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|Thursday, June 4th, 2015|
|Who Is this Person?
Periodically throughout my life, perhaps beginning with the first survey of my (very own!) toes, I've observed myself as an integral part of my experience. It comes in flashes, illuminating for a brief moment the full outline of my form in the world around me. I'm usually oblivious to the most obvious, bumbling about experiencing things with the presumption that my perceptions are baseline-zero. But their baseline is ME, and whilst joyfully chewing a nut or berry, I'm also experiencing having teeth. Also, my teeth are inside of a head and I carry all that with me wherever I ramble.
A few years slipped by, hazy with sweetness, and I, deeply engaged in my experiences, looked up just in time to see a glimpse of my own shadow. Tradition has it, when one sees the shadow of the Molly Bee, it's going to be a long, fine, glorious summer!
Our garden grows well: raspberries blossoms into fruit, kale and chard chlorophyll solar panels unfold in the sun, and insects with a keen eye on the bok choy scatter about thrumming and zizzing. I'm happy. Contagiously happy-- so happy that people who catch sight of me buzzing by, grinning and glowing, launch into their own set of smiles. I hope this post finds you equally well.
Love, Molly Current Mood: productive
|Saturday, January 1st, 2011|
|Anyone Know What Happened to 2010?
I was just glancing around the kitchen, looking for something vaguely snack-worthy, when I noticed that the year 2010 was missing. Anyone know where it went? Did it say anything before it stepped out?
Maybe it was me who went missing. But now I'm here and 2010 is gone, as disconnected as two ships passing in the night. Current Mood: frrrr!
|Sunday, November 8th, 2009|
|My New Hobby:
...making meals from foraged foods and starting to cook while someone else quickly double-checks my mushroom identifications before i go ahead and make something Dangerous for Dinner. On the plate tonight: two POUNDS of chanterelles (only the golden ones, hold the woollies) burnished to a succulent bronze made into a cream sauce over penne, side of pigs ear mushrooms, another side of porcini (gambone) boletes cooked separately. Figs from a friend's tree served with fresh mozzarella dressed with meyer lemon olive oil and a crisp bosc pear. Salad of local lettuce, bell pepper, onion, avocado. Mmm, happy taste buds and belly. Not featured: the huckleberries i collected.
My ant hasn't seen much of me for a while, and when she caught a glimpse of me tonight, i told her she could mark me in the back of her bird book (an ID checklist for species spotted) as the Western Berry Snatcher. (My unkle is a self-identified Coffee Creeper).
Today, in their front room, i was measuring the walls and windows for a huge clean-out project when i set my penciled blueprint down just long enough to reach up and steady the measuring tape. When i looked down, i couldn't find it for all my searching. The goddamn room had swallowed up my paperwork in its grim and gaping cellulose-lined maw. I came out gasping and guffawing, asking my unkle to help find the document, which he did in about twenty seconds. "You just have to understand the filing system," he joked. "Maybe i should wear safety equipment before i go back in there," i suggested. "You mean a dust mask and goggles?" "No, i mean a string around my wrist attached to that room outline, so that i can find it again, like a surfer, when a huge tidal wave overtakes me." In fact, i wasn't joking. The room is so filled to the gills with goddamnits that i had to measure the sliding glass door from the /outside/ of the house. We're going to have to lance that beast with a ten-foot pitchfork and oh my gawwwd is it going to be ugly. Current Mood: calm
|Tuesday, November 3rd, 2009|
|Day of the Dead
Yesterday, I touched a blue whale, on the shoulder.
She had died a week ago, accidentally colliding with a research ship, bled to death from gashes on her back, and washed up on shore just south of Fort Bragg. Her skeleton is to be buried for a year in order to clean and prepare it for display in town. The blubber and rotting muscle tissue has been carted away by the hay-covered truck-full, to various private locations around the area, to be mulched into compost. Thus is her body disseminated into the community, a magnificent marine behemouth, layered into the land-- sea gulls making off with the last bits in an aerial burial fit for a Tibetan god-figure. I reserved a couple bristles of baleen, dark grey and shiny, reminiscent of a super-thick elephant tail hair, and just as sacred. Only her tongue escaped, washed back out to sea in the relentless tide.
Yesterday, I haunted a house, with my grammar school poetry teacher.
We stepped into a house awaiting new renters, and found the leavings of the young woman who had lived there. She had taken an abrupt turn in her life, moving to Central America to teach English, and had packed what she could into a truck and driven away, leaving a concerning number of objects behind. Hand-made books of her poems, paintings, baby books, pictures, and other things of apparent high sentimental value. We spent hours poring over the clues she'd left, trying to piece together who she was and what was the last thing to go through her heart. We took a couple objects to give them a new life, went home, and collaboratively wrote (with her pens) two Exquisite Corpse pieces, a letter to her and a letter from her, while enjoying tea brewed in her world-globe teapot, and thanking her on paper.
Yesterday, at sundown, a hen was found dead in the corner of the chicken coop, her head tucked up into the bosom of the polka-shit-dotted ground. A feathered mother mysteriously ill for a day and then gone. We let her remains rest in a basket, atop the altar of a washing machine, to wait out the night.
Yesterday, fittingly, was the Day of the Dead. Current Mood: solemn
|Friday, September 25th, 2009|
I commented to my good friend flwyd
how, as i was spinning 100% actual Milk fiber made from casein, i'd wickedly thought of him and his milk allergy. (For him, milk causes an emotional meltdown amongst other undesired effects). He found it amusing and responded, "This shirt doesn't itch, but it still makes me cry."
I mentioned i wanted to mix the milk fiber with a blend of cat fur, just to make the wearable allergens accessible to more people. He suggested i add in soy fibers, and maybe shellfish rhinestones around the collar. I think shellfish /buttons/ would do, and maybe a few feathers for fringe. Yes, and how about some nice stretchy latex for any elastic parts?
I could dye it a fetching yellow or beige with pure grass/ weed pollen or high-gluten wheat, lace it with nickel metal studs, and work in some polished tree-nut beads or peanut husk fiber decorative trim.
There's a whole clothing line of Wearable Allergens just waiting to happen!
My ant suggests that an earring and necklace set of adrenaline ampules would make a nice complement to any Allergen Outfit, (perhaps with convenient mini-injector syringes as the earring backs)?
|Thursday, September 24th, 2009|
|Dyeing After Spinning Milk
On how i won a spinning contest, came away with a prize of 100% Milk fiber, and set about spinning and dyeing it.
I entered into a (fiber) spinning competition when i went to the Mendocino County Fair and happened upon a contest set to occur in the next hour. Despite not having any equipment or much know-how, I decided to participate when a vendor lady offered to lend me a drop-spindle. She briefly reviewed how to use it, (Ali had shown me once months or a year before), and even gave me a handful of her home-shorn navajo-churro wool with which to practice for the ten-minute interlude before the event. When the moment arrived, the contestants sat in a big circle facing in, experts to my right with their own wheels set up, and to my left, two Navajo elders spinning on their traditional long-style spindles. Only one other person was using the same tool i was, a boy directly across the circle who seemed to know what he was doing. I eyed him dramatically, acknowledging him as a fierce competitor. He chuckled and growled "yaarrrrr!" and I retorted "Meeyyaarrrrr, this here be International Spin YARRRRN Like a Pirrrate Day!" (being the day after International Talk Like a Pirate Day), and we readied into starting position with the official wool in hand.
That was when they handed out the blindfolds(!) and had us don them before we could start spinning. I was surprised at the ease of spinning without sight, especially given my lack of familiarity with the art, but hey, i'm a quick study, right? Next they had us spin for half an hour (blindfolds off) to make the best /quality/ yarn we could. I didn't know what the heck i was doing when trying to ply my single, and looking over at the people working their wheels or the Navajo ladies industriously twining together their strands didn't help. So i took the fiber off my spindle, unceremoniously stretched it out using my feet, found the middle, and let the strands wind up against each other. It looked awful, and i had extra time, so i re-spun the yarn back onto my spindle, took it off and did the same thing, making a fairly pretty four-ply, much to my relief and delight.
The third segment of the competition was to spin the /longest/ yarn we could in 15 minutes. I could spin with some speed, but my weakest slowest point was unhooking the yarn from the get-up on the spindle, and winding the finished yarn onto the shaft of the spindle. So of course i wanted to spin more yarn per segment, which i would then stop to wind up. An easy way to extend the length was to stand on a chair, and let the spindle drop inches above the floor. I looked sheepishly down at the little old Navajo lady spinning primly to my left, and blushed and chagrinned ear-to-ear, realizing that not only had i figuratively "missed a spot", but also i was clearly "doing it wrong." No matter, i spun only 15 frightfully hideous yards and it was over soon enough.
The results came in... i'd WON the category of best quality yarn, though my sample was quite short (painfully slowly spun and then four-plied). My prize was a bag of "100% Milk" fiber, which looked like really soft lamb's wool. Back at the house, i set about spinning the stuff on a drop spindle i'd fashioned out of a re-purposed CD-ROM container, while my uncle idly looked up "milk wool" on the internets. Turns out, the 100% Milk fiber i was spinning is actually... 100% Milk. As in, fiber extracted from the casein in milk!
I later tried to explain this to my ant, as i plied meters and meters of the uniform white creaminess off my wrist. "I'm spinning /Milk/!" "What, you mean like Harvey Milk?" she asked confounded. "No, milk, the substance, ...probably from cows," i attempted to de-confound her. I read her an amusing web page written in Chinglish. I showed her the simple packaging that misleadingly said "100% Milk" and nothing else. Yes, it's true! /Actual milk/!
Now that i had spun and plied two good-sized shanks/ skanks/ skeins (...what do you call them?), yes... now that i had two sizable skanks of yarn, i was ready to dye them. The fun part was trying to predict which plants in the pygmy forest would yield the most interesting dyes. (I'd run proto-experiments with coffee, huckleberries, turmeric, and dog berries (salal)). I chose lichen, moss, salal berries, blackberries, and bracken ferns. The other fun part was boiling them all up individually until the colours were bright and rich, steaming up the air with the smell of distilled sunshine. (Hot moss/ lichen is one of my favourite scents in the whole wide world, right up there with the napes of horses necks and love, twuuuue wuuuuv). The other-other fun part was painting the skanks a variegated rainbow of pygmy flora, setting, washing, and drying the rich spoils.
Speaking of spoils, milk fiber is not only 1) 100% Milk! 2) made out of milk, and 3) actual milk fiber, but also, it tends to smell like spoiled milk when you get it wet for any amount of time, and especially when you fix dye colours with apple cider vinegar. Nothing a little mint shampoo can't mitigate, though. I'll post pix to flickr soon, as the project progresses. Current Mood: spun out
|Monday, September 21st, 2009|
|Gender and Prettiness
This is re-posted from my comments on else-person's blog, but worthy of sharing on my own digital diary. Oh yeah, LiveJournal. I remember now! 'Bout time i posted, eh?
These comments were with regard to this post: http://maybemaimed.com/2007/08/21/i-want-to-be-a-pretty-boy/
Being “pretty” to me is not a physical set of attributes, but rather how one uses one’s meat-space avatar. I can’t tell from a photograph if someone is “pretty,” and i wonder if calling someone that would even be a backhanded insult (coming from me).
I judge positive “prettiness” (attractiveness with a sweeter, softer aesthetic) by how well (elegantly, efficiently, simply) someone expresses the qualities i value, seek to emulate, and with which i want to surround myself: kindness, grace, open-heartedness, open-mindedness, confidence, and a glowing lack of artificial filters between who they are and how they enact themselves on the world around them. Shiny genuine people, who aspire to follow no standardized social norms, who invent reality for themselves, who trust others to measure their character on an individual basis (and find it worthy).
A part of me wishes that gender mattered more to me, that i cared about how i was viewed, judged, and categorized. Unfortunately (or happily), i am a molly, and when people assign a feminine gendered pronoun when talking about me, i don’t correct them. I know what they mean, and anyway, i don’t have a better suggestion that is more accurate. Yes, i want to be judged and categorized– i just want to be found worthy in my own category. I don’t mind if other people share my style… i just don’t identify as a part of any group. (Sorry i’ve missed all the local omnisexual-polygender-polyamorous-switch meetings!)
My apparent lack of concern for gender-ascribers, “queer” identifiers, and sexual-attraction-niches, has confounded and offended many a strongly-gendered or strongly-sexed friend. They’ve spent a large portion of their /lives/ fighting to be recognized for who they are, how they identify, and how they manifest their sexuality. It’s no trivial effort, but then i trounce along, like some hippy dippy airy fairy kaleidoscope tripper, (un)grouping things into matters of personal taste and personal expression, which is all different and all glorious… just like all of us.
|Sunday, March 29th, 2009|
I'm leaving, in a process of leaving, always on some trajectory. Heading out soon to Guatemala and then down to Honduras for a couple of months, tickets already bought, my suitcase of Thing-Things already in storage. It's just the /perfect/ time, you would obviously infer, to explore a new romantic relationship.
It is, though! One has a powerful sense of urgency and immediacy, inhibitions and needless restraints are tossed to the wayside, and one's priorities are in the truest order one will likely ever allow oneself. Time, my most precious gift to give and take, is of the essence. I don't fear love, affection, or heartbreak. Indeed, I seek out mutual heart-mending and know already that whatever unfolds, however long the dancers walk in step, it will be preternatural, yet perfect. That's just how I roll. Why? Because I know deep down, I am always leaving.
These lips, these arms, this heartbrainbody I carry around and within myself, it is for using up magnificently, not for wasting via apathy and apprehension. I will leave for a final time one day, with no returns, no exchanges, no refunds. Until that day, let all moments be precious, let our limitations be vivid reminders and benevolent guides to living life gloriously. Now.
Unappreciated and dormant for far too long, I have found in another human being a worthy outlet for my energies. Someone who reaches across to gather me up in sincere embrace, who breathes lust into my ears, and who consternates me with compliments for which I have no graceful thanks. Mistrust I our instantaneous intimacy? No need-- it is what it is, expectations thwarted with carefree kisses.
We shall see one another anon, on the morrow; why must blessed parting be such bittersweet sorrow? Current Mood: very now
|Monday, March 23rd, 2009|
I'm filled with the kisses of spring! I've been walking around the city, happening upon hidden natural treasures amidst the ubiquitous urbanity. (I found a little swath of forest that could be mistaken for central Thailand). Also, I'm quite smitten with quite a few things, places, people, organisations-- all of which are lasting and effective mood enhancers.
So, I've been succumbing to popular demands/ peer pressure, and the artful insidious thrall of the Internets. You know how I'm mollybzz on LJ? I'm also mollybzz on Flickr, check it. Also-also, I'm mollybzz on... Twitter. Yes, I don't know what's come over me, but somehow I'm twittering, so you better follow my every move-- they are all assured to be FASCINATING minutia and SCINTILLATING extraneous details. Love and facebites! Current Mood: Twittery
|Wednesday, March 18th, 2009|
I just heard that Javier Garza, the Peace Corps Dominican Republic Director at the time of my service, died Monday in a bus crash in Mexico. http://www.mysanantonio.com/news/local_news/At_least_10_dead_in_Mexico_bus_crash.html
There are so many of us who share his memory, just from PCDR alone, he will be much missed.
Accidents happen everywhere, but it makes me critically examine the possibility of my own injury or death while travelling. Since I don't have health insurance, I'm particularly worried about getting seriously injured and surviving. In the event of my death, no amount of health insurance can help me out, but it might be helpful to my family not to bear the cost of repatriating my body (as is the general process).
Don't worry for me too much, though. I am being extra-careful with my health and safety, not only because I am financially unprotected, but also (and more importantly) because I know my invaluable worth to the tribe. Enjoy me; I live for you as well as for myself. Current Mood: grave
|Tuesday, March 17th, 2009|
|Graffiti on the Haunted House Walls
In case you used to hang out in the Crystalline Citywide hallways, and have stopped swinging by due to rampant spam-tossers, you may have missed my comment about just such activity:
Postby mollybee on Thu Mar 05, 2009 12:25 pm
Hey dudes and dudesses,
There are a lot of hooligans tagging our cyberwalls with unsightly graffiti, sent by their ringleaders to peddle their trashy pseudo-wares and fomenting their nasty capitalism habit.
Our dusty cobwebby halls are muffled echoes, a museum of haunting voices that used to be ours. The paint is peeling away, the windows are crusting over, and the brambles of internet ivy encroaches-- all inviting vandals who have their way with our street-facing walls.
Take we no exception to this? Is it just another artistic addition to our haphazard communal mural? Are we too bleary-eyed to notice through the haze of our own soporific silence?
Let's throw a muthafukkin party in this here museum of mummified mutterings. Invite the bastards in for tea and cake and death and crumpets, how about?
And maybe make use of our clubhouse, hey? Make it look like people are taking care of the place. But if it's a chore and nobody's into it... and if we're dead, why still pay property tax?
Love and zombiekisses!
(`'·.¸ (`'·.¸ ¸.·'´) ¸.·'´)
«´¨`·.¸¸.* bzz *. ¸¸.·´¨`»
(¸.·'´ (¸.·'´ `'·.¸) `'·.¸)
|Monday, March 16th, 2009|
|Music to My Ears
Today I stepped out of the series of my front doors, readying the MP3 player gift from my Uncle, and had the earbuds inserted by the time I made it out to the street. I swished and swooned down the sidewalk, undulating to the dreamy beats of Ratatat -- Montanita
, and unwittingly walked right past the intersection at which I meant to turn.
A block away, a few realizations sank in: I was off-course from my projected path, I had tears streaming down my face, and I was in the throes of passion from my first experience listening to music through headphones while walking down the street.
I'd heard music through headphones before, of course, but always stationary and attached to a computer or boom box. And I often sing or hum to myself when I aimlessly walk along, hearing the melodies in my imagination. But never before had I heard music piped directly into my brain through a device that followed me wherever I went.
For years I'd judged the people walking around wearing earphones as zombies, tuned out of the intricate details of the pedestrian world. But in fact they must be vibrantly alive and madly in love with music and all of life and love itself and unicorns and rainbows and-- and-- and THIS is what I've been missing out on?! Gracious!
The Silence is Dead! Long Live the Silence! Current Mood: Sweet
|Friday, March 13th, 2009|
When I have free time, I invariably find myself seeking out the company of others, cheerfully chattering or communing in a separate silence as we attend to our tasks. Left to my own devices with a dearth of companions, I notice I spend an inordinate amount of time trawling the internet, trouncing and bouncing from tangent to arc back to tangent. Even if I have no project on which I'm working, I hunger for the warm glow of my input-stimulus machine, whirring amiably through random links which I justify as auto-didactic exposure-expansion.
But when I go out for a walk in the woods alone, I leave hands, eyes, and brain free from the convoluted trappings of clever distractions. The only thing I see/hear/smell is the forest, and the only preoccupation preying on my alert-hackles are cougar shadows. I have the time and space to concoct new ideas, to connect thoughts in new ways.
Things like how I feel a little piece of a god lodged itself in me, but I can't admit to that as I am a raging polyatheist, devoutly believing in the non-existence of many gods. I wonder at how I never learned to properly metabolize all these spiritual inclinations I bend towards, with, against. I suppress the sacred and don't use rituals to help digest the divine nutrition I crave. Unprocessed, my spiritual energy stagnates and my divine digestive tract goes into metaphysical-peristalsis.
In the woods I awaken from my existential hibernation and I am energized by exercise and free-association. I am inspired to seek further inspiration, to feed the need that resurges. I'm self-righteously glad that I don't stuff my god-hole with the junk-food of pre-packaged religions that have little nutritional value compared to the greasy, saccharine, filler fluff pumped with artificial dogma one must choke down. Not for me, darlings. I'm holding out for a slow-concocted hand-picked soul-salad, likely made with wild ingredients I gleaned from the glades. Current Mood: sneepy
|Wednesday, March 4th, 2009|
(encountered recently in my personal effects, something I had written on paper as fast as I could move the pen, without bothering to compose thoughts)
30 December, 2008
Instead of feeling the joy of my boundless freedom, I am crushed by the oppression of my choicelessness.
A pigeon, then, does it carefully consider crumbs?
Which comes first... the shelter or the job?
How does one choose a city, if all that seems to matter are the people who are not in current proximity?
Shall I be so weak as to allow the desires of others to guide the course of my life, to fill the emptiness where other people (sane stable people) carry a plan?
I've been without a reliable space for too long.
The world is my oyster, but I'm allergic to mollusks.
I have as many options as ideas I can muster, but excuses are always closer than the proverbial apron string.
Find me a passion, and I'll show you an obstacle.
It's ridiculous to fear change, when that is all we are guaranteed.
Let us instead, find it within ourselves to eschew self-torment by ceasing [--]
(left off in mid-sentence, having realized the futility of writing-as-torment (this isn't even purely about homelessness, and anyway, I was trying to compose a letter to a friend in Switzerland... (I think I'll scratch this and try again with just a picture of a big Cthulhubuddha on an Old Lotus... (...))))
|I'm a Witch (Not a Wife!)
Tonight I reminisced with my Ant about our family. ( Some family herstory.Collapse )
I tucked a lot of elucidating tidbits into the gaps in the weft of my family history, placing events and learning ambient motivations for things I'd heard about but not understood.
I remember when I found out, as a young child, that my paternal grandmother had died two months before I was born. My three closest family members who knew her, each individually remarked to me how much I reminded them of her, that I had her eyes and her presence... and I got to thinking that maybe I had inherited her spirit. I decided that two months must have been enough time for spiritual turnover, and that I embodied a wiser essence who simultaneously helped guide me through a capricious youth while getting the opportunity to go through life and learning again. I was myself, but I was also another person who was also myself. This must have been the dawn of my layered awareness.
There is an open dialogue between the harsh critic and the kind mentor, and they bicker with and soothe one another by turns as I meld and mesh in and out of self-grok-focus. While I am a myopic and unruly humanchild, dashing around the globe selfishly sucking up input without much reference to her story in the bigger picture, I am also an old woman, grateful to be adventuring as she had always wanted, but never did. She doesn't take her youth, beauty, and health for granted-- having a body at all is a miracle, and our current blessings are unfathomably bountiful. She is at liberty to roam again, with vitality and vim, down roads previously not taken. A whirling swirling thing, she is me and I am she.
I am a witch, unfettered by religion or self-indentured servitude to an invented higher power. I am free to fly around the world and take it all in without fear or compromise. When I step back from myself, from my ego, and my constant curtain of self-judgment, I allow my experience of the moment to realize itself without censorship or narration, I am genuine to my soul, and I rediscover that everything is sacred.
(It's good to know this, forget this, remember this.)
|Friday, February 27th, 2009|
|Goals for March
I have been going through a lot of (arguably negative) flux lately. Some say it is the time in my life of a Saturn Return, which is an astrological euphemism for a get-yo-shit-togetha crisis. So... during my time in San Francisco, I've been stressed out about loss of touch with people in Colorado, a friend who went missing, lack of housing, employment upheaval, illness in the family, and most recently a separation from one of my dearest friends and erstwhile lover. I do not grieve for this last turn of events, as I feel it is necessary to cut me off from an unhealthy hope for something that will never come to be. And yet, he remains a loved one through and through.
In addition to the stressors at hand, there is always the perennial overarching stress of not knowing in which direction I am heading and what to do with my life. Oh, and where to call "home" for now. Where to file taxes? In order to combat depression and find some sense of purpose in my days, I have put together a list of small goals for March:
* Get through Think Python
* Do not use funds from savings
* Attend ASL class
* Learn basic Portuguese
* Exercise aerobically often
* Eat produce-- no restaurants
* Sew velvet pocket hip apron
* Post in LJ 2x per week
* Practice Mandarin weekly
* Psychic ventilation
I wish to complete 8 or better of these ten goals in order to feel like I achieved what I set out to do: Cultivate my languages, stretch my learning muscles, physically explore this city, work my body into shape, manage an intentional diet, attain financial sustainability, keep my creative flow, get over the fear and loathing of my own writing, and enrich my social life with fresh variables. Current Mood: hopeful
|Friday, November 21st, 2008|
|I Have a Durian
It's been (again) so long since I've posted. There's really too much that needs to be said before I can say the other things I've been meaning to say. So what do I finally choose to report after all this time of quiet discovery and amazing realizations?
Oh, nothin of actual import. I acquired a durian yesterday. It was delicious and spiky and all that you would expect of a darling caramelized stink bomb.
Also, the people across the street are blasting Christmas music and their home front is bedecked with plastic Santa nonsense. They don't even have the decency to wait until after Thanksgiving to start playing the same tape over and over, incessant jingling and belling and jingling and belling. I civilly asked them to turn it down a few notches, and they did. Curious as to why they were already so into the "Christmas spirit" (euphemism for compulsive consumerism as aided by mind-numbing sonic/visual/odor input), I asked as much, and the man said: "When I hears da Christmus muzic, I don't have to clean." ... uh. Wait, what? Oh well. At least it's quieter now. Current Mood: exhaustipated
|Friday, September 12th, 2008|
|Wings and Wheels
As you may have surmised, my days in Colorado have been filled with mirth, merriment, and marvelous company. It was just precisely the rest (read: the frenetic random spontaneous active rest) I needed after I had been bouncing around the world through foreign lands inhabited by masses of friendly strangers wiggling foreign tongues and enticing me with foreign spices, etc. I recently got a chance to reconnect with many of my most adored souls, concentrated in Boulder, but spread throughout the tri-county area. If we didn't get a chance to meet up, I apologize profusely, but do realize that my love knows no bandwidth, though time, as my primary limiting factor in life, doesn't take well to spreading thinly. Please forgive me also for not being easier to contact... I'm considering getting a cellulite funicular, or whatever the cool kids are chatting on these days. Blue teeth? You crazy kids!
I am well rested up (sleep-indebted, wonky-diet, exercise-frustrated) and pent up and geared up and straining for a new adventure. To that end, I am headed out (today) for a thrilling and magickal journey into the intricate bowels of San Francisco. Wait... what? Unexpectedly mundane, you might incredulate? No, not at all. I am exceptionally excited to discover adventures in my own country, after so many years of passing over possibilities in my place of origin, the pride of my passport, the joy of my drivers license, the apple of my... county fair and apple exposition (500 varieties of apples). I'm psyched to get to know a buzzing megalopolis so near my native coastline, and of course there is N, who is his own country inside of an adventure. A wheel within a wheel! Let's get this rolling-- I still need to pack.
I leave tonight at gloaming. Current Mood: twitterpated
|Friday, September 5th, 2008|
|On the Way to Eagle...
A man paid me $10.00 to touch him at a gas station. It happened like
this: Van and his daughter Moreija had kidnapped me and we were on our
way up to Eagle, and had stopped in a small gambling town for a
corporeal fill'n'spill. Van was picking out the box of Good'n'Plenties
with the highest ratio of @#$%^& pink ones, and I was standing near
the exposed coffee elements, holding my hands over one. Moreija came
to stand next to me, and we were both circling our flat palms out over
the warm elements when the cashier looked over at us. I said, "Uh,
we're just doing some holistic healing on your coffee machine,"
glancing meaningfully at our methodical ministrations. "Good!" she
replied, "People are copping attitudes outside because the pumps have
just stopped working." She stepped out from behind the counter, where
she was beverage-sitting my already-purchased brand-new Special
Gatorade Bottle (FIERCE MELON), to look at the man developing his
attitude problem near the non-working pumps. She was obviously
stressing out, so I walked up and gave her a quick shoulder rub.
Another man walked up to the counter to purchase a beverage of his
choosing, and as the attendant stepped back to ring him up, I
naturally moved my hands over to his shoulders, without thinking it
strange. I gave him a fairly vigourous neck and shoulder rub for only
about a minute, and turned away to say something to Moreija as she
approached. The man then handed me a five dollar bill, which took me
aback, but I thought 'hey, I'm spending money without an income, I
could use this' and so pocketed it and gaily returned to a deeper
expulsion of his pent-up stress. I got all up on his head, jawbone,
behind the ears, neck, shoulders, arms, and back, and he stood there
transfixed while his bought beverage sat sweating on the counter.
Another woman came up behind the register and set about ringing up his
libation, and the man just stared straight ahead, hands braced against
the camera, and muttered unintelligibly, "I... uh... already... the...
um," before the previous woman explained, "Oh, I already rang that
up." "Oh," said the second, somewhere between confused amusement and
disinterested curiosity. Anyway, I finished the massage and brushed
off the precipitated negative energeticals, stating that I thought I
had gotten most of it. He turned and handed me another fiver,
declaring that if I didn't already give massage for a living, that I
should seriously consider it. He had gotten a fair number of massages,
but that was the best he'd ever had, he called over his shoulder as
his large frame floated out of the station minimart towards his
ginormous truck near the uncooperative pumps and attitudinous would-be
customers. I duly considered it. Even still. I know that many people
have remarked I should trade my touch for money, but that was the
first time it had actually transcurred. Transpired. Breathed through.
And then I earned ten dollars; The End.