Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Grey (smoke)

Grey ribbons dance, wriggle, soar.
They blow thin till they forget themselves
and loose hold of form.

Suck a spark into a flame.
A tiny sun inside paper, burns up the line,
glowing hypnotic against the night.

Exhale, propel, whisper clouds into the still air,
blow columns from my lips in steady streams,
or let it curl and churn gently from my nostrils.

Never really a smoker, but occasionally in need
of distraction, of dizziness,
of an occupation for my hands and for my mind.

Something simple, yet complex in movement:
reeling streamers for my mind to tangle up with,
something to take in as wretched and ugly
as the feelings
behind the grey of my still eyes.

For the times I feel grey inside,
and would rather watch than be.

short in the neural wiring?

My mom's laugh box was broken. Seriously. She had a great sense of humor but could not laugh (never in her life). If something was really funny she'd gasp and choke and on occassion tear up, but she couldn't laugh.

My Crying box has a broken wire in it. When I'm deeply hurt, I cannot cry. This is partly a result of years of self-training in school. I trained myself not to cry when attacked or taunted, because that would let the attacker win and often encourage them to attack again, like bleeding up-current from a shark. When I feel struck to the core, all I can do is shut down. I just sit there broken. That's all I can do.
But then, when I am sitting alone in my office or car or whatever, it lines up that broken wire and that built-up current goes zapping through. My crying capaciter dumps all that saved up grief out through my gushing eyeballs. Once people are around, it shuts off again.

I guess I wait until my attacker is gone before I can bleed, bandage wounds, and set the broken bones, even when the "attacker" is just careless with its teeth, not a preditor.

At least I can laugh plenty.
If I could have kids, what wire would they lack?
Perhaps one would be incapable of sneezing, the other of singing.


Stephen asked if I wanted to go to the geek shop (meaning the nerd store, the comic shop) and it got me thinking.... geek usually means a socially impaired brainiac egg-head, these days. I knew that before that it meant side-show freak. But, before that it apparently meant a simpleton or dunce.

Just like nerd... from meaning stupid, to freaky, to smart.
The evolution of a word from one meaning to it's polar opposite.

Tuesday, June 28, 2005

In other words.... and I love words

As you might have guessed, I love etymology. The evolution of meanings, and of words, map the flow of our history, of how things connect in our minds, our grandparents minds, etc...

How often have you typed (ie... whatever) when describing something? I always wonder where words are born and what their childhoods were like. I. E. grew up as the confused child of a special union, that between two latin lovers, of "id" and "est".
Ok, the personification is getting out of hand.

Ok, so id est means "that is", so when you use it, "i.e." means basically, "that is to say".

I share this with you because we use it as if to say "in other words"
So here I'm telling you what "in other words" is in other words.

What was that term, David? logophiliac? :P

More etymology:
When you call someone a dork, it may not sound vulgar, but it is thought to have evolved via US student slang in the 60's from an earlier meaning referring to a penis.

hallelujah isn't just something to yell when excited, it means praise Jah, and Jah is an abreviation of Jehovah or Yahweh.

Are you a local Yokel? Yokel is presumed to have come from either Jokel, a german disparaging term for a farmer, or Yokel, and english dialect term for woodpecker. Perhaps it's both?

The phrase "make love" has been around since about 1580, meaning to show amorous attention or affection. It being a euphamism for sex didn't come along until the 1950's. This may confuse you if you watch old movies from the 40's.

Some americans don't realize that bugger off doesn't just mean go away. Most know that Bugger is an english term for sodomy, but where did that term come from? From Catholic bigoted notions of the sex lives of Bulgarians, of all things. tisk tisk tisk, prejudices abound.

The evil F-word. One has little luck with f---, as far as etymology goes, because it has been too taboo to keep track of since it took on a vulgar meaning in the 1600's. There are a myriad words that could be roots of this taboo term, with meanings ranging from sweep and swivel to fidget, itch, make quick movements, strike, dally, flirt, take home, co-habit, and the more predictable copulate.

A side note: Egyptian legal agreements from the 23rd Dynasty (749-21 B.C.E.) frequently include the phrase, "If you do not obey this decree, may a donkey copulate with you!" [Reinhold Aman, "Maledicta," Summer 1977].

A nerd, in the modern sense, is usually a brainiac, a bookworm, a person whose intelligence outweighs his or her social charm. However, it's 1940's daddy (nert) actually meant stupid person. Nerd was launched to popularity by Dr Suess in "If I Ran the Zoo" in the 50's.

While moving I ran across this old sketch I did of Misty playing Bass. I never finished it. It was just a sloppy sketch, but it's one of the few things I've drawn in a scannable size. Forgive the scribbles at the side. The pen kept dying.


Voices rattle loose
through the creases and gaps,
over the ridges,
echoeing around the grey.

Faces slip into view
become clear, defined, beautiful
and dissapate like scents on fall gusts,
blown about
and gone.

If only I could hold a few
friends close
and keep them from drifting,
dying, moving on and away...

Different reasons
the same story
so it goes
till all is gone.

Monday, June 27, 2005


(to all the men I've loved before???)

Thought I’d fallen for a builder,
but was a tool for him to use.
Fell hard for a musician,
but my love gave him the blues.
My heart fell captive to a Ninja,
but the shadows he preferred.
He slipped off into the night
the moment my love stirred.

Who now tempts my affection?
Is it just a cycle we begin?
Or can you still thirst to be with me
after you drink me in?

Moving Day Two, and three and four and .....

Friday we overslept. Thursday had been tiresome. We planned on moving fast and then spending the night at the new house Friday night. Stephen had to work 3-midnightish. So, of course, we didn't get a whole lot moved before he worked, but did move the bed and the bathroom stuff, etc... But, when we got there, we found that the jerk who sold me the house managed to get the electricity shut off faster than they'd switch it over to my name. (cheap bass turd). Keep in mind, the a/c was already broken at my apartment. Now there's no a/c or light at the house. So...packing/loading/unloading from sweltering hot apartment, to out in the sun, to hot, dark house.... Needless to say I was lightheaded and puking. My friend Brandi moved the same day and had a party that night and I was too sick to make it. I hate that I couldn't make it. I feel like a jerk for that but I was in bad shape.
Saturday, again the heat and again Stephen had to work in the PM (which must have sucked after moving that day). we dropped off the last load in the dark at about 1am. Sunday we moved all day again.
I guess I was loosing my tolerance during all this, too. I stopped at Thornton's to get a bag of ice and as I was just up to the ice machine some dude in a white van pulls up by me and says "Hey, girl. Yeh warna fall in luuuv?" (for those of you who don't speak redneck, that is 'do you want to fall in love?') My reply was simply "Do you want my foot up your ass?" and he took off with tires squeeling in anger.
I am STILL not done. I have yet to talk to my landlady and find out what the repurcussions are. They will probably just charge me a fee or something, I guess. I hope they don't demand another month's rent out of me because of a couple days.

Friday, June 24, 2005

Moving Day - Take One

I decided to take Thursday off instead of Friday as my move day. Stephen (boyfriend and now housemate) had to go into work earlier on Friday and I needed his help. I tried to get a hold of my father to borrow his truck, but had no luck. We then went to plan B, Shipper's truck (Schipper being a friend of Stephen's). Schipper's truck was at his sister's house and sis had left with the keys.

Well, Stephen needed a vehicle anyway. He had been living very metro-euro and walking everywhere because he lives a stone's throw from work. He got rid of two trucks just as he and I started dating. Since we are moving, he needs a vehicle. Well, we just picked up a bargain mart and shopped for trucks.

1977 Chevy Utility truck (the kind with the tool-cabinets in the sides) for sale, $500.00 -bingo!
We go to check it out and father-in-law doesn't have the key after all. So, we wait for the son-in-law to come over. He says he can be there in 30 minutes. About an hour later, he did show up and we checked out the truck. Ran smooth and sounded great. Every cabinet of the truck was packed full of junk, so we said we'd come back and pick it up the next day (so he'd have a chance to empty it). No, no... couldn't have that. So, instant slave-labor, we help him dig all this rusted mouse-poop covered junk out of the tool-cabinets. He picks up tools and educates us on what they are to show how amazingly smart he is.
dude: You know what this is?
Me: A chalk line.
Dude: It's a chalk line.
(we dig in some more stuff)
Dude: You know what this is?
Me: gutter nail?
Dude: (again ignoring my answer) these are nails you use for gutters. I'll let you have those.
(we dig some more)
Dude: This is a tool pouch
me: (thinking: duh)
Dude: he can put his belt through here, see. You put tools in it. Put that over there. He can have that. He'll want that.
Dude: you know what this is?
Me: a scraper
Dude: that's a scraper. I'll let him have this. Leave that in there. He'll want that. He'll know what it's for.
---and so forth... he must have commented at least three times on different things "He'll want that, now, he'll know what it's for."
Keep in mind this is after he found out I used to work in construction. I guess he assumes my job was to mix the gatorade and Vannah White the finished homes for the owners.
Eventually, he goes to move this large metal tub full of tools and I reach for one side to help him move it.
dude: No, honey, no. You'll just hurt your back. Let him get that.
Me: (silently thinking: Look, retard. I could lift you and the bucket!!! Better yet, I can lift the bucket straight up your a-)
This part is funny. He digs behind the seat and finds some clothes covered in old mud, dead spiders, rat-nest fuzz, and probably some 2-year-old mouse poop etc...
dude says : Hey, here's some jeans. Here, I'll let you have these. They'll fit you.

?? What do we want with his spider-infested rat-poop jeans?
This man is in his early 50's, a successful buisnessman, etc... how did he get so far with no sense?

Eventually, hours later, we escape. No sooner than we get on the main road, there's black smoke coming out of the tail-pipe and regular smoke out of the front end. A couple miles down, the truck dies (out of gas). We call dude from my cell phone and ask if he has a gas can he can bring. He says yes. Stephen says "so can you come give us a hand?" dude says yes.

About half an hour or maybe and hour later, he still hasn't showed up. Stephen calls again and asks what our chances of backing out of the deal are. Dude is not having that, of course, and is suddenly more considerate. He says he'll be on his way with the gas.

This whole time, we are broken down at the end of some guy's long driveway. At this point, Guy
drives down his long drive-way to see us. Did he offer to help push the truck over a bit? No, of course not. Guy says we have to move it right away or he's calling to have it towed.
Just what we need... the towing service would cost more than the truck is worth to us at this point. Guy (aka jerk#2) drives back to his house where he is presumably clutching his phone and timer with a maniacal grin stretched across his empty head.

After a while, Dude finally shows up. We gas up the truck, drive on to the gas station, and then on to Stephen's work where he is now dreadfully late. I got a beer and a salad and was ready to sleep.

How many loads of stuff got moved Thursday? ZERO. I moved a few things Wednesday night, and that's it. I've come in to office-sit while my coworker has a quick lunch break, then I'm off to get to workin on moving again.

Fun fun fun!!! But hey... Stephen looks hot driving that old truck, so all is good.
See, when men feel the need to own a big Humvy or keep their SUV or sportscar sparkling like day one, etc... I admit that I see it as a sign of weekness. After all, it is a sign of intellectual, emotional, and character weakness to need a hunk of metal to prove their manhood. Because of that, I actually find men in old vehicles hot. It's because they are men in and of themselves and not boys with toys. I know that sounds stupid, but I just hate all the status-symbol crap. That's just me.

anyway.... so went day one of moving. Stay tuned for more.
Same Kat-time, same Kat-channel

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

I Own a HOUSE!

I just signed the papers (only about a month later than we were supposed to sign).

Now, I have to move... really really FAST!!!
I also need to buy a stove, a dryer, etc... etc....

I own a house... in MY name... no divorces can take it away.

So, I have to move AGAIN, but this time I should get to stick in one place a few years.
My head is killing me.

I posted one of her paintings long, long ago. this is actually her, though. This is mom. We were polar opposites in many ways, but she was a very good woman who loved her girls and was a VERY talented portrait artist. This is her on her trip to the ocean (traveled with an artist friend, Joyce). Dad, sis, and I waited back home for her and she returned safely after her car breaking down and -so NOT mom-she actually learned to surf. She was the fragile sort in some ways, but survived some rough times with grace. This pic was taken a year or two before she passed, I think. I have some memory gaps from those years so it's hard to say. I still have the french easle.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Writing - the sickness

Words with teeth, that’s the idea. You want an opening line that grabs people by the collar like an over-aggressive lap dancer, that bubbles with thought and depth, and sizzles with verisimilitude, but don’t use the word verisimilitude… makes people think too hard. People hate to think.

But, how can I think of plots and tales and timelines that sweep off in a swirl of fast-paced action and just enough twist to leave your mind bent, not broken? How can I see the forest when I am in love with the trees? I want to taste their leaves and feel the rough bark under my fingertips… the words. It’s all about the words.

I am what I'll call an verbafeliac. Yes, I just made that up. I am in love with words, phrases, ink, pulp, and the rattling rhythm of a keyboard as I furiously hammer out my thoughts into this glowing box of wires. My analytical mind sees a million symbols to choose from, every word brimming with dual-meanings and connotations, and a billion possible combinations of those symbols equaling an infinite number of meanings, ideas, ways to convey one thought and inspire 50 more. My poetic mind sees woven fabrics that flow with alliterations, rhythmic syllables, vivid imagery, invocations of emotion, and conjurings of enchantment. There is a fluid life to words and they respond to every nudge a writer makes by coming alive and making their own statement.

I’m obsessed with the possibilities.

What makes a person a writer? It isn’t being published or even being read. It’s a sickness; that crawling itch beneath the skin that demands the salve of spelling out internal dialog and imagination. It’s an in-born addiction that simply must be fed. It isn’t a choice or a path, it’s a genetic defect. You can ignore it and slop burgers at Dairy Queen if you want, but it will shrivel your veins like a diabetic who neglects his insulin and eats nothing but ho-hos and pop rocks.

When the sickness is in you, it must be fed. You must write. Write or go mad.
No wonder I’m a frickin loon.

Monday, June 20, 2005

Straw-under-nail equivalent for ADD

When you are the text-book example of ADD, there is one form of torture that surpasses all others... boredom.
My IQ is 135, not super-high, not low either. I have a knack for analytical thinking and am creatively inclined. I have self-taught myself enough to do the same job some lawyers and paralegals do. Since the "examiners", as we now call ourselves, have to type our own reports, now, when we examine the files/records, I spend the majority of my time typing.
I have been reduced to a friggin typist. There's nothing wrong with typing for a living. If you do it, I bow to your attention span and tireless wrists. But, I'm lousy at forcing myself to do things that are so painfully boring.
I opened up another file and it had a two-page legal description. That means I have to copy over two pages worth of "10degrees 5minutes South 500 feet to a point; thence Northerly 29 degrees 18 minutes East to a tree; thence...."
I cried.
Factory work was better than this.
Other people work boring jobs all their lives. Surely I can suck it up and concentrate 8 hours a day like everyone else.
I'm such a wimp. Some people would do anything for a job to put food on the table, but I hate my job because I'm bored out of my noggin. I used to like this job. I used to do more thinking and less typing.
Sorry for the whine-fest, but isn't that what a blog is for?
I wish I could quit, but I need a job with health insurance. Endometriosis, Celiac disease, food allergies, etc... are not big health issues, but they do tend to send one to the doc now and then.


Beneath my mild-mannered secret self
it's getting rather cramped.
My day-face, the mask;
a stuffy rubber Barbie-head shroud
without gap at lips or nose.
All-devouring waste,
this day-job is a means
without end.
No time left to don my cape
and soar, leap, blaze
though the inks and colors
of my imagination.
I have gifts.
They hang, dusty, upon a nail
in the derelict bat-cave of my brain.

Cold Turkey Detox Shakes

This is day 4 of Transmet deprivation and the detox symptoms are fierce. Ok, so maybe I just read vol's 7&8 yesterday, so it's been 1 day, but it sure feels like 4.

The comic shop is apparently closed on Mondays. I could cry. I NEED my transmet fix. I can quit any time I want, really. I'm not an addict. NOW GIMMIE MY BOOKS BEFORE I SHOOT SOMEONE!!!

I want to draw the spider tatoo on my boyfriend's head while he sleeps. Then I'll dress up like Channon.
I'm not obsessed. Don't be silly. :P

Ray (groom in photo below) did this sketch of his character from the super-hero party my sister had last year. (Regulars will recal the pic of me as super-nerd). It's just done in marker, not brush-inked. His costume looked exactly like that, even the metal belt (which he made).

Congrats from afar

I HATE HATE HATE that I didn't get to go to this wedding. Of course Ray (center) drew a comic of him meeting the bride (he was the groom) and they were excellent. I couldn't afford to go to Hershey for the wedding, but I wanted to be there. He's a great freind and I miss him.

Ray is Batman (or Owlman at the very least)


Greatest comic ever
I love this quiet image of Spider writing away. Great artwork by Darick Robertson. (Click the title for more info)

Saturday, June 18, 2005

Her Mind is Definately Twisted

If you like dark humor, check out my other blog
If you don't get dark humor, don't read it.
Addictions writhe
through my constricting veins,
edgy and irritated.
I have so much work to do
but no coffee, chocolate, nicotine or beer
will appease the Gimmie-monster
in my skull.
My brain is on strike;
will not work nor produce
until it gets its fix.
But, the comic shop is closed.
No transmet
to feed the beast.
Brain just murmers
"gimmie gimmie gimmie gimmie",
like an idling engine,
idle, idle, hungry, bored,
leaving my hands limp,
lifeless on the desk.

My mind is hungry.
Input! Input!

I've found I work better after reading something good. Only after justifying my mind's existance through something worthwhile, can I suffer the toxic boredom of typing legal crap about real estate. This job used to at least be challenging. I've outgrown my occupation, but have not evolved past the need for food and shelter, so I'd best be forcing my mind back on this crap, somehow.
Sometimes I really hate ADD.

Global Moderate Addiction Weekend

I have declared this a world-wide event. Unless they are extreme and dangerous, this is the weekend to indulge in all mildly addictive vices. If you see me with Guinness in one hand and a 5-espresso-shot latte in the other while smoking and downing and entire bag of Oreo's... no, it isn't hormones, I'm just honoring a global holiday here. Yeah, that's it....

I read the first six books of Transmetropolitan this week. The comic shop is closed and I can't get my fix. I think I'm gettin the shakes. I NEED MY FIX!!!!! GIMMIE GIMMIE GIMMIE!!!! AAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!! I tried to make them last but they are so short!

Side note: My sister had this theme party where each of us made up our own super-hero to be. My friend Brandi didn't get to go, but she was going to go as Addiction Girl. We were going to make her a utility belt full of Frappucino's, cigarettes, chocolate bars, beers, etc... Her friend was going to go as her trusty sidekick The Enabler.

Friday, June 17, 2005

4 points

There are four basic factors in attraction, as I see it. Physical appearance, Charisma, Intelligence, and Humor/character. (reverse order of importance) Of course, if you are a mutant she-leach instead of a woman, you might add money to the list, but the opinions of people like that are irrelavent.

I could write a quick article about these factors and how they intertwine and play off of eachother or even counteract eachother, but I'm up to my brown-dyed follicles in work so I'll just say this...

When I met him I noticed he was a walking sculpture. When I spoke with him I was knocked off balance by his charm. When I spent more time with him I enjoyed his wit. When I found out his IQ was higher than mine I blushed with glee. When I got to know him and learned that this decadent slice of trouble was actually considerate, compassionate, responsible, and loving...
I wondered if someone slipped me a mickey cause it's too good to be true.
Everyone has faults, and we have issues at times, but if maybe one particular issue can be overcome, I'll be officially the luckiest woman on earth.
Enough sappy talk. That's all you get. People will wonder if I've been body-snatched.

Thanks, honey. :)
Oh yes... and while pouring a Guinness he can write my nickname in Japanese Kanji in the foam.

Thursday, June 16, 2005

Writing Addict

Addicted to writing, to reading, to the smell of ink on paper and the click of keys.

Thirsty for pressed pulp portals to someplace in the mind, yet outside of my own thoughts, I let everything fall to shambles... living for my next fix.

Only one way to make a living when you are hooked on a drug. Ya got to become a dealer.
Fuck the legal profession. Somebody buy me a friggin laptop and some time... If I had time, I know I could write something worthwhile. If I could concentrate at work, I could leave sooner and have more time.

Damn the cycles.

There is no mannah from heavan. I've worked like a dog all my life and don't ask for help. Surely I can make this happen. I used to shiver in my apartment where I couldn't pay the gas bills that kept my heat up to 57degrees. I ate peanut butter with no bread... and I smiled. Why? Cause I'm one very determined amazon freak. Nearly 6 feet of will, a carbide backbone, and an inability to give up.

My arch-enemies, ADD and my own feeble human state, are all that really hold me back. Surely I can whip that into submission... for once.

I have stood toe to toe with a factory worker twice my size and twice as mean as the other men, and stood my ground till he backed down. I didn't wimp out then. Why start now.

A side note... men have the luxery of deciding which men they can take and which they can't. I'm very strong for a woman and I have good reach, but I know most men could kick my tail if I gave them a chance. But you see, they all can so I have only two choices... be afraid of them all or none of them. I lived in fear of my first husband. I'll live in fear of no person again.
Besides, turns out I got one hell of a mean jab.

It's funny.... Sometimes I'm so shy I want to dissapear, unable to speak to people. I do have fear socially because I am a social idiot. I don't fear speaking my mind, though, or taking on any challenge out there. I've learned I can do whatever I have to just because I can look back and see the things I did when they simply had to be done.

Right now, work has to be done. Time to shut up.

I've seen this pic in many, many places, but when I tried to describe it to someone I couldn't find it. Then, I happened across it on a lovely blog, which I would love to link here, but I'll have to go back through old comments to find her again. Anyway... it just cracks me up. For men, you just press on the excellerator and go. With women, you gotta get the RPM's up before shifting gears, keep the trust gauge up without letting the excitement/tension meter dip below a certain level, you have to give the whole system attention at the same time, etc.... It's like the difference between working on an old lawnmower motor and an imported sports car. But hey... a multi-port injection motor wrapped in complicated electronics might require more careful maintenance and better gasoline, but it's fun to drive.

The 411 from Rimmy-G

Reap has left another new post on his blog, Another day in Sheol
Click to read about a day in the life of death.

A funny guy I know once said:

"Hey, I'm all for women's lib.... 'cause I beleive in supporting the weaker sex"

That just popped into memory and I started laughing.

Should any feminists take offense, please remember.... never take yourself too seriously.
We are all created equal... all occasionally subject to unfair prejudgment and all sometimes good fodder for jokes.

I read on some guys blog recently where he wrote "I don't really think I'm co-dependant, I just said so cause I knew it was what my therapist wanted to hear" and I cracked up. I hope I have the quote right. I can't find the blog again now.
That reminds me of my line "I am not competitive! I bet I can be less competitive than you!"

Jewelry for Health???

Every now and then, if my tummy is extra swollen my skin gets rashy from eating one too many forbidden Fig Newtons or the like, I find myself looking online for more answers to my Celiac questions. I happened across a little site that sells jewelry and stuff for Celiac Awareness. The woman who makes the little gifts and jewelry items has celiac as do her 2 kids.
-eeks, 3 people in one house with Celiac.... I would really hate to see that grocery bill.
Anyway, if you buy some of her stuff she donates 20% to various Celiac organization.

If you don't know what Celiac is, then you already know for a fact that awareness needs to be increased. My mom used to drag me to the doctor constantly as a child to the point where one stopped charging us and appologized profusely for not knowing what the problem was. I just pretended I wasn't throwing up all the time so mom would stop dragging me to the frickin doctors. "No mom, I wasn't puking in there. I was just ...uh... coughing." I only found out what was wrong with me when, at age 30, I heard about Celiac through my own research and specifically asked my Doc about it.
(side note, if I lived in Europe where the government pays for your healthcare, I would have been screened for Celiac by 15, like everyone else there is.)

All I ask is that you take a peak at her site. The jewelry is cute (especially if you love green like I do). The bookmark is very nice looking and would make an awesome gift for your favorite bookworm or student. For you, it's just picking up a cute trinket or two. For her, it's helping pay for more expensive gluten-free foods so her girls don't have to end up taking all their nourishment through an IV. For all celiacs, it could help contribute to better treatment, earlier diagnosis, etc... etc... Just check it out. If you like something, buy it. If not, forget about it and go eat your muffins. Eat a couple for me.

I got to see my Dad last night. We had dinner. I don't see him often but it's always a releif too. I don't know how well he actually knows me, but what I like best about him is he just makes sense to me. I don't agree with all his opinions, but there's always some form of reasoning behind his opinions, not just reflex or tradition or imprinting and whatever else normal people live by. We disagree on the differences between the male and female personalities, to an extent. I agree with him in a way on most of his opinions about m/f personality differences, but I think that the majority of those things are taught. His generation was taught those things more than mine, and I personally have a bad habit of reasoning things out for myself, so much of societies ear-tags didn't stick to this particular cow. Anyways... the point is, we disagree about some things, but he does at least make sense to me. I wish the rest of the world made sense to me. I try to make contact with people, but it just doesn't ever seem to go well. Obviously, I do it wrong (or at least wrong by normal standards). If only there were more people like my dad and I. Surely there must be. Last night I would have given anything to just curl up on Stephen and not feel so isolated, but he was with friends and I wouldn't want to disrupt that. So, I went home and read Transmetropolitan till I fell asleep. Thank God for books. They keep me going when I'm stupid like this. People accuse me of being half-vulcan. I'm told to stop analyzing and just show some emotion. people are nuts. I'm too emotional already. I wish I was Vulcan. Anyway... so I saw my dad and that was nice. He got a really great fortune cookie. It said "Even if you are on the right path, you'll get run over if you just sit there." We loved that. Very wise.

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Communication Breakdown

I wish that, before she passed away, My mother had admitted to being an alien, thus explaining my complete inability to understand the human race.

One of my main traits that makes me such a freak in this world is that I feel the need to understand everyone and everything. What a releif it would be to understand the big question of why my ways seems so alien to everyone else.

I've spent a lifetime in love with words. You'd think that in 30 years I would have found the right ones to help people understand me a tiny bit. I should have just been the mysterious type. Then I could pretend that no one ever getting me was just part of my master plan, not my biggest failure.

I may have been the ugliest, weirdest, most unpopular girl in school, but I have a little bit of brain power, no fear of honesty, and I sincerely care about others (which helps me empahise). Those three gifts should be the perfect tools with which to understand others and communicate to others, but apparently I am a failure at using those tools.
I'm not just the kid who was cut out of the group pictures in the yearbook, I'm also the one who will never understand humanity, becuase humanity hates truth, understanding, and all the things I obsess over.
I am just a little freak.
But that's ok.
I can't make anyone understand me with my words. But, I have a knack for sci-fi and action and escapist genre stuff. Maybe I'll never know what it's like to be understood, but I can hopefully make people happy for however long it takes them to read the fiction I'm going to write. Then there will have been a point to all of this. Then I will have helped give back what Orson Scott Card and countless others have given me... a doorway into a world that doesn't hurt or confuse. That's all I really want out of life. If I die lonely and poor, I just hope I've done something worthwile before that happens. I don't want to change the world. I just want to make a few people smile and know I did that right, that I did something right.

another corner of that room has some crappy unfinished sketches and my easle. I never finished the quitar-playing pic because it sucked. Sorry this one is blurry too. That's my lab coat on the far right edge.

The room is full of boxes and canvases and junk cause I'm moving. This is my favorite kimono. I'm not sure why the photo is so blurry.

Lost and Found

One friend gone
(you'd never guess how often
I want to tell you I miss you)

One friend found,
(after years of keeping you
in my mind)

Bury a dozen,
watch a hundred drift away...
pray just one true friend
returns someday.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005


Around my eyes:
of baby blue
and paper dolls,
delicate, slight, dainty.
These illusions
are thinner
than a single strand
of my plain blonde hair,
but your head is too thick
to see through.
Inside these eyes
are worlds of insight,
slow-shifting tectonic control,
infernos of primal rage,
seas of compassion.
Strength, reason, frustration fuel
a silent continuous juggling of words,
searching for a way to share
all I see.
You see flat black dots
that punctuate the blue
where shadows hide
the tint of flesh and blood.


There's a couple new entries on ol' Reap's Journal.

A friend of mine I went to college with a decade ago is now a graphic designer and works for a terrific local company which often designs trophies for Nascar. Now, I'd rather eat poisonous sea urchins than watch Nascar, but I'm impressed with this trophy. It's probably the coolest Nascar trophy every. Great job Ray!!!

Monday, June 13, 2005

Yeah, what he said...


Everything I want
in one word.

The same way I wish to fly,
and invision x-men are real;

I dream my favorite fairy-tale…
that my trust in anyone could prove more
than fantasy.

Well lookie there... I'm a Brunette!!! I love it. I should have been born brunette. Doesn't it look nice? The pic is a little dark, but you get the idea.

Poet Shop

Everyone's favorite man of mystery (No, not Bond, I mean AnonymousPoet) is giving the world a little taste of his words in take-home style. Many of his poems are now available on journals, shirts, etc... Check out his Store .

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Poetry Vs Vents

Ok, so the last poem was just a vent, really, with no real merit as poetry. Sorry. I just had a very bad day. My Noggin is soupy with shades of melancholy blue-greys, but it's ok. Blue brings out my eyes. :P (kidding)

I wish this computer had a place to slip in my memory card. I dyed my hair dark brown and took a couple pics for you. I like it a lot. I'll post them soon, though.
Great big thanks to Daedelux for linking this site on his blog. Simon of Space is a story posted on-line by the writer of The Darth Side, Mathew Frederick Davis Hemming. He's quite talented. Check it out.

Friday, June 10, 2005

I trusted your promises.
I let you in.
When your promises turned out
to be only lies.
I couldn’t leave,
could not even yell.
Just held you.

You hate me, now, for what?
Do you blame me
for believing in you?
Was that my great crime?
You see me hurt
and like a shark near wounded fish,
the feeding frenzy begins.

And you?

now listening to: White Stripes (was George Clinton before that)
Now drinking: Coffee
Now eating: Salad
Now wearing: pinstripes and glasses (but I am, of course, barefoot)
Now doing: working, till I decided to give you a status report. Typing, examining, boring legal stuff.
Now smelling: burnt coffee
Now feeling: kinda depressed yet apathetic
now wishing: I had a bucket of tiramisu to eat
now craving: see above
Now thinking: as little as possible
About to: get back to work.
How about you?

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Poetry from the Office

This rayon blend lady-monkey suit,
I think it’s giving me the hives.
Florescent light’s haze stagnates my brain
through the cobwebs in my eyes.

Wanna coil up my coif to a blonde afro,
don my favorite jeans, snug not tight.
Play me some Clinton, Southern Culture or Waits
I’ll live an alias for the night.

Mild mannered mannequins we are by day,
a survival routine only justified
by snatching up scattered time-crumbs wherever found
time to truly be alive

dance, love, laugh, live... "cease not till death"

Poetry, Art, Publishing ...

(or perhaps a more apt title "Why Google sucks")

I added AdSense to my site, but it's only showing adds for other b l o g s 's
HELLO, if you didn't already have your own you would probably not be looking at mine, correct?
They say it goes automatically off of what is on my site and cannot be manually altered.

So..... what? Instead of posting poetry I should just say the word Poetry 50 times fast?
Poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry Poetry
read books read books read books read books read books read books read books

Of course, if you write your own, you are likely more interested in getting published.
publish publish publish publish publish publish publish publish publish publish publish

there... happy google?
I love Google. It's a handy-dandy tool, but that's just aggravating.

I'm not going to spell out on every fricking post "Hey, this is a poem." or "this is about a Comic Book" or "Hi, I like to write cuz I'm a writer, at least I want to be a writer. I'm also sort-of an artist, but not really"

Work is hellatious today, I just found out my closing is put off another week or so, so forgive me if I am highly frustrated. us POET s can be highly emotional, I suppose (even those obsessed with science)

Tuesday, June 07, 2005


Monumental masses
loom large,
though melting,
as particles unglue.

Communities dissolve
under streams
of chilled apathy;

The whole floats into pieces;
each family,
now their own town.

The pieces fragment;
each child to their own
TV, X-box, PC.

Human singles;
individually wrapped
in sterile isolation.

Silent mouths
find voice
in busy fingers
on clattering keys.

A community coalesces
not by family, town,
nation, or language,

but of minds;
of the bare grey-matter
where we are all uniquely
the same.

Down in flames;
up in glory.

Monday, June 06, 2005

by definition,

I lick your wounds,
warm you,
shelter you.

I would devour
any threat to those
who share my cave.

my dreams fly
across the flatlands
and sink teeth
into the shadows
that haunt me.

My mind steps
like a scholar.

My spirit stalks
like a fiery-eyed beast
and bleeding.

So Busy!

I started using this blog as my homepage, and using my own links rather than the favorites bar. Through that, I noticed a few links are missing! I don't have time to edit my template right now, so here's a little reminder to check out and regularly - I do!

If I was rich I'd have a lacky to edit my template for me, but that might not be as much fun.
SOOOO busy at work today!

Can anyone enlighten me on who this Monsieur A is? I noticed him in Italy, as shown on my Italy blog.
What/who is he?

Friday, June 03, 2005

An Ode to Stuff

Stuff stuffs all sorts of stuff into 5 letters and a shrug.
It says it all. It’s brimming with implications and possibilities.

Is it the tastes-like-chicken crutch of the lazy and inarticulate?
Or is it the magic wildcard in that almost-winning hand?

I’m pomp-lite; my shirt isn’t starched or stuffed.
I love stuff, it’s friendly and always there, like a perky stray.
‘Stuff’ alone may be just another baseball cap on a South-side redneck,
but, paired with a pleasing puzzle of words, it’s a Duff Beer cap on a tuxedo;
the fun fundamental, the chewing gum at a funeral, the subtle skew to ground a haughty view.
Yes, I love the word.
I do.
So sue me and stuff.

Google Games

I did a search out of curiousity. I typed
then my web address (no space between link:and the address) to find out what sites have linked to mine.
Try it. Sometimes it's someone you don't even know reads your stuff.
I also ran it with a couple band's sites to see who was pushing them besides me. :P

Feel free to use the search bar at right. Set me as your homepage to do all your google searches from. While you're at it... go shopping/surfing via the adds lower down @ right. The grocery stores I frequent, as well as my belly, will be much obliged.

We now return to our usual programing (or rambling/venting/versing... whatever) :)

What amuses me about this is the way the inner corners of my eyes being washed out makes me look like a cross-eyed angel. Or perhaps I'm a ghost. Boo!

Thursday, June 02, 2005

This is Stephen. I wish he didn't smoke, but he's cute even when he's smoking. I don't post much about him (lest I jinx anything), but this is the BF. I took this pic while playing scrabble, which I won only because he answered a couple spelling questions I asked. (I have the vocabulary, I just can't spell). Posted by Hello

Wednesday, June 01, 2005


Amorphous spots
float over my eyes.
Your perceptions are
my only disguise.
Covered thick enough in ashes
to leave grey-areas behind,
black and white is my religion,
truth the salve for my mind.
Is it the sting of grit on cornea
that teaches us to see?
From the shadows, dark and light are crystal clear.
Standing in the sun, all else is unperceivable.

Blown Off

Hands flutter at smoke.
A row of poplars clap their leaves
between highway and home.
Eyes slam shut.
Backs turn and recede.

people are hoarding stamps,
spoons, shot-glasses,
and slipping comic-books
into acid-free sleeves.

bonds drift and dissipate
like scents on a breeze,
wafting then gone,
fanned off like puffs of dandelion.
one more shot of the Shannon-mobile. Posted by Hello
I think my niece was trying to look scary. Just wait, though. She's a Ris-woman... we get scarier with age (mua ha ha ha).  Posted by Hello
Steady readers have seen this pic of me before, but I'm bored and not feeling like working. I want to twist up my hair, put my @$$-kickin boots on, and go OUT. I want to go someplace and dance to some good music. Guess I'll settle for posting a pic of me about to go out (this was before the A Perfect Circle concert which I attended with Brandi - MISS YOU BRANDI! Can't find the pic of us together at that concert) Posted by Hello

that's what I said

I wont bother telling the whole story, but this quote from me sums it up:
"Honey, I know I'm the one who's been hoping you'd get into sci-fi more, but the Star Wars edition of Playboy wasn't really what I had in mind."

Men (shakes head)... need I say more?