I wrote a whole fucking blog from the heart about what I perceive to be love and it got deleted. Fuck the planet. Here's what love is fuckers:
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Creativity Robbed from Local Woman Upon Turning 30
We don't want to say it, saying it means it may have actually happened. Here it is (big breath in) ... I lost my creative juice upon turning 30. Everything I wrote was for this client or that, this project or that endeavor, never for myself, never for the sake of imagination.
Lucky for me, I have regrouped and here I am, perhaps not as good as I was, but getting there. How funny is it that life is supposed to make you wise and lodge all these insights into your brain, yet when I look back at what I wrote before I was even 20 it's leaps and bounds better than anything I can muster now?
Some would argue it's the dramatism. The punch of being young and feeling all sorts of stuff for the first time is enough to make a Picasso out of anyone, if they care to express. But when I think upon those "firsts" now, I want to vomit at having been so blind. Such is life for me. I hate for not being insightful, yet having become insightful I hate what it has rendered my words to be.
Stupidity and self-hatred have no bounds! I can remember writing poems about a boy I loved who I was sure I'd be with the rest of my life. I look at those every other year or so, sometimes they captivate me, other times I laugh at the pure teenager left there on the page, as if to say, "Hey, um, I have no idea what I'm talking about, but I will make it sound lavish and painful."
Too true. We all have that fledgling person inside us, perhaps this is the same idiot who makes us question every single thing we write or say; every single action we take is judged by this hater within us.
Get out your pen, get out your paper, write that sunuvabitch away. Tell her you'll miss her, tell her you'll read her poems once in a while, but for the time being, no matter how cool she might have been in the late 1990s, she's gotta pack it up, at least for now. Send your self-hating inner-teen to rehab ... doesn't mean you ever have to pick her up. Unless you want to. If you do, make sure she doesn't have keys to the family car.
Lucky for me, I have regrouped and here I am, perhaps not as good as I was, but getting there. How funny is it that life is supposed to make you wise and lodge all these insights into your brain, yet when I look back at what I wrote before I was even 20 it's leaps and bounds better than anything I can muster now?
Some would argue it's the dramatism. The punch of being young and feeling all sorts of stuff for the first time is enough to make a Picasso out of anyone, if they care to express. But when I think upon those "firsts" now, I want to vomit at having been so blind. Such is life for me. I hate for not being insightful, yet having become insightful I hate what it has rendered my words to be.
Stupidity and self-hatred have no bounds! I can remember writing poems about a boy I loved who I was sure I'd be with the rest of my life. I look at those every other year or so, sometimes they captivate me, other times I laugh at the pure teenager left there on the page, as if to say, "Hey, um, I have no idea what I'm talking about, but I will make it sound lavish and painful."
Too true. We all have that fledgling person inside us, perhaps this is the same idiot who makes us question every single thing we write or say; every single action we take is judged by this hater within us.
Get out your pen, get out your paper, write that sunuvabitch away. Tell her you'll miss her, tell her you'll read her poems once in a while, but for the time being, no matter how cool she might have been in the late 1990s, she's gotta pack it up, at least for now. Send your self-hating inner-teen to rehab ... doesn't mean you ever have to pick her up. Unless you want to. If you do, make sure she doesn't have keys to the family car.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
In Memory of Janie Diaz
Rebirth by Lil' Wayne has made me feel like I have been reborn. Sound silly? Pick up the album and give it a listen. This is not some hopped up gangsta pushing his game, this is straight up, from the heart, soulful, wise, meaningful, brave, and uninhibited.
I had always thought Lil' Wayne was one of those people who just showed up on everyone else's albums with no real identity of his own. I could not have been more wrong. I associated him with purple drank (which I think we should all try at least once before judging) and totally understood why The Onion portrayed him in an hilarious light in their online feature, Weezey F. Baby [see video below]
DEA Recruits Lil Wayne To Use Up All Drugs In Mexico
All the funnies aside, Lil' Wayne's latest album, "Rebirth" is one amazing track after the next. From laughing to crying, goose bumps to "fuck yeahs" you'll feel a piece of yourself in here, I promise.
The best part of the album aside from the lyrics is his own musical style -- you've never heard some shit like this before, I promise. Some have said it's rap meets rock -- I agree to an extent, but there's also an untouchable soulfulness there, and though it doesn't sound like James Brown, that essence of hard working do-it-til-you-make-it and "fuck the game in entertainment" is very much there.
This guy is tapping into some major topics and telling his truth about them. So what do you have in common with Lil' Wayne? Listen to Rebirth and find out.
I had always thought Lil' Wayne was one of those people who just showed up on everyone else's albums with no real identity of his own. I could not have been more wrong. I associated him with purple drank (which I think we should all try at least once before judging) and totally understood why The Onion portrayed him in an hilarious light in their online feature, Weezey F. Baby [see video below]
DEA Recruits Lil Wayne To Use Up All Drugs In Mexico
All the funnies aside, Lil' Wayne's latest album, "Rebirth" is one amazing track after the next. From laughing to crying, goose bumps to "fuck yeahs" you'll feel a piece of yourself in here, I promise.
The best part of the album aside from the lyrics is his own musical style -- you've never heard some shit like this before, I promise. Some have said it's rap meets rock -- I agree to an extent, but there's also an untouchable soulfulness there, and though it doesn't sound like James Brown, that essence of hard working do-it-til-you-make-it and "fuck the game in entertainment" is very much there.
This guy is tapping into some major topics and telling his truth about them. So what do you have in common with Lil' Wayne? Listen to Rebirth and find out.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Listerine Hookah, Hidden Vodka
We should have known when Jose filled the hookah with mouthwash instead of water that things were getting a little strange. The fact that it didn't even phase us is evidence that things may have been even worse than we were prepared for. The night that Jose filled the hookah with Listerine is a benchmark. These kinds of things allow you to create points on the timeline that define the entire purpose and meaning of your life.
To protect the innocent (Jose is not innocent, he is secretly mad as a fucking hatter), a name has been changed. We'll call him/her Terry. Never before had Terry shared with me that he/she could make a drink he/she shared with me on the night of Listerine Hookah. "Oh yeah, you can't even taste the vodka." It was LITERALLY a glass of vodka with some lemon juice and like half a nanoliter of club soda. But I could not taste the vodka. I don't know how this works as I have seen people go to endless lengths with all manner of juices, sodas, fruit, even vegetables and Gatorade to kill the taste of booze so they could get hammered faster and easier. "This is insane," I thought, "that the secret is just adding lemon juice to an entire tumbler of vodka." The night went on and took a turn for the worse that I will not go into to detail here or anywhere ever.
The important thing is that what Jose's Listerine Hookah and vodka hidden by lemon juice was a benchmark, one of the many that define the passage of my life. What did it benchmark? Me losing the last traces of my sanity. There it is, add it to the timeline. My mind has been on the fritz for years, but the following morning I realized, yup, that was it! She's gone -- I'm talking about a person driven so mad by life that they sing "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean" while clipping their toenails, or smoking cigarettes in the bathtub while listening to David Bowie while the house burns down around them. True insanity, not the cute fake kind, or the kind you see on Desperate Housewives.
Terry's insane vodka cocktail, the mouthwash smoke curling around the edges of my tongue and mixing with the "fruity delight" flavored tobacco, looking up and realizing we were watching Sex and the City, truly understanding completely for the first time that I had ACTUALLY placed a floor lamp ON TOP of the dining room table which was now in my BEDROOM, grappling with the fact that we were fucking completely FLAT broke, comprehending fully that we had re-adopted a dog we thought we'd never see again only to find that she has developed a nervous disorder, and so on, you know, just average everyday shit. Trying to assimilate all this at the same time caused my brain to overload, and subsequently meltdown into a dried puddle of burnt plastic next to the fuse box that was previously my central nervous system.
Then someone on TV [not Sex and the City] said something like, "My neighbor is suing me for killing squirrels." That was it. Any last shred of evidence that my mental faculties had ever existed was gone for good. Terry went home and Jose went to bed, stating, "Oh my Gat, I theenk dee Leeetereeene was a bad hidea..." and then I was left to my own devices. One can only take so much before just letting go completely, and that's what I did.
Sure, I made a few calls I don't remember, but that's par for the course. At one point I remember sitting on the pavement scratching my dog's ears and telling them I wasn't sure if everything was going to be alright. Then flash to a hazy moment of looking for a plastic toy microphone for reasons I can no longer conjure, and a brief try at reading a book of poetry before giving up because my eyeballs were rolling off the page and into a bad neighborhood.
Everyone has had it right now. Everyone I know is having moments of eruptive and unwelcome revelation, everyone is trying to hide their vodka behind some lemon juice, and everyone is doing something equally as insane as smoking a hookah filled with mouthwash. Because we just don't know what else to do.
For the purposes of this blog I will blame it on the economy and job losses. But I think we all know something pretty fuct with the universe has to be going on to make you put a floor lamp on top of a dining room table you've moved into your bedroom.
To protect the innocent (Jose is not innocent, he is secretly mad as a fucking hatter), a name has been changed. We'll call him/her Terry. Never before had Terry shared with me that he/she could make a drink he/she shared with me on the night of Listerine Hookah. "Oh yeah, you can't even taste the vodka." It was LITERALLY a glass of vodka with some lemon juice and like half a nanoliter of club soda. But I could not taste the vodka. I don't know how this works as I have seen people go to endless lengths with all manner of juices, sodas, fruit, even vegetables and Gatorade to kill the taste of booze so they could get hammered faster and easier. "This is insane," I thought, "that the secret is just adding lemon juice to an entire tumbler of vodka." The night went on and took a turn for the worse that I will not go into to detail here or anywhere ever.
 |
| ABSOLUTE MELTDOWN |
Terry's insane vodka cocktail, the mouthwash smoke curling around the edges of my tongue and mixing with the "fruity delight" flavored tobacco, looking up and realizing we were watching Sex and the City, truly understanding completely for the first time that I had ACTUALLY placed a floor lamp ON TOP of the dining room table which was now in my BEDROOM, grappling with the fact that we were fucking completely FLAT broke, comprehending fully that we had re-adopted a dog we thought we'd never see again only to find that she has developed a nervous disorder, and so on, you know, just average everyday shit. Trying to assimilate all this at the same time caused my brain to overload, and subsequently meltdown into a dried puddle of burnt plastic next to the fuse box that was previously my central nervous system.
Then someone on TV [not Sex and the City] said something like, "My neighbor is suing me for killing squirrels." That was it. Any last shred of evidence that my mental faculties had ever existed was gone for good. Terry went home and Jose went to bed, stating, "Oh my Gat, I theenk dee Leeetereeene was a bad hidea..." and then I was left to my own devices. One can only take so much before just letting go completely, and that's what I did.
Sure, I made a few calls I don't remember, but that's par for the course. At one point I remember sitting on the pavement scratching my dog's ears and telling them I wasn't sure if everything was going to be alright. Then flash to a hazy moment of looking for a plastic toy microphone for reasons I can no longer conjure, and a brief try at reading a book of poetry before giving up because my eyeballs were rolling off the page and into a bad neighborhood.
Everyone has had it right now. Everyone I know is having moments of eruptive and unwelcome revelation, everyone is trying to hide their vodka behind some lemon juice, and everyone is doing something equally as insane as smoking a hookah filled with mouthwash. Because we just don't know what else to do.
For the purposes of this blog I will blame it on the economy and job losses. But I think we all know something pretty fuct with the universe has to be going on to make you put a floor lamp on top of a dining room table you've moved into your bedroom.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
life is a stupid betch
 |
| Hemingway on crutches |
the basic essence is that i've had it. i can't go into the specifics because this blog post would then be a full-length "Lonesome Dove" situation.
the basic idea is this: there are people who generally work hard and fight hard and then there are people who don't. it's sometimes easy to mistake one for the other because the fighter has fought so fucking hard for so goddamned long that when they take a moment to lick their wounds in front of VH1, they look like the lazies.
trust someone who's been to both places. the lazies and the burned out buzies [busy people] are not the same. life is a stupid betch that makes them seem the same.
i might need to make a whole separate blog dedicated to what a stupid betch life is, because let's face it, there are so many millions of examples i'd more likely die of thirst with a bottle of water in front of me than run out of reasons as to why life is so fucking hard and insane.
where's this going? you say as you read this. nowhere. that's the worst part. i have no pearl of wisdom. all i know is, i am one of the buzies trying SO HARD not to let go. don't let go you guys. vomit into your hand if you have to, but don't let go.
QUESTIONS FOR THE PROF.
a) first of all, do we have to be here? is this an elective class or can i choose another inter-mural next semester?
b) the suffering: do i get college credit for that or should i put that down on my resume as an unpaid internship?
c) i'd like to ask for a letter of reference from the boss... is she around?
d) on field day should i play what i'm good at or help the kid who sucks play better at what he's trying to play?
e) do i need special shoes for specific events? [yes] if so, can life tell me when and which shoes?
i could literally go on until i was a beggin' strip on the patio. alas, i have tons to tend to, because no matter what, i am a mother even [and especially] when life is a stupid betch.
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