Category: Real/Strange

A Writer’s Pathway

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After over a year of planning the plots and ladders of The History of Ruth (H.o.R.) as an anthology, it has come to my attention that it needs expansion into a novel to do it justice. The idea for this particular story has been floating around my mind since 1999 when I was walking through the quad at U.M.B.C. in Baltimore, Maryland. That was when Ruth made herself known to me, and she’s been a naggy little bitch in the back of my psyche for decades now. Seems like a lifetime ago, and, in a way, it was. Back then, I was a different person, unable to articulate all of these things going through my head in a way that would make sense to anyone else. Unable or unwilling to share due to countless excuses. In those subsequent years, the story has been built and broken down more times than I can count. 

Back then, I thought that there needed to be a special alignment of time, space and energy that would propel this (awesome!) idea onto paper like some magical cosmic vomit in a series of epiphanies. After all, if it was not an interesting concept, it would not have haunted me all these years. As you can see from my lack of publication (except this blog space and my weirdo short fiction), that alchemy has not occurred yet. Instead, I was left molding a marble statue all this time, chipping away at it with a teensy chisel as time permits. 

*insert hand motions of tapping a chisel and a chink-chink-chink sound effect* 

That is the reality of writing–not the magic cosmic spew. Sure, some writers get struck by lightning and churn out a draft, then polish it and dispense for mass consumption with (what seems like) little effort. But, the reality is that, to master something, one needs to practice, practice, practice. Yup, bo-ring. Nose to the grindstone and butt in chair, day after day will win the prize. What is the saying? Ten thousand hours to mastery? Wonder where I am in that. By giving up the illusion that I am special freed me to write more and better and to be able to share it with others. Sure, I am still self conscious about it. But I am no longer scared that it isn’t perfect–whatever that means. 

I am a believer that there is a greater reason for the delay. It must mean that something did not feel right. Coming up with the ideas is never the issue. The fight is getting it translated from mind to the page. If I just wrote the first thing that came to mind, which I have done a thousand times, then pushed that out in the world, then it would probably fall flat and seem ingenuine. By accepting that it will be a pain in the ass and just getting it done bit by bit, it removes the emotions and taboos I built around writing that make it seem mystic. There is still emotion around writing, but I learned to channel that into the story, instead. 

A few weeks ago, I signed up to have my writing critiqued by others that actually write. This was the first time that I have asked for formal critique of my work, except for academic writing. Before, I would just have people read the self-edited stories and get general feedback. For the upcoming critique, I took the wrap-around story for my anthology that I had been stewing for over a year (above) and pulled it, coming up with a new wrap-around story just a week before the critique. I spent the day before and the hours preceding the video call restless and nervous. What if I am a terrible writer? What if it doesn’t make sense? What if they tear me apart? Did I do wrong to nix the other wrap-around and, instead, present something that was constructed in a flash? Don’t I need massive preparation to make something of worth? All of these concerns swirled around my jittery brain. 

The critique came and went. I survived. The group had a ton of helpful comments that let me tighten up my story, making it much better. I thought afterward, “See! You always freak out, but then everything ends up okay in the long run.” The new story was actually a much better fit for the anthology and gave me a whole new angle that I did not consider before. I thought about going back to my blog/website and changing my introduction and a few posts regarding H.o.R. being the anthology wrap-around. Instead, I am leaving it to (hopefully) inspire others who want to write to show the evolution of ideas/work and that it is a process that varies between people and has no defined speed. If you want to write, then write. Because that is what makes you a writer. 

The whole process is definitely taking longer than I would like, but, honestly, I don’t want to let it go until the story and characters absolutely ring true and I get it in the best shape I can prior to professional editing and/or publishing. Besides, I decided that I will do illustrations, which is taking some time. I want this, and every project, to be something that makes me feel happy, angry, scared, energized–everything, the same way I feel when I read works by talented authors. I want to emulate that phenomenon and share it with the world. I want to laugh out loud at the funny parts and exclaim, “Wha???” aloud at the plot twists while reading a book. You know what I mean…when your partner gives you the side eye because you seem to be talking to your book at the intense parts. There is no greater joy than being in the moment, taking a person out of their reality for a while, getting sucked into a story, eliciting goosebumps, chills or nausea right at the moment at which it was intended. 

There are no shortcuts through the tough stuff. Keep at it! Scenario drawing of another long-brewing story called The Narew Project. Eventually, this one will be released along with the other story podlings.

Duplicitous Gemini

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July 2020 NYC, Still Don’t Believe in The Plague?

The shadows have found us, but we can enjoy the shade a bit. Once thought impenetrable, the castle has fallen and all of them scatter to the winds. Each person is a silo of themselves. Especially now. It is all an illusion. We will wake from this. 

Lizards, limes and dollar coins with Sacagawea each point towards evidence that predicted this. But where did you go? I see you in the corner chatting with those poor people, trying to avert the eyes from the center of the room. Gandhi walks in like a breeze, pulls up his robes and sits cross-legged and bare-assed on the black marble floor, him smiling with the little shock of the cool floor against his junk.   

One steadfast person with an unwavering ability to spin opinion confessed anxiety to me. Sure, I watch horror and like some creepy things. But, that loss of faith from a place that is not expected knocked me to the floor, blindsided. 

So, there we were–my face and Gandhi’s balls–atop that cold black marble, considering our predicament. Realizing that he is anxious gave me the chills. If this strong man can be affected with the mind fuck that is going on these days, then there are trillions of other less fortunate ones that must have busted seams with their floof poking out. We are all dried and used, waiting for the next step. Low energy mode is what I call this. 

“Can you get the door?”

I sit.

“Hey, did you hear me?”

I wait. 

Footsteps are heading this way now. 

His face peeps around the corner. 

“Hey!” He waves his hands sideways at me. “I am talking to you!”

“I know.”

“Well, why aren’t you answering me? Can you go get the door?”

I am lying on the couch and staring at the ceiling. He is in the bedroom putting clothes away and tinkering with things all around me, full of energy. 

“You are already up.”

He stares at me. 

I stare back. 

He walks 20 more feet and gets the door. 

See? Low power state. Low energy mode. No need to expend anything extra. Whatever will get me through the night without the night terrors wrapping me in sweat. There must be some incantation to whisk these memories away. But, for now, there is again a mantra: Don’t freak out ‘til you know what’s up. I can’t control the past or the future so I need to focus on this moment and just hang on for the ride. We should dive deeply into whatever is the next task, solving problems bit by bit until one day we look up and realize we finally made it through.

Perhaps a COVID-19 flower will make you stay indoors.
Kid Cudi-Pursuit of Happiness ft. MGMT

Marinating

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Bronx, June 2020. Still stuck in it.

I awoke early this Saturday morning to what sounds like the soundtrack for The Omen. Why are dreadful, frightening opera/chorus pieces being blasted through someone’s stereo at this time of day? I look to the light clinging to the walls around my curtain to guesstimate what time it is. The sunlight seems far after dawn, its hands creeping through the window, waiting to gain purchase and pull itself inside. It seems grey today, flat, without warmth.  

That is where bitter lies. Between the sheets and blankets, sweating on itself into the morning hours. Turning over for a fresh spot without calm, always in motion, even in dreams. It is exhausting, causing strange headaches and pressure in the sinuses from the altitude. Too dry up there. Should have hydrated better before we died for the night. Instead, like the Grey House, I wait in mummy form. I don’t mind, until it chases away those who are watching and waiting. Oh, don’t test me. I will outlast them all, lying here. There are many things that we have learned to allow around us instead of interacting and attempting to affect everything. Too much to stick a finger in, so I let it flex inward instead. As the tissues dry, each finger curls in invitation to lie down and be calm, patient. Ten soldiers at rest, pointing at me. 

Between the headaches and waves of nausea, two eyes peer steadfast out of the other hole in the blankets. The swinging of the fan blades creates wind tsunamis with its movement back and forth. I see two white dots in a field of black, the reflections appearing there, moving in tandem to follow any new focus. The slight air current makes them blink out of existence for a millisecond, making me wonder if I am seeing them floating there at all. 

Emergence from blankets reveals a face around those eyes with their specks of reflections. The tiny worlds in her hair get blown about in annoyance by the air, so she ties it back, even though it’s short. Now, if she moves her head in an abrupt way, the tiny ponytail wiggles like raw chicken pulled apart and hanging by a tendon–like the articulations in a leg or a wing with the quivering fat and skin following in the breeze behind the mass. 

Or, was it a him? They are all the same. All in one, those that hide. Either way, don’t press on its belly or else it will spew back up the snot it’s swallowed all this time. It is rather unfortunate to taste it once, let alone twice. Let it pass past the sphincters and let it be done.

Time Warp

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Yellowstone National Park, 2016

Every year I seem to get stuck in a time warp as the end of the year comes, usually starting in October. During this time, as the weather cools, time alternatively crawls or leaps in unpredictable patterns, making me dizzy and irritable. I often lose track of time–sometimes even full days–as there is no set schedule for my work days and they all run together in a rolling blur. Days grow shorter and people seem to either become more withdrawn or more restless. That vibe can permeate even when it is meant to be a happy time during the holidays. This listless forward motion is cut with moments of gratitude, such as stopping to watch a sunset, or witnessing a random person helping another in need, a kind word, etc. Sometimes those things get lost in the background chaos, too. 

Starting somewhere at the end of January, the Darkest Depths are found. Several months are spent clawing back out of the Hole in Space and Time that morphs together with trippy lights and sound effects like, “wha-wha-wha-wha”. Or, maybe, “wier-wier-wier-wier”. Or, some smoosh of those two noises as I fall down its silo. It’s hard to concentrate on life duties while all of that distraction is occuring internally. It takes effort just to be awake some days. The walls of the Depths are made of gelatin. Irregular hand grips can be seen, distorted below the refraction of the gelatin’s surface–so, I know there is a way back out. It’s impossible not to have gooey, cramping fingers due to holding so tightly in fear of the surface peeling away from its matrix with me in tow. When the piece pulls away from the wall, it tears with its handhold and me dangling from it, gently bending like a flower petal heavy with a raindrop. When this occurs, grip is usually lost and I find myself slurped right back down into the dunghole from which I just crawled. Damn you, gelatin. 

I look up to the darkness at the end of the silo and start the climb again, trying to forget how far I got last time before I fell. Each trial must be seen as new pursuit. I try to maintain curiosity or else I would just stay at the bottom and await starvation. 

I generally feel like I am missing something during this time period, but can’t put my finger on what that would be. It seems as if I am searching for some greater meaning in the end of one year to the next. The ability to remain calm becomes very difficult with all that introspection over what Was (or Was Not) done and all of the things that are still on the TO-DO list that stares me down, awaiting action.  Add that to even more crowds and people that are stressed, and the external struggle is real, as well. Especially in the city. As the world gets bigger, I need a smaller focus. Thoughts turn to look at the world and myself. As the crowds surge, I tend to withdrawal. I consider where I am in life and where I fit into all of this. This generally turns to replayed thoughts, fatigue and worry sometime after the new year. 

The goal of each passing year is to let this all go, which is a work in progress. Life is about progression–moment here, moment gone. It is much easier to be aware of my responses to all of this as I age. The point is to be aware, but not fixating. If I get stuck in the past, or am constantly considering the future, then I miss the miracles happening right in front of me.

Scary S**t from Childhood

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I just realized that I want to be the lovechild of the Boulet Brothers, David Wong and Terry Gilliam. “You gon’ be a lonely girl,” she just told me. But, I don’t care. I am what I am and I have to finish my shift. The only Being forced to live with me is ME and I cannot get bogged down in minutiae right now.

Moving on:

The topic is “scary shit” from an American childhood in the 80’s. It was special back then, as the media was pushing us to touch and feel, getting out of our TV Home comfort zone. Stop-motion, clay, puppets and slime, special effects, epic landscapes, gore, fantasy and functional makeup–really interesting and flashy time with Art, as always. 

Feel free to comment as the Wells of Childhood Traumas are everflowing/never dry. Yes, the Wells are capitalized as if it is a place. Those who have visited there know it. I may not have experienced what you did, but I can feel the hurt and shame, just the same, and can identify with you as a human. We were standing at the Wall together, wherever you were. I See YOU and I Hear YOU. You are NOT alone. I shall seek this common thread…

Fruit Bat! Maybe this little lovely can cheer us up. Image from imgur itseffinrae

People, weez are yer people (Gollum voice, Dork2). Here goes. Yes, I know my mind works in a strange way. I have gotten thus far in life. It is tough to be different. It is supposed to be slightly uncomfortable. I can amuse myself if it comes down to it. After everything, it seems an almost flippant response; it fastens me to thinking, and thinking can sometimes be the flatulent enemy. Gas filled, all of us. Need to treat ourselves better and/or get over ourselves. OK, task at hand…

Skooooorry stuff, y’all. Built me to what I am today. Look it up in the endless web and synthesize your own view from the perspectives of the past. Could you imagine a similar existence than we belay? Bet Not. In the South, we can go very dark in past deeds. It is so thick that I can hardly walk with these coagulated webs. I abduct my arms to view the damage of the layers. But we don’t linger long because the future is waiting…Don’t get caught up!

Yes, I realize, this is becoming a little strange, but humor me…

Chide-hood FKT 4Eva (Yaasss Marky Mark) Lszt:

Seeing bubbles before my vision was my first memory, looking up, through their distortion to the heavens on a cloudy day. I think that I was 3 years old, maybe smaller. I vaguely have the sense that people are drinking tea as I die. An idea that it may be around April. 

Hmph. Figures I’d die in the Spring. Friggin Spring. The goldfish swam above me and my eyes lazily went up towards the Heavens that Remained Ambivalent. Bubbles break the surface while I commented, unable to enable speech, but clear in diction to me. Eyes moved to look at the gloom around me. The coolness on my eyeballs was slightly reassuring as new tissue gets exposed to air–or, Wait! No air. In the water, there. The globes of my eyes rotated on their axis. There is pressure as I moved eye muscles towards the clouds, sinking down. This moment may have been the end until my Grandmom pulled me out of their small Koi pond. 

Yes. Beautiful. Life. And Death! Beautifully destructive to continue the churn of awareness. We must be some type of warriors. The world has always had a curious disposition since that point. 

Again. Moving on! Focus, please, Fool [smacks back of my head]. 

*clears throat*

List of 80’s scary Shit (if you were alive then, or a weirdo Horror/Fantasy aficionado, then you may recall) in no particular order:

–Death of the Emperor and the scene of Chamberlain screaming while being disrobed in The Dark Crystal (1982)

–Death of Queen Admira in The Hugga Bunch Movie (1985)

–The Wheelers and those whack-assed Rocks in Return to Oz (1985)

–Large Marge, of course (Pee-wee’s Big Adventure, 1985)

–Dumbo’s trip with the Pink Elephants (1941 and re-released by Disney seemingly once a generation to scare the living shit out of people anew; Be like “Aw, little dude, you are abused and really high, don’t freak out, It’ll get better. Hug Mama.”)

–Heffalumps and Woozles (The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh, 1977)

–The Helping Hands and Trash Lady from Labyrinth (1986)

–Stuck behind the glass and Jabberwocky scene in Alice in Wonderland (1985)

—An American Tail (1986) “There are No Cats in America” song 

—The Secret of NIMH (1982). Nuf Said.

–Gmork with his eyelids pulsing up and down with evil delight, representing the Nothing in The Neverending Story (1984). And the scene with the horse? Ugh, broke my heart.

–(Indiana Jones is a repeat offender and one of my all-time favorites.) The death of the Nazi dude in Raiders (1981) and then again in Last Crusade (1989) with the cup of Christ. I probably should have been more freaked out by the Temple of Doom (1984) when that guy gets his heart ripped out/lowered into the fiery pit in undead sweaty panic. Instead it freaked me out more that there were flies all over the food that the villagers that sent Indy to his adventure were eating with their fingers. (OCD and first world innate psychosocial entitlement strikes again, I guess). Then, the alligators rolled around in glee while feasting, huzzah!

–“Perils of Punky” 2-part Punky Brewster (1985) crisis that I tried to pretend didn’t happen

—The Navigator: A Medieval Odyssey (1988). Yeah, probably the whole thing.

–Death in Adventures of Baron Munchausen (1988)

–Beta in The Last Starfighter (1984)

The 80’s were when we started talking to the computer, the Void in an android form. We got used to, as I am now, finger fucking computers to write words and process the crazies that flow out of the head. Like poking your finger in the clay of the Earth with a “pffft” to break the crust on top and the energy escapes from underneath. IN-teresting.

Instead of paper or just acknowledging a presence, we are again in the age to touch. We have you, dear electronics. Wrangle reasoning if you can. Touch screen, touch people. 

This is certainly not an exhaustive list. Feel free to comment if you have others.

WermHole

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Apathy can only project you so far until you Peter out in the swamps of irritation and begin to pitch and bail the dinghy while knowing you are going down. (Sorry Bandi, you know I Love You, Baby. *wink *wink. You too, Judit–double wink* for those who know us). This facade is a nonsense part of life and marriage, thank you for understanding in advance. You da, You da bess.

The situation set before us is actually a horrendous state if you are only feet from the shore and you just don’t want to ruin your outfit, however, the macro to SURVIVE kicks in and you are on your way. [This is planned.] But, gosh, it sure feels organic. I can be fooled by sandworms and gags, but the feeling is left idling on the stove in a simmer. It is impossible to ignore or compromise your Safety–whatever that means for you and me. 

I am generally not liking the feeling of bouncing or belittling, having experienced it far too many times myself and would rather we both just have fun. But, there is a dense implication here. And one that should not be ignored. Each person should air their feelings, don’t linger, but say what you mean for a change. It is super uncomfortable and feels like the apple peeler against the arms, but, you will settle in and be better in the long run. Let Auntie Kristie tell you about it. Let Auntie Matthew tell you about it, too. Cross pollination is what built the world of bees and people. Let it Bee. Haha…sorry, just couldn’t help myself. 

I see you, and I just want to Pause you in your armor, give you a smidgeon of the overwhelming incompetence that I am fielding right now. Bring you back down. Then, you would understand, that we can both bail the boat because the issue is not right or wrong, but a different question altogether. Speaking of the Altogether, I leave you with the amusement of Orbital: Meltdown, with whom I spent many days listening in the Woods and running for my life. 

Thanks and credits to Serotoonladder for posting the Orbital Vids.  

In all seriousness, Have a plan B. If that plan does not include people, then, make it so! Use your God-given awkwardness to exclaim, “I’m here, I’m Queer!” Oh, wait, that just sounded like a great rhyme. Love ya qweenz, but I have to get back on topic. Y’all. You already know. There is nothing you can do for a sinking ship. Do not waste your energy. Funnel it into something that you love and go ‘head and LIVE. 

Yer Yarn on Black Friday

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Mockup ideas for my History of Ruth Anthology

The question was asked, “Where are you in your yarn?” My face doesn’t move, but my thoughts pull free from the backs of my eyeballs as if somebody snatched my brain right out of my occiput. My eyeball nerves spin around each other, more rapid by the millisecond like helicopter blades, creating a migraine between my ears bad enough to think the Devil decided to use them to do hemp weaving. The cyclone motion created by my whirring eyeball nerves drives its spiral down into my guts into that empty space not meant to see the sun and I feel like diarrhea. Yes, you got it. Both the thing and the act.

Please remove your happy face from my direct line of sight. I am not the golden calf and don’t have time to placate you at this very second. I am waving my hand at you like you are in front of the TV. Or perhaps a strange safari communication technique. I just want to write, because I feel like…

…if I don’t…

…the less clicks the keyboard sticks, the more sure that my heartbeat sputters words, like cholesterol dulling each dwindling beat on the hardwood floor. The words splay like jacks around me, clacking their little pointy ends along their way away from me. Oozing and pointy, little letters trying to escape.  

I peruse the day that lay before me and consider that I may be taking things a bit too dramatically. So, I take off my sweatshirt and hang my head upside down on my bed so my short hair swishes the floor as I shake my head clear from the overwhelming black blanket of the Hole (the place that I fall through and lose track of time while writing).

Ah, yes, there it is. Despair. Thin and long. Stretching out to infinity so that you squint enough that your eyes go bad, an active aging through its acts. Where does it end? Never does! Ha! Just like the character in Ender’s Saga (by Orson Scott Card), tracing the path and counting the grains of the wooden floor until infinity comes to claim me. But, with much less insight and popularity. 

Self imposed goals and paths. Self imposed tortures along the way. Such is the task of the writer. Like taking a putty chisel to the well-thickened semi porous residues of the white plaster waves inside my skull. You could probably grow flowers inside there. But, that’s another story. 

“My ‘yarn’?” I say, laughing with a smile like a conspirator. “Going just fine. Wish it would stay in one place enough to catch on to something linear. Water wiggle thoughts.” I hesitated a beat, then said, “But, it’s ok to not grasp them completely. Just allow myself to be amused and see what I grab that day. I always think I have time to ponder them later if they are worth anything, and I hope I do. Sometimes good ideas come in pieces.”

I think that was too much talking for my coffee companion. They ask for a meet and greet and I am standing in line while waxing poetic like a backwards Barbara Walters. Least I didn’t cry. But there is still time.

Dead Spouses & Trash Monsters

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It is an inevitable part of healthcare that one will hear very sad or terrible stories. Human life is both a wonder and a blunder of creation. Moments that make you cry with hope or shake with anger are sometimes walking with their arms linked. Thank the Powers That Be that I am not in charge of any of it. 

Today, a man came in with a supposed change in mental status. The neighbors had not seen this man or his wife for some time when they noted a foul smell emanating from their apartment. The police were called, fearing the worst. When they opened the door, they were met with the man snuggled with his decomposing wife on the floor. The man was covered in sweat, excrement and had pressure sores on his body at each point that met the hardwoods. The medics were called and pried the two apart, bringing the man–delirious and screaming–to the hospital.

I realize that we are all met with ethical dilemmas. Most people need to choose between whether it is ok to butt in line, or whether or not you tell your spouse that you switched buying the brand name for something cheaper, or such trivial things. When you have no family–and I use that word loosely–and have clearly no will to live on after everything you have lived for is gone, what is our responsibility to another human? In lieu of sounding Kevorkian, I would hope that, when an age is reached that I am ready to give in and let go, that those fuckers would just let me be. Contemplating things like these could definitely take you far down into the wormholes of thought. 

So, it was that I thought of the actual horrors of this grisly picture that the medics must have come upon while I walk back home to my New York apartment in the middle of the night after my shift. That, and thinking about American Horror Story: Cult, which I am watching. Clowns and needless terrorisms abound. I am amused that I allow myself to be slightly freaked out with the small shifts in the shadows all around me on this Fall day. Nevermind that kid on the bike zooming by who is rapping about murder at the top of his lungs. I step into the streetlights of a small thoroughfare that is on my way home, settling into my pace as the lights wax and wane in their line of linked illumination above me. There is rarely a person on the streets anywhere near this abandoned store where I tread.

A random pile of trash is piled under one of the lights. It is as if someone gutted a large trash bag and left the varied innards in a thick-lined pile at the base of the light. As I approach, I note that the pile of spilled trash resembles the length and width of a shallow grave and takes the shape as if someone is lying there. But, they would be totally covered in trash. What person would do that–especially at this time of night? Not even a bum or weirdos with their pop-up art projects. No way. Not in this neighborhood. I keep my eyes steady on the pile as I try to keep my pace and pretend that I am not seeing that shape. It is just a trick of my eyes and I am just stressed after work. Nonetheless, I think about–if something moves–what can I use to smash it in the head that is near me? Maybe I can be quick and choke them with the straps of my work backpack if someone comes at me? Who am I kidding? James Bond, I am not. The wind picks up and shifts the lighter junk on top of the trash pile just as the train goes above me in a clatter. It blows the horn with a resonant MEEEEEP! that seems to go right through me. My focus snaps up to the train when the noise makes me jump. Apparently, I am expecting the train to attack me from above. Thank you, PTSD. 

Then, I remember the humanoid trash pile coming up in front of me and jolt my vision back down with a slamming heartbeat. The pile is now standing upright, and is, indeed, in the shape of a large man. It is slightly hunched with both arms held a bit away from it’s body at its sides, and I see what appears to be the rise and fall of shoulders with each breath like when you leave a video game character standing still. I blink at it as a brick of fear hits my stomach, but I am still walking towards it. My eyes widen to see if this is real, still unbelieving of what is in front of me. I now cannot deny that it is moving toward me. Clumsy from fear, my stride is shortened and confused. 

I turn to start running the other way, but am met with another trash monster with a Chinese food box as a mouth, which opens in a fold-back manner as it sucks in air, then roars in my face with the flaps of the box narrowing their aperture to direct its path toward my mouth, which was agape with horror. Flecks of leftover noodles project into my hair as my face is covered in cold droplets of brown sauce with the immense force of its breath. After it seems to exhaust itself with the roaring, the monster stands still except for its respirations, drooling rotted brown sauce down to the ground with each exhalation, slightly hunched in a defensive bracing position. Its shoulders are rising and falling from its heavy respirations like the other one was. The noise is like a plastic bag caught on the front of a car. The savory-sweet, mossy smell of old food covers me in its musk. I stand perfectly still with splatters of rotten-brown-sauce monster drool on my face just gawking at the thing, waiting for its next move, locked in the weirdest standoff of my life. I recall thinking that this smell will take awhile to leave after I wash this shit off my face. I just want to get home because I have to work again tomorrow. Let’s get this over with, Trash Monster. 

Taken in The Smithsonian, Washington, DC

“It All Seems So Stupid…”

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At any given moment during one of my shifts–sometimes even when off–I shake my head and repeat this phrase, “What the fuck is wrong with people?” It holds true that–if a day goes by in which this phrase is not repeated–then, that is a day in which I have not left my home and/or have not turned on the television or other electrical gadgets. Or, that I am no longer in healthcare.

Just as humanities’ antics tickle me with a glimmer of hope or happiness, someone does something insanely stupid in which I just stare at them, keep my composure, and carry on in my day. Sometimes I smile and nod. These things give life a little flavor. I have tried to be at peace with those stupid decisions that end up directly impacting me.  Sometimes, I get carried away with all of it, and it needs to spill out somehow. This is a safe space, right? Find yours. 

We all get those moods where you are up or down for no apparent reason. Then, there is That Person. This one comes along and single-handedly–often with one grunt, hand motion or sentence–throws your Mojo into the red zone of Life Sucks and you want to sulk in the corner like a berated toddler with your arms crossed and a frowny face. Well! I say No! Remind yourself that you are not the toxic assholes around you. You can change or close your mind to the things that clang against your attention. If you practice enough, it will become a habit. 

So, what to do when your level of excitement is somewhere between a Pride parade and Dieter’s Dance Party on Saturday Night Live while everyone else is at the thrill level of a Senate hearing? Do as I often tell people, and that is, “Keep your head down and in the game and your feet running. Then, you will find yourself at a better place eventually.” 

Throwback jam of today: 

Depeche Mode 

Shame

–Video taken from Rey Carmesí’s YouTube page at link above

Discovering Technology

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Ah, the fresh fall air is upon us. My favorite time of year. Days go on inspiring long walks in nature, pumpkin carving, moonlight with campfire, scary clowns jumping out of your closet, and, most certainly, Horror Movies! Mission today: Find photo that represents me geeking out about some Horror Genre stuff, so that I may post it on the Blog, the inernet wormhole through which I shall investigate the universe. Priorities change in life, ya’ know.

Ape Caves, Mt. St. Helen’s, 2014. Reminds me of Ghostbusters II