theregoesmyshoe’s blog

"Stop reflecting and move."

nobody@vox.com(theregoesmyshoe) — Wed, 03 Jun 2009 19:02:49 -0700

I couldn't get the shape right on the fucking squirrel's head.

I have a painting I have been working on for about 4 years. It was originally a framed print of the four horsemen of the apocalypse - which I purchased for 3 dollars outside a thrift store - mainly for the wooden frame. I figured I could remove the print, and use the frame for something else; but as it turned out, the print was glued to the backing. I decided "fuck it" and put a few coats of primer over it. It was part laziness, unwillingness to make too much of a fuss over a $3 investment, and part just liking the idea of painting over the apocalypse.

The painting has been through several stages over the years. I have changed my mind repeatedly over what it is to become; and in the process I have painted on and over so many coats that the paper underneath - which has been slowly soaking up the paint in stages - is starting to bubble up and form ridges. Lots of time has passed in between each stage with the idea that if I got away from it and thought about it for awhile, the great idea about how to fix it/finish it would come to me.

First it was a lady smoking...on the far left side of the board - leaving too much space on the right and no real idea what to put there. I tried to cut into the space by enlarging her outline - made her features extra large and cartoony, but it didn't take out enough space. So I tipped it on it's side. Now she was lying down and smoking. So I painted a pillow underneath her. Now all the extra space was above her. I decided to place her in a flowerbed. Filled all the extra space with flowers. Too many flowers have the same effect as too much space. So a Volcano spewing flowers seemed the way to solve it. As I started outlining the Volcano, it reminded me more of an ocean wave. So, ok, ocean wave scooping up and pouring down flowers - that works too; but I had to paint the wave OVER the flowers, and was so sick of them by then that I didn't want to paint more into the wave. Not to mention that the wave solved the extra space in the upper left hand corner...but the upper right was still just a block of flowers.

That's where the painting stood when I looked at it again last Thursday.

It made no sense.What's missing? Why, a squirrel of course.

There is a great painting by George Caleb Bingham called "Fur Traders Descending the Missouri". I first saw it in an art history class. It is a naturalistic landscape painting of two men in a boat on the Missouri river...and with them in the boat, is a cat. It's not something you would notice or fix on right away...unless you had an inquisitive art history teacher who specifically pointed out the cat in the boat. Why? That's the beauty of it. Why the hell is there a cat in the boat. It's what sets it apart from the usual, apt, realistic landscape painting.

So I started painting a squirrel on her arm. And I couldn't...get...the fucking shape of the head right. So I started mixing the paint to go over it altogether - feeling stressed about the time I wasted to end up where I started from.

I had DVD episodes of Dexter running in the background while I was working on this. As I stood there - stuck - looking at the painting and scratching my head - thinking about where it had come from and assesing what probably should have been done to it instead (life metaphor) - the dialogue on screen caught my interest and pulled me away from the painting for a moment. It was a dream sequence where Dexter and Deb are getting off an elevator...Dexter is dragging something heavy but you can't see what it is. They are talking about Dexter's break up with Lila (obnoxious scheming slut). Dexter says, "She had me fighting with myself all the time. All that self-reflection is unhealthy." Deb replies, "Stop reflecting and MOVE."

Now, she was probably telling him to move out of her way - as he was dragging the dead body of the man who murdered his mother; and then the camera cut to to Batista, holding up a severed foot, and saying "You can't leave this shit lying around, bro."

NICE.

Every once in a while, you hear exactly what you need to - exactly when you need to.So I finished the fucking squirrel. I don't know or care if it makes any sense. Going forward with it, I am merely concerned with the fact that the squirrel and wave are painted more naturalistic while the lady and the flowers are painted more cartoony. I'll make peace with that next.

Pics 003

I think what's going to happen is that the wave is going to carry acorns; and the title will be "The storm brought out all the nuts but the squirrel sure was happy." Dunno. We'll see where it goes as it moves.

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Racoon (Resurrection 4)

nobody@vox.com(theregoesmyshoe) — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 22:10:38 -0700

Aren't you tired of the way things seem?

Tired of believing

that this is how they really are?

Sick of the stars

shiny mocking bulletpoints

that show you where you are

reflected in the quarters at your feet

from when you hit the jackpot

lost your compass

and found your losing streak

Aren't you tired of being meek?

In the wake of all your winnings

Don't they light up rather dimly

While you're pining for your losses

and longing for something

that's really rather bleak?

And you always get distracted

when you stumble onto something shiny

not realizing

that it's distracted by you

as it tumbles to your feet.

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Where'd you go. (Resurrection 2)

nobody@vox.com(theregoesmyshoe) — Tue, 10 Mar 2009 21:30:36 -0700

It's late again

too late again

and I'm in another hotel

motel

indian chief

hide and go seek

and a conference center

next door

where drunks stumble around

and the people upstairs

are putting on a private play;

they fuck, they fight

they fall asleep

they stain the sheets

each to be alone someday

in one of these rooms,

not wondering what happened anymore.

I ran out of litmus paper

and the acidity or base

of your diminishing footsteps

no longer interests me

no longer make a noise

as they fall to

as I rise from

another generic bedspread

to turn on the television

to silence my head.

The scientific process

failed

and I added another unrelated component,

(to further confuse the situation)

exhaled smoke,

and unwrapped a glass

which wasn't "half" anything;

I made comparisons of choices

and turned my back on 2 of 2.

I desire nothing

that isn't offered freely

and I don't go anywhere uninvited

but that's a lesson

from years of a death grip

on lost causes

and being moved

against my better judgement.

The questions are all rhetorical tonight.

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Like a Natural Woman (Part One.)

nobody@vox.com(theregoesmyshoe) — Tue, 13 Jan 2009 21:55:11 -0800

I overslept the alarm clock this morning and only managed to get about a half a cup of coffee in me before running off late to my scheduled pap smear.

Coffee is a fantastic thing to wake up to…a pap smear is not. If you ever have to choose, go with coffee.

When I arrived, the nurse told me that a new midwife/nurse practitioner was being trained and familiarized…and would I mind if she stepped in with my doctor to ‘observe’ the procedure.

My …stuff… generally prefers an audience or participant of one; but I made the deal that as long as she was in fact a medical practitioner - and not a curious relative of the doctor looking for something to do that day - it would be fine.

I was left to strip from the waist down to the ankles. You want to leave your socks on because the floor is always freezing. I don’t care if your doctor’s office is on the sun…the floor is cold. And if the floor isn’t cold, the metal stirrups are. My doctor tries to be cute about this by putting little cloth coverlets over the stirrups; they have flowers on them and everything. It’s not fooling anyone. Once you get your feet in them and your legs are forcibly bent into the flailing cricket position, you are not flowery and dainty. Nor are you cool. Any pretense of being cool gets left in the waiting room. Even Joan Jett would look awkward in this position. You’d be wondering where she lay her band uniform and trombone.

My doctor enters and introduces the new girl – who smiles at me nervously…much like a stranger brought to your party by the person you invited.

After assuming the position, and with my ‘party’ prepped and ready to go, the doctor begins the overture of the speculum…and I rediscover that I could actually walk on my ass cheeks if my legs were broken.

After what seems like the more than usual amount of prodding, my doctor says, "Huh. Your cervix is hiding from me."

("It’s scared," I think to myself.)

Out loud I say "Yes; it’s shy…" then I tip a glance to the still nervously smiling midwife/nurse practitioner and add "…I guess it has stage fright."

My doctor issues a half-hearted snicker – the kind that comes from someone who hears uncomfortable jokes all day long…because the situation pretty much demands it.

(It occurs to me then that my doctor – who has never had trouble locating my cervix before – might be fumbling a little from the pressure of demonstration. "What a weird situation to want to show off in" I think.)

10 seconds later, the whole ordeal is over and my doctor takes our new friend and my sample and leaves me to clean up and put my pants back on.

I walk out feeling like someone should give me something pretty…the way you do when your fun bits have been medically handled. I come within an inch of demanding a lollipop every time.

But I do have work to look forward to.

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I am mourning Giles Corey

nobody@vox.com(theregoesmyshoe) — Mon, 20 Oct 2008 23:33:39 -0700

I need to vent a little here.

I have received 2 robocalls from the RNC this week; their transcripts are -word for word- as follows:

1. Hello. I'm calling for John McCain and the RNC because Barack Obama and his fellow democrats got caught putting HOLLYWOOD above America. On the very day our elected leaders gathered in Washington to deal with the financial crisis, Barack Obama spent just 20 minutes with economic advisors, but hours at a celebrity Hollywood fundraiser. Where are the Democrats' priorities? This call was paid for by McCain/Palin 2008 and the Republican National Comitee.

2. Hello. I'm calling for John McCain and the RNC because you need to know that Barack Obama has worked closely with domestic terrorist Bill Ayers whose organization bombed the U.S Capital, The Pentagon, a judge's home, and killed Americans; and democrats will enact an extreme leftist agenda if they take control of Washington. Barack Obama and his democratic allies lack the judgement to lead our country. This call was paid for by McCain/Palin 2008 and the Republican National Comittee.

I have been screening heavily because I am registered as an independent voter in a red state where the candidates are in a dead heat; and campaign calls have been coming in increasing numbers. I found these on my answering machine...and...I think my brain finally broke. I couldn't decide whether or not to erase them - I WANTED to...but I left them trapped in the machine...as though there were an intellectual abuse hotline I could call and report them to. But there isn't; so I tipped my head to the left, banged on it, and finally managed to get some of the stagnant pool water to come out of my ear.

Some points:

* Hollywood is in America. The two are not mutually exclusive. I'm sorry if you couldn't pass elementary school geography but don't take it out on my answering machine.

*Politicians attend fundraisers. John McCain also attends them.

*The leaders who met in Washington didn't nor would they have accomplished a damn thing within the few hours that a candidate was at a fundraiser. Neither candidate had any more impact than any other senator or house member in that mess...there is a theory afoot that their prescence was actually more disruptive than helpful...in fact I think the consensus is that Prime Minister Gordon Brown is getting the MVP award for stepping up to the financial crisis.

*There is not one single mention of McCain in his own campaign calls...no policies, no solutions except to blame the democrats.

*(There should totally be a game show called "Blame the Democrats.")

*(Although personally my favorite scapegoat is Alexander Hamilton.)

*I don't really believe that the party who voted for Ronald Reagan, Arnold Shwarzennegger, Sonny Bono, Fred Thompson, and Clint Eastwood - have any real issue with celebrity. In fact, look up the word "celebrity" in the dictionary and you'll see how stupid this is.

*Al Franken is running as a democrat in Minnesota. This has nothing to do with anything; I just like saying "Al Franken."

*Bill Ayers was a trust fund radical who hasn't been relevant as such in 40 years. His organization "The Weathermen" DID plant bombs in the men's crapper at the Capital building in 1971, and the women's crapper at the Pentagon in 1972. Nobody was killed because they called in advance and warned people to evacuate. They were suspected of bombing the judges home, but it was never proved and they didn't take credit for it as they had the others. The Americans who were killed were 3 members of the Weathermen who died when their own bombs exploded on them while they were making them. Basically, (in my opinion) they were hysterics reacting to hysteria like reactionaries do, and decided to have a big temper tantrum and destroy property instead of doing the boring work of organizing voters and educating people on the issues. They DID manage to make it difficult for anyone else who wanted to do these things peaceably in an effort to protest the war to do so without being painted as a mad bomber.

*Between then and now, Ayers was pardoned and has become a respected leader in the field of education...go figure.

*The Comittee that Barack Obama worked on with Bill Ayers also included a Republican governor and a former Nixon official who has given $1,500 to McCains campaign. Not so leftist.

*MCCain/Palin 2008 and the RNC conveniently forget that McCain has his own supporter who was an extremist on the right 40 years ago: G. Gordon Liddy. You'll remember him as part of the Watergate break-in scandal during the Nixon administration. He was convicted of conspiracy, burglary and wiretapping; and has admitted plotting to murder a journalist who wrote unfavorably of Nixon, and to firebomb the Brookings institute. He served 4 years of a 20 year sentence before he was pardoned. He has given a fundraiser for McCain, donated to his campaign, and McCain has praised his "adherence to principles and philosophies that keep our nation great."

* (Hilarious irony...get ready:) Ayers was not convicted because the evidence against him was obtained by illegal wiretapping. In a weird way, Ayers and Liddy complete each other.

*In 2008, Ayers is a professor, and G. Gordon Liddy is a radio show host - neither regrets their past. but I think it would not be a bad idea to put Liddy and Ayers in a big Monster Truck Arena and let them at each other so that the hysterics and extremists can go watch them duke it out while the rest of us focus on voting for the president of 2008.

*Having said that - I'm not surprised by the amount of public PTSD symptoms after the last 8 years. I'm having one now.

*I am not interested in a re-enactment of the Joe McCarthy comittee on anti-american activities. We should have learned the danger of hysterical finger pointing from the Salem Witch trials...but that would require learning.

*The Gateway Media Literacy website has this lovely quote on their homepage: "Media Literacy is a critical thinking skill that is applied to the source of much of our information: the channels of mass communication. As such, media literacy has emerged as a survival skill that empowers individuals to decipher media messages."

*This helps when you get an email forwarded from a Southern Baptist Uncle you never met which states that Obama is a socialist terrorist and the proof is a picture in which Obama is holding a copy of Fareed Zakaria's book, "The Post-American World," which I am certain this man has never heard of let alone read.

*Rush Limbaugh is a douchebag. he just is.

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Escaping Hopper

nobody@vox.com(theregoesmyshoe) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 01:15:17 -0700

A lot of my life has been spent trying to escape it's resemblance to an Edward Hopper painting. This was true before I knew who Edward Hopper was; and from the moment I first discovered him, I have wanted deperately to reach in to his paintings and pull his subjects from the canvas and just hold them. I do not wish to elaborate on that here, because this is not an art history paper. But if you need further explanation, google Edward Hopper, and keyword painting titles such as "Automat," "Room in New York," or my personal favorite "High Noon." Well, after serious, obsessive, preferential study of his works during an art history course in college, I was left with one solid fact of - not art, but life: There is no escaping Edward Hopper. He captured all the moments that we don't really write about in our diaries. He captured the moments we spend thinking about what we should - or wish we could - write in our diaries. He captured our privacy, our solitude, our loneliness, our daydreaming, our disconnectedness, our reflectiveness, the moments that none of us can escape (and sometimes might not wish to)...without invading it or interfering with it.

Hopper's work slays me because I am somewhat introverted...and therefore require some degree of cavetime; but long stretches of isolation and solitude - particularly social solitude (Hopper's specialty) make me nervous.It creates an energy which feeds off itself, and can be damn hard to break free from. Add an overactive imagination and a perceived ignorance of appropriate social graces to the equation, and you start to get a sense of being trapped by your own mind. This was particularly true in my mid to late teens. Marijuana may or may not have helped this; but either way, I still had a tendency of feeling extremely uncomfortable - especially around new people.

I blame this on the move from Tennessee to New York at age 8 or 9...the children who called me "stupid," "hick," "retarded," from the moment they heard the accent...so my public speaking career was ended at an early age. One boy poured some sort of joke shop novelty itching powder down the inside of my coat. Another one wrote a story about a martian named Amy, made it clear he was referring to me, and read it aloud in class. In my previous elementary school, I loved all my classmates; and babbled incessantly with them as kids will do. But these little New York bastards were mean...and sarcastic; a concept I was entirely unfamiliar with and therefore loosely defined as psychological terrorism at the time. I have since embraced it...but it didn't come easy. So I stopped talking....except to my 2 friends: Julia - the tall, geeky girl with glasses who also got made fun of a lot...and a japanese girl whose name I don't remember except that I had a hard time pronouncing it...and she didn't speak much english and therefore spoke even less than I did. We quietly collected and traded "Hello Kitty" paraphenalia after school.

Anyway, I hadn't made as much progress in overcoming this as one would hope by my teens. I was still quiet around new people..."new people" having been identified as potential terrorists; and when I was in a position where I had to speak in order to answer a direct question...I would get so nervous that 9 times out of 10, I would stutter and stammer ...or get so self-conscious that I would give up on the sentence halfway through, then try to correct it with a quick ending, and make NO sense whatsoever in the process - and then cower or blush with embarrassment, just to give it that extra awesome super-cool kick. In short, I was a wreck at parties.

By the time I was 17-18, I had discovered that weed seemed to have a leveling effect for this dilemma; I was no more suave or smooth...but I also just didn't really care - and in fact - found my own social ineptness to be HILARIOUS...so much so that I could take some ribbing over it and enjoy the absurdity of it with self-deprecating humor for friends who seemed to love me anyway. However, if I had to meet a "new person" prior to smoking weed, the same awkward behavior invariably emerged.

One particularly painful night, I was out with a friend...maybe a couple of friends...I don't really remember; but I remember that the company I was with consisted of people I had known just long enough to be newly "okayed" as friends...so the sense of security was not absolute yet. They decided we were to go to the house of someone I didn't know... In fact, I think it was one of those "friend of a friend of this guy I know" things; and there we would hang out and get stoned. I was uncomfortable already, but they seemed to know what they were doing, so off we went.

We walked into someones living room - containing...oh...6 or 7 people; 2 or 3 of whom I recognized but did not know that well. The rest were people who had since graduated...which automatically made them royal and terrifying despite being friendly upon brief introduction. The first thing that struck me was that there was amazing music playing on the stereo...and this was not uncommon as a first impression; in those days I clung to soothing or stunning background music whenever fortune offered it in uneasy situations. I suppose I still do. It was unfamiliar and so I made a mental note to try to figure out how to casually sashay over to the turntable and figure out who it was before I left. But first, I had to sit still on a couch and try not to say anything stupid while a bowl was being passed around. That was my one job. Sit in my Edward Hopper painting.

After a few passes of the bowl, I had loosened up enough to feel that I could ask what music was playing without serious detriment; unfortunately, I was also in the habit of speaking quietly...as will happen when you are unsure of whether or not you should speak at all. So, I asked the room - still unsure of whose house we were in. A few people looked up and a few didn't. I'd like to think the ones who didn't simply did not hear me...but the ones who looked up didn't say anything either. So I panicked...until one of the strange boys walked over to the stereo, picked up an album cover, brought it over to me, handed it to me and warmly told me who they were. The artwork on the album cover was amazing...and I think, despite my better judgement, I exchanged a few sentences with this "new person" about it.

He must have drifted over to the couch which was adjacent to the one I was sitting on sometime while I was obsessively studying the album cover and listening to the music. After a while I looked up and scanned the room from left to right to see what everyone else was up to...until I landed on the boy who had handed me the album; and he looked at me - and he smiled. It was one of the best smiles I have ever seen in my life...so much so that I can clearly remember it 20 years later. It was not smug, or lecherous, or fake, or assuming...it was natural and just seemed to say, "Hello other person in the world." And in that moment, having just been handed a life preserver, I looked at him and thought, "You don't know this and I will never tell you but I would totally crowbar someone in the kneecap for you if you ever needed me to." I didn't usually look too hard at people's faces due to evidence that if you look at people directly, they may try to talk to you, or expect you to talk to them, thereby revealing your weakness in that area. It had been such a safe and comforting moment for me, I didn't want to ruin it. And it occured to me that he might just be proud to have introduced someone to a music that he liked. So I took a mental picture and looked back down at the album cover; knowing full well I would be buying a copy the next day.

We never became well-aquainted. The last time I saw him (maybe 10 yrs. ago), the smile was still there and still fantastic; and even though I had become better adjusted to myself and other people...his smile still reminded me of that terrified girl who was afraid to ask the name of a band. And I remember feeling regret, that I had never made an effort to try to become friends with him...knowing that it was because I didn't want to ruin whatever benign orientation he had to me that made it possible for him to offer that natural, friendly smile the few times I did see him. He seemed centered where I was off-balance, friendly where I was suspicious, open where I was reserved. What kind of friend could I be to someone like that?

A few years later, I would be standing in the Sheldon Art Museum in Lincoln, Nebraska...looking at an authentic Edward Hopper. "Room in New York." I stared at it for a very long time; and when I could no longer resist the impulse, I reached out and very lightly touched the canvas with my index finger. Almost immediately, a booming voice emerged from the P.A system speaker "PLEASE STEP BACK FROM THE PAINTING! DO NOT TOUCH THE PAINTINGS; IT IS BEST TO MAINTAIN A DISTANCE OF 3 FEET AT ALL TIMES.." I looked up at the speaker and yelled "I"M SORRY!" and quickly walked away before being thrown into museum jail. A museum guide caught up with me as I rounded the corner and...in a friendly manner - but firmly - explained that touching the paintings is prohibited because of destructive oils on the fingers that can ruin the integrity of the paint. I felt guilty because I already knew that; and while I hadn't intended to touch for long enough to do any damage...I also understood that there were probably a lot of other people with the same idea. I shouldn't have touched it. But I don't think I regret that I wasn't too reserved, nervous, or afraid to. In that moment, I think I wanted to imagine that touching a representation of these isolated figures would make them less so somehow.

And I wonder if that's why the strange boy smiled at me.

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I just really dont anymore

nobody@vox.com(theregoesmyshoe) — Fri, 18 Apr 2008 00:41:14 -0700

I have said or half-hinted at delving further into the marriage sitch at a more appropriate time; and by that, I think I really meant "after I've figured it out myself." It's been slowly flatlining in stagger steps for such a long time now...it's hard to trace it backwards to try and figure out what happened. But I did a lot of driving around today...just driving and listening to music...because it helps me think; and not just about how completely irresponsible it is to drive around aimlessly during an energy crisis with gas prices being what they are. It was relatively productive thinking, and therefore gas well spent. I'll plant a tree to make up for it once the weather warms up some more. I've got my eye on a japonica...

My official position: My husband is a good person. This is not only a mantra I have begun chanting to keep from snapping at him, it is also a nifty self-terrorism tool...under the circumstances. It comes down to that simple logic formula: a + b = c. Or in my case, if my husband is a good person and I can't stand being married to him then I must be a bad person. But I'm figuring out that it's not that black and white; that maybe I'm just willing to take the heat for things not working out in order to protect him. I also really need to see the best in him right now.

If we weren't in this marriage right now, I could easily sing his praises. Neither one of us is "good" or "bad" across the board. This marriage has been in an obvious downward spiral for almost 2 years now. He never mentions it. I have asked him dozens of times if he even sees it or agrees that things aren't working...or if he really is perfectly happy with the way things are going. When I bring it up, when I ask the questions, he says he is as miserable with the way things have gone as I am. But he doesn't mention it, he doesn't bring it up, he doesn't ask. He waits. He makes friendly chit-chat...like you would with an aquaintance. And while he talks about the weather... in my head: the screaming of the lambs...the invinsible elephants pulverizing the room. When I ask him what he thinks we should do, he gets frustrated and says "I don't know what to do," or turns it to me with "What do you want to do?" This is an evolution from "It will work out." And I think he really believed it magically would at one point.

I do not have the time or will to list every step, every suggestion, every measure I have taken to try to get us communicating, to try to solve the problems; but it is a sizeable amount, has not worked, and has quite frankly worn me out. I cannot fix the marriage...and have lost the will to try to do so. And even if he wakes up tommorrow with a plan and initiates it and declares his love...I think it's too late. The seperation is the last step...the last hope...that maybe some distance would provide some individual perspective on the matter that we could bring back to each other; maybe we could see it better without the weight of it on top of us day in and day out. And maybe we just need time and space to ourselves to work out our own individual shit so we could come back to the marriage on more solid footing. I'm not optimistic about this.

This was established on the first part of the drive; the next leg of the drive is where it got interesting.

I do not want to cry anymore, or be angry anymore.. that's useless and as it so happens, I'm not even really angry at him; I'm angry at and hurt by the failure. I've done all my desperate pleas and passionate rages over it...they don't work or change anything and I'm out of steam; it's been continuously heartbreaking. And one of the biggest problems - for me anyway - is that I don't like myself like this. I don't like myself angry. I don't like the way I feel about this marriage, about him, about myself in it's wake. It turns out, we don't really have that much in common with each other...except for the fact that we met, found each other attractive and wanted to get to know each other better. We parlayed that into a relationship and - in retrospect - eloped too quickly. And I can't speak for him, but I kept trying to get to know him...and after 4 years and a herculean effort - it seems an impossible task; it's as though we hit a plateau and there's no further examination or work that is going to change the fact that we don't really "get" each other. I think we make natural friends...but evidence shows that we don't function as a married couple. Getting married has turned me into the Mrs....and I hate being her; she's angry and frustrated and depressed and...she just sucks. Turns out, I miss being the Ms. I was prior to this; she wasn't sick and tired ALL the time. None of this is his fault...it just happened somehow; a bad combination where we just don't bring out the best in each other. It's baffling, but it's just information...and probably best to look at it without judgement.

And that might be the best way to wrap this up: sometimes two relatively good people can't make a marriage work with each other. Sometimes, they discover incompatibilities that make it impossible to live together in a marriage. Love should be enough...but how do you define love? If you recognize it differently, maybe you make each other miserable wishing the other would just love you...and maybe they do...but not in a way you can translate into the language your own heart speaks. Unless you are capable and/or willing to learn a new language...and even then...for fuck sake...chinese swahili? Do you learn a language in order to move to a culture you are uncomfortable in? No.

So, I'm looking for a job...and thinking about where to live...what to do with my life...and other practical things I might actually have some control over. Everything else, including the marital dilemma has to go onto the back burner until I find a job; the marriage has been prioritized and worked on with great difficulty for too long to no avail. AND - whether in spite of or as a result of - I'm in a phase of thinking, remembering, examining...so staying with that thread - here's my memory of the day:

A smile.

(More on that later.)

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How to kill an unkillable killer

nobody@vox.com(theregoesmyshoe) — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 06:30:18 -0700

I woke up at precisely 6:44am from this dream:

I am working at a new job - which just happens to be in a creepy abandoned house. The cliche psycho-killer is picking off all of my coworkers one by one. We have a board meeting to discuss what to do about it; and it is decided that we should fight back. Since he is a psycho killer (with a mask and everything) he will not die; and we learn this after several co-workers try to kill him with knives, guns, chainsaws...the proverbial kitchen sink of implements of destruction...to no avail.

Then he comes after me. Luckily, there is an axe nearby...because dreams are fortuitous and dripping with opportunity in this manner. I chop off his head. Then I chop off each arm. Then I chop off each leg. Then I chop his torso in half. Then I remember that movie "The Hand" with Michael Caine running from his own appendage the whole friggin' movie...so I go the extra mile and chop off each finger and toe. And just for good measure, I chop all the rest of him into tiny chunks. Then I set the pile of meat on fire and I DO NOT walk away until I see it burn down into a pile of ash.

I brush off my hands and walk away saying "THERE, assholes; NOW he's dead."

I'm thinking of putting it on my resume.

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The Nobel prize in monster trucks

nobody@vox.com(theregoesmyshoe) — Mon, 31 Mar 2008 20:11:21 -0700

A quick one; I'm writing this on the one computer which shares a living room with a television currently televising wrestling being viewed by the other person in this room.

I'm having a hard time finding the space and time to write anything good; so I write for practice for now.

Got my roots fixed last week - hair is blonder in the middle now and I slept in braids so it's wavy like a bad perm. Wearing a black t-shirt which has a picture of a fish on it and says "Kiss my Bass." Smoking a Marlboro light. Being distracted by wrestling on t.v. 3 and a half feet a way from me. Bought "Bad Company" on cd yesterday. Live in Missouri.

My name is Earl.

Except I don't have a karma list...and maybe I should. I'm going through a period of looking back at mistakes and trying to figure out how to correct them - or at least - make sure I learned from them.

I feel awesome anyway; in fact...that's my new - or RE-newed motto: "Feel good anyway." I found the caption in a magazine once and taped it to the mirror...so I could remind myself to do this no matter what I or the day or the weather or the situation was. It seems logical that the more you beat yourself up for where you aren't, the harder it's going to be to do the footwork to get there.

I ordered a coffee yesterday; when the clerk asked me if I wanted anything else I said "You know what...if you put whipped cream on top of that I'll be happy for the whole rest of the day." And he smiled at this. I said something that made him smile; and THAT...is power. Monster truck power.

And you know what? I WAS happy for the whole rest of the day.

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It's not shyness...

nobody@vox.com(theregoesmyshoe) — Fri, 09 Feb 2007 10:22:41 -0800

A woman smiles at me in the hallway.

I smile back - a simple enough exchange.

But then she says "Hi."

Now I've been given a task to complete.

I say "Hi" back - but I look down at the cup in my hand as I say it,

so I'm actually saying "Hi" to my coffee.

I'm just tired.

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