Category: …and everything else

These two random quotes came up in my email doings, and I thought I’d share – much easier than trying to come up from the cold medicine haze to find anything of interest to say.

Gogol once said that “evil is banality,” and if that’s the case, Valla is the most evil creature alive.
-Douglas Taylor

My breasts are cthulhu!
-Elisabeth Van Every

(I admit that the last one might be funnier with the photographic evidence…)

Can somebody tell me now am I alone with this �
this little pill in my hand and with this secret kiss
am I alone in this�

It’s been an interesting 36-odd hours. I’ve had a lot of interesting conversations with people, and thankfully, all but one in a face to face medium. I’ve come to the conclusion that although I tend to do a lot of my correspondance via email, I prefer a medium where I can hear the tone of voice of the person I’m talking to, be it phone or face. I actually think face is best for me, simply because I can also integrate body language into my evaluation of what’s going on – with email, I spend a very long time agonizing over what word to say or phrase to use, to convey the right “tone”, and I feel like I often fail. So for a quick jaunt or touching base, email works fine for me, but anything more than that and I tie myself into knots. Several sentences should not take me half an hour to compose!

A matter of complication
when you become a twist
for their latest drink

You would think that, knowing this, I would be alright acknowledging it and simply moving any more seriously toned conversation to a medium I’m more comfortable with. Hah. Instead, I question my resolve and the wisdom of requesting a change in ‘venue’. I’d say I wonder where I get this core of self-doubt and lack of faith in myself, except I know the answer to the question, and I really hate to ask questions I already know the answer to. So instead I’m left wondering just how it is I move beyond that self-doubt in a way that’s healthy for me and anyone who comes in contact with me. It’s a question I don’t have an answer to, which at the same time makes it a good question and a frustrating problem.

Can somebody tell me now a way out of this �
that sacred pipe of red stone could blow me out of this kiss
am I alone in this�

Well I’m thwarted by a metaphysic puzzle
And I’m sick of grading papers, that I know

A little before 7pm this evening, I stood on the corner of 45th and Brooklyn, breath escaping from behind my scarf in steaming bursts, hands shoved into gloves into pockets. I’d bailed on both my commitments for the evening for the chance at a beer and relaxation with friends, and was now at that point. That point of the night where I knew, if I came home, I’d just flop uselessly to one side and do nothing but berate myself for doing nothing, but had nothing compelling calling me anywhere else, and that lack of energy which made flopping to one side so attractive permeating everything else.

And then I looked up, and saw the Varsity sign saying “Rent: This Space.” Rent. Rent, rent, rent. Rent.

Alone.

And I’m shouting in my sleep, I need a muzzle
All this misery pays no salary, so

Alone. It was something I needed to do, something I needed to see. It was a memory I needed to build for myself, new and removed from the memory of Rent that was, of seeing the play in Reno, of being so near the front row, of the feeling and experience and the everything-awe of the musical, all tied up in memories of my ex-husband. It wasn’t an exorcism, but it was an invitation, to new, that needed to be done alone.

I teach- computer age philosophy
But my students would rather watch TV

Tonight, I was alone, and it was a good night to see Rent. To reground, to create, to feel, to cry. Only a few tears, but I cried. Angel died, and I cried. I cried for Angel, and Tom, and Mark and Maureen and Roger and Mimi and even Benny, and I cried for friends gone and friends here, and people who should be friends but aren’t (or maybe are), and I cried for J~. I cried for J~ and the way that she died. The way her story ends. Just a few tears, but there they were, and there was the meaning so gathered into them. And one year, more than a tear or two is going to have to fall, and this will need to be processed.

Chatting not about Heidegger, but wine
Let’s open up a restaurant in Santa Fe

Stories shape us. We shape stories. We shape memory. It is a construction of our experiences, our ability to trust, our ability to love and connect. It is a reflection of those things that become important to us in hindsight, with memory, and those things that seared their meaning and purpose to our mind on impact.

Does anyone want to open a restaurant in Santa Fe? Cuz sunny Santa Fe, sure would be nice…