storm's coming

And he prayed again, and the heaven gave rain, and the earth brought forth her fruit.
   ~ James 5:18

After the rain the grass will grow, after wine, conversation.
   ~ Swedish proverb

May you always have walls for the winds, a roof for the rain, tea beside the fire, laughter to cheer you, those you love near you, and all your heart might desire.
   ~Irish blessing

(209)

look away!!

hell - 43
damn - 23
god damn - 5
pussy - 2
dick - 1
shit - 11
fuck -25
c<>t - 0

total # of posts: 481


When I was in middle school, I found Peter Benchley's original novel of Jaws at one of the many bargain bin garage sales my local branch of the library had. This was during an early surge of insatiable curiosity and avarice for all things storytelling. I had seen Spielberg's movie adaptation plenty of times, but I had never read it's source material.

It was a thick, daunting book that turned out to be a swift read. By the time I got around to reading it, at any rate. In the meanwhile it sat with hundreds of others, collecting dust on my shelf as I tore through library book after library book, often at the neglect of the ones I actually owned. But then my honor's English teacher offered us the chance to pick a novel to read for which we'd do an oral and visual presentation. I decided to go for this one.

I thought it'd be a breeze. I'd be able to tie it in with the movie, since my facination for film was advancing exponentially, during this time as well. But then I actually read it. And for a kid at that formative time, I was quite taken aback when I realized just the sort of elements Popcorn Steven had omitted in his version of the story. I can assure you there were certain key passages that found themselves read again and again, from specially dog earred pages.

When it came time to put together my presentation, I went artsy and nostalgic on the visual presentation by creating a newspaper from 1974 from scratch (no small feat in a time that seemed to pre-date everything I would use today to create the same thing), and a bit of a bullet-like retelling of key points of the shark tale. I skipped the whole matter of the sex, the nudity, and the graphic descriptions of things I had only begun to truly piece together. It became my dirty little secret from the class.

There is something thrilling about having an extra ounce of knowing. It's the excitement one gets from leaving the panties in the hamper when they go out or from whispering something off-color in a stuffy setting. Truthfully , it's our human ability to have whatever kind of thoughts we desire whenever or wherever we are. There's a gratification in that.

There are alternate, often unseen sides to most of life. I certainly think about that in context with this blog. I have been posting and posting pictures and observations for six years now. One could create a whole other page from all of the things left unsaid. There's so much buried within the phrases I have chosen or between the images posted. Somewhere between the combination of the two, the full story is transmitted.

More and more, especially over the better part of the past three years, what I've shared has been to the extent to what I would care to share. Fewer thoughts have been redacted. And it has taken me far less time to scribe the message. Words have flowed much, much faster. I believe it's because the life I live now has fewer barriers.

But then there's the pictures. My current series of images have just kept coming, as I end up snapping pictures nearly every single day. But still not everything seems appropriate for posting. Is it because this blog is still suggested for general audiences? I know a lot of people to whom the word mature would not apply, though they are considered adult. I think some of the concepts and ideas I spin here have a, pardon me, depth not found in most underage folks.

Is it merely the sight of nipples and not the suggestion that makes something adult?

(208)

seeing things

Our eyes can not be trusted.

(207)

sky light.

All of my years spent living in apartment complexes have never resembled the situations you see in movies and on TV. Sure, the space itself has a similar structure to many of them, the appliances are temperamental, and the walls rumble with some semblance of the story unfolding next door. But neighbors in reality are rarely like those who seem to have captured back story and current thread of those residing adjacently, nearby, and betwixt.

So, it certainly stands out when an airbrushed couple unloading a rental moving truck jump at the chance to introduce themselves to myself and my sensual partner in crime. It was primarily an exchange of names and acknowledgement that we'd be sharing a wall and an approximate floor plan. For the one bedroom shadow of an apartment they were moving into, their truck held a lot of goodies. That and their jumbo pick-up truck seemed filled to the hilt with the sort of sundry bits kids accumulate at their age, apparent spoilage, or low level of credit card understanding.

Though on the shallower side of their twenties, they were an attractive duo, in that young Hollywood sense that made my woman's and my brief interactions with them seem akin to the tolerable early moments of the fortunately panned TV series Swingtown. There was tightness and tone to their overtly tanned bodies that drew much suggestion from our combined wild imaginations, as to their going-ons and presumed willingness.

Newness takes time to create routine. On the one side of our building, we can hear what has always seemed like clumsy poltergeist activities involving furniture on every third day of the week. Their tiled floor could only have suffered in umbrage and physical damage unrepairable. Somehow their dog who we see much of, outside in person and in poop, seems to keep it down to a whisper inside. Their television and bass heavy instrument playing is far more notable than a peep, bark, or growl.

Moving into a new place brings with it desire. There's the desire to get settled in, by solidifying a home space as swiftly as feasible, and a desire for a couple of hot, sweaty folks to get their freak on in as many new spaces as possible. I think it's written in our DNA. I can only guess the amount of caves whose stalagmites may just hold some primitive love spray within it's glimmering layers.

Think about that the next time you're spelunking.

In anticipation of creating a home from nine cracked bare walls, I have found myself hammering a thing or two in the wee hours of the morning, if only to cover up that intrusive water stain. Unpacking can go long and extensively depending on just how expansive one's collection of trinkets and whatnot might be, to say nothing of the heightened energy level brought on by change.

On the one hand, the sounds on the other side of their wall at 3AM were indicative of the well chosen placement of a few framed posters, likely black light-ready or otherwise raised up from their origins from that art sale at the edge of the gas station lot. Or, on the other hand, the sounds were representative of the flushes of steady pounding, human racquetball in their final sticky throes. The disturbance was brief but noticeable. For a split second the noise seemed warranting of a walk through one courtyard and along a stretch of sidewalk to suggest our new neighbors keep it down. But when new people move in, it takes a few weeks to tap into their rhythms, so we thought it an isolated incident. Plus, we're the last two folks to be the proverbial asshole neighbors. So, we drifted back to sleep.

That was the last of that.

Several days passed and we heard through the grapevine that we had been in earshot of a late night B&E. In spite of the substandard parking lot that we lived with for so long, or the questionable gunshot pops in the middle of the night, and any number of other stereotypical details, this is an uncommon circumstance for this complex. Not that it makes it right, but it doesn't surprise me that some young kids moving in with some fancy, new shiny things in broad daylight who then left for a week long foray somewhere else would be a shout out to local chaos.

They were, as they say, asking for trouble.

The following weekend, after a fantastic evening at our favorite pub, my lady and I pulled into our lot. We stepped out of the car, in a likely too-buzzed-to-drive, getting-a-bit-handsy-and-frisky-to-boot condition. Out of the shadows stepped a dark figure. We could hear the leaves rustling and saw the whites of his eyes before piecing together that our community evidently had stirred up a quick fix security guard to man our dark corner of the rental kingdom.

And boy could the guy talk! Maybe he talked too much. He was going on about all of the apartment's efforts to remedy this singular situation by planting him during such and such hours, by considering putting up barbed wire of all things, and every other detail that maybe isn't necessary to go into with every person encountered. How awkward, though, to have some stranger lurking outside our windows with quick chatter on his lips and gun on a holster. I have never been one who enjoyed the thought of living in a gated community, so the thought of local security never really drove me wild either. Fire begets fire. You get what you give. You see, I feel people have more control over their own lives and what disrupts it than most could digest.

But there he was: our regular welcome home greeter, as it were. It was damage control. It didn't make me feel any more comfortable. Then again, I wasn't worried that it was suddenly an epidemic. I feel that's a lot of people's first thought. Worry. Fear. Paranoia. It's weaved deeply into our culture.

Jump forward a month or two. The security situation is becoming more and more unnecessary. I suppose it must have started to be a monetary and superfluous burden on our complex, because as swiftly as the security team showed up, their disappearance occurred equally fast.

In their place sprouted a big wooden pole, amongst our comforting tree canopy. Then out of seemingly nowhere, a street light companion grew out of it, like an unexpected social glom. Suddenly there was a UFO in constant hover mode above our ordinarily darkened courtyard, emitting an off-color disconcerting orangey glow that began spending the evening, night, and dawn with us. It was no doubt some small panel's answer to our local crime, but an insulting eyesore and interference to enjoying any outdoor ambiance. Screw our string of comforting blue lights, or multi-colored strand, or even candles. Hell, our front porch light has become obsolete! Our enjoyment of our courtyard is now restricted to daylight hours and in anticipation of the cooler weather of the same.

The punishment certainly doesn't answer the crime. I'll tell you that.

(206)

minor key

The older I get, the younger I feel.

Somebody might have already said that. I could be quoting them without realizing it. Ideas are a tricky beast. There's a fine line between creating thought from the ether and speaking in familiar truths. Being human is a common experience. Nothing sets us apart from another, baring proximity on the literal level and perspective on the figurative. Once we accept that the easier everything else becomes.

(205)

combined talents

Shared.

(204)

heart strings.

Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.  ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Inpiration comes in many forms. It blesses the world in as many facets as we find creativity. From the rhythm of sprinkling on an array of spices in your daily culinary pursuits to arranging the pillows on the bed at the end of the night to how you display all of the disparate items that clutter up your desk, everything has a measure of art.

Everything.

I have held these inclings in my mind for a long time. Born the observer of my bunch, for a time I thought my quiet, contemplation masked emptiness. But in truth it was always a stirring, a percolation of my soul. My need to create is loud and brash. It's all around me. Lightbulbs of inspiration are burning out and being replaced all the time. And for this I am thankful.

(203)

opportunity knocks.

We are all faced with a series of great opportunities brilliantly disguised as impossible situations.
~ Charles R. Swindoll

There are so many succinct expressions that have become commonplace in our language that come out to play when they are least useful: you can't teach an old dog new tricks, live and learn, what goes around comes around. I hear them or variations of them on a semi-regular basis, especially given the spread of drama that seems to disseminate through my friend and acquaintance collective. And as additional drama has recently arisen within my workplace on a daily basis, I have seen the blob similarly extend in that direction.

The running theme of these issues seem to encapsulate each idiom quite well. The older we get the more we become inclined to carry around a small stack of three by five cards with contigency plans for each situation we encounter. We presume them to be tried and true, and certainly the ones that have gotten us by up to this point. This is why reactions are quick and predictable.

Each plays out stereotypes: jilted women undermine all men, blueballed men don't respect women, and on and on. Those who've lost jobs or relationships due to extreme personality clashes are quick to get on their high horse about how flawless they truly are. Blame is placed externally. How can the world be so rife with victims? I see so many playing the victim or, more notably, the martyr of whatever war they've been waging. And even before seeking answers inward, attempting perhaps to remedy personal failings, they throw the issue off to karma, move on, and do it all over again.

(202)

= 64%

π challenge.

On November 11th, 2011, I began a new blog challenge, as a means to further hone my photography skills and to place additional pressure on myself to become a tad more prolific. The challenge is simple and open-ended: post 314 newly taken pics in one year's time.

(as of this posting, I just passed #201)

My earliest memories flash before me like a photographic flipbook. This is much like an occasion when a dream is being recalled. The brief bursts of significant moments reveal themselves a few at a time. As we retell it we weave it into something else entirely - a new thing. It's got some structure and it's got flow, unlike the film school avant-garde of our more daring dream space. Our brains don't require this as we sleep. I believe this is something pertinent to our awakened state, however.

When something already exists, we tend to take it a little bit for granted. It becomes part of our pre-packaged idea of how things are. Our recognition of the things that are and the things that seem not to be become very distinctive. This is why a moment like riding your bike out of eyesight of mom or off the block entirely is something I recall being quite powerful.

It's the realization that something more exists. And this something is far more captivating than what is present now. Many people fear it. Expanded horizons are so full of unknown. We don't tend to partake of very much unknown, since the known looks so good on our mantles just the way it is.

Ultimately this creates stagnancy. It breeds unpleasant relations that harbor resentment and complacency.

I was given my first quality camera when I graduated high school. Before that I had borrowed the family 110 camera or would use that cheap 35mm I was given for an eighth grade overnight field trip. My true passion was filmmaking, but I made the most of the point-and-shoot experience I had with this above average 35mm with adjustable settings.

This was a time that pre-dated even the most primitive household digital cameras by several years to say nothing of social media. It was a time when people would still shy away from the lens of a camera. I wonder if it has anything do with the contemporary instant ability to veto shots as they come.

Whatever the case, this was a particularly formative period for my creative juices. As an aspiring filmmaker, I saw photographic images as pieces in a larger visual puzzle. At least that was my hope. But my comfort level and skills were still at such a pedetrian level, I was a long way from connecting meaning into my pictures.

Since that time, I have actually had the chance to create extensively, in a variety of forums. It took me a long time to recognize the fact that no one project really had any more importance than any other. For an artist, what matters ultimately is a body of work.

The debacle from one year ago at my theatre led me to turn my back on the place that did me likewise. As is the running theme of the past couple years, I have grown up far beyond what it currently offers. There are other horizons for my artistic contributions.

Toward the end of last year, during a year when my writing had been at a particularly prolific high, I decided I wanted to tune up my photographic powers as well. So many people who post on blogs have attempted to knock out a picture a day for a years time, or some variation therein. I am not like most people. I decided to be honest with myself and curtail the number of pictures to 314 (based on π, which carries certain significance for me) within the span of one year.

As of this post, I have posted 201 pictures to this challenge. (Sure, there are a few freebies along the way that I haven't applied to this for one reason or another.) Even though they may at first seem like a potpourri, scrolling along should tell a number of continuing stories, full of my usual dose of subtext.

I also feel that I have become far more comfortable with creating something from nothing. Most of these pictures were taken completely on the fly.

Sometimes overthinking can ruin the best things.

(-113)



fish bowl

(201)

mortal coil

These days we are constantly advertising for ourselves. We have become so used to creating profiles representing all of those things we are about, that we support, that define us. We update like mad our bylines on the likes of Twitter and Facebook, as a means to stay prominent and noticeable. When we're out in the warm glow of human interaction, our phones come out ready for presentation and proof of our popularity and importance. We are a growing concern.

Right? Aren't we? We're special. We stand out. I swear it!

The need for external validation is huge. Our disconnect is so extreme that in a drive to be seen for who and what we are, I have seen too many reinvent themselves at the cost of their own identity. They wear their new and improved packaging with discomfort and a painted on smile. Reinvention at its core is a beautiful theory and philosophy, but so many are a dishonest representation of it.

(200)

positive space

Sometimes you have to let what's hiding in the darkness surprise you.

(199)

independent moon.

There's only one thing that I know how to do well
and I've often been told that you only can do
what you know how to do well
and that's be you
be what you're like
be like yourself.
~ TMBG - 'Whistling in the Dark' (1990)

(198)

leapin' lizards!

(197)

food porn

It's nice to share.

(196)

safe word

Push your limits.

(195)

une fusion

a song you want played at your wedding

Last year when I undertook a music-related blog challenge, I constructed my own list from a variety of sources. One trigger that kept coming up while I was searching for ideas was a song you want played at your wedding. Truthfully I can't even think why it didn't make the cut, but I know everything has its proper time. I am getting married in less than two months. We have actually been talking about the music for it quite a bit, since our DJ wants a very detailed playlist from us.

After my lady love and I met, it didn't take us long to get stirred up in the power of one another's intensity. There was a kinetic energy and sensual passion to our earliest connections that was unstoppable. Our magnetism was palpable. And few of those who knew us during this time expected it to last. It's just a matter of opposites attracting, right? They'll get over it. After all, it must have been little more than a rebound from our now defunct fourth grader aged marriages.

Often one of the tell tale signs of being held back in the moving on process is going after a partner with similar characteristics as your recently estranged. My newly discovered pursuit could not have been more different than her. If she was like anyone, she shared commonality with a woman with whom I'd played around some nearly fifteen years prior. This new woman had striking depth of character, a twist in her humor, a darkness she wasn't afraid to explore, and a beauty befitting European erotica.

I was smitten, and I refused to let anything or anyone stand in my way. Take that christianmingle.com and the rest, I found my match all by my lonesome! It only took a lot of wrong roads to get there, for the both of us, but there we were facing the future together. This is a mighty powerful revelation when opportunity like this strikes precisely when the world is expecting a different reaction. We'd both stumbled along in our ill-fitting relationships, like actors playing the same tired roles year-in, year-out, speaking those same words until they had no meaning and our lips were numb. The details were different, but the outcome quite similar.

Have you ever been to an amateur dance class? There's a room full of mostly strangers who pair up and rotate through different pairings, attempting to learn the steps. Every rotation takes a new adjustment, and it's awkward and it's forced. That's what it used to be like. For a long time, I thought it had to be. Just when I thought reshuffling the deck one more time was going to do the trick, when starting with a fresh one was the answer. Everyone involved is so much better off! The new world that erupted into being when it was all said and done is a far superior place.

She makes sense to me. And I make sense to her. We've had strong rhythm since the very beginning. As I understand it, through experience, through knowledge of others, what we have is rare. We flood one another with a youthful enjoyment of everyday. Together we can be daring, and naughty, and take risks. And we function so freakin' easily! Sometimes I can't believe it's my life. I wake up every day pleased as punch.

And now we're getting married. And the guest list is really beginning to sparkle. But they're coming for the vows and staying for the party. So we need music.

There's so much. I'm going to go off the top of my head with this one:

• Endless Love by Lionel Richie & Diana Ross (1981). I will attest to this being one of my most favorite love songs of all time. Sure it was the theme song to a long forgotten Brooke Shields vehicle. It was recorded very quickly, and the final recording is said to be the first or second take. Yet the passion and unity between the voices is what really grabs me, as each shares or borrows phrases from one another, in a vocal dance of sorts.
• White Wedding by Billy Idol (1982). My brain seems to automatically be seeking out the early 80's. Perhaps it's related to something quite formative. Perhaps this is the most obvious choice of a wedding song. Any old wedding. I choose this one for many reasons. All of which are multi-layered fun! And no, I'm not letting on.
• Once in a Lifetime by Talking Heads (1980). You may tell yourself - this is not my beautiful wife...How did I get here? -- Need I say more?
• Everlong by Foo Fighers (1997). I've waited here for you - everlong.... From the remains of Nirvana, Dave Grohl's seeming pet project created brilliance and their signature crowd pleaser with this one. It encapsulates so much romance, in all of it's varied hues.
• Cruisin' by Huey Lewis & Gwyneth Paltrow (2000). Speaking of duets, this Smokey Robinson cover is one of my favorites. It doesn't hurt that this song originates from Duets, a moderately enjoyable Hollywood peek into the world of competitive karaoke. As a karaoke enthusiast cum officinado (or at least more enthusiastic than previously), it's nice to have a touch of validation from the movies. Second only to that is the somewhat disconcerting fact that the characters in the movie are father and daughter, who share these empassioned phrases.
• Lucky by Bif Naked (1998). A quiet, reflective, nearly somber ballad which made its premiere on the cult classic TV series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Indeed, we are the lucky ones.
• Shelter by Ray LaMontagne (2004). Speaking of contemplative beauty, this man is the Van Morrison for our generation, to the chagrin of any number of whiny, indie poseurs whose souls are often phoned-in. You will shelter me my love. And I will shelter you.

Amen.

(194)

keep reaching.

(193)

impending doom.

Our language is full of it:

• when life hands you lemons, make lemonade
• every cloud has a silver lining
• look on the bright side
• everything happens for a reason

On an idiom level, they are the equivalent of Cher slapping Nicolas Cage in Moonstruck, telling him to snap out of it. If facebook is any gauge, I have a lot of Debbie Downer friends, who like to turn the spotlight toward themselves to reveal the depths of their sadness, misfortune, and ineptitude. Some of them seem to take solace in the pity and ego stroking of those they call friends. Most of the time what they could really use is a swift kick in the proverbial keister.

Every now and then we can all use our fair share of snapouttovit. 

If we plant a garden full of worry, tears, and sorrow, what do we expect to have sprout?

(192)

backroad surprises.

To know the road ahead, ask those coming back.
~ Chinese Proverb

(191)

an in

I was recently told a theory on memory. Pick a year from your life. Now try to recall x, y, z details about it. Each recollection is said to unlock another piece, until you really start to uncover key parts of the story.

Sure, not all of life is worth reliving. At least not our own. There's too much pain, too much uncertainty, too many dead ends, but living it secondhand through the words, images, or sounds of those works that we return to again and again. That's not a problem. It's vicarious living. And it's safer.

I am sure you've done this. You've found yourself flipping through television channels, stumbling upon a familiar movie well on its way. And then you get caught up. You might have even been watching something else, currently on a commercial break.

A story well-told unfolds in such a fashion that each piece overlaps the last as well as the following. The mosaic it paints makes so much sense that we become enwrapped within it. This is true of books, movies, theatre, or even within our favorite music. Each time through we begin to recall how perfectly the next part follows.

The pieces of our life make similar sense, in retrospect. Each event eclipses the next. Over time, the more we look inward, the more noticable the saga becomes. If the universe can be expanding then the same can be true of our human lives. Personally, I can see it on my slight scale how each piece of my life has led to the next. Even simply reading back through this blog, new things reveal themselves. What's revealed and what's absent certainly tells quite a tale.

One of the key shifts I've recognized is a change in dynamics. Each person who enters and leaves our life readjusts the tone of it. We all can have such great affect on one another, whether positive, detrimental, or somewhere in between. Like attracts like, separating the honest from the false. Old friends return, holding new meaning. New friends are created as families expand.

And thus, we enter a new chapter.

(190)

interpretation obscene

If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character...Would you slow down? Or speed up?
~ Chuck Palahniuk

(189)

kickin' back.

(188)

la voix

Do you hear me
Do you care
Tell me, what are words for . . .
~ "Words" by Missing Persons (1982)

Self-expression isn't taught. It's discovered.

When I was in school the more notable outlets were caught up in electives. They were the seemingly less important classes that would quickly separate the inately creative from the paint-by-numbers crowd, who were simply trying to please.

I always tried to bridge a connection between these sort of courses and my mainstream straight laced venues, like English and History, by bringing in a sense of adventure and daring to my work. Rarely was it a success. Most of the time the bent of excitement and pizzazz I attempted to add failed miserably, since it diverted so harshly from the narrow description of the assignment and therefore couldn't be calculated off the standard rubric.

I didn't realize it at the time, but inch by inch I was developing my voice. It's the one thing that can separate and define us as human beings, and one of the most difficult things to realize, harness, and nurture. This is so much the case that it has continued to boggle me a time or two through recent years. Though I see it springing forth primarily in its arena, it's not solely a comrad of artistic pursuits. It rears its dusty head everytime we make a decision, every chance dilemma strikes. What would we do, it asks.

(187)

mixed company

To thine own self be true.
~ Polonius

(186)

structurally sound

Our strength grows out of our weaknesses.
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

(185)

attention whore

Babies don't know any better. Everything is new and scary to them, so they make the three noises that they've figured out at the two distinct volumes they've discovered. It's not their fault when their voice shows up in the middle of a movie, or a flight they shouldn't be on, or from the corner of a low-toned dining room.

Children who develop a scene in the checkout line between a irritable sibling or because of a wanton candybar haven't been shown a better resolution to their seemingly serious issues. These temper tantrums are normal, at least for a short while. Eventually we're supposed to grow out of this phase. The drive to push at the boundaries until the punishment in return is extreme enough that we stop is supposed to end.

Some adults simply don't let it. In the movies, they are often the show-offs, they are the people who sing their praises louder than everyone else, they are the people who need to prove something. They are the character we love to hate.

In real life, though, they are often two faced folk, full of sordid excuses for their failings. These weaknesses, whether directly noted or not, are always the fault of other people: parents, exes, siblings, friends, the government, or the cops. Someone else was always in the wrong, whereas they just sat there and took the beating in peaceful response like the perfect specimen that they are. After all they are never ever doing harm unto others.

The emotional environment and dramatic tone of any given place is always altered for their display. These big babies overfill their messy diapers with discontent and call for attention and admiration. The are overactors who need to have all eyes on them. They demand it, not command it. It's not since they're all that special. It's because they're twirling around that proverbial idiot glowstick in the middle of a darkened venue. And for some reason we're supposed to give them a pass.

(184)

soft etching.

The heart that truly loves never forgets.
~Proverb

(183)

 

comfort farm

(182)

weapon choice.

(181)

cuddle, please.

Do you wanna come home with me, so we can cuddle?

I have it on good authority that this line has been used. So, what's your first inclination upon reading it? I wouldn't suspect anyone would read that literally. Even without trying everything has subtext. And the obvious one here is that cuddling is but a precursor for sharing a pot of coffee in the morning.

But according to this morning's edition of Good Morning America some chick in New England would like to dispell this theory. She's opened up a joint she calls The Snuggery, which supposedly leaves the sexual connotations at the door, but charges an hourly fee for some cuddle time.

Shenanigans, I say!

I get the point. People need intimacy. Prisoners stuck in the box get messed up without human contact. Spouses seek out a quick physical fix when their homefires are non-existent, or mere embers. Close friends and family often be seen using embrace as their greeting of choice. I've heard of non-sexual hugging parties that disconnect the nookie from the orgy imagery. But that's giving it away for free. If you're going to pay sixty dollars for an hour's touch, why not seek out a massage therapist? They're at least certified, and have skill sets that might actually be beneficial.

Perhaps I'm just cynical. Holding or being held by a complete stranger at a cost can't possibly be fulfilling. Add sexual arousal, a component actually referenced on the website, and add paying for sexual frustration to the emotional disconnect that must be felt in the first place to get a patron in the door.

Then again, maybe it goes back to the sage advice about giving a man a fish versus teaching him how to cook.

in(visible) touch

I'm being punished for making my job look easy.
~Roger Sterling (Mad Men ep.3.6)

The shake-up at work has burdened my mind lately.

Let's get a few things out of the way, though. Initially I only applied to work there as a last resort. I hesitated accepting my first position. And I am loathe to working for a large corporate entity whose interest in their employees well-being and morale is a sixteenth afterthought.

This is not my calling. This is not where I belong long term, but I am still insulted that I wasn't given the respect of even a professional thanks for my temporary store management. And to add insult to injury, it has become continually necessary to translate the way I do things into trainable terminology for the old hag who took over my role.

That's the most peculiar of all. I remember in grade school having to explain the procedure of doing something simple, such as making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It was an exercise in communication. Some of its impact comes from recognizing how much we internalize.

The way we do things doesn't necessary flow into words. Maybe we've found a ritual or a quick and easy system that makes sense to us, but when spoken doesn't have a logical flow. There's an underlying current to our every motion that can't be taught. I deem it impossible and impractical to demonstrate to someone else how to be us. Consider for a moment an actor developing a character from a real life person.

My workplace is continually looking for best practices in terms of dealing with customers. It's one of the reasons most of the sales world irritates the piss out of me. It's kind of like dating. In theory everyone has a line. It's just not as discernible coming from a smaller percentage of people. The rest of them sound like disingenuous, smarmy robots.

(180)

the frisked

If animals could speak, the dog would be a blundering outspoken fellow; but the cat would have the rare grace of never saying a word too much.
~Mark Twain

(179)

temporary blindness

When one door closes, another opens; but we often look so long and so regretfully upon the closed door that we do not see the one which has opened for us.
~Alexander Graham Bell

(178)

devil's details

I once thought that I was a perfectionist.

But there's such a sad connotation associated with those sort of people. The obsessive. The anal retentive. The sticklers for every little thing. They sound like an awful bore. The fact of the matter is that I am hardly a perfectionist. In fact I don't believe in the possibility of perfection. I know I organize things in ways others do not. And I expend much energy manipulating the world toward certain end.

I am a man of details. As that old idiom goes, the devil is in the details. That's where I find my truth. One thing distinguishes itself from another from its accumulation of finer points.

(177)

lunar landing

(176)

in spirit

Spread some delight around.

(175)

sisyphus revisited

(174)

mais oui

(173)

err reflexive.

Know where you are.

And know where you are not.

These are simple principles we so easily neglect.

(172)

no anchor

Drama.

What a loaded phrase: drama.

It lies there as if in all caps, screaming its way through our walls, dripping discontent into our breakfast cereal, and coming out our very pores as the day burns on, sploshing onto the heels of passersby.

DRAMA.

It's a TV Guide descriptor for 57% of everything fictitious. Here we have common life, love, and war in a nutshell. Ta-da, it's drama. The stage is rife with passing out it's pamphlets. And the news. You guessed it: real-life drama.

It makes for terrific viewing. Yeah, most especially when it's not yours.

I used to warm myself by it's fragrant campfire. It was all consuming, overwhelming, and a ritualized madness. It travels in packs, spreads like a virus, and is predictably the drink of choice of lovers and sexually frustrated strangers. And if you're not careful, it'll get on you. It's something to be decoded and navigated.

It's often complicated.

That's the phrase that gets bandied about these days. It becomes the euphemism for the ill-equipped to move on, too lazy to move out, still fishing for apologies, tentatively expecting some leftover guilt-pussy, or whatever other unhealthy activity behooves one or both parties in this former relationship. The remains of this thing, or this fling, gets dragged about like gum stuck on the bottom of a shoe from seventeen and a half feet ago. There's just a vague suggestion of connection. But the truth is it's just dried spittle stretched dental floss thin that only looks like the solid entity you thought you saw.

These dramas swirl around the worlds of my friends and compatriots. And it's hard to miss, whether or not I'd like to tune in.

It's so much more important to not mourn the relationship, but to celebrate the freedom, the chance to strip off all of the layers of regret, disappointment, selling out of yourself, your character, your every desire that got overshadowed by the ill-shapen object that was this failed memory. Something dies when a relationship ends. Great. Let it.

It's best to rocket off to a place of healing. Don't get messed up at the bottom of a pint of Ben & Jerry's. The end was nigh for far longer than most people give themselves credit for: it's the rote memorization of the things to say, the empty feelings you have toward anything they have to say, the overall boredom, or the guilt feels for leaving them alone with your friends. Don't make a career of it. Get out!

I've known people who never got over their ex, that one ex. They never let themselves get caught up to the present day. They continue to leave that door open for them to re-enter: a year, five years, ten, or more down the road, thereby continually rotating through the same cycle, meeting the same failure, again and again.

Why do we of the human persuasion continue to do it? Why does it take so much time, so much effort to realize that being honest with ourselves is key? The rest will follow.

Just let go.

(171)

super moon

If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear as it is - infinite.  ~William Blake

(170)



spider moon

There is nothing you know that isn't known.
~ John Lennon

 

(169)

dangerous beauty.

But there is balance in all things . . . .

Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it's cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don't risk anything, you risk even more. ~ Erica Jong

(168)

over cooked.

a song that makes you hungry

Hunger Strike

That old standby expression reads too many cooks will spoil the broth.

Soup is simple, though. All of the heart of it comes from being able to see what compliments what and to which degree. It's like creating a party guest list. It's not really cooking at all, but event planning. It's waiting for intuition to be either proven right or horribly wrong. There's no middle ground.

That's what work has become. There are too many cooks in the place. There is she who cooks with too much vinegar and little ol' me who uses a lot of secret ingredients.

Know Your Chicken

Respect comes at a hard price. It ages like a good wine. You can't force it. And you certainly can't make people distribute it in your direction.

• I have known far too many know-it-alls in my time.
• I have run across far too many folks with superiority complexes shoved so eloquently up their assholes, they can barely pinch out a smile without spitting vile.
• I have known from condescension, overactive judgment.
• I have found people with heavy-handed disregard, who could truly care less what others think, so long as gratitude and glowing praise continues to be bestowed upon them as they take credit for other's efforts.
• I have come across hypocrites, dying to secretly exploit in one area while wearing the mask of a saint.

Unfortunately the caricature that should come about from the totality of these descriptions is the new chef to my sous at my place of business. To that I remand myself the better cook.

So I am caught in the quandary. Should I let the rice burn or help make it right, keeping clear conscience and maintaining earshot of my ethical core? Do I let her die, or let myself bleed, so to speak?

Hungry Eyes

So, what does this have to do with musical appetizers?

Life and food link fingers at every turn. As a baby we discover our need for sustenance, which comes not just in a bottle or from a tit, but from connection, safety, comfort, and care. We continue to seek out the things that ensure we thrive. We have to listen for those moments when our soul growls for more of those things that fuel it, that drive it forward. And we must also listen out for when our soul begins to hurl.