wordwhore

draggin the line

2008-02-15T03:50:15Z

wow

2008-01-23T23:18:50Z

I haven't posted anything here in two years! Whoops.

I have a lot of presence elsewhere in the web, but if I can think of a reason to type stuff here, I will.

testing

2006-01-28T00:05:31Z

added a second user pic, seeing about that now.

It just occurred to me,

2005-09-29T05:09:35Z

that this will be a weekend project, this little spot in ether-space. And this serves as a personal reminder of that. I shall return.

3, a work in progress

2005-09-25T20:47:47Z

He's truly beautiful--I don't think I quite realized it from the one or two small photos I'd seen on my computer. The photos show merely an ordinary handsome man approaching 40; solid, sensible, just quirky enough to be interesting. In person, he has features distinct and genteel, worry lines overlapping laugh lines, teeth straightened long ago that now reveal slight imperfections of age and character, with just a hint of an overbite, and eyes so crayon brown they appear both solid and liquid at the same time. And his whole face crinkles up when he grins. I've always found that to be a mark of sincere delight.

2a

2005-09-25T19:54:29Z

Death is where the story really begins, if having a beginning will suit the needs of the reader.

My mother died of breast cancer when she was 53 years old. At the time of her death, women who discovered their cancers at the stage when she found hers had over an 80% "cure" rate. But she received little to no useful advice, trusted no one, and sought out no doctors until it was nearly, and then finally, too late.

For many years following her death, I tried to just not think about it at all. As I've grown older, however, and increasingly aware of the approach of middle age, I've begun to wonder about it all. What really killed her? What caused the pain in parts of her body where no cancer grew? At what point, if any, could a decision have been made that might have saved her life? Was there something that marked that point in time, or in her body?

I do not intend to repeat her experience. However, I'm just as reticent, to be honest, in approaching doctors for answers. For one thing, they rarely appear to have any. For another, they never seem to quite see the root of any problem, only show interest in treating the outward symptoms. So I began with the internet. I read all I could on the subject, what advances have been made, potential causes, preventions and treatments. I found much of the information to be either too personal or too clinical, but I did learn how the cancer survival rate has dramatically increased over the past 15 years.

Still, I wanted to talk about my mom, with someone who could help me experience now what I was not allowed to experience then; a recognition of a terminal illness, and the stages that follow, through the grief for and acceptance of a life that ended too soon.

Everyone thinks that, when someone dies unexpectedly, or of an illness that we expect to only touch the elderly. But my mother died merely because there was no bother to help her live. Or she didn't bother. Or something. Mainly she was scared, and she hid from the knowledge of her illness until it was too late. She was scared to death.

I found an online forum where people could ask questions, and "guest" doctors would answer them. I knew I had to word my question very carefully, because I might have only this one shot at getting it answered.

"Please explain to me, in as much detail as space allows, the physical sensations my mother probably experienced from the moment of awareness of cancer developing in her breasts, through the two years following, as it took hold of her chest, eventually causing her death from respiratory failure."

The ledge between 1 and 2

2005-09-25T19:32:02Z

As I write bits of this story, I'll label them as best I can, to show where they fit into the picture. But since there really is no beginning and no end, it simply cannot flow in only one direction. You'll know the story by the color and typeface.

Sometimes I write in third person because that's how I see myself, as though I'm looking through a window at my life, which never really feels wholly my own; I can see it and hear it, but I don't seem to be able to completely embrace it, except in brief moments, walking through a woods, or just as I'm about to fall asleep, or relaxing in a bath.

But this is my story; it really belongs to me. I flipped the switch that set these events in motion, and I was one of the main characters in the tale. So it's time to switch voices, and tell you how it was for me that day, when it felt as though moments were all we might have left.

free account

2005-09-25T18:44:01Z

I would update the side bar more if I could, but you have to pay to do that, and I am flat, flat broke until who knows when?

Oh--about my computer?

2005-09-25T17:18:07Z

Last time I mentioned it here, it was in tragic condition. Currently, it is less so. The display was replaced, coma problem fixed, a/c repaired, almost works as good as new.

However, 93 days after all these repairs, I began having screen resolution trouble. It has three conditions; perfect, slightly off-set, and very off-set, so that part of the screen looks green, and part of it looks pink. It comes and goes at will, as far as I can tell. Naturally, there was a 90 day warranty on the tune-up. Thing is, I'm given to understand that this would be a simple repair; it may be that the optic cable was loosened during repair, and just needs to be set to rights. But I don't feel comfortable doing that myself.

So sometimes I work on visual things, and sometimes I cannot. Story writing is difficult at those times, too, but I've found if I close my eyes, it helps.

Oh, hey.

2005-09-25T05:12:32Z

Yeah, see, every time I thought I was back, something else would go wrong and get in the way, so I'm just playing permanent catch-up. This is something I've worked on in my head, mostly, for a little while, that I want to finish. I just might change a few aspects and turn it into an encounter with a TV character I'm thinking about right now, but I haven't decided yet.

1.

"She's asked to come with me."

"That's new. Unexpected--isn't it?"

"She's never seen the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, The Met..."

"I understand. Times are shaky, right?"

"Well, yes. And I think she may actually miss me."

"Also understandable."

"It always is with you. I just..."

"Just...?"

"I just thought you should know."

"Thank you. It's good, it's fine. Of course."

"Well, all right then. I'm glad we could talk."

"Me, too. And listen--be sure to take her to the Green Market at Union Square on Sunday. Late morning is best."

"Great. Thanks. That sounds like something she'd enjoy."

"She will. And so will you. Take care. Don't forget an umbrella."

"We'll talk again, soon."

"Yes. Talk soon."

The sky was grey, a bit. It always is when she's there in the city alone. Taking in a show or exhibit with friends or family? Clear day, maybe a light tickling wind. Day off to roam around solo? Usually overcast, often drizzly. It's the way of things, and she's come to accept that.

She sits, as is her habit, on a bench in front of Abe Lincoln. She calls this section of the park Cell Phone Row, and as usual, there are three or four people either side of her, all chattering away, seemingly to no one. The ones with tiny ear and mouth pieces are funniest; they use their hands to gesture vigorously, or to eat a sandwich or work on some piece of business or other, completely oblivious to their surroundings.

Sipping warm spiced grape juice, nibbling on pumpkin bread, paging through a volume of poetry in a language she can barely read; this is her idea of temporary paradise, even if the sky threatens to open at any moment. She knows the most it will do is leak a few lame tears in her direction, then go back to looking vaguely threatening again. In this space, in this narrow window of time, she is most completely her self.
People pass by in groups of two, three, four, some have dogs and most have phones, but she rarely bothers to look up; this occasional routine has led her to the conclusion that all humans everywhere are capable of discussing only three subjects; their ex-relationships, their jobs and their pets. Even here in the city that doesn't sleep, people are just people, and she's met them all by now.

Except one.

2.

I couldn't help myself. As she headed for the newsstand, I scribbled on the back of a receipt I found in my purse and then got up, walked past him quickly, dropping the receipt at his feet, and kept on going out of the park. My heart was racing, but I didn't look back.

The note said, "Meet me in front of Trump Tower in an hour." And he did.

He just walked right up to me and spoke, "She's visiting an old school friend, and we're getting back together for dinner at 7."

I said nothing, just pointed toward Central Park, smiled, and took off across the street, as he followed behind, jogging a little to keep up.

I had never before spoken to him in person, and just didn't know how to begin. It seemed so important to get the words exactly right, even if they were meaningless. So I remained silent until that began to feel absurd. We had a few hours, this one day out of forever, not to be wasted away on shyness.

"An eternity in one long breath. That's how the days seem right now. Like we're all exhaling, and when our lungs finally empty, and it's time for drawing in again, well."

I stopped, realizing I must sound a little crazy, speaking the truth hardly anyone dared voice aloud. That's me, from shy to overly vocal in one careless move.

There I was, after all.

2004-11-12T20:51:48Z

I've been buried, disappeared and forgotten by all, but especially me. And no one but me knows that it's been this way for a very, very long time, to such a degree that I literally believed I had been dissolved, never to be reconstituted again, at least not until I'm too old for it to do any good.

I cannot radically alter my circumstances to match who I really am, but I'm determined not to get completely lost again, now that I've made an appearance.

This winter I'm doing two major things for myself; getting back to where I left off with my guitar-playing, and redoubling my efforts in the French language. I can read it on an elementary level, and understand the structure nearly as well as English. Now I want to hear in French and think in French, even if I never master speech.

Also, I'm going to sing again.

But I already feel so worn down by the cold, grey air. This is the time when I'm most alone in the middle of my giant family, and most in need of someone I can really connect with. Since I can't have that, I can practice for when I can, someday, someday. But this is all for me, for now.

Language

2004-11-11T16:10:35Z

I love to incorporate Italian or French into my poems. I feel a certain connection to both languages, and I like the idea of being able to express something more accurately by taking advantage of other modes of communication. It's not a question of strict translation; the sense is often quite different in another tongue.

I never felt that way about Spanish, though there are some Spanish-language movies and a poet or two I'd like to understand better. But so many people around here speak it that it's been on my mind lately. I enjoy hearing them and it's not too difficult to pick out a fair number of words and phrases. Maybe I'll explore that a little bit, though I don't see it becoming as important to me as the other two. I just can't help it; I'm a dilettante.

Where was I?

2004-11-11T15:12:36Z

Caught in a web of my own making.

There's much writing to be done, but gads. Need time for distillation.

Do you know about my computer? It's quite old, but lovely. It is a G3 Powerbook, the original one with the upside down apple? Plus a crack in the top half of the case, and a thin red line running down the length of the screen about 1.5 inches from the right edge. The a/c connection is busted, so I can only operate on battery, which then gets charged in lp's twin computer, giving me about 2 hours of usage time each round. Also, all Macintosh PowerBooks have always gone to sleep when you close the lid, just springing right back where you left off when you open it, but mine goes into a coma instead, draining the battery, so I have to shut down frequently. OS X is meant to not be shut down, so it doesn't work optimally, but I'm still happier with this than any new crappy pc clone. You could not pay me to use one, though they've improved considerably over the past decade. If I could just have another battery that worked well, I really could carry this thing everywhere and write on it, and I would. I could even upload stuff if I went to Border's or Starbuck's. Mostly I'm just at home, though.

Back to things.

whoa, yeah

2004-11-02T17:02:29Z

I forgot about this place. Got stretched waaaay too thin and had to just--remove myself from most of it. I was freaking out, seriously.

But this is my lil shallow home on the net, and though it's way outdated right now in terms of pop culture interests, it feels good to be here.

So I have a blog, and this live journal, and another one you know nothing about, and then the web page I can't get time for, and the book, and then there's real life as well. It's crazy, but it was even crazier before. I have to take some time to gather the mental energy to sort it all out, place everything in context, and then continue on, I guess.

But I'm so incredibly distracted at the moment, I can barely see straight. It may take another month to get things together.

vaguely apropos

2004-06-15T17:45:27Z

Je suis prête.

I lean forward, my chain sways and brushes against my mouth,
A moment out of time hums the resonance of our kiss
now lost in the distance past the corner of my eye, I cannot grab hold.

Running silver along my lips catching a reverie that only almost existed
The earth does not speak it bleeds of thirst and memory,
anamorphic desire that has no real will, just a vague notion of synchronicity
and an earnest predilection for quality gin.

Vous êtes prêts aussi?

Thoughts I'm having while not exactly working on my book.

2004-06-11T02:03:41Z

Always, always always I come back to the same problem of describing something that has no adequate words. Tangible events with intangible essences, so that if I merely record the events as they occurred, they sound dry and lifeless, or are easily given up for misinterpretation.

I want to describe a sensation with words that make you feel it right then and there, the way I felt it as it happened. I want more words that illustrate the tastes and smells and vibrations of the room, but none such exist, at least none that are truly adequate for my need. I want you to feel slightly drunk by the meaning of it all when you read what I've written.

The best writers do that for me, and I want to do that for you.

I am working through what feels like an odd fear; that of making stuff up. I am afraid to write fiction. Either I'm afraid of what might actually come out of my head, or afraid of how others might interpret it. Perhaps they'll think it's too real or perhaps they'll think it's too made up. Perhaps I can't own up to my own self how I think or feel about various situations, or ideas or types of behavior. Or perhaps it's some other problem entirely. I haven't sorted it out yet. But I'm having some sort of performance anxiety, much akin to the terrible feeling I get if I have to brush my teeth in front of someone. That necessary personal habit is so ultimately private to me, I think if I were given the opportunity, I'd rather speak to a crowd at Carnegie Hall than ever brush my teeth in front of another human. And somehow, I feel that way about writing, at least lately.

I used to want every scrap I ever typed onto a screen to be fully witnessed and reviewed by everyone I could get my hands on. But all that writing, the poems and essays and clever little vignettes; that was just showing off, and no matter how personal it may have seemed to others, to me it was just conversations I hoped to have with people of a similar mind.

This is different. This feels holy. I keep telling myself it's not. What made me feel so vulnerable? I still haven't figured it out.

heheheheh

2004-05-13T15:05:00Z

forgot i made this awhile ago, just for the heck of it.

oops

2004-05-06T21:53:18Z

i wanted to add this to my sidebar; something i wrote about 18 months ago, in a ruminating mood. but i haven't paid my 5 dollars in awhile, so that option is currently unavailable to me!

Weekly Basis

i need to start living instead of just collecting it around me.

i collect Grand and Glorious Schemes the way
an old Depression-Era man collects used paper bags
and glass jars full of twist-ties and rubber bands.

i own seven English dictionaries, three style handbooks,
five atlases and countless Volumes of History.
in case i ever get the urge to write.

candles never lit
need dusting
they are arranged with care
along aubergine-washed walls
in a room with no furniture

lone green armchair
a stand for the lone green guitar
waiting in the corner
it knows the opening strains of
Sweet Home Alabama
Fascination Street,
Have a Cigar,
yet never feels the vibration of
fingers across strings

this is what the mind's eye created
as respite from dishes and books and toys
and laundry and dishes and books and toys
and laundry and laundry and laundry

inspiration leads Monday into Tuesday
while intuition collects in the corners of the mind
initiation occurs during dream state
inquietude invades wakefulness

but waiting for the exact proper beginning
in a world without beginning or end
is fairly silly, if you take the time to think about it.

bah

2004-05-06T13:54:08Z

i'm pretty mad about Angel right now. i haven't even watched the latest two episodes, though i did tape them. there are only two more, and i may not watch any of them until it's all over. thing is, it had gotten so good. and now it kind of blows.

why should i care? i guess because each time a favorite show ends, and i can count on my fingers how many there've been, it seems as though there could never be anything to replace it.

Twin Peaks--ended too soon, and the movie didn't put a final point on it, though it's worth watching from time to time.
Star Trek: The Next Generation--ended at exactly the right time, and with what is still, to me, the best series finale ever
The X-Files--went on a bit too long, but only because it wasn't allowed to just evolve naturally the last couple of years. i still haven't watched the finale
Buffy, the Vampire Slayer--i really wished for one more year of this, where they fixed some stuff? and the finale was okay, but not brilliant.

with Angel, there could also have been one more post-Wolfram and Hart year, a conciliatory relationship between Angel and Spike, a little more time for Wesley to brood and be confused about life before, well, yeah, which would have made his conclusion more solid, and a proper send-off for Lorne and Gunn, who would certainly have gone in a different direction once the law firm idea was dispensed with.

so i might watch Dark Shadows next year, just because i was a fan of the original as a child, but it's not going to be a replacement for the Whedon years or my new sci-fi love. i kept trying with Enterprise, but it's too much work. and that leaves the following programs for regular TV viewing:

Passions--it's not a good show, but i love it, for many reasons
Gilmore Girls--i don't agree the show has lost anything with Rory being at Yale. if anything, it's been great seeing more from the Star's Hollow characters. and not only do i love Luke as much as everyone else, i'm old enough to not care how little hair lives under that hat.
Queer Eye for the Straight Guy--it's not fresh anymore, but whatever. it's still fun, though i wish they would all get nicotine patches and go to work on those eye bags immediately!
The Brini Maxwell Show--bow down and worship; Brava, Diva Brini.

it's all so girly, isn't it? sigh. and then whatever time i might spend randomly watching TV is spent with BBC America. broadcast TV is dying, and so is sci-fi, for now. Fight the Future!

heh.

2004-05-06T12:49:32Z

</a>

</a>

and that's all there was.

i'm in an overwhelmed, brain-twisted state. there may be more to this tale later. in fact, you can count on it.

i made a meme.

2004-04-22T14:02:25Z

my so-called magical life by bibliosylph
My name is
I spend most of my days in	the bathroom with a laptop
I try never to	vacuum my shoestrings
I help people by	warding their doorways and windows with protective runes
My enemy is	eggs
My magical tool is a(n)	enigma in my own clever mind
I love to wear	bowling shoes

Created with the ORIGINAL MemeGen!

i totally cheated

2004-04-22T13:20:21Z

but you don't have to. just put your name in and click at the bottom.

Your Life in the Buffyverse by miggy
Your Name
You live	in Giles' bathtub
Your job is	cataloguing grooming products
Your deep secret is	I've never been to Cleveland
Your best friend is	Ethan Rayne
Your worst enemy is	Joyce Summers
Your main plot arc is	scenting Giles' bath with home-grown herbs
Your ultimate fate is	being left so he can pursue a higher calling

Created with the ORIGINAL MemeGen!

falosafee and junk

2004-04-22T13:08:35Z

People in a forum i visit were asking, "do things happen for a reason?" and the answers given were related mainly to whether fate exists, or if God has a hand in things, or if it's all chance, and so forth. but i wanted to look at the question from my own point of view, and yet i really have no one with whom i can discuss that well. so i'm posting my response here. maybe someone will appreciate my thoughts, or at least find something to muse over during lunch.

wanna define what you mean by "reason"? we have "The basis or motive for an action, decision, or conviction." also, "the intellectual faculty by which humans seek or attain knowledge or truth."

too abstract?

you can more concretely use "An underlying fact or cause that provides logical sense for a premise or occurrence." well, nature works with that sort of reason. the seasonal cycle of trees, or the way plants grow from other plants' decomposition. a baby's first day ability to see clearly about as far as the distance from his mother's breast to her face.

i would call your various spiritual notions "outcome-based intention," and say that comes from within yourself or outside of yourself, whichever you're inclined to believe. because in my particular philosophy, what you believe is what causes your perception of the outcome.

oh, it's me

2004-03-28T04:16:54Z

here's how to make a perfect martini. buy expensive gin. like tanqueray ten. carefully peel a lemon so you get all the peel, but no pith. then you put the gin in a shaker, shake well, strain into an upright martini glass, and toss in the peel. do not even wave a vermouth bottle in the direction of your glass.

if you want to order this in a bar, ask for a tang ten martini, up and neat, with a double twist. bombay sapphire will do if they don't have tanqueray ten. regular tanqueray will not do. act sweet and not priggish.

i was reading about bar terms, because we were arguing about when the martini was invented? (i was right.) and i learned that the code words you use come from when there was Prohibition here. so i could go to a place, say martini, up and neat with a twist. and that would mean gin, shaken, no mix, add lemon peel. and then they'd know, man. BECAUSE THEY WERE SPEAKEASIES! get it?

but here and now, i get dorky waitresses who don't know stuff, so it requires more words than that.

oh, hey

2004-03-08T14:57:01Z

well, i moved. and 6 weeks later, construction still not finished, personal computer still not repaired. i'm working on seeing, or feeling, time as a fluid entity/non-entity rather than some sort of linear process. then i won't mind anything at all...

this house is super cool, and i cannot complain about what's unfinished. not when i really think about all i've been, well, blessed with. it's large, well-proportioned, fun and uniquely-featured, in a nice, quiet, pretty neighborhood, and there's a wonderful back yard so that i will finally be able to have the sort of back garden i've long wished for. i have a large garage again, and a great sun porch, and a brand-spanking-new kitchen is nearly finished. it will all have been worth the pain and chaos in the end.

contentment is on the horizon, and i'm circling toward that.