February 2004 Archive

For whatever reason, King Missile is now in my latest 80s retro obsessions.

Wendy (rawr) and I were catching up tonight and we were reminiscing about this. Sadly, no google search as yet has been able to produce the lyrics for Gay/Not Gay.

TRAGEDY!

In other news. The boy I shmoo has challenges remembering his dreams.
What the dealy with that? At least he’s trying now, and when we talked earlier today, he shared a reasonable facsimile of a dream in the tale telling. V. sweet.
Tremendously so.

So, back to King Missile: How To Remember Your Dreams

In order to remember your dreams,
You must think of them as if they were little kittens
When you wake up in the morning
Before you get out of bed
Sit up and say
“Here, kitty kitty, kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty
Here, kitty kitty, kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty
Here, kitty kitty, kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty
Here, kitty kitty, kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty
Here, kitty kitty, kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty kitty ”

When the kitty gets the cream, the dream is remembered

Now that, kittens, is fucking genius.

Do you ever find yourself crippled by doubts and what if’s?
Perhaps crippled is too strong a term.

I find myself sometimes loping forward, stiffly and with hesitation and fear.
Rather like Quasimodo.

But with lipstick.

I wonder if I do things because I recognize it to be utterly unbecoming to be otherwise.

Like I know it’s unbecoming to be a snarky, catty, paranoid, vehemently pissed off chick. Especially this week when I have experienced a number of obscene, and I mean obscene provocations. I’ve felt like a victim of sabotage and unjust circumstances. (Now doesn’t *that* sound like Falcon Crest drama. Or ya know…Who Shot Bobby drama.)

And I’ve been vocal about it. Addressed it head on in as calm and forthright a manner as I could manage. And I still felt possitively awful.

On one hand, I have no justifyable proof beyond speculation and circumstance on why certain things have happened.

On another, still feeling like a victim, I shudder with a need for vindication.

Such a response, to ferret out evidence based on a visceral speculation is a paranoid reaction that forces me to confess things I’d rather not.

Regardless, I can’t put my emotions above others and the circumstance that precludes such a response.

Just a gut sense of … being really wronged. And not liking it one damn bit.

There is an ardent desire to believe that I’m beyond the claws of my past.
Damn long nails, that past. While no longer tearing sinew and muscle, it still has the ability to leave a really nasty scratch.

Desire is a lithe critter– smooth, warm, and with terribly sharp teeth.
Before you can stop yourself from dancing with it, you find that your left hand is somewhere down it’s maw.

Scary thing is, sometimes you damn near like it.

With desire come other avarice-inclined critters.
Passion. And Obsession.

Peering at them from the petstore and the farm, they come with exotic names.
New-gadget-gottahavitica
Hot-ass-must-grabitnowellia
Luscious-lips-must-suck-on-the-lower-oneium
Being-number-one-is-not-debatable-ica
I-deserve-to-be-adoredemus
It-is-so-very-pretty-and-it-must-be-mine-and-mine-aloneous

The owners tell you they come domestic and wild varieties.
In the end, they’re rather like zebras.

You *think* they could be tamed but in reality, their spirits and motives are always their own.

Right now,
I recognize that I’m feeling some fucked up and furious misappropriated anger.
I’m feeling pointedly singled out, mistreated, and sabotaged.

Yes, I recognize that it’s *likely* totally inapropriate, paranoid, and unreasonable.

But what if I was right? What then?
What recourse?

Hollywood: So Far, Candidates’ Show-Biz Reviews Are Lukewarm

I’m of the opinion that Madonna should forfiet *ANY* right to endorse a US political candidate for president because of her lame ass faux British accent.

Come *ON* girl, you’re from MICHIGAN!

That’s like me speaking in a lovely Jamaican patois endorsing Matt Gonzalez and telling you your future.

Rabbit Rabbit.
Now go off and make like one if you’re lucky.

…

Also:

If you were a great/beloved/wonderful/happy person before you met someone that you cared about, even if things don’t work out, you’re still that great/beloved/wonderful/happy person without them.

Ideal situations call for the person that you care about, to make you feel and become even more great/beloved/wonderful/happy.

It’s pretty marvy when you come across beautiful people in friendships, casual conversations, and intimate moments that make you feel that. I’ve been blessed. And bejebus, if I consider that it’s only Feb 1, and I’ve gone on something like 28 dates in 2004 so far (if I count all the speed dating adventure meetings as dates) then I’d say I’m doing pretty stellar.

FYI: the fact that on my speed dating adventure, that all my drinks were poured gratis by the very very hunky bartender…well…what can I say.. the red lipstick really is working for me. I didn’t mark a single *yes* on my score card. Nor did I mark any *no*’s. I just forget that …oooh yeah, were I really there for something beyond manic curiosity and ego snacking, that I should have actually checked people off. My bad.

I’ve got a mixed bag of emotions and thoughts re: the whole Pink Month of february where everyone’s love and sex obsessed.

Moi, I confess that I’ve put a pillow for my door that says “Please Knock” on my boots for punny jests.

In years past, I’ve been playfully bitter, anxious, or ridiculously swoony (ok that was *once* and man, did I learn how fuckingly misguided that was). This year, I’m feeling a whole other kinda love.

I’m feeling mad love for my friends who grace me with their honest humanity, strengths, weaknesses, kindnesses, wisdom, and the thrill of simple touches in hugs and kisses, fantastically challenging conversations, spirits of whimsy and adventure, and laser scalpal when it comes to delivering truth. I *heart* you.

I’m (as ever) feeling love and honor for my family. The older I get, the more I I get it. All the words unspoken but in vibe, energy, sweat, and tiniest consideracies and sacrifices that have been done for my behalf. It’s always a good humbling realization.

I’m feeling comfortable with my place in social circumstances amidst strangers and in a larger society. Rarely with the road rage now, I’d rather get anywhere from point A -> point B in one piece. Motherfucker, go ahead and cut me off. That’s fine. Let’s just not bother trying to kill each other over jockying for position that saves you oh… maybe 45 seconds. My life over a minute? Yours over 15 yards? Whatever foo. I can be late to my meeting so long as I’m alive when I get there.

And I’m…(insert soft spoken whisper)… yes… ashmoo.
There’s someone I’ve met recently that I’m crushing on pretty hard.

It’s a lovely feeling. And in spite of my normal insecurities and self beratements when it comes to such romantic predilications, I just gotta say that the circumstances as they are… make me… really wanna be open for the experience and the ride. For whatever it is, and whatever it’ll be, I’m down for the adventure of it and I am as ready as I’ll ever be when it comes to such things. Go figure. I’m enjoying the excitement of it and the silly giddiness of it all. It’s been a long time.

And maybe I’ve finally stopped beating myself up about the notion of deserving someone that can be so positively good to me.

So that’s that.
It’s February. Feel the love, yo.