Friday, June 26, 2009

best work e-mail exchange in forever

Manager: u there?

Me: yes.

Manager: Manager at college street entrance offering to buy soft serve ice cream from truck. any interest?

Me: hang on...we'll do up a memo... (i.e. hold tight)

Me: 2 say, yes please! 4 awol. should we come down?

Manager: Manager at college street entrance doesn't deliver.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

And so her mind came unto her and said, “Why art thou low, spirit?”
Her spirit replied, “A host of tangibles and a gross of intangibles* doth plague me, and alas, if there be means of smiting these great and terrible daemons, I know them not.”
Her mind declared, “For each Thing that troubles thee, I shall attach a balloon replete with helium to thee, and thou shalt be carried aloft by conscious construction. Inhale not great quantities of the precious helium, for thine voice shalt be rendered funny, and thy subsequent plummet to earth a thing of legend. In time, spirit, thou shalt lift thine own self under thine own power. For now, let’s go with the balloon-thing.”

*equivalent weight in metric fucktonnes yet to be calculated

Sunday, June 21, 2009

conversions--the new math

I love Mel for so many reasons. Here is but one of them (stemming from a conversation re: metric fucktonnes):

"A metric fuckgram is equivalent to the weight of one cubic centimetre of holy shit."

Wednesday, June 17, 2009


...and in the midst of all my navel-gazing, I am alive.

So sorry, Ms. J, about your sudden loss today, and other Ms. J, to hear about Zaidy.


Igor not here

Change in the air. Masks coming off, others going on. New understandings of myself, coupled with a slow integration for once. I’m sad about it, in a way, but in the end it’s better for me. Why would I miss things that keep me weak? The basement-child romanticism is fading…leaving behind only the basement-child, but with a clearer view of the piles of ancient detritus needing my attention. It’s likely not possible to clear them all away—can any of us ever do that?—but at least there’ll be some breathing space. I spend far too much time in the attic (attic-child?), wishing the rest of my house didn’t exist. Am I past the point of being able to inhabit the rooms I’ve never seen? I don’t even know if they’re furnished—and with what, if they are.


Waiting for the bus yesterday, an 8-y-o boy declared: “Igor not here. Igor mind him own business.” “You’re lying,” his mother replied. “Sorry, master.” Igor repeated him lines several times before I realised him rehearsing for a play.

I tried to look it up online today, to figure out what play it was—and Google tells me it’s Igor Stravinsky’s birthday. I hope him have a happy birthday, even though him dead.

…and Sophia? Sophia not here. Sophia mind him own business. Sorry, master.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

sadly accurate--but fantastic all the same

I love me a good turn of phrase. Today's, courtesy of a co-worker, commenting on yours truly:

"You are a cloud in a field of silver linings."

Gorgeously, terribly true.

Tuesday, June 09, 2009


“spider, let me go,” I said.
she spun me ’round with scarlet thread.
I thought it would disintegrate
and thus I settled down to wait.

as time went on, she spun more strands;
I lay quiescent in her hands.
surely, now, I thought they must
begin to break down into dust.

but still the spider added more;
I rested on her parlour floor,
hoping she’d seek other prey
--the bonds would break; I’d walk away.

ensnared in her nightmarish web
my confidence began to ebb.
remaining there was mother’s milk
as still she ’broidered spider-silk.

I’d thought my freedom worth the cost,
but now believed that all was lost
and so I let her poison me
with bitterness and lethargy.

I barely moved, so sure I’d fall
still held in greedy spider’s thrall.
half-dead, I stirred, then stumbled; rose
encased in clinging spider’s-clothes.

with ev’ry trembling lurch I made
loose threads pulled free; the spider swayed,
unable to spin fast enough
to keep me robed in silken stuff.

with all my will, I fought my plight,
began to see the spider’s might
lay in my studied apathy
--which let her keep ahold of me.

and on the silent battle raged;
the spider could not be assuaged
but finally, with strands undone,
I stood alone, the battle won.

I fought with body, heart, and mind
and left the spider’s lair behind.
a man, unlike a hapless fly
can throw a spider’s plans awry.

if you, like me, become encased
in clinging, choking spider-lace
take heart, and shift, and you will see
that, in time, you too will be free.

Monday, June 08, 2009

two worlds collide

With no sense of self-preservation, I approached the bride and groom standing outside their house in the twilight. “I’m just a tipsy stranger on the street, but I was wondering if I could read you something to celebrate your wedding day.” Right away, I knew it was bad. When strangers approached me on my wedding day—several did—I was charmed. I made the foolish assumption that these two people I didn’t know would have the same sentiment about these things. But they were simply two harsh, ugly people in fancy clothes, who brushed me off, mocked me, and ‘what-the-fucked’ at one another as I walked away.

I was shaking. It was my own fault for imposing myself on their day. It would’ve been a long, taxing one, and the last thing they were interested in was some decidedly na├»ve wingnut soliloquising them when they could be off fucking somewhere.

I approached, was rebuffed, and tried to rationalise with myself about it. It upset me more than it should have. I fought to keep from crying, and felt humiliated and angry. Was it my fault, or was it theirs, or somewhere in-between?

earlier that same day...

The little girl (about 7 or so) arrived at the intersection of two footpaths ahead of her parents. Though there was no sun, she pointedly shaded her eyes and tracked my approach. As usual, all I could think was how I was setting such a bad example by smoking. I started to pass her. Eyes still shaded, she tilted her head up to look up—waaaay up—at me, and declaimed, “HI!!” I responded in kind as her parents laughed in half-surprise, half-indulgence. As I carried on, buoyed by the happy laughter at my back, I bemusedly tried to recall if I’d ever been that confident as a child.