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... http://heatherchristenaschmidt.com/2011/10/26/the-five-types-of-interruptors/
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.

Thursday, May 24, 2012

Bless your heart

A southern-ism I used to not be able to stand, which has really come to grow on me.

"Bless your heart, child" a middle-aged or elderly woman will tell me, when I am sunburnt and checking out at the grocery store. "I was outside all day at my kid's end-of-school celebration. I got too much sun". "Well just bless your heart" she will say.

I used to not be able to stand anything here in Oklahoma. But I am trying to find new ways to see it in new light. And what could be nicer than to actually bless someone's very important aortic chambers.
My current list of things I love and hate about Oklahoma:

Love: People here really care about family, and their kids. And are super involved in school and such.

Hate: The allergy season

Love: Downtown Tulsa. Has a lot of neat things

Hate: The conservative, old-school outlook on Gay Marriage, abortion, politics, etc. Try moving from the LIBERAL Pacific Northwest, to the Bible Belt. It'll throw you for a loop

Love: The amount of restaurants they have here

Hate: The utter lack in relation to restaurants of grocery stores, or rather, health-food stores. Or anywhere with good produce and a good Thai or Greek section.

Love: The lakes. People are all about their lakes here. And Lake Tenkiller is really something amazing

Hate: The lack of interest in art and/or music.


Well, I have decided in other news, to start posting some of the vast library of pictures I have in my little laptop, no theme or rhyme or reason to them, just because I have so many and they are pretty and no one ever gets to see them.

My random pictures for the day:

So many pattern, such little time. I am sure I found this on Jacci Stallone's beingperfectishard.com, a great blog if you have never check it out

Oh silly Zach Condon. Everything about this picture is correct.

Mod-style paperdolls. I don't know where I found these. But they are adorable. Everything looks cuter with dilated, LSD-pupils

Hindu Imagery. One of my many obsessions.
Please feel free to make me one of these...anytime lol.
Look at my baby Perry, lol. What a youngin'.
You are entering a world of pain. A WORLD. Of Pain.
Vincent Gallo, or unknown slender perfect-bummed lady? I'll take both, thank you! Yeah, I am a creeper.
Vintage Mermaid Postcard
Past Dior Collection. Swoon.

I can't decide if I would want to get married in this, or just let people think I am crazy-yet-stylish and wear it every day.

More to come later. The kids are out of school now for summer. Not having to get up at the ass-crack of dawn is great, but now they look to me to constantly keep them entertained. And since I dont' really subscribe to the notion that the TV is an alterna-parent, I need to really flex my brain muscle and think of some good ideas this summer.

I am anxious to get to Arkansas or have my boy come here, soon. He started a new job (he is a CNA, which is a job title i have UTMOST respect for) that he starts tonight. Night shift. CNA. Yeah, my boyfriend really is an unsung hero. So I guess I will have to see him in a few days.

I will write more later tonight. 

I have way more words in me today tryin to escape.