Archive for February, 2012

Birthed of boredom

Just another collection of random thoughts birthed of boredom.  Digitized frustration bathed in light.  A blinking cursor, impatient, ever waiting for a prompt.  A heart-beat, almost, of phonemes made morphemes made more.  Like flesh to a skeleton it will grow, collecting to itself meaning.  For now though, it has yet to congeal.  It is yet simply idle cognition made visual.  Not following any conventions to speak of, it meanders, avoiding the point, avoiding conclusion.  It remains, behind a screen and trapped in another, waiting.  Waiting for attention to return, for the rekindling.


Titled with Untitled


The wind blows cold down these roads tonight.

The rubber pacing black tar punctuated with white.

Stars and no way to see them, dark sky bleached with light.

Closing red eyes, lashes to cheeks, I lull in false sight.



How to explain what has never been felt, like color without vision?  Busy either facing incomprehension or preaching to the choir.   Try to say: these thoughts, these foolhardy contemplations, are just interpretations based on sensations.  But lacking the talent for articulation (just gesticulation), words ring trite on the tongue and read without weight on the page.  Lacking energy, unable to dress them up pretty, I’m left feeling frustrated, disgusted, defeated, and petty.


The creak of a door blends with the sound of a sigh. I’m walking across damp bricks; the sounds echo hollow.  An indistinct silhouette on bare branches and a rustle of feathers; there is no horizon, no sky.  What is to be seen changes as I change location, block to block, street-light to street-light.  It is scenery in sections. This is a world in which I feel comfortable: an illusion of safety, a distortion of size.  With hard edges muted and a softening of lines, it is cozy.  The smell of moldering leaves, the glow of light diffused. . . I wish I could just wander, a cup of coffee in hand and nothing in my head.  I’d feel the itch of wool on my skin and the cool weight of fog on my cheek.  The click of my boot heels on pavement would fade as the sun slowly burnt its way to earth. I’d dissipate with the dew, and fade away with the morning.


The sad bastard

So, it’s that time of year again.  I’m sitting here frustrated, disappointed, blue.  I’ve a sigh caught in my chest and a rock in my guts.  It’s the gift of the season.  By now I’ve grown used to this, but I’ve never grown comfortable.  It sits poorly with me, and my struggles only serve to exasperate.  For years I’ve slipped into this funk; before it had an acronym even.  (Yeah that’s right, I had SADs before it was cool.)  Usually it starts earlier, when my nerves start to become frayed by the holiday season.  Yet, despite the rather disappointing end to last year I somehow managed to make it through with only a sense of bemusement.  I had been hoping that maybe I’d finally broken the cycle, as last year’s winter funk was relatively mild.  Alas, as much as I’ve tried to ignore it, the sad bastard has been creeping up on me for a couple weeks now.  What a shame.  Were it a choice I’d never allow myself to feel this way.  I can’t imagine anyone would.  But, by some fluke of chemistry this is my lot.  I’m not complaining exactly.  Over the years I’ve learned to recognize what is happening, and I’ve found ways to mitigate the effects.  I remain highly functional, often to the point where my depression is not outwardly obvious.  It is just draining, and my quality of life takes a dive.  I sleep more, read more, am more irritable.  I tend to want close company, but eschew it out of disgust for my state of mind.  It’s pretty textbook.  As are the things I’ve learned to try to curtail the worst.  I force myself to be social, to be creatively productive, to stay active.  I avoid the desire to self-medicate (aside from indulging my daydreams by looking up ticket prices to tropical places.)  I search out opportunities to laugh, to be engaged, or at least distracted.  I may be exhausted by the end of the day by my attempts to maintain a semblance of normalcy, but that is ok.  It keeps me from brooding, and I excel at brooding.  When I feel like this, it is too easy to lose momentum, and to lose momentum is to stall.  I can’t allow that.  Most of my adolescence and early adulthood has been spent in a haze of depression and anxiety.  I’ve lost too much time, wasted too many opportunities by wallowing.  It is just difficult sometimes, when your adversary is yourself and the best you can manage is damage control. . .

Spring, you can’t get here soon enough.

10 reasons why I’m not bearing children (an attempt at humor)

It’s not unusual to encounter a certain amount of incredulity when it becomes known that I’ve no desire to produce children.  I guess since I’m a woman people assume I’m destined to be a mother. I take offense to that.  Just because I have a uterus doesn’t mean I have to use it.  Think about it.  Just because you have that self-improvement book doesn’t mean you’re ever going to read it.  It’s just going to sit there gathering dust.  Just like my ovaries.

I’ve encountered a number of responses to this little tidbit of info: sadness, horror, even disgust.  People want to know what is wrong with me.  “You don’t want any babies??  I don’t understand!  You are a woman aren’t you? ALL women love babies!”  Well, it’s not without some consideration that I’ve come to my decision, breeders.  Below are ten damn good reasons why:
1) I can barely take care of myself!

While I’ve gotten better, I still believe that a bowl of cereal constitutes a satisfactory dinner and pickle juice an acceptable beverage.  The only things living in my apartment are: mold, mice (occasionally), and myself.  I can’t even keep plants alive, unless you count the potatoes that have started growing in my cupboard.  I think dogs are too much work and (even if I could have one) I’d barely be able to afford a cat.  A baby is out of the question.

2) I like a lot of time alone.

My favorite pastime is locking the door and getting lost in a book.  (Aside from masturbation of course, but that’s a given, really.) You can’t tell a baby you need a night off to “decompress.”  They can’t even understand speech,  let alone my weird neuroses.  I don’t even understand my weird neuroses.

3) I find pregnancy disgusting.

Most peple look at a pregnant mother and think “Aww, the joy of motherhood!”  I think “Ahh! You’ve got a parasite living in your abdomen!”  Seriously.  Fetuses have to trick the mother’s immune system into not destroying them as a foreign body.  Mothers, that kicking is something living inside of you.  Living INSIDE of you for fuck’s sake!  Why doesn’t that freak you out?  I’d be horrified if something in my guts started doing calisthenics.  *queasy*

4) I think babies are gross.

Most people think babies are little bundles of sunshine, the fruit of the miracle of life.  I, on the other hand, find them horrifying squidgy little larval creatures not even capable of holding up their own heads.  *shudders*  They are squealing waste machines.  I don’t care how cute you think they look in their jumpers.

5) Genetics!

I’ve never quite understood why people think so highly of their genetic makeup that they feel it necessary to pass it on.  I mean, I know it’s like, a biological imperative and all, but geeze.  If dude has male-pattern baldness and chick has a predisposition to cancer, that’s a shitty hand to deal your child!  Personally I’ve got heart disease, anxiety problems, and chronic depression running through my veins.  I’d prefer to keep those goodies to myself, greedy me.

6) There are TONS of children already!

How about all those kiddos who have already been produced, huh?  Adoption is the way to go!  The little rugrats need stability, love and affection. You need to feel as if your life has purpose (and a convenient excuse if they turn out fucked up- not MY genetics!)  It’s the logical decision, unless you want to eat them.  Just a modest proposal, people.

7) The state of the environment.

We produce an absolutely reckless amount of waste!  We regularly pollute our environment with not only un-biodegradble plastics, but poison.  Fucking POISON!  And I’m not even talking about radioactive waste!  Our fresh water supplies are dwindling while our ice caps are melting.  I can’t imagine leaving this planet to someone else.  It’d be like giving someone a present after you’d played with it, broken it to little bits, lit it on fire, and pissed on it to put the flames out.  It’s just rude is what it is.

8)  Money!

Everyone loves money.  You know who on average has less?  That’s right- parents!  I don’t care about your several thousand dollar tax return.  No, without children I might actually be able to retire before my hips give out unlike you schmucks who will be taking out a second mortgage to put your kid through college.  No, I’ll be on a beach somewhere while you are trying to figure out how to get spit-up out of your carpet.

9) My body.  My sexy, sexy body.

No, I’m not really that full of myself.  I AM vain, though.  I admit it.  I’ve already enough stretch marks, thank you very much.  I don’t want some tiny shyster gumming up the works.  And I want all my organs where they belong, damn it. I don’ t think it’s too much to ask.


Seriously.  Seven billion!  I heard it on NPR so it must be true.  Twenty five years ago that number was four point nine billion.  That means since I was born we’ve added over two billion humans to this planet!  That is insane!  It’s reckless! How long until our already over-worked land stops producing?  Before breathable air and fresh water are worth warring over?  Already a disgusting amount of people die from starvation, thirst, exposure.  I’m not adding another life to this planet knowing this.   Doing so would be pure unadulterated selfishness.

So! To recap:

Be selfish!  Don’t have kids.  You’ll have more money and be sexy, sexy, sexy.


Don’t be a dick!  Don’t have kids.  You’ll only fuck them up anyway.



Coming to terms with the morning

It’s another fuzzy-headed morning, waking with a foul taste on the tongue.  I’m busy suffocating on raw lungs and a stuffy nose, trying to shake the feeling of assumed amnesia.  Bladder fit to burst, I slide the snooze to stop and grumpily throw the covers back.  There I lay for a moment or two as the chill seeps into my skin.  Only when the goosebumps start to rise on my flesh do I stand, stretch and stalk to the bathroom.  There I sit naked, my flesh cringing from cold porcelain with my forehead in my hands, my hair a mess.  I stand and stretch myself over the sink to peer bemusedly into the mirror.  A hand runs across my scalp, and I half-heartedly rub the sleep and remnants of makeup from my lids.  Bending down I wash my hands and splash my face in gaspingly cold water.  Already my feet are freezing on the cold linoleum, but I raise my eyes to the mirror again.  The lines on my face are reminders of my pillow, or are just reminders.  My lips are puffed with sleep, my cheek peppered with small blemishes.  The water brings a blush to my cheeks, relieving a bit of my pallor, but I still look rough.  With a heavy sigh or a  scoff I continue my morning routine, half asleep or no.  Clothes, a touch of makeup, a quick brush, a bowl of unremarkable cereal, shoes, a coat and purse, and a cold, cold car all finish off my morning.  All the while I am daydreaming of my bed. . .

Some people are cradled in sleep like little lambs, and wake gently with beauty and grace.  Their eyes open lovely and clear, a shy smile touching their lips.  They pop out of their beds as if on springs, glad to start their day.

I on the other hand, wake only grudgingly to hem and haw and grouch and moan.  I scratch myself, and when I finally rise from bed I hunch along in a most unattractive manner (while most likely muttering under my breath.) Monosyllabic and irritable, I probably seem some sort of goblin.

Mornings are not a beautiful rebirth for me.

No, they are more an expulsion.

A sacrifice of words, a turning away of phrase

I am a devourer of stories, a devourer of worlds.  I swallow books whole, gluttonous.  As I snake I am, but rarely do I rest to digest what I’ve just consumed.  Not a lover of tales am I, but a ravisher.  I do not savor the nuances, the subtle flavor of style.  No, I delve deep into the marrow and suck it dry.  My attention engrossed so thoroughly that aches and pains and disappointments cease to matter, but the last page turned leaves me with no sympathy.  Once complete the fantasy matters not.  Like an addict I grasp for another collection of sentences.  Whether they be short or long is inconsequential as long as I’ve another life to live. Oh, I may at times keep a book close to me, placing its looted pages on a shelf for a later day or another year, but it oft means naught to me but a sure means of escape.  Hand me a treasure, a delight of many pages and for a few hours I will exist wholly between those covers, whetting my teeth and slacking my appetite. But, Oh!  It is never enough.  Grand epics, little vignettes, they never truly satisfy.  So like I beast I am, prowling cases, stalking floors.  Never satisfied, never mollified, I am the walker between the rows.  Slyly I may leave with a bag of morsels over my shoulder, but I know I’ll be back soon enough to unceremoniously replace picked-over spines with some new delicacy, some new distraction.