Whelp, turns out the world didn't end after all (unless this is the advent of a very unassuming and tedious afterlife) and another Christmas is upon us. It's a grey, grey day. The sky is almost white--appropriate, no? Since, y'know, there's less than no chance of snow, what with the 70 degrees outside and all. It's quiet outside. Waking up alone Christmas morning is a new perspective. It's fitting. Still. Quiet. Nice, I think.
No one got/is getting gifts from me this year, barring a batch of white chocolate peppermint bark I have yet to distribute. It all just happened so fast; I still feel a bit dazed like a crash victim. I know the annoyance of constant carols and covers thereof weighed heavily upon me, and I've very much been looking forward to the whole day off Christmas provides, but otherwise I've registered the holidays very little. No desire to shop for gifts, not even any ideas of what to get. My mother says Christmas rushes at you faster every year as you get older. How horrid.
I want to be thoughtful,t o come up with the perfect gift for every individual. I have no knack for that, for holding people close to me and letting them know how much I appreciate their being a part of my life. I'm generally bad at relationship maintenance. But I do love my friends dearly, as they have this habit of being their for me, even if it's been a while. I appreciate the hell out of them, and I am so lucky.
Recently my mother passed down a piece of advice she received from her mother: Just remember he's somebody's son. I'm still not sure what I'm supposed to think it means, but it seems like an appropriateish Christmas meditation.
Peace and love throughout the world, y'all. May your heart weigh less for a while, and embrace the good things in the world, or at least appreciate the world for what it is. (But me, I'm still hoping for a bit of cold cash under the tree.)
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Friday, December 21, 2012
The end is nigh
I can't seem to find anything inspiring to say in this the holiday season. I'm in the grips of a depressing cold and have been spending the morning kicking back ith some soup and watching the snide apocalypse posts on facebook go by.
I did just have one thing to mention and that's how unsettled/(unidentified feeling) this sign on a nearby grade school makes me. It reads in its detachable block font:
Um, yes? Cheers? Just don't know.
You'd think I'd have more to say about the end of the world/
It's beautiful weather at least.
I hope if it does make its way over this evening it's a quick worlddeath. Or at least that I get taken out in the first shock. I really don't have the energy to go post-apocalyptic right now
"WE PREPARE OUR CHILDREN
FOR A FUTURE
WE'LL NEVER SEE"
Monday, December 3, 2012
It's the most wonderful time of the year
I stand in a line of people eight deep at my local Walgreens. My position puts me right in front of the gaping maw of the Christmas aisle, with all its garlands and tinsel and boxes promising light displays heretofore only dreamed of spewing from its shelves. Now, don't get me wrong. I like my Walgreens. It is a convenient locale for all the little expenditures that get me though workaday life. I even recently signed up for a rewards card. But the Walgreens Christmas aisle is not fooling anyone. It is not a nexus of holiday spirit and cheer; it's not even a reasonably fruitful outpost. It is a corridor of grimly set seasonal determination, last-minute light strings and guilty impulse inflatable Santas. This is not your first option for holiday shopping, this is a last line of defense. Oh hell I'm already here for cigarettes and I told myself I'd put up lights this year...might as well grab some now. But forget that noise. I'm already in the damn line. Which is not moving.
I eventually realize the reason for the holdup, or at least the party attached to it. Two mom-types laugh gaily at the checkout counter, their children mulling about somewhere behind them. They do not seem to realize here that the driving force here is quiet desperation tinged with exhaustion. Their carts are littered with Christmas funthings; every sentence ends in an exclamation point. They have just come from the gym. The outfits are tight to optimize silouette. Their bodies are impeccable, despite the surrounding living testimonies that they have housed and expelled unspeakable pounds of flesh. The women laugh again. The blonde one looks around to survey at the line, where we hold our places quietly. My blank stare does not intersect whatever she sees.
"Ohmigosh" she giggles. "...responsible for the longest line in Walgreens ever!" as the cashier hauls another candy cane across the scanner. "Sorry!" she sings out towards us. She does not sound the least bit remorseful, or even embarrassed. "It's Christmas!" Her compatriot, a false brunette, laughs. Her children are fat. They grasp for the plush Rudolph in her hands.
"Ma'am." I hear a low voice from the photo counter. A clerk I recognize. He makes a furtive come here gesture, and I quickly shuffle over, head down.
I murmur some kind of think you and without making eye contact silently implore him not to judge me for my purchases. A large container of store brand moose tracks ice cream, two caramel & marshmallow Russell Stover santa candies, a similar santa with raspberry cream, and a four dollar bottle of merlot. I think about informing him that it has been a long night, but he either already knows or doesn't care, so I don't bother.
I check out, fumbling my rewards card, and hustle out the store clutching my supplies. On my way to my car I pass the holly jolly double family loading their holiday loot into the inevitable SUV. Probably one of the many festive runs of the season. One fix is never enough for these kinds of people. There is a barking dog in the front seat. The fat children are smiling under their buzz cuts. The mothers are smiling under their fake tans. I wonder if their life is better than mine. I have no conclusion to draw.
Happy holidays let the games begin may the gods & bureaucrats bless us every one.
I eventually realize the reason for the holdup, or at least the party attached to it. Two mom-types laugh gaily at the checkout counter, their children mulling about somewhere behind them. They do not seem to realize here that the driving force here is quiet desperation tinged with exhaustion. Their carts are littered with Christmas funthings; every sentence ends in an exclamation point. They have just come from the gym. The outfits are tight to optimize silouette. Their bodies are impeccable, despite the surrounding living testimonies that they have housed and expelled unspeakable pounds of flesh. The women laugh again. The blonde one looks around to survey at the line, where we hold our places quietly. My blank stare does not intersect whatever she sees.
"Ohmigosh" she giggles. "...responsible for the longest line in Walgreens ever!" as the cashier hauls another candy cane across the scanner. "Sorry!" she sings out towards us. She does not sound the least bit remorseful, or even embarrassed. "It's Christmas!" Her compatriot, a false brunette, laughs. Her children are fat. They grasp for the plush Rudolph in her hands.
"Ma'am." I hear a low voice from the photo counter. A clerk I recognize. He makes a furtive come here gesture, and I quickly shuffle over, head down.
I murmur some kind of think you and without making eye contact silently implore him not to judge me for my purchases. A large container of store brand moose tracks ice cream, two caramel & marshmallow Russell Stover santa candies, a similar santa with raspberry cream, and a four dollar bottle of merlot. I think about informing him that it has been a long night, but he either already knows or doesn't care, so I don't bother.
I check out, fumbling my rewards card, and hustle out the store clutching my supplies. On my way to my car I pass the holly jolly double family loading their holiday loot into the inevitable SUV. Probably one of the many festive runs of the season. One fix is never enough for these kinds of people. There is a barking dog in the front seat. The fat children are smiling under their buzz cuts. The mothers are smiling under their fake tans. I wonder if their life is better than mine. I have no conclusion to draw.
Happy holidays let the games begin may the gods & bureaucrats bless us every one.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Thriving is just Getting By on Steroids
I've had a pretty good week. I think I've had a good week? Couple of weeks? Time oozes by in weird hunks for me, like slightly past date cottage cheese, so it gets hard to tell. But it inches by in good things-- The Poetry Brothel Rendezvous event went fantastically, bang up good time, etc, and I think I did well for myself--my skirts stayed on the entire time (dang) and did a generous handful (heh) of private readings, almost entirely to "clients" I'd never met before (almost all men, but I do look ravishing in a corset so can't blame them). I also have two pieces in the new Volume 4 of Smoking Glue Gun (GO READ), as well as work forthcoming in plain china. Also, finally got my rejection from Fairy Tale Review, not a bad thing--I wasn't sure if they had gotten my submission at all, and it was very pleasant and encouraging. I knew publication there was a pretty long shot, so it's nice to receive the positive response I did.
Anyway, was thinking on all this and realized--with more than a little relief--that this feels right. I feel really good about getting my work out there, and I'm excited to produce more. Yes, this is indeed what I want to be doing.
I had lost touch with that feeling for quite a while, and it was not only discomforting but actually a bit terrifying. Because I was still doing writing stuff, submitting, reading, but without any real heart behind it--and more importantly, without making any new stuff, better stuff. Basically writing a bunch of literary checks I couldn't cash. So pushing forward and pushing forward blindly, without knowing why or how I was going to keep it up...felt like I might end up pushing myself over a cliff in the dark. But now, for lack of some less trite image, there's a little bit of light, a Tinkerbell of encouragement: Yes, this is going to be hard. No, you are not a prolific prodigy but you have your damn foot in the door and that's better than some. Use it, you can take another step here. And here. Etc.
There are no fresh starts. Keep on keeping on.
Anyway, was thinking on all this and realized--with more than a little relief--that this feels right. I feel really good about getting my work out there, and I'm excited to produce more. Yes, this is indeed what I want to be doing.
I had lost touch with that feeling for quite a while, and it was not only discomforting but actually a bit terrifying. Because I was still doing writing stuff, submitting, reading, but without any real heart behind it--and more importantly, without making any new stuff, better stuff. Basically writing a bunch of literary checks I couldn't cash. So pushing forward and pushing forward blindly, without knowing why or how I was going to keep it up...felt like I might end up pushing myself over a cliff in the dark. But now, for lack of some less trite image, there's a little bit of light, a Tinkerbell of encouragement: Yes, this is going to be hard. No, you are not a prolific prodigy but you have your damn foot in the door and that's better than some. Use it, you can take another step here. And here. Etc.
There are no fresh starts. Keep on keeping on.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
You remember the time you went into his room and locked the door.
No one knew.
You realize that somehow there are people who stringently admire you.
You take a contemplative lukewarm shower.
I have found myself in the great compost pile of stasis
where everything is reaching for a bottom that has quietly declined to exist.
You are there too on some other side.
I cannot reach you.
You wait for memories to decay into diary entries.
I wait.
You wait.
I have touched my tongue to the electrode of poetry
and blacked out.
No one knew.
You realize that somehow there are people who stringently admire you.
You take a contemplative lukewarm shower.
I have found myself in the great compost pile of stasis
where everything is reaching for a bottom that has quietly declined to exist.
You are there too on some other side.
I cannot reach you.
You wait for memories to decay into diary entries.
I wait.
You wait.
I have touched my tongue to the electrode of poetry
and blacked out.
Friday, October 26, 2012
More consumer patriotism
Yesterday got my hair dyed for the first time I'm a redhead almost now more mahogany really but managing to escape an identity crises thus far. The trip to the mall afterwards was a bit much though. I don't even know why I go to the mall by myself. I am objectively awful at shopping I have a completely lack of any eye for fashion and am easily overwhelmed by too many choices and well it's the damn mall. People-watching can be fun I notice most the boredom. The warm bodies behind the kiosks are bored so bored so desperate to straighten your hair and buff your nails and assault you with robotic helicopters. But most of all the poor bastard running the weird little train for kids. Sitting around in a conductors hat and striped t-shirt and suspenders on his iphone waiting for the one kid to come along to make him start up the whole four car contraption for a tiny brain's hopeful amusement. Fake train sounds. Headphones in all the while.
On the way out got froyo with too many toppings and ate it while reading a trashy mystery novel about a serial killer targeting stay at home moms poorly written with all the red herrings laid out nicely in a row. Later I ended up in the drive thru for Jacknthebox and wondered why I was there almost angry with the nice lady passing me a greasy bag of chicken nuggets curly fries honey mustard.
This morning I consume leftover flamin hot cheetos and greek yogurt for a breakfast I don't have the heart to throw away the sutter home bottle yet. Now to work a double then again a double.
I feel like I have never so much been an American.
On the way out got froyo with too many toppings and ate it while reading a trashy mystery novel about a serial killer targeting stay at home moms poorly written with all the red herrings laid out nicely in a row. Later I ended up in the drive thru for Jacknthebox and wondered why I was there almost angry with the nice lady passing me a greasy bag of chicken nuggets curly fries honey mustard.
This morning I consume leftover flamin hot cheetos and greek yogurt for a breakfast I don't have the heart to throw away the sutter home bottle yet. Now to work a double then again a double.
I feel like I have never so much been an American.
Monday, October 22, 2012
And I'm upgraded daily / All my wires without traces
Today I went shopping for a smartphone.
As of right now, I have a semi-dumb phone that can make all my texts and access some parody of the internet, and even once in a while I use it to make phone calls to other real people. I have no real problem with the phone; with the exception of the inevitable temper tantrums that all the machines I own seem to throw it works quite well. However, for various reasons, I decided to take the step and move into this strange handheld collective world in which everyone else seems to be cheerfully participating.
This is kind of a big deal for me, for complicated reasons of superstition and cyborg anxiety that I hope one day to explore. Suffice it to say that watching people chat not with other people through the phone but with the phone itself makes me visibly and uncontrollably nervous. (I have several friends that find it amusing to team up with their cohort Siri to exploit this tic of mine. I love my friends very dearly.) I myself have been in the past incapable of figuring out how these devilmachines function. When attempting to use a borrowed one I'm generally reduced to helpless flailing and pawing at the screen like a sad animal until the savvy owner takes pity on me and dials the phone number or what have you.
It turns out that this is a real disadvantage when trying to be a wise consumer selecting a smartphone for purchase. If I am overwhelmed by sheer panic at just the sight of any flippy animated screen with higher resolution than the outside world that may or may not been able to read (or at least infer) my thoughts, how in the devil am I supposed to qualify and evaluate the differences among these damn things? Comparing them on a website with nice side-by-side boxes of written out specs is one thing. Holding even the 3 generation old model in my had and knowing this machine is smart enough to do anything but I am too dumb to tell it how is something completely different. Why am I doing this again? Haven't I consumed enough sci-fi to realize never to volunteer for the omnipresent, omnipotent, life-easing upgrade?
[Interesting and slightly troubling sidenote: A large part of the reviews of the HTC One X, one of the phones I was considering, are these weird exultations by former iPhone users that read like escapes from bad relationships: "i love love loooove my HTC. i used to stick with iPhones because even though i was never a big fan i figured i could never get anything better but then i made the leap with this [hone and its so great! i would never even consider going back to iphone" "This phone is great. It never gives me any problems...I never even think about iPhone anymore!"]
And how exactly am I supposed to explain all this to the pleasant young man standing at my shoulder just trying to earn his commission? I'm sorry excuse me sir I'm just having a bit of existential confusion about my commitment to my cyborg identity. No no I know I'm up for an upgrade I'm good for another two years yes. Yes no I heard you about the megapixels thing but it's just is it better? Will it make me better? How much of my soul can it capture in high def? And do I have to download it or can I stream it?
This post would have had a better punchline if I were publishing it with some wry acceptance from a smartphone. But, all things considered, I made what I thought was the best decision in the situation: retreat. Live to fight another day, maybe postpone the Singularity that much longer (ha, unlikely).
[Alternate ending: I'm secretly a robot!]
Will end by reiterating my cyborg anthem, Regina Spektor's "Machine":
As of right now, I have a semi-dumb phone that can make all my texts and access some parody of the internet, and even once in a while I use it to make phone calls to other real people. I have no real problem with the phone; with the exception of the inevitable temper tantrums that all the machines I own seem to throw it works quite well. However, for various reasons, I decided to take the step and move into this strange handheld collective world in which everyone else seems to be cheerfully participating.
This is kind of a big deal for me, for complicated reasons of superstition and cyborg anxiety that I hope one day to explore. Suffice it to say that watching people chat not with other people through the phone but with the phone itself makes me visibly and uncontrollably nervous. (I have several friends that find it amusing to team up with their cohort Siri to exploit this tic of mine. I love my friends very dearly.) I myself have been in the past incapable of figuring out how these devilmachines function. When attempting to use a borrowed one I'm generally reduced to helpless flailing and pawing at the screen like a sad animal until the savvy owner takes pity on me and dials the phone number or what have you.
It turns out that this is a real disadvantage when trying to be a wise consumer selecting a smartphone for purchase. If I am overwhelmed by sheer panic at just the sight of any flippy animated screen with higher resolution than the outside world that may or may not been able to read (or at least infer) my thoughts, how in the devil am I supposed to qualify and evaluate the differences among these damn things? Comparing them on a website with nice side-by-side boxes of written out specs is one thing. Holding even the 3 generation old model in my had and knowing this machine is smart enough to do anything but I am too dumb to tell it how is something completely different. Why am I doing this again? Haven't I consumed enough sci-fi to realize never to volunteer for the omnipresent, omnipotent, life-easing upgrade?
[Interesting and slightly troubling sidenote: A large part of the reviews of the HTC One X, one of the phones I was considering, are these weird exultations by former iPhone users that read like escapes from bad relationships: "i love love loooove my HTC. i used to stick with iPhones because even though i was never a big fan i figured i could never get anything better but then i made the leap with this [hone and its so great! i would never even consider going back to iphone" "This phone is great. It never gives me any problems...I never even think about iPhone anymore!"]
And how exactly am I supposed to explain all this to the pleasant young man standing at my shoulder just trying to earn his commission? I'm sorry excuse me sir I'm just having a bit of existential confusion about my commitment to my cyborg identity. No no I know I'm up for an upgrade I'm good for another two years yes. Yes no I heard you about the megapixels thing but it's just is it better? Will it make me better? How much of my soul can it capture in high def? And do I have to download it or can I stream it?
This post would have had a better punchline if I were publishing it with some wry acceptance from a smartphone. But, all things considered, I made what I thought was the best decision in the situation: retreat. Live to fight another day, maybe postpone the Singularity that much longer (ha, unlikely).
[Alternate ending: I'm secretly a robot!]
Will end by reiterating my cyborg anthem, Regina Spektor's "Machine":
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