jugular dance

encore vide.

31 March 2004

today -

C, on the phone, twirling her hair round her finger: 'Jenny says to say hello and that she misses you...she says to tell you she loves your new haircut...'

me: 'Who. Are. You. Talking. To?' [knowing full well who she was talking to]

guess who.
might he ever know she spoke the truth?
[the new haircut is just the old haircut, shorter...his hair looks darker when it's cut close to his head and his shoulders stand out...eek]

and G wants to set me up with one of her friends, a Brasilian guy who's about my age, speaks five languages, knows computers, is brilliant, etc. I've met him once, he brought us a bottle of rum on New Year's Eve when we'd simultaneously run out and gotten too drunk to drive ourselves out for more. He's very pretty...friendly enough...smart, I guess...not at all my type. He's not even the slightest bit a geek. He might be intelligent, sure, but will he discuss FFVII materia classes with me? watch Rurouni Kenshin? listen as I talk about alliteration? spout fragments of C++ at random? recite historical dates and WWI facts while seducing me (and what a seduction it was, waaaaa!)? go with me at midnight to the premiere of sci-fi/fantasy movies even though he's got to work at 8:00 am the next day? no go, then...it's a hard bargain, this one ;)

and I have decided (whore that I am) that 'Eyes Wide Open' by King Crimson (from 'The Power to Believe') will be playing when I kiss Josh for the first time in seven months this coming July.

30 March 2004

And more bullshit from the US Justice Department, who evidently has a reputation to keep up. Unholy semantics concerning who's-a-victim-who-isn't from the DOJ when giving money to its citizens is concerned, yet 'the entire Middle East is our vaguely borderless enemy' when it comes to justifying spending money on defense to preserve their image. Entirely unrelatedly, today, on the front cover of the Press-Enterprise, was a photo of a delegate from one of our fine bodies of representation (House or Senate I can't remember, and for my life I can't remember his name either - in my mind's eye all I can see is his overbite), and a caption quoting him thus: 'Guns are just a fact of life'. Remember that when gay militants have got the barrel of one up your arse so as to gently nudge your prostate.

Sorry - sidetracked - being a liberal scumbag, I really need to change to a homepage other than Yahoo.

Last night, lying in bed listening to Eric Johnson 'Venus Isle'. Wonderful. TV on, muted fuzz, because I rather dislike the dark. Dozing off grandly. Thinking of soft things. A great scrape comes like someone's being mugged against my door. Alas (as I grab the umbrella and shoot out of bed to investigate) it is just Patrice, sliding my mail under my door. The mail which made such a racket was indeed the new Prayer Boat 'Polichinelle' disc (sadly just a radio copy, no lyrics or pretty photos) fresh from the CD Guy, who everyone should subscribe to. Muttered 'Sorry, Eric', slid the new disc in. True to my expectations 'Balance' is magnificent. The sample I'd listened to cuts two lines in between the verse and the chorus, too, two lines that make all the difference in the world - hearing the sample I found myself thinking the break between verse & chorus far too abrupt. Imagine my pleasure. There's some lovely piano, and the vocals are interesting. They were what I was anticipating most, because the band has been compared to Nick Drake and Jeff Buckley, but of course the vocalist does not sound like either of those. His vocals are not folksy and mumbly as ND, not elegant and melodic as JB. The band is Irish, and I find myself reminded of the Irish vocalists I've heard. At times he goes into that near-groaning that Bono does, that anguished howl. There are other times when his vocals are amplified in such a way that he achieves that ten-people-singing-at-once effect that Ash always had. But occasionally he does hit a true Jeff moment, he hits a falsetto or just sings a few consecutive words impossibly elegantly. No-one does it like Jeff, in that lazy style as though he's got all the time in the world to sing this song, but at times, at times. The guitarist is not like JB either; Jeff's guitar sculpts about his singing, filling in spaces when he's got to breathe or cry. But the piano does a fairly good job of this, of creating interesting lilts while the guitar pretty much does its rote thing. Anyhow, the idea of me actually reviewing a record is ridiculous, so it'll be full stop here, as I note that despite all the unfair comparisons I am actually quite happy about the way Prayer Boat sounds on its own, and that this record is quite worth owning.

Also the boy, who I spoke to as he was on his way home from the Fire Theft show in Pittsburgh in his new car, said I Love You again, and also went to visit my brother today, who told him that my dad and fiancee are always asking about him. Surrounded by love, he is :)
The New Yorker rejected my story (as was foretold in ancient times) but today sent me an offer for a whole year's subscription for $25, due to my 'professional status'. the Preferred Professional Discount, it's called, and it came in an envelope whose return address was marked 'The New Yorker - Professional Relations' the sight of which nearly made me swallow my own heart. How they found out about the lettuce farming...? It must've been -

Mr. T! I'm sure he's done a thorough background check on me by now, including previous/concurrent employment, driving record, vitamin report, and a full investigation into all the literary journals who feel I'm 'not right' for them, to determine if I am indeed to remain in his new accounts department.

Indeed, Mr. T was in yet again today (ohh, and does his name give me perpetual giggles). He wanted to access his safe deposit box. I gave him the entry card, put an X in the box where he was to sign it. He did so, then took me aside and said, 'I want to inform you of something, and I don't want you to take offense at it - putting that X on that paper like that, especially when it says 'signature' right above the box, makes me think that you think that I'm stupid. I am an adult, and a professional - I can figure out where to sign. Just a 'note from the other side', if you will.' I was flabbergasted. This man wants me to lead him into the vault where all our cash is kept while remaining cool as a cucumber, and he springs that on me right before I'm ready to unlock the door?

It's all part of the Mr. T Experience! [uncontrollable snickering]

I was juggling two sets of keys, the fated entry card, my pen, my ego, my own self-consciousness, and his self-satisfied smirk in my hands - he had to take some things from my hand so I could maneuver the door open, and let's just say he didn't bother to relieve me of the smirk. The reason - the reason, dear Mr. T - that I put that X there is because every day, as a new accounts representative, I send out various documents which require signatures before they are returned to me. I mark these documents with arrows, highlighter ticks, post-it notes, stickers. I send them in envelopes accompanied by letters that say in twelve-inch bold font 'YOU MUST SIGN HERE. RIGHT HERE. SEE WHERE I'M POINTING? RIGHT THERE'. I duct-tape these letters to the backs of talking donkeys which announce, upon arrival at the addressee's place of mail-receiving, the exact location (both in pixels and in degrees of latitude and longitude) on the paper where their signatures are required. Three months later - sometimes sooner, if lucky - I receive these documents back. WITH SIGNATURES MISSING. Sometimes with the arrow, the post-it, the sticker still attached to the blank spot where the signature should be, the donkey bleating 'I tried to teeeeeelll them'. Then I have to don my patent leather catsuit and mask and go hunting Corona by night to extort signatures from bank customers, and truthfully administration, though its male members don't mind the catsuit, generally frowns upon those activities, especially because they have to pay me double time for it, and expense repairs on the catsuit. So that - that, my dear, darling Mr. T - is why I placed the X just so. There is to be no confusion about where to sign in my regime. Next time you question it, you will face my wrath: 'I didn't wanna hurt you...I just wanted to make a little X on your forehead'. And my attorney never misses!

Talked to Aunt Flo today, who lives in Washington PA. It's her birthday. She was all jazzed to hear from me - 'No-one's ever called me from so far away!' She's closer to ninety than eighty and writes me poems for every holiday. I've sworn to compose a doozy for her by the time I go home in July...it'll be wretched, I'm quite sure. Perhaps a Flo-related haiku, best to keep it short and simple, especially when lack of talent is involved :)

29 March 2004

Ai, sorry...it's the 1, not the 101, that took me to Santa Barbara from LA. I had a sorta-crappy Tori Amos song stuck in my head when I was writing that

'things you said that day up on the 101'

we all know me and freeways anyhow...
C sat at my computer with a customer, I, helping her with online banking.

I: 'Who are those guys?'
C: 'Oh...those are her brothers.'

Poor Steve-and-Aviv...nobody understands them...

Listening to: 'Carnival of Souls', Miranda Sex Garden :: 's ok...
managed to make it through 2.5 hours with Mr. T (er...!), the aforementioned 'stupid asshole', even as he, roughly an hour in, looked me straight in the eye and asked 'And what will happen to my accounts if I die?' The sick part is that I had an answer for him. He brought his 'bookkeeper' with him, and they were firing off questions at me in twos and threes. Then they left, went to have lunch, and went back to the office, where he proceeded to call me thrice more with additional questions. Whilst I was cleaning up from him and placing various orders for him, he, wonder of wonders, showed up at the branch. God strike me if I did not look up from a complicated ATM card order to find him, all the way across the room behind the teller line, staring right at me. And more, I believe he actually tried to start a conversation with me, mumbling something silly about the new branch manager. Wonders! I giggled...didn't bother to tell him how cool the new branch manager is and that every day round three he comes up to my desk and says 'Bud or Michelob? I'm going on a beer run' and then leaves, for the day. Though I'm sure he would've gotten a kick out of it - I just didn't want to use up my annual quota of words-I'm-allowed-to-speak-to-him all at once. And more, I believe I may have caught him peeking at my dextrous usage of the ten-key. And finally, I said 'I love you' to Josh today at the end of the telephone conversation, and he replied in kind, and quite tenderly besides.

28 March 2004

god the constant commenting why can't i just SHUT UP

I HATE MYSELF maybe it was the nap that did it to me maybe that stupid asshole who's coming in tomorrow morning at ten o'clock to quiz me about accounts and parakeets and ... i am so worthless. began reading jim's book. you can expect this self-loathing to continue for several days. sorry jim. it's how i know i like it, i feel discouraged and downhearted and will for days. it's how i feel the proust, while nice and introspective, is not something i particularly like as my back just hurts when i'm finished with it. too many fucking flowers DO YOU HEAR THAT JIM? PROUST DOESN'T MOVE ME LIKE YOU DO

[too loud]

yes and for my father who is depressed because of tax season
'who are you going to the beach with'
Just emerged from a delicious nap during which I was only half-dozing and could hear the window blinds cracking against the pane, the palm trees wishing, the roses, the violets, the small evil dog barking, snips of imagined dialogue between the narrator and the countrywomen of 'Swann's Way', the music on the radio next door, and several children plunging happily into a swimming pool. There is a new wrought-iron set of table and chairs which Patrice has just purchased for the back patio, which she has invited me several times to make glorious use of, and upon which I do believe I am seriously considering taking up permanent residence, notebook in hand, 'drinking my tulip tea' as she suggested to me with a laugh. This weather is incredible - while completely incongruous with what I am used to for the end of March, it's so lovely that I can almost forget that I'm living in a region that does not experience actual seasons, in favour of being able to tip my head so slightly out of the window and see plate-sized purple roses blooming.

It's been decided, I'm going to the beach next weekend. Saturday, Sunday, maybe both days. I'd have gone this weekend but I have exactly $4.09 in my checking account, which, sadly, is not quite enough to cover the cost of gasoline for an all-day excursion to the beach. I'm not even entirely sure which one I'd like to go to. I wouldn't mind going to San Diego or Laguna Beach again; the water was translucent green, black slimy rocks everywhere, seaweed, cliffs, little guppies, just pulsing with life. Santa Barbara and El Capitan, though slightly grey the day I was last there, was such a heartachingly lovely drive on the 101 through the Santa Monica mountains that I might do it again. That was the first time I'd ever seen mountains, ever seen the Pacific Coast, ever driven on the 101. I spent the whole ride, alone in my rental car with all four of the manually-rolling-down-windows spread open wide to receive the breeze, singing at the top of my voice and talking over several important thoughts and ideas with myself. Reached El Capitan, changed into my swimsuit, promptly fell asleep beneath the grey haze and awoke to the sun directly overhead, a complete transformation in the atmosphere, the once-cloudy water sparkling. If I do decide to make the four-hour drive there I'll depart early so I don't miss that show. There's also Newport Beach, which, aside from being a trendy little seaside town, was actually a really pretty place, though I was only there in the evening. There's a long, long pier extending from the shore long, long out into the ocean, at the end of which sits a rather renowned seafood restaurant (or so I understand). I went there with my former roommates, Lupe, Ambrosio, & Lalo. We sat on the porch amid torches, drinking and eating tiramisu, listening to a cover artist with an acoustic guitar play Allman Brothers Band and Johnny Cash songs, because the Man in Black had just passed. Lalo, who had already been drunk upon our departure from Riverside, furthered said state of drunkenness by imbibing two or three pints and a few shots of tequila, proclaiming his undying love for me in top voice on the streets of Newport Beach as we all tried to find my car, and, with the magnificent artistry and subtle grace befitting a man who wanted to travel to Argentina and become a painter, spent the entire ride home puking all over the back seat of my car. Ambrosio, who was unlucky enough to be sitting in the backseat with Lalo, huffed my car air fresheners (two, vanilla scented) for the whole ride. I, simmering in the passenger seat, tried my best to not turn my eyes to the backseat from where the vile smell of vomit was now emanating. Lupe, driving, the sanest and soberest of us all, kept a running commentary each time a gurgle or a gag was heard: 'Oop, adios enchiladas! Oop, there goes the rice! Oop, too much tequila!' We left him in my car overnight, with the apparent intent to embarrass him into sobriety; the daft prick didn't even think to clean it before he stumbled to his room in the early morning, and so my vomit-covered upholstery fairly baked in the September California sun all day that Sunday. The following Tuesday was to be my first day of work at the bank; following tradition (which dictates I be ill for the first day of work at any job - I had laryngitis for the first week of work at the bank in PA), I woke up at 5:00 am Tuesday morning horribly sick from both ends, and had to spend the whole day driving around fighting my own gag reflex in a car stinking of someone else's puke.

Ah, Newport Beach, to whom I digress. Stricken from the list in a hurry, that one is!

27 March 2004

[yesterday, whilst speaking to the dear boy]

me: 'Yup, had a dream of you last night...'
boy: 'Was it a good one? Did it involve me killing lots of people?'

[comment about poor defenseless boy stricken from record here]

26 March 2004

you thought I was joking about the 'Am I Marriageable' quiz! Indeed, no, I am a woman of my word. No luck, but I did find several Indian advice columns about low-calorie sugar, an e-book version of 'Letters of Two Brides' by Honore de Balzac, and articles about 'itches on the side of my urinary organ', if you can believe such a thing. On an entirely unrelated note, Quizilla entertains no affiliation with Godzilla, Mozilla, Gwadzilla, or things in the freezer that smell weird.

Urinary organ?? Now I'm intrigued. Surfing the internet is better than marriage!
C, to him, rather breathlessly: 'hi-his-name-no-time-to-talk-can-you-do-me-a-favour-ok?-gotta-go-bye!'

then to T: 'He still hasn't figured out that I'm trying to avoid him!', avoidance being her chosen route, as opposed to confronting him face-on and telling him no about teaching the class. About as subtle as an ice cube in the crotch, that one.

ai, the lovely things I could do with a digital camera...

dreamt of the boy last night. England, London, winter, holidays. We sat in his apartment, my legs draped over his, him rubbing my ankles.
me: 'what do you think?'
him: 'wow, we had some good times...'
me: 'but you don't love me anymore'
him, 'painfully-obvious voice': 'no.'
Then we stood at the window. Looked out onto London; in a square far off there was a Christmas tree decorated with gingerbread men twice as tall as me. The view was panoramic and the sky was bleh. I cracked my forehead off the pane and whispered 'It's Christmas and I'm all alone'. It was the girl upstairs...? exited the apartment. drove home, skidded on slush...

called the boy today. told him i missed him. he misses me too, and called me 'buddy', like old. 's about all Jenny can hope for...no I Love You in two weeks.

am soon to acquire a radio copy of a CD by a band called The Prayer Boat whose vocalist has been compared to Jeff Buckley and Nick Drake and Thom Yorke and the gentleman from Coldplay...'Balance' seems a nice song...will update upon listening.

Lindsay and Sean are closing on their first house today; my heart feels bittersweet for them. I wish I could be there to help pack, unpack, move kitties, take all the unopened wedding presents from her mother's attic and watch as they unwrap the huge strawberry-coloured ceramic dishes like it's the first time they've ever seen them. Her cousins will be there, the uberChristians who left her wedding reception at nine o'clock without helping to clean up, who refused to dance in the bridal dance because they were saving their first dance for their husbands, baking useless scores of thumbprint cookies and chattering like old maids. It's funny that I myself have never felt more like an old maid than when I had to spend time with them helping plan Lindsay's wedding. They've all got the knack of making everyone around them feel exceptionally secular (which I think is Christian for 'ugly in the eyes of our god'). Gods, that's it, I've got to go find me an 'Am I Marriageable?' internet quiz before I lose it and do something drastic!

25 March 2004

ohhhh melikes this ... especially 'beer roof' and 'quack runic'

...tonight in yoga i dreamed i was breathing water. was cold in the lungs.

23 March 2004

Today, while standing, I touched my nose to my knees for the first time in my life, which may be, as some believe, a signal that evil is lurking very, very near.

He called, wanting C. She wasn't in the branch, due to the fact that she had company staying at her house (I have already been assured that I may have an entire week of paid leave next time the muskrats, who demand a continuous daily supply of vegetable soup, come to visit). He spoke to T instead, and quite mysteriously. Just as I am trying to figure out a cunning way of asking what was going on, T asks me to be his dual in the vault, and laughingly spills the story in its entirety. He - he - wants her - her - to teach all the bank employees how to use the new browser that eventually we will all be using to process transactions, open accounts, and program robots. He wants her to teach a class. T got a monstrous kick out of this, because C is
  1. a horrible teacher
  2. massively impatient
  3. quite rather unfond of imparting knowledge (especially that which she perceives only she ought to know)
  4. a horrible teacher
  5. massively impatient
  6. and you might take it from here...
I inquired, ever so subtly, 'Why? Why, in god's name, why?' T responded, and I quote, 'Because he feels she's versatile, and capable.' So it's not just her delicate beauty he admires. He actually believes she's intelligent, and capable, not only in her own arena of work but in his own as well. He hand-picked her. I should, perhaps, not complain so much, as it was me who was chosen to train the branch's tellers in new accounts back at the beginning of the year, and it was also me who taught herself cash management in an afternoon (out of C's own notes manual, and precisely because C refused to train me herself), went on a call three days later, and was asked to train the new accounts in Riverside. It's not that I feel stupid, or left out. It's that he hand-picked her. Good old jealousy, quite simply. And it isn't over, as C, being absent today, has no idea of this clever scheme. Tomorrow she will call him and I will have to struggle to retain my composure and not throttle her as she bitches and moans for half an hour against her fitness, ability, or willingness to teach anything, and then coyly suggests that they get together at the local Mongolian Beef place to discuss the implementation of 'procedure'. He will buy her a gallon of ice cream and it will all be over; no way will he be able to resist the power of her shared spoon!

20 March 2004

Friday: T tells me the splitting-at-the-seams of my relationship with Josh is 'his loss', as I evidently 'have a great personality and am very good-looking'. Who knew, eh?

Hung out at G's last night...that is turning into a weekly event. I have a great time with her! Her eldest daughter, 17 and a semester away from graduating from high school, is planning on becoming a seamstress/designer. She was sewing a shirt by hand as we watched movies. I, due to the exquisite combination of my own geekiness and my own laziness, happened to still have my box of sewing patterns in the trunk of my car from when I moved from Lupe's. I brought them out; her eyes got huge. We discussed threaders, straight pins, dressmaker's chalk, seam rippers, the art of basting. I showed her which patterns I had sewn and commented on the intricacies of each one as I had encountered them. She did a fantastic job with the shirt; she sews by hand in a perfectly straight line with nice, small, strong stitches. She showed me her drawings - her shoulders are the loveliest I've ever seen put to paper, shoulders like I always wished for, long, curved, bony. She needs a dressform; it is now my mission to find her one. My sewing machine - inherited from my mother - is at home in Pennsylvania, in someone's attic, a nearly-new Singer in an ancient red suitcase that my mother has had since she was 17 and sewing her own skirts and blouses for school. That'll be making its move to California in July! I haven't sewn in a great long time; I think I'm far too impatient to be a good seamstress. I cut out the patterns and do the pinning and cut the pieces completely painstakingly, as though this one dress will be the culmination of my whole life's work. Then I get onto the machine and get antsy, and start omitting rather important steps like interfacing and lining and hemming and attaching sleeves. G's daughter can teach me some patience, perhaps, as my pounds-upon-pounds of fabric are under the bed, grumbling softly, waiting to be punctured and basted, still.

And there was a reply (to this) from him waiting Thursday - 'the film?' is what it said. My bumbling and mumbling had lead him to believe that I had starred in a film with the coworker whose name I mentioned, and that furthermore T approved of it. I found this out not through more emailing but by actually speaking to him, as somewhere round about 10:00 Thursday morning five different programs on my computer committed suicide, and I was forced to telephone him. The ensuing conversation was painful. I really need to stop and give myself a day or so to realise the possibility of utter failure next time I have the opportunity to fire off what I think is a 'witty rejoinder'. I do wonder, though, why he didn't just reply 'Yup, I know your phone still says Rosemary, will take care of it, thanks!' A quote from the wonderfully maniacal analysis of this four-email series and its accompanying telephone call as written in my journal:
A semi-inside joke in the form of a question is surely not what one writes if one is just acknowledging a note and closing up the matter soundly with an assurance to take care of things...to write what he did was just blatant jest. So if he's jesting with me does that mean he invites a response?
Surely a quote which puts the proverbial wax seal on my patheticalness.

I just desire him so! He is a complete mystery to me, a grey thing to whom I want to put colour, light, something familiar. I receive snips of him against my senses and this dumbfounds me more than if he were to outright offer himself to me fully. His voice is lovely...he speaks so lowly, so softly, and when I speak to him I find myself speaking more lowly, more softly, so that we are connected on a thin wire of a line, two strangers whispering at each other, the image of which stirs me profoundly. Jim made the distinction between him and Josh for me, he being the one who 'paralyzes' me and causes me to be sealed in amber while I wait for a breath, some kind of notification, Josh being the one with whom I am free from that tension, and natural. I suspect Jim made this distinction partially because he's rooting for Josh ;)

I know Josh's mind profoundly, and that naturalness, those incredible conversations, that ease of breath when we are together, makes us wholly intellectual lovers for each other. Our relationship is one of intelligence; it's what attracted us to each other, it's what kept us together so fucking long, it's what has cemented our friendship so that we are still calling each other daily when any other couple who has been through what we've been through would have drifted apart round about Halloween. I believe I've said - and I was not exaggerating - that occasionally we engage in a conversation which, were his voice a little lower and more ragged, would be so intellectual so as to be characterised as sexual for me. The sadness of this is that I have a body, and love is not all in the mind for me - nor do I believe for one second that it is all in the mind for him. I don't want to be completely an aethereal intellectual lover, getting off over the phone on conversations about Thus Spake Zarathustra, stroking his forebrain. It's wonderful, yes, but it's not all...there's more, there has to be more. Someone to notice things, intricacies, my smell, my shape, someone who can make me come, someone with whom I can be close on the physical level as well as the intellectual. I want to be Gala and Dali, him realising my face in spheres, noting my birthmarks, speaking of my legs, building me castles, speaking nonsense for me, wearing a hat for me, gazing at me. Gala as the Virgin Mother, Gala as the prostitute, Gala as his sister, his mother, his caretaker. One woman as all women. There is none of this in the cool, shady space that is my love with Josh. It is pure intellect, no passion, nothing to sustain me. I cannot replace anyone in Josh's life, or uplift him, or even praise him. He is entirely self-sufficient, a whirring machine, and I can be a small me with him, plain me, remembered sometimes, a little key which terminals in at the appropriate times and then releases when the notification is given. For all the passion Josh has for the things he creates, the things he slaves over and sweats over, this is the truth I have gained about him with regard to my own self. There is nothing to say that he is any more or less capable of any of this - as I have said, I don't know him. That, coupled with the tiny keyholes onto his life that I have peered into, is precisely the attraction. He is probably ten years older than me, perhaps slightly younger but only just. He has been married. His is a different perspective. Jim suggested that
'there's an illusion that what you desire here is total change, transformation, yet theres something regressive about it, like you want to stop all possibility for change and enter a movie screen existence'.
I don't know if change in the realm of love would ever be considered by me as regressive - perhaps intellectually, anyway, but not emotionally. Change in love is shifting gears, ne? This shift would be horizontal, away from the type of Josh, towards...well, any other type. I love Josh, which should be quite clear - but can I marry him, live with him, have one whole pole of myself neglected as though it doesn't exist? The hopeless romantic, the passionate brooding 'artist', the woman who wants her thighs praised, the dense, red, weighty matter of my own physical self? I choose not to! The bones of the matter is that I am simultaneously realising another element essential to what I believe love is for me and realising that I have a bit of a crush on this man. The two are circles, spheres of my emotions intersecting.

17 March 2004

Oh ya...and the 'me going to Riverside every Wednesday to help in new accounts' never panned out. Apparently it's a much better use of time to leave me in Corona to do my work there and field calls from the inept pair of new accounts in Riverside all bloody day long, bugging me about how to add someone to an account and where the rubber bands can be found. Sigh...
Ai...a few weeks back I sold an old algebra textbook via half.com to some guy who lives out here. He, having my email address from the transaction, took it upon himself to add me to his buddy-list on MSN and start randomly sending me IMs. God strike me if I don't simply love aggressive strangers, but this guy was word-flirting with me within 25 minutes and asking me my eye and hair colour within half an hour! Well...I am a good enough writer that I can manage to deflect the worst of the brazen flirting and questioning, but last night's conversation took the fuckin' cake! As follows, the cake-taking excerpt, if you would be so kind:

He: you thin. slender, chubby or FAT ?
Me: what woman would answer that question honestly when the person asking it can't see her? ;)
He: HONESTY my dear, will take you a LONG.......Long.......way.....
He: so what is IT?
Me: lol
Me: you first, eh?
Me: no fair me having to answer all the questions ;)
He: flaca, bien, ancha o GORDA?
Me: sigh...
He: toned, muscular and built like a caballo! [That's horse, if you couldn't guess]
He: ok you now
Me: well, in that case, I'm built like salma hayek
Me: er...that's a joke........
He: waiting for an honest answer .........
He: she's SHORT anyways........
He: but very PRETTY though, may I say
Me: she is yes...
He: stiil twirling my fingers [at this point I'm getting genuinely uncomfortable!]
Me: ahh....
He: ok then
Me: i don't know what to say!
Me: up against someone built like a horse of course...
He: but WHY? Afraid to say you very FAT or ??? [commence cake-taking]
He: lol
Me: LOL [ya, I always laugh out loud when insulted electronically]
Me: tall, a bit of pudge...
He: show me the BODY Beautiful [what does that mean?!]
Me: not hugely fat, thank someone
Me: slightly curvy.....
Me: whatever! [which was meant to be read, 'Shut the fuck up about my body, now'. Sadly...]
He: what's pudge?
Me: ohhhhhh GOD
He: so you fat nuthing' wrong with THAT !!!! [even Josh, the veritable king of Saying the Wrong Thing, never tread this far into oblivion...]
Me: er...
Me: perhaps if i just gave you my measurements...;)
Me: you sicko
He: so let's see you must weigh somewhere in the
Me: NO!
Me: didn't your mum ever tell you not to try to guess a woman's weight?
He: ok give me measurements Sweet thing
Me: was joking about that too dear :)
He: yeah i knew that !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! lol [glad someone's having a riot here]
He: ;)
Me: hehe
He: haha
He: hoho Santa Clausa is coming to CA town!!!! [thus marking Jenny's Sexiest Moment on Planet Earth]
Me: indeed
Me: lol
He: you Santa Clausa ?
Me: ah well...i can never be your slender blonde girl, it's for sure... :) [...'you motherfucker']
Me: not quite a barrel of jelly though either!
He: so more on the fatty side then on the chubby?
Me: nah chubby is just about right probably [at this point I am weeping softly into my Strawberry Shortcake doll]
He: b honest bout it Jenny ..
He: okay thank you
Me: disturbing that it matters so much to you...
Me: ah well!
Me: to each his own i suppose
He: nah naot a bit in the WORLD ...........
Me: well you bugged the shit out of me enough about it! lol
He: nah really it doesn't matta MUSCHO!!!

...and then he proceeded to act surprised that a plus-size gentlewoman such as myself had used the word 'shit'. Grr...I've half a mind to demand my algebra book back ;)

He sent round an email asking all of us to let him know if we had any 'issues' with our telephones, as the phone company would be visiting soon. I, fingers trembling, wrote him.

'...I'm sure one of my wonderful coworkers told you that my phone still says 'Rosemary'!'

He: 'That is your name isn't it?'


After giggling nervously at my desk for half an hour and garnering strange stares from the teller line, I managed to reply: '{his name}, you can call me anything you like! T seems to like me as Julie...Have you managed to see the film yet?', thus seizing the wonderful opportunity lost last Friday when he and T were talking on the phone about 'The Passion' and then T randomly passed the phone off to me, asking me to transfer the line to D's desk. I should have talked into the phone, asked him something, anything, just to initiate some kind of communication. Like a dummy I listened to him breathe for a moment or two and then transferred the line like the wimp that I am. Perhaps a reply shall be waiting tomorrow in the now-considerably-downsized-inbox...

Good old Jesus, doing his part for the lonely geeks of the world!

16 March 2004

Tonight I discovered, via a step aerobics class, just why I didn't make cheerleading in the eighth grade.

What's with all the eighth-grade-era discoveries lately?

Trekking along in the Proust...must go shower...

15 March 2004


A health centre. A ladies' wellness complex, if you will. They offer everything but a complimentary Pap smear. It's a shame about that, actually...

Went today after work. Received, last week, a free three-day pass to said complex from none other than the proud owner of the Londos ass. They offer aerobics. And yoga. And Pilates, which, in spite of my exceptional hipness, I know nothing about save the fact that it gave Madonna biceps like knotted sailing rope. And a funny bird called a 'Nautilus', which I was made to, er, manipulate for fifteen minutes...before the workout. Went into the 'circuit' room. Made it through three-quarters of the, er, devices before beginning to feel faint. Turns out I hadn't eaten since 11:00 am, which is apparently inadvisable. They plied me with water and sat my (obviously, or I wouldn't be there) fat ass on a chair while my person took the application of an exquisitely shaped, tanned girl while her boyfriend looked on, gaggling appropriately. It was a highly enlightening experience. On Jeopardy there was a 'Metal Bands' category and I got every question correct excepting the one about Def Leppard, which I never knew was actually considered a 'band' much less a 'metal band'. The contestant-in-the-middle was an accountant from Norman, OK who once had a job answering fan mail for Rage Against the Machine.
trebek: 'Popular group, that Rage Against the, er, Machine?'
CPA: 'They were big, they were very big...and all of their letters said "Dudes, you rock" in them'
Well, though I succumbed to peer pressure and am now completely obsessed with losing fifty pounds by December and looking like Paris Hilton (aaaaahahhhahahaaahha! Big ol' Bill Hicks gut laugh there!), I feel pretty good. A bit o' the wobbles legwise, but rather nice overall.

And a sublime quote from 50 Cent, whoever the fuck that is: 'I ain't into faggots. I don't like gay people around me, because I'm not comfortable with what their thoughts are...I'm not prejudiced... I'd rather hang out with some straight dude. But women who like women, that's cool.' Well, I'm sure there are all sorts of disclaimers to that statement, such as 'as long as they don't look like lumberjack dykes', or, 'as long as they've got a brasilian wax and a clit piercing', that this fine specimen of humanity was simply unable to include during his interview. He's truly a poet of the times! Silly me, I find all lovemaking alluring. Yes, that's correct, I'm all right with faggots. Don't really mind havin' them near me. Aa...I knew there was a reason I've not been published yet ;)

14 March 2004

My mum, this evening, urging me to call los mejicanos from Lupe's and have a go of all night drinking with 'em, just to ease the loneliness which she knows is rife within me:
'Call those guys, and say, Hey, meet me at Casa del What-the-hell's-goin'-on?, or alternatively, Casa del What-the-fuck's-up?'
Ai, ai, there may be hope for mi madre yet!

so I've been in an intense funk lately; my apologies to all who have come to the salon during this week only to be refused, not by me, but by the ghost of me, as I myself was somewhere else entirely. here i am, setting out the tea, writing notecards. as we all know, i have only one younger brother for a sibling; imagine my surprise when, due to the relatively depressive nature of this blog of late, i received emails from not one but two older male friends in whom, it seems, that melancholy inspired feelings of older-brothering. Thanks joel and jim! What an odd sensation, to be older-brothered, especially by such articulate folk. I'm usually the one doing the older-brothering/sistering, which i detest. some signal my blood gives off as it pumps through me seems to alert the general public that i am the person to come to for sordid affair advice, desperate weeping, general consolation, and whinging. As we may or may not know, my own mother is, while oddly lovely, quite insufficient in her role, and as a result i have a great longing for and jealousy of a woman who could be sufficient for me in this role. probably now the longing for an older brother shall be added to this; i have such a sick desire to be protected, defended.

last week was wretched. sometime in the week commencing 1st March i received a note from the aforementioned younger sibling which contained the phrase 'i am not intending to live much longer'. he, of course, has been using again, and has even ceased to make intelligible excuses for it. my father had called me to tell me of these goings-on. he left my mother's house, came back, left again, came back, and so on. all his belongings in trash bags. my mother found him kneeling at his bed weeping and did not disturb him. the images are the worst part; my imagination is crueller than even the cruellest conversation i could have with my mother, even crueller than the one we did have, in which she, by her own confessions at various points, was simultaneously dedicated to guarding my sensitive feelings and sparing me no detail. as we were having the conversation i was vaguely aware that in a few hours my sense of self-preservation would initiate, and i would wipe the images from my head and forget all but the nicest memories of my brother. i realised this was ridiculous (thanks in part to jim's comment about 'capturing life as it goes') and so i wrote down the things she was saying as she said them. god, but that hurts. i would much rather forget. but it is someone's responsibility to remember the whole truth of my brother's life, because he seems dedicated to erasing it behind him as he goes like those dogs in the animated Alice in Wonderland with brushes at their snouts and their tails, and because my parents seem intent on wilfully forgetting it and reverting back to the 'him' who is still nine years old and the good child. i love him, of course, which makes the burden of being the one to release everyone from this disgusting suspended-animation much lighter.

anyhow, yes, the note. the little bastard. i called him promptly, had my mother wake him (damned three-hour time difference), reamed him quite properly. I doubt he even heard a word i said. i recall using lots of profanity which i thought would be appropriate. i could hear him nodding his head at me complacently. i could hear in his voice that he couldn't wait to hang up with me even as i am, evidently, as put forth in his note to me, 'the only one in his life that hasn't betrayed him'. The weakness of that statement hits me even now. has he expected that life holds no betrayals? Especially with the parents we have!! in some ways he is still nine years old; in some ways, though he is intellectually brilliant, and though he has seen more of 'real life' (i.e. street life) than i would ever want to, he is unable to realise what a grand betrayal and a heartache being alive really is. myself, i prefer to write scathing stories in which i kill off or have raped those who have betrayed me, and come to some resolution, and move on into perhaps liking them. if he wishes to keep a tick-off list of those who have crossed him and made him feel worthless perhaps it is better he kill himself. See! there! I have betrayed him with my thoughts. Never mind the thoughts i had the night i received the notes; i fell asleep crying, imagining his funeral, my mother's irreversible tip off the side of the cliff, my father's inability to cry, his fiancee's shock and desire to reverse her commitment to become part of our family, my status as an only child, my mother's messages to me until her death proclaiming me 'more of her rock than ever', my mother's sisters' scandalised stares at my brother's body in a coffin, if indeed the coffin was open; i know chris fairly well, but since his descent into 'addiction' (to what i still don't know) i doubt i still have the ability to gauge just how much of a sick fuck he is, and thus whether he would do something quick or something gruesome. oh, what lovely fantasies, for me and for him. a related diversion: an excerpt of something i wrote on the subject at work but never posted:
...all this time, therapy, medication poured into me and I still relish the thought of my depression. I was so low Wednesday night - no music sounded beautiful, reading wasn't pleasurable, I didn't even have enough energy to write. I cried myself to sleep thinking about my brother. But I just had a mental flash of my feelings from that night and a shiver of near-pleasure ran down my spine. I still love plumbing the depths of mood. Is this so apparent when people look at me?
and who's the sick fuck?

so that week rounded out, and i called my parents on sunday, and had to deal with talking to my brother himself in his apathy, my mother half-drunk who insisted on replaying the events of the entirety of Saturday to me, my stepfather who is fast becoming the only fucking sane one of the whole bunch, my father refusing to talk about it at all, and his fiancee asking me questions she didn't want to know the answers to and then going off and brooding and crying, thus prompting my father to bring up the subjects he was avoiding in the first place. thankfully no-one thought to ask me if i had made any friends that week.

week commencing 7th March - the wretched one. yes, all that above was just the precursor to the wretched week! went monday to see 'the passion'. began weeping at the slow-motion scene of Judas catching the bag of coins - brilliant to show the frames in slow-motion, brilliant to have the bag open so that his greed and conflict could clink thirty times onto the floor for all the world to judge him by - and didn't stop until round about tuesday evening. was completely incapacitated all of tuesday. C called me 'puffy girl' (my eyes) and said to me nonchalantly 'you are no different than all the other people who saw the film'. Thank you, O wise one, for your assessment of my personal suffering! what a good catholic she is. she doesn't even eat meat on Fridays. spent the entire day thinking of Jesus. stupidly confessed these things to my mother in an email, because she had written me worried at my mood, thinking that she, older, wiser, would understand this tiny bit of my spiritual plight. oh, but no! i really am stupider than i had realised. she immediately fired off a reply which had no substance or compassion and in which she said 'ASAP (always say a prayer)' about eight more times than necessary. that's my mother, my good catholic mother. she wants the sacraments, but she cannot have them. all this teetering about the edge of receiving communion has caused her metamorphosis into an acronym-spewing mockery of a nun. she wrote to me
Love you much, keep Jesus in you heart and life
in the email. i suppose it is my fault...she has no way of knowing that that challenge, that 'keeping', is the crux of the crisis of faith that has spanned the last 13 years of my life. it's my fault that i don't talk to her about this more...but you see what happens when i do endeavour! and why must her love for me be appended to such a statement?! as for what i actually received from having watched the film, i can't quite say. it's much broader than my capability for words. I heard a lot of talk about people emerging from the film newly-saved; knowing my own sensitivities and my own spiritual vulnerability, I was terrified at this fate for myself, and therefore entered the theatre repeating that phrase that got so much use when I would attend the Assembly of God services with Lindsay: Don't forget, he was a human being...don't forget, he was a human being.... Imagine my surprise when I realised that the focus of this film was indeed his humanity; far from 'saving' me, the film took me far from catholicism (which is responsible for establishing and promoting his 'divinity' over his humanity) and from pentecostalism (which still scares the utter crap out of me), and brought me closer to what it is to be alive and be courageous. Plus, I really dug that even though Pilate demonstrated his ability with Aramaic while addressing the Jewish crowd, Jesus spoke to Pilate in Latin - truly underlining, without even using the verse, his belief of 'rendering unto Caesar what is Caesars, rendering unto God what is God's'. In World Religions this past fall, Mahon called Jesus's messages 'subversive' - I realise all too well now what he meant, and I realise as well that, while in the fall I took that word as an epithet, being subversive against that which oppresses you takes tremendous courage.

yeah...Tuesday. It was Uncle Paul's one-year anniversary, and I felt horridly guilty at spending the day thinking of Jesus when I had meant to spend the day quietly communicating with him, thinking of him fondly, perhaps telling stories about him with my dad, letting him know I had missed him, going through all the journal entries I had written the week of 3/9/03. I called Josh, thinking he might take some of the burden off, thinking i could tell him a bit about the film and we could talk a bit about Uncle Paul. Caught him at quite possibly the worst I have ever caught him; in all our time together he never once rose his voice at me unless I had begun the screaming, but he actually yelled at me that day (he was busy and wanted to call me later, i must have sounded disappointed and just said i would speak to him the next day, he lost his temper), never mind hanging up abruptly and without saying the words which at least might have stilled my heart marginally. Everything on that end worked out okay - he called me Wednesday night and kept calling until i managed to answer the phone, whereupon he apologised (once he had worked out that he really had been a jerk) and commenced a lovely 45-minute conversation. The rest of the week managed to pass without event; but between trying to slough off the depression and the maniacal bouts of writing that have seized me of late, i had no energy for this little corner of my life. Forgive me!

the thought that actually brought me back was one that is completely inappropriate with regard to all the solemnity i just put to paper above, which of course means I'm going to go ahead and post it anyhow ;) I am deep into the Proust I borrowed from the library; Jim said 'Proust is the guy for the capturing-everyday-life stuff' and strike me if Jim is not again correct. Aside from the business with the Saint-Hilaire steeple, which I find immensely boring and devoid of meaning, the writing is unthinkably gentle and full of introspection and self-indulgence, both in the style and in the behaviour of the characters. I am also reading 'Writing Down the Bones' by Natalie Goldberg, and she all but indicts self-indulgence. However, the book, as far as I am into it, is rife with references to her Zen Buddhism practice which I find to be exceedingly self-indulgent! I dislike artists who speak against self-indulgence. What is art if not indulging the self in its dreams and phantasies? There are a lot of people who work hard and read John Grisham novels and play tennis and don't give a thought to the possibility indulging in the expression of their inner workings and desires. Therefore it would stand to reason that all people who try such expression are indulging in a very real way! The book is very good, actually, but the author is a fool if she believes that she, by the process of 'practice writing', has managed to eradicate all self-indulgence from her writing and thinking. To write something down from inside you and then work on it, that smacks of self-indulgence! The very act of writing itself is. She seems to believe that thing that I have believed, that there are only certain things that need to be said. Plus she managed to semi-insult Galway Kinnell (albeit in a roundabout sort of sly way), which I find semi-unforgiveable.

ANYWAY (today being the day for self-indulgent tangents, evidently!) - the idea that brought me here was quite simply an erection (though not one belonging to anyone in close quarters with me, sadly), and the play that goes along about it between a couple. I was reading the Proust, thinking, daydreaming, indulging in phantasy, and suddenly my mind hit upon a sort of combination fantasy-memory about the moments before actual intercourse, when the poor erection is revealed. Is it always so funny?! I would look at it; Josh would do anything but look at it. He would blush. I would laugh. I would say the stupidest thing of all time - 'What's that?' What's that?! Things muttered during lovemaking should not be subject to the same standards of coherence as other mutterings might be. 'I don't know' he would say, thus creating the Number-Two entry on the aforementioned list. He would grin, still looking away from my eyes. Some fumbling, repositioning would occur. Any number of further mutterings might follow: 'Is it for me?' 'I don't know what you're talking about' 'Aww, poor boy...' I would touch everywhere but where my hand should've gripped for dear life. God, but we were stupid. I do guess it would've been substantially less romantic if I'd said 'Gosh, your cock's hard, let's go to it then', but is the hide-and-seek the only alternative to utter unromance? I laugh thinking of it. No such conversation occurred regarding my own parts. 'Are you wet for me?' he would growl, and then silence me as he would glide his hand between my legs. Straightforward, that one! I guess because the erection is the thing that men cannot hide, jokes must be made about it as though it were quite veiled and unapparent. Maybe it is an effort to make men feel as though their arousal should be discovered in the same way that a woman's is, to counter the fact that everything they have going on within them is immediately put on display. I want to call this erection ritual 'childish' and 'stupid' but the fact remains that I enjoyed it, and further, he enjoyed it, as it increased the longing between us. I miss that longing and those rituals between us. I can imagine me with him for the first time. 'What's that?' 'It's my dick, version 5.0. What were you expecting, a robot?'

Listening to:
  1. Bjork, 'Post'

  2. Madonna, 'Bedtime Stories'

  3. Ulver, 'Perdition City'

08 March 2004

just come from watching 'the passion'. er...................

here is the one thing, the most powerful thing, that i think i can manage to put into words: there is nothing, nothing, in this world, not fifteen years of Masses, not seeing the passion plays, not the genuflecting and the rising with the cramp in the knee, not ashes on the forehead, not the crucifix covered with a purple cloth, not the gentle murmur of the recitation of the Stations, not the ivory-engraven plaques of the Stations themselves which hung all along the walls under the stained glass windows in St. Cyril, not being on that altar as an eighth-grader in sandals and a sheet without knowing a bit of what I was doing - nothing which could have possibly prepared me for that first fall. All my life, as a Catholic and as whatever else there has been for me, I have imagined it as a genuflection, as though he might have just dropped to one knee briefly to take a breath, as though it could have been almost dainty. Nothing hit me harder than that, the realisation of the symbolism behind that fall, that staring stark into the face of a human being, nothing. I yelped into the theatre.

02 March 2004

another subpar post du travail -

One of our customers is having troubles logging on to our online banking. I suspect it's a matter of his security settings. Asked C about it. She said that he gets in at 12:30 and I should ask him. Then she said to tell the customer we'll call him back around 1:30. Is it 12:30 or 1:30?' I asked. Nastily she replied 'it's 12:30 - but he will have other things to take care of first' Is she so condescending because she is stupid? knows nothing about Internet Explorer? loves him and feels insecure? is slightly pudgy? Or is it truly me that engenders these feelings in others and causes them to send them in waves towards me? I can't tell how many times the phrase 'And you're supposed to be the smart one?' has issued from her mouth towards me. And now she's just brought me a cup of pretzels. Why can't she stay away and quit doing nice things long enough for me to talk about her behind her back?!

I would hope that, in the span of my lifetime of making mistakes, some light will shine on me due to the fact that at least I always take vocal responsibility for what I do.

The sun is shining, and 'Something Tells Me I'm Into Something Good' is on the muzak. All is right with the world. This is the best song ever.

01 March 2004

Relented. Called Josh, needing to discuss an item charged against our bank account. Ended up on the phone for a half an hour that passed like a half a minute; would've stayed for twice that, perhaps more, if I weren't so wigged out by the roaming charges. He related a wonderful story concerning Uncle Paul, who died one year ago 9th March and who has been on my mind constantly lately. Uncle Paul wasn't even my uncle - he was my dad's longtime best friend. I'm not really in the mood to discuss all what was wrong with him; suffice it to say he was beyond ill and legless by the time his demise occurred. His family - the Robinsons - treated him like garbage, and it was us who celebrated with him, took him to dinner, bathed him, helped him, got him at the hospital, so on, especially when he got really bad towards the end. Seeing his body lying on a plain plinth, not even in a coffin because he couldn't afford one, no legs, surrounded by Pittsburgh Steelers hats, is one of the more detestable and sad moments of my life. Josh's story was that he encountered one of the Robinsons - the youngest girl, Sara, who seems to be making a living as much at being a grocery-store cashier as at sucking all the local cock - at the Giant Eagle. Charming girl, that one. She, according to the boy, kept cocking her head at him, muttering 'Where do I know you from?' He spat, 'Paul' - they'd met each other when he'd accompanied me to Uncle Paul's appalling funeral service. She, evidently, continued to stare at him, unable to figure out who 'Paul' was. 'Your Uncle Paul? Your Uncle Paul?' he told me he kept saying; even on the phone with me I could hear his righteous indignation rising. 'Wow, Jen's family was right,' he finally spluttered at her, 'you are all horrible people'. Leave it to Josh to get one in for Uncle Paul when he can no longer do it himself. Even post-mortem the man remains king of the one-liner.

and our conversation was fantastic...I swear I get off just talking to him sometimes. I can't believe I'm still in love with him. That's it, no more. Just can't believe it.

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