Ah yes, finally. Finialleeeeee. Thank god for refreshing perspectives. For people not letting you get away with it. For good sounds and images, for the entire film “Hero,” for rain at night when you’re trying to sleep, for The Daily Show’s Colbert Report and for the ongoing, not-stopping-regardless nature of just plain existence. Thank you for surprise emailing. Thank you for putting “reply goddamit” in the subject line. Thank you for texting and calling and leaving voicemail and saying F-this! Call me dammit! MoveOn.org yourself!

i still have the “ah, that’d be a good post” moments, but now I realize that that’s an ongoing scroll in my head with voices that will never quiet. i do have 3 false starts from the past month in the “drafts” folder, but ohwell, they’re dead now. Gotta just write and release. Catch and release; I know. I doubt the constant internal dialouge will ever really make it here again anyway. Besides, it’s been too busy giving the play-by-play to my imaginary friends .

So it’s a bitch trying to blog at work. A complete lost cause. I’ve been stripped of all my fun and previously cherished distraction devices – no IM’ing, very little emailing, few-to-none in the personal call category and pretty much no blogging. The main reason is because i’ve been strategically located in a cube in the crook of an L-shaped hallway, where everyone who walks by can take their pleasure of a gander of what I have displayed on my monitor. However, I do spent a good amount of time tweaking a web site each day but alas, it is not one that anyone has access to without two doctorate degrees and a laboratory staff of twenty, a handful of research mice and a few bed-rest studies. i don’t have these things of course, i’m just involved. It’s the operations staff who are the ballbreakers though – today someone made comment that i was looking at DailyCandy.com for chrissake. Fkking Blazes.

I’ve been in the hospital as a visitor for almost 5 weekends in a row now. Lives are changing in my small family; people are hurting and growing, changing and recovering. I think they’ll make it. I just wish I could force the want on them, but I know I can’t. Can’t fix it, can’t even make it better. Can just be present, and that’s all there really is to do.

I literally cannot wait until fall weather hits this city. It’s September tomorrow and we’re close enough to smell it….but just not taste it….

the under-the-skin, annoying problem is that we’re alike. i relate too often; i remember being a certain age and thinking similar things and making similar claims and keeping my damn eyes shut to any other way. as far as the saying goes, “the things you hate most in other people are the things you hate in yourself,” both the statement and its inverse in this case are true. the more i see in her that i dislike, the more i fear that i appear the same way. the more i witness the everpresent rip-offs, the more that crawls beneath my skin, the more embarrassed i am of the girl that i remember that i was. the more i want to delete all the time. arghh!! the rambling, all the misspelling and ploys and the setting of small traps and the tragedy. the goddamn creative tragedy. the statements and the gushings and the poor me’s and the stances and the self importance. i have trouble stomaching it. now why could that be? *wink*

what i am not is confrontational, unfortunately. would be a lot more interesting if i was. its a problem; i think. i want to pull a chris cooper “that’s how much fkk fish.” i should take stances in this venue – hard left ones and lofty right ones. give encantada some damn readership. call people idiots and stab at their upbringing. ignite some east coast/west coast one-upmanship. make people believe a certain way about me, certain things about me – incite rancor and anger and strong resentment, perhaps. laugh heartedly as i orchestrate the buzzing in the grand salons of rumor. but i can’t do that – doing so would require that i take stands. that i make proclamations. how does one go about that now?
chuckle.

what i will proclaim is how surprised i am that david garza is back in the cd player. that i liked him better, all these years later, after catching another in-store and buying the box. i thought that i was past it, into much more deeply textured things, right? i was a damn idiot. the second disc especially is surprisingly deck, as my art crowd acquaintances might attest. i did the same thing again breezing through snow patrol and giving it away. now i’m listening to it again; often present in my background speakers. oh, little lady; what to make of you.

i don’t want to bitch and moan and whine all the time, though i’m considering this post quite the fulfillment of said statement. i’m not saying anything new; confessing anything that you haven’t read before at so many junctures. going on in this way, all i can shoot for really is some rare moment that i articulate something casual-yet-touching, some observance that can be related to and isn’t grating to read. it’s not the goal but the selfish desire, i’m loathe to admit. so many months ago, i was content just to indulge the outpourings, regardless of their vulnerabilities. now i want it buttoned up and better played.

there needs to be more paying attention to everything. a focusing. on friends for chrissake. a pristine tuning of action, of intention, of productivity, of ambition to that perfect pitch. that sounds sort of terrible, sort of like an automaton, but i’m trying to get somewhere else with this. there will come a day when i won’t be able to stand this doing so little maybe.

just wish it hadn’t carried me this long…

Shall we go again?

I thought eating would feel good, but it didn’t. I thought running down the stairs and bursting out of the hospital doors into the blinding sunlight reflected on 13 stories of glass windows would feel better, but I guessed that one wrong as well. It is just so hot. So hot and humid. Makes a person feel inflated and squishy. Jello-putty-moist and big like the bourgeoisie in the beginning of Triplets.

I know who I’m voting for but I’m kinda keeping it to myself. I’m already tired of the conversations I’ve had and heard and the belligerent words from the blokes who decided that I wanted to hear what the hell they had to vomit up. When I wasn’t. Wasn’t interested. Never interested in the unsubstantiated opinions of people too dumb to realize that stating an opinion in a condescending manner does not mean it holds water as actual argument. Give me facts, not your hazy regurgitation from talk radio disc jockeys. Give me thoughtful communication instead of the joke you heard from the guy’s comments you’re imitating because you thought he sounded cool and now you’re ripping him off.

There’s no such thing as a floppy disk anymore is there. A big ol floppy flop disk. I remember those. I remember learning to write BASIC on those. I also remember playing Oregon Trail. There could be a link between the incidence rate of children with ADD then and now – less ADD back when Oregon Trail was the soup du jour, lots of ADD now that Doom 3 is making their eyes all aflicker. Not that I think about these things; they just come to me as I’m typing, I promise.

So in my dream last night – and I truly have no idea where this came from – I was being shown around this cool house by John Turturro. I assume it was his house and there were other people; not like it was a ‘me’ thing. The house was populated with interesting and insane interworldly items, many of which I guess I just invented, like the word “interworldly.” Think of like Indonesian carved wood doors and weird tiles and beaded tapestries and things. The driveway was winding up a hill and made of those smooth black massage stones that I would love to have under the arch of my foot right now…
So that was weird. Going to sleep with a little wine buzz makes for crazy dreaming.

I just want it to rain, you know? And for a kit-kat to magically land on my desk. And then, of course, to go home and take a quickie cat nap.

And now there’s a new post on this thing called blog.