I'm leaving the city. Sort of. I think sort of means that the city is close enough that I can get to it without a long commute...but far enough away from it to probably save my life. Or someones. People are driving me crazy. My current landord, a giant corporation operated onsite by a diminutive little cunt, is driving me crazy. If I don't leave soon I am going to sue her and them and make sure several people lose their jobs. Is that what I was put on the planet to do? Sue stupid people - that's what I've always dreamt of doing...combating unrepentant morons while my creative talents slink away into obscurity and then finish me off by strangulation.
The planes buzzing by every 10 minutes or so are driving me absolutely crazy. If I laid outside on my back just outside my front door I would almost even be able to read the model and make of each plane. Sometimes I sit around on the ugly chair near the window with the ugly view and I drift off to imagine the people in those planes. They cruise above me a mere thousand feet above and they are all pointing down at me screaming get out of the city. Other times I sit around and wonder what I might really do if one of those hunks of metal just fell to the earth. Would I survive? What would I try saving? What if I was really just one of those people who live their entire lives based on a moral character only in theory, one they've invented out of wishful thinking and lies...but then when faced with a real life disaster they panic and forget to snatch their animal up because that is really who they are after all.
I could kill someone. Sometimes I write little stories in my head wherein I plot my upstairs nieghbor's boyfriend's fall down the cement stairs. More so lately than ever I fight this urge to smack someone. People in Southern California cities are insensitive, desensitized, crazy and greedy and callous. My resident apartment complex manager is crazy and abusive. She chain smokes and she nearly always smells like an ashtray. Her tiny little office smells like an ashtray. The area around her unit smells like an ashtray. I should really just have more compassion for her as she begins showing signs of emphysema and cigarette related malaise. Shouldn't I? Isn't that what normal, sane people do? They have compassion...right? She's probably just jealous because I get to stay at home all day in my pajamas, and if I want to-I could put on real clothes if I wanted to-and still pay the rent, on time, every month...with more than some left over enough to drive back and forth past her tiny little office, shopping bags filled with shopping binges busting out my car windows. I'm pretty sure that nothing would make her happier than seeing me late on rent so she could stiff me with a lease clause. I have regretted every last dime I've spent on this stupid piece of shit fucking box. My language has detoriated into fuck this fuck that get out of my fucking way you fucking moron before I peel the skin from your body with a nail file; then a quick rev on the gas pedal to make sure my point is taken. The only good thing that came out of allowing myself to be raped and pillaged every 1st of the month while a chain smoking troll coughed up only verbal acknowledgement as my receipt is that these walls gave home to a shelter cat I named Gabriel Boojal Scraggsworth. He needed me. I needed him. When I say his name it brings me joy.
My mind races constantly moreso now than ever. The Indy 500 lives inside my head. So I talk to myself a lot more and brain impulses commandeer my body, literally, as the thoughts pound my skull. But, don't concern yourself with that chainsmoking power hungry troll because you know, she's going to end up smoking herself right off the planet; good, she deserves it; no stop, focus on something positive; I need coffee; that fucking cunt; what if I pour dish detergent in the jacuzzi, would that make you feel better; illegal and juvinile, totally non productuve and uncreative; I wonder which makes better suds, Dawn or Joy; Oooh, buy more movies on amazon; people can see the scars on my wrists; man a lemon muffin fucking sounds good; they can see them; order pillow online; fucking cunt; I'm proud of you for fighting for your life; Crimes of Passion: She Woke Up Pregnant...what the fuck movie title is that? get up go order it now; shit, the dishes; go for a walk. Get out, get out, get out of the city. You won't have any chain smoking neighbors anymore. No more neighbors above you fucking all night and then walking by your front window nearly shirtless with stupid smirks on their faces. No more 3 day covenant or quit's because you left a pair of flip flops out on your patio again, or attempted to ignore the morons above you by actually being proactive and erecting a japanese shade to keep them from peering needlessly. No more city celebrations blaring well past midnight. No more walking outside and finding 15 young boys partying in the jacuzzi.
There are about 300 people living in that canyon. They're very friendly as if they're on something. This should delight me, but for some reason it scares me. I would probably die and go straight to heaven if I found out that people can really be that happy without being on drugs. Or I could just accept them as is and let them be themselves and accept that I'm close enough to being an addict as it gets without really...no, I'm close enough and the thought of being at peace horrifies me.
Last night the smell of dog and horse and cow lingered. I could have showered it off but I couldn't focus long enough to bother. Or maybe the lingering smells reminded me of the fear I feel and I froze. I am scared shitless. What am I doing? My "bathtub" is going to be a doggy tub. No really. It's a tub used to bathe large dogs. There is no tile on the bathroom floor and the water pressure will never be enough to get my hair clean. The disorentation from the elevation kept me teetering back and forth while I was viewing the place. I think I nearly fell down those steps a few times. My rental is on the side of a mountain, not a flattened and paved parcel with convenient access to a comfortably appointed "cottage" - but a shack on the side of a mountain that looks more like Grissly Adam's vacation lodge.
I have heard almost every reason from every person in my life why I should stay in the city. Too dark at night. Too many unknowns. Too much isolation. Howling things and spiders. Steps too steep. Our mother's might fall down...you need to build a railing for everyone to be able to get inside. It's too dangerous. What if someone comes by at night and rapes you?
When I was 16 my mother called the police because a "blonde colored dog" was running up and down our street. I came home and walked in and there was my mom, hysterical on the phone telling the police officer that it was only a matter of minutes more before she couldn't bare any longer the thought of this blonde dog. "Yes! he is running up and down the street and I am afraid he might enter the house and get upstairs and maul my son. What if this stray dog kills him...or worse. He's sick and in bed with something and only 12 and defenseless against a big dog. Please come at once"
I have a few painful memories of my mothers dramatics...but none so telling of my future now, or then, as my having to run around for 10 minutes cleaning up the wine bottles so that the officer wouldn't think my mom was a crazy lunatic drunk. The most interesting thing about my mother is that her dramatics were never a result of alcohol at all; she was eccentric and that tore her apart because it wasn't allowed if you're raising two children alone. There was no place for fancy or frolic.
I have to get out of the city. The walls are closing in and I need to try to save myself. If there is an earthquake and my little shack falls off the side of the mountain then I am going to die brave and happy, knowing I did everything possible to save myself from myself. I am going to sit in the dark with a candle and write to the sound of my heartbeat. I am going to watch horror movies and let myself be scared, and then wake up and be OK. I am going to wrestle with spiders and snakes and mountain lions and horse shit and dog shit and my shit. I am going to be dirty a lot and roll around in the dirt. I am going to carve out something in the side of the mountain, maybe my name, I don't know, I haven't gotten that far. All I know is that my life is at stake and I plan on keeping my phone off the hook for as long as I want.
Photos of the shack
sep 15 2009. i know that for sure
Monday, September 14, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
gabriel boojal scraggsworth
Gabe's face
Gabe's food in Maui's Bowl
Gabe doing nothing, very well
Gabe's ear Hair
Gabe, edible
july 27 2008
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
nothing like ambien part 1.
It hits me like heroin. True, I wouldn't know what heroin hits like but when Ambien hits me hard I feel like a junkie looks in a polished Hollywood epic - and they look just like the curl on tip of my smile.
Ambien aficionados, those who swear by the cathartic powers of the drug will report bizarre side effects ranging from an overwhelming craving for fatty foods, a sudden desire to reconnect to lost loved ones, or telepathically conversing with people who aren't in the same room, to finding that a zero gravity chair is no longer to be just a sanctuary for fatigued backs and tired asses in need - but a living breathing bellows, to feeling invincible, overly confident and capable of acheiving elusive goals ... swimming, using a body only conditioned well enough to walk the distance of the wading area to attempt swimming the 100 meter butterfly, carpe diem, being born again, I'm a child, birthed by a mind meld between a warm, cobalt sky in tandem with a back flip.
Chairs breathe. Computers breathe. A hanging towel in a bathroom inhales once slowly. Then just as slowly it softly, coyly, exhales a dopamine rush command. The first time my living room chair breathed was one of those breathtaking split seconds caught between fear and shock and holy divination. Like fatty food amplifies the effect of this drug, certain bands and sounds also intensify and prolong the high. Ambien tripping isn't for everyone. Like any drug, it messes with your mind to the degree of mental weight carried at the time you drop. I don't recommend Ambien tripping for those just off a bad relationship or anyone with a bad FICO score - unless you're a professional self loather and, for personal or religious reasons, absolutely insist on obsessing over your credit rating. I speak from personal experience.
Ambien is a muscle relaxer, too. It's a powerful multi-use drug. In my opinion it shouldn't be given out freely. Nevertheless KAISER is a terrific organization if you're looking for physicians who freely (and in my opinion irresponsibly) dole out your poison. If you're the type who doesn't torment over morals or ethics then for you there are a few key words, subtle suggestions, and stratagem to obtain relief: Ambien, Soma, Valium, to name The Three. For powdered Dilaudid you may need to arrange for badly broken leg.
"I've been feeling so anxious lately, for weeks. I'm trying some deep breathing but I'm still having a very hard time getting to bed. My neighbors do things above me with power tools. I think they're adding a nursery - and they're not married either!"
Translated: I'm writing a blog post but I feel bone dry. I need a hit.
"We just broke up. She took the cat ... I really loved that cat, too. I want to adopt my own but the grief and sadness seem insurmountable. Is having a hard time breathing over a period of a week or so considered anxiety?"
Translated: Xanax is good stuff. Would you be so kind?
"I used to swim competitively. Ok, like 15 years ago. I swam the 100 butterfly this morning at 3am, hopped up on Ambien. It's the only thing that takes the edge off the shoulder injuries. Anyway I sprained a few mucles around the thoracic, atlas, and a few muscles elsewhere. Never again. I spent 3 hours in the ER and they gave me this bland flexiril stuff"
Translated: I'm in a lot of pain. I understand Soma is great for muscle spasms - and it's one of the few drugs of its kind that do not make you feel like a drooling mental patient. 3 days of this stuff and I'm due for something a bit less depressing. I don't want to sleep 20 hours at a time. Soma. Can I try that? that Flexiril stuff put me in a bad space. Look at my back? see how the right scapula is so obviously, clearly sitting higher than the left, still? I'm having a spasm.
"Is it normal to feel like you're suffocating whenever you're done grocery shopping? - really, is that normal? It starts off quietly enough and then BAM it's as though black, hard talons are coming at my throat...like in that movie Aliens. I was fine until those two guys in black masks started appearing on the hood of my car, holding an Amway name badge with my name printed on the thing. Of course I'm just teasing about the hoods and talons. But if you were an artist then what I just said wouldn't seem so alarming, in context of course-it's about context-you know, the Alien stuff. Context; mine, not yours. As an academic, you might just say to your colleagues: 'I've been experiencing some rather interesting somatic episodes; perhaps this evening we can convene at Starbucks to discuss this in a more intimate setting'. We, you know artists, we just phrase things in a more unique context ..."
Translated: I'm not crazy. I'm a shrewd functional junkie. I only need a sample, really. Thank you. Yes, of course doctor, I will certainly call you if any of this persists. Always do.
I think I'm getting closer to spilling my blood all over the internet, where it belongs, safely away from the few people whose feelings might be wronged. When it happens, I honestly don't give a fuck if you or mother Mary find it offensive.
posted july 22 2am, i'm almost sure of it
Ambien aficionados, those who swear by the cathartic powers of the drug will report bizarre side effects ranging from an overwhelming craving for fatty foods, a sudden desire to reconnect to lost loved ones, or telepathically conversing with people who aren't in the same room, to finding that a zero gravity chair is no longer to be just a sanctuary for fatigued backs and tired asses in need - but a living breathing bellows, to feeling invincible, overly confident and capable of acheiving elusive goals ... swimming, using a body only conditioned well enough to walk the distance of the wading area to attempt swimming the 100 meter butterfly, carpe diem, being born again, I'm a child, birthed by a mind meld between a warm, cobalt sky in tandem with a back flip.
Chairs breathe. Computers breathe. A hanging towel in a bathroom inhales once slowly. Then just as slowly it softly, coyly, exhales a dopamine rush command. The first time my living room chair breathed was one of those breathtaking split seconds caught between fear and shock and holy divination. Like fatty food amplifies the effect of this drug, certain bands and sounds also intensify and prolong the high. Ambien tripping isn't for everyone. Like any drug, it messes with your mind to the degree of mental weight carried at the time you drop. I don't recommend Ambien tripping for those just off a bad relationship or anyone with a bad FICO score - unless you're a professional self loather and, for personal or religious reasons, absolutely insist on obsessing over your credit rating. I speak from personal experience.
Ambien is a muscle relaxer, too. It's a powerful multi-use drug. In my opinion it shouldn't be given out freely. Nevertheless KAISER is a terrific organization if you're looking for physicians who freely (and in my opinion irresponsibly) dole out your poison. If you're the type who doesn't torment over morals or ethics then for you there are a few key words, subtle suggestions, and stratagem to obtain relief: Ambien, Soma, Valium, to name The Three. For powdered Dilaudid you may need to arrange for badly broken leg.
"I've been feeling so anxious lately, for weeks. I'm trying some deep breathing but I'm still having a very hard time getting to bed. My neighbors do things above me with power tools. I think they're adding a nursery - and they're not married either!"
Translated: I'm writing a blog post but I feel bone dry. I need a hit.
"We just broke up. She took the cat ... I really loved that cat, too. I want to adopt my own but the grief and sadness seem insurmountable. Is having a hard time breathing over a period of a week or so considered anxiety?"
Translated: Xanax is good stuff. Would you be so kind?
"I used to swim competitively. Ok, like 15 years ago. I swam the 100 butterfly this morning at 3am, hopped up on Ambien. It's the only thing that takes the edge off the shoulder injuries. Anyway I sprained a few mucles around the thoracic, atlas, and a few muscles elsewhere. Never again. I spent 3 hours in the ER and they gave me this bland flexiril stuff"
Translated: I'm in a lot of pain. I understand Soma is great for muscle spasms - and it's one of the few drugs of its kind that do not make you feel like a drooling mental patient. 3 days of this stuff and I'm due for something a bit less depressing. I don't want to sleep 20 hours at a time. Soma. Can I try that? that Flexiril stuff put me in a bad space. Look at my back? see how the right scapula is so obviously, clearly sitting higher than the left, still? I'm having a spasm.
"Is it normal to feel like you're suffocating whenever you're done grocery shopping? - really, is that normal? It starts off quietly enough and then BAM it's as though black, hard talons are coming at my throat...like in that movie Aliens. I was fine until those two guys in black masks started appearing on the hood of my car, holding an Amway name badge with my name printed on the thing. Of course I'm just teasing about the hoods and talons. But if you were an artist then what I just said wouldn't seem so alarming, in context of course-it's about context-you know, the Alien stuff. Context; mine, not yours. As an academic, you might just say to your colleagues: 'I've been experiencing some rather interesting somatic episodes; perhaps this evening we can convene at Starbucks to discuss this in a more intimate setting'. We, you know artists, we just phrase things in a more unique context ..."
Translated: I'm not crazy. I'm a shrewd functional junkie. I only need a sample, really. Thank you. Yes, of course doctor, I will certainly call you if any of this persists. Always do.
I think I'm getting closer to spilling my blood all over the internet, where it belongs, safely away from the few people whose feelings might be wronged. When it happens, I honestly don't give a fuck if you or mother Mary find it offensive.
posted july 22 2am, i'm almost sure of it
Friday, May 15, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
mother
"Hi, I love you. Happy about to be mother's day. Do you know how much I love you?"
"Oh, that's nice. Honey ... I'm having another ant invasion, can I call you back?"
"...yeah. ok. how many invasions does this make this week?"
"They dead again, mom?"
"Yes, I hoovered them but I think I see one alive, can I call you back?"
"um yeah (guess I have no choice)"
"I love you mom, have I told you that? really, I just want you know to how much you mean to me; I love you so much that sometimes I cry"
"Oh dear, that's nice. I appreciate it"
"Mom, can you just once, ever, just let me love you?"
"I don't know why you'd love me so much."
"But -"
"I don't deserve all this love. I was a bad mom."
"Ok. Let's try this: yeah, you were a really shitty mom, then my life turned into an expression of your shit, blah blah blah. Now, get over it already, I did. Ok?"
"Ok, I'll consider that, and I love you too, dear."
may 8, probably. 2009
"Oh, that's nice. Honey ... I'm having another ant invasion, can I call you back?"
"...yeah. ok. how many invasions does this make this week?"
"They dead again, mom?"
"Yes, I hoovered them but I think I see one alive, can I call you back?"
"um yeah (guess I have no choice)"
"I love you mom, have I told you that? really, I just want you know to how much you mean to me; I love you so much that sometimes I cry"
"Oh dear, that's nice. I appreciate it"
"Mom, can you just once, ever, just let me love you?"
"I don't know why you'd love me so much."
"But -"
"I don't deserve all this love. I was a bad mom."
"Ok. Let's try this: yeah, you were a really shitty mom, then my life turned into an expression of your shit, blah blah blah. Now, get over it already, I did. Ok?"
"Ok, I'll consider that, and I love you too, dear."
may 8, probably. 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
lyin' librul
I would have continued walking by the Greenpeace dude outside whole foods but his hair was a force to be reckoned with. All Greenpeace dudes have great hair—that's how they get signups from women (so you know)
"Hi ma'am ... we—"
"Yes? I (can't take anymoreleavemealone please) don't have any cash on me, sorry"
"Oh no we doneirjweiwer aspodi wpoie nrwjer blah blah asdjfrew beeraposdd signup"
"Wow. Your hair..."
"signup asljjblah asdjf sdd fskj we machalambachimba it easy"
"Is your hair real?"
"Yes it's real - jfk aks wjker Greenpeace skaskfds kldlakd green trees lskdfkd blagsmoke mmd out hugging"
"Wow. That hair"
"Blad huhjiji askerididi signup askjfkj oasdj war asjj end ljasjd, no money needed"
"I already did this at Trader Joes; they got me there. The guy had good hair"
"Oh okbutt hjkj wlkhjipahass aspijuj canibisulu ek sdkff they're there too? skdj woiehhd Obama"
"So, that's some hair. Wow. How much product do you have to use to get it to do that?"
"None! it's like that on its own. I just wake up and it's like thatlieblahj aslkjhdf oijlk asksk" (then, honest to God almighty above, he did one of those farrah fawcett flip things. My eyes bugged. He should have stopped right there)
"Hunh. Well, great hair. That's the only reason I put up with this cr— "
"Haha right onbama dkha ekka d; have a good dayyyddj likedudenma'am"
He lied.
No one's hair does what his was doing without a lot of product.
My hair happened to be behind my head and shoved up into a beanie, so he didn't see it, but I suspect he knew I knew he was flat out lying about his hair when I slipped my beanie off and pretended to air my hair out.
A republican in the same situation would have told the truth, but then bragged at length about the number of different products it takes to acheive such a volume of hair.
Mar 3, 09
"Hi ma'am ... we—"
"Yes? I (can't take anymoreleavemealone please) don't have any cash on me, sorry"
"Oh no we doneirjweiwer aspodi wpoie nrwjer blah blah asdjfrew beeraposdd signup"
"Wow. Your hair..."
"signup asljjblah asdjf sdd fskj we machalambachimba it easy"
"Is your hair real?"
"Yes it's real - jfk aks wjker Greenpeace skaskfds kldlakd green trees lskdfkd blagsmoke mmd out hugging"
"Wow. That hair"
"Blad huhjiji askerididi signup askjfkj oasdj war asjj end ljasjd, no money needed"
"I already did this at Trader Joes; they got me there. The guy had good hair"
"Oh okbutt hjkj wlkhjipahass aspijuj canibisulu ek sdkff they're there too? skdj woiehhd Obama"
"So, that's some hair. Wow. How much product do you have to use to get it to do that?"
"None! it's like that on its own. I just wake up and it's like thatlieblahj aslkjhdf oijlk asksk" (then, honest to God almighty above, he did one of those farrah fawcett flip things. My eyes bugged. He should have stopped right there)
"Hunh. Well, great hair. That's the only reason I put up with this cr— "
"Haha right onbama dkha ekka d; have a good dayyyddj likedudenma'am"
He lied.
No one's hair does what his was doing without a lot of product.
My hair happened to be behind my head and shoved up into a beanie, so he didn't see it, but I suspect he knew I knew he was flat out lying about his hair when I slipped my beanie off and pretended to air my hair out.
A republican in the same situation would have told the truth, but then bragged at length about the number of different products it takes to acheive such a volume of hair.
Mar 3, 09
Monday, March 2, 2009
i adopted an 8 year old cat, and god
...how i am starting to adore him. (update: No, I do adore him; in fact I love him! love love love, soft as an easy chair...)
His AVID chip says "Dixie" but I call him Gabriel Boojal Scraggsworth, or Gabie Baby Baby Baby Baby Baby Baby Sweet Pretty Baby Baby for short. He is worth a blog of his own, but for now I just want to make sure his every day is filled with warmth.
He is growing on me like lush, green ivy.
When he turns his head a certain way his lines form distinct memories of Maui. They resemble each other in ways I wouldn't have welcomed consciously. I'm surprised by this wonderful old cat. I'm smiling for the first time in 2 years.
Gabie Baby Baby Baby Baby Baby.
His AVID chip says "Dixie" but I call him Gabriel Boojal Scraggsworth, or Gabie Baby Baby Baby Baby Baby Baby Sweet Pretty Baby Baby for short. He is worth a blog of his own, but for now I just want to make sure his every day is filled with warmth.
He is growing on me like lush, green ivy.
When he turns his head a certain way his lines form distinct memories of Maui. They resemble each other in ways I wouldn't have welcomed consciously. I'm surprised by this wonderful old cat. I'm smiling for the first time in 2 years.
Gabie Baby Baby Baby Baby Baby.
3 (not very good) photos of my devastatingly pretty boy - he looks like a wildcat!
march 2, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
short rant about fucking
I know most people consider fucking to be wonderful- but when it's happening above my bedroom every night, sometimes 3 times a night, in a cheap bed with rusty box springs then it's not good. Plenty of banshee wailing, what sounds like a dog whining atop a spinning washing machine (visualize that one, go ahead-add the audio) and the fact that I'm already paying too much for this place, well this makes for a bad mood. Some people have no class. I hope they're using condoms. The last thing I want to hear 9 months from now is their baby crying all night. I can tell they're doing it in missionary position. Don't you think the fact I know this says something about these people's lack of discretion? not to mention lack of creativity. I wonder which of them is going to grow bored first? And...I'm curious if people who limit themselves to missionary only might be suffering from some sort of religious persecution complex?
I've seen him once. He is never going to marry her. Any man who runs up and down stairs 10 times in half an hour in leui of actually tending the BBQ is a lout.
Great, there they go again.
Mormon's live downstairs, right next to me. I'm thinking the vacant apartment above them will do nicely. I'm tired of just living in the living room.
Wow, now I hear hammers. Idiots.
feb 16, 2008
I've seen him once. He is never going to marry her. Any man who runs up and down stairs 10 times in half an hour in leui of actually tending the BBQ is a lout.
Great, there they go again.
Mormon's live downstairs, right next to me. I'm thinking the vacant apartment above them will do nicely. I'm tired of just living in the living room.
Wow, now I hear hammers. Idiots.
feb 16, 2008
Saturday, February 14, 2009
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