefully demanded that he "sit DOWN, NOW". Dazed, he complied, and I wrapped him in my jacket until the medics arrived. I remained angry but calm.

When witnessing a car full of young guys ram into two cars then speed off, the rush of adrenaline made me chase them on foot to get the license plate.

Once I saw a woman attempt to escape a moving car. When she couldn't get out I followed the car at high speed, running stop signs and red lights as I gave a play-by-play to the 911 operator.

I said that I thought I was a badass, but my actions were just the result of misplaced anger and a need to balance some scales which had never been tipped my way.

These days I've learned to function in a life with no drama. I no longer chase cars and thieves, but call the police or emergency responders. The anger's long gone. In a way, the sense of general dissatisfaction I've recently felt is in living with the void left by that anger's dissipation.

11:11 - What's in a Number

If there's a long-standing hobby or fascination I've had, it's been with a number. By now the digits and I have become intimate and it's more than just two ones standing side by side, it's Eleven.

A lot of you will understand.

Some of us notice this number all the time. Clocks, receipts, Twin Towers, license plates. It catches our eye. Google 11:11 and you'll find that it's pretty popular. Seems like a whole lot of people believe that it means something and I'm not talking just new agers. I'm talking people who consider themselves scientists... logical, and practical. The budding fascination intrigues them because it's out of character.

I'd call it one of the biggest memes ever spread, except that people start seeing it on their own and come to the conclusion that it means something of their own accord. No one comes up and says, "Watch for 11:11. It means [fill in esoteric belief here]." It just happens.

Cruel to be Kind

Ever participate in a charity event? Me, I tend to avoid the rush of good feeling you get when you help out the invisible entity called "fellow man". When I've tried to be chartible that way, the warm and fuzzy goodness never came. I think GoodFeeling is in league with Contentment and has deemed me unworthy because they don't come to call often enough.

So anyway, I did participate in Relay For Life, a 24-hour Walk-A-Thon type of charity event. As that was how I spent the first half of my weekend, I now sit bleary-eyed and stiff-hipped before this computer, attempting to chain words together to describe my feelings about the experience. I must say that Contentment continues to play coy, though GoodFeeling is currently keeping me company.

I fecking hurt and it feels good. I'm pretty hungry, too.


Yours in Faith, Hope, and all that is Right and Just,

IndianaJonesing

On Sangria and Blog Flatlining

Today's Mood: Color Me Uninspired

Mood bedamned! Oh, see there... I suppose I actually am inspired because I've just created the new word, "bedamned", which I deem should be used much like bespeckled or bedecked.

All Baja Cafe liquid Sangria lunches aside, I'm not feeling much angst this afternoon (odd how sugar and yeast shit has that effect) and therefore don't have much in the way of interesting content for this little square box-in-which-i-attempt-to-write. I apologize in advance for the lack, and hope you will tune in again when I'm feeling depressed or angry (read that as interesting). For now, however, I must continue, for this is where I've promised to write (pause) then write some more.

Though the Sangria has dumbed this post down considerably, some of you may read it after a glass or two of your own special sauce and find yourself bemused and completely able to identify with this BlogWorld flatlining. If you do suffer from a similar Writer's Block, try not to read the word-space of others because you might then be tempted to crumbsnatch an idea or two. That will no doubt leave you feeling rather beKAAVYA VISWANATHANed.

Note to my dearest commenter, one who blinds us with the glare of what is Obvious, I have crumbsnatched your latest entry and ask you to please consider this a sort of homage as it is the highest form of flattery.

Yours in Elevens,

Indiana Jonesing

One Wish

If you had just one wish, what would it be?

(Personally, I'm going to ponder this one for a while)

Holy Hell, I Got A Comment

Can I get a woot - woot?!

The noter asked whether there will be no confessions because I have none to make, or don't want to share. Well, it's a little of both.

Dear Commenter,

This space being one of three where I wax poetic on my observations of the limited world around me, I've decided to keep it completely anonymous in the hopes it will allow me to write something interesting (read that as potentially scandalous) for a change. Now, I'll grant you that in the age of Jerry Springer, there's little which could be considered such, but I'm hoping I get some average readers here who understand that I'm not being paid for this appearance and therefore have no reason to embellish. I should let the embarassing episodes stand on their own. Un-Jerrified.

Ok, we've covered the "not wanting to share".

Have I none to make? Naw, we've all got some doozies and those listed in the previous post are all too real, including the tampon episode. No, I was not shown the tape. When I'd finished, I looked up to see the frigging fish eye staring at me. Sumbitch.

So with all that having been written, I'm hoping the introduction of the aforementioned talk-show topics inspire actual posts on each-- as a writing exercise, because believe it or not the entire point of my creating this blog is as a space to write and write some more. And lots of topics should be of the type I would not post on the other blogs. Let's see if I dare.

Yours in prolific blogging,

Indiana Jonesing

That's Not How I Roll

Exactly what do you think you're going to read here?

I. am. not. going to tell you about the sexual escapade in which we both lost our gum and it became stuck to the sheets and asses.

I. am. not. going to recount my job working among senators who were defamed because hidden cameras caught them gambling in Vegas on government time.

I. am. not. going to speak of my being held against my will by a group of mafiosos whose stolen drugs came up missing.

You. will. not. learn. of my tampon insertion while in an elevator I did not know was manned by a camera.


Oh. No. I. Wont.

Second Verse, Same Rant as the First

If someone driving an SUV to Starbucks every morning before checking into their cubicle is truly happy with their life, please, PLEASE go ahead and shout it out loud for me, will you?

Maybe it's my mood today (PMS much?.... Yeah, I can hear you now, "Every month, bitch."), but I'm not feeling the Sport Utilitarian Love for my fellow worker bees with designer sunglasses. Shuttup, mine are from the $15 kiosk in the mall. So, let's get down to bid'ness, shall we? What's the point of this grind? Buy a home? Buy a bigger car? Get married and have babies? Pffft. Then some of us have a problem and need to get off the mothership.

Are you inhaling my poison here?

When my factory-worker mother and longshoreman dad sent me to school, it wasn't to work in a data factory and write a blog or two. I'm sure my dad would turn over in his grave if he knew the reality of the banal existence I've chosen to live. If he could look right into the depths of my hollow space that now occupies my presently bitter little heart, he'd wither. --Well, I guess he's already withered. Scratch that.

What-ev-ah. I'm sure I'll get over this soon. Watch for the next episode of Biatches With Hormonal Fluctuations.

First Draft

"What are you going to do with it?"

The textured pattern in the fabric of my cadet blue cubicle has been vibrating at me for months, and it's not a pleasurable kind of buzz. Maybe I should take the little mementos down because they're not cheering me in the least. I don't believe any of these cubicle squatters really believe in the power of their desk-amulets. They're not staving off the soulsuck in the least bit.

"I'm going to write about things I like to think about." is what I said with just a little conviction... Not too much because I'm not one to commit too soon.

"Who do you think's going to read it?"

"I have no idea, but does it really matter? With no audience I can spout words and not feel like I have to live up to something. I'm already trying to live up to everyone in my physical presence. Why would I want to do it online, too?"

He shrugged, losing interest. "It's your blog. Do whatever you want."

"That's exactly the point."