Goodness me, could this be Industrial Disease..?

This story is called "How To Turn Forty Five Minutes Into An Eternity" or "How I Got My Ass Handed To Me By A Bunch Of Four Year Olds"

I don't really like using obvious names/activities in this here blog. I find that those about whom I write generally know who they are- sometimes other people know who the third parties are etc.. I feel comfortable using my ex-dogs name I suppose (Lucy).. she's dead.. and she never learned to read so I'm safe there.. either way..

Dramatis Personae:

1: Able: Is able to behave when he wants to.

2: Noise: Appears to enjoy negative attention.

3: Quiet: Usually fairly quiet, well behaved.

4: Games: Plays games- not the good, fun kind.

5: Normal: Well behaved, follows directions, good.

6: Dinosaur: Dinosaur.

Also: "dots" are things which designate the space any single child is supposed to take up. They stand on them. The world without "dots" is a much darker place. I don't like to think about it.

I'm pretty sure this class started with us reaching up and reaching down and counting to some arbitrary number as we did so. I often use this to see what kind of day it's going to be- if they will all count together, if the counting will involve screaming, weird numbers, or strange noises. Noise does this thing where he will continuously count to the wrong number on purpose requiring us to start over - today is no exception. I make him sit out when he does this, because I know he's trying to be an issue- problem is, today Games picked up on it and did the same thing, to cause problems-- so I made him sit out too, then Quiet chimed in, which was strange cause he's usually pretty well behaved.. Dinosaur got all frigged up because now he's confused about the number.. we started over with everyone together, eventually we got there.

Noise has also begun this game where he yells random stuff during the time reserved for yelling "keeyup." This time I told him to stop in a fun way, reminding him what to yell instead of whatever it is he's been saying.. he kept doing it, I told him to sit down, after a while when he was allowed to stand up he was at it again, I told him to sit out in the waiting room he gave me this hurt-puppy look and didn't move, I gestured with enthusiasm towards the exit of the classroom, he eventually went out there to sit for a while before I brought him back in and asked him if he felt as though he was capable of being a part of the class without disrupting it. This cycle was repeated twice, during which time Games had decided he could do the same thing and blame it on Noise, Dinosaur was doing it because he thought that's what he was supposed to do, Quiet had also begun this practice because apparently today he had decided to reflect bad behavior, Normal hadn't said anything at all, and Able wouldn't touch that stuff with a nine foot pole. Able and Noise are buddies, Able knows what Noise is up to, and knows that I know what he's up to. Able knows better.

Able was not without fault, though as it was Ables job to be the leader in the classroom. Except today he had decided to wave his arms around, make weird faces in the mirror, create random noises, and make my life difficult. I reminded him he was supposed to be setting a good example, and he pulled it together for about three seconds.

Noise declared he must use the bathroom. Dinosaur said he did too. Games said he did too. Quiet said he did too. I had them all sit down on their dots, to quietly consider their breathing and sent Noise to the bathroom. He was over there long enough to turn on the light and open the door before coming back to his place, disrupting the barely-there silence of the room using his mouth and lungs. I looked at him, amazed at his ability to entirely destroy my classroom with his false bathroom claim. I took a few risks. Past experience has told me never to ignore a five year old who says they must use the bathroom, but I ignored Games and Quiet, letting Dinosaur go because, though he is a little odd, he has never asked to go during the class, and I don't think he picks up on enough socials cues to actually intend to be a pain in the ass. Games asks to go to the bathroom almost every class though I remind him to go before each time. Quiet has, at this point, proved to me that he was not thinking for himself so I chose not to believe him.

My hold on the class at this point was tenuous at best. Noise was more or less a constant project and I ended up sending him into the waiting room again while I tried to salvage Games, who was running around doing weird things, not paying attention, or being blatantly defiant. Able was still winding his arms around and bending his back to see his face upside down in the mirrors. So much for that good example. Dinosaur was enthusiastic and random, but mostly on the ball, Normal was doing just fine and I could kiss him for it, Quiet was pointing at Games doing weird stuff, Games was pointing back at Quiet saying that he was the one doing weird things. I glanced out to the waiting room to see that Noises parents have his jacket on and are planning on taking him home. I went out to ask him a final time if he is able to join us, if its alright with his parents that he join us, if he can please please just pull it together for 10 more minutes so we can try to end this thing on an upswing and send everyone home happy and nobody drops.

Noise was in the classroom for approximately one minute before he ran full on into Quiet who began to cry. Short of launching over half of these children into the sun, I could see no real solution to the day. I had them sit back down on their dots and the game was now to stay seated and quiet for one minute, every time I had to give any verbal reminders or corrections we had to start over. Games decided to use this as the perfect time to start laughing as though he just couldn't contain himself- I could tell he was play acting. Noise used this as an excuse to make noise and did the same thing. I sent Games out to stop Noise, Noise eventually got it and was quiet, I invited Games back in to finish the class.

Just for funsies I asked down the line what anyone learned today. I got to Noise and I led him through about how he learned not to run around and not pay attention because he could hurt people, I asked Games what he learned and he didn't say anything, I asked Quiet and he shrugged. I began a small speech that I really felt was getting somewhere, hitting home, salvaging something so I could a at least feel like the day wasn't a complete wash. I would have called it "If you guys don't behave I can't teach you anything and it isn't fun for anyone" had I been able to finish it-- but right then a black uniform came out of the office clapping its hands and giving directions.

Around here is when I totally gave up.

It's getting pretty dry around here these days.

goody goody gunships!!

Ima stick with the memories. They are fun, they keep me out of trouble. Sort of.

Next set, in no particular order:

He is giving a lecture in the beginning of the year to the entire freshman class. It is about what he calls "homobovinus." Cow people. I fall in love with his smile, his wisdom, and his wit. I am sitting next to someone I know but I don't talk to anymore. I write these words on the top of my notes: "I could look at his smile all day."

I am sitting among friends in the cafe at the dorms. One of the more serious of our number is probably talking about something to do with russians, vodka, or Quentin Tarantino- he always was at that point. He is probably wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Expressionless, unannounced, I put my knife in his cup of milk.

It is the middle of the night and I am sitting on the hood of his car while he goes to relieve himself on a nearby building. We have had a few drinks and are in problem solving mode: who is spending the night where, for how long and with who. I have written a text message to my good friend Ms. Moonshine much earlier in the evening during the actual 'evening' part of the evening. I consider the reality, which is that we have not spoken in nearly five years, he lives very far away, and last I knew he was a mortician who shaved his eyebrows. As he approaches from afar my phone tweedles.

The message I sent: "Dude."

The message I get back: "Dude, seriously."

The power has been out for two days- my father, my mother and my sister have all been sleeping in the living-room because we have limited candles and flashlights, and limited ways to heat the rest of the house. My father is reading by the light of a large candle, this song and others like it are playing from a small, battery operated, yellow, plastic tape player/radio.

I spend every day after school in my room, drawing the faces of musicians I like.

I am running over the top of a snowbank in the early evening. It is still snowing, and many places closed early in anticipation of the storm. It is only a mile from where I live, but it is dark with low visibility, and there are those monstrous ploughs out- I try to make the trip quick to diminish possibility of tragedy. I compound the risk by, of course, having all black winter wear- the flashiest thing about me at this point is that I haven't been falling through the top crust of the banks. There is only one student in, as he lives closer to the school than I do, I expect this. I don't recall the lesson, only the eerie quiet beauty of the commute.

There is a kid at the day care center I go to who always gives me a hug when I get there. I always try to avoid him, thinking this naked emotional display of his joy over my arrival is a little too intense. There is also a girl there who finds pleasure in slapping me in the face on a pretty routine basis- she is an older sister of a friend of mine so I see her regularly. I don't recall why, but I do remember asking the lady who ran the place (I'm sure it was her house, actually) to tie a bandanna, kamikaze style, around my head sometimes.

I am in front of a small group wearing white uniforms- I am also wearing a white uniform. There are a number of men sitting at a table wearing black uniforms facing us. I am speaking with a peer, but we are pretending to have just met each other. She is displaying to the table full of black uniforms what she knows about "information". I am her dummy "information". I have been told by one of the black uniforms to pretend to be looking for something to relieve stress, but something more interesting than a gym. She asks me what I do for work. In the real world I have just lost my job.

"I'm a.. radio.. personality."

"Oh-ho really? And what are you looking for here?"

"Just something different you know? I don't get to move around a lot at work.. and it can be pretty stressful with the.. sound effects.. "

End set.

So. Been visiting Mr. Blog a lot lately I guess.. .. it's a good way to escape without completely mentally checking out I suppose, but then so is qi gong.

This is a song about Alice.. remember Alice?

We had a conversation the other night about masculine and feminine traits. I told him what I 'like' what I 'look for'. He never really got back to me about his side of things-- but I think he was planning on graphing it. At any rate, at one point I told him it was more important that he is what he is instead of what I 'like' or I 'look for'-- works out fine because he falls primarily in both categories as he is. He asks me what if one day I wake up next to him and he's turned into a turtle, then what would happen? Then he could say "I told you so." Or, he reminds, more like "IIIIII tooooold yoooouuuu soooooooo."

A set of memories, in no particular order:

I am very young, sitting on the right side of the last third of a yellow bus that is waiting to pull away from the school. I am looking out the window, and for some reason I have to constantly remind myself that I am a young girl, sitting on the right side of a school bus, looking out the window. "I am me." I repeat to myself, "I am me."

It is Tuesday. My dad is fixing dinner and I am reading a trashy vampire book. We are listening to Jonatha Brooke Live. We later talk about an old radio drama he has been listening to on the quiet nights in his apartment called Moon Over Morocco. We talk about love, people, relationships, cholesterol, and movies.

My father and I are walking the dog out in the woods near our house has has picked up a branch to use as a walking stick, I am slightly behind them, watching them crest a hill. I don't recall why I wanted to remember this moment, but I do remember telling myself never to forget it- so far I haven't.

I remember this song.

I am looking out the window of what would become my room. The walls are pink and there are taxidermied animal heads on the floor near the wall as you come in. I can hear my mothers voice through the door as she talks to the realtor. She enters and asks me what I think of the place, I point out the window to a tree that sits in the middle of the yard- I indicate to her that I like it. I would later take a year to strip the wallpaper using vinegar and hot water, line the room with blue Christmas lights, and occasionally leave the window open so I could sit in it and watch the snow fall in front of that tree.

My parents used to send my sister and I to bed when they would watch "grown up" movies. I had come downstairs to get a drink of water and seized the opportunity to lurk a tad and possibly catch a glimpse of what the big friggin' deal was. They were watching what I would later learn was Conan the Barbarian, and were at a part that involved a vat of water and some snakes. Forgetting myself I ask, to no one in particular, "Why don't they just step on them?" Cover blown, I am escorted back to bed. My mother related this tale to me not too long ago from her own point of view (seems that it stayed with both of us), explained that what I had read as incandescent rage on their part was actually that I had, unwittingly, scared the ever loving christ out of them. I suppose I can see that, small, groggy, fuzzy-headed-but-practical-girl in nightgown, backlit by dim-kitchen-light asking unexpected questions. Terrifying. Sure.

We are driving around the back roads of Winterport, the three of us, after watching Wayne's World at a friends party, after playing hide and seek until the small hours. The hours are getting slightly larger, I have to get to Bangor to meet my grandparents for breakfast. We are listening to this song, very loud. As much as I like Rage, I think of it ironically at the time. I think they would too.

I have made an elaborate robot out of legos. I bring it upstairs for reasons unknown, I drop it before reaching the top, it flies apart on the way down and I yell "Shit!". Upset not only about my destroyed masterpiece, but also about how angry my mother is about hearing me swear passionately at volume at such a young age, I become inconsolable.

It is springtime and I am sitting on the concrete steps at my grandparents house with my sister. We are playing with a neighbors cat. We have named it 'Tiger'.

I am sitting on a concrete wall under a bus stop on Mass. Ave, waiting for the 77. It is early afternoon and I have a long black bag leaned up against the wall next to me, it is full of weapons I may be tested on later that evening. This is playing in my headphones as I have just arranged all of my 90s Billboard hits into something that qualifies as listenable and nostalgic. One of my managers at the paper store is standing, looking at me, and probably has been for a few minutes-- I had been lost in the light and the music. We exchange greetings, she leaves and I continue to wait for the bus.

End set.

One holiday comes and goes. I wonder if my increased moodiness has to do with the season, or the circumstances. I only hope that something remains stable enough for me to cross it off the list of probable culprits. Maybe by springtime I'll have a clearer picture. Maybe not.

I ask him if he thinks I'm thinking about this too much.. he gives me a hug and tells me she needs someone to think of her.

kung fu is difficult.. but it isn't hard..

Dennis, my old manager, used to ask me what I wanted to do during the day when given a list of things that needed to get done. Sometimes the synapses wouldn't fire correctly and I'd take a little too long to answer her. She would ask me at that point if I wanted an easier question. I miss that.

When I answer the phone at work I usually have to take a few moments to make sure the right thing will come out of my mouth. This is about as close as I can come to describing about how tricky it is to tell exactly what I'm doing these days. Sometimes I'm kind of like that guy in that movie who doesn't have any short term memory.. except I don't have "find him and kill him" tattooed on my chest.

Sometimes I like to think I'm good at things that I'm really not. Mostly I find I'm a pretty honest-with-myself type gal. For example I've never once told myself I'm good at tennis, I cannot, no matter how hard I've tried, learn how to play poker, and I would never subject anyone to really having to listen to me sing. Sometimes I think I'm good at things that I'm not, like picking out movies that my sister likes, grocery shopping, and writing e-mails.

For example I sent out a distress-beacon of a one liner a week or two ago that completely backfired. Backfired, sideways fired, up fired, down fired.. fire all over the place.

And still I charge forward.

Sent out another one the other day, in fact.. not as bad, the results, but still lives as evidence of my foolishness.

Though heres the thing:

The person reading the e-mail can really put whatever spin they want on the thing, depending on the mood they're in, what they expect from the situation, or who they know the person writing it to be.

For example the e-mail in question could read:

"Hello. How are you? I noticed it was raining outside, did you get the umbrella I dropped off yesterday? X Smooches!"

Consider it could be an exchange between people who like each other a lot. People concerned for the others state of dryness and comfort. People who would say things like "smooches" to one another.

Now consider it is an exchange between people who can't stand each other- people who would leave an umbrella covered in dog pooh on the others doorstep after the recent passing of their family dog, Smooches.

I'm bad at e-mail. I get it.

My friend Mr. Toast said that e-mail and other forms of electrical communication were so easy because usually when writing them, you are entirely alone. I can appreciate that, the security that comes with that is appealing, for sure. That and for a long time I was filled with a debilitating anxiety when faced with the task of calling certain someones-- e-mail doesn't usually have that effect. These days I simply find myself in a position where I can't get many words in. It's tricky to interrupt an e-mail. Though it is possible to combat the entire thing and just not read it.

That's just not playing fair, says I.

I think sometimes that I may be witnessing what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object. This usually only when things are sensitive, which they have been for a few days (weeks?) now.. one thing after another, and I own it just as much as anyone.

Speaking of things I'm bad at, I went grocery shopping today. I remember once, looking down into the basket some years ago and seeing the following items: carrots, peanut butter, jell-o, frozen peas, seaweed and muffin mix.

... I think I might still have the muffin mix.. somewhere..

I just deleted a big long thing about groceries, what I buy mostly, and what I do or do not do at the grocery store. Possibly that I even deleted that small tirade should tell me I have nothing to say and I should go away.. and I probably will..

I had a conversation the other day that completely blew my mind. Like, blew it. All over the place. Like one of those sneezes that renders the blower temporarily useless 'cause they have to run and find a tissue. Blown.

every word is nonsense but I understand..

"You look like a very pale spider," I say, as he crawls towards the beside table, shimmering in the pre-morning dark.

"I have to blow my nose," he replies.

So. What's new?

No wiggle room. Wise words, those.

True though, very true.

What used to be here was some longish piss and moan session about.. crap that no longer really seems like it needs a place around these parts. This crap was small fry.. weak sauce.. the universe has since decided to throw much worse stuff out there these days.. which also doesn't really need to be here..

Also the above nose blow has no connection to the higher above nose blow.. yeah.. hope you follow that..

he's a funny guy.

Exchange between my father and I after I told him my bike was stolen, m= me d=him:

d- well you know there's an instructional video on how to get your bike back if someone steals it.

m- yeah?

d- yeah. It's called "Pee-Wee's Big Adventure."

Funny thing about people is that they generally just look like ordinary people when you meet them.

I forget sometimes that the term "white belt" doesn't mean much to most people.

Let me weave you a tale about what it was like when I was a "white belt".

I am unable to erase certain parts of my memory-- and this is not a complaint. I like being able to recall in stunning technicolor detail, the events of the past.

The first time I met my Instructor we talked a little bit about what some of my goals were and why I wanted to train in Martial Arts. I told him that it was something I had always been interested in, I also remember implying that he would know immediately, with his superior and mystical knowledge, where I stood physically, and be able to determine a few things from there. I implied this information in a nervous kind of joking way.

ll- me

if-him

ll: You'll know, right? Like, you'll be able to tell what I can do, right? -nervous giggle-

if: Excuse me..? -his hands go behind his back, Wong Fei Hung style-

I had never met a real life martial artist before and didn't know how to behave around one- I believe at this point all I have gained is perspective. I still screw up sometimes, but now instead of feeling like I've been blind sided by a train, it's more like watching myself fall down the stairs.

At this point I know better.

At this point I try only to be honest.

Stern, he thinks I'm messing around with him, I'm sure. Little does he know, I'm serious and totally believe that this is possible-- I am not mocking him, but I think he thinks I am. Either way, with these two words, he is able to communicate to me that he is not one with which to fuck. I stammer over a serious explanation of what I was getting at, and he becomes pleasant again.

The above was to be the first in a long line of misinterpreted statements between the two of us- mostly involving me trying to joke with him, and he being unavailable for it. What can I say, my timing isn't always great. Many of these [failed] interactions are fondly recalled, if not all that fun to go through at the time they unfolded.

A late night phone call:

if: Hello, Assistant Instructor Lindsay, are you awake?

ll: Yes, are you?

Silence on the other line. I become alarmed..

I realize these failed jokes could be because I'm just not that funny..

Tra laaa..

All seemingly flip comments about my Instructor are made out of a familiar affection, by the way. A tiger is, in it's own way, cute- but it is still a tiger and must live it's way. Because he is an unrelentingly accomplished human being who takes himself very seriously, for whom I have nothing but love, admiration and respect, I must find some harmless way to pick on him, because that is my way. Thems the breaks.

I went through my first lesson pretty convinced that I had just entered a war-like environment, survival being at the forefront of my mind. I find that when talking to people about Martial Arts training, no matter when someone signs on, the training is always far more grueling, painful, and impossible a few years before the newbie shows up. Hard is hard is hard. Learning to walk isn't easy- what most people forget is that when they start in about how "hard things used to be" is that the time they are talking about is probably around when they were in a time of some heavy learning and development.. which is, duh, HARD. Of course it was harder then. If the teacher is worth their space in the classroom they'll be sure to make it hard again, because real goddamned martial arts training isn't easy.

I had initially intended to write about my very first test in this entry-- I suppose I still could.

I remember coming in late to the lesson having been across town without my bike on some lame 'date' with some lame 'guy' who my friend Jay nicknamed the 'windmachine'.

This is a hilarious nickname, by the way. The guy had long hair and rode his bike without a helmet, leaving his hair to drift along behind him, but the possibilities for further interpretation of said name are [almost] endless.

I had done very little 'studying' for said test, believing that I could leave it to chance and get the most accurate picture of what I knew if I didn't. I recall during the very beginning movements blowing something out of my nose that stayed on my upper lip a few moments before I was able to remove it. I remember lifting the wrong foot during a particular short form and heading incorrectly for the wall. I remember interpreting a 'side kick' as 'kicking to the side'.

At the end of the test my Instructor asked me some questions about the school and why I train in it. He asked me what the most important thing I was learning was. When I hesitated he gave me a hint, said that there was a really famous song with the same name that started with an "R". I was tempted to say "Rapture", but instead went to the obvious "Respect" which is, you know, TRUE. He also asked me what my understanding of Kung Fu was, and I gave him some canned sass-pot answer that I had read off of the schools website, unsure what he was looking for and feeling that I wasn't in any position to free style with my limited exposure to the art. Did the same thing with Qi Gong, but I think I did slightly better with this question. He asked me what I thought of when I was holding positions-- I told him I thought of numbers, songs.. plans.. he started to shake his head. I asked him if he wanted what I actually thought of or what I should think of during holding- these being two different things at the time. I eventually gave him the better answer and we moved on.

I held a horse position while he graded the test in the office.

He came out and told me I had passed and gave me the scores, the self defense being the lowest.

I tested for 2nd Degree on August 31 2010.

I sat in a meditation position while both my Instructors graded the test in the office.

They came out and told me I had passed, but we would go over the actual scores at some later date-- I am sure the self defense will be the lowest.

My first section test was easily as hard and stressful as my 2nd Degree test, though naturally the circumstances had escalated appropriately. Instead of doing simple punch and kick combinations for a few seconds, I was doing forms while not actually attached to the ground (to be read any way the reader likes, I'm sure all interpretations are true). Also, there is much more hinging on my 2nd Degree than my first section.. obviously.

Maybe I'm a little more serious now, though I wonder if any more serious than I would be if I hadn't been training for the last 5 years.

5 years? September 2005 to September 2010?

That would be only 5, wouldn't it?

Not long at all.

Like it was yesterday, but also like that 'yesterday' was a million years ago.

That is 365 million days of gratitude.

Bend Your Front Knee.

I just tried and failed at making rice burgers.

Heres why:

A little while ago I bought 20 pounds of rice.

Heres why:

I've been trying to design and fabricate a durable and inexpensive 'weighted vest' for lack of a better term. I have also kind of failed at that. I came up with the exact design of this thing while on the bus back from New York after a conversation with Mr. F that left me inspired and unreasonably fired-up for the four hour long bus ride. As soon as I got home I measured the thing out and started to cut up some bed sheets in order to later sew and fill with, you guessed it, rice.

This object has now mutated into a sad pile of thick, rice filled, rope-like appendages. The one honest love of my life has decided to affectionately refer to this 'weighted vest' as my 'sock project.'

No socks have been used in this process.

The thing isn't heavy enough, when it's on- probably only like.. 7 pounds or something. Not really what I'm looking for at this juncture. It is, however, just floppy, long and awkward enough to cause a a great fuss when trying to put it on-- which is it's second strike. It's pretty much just a long strip of.. stuff.. with ribbons on either end and connecting two segments. It's meant to be wrapped over and around the shoulders and then around the waist and then retied in some boyscoutish fashion to keep it in place. The design isn't the problem. It was the execution. Mr. F tells me he used a fishing vest and put lead weights in the pockets. I ain't gut no fishin' vest. Or lead weights. Sock project, including the rice, cost me about.. 9 dollars to make. It gets expensive when you consider the amount of time sewing, stuffing, etc.. sock project required.

Which brings me to my failed rice burger attempt, which is cooking, at this moment, on ripped tin foil, because I can't get it together to buy a damned cookie sheet.

They wont stay together, the burgers, and I'm not all that upset about it. They smell ok. The continued adventure of trying to make ones that DO stay together will, I hope, eat up the 13 pounds of rice I have left over from sock project.

I have used bananas as a binding agent before, made some vegan banana bread using this method. I am reluctant to try them in this context. The bread that I made held it's shape for about three seconds once sliced. Beyond that it wasted no time redefining itself as a very small desert.

By the way I'm sure most of you are dying to know what DOESN'T stay together when it comes out of the oven, so I'll just go ahead and tell you: Ripped Tin Foil. Ain't no banana on the planet gonna keep that thing from falling apart. Only half of them hit the floor. Small comfort.

I saw the new Karate Kid movie yesterday. Another letter:

Dear The Kung Fu Camera Man:

There is no need, The Kung Fu Camera Man, to move the camera so fast as to make the viewer sick. No need. Because, you know what? Those cats? Are fast as lightening. In fact it was really annoying, all of the blurring, the weird flipping, the shaky crap. Look, The Kung Fu Camera Man, cut the shiz, yo. If I'm going to watch Jackie Chan beat up a bunch of 12 year olds, it'd better not be all fuzzy.

Also, I thought that Ralph Macchio was far more sympathetic, hopping around the ring, at the end of the movie.

Loosely related to sock project; I did an internet search for some appropriate training t shirts to wear around the school so I don't funk up my uniform, but so I can also come off as respectable enough to sign someone up. I became confused and alarmed when I checked my top right search box and it read "under armor dicks," right there, unashamed.

Le sigh.

On my way to the school yesterday I was almost ended by a cab driver. He was dropping someone off, and I was.. you know.. riding my bike to school, you can see where our interests clashed. He didn't really think it was necessary to signal or anything when he was pulling over, or to give me enough room/time to clear his outside edge and let him go about his business. My right handle bar clipped some parked cars' mirror, thankfully I was going slow enough to not be much affected by this. I made angry Johnny 5 noises at him for a moment while he decided what he was going to do- speed up or stop or whatever. I also left a trail of rubber on the road where he decided to just STOP right in front of me. What a kidder.

My recent facebook activity, I realize has been particularly daffy. Here is more evidence to support that state of mind.

I have adopted a cucumber plant, it lives on my porch with it's adopted friend the squash plant, some chives, and until recently, a jade plant. The cucumber plant has produced two large, lovely cucumbers over the last month, and has, beyond that, decided to use it's energy to take over the balcony. The squash plant has taken to leaning WAY out of it's pot and throwing flowers at the cucumber plant in protest. The jade plant, situated between the two, wasn't doing so well, so I brought it inside away from the conflict. At first I was suspicious of the squash plant, and favored the cucumber who had yielded such fine produce. Now I question my preference. The second cucumber stabbed me (yes.) (stabbed.) and though I used to find it amusing to watch it's vines creep around the porch to follow the sun, the death gip it now has on the railing is nothing short of unsettling.

And of course, there is so much more going on, but none of it so domestic and useless. I will, maybe, tell you sometime.

Until then,

Zhenren.

Copycat.

A while ago I came up with a really good analogy involving Hyrule and A Link to the Past. I don't remember what the analogy was specifically, though understand that every time I make an analogy in conversation, there is part of my brain that remains dedicated to that particular instance. Every time I draw that seemingly unrelated but clarifying parallel, part of me is charging my sword and hunting for rupees..

Back to the flies, because I'm sure you are dying to know.

When I got home a few days ago my window was basically covered in very large houseflies. The proper term for buggies like this is "filth flies" and (as my sister researched, having run into a similar situation living above me) they live in dead things and are used to declare the time of death based on their arrival-- also called "flesh flies". I spent a good amount of time separating the ones that were merely caught between my screen and window from the ones who were actually in my room. These more urgent situations were caught under cups and flung outside-- the others left to hang out in limbo until they either found a way back out or bellied up on the windowsill. The critters had discovered a third option, which was to shimmy their way into my room.

2am EST, the killing began. More detailed accounts of how this is done can be found here at my sisters blog. I was not so impassioned with my delivery, but you get the idea.

I have an interval timer.

I use it sometimes.

Yesterday I was going to use it to do a 5 minute paylgae.

I had made the emotional, spiritual, and mental commitment to do this early in the day. I went through some preliminary movement to cause some heat that would carry me through to the afternoon. Started the adventure about 2..

I got to the fourth position, starting to feel out the best way to breath and relax, and who should come around the corner but some old guy and his gas powered push mower, ready to spend the next hour mowing the small yard I was standing on. A man came out from the building across the way, and actually started to try to have a conversation with the guy mowing the lawn OVER the noise of the lawnmower. They remained stationary at one end of the yard, screaming at each other while I weighed my options. In spite of my drive to conquer time and space that afternoon, I decided to heed the direction given to me not twelve hours earlier, and find a healthier environment in which to practice.

Anyway. I've planted the seed. I will do it-- probably more than once. Just not sure when.

We've been having some scrummy lightening storms lately. I'd just as soon be out in one of those.. .. .. than not..

I get to be a real jerk when I get bored, by the way. Mostly in an educational environment, where I don't think I'm being challenged, I don't feel welcome, or more specifically, I feel that my time is being wasted.

I had a professor at MECA who was probably much dumber than a bag of hammers, who taught a Generic World History class. He kicked off the semester with the information that the US Constitution and the Bill of Rights were the FIRST and ONLY documents that outlines the rights and responsibilities of the people at that time. Bullshit, says I. I'm not going to give loads of examples here to illustrate what kind of smarty pants I am-- it doesn't really matter what I know about this. What does matter is that statement is SO not correct. He earned my distain pretty early on by being slightly racist and classist in his lectures, so I rewarded him with snarky hand raising and ironic (but frustratingly correct, over achieved and always polite) test answers. I recall one test at the end of the whole affair that had a bunch of true/false, essay, and multiple choice questions of which we only had to answer 50%. Because I'm an ass, I answered 100% of the questions in 50% of the time it took the rest of the class (art school), some of the answers were as described above. For the vocabulary part of the exam, in the "Synchronicity" slot I wrote down "a connecting principle linked to the invisible" (a là The Police-- which is.. a right answer, kind of) and for "Umma" I wrote down "the first side of a Pink Floyd record". Because it is.

I am only slightly less juvenile about these things at this point in my life. Though usually I don't put myself in a position to have my time wasted. The mind boggles for a while, and then it wonders. If it is not led to boggle at first it merely wonders.. I can't help but daydream sometimes that certain acronyms must be really good at doing the robot, or certain others may enjoy singing karaoke, wearing funny hats, playing the.. tuba? poker..? ddr..?

I was told once (jokingly?) while running the school in Portland that spies from down south were a possibility. Because I am completely irreverent about such tremendously useless, dishonest, and disrespectful activities, all I could do was picture a HB, full uniform, leaning on a street lamp reading a newspaper. He would be well equipped with false facial hair (placed over already established facial hair of similar form but probably of different color), possessed of dark glasses, a sombrero, probably leading an elaborately saddled donkey from stake out to stake out. All this in downtown Portland.

Who does your life belong to?

Today, May 10, marks the one year anniversary of when I started to really understand what it really means to be a warrior.

I've been making paper kites at work. I've spent the last three shifts cutting things out, gluing them together, and placing copious amounts of ribbon around them in order to make tails. My first few attempts were a little.. weird. One of them looks like a paisley tinted bottom feeder, another like a misdirected chair caning project. I am amazed that they still let me near the craft table. I still haven't figured my manager out. He appears to be genuine, though reminds me of a particularly bitchy gentleman I used to work with a million years ago in another life time. He's always fairly chill about things, usually puts a good spin on stuff-- it's consistent.. I can't yet tell if it's real or not. As with many of the things I encounter that are pretty good, I usually assume they are too good.. and, in their goodness, unreal. I keep expecting him to turn around and say something snarky.. hasn't yet. It could be that he is (gasp!) just a nice person!! Weird!!

Anyway.

We were going to go to the beach, but, alas one NI decided that another two hours of my life was to be taken and wasted on mostly useless or overkill/overload information, we did not. My idea in order to recover, after I retrieved myself from the funk I had allowed myself to sink into, was as follows:

"So tell me if you like this idea: we stay here, play video games? later get some beer? Saute those boneless spare ribs with some onions? Maybe throw them on a pizza? Hang out? Maybe watch a movie?"

"Am I awake?" He pinches himself.

Yes. It's true. It only occurred to me after I got through the confusion surrounding his question that I am actually a dude, parading around in a short girl body. Video games. Beer. Pizza. Ribs. Movie. Dude.

I just wrote the most useless-to-an-outsider-e-mail known to man. I maintain that it's important. About as important as how I feel about the next huge life jump I make.

So. There you go.

Also, last shift at work I was supposed to make clothes for little paper dolls. The one I made? Straight out of Boogie Nights..

'You better WALK down them stairs..'

I killed an ant the other day in the kitchen. I felt bad about it for a solid twenty minutes. I clearly haven't forgotten about it- still wish I had just flung him outside somewhere.

Whenever I ride my bike to the school it is as though the universe has decided to make even that task unbearable. It is a 3.5 mile straight shot from my place to the school on Mass Ave. A straight shot full of unbelievable wind, terrible bike lane conditions, dangerous drivers, miserable tailbone pummeling, and my messenger bag rattling bruises into my spine. After two weeks I can mostly sit on my bike without wincing, in spite of my complete lack of ass, and in spite of the bike lanes resemblance to the strips of skin along the scarred jawlines of acne ridden teens. Also, I discovered that the wind is so bad sometimes that if you stop peddling, no matter how high your gear, or how impressive your velocity, you will slow to a crawl and then a stop.

Sometimes I like to pretend that things that suck are awesome. Like how I pretend that all the small and infuriating challenges I come upon are awesome learning experiences, and well! thank great Zombie Jesus for that horrible inconvenience!! As a result I don't get really frustrated all that often, and when I am completely at the end of my rope I usually smile a lot. And laugh.

This bike ride though, it is not awesome. It sucks.

I had a job interview at an undisclosed location. To avoid sounding slanderous or complainy I will refrain from using their real name here-- though if you were so inclined to look up this place on the web you would find nothing but slanderous complaints. I know this because before I went to the interview that's exactly what I did.

I will call them 'Pulsar, In Great Shape'.. P.I.G.S. This particular particulate universal bit is a 'Judgement Free Zone'. It says so on all their pens (one of which I stole from the place after I had the interview.. hee hee! Judgement free! Pen for me!!) Part of the interview involved the tired, permed, and hair-gelled 20-something informing me that if, during my shift as front-desk-person, I hear anyone doing any unnecessary (or necessary, seems), grunting, I am supposed to say to them that such behavior is prohibited. If they are brazen enough to grunt a second time, their membership is to be be suspended forever and they will then be escorted from the gym. During the second offense, a blinking blue light goes off, a big fuss is made. P.I.G.S. be intolerant of grunters, yo. I level a brown eye at her, taking all this in.

".. grunting?" I ask.

I didn't get the job.

It has been long enough between posts now that I am proud to mention that I have finally found gainful employment. I work at a fancy stationary store and get paid to make mothers day cards and paper flowers-- this activity nestled between arranging stamps unpacking boxes and adjusting many things to visually adhere to my obsessive need for neatness in the workplace. I can't tell if my manager has the capability to be as two-faced and bitchy as he would immediately seem. He appears to like me, and I believe it is only a matter of time before he begins to show his true colors.

Yesterday was 'Leave-the-new-girl-at-the-register-by-herself-during-a-rush' day. I lived through that okay. At the school when I am left to my own devises, at least I can rely on my own resourcefulness to pull myself out of (or closer to) whatever disaster I may be headed towards, In the prepackaged land of computers and retail, I have no such luxury. I can't just make up whatever button will allow me to do a return, or invent a process that will stop a barcode from coming up with nothing no matter how many times I scan it.. grrr..

It is shocking to me that when people know someone is having a hard time they will retreat-- keep their distance and not want to 'be a bother'. My sister just recently read a book about Catherine Lord, a woman who was diagnosed with cancer (she was a bunch of other things, Harvard professor, archivist, artist, etc.. sister wrote a speech for John Lithgow and the president of Harvard to read at the Harvard Arts Medal thing held in her honor.. look her up.. ) and GUESS WHAT!?! When people found out she had cancer there weren't many folks who like.. supported her. People she worked with, people she had known forever just kind of retreated.. didn't want to 'bug' her. Or some bullshit. I like to think that I'm not one of those people-- the ones who wouldn't lend a hand to someone they knew was going through one of the hardest things they could possibly go through.. ever.. In fact, I'd say that I'm the opposite.. more likely to unwittingly, out of concern, try to help out people I'm not all that close to, or really shouldn't.

I met a guy last night who was in recovery of some kind of cancer. I know this because he was wearing his cancer meds in a small vial around his neck- so I asked him what it was.. lucky I didn't go with my first path of inquiry, which was to ask if it was a vial of Billy Bob Thortons blood. He seemed really gentle, really fragile, and really grateful, I wanted to give him a hug. I've been going back and forth about why he may be wearing it around his neck-- seemed a little weird. Of course people are going to ask about it, of course that will give him the opportunity to talk about it, maybe good, maybe bad, maybe a little self indulgent, maybe I should give the guy a break. He's 24, living with cancer. Maybe he enjoys that every time he feels the weight of his little canister, every time someone asks him what's in it, he is reminded that he is going to live.

These are the people in your neighborhood.

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to update my blog.

I don't know how long it just took me to get this page to work-- but in terms of musictime, it has taken 3/4 of a trance cd. 3/4!!

I probably should have given up.. I don't really have that much to say..

Last week a Darknight went on a quest to save a Dumbass in distress. That sounds a little harsh, but to know the Darknight, and to know the Dumbass, one would understand there there could be nothing else the Darknight would rather do.

I learned all kinds of groovy things. Like if you come upon a burning meth lab, and the rider has been thrown 30 yards from his automobile without his helmet, you should administer 400mg of charcoal.. immobilize the leg above and below the joint.. and make sure you put the childs head in a 'sniffing' position to clear the airway.. so you can properly call for ALS.. place them on the fatperson-tray.. begin 2 minutes of CPR.. do not try to AED the frozen homeless persons K-hole, in spite of his central line.. be mindful of axial loading footballers-throw them a rope if listing, inert, in the deep end.. if there is an empty container of pills next to a rabid fox, be sure to get SAMPLE data from spectators BEFORE trying your ABCs, directing movement from the head, or clearing snow away from his airways.. recognize that C-spines are the worst thing in the world.. safely dispose of yours while doing all of the following EXCEPT keeping your promise to the hypothermic teen who wants you to get her a blanket before you stick black, yellow and red tags to all 'surviving' almond scented victims of cyanide poisoning.

I had my own kind of warped Easter Egg hunt this year. Saturday, while walking down the street my nose ran afoul of a teensy fly. Easter Sunday the teensy fly preformed a velocitous exodus from foul-nose-home during a morning nose-blow, he, unlike The Jesus, still dead on Easter.

Alarm.

When 'The Hatching' does actually occur, I will be sure to inform anyone who is interested. I am considering tea with Mr. F soon. Wouldn't that be dandy, if, during a peaceful conversation, *things* began to happen. I imagine my nose would start to weep, there may be a rumble, and then lo! The air would be full of teensy flies! The source narrowing at my nose.. it would be not unlike a plague.. muaha.

Conversation while conducting a tour through the guilty pleasure section of my itunes. The Black Eyed Peas comes on, 'My Humps':

- Really?

- Yeah?! Have you seen the video? It's *AMAZING*.

- Are there camels in it?

My roommate goes to the bathroom roughly every twenty minutes. This is how I can tell he is home/alive.

I found my passport, by the way. Thank you for asking. Finally got freecare.. I think.. that will potentially be an expensive question to answer.

I miss playing softball.

Had a good coffee with a great guy this afternoon. Sat in the sun. Watched people.

Insistent Destructor Lindsay got out 250 fliers on Saturday. I met a pretty orange cat and saw a lot of really cool doorknobs. Whoot.

It is now my job twice a week to be at the front of the adult classes-- to lead by example, keeping the energy up, the movement crisp and the standards high. Means I get to yell a lot, and for the first time in a long time I am sore. This is exactly what I had hoped for at this point.

Exactly.

If only I could stop it with these phone-tarded things. If only.

Let me count the ways.

-Would you still love me if I gained 20 pounds?

-Um, why..?

-You haven't answered my question.

-Well, yeah I would. Where are we talking about here.. and why..?

-Where..? In my.. ear..?

-Well, I don't know, it might get in the way..

-You wouldn't love me if I gained 20 pounds in my ear? What kind of monster are you?

-What kind of monster am I?!?

Lucky Charms: Magically Defenseless..

Chocolate frosted crescent kicks.. my new favorite breakfast cereal. It is satisfying to know that after six hard years I have finally learned how to effectively kick someone in the face if they are standing next to me, facing my same direction. Taken me that long to gain the flexibility-- I believe this summer might mark the one where my knee and my shoulder finally meet. Hoo-hah.

When I take the bus anywhere lately, I pay in cash. I do this because I have not yet had to take the T anywhere, and I do not want to buy a T pass. In doing this I have had the good fortune of treating the bus like a giant vending machine. Just like a regular vending machine, it is possible, and not uncommon, to fight with it about the receivable state of your paper money. I find it best to use something entirely devoid of creases- as though it has been flat ironed between the unyielding buttocks of Zeus himself. Sometimes the irksome little robot will spit it out at me several times before swallowing and suffering my ride along with me, puking and hiccuping with other less crispy commuter dollars.

I saw a picture of a baby on a friends web site. What went through my head was not 'cute! I wonder whose child that is?'.. it was more like 'Where did that come from..?' Squinty eyes, etc.. My sister has been talking a lot about babies.. birth.. having kids.. raising kids.. wanting kids.. It occurs to me that I may have to be a pretty close witness to this process should it ever come about. I am not excited about this and this makes me a bad person. Regardless of what I may think, I do inhabit the body of a young woman, and I may not find it to be entirely confusing and uncomfortable (experiencing a family member in pregnancy, not myself.. I'm getting to that). Like most things that scare me (to my chagrin, I was able to recently find out that were it to come down to being pregnant or having cancer, I'd prefer the latter) I have done some self educating about the whole shenanigan. This, in order to alleviate some anxiety about being at this point in life, where babies can potentially be more than just somebody else's problem.

My bark is far worse than my bite, though. I don't "get" babies.. they confuse me.. they LIKE me.. and most of them don't appear to have an agenda. I suppose it would be neat to hang out with one teach it how to do stuff.. like long division, card manipulations and how to navigate the night sky..

I would like to point out that when I google searched "What does it feel like to be pregnant?" before entering the final word to seal the google deal, the fun loving helpful search bot came up with some possible matches for my anticipated choice of words. Some likely candidates included 'what does it feel like to be high/drunk/on crack?'

Top of the list: "What does it feel like to be a bat?"

...

A different internet search taught me that the almost constantly cracked corners of my mouth are caused by brain damage.

The internet is so smart!!

This (babies and brain damage) brings me to Rosemary's Baby, which I watched earlier today. For those who don't know, it is a story about a young couple who moves into a New York apartment building and befriend an old couple- crazy neighbors, who, Rosemary later believes to be Satan worshipers hell bent on stealing her baby. Mia Farrow plays Rosemary. Thanks to her stint as a voice actress, I can't listen to her become impassioned about anything without overlapping "I'm a unicorn! I'm a UNICORN!!" in my head over the dialog. That her character is concerned about her crazy neighbors engaging in witchcraft and other such pagan activities makes these frequent outbursts and my internal overlay pretty silly. Tsk tsk..

I did laundry today. Also, I'm pretty sure I charmed a bank teller into giving me a free-for-five-years checking account even though I'm technically not a student, unemployed, and new in town. I like this because I dislike paying ten dollars a month for something that should be free, cannot guarantee at least a $750./day balance or a direct deposit from my imaginary job. That sentence was not structured very well.

Had a second interview with Wet-Interview-Place. I will come up with a clever name for it when they decide to tell me, one way or the other, if I can sell them a weekly number of hours of my life in return for at least the promise of stability.

Arlington Food Drive! Cleaning projects!! Byung Ja!!

And I think to myself, I need exact change..

I installed a shower head at Amy's. Uneventful. I only sprayed myself in the face once.

Okay, twice.

The first time I spoke to a real live human being that I could look at today was about seven thirty p.m. EST.

Nothing back from my erstwhile damp impromptu interview. Looks like, again, all signs pointing to 'yes' means 'no'.

You remember those warner brothers cartoons? The one with the big nay-saying bulldog and his little yippy buddy? I think the big guys name was Spike? As far as I can remember the little one often tried to get the big one to beat up Sylvester cause he thought 'Spike' was so tough and so cool.

Chester.

Little dog's name is Chester I recall.

I think the most frustrating part of being me is that I have both of those guys, the hopeful optimistic retard, the staunch brooding buzzkill, in the same head. My little dog is constantly reminding the big dog of these grandiose adventures, convincing the big dog they are easily surmountable if impossible at first glance. Big dog goes after the prize, gets the snot kicked out of it by unforeseen circumstances. Little dog bounces around, ready for the next adventure, convinced the big dog can handle more.

I spent all of yesterday accidentally over medicating on cough medicine. I did this because I am retarded and I don't know what numbers mean. I was curious why I felt so strange throughout the day.

'Self,' I said. 'Self, why do you feel so weird after just a dose of 'tussin? Why, Self?' Then Self looked at the bottle and wondered why it looked so empty if I had only had three doses. Lifting a groggy arm over to the resting bottle, Self learned a little something about numbers.

What she learned: 4 and 2 don't really look anything alike, written or numerically, certainly not volumetrically.. don't ask me how I got them confused. I slept pretty well, felt a little hungover this morning, couldn't use my hands very well. Completely sucked during Advanced Degree. Had all the control and enthusiasm of a dead fish. UGH.

I still have a cough.

Hit 500 this evening. My hands tingle and are the color of an Oompa Loompa. Hoot.

When I want to receive e-mail from someone, while loading the page to my mailbox, my brain sings a little song using the name of the person I hope to hear from. The song sounds a lot like something someone could do the conga to, and works best if the person's name only has 2 syllables.

Shelley told me that the mirror I have is one of the ones that makes you look fatter than you are. In the really real world I must be approaching AIDS patient status.

Like many people, I used to want to be Luke Skywalker, true ages 9-?. Growing up, Blue Hill was the farthest things from the bright center of the universe, and during school I'd be doodling dragons and knights, daydreaming into the clouds of adventure, intrigue, mystery. I would venture now, that actually being Luke Skywalker probably wasn't a whole heck of a lot of fun. I would imagine there was quite a lot of down time, when he wasn't doing battle with himself in dark caves, or running around with Yoda tied to his back like some freakish three year old.

I feel like I have succeeded in designing a life full of challenge, mystery, and adventure. I'm lately in a position to 'defend my universe' from certain dark ideas, dark paths, bleak take overs. It's, surprisingly, not that hard. I say this now.. in a week I'll be back to doom and gloom, woe-is-me, what-am-I-doing-with-myself-that-is-making-even-the-most-benign-tasks-so-difficult. Kidding.. I hope I wont be there.. though history tells me I might..

I've probably also succeeded in securing a life of relative solitude. I pursue an art that tends to alienate. I have moved around enough to shake off anyone I could, potentially, be seeing on a daily basis.

Soldier Medic visits. He reminds me of all the good in the world.

Then what do polar bears exist for?

My roommate has friends over!! They are two women, I'm guessing mother and possibly girlfriend. I have made an effort to be social-- walked by his room (where they are) in transit to the kitchen so I could get some tea. He said hello, but made no effort to introduce me to his lady entourage. I was thinking it would probably be fine if I introduced myself to them.. said something like "Oh hey! My name is Lindsay, I'm Andrew's roommate! Nice to meet you.. blah dee blah.. "

For reasons unknown I decided it would be funny if I slipped and accidentally called him "Andrea." Because it would be imperative that I not do such a thing, the possibility of this accident actually occurring increased by at least a thousand fold. I kept quiet, hiding behind a cup of tea on my way by his room.

Anyway..

Zhe Rüelz:

There are several different types of chess players. Some play for love of the game, love of the challenge. Some enjoy the playful snobs, the hungry intellectuals, the elite gamers that often compete over such a heady playing field. There are those who seek affirmation and find the sophisticated arena of chess a noble platform to prove their intellectual worth. It is not uncommon that games of chess end leaving one person feeling just slightly dumber than they had earlier, and the other maybe a touch more smug. If you've played the game you have been the fool or the ass at least once, yet as chess is a haughty game of nobility and deep internal negotiations, one does not always get to 'play' the ass, if you take my meaning. Victors of much less esteemed activities such as tic tac toe or lawn bowling may be seen executing enthusiastic fist pumps and exuberant exclamations of "In yo faaaayyyceee!!" towards their former (LOSER) competitors-- such is not the world of chess. Additionally, people don't often play chess to get wasted. The following is a breakdown of a potential "new" way of looking at the chess board, the chess culture, the chess mind. If you find these results unfavorable, I may suggest reversing the game principle, having the drinking be a 'reward' instead of a 'punishment'. Enjoy.

Pawn: sip

Rook, Knight, Bishop: half shot each

Queen: shot (if your opponent gets a queen from a pawn you must take a shot-- but try try try to remember!!! That means they could lose **2** queens!!)

Check: sip

This set up is to be played with some kind of hard liquor (though if you intend to play more than one game you may want to use beer or wine.. just saying). I recommend vodka for hurt feelings, whiskey for hurt faces, gin for complicated rationalizationzzabouthowyoutotallycouldvehadummmrightthere..swearit.. rum for you'rejuzzzocutewhenyouwin/losecommere*grinswaynosetweakhiccup*.. and tequila leads me to part two of this whole reinvention process, which is strip chess.

This requires that the players are on mostly even clothing grounds. Undershirts are kind of necessary for the foolishness of the event to unfold appropriately.

Pawn: accessories, socks, shoes, hats ties etc..

Rook: per pant leg

Knight: per undershirt sleeve

Bishop: per overshirt sleeve

Queen: underwear (if your opponent gets a queen from a pawn that is instant nudity for you. hoot!)

Check: acts as the pair to the removal of sleeve or pant leg. If there is not an item of clothing that has already been 'started' the act of putting someone in check defaults to accessories.

Things to consider:

Removal of both sleeves/pant legs is the same as losing the clothing item.. duh.

Don't be a jerk and wear all your winter gear to the game.

Don't be a ho and wear pasties and a g-string and consider them 'accessories.'

If someone begins to feel sick (either from over drinking or over nuding..), that isn't fun.

Being an ass keeps others from wanting to pinch yours, chess is a game of the mind.. don't lose your mind.

If mixing the two activities be sure all parties are comfortable with each other-- draw cards to see who plays under what rules? Who is naked and who is drunk? Switch?

Use protection. T'would be a shame to have to limit drinking chess and naked chess to nights when the kids aren't around.

Augment as needed.

I'm probably going to scream..

I've lost my passport.

When the present isn't blasting, usually the past has it covered.

The Plan: Get up early. Walk (25 min) to Amy's place. Paint her bathroom and her bed (coat 1) go to coffee house, sit. Paint her bathroom and her bed (coat 2). Leave.

Leaving Apartment Take 1: Overslept. Looked at the key to Amy's place. Walked (25 min) in the snow and rain to Amy's house. Remembered I didn't actually pick up the key after looking at it. Looked at the door. Walked (25 min) back home, snow and rain. Picked up key. Blew nose.

(Somewhere in here I panic, convinced I have locked myself out. 30 seconds later, I find my keys..)

Leaving Apartment Take 2: Walked (25 min) back to Amy's place, tried key in side door. Tried key in front door. Tried key to the left. Tried key to the right. Tried keys thusly at both entrance locations at both deadbolt and doorknob venues. Looked at the door. Called Amy. Waited (25 min) outside for Amy so she could let me in. Painted bathroom, painted bed (coat 1). Ate. Painted bathroom (coat 1.5) ran out of paint. Left.

Moisturized hands. Will continue moisturizing hands until the end of time.

Went to catch the 77 to class. Dropped my remaining $1.50 USD into the bus slot for it to take me about seven minutes down the road and then go immediately out of service. Walked ten feet towards Arlington (still in Cambridge, with Somerville separating us- easily 40 minute walk). Stared at the silent dead bus, betrayed. Walked twenty feet towards my apartment. Stopped. Stared back at Arlington. Watched another 77 drive by. Pawed at empty pockets. Visualized the stack of quarters sitting on my dresser. 15 minutes to make a 40 minute walk. Walked home.

(Richard told me to watch out for the North Cambridge 77.. and that if I ask the magical bus wizard he will give me a special piece of a tree that will allow me to get on another 77.. free!! hee hee!!)

The phrase "tomorrow is another day" sounds menacing.

Conversation between me and my sister:

M= me

E= her

"Koala bears are actually pretty mean, yuhnno?" -m

"Well, they're only up for what? two hours out of the day? I'd be mean too if I was constantly 'just waking up'" -e

"I can see that." -m

A small pause while we continue walking.

"I didn't realize they slept that long. Maybe that's like, where they live, you know? Like, that's their life? when they're sleeping? And like, when they're awake their life gets interrupted and they get mad?" -m

There is a pause during which, I am certain she is speechless, awestruck by my tree-dweller-shattering revelation.

"...are you stoned?" -e

Conversation between me and my dad:

M=me

D=him

"You sound a little tapped up, seems like you need to ground yourself some. When was the last time you meditated?" -d

"While ago.."-m

"You really should, the benefits are without limit in importance and abundance, though usually not apparent immediately." -d

"Yeah.. " -m

"It really does make a huge difference, not in the external world, but more in your internal ability to cope with the outside."-d

"Yeah.." - m

"Things will start to become clearer, you'll feel more centered, you will start to see nothing but sunshine and lollipops, the world will start to bubble and shimmer. Tom Cruise will appear to you out of the mist, floating on a cloud.." -d

"You know he only has one tooth in the middle of his mouth?" -m

"Really?" - d

I should meditate more. I should practice more. I should have myself on a chul sa chung schedule. I should have myself on a weapons schedule.

I have to find a job. I have to figure out some other technicalities that I had forgotten about that were included in the moving process.. beyond unpacking boxes and arranging furniture and whotsits.. I have to get more centered.. I should meditate more..

I think I can pin point exactly when I started to feel.. this way. Reluctant. Un Willing. Unusually Gatdamn Hardtogetgoing= UGH.

UGH began roughly three minutes after I did a whole shit load of pushups, and approximately 9 hours before I started, in ernest, to pack my Portland life into boxes. I believe the first tier of UGH started in July.. it was more like.. '...ugh' at that point.

I believe this happened last time I moved here.. I really need a job. That will sink me.. center me.. keep me from being all over the place and largely irresponsible and disorganized with my time..

Painting day 2: No late start. No phony key. Finished bed and bathroom. For those of you that know me, it shouldn't be that hard to imagine my crawling around on the walls trying to bend into those hard to reach places, listening to Madonna's Immaculate Collection. I was not singing into the paint brushes.. swear. More like singing to the light fixtures..

Maybe I'll go on another hunt for a jade bracelet. I don't know why I've always done this-- or why I'm mentioning it here.. maybe because if for some reason I don't come back at least the two people who read this will be able to accurately engrave my tombstone "she died looking for a jade bracelet."

Haiku for you:

Humidifier.

Go ahead, say it again;

Humidifier.

The Good Dr. J's Playful Game of Hyde and Seek.

It never ceases to amaze me the things people can do at one moment, and then the next. I have to dig out my sheeps' clothing again.. around here somewhere..

The first time we met he was moments away from (innocently) drooling on my shoulder.

After that it would appear that we spent our time apart moving along the same path, not towards each other, but maybe next to each other. We are already so used to going in the same direction it makes very little sense to continue doing it without one another. Not like two peas in a pod (that would be gross.. same parents.. icky), not like peanut butter and jelly (he's the wrong color pallet, and I'm not all that sweet..) not like two sides of the same coin. Better, we are similar sides of several different coins, we don't always over lap, but we are usually not so far off our metal precipice as to be invisible to each other. He has been there the whole time. It's my hope that he will be here the whole time.

According to certain calendars, by the time we are able to exist in the same state, the world will have ended.

Bummer.

I believe it is possible to grow up and stay a child, to keep the scent of muddy shoes and winter woods over heady cups of tea. Not everyone shares this belief, thinking instead that it's important to throw away the muddy shoes and use environmentally destructive spray scents to hide the smell of the season. The possessor of the sincerely inquisitive and creative mind is a rare beast-- the real ones don't get tired, don't give in because they see other people have.. they keep going, they don't have a choice.

I struck out today to find a job. In the rain. Not a smart thing, to try to find a job in the rain-- you get all wet, resumes get all wet. Though it wasn't really raining-- though if it was, it was the type of rain that you don't really identify as rain until it's too late. All of a sudden you are covered in the mist you have been walking through, afraid to try to brush any of it off lest you introduce it further into your clothes. Your nose has become a slip and slide, your forehead is charging admission, and the line meanders efficiently all through your hair. The umbrella you are traveling with 'incase it starts raining' is rendered useless by your lack of timing.

In spite of that, I think the impromptu interview went rather well, and I expect to hear back from them sometime soon.

Love is not blind, by the way. Love, if anything, has the power to see where many other things can't, and in spite of what it sees maintain the ability to be understanding and accepting. Whoever said it was blind may have been thinking about only the most superficial aspects of a relationship. Or maybe considering Love to be blind implies that it is blind to the world outside of the Loved. I could, potentially, understand that-- though I doubt the phrase is often used in that capacity.

It could be that 'Love is blind' is meant to mean that it is as 'blind' as any other highly emotional idea. Hate is also blind by that logic-- though considering that if Hatred is blind in the same way that superficially Love is also supposed to be blind, I would say that Hate has the ability to see much more clearly. It is easy for us to Hate what we don't like to look at, hard for us to Love the very same. If someone Loves an ugly thing, we think they are blind. If someone hates a beautiful thing we assume that they must have a very good reason for it-- that, or they are stupid, misinformed, or going through puberty.

I found one of the only ATMs that doesn't accept deposits today. I stood in front of it for a solid five minutes, disbelieving, pushing buttons and looking for the appropriate option to deposit funds to pay rent. Couldn't find it.. wasn't there. Key has locations in NY and ME.. none in MA.. and the SINGLE ATM they have secreted away on Atlantic Ave does not DO deposits.

Awesome.

So I was downtown, assuming I'd be able to get at least THAT aspect of my life squared away (third trip in as many days with limited results). Not true. I figured that I could at least make the trip worth my while by looking around Chinatown for Silkyway, which is a Martial Arts Supply store. I found it, complete with iron bars across the door and a 'For Lease' sign in the window.

Fail #2.

Holy crap. I just sent the most time consuming e-mail known to man.. it doesn't appear as such.. being shortish.. but I don't appear that complicated either.. being shortish myself..