Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Yelling At Dad

I was sorry i yelled and yelled at my dad - i told him he was really inconsiderate to cram info at me all the time expecting I was interested. And that some was interesting but that I never ask yet he tells and tells and there is no dialogue!! its just a one-way thing! 

And its true. 

he listened. 


And said he couldn't change at this point. pff. 

Monday, July 28, 2014

HTML

Its really disturbing that I took a class in Dreamweaver and I don't remember sh*t.

Angel Olsen Is My Momentary Obsession

As all things pass, so will this momentary fixation.
But at the height of it, at this moment, I am so enjoying the delightful sounds of
Angel Olsen.

She is a terrific singer songwriter, probably mid 20s, living in Asheville North Carolina, in the hippie world of musicians and street scoundrels.

She sings in an almost yodel-y manner, which is kind of appropriate for someone with that last name.
The Olsens, weren't they Scandinavian roots?  Or were they Swiss.

Somehow I picture these peoples to have begun the traditional of yodeling for country music.

As a child and through my own 20s, I couldn't bear to hear that yodelly shit.
But now, I believe i've passed through the wall.
Its like Neil Young: you could hate him and hate him, and then over time, you might think yknow? I kinda like that song Sugar Mountain.  Even if he does have a whiny voice!

And so I say to you, if you have a moment, do give a listen.
Or just appreciate that someone out there is a little older, but appreciating the music of a younger generation!

Here's a beautiful set of songs by her... intimately performed.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7BDPEr2X8P4

May 10, 2013 Was More Than a Year Ago!! Get Over It?

Fred was a real good friend.
We met in Cobble Hill brooklyn, 
I knew him for 20 years. 

The first time I ever had a salad over at Freds place on a summer day,
 he handed me a sock—to use as a napkin. 

 I wondered if I was just too formal and square,
 or is using a sock as a napkin within the realm of ok. 

 I guess in retrospect it turns out it was okay, 
and now pretty funny.

Fred was generous to a fault - he would bestow his generosity
 upon anyone who was willing to accept it.
 Would do anything,
 if possible,
 for his friends and family.
 Pretty incredible. 

He lived for cultural events, and foodie things. 
And full of contradictions: 
for instance he didn't believe
 in the idea of charging people money himself for food items… 
yet was perfectly willing to spend 300 hard-earned dollars 
on some skimpy but fancy meal at a high-end restaurant
—because it was "worth it". 

Birthdays and Xmas meant so much to fred, 
family and friend time were foundational; 
and walking the annual halloween parade
 with his friend Greg, in costume,
 was a no-miss event. 
Every year.

He called upon and saw his friends with regularity—
I might not hear from fred for five or six days,
 but then he'd call and say,
 typicially, 
“Whats goin on?”

He wanted to be filled in. 
He wanted to know about people 

He wanted to talk as well,
 he did have his enthusiasms…
 but really he wanted to listen and be filled in.

I wanted so badly for him
 to do another cheese-information video with me.
 I was convinced that some day,
 Fred would be star. 

He was so smart, and so good
 at how he related his knowledge about cheese.  

But his answer again and again to my pressings was,
 “Other people know so much more.”

It was frustrating, but I was convinced that eventually, he would relent. 

But we don't know about tomorrow.
We know it will come, but we don't know
 if it will come for us 
or our loved ones.  
We can only do whats immediate, now, here.
So we missed that further opportunity together.

In recent years 
I've been struck by a line from the Carly Simon song Anticipation: 
"these are the good old days."

We tend to look back, and marvel at how fantastic things were.  
when in actuality, its happening right now.
  THESE are the good old days.

So one time I was sitting in the park with Fred, 
and I said, 
“this is it, fred. 
These are the good old days.
 We're going to look back and see that this was a terrific time for us.”
And unfortunately, its true.
  That day sitting on the grass in the park was a terrific moment in our lives.

I'm sorry to lose such a dear friend, 
and more sorry for not making happen 
what might have been… with Fred.  

I will miss having someone who was an encouraging and championing friend to me. 

Sometimes he gave me a hard time
 for how I acted, and for the the things I said, and did. 
And sometimes I jabbed right at him as well, and at his equally frustrating behaviors.

But all throughout, it really didn't matter—we were friends, and we loved one another.

I will miss him. 
  I will miss him so much. 
I cant believe I can't call him to discuss… anything.
  Too bad. 

You will be missed, Fred.
 You were a kind and generous spirit,
 and I'm happy
 to have had you in my life. 


Goodbye.

Luc Besson Directs a Movie

Oh shit, by the way - i saw 
LUCY 
the Scarlett Johan. movie.

I went solo, 
and this guy sitting next to me kept looking at me as it neared the end.

Like suddenly we should be striking up a conversation about the movie?? 

He just turned away from me and shook his  head, repeatedly.
Clearly disgusted, but not necessarily at me.

Final frame of the movie soon after that - and the credits pop up.

So does he!
He jumps up, and goes, NO!!! NO!!
BOOOOoooo!! Booooooo!
 -- and storms away, shaking his head.


Frankly? He kinda had a point.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Cat Ass Trophy

At the end of June, as July was about to show its head, I got rid from my cat Lulu. It only took 3 years to do so. She was bad cat.

I'm kind of a cat person, so clearly the 3 year delay was due to some inner struggles about the situation. 
While I did end up returning her to the no kill shelter from whence she came, I made the mistake of listening to outer voices for years, before doing so. Rather than doing what I should have, which is to listen to the Inner Voice.

I've said again and again, listen to the Inner Voice.  The inner voince always knows - that you are in the wrong situation, that you are unhappy, that you should be making a change, etc.  Of course, that doesn't always mean the inner voice is pointing you towards Easy and Trouble-free choices.  No, its merely telling you that you should be going in a different direction.  Its telling you to MAKE that change, whatever it is.  Or sometimes its telling you not to trust something, or to follow a better pathway, etc.  And so on.  Its your instinct, and its pretty wise.

In my case, with Lulu the cat, my inner voice said, 'This cat is troubled, and you are going beyond yourself to the point of not enjoying the pet ownership.  Reset this situation."
My mistake was listening to people like Linda, Sue, Tae, and others. They all said, with great emotion, "Noooo, you cannnnnn't!!! Its so cruuuuuuelll! She'll be miserable back at the shelter!"

But this makes the assumption that the owner is a godlike, emotionless, even tempered person that remains unaffected by all things.  I'm not said person.  When the cat would dig deep grooves into my wooden floors, something I've never ever seen a cat do, I would get quite upset. I tried to let it go, but it upset me. It was like putting up with a bad girlfriend, really.  When she's scrambled up the french doors, scrambled around the tops of them, and then jumped down and ran back and forth, it would shatter my nerves. Yet I accepted it. Never liked it, but did accept it.

But the scratching was the hardest part.  It was bad enough that she would aggressivly bite and attack me at times, for all kinds of reasons. No, what stressed me out was that I could not have visitors without her scratching THEM. She would swipe at my sister, at my mother, at my cat sitters, at my friends.  

Then, that last Saturday in June, as I chatted with someone, the cat came up in conversation. I began my whines about the downsides of Lulu the cat. 

That was the straw that broke the camels back. I heard myself. I heard me talking about Lulu as if she was Torment and Burden.  Wow, I thought as I balthered -  like an out of body experience - I heard myself whining. And complaining. And realized that this was just not good. Enough was enough, I had been denying and delaying the inevtiable for over 3 years, and there was only one person that was living my life and to actually make The Right Decision.  So I biked home, stuffed her into the cat carrier, and brought her back to the original shelter from whence she came.

I strangely feel no remorse over this. Probably because they didn't flinch whne I brought her back. They knew and rememerd, when they saw her.  Her descripton did say, on the cage when I got her 3 years ago: This is a Feisty Cat! Aint THAT the truth.   In the end I'd say, I was a good owner. I hope for her, that someone will be smitten by her upon visiting the shelter, and take her in. But if not? She'll live the rest of her days in a no kill shelter, well cared for.  I've done my time, and I thank me for it.


Monday, July 7, 2014

Scents and Memory

Its interesting how a scent will bring up an emotion.  The smell of cut grass in the summer time brings me right back to being 7 years old, spending the summer with my cousins in Farmland, Indiana. 

I'm cheerfully biking around a small town that seems endless and, fairly interesting in its detail. Despite the fact that in reality nothing was going on, it was and is a dead town and, held up against any other town in america, is as dull as the proverbial dishwater.  The truth is, dishwater  may have some more interesting properties to it than that of Farmland. But I was a kid, and biking around a nothing town is more than interesting, its new and fascinating.

The cut grass of Anywhere In Summertime reminds me, of climbing up a metal tube that was the local school's fire escape. For us the fire escape chute was a slide, one we had to climb into to reach the escape door at the top floor of the school. All in order to shoot back down, to the ground level below. that 40 foot climb upward and slide downward had to be frought with all kinds of perils.  

I can tell you that I do recall seams within that metal tube, as we slid back down.  If one of the seam-lips of that tube were bent or damaged, it would be easy to shear ourselves open in one way or another. But kids have a way of miraculously escaping danger, despite the questionable things they engage in. And climbing the tube was one activity that didn't bite us on the ass.  If I were an adult witnessing what we were doing, I'd either yell and scream or beat our asses for climbing along and up into that steep metal tunnel. 

But there wasn't anyone around to witness what were doing, for better or worse; it was like being in a desert wasteland, there by the public school. This was a bona fide farm town, and people mustve been indoors escaping the July heat.

Acts that  human society surely engaged in as soon as "shelter" was created: Find Food. Make clothing. Build shelter. Get the fuck out of the sun, wind and rain. 

This dead down, heated and dried from the summer sun, was just another hot dry summer spot where nothing much was going on. And the smell of cut grass brings me right back there.

Sunday, July 6, 2014

Hair Down

His hair is matted down in some strange fluids he puts in it.  Like there's work going on there in trying to tame it or change it, but it just ends up blobbed down, looking limp and greasy.  A weirdness prevails in the image from it, like a demented chld molester god forbid, or something even more freaky. Definitely something off the rails of general society.

There's occasional bursts of unbelievable poignancy and lucidity that spring up in conversations, but that is part of the disorder.  Observations that are keen and bright can be followed by hatreds and confusions. Its not dissimilar to what many other laypeople experience and exhibit, but on a milder, more schaadenfreude-type level.   The puffiness around the face and joylessness in the eyes however gives away the illness, and it can be alarming to the lay person to see.

The extreme changes of focus within conversational monologues borders on the unbelievable. It comes at almost breakneck speed and can be difficult to follow in any regular linear fashion.

But again, this is brought forth by the illness. Its a rambling monologue, full of hopes and dreams and checklists, and exclamations. Business ideas, dreams, and of course: despairing declarations of determined exodus from this fair city. When all is said and done, fukkit, I'm outta here man.

In the end its impossible to know, where his path will lead.  But, do I even know, the path that will be, for myself?

In a sense, we're the same, he and I. Not so dissimilar.  Perhaps thats why it bothers me.

To be continued. By the turns of the earth, and time.

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

The Mysteries of Women. And Men Too, I'm Sure

Standing in the coffee bar waiting for my free iced mocha, I got to admiring the physical presence of a young lady who also waited.

She was deeply in animated conversation with the barista, altho I couldn't hear with all the commotions of other conversations in the small shoppe.

As my drink order was announced, starbux-style, I stepped forward and was privvy to the sound of said young lady's voice.  It was deep and husky, surprisingly a jarring contrast to the young lady's appearance.  With her almost-chiffon dress, a semi-sheer white, she seemed lite, tanned, attractive, with an easy manner.

While her manner didn't actually change, her demeanor changed in my mind.   With a rough and husky voice, suddenly her appearance became slightly cloaked in a tougher and grittier persona.   Still attractive and pretty, still the same person, but different in my mind from the fantastical notion I had concocted upon first and second glance.

And then she turned, to reach for her own drink.  A large tattoo on her left shoulder-blade, in a sort of blue black ink.  Suddenly, she was no longer one of the masses in my mind, but someone who might run withe the burlesque set.

And yet, when all is said and done... for all my judgey judgement... Do I really know all that much about her?

My point being, that as human beings, our minds are firing at a mile a minute, even when we're dull and dimwitted.  We make our own assessments and judgements, everywhere we go.    And its nice to know, in the end, that we can be quite wrong - about situations, people, places, etc.     I can appreciate that.

Marthie's Lament

She was utterly vexed. Couldn't understand why her newfound riches in life didn't include the Keys to the Kingdom.  In this case, a family island in New England.

Marthie thought for certain that by marrying her rich wall street beau, somehow she would be invited to the family compound of her even-richer friend Sharon.  Surely money, and her husband's wall street status, would now get them invited. 

But friendship and entree sometimes has to do with breeding; established history; social circles; common conversations; and personal relationships. Its not always about the size of a bank account. In fact in various ways the Blue Bloods—the Old Rich—look disdainfully upon what are termed The Nouveau Riche.  These newbie millionaires are really just pretenders; they don't step forth with the trappings and breedings, with family history, or with family compounds and the dynastic subjugations and swindles that made them all so famously and ferociously clever!  

The Nouveau Riche? They just have loads of money.  But the blue bloods! They have Breeding; they have History... and they know Protocol.

Marthie would go on speculating, why why why, wasn't she invited to Sharon's family island compound in New England, with Sharon and her husband. Why why why.

But thats just banging one's head against the wall. 
Unbeknownst to her, since she was quite busy—banging her head against that wall.

People people

How to handle drama queens.  How to handle. 

I am pondering this.  

Or perhaps there's not enough room for it in my world, as I am the one that needs to be the drama queen?