New Year, Same Blogosphere

Hi! I haven't posted here in some time, but I thought I'd peek in, in the odd event that people who don't follow my other online outlets do follow this one. Σ:+)

Last year, I recorded "Purpetule Haze", the lyrics to which are a few posts below this one. And I failed to include the recording in the "demos" set that I have embedded here. Oops! That's rectified now, so that Lucy in Cyberspace visitors may now enjoy the multi-layered recording that features a plastic, glow-in-the-dark Slinky and the ASMR-inspired tapping and scratching on this same keyboard that I'm using to type this, for percussion. Also, there's vocal harmony. Still only one guitar track, though.... Sixties-inspired sounds with contemporary lyricism await you in track 3 of the first set above.

I notice that my photos in "recent" blog posts aren't displaying. I'll work on a fix when I have a moment. Everyone needs cat and Dinah pictures.

Not sure what else I have to say right now. I found part-time work in October and managed to ring in the new year there, so yay for being valued! But it is part-time (and low wage), so I still have a majority of time to wallow in loneliness and existential angst. (Purpetule Haze and Screens both touch on this latter subject...)

Thus concludes my summary of noteworthy recent developments. I wish you a year full of health, shelter, peace, and loving ones — particularly and especially loving ones in person.

I Got Dem Ol' Isolation Blues Again, Mama

(Mom, for once, try to read past the fact that I mention you.)

For those who have never met me in person, I occasionally meow.

Just like a cat, yes. Sometimes I'll meow just quickly as a reaction to a minor, unexpected stimulus. Other times, I'll give a friendly *rowr!* to the family as a short way of saying "I'm awake, sort of; Hi!" Sometimes I'll hiss in moments of passing irritation. And, sometimes, I'll meow loudly and repeatedly from the other room as a reaction to a major, twenty-seven-year ongoing stimulus. A few minutes ago, before I started writing this thing, was one of these latter times. After a few vocalizations, my mother said from the other room, "Why are you behaving like a cat?"

I was in bed, for having nothing else to do and no place to go and just being depressed, and it took me a moment to think of an answer for that question. The one I came up with was this:

I guess I feel denied status as a member of the humans, so I'm trying something else.

I wasn't invited to my family's dinner out tonight. They went with their friend in the only car I could drive, not long after my mother had asked me "Why don't you go out tonight?". So I stayed here, fed the dogs, and went for a sleep as I marinated some more in the knowledge that I am completely goddamn fucking alone.

Cyberspace just ain't cuttin' it. I need people. Close friends. I have no siblings. My only direct cousin is a six-hour drive away in a car I don't own. No one's hiring me. Never had a really close friend growing up. Maybe three or four casual friends at best. The average 27-year-old seems to have a job, a spouse, their own place, and maybe even a kid or two. I've never even had a girlfriend. I did have a minor job twice and a fraction, but no more.

I haven't posted anything purely autobiographical in a while; I'm sure all my readers have missed that. Here's where we (my family and I) supposedly are now:

My folks are aiming to move to a retirement community in the greater Nashville metro. "The 615" was selected because it's where my cousin lives (albeit way on the other side of the metro from the retirement community). It would — will? — be my greatest pleasure to not live in Bumfuck, Illinois anymore and actually be within earshot of a major downtown. Here's the thing, though: it won't be until next spring at earliest — if it happens. For all I know, we may lose on the bidding on the lots, which happens this coming month. (Parts of the community have not yet been built.) Then there's my undecided aunt, who might move into the same house, get a separate house in the community, or possibly just stay in Chicago; this will affect finances. But, any way you slice it, barring actual help from my cybercommunity, I'm stuck right here in nowhere at least until probably April, with no place to go and no one to connect with when I get there.

Earlier this week, I did actually try stopping by my old university "sanctuary" across town — the disability "rehab" center, where I worked for two years until I could no longer actually work at the computer. It's a shame; the people there were, and by and large still are, friendly and great. But though we worked in the same room, we didn't really work together most of the time, and my will to work alone just tanked. Since I seem to lack a natural social life, I need a social job to balance myself. Anyway, there were and are good people there, to the point where there was frequently dessert available. This past Monday or Tuesday (I forget which) was no exception; a more recently hired employee whom I hadn't met yet had brought in cake. With fondant — but cake nonetheless. Further talks with everyone revealed the reason for the cake: That employee had just ....... gotten married.

Married. Another one removed from my partner-selection pool in a happy ceremony of which I wasn't a part. Everybody and their mother is either getting married or otherwise participating in a wedding. The pictures intersperse sponsored posts by Facebook, music "videos", and pictures of food from my "food group" in my 'Book feed. That food group is chock full of playful, loose-tongued females, and I'm willing to bet my lack of funds that, despite the suggestive banter, every last one of them is married. (Edit: Yay, one isn't!) (Although, really, what single person is driven to cook a full meal for no one?) But, their marital status is moot anyway, because, guess what? None of them live anywhere near me. One's near St. Louis. That's as close as they come. This applies to everybody. They're either buried in the deep South or on one of the coasts. Why the hell do I keep cyber-befriending people on the coasts? When I see people going on about how beautiful and perfect it is by the bay in California, I feel a dull rage, thrashing somewhat like a distant kettle drum roll, or possibly like how I imagine ocean waves sounding as they wash on the shore below in a place that has "ocean", "shore", "above" and "below". And I want so badly to punch Brian Williams every time he gets sentimental about some New York institution that "SO MANY of us" have enjoyed, from the Sandy-ravaged Boardwalk to today's retirement of the Yankees' long-time closer. Why the fuck does the Yankees closer get to be on the national evening news? If it were the Cubs, would they grant him so much as a brief mention? Fuck the Yankees and all these self-righteous New York humpers. Save that shit for your local broadcasts. The rest of us don't need to see or hear you masturbating.

But I'm rambling now. At least in language. Maybe someday I'll get to "ramble" in a more physical sense. While I was discussing my situation — guitar in tow — with the friendly staff at the rehab center, a couple different people suggested that, when I get to Nashville, I just pick a spot on the downtown streets — Broadway ought to accommodate nicely — and pick at my guitar. I can't do that here, but I can most certainly do it there. See who salutes and how strongly. I also mentioned the possibility of trying that "Go Fund Me" site I've seen going around; my State contact was on board with that idea. If anyone takes that seriously, I can have at least *some* sort of income in this awkward time where, in the unlikely event that I do get hired here in the flatlands, I couldn't stay for long before moving to greener pastures, so to speak. Greater Nashville does seem to be rapidly growing. I don't know if it can match up to the coasts in terms of potential friends I can fully connect with, but, with luck, I can find out for sure.....

Couple other thoughts on the subject since I posted this almost two days ago:

After a couple months in the Nashville metro, the family plan is to put me in an apartment. Don't you love that word, "apartment"? I'm apart enough already. What I need is a "togetherment". But that's not a thing in this country, is it? It's not even a thing in our language.

It's that independence motif again — the undercurrent in Western thought and culture that other people suck and that there's no point in pursuing, nay, being, a counterexample. The likely mass self-projected belief that everybody is out to "get" us, which we use to justify primitively selfish behavior: hoarding all the goods we can in our spaces, and never allowing anyone else into those spaces because they will undoubtedly rob us blind and possibly lifeless, because that's what we apparently would do. So the shut-outs get more deprived and desperate, violent incidents spiral through the ionosphere, and nothing is gained but loss. Even now, in my tiny corner of the flatlands from which I type, I'm hearing more sirens from beyond the window than I've ever done.

And apparently I — we? — should just sit back, accept, and be one with, the vile chaos.

There was something else I wanted to say here, but it escapes me just now.

Love.

Memorial Morrow

Did you enjoy Memorial Day? Did you remember fallen soldiers? Did you partake in celebrations of the free life for which they presumably died? Or, are you like me and slept through most of it?

On the one paw, I didn't get invited to any barbecues. On the second hoof, it was pouring rain most of the day, so it's unlikely there were any barbecues to be invited to. On the third tentacle, what do barbecues have to do with memorials, anyway? Were the soldiers particularly big barbecue fans when they were alive?

I think my maternal grandfather fought in World War II. Or something close to it. Pretty sure it was the big one. I never really got to know the man. I was three or four when he died in civilian life. And even then, he was living some six thousand-plus miles (ten thousand-plus kilometers) away from where I was and still am. But I understand he was a fairly jolly soul with a sense of fun and smiles.

I never knew my other grandfather either. They both died during my early childhood. My paternal grandmother wasn't too far behind, done in by the effects of smoking circa her age 70, my age 7. I remember their half of a duplex in Skokie better than I remember them. A near-wall of plants overlooking the round, dark wooden table. Red carpet beneath the low coffee table in the living room, in turn beneath my grandmother's ashtray and game of solitaire — you know, with actual, physical playing cards. Dull beige couches and the old recliner. The black metal railing with swirly-cue bits. The rotary phone in the spare bedroom. Rust coming out of the bathtub faucet. The dark but tame basement, with its big freezer full of "goodies". Baby Linus and Lucy, wherever they feel like being. The memories fade, perhaps like the pictures that I'm sure we have somewhere. If not here, then certainly at my aunt's house, in which basement the low coffee table remains. Along with other relics.

Edit, an hour and change later: I'm told that, in fact, both my grandfathers were World War II soldiers. Fitting. Yes!

My mother's mother remains. Unfortunately, she does so in Israel, as I say, a continent and a half plus a major ocean away. Our communication is limited more or less to annual "snail-mail" cards (she doesn't do computers), and, every few times out of her weekly phone calls, I'll attempt a conversation via that medium. I tend to have nothing much to say, and she can barely hear my deep voice over the phone anyway.

A couple months ago, one of my cousin's friends whom I met at her wedding and subsequently befriended on the 'Book, playfully out of the blue listed me as his grandson. Joke's on him; I accept. Yay, I have a living grandfather! He's in California.... but still closer than Netanya!

More Bodily Irks and Quirks: Trichotillomania

Another eyebrow gone. It's never a conscious choice to remove it manually, hair by hair (or three). I'm not out to make some sort of obtuse political statement with only one of the right and left sides of my face being naturally decorated in dark brown. It doesn't particularly hurt when I do this. It just seems that every now and then, my body, acting more or less independently of my mind, gets the feeling that perhaps there's too much weight or pressure or something at that one spot on my hairy self, and proceeds to alleviate, or think it's alleviating, the feeling there by plucking the cumbersome, protruding scapegoat occupants of that spot and apparently expecting a final, euphoric pull that will nab the main perpetrator and instantly restore total homeostasis. Of course, that may not happen — and the "spot" may sort of grow as the "partially euphoric" feeling of the pulls catches on. Hence, one whole eyebrow gone. Or, in the past, a set of eyelashes, a bit of my beard on and around my chin, a good-sized spot on top or near the front of my head (though it's been a delightfully long time since this last), or — dare I say it — "down there" when I'm on the can and in no hurry to get off it.

Describing "compulsions" is not so easy, especially with grace. I am not so much in the state of mind to look it up right now, but I'm sure there are plenty of stories, descriptions, and clinical terms available in a web search for "trichotillomania". I think I'm spelling that correctly. It's simply the manic pulling-out of one's own hair, and it may have gotten a couple bits of publicity here and there over the years.

In my relatively brief attempt to just get this out of my head and into the blogosphere during the two-o'clock hour ante-meridiem, I'll say this about my own "episodes": they usually happen when I'm alone, either in bed or at the computer (or on the can), and often when I'm supposed to be doing something specific. My mind just sort of spaces out, and my body is somehow not keen on just old-fashioned masturbating; it seeks other ways to be occupied: fidgeting, knuckle-cracking, grooming...and maybe getting carried away with the grooming, discovering what it proclaims is a pressured spot as I described it before and going to work. And I just drop what I pick out wherever I am. It'll get vacuumed up soon, I imagine. (Or, in the "down there" case, I'll soon flush.) Oh, and these episodes tend very much to be time vortexes, which can be important if I am indeed supposed to be doing something specific. I'm so glad to be done with school and all its assignments; on another tentacle, this whole "job hunt" thing is somethin' else.

Curiosity: In the times when I've freshly cleared what I'd think is a glaring spot on my face where everyone can see, usually the only person who ever mentions it to me is my own mother (who, of course, goes hysterical every time). Only once that I can recall did anyone else ever bring it up to me, and it was a good, delightful friend with absolutely no capability of mocking or malice. Do people honestly not care, generally? Do they say "What's up with that?!" among themselves after I've hit the road? If I went for a job interview like this, how would it go? Well, nobody's contacting me for interviews, so it might not matter. Anyway, it's only sometimes when I have an incomplete face. The stuff does grow back. Personally, I'm just glad I was symmetrical at my cousin's wedding; everything else seems dispensable.

This seems to be all I have to say for now. (I'm giving "bodily irks and quirks" its own tag on here.) If anyone has thoughts, please share them. Meanwhile, I think the feeling of pressure where I recently had an eyebrow has subsided, but my hands are still feeling a bit fidgety and "compulsory". I may try masturbating again. Good night!

And Yet

Concurrently with
all the feminist talk, I
want me some pussy

My father is kind of a jerk.

Seriously?

No. Not yet, I don't think.

I have these moods sometimes.

It's all good for now.

Right.

MLK Jr. Day Observed. I have no idea when his actual birthday is, but the man is nonetheless groovy. After all the civil rights activism, he spoke out about/against the Vietnam War and was criticized for it by civil rights supporters. Bizarre. Anyway, lovely that we have a day set aside to be thankful for equal opportunity, wholly independent of physical qualities, to wallow in the mire. C'est la vie.

*~*~*~*

Some of you may have noticed a decline in blog material of late. I sense it's connected to my mid-October signing on to Facebook. I actually have two accounts on Facebook — Cheshire Adams (who has actually been on Facebook rather longer, just not that actively), and then one under my real name. The latter was initially intended to get back in touch with people I used to know — old high school classmates, for instance (see Eruption Pending), 'cause they never heard of Cheshire Adams. If Cheshire Adams tells these people they know me, I'll probably be mass-blocked to the point of my account being axed by the man (or, more likely, the bot). But I got some three-hundred-forty-ish "friends" under my real name (apparently there's a fairly big difference between "Facebook friends" and actual friends), and so, since there's a pretty good sample of real people there — more varied than Cheshire's 48 friends — that account, in addition to being a reconnection tool, has kind of become my scratch paper — a launching pad for the sort of thoughts that would otherwise be posted here.

That said, I prefer to be polite on that account and stay away from the expletives. But in this increasingly frustrating world, I gotta let loose with those expletives someplace, and it would appear that this blog is the destination for my more explosive catharses.

That's right, Lucy in Cyberspace is gettin' artsy. So, since I have a couple short poems I wish to digitally scrawl down quickly, I'll put a bit of a warning somewhere near the top of this thing, and those of you who are turned off by this sort of material can catch up with me on Facebook. Or via e-mail. Or on the music fora through which you know me. And, those of you who don't know my real name: you can find it on the 'Book if you're clever.....

Well, another semester starts today.....joy.....

*~*~*~*

Mom, if you're reading this, Hi there! and, Some kind of social awakening has happened within me of late, and perhaps all of this explains everything. Now careful you don't get too nosy with the other account.

Hope this isn't just the Prozac talking.....

Sorry about that last post. It wasn't personal. My situation — family, financial, societal, and most anything else one can think of — has had me quite frustrated lately. Hats off to my cousin, a handful of university contacts, and the occasional friendly face in cyberspace and beyond for being kind and as helpful as possible.

There's a basic human need to belong, and, as long as I'm feeling that, I think I'm okay.

Peace, love, happiness, all that good stuff,
~C.A.~

Eruption Pending

Once again, I may use some "swear" words here. You've been warned.


I came to realize: as far as my own life goes, the present sucks, and the future holds all the promise of Lindsay Lohan claiming to enter rehab. So, that leaves....the past.

High school, naturally. A time and place where I felt at home. Loved. I wasn't all that actively social at the time, something they attribute to Asperger's Syndrome (also their chosen explanation for why I feel like my home planet has much longer days and years than this one), but, by golly, I was kind, smart (then), full of friendly vibes and jokes. Nary an unkind word was said to me.

In the past.....I don't know how long.....weeks? months?, I've seen two or three familiar faces for about a minute at a time, maybe longer if we're on the bus. (People at my old job at the text conversion office, it's nothing personal; I dig you, but I haven't been feeling like I've been meant to be there. Only today did I finally convert a document after who knows how long.) The rest of the time, as I think I mentioned here earlier this semester, I've been feeling like a spectre in a sea of unfamiliar, basically indistinguishable faces bathing in cell phones and headphones. I especially feel it when I get out on the quad and jam on my acoustic. Headphones and cell phones. People may physically be there, but they might as well not be. It's like the old iPod commercials. Completely black shadows of people in headphones. No actual people. Just shadows.

I got no drive and no recognizable future. I already dropped one class this semester for a failure to get along with the professor (first time that's been the reason). I've wanted to leave academia altogether for a few years now, but then I won't have my text conversion job, because I have to be a student to work there for some reason. I've been all over Craigslist and other classifieds outlets, but nothing's appealed to me. I'm cat-less and dessert-less, though I haven't been that hungry the past few days anyhow, my traditional sense of humor seems to be largely slipped away, and, some hours ago as I lay kind of three-quarters asleep, my mother.....my proudly white suburban American mother, making it clear that she, too, has more or less hit a breaking point, proclaimed as loudly as possible that she hates me. (Talking to my father: "I HATE HIM, AND I HATE YOU!!")

So, that's the bag I'm in. I'm willing, but I'm having trouble finding my ability. I keep having ideas for songs and then never get around to fully writing them. I equate success with happiness and consider them independent of social class or anything like that. Either way, I am not successful right now.

I'm just kind of here. I'm around. Around, in a square hole. Or sticking awkwardly out of it, because I don't fit. And so I'm here. I'm here. I am here. I....am.....



GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! I'M SO ALONE! WHERE IS EVERYBODY? WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME? AAAAAUUUUGGGGHHH.......


*collapses in a heap of incoherence*

Most of it seemed to make some kind of sense at the time.

—Arthur Dent

False premonition in that last post. Maybe. Or really early one. Hey, who else has a sudden strong craving for milk?

This whole "academia" scene isn't quite for me, I think. I'm sure one current professor of mine would be quick to agree. That person rather rubs me the wrong way, despite being familiar with Can (link to my review of Ege Bamyasi). I'm six years into college now, twenty-four credit hours (eight classes) from a bachelor's, and still the thought of crawling to the finish line just to trade in the ribbon for forty-some-odd years down another, horrendously dull, desert road doesn't turn me on. I say "crawling", because given my state of mind since roughly 2006, these days officially documented by a neuropsych doctor and some accomplices, I'm only taking a class or two per semester.

I don't need a whole lotsa money, I don't need a big fine car. Hell, I don't need a TV of any kind. Telephones can stuff their minutes up their charging end too. I'm perfectly happy with Internet, music and cats. (...as "Year of the Cat" comes on my system.) True, there are some other things I think are rather groovy, such as heating/air conditioning and indoor plumbing, but do I really need the sort of job that requires an official degree for me to be happy?

I also wouldn't mind some traveling, but I'm sure that will come.

Happiness. It's all we need.

I appreciate the valiant efforts of some—some—folks at the university, but I'm just not feeling it there.

Well, while I work with someone to figure things out for me, anybody got any thoughts about the portrayal of human nature in The Iliad?

First Day of Class

....Since some time in December. Hadn't been in a big crowd of students for a while. It seemed like every eighth person I saw reminded me of someone I once knew......another day, another lifetime, to quote The David. Didn't actually know anybody I saw today. Except one of the bus drivers.

See, because I'm, well, weird, I've been a college undergrad since August of 2004. The first few semesters, I actually did occasionally see someone I knew. Those days seem to have faded now, and I feel like an early primate among the more evolved (theoretically) humans. "What? No one wants to climb the trees with me and throw bananas at each other??" Well, maybe I don't do anything like that, but you get the idea.

As some readers and (cyber-)acquaintances may have guessed, I'm not that social. I have no interest in sporting events, I don't go to bars, and, in truth, I don't know what else there is that draws a good chunk of people. There's not that much local music downstate here, and I'm not sure I could afford to make a habit of seeing it if there were. Basically, I stay home, snuggle my quadrupedal friends, play some music (digital or guitar), and dig my pads in cyberspace. And sleep.

Which, incidentally, I should probably get to doing now. It's 00.47, and the semester's under way.

To sleep, perchance to dream. (Shakespeare does loom in one of my two classes this semester, but no Hamlet.) I seem to be dreaming of my dear, departed cats with increasing frequency.........

I'll have it done in about thirty, thirty-five.

Hours? Days?

Anno domini.