The Orgasmic Universe
"Our universe seems to be composed of facts and their opposites at the same time... Everything happens as though it did not exist at all."
--Louis de Broglie
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The Orgasmic Universe
--Louis de Broglie
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Tired
I was gonna write something today about how people are like archaeological digs and how I sometimes wish that people would wanna dig more into MY pit. But then the latter part sorta sounded like it should be accompanied by a BOW CHICKA BOW WOW, so I kinda lost interesting in discussing this.
Then I was gonna write about what I thought was a lovely little lyrical part of a song I heard last night about how we're the needle on a record player, always in that one place, never in the future and never in the past. How the past and future are fallible and wishy-washy and fuzzy so it's sorta a good thing if we find peace with being stuck wherever we are in the little ridge on our record, feeling out the present like a blind woman running her hands over Braille. But then I realized I'd only heard the lyrics once and am totally not gonna be able to do them justice. Which I haven't. I've butchered and distorted their meaning, no doubt, with my graceless and tired train of thought this morning. *Bending over to be whipped in retribution*
So instead of writing about all these things, I'm gonna take a "lameness day-out" like we all do way too frequently on these things and say, ask me anything you'd like in my comment section and I will try to answer it. Without coherence or grace I'm guessing, simply due to lack of sleep. But I will try nonetheless.
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Killer Shrews and Tube Socks
I haven't written much as of late, so I figured I'd say a word or two. Not a valuable or insightful word or two, I'm guessing. But at least one word or two.
This weekend was a strange but eventful one. Kinda like a warm fuzzy existence for a few days in a sudden alternate reality.
Thursday night I spent sitting in my tube socks in a Tremont bar, reading Harlan Ellison and eating feta cheese pizza while downing a Corona.
Tube socks are foxy. I got hit on by many a fella.
I also shot pool and discussed what religion and existence would be like if we all lived for eternity and had no chance of dying--Would spirituality and religion die out? Would there still be a need for it? Why haven't more vampire books delved into this subject (or have they)?
Saturday such philosophical meanderings took a turn for the worse:
What if killer shrews really DID exist??
Would this alter the way I live my life? Would I make every moment count a little bit more?
Would I still wear my tube socks in bars at Tremont?
Where is this train of thought barreling to on its rusty railroad tracks?
I have no idea.
I guess when it comes down to it, it is good, this looming fear of death. I think it's healthy--gives us motivation and gets our asses moving.
Things I need to start working on before the Killer Shrews destroy my ass:
1. Write more often--I like one of my friend's ideas to write something (even if it's a sentence or two) every single day.
2. Sink my teeth into life with more fervor.
3. Build a contraption that fends off the killer shrews for just a little bit longer.
4. Spend more time with friends.
5. Start running or doing something else exercisey (that doesn't fuck up my neck).
6. Get some thicker tube socks.
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Pinkerton
He was a bandit, an outlaw, a juggernaut back when juggernauts were still cool. His face had gotten burned off in the bank robbery of the summer of '53. He'd worn a mask ever since. He had rough patchy skin just like a pinkerton avocado and so his friends (what few he had of them) and his partners in crime called him Pinkerton (Pinkie for short). He also had three pinkie fingers, so the name caught on quickly.
Between '51 and '59, he robbed 57 banks. He shot and killed one deputy, but only when his gun went off by accident. No one ever realized he was the infamous Corkido Kid until after his death.
Later on in his life, after finding Jesus, he turned away from this life of crime and started a band: Pinkerton's Assort. Colours. They met with only mediocre reviews, but he loved to sing. He also liked to look suspiciously at people while he lit a cigarette. It was just something he liked to do. He couldn't quite explain it.
Pinkerton.
He was a man. He was a man who loved.
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Feed me some insults...
Or criticisms. Or point out some of my flaws.
That or give me a good recipe for something spicy and vegetarian.
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Voice
One of the nicest (and yet weirdest) things anyone's ever said about my voice:
"you have a strange [not bad] voice... it is crinkly... like glass cracking or ice cubes cracking in water except alive."
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Weirdest Dreams Last Night
So I had this really vivid and totally bizarre dream last night. Freud would probably say that it was some sort of subconscious manifestation of my nervousness about my car constantly breaking down. Or wait. No. More likely, he'd probably say that it represented something have to do with the phallus and my penis-envy.
Anywho, I am at a meeting with D____ at work about this new shit we're learning to do. We're all joking around and feisty and boisterous and then the meeting finally ends. I go out to my car with Maura (who is also there for some reason) and my back tire is completely mangled and distorted on the frame. K____, the chick that annoys the crap out of us at work, apparently has no driving skills and has slammed into and her car is still pressed up against it, so it is difficult to NOT know who the culprit is.
I am irate.
She comes out and just walks up to her car and gets in and then starts to pull out of the parking space. I am looking at her in complete disbelief and amazement. I start hollering at her and pointing at my tire. Maura and D_____ hold me back and try to calm me down. As per usual, this woman is COMPLETELY oblivious and has no sense of social decorum or what should be done in this situation.
I'm hollering about how I'm gonna sue her ass off when D______ points out that there's no way I'm going to be able to because I am illegally parked in a handicapped parking space. I had not realized this. I look underneath my car and there is a yellow handicapped symbol. The rest are white. I argue that this difference in color is what made me not notice it.
Maura calms me down and tells me to get into my car--it will still be drivable, she says. In real life, there would be no chance in hell that a wheel this mangled would get me anywhere. But in my dream, she is right.
I get in and start to pull out and it is driving fine.
*Here I have a lapse in memory*
Somehow Maura and I end up nose-diving into quickly rushing waters. It ends up somehow being related to my car being f-ed up again. We get knocked loose of the car and find ourselves trying to navigate the rapids and whitecaps crashing against us and throwing us around rocks. I'm looking for my car, slightly p.o.ed that Maura convinced me to drive it when it obviously was in no shape to be driven. At the end of the rapids amongst calmer waters, there is a kayak swirling around and two kayakers who had also been thrown out trying to grab onto it. My car is bobbing up and down next to their kayak (except that it is now my ex's super-huge station wagon beater).
I am mad.
I hate my car.
I wake up feeling the same damn way.
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Lovely Words
From Anne Carson's Autobiography of Red:
AA
SYLLABICATION: a·a
PRONUNCIATION: ää
VARIANT FORMS: or a'a
NOUN: Lava having a rough surface.
ETYMOLOGY: Hawaiian 'a', to burn, aa.
One of the Yamana's variations of the word 'bite' meant "to come surprisingly on a hard substance when eating something soft e.g. a pearl in a mussel."
Don't ask me why I find these interesting--I just do.
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Earwigs
Last night, as I was falling asleep and the inside of my ear started to feel as though it were creeping, I tentatively entertained the thought that perhaps I had an earwig. I then realized that I didn't actually KNOW what an earwig in fact IS.
Main Entry: 1ear·wig
Pronunciation: -"wig
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle English erwigge, from Old English Earwicga, from Eare ear + wicga insect
: any of numerous insects (order Dermaptera) having slender many-jointed antennae and a pair of cerci resembling forceps at the end of the body
I also realized I am still not too big a fan of Natalie Merchant.
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#201
So yesterday I talked to two of the closest people in my life about whether I should move to Tremont or not. We spent a little time discussing pros and cons, and after I got off the phone the second discussion-round, I realized this:
If I could, I would wrap my arms around my apartment in a big warm bearhug; I'd send it a letter in the mail telling it how much I love it; I'd put it in a headlock and tussle its hair affectionately.
It may not be in the hippest of areas, it may be a complex and not a cute little quirky house, I may not have wanted to move in there in the first place, but it's been a damn good apartment.
I've slept there, I've eaten there, I've shagged there for almost 3 years. I broke up there, I started a new thing there, I've celebrated holidays there. I've booked through the apartment on my sweet blue 1970's rollerskates too many times to count. I've had my best most pleasant throw-up in the toilet there. I've been in many a relationship there. I've stood out in the middle of the parking lot in my bare feet and boxers and watched an eclipse there. I've had squirt gun fights there.
I've walked around naked in front of the window hundreds and hundreds of times. I've spooned in my futon with my best friend there. I've sat and had jovial games of Jenga on my kitchen floor many a time. I've boxed my significant other there. I've grown fond of our resident skunk. I've set a dish towel on fire. I've dropped so much stuff next to my stove that it's surprising the mold hasn't grown legs and walked the stove away. I've played many a game of bathtub Scrabble there. I've watched many a blizzard from inside with the warm company of friends. I've had friends pass out and hit their head on my bathroom floor. I've suffered many a lost memory from too much wine myself.
I've turned my bathwater near-black there after a week spent camping and showering only twice. I've put together a futon frame there all by myself. I've suffered many a night of insomnia there, enjoyed many a creative spurt. I've sat on my kitchen floor in only my undies at 2 am many a night and indulged in a heaping bowl of cereal. Many a shoe has dirtied the carpeting there. I've written many a poem there, sobbed in probably every room, made love in every room. I've flashed people walking by playing truth or dare. I've laughed at many a movie, watched friends get high and threaten to climb into my sink.
I've enjoyed many a bike trip to the library, spend at least an hour a week digging through mounds of books on its cozy familiar shelves. I've hiked back and forth between Midas many a day, through snow, rain, and sun. I've gotten cat-called on its streets, I've tracked down many a used book in its stores. I've had many a picnic in its parks. I've taken classes, I've made jewelry, I've indulged in a smoke as I walked on my way home and enjoyed the night sky. I've watched fireworks from the courtyard, spent many days chatting with the lifeguard and reading as I basked in the sun at the pool.
Quite a few friends, significant others, and family members consider it with warm regards as their second home.
It's been a good apartment. Not counting my mom's house, it's been my longest place of residence. I'd venture to call it "home."
So right now, I'm still up in the air about moving, something that may sound peculiar and goofy to some of you. But I do consider this my "home," lame and unhip as that may be. I may end up finding nothing that appeals to me when I start apartment-hunting this week, in which case I stay.
And then I may very well find a place that bowls me over to the point that it's obvious that there's no other decision that I can make and that I must move. In which case, I'll bid #201 my fond farewells.
And I'll miss it, no doubt. It's been a good little friend.
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The Blob
Reasons You Should Love The Blob
"You say it's a monster, Steve?"
"Yes, Dave, something that looks like a blob and appears to be eating human flesh, Dave. One might call something that fits that description a monster, Dave."
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Titbits
"An orgasm is said to be as mentally and physically beneficial as a five-mile jog, thanks to the raising of heart rate, which is equivalent to an energetic aerobic workout."
A rare but persistent folk belief found scattered in cultures from Europe to the Far East is that "a person is born with a certain number of orgasms in him or her, and... when the last is used, the person dies."
--O: An Intimate History of the Orgasm by Jonathan Margolis
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Random Question of the Day
(Which I'm basically just using as filler because I can't think of anything more interesting to write about at the moment)
Why is it that guys (whether they be friends or significant others or brothers or whatever) get so into pointing out when another guy is checking you out?
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Slang Words
Erect penis
Clit
Labia
Vulva
Sex
Orgasm
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