Wicked Wanderings in the Dining Room
A warmer spot and less breezy.
Recent events and readings have led me down to the well mentioned from the view of the back porch (see the previous post). The well I speak of is a metaphor for the creative spring that stirs and calms my emotional states. Creativity in the past and foreseeable future for me will burst or trickle depending on the limitations I perceive at any given time. Tonight's puking of posts bares witness to such phenomena slightly related to what is known as projectile vomiting.
A whole lot, that travels quite far.
My limitations are usually perceived as coming from the outside world in an array of different disguises. There is the illusion of time, the delusion that I have something to actually communicate, the wall of distracting sounds (babies screaming, neighbors carousing), and the dust bunnies squirreling about under foot. These distractions I can sometimes recognize as just that, but most of the time they block me and corner me. I feel forced to quell the creative impulse because my environment does not fit into my standards for getting into my head. And then I spend several hours or days, putting my house in order and listening all the while to my head ramble on about random things. It's times like these that I desire a direct feed from head to a computer in which all thoughts are dumped and organized into a text document that I can sort through when I feel I have the time.
But we as a race have yet to devise such a marvelous toy and I am tempted to digress into whistles, clucks and whirling noises...
I have started playing with the idea to create yet another site in which to post short works and folklore. I have determined (in last few minutes) that a site devoted to linking pages of folklore is quite silly, as if you want to find a bit of lore, you may google your subject quite easily. And in all seriousness, I do not believe I have the type of readership that will frequent a page that I update with new links to mythic sources. There are several pages already doing that.
As for short works written by me, I need to do more research into the web publishing of essays that have have been submitted for assignments and awards. It seems that the university system may have a bit of a hand in that so I need to double and triple check what is permissible. These pieces I would love to share in a forum that can be viewed by people and perhaps start discussions. Especially my essays regarding initiation, comparative myth, body art and mortification.
But here my limitations and the "dark head" turn around and stare me down. The confidence levels pertaining to my abilities to to write cohesively and coherently shy away into the shadows of my pysche. I am left looking at my portfolio and questioning the validity of the TA's comments and my motivation for taking out thousands of dollars in loans to have my ego waxed and polished. Now, before you start posting words of confidence, realize that I recognize this demon. He is hard to banish at times, and it will become easier as I choose a path, or least realize that I am already on one.
I think my point goes something like this:
I enjoy writing and Wicked Wanderings is an outlet in which to garner a bit of feed back or express thoughts that need to be out in the world, not in a journal (that's for the ultra violence and weird shit). However, there are cycles that I go through in which I seek to define what it is I am doing and where I am going. Nights like this are why I have the blog. Nights that I want to stir the well and release the stagnation simmering within. Sometimes I need to tell the universe something, other times I need to tell you something, and still other times I just need to puke it all out. Wicked Wanderings is the perfect title for such a page, you never know what you'll stumble upon.
So here we are, near the end of third post that may or may not do anything for you dear reader and I still feel the urge to continue rambling, as there are a few other subjects that I wish to comment on in response to posts that are a week old. That's the one thing I dislike about having visitors for an extended period of time, the fact that I don't feel I have time for thoughtful responses when someone requests it, or says something I have opinions on.
And by the by, thanks for checking in to see how the well is doing and where the trail has gone, sometimes it grows dim and the trees have to much dead wood on them. But eventually there is sustenance and I can continue my foraging with a bit more vigor.
Wicked Wanderings on the Porch
The dusky breeze coaxes the flames of pillars of waxen light, occasionally snuffing them out when it sighs heavily as the sun sets behind the west hills. An ambient music station streaming over the internet tickles my ear lobes and the neighbors BBQ grows more lively as the beer lubricates the hipsters inhibitions. I wait. I type. A candle goes out, I light it again. The cigarette dies. I flick open the zippo and strike at the flint, gold sparkles shimmer and die, fuck. I grab the butane lighter used to light the candles because of it's long neck. It to flickers and dies.
The fuel seems to be waning, the flames are in danger of dying. The will to continue down this path is in danger of only being lit by the cold light of the LCD screen.
This road leads to well of a wandering and wicked woman dwelling in an ancient forest on the beach of vast sea.
Wicked Wanderings made it's debut in 2003 while it's protagonist sat on a front porch of a Swede Transvestite. The woman typed out the tale of a journey newly begun. Her life recently initiated through a secret order, and lived out through ordeals of heroic proportions. She wanted to share these inspiring tales with friends and family back home. The medium of blogging as a means to communicate across miles with multiple people seemed a fantastic idea.
A year later our heroine re-evaluated her posts to a semi defunct website, and had little time to devote to redesign and revision of her flight from the den. She pondered the hows and whys of starting the page in the first place and decided that the pages needed to represent her in more ways and more aesthetically. And thus was born the Page you view now. The desire to blog wanes with the moon it seems and not always succinctly, but she keeps returning to it as a means to rant or share information that piques her interest.
The well remains even though the ivy has piled up around it and sometimes branches fall onto it, prohibiting the retrieval of the wooden bucket rotting on the ledge. Sometimes the bucket finds it's self falling into the depths of the well, only to float on the surface of the dark water, waiting patiently for the woman to thirst and come pull it from the pool of muck growing stale from lack of stirring. The time is nigh and the woman approaches the well, pulling up old dead water, so that the fresh spring beneath can bubble up.
The light of a candle has gone out, the coffee cup empty and a zippo needs filling. The neighbors are winding down, as the hour for sleep draws near. Another cup and a smoke. Maybe even another post.
How the Grrr began
The electronic ring jolted me from dreams at 8:30 this morning, just 5 hours after I had nestled in and drifted off in the arms of
Jake. I let the answering machine retrieve the call while I tried to recall the actors that had been playing in my head and stretched out alongside my lover. The burn of urination forced me from my comfort and I stumbled down the twisting stairs to relieve myself. Having done so, I checked the message incase there was any devience from the noon appointment. It was of no importance, some bastard calling for someone with the same first name as my father. I made the mental note to contact my dad later today and crawled back upstairs to float away into the dreamscape that entertained me.
An hour later the phone rang again and I tuned my ear to the female voice on the machine, it was my 12 o'clock lunch date. I rolled over, knowing that I could retrieve the message when the alarm would pull me from slumper at 11AM. But the noise of the outside world had invaded the dreamland once to many times. The tuning of my awareness to the machine had awoken my senses that had remained content and relaxed the first time I wandered downstairs. There was no point in tossing and turning on the old mattress disrupting the sleeping prince next to me.
Transitions of this sort usually throw me off for a bit. Showering only awakens the body. I needed coffee and planned to stop at my favorite shop on my way to meet my girlfriend. The message she had left was of no consequence, so I text messaged her confirming her choice for lunching and time of rendevous. I then checked the blogs of friends and noted that not much had changed since I had last checked them. Suddenly my brain seemed to have jump started and thoughts regarding
blogging, the recent
conflicts in the Mideast, sex and
other things regarding dreams and myth invaded my head. I looked at the clock, I had no time for such ponderings.
And thus the 11:23 Grr post.
No worries. I told my head, there are several hours tonight in which to compose the thoughts. I even joted down a few while waiting at the cafe for my friend. But when I arrived home tonight; chainsaws were ripping down a tree and a new born screamed next door. So I did the dishes and ground coffee for tonight's festivities. I even prepared a spot on the back porch by building a make shift table out of milk crates and and a small pallet. My chores done, I grabbed a cigarette and stood on the back porch, trying not to curse the neighbors carousing and making a general BBQ ruckus.
The thoughts and opinions stirring in me today are still floating around as I wait for the distractions to dwindle to near in-audible tones. But the neighbors will go until dark or later, I still have an hour or two until I can tune out enough sound to not be feeling like the universe is trying to keep me from thinking through thoughts well enough to blog them.
The fire comes when you least expect it, after a lull in which you have craved it, and felt the embers growing warmer by the day. You start to build your fire, stick by coal, and then one day you blow to much on the red hot bricks and it flares up, only to be snuffed out by the clouds of activity flitting about you. Some call it Murphy's law. I tend to wonder if the universe is telling me to bark up a different tree.
After thought: The spell checker isn't working...
WARNING
This Post rated E (for EWWWWWW) for blood and gore and talk of female partsThe post that makes you wonder why you even bother checking in here somedays.
1. Songs titled "Sing the Blues Softly to Me", should probably be played softly. 3-5 mins of a saxomaphone screaming up and down the scales does not denote softness, what-so-ever.
2. No cheese Gromit!
3. For my "to-do-before I (blank)" List, I add this tidbit: Seek out and perform a hysterectomy on every female who can not manage to change their tampon without getting blood on the toilet seat in a public restroom. Bleep'n bleepity bleep'n bleep, at least wipe it off afterwards! Eww!! Just freakin eww!
You are an embarrassment to the sex of our race and should be proud that I even let you play on this planet. You are the worst tampon user I have ever seen in my life. But if you keep watching me, you might learn something. Shit, you've got so many balls of toilet paper down there I'm going to have to start knocking them in just to get them out of my way. Straight down. Easy. God, you are terrible. Okay wench. I hope you are ready to take the agonizing, bitter humiliation of being spayed.Why do people trash public restrooms? Do they leave shitty diapers on the counter at home? Or their bloody tampons for that matter? And why must they throw toilet paper and tampon wrappers on the floor? The freakin garbage bin is RIGHT THERE, 6 bloody inches from their knee! Do they really need 5 seat covers? Is their ass that big? And for bleepin sake, FLUSH! I do NOT, nor should I have to look at your filth, or deal with it. Fecal matter and blood can be lethal to me! If you left that mess in the toilet; what kinda of germs did you leave on the seat or the stall door? Eww I say Eww!
4. When I'm First Lady, I'm going to hide in public restrooms and throw my bloody tampons at anyone who can't take the extra 2 seconds to put their waste in it's proper receptacle. Wait a sec, no I won't. I'll need that blood for the anti-national holidays...
5. Speaking of all this blood, why do movies portray people in bathtubs with their wrists slashed horizontally? Wouldn't it be easier and quicker if one slashed vertically, away from oneself? Wouldn't you hit more of the vein/artery?
And here ends bathtime with the squirrel. Saxophone bad for the pysche.
Isn't it awfully nice to have a penis? (NSFW)
Isn't it frightfully good to have a dong?It's swell to have a stiffy.
It's divine to own a dick,
From the tiniest little tadger
To the world's biggest prick.
So, three cheers for your Willy or John Thomas.
Hooray for your one-eyed trouser snake,
Your piece of pork, your wife's best friend,
Your Percy, or your cock.
You can wrap it up in ribbons.
You can slip it in your sock,
But don't take it out in public,
Or they will stick you in the dock,
And you won't come back.
Monty Python:
The Meaning Of Life,
The Penis Song
OoK!!!
look look look look look!
World eBook Fair - Catalogs and CollectionsFree Access to the public from July 4th to August 4th, in celebration of Project Gutenberg's 35th BirthdayThank you Mr.
Lone Mage!!!!
My brillant idea for the evening
OK- so it's not THAT brilliant...
Find the module that shows which gmail friends are online so I can chat with them...
If there isn't one, someone needs to create one. I guess there's always that jabber list thingy. still...I'm checkin the gmail from my lovely google page, I should be able to chat to damnit!
And FYI, 10 hours in 95+ weather makes my brain feel mushy. I should have picked up some beer.
Edit: make that 12 hours
Girls who want boys who like boys who do voodoo
At the plastic food shopping place this evening some tall dark and handsome guy (in that rugged blue collar kinda way) caught my eye and promptly dropped it in his shopping basket, waved his manly fingers in a figure eight, saying woo wooooo abra wooo woo cad woobra or somesuch and pulled the eye out from behind my right ear and presented it to me still slimey and attached to me eye socket. I blushed and popped it back into my skull producing a sucking noise that was not very sexy or lady like, smiled graciously and went looking for lemonade. I didn't look back, I knew that we would meet a few aisles down.
While he was playing parlor tricks with my eye, I noticed that he was wearing a black shirt with some writing on it that I found amusing and which would occupy my thoughts through most of my shopping experience. It said:
I am not the committed typeSooo this raised a question or two in my head:
1. not the "serious relationship" type?
2. not the "lives in a padded cell half the year" type?
3. not the "like to pay my mortage" type?
I'm guessing by the the amount of time he spent in front of the Hungry Man display he could be all three, but I digress... my big question was:
How the hell do you expect to get laid wearing a shirt like that? I mean come on...yes it's honest, and I happen to know a girl who might be into some nose rings attached action, but that doesn't stop the fact that a man promoting his unwillingness to commit himself to anything will most likely turn off women. Because...the female animal/human(so the anthropological types tell us)looks for a partner that can and will provide and has done so since the dawn of our perceived time. And giving said woman a appreciative look while wearing such a shirt is going to get you no where.. at least if she's worth her salt.
So I just smirked to my self while buying frozen lemonade, knowing that the non-committal guy was checking out my assests. And no - he didn't actually perform any parlor tricks, I just thought you all could use a little entrertainment, even if it is poorly written.
