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Name: Justine
Location: Annapolis, Maryland, United States

Justine, is a little bit more than you'd expect. This is where you are supposed to put your "elevator speech". What you'd say if you were in the elevator with somebody you wanted to connect with. I don't have an "elevator speech". If I ran smack-dab into one of my "heroes" I'd just have to smile and be polite and keep my yipper shut and that's probably for the best anyway!

Wednesday, November 30, 2005
In The Dark

Really!


Welcome to the dark place. The hottest, darkest, most sand scoured part of the desert.

The caravan moves on in determined silence. It is a moonless night.

We have nothing to say. We are lost in our own slipping-sliding logic. The night closes in, our signal beacon beams and blinks, we have entered the phase of the journey where a travel log might prove useful at a later time but is too painful to write.

There are only shrugs, nods, silences, stupified expressions. No words come but grunts and complaints and "please let the whole episode to be over".

It is dark.

It is as dark as the man sitting in the tub, smoking a cigarette, drinking absinthe, wishing for comfort where there can be none.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
Thiry Words For Dirty Birds

Really!

Really! I'm supposed to be writing!

Thirty words...better than two. Thirty words about nothing will do. Thirty Words for Dirty Birds. Funky monkies pooping balistic bowels across the patio at the Hilton in Pago Pago.

Juicy lucys drizzled in divels across the carpet. Dog, oh dog, pooping as she walks. Popping out poppets of puppy poop. Squeezing yellow ooze across the nylon fibers twined into the rug. Oh, I shrug, and think that some day I will get down on my knees with the potent puppy poop remover. But I kid, myself and the landlord. The poop will never come out. The carpet is shot, it's ten years old anyway. The house is scheduled to be sold in a year and a half. It will be raised and 3 put in its place.

The beauty of a plywood free house will be gone. The hardwood floors will get crumpled and hauled off to the dump with the crushed plaster.

It is sad. So sad...that this house...after standing a hundred years....will die and decay....just like everything else.

P.S. Even Lexapro is no match for 8 weeks with family and a 4 day holiday.

Sigh.
Saturday, November 26, 2005
That's quite enough holiday thank you.

Really!


Really! I'm supposed to be writing!



Ok, that's really enough holiday thank you. May I please take the remaining time off and spend it in a hotel at the beach?

How can anyone write whilst embroiled in the familial holiday? It's like trying to think with a bowling alley in your head.

The swinging moods from contented and asleep to furious and ranting. I'm usually missing what sets of the rant.

My inner defenses are calling for the resistance to defenestrate! Immediately if not sooner. They are reminding me that they have not suggested defenestration. They have called for respite care though.

We looked at it on Friday. I have to make the phone calls tomorrow to set up a tour. That could trigger a battle that will make this contented discontent tinged with sorrow and ennui look like halcyon times of olde.

Well, I had suspected that I couldn't make the 30 words today. But I have outdone my looming disappointment and made my goal.

I comepletely forgot all about writing yesterday. The whole habit has lurked off the radar screen!

The photo is from "Libertine". The Libertine is most likely not writing because he is out drinking, whoring, and following the habits of the dissolute.

Ah well, that is better than spending your time putting up plastic storm windows and deciphering insurance policies. At least that sounds pleasurable.

I'm so tired. My heart jitters in my chest. I have chest pains.

Buckling under the stress....and paddling in circles trying to escape the sargasso sea of subtrefuge.

Nick and It are reminding me what it takes to survive. They've been here before. This time they're working with everybody. A concerted effort at saving our own life.

I shall post for the night and catch some rest.

Bittersweet day for certain.
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
That is quite enough for one day.

All Aces!



Thanksgiving looms large. Tomorrow is the ritual dedicated to feeding families, men in spandex pants playing with balls, and ritualistic gluttony.

And so ends the season of welcome calm early evening darkness. So begins the 30 day death march of social expectation. "Be happy or die! Damned!" is the mood that fills the air.

The ho-ha is ramping up. I, on the other hand, am preparing to submerge.

We leave work today at 1 p.m. I am stopping to have my glasses adjusted and then taking my renewed eyesite home.

My gluttonous ambitions for Thanksgiving include 24 hours of unbroken rest. Sleep should occupy at least 12 of them. I want no "todo" lists, no dog washing, no laundry, no errands, no hullababloo, no fuzzy wuzzy rabid running.

Thankfully this is my time to refill my well. Silence. Rest. Ham & pecan pie.

Perhaps I can enter the fallow season and churn up enough life from my very own depths to survive the winter and come out strong in the spring.

AH, rambling on I am I am. Yesterday I forgot to blog at all. The whole day was such a blur. I can remember a poopy dog and the immense relief of falling into bed at 10 p.m.

The "Mythbusters" were smashing trucks together as I drifted blissfully off to sleep. I used to enjoy that show. Now the guy with the walrus mustache is getting on my nerves. He closely resembles someone talking through a beard and mustache of pussy fur.

He's lurching from tv personality to asshole man status. Guess he'll have to go. Right on down the road with all the other drivel on tv that I don't watch.

Now, if you'll pardon me, the back of my eyelids look positively entrancing. I'm going to stare at them for a while.


No thank you. You go ahead.

Monday, November 21, 2005
Turkey & Stuffing

Stuff Me!

A little something in the wine cellar for the holidays!



He really loves it!

Chef or religious Zealot?!



Butter Me Up!

This man has butter! And he's not afraid to use it!
Out of Butter! Again!

Die MF!


Perhaps finding out that the snack bar has run out of butter at breakfast time is not a crisis. (Even for the most regimented of morning diners!)

For me, however, this morning it was the last straw. I found myself winding up into a shrieking fit. Even if only for the benefit of the blind cafeteria owner.

It's not too much to ask to have a hot buttered bagel in the morning. Really it's not. It's also not the end of the world when you can't get it.

But this morning...it was the perfect wind up. I started shrieking in the snack bar and finished up on the phone with mother's stock broker.

Ah, you know......sometimes....you just gotta have butter.

Fork you!

Fork You!
Wouldn't It Be Loverly?

Home Elusive Home

"All I want is a room somewhere. Far away from the cold night air. With one enormous chair! Oh, wouldn't it be loverly? Loverly. Loverly."

All I seem to want right now is out of the middle of the fray. Off into a little house of my own, where I can sit in a chair in a patch of moonlight or sunshine and be let alone.

The nerves are begining to rattle and buckle a little these days.

With the fight with the stock broker. The car breaking down again...after the garage has had it for a week already. With the mother bouncing between cuddle bug and psychopath. With the dog going from asleep to pooping, howling fied in 30 seconds. With a software package from IBM that wasn't sent on time and doesn't work. With 300 workstations to update. With pernicious anemia. With PCOS. With Sleep Apnea. With financial raze and ruin looming by the door. Oh, with these few things I've been distracted and a little weary.

I've gone from insomnia to fall asleep at the dinner table in no time. If it ain't one thing .....most surely it will be another.
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Cold Saturday

Om



The cold blue green flame of rage is burning in me today.


The kind of cold anger that leads to poisonings, brake line cuttings, terrible pre-meditatied acts of violence that human beings are so good at performing on one another.

The “trusted” financial advisor lost 40,000$ of my m others retirement money last year. Last month alone he lost 4000$ dollars.

I have been wicked and vigilant too late. If I had gone to Florida last year and wretched an accounting out of him then…perhaps I could have avoided this disaster.

The ass put a 77 year old woman’s money into a volatile market in tech stocks. For the love of Chirst! How can anyone play roulette with the money needed to keep an old lady off the street?

And I, beloved daughter, missed it. I wasn’t there, paying close enough attention, fighting for mom’s rights.

Now I sit here wearing the hair shirt. Moreover weariing the frown onf someone in immense pain or with a bad case of constipation at least!

But it will do me no good to crease up my faceuntil Iget a headache between my temples.

Not only have I missed a thief stealing my mother’s livelihood. I’ve been robbed too.

My inheritance has been pissed away by some middle aged maile twerp with a crappy fake orange tan and a three o’clock tee time.

GOD! Help me!

I am not only seeing my mother in the fast lane for public assistance….I am loosing my chance at owning a home.

Watching all my dreams and things I cherished flushing down the toilet.

All of it because I wasn’t vigilant enough to stop some jackass white male from stealing it all away from us.

Jackass white males have been stealing my birthright and stomping me into the dust since I was born.

First my father vanishing into a cloud of dust with a Hi-Ho “You’ll never collect the child support!” Then my stepfather. Throwing monkey wrenches into my financial aid forms for college. State university for me…scholarships out of reach because the government thinks a step parent is going to pay one penny for a step child’s education. (Should I have been more militant right then? Should I have sued my father for the back child support? Could I get blood out of a turnip? Where is my Superwoman Cape?)

After the bogus parental squad I was lucky enough to emerge in a society that still considered femail graduates from college “Good Bank Teller” material. The males they started out as loan officers.

The white male asshole parade continued through employers and co-workers. At least until after 18 years in the tech field,. I’ve earned my chops. I have them by their tiny, atrophied, blue, little testicles. They can’t get another techie to do what I do for them. So they shut up and play nice.

Now, here in my fourty-third year I find another fox in the hen house. But no, that is disparaging the fox. The fox is only eating what he needs to survive, not slaughtering the whole flock because he wants a new Porshce.

Now…I am bereft of what should rightly be mine. What should rightly be my mother’s security and protection.

We are in dire straights once again because of some stupid, horny, greedy man.

Just like when father abandoned us, just like when stepfather abused us. Here we are victims again. And this time the only one I have to blame is myself.

The only one I have to look in the face is me.

But I should stop right here. Stop and call for help. Stop and call Denise. Stop and take of the Superwoman tights. In the last two years I have battled back from total breakdown. I have had all I could do to manage my own money. I didn’t realize my mother had lost her reason quite so much. I didn’t realize the advisor who had done so well had gone to pot. I didn’t know, I couldn’t know, I couldn’t realize.

My Saturday afternoon Atlanta Bread Company lunch is sitting in my gullet like a rock. A cold frozen stone of shame and anger. My toffee cookie, is churning back up my esophagus in a rotten, sugary, projectile, looking for the opportunity to come spewing out of my mouth and sklarp all over the keyboard.

I had thought that perhaps writing about this would release it but instead it has transformed it into a colder frozen burning pit of fear, anger, shame, distrust, despair, desperation. On into a downward spiral this threatens to throw me.

I need to stop. Stop and get help.

What is past is past……my next mission is to stop Kevin Wolfe from ever making another penny from screwing my family. If possible send a little retribution his way. But no, that would be wrong, more importantly that would be a waste of energy.

I need my energy for living, for my life, to make myself thrive.

Kevvie has incurred the bad karma of putting an old lady in dire straights. And that, my dear blog, is enough to manifest a lightening bolt on a clear blue day in a golf course parking lot. A lightening bolt that could fry a brand new Porsche. Or perhaps a dumbass male with his clubs on his back and a two o’clock tee time.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Stalked Off
Well, to add insult to injury, Night Stalker was cancelled. Not so much cancelled as wiped from the face of the earth like the Pharoh Akenaten.

Two weeks ago Frank Spotnitz was talking about the show premiering at the highest spot in the slot in years. He was even talking about the show being picked up.

Last week they started airing a two part episode.

Last night there was a Hollywood Tattler report in the Night Stalker time spot.

Today the web site for the show is gone. Completely gone. No "We've moved on" or anything else....that puppy is just gone from the face of the earth.

So much for seeing Stuart Townsend on a weekly basis. So much for scarry, bump in the night tv.

Worse yet we'll never know what the marks on Karl's wrists really meant.

It's a shame really. I taped the first two shows. Goofed up and taped the last ten minutes of the third show. Taped the fourth show. Missed the fifth show and didn't have a tape for the 6th show.

So I can't even go back and look at the creation at leisure and see if I agree with the decision of the network to disappear the film from the face of the earth. Or maybe I could figure out why I seem to be so different from everyone who's rating tv shows.

If I like it, it's going, going, gone in short order. "The Lone Gunmen", "Lucky", "Nero Wolfe", are only a few examples.

Maybe I'm just not into "Gross" enough or I don't like the "Screw Everything that's moving a few things that aren't" plotlines. Maybe I like the characters to use 3 syllable words. Who knows.

A&E used to be Arts & Entertainment now it is the "Bounty Hunter" Channel. Bravo used to be arts, now it's the "Gay" channel. (That is after that regretable bout as the Cirque de Soleil Channel.) Discovery has turned into the "Gross Things That Stink & Motorbike Channel"

Even PBS has turned into the "Old Hippie We still Want to Bash Everybody in the Head Until They Thik Like Us" Channel.

Oh times are a changin' I am a agin' AND My Barne's & Nobel cards gettin' worn out.

Ah Kolchak we barely knew ye!

Oh Karl!
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Capsized

Om



Today a friend of mine described "the blahs" as a sargasso sea. She talked about using finesse and force to navigate through the fronds in the water.

I take my 'blahs', my 'stessed out' place as being capsized. Like I was sailing along the ocean in front of a wild wind and then lost the grip on a sail. The whole boat turns over and throws me into the sea.

Sometimes I hang onto the overturned hull and wait for a calm sea to right the boat. Sometimes I'm more like "Jason Bourne" in the opening of the "Bourne Identity". I'm in a survival suit, floating on my back, unconscious, in the dark of midnight, on a sea blown full of white caps.

I'm floating there a suvival beacon on my shoulder sending out a homing signal to an emergency sattellite, a bright white buoy light blinking on and off.

Each blink of the tiny light casting energy out into the darkness, polling for an answer, sending out a prayer. The prayer alternates between, "Thank you Lord for my life." and "Help me Lord. I don't know what I need, please send me what I need."

I float that way until I drift towards a place where I can pull myself out of the water, or get back into the boat, or until a rescue ship comes along. A rescue ship answering that cosmic homing beacon in my survival suit.....answering prayer.

Whether they know it or now.....central navigation monitoring has picked up my distress signal and sent help along.

In those dark hours between twilight and dawn, drifting in the dark, blinking out signals.....it's so very hard sometimes to hold hope...to hold faith. Some nights I just drift into unconscioussness with hope and faith foremost in my third eye.

They blink their signal back into my brain....a glowing purple light of comfort and secuirty. A swaddling blanket holding me as I float in my survival suit on a stormy ocean.

I know that what I'm going through now has got to be an answer my prayers to do what is right for my mother. To know what is correct to do, to accomplish what needs to be done.

But tonight, even with a surity that I am drifting on the right course, I am tired and eager to see the rescue ship come. I'm eager to see the morning after the night.


Om
Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Om


It is rumored that Ben Franklin said, "Beer is evidence that God wants man to be happy"

The best I can tell Lexapro is evidence that God doesn't want us to kill our families. Our families, our coworkers, the jerk at the bank, the jerk from IBM, the last mechanic to work on my car, and just about everybody else who's been vexing me for the last 4 weeks.

Car failures, work equipment failures, bank screw ups, getting slammed in the head by the car door, the dog going incontinent, like a wicked evil mad cap Jerry Lewis movie.

More like a Stephen King novel. Something peppy about someone going slowly mad.

I'm afraid to think what kind of ending Stevie would put on it. I shouldn't call him that...it could invoke some kind of strange writing warp.

I do admit that for several months the CD player in my car held disks 6 and 7 of him reading "On Writing". His soft voice talked me through many a difficult traffic jam. A sonic life line, thin, tenuous, golden, hope.

As I perch on the end of the sofa, too exhausted to make sense out of anything, I keep reminding myself of Stephen King sitting in the laundryroom of a trailer with a kiddie desk perched on his knees. By his own admission, he threw Carrie in the trash can. Only his wife saved it from the dump.

Since I don't have a faithful wife, or any kind of wife or husband of any sort.....I'm being careful not to judge...only to write. Ok I'm lying...I'm juding every word of the way. But I'm giving myself permission to write the worst crap ever to hit the keyboard OR to write the best deathless prose to ever be squatted out into a blog. The endeavor is to be open, to keep moving, to trudge ownwards.

My quote on the subject....."If you get off the camel in the middle of the desert, you don't make it to the oasis."

Om
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Such a lot of livin' to do!
"Life's a ball if only you'd know it!" So Sammy Davis Jr.'s recorded voice warbles at me through the headphones this morning.

Of course I am accutely aware that there's a lot of livin' to do. The car door hit me in the head last night and almost punched my ticket to the netherworld. The curved steel stilleto of the door corner wanged me right in the temple. This morning I have a purple bruise and a face ache.

Oh yeah...there's a lof of living to do. Right now I feel like something has been giving me a good "livin'" all over. Much more living and it'll kill me!

Last night I went to pick up my beloved car from a wheel balancing only to find it still dangling on the grease rack. Suspended in the air, wheels drooping down, hood up in a silent scream. There she was, totally unready for the commute home.

And so it was. Apparently the "little wheel balancing and alignment" had blossomed into a major problem. The wheels were wonky because one of the struts had gone bad. Oh...and it took the power steering pump with it.

Oh well, warranty coverage. All I owe for is 2 front tires. (The edges chewed off from the shimmy.)

Now, of course I had the car in there less than 3000 miles ago for a shimmy. They aligned the front and did the breaks then. Somehow they missed a broken strut and a funky power steering pump?

Well, kiss my pink fuzzy bum! Now I'm supposed to trust a front end rebuild from the same snuggly cuddlies?

Well you know...they had promised me a loaner car and then told me they didn't have one. Then I stomped my little feet in the showroom and suggested they loan me one of the "Quality" used cars for the evening.

I went home driving the QEII. The dainty little Grand Marquis is a real treat. It is quiet and rides nicely. However I can't reach the dashboard after I fasten the seat belt. I start the car, turn on the lights, turn on the radio, then buckle up. But...better than no loaner car at all.

So the QEII's door caught in a breeze last night and smashed into my head.

Oh yeah...there's such a lot of livin' to do!

Put on your body armour, your helmet, and your elbow pads.


I'm Coming for You
She's coming for you next.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Slipping
"Time keeps on slipping into the future."....the line from the Steve Miller song. (That song that has lately been mangled by the postal service as an advertising jingle.)

That song was popular on the radio when my grandmother died. It played on the car radio as I was bundled intot he backseat. I rode through the fallow fields and snow fallen countryside to the town 2 hours away where grandmother lay in state.

It was terrifying. My first up close view of the dead. The sight of the dead body of a loved one came so close on the heels of so many other losses. It seemed to mark the final grinding down of my soul. The last of my childhood was gone. I was only 15 at the time.

I had lost so much, my home, my family, my life, my grandparents, my pets, my life....the life I had known. I had lost all hope, all confidence in myself. All faith that there might be anything but suffering and being abused my step parents. All that ever came along was the worst possible outcome.

Time was slipping into the future like the Lusitania disappearing below the ocean's surface. The lights glimmered out, the ship growled and went below the churning Atlantic, life boats and struggling swimmers were picked up by passing boats or sank out of sight.

When all was done, there was only the cold and empty sea, still splashing in the mooon and the sun. Still impassive and all encompassing. Still all prevalent.

This morning that horrible song came back to me. I watch my mother loose her memory, I watch her be aware one moment and furious and confused the next. I feel my heart breaking.

I had just begun to have some hope, some faith in the future, and now.....the last of the tiny ships from that time so long ago....if floundering on the open sea.

Time keeps on slipping into the future. So it slips. First the grandparents, then the parents, and then me. The terror of the cold water, of the confusion, of the helplessness, the immuteable darkness of the future are all swirling around me.

It is becoming impossible to keep the party lanterns buring on the deck of my own tiny vessel on the open churning greent Atlatic. But when I take my mind off of the calypso music of faith and optimism, when I take my eyes off the fanciful chart I've drawn out of myself, when I see where the future is slipping to.....I fall into tears.

Today there seems no joy left, no joy available. Everything good seems like a lie.

I feel as thought I am being subsumed by the thrashing waves, the cold water, the darkness of the depths, the inescapable murmur of the dark water of meaninglesss emptiness that denies that a ship ever sailed above it and if it had...it would have been of absolutely no import.
Sunday, November 13, 2005
Inner Babe
Ok, it's gonna be pretty hard to come up with a few words tonight.

I'm exhausted. Overhauled kitchen, 2 bedrooms, went to laundry. It sounds boring, forgive me for mentioning it.

My inner babe wants to go out and play. She wants to shake off the middle aged look and dance down to her skivvies. She remembers fun....she ought to write it down to remind me.

Tomorrow awaits. Work, more errands, more phone calls, more wrangling. Lawyer hiring. Crappy software installation. Ugh.

If I'd known then what I know now....inner babe would have jumped off a pier and gone out in a blaze of glory!


Inner Babe Wishing She Could Change Things
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Godspeed the Resistance!

Missives from the Resistance



November 11,2005

This morning the resistance is encouraged. We have received documents via courier that will enable us to successfully pursue our course of liberation.

Of course one should not rejoice in the wounding of the adversary. We are relieved that we will not have to engage in a legal battle. All resources involved will be used for the best resolution for the adversary.

Insurances and financial analysis remain.

It will be a busy day for those of us at the resistance. We have a page long “to-do” list. Most of it very difficult phone calls. Our wireless communications device is low on batteries and battered from excessive roaming wear. We believe that today we should replace it with something more effective….if possible.

Tomorrow we have a strategy meeting with the bankers. However with our new documents we will be able to proceed unfettered. All should ease up on the monetary front at this point.

It is also encouraging to find that the Sunrise resistance assistance can also provide monetary assistance should the need arise.

This week we secured information on additionally monetary assistance from insurances long held. By the grace of God they were not canceled or suspended for non-payment.

God smiles on the resistance.

We have had a council planning session with the Denise branch of resistance support this morning. We are always more optimistic after meeting with them. They have excellent objective ideas and points to make. They have inspired us and also given us the keys for a temporary reprieve from the adversary while we are waiting on the Sunrise arm of the front to come into full action.

We also have plans that may allow the resistance to purchase a secure base.

We will need to invoke the Sean arm of the resistance assistance network. He can help us shelter our meager monetary resources for the best use by both the adversary and the resistance.

This week we have been working on listening to all voices in the immediate resistance front. Our members have fought valiantly. Each of them coming to the fore with their own areas of expertise. I am pleased and amazed at their willingness and ability to muster together, work as a regiment, and protect and sponsor each other.

I had feared that our intensive training in the last year with the Sandy division of the resistance support may have been fiscally irresponsible. However it is paying dividends and coming into its own. We are thankful to God that he put Sandy in our path and gave use the wherewithal to afford the training. Also that he provided us with the guidance and ability to take the training.

The Denise assistance front is also excellent. But different.

The training gained from both as well as from the Veronica branch has enabled us to hold up sturdily under the strain. It has also enabled us to be effective in providing the best service to the adversary as well as self.

God has provided and planned to get us all to this point. He is guiding and watching over us all each moment of each day. I am thankful for this. I thank him for his daily care and his daily kindness to both myself, the adversary, and the hound.

Praise the Lord and all the ways in which he works in the world and beyond.

That is today’s resistance report. We are encouraged relief will soon arrive. We are thankful for each moment. We pray our actions and words be guided by God.

Amen.

Godspeed the Resistance!

November 12, 2005

Setbacks for the resistance today.

Powers in force would not except our legal documents. Now we must slither on our bellies like snakes and try and work with adversary to obtain authority necessary to continue our work.

The resistance is tired. We were harried by animal attack last night starting just before dawn and lasting through our morning sleep hours.

We have breakfasted and our taking a few moments to send our missives.

We notified the Denise arm of the reisistance and gained moral support from there reassurances.

We would like to tarry longer and send more information. However time is of the essence. It is 9:42 a.m. and we must have document reassignment and authority procurement finished by noon.

We have already lost our patience once this morning. The hound and the adversary are wearing us down. Our peaceful morning enjoyment of sending missives and reviewing postcards from Justin has been interrupted.

But we are the resistance. And for the resistance it has always been so!

Godspeed the resistance!
Thursday, November 10, 2005
Pictures from Justin.

Dreaming of Home?


Received a letter from Justin today. He threw in a couple of pictures. He doesn't say where he's been or where he's going. The envelope was postmarked Edinburgh a few days ago.

I'm sure this pic was taken from his apartment on the hilltop overlooking the park there.

Funny I have a picture from the park of the apartments on the hillside above. I took the pic a few years ago on a group tour to Scotland. I didn't know Justin then. But I fell in love with the stone apartment block where he has "rooms". It looked as much like a castle as Edinburgh Castle did.

May somehow I sensed that I was going to become intertwined with someone living behind those faceless windows. Maybe not.

Perhaps I'll put Justin's photo of Edinburgh and mine together in a frame. A "Looking at life from both sides." arrangement.

That's how it is with Justin. He has the apartments, well stamped passport, money, time, and the freedom to rove the world as he sees fit. I on the other hand take the economy tours, work most days, have a passport with 2 stamps on it, don't have much money, and feel as tethered as an elephant in a Victorian zoo.

Not that it's any of Justin's fault. Perhaps the photos are just a little reminder that he knows how I feel.

Maybe I can even flatter myself into thinking that his misses me. (Even just a touch.) Perhaps he stood at the window of his Scottish digs and wished I could share the view. Perhaps his photos are just a tiny way to share that.

I can tell myself anything I want really.

They say a picture is worth a thousand words. This one seems to say everything and nothing at all.

It's just a picture of a city of stone capturing the sunlight.

It's just a picture of somplace and someone I'd rather be.
Set Back for the Resistance
The resistance suffered a bad blow yesterday. We had made the payment to the Sunrise group. (6 to 9 months wait.) We had a nice dinner. But then the hammer fell. The usually adversarial sniping and howling about hating the local.

The kid gloves came off and points were made about bill paying and having support close by.

With bill pay assistance...the adversary may be able to relocate back to the distant battlefield for 6 to 9 months. Don't know. But she has to get out of my living room. God forgive me.

The resistance is frayed and tired but still rolling slowly along.

Godspeed the resistance!!!!!
Wednesday, November 09, 2005
Hmmmmmmmmm!

Golden Delish?


Yes this is a picture of a man wearing a mask and a waffle on his head.

Isn't he Peculiarly Perfect?
Close to Enemy Lines
Greetings from the resistance.

We were prohibited from broadcasting yesterday. A blitz from the "should police" and the "accomplishment squad" had us pinned down.

We did get a radio message out to the Courtney station giving our position and status. Received encouragement down the line.

Truly not a bad day, just busy. Large golden blessings came down in clairity of troops. They are coming around to the idea of moving bivouac. Found they had let the insurance supply lines go dead. We scrambled and restored auto and driver's privs....but there is more to do today.

Biggest task is to sneak through enemy lines and physically deliver deposit check to Sunrise resistance force. We are trusting in miracles to help us achieve the bivouac relocation.

God be praised and prayed to. We are hoping for his strong hand and assistance. He sees us as we crawl out of the trenches and run for the edge of the field towards resistance central.

We must end transmission now. Enemy close by.

Godspeed the resistance!
Monday, November 07, 2005
A Little Something Sweet!

A Little Sweetness,  A Little Light


The shirt shown in this pic is now in my living room. It's currently modeled by a soft sculpture mannequin I made a few summers ago. "Archie", is patient and quiet. He's also a great model for costumes from the movies.
Glowing Chakras
"Something is sustaining you." My shaman said as she checked my chakras today. "Have you been praying or meditating a lot?"

"Just everyday a couple of times a day."

"Well whatever it is, keep doing it because it's working."

So my chakras are humming along and burning at the best they've buzzed in a long time. It's a good thing. Ok, it's a miraculous good thing for which I thank God whole heartedly.

Still can't get four words together today that make any sense.

On to watch Anthony Bourdain traveling, drinking, and eating. Obnoxious with wonderful narrative prose.

Prose...nose....hose..whoas..

Monkey bums and turtle doves.....

This is my two words for today.
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Two words....any two words.
Two words....any two words stuck together in any order.

A friend of mine asked me what it would be like if I "caressed" my blog instead of "slammed it".

So now I'm taking a few purloined moments on a Sunday evening to get my two words a day strung together.

Funky Monkey
Chunky Mushroom
Teriffic Turtle
Stinky Mink
Twerpy Turd
Shiny Curtains
Persnickety Purses


Ok, enough with the cuteness. There might be something big and burly churning around in my head. There might be a a hurricane of brilliance swirling into the gulf stream of my thoughts. But tonight all the weather buoys are clanging in the fog.

Fog, fog, fog...........

But then again that's still more than two words.

Goodnight.
Which Foodie Am I?
A fun bit of nonsense from the Good Eats Yahoo Group.... Someone put in a link to a quiz on which FoodTV Personality are you most like.

I took the quiz and landed Alton Brown.

Below is the link and the pic:

HASH(0x8d159e8)
You are ALTON BROWN, host of "Good Eats"!
Geeky and quirky, a former indie film director
turned foodie, you seek to put science to work
for you in your kitchen. You concentrate on
proper technique, and understanding why it
works. You also take pride in using your
clever wit to debunk popular (read: INCORRECT)
thought about cooking. Youre just a little bit
of a pedagogue, but thats cool, you know what
the hell youre doing.


Which Food Network Personality are you?
brought to you by Quizilla
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Letters From the Underground
Letters from the underground. A bulletin from the resistance. Writing in a café, safe from the whirlwind of adversarial gazes and edicts.

I am reporting for a small café, in an undisclosed location, my time may be short. The lunch crowd is filing in. The battery life of my laptop is uncertain.

Too many years of running plugged into the electrical outlet has left both my laptop and I unaccustomed to messages from the road.

We are unused to sending missives from anywhere but our safe rooftop fortress. We have, in a sad thought, gone soft. But perhaps that is too strong a word. We have grown used to running our own lives and living in our own quarters.

Unadjusted to the critical eye of houseguests, we are used to expressing our purview aloud on in leisurely writing sessions that may be left unattended.

But this is war.

Put the again war may be too strong a word for it. This is a test. A trial, a midterm exam in the self-development process. This is where I find out if I have learned how to give myself what I need when I need it. It is my time to learn if I have learned to nurture myself, to break free from the old rut of living in want, neglect, and need. I am taking my solo flight into a new, abundant lifestyle. A place where I give myself rest, love, compassion, nutrition, nurturing, support, and the permission to fly. The permission to have an entourage, to ask for help, to accept help, to request advice, to ignore advice. To have my own head and my own discernment.

Heady times.

Who would have thought that at nigh on mid-life I could have a “first time” experience. Like the thrill of taking flight that comes with moving away from home the first time. With getting the first apartment. From having the first night without a curfew.

Such freedom! Now, if I give it to myself, I can have the freedom to completely remake my life. Remake everything, body, appearance, spirit, personality, home, career, hobbies, car, home, everything. I can change my name. Take a tour of the world’s art galleries. Take up beach volleyball. Become the person I really am inside. Become that girl who has been hiding. Hiding for so long.

Buried in a bunker out of self-protection. Dug in with fortifications against the will and whim of the very houseguest taking over my horizon now.

Strange the combination of love, fear, domination, and tyrannical expectation that family gives us. We grow from helplessness into perceived helplessness.

So it is with me. Now taking my blinders off. Taking flight. Trying my hand at the delirious freedom of making things different this time. Of making my life entirely self-sufficient, self-directed, my own.

So I write my missive now from the aerodrome just outside adversarial lines. My pre-mission briefing is winding down. I have my maps. I have my keys. My ever steady Sopwith Camel sits at the ready on the tarmac outside. This afternoon I make a flight for freedom. I make a flight into the soft washed blue of the open sky. I make my solo-flight and go through my paces. This is my test, this is my freedom flight, this is my moment to use all my kindly mentors have taught me. This is my dog fight with the invisible red baron of perception. The vorpal foe of perception that I am helpless. The perception that I can not be free.

My mechanic has charged the machine guns. The timer has been set so the bullets fire between the blades.
I am ready, I am ready, I am ready.

Until I write again, fare well from behind adversarial lines. Godspeed to the resistance!
Friday, November 04, 2005
Two Words Is Enough
"Only two words strung together is enough."

That's what I promised myself when I started this quest....this silly dare with myself...to write everyday.

So today it is a few more than 2 words. Very few more. But it is enough.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Jesse Cook & Dreams of Taos
Today I am dreaming of the high desert. The Taos Mesa, the sacred mountains on the pueblo lands. Dreaming of wheatstraw colored grasses, waiting for spring. Of evening sunset sliding across the face of the mountains turning royal velvet purple and morning pinkish gold and all the shades of gray.

The dream is interrupted by the sights and the sounds of broken sentences. Fragments, my beloved darlings, that I must kill. Kill so that I must live. Ah, see? Even now the fragments are defending my right to burn across the paper as though the reader were in my mind and knew what each little fragment was connected to.

I'm telegraphing the fragments out, tippity tap, onto the long telegraph wire....down the line for Lawrence to intercept in his desert in my mind.

Lawrence is how all of this began. He came riding his camel across the shifting dune of the horizon and he took me with him towards Akabah. He took me with him across the Nefoud. He helped me realize I was already in the Nefoud and if I hadn't' joined his merry band of braggart insurgents, I most certainly would have died there.

But that is how this all started. Lawrence on his camel, in his wedding robes, squinting at me in the sun. We went out across the sands and dynamited railroads, snipped telegraph wires, and caused mayhem for the Young Turks. We waged war in our own simple way, he for his beloved people and I for the sheer joy of fighting back. The joy of permuting destruction on a lifestyle and a mind set that had nearly mummified me alive.

Oh Lawrence, a thousand blessing on he for whom nothing is written.

From she for whom nothing is written. Truly you were worthy to found your own house.

Truly you have taught me to found my on.

So now, my talisman, my spirit guide, my constant companion is Camel. Camel who carries me through the burning sands and into the High Sierras. Camel who has walked with me to the high desert in New Mexico. Camel who took me to the Taos desert before I even knew she was carrying me along.

Such divine gifts! Guidance that carries, even though it is unseen. Hands that help, even though they are unfelt. A camel that journeys even when it appears that I am standing still. Such divine gifts.

It is said one should be specific in asking for what one needs. I say, how does one know anything about what they need when they are at the bottom of a dry well and they cannot see what surrounds them. Better to stay in the old well and pray God give you the help that you need than to climb from the well and be wrent apart by wild beasts looking for water.

So I have been at the bottom of my well, the foot of my mountain, my sandy unmarked spot in the middle of the desert. So my God has lifted me up and been gracious with me and flowed blessings upon me.

He hath put me upon a strong steady camel and set me on my path homewards even before I knew I had left the well, even before I realized I was moving.

So swift, so sure footed, the guiding hand of God, seen and unseen. I thank God for it. I thank him even when words are too small and inadequate to say, what I know.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
If this is Wednesday this must be Annapolis
Dwight Yoakam is playing through the internet music linkup. What kind of mood do I have to be in to listen to Dwight Yoakam?

Am I in any mood at all? I sort of have that vibe that I'm trapped in a Penn & Teller illusion, stuck on a treadmill on the outside of a Jetson-esque skyscrapper, hanging in Houdini's straight jacket from the treasury building.

In my purse there's a list written in electric pink ink from a funky Rotring fountain pen of things that "I gotta gotta get done". The pen disappeared sometime last week in the neatness flurry precipitated by a house guest.

A house guest with a crazy deaf and half blind dog that wanders around the carpet like a "roomba", sucking up crumbs and coming to rest in front of the refridgerator. Doggie dearest hovers in front of the fridge, her toes clicking out her idle cycle on the vinyl flooring, and when she's clicked precisely 355 clicks she barks one shrill yip. If the fridge door does not spontaneously spring open and eject premium brand shaved lunch ham, dog cycles through another 225 clicks and then yips twice. The idle & yip cycle will continue until ham falls into her doggie maw or she is imprisoned in her portable crate house.

The evening air is punctuacted by clicking and yipping and crate rattling.

The house guest, being on a slightly different "roomba" like program works her way around the living and dining areas straightening, stacking, putting stuff in the closest available drawer. The beloved fountain pen has succumbed to this neatner. I'm only hoping that no critical bills have suffered the same fate.

I have implemented emergency mail opening procedures to stave off the possibility of wreck and ruin from a missed payment. All items are retireved from the post office box and secreted away in my purse until I go to work. At work all bills are dispatched promptly and the stubs put into an envelope which is secreted in the car trunk until the house guest has left.

There is a suitcase on the desk in my home office. The latest novel I was reading has submerged somewhere. My sacred little halloween vignette has had its landscape corrupted by a dog leash and sweater plopped down on the table in the middle of the gaveyard. Frankenstein still stands firmly menacing in front of his little ceramic house, but somehow he seems shaken by the prospect of a hound 15 times his height prowling the peremiter of his universe.

Across the green felt lawn from Frankenstein's, Madam Lilly's Tarot Parlor looks abandoned and unenchanted. The air of mystery of her voodoo implement filled front window ruined by the nearby presence of a package of Kotex Maxi Pads plunked down in her front yard.

So much for their little universe. So much for mine. If it weren't for the spacious confines of the big mahogany bed I would have no escape. No rest from beloved house guests. This is the mysterious sacrafice that people allude to when they discuss family.

Or maybe it's just what happens when a loner suddenly has a house filled with other bodies, other souls, each with their own intent.

They are loners too, that dog and it's owner. They are refugees from huricanes, and scam artists and the ravages of life as it twines on throwing disarray into the nice green felt lawns of our imaginary worlds. (The worlds we think we've built for ourselves.) The worlds that are naught more than soap bubbles of our own construction.....bobbling along on the lake of time. Blown gently along the current by unseen breath...we bounce in our bubbles.

Heading from one unseen shore to another. Barking at the refridgerator, stuffing things into end table drawers, babbling along strings of electronic words.
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
10 Stolen Minutes
Ten minutes today...stolen. Like a cat burglar, sneaking in between the unlocked windows and open doors of the office. In between being howled at for one database and being howled at for another.

I want to talk about my night time boss, Justin McQuinn. I wrote about him yesterday, in the rush, it all sounded strange. Odd. Perhaps that's why I like my time with Jus' so much, because it is odd. In his world I carry a concealed weapon. That is, of course, politically correct speak for carrying a hand gun with enough stopping power to take down the average two legged asshole.

It seems like in " spirits commerce" one tends to run a brush of all sorts. That would be Justin speak for "In this biz you run into a lot of loonies." So he legally imports and wholesales expensive brandy, cognac, and wines. So he runs armed to the teeth. Most buyers are just business men like all the rest. But some get the strange idea because they trade in liquor and they trade in high dollar items, they don't have to behave. They believe their business gives them license to play act at being Al Capone or Street Thug Supremeo.

In either case, they get taken down. Way back down to slub status.

Carrying a gun has been a strange part of the job and sometimes, I must confess, I like it. I'm a fairly unassuming, make that invisible, woman. I'm over 30, plump, and not rich. In America, that makes me surplus meat on the hoof, and invisible to advertising, men, and business in general. Of course, those assholes keep forgetting that those of my ilk control most of the disposable income in the country. But they counter our power with the tactic of keeping all women distracted and subjugated by convincing them they need to be younger, taller, bustier, blonder, longer nailed, dressed in some ridiculous rags designed by gay men.

If a woman is focused on her finger nails, her shoes, the size of her breasts, the shape of her buttocks, and the car that she drives...well she cant' very well be focused on learning to carry a firearm. Nor can she be focused on business practices that keep her in a lower pay bracket, take away her property rights, or dupe her into overpriced purchases.

It's a better illusionist act that David Copperfield.

There are those who would say I've "reached that age". Which would again be politically correct speak for "Wised up and ain't buyin' it anymore."

That's when marketing tactic number two comes into play. Women who have "reached that age", are touted as being suffering creatures fraught with nervous instability which must be medicated. Each sweaty moment must be combated with estrogen tablets. All must be done to shove her maturing body back into breeder mode so she will not break out of the mold of being doting wife and mother. So she won't break out and be herself, unfettered by the desire to attract a breeding partner, rear superior children, and garner higher societal status with very conspicuous consumption.

If women of "that age" can't be restrained or retrained to be docile. They must be discarded and discounted as made, doty, past it, and jealous of the nubile breeders at the beginning of their reproductive careers. Women of "that age" are a dangerous commodity. They know all the secrets of how all the men are pinned together beneath their suits. They've witnessed enough of life to know how things work. And to most of society's chagrin, they are fully functional, thinking, reasoning, educated human beings with opinions, thoughts, desires, and plans of their own.

Those "that age" women are loose with nothing to loose. Their little monkey wrenches are ready to wrend the societal machinery apart and take the keys to power away from fat, balding, old white men who are struggling with impotence, flab, and their inability to keep the other half of the human race under their thumbs.

Professor Harold Hill said, "The Older and Wiser girl for me." I wonder if he really knew what he was asking for or, if like the rest of the hucksters, her thought he could continue to hornswaggle women of "a certain age".