Monday, February 25, 2013

Sickness, More sickness, and tumultuous fever of varying, emotional kinds.

Where to begin. This entry is a fucking abominable flurry and ache and whirlwind of so much... crap. Maybe not crap... morality. Morality crap. Emotional crap. 

First off, day four of being sick. The flu. Which, when you are not sick, means nothing to you. One doesn't really ever remember how bad being sick feels, until you have that sickness yourself, and are cursing your God (Gods) or personal belief structures, for letting your immune system be maimed in such a way. 

Let's go back, about... two weeks. I am dating Wichita. Wichita seems to be... half annoyed, and half enamored with me. Not a good start for me, but I find him irresistible, and want so badly to have him see me as.. I don't know what... potential long-term fuck buddy with tones of romantic indulgence and acceptance. .

 I do like the boy, probably too much. So, I am trying to just, pull myself into myself, and pretend I have a cocoon made of silk, sickness, brine, and seashells. It's hard when you kinda know that... you're just what's up until something better comes along. He doesn't do anything that makes me feel like crap. But come on, I'm an emotional wreck, a roller coaster, and what would I expect for him to do... stick around? Yeah. Right. 

Wichita is in... Wichita right now. On vacation. And all I can think is, no amount of anything I ever give him, will ever be enough for how cool he is. Makes me feel like a Sonic Youth song lol. 

Maybe I am just totally miserable today. 

Two years ago almost to the day, I quit heroin. I was dopesick then, and now today just regular sick. And no shot at the end of this brown rainbow. Meh, just as well. I don't want that crap anymore, anyhow. 

Let's see, what else. Been on a blur of novel-reading lately. Which, is a good thing, and a bad thing. As SOON as I am done with one, I hurriedly put on another one. It's like I can't have a breath in between them, or it lets me think, and my mind will reel. I would add my list of what I have read, but maybe later. I can't decide if that would just make me seem like I'm trying to fucking.. show off or some such shite. 

Well my fever is only 101 now. Going to curl up in the bottom of a steaming hot shower and shove everything back down. Screw the cork back in. Tighter this time. Shovel everything in heaps back down. And put the cheery smile back on my face. Back to work tomorrow. Back to swallowing words upon words and chapter upon chapter, and plan for Wichita's birthday. I want it to be. 

Perfect. Maybe it distracts from who is throwing the party. And maybe I feel that that will help. But it also is sincere. Cause I met a boy who deserves the world. 

I'll just take everything... less serious. Realize the implications and how this isn't a forever-thing, and roll with it. As hard as it is for us Cancers. 

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Subdued a long way from the Excitement

Horse that stands on the site of the Buffalo, Holly Street, Bellingham WA
These days, I overdo it by going out approx. once a month, by my lonesome, to some dive karaoke bar. All it takes is having precisely three drinks and a sip or two from someone else's, and I am done for, regretting the trip out and cursing myself and I find myself wondering why I didn't just stay home and sing in the shower.

Some part of myself tries to convince me that I can be 17 still at times. I wrestle with my current age on Saturday nights. Apart from that I am completely fine with it.

I wonder at what point, does longing for and missing your home become insanity, or just a sign of unbalance. I talk to a couple people- implants to Tulsa you might say, like myself, that ... like it here. It mustn't be normal for one to so apply themselves mentally to a city/place. No one really knows the depth upon which I sit and force myself to envision Bellingham so that I almost become... "there". Faux-astral-projection, if you will.

At work,-in my "sensory dep chamber" as I like to call it (I wear headphones, safety glasses, thick gloves, and have loud noises around me and don't talk, so the dull and low hum of the machinery around me becomes lulling and drowns out everything, becoming white noise, eventually leading to almost complete "silence", within myself. There, I move up up and out. Mentally cross the 2316 miles between here and there. Envisioning the blessed North Cascades, jutting peaking and then sloping around Whatcom County- it's winter coat. I can see Lost Lake, Fragrance Lake Trail, Alger Mountain, the Oyster dome and  it's singular beauty. Float closer, through Fairhaven, (no stops, they never liked a pink-haired girl much anyhow), down the hill, down to those streets I walked so many times, in so many different moods.
Happy, jubilant, strung out, miserable, beaten, wistful, nostalgic, hopeful, desperate. The cracks in the pavement of North Forest, State Street, they know the soles of my shoes. They know the arch of my feet. They know it's the only place I'll get off my lazy ass and take a walk "just because".  It's almost like I won't walk here in Tulsa out of some strange undecided silent protest.

I love winding myself walking up the hills, dreaming of cooking huge meals for all of my friends, their friends, their children in the big old-time kitchens of yore, that peek out of beautiful heavy curtains and drapes as I walk by them. Art seems to hug every wall and every corner in the streets and homes of the people in Bellingham. I remember a painting that hung in a friend's house of mine, I can't remember whose exactly. It was a whimsical mermaid, with turquoise hair that hung over the fireplace, if I recall correctly. My friend's grandmother was the one that painted it.

I mentally explore all of the alleys I ever tumbled down, skipped down, even shot up in, on the darker days. Every little piece of graffiti, every little rock and stray flower. Even dumpsters- I was fond of sitting on or in dumpsters in my youth, I have no reason to know why, but I did.

Sitting drinking a local beer in the store that was once BLUE MOON VINTAGE CLOTHING 

Every lettered-street, every driveway from the Fountain district up to Sehome and York district, over to Whatcom Falls, even slummin' it in the Alabama Hill and Roosevelt district at times. And catch me in a sunny enough mood, well hell, maybe I would make the venture to be out and about in Happy Valley and Fairhaven.

I have never found time to whine about anything in Bellingham. Only to be away from it. Far be it a curse to "have to return" to that wonderful wonderful city. Jewel of the Pacific Northwest. My Don Juan-de-Fuca.
Any place is magical that's indigenous trees are the same that once a year people dress up and worship for a holiday.

Red House. Yellow House. Green House. Blue House=  Up where Holly and Ellis meet at the beginning of Lakeway. Where you can always find VHS pornos in the ditch= either behind the Aloha Motel on Samish, or, well, I guess down behind the Cornwall Corner store, too. BIGGEST bag of groceries you ever did see= BGO. Plus there, you can see anti-abortion picketers (clearly Lyndenites) across the road from spanging junkies, otherwise known as my good friends.

I always seemed to float above opinion or curve around it when alas, and I was, the heroin queen-bee whore of the Ham. Somehow, I was watching. Yes oh yes, I was watching and I didn't miss a single beautiful beat that that city threw me. I found endless glory and awe even strung out. Down and out. Not that I ever would wanna go back, of course not. I'm just saying-  I didn't stop loving people, the people there especially, they could call me all sortsa names- I just wanted to hug them and tell them we shared the same mystical Bellingham sky and it's ocean air, and if we were buried up in Bayview Cemetery, well who knows one day we could be crumbling back into the beautiful dirt that once was the beginning of Woburn street?
Every stranger I met there didn't stay one for long. And I dug them all.

I get to go back for 11 days, in 138 days. And I can't wait.

I love you, Bellingham. I will not stop writing about you. Or visiting you, mentally or otherwise.

Horse standing on what used to be the Guide Meridian (now Old Guide)

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Desire so strong it fuels folklore

I got to talk to him. Yeah, HIM. Hiiiiiim. 

The one. The only. Told me he is, still, always has been, always will be a "Jenna fan". Oh those fucking dark days, man. He held my hair back, he held my hands down, he held my chin up.

It maybe somewhat horrible of me, but I will say it anyways. A mere month ago, my boy left me. Hightailed it back home. Seven fast and furious intense months, talk of marriage, child-rearin and the whole bit.

And just four weeks shy of total abandonment, my thoughts at work when I am in my "sensory-deprivation chamber" as I like to call it- I wear a mask, headphones, work alone and with gloves so I really am off in my own world, four weeks and I am immersed in thoughts of those beautiful fucking cold, sharp Pacific NW days, and my love that I have never experience til then, nor after. I often think that the tattoo on my chest of a "sagrado corazon" represents more than a holy reference- my heart forever burns for a legend. A Chupacabra. A bloodsucker only by rumor.

And I heard it through the wire tonight. I heard that all familiar voice. Twice he said "I love you" and it hit me like I was in a ring and was hit with a combination of nausea (in a good way) and pubescent admiration. How will I ever love anyone as much? I don't think I will. He told me to "try lovin' a Chupa" come springtime.

No thought will reoccur in my head now, other than being his girl, even for a week, in that "humble" abode of his, listening to the familiar sounds of his snore, the hum of the fishtank at night, the random and seldom car rumble by on a cemetery-laden road off in that tiny Washington State town  that just barely rubs elbows with Bellingham. To be in his presence is to know truest love. To be in his presence makes it known that if astrology ever mattered, Cancers reign supreme and he is king of Crab.

Oh baby, how every mile between us feels like a fucking million. How your voice rockets me back home. Back to painted headboards, Absinthe and ecstasy (pill form and not), flying across state for shows (thanks babe, I woulda never seen TOOL if it weren't for you) and many beers, sticks of gum, and hot showers.

You are the best. You are the one that makes everyone else obsolete no matter how much time or distance passes between us. Tonight felt like it had been two days since we last spoke, and not a year.

Monday, September 17, 2012

I awoke this morning. 5:27 AM. Let the alarm go back to sleep this morning. Don't worry about it little buddy. I'm up .

The last time that I was up that early, to start a first day of work so early, (with my legs goose-bumped and a wonderful chill coming in through the window whispering the first promises of autumn)  was at least three, no four years ago. And try as I might sometimes, I cannot remember things. I will try. Good or bad, I just can't remember things. But others, it's like nothing could hold off the memories and scents and flashbacks if I tried.

This morning was the latter. I awake and it was... four years back.......

My ringtone was Yellow Ledbetter, my children were in diapers, Chupa was mine and mine alone to love, I worked in drafty wet and cold docks and warehouse temp jobs, ate off foodstamps, lived on a street named after only a letter in the alphabet, I sought shelter in the beautiful abode of my wonderful friends in Custer, and treated my Rhi Rhi and Ghi Ghi (my live-in friends/babysitters like shit without knowing I was doing it). I was a black pit. I gave a bit, I did. But I took far more. I did love them. All of them. The lot of them... true love.

I could smell formula this morning. I could smell evergreens. I could smell unwashed clothing. Salty hair. I could smell the logs burning in the Stabbin' Cabin down in Birch Bay and the Pacific Ocean even with the snow falling in December.

This morning, remembering these things, I felt ashamed and proud. I didn't want to be there, I don't want to go back, but I miss it. How that is possible I have no idea. But there it is.

Working early, monotonous labor, with that chill in the air, makes me feel alive. Reborn. Worth, something. Makes me feel complete when I return home.

What a long ways I have come, how small it seems some days. 

Saturday, September 15, 2012

And my tears run dry.....

It started with a comment about how I could probably throw a really mean punch.

Then one day I gave 'im one. And he didn't seem to think it was pretty anymore. My knuckles and hands and... well, general existence.

He left me. Those three words have played in my head in every form possible over and over again. He. Him. Boy. Beloved. Gone. Left. Away. Disappeared. Me. I. Broken-hearted. Moi. Alone. Stranded.

Set aside. Tossed aside. Wondering what happened .

My mother told me that prior to his unexpected leaving, he told her of his plans. And she even told him; you can't just, leave somebody, when they are not doing well, and then come back.  That will destroy her and she will hate you for it. He was okay with that.

I am horrible in a relationship capacity I guess. I really truly am. I am a slutbag, I am a drug addict, granted- over a year clean now, but yes, I am not Suzie Homemaker that's for sure. But man, did I try. And I loved him truly and so deeply.

Now this morning I wake up and am just livid. If you love someone, you stay. If you care, you stay. You don't leave, you don't tell them it's the amicable way to desert them, when they promise to strive to do better. And I really would have. I would have given it my fucking all.

I guess, I am better off without someone in my life that was so quick to leave me anyhow. Right? Right?

I at the moment, cannot listen to Chris Cornell, Pearl Jam leaves me misty eyed, I hate that Little Caesars commercial- the one we both laughed at so hard, I hate that the Food Network featured so many damn things to do about Dickson Street in frickin' Fayetteville AR today, I can't put on anything sexy, I don't want to smell Blue Moon beer.

It's taken me thirteen times to try and write this meaningless dribble.

What I can't even fathom, is that he kept screaming and crying that he loved me, as he walked out the door, and wouldn't reply to my emails begging for communication.

Now who feels stupid. Yep. You can point, I'll forgive it this time. 

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Silence is golden, and confusing as hell but reveries from the 90s will make it all go away

I guess being such an extrovert, and such a very very loud, passionate one at that, is that it takes every fiber in my being to understand introverted, quiet people. I can be ranting and raving and screaming about something- in a good or bad way, and expect the same reaction. From everyone.

Highly unrealistic, a little arrogant, and extremely hard to control.
I just finally at almost 27 started really trying to listen and not just wait for my turn to speak. And not out of a selfish, I-care-not-what-you-have-to-say, but my excitement outdoes my patience, my mouth is ruled by the first mentioned, and I am so glad I am finally slowing down, and really absorbing and listening with patience and full attention.

But I still find it very hard to not see a huge explosive reaction from others regarding things I feel warrant one. Silly girl, I am. This shall be my next goal.

Or when I get very excited, and then the person I am telling this to, isn't very reactionary, but then later goes off with much enthusiasm about something else, well I just did that to them, so I guess it should even out. Instead I feel cheated. I shall work on this. Maybe if I just read these wise words a few times...
I cannot believe how pubescent and angsty I feel while delving back deep down into my music "past" and finally throw on some TOOL. Yes, yes, love them or hate them, it matters not to moi, as I am a hardcore fan, alas, and henceforth, I spell their band name, in all capitals. Every time. Even when no one is looking. Or I write a message in a bottle containing a note reading something along the lines of "Help! Stranded on desert island! If you cannot make it, but can somehow reach food or TOOLs to me, I would be much appreciative!"

It just transports me. I see it as a soft, dark, brooding waltz of memories swallowed and/or tossed and jostled upon waves of memories.
I remember the first time I was ever given any TOOL to listen to. I was approx. 16, and behind a dumpster at a Burger King, walking home. And when I first heard "The Grudge" kick on, I slumped against it, planted my feet firmly against the rain-battered pavement and slouched til my knees were a rest for my forehead. I pulled up my hood and didn't move until the last note of the album was done. Yes, I am aging myself, it was a Discman I was listening to this life-changing music on. *giggles* Oh those were the times, I must say. And now, I must say, all those years- these years (?) later, I indulge in my most favourite music and find the tears coming, oh yes, you fucking drama queen, and wallow in all of my mystic emotional soup. Some music doesn't just stimulate your sense of hearing, it can't help but overstimulate all of you.  Why always always always am I transported via "Spirit-Expressway" to the Pacific Northwest. Why not.. Spain? Why not India? Why not New Zealand? No no, when I close my eyes and surf on the tidal wave that is 5/7 timing signatures, and the Fibonacci sequence of numbers, it is to that vast Evergreen-blanketed land. The smells come back to me in full strength. I am reminded of what the Bagelry smells like at 6am on a Monday morning in the month of March, even turning the sharp winds of winter to breathe in and take a break, read the paper, enjoy a cup of coffee and an assiago cheese bagel from the place emitting all this amazing aroma. I remember "Number 9s", which consisted of driving in DB's Tiburon with of course CC/MA down the Lost-Highway-esque nighttime, dark roads, telephone poles "dotting immensities" (which reminds me, to below show off my talent for memorizing Kerouac, "Mad Road Driving" which I memorized at the not-so-tender age of 17, maybe 16. Those years are blurred) doing at least a buck-ten, dazed and confused, young and abused, in the company of a wise old alley cat disguised as an aging  neo-hippie- extraordinaire, (he often would wink his third eye at me, leaving me all a fluster) and blaring whichever "Number 9" was on that moment's cd. Ce De, en Francais. They were mostly, ah, you guessed it, you trickster you, you clairvoyant, TOOL.

I remember the soundtrack to life in the subdued/exciting "oyster dome" of free-spirited youth. Had undertones of extreme personal danger, as The Dr. of Gonzo Journalism himself once wrote.

Ah yes, Mad Road Driving. With no further adieu;

Mad road driving, men ahead
The Mad Road, lonely, leading around the bend into the openings of space towards the horizon Wasatch snows promised us in the vision of the West...

Spine heights at the world's end, coast of blue Pacific starry night - no bone half-banana moons sloping in it's angled night sky, the torments of great formations in mist, the huddled invisible insect in the car racing onwards... Illuminate.

The raw cut, the drag, the butte, the star, the draw, the sunflower in the grass...

Orange-butted waste lands of Arcadia, forlorn sands of the isolate earth, dewy exposures to infinity in wide space, home of the rattlesnake and the gopher - the level of the world, low and flat...

The charging restless mute unvoiced road keening in a seizure of tarpaulin power into the route, fabulous plots of landowners in green unexpecteds, ditches by the side of the road... as I look from here to Elko along the level of this pin parallel to telephone poles I can see a bug playing in the hot sun...

Hitch yourself a ride beyond the fastest freight train:
Beat the Smoke...
Find the Thigh...
Spend the Shiny...
Throw the Shroud...
Kiss the morning star in the morning glass...

Mad Road Driving Men Ahead.

Pencil traceries of our faintest wish in the travel of the horizon merged, nosey cloud obelisks in a dribble of speechless distance, the black sheep clouds cling a parallel above the streams of C B Q - serried Little Missouri rocks haunt the badlands, harsh dry brown fields roll in the moonlight - with a shiny cow's ass. Telephone poles. Toothpick time. Dotting immensities.
The crazed voyageur of the lone automobile presses forth his eager insignificance in noseplates and licenses into the vast promise of life - the choice of tragic wives.

Drain your basins in old Ohio and the Indian and the lllini plains...

Bring your big muddy rivers through Kansas and the mudlands, Yellowstone in the frozen North...

Punch lake holes in Florida and L A...

Raise your cities in the white plain...

Cast your mountains up... bedawze the west... bedight the west with brave hedgerow cliffs rising to Promethean heights and fame...

Plant your prisons in the basin of the Utah moon...

Nudge Canadian groping lands that end in arctic bays...

Curl your Mexican ribneck, America...

...I'm going home. ...going home.

- Jack Kerouac

ps, your random pics of the day. Be forewarned, I have unleashed an undesignated huge quantities tonight for that is what kind of mood I am in.

Kerouac in his calm-on-the-surface, neon glory

Vancouver in Fog

Beirut Gig Poster

Deceased Royal of the Kingdom of Allthingspretty

Nogales, MX. A place I inhabited for a brief, drug induced time

Chuckanut Drive, Bellingham WA, Circa. 1914

Strapping young lumberjacks. Bellingham WA, circa. 1913

Hindu Goddess Devi

Julie Verhoeven, artist

Layla and Billy

Miss Van.Graffiti Artist

Morphine Album Cover

sigh. moving .gifs.

Aging with grace and and a dash of creepiness.

Friday, May 25, 2012

Tangerine-tinted-haired-spirit guide, and her dapper old chap; Tom

Or Joe. Maybe his name was Joe. And it started with a "B". Oh so should I start farther back... okay indeedy I will.

Guided meditation. Take it or leave it, if you will, it might actually not be for you. But for me, yes it is.
I was walking past the typical fuckin hippie-esque meadow out to this huge beautiful tree.

I sat beneath it, planting myself and all my energy as deep as it's roots. I called for my Spirit Guide.

She came, as she does, silent and whimsical. Darkly tanned and dirt-streaked. Her lips are always a bit chapped. Puffy. Desirable. I'm not gonna mince words- my spirit guide..... is really hot lol. This time, she had a young man, a Victorian-moustachio'd man, in his fine apparel, his skin even looked Daggeurotype. In some ways. She had him by the hand. She either glances down or burns into you with piercing emerald eyes. Well the iris's blend from the colour of depression-era jadeite to the rolling hills of Darjeeling.
I fancy Victorian Spirit Guides with fine moustaches
They told me without speaking that they had a gift for me. I couldn't understand all what was going on. I have it reduced to this: In a past life, I was either him, her, or both, at different times. I don't know why she is dressed like an Apache, and yet has the hair of Milla Jovovich from The Fifth Element. Not very congruent time periods, or so I am led to believe. In the spirit world, they are lovers. They gave me a sapling of a tree, told me the one I was sitting against was to show me that I had planted one in years past. It was now big and providing shelter and shade.

We planted it, he told me through his mind what his name was. Tom Brendan. Brandon. Brachton. Something. And I heard Joseph. So maybe a middle name. They were really cute together in some sideshow-at-Coney-Island-circa-1912 kinda way.

Charlotte Free=My spirit guide's face

When I planted the sapling, I was told that love needs much work and tending to, to grow. You can't sit back and expect it to do everything for you. And that I will need to consider it near-sacred, trust in Him, but also sow love and relationships like a garden, never feeling cheated or let down if I didn't tend to it and it died on me.

So I will take this knowledge with me. Thanks uber sexy spirit Guides. You rock my jar of molasses with a big ol' soup spoon.

In other news: I have a boy that would make creme brulee cry out of pure jealousy of his sweetness, and a face any boy would want to resemble. And a heart that not just a mere Tin-Man would covet. Just, FYI.

Here are my random pics of the day

trashy mctrasherson. I love trashy lookin girls. I do. I do. Especially in 90s floral print body suits. Meow.

Yes, do curtsy in your amazing, heightened ensemble

One of the prettiest faces I have ever come across. I am amazed at this face. I marvel. *Marvels*

Picture I took at Catholic Church downtown Tulsa. Beautiful.

Pop Quiz; What is wrong with this picture? A: If you said nothing, you are correct!

Moving .Gifs. I collect 'em. I will never run out. I assure you.

I need this framed on my wall. I really do.