Backyard Space Oddity

A day in the life.

You know, its not quite as satisfying as one might think - here I am, at work, posting to my own personal blog. Its a small concession to being one of the "tools of production" but, hey, you get your licks in where you can, right? However, trying to pound away on a dust covered computer buried deep in the bowels of the warehouse - its not quite as satisfying, somehow, as one might initially think.

Besides, I'm on lunch (corporate lackeys take note - at least those who might read this and want to grind me into paste).

Okay, enough stickin' it to the man for now.

More later.

M is M

Man, its hard to write when things are going well. Its like sitting on the beach, watching the surf roll in -then- trying to give an inspiring half time speech. "Just, like, well... do what you can guys... and, uh, the rest will take care of itself, right?" It just doesn't quite fly.

A sign over back door at the Counter Culture Cafe, says:

"Deep in you mind

Deep in your soul

Just let it go "

Words to live by. I can hear Bast, the cat goddess saying these words in the back of my mind. At least that's how it happened in "American Gods".

Yup, work has been pretty chill as of late. Well, okay, the computers did go down once or twice last week, which makes for a particularly fun day, but other than that... its all good, brothah.

And, of course, I've been spending a great deal of time with M of late. Who is this mysterious "M", you ask? Sounds very James Bond. But no, M is simply M - far from mysterious (and yet, not an entirely known quantity). Perhaps "M" stands for "mercurial"...

Today we had breakfast at the US Egg, which has certain historical connotations* but there we were:

She: Dressed in jeans, and scuffed, pointy-toed cowboy boots, a pseudo-leather jacket (stiff as an old couch) and somewhat oily, disheveled reddish-brown hair. The pink stripes in her shirt matched the apples in her cheeks and little green shades framed her shiney-dark eyes, more pupils than iris.

Me: Faded black jeans and a black t-shirt, tan cordoroy jacket, bed head and sunglasses from a 70's police drama (borrowed from M). I should mention that every time I put on the glasses, the song "Sabotage" starts playing in my head.

We ate eggs while sitting in the sun, looking like two aging rockers just rolled out of bed at the crack of noon. I cackled/laughed like a girl (or so she says) while we talked about the feel of dirt, the art of heavy machinery operations, hot wiring cars, avoiding traffic tickets and other stuff.

Add to this: warm sun, hot coffee -and- well, I'd rather still be there than here, writing this.

*I once dated a waitress here, the beautiful, intelligent, and oh-so-crazy "V."

LIfe is but a dream

I woke up around 3 am this morning and couldn't go back to sleep. So I read...

"Wearing Dad's Head" is a collection of short stories and is pretty good. Reminds me a little, flavor-wise, of some of the dreamier russians, Bulgakov or Nabokov, for instance. And when I say "dreamier" I do mean evocative of dreams.

The author (Barry Yourgrau) writes in this surreal-yet-real poetic prose most like a child's memories or... a dream.

Example: the author is gang pressed by Pirates and forced into a late night raid of his parent's middle-class home - but the day is saved by frumpy middle aged neighbors who spring out of hiding and blow the pirates heads' off with blunderbusses. Neat, hunh?

So, anyway, I read for a while then fell asleep.

Here's something interesting. Try reading something haunting or dreamlike (hey! you might even try this book!) as you fall asleep. Its better than drugs! (Okay, not really, but I thought a little tip of the hat to the mainstream now and then... and, hey, if you happen to be with law enforcement, put in a good word for me, wouldja?)

Then, at 5:40 am, I was woken from a dream about an old Honky Tonk, with some crusty rancher reminiscing about days of yor - how he knew some hussy named Betty (hooker or a barroom singer, I didn't quite catch which) back in the day. What this all means, I have no idea, but I am open to feedback.

I got up, took a shower, and made some coffee. Have I mentioned I really like coffee? Really, really, really.

A little later, I went outside to warm up the car.

Okay, I live in Arizona and the car doesn't need much warming but it can't hurt and, besides, its part of my morning routine to get my ass in motion. A body in motion tends to stay in motion and a body at rest, well... whatever I can do to generate momentum, you dig?

I'd left my shoes in the car so I went out in stocking feet. I could feel everything in that scritchy sorta way through my socks as I walked - smooth concrete by the door, then the rougher concrete on the driveway (snagging my socks slightly), and then, standing in the street, I could feel the hard little bits of rock snared in the street's asphalt.

The moon was up and everything was very still. I put the coffee on top of my truck and stood there for quite a while.

Later, driving to work, I heard Adam Corolla on the radio raving about "24 hours." What the f*ck? Is everyone one a 24 Hours Moonie?! Color me incredulous! This after hearing a sermon - shouted from on high atop the mountain - less than 24 hours earlier. For crissakes, what's the deal with this show? And yet, this too, lent a skewed yet meaningful quality to the day's beginning.

Later yet, after a fairly hellish morning at work ("Don't ever get old," my Uncle Wally used to say. To which I would add, "don't ever do customer service!") I slipped out for a light lunch, read some more of my book and dozed off yet again.

I woke up an undetermined time later, the sun brightly shining, a light breeze blowing through the car and I felt... ever so floatey and slightly out of sink with reality - but in a good way.

The Inane and the Beautiful

I was coming down Camelback as the sun set today. Not that there's anything highly unusual about me coming down the mountain at this time (assuming the evil rich white people haven't gang tackled me on my way out of work, that is) .

It was a little chilly but I'd taken off my t-shirt and wrapped it around my head to keep from getting an earache. I've gotten them since I was a little kid and a t-shirt seems to be just right for keeping heat loss to a minimum and the wind from whistling in my sweaty little ears. I've tried hats or hatbands but I always, always, lose them. I like to think of this as a display of non-materialism though some might say disorganization. Anyway...

The cold air felt good on my skin, and besides, I like looking like a slightly crazed street person while coming down amidst the inane and the beautiful. Speaking of which:

I passed a beautiful man and woman on my way down today. Maybe perfect is a better way of putting it. They were perfect and beautiful (I bet they had great teeth but I didn't stop to look) and the things they were saying seemed… well, they were so incredibly vacuous that it just seemed scripted. I felt as if I were in some bizarre version of “The Truman Show,” only the show was about me reacting to their unaware, narcissistic ways.

During my 5 minutes within earshot, I discovered:

• He flys a lot to different places and gets comped a lot of rooms and flights.
• She's independently wealthy (giggle) or at least will be after she inherits from papa.
• His parents just got back from a month in Costa Rica. It’s the perfect vacation spot because the natives all speak English and they love Americans and are happy to have us there.
• She woke up in the middle of the night, simply awestruck by how well scripted and acted “24 Hours” is. (I swear)

This last part was spoken at such a volume it felt like she was yelling it directly at me. Either that or she wanted the whole world to know. I have no idea.

Hey, it could've been worse. At least she was talking to someone there with her. She could've been talking on a cell phone.

If you haven't tried this, you should. Get your cell phone, go up Camelback, and then talk about any of the following:

1. Where you should go out tonight. Talk about this endlessly.
2. Please, please, please, shout out how "fucking wasted" you got last night! This one never gets old.
3. Be sure and talk about stocks or investments or maybe just how good you are with money. In fact, say something like "Man, do I have a lot of money!" Then look around to see who really takes notice. These are the people you should hang out with.
4. Oh, and if you drive an expensive car it is your duty to mention it as much as possible. After all, you worked hard for your money (or not, but who cares, really, so long as you have it!) and an expensive car is just another shining example of what you've become.

More later.

Or not.

Odd juxtaposition

So I'm sitting in an examining room, sitting on a little table with bright yellow naugahyde padding and crinkly white paper and I'm waiting for the doctor to come in.

I should mention that I've never been big on Doctors. I was pretty sick as a little kid and have this thing about the smell of rubbing alcohol and deceptively mild tones, but that's a whole other neurotic rambling so let's skip ahead, shall we?

The nurse comes in to take some of my blood.

Now, I'm a pretty big sissy about having my blood taken. I mean, its mine, right? Supposed to reside inside of me? So having it removed from its home seems a little... disconcerting, to say the least.

It's like the smell at hospitals. Ever smell that smell? It could be very faint but is unmistakably omnipresent: The smell of sickness. The smell of disease.

Of course animals freak out when you take them to the vet 'cause they can smell/sense all that wrongness. Having your guts exposed to the light of day is not normal. A poutpurri of puke, shit and whatever other odors that abound in hospitals and/or veterinary clinics - this is not normal. The animal in us responds to this. (At least my animal does. If your animal doesn't - you might want to get that checked. Anywho... )

So I tell the nurse that I'm kinda funny about getting blood drawn. "Funny how?" she says, all business. "Well, you know... I get kinda light headed some time. I've never passed out, but..."

She doesn't say anything but I can sense her exasperation. Here's another seemingly big he-man type (at least I look the part) who is, in fact, a big girl. "Fine" she says, "lay down." So I do. Then she has me breathe, "in through your nose and out through your mouth."

Breathing is actually something I'm pretty good at but she keeps prompting me. "I can't hear you. Breathe louder. In through your nose and out through your...." Yeah, yeah, yeah. But then I realize she's drawn the blood while distracting me and I'm fairly impressed. Or maybe I'm just light-headed and woozy but either way, the needle didn't hurt and I haven't made an ass out of myself. So, kudos to her.

About the exam room - I'm there to be tested for STD's/HIV (haven't gone in a while and am doing the responsible single adult thing) and on the wall, directly to my left, are the following two images:

1. A calendar shot of some revoltingly cute puppies or kittens (I can't for the life of me remember which, but they were big-headed, wide-eyed and oh, so cute you could puke)

-and-

2. Right next to them are a montage of full color close-ups of oozing, puss filled chancres and sores. These are people inflicted with herpes, syphyllis and/or whatever. And they look like an illustration for human suffering - something right out of Bosch. I am filled with dread, revulsion and...

Fascination.

And not just fascination. I mean the whole thing - the juxtaposition of the cute, cuddly critters (let's sat cats) and these Hiroshima wannabees is actually... well, its ironic of course, and certainly bizarre, but even beyond these, it pretty amusing. Funny even.

Horrible and funny.