tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49742431162863400152024-03-05T06:34:02.102-08:00~our house is hung with all our love~Chloroform in print.silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.comBlogger271125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-66647823099395727772015-07-03T23:27:00.002-07:002015-07-03T23:27:25.400-07:00GoofballsMy best friend and i did a lot of drugs in high school. (and even before that if we're really counting.)<br />
<br />
Her name was a month and people often mistook us for twins, though if you looked at all you would see that she had freckles, blue eyes and a huge, laughing mouth next to my narrow nose, hazel eyes and perpetually worried brow. We wore a lot of bracelets (and she, necklaces) and painted our fingernails religiously and often. i carried all of my stuff around in a paper lunch sack because no one ever really taught me what a purse was. When folks realized i was carrying around playing cards, cigarettes, makeup and a hackey sack in that crumpled brown bag instead of a sandwich and a piece of fruit there was always just the slightest hitch in the corner of their smile and a very particular tiny flicker over their eyes– so infinitesmally brief, but i never didn't see it. <br /><br />
(shame was a constant undercurrent) <br /><br />
We drank beer behind the businesses on the main street near our homes, cut class as many times a day as we possibly could, and tripped out in the grocery store, on the railroad tracks, up in trees, in the parks... But maybe my favorite time was the night that i snuck over to her house (through the window, like ever and always) after bedtime and she and i dropped acid in her room. We laid on our backs in the pure and pulsing darkness, listening to (no: <i>feeling</i>) Led Zeppelin and waving sticks of incense around in the vast depths above our heads, watching the glowing ember-trails for hours, endless hours... sometimes we would smoke cigarettes and exhale up into that darkness, <i>sensing</i> the plume of smoke rather than actually seeing it. i think there was laughter but it was that quiet, awe-hushed almost-giggly kind. <br />
<br />
One cloudy afternoon she and i dropped some hits and then set out for the 7-11 to buy some candy (Lemonheads, always with the Lemonheads. Still can't look at those boxes straight). The tabs hit us way quicker than usual, and within blocks we were saying 'whoa' a lot and looking at each other, alternately bug-eyed and half-lidded. The air gradually became sweeter, and we filled our lungs with what felt like euphoric sugar sunshine every time we took a breath. Palms, sweating. Tongues, tasty. Treetops rustled, and lilted gauzily while roots grew down, way deep down in the dark and acrid earth.<br />
<br />
Then suddenly: <i>Waitwaitwait– stop.</i> She put her arm out in front of my chest, standing next to me. i exhaled contentedly and let my eyes close, smiling a small stupid smile. <i>Hmmm?</i><br />
<br />
<i>Did you feel that?</i><br />
<br />
<i>Feel what?</i> (i was feeling lots of everything)<br />
<br />
<i>That– that <b>wind</b>.</i><br />
i slowly turned my head, puzzled.<br />
<br />
<i>i don't....... know?</i> i offered, unsure. (i did not really know anything)<br />
<br />
She seemed suspicious, of It All.<br />
<br />
(As i opened my eyes the sun fractured through the clouds, sparkling
all around us. Cautious birds slowly began to chirp again, and the grass swooned and bloomed into new and greener hues. i smelled a warm rosebush and watched as an airplane swam in silence through the clouds very far away, then heard someone singing along loudly to a song in their car while they crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, which was nowhere near us. Life was happening all over, and it was good. i wanted
to rise up, up into the steadily blueing and cottony sky and enjoy all of that life, in that exact moment and every single one thereafter. It was <i>so much</i>, but just enough.)<br />
<br />
After a few moments of looking about us guardedly, she lowered her arm. <i>Ok, come on</i>. The coast was clear, i guess. i snapped back down to the rough concrete sidewalk and ticking sprinkler on the lawn next to us. The hedges pulsed, and seemed to titter.<br />
<br />
i took a deep breath, grabbed her hand and began to move, almost on tiptoe, suddenly concerned with the possibility of confronting this unknown force.<br />
And within two steps i felt it.<br />
<br />
<i>That <b>wind</b>.</i><br />
<br />
We looked at each other, startled, and stopped moving again. The wind abruptly ceased. We waited, then took a few tentative steps, got back into a pace, and by gum there it was again. So it was <i>us</i>! <i>We </i>were doing it! (i felt lighter than air itself. were my feet on the ground?)<i><br /></i><br />
<br />
In a blink, everything changed. This was a pure, clear, <i>joyful</i> breeze. It danced around us and caressed our bare arms playfully. It was happy to be here; only benevolence existed. We held hands and laughed and laughed, and continued on our merry way, smiling with the new knowledge that we were creating the wind. All else around us still existed, but was washed and faded into a background. It was only <i>us</i>, with that sweet rush of air following along.<br />
<br />
We were powerful, and kind.<br />
<br />
<br />
(All we ever wanted was happiness) silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-4832369783096149802015-06-13T23:22:00.000-07:002015-06-13T23:22:10.225-07:00i step through the hazy angle of a cloud shadow<br />and out from the safety of the sun,<br />into the murky half-dark<br />
that milky ecliptic light<br />settling in uneasily all around me–<br />pooling into crevices and caressing startled surfaces<br />like an icky cling film shrinking and tightening <br />on all of us, every thing<br /><br />(if you could measure the temperature this light would be tepid)<br /><br />my boots rush and whoosh through the lengthening grass<br />hurry, now<br />can’t escape this chalky, opaque light<br />
the wateriness gently chokes me<br />i swim, while drowning.<br />silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-84518626316824027652015-06-05T20:32:00.001-07:002015-06-05T20:32:23.336-07:00Hickory dickory dockThere was once a lengthy period of my life during which i always existed twenty minutes ahead, <i>in the future.</i><br />
<br />
i was late a lot. (Well, <i>we</i> were late a lot.) We knew we would always be late. So why was it so hard to move faster, or start earlier, and thereby fix the problem? Seemed insurmountable as obstacles go. So one day we set out to trick ourselves. First it was five, then ten, and before long every clock in the apartment was set twenty minutes fast. (why did we stop there? no one knows.) Bathroom, bedroom, microwave, living room... our computer and mp3 players were normal time zones, so there really wasn't very much temporal continuity. When i would get to work (sometimes still, <i>late</i>) the clock there did not match my iPod's.<br />
<br />
How does anyone ever really know what time it is?<br />
<br />
(Airplanes are full of time-travelers.)silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-76498856475882599892015-06-02T21:06:00.000-07:002015-06-02T21:06:25.103-07:00Alphabeticalan actual angel arrived.<br /><br />besotted, billy bowed<br /><br />clarions clamoring,<br /><br />din developed...<br /><br />everyone else elbowed<br /><br />for first–<br /><br />groping, groveling.<br /><br /><br /><br />his heart hastened,<br /><br />ichor ischemic.<br /><br />jubilance jettisoned.<br /><br /><br /><br />kids kicking<br /><br />lapsed, lulled.<br /><br />massive mountains moaned–<br /><br />near & 'neath nebulous<br /><br />old oak outcried of<br /><br />protest; portentous paroxysms<br /><br />quickly & quietly quelled.<br /><br /><br /><br />rather rapacious realities rested.<br /><br />
so senses shook<br /><br />truly to the taproot, & tempered<br /><br />unrest, upheaval underneath<br /><br />vast, verdant valleys.<br /><br /><br /><br />well worn, we waited<br /><br />extemporaneous, xeric.<br /><br />you, youth–<br /><br />zealous zoomorphs<br /><br />silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-45780963798048244662015-01-13T18:44:00.000-08:002015-01-13T18:44:04.382-08:00Totall recallDo oil painters remember each stroke, each independent mix of colors, each region of each canvas? The time they pressed hard enough for some of the pain to wrap around the edge of the canvas, or the time they didn't lay enough paint down but left it that way?<br />
<br />
More urgently to me just now is: do authors remember all of their prose?<br />
<br />
A few years ago i read a book that was written by a fond acquaintance of mine. She was kind enough to send me a copy with a personal handwritten note in the front jacket. It was an enjoyable read, and felt more than a little autobiographical (hey– write what you know, right?). There was a cold grey Northern California beach, a teacher, and a murder. The one thing i remember most about it, though, was this phrase: 'concrete apron'. As in, 'he looked out across the concrete apron of his driveway to the street beyond'. i immediately felt a small thrill; i was thirty years old and an avid reader, but had never once heard the word 'apron' used that way.<br />
<br />
Five years later, i still remember this phrase. It pops into my head every so often and i marvel at it, turning it around to look at it from every angle. And i always remember the story (it was early in the book, too– first chapter even, maybe), and then the girl who wrote it. But then one day i wondered:<br />
<br />
Does she remember it?<br /><br />Does she <i>remember</i> writing it? Did it pop into her head randomly one day while out driving, or did she crack open a thesaurus some rainy afternoon while writing her rough draft and hunt for a synonym to the word 'driveway'? Or did she perhaps know someone who laid concrete for a living and heard them use the word in passing while discussing a recent job site? Does she even remember that it is <i>in</i> there? i don't know why these thoughts obsess me. i could easily send her a message on Facebook and ask her about those two little words... but then, if she had forgotten them, i would be making her once again privy to my own little secret pleasure.<br />
<br />
Although if we're being honest, she is the one who gave me that treasure in the first place– i may as well hand it back to her.<br />
<br />
______________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
And speaking of handing back: i woke up the other day with the phrase 'Mrs. Jessop handed her the pen' ringing in my brain; to my knowledge i did not read it anywhere and it was just some random unique string of words that coalesced in the folds of my brain for some reason. i immediately pictured some beautiful old drawing room, with portraits on the wall and ferns everywhere, dust motes falling gently through the sunlight streaming in that breaks up the darkness. Mrs. Jessop has her hair up in a large loose poofy bun and is wearing Victorian clothing. Her face is hurried and shows a bit of distaste as she hands the pen off to [ ], who i am drawing a complete blank on. Funny how that works.<br />
<br />
_______________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
A super creepy dream i woke from about four mornings ago:<br />
i was explaining to someone, 'here is what happens when i blink:' [i somehow illustrate/convey to them the idea of an <i>afterimage</i>] '...it has a history of sadness in Sweden.' <br /><br />Yes, yes of course. The Swedes. They would totally find afterimages melancholy. ?!?<br />
<br />
It should also be mentioned that just before i went to sleep i was lying on my bed staring at the light on the ceiling (had thrown my back out and was trying to stretch it) and kept zoning out on it for too long then tearing my eyes away abruptly to the clean slate of the ceiling only to see the inverse-color version of the light fixture. This happened over and over again. Enough, apparently, to burn deep into my psyche (and, likely, my retinas).<br />
<br />
_______________________________<br />
<br />
<br />
Lost two of my absolute favorite buttons in 2014 (the first one just this most recent new year's eve):<br />
<br />
<i>i'd open up my heart, but then all of the hostile undertones would escape</i><br />
<br />
and<br />
<br />
<i>i've stopped worrying... and that has me worried!</i><br />
<br />
...of course i want to try and find replacements but then it occurred to me: as hilarious as these sentiments are, maybe i lost them for a reason. (Is it possible to read too much into the reading into of things? Lordy.) Let 2015 be better. Please, <i>please</i> let it be better. It is already too much and it's not even February yet.silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-32709453647592117262014-09-06T13:14:00.001-07:002014-09-06T13:14:47.604-07:00presentWhen you wake up from the many sleeping bouts of the day, and you sit outside in the very-warm sunshine, looking to the utmost tops of the trees (which seem almost to reach its very source), and tiny winged things buzz around gently alone, in carefully chaotic groups, turning this way and that, blinding-white in the bright light. And here are many puffs, in all of their crystalline urchin shapes; they twirl and tumble and pinwheel down, slowly and in great long zig-zagging lines which no one can really predict (where will they end up?). Your gaze catches a quick shimmering rope of silver and your heart becomes giddy to imagine the leaping spider from the bough, taking such brave and ardent advantage of its altitude. And here is a crow, flying yet higher above with some great urgency, blackest black with a blanket of hot light slicking off its back, spurring it onwards (is its destination yet known?). A heavy blue dragonfly, brutish and clumsy, mills around in the air looking for something, anything. Your eyes look past the trees in the yard and see the trees in the next, and beyond that the trees on the hill further still. You recall a time when it was snowing here, and you sat in this same heavenly spot; someone pointed out to you that, look: the snow in the distance falls slower, even more quietly somehow. You see that she is right. Your eyes focus back and forth from here to there, noting the different speeds, and you wonder... <i>what is it that tells my eyes where to rest</i>? You see the snowfall so very clearly, both here and there, but what about all of the inbetween (and beyond, behind)? Would it simply be t<i>oo much</i> to take it all in, to know all of it? For now you are quite content with these two distances. But one day you hope to see more, to see the entirety of all possible depths, infinite focal planes. Until then, you can breathe. This is enjoyment, and you are content, and it is all enough.silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-45117902784440241662014-02-28T22:27:00.000-08:002014-09-06T13:18:39.569-07:00Things i have no photos ofA sign at a small strip mall in Kalispell, Montana, mid-February 2014 that said, simply:<br />
<br />
<i>Tyler Leigh, will you let me be your Sadie girl?</i><br />
<br />
<3></3>silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-50197621197738657812014-02-25T22:41:00.001-08:002014-02-28T22:22:23.269-08:00some thoughts on snow.i am still new enough here that every day really and truly feels like i am magically existing in some sort of fantastic winter wonderland... been walking the dogs twice a day and the mornings are quite different from the nights. i have observed many things.<br />
<br />
1) the snow sparkles much more intensely at night. i am guessing this is due to the drop in temperature, but i have no explanation as to why that would matter to an already crystallized water molecule. All i know is: it's a fact. Night time is the right time.<br />
<br />
2) Pretend smoking is still super fun.<br />
<br />
3) i love to walk by peoples' driveways after a fresh snowfall; all of the comings and going of the various vehicles create amazing geometries (diamonds, triangles, perfect parallelograms) and one day i will document this because IT IS REALLY IMPORTANT.<br />
<br />
4) When i was little my best friend's family had special icicle ornaments that they would hang on their christmas tree. They were precious spirals of delicate glass dusted with silvery glitter, and i Loved Them Ferociously. But in later years i found myself coming back to the thought of them; i saw icicles out in the world everywhere–on eaves, railings, bumpers, and the like–but when had anyone ever seen an icicle <i>on a tree??</i> Well guess what friends: tonight i saw them. They are fully real. It's pretty simple: snow piles up on boughs. Then: melting comes. Then the temps gradually drop, slowly freezing gravity in its tracks. i stopped dead in <i>my</i> tracks and actually pulled at one to make sure it was truly ice and not some sort of whimsical urban decoration... The dogs were inquisitive. i fed them the shards, and i think a little dent in my heart popped out. Reaching max capacity every day.<br />
<br />
5) The latest of these Extra-Fascinating Things that i have been paying attention to are sounds. There is your basic: the soft <i>shuhsh shuh shuhsh</i> of tromping through fresh, powdery snow. Then you get your squeaky, creaky snow, which makes sounds like you are walking on styrofoam. There is the <i><b>crunch, cranch, cronch</b></i> of breaking into your crustier snowbanks, and then there is my favorite, my latest discovery: the drumbreak (just made that up. right now). Basically here's how it goes. Snowfall. melt. cold snap. ice sheet! repeat. Then add a layer of fresh snow and pack it down with a snowplow. Now you get to walk on it. And the weirdest sounds come out... like there are entire caverns beneath your feet. You can hear your boots breaking through the ice layers to other hidden layers and releasing a bunch of trapped air, echoing within itself and resonating. i can only describe the (immensely pleasurable) feeling (and accompanying soundscapes) as breaking through the skin of a drum. It feels so bad it's good.<br />
<br />
6) This list is over. Tune in next time for such hits as: snow being blown off the trees on a sunshiney morn and falling like glitter from the sky in front of your kitchen window while you wash the dishes and try not to pass out from the beauty of it all, <i>which animal made those tracks?</i>, and: <i>hey, why won't this snow form a decent snowball?!</i><br />
<br />
(Also, that last late-night dog run, when it's so cold that your ears go from numb to fiery-frozen then back to numb again is really not all that bad when you are running up a dark road surrounded by evergreens towards the beckoning Pleiades and the whole world around you is glistening like sugar<i>)</i>
<i></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM92t16cNjfIJKx8M_GM7BZitBEsCqevYfysF_8gznd0LN9OaJFyE002gJHOclOuxZGYTrs_S7x1fCulb02jmnGW7TEIstKJsRqot1TNxdIVochjoiUmlW_X-D09frDq-q8YXgpDVOm48/s1600/pleiades8.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM92t16cNjfIJKx8M_GM7BZitBEsCqevYfysF_8gznd0LN9OaJFyE002gJHOclOuxZGYTrs_S7x1fCulb02jmnGW7TEIstKJsRqot1TNxdIVochjoiUmlW_X-D09frDq-q8YXgpDVOm48/s320/pleiades8.jpg" /></a>silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-10108819943144286512014-02-24T22:14:00.000-08:002014-02-24T22:14:14.813-08:00too late/the road not takeni would be lying if i said i didn't miss it when you used to look at me that way.<br />
<br />
made it my goal to capture your happiness so that it could live forever. instead it pains me to see it now, removed as i am from it. still, paradoxically, nothing makes me more glad than knowing i could have caused even a tiny sliver of it, a fraction of a fraction of a fraction. and the proof is staring me right in the face– right there, on your own.<br />
<br />
there is nothing else to say but this.<br />
<br />
<i><span itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/CreativeWork">Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,<br />And sorry I could not travel both<br />And be one traveler, long I stood<br />And looked down one as far as I could<br />To where it bent in the undergrowth; <br /><br />Then took the other, as just as fair,<br />And having perhaps the better claim<br />Because it was grassy and wanted wear,<br />Though as for that the passing there<br />Had worn them really about the same,<br /><br />And both that morning equally lay<br />In leaves no step had trodden black.<br />Oh, I kept the first for another day! <br />Yet knowing how way leads on to way<br />I doubted if I should ever come back.<br /><br />I shall be telling this with a sigh<br />Somewhere ages and ages hence:<br />Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,<br />I took the one less traveled by,<br />And that has made all the difference. </span></i><br />
<br />
<object width="420" height="315"><param name="movie" value="//www.youtube.com/v/uXE8AfZOhUw?version=3&hl=en_US&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="//www.youtube.com/v/uXE8AfZOhUw?version=3&hl=en_US&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="420" height="315" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true"></embed></object>silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-88199216275186646002014-02-01T00:14:00.002-08:002014-02-01T00:21:45.766-08:00a peaceful, uneasy feelingWatched <i>The Time Machine</i> this evening.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
Sat down with a cup of tea to browse through those channels-by-the-hundreds that contribute to millions of Americans' vegetative hours, and when my eyes fell upon the familiar images, everything inside me just sort of ground to a halt. As i sat down slowly, face relaxed in childlike wonder, remote in hand, my mind took me back to the first time i'd ever seen this film.<br />
<br />
What is it, exactly, about watching movies in school? What was so special about the drawing down of shades over the windows, the feeling that you were all complicit about doing something in secret, something taboo... coupled with the knowledge that this insanely valuable and highly-coveted recreation time was simply <i>handed to you,</i> for no reason– or perhaps it was a rainy day? But sometimes it was simply <i>just because</i>. And there was no greater comfort than being able to sink sleepily into your seat and allow everything around you to just fall away while you and your classmates drifted along a dreamy suspension of slow hours... sometimes you got to watch a fiction movie (i remember <i>Pippi Longstocking</i> and <i>Gulliver's Travels</i>, among others), or else you were given an educational smorgasbord of short films about the solar system, nutrition, the animal kingdom, or earth sciences...<br />
<br />
[Sidebar: here is where Boards of Canada really shines. This short track is one of my standout faves. Takes me back to that special place, every single time. Press play, and read on (if so desired):<br />
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<br />
Then it was always so disconcerting, to rouse, when the lights came back on and the teacher clapped her hands together, smiling; sometimes, maybe, you'd fallen asleep at your desk and drooled a little onto your arm, or left your ear's hot imprint there. There would be a shuffle of feet as everyone blinked, and squinted, readjusting in their chairs.<br />
<br />
And since it <i>was</i> usually a rainy day, you'd stumble bleary-eyed out onto the schoolyard, struggling sluggishly to get your backpack on over your jacket, and begin the moony walk home in the strange-dark afternoon light– stepping around the gathering puddles, walking your best straight line on the curb, smelling the acrid piles of wet oak leaves choking up the gutters. You might stop to observe the raindrops caught fast in a spider's web, or pick up a fallen stick to drag along the sidewalk behind you. Then there was always that one house you had to walk by on your route that gave you bad juju, causing your extremities to tingle and your eyes to quit blinking (the one in my neighborhood had thick arms of ivy creeping inside through the windows' edges from the exterior walls, and it seemed that not a single solitary soul resided there). <br />
<br />
Maybe you had the film's narrator from earlier echoing roundly in your skull, reminding you about how clouds form or how fast cheetahs run; how crayons are made and how sunflowers follow the sun. Maybe you had to be home right away, or maybe you were on your way to a friend's house.<br />
<br />
Either way, there would probably be juice.silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-35075292959270897502014-01-14T23:07:00.000-08:002014-01-14T23:07:13.299-08:00an utterance, an oath, an epithetWhile watching an episode of Dexter with Spanish subtitles, i noticed that when he uttered "god damnit!" it was translated as 'maladicion' (and not in parentheses, meaning it was supposed to be conveyed as spoken words); this was obviously the spanish version of 'malediction', which, although being a word i am somewhat unfamiliar with, obviously means 'bad word'. So i suppose i am curious: do spanish-speakers run around crying out "maladicion!" when they step on a rusty nail? Likely not. So is this a case of poor translation? Or willfully vague translation? i have no one to turn to on this topic. And, funnily, this led me to wonder if there was an open facebook group for etymological inquiries (say what you will about it– one usually gets a pretty rapid response, at least in the right group). So i checked, and there was; however it appears to have morphed into a bevy of people who are simply posting spam links.<br />
<br />
?!?!<br />
<br />
sometimes this world confuses me heavily.<br />
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Needless to say, i could not post my query there. So i turn to you, humble anonymous internet ghost ship, for help. Clearly no one reads these words (beyond one or possibly two people who i actually know (hi, <i>you!</i>)), but i'm taking a shot in the dark. Also, i probably won't even care about this tomorrow. But am trying to be more consistent in cataloging things that catch my interest. Was keeping a small paper journal of them for a bit, but it got lost some time ago.<br />
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For now, the world spins quietly round. Sometimes i picture us as part of a slow, smooth, barely-whooshing orrery; strong, and solid, formidable and coldly massive in a breezy black airspace... other times i imagine a semi-dilapidated, wobbling underdog– overheated and chugging along on an oblong rotation, looking around nervously as other masses churn and whir nearby (but also not near) intimidatingly. How are we this concentrated collection of rock and water? Why are we neighbors with gas giants and dead stars? What the fuck does it all mean?<br />
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and who <i>are</i> you?silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-37901857415857234002014-01-04T15:57:00.002-08:002014-01-04T16:06:56.782-08:00i got nothin'.Mostly because i needed a chuckle today, and perhaps you do too:<br />
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<a href="http://tinypic.com?ref=2yzakh3" target="_blank"><img src="http://i41.tinypic.com/2yzakh3.gif" border="0" alt="Image and video hosting by TinyPic"></a>
<br />(pugs not drugs!)
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<a href="http://tinypic.com?ref=29o4oqu" target="_blank"><img src="http://i41.tinypic.com/29o4oqu.gif" border="0" alt="Image and video hosting by TinyPic"></a>
<br />(<i>actual</i> save by Nastia Liukin)
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<a href="http://tinypic.com?ref=2z4jv5h" target="_blank"><img src="http://i39.tinypic.com/2z4jv5h.gif" border="0" alt="Image and video hosting by TinyPic"></a>
<br />(heck yes double dutchin' it)
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<a href="http://tinypic.com?ref=audv87" target="_blank"><img src="http://i42.tinypic.com/audv87.gif" border="0"
alt="Image and video hosting by TinyPic"></a>
<br />(would that i possessed such foosball skills)silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-1865551127521307002013-12-11T20:37:00.001-08:002013-12-11T20:37:36.891-08:00"The stars look different here"Sat Nov 30: They arrive today. i am hung over, and with only 4 hours of sleep. Have borrowed a friend's vacuum cleaner but halfway through i notice that it just seems to be pushing things around, so i put my hand on the bottom and feel zero suction. Despite my insistence that the vacuum doesn't work, she assures me that it does. i am in no mood to argue over the phone, so i keep pushing, thinking that perhaps it is only sucking while moving and therefore i have no way to tell, even though this goes against everything i have ever known about vacuums. However, i notice a new sound and see that is has finally begun to work at the very, very end. Oh, bitterness. A few hours pass, and i pack the last little things that i don't need immediately. Then suddenly the immensity of this project begins to weigh on me and i call nat, my ex and best friend, and ask him to come home from Thanksgiving with his family in L.A. to help me move. Figure he owes me that much, seeing as how we lived there together for six years and a lot of the mess and clutter i cleaned was his too. To his credit, he appreciates the panic in my crying voice and makes arrangements to head home by train within the hour. My mom and brother arrive, and my brother immediately launches into a tirade about the ridiculous enormity of the truck my sister rented. This goes on for hours. Negativity is visible in palpatating waves coming off of him. Eventually we ask my co-worker to drive us to a nearby U-Haul, making it there at the last second, to see if we can exchange the monster truck, but to no avail. Logistically, and cost-wise, it just isn't happening. Back at the apartment, we suddenly have an epic meltdown with screaming, crying, door slamming; intense intense intensity. i call Nat to let him know he should head home for the night instead of my place, as we might in fact change the truck and that there will be no moving/packing tonight. He is peeved, then understands. He knows how my family operates (read: it doesn't.) Finally my brother asks that i at least walk to the truck (which is illegally parked in a Staples parking lot) to see how bad it is; i agree on the stipulation that he does not speak (i am not proud of this but i had to survive it somehow). This somehow smooths everything out, probably because he realized how much nicer it was not be yelling and fighting every second of every hour. The truck <i>is</i> large, but not as bad as i thought. Later, when we move the truck to a legitimate parking space for the night we become some semblance of a family again. sleep happens.<br />
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Sun Dec 1: Nat was to be at our place at ten to start packing the truck, but he oversleeps, of course. After frantically trying his phone, laptop, and roommate's phone, he calls. i pay for his cab ride over. We load the truck, which goes fairly quickly. Then we drive a half hour to my aunt's storage space (full of her mother's things that we moved out when i moved in), where we have to pay to get the lock cut since no one can recall ever having a key. We get all of <i>that</i> stuff into the truck, then drive back and bring it all back upstairs. i have one last look around with Nat, which is sad. We say goodbye (even sadder), then head out to the freeway on a san diego sunset. My mom drives the behemoth (whom we have named Bertha– Bertha Penske) until 3 in the morning. We roll into Berkeley in pea soup fog, spooky as all get out. My brother's friend, where he would be sleeping, is not getting back to him. My friend is asleep and has work in the morning. We all decide it will be easiest to stay at my mom's friend's house, on the floor if need be. Mom parks the truck on the wrong street and we walk back and forth for 20 minutes in the fog before she realizes. Finally we get in. Her friend, Beth, is awesome, and welcoming, even at almost four in the morning. Thank heavens. She has 2 dogs (Speck and Gringo) and a lovely black cat, Nena, who sleeps with my mom and i.<br />
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Mon Dec 2: We have to move the truck for street sweeping (of course). There is no parking. Anywhere! Then i remember that we are right near the storage place where we have to pick up my sister's stuff anyway, so we head there and magically find a spot right nearby. We go inside to get the skinny, which is: we need a locksmith. They can't open it for us eveb if my sister calls and okays it. Par for the course at this point. So we head back to beth's and arrange to meet the locksmith back there in an hour. She takes me to get 2 day laborers to help. We meet mom and willie at storage, wait for the locksmith to finish (our $40 estimate having jumped to $100, inexplicably), then i open the unit and have a small meltdown myself. This family really needs to work on letting things go. i frantically load up a dolly then realize that i need to just hang back and let the two guys rock it out, get into their groove. Which they do, and it is done in about 2 and a half hours. Beth and i drive them back to where we picked them up, then head back to her house. It is evening. Mom drives willie to a different friend's house (also, he has decided he will be staying in the bay and not be helping us with the rest of the trip; it is almost the best possible decision), then takes me to downtown oakland where i bus the rest of the way to my friend's for the evening. i cry almost immediately upon arriving. She gives me beer, and we have french toast and potatoes for dinner. She decides that i am to be the godparent to her cat, Junebug, who hides from every other human in existence. Finally, we sleep.<br />
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Tues Dec 3: A quick breakfast at Addie's and she gives me a bunch of warm clothes and snacks for the journey, all of which end up being lifesavers in more ways than one. i bus and BART back to where willie is, then Beth comes to pick us up (he has decided to come along, after all. not sure if i'm worried or relieved.). We get my mom, then all go to a favorite local cafe where willie has the best capuccino of his life; think we all needed some semblance of normalcy before heading out. We say thank you and goodbye to Beth at the truck, then motor out of town. Stop an hour away, in Richmond, so my mom can say hi to an old friend who is down and out. There is a grey pitbull named Bombay there; she is very sweet and has pretty eyes with black eyeliner but is a little bit too jumpy for us. He gives them a bag of weed and then picks us 2 lemons from his tree, which we place on the dash of the truck where they will remain for the duration of the driving. We head out again, and about an hour north we see "OCCUPY <span style="font-size: x-small;">MY ASS</span>" mowed into a hillside. Then drive, and drive, and drive.... we stop in Klamath Falls, Oregon at a motel. It is <i>freezing</i>. Since there was no room in the cab for our luggage, i go to unlock the back of the truck so we can brush our teeth and whatnot. But! The lock. Won't open. People speculate that is is frozen. i hold my lighter to it, but nothin' doin'. We borrow a mallet from maintenance and try whacking it open, but no dice. Frustrated and tired, we sleep. The great unwashed.<br />
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Wed Dec 4: Meet a couple of nice Canadians at breakfast who are traveling to Arizona for the winter. They sympathize about the lock. i make a waffle, which is surprisingly tasty. We drive to local locksmith at 9:00; mom breaks a couple of tree branches while trying to park Bertha, and a toothless someone pops his head over the fence in amusement. He asks us if we are from 'the pumpkin patch'. Turns out it was a homeless shelter and we'd woken them up with all of the noise (did i mention the truck is LOUD?) The locksmith pretends not to have already spoken with us that morning, then offers us a Ricola. i realize he is joking, but his peculiar brand of humor is lost on us. They end up drilling out the lock at no charge, and we buy a better one and head on our way. We drive, and drive, and drive... stop in Biggs Junction, Oregon on almost empty for food and fuel. Willie is mistaken for a Canadian cousin named Steve (or Gus?) by the nice kid pumping our diesel (with all of the weight, our truck now guzzles almost $100 each time we add even half a tank.). We eat at Linda's Restaurant/truck stop, where our waitress obviously hates her job and walks around endlessly with two coffeepots, dishing gossip with the sheriff and deputy seated a few tables down. We head east along the Columbia River. Wanted to make it all the way but stop in Spokane, Washington, about 7 hours out. My mom is tired. Driving that truck is no mean feat, especially in cold/icy conditions and with two worried passengers. But we agree that we are all more concerned with making it in one piece, rather than ahead of schedule. The lock opens this time, thank goodness, and we head up to the hotel. It is even colder now. The young woman at the front desk is from Whitefish! i take this as a good sign. We watch some TV then fall asleep.<br />
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Thursday, Dec 5: Mom and i plan our route. We want to get an early start in case there are problems on the two mountain passes. The day starts off rocky, as we have to stop for fuel before heading out and can't find a good exit... My brother gets really bitchy and suggests we just stop for gas in town instead of on the outskirts to avoid long lines. He won't let it go, so we get off at a random exit and not only do we find zero gas stations, we promptly get lost. i am not a fan of Spokane. At one point we come perilously close to driving under a bridge which did not have enough clearance for our 12' 7" truck; Willie notices this at the last minute and we have to reverse out, which is stressful to say the least. Now we really truly cannot find our way back to the interstate, and my mom begins to cry because this is exactly what she did not want to have happen. She needs to just <i>get there</i>, and rest, but we haven't even begun our last day's drive yet and are losing time. My brother continues being an ass. She pulls over to ask for directions. i try the fire station, but find no way to get in; head over to the banking complex across the street and wait to ask someone for help. i begin crying as well. We are all trying to keep it together at this point. Finally, two nice ladies help me out. We head back to the highway and somehow or another things smooth out. We hit the first pass (into Idaho), and although cold and with a few strips of black ice, it is a virtual cakewalk. My mom breathes a sigh of relief; i try to find a nice way of reminding her that we have a second, much higher pass coming up, into Montana. But miraculously, the weather holds and we have clear skies and even a bit of sunshine that has melted a lot of the ice. We make it over with no problems. Instead of taking our suggested route, peppered with smaller highways to save about a half an hour, we drive farther south, almost to Missoula, before hitting the 93 north into Whitefish. i think we are all getting excited, despite our mental and physical exhaustion, to be so close. We are fine until we hit the (Flathead) Lake; road and weather conditions always, always worsen around it. But once we pass it, we are in the clear. However the problem of where to park the truck pops up once we hit town. There is no way to park the thing in our driveway at the house. So we park it in the lot for the Grouse Mountain Lodge, about a half mile from the house, around 7 pm, and hope that they don't tow it. We grab our stuff from the back, and walk along the highway in pitch blackness and at 8 below. Possibly one of the stupidest things i have ever done. 3/4 of the way there, i get my first asthma attack in a decade. The cold is seriously brutal, even with our brisk walking and carrying luggage. Nothing seems to warm one up. We get to the house, and although warm, it is definitely something of a mess. We say hi to dad, downstairs, then mom and i head up to check out the sleeping arrangements and food. The kitchen is a total disaster. Every. Single. Dish. And piece of silverware, and pot and pan, is dirty. And not just dirty, but disgusting. The sink is piled high, the stove is covered in grease. There are 8 disgusting cast iron pans. We decide to order pizza. My mom starts on the dishes, but the sink won't drain. So we try vinegar and baking soda. Nothin' doin'. Finally, we literally plunge the thing. She makes some headway. i get the pizza upstairs, and make a plate for my dad. Mom and brother eat. Just as i open the box, ravenously, to get my first slice and sit down and relax for the first time all day, the power goes out. You just can't make this stuff up. Luckily i had seen some old birthday cake candles in a drawer while looking for matches to light the stove earlier. i baby them as i walk around the house to find more candles. Thankfully, my sister is something of a hoarder and i find a huge stash in her bedroom. So i place them carefully and strategically around the house. We begin to wonder if it will come back on tonight. So i gather as many blankets as i can and place them on the beds, not sure if we will have the furnace working. Meanwhile my mom and brother have begun arguing again. Willie is upset that this trip is not running smoothly. Everything is about him, once again. i sit to eat pizza but i can't relax because he is moody and negative and i don't feel like talking. We can't get online to check anything about the power outage or weather because we don't have the internet password and my sister's on-again-off-again boyfriend Colt is at work until morning. After about 2 hours, the power comes back on, hallelujah. Unfortunately this does nothing to improve my brother's mood and by now he is as black as it gets. He keeps stating that we did not come up here to do Colt's dishes. i want to wring his fucking neck. i can hear my mom trying to talk to him but there is nothing anyone can do or say to him when he gets like this, something he has yet to understand. i actually go and hide the key to the storage room because i know there are guns in there. Finally she is yelling and retreats to the bedroom to sleep. i go in, too, and ask her if i should try to talk to him. She says it might help but has no idea, that he is troubled. She is in tears. i go in to his room, where he is playing guitar, and am met with a verbal assault and black shark eyes full of hatred. i retreat. But then i go back in because i am worried about him and some of the language he used ("don't worry, i'll be gone soon"). We talk for about 15 minutes, but there is no headway to be made. He is vicious and sarcastic, and by the time he calls me a liar for the umpteenth time, i lose it. Tell him i love him and that i'll see him in the morning. i have trouble sleeping all night because i am scared that i won't, in fact, see him in the morning.<br />
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Friday Dec 6: Today is the day we were supposed to have had the truck returned (to Coeur D'Alene, Idaho, apparently the closest possible drop-off) but my sister has had the rental extended through Monday. We have coffee, and say good morning to Colt. My mom begins to lay into him about the state of the house, and that we didn't deserve to walk into that. i absolutely agree, but as i had already communicated to her, this is a man who is overwhelmed and depressed and who has been <i>taking care of our father</i> for the past two years and absolutely does not need to hear someone dumping on him right away. But, no. i suppose she needed to get it off her chest. He drives us to the truck down the road, and the plan was for us to follow him to the storage place to unload Hilary's stuff and most of mine, then drive it back to the house and unload the rest. However, after ten minutes of trying, the truck refuses to start. It is just way, way too cold. (In fact, apparently <i>unusually</i> cold, and it has settled into the valley in a way that no one can remember happening any time recently.) Colt goes to the gas station to buy a bottle of ether to try and help start the engine. We try that a few times but it is clear that this is a losing battle. We drive back to the house to call Penske. They can get it towed to a warm garage in a nearby town, where it will be put on a bolt (block?) heater and maintenanced so we can pick it up in the morning. The day is lost. Colt seems about to cry, so i ask him if he wants to take a drive with me. We go to Safeway for some groceries, and talk a lot. i tell him to let everything roll off of him for now, and that things will get better. That i am here to help, and that we are all just emotionally and physically drained right now, but it will pass. We head back to the house and everyone eats. The tow driver comes to the house and i give him the keys, then my brother runs out and reminds us that if the guy tows the truck from the front, all of our haphazardly-packed furniture and various other items will go crashing to the back of the truck, as it was always way bigger than we needed it to be so there was a lot of empty room at the back. He says he <i>may</i> be able to hitch it from the back, avoiding the issue, but if not then we should ride with him and bring some rope just in case. So my mom and i hop in the huge, heavy-duty tow truck, me sitting in the sleeper area. A minute later i realize i've forgotten the rope. OH WELL. We get there and he thinks he can hitch it from the back, but we take a look inside anyway and he is unhappy with our packing job (not insulted in the least are we) and helps me adjust things accordingly for the tow. Seriously one of the nicest guys. It takes all of my weight to close the door to the back of the truck, and he jokingly tells me to eat a sandwich. He grabs his gloves ans face mask (it is COLD, did i mention?) and lets my mom and i wait in the warmth of his cab while he does the work, about twenty minutes. Relieved, i tip him ten bucks and a piece of peanut butter fudge that i had in my bag and surprise him with a hug. My mom and i walk over to the Grouse for a hot drink while waiting for Colt to pick us up, which he does about a half hour later. We are pooped. My brother chops some wood and talks to my dad downstairs for the better part of the evening. The TV has been cut off because apparently my dad forgot to pay the bill. My mom makes some more headway on the kitchen. My brother eventually apologizes for his behavior the night before, and i thank him for remembering about the towing having an effect on our stuff. Pizza and salad leftovers for dinner. Thankfully Colt has the next couple of days off to help. i have been wearing the same clothes for almost a week now and feel more disgusting than ever. So i throw some stuff in the washer, where... nothing happens. We suddenly realize that the pipes are frozen. There is a panic in the house because if the pipes burst then we are really up shit creek. i talk to my sister and dad, and we all agree to turn on every faucet just a bit, to drip, and keep the water in motion. There are close calls with a couple of them, mainly the (only) bathtub, downstairs, and the sink in the garage, which is where the washer gets its water. But they finally begin to work again, and after letting them run a bit, my dad gives me the ok to start the machine again. So i do. But it still doesn't work. Resigned, i open it up to get back out my filthy clothes so that i have something to sleep in (am wearing random clothes i found in my sister's room), but they are wet. WET! So i have to take the whole load upstairs and hand-wash it in the sink. This takes the piss right out of me, and any last vestige i had of civility or positivity is completely and utterly gone. i am spent. After an hour, i wring them out as best i can with the last of my strength and throw them, soaking wet, into the dryer. (Which, thank god, works!) i wait an hour for the cycle to be done. They are still wet, so i add an hour and hit the hay, hoping for the best.<br />
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Saturday, Dec 7: Up and ready to get this move done. Now that the house is cleanish and there is food, things are starting to feel a bit more normal. We all drive to Kalispell to get the truck. The guys at the garage are not very pleasant. i am angry with them for the way they are talking to my mom. We have to wait a bit for them to change the oil (the filter had just arrived minutes before), so we all go out for a small breakfast. My mom smartly calls ahead to the storage place to confirm our unit, where she is told that since my sister didn't <i>actually</i> reserve it, it got rented yesterday. One more monkeywrench, but i am not fazed– i'd compiled a whole list of storage places 2 days before when i thought we didn't have a spot yet. It is in the truck and i remind everyone of this. We get back to the garage and see Bertha waiting outside for us. Colt and Willie get in to warm her up while my mom and i call storage places. i finally find one in the size we need, for $60 a month instead of $40, but oh fucking well. Not much bargaining to be done at this point. Colt leads the way and we follow. The woman running the place is an absolute sweetheart, and they live in the rear of the office with a tiny, fat pomeranian named Zero. i fill out paperwork and we get started, the two boys and i. We are a good team and unload almost everything in about an hour and half. i can't feel my fingers and willie's snot and sweat are forming ice in his mustache. But we are all in good spirits, miraculously! i go back in to the office to finalize everything with Evigene, where she fills the hands of my brother and i with candy, despite our protests. We drive the rest of my stuff (just some boxes) back to the house and unload it, mostly into the garage. Truck is empty. And it feels SO good. We all grab a bite to eat, then come back to the issue of getting it started to return in the morning. Luckily Colt can make the trip; my mom is so over driving that thing it is not even funny. But we realize that maybe we should just drive it back tonight then rent a car and return right away, getting home late (or early, depending on how you look at it). It is about 3 PM. My mom makes some calls to see if we can get a rental car in Coeur D'Alene, but they all close at 4 and are not open the next day, as it is a Sunday. (We are in God's country now, after all.) So there goes our plan to return it tonight and drive right back, as well as our plan to return it, stay in a motel, and rent a car in the morning. We are not sure what to do. So we decide to try and change the return location to Spokane, about an hour and a half past Coeur D'Alene. But there are no cars available <i>there</i>, either. After over an hour on the phone trying to finagle everything into place, we are beginning to reach nuclear levels of irritation. Colt is adamant that we return the thing tonight, so that if it doesn't start in the morning it is someone else's problem, not ours. Then i suddenly realize that there is an Amtrak stop in Spokane, so we make reservations for two one-way tickets back to Whitefish, which would get us back home at about 7:30 in the morning. We just have to make it to Spokane by midnight or 12:30 (the train departs there at 1:30). This means we have to get going; by now it is well past 5. My brother had initally offered to go with Colt, but as is almost always the case, weaseled his way out of it when he realized that it might actually happen. So i offer to go. Colt and i head out, and drive... and drive..... the weather holds, still, and the passes are even easier than before, albeit in the dark. We show Coeur D'Alene our middle fingers as we drive through, then continue on to Spokane. Find the drop-off place, and clean the truck out while we wait for our cab to the train station. i toss the two lemons out the window. (Am convinced they were lucky charms.) The cab driver misunderstood me on the phone and is waiting at a completely different Penske location. i just want to cry. It is so cold, and i am so tired and running on fumes at this point. But then he points out that we are just 4 blocks from the train station. So we hoof it there, arriving at about 12:30, so excited to get on the train and sleep. But we are informed that our train is FIVE HOURS LATE. And that this is an <i>optimistic</i> estimate. So, what can you do? We sit there, and drink coffee from Colt's gigantic thermos, and shoot the breeze. For hours. And hours. The people at the train station are depressing. But the Amtrak lady (Cassandra) is so sweet, and patient. i show Colt how to fold an origami shirt out of the funny pages from the newspaper. We move on to drinking Rockstars, which really work but are thoroughly disgusting. Our bodies want to shut down but we cannot let them, not yet. i go upstairs to play pinball and have a wonderful run, then as i am walking by the rest of the arcade games i startle someone who is crouched behind Big Buck Hunter, smoking drugs of one sort or another.... his eyes are wild. i apologize, then quickly and quietly make my way back downstairs where there are more people. Finally, just when we start to feel that something has gotta give, we board– at something past 7 a.m. We sleep right away. Mine is fitful.<br />
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Sunday Dec 8: We arrive back in Whitefish around noon. Colt is in a bad mood upon waking and gets in a fight with Hilary on the phone at the train station while we wait for our ride. They are having relationship issues. i just wish he wouldn't do it in public. Everyone can hear everything, and i am uncomfortable. My mom and bro show up to pick us up, then we head back home. i find out that their flight leaves that night at 9, so instead of catching more Zs i stay awake while Colt naps for a bit. We sit around the house while they finish packing, then Colt takes my mom and i into town for a teensy bit of christmas shopping. We head home, and Willie and i give the dogs a bath with special shampoo to get rid of their mange (they have been scratching incessantly since the moment we arrived). It stinks of sulfur and the dogs are wary of us for hours afterward. (three days later and i can still smell it on my hands after i pet them.) Finally we go downstairs to take some family photos with dad, then drive my mom and bro to the airport. It is hard to say goodbye, after everything. i had slipped a lucky penny into my mom's bag because i am scared of airplanes. When we get into the car afterward, i ask Colt to take me to the Blue Moon, a bar i've driven by many a time while here on vacation. i figured i could buy him a drink (and indulge in one myself) for a job finally, well– <i>done</i>. There is a huge taxidermied polar bear fighting a brown bear inside. A big dance floor, and a new poker table. He has a whiskey sour, i a vodka tonic. The bartender, Charlene, tells us her whole recent life story then wonders aloud why she is doing so (i have that effect on people often). She is sweet. Recently divorced–amicably, and just started seeing someone; has three kids all doing well in college. Then a drunken local named Theresa comes over and claims to 'know' me. She carries on a ridiculous, slurred conversation with mostly just herself as we look on, bemused and not sure how to react. Eventually she grabs my hand because she notices my red, cracked knuckles. She will not have this and drags me over to her purse so i can try her lotion ("bitch, you <i>will</i> use this!"). She tries to give me the whole bottle but i refuse, as nicely as possible, mostly because i don't like the smell. As we head down a backroad towards the house where i now reside, Colt laughs. <i>Well, you sure did meet some locals tonight.</i><br />
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Yep. i suuuure did.silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-43753992247615263392013-11-23T19:56:00.000-08:002013-11-23T19:56:02.450-08:00circling all 'round the suni have been so positive this past year. So, so full of benevolence and hope. But now it feels that something has shifted, sickeningly; i am lurching through lurid scenes that everyone else experiences as what they are– the norm. Now, suddenly, i am vibrating at a tremendous, unsettled frequency, keening a bit higher each day until certainly, a plateau will be reached, and beyond that– a cliff. The drop will not be freeing. i will hit rocks the whole way down and be mangled on repeat, and i don't know how far it will go. The only way to know is to fall.<br />
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When i started this blog a million years ago the name was a phrase that i found floating along in my head from time to time. i was <i>in</i> love, and i lived with that love, and we shared everything and put it on display so that every second in this apartment was like a celebration of happiness and fulfillment. Now, in one week's time, i am leaving this place, this space. That love, having been gone almost two years now, still shone at me from each corner of each room. But it was okay. It was mine to remember.<br />
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Now, it does not feel okay. Today i began a dismantlement process that i literally had to turn away from at times... Closing my eyes as a rolled up a poster. Looking, sighing, to the ceiling as i threw some memento or another into the kitchen trash with all of the other garbage. i feel as though i can never quite breathe deeply enough.<br />
<br />
They say change is good. Hell, i've been saying it, for months now. But when you are so familiar with a landscape that is almost literally becomes your own personal universe, where do you go when you have to leave? What else is there?silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-57885513123802005222013-09-26T17:58:00.002-07:002013-09-26T17:58:22.766-07:00First, i was talking to my floss.Aaaaaand then this afternoon i find myself editing the "peanut" article on Wikipedia. What is happening to me?! Have i already become a crazy old lady, lonesome and desperate and reaching for any tiny connection to this (legume-filled, among other attributes) world?<br />
<br />
i didn't even <i>actually </i>edit it– i posted my qualms under the "talk" section. shows how much of a go-getter i am. i mean, if you're gonna be crazy, you may as well go nuts<span style="font-size: xx-small;">*</span>, am i right? (like the time my boyfriend and i were up too late on the internet and edited a different Wikipedia article's sentence to include the word "sharted". It was removed less than 48 hours later. Sadface.)<br />
<br />
With any luck, this can all be ascribed to the simple fact that i am not feeling well. More than just a bit run down these past few days. Pretending to not have a cold! Is fun! Yet wearisome!<br />
<br />
Now, to pour boiling water over some shredded ginger and drink it down intently as if it were a magic potion.<br />
Works every time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*soooo sorry.</span>silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-28451593180602234852013-09-25T21:50:00.000-07:002013-09-25T21:50:19.039-07:00Deeeeeeep thoughts...tiredness and/or loneliness is perfectly summed up when your floss rips to shreds as you are tearing it off and you say to it, "you know what? you're a flaming asshole." and then laugh about the whole thing.silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-37691247046111595202013-09-16T21:47:00.001-07:002013-09-16T21:47:16.089-07:00Eventually, we agreed on nothingAnother random poem brought to you by a hangover! My brain works haltingly on these days, which lends itself somehow to word jumbling. They tumble around in my head like socks in a dryer... these are the ones left behind.<br />
<br />
__ <br />
<br />
We wear our nostalgia like a perfume<br />
forever in search of one lingering moment<br />(or another)<br /><br />a lullaby that we glimpse in our mind<br />always teasing, too quick to be caught–<br />we never know when it will return.<br /><br />but it does<br /><br />it always does,<br />wearing thin our hearts<br />in that same aching place<br /><br />the membrane morphs and thins<br /><br />things will never be different<br />
(or the same)<br />
<br />
in this tapestry of memory<br />
we wait, endlessly weavingsilvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-68516666087497154342012-10-28T01:11:00.002-07:002012-10-28T01:11:36.698-07:001 a.m. poetry, because.And like smoke<br />
a horse's form<br />
was born.<br />
<br />
speeding like a shot<br />
through the gulfing spaces<br />
that threaten to swallow up everything around them,<br />
that reach out greedily<br />
and caress what is near<br />
with a sly grin and vacuous motives.<br />
<br />
who knows why we do what we do<br />
that question is not a question,<br />
after all.<br />
<br />
look closely, but don't forget<br />
that existence exists, on the far reaches. <br />
it is all around you,<br />
(endlessly)<br />
peripheral and embedded. <br />
<br />
be your own reason.<br />
live as the wide open spaces,<br />
and let the connections take their tenuous hold.<br />
<br />
because we can all feel it- <br />
what is wild can be tamed<br />
<br />
<br />silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-4674074266210220422012-10-24T00:57:00.002-07:002012-10-24T00:57:23.304-07:00Giffy goodness.<a href="http://tinypic.com/?ref=yhu68" target="_blank"><img alt="Image and video hosting by TinyPic" border="0" src="http://i48.tinypic.com/yhu68.jpg" /></a><br />
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<br />silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-12747534242356890702012-10-15T19:23:00.002-07:002012-10-15T19:24:35.167-07:00take your forms wrestled from the void and get the hell outSo... <a href="http://waynewhiteart.com/index.php?/bio/">Wayne White</a>!<br />
<br />
Is weird. <br />
And even though something inside compels me to flee from his paintings, there is something creepy and mysterious that draws me in. Some favorites:<br />
<br />
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The power of words, and art born from other art. silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-2040411610749189862012-07-10T18:52:00.001-07:002012-07-10T19:08:59.483-07:00Beautiful friend, the endMaybe it's that we broke up at the House of Blues. Maybe it's that St. Vincent sang the line "i don't wanna be a cheerleader no more..." that night. Maybe it's that none of our orchids bloomed this year, for the first time ever. (well, one did, but upon closer inspection the spike was infested with aphids and didn't stand a chance.) Maybe it's that everything we owned was covered in dust. Maybe it's that i never could finish the puzzle you got me for Valentine's Day (Klimt's "The Kiss"); it became too difficult, at the end, to figure out where the last of the pieces fit together. i tried and tried, and failed consistently. In the end, one of the puzzle's corners fell off the coffee table and i haven't been able to bring myself to pick up the pieces and just put the whole thing back in the box. <br />
Should i finish it? Time will tell.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/DonR11oxGRA?rel=0" width="560"></iframe>silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-53407492282417169112012-06-18T20:26:00.001-07:002012-06-18T20:26:29.951-07:00A long time.That perfect time of day when the streelights cast shadows on walls still faintly glowing with daylight. It is blue, and dim, and dark. But there is light, and soft silhouettes because. There is a man drinking a beer alone at the barbecue, making himself dinner. Two guys play video games in their bachelor pad, as they have, every night, for years. A family clinks a loud dinner together in their kitchen, and i can faintly hear "A Message To You, Rudy" horning its way across from somewhere, through the courtyard's wide open space and into my ears. The young kids who just moved into their first apartment are dancing with friends. Wood doves fly with their adorable difficulty from tree to tree, forever calling out their sounds. And fucking melancholy. It is so tiresome, yet so marvelously familiar. Are we here? Am i there?silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-50678511990072774402011-12-03T19:30:00.000-08:002011-12-03T20:07:47.941-08:00oh my darlin'.Apparently i only feel the need to post things when <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">i'm</span> having an o f f day.<br />Here are some things i found on the magical screen:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcLtEGG0SkrgnVrsG07-c_4MigCehfm0JGgQq9pq0uHBN1G_arPQ8U19q-TtsUY3K-hvvlLM4Z4F2hyg6LLHuqpg2iMLkI3VXNv-jHWqot42CaM6goJqkQfdRyeKGiMT0YYkZj0J_9UfE/s1600/schwinnpidge"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcLtEGG0SkrgnVrsG07-c_4MigCehfm0JGgQq9pq0uHBN1G_arPQ8U19q-TtsUY3K-hvvlLM4Z4F2hyg6LLHuqpg2iMLkI3VXNv-jHWqot42CaM6goJqkQfdRyeKGiMT0YYkZj0J_9UfE/s320/schwinnpidge" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682112133319982722" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(this guy takes old bike/car parts and makes lifelike animals out of 'em.)</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDBLov0upAM4hvOQMEPbMMDVBiBqv6tY7bvi0w-QEDJ08POY-c5OdgneSUCoAee_TsdS-d66t1rmSLncxmAIYVMXmheEMi9hJoU0P-SGV7jsSSwaAOhjZkAJlDPnbvCIjMtKchchJid2E/s1600/soonyounglee"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDBLov0upAM4hvOQMEPbMMDVBiBqv6tY7bvi0w-QEDJ08POY-c5OdgneSUCoAee_TsdS-d66t1rmSLncxmAIYVMXmheEMi9hJoU0P-SGV7jsSSwaAOhjZkAJlDPnbvCIjMtKchchJid2E/s320/soonyounglee" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682112132303875474" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(this person makes tiny dioramas! <span style="font-style: italic;">awesome</span>, tiny dioramas!! <span style="font-style: italic;">iii</span> smell a <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">craaft</span> night!</span>)</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT8Mkj4rquyexvIPqv27rDbdxmTRaJWdPpHXwZFfjbroWxpa-AKCjWyCfVWO3i4dHP-WzXTFB4nSW74-xJnz-wU3PzTM3gMtOpyjUhjU5n8EsAIk-uOQZfKvHhqAnzKuEwB8fSD9DEMUs/s1600/maphead"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT8Mkj4rquyexvIPqv27rDbdxmTRaJWdPpHXwZFfjbroWxpa-AKCjWyCfVWO3i4dHP-WzXTFB4nSW74-xJnz-wU3PzTM3gMtOpyjUhjU5n8EsAIk-uOQZfKvHhqAnzKuEwB8fSD9DEMUs/s320/maphead" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682112138197722498" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(a head, formed from a carefully-cut out street map. i like maps... and heads.)</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQd-K_Vy4A81MSP8_g0z2ZdBi2BPbMd5NeK5pKGuwEYMRBnRF76Ziq37I9O8tkzrB2j_aW1PWDxOYa2aZURWFUcEhZ8sI7xgt07xgRtoXXjgvUQjFaWZVMuwHoPMb7hV_oX5INr5KbnkY/s1600/wireman"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQd-K_Vy4A81MSP8_g0z2ZdBi2BPbMd5NeK5pKGuwEYMRBnRF76Ziq37I9O8tkzrB2j_aW1PWDxOYa2aZURWFUcEhZ8sI7xgt07xgRtoXXjgvUQjFaWZVMuwHoPMb7hV_oX5INr5KbnkY/s320/wireman" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682112140250158914" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">(pretty seriously fantastic illuminated wire sculptures from some dude. they are around.)</span><br /><br />Meanwhile, i sit here eating chocolate-chip cookies (the recipe claimed them as "the best <span style="font-style: italic;">ever</span>", which they absolutely are not), paying bills, watching <span style="font-style: italic;">The Incredible Shrinking Man</span> (gets surprisingly preachy at the end!), and above all, <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> cracking open my catalog of Spring 2012 community college classes. i also need to:<br /><br />–touch up my bike (red nail polish is standing by)<br />–figure out which two hideous <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">christmas</span> sweaters <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">nat</span> and i will wear for our first annual Bad Holiday Photo<br />–stop biting my fingernails<br />–take the trash out,<br />–work on some photos.<br /><br />On this last note i should mention that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">i'm</span> sick and tired of being a perfectionist. It gets in the way of a person's ability to get a damn thing done... i would just like to edit and post some of these f*<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">cking</span> photos, okay, self? No need for them to be artifact-free; other people have easy-breeziness, where can <span style="font-style: italic;">i</span> get some? Is it in potion form? Are they sprinkling it on their breakfast cereal? Is it in the genes? Hm.<br /><br />Anyway, back to:<br />–scrubbing the toilet<br />–eating another clementine<br />–biting my nails<br />–anything else i can do to avoid everything else i have to do.<br /><br />Love,<br /> the girl who likes stormy cloud photos. <a href="http://minimalexposition.blogspot.com/2010/11/camille-seaman-big-cloud.html">big ones</a>.<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/wI2wvlhS9q0?rel=0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="560"></iframe>silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-7753968097418936492011-11-15T19:01:00.000-08:002011-11-15T19:02:32.880-08:00Brought to you by: the letter "e".<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrVXFTKQDtjP26W-G9DvdmW6OBNLOHvWBKWtD8b4LL2F9Rv7NKFXGc33SqGByp1Cogr248h0m_ETaXZRnO_NUds77iOOkFDLRbawYRbfzTd_nPKhWCi3EynedEESOEKDF-em-dw4Uk3Ss/s1600/Photo+on+2011-11-15+at+18.40.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrVXFTKQDtjP26W-G9DvdmW6OBNLOHvWBKWtD8b4LL2F9Rv7NKFXGc33SqGByp1Cogr248h0m_ETaXZRnO_NUds77iOOkFDLRbawYRbfzTd_nPKhWCi3EynedEESOEKDF-em-dw4Uk3Ss/s320/Photo+on+2011-11-15+at+18.40.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675419233023884178" border="0" /></a><br /><br />(found on the sidewalk yesterday in San Juan Capistrano, right near a pink baby sock. weird.)<br /><br />~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<br /><br />Do you guys remember those coloring books where you just painted over everything with a wet paintbrush? There was that little hint of color on the page, here and there, and you could sort of manipulate where you wanted to strongest concentration of the color to go with your brush. End results were pretty dang similar to this (not sure that this is an actual page from one or not?):<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLhx-ej23S2GUZ7978fnx84edT8SnCcc5yLzB972nhgD71GRjrwyj81Uyh2x_n9ju0tVzidMoRo_1ZsDvmm3pZF4qn2fDWhlqDWMgkRLGuFkZl5dTvb3sVh4t_SHKweYqED3yKFdWchSw/s1600/tikiwatercolor"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLhx-ej23S2GUZ7978fnx84edT8SnCcc5yLzB972nhgD71GRjrwyj81Uyh2x_n9ju0tVzidMoRo_1ZsDvmm3pZF4qn2fDWhlqDWMgkRLGuFkZl5dTvb3sVh4t_SHKweYqED3yKFdWchSw/s320/tikiwatercolor" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675418661079519986" border="0" /></a><br /><br />...so yeah. Good times.<br /><br />And then there were the good old "stained-glass" coloring books, that you could tape onto your window afterwards:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/diamonddarling/4230296755/" title="Stained Glass Coloring Book by NarissaNicholette, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2655/4230296755_d8a9b93333.jpg" alt="Stained Glass Coloring Book" height="500" width="333" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bookgrl/517253931/" title="Day 77: I. Am. Such. A. Dork. by bookgrl, on Flickr"><img src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/193/517253931_0aa2177924.jpg" alt="Day 77: I. Am. Such. A. Dork." height="500" width="333" /></a><br /><br />...<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ahh</span>, good times. Those cellophane-like pages were so fun to marker in, even if the end result was never quite as spectacular as one would have liked.<br /><br />FYI if you're my best friend you would get me <a href="http://www.ebay.com/itm/Vtg-1982-Ms-Pac-Man-Paint-Water-Coloring-Activity-Learning-Book-/330640328036?pt=LH_DefaultDomain_0&hash=item4cfbb30564">this sweet Ms. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Pac</span>-Man water-color book from the '80s</a>. <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">yessss</span></span>.silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4974243116286340015.post-62867062160716330742011-11-12T20:21:00.001-08:002011-11-12T20:21:50.136-08:00it's not vicious, or malicious.Friends, i have spent the <span style="font-style: italic;">entire</span> day on the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">internet</span>. This is not a lament, or a boast: it is a simple truth.<br /><br />And i found some stuff.<br /><br /><a href="http://therumpus.net/sections/comics/featured-comics/marinaomi/">This lady's comics are great</a>.<br /><br />Here are some photos that are not mine:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOEKclThvlxpK1oL7Wr6i-2N4kjSoIJPc9lXN7ILWtMBYPYyM3ZKCSYtVgNYngaEA16bl-Djyx2Zyy0zw6CD1JyU0eBDGrixXwMbdYjEHrNoigMUsFgaAKuxY5mS3nnI6Z_4XIbPlaws/s1600/jumper"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOEKclThvlxpK1oL7Wr6i-2N4kjSoIJPc9lXN7ILWtMBYPYyM3ZKCSYtVgNYngaEA16bl-Djyx2Zyy0zw6CD1JyU0eBDGrixXwMbdYjEHrNoigMUsFgaAKuxY5mS3nnI6Z_4XIbPlaws/s320/jumper" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674325595109730610" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrjz1w9p8N-zX9NS78V5KKqlcFFljDWsxj23aM8fHsVCs_HRb65AIaQyysjc1sA6uC5rsSS07BIe6AEdXDGnNm6m_ieqzh7MSME9HnUNCCA7rFSI5RhjANWwo3R3IOomDbqs8jQb3O6U/s1600/drops"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBrjz1w9p8N-zX9NS78V5KKqlcFFljDWsxj23aM8fHsVCs_HRb65AIaQyysjc1sA6uC5rsSS07BIe6AEdXDGnNm6m_ieqzh7MSME9HnUNCCA7rFSI5RhjANWwo3R3IOomDbqs8jQb3O6U/s320/drops" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674325592287267426" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZn4s5cXuQMMdkP87_laFyi2Lc9ZIAfVn_Lu1TL8yksAbxOWGLtrXpSQMP3i-pys-rmYNzF2i-1MOOXnkTlrFswUGeIgxGzPzGiJPGcI_LeDaEdmIZcwWzVf95OtgC9rmeFOf2pHhHBQ/s1600/lizard"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCZn4s5cXuQMMdkP87_laFyi2Lc9ZIAfVn_Lu1TL8yksAbxOWGLtrXpSQMP3i-pys-rmYNzF2i-1MOOXnkTlrFswUGeIgxGzPzGiJPGcI_LeDaEdmIZcwWzVf95OtgC9rmeFOf2pHhHBQ/s320/lizard" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674325590058385362" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The National Geographic Photo Contest is at it again. <a href="http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/ngm/photo-contest/2011/entries/recent-entries/?source=email_ngpc2011_nov102">Have a gander</a>!<br /><br />i just discovered <a href="http://fray.com/issue3/">The Fray</a>. It has good stories <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">in't</span>. Sat here reading for an hour or more.<br /><br />(All of the orchids in my house are almost done blooming. Feeling poisoned from smoking too many cigarettes. i think we'll eat pumpkin pudding for dinner.)<br /><br />i drank too much last night and would like for that to not happen again. There was a variety show among friends: "Africa" was covered, and Nico, as well as "Groove Is In The Heart" (complete with slide whistle). There were rum balls and Guinness cupcakes. i found a "k" in a snapped-off twig. The clouds were like cotton balls stretched out across the sky. i was finally able to say aloud to someone that i was having a difficult time getting truly involved in the 'Occupy' movement because i feel that there are bigger problems in the world... his response was that, well, doesn't the problem of the rich getting richer sort of have a hand in most (if not all) of those other problems i was mentioning (rape, slavery, lack of clean water, etc.)? It was a tough call; i had a hard time clarifying my position and verbalizing what i meant. Also, as i believe i already mentioned, i was pretty inebriated.<br />Oh, to have excellent speech and debate skills!silvergirlhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16938830076016638504noreply@blogger.com0