Overthunk

   I've never been a mother In the societally accepted manner. And yet,  I've born lots of things, borne others, Taking in seed, growing, passing it out and unto Acting as surrogate when others faltered Cooperatively shaping smooth new marble into model citizens Nuzzled even animals through their whole life cycle Earth goddess written on even my deceptive flesh Too abundant and myriad, ugly, nurturing, not sleek, yet providing Sustenance of hungry souls. ----------------------------------------------------- "Hush now baby, baby, don't you cry." - Pink Floyd

The drive-up ATM line is a clusterfuck as usual, here in this sudden population boom suburb, so I pull around to the front. The drive through lanes all having proudly displayed in red how closed they were, I figured the inside was, too, so I swiped the ATM card through the spy slit in the side of the brass-framed glass to reach the lobby ATM, to make my deposit of half the rent I was owed, finally received. I waited to hear the click of the spy slot rendering my security clearance valid. I didn't but I still yanked at the thick handle and wide it swung, some greeter cheerily saying, "Hello!" as I, within milliseconds, felt foolish to have done the thing you do when the bank is closed, when the bank was clearly open.  Chuckling very small to myself, at myself, I approached the kiosk where the tethered pens, one always missing, somehow, exposing some hole in writing utensil security because all their eyes are on the money. Signing neatly (for once) and dutifully writing ...

You know people have delivered babies in there Probably even died Yanking on the oversized roll of industrial toilet paper Dispensed across every state line Delivered by the truckers who pray for a titty flash on their way Under the auspices of Arkansas Somehow vaulted to an international comptroller of commerce Of the destinies of families, employed or forced to shop there,  Or molding the plastic dreck Americans require in some foreign land, Their necessary evil, or needed good. And on that trip Bowels working, oblivious to the outside anything You have to make that stop, not wanting to, dreading it And yet, like the world's cathedrals, it waits for you, with open arms Pure white porcelain ready to receive your most animal of offerings Whether you believe in evolution or not. The question is there, though, do you know the good news? Do you know the freedom that is ready for you, As long as you're willing to chain yourself to the one path? Unwavering, dete...

It's Zappadan, that time of year between December 4 and December 21, when we gather together on the warm tendons strung between us (internets) to celebrate the life of Frank Vincent Zappa, delivered to us at precisely the right time, then taken too soon. During the summer, I purchased this poster, which to me is sublime for a number of reasons: 1. The cheap Chroma-Key? background 2. The partly dead plants 3. Those shoes, which some stylish gent would covet nowadays 4. Peter Max socks 5. The jaunty neckerchief 6. Unapologetic smoking 7. Leopard-print Speedo flocked by generously untrimmed pubes  8. The smoky, sardonic glance I'm sure there are more. Turned out, I procrastinated just long enough for the hanging up of this poster to coincide with Zappadan. Unintentional brilliance. Anyway, because it's just for me and not for the prying eyes of others, I wanted to laminate it (so I could use tape to hang it on the back of my closet door, so that I ...

Sometimes, when people ask how I am I give the real answer Instead of just mumbling "fine" I might say how I'm content to survive Stay in line And out of trouble Never far behind. I might bend an ear With a rant on why I try not to cry But the more I see and know The more flow.

It seemed like New York, but on Dream, it could've been any other grotty conclave of run down shops and restaurants and tenement houses, dirty, with big windows, swirling painted letterforms of old, damp, grimy streets, but the sun was shining. I walked along, seemingly lost, past one window and another, until I reached a bike shop. From the front, it looked closed , so I continued walking, around a round corner. The back was open and inside stood a bald man, Gandhi-esque but gruff, in a dingy white shirt, white Van Dyke bristling slightly, skin like creased umber leather, maybe a cigarette burning somewhere in the background.  Somehow I convinced him (though it was closed? I don't really know) to let me clean the tires of a red bicycle. He let me borrow it, take it for a spin. I rode, freedom on wheels, through the dingy alleys, wind fanning my hair out behind me, lost in the fun of it, the remembrance of being a kid and doing just this thing, but in some suburban settin...

Eleven years ago, except for when I was a kid, I'd had nothing but cats. I'd moved out of a roommate situation, amicably, but into my own space, the first apartment I'd had just to myself. My cat, a fluffy Himalayan, had passed a few months ago, and I decided I wanted a dog. No one I knew had a dog. All my friends were cat people. Yet the idea persisted: a black pug was the dog for me. "Dogs take so much attention," the cat people warned me. "Are you sure?" Yet I searched on. I found a breeder. I kept thinking, overthinking, agonizing. It became a calling. The trepidation increased: was it the right thing to do? Could I give him enough attention? Would I walk him enough? Still, I decided on a name. Pugs are rather hobbitlike - stocky, focused on creature comforts, independent, second-breakfasting - so Pippin was perfect. In Lord of the Rings, a life manual of sorts for gamer nerd girls like me, Pippin was the mischievous one who did things his own way, y...

Being different: first it's a torture, a singling out, a wall built by the other typical small humans to isolate themselves from the diseased, the weak, the different, that will be picked off, and we find ourselves on the other side, alone, awaiting the wolf, hoping we have some defense against him. Later, we own it, we choose it, it morphs into our identity. It becomes, not embarrassment but bailiwick. We jauntily don our red riding hoods and await the wolf, confident, unafraid, knowing what makes him tick, knowing we have something just as fearsome within us, this weirdness, our weapon. In young adulthood, we believe ourselves superior, better than the common. Why would I want to participate in your old, outmoded, crusty ways? I am, we are, above it. We study radicals and hope we can ally ourselves, somehow. Then middle adulthood arrives. We've fought the battles, wear an armor of mirror-polished cynicism, and yet at some level have cooperated with the world and its wa...

A few weeks back, I had some idea that I'd create a tumblr for tracking wines I'd tried or liked or just drank, but that turned out to require some small amount of effort, so after some consideration (15 minutes), I decided I'd post it here.  Tonight's Offering:   Once Upon A Vine, The Big Bad Red Blend  Price: $12.99 Varietal: Unspecified Origin: Diageo Wines, Sonoma, California Flavors (according to the maker): Berry, chocolate My thoughts: Obtained from the local liquor store when the original objective was bourbon. The label was highly persuasive, but doesn't match the wine. I sense no malice towards grandmas or anyone in this, really. Light, drinkable, easy. Almost too easy. Would I drink it again? Yes. ------------------------------------------------ "You're everything a big bad wolf could want..." - Sam the Sham and the Pharoahs

Not too long ago, James Stafford, master blogger of the stellar Why It Matters , invited me to do a guest post . I've reprinted it here for your enjoyment or amusement or mere curiosity. Please do visit his halls of memoir and chronicles of music, as every minute not spent there is one you would have enjoyed! "Greetings from the briny depths of the internets, where I inflict my octo-schtick. Here are eight tunes my suckered arms embrace, reflecting eight life obsessions. INFORMATION The Cars, “Double Life”     “Lift me from the wondermaze, alienation is the craze.” Programming streams of foul language in Basic as a kid on a Commodore 64 only paved the way for my taking up residency on the internet round about ’95. When it was pay by the hour AOL, I signed on for a volunteer position to earn time, because I couldn’t finance my habit any other way. These days, I’m awash in social media and virtual worlds, and it draws a line, forms a language I ...

You say this fat is laziness, I say it's dedication to pleasure. Perseverance of sensuality, Disregard of the magazine-cover worldview, Elevation of the self against the onslaught of conformity, Punk rebellion in adiposity. This fat isn't mere sloth. It's passion. The road of excess, mapped out for all to see. The palace of voluptuousness leads to me. ----------------------- "You say you want a..." - Len/McC

Tears streamed down my face this morning. "You could've let me say five more words, you know, just five more words." In my head, I was complaining to Dream. Outside, I was sobbing quietly. In the previous scene, I was on other business, with some somehow familiar friends, when I had a feeling my mother was about to go, and I'd better get over there to see her. I left where I was, and went somewhere else. I thought she might be gone, as if she were very ill somehow, but she was there, on a low bed, in an odd situation, bunking up with someone, as I'd never allow her to be in real life. As I opened the door, she woke up, and I felt relief she was there. She was sleepy, but alert, in her right mind, as she sometimes wasn't during our lives in this realm, looked better than she did at the actual end. Her hair was in her usual updo, messy from sleep, blonde and wild like mine, wearing a bright fuschsia gown with colorful piping at the sleeves.  I knelt down to ...

      Last night, I was dragged by my far thinner, more stylish, more trend-conscious sister into Urban Outfitters. These Outfitters, cleverly named as a depot at which you'd gear yourself up for an expedition through uncharted territory (except it's a city), comprise a habitat for the much maligned Hipster: a young person for whom anachronistic bad taste is akin to those two stone tablets we've all heard so much about.      As we entered, with two kids in tow, we were hailed briefly, dutifully, by a vision of Today's Nonconformist Youth: of medium height, relatively slouchy as he carefully folded some t-shirts at a table, cropped hair encircling his head except for a wildly curly blond crown, round glasses reminicent of Rick Moranis, or maybe even Mary Gross, gray v-neck t-shirt dipping low over his sternum, exposing his somewhat abundant chest hair, turquoise cardigan hugging him from behind, loosely flapping at both sides like deboned ...

Can we all make a pact to stop telling little white lies that everyone can see through as well as a freshly Windexed pane of newly minted window glass, and on the flip side of that, to stop getting angry when people tell the unvarnished truth? Don't say, "I can't do that because I emailed my boss (on a Sunday) and I heard back (within moments) and they won't let me miss that day OR have someone else take over for me OR ask someone else to do my work temporarily, AND I may get fired if I miss even five minutes of work (not true because I know the company you work for and its policies)." Do say, "When I realized that the thing I volunteered to help with would require greater than zero effort on my part, I felt oppressed by an ever-increasing sense of the mandatory. Therefore, I'd like to not do it, please." Don't say, "I don't care. Where do you want to eat?" Do say, "While I realize that my saying so may not c...

     It would never have happened if I had an American Express card. Because Neiman’s only takes checks, cash, their own card, and Amex. It never would’ve happened if I hadn’t decided to go to the top floor in search of some form of house slippers for my hard to buy for grandma. But I did go to the top floor, riding the elevator among bouncing squares of reflected light from strings of plastic butterflies and mirrors, suspended emblems of spring hung in winter because snowflakes were oh so gauche. (I figured out their “use something springy in winter” trick because last year, they suspended strands of white feathers, causing me to glance about for Foghorn Leghorn, checking to see if they were numbered for just such an occasion. I suppose I’ve never noticed, but in high summer perhaps they have strands of icicles or Christmas ornaments in encomium of the cattywompus way high fashion operates.)      Gliding along the white marble floors (hustlin...

If you would destroy the evidence, Twittercide, posthaste. Hell hath no fury like the deluded Tumblr posts of a woman being willingly lied to. That awkward moment when you post 1,000 Tumblr pics of airbrushed models doing all the sex acts you and I have done in real life, to impress someone who is too far away to touch you on a regular basis. Love? You're just an actor. He's writing the script. The paycheck? Hoping you'll provide the confidence and worth he hasn't provided for himself. For you? Pro bono, baby. Wisdom is a long time in coming (at least six months, hundreds of texts, hours on the phone and together in person). Note to self: Fun is not love. Fun is just fun, even if it is pretty intense, and repeated, and other people seem to think it is love, and you do. It is just fun, even if the other participant in the fun says, "I love you" while looking you right in the eyes, in your own bed, after hours of touching, kissing, and laughing together, ...

Appropos of the ubiquitous holiday of the prevailing belief system at the current temporal moment, here is a not-awaited, hardly polished, non-genius parody of The Beatles' "I Am the Walrus" -- I AM AT WALMART. Lyrics: I Am At Walmart Begun July 24, 2011, finished Decemberish 2011. Daddy, mama, cousins, auntie, me and you and grandma shop together. See how they whine for everything that shines, see how they whine. Kids crying. Sitting by the cornflakes, waiting for the man to come. Exploded jar of pickles, don’t go in ‘til Tuesday. Otherwise you want to kill and lines are much too long. I just want eggs, man, but I’ll spend a hundred. I am at Walmart. Stuffed kangaroos. Rent A Cop Policeman sitting Driving his golf cart past the cars in rows. See carts fly, dinging cars, then guy in orange vest runs. Kids crying, kids cryyyyyying. Kids crying. Kids cryyyy. Yellow squishy filling, glistening in apple pie. Cheap crab legs, hey fish man, gimme 13 o...

I'll turn the TV on, but I'll walk away. I might seem to be doing other things, but from afar, nonchalant, refresh the page. With a pessimistic twinge, I'll listen to the cheering and the roars of the crowd. A drink of water summons me if they get too loud. If they ask me who I like, I might say, "I dunno, really." I won't wear the colors, nor at parties drink beer from pails But in my heart, my hope for you never fails You turn bad vibes to good, to fuel the cheer of a whole city. Real fans sit close and watch the carnage when you stumble, trip, and fall. They'd disparage me, say I don't care at all. But if I watch, powerless, as you falter Your missteps turn to mine, face hot with shame, my whole perception altered To watch you fail dumps poison in my veins. I keep in sun; I can't abide the rain. --------------------------- "I'm not unfaithful, but I'll stray." - Tegan and Sara

In the first stages, One thousand iterations: This is who I am. This is who I am. This is who I really am. ----------- Who, who? Who, who? - Townshend, et. al.

Well, kids, there used to be a thing called AOR, and Album Oriented Rock radio stations would play entire albums from beginning to end, particularly in the late evening, and I used to stay at my grandparents' house as a teenager when my mother and I weren't getting along. This combination of factors led to my hiding between the window and the bed to muffle the sound and taping the entirety of Candy-O from the radio, after discovering that my grandparents' ancient, half-broken boom box would miraculously do so. The year was probably 1983 or 4. There I huddled, on the floor, right against the knotty pine window ledge, trying to turn the music up as loud as I thought I could manage without waking my early to bed, early to rise grandfather, or alerting my night owl grandmother. The doing involved some sacrifice, too, as I had to tape over something else I'd captured on the used-and-reused thirty-three cent cassette. How did I know about The Cars? My brother (nine years old...