Speak of it in a Soft, Sharp Whisper Some More

Good luck with this post. Certain amount of made-up language here. And that may be the least of my problems....

A while back, I took perhaps something of a risk and posted publicly about a most bizarre, possibly genetic, and delightfully euphoric phenomenon for anyone who, like me, gets it. What follows is just sort of an improvised disorganization of some further thoughts on the topic of what the 'Net has come to call "Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response", or ASMR. I just call it "meridian" myself, except on Twitter, whose format makes "#ASMR" advantageous. "Meridian" just sounds better than "a-ess-em-arr", doesn't it? Rolls off the tongue better, certainly.

One so-called "ASMRtist" came to follow me on the blue bird network. This is not someone whose work I had encountered previously, but unlike many people, most of whom follow me and then unfollow me a couple days later, she had the courtesy to respond when I sent her a greeting. (That's what I do when I gain a follower; I warmly greet them. I have thirty-six followers. I know the most recent one won't stay; they've not acknowledged my three-and-a-half-day-old greeting. Why do I keep getting sidetracked into people being anti-social on social networks? Ah, well...) Therefore, I took her to be someone worth investigating. I plugged in and donned my headphones, brought up her 'Tube channel, picked out a video that looked like my audio realm, and put it on.



Just short of 43 minutes. (By the way, I usually just listen to these meridian videos while they play and I look at other tabs. It's all about the audio; no reason to just sit here watching 'em. Eyes can be otherwise engaged all the while.) Maybe some gamers are actually paying wide-eyed attention to this material; an attractive, young female is whispering about their favorite thing! And that's fine; I will wholeheartedly grant that. But I do feel a need to say this: The meridian is quite strongly triggered in the beginning. However, as the video plays on, the effect diminishes, and by the half-hour mark, due either to natural exhaustion of whatever it is off which the meridian feeds, or to my own mind drifting into 2012 Appalachia or 13,291 Mediterranea and therefore away from the video audio, the meridian has gone for the moment, leaving only a sort of ambient audio piece I'm hearing, featuring whispers and the occasional click of a button or other item. Of course, ambiance can still be soothing in the more traditional sense; it's soft and gentle and capable of comfort. But the meridian, the supernatural euphoria darting yet beyond the reach of our human comprehension, has fled, to return another time soon.

A number of patrons of YouTube's "ASMarts" have chimed in with comments of gratitude, some claiming that the videos help put them to sleep. This is an interesting idea. The meridian-less, soothing ambiance that the, uh, "muggle" (unfortunate soul who doesn't get meridian) would get from the experience of listening to whispering (or tapping/crinkling/etc.) could certainly serve as a lullaby of sorts. (I just realized, a "lullaby" is "a" thing "by" which to "lull" to relative sedation. Ha ha.) But does meridian, when it happens, come with the standard hormones that could calm the person to sleep? In my high school, we had a choice between either physics or anatomy; I went with physics, so I'm kind of making things up about anatomy. But despite fairly frequently emerging from meridian indulgence (maybe there should be a word for "indulging in meridian", the way we have "masturbate" for "indulge in the pursuit of sexual orgasm"; "meristurbating"?) without feeling the least notable bit sleepier than before I clicked ►, I do have to wonder if the non-sexual upper-body euphoria is related to similar .....dopamine?.....releases within the body as with the traditional sexual orgasm. With traditional sexual orgasms, I usually — but not always! — do feel rather sleepy in the immediate aftermath. Or maybe that's because I tend to masturbate in bed, right before I'm aiming to sleep anyway, so it could be a bit skewed.* No, I still recall feeling sleepy in class during high school when having my private, hands-free sub-orgasm sexual euphoriae in my pants. Then again, why wouldn't I have been sleepy in class? Damn thing started at eight in the morning every friggin' weekday.

Meridian really does need some actual scientific studies. Control groups! Muggles and ....non-muggles. (Did we decide on a name for people who get meridian? I don't know.) Male and female. Young and old. Times of day. Intervals between meridian indulgences. See if there's a correlation between non-mugglehood and certain other selective genetic traits. Can non-muggles generally also wiggle their ears, or curl their tongue into a U? I can tell you that for me, just as I tend to feel meridian more strongly on the right than the left, so I am also better at wiggling my right ear than my left. My tongue curls nicely when so driven, and, for some reason, while I am right-handed, my left hand does the better "live long and prosper". And, I think we gotta compare personality types across the board. Are non-muggles ("meridianists"? "meridiots"? Help!) generally less violent than their unfortunate counterparts? You know, make orgasms, not war? Ahhh.....

Meridian needs scientific studies — if we can turn enough people on to the idea that the phenomenon exists. The very idea of it is still rather emerging, ever gradually, from our digitally collected conscience and risking making muggles bitter and angry. It ain't made its way into too many renowned publications, but I think it is, ever gradually, as I say, gaining momentum. Some of the 'Tube meridian community, according to one of the other videos on Donna's account, have evidently collaborated to produce a documentary about it. I recognized in that video one particular "ASMRtist" ⒜ whom I take to be the ambassador of meridian and its community to the world, and ⒝ whose videos I've most certainly enjoyed the most (often) since I discovered this whole technological revolution on the matter. I'll embed one of hers here: simple speaking and stereo close-up ear-to-ear whispers — in Russian, because, as with the German above, it's chock full of consonants, and the content of the words is like the points on Whose Line — it doesn't matter one bit. Also, it's significantly shorter than the above, at a mere 12.24. (Again, headphones are essential!)



Nobody so far triggers my left side like Maria. (Sounds like an old song, right there.)

Trying to think if there was more I wanted to say now while I'm on this topic. I can't stand reality television, but my mother gladly watches Big Brother, among other atrocities. I haven't talked at all explicitly aloud about meridian, but I did mention to Mom as I was passing through: "The one good thing about Big Brother is, sometimes they whisper." "What? What does that have to do with anything?" "I like whispering. Whispering is good. It's soothing." "[shakes head] That's one of the weirdest things you've said! You've said a lot of weird things, but this is one of the weirdest!" Yes, perhaps it is. Probably because, although I'm not about to listen to a Big Brother marathon with headphones (I know I said content doesn't matter, but please...), I have one of the weirdest phenomena in mind.



P.S. I wonder how I would react to an actual person whispering directly to me. Maybe....some day.....



Edit 2014-5-3: A third meridian post



*While there is no apparent sexual connection to meridian, I will often get one single meridian-style euphoric SHOT down my right side while I'm in bed and have just turned on to my side for sleep after sexually masturbating to climax. Actually, I'll sometimes run my thumbnails against the pillow and blanket right up by either ear while I'm in bed and "meristurbate" that way.

Au Naturel?

While crawling through my 'Book feed a few days ago, I chanced upon a friend's thread, all about whether or not women ought to ever shave any part of them — pits, legs, something in between — any part. I couldn't immediately think of something to say about it, so I went on with my unemployed day, dodging family and cruising in Street View. (Side note: I've actually discovered Geoguessr since I posted that link from May; however, I've momentarily taken a break from landing in Brasil every game and getting super-annoyed in Russia. I have nothing against Brasil, mind you; I'm sure it's as fine a country as one can find in South America. I just prefer a little more variety in my blind-drop nations. As for Russia, it seems rather a chaotic place. Driving there is obviously insane; even though Street View images are static, it shows. And I'm sure everyone's heard about them a fair amount in the news. They'll harbor the whistleblower Snowden, but they'll hard-labor-imprison most of Pussy Riot while they thrash homosexuals and the like in various manners. In my yearning for world travels, I think I'll pass on the old Soviet master.) ......Where was I? Women's body hair, right. And as I clicked down the winding road, something struck me. This became my comment.

*~*~*~*

I'm fiddling around in Street View right now, as I'm all too wont to do. At the moment, I'm in a piece of Appalachia. There are bits where the imagery wavers between old, low-def 2008 imagery and new, hi-def 2012 imagery. Aside from the vastly improved resolution, there are obvious roads that didn't quite exist in 2008. This is difficult for my life-long midwest-bound mind to grasp, but, in Appalachia, it is necessary to carve into hills to make room for roads. Most of the roads run through the spaces formerly occupied by the now-erased bits of hill, leaving all this exposed rock.

While the exposed rock at the roadside is a kind of exotica to me in the corn fields, it is also, when I get down to it, kind of bizarre. There's all this wonderful green around, and then, every last bit of a sudden, there's this odd wall of lifeless tan. As newly done as it is, there isn't a blade of grass in the whole thing — at least, until I get to where it isn't quite so new, and nature has started to reclaim that lost real estate at the roadside in its way. The newer exposed rock looks decidedly unnatural and a tad off-putting.

It rather reminded me of this thread, which I saw earlier. ★

Pointless Lament (draft)

The song took a little bit to write after the idea behind it started forming. It's still rather taking that bit. Here's what the lyrics look like as I head to bed couch. (As it happens, my aunt from out of town is here tonight and using what's usually my bed.)

Countless orbs in space
fortune may grant one
with all the right
sparks for life
a proper distance from its sun
and resources are abound
but filler's much more rife
chance may deliver
yes she may give her
self up for the sake of life

and it's a long long road between bases
relentless static grey
scattered semblances of oases
may distract you along the way
and there are miles of barren wasteland
where it seems like nothing's there
don't it seem like hard times drag right on
the good times seem so rare

Seven days a week
fortune may grant two
to pause your quest
take a rest
and do the things you wanna do
and the months pass by
before a high
holiday comes around
and then's your chance
to see your aunts
and everyone else you love from out of town

and it's a long long road between bases
relentless numbing grey
scattered semblances of oases
may dissuade you along the way
and there are scores of heartless zombies
separating folks who care
don't you see the hard times stretch right on
and the good times seem so rare

Billions of earth-bound souls
fortune may grant three
to cherish you
care for you
accept you as true family
you'll hunt for words of wisdom
among sheer droves of jive
in eons and eons of pure void
there's just this short time we're alive

and it's a long long road between bases
relentless static grey
enigmas behind kindly faces
may divert you along the way
amid the miles of barren wasteland
where life just seems so bare
don't you feel the hard times plod right on
while the good times seem so rare

yeah it's a long long road between bases
relentless numbing grey
scattered semblances of oases
just might help you along the way
but there are hordes of heartless zombies
masquerading as folks who care
don't it seem the hard times trudge right on
and the good times are so rare

Thirst (lyrics)

One of my usual isolated angst rooted pop-rockers.

A dog eat dog world
ain't got much place for cats
such cannibal animals
just ain't where it's at

where'm I gonna run to
where'm I gonna go
who will I meet there
will either of us show

This courtship
don't short shrift
leave me on my own
your grain waves
your brain waves
shake me to the bone

who'm I gonna turn to
is it worth the trip
I need full nourishment
more than just a sip

Ambrosia
nectar of the gods
Ambrosia
tie the ends and odds
Ambrosia
I ain't got a lotta time

Ambrosia
you taunt my mortal reach
Ambrosia
my sense of hope you breach
what holds ya
speakin' out is not a crime

this dog eat dog world
ain't for no one but the birds (and nasty curs)
we manifest at a test
of sheer power of our words (and we hope we're heard)

it's time we gotta act, now
for so long we've rehearsed
you recognize my needs
you can quench my thirst

Ambrosia
in my cones and rods
Ambrosia
tie those ends and odds
I told ya
pretty soon I gotta fly

Major-Minor (lyrics)

I still haven't quite figured out exactly how the music for this goes, but I can tell you that it's a highly Beatlesque piece, ideally played on a piano (which is not at all my instrument) and featuring copious slick musical references to the likes of Tintern Abbey, The Aerovons, Badfinger, "I Am the Walrus", some other things, and, as you may guess from these lyrics....."Hey Jude".

Hey Judas
don't make it worse
it's pretty bad
as it stands

your music
has scapes and verse
that belie
a crooked man

you waltzed into our hearts
with mass collections of the arts
you gladly shared
as though you cared

then we gave control you never had
and all since then we all too badly fared
we're past repair
what has you scared?

Hey Judas
please leave my skin
so I'll begin
to improve

'cause my mood is
so paper thin
it's prone to snap
right in two

the damage done, the havoc wreaked
you and the barkeep streaked
right down the hall
no last call

now I've got to say, your new dark days
your wily silent ways
of handling all
just appall
you just appall

where's the harmony (it's gone)
hear the harmony (in my song)
where's the harmony (all gone)
here you're harmin' me (what did I do wrong)

Hey Judas
yer scary mug
gonna get
counter-clocked some day

'cause your ass
is way too smug
and I sense
it's high time you paid

Aaaaahhhh
Aaaaahhhh
Aaaaahhhh
Aaaaahhhh......

"A lot of people would be thinking, 27, what have you got to complain about."

So commented a friend on the Silliest Ffourth entry, two down.

The sheer stagnation.

My own life seems to be going at a pace slowed to half the norm. My body is 27; that would put every other aspect of me to roughly 13½. I'm living in a small house with yappy dogs and parents that loudly and gracelessly snore, burp and obstruct. I have no job, and I have never had even a temporary romantic partner. All around me, everybody's getting married and having kids. Even this past day, the world, or at least the media, has gone gaga for royal goo-goo. (Why does America care? Hell, why does Britain care? Useless figureheads. Leave them alone! Man, this new baby's life is gonna be hell.) The rate I'm going, my body will be 35 by the time I get to be with somebody.

Everybody's getting married. One of my favorite old co-workers with whom I'm cyberfriends came up in my feed this past Friday as having her wedding; I'd known she was engaged, but I hadn't known the wedding date. Me, I managed to find a wedding that I could attend on Saturday, namely, that of my mother's best friend's daughter, whom I hadn't seen in rather a number of years. It was a small town wedding, just up 150 a bit, in a small church — low-key and fairly pleasant. Reception in the next town's American Legion post; food unremarkable but got the job done (I love me some pasta salad); cake curiously sweet and far too plain — no filling at all; music by and large horrendous. Also, I only got to talk to the bride and groom once. But other than the song that busted out with "LET ME SEE YOUR TITS", an overall decent and happy time. That feeling lasted through most of Monday.

So, back to jobless, isolated, lonely reality, wherein my new improved health insurance bill has arrived. I want to leave online social media for a while, but I have no place else to go. Dating sites require payment. I gaze helplessly at pictures of people with cats and food. I "Like" some of those pictures. One friend just found somebody. I dig that friend very much, and I hope it works for them. Somebody talks about all the frogs around. My mind produces a 404 page; I have never seen a frog in my life. Somebody else invites me to an "Event" at least a hundred fifty miles away from me. On Twitter, I follow Neko Case for some reason. She's single — yay — but all the posts about traveling do their best to persuade me to unfollow her. She and plenty of others speak of New York. Fuck. I put on something by the Diogenes Club and space out a bit. I play some obsessive rounds of Boggle against the computer; I win more often than I lose or tie. I destroy "bubbles" by matching three or more of the same color. I sign selected political petitions that have been e-mailed to me, never with my own name, address, or number. I play Freecell, in which I now have 940 wins and zero losses. I check in on this ... and its thread. It's gotten exciting. The music I'm playing is so dreamy as it's winding down. And then, from beyond the door to the room I'm in, the sound of another door opening. Skittering dog paws on the hard floor. Door closing. Human footsteps. Loud, repulsive burp. More doors. Fart. Piss. Decibels. Reality.

Or some semblance thereof.

Choice Chirps, Part I

I'm rather struggling of late to muster anything to post that won't make both me the writer and you the reader yearn deeply for the sweet, sweet caress of death. The same is true, I suspect, of all the rest of the Internet these days. With that in mind, I come to realize that I haven't done one of these short-takes roundups in rather a while. I hope at least some of these are as entertaining as they seemed when I originally chirped, or "tweeted", them. (Some have been edited and cleaned up in translation to Blogger.) Enjoy!

Why are they called "urban legends"? Aren't a bunch of them rural in origin and popularity?

Maybe doorknobs should be at eye level rather than elbow level. What did my elbows ever do to doorknobs? Huh!?

In this age of cursing and mud-slinging, nobody seems to call you a "doofus" anymore.

Where I live, Election Day just happens to coincide with "garbage night".

Cartoon panel yearning for illustration: a dog yelling RUFF RUFF RUFF RUFF RUFF, and a cat gently murmuring "Smooth."

You know a case of verbal diarrhea has gotten bad when it gets to talking about the other kind.

My father has what I call the Sadim touch. Everything he gets involved with turns to shit.

A "blockbuster" is now a wrecking ball that demolishes buildings that used to feature Blockbuster Video stores.

December: It's the most overplayed time of the year.

Parents: The playfully mocking way you pronounce certain things may be how your kid(s) will think they're actually pronounced. Apparently, "homage" is pronounced "ah-midge".

Social climate change: The theory that people are getting colder.

Tweeted by Jasmine Dreame: "The "why" stage of adulthood is so much worse than the "why stage of childhood."

Looked up "twitter" in the dictionary on a whim. It says, "to talk rapidly in a nervous or trivial way." (OAD, 2008)

Google+ emails my Gmail account. The e-mails land in the Spam folder.

Is anything other than wit ever "vaunted"?

Assorted anagrams for Cheshire Adams: "He has dire scam". "Her chasm aside". "Ham chaser dies". "Cash sad; hire me!"

Why do we choose to stop observing Daylight Saving Time during the time of year when we could use the extra daylight?

Supposedly Google has developed self-driving cars. Fuck that shit. Show me a self-functioning lawnmower. I'll gladly snatch that up.

Why is tupperware round? It's inefficient. It would store better as squares. Or right triangles. Or hexagons.

I wasn't looking at the ad. I merely heard: "Click to see simple inaction".

Eggnog ice cream or milkshakes taste much better than actual eggnog.

Turning over a new leaf likely won't help if it's from the same tree.

My father puts the "annoyed" in "humanoid".

He who announces that something must be done clearly doesn't intend to do it himself.

Things I miss about childhood: Standing on the base of the shopping cart, pushing it along with my foot, and riding it down the aisle.

If someone gets kicked out of a hacker group, are they deleeted?

Y'ever get a big thing of chocolate-covered raisins, pick out the Siamese ones, and separate 'em with your incisors before chewing? Sublime, isn't it?

Does anything other than corn come on cobs?

"I lost part of my earring; I hope I didn't drop it in the food somewhere." —my mother, while baking

"Spare ribs" sounds like they're leftovers, doesn't it? What are these restaurants selling us, anyway?!

I'm not even bothering trying to set something in stone. At this point, I'll be ecstatic if I can make an impression on "memory foam".

"The Itsy Bitsy Spider" seems to be a metaphor for people who keep living in flood zones.

It's really just a single oodle — not that much at all.

People I can do without: Social network users who snarkily imply that you should Google the question you just asked. I'm trying to be social, you bastards. That's what this thing is for. You are part of the problem.

Teach your children to say "pardon?" or "sorry?", because "loser says what."

The average human imagination can likely be approximated by the fact that only one world flag is non-rectangular.

Threw out cassette tapes
it wasn't my decision
This is not my home.

Because nouns.

dashing the wishes

Always remember: It's the little things that accumulate and erode you slowly and agonizingly.

Not all who constantly harp are angels.

far and tethered

I think I'm coming around to understanding "taking the lord's name in vain" being an abomination. I'm so tired of people who say "Oh my God" four times a minute.

Worthless endeavor
putting a single staple
inside the stapler

Idea yearning for illustration: "Doctor Who's Next", in which a TARDIS has replaced the concrete monument on which Townshend et al. have pissed. (Edit 7-18-13: Just had the brilliant idea of Google Image searching for it. Yay, results!)

Re the Beloit Mindset List: By now, Sonic the Hedgehog is old enough to have an obese toddler — powered by onion rings.

Also re the Beloit Mindset List: Fiat never existed in America before this year.

Nashville has an FM radio station that brands itself as "Hippie radio". It features hourly updates from Fox News.

"Turn up the Radio" came on at work, but it was nearly inaudible.

Why, as a species, do we demonize the end slices of loaves of bread?

Why also do we hold a glass that has a handle, not by the handle?

Trends I have seen on Twitter: "Scandal", "TheMostAnnoyingThingsInLife", "DontBotherMeWhenIm", "ThingsIHateAboutSchool". Talk about Bill Watterson's "excessively negative people".

How am I supposed to take seriously anything on a site called "SurveyMonkey"?

Where the grass is greener, it probably rains that much more.

They tell me the key to success is who you know. A midwestern only child of a day care worker and a loner bureaucrat, I guess I'm screwed.

We lose an hour to commence Daylight Saving Time.

Life's little moments: Blowing a hole right through the tissue.

So it turns out, a "speed zone" is a place to go slow.

The fruit I was eating had actual seeds! I want to get on the porcelain rotary phone and tell everyone!

Slow cooker: A device for torturing you with smells of things that you can't enjoy for hours yet.

I suppose it's "creepy" or some such thing if I go to play on the playground in the park.

The printer software offered to print the page that said I was almost out of ink.

Loitering: Because only rapists and child killers would want to stand outside in enjoyable weather.

Y'ever just lie in the darkness and watch the green and purple swirls as they perform the mathematics of the universe?

Clarifying lotion: It's this goop you can put on your body to make your body feel better.

Two things I can give away limitlessly: The finger, and orgasms.

So I guess non-GMO products will wear a "non-GMO" label, and we'll buy those.

I think "major" and "minor" scales are misnamed. Seems to me the most urgent messages use "minor" keys.

Some things I've never seen in real life: Frogs, snakes, somebody flying a kite. Much more where those came from.

Far too much of the chicken is white meat. Not unlike the country.

Here's something I don't much care for: store-bought sauerkraut with caraway seeds. I guess someone had a reuben on rye and got confused.

Perhaps life is more valuable when there is greater threat of its sudden end. (In other words, fuck safety.)

Quite telling, perhaps, that the phrase "I hope you're happy" is most commonly spoken and associated with bitterness and sarcasm.

Paying big bucks for
cheap lawn gloves. It's my hands that
got the raw deal

Sunlight rapes the shades
another fruitless day has
been thrust upon me

A picture of a tree
in a wooden frame

You can't negotiate with terriers.

Doctor Who caption in search of illustration: Psychedalek

Is it far-out to be down-to-earth?

Has there been an episode of a mainstream cop show where the cause of the crime turned out to be supernatural? It seems to me that this needs to happen.

I hope that wasn't
an itty bitty earring
the vacuum picked up

You don't meet too many Ursulas anymore. I think it's because Disney ruined that name.

I have a crack problem.

Knuckles, heel, elbows, neck — I crack 'em all.

Every Facebook user wants a "Dislike" button. Me, I'd prefer a "Be happy for them while wholly bitter that you'll be in no such place any time soon" button.

Songs used to go "do do do do do do do". Now they go "don't don't don't don't don't don't don't". (...wait, what?)

lunatic fringe benefits

Some useful information about me: I am a VERY sore loser.

Rehearse: To transport a dead person a second time.

Funny how some dogs that bark as loud as they do can be scared of loud noises.

Unemployment Valentine Candy Hearts: "Dole queue-tee"; "Be my reference"; "This gun's for hire"; "May as well take off the suit".

Why do we call it "dusting"? Shouldn't it be "de-dusting"? In my case, more like "de-hairing"....

Obligatory: A temporary existential plane, characterized by perpetual obligation to others until the time when a more permanent plane has become available. See also "life".

Silliest Ffourth, or The Decoration of "Independence"

I have been in an absolutely wretched mood of late. I turned 27 Earth-years old about a week ago — the age at which Jimi, Janis, Jim, and many other icons, musical and otherwise, fled this existential plane. I have a useless bachelors' degree that took eight years to achieve — or just under 26 years, if you count all the schooling and growing up before college — no hope of employment in a dead-end town, the finest writing skills that ever failed to gain a following beyond a very small circle of cyberfriends,* a splitting headache from the onslaught of familial aggravation and yelling in a small house with greater acoustics than ever thanks to the replacement of carpet by hardwood, and, after my mother told me that I'm "debt-free", I got a thing in the mail that informed me that my bi-monthly health insurance payment is hopping up to $286 and change. For my reader (-s?) outside the US, that's right; my mere existence, let alone its continuation, apparently requires me to forever cough up dough in increments, because if something horrendous happens to me, I will not be allowed to just die and escape the madness, no matter how limited my contributions are to endless menial errands and half a gigabyte of scribbled lines. I'm unallowed, and I'm feeling mighty unappreciated. I don't even get a word of criticism most of the time, save from my mother who complains that I keep making fun of her; people "unfriend" me without so much as "goodbye", or they ignore me. One person in Portland seems to appreciate me quite well, but suffice it to say that the idea of going to them has perished. And I may not be far behind.

Be it personally or (inter)nationally, I gotta say, independence is bullshit. On the national scale, we in the US have run ourselves into the ground and will soon be buried six feet deep there. Everything is outsourced to....other countries. (Including pop stars from Britain, I might add.) That's not independence. Employing our own people to produce our own goods on our own soil would be closer to independence. No doubt we'd still be making treaties and starting unnecessary wars with other countries, but it would be a start.

As for the personal level, I'm not even sure where to begin. We make a big enough deal about it. I hear it from my parents; I have to be independent! They won't support me forever! Nobody will support me! I have to support myself! Nobody will hire me! I have to support myself! Nobody will host me! I have to support myself! What, do I build a house out of wood and mud, with my bare hands? Do I grow my vegetables in the roof of that house? Where do I build that house? The whole country's divided up into other people's properties. I'll be shot and/or arrested.

With the possible exception of some radical guys in Montana — or so I've heard — nobody is really independent. At the very least, we have to deal with others to get the goods, materials, and decorations we need and want. And even before we get to an age where we can do that based on our own decisions, who among us can claim that they raised themselves as children, without anyone around to teach them what things are, reach the snacks off the top shelf for them, prevent them from stuffing that mud and those creatures in their face, et cetera, et cetera? Hell, our being born in the first place is dependent on at least one other person! We don't just pop out of thin air; we pop out of another human! And, thanks to our grotesquely fucked-up evolution, even she can't conjure you alone. At least one other person needs to help with a normal, natural delivery, which I understand is superhumanly painful for her. And how about that increasing number of cesarean births? How many people does it take to surgically remove someone from their own umbilical cord? Not to mention that the mother didn't impregnate herself. Unless she broke into a sperm bank at night. But even then, she didn't build that sperm bank alone. I should think it very implicit and inherent in our biology that we are inexorably dependent on each other.

So why this crushing "independence" mindset? Outmoded macho bullshit, mixed with the greed of those special few who never outgrew that bit of childhood where the kindergarten teacher tried so hard to get you and the other kids to "Share". Those stupid, uncooperative brats ruined everything for the whole class. The whole working class.

We depend on each other. Some in certain ways, some in others, some unfortunate souls on life support completely and terminally. If the family or hospital goes cold and pulls the plug, they're gone. We're humans, and physical care is not enough for us. We need emotional support — love. We need to know that our existence has value, even if it's merely local. And by "value", I don't mean financial. If money is your primary concern, may I say this: It's humanity, stupid!

That seems such a perfect ending, right there. But I got to thinking about something I read recently on the Good Men Project, an intriguing site whose publisher somehow came to follow me on Twitter and still does. Apparently I've reached a point in my feeling of loneliness that I'm reading mating/dating articles. Anyway, one of them said something akin to "you're not looking for a partner; you're looking for a caretaker." Yes. Yes I am. And she should be too. We take care of each other. That's what we're supposed to do.

I bid you an American Fantasy Day full of happy festivity, delicious food, and well-guided love. Make it happen.



*Lucy in Cyberspace's official followers remain at three after some five years and change. I still have no idea who Daniel is, which could be the tiniest spark of encouragement. Daniel, looks like you're near Chapel Hill. You don't happen to know Rockin' Ammonia Karaoke, do you? Also, Hi Mond_licht! Long time no interact with. And Type, great to have you. Otherwise, I get a very occasional comment from the likes of Momo and Beccabear. And Tucker, I think. Love you folks to bits.

New Raw Set!

See second sticky post, where the unpolished home-recorded set has been appended. I recorded these songs some nineteen days ago, during a very brief moment in time when I had the house completely to myself — no dogs to bark (they were at the groomer's), and all other humans at work or otherwise out. Bliss.

"Beckoned" is a nice, light instrumental.

"Vicious" is not. In fact, you haven't heard me shout like that before.

"Colds Suck" is a folk song.

"Objectionism" is an instrumental with an up-tempo, "So Far From Home"-style rhythm.

"Now What" is now available in a cleaner-sounding (and sung) studio version.

And lastly, I cover Gerry Rafferty's classic "Baker Street".

I hope you enjoy! More to the point, I hope you consider my artistic cause worthy of support...!

Mon-Cutesy, Non-Cutedo

Well, only half a month since my last post. Not bad by my attempt at "weekly". I might make up for it, though; I'll know when I've finished typing this.

Somewhere in the depths of my old Facebook status selections, there's a bit where I talk about "cute". I wish to expand on this about now. I've mentioned in the past where I feel as though my dislike of coffee, alcohol, and the like sort of robs me of some of the most common opportunities to be social, on the grounds (coffee grounds?) that people seem to most often gather around those particular refreshments. It's rather hitting home of late that my very dull, almost lacking, sense of cuteness may be another obstacle in that department.

I don't necessarily find the things and creatures repulsive that others revere as adorable. I simply by and large fail to see what's so special about them. I will often respond to quiet beauty and grace, hence my deification of cats, but "cute" seldom does much for me. Most dogs and human babies are just....there. Making a mess and requiring care. And many is the anthropomorphized pet meme in social media that I just scroll past, unamused.

"Cute" doesn't start out as much with me, and it can easily be made irritating and aggravating with repetition. Calling small children "big" is just stupid anymore. Unless through some biological fluke they really are the size of a Volkswagen, they are not big at four weeks old, much less four days old. I've seen enough of "Grumpy Cat" that I wouldn't miss her if she vanished from the face, neck and spleen of the universe. (Mission accomplished?) And I feel a particular overwhelming ennui when I hear my mother kvell over the dogs in that high voice and partially gibberish language as she's done most every day since late 1993. With the exception of Dinah, the dogs are really not that remarkable to me. In fact, they're kind of noisy, stinky idiots, scared of loud noises or walking on the smooth floor, and eating things they're not supposed to.

Actually, much of "Dog culture" turns me right off. I've never been a dog person, and I just don't see in these creatures what most of the world sees:

• Posing them in human settings doesn't help. I'm sure a sweater is good for keeping them warm in cold weather, but I see no reason to obsess over it. Costumes are demeaning and awful. Dogs that look like their so-called owners: big whoop. "Puppy Bowls" running parallel to the Super Bowl on the television featuring puppies on a miniature football field are just meaningless, empty entertainment in which I have no interest whatsoever.

• Randomly inserting dogs and their likenesses wherever possible. Why does licorice need to be shaped like Scottish terriers? If "A Friend in Need" featured cats, goats, or lizards playing poker instead of dogs, would anyone care or even have heard of it?

• And, of course, Dog language. Apparently, you can modify anything in English to include a dog-related word and thereby create "cute" perfection. Including, I might add, names of dog breeds. Not only are Scottish and Yorkshire terriers "Scotties" and "Yorkies" (Side note: cuteness in general can be elicited by simply sticking an "ie" on the end of anything, e.g. eggies, cakie, doggies, et cetera. "Rabies" sounds like it should be something cute, doesn't it? Why does "rabies" sound cute and "orgasm" sound like someone spittin' up? Ah well, I digress...), but cross-breeds are referred to by wholly ungodly names like "schnoodle" (schnauzer-poodle), "chorkie" (yorkie-chihuahua, I think), and who knows what else. Is the offspring of a bulldog and a shih-tzu a bullshit? And the rest of the dictionary: dogs' breath mints go by "Yip-Yaps" and "Puppamints". I suspect some dog owners put "bark & roll" on their stereo (which has a subWOOFer) all day for the dogs while they're at work. Maybe they drive home in their Pontiyap and get stuck at the tail-road crossing on the way. It's ridiculous. I suppose we'll all be happy and not raise a fuss over "statuterrier rape" and "pawlice brutality". This stuff gives me a mastiff headache and is absolutely re-pug-nant.

Anyway, I don't sense "cute" very well (you can tell from the bit about rape and police brutality right there), and it necessarily limits the meaningful interactions I can have with people, including family and friends. Last weekend, I went to Chicago for my cousin's party where she introduced her recently-born child to all our Illinois family and friends (that made it to the party). By and large, it was a fabulous party and weekend. I got to see and talk with many a friend and family member that I don't see very often (one came in from DC, and another I hadn't seen since the wedding), food and cake were plentiful, and things were good. But when it comes to the actual reason for the party — my baby "grandcousin" — I just sort of sit quietly, taking in the aura of joy. I have nothing to contribute to the conversation. The baby isn't bad by any means. I'm just not into babies or children. If they're functioning properly, good. Let 'em develop to the point where I can get to know them as equals. Here at the party, we had four other youngsters, most notably my cousin's best friend's two boys: one twenty days younger than my grandcousin, and one young toddler who is walking and talks in blurred gibberish but seems to understand certain things. In fairness, the toddler shares his mother's nice, wide smile. I do like a good smile. The weekend was a good, happy time, but through a couple days with the "April babies" who took two evenings together, I could feel my brain slipping away, seeking a plane of existence to which it could meaningfully contribute.

I still love you, friends of the family and everyone. I do. But I'm not done talking about "cute". I have developed a point of view wherein the use of "cute" implies assumed superiority of the speaker. We apply the term to pets and children, whom we believe are intellectually beneath us. By extension, we apply it to novices of a trade who don't quite get it right the first time. And then we snarkily so label people we see as terminal failures trying to make like they're not terminal failures. "Cute" has rather become an inherently demeaning descriptor. This is why it pissed me off so greatly a week or two ago when my mother heard me playing back one of my recordings and said "Oh, you recorded yourself! That's so cute!" News flash: Drive On is not my first recording. I have a whole set of songs dating back roughly to 2009. I wrote most of them, lyrics and guitar work both. Your musical output, mother, consists of endlessly and atonally repeating VOOOLAAARE and GOTTA GET DOWN TO THE CUMBERLAND................MIIIIIINE. But I will give you the benefit of a doubt as to whether you actually wrote "I love my schnauzers, one-two-three".

All this talk was perhaps somewhat prompted by something I saw my mother's cousin, and then my closest Portland friend, post on the 'Book. It's a map of the United States as interpreted by a New Yorker.



Is there a certain vibe you get from that? There's one I get from it, and it ain't too great. The Chicago comment clinches it. So I made a similar US map, one as interpreted by me, a prisoner of the flatlands with very limited experience beyond. There was a DC road trip in 2000 and a Minneapolis road trip circa 2002. We would pick a weekend of record heat to visit Minnesota. Oh, and 2006 saw one brief St. Louis weekend. (That year also saw the northern UK, not pictured.)

View in separate tab/window

That's your reputation, New York. (No offense to my friends who are there.) Self-important alpha cock, strutting around, thrusting yourself in everyone's face. Chicago is perfectly sized, thank you much. We don't go around whoring ourselves out for attention. We keep our corruption quiet, the way it's supposed to be done. Now kindly take your fuckin' Macy's out of our city and give us our Field's back, please. ♪♫♪ Our Marshall Field's Forever! ♪♫♪

****

Speaking of cities, I need a new one. I thought I had gotten one, but perhaps not. Starting to feel like my existence will be entirely contained in Square One. Time to talk with people.

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!

Spring in Suburbia, Part II

Lest I didn't make it so clear in Part I, two posts down, I despise suburban lawns, and I particularly despise my own being drafted to maintain such a lawn.

So you can imagine how utterly thankful I am that I survived this past week, which was hell in that department. The old mower had been scraping on the ground in a way that it oughtn't after I posted Part I, and so it had been in the shop since the beginning of the month. Fifteen days later, when the grass had grown taller than the dogs, we got on the horn with the shop, and, after a brief exchange, we told them to keep the old one, and went in search of a new one. We chose a store on the polar opposite end of our twin towns, and from it a mower with an electric start up (to replace our old mower's "pull"-start). Two or three drives back and forth to the store — me as a nerve-wracked passenger in my father's stick-shift car, I might add, which I have not learned to drive, and Father ain't so hot at driving it either — essentially taught us ⒜ that the handle is set by default to be right where it can stop the blade dead, ⒝ any time the blade can't move, it causes a chain reaction that means we have to go back to the store and replace a part that allows the electric start to work, and ⒞ that means that the simplest clog results in the thing being dead until we get that part replaced every time. Two days and all of my mother's hysteria over the matter later, we traded it in. Simple pull-start mowers from here for us. And even with the new mower, the tall, thick grass that had grown over some eighteen spring days took hours to mow. And despite the gloves, my hands hadn't been that sore since the Edible Arrangements gig in Nashville with all the pineapple.

But, yay, finished stuff! At least until the grass grows back again. And my mother isn't hysterical about the lawn anymore. But not to worry; she'll find more things to be hysterical about. The terminal lack of employment among my father and myself, for instance. Or my magically vanishing eyebrows that she claims will cement my joblessness. (Will it?) Or whether what my father's set to record on the DVR will override what she wants to record. Or whether we failed to do some minor household task during the given afternoon. Ah, well; time to go somewhere else for a while.

****

Meanwhile, this past day in Cyberspace: A tornado wiped out an Oklahoma City suburb, Ray Manzarek touched the earth at 74, and Grumpy Cat is enjoying all the bad news. As tired as I am of all the Grumpy Cat (aka Tardar Sauce) memes, I can quite see her way sometimes.

Here's the late Manzarek with the Valedictorian, paying tribute to his old band. (By the way, more music and multimedia on my other blog, Lucy Dream!)

I chirped these separately in the early morning of March 10, save for the opener, new to today

I hear the beating
of dull drums — dem ol' doldrums
beating down on me

Stifled so much that
I want to take my own life
up into my hands

my own tied up hands
my entire tied up mind
suffocating me

suffocating me
my head badly, horribly
crammed senseless with muck

crammed sleepless with muck
symbolically release streams
as words in a form

a forming of words
from the primordial ooze
of wild shapeless thought

shapeless thought emerge
from the haze of this mind state
sleepless thought, converge

Each of us woke up one moment, and here we were in the darkness.

(This title a line spoken by the ballerina in The Twilight Zone's "Five Characters in Search of an Exit"; click to watch via IMDb/Hulu.)

I'm in a rather bizarre place. It's loaded with trees, and the ground is doing this crazy up-and-down business. I think I've heard that referred to as...hills? A while back, there was a stretch of civilization or something like it. I think it was called "Oceana". It had these gas stations I've never seen before: "Chevron" and "Sunoco". Since then, I've seen occasional dwellings amid the trees and neighboring creek over which there have been little, rickety, wooden bridges through which I'd think a car would bust but perhaps not. A "Logan County" sign was legible not too long ago. I've momentarily pulled into a driveway off this road which has only been labeled with an eerie "10" in a box — to write this "journal". So, what I know is this: I'm on State Highway 10 in Logan County, somewhere in the United States. And I figure I'm in the United States because every other country that has Street View has nice, clear, high-definition, where I can actually read signs (unless they're auto-blurred) and occasional license plates (that should have been auto-blurred). We only have some of that.

This is just one of my "hobbies" that I've taken up in my nights and often days with the computer in the corn and soybeans. I put on some good music, zoom the Google Map all the way out, move it around a bit, switch to label-less satellite view, center it roughly around the eastern States — eyeballed, y'know; sometimes I miss. I haven't tried this in other countries yet, although this low-resolution imagery in this country is rather persuasive in that direction. Anyway — I click on the zoom scale to go directly all the way in, drag around until I find a road with Street View, drape a thing over the upper left of the monitor so I can't see the informative pop-up that Street View provides, and proceed to "drive" until, through recognition of highway signs and other clues, I've sufficiently figured out where I am.

I've gotten to know some of the States: Indiana and my state of Illinois have square-shaped state highway logos with their names in them. Kentucky puts their state highway numbers in circles. Tennessee mixes squares for the thruways and triangles for the more "roots" roads. Ohio has Ohio-shapes, Arkansas has Arkansas-shapes, and Missouri has Missouri-shapes (with lesser "letter" highways in squares). But I've yet to pick out this state, which is crazy hilly and wooded and only uses plain squares with plain numbers. And I've yet to hit a US highway or interstate, which would help me gauge how far north/south/east/west I am. I'm tempted to say I'm in Appalachia, but I really don't know.

By the way, a quick tip for American travelers, be they in real life or, like me, on Street View: For interstates, lower numbers within two digits are generally farther west (for odd-numbered roads, which primarily go north/south) and south (for even-numbered roads, which primarily go east/west). For the old US highways, it's the opposite: lower numbers are north and east compared to higher numbers. Triple-digit interstates are specific to one metro or otherwise not so long. And state routes seem to be total chaos. As can be the occasional diagonal US highway. (Where is 52 going?) So, New England gets US highways 1 and 2 and interstates 95 and I-don't-know-what-even-number, while Cali gets US's 101 and who-knows and I's-5 and 10. Florida gets I-4, and the rest of us get numbers in the middle somewhere. Me, I'm physically at the intersection of US 45 and 150, and I 74, 72 and 57. And virtually, I'm in a delightfully bizarre place (except, too many churches). And I'm fixin' to see more.

Spring in Suburbia

Kids screaming in the street. The constant roar of lawn mowers, one asynchronous homeowner after the other. Dogs barking endlessly at all the mowing. Father barking endlessly at the dogs, trying to tell them to shut up, while the non-English-speaking dogs probably think he's joining in the chorus with them. And me, lying in bed, feeling my brain rattling against every bit of my skull's interior in a quest for a way out. Soon, I'll be coerced into contributing to that noise pollution with the family's own mower. And my mother will come home and add her disharmonic vocal to the mix. But for now, my father takes a moment to lull me back to sleep with his lecture about why I should get up and mow the lawn.

Lawn mowing is a microcosm of suburban life as a whole. Its only fruit, apart from the snot that the newly scattered pollen will elicit from our sinuses, is that the lawn looks nice in the eyes of horrid, imagination-less suburbanites. For maybe a week until the grass has grown back. And then it has to be done again. To please the horrid, imagination-less suburbanites. Theoretically.

Pure bright, even-height green. The whole premises, wherever there isn't a house, tree, mailbox, or bit of concrete. No fruits. No vegetables. No flowers. No organisms that resemble flowers but are apparently weeds. And if it's not the day of the week when the garbage collectors come by, get that bloody trash can outta here. (But if it is that day of the week, consequences will be dire if the can isn't out.) If it isn't an indistinct, crew-cut blade that lives only for itself and eventually dies in vain, it's not allowed. Sound familiar?

So, as I've said many times before, I don't belong here. And I remain in talks to hopefully belong somewhere new. But while I'm jobless, I am being given looping domestic things to do. Pointless yardwork. Moving trash forth and back every week. Cleaning up and fixing my demented father's "projects" and digital screw-ups. Assisting my demented father with getting to his outside errands and participating in the grocery shopping. And I get food, shelter and internet at no further cost than the $275 bi-monthly health insurance payment. So there's that. Plus this. At least for a little while longer.

Earth Day 2013

I guess it was Earth Day. That's what it said in the ads in the Sunday Tribune. I didn't seem to hear about it anyplace else.

But perhaps I wasn't fully paying attention to media over the weekend. I was in Chicago and north suburbs, having a grand ol' time with family and, all too briefly, friends on Record Store Day (Saturday). Good food, good company, and just a pleasant break from the previous week's flood of talk about Boston bloodshed, shoddy journalism, Texas fertilizer plant explosions, failing gun regulations, and, indeed, flooding — in my home metro. As my aunt and I drove around with my granduncle, we noticed a couple things along the way that looked like little ponds and lakes — with trees sticking right out of them. The remains of something that had shut down the Edens expressway for a bit, and that none of us had actually been around to witness, with one of us downstate and another in Nashville. But, for the moment, lovely weather and vibes in Chicagoland.

Alas, good times don't last. I drove back to and through the flatlands Sunday afternoon, stopping twice to get gas, empty the bladder, call a far-away friend who had asked that I call them that weekend when I had a chance, and otherwise hitting 96 miles per hour at one point on my way to the promise of the world's greatest meatloaf. I criticize my mother about many things, but, in her own words, [she] sure can cook! It was goooooood...!

On to today, which it is for about twenty more minutes here. I awoke to the sound of Mom yelling at Dad for falling, as though he does it on purpose when it happens. He has rather a history of falling on occasion. I really don't think anger is the way to fix such a problem as that. But my father rather is the sort of person that, summarily, deserves his own post on here. He's a wreck. And today was one for me to see to him. He has a sleep aid with which he's struggling to get to work properly. I drove him across town to a fruitless appointment for that, among minor errands. As I've been typing this post, I've heard and gone to investigate hysterical laughter from the bedroom, catalyzed by the sleep aid machine making "fart noises". If and when I can, I'm supposed to fix a sleep mask that's in pieces on the dining room table and wasn't discovered until after the appointment. Apart from that, I hooked up a new television receiver in the bedroom, assisted with dinner in my usual sous chef role, and got called to assemble dessert and do other scattered things in the middle of a cyber-chat with the friend that I had called from Bourbonnais. Supposedly, somewhere between all the family engagements, I should be working at a steady job.

Perhaps I will go ahead and apply at the simple place that that friend mentioned — right in the face of my disapproving family. And pursue a visit, maybe a full-out stay, with them, over two thousand miles from here. They, the friend, might be right: I "need to look to myself for once in [my] life".

Monday, April 15, 2013

Well, I suppose if I'm going to be suggesting monetary donations on here, I should make some sort of effort to at least appear to be putting actual work into this blog and its posts. Maybe I'll try a weekly thing like this where I just process my mind's blurred image of the past day or so, maybe the past week, and render it somewhat in focus. My mind is often forced to resolve blurs on its own. Today, for instance....

I awoke somewhere around six in the evening and got up the following hour. My circadian rhythm is as horrible and hopeless as it's ever been, perhaps to reflect my own sense of hopelessness. I eventually found my way to that surrogate social life known as Facebook and was befuddled by a wall of posts putting "bombs" and "Boston Marathon" together. The posts included five or six friends sharing a status by Patton Oswalt, who is one of the many people that fall in my "heard the name before but know nothing of the person" category. "Mister" Rogers also had a common quote in the feed. Apparently, something ridiculous and horrible happened.

New England is having a pretty horrendous time of it lately. From Hurricane Sandy, to Sandy Hook Elementary, to winter weather madness, and now this. I've not been to that part of the country ever; I do have a handful of cyber-friends there, though I'm not convinced any are Bostonites in particular. They're wonderful people in a region that I understand is lovely most of the time. They have my wishes of wellness in the face of increasing disaster, and I will gladly visit them in person as I am resourcefully able.

....which, back in the flatlands, I am of course not. This time last week, I mentioned a few things about my world that I don't mind following up on.

My "grandcousin" was born last Wednesday. (I decided I didn't like the "removed" terminology, so I made up a new title.) My mother made the drive down to Nashville the same day — arrived pretty much in time, so I'm told. The kid, born via cesarean section tangled in his umbilical cord (further evidence against "intelligent" design), seems to be all right; systems are good and all that jazz. I believe my cousin is also doing well post-C-section birth. All I know I know from my mother's nightly phone calls. He came home on Saturday. My mother's aiming to come back here maybe Wednesday, maybe Thursday. That gives my father and me just enough time to shop, clean bathrooms, and see to other such menial time-eaters. (My father wants to take me to Wal-Mart. You'd think by now he would know, I will not set foot in Wal-Mart. Hell, I couldn't even wait outside last time I was there without some police figure approaching us as we were getting in the car and leaving, talking about "loitering". Because only killers and rapists enjoy nice weather wherever they are.)

I had my state employment office meeting last week. It went better than I had thought it would, but I remain skeptical. I watched cartoons with my local friend from high school. I picked up my bicycle from the repair/tune-up place for more dough than I cared to have spent, considering I hadn't used the bike at all last year. I need a new helmet, but those cost nearly as much. I remember MAD Magazine saying something like, "Bicycles, which became popular as a cheap alternative to automobiles, have been so upgraded and enhanced that the same people who could not afford a car now also cannot afford a bicycle" (paraphrased from memory). Anyway, I filled out a job application for that place while I was there, because why not?. Otherwise, since my mother left on Wednesday, I've just been putting up with and looking after Dad, the dogs, and the house. No Paypal or Bandcamp yet. Just the sound of the pouring rain beyond this window in the late 3a hour.

This may not be my best writing; it's rather sloppy and reminiscent of a twelve-year-old's bedside diary. But if anyone's out here, I'd love to hear from you as ever.

Monday, April 8, 2013

Some things that appeared on my "news feed" on Facebook this past day:

• Two celebrity deaths: One a polarizing political figure from the UK, the other a popular entertainer from before my time. I feel no personal connection to either. There seemed genuine sadness for the Disney representative; reaction to the former prime minister was rather more interesting. One person produced a picture of Mags and the Gipper and proclaimed that "these two are responsible for the world being as it is today" (paraphrased). Looking at this world, that would seem to be more of a dyslogy than a eulogy. (Does English have a proper word that can go where I made that one up? "On-grave dance"?) One person simply delivered the news gleefully and sing-song-ily. And at least one other person had a shared status scorning the celebration of certain deaths. Speaking of which:

• An article link proclaiming that the Westboro Baptist Church will picket the funeral of Roger Ebert. I don't know if my international audience gets to hear much about the Westboro Baptist Church, so lest you don't, the Kansas-based hate group is known for outright stirring up anger by showing up at various funerals (e.g. those of soldiers) and other events and spewing anti-gay and other vile sentiments. What they could possibly have against the central Illinois native film critic, frankly, I don't want to know. I didn't read the article.

• Monsanto with its chemicals and genetically modified food will destroy us all, and we are powerless to prevent it or circumvent it by, say, growing our own food and banding together.

• Exxon turned an Arkansas neighborhood into an oil lake and doesn't want anyone to know.

• Palestine, or Hamas, or somebody, is still firing rockets into Israel.

• People ought to be who they are and not let anyone drag them down.

• "Remove the North Korean supreme leader!"

• Of the two people that mentioned their marital engagements this past day, one has learned that their aunt has terminal cancer and is estimated to have about two months left.

• The usual assortment of memes, Doctor Who references that have ever gradually come into focus for this writer who has never seen a single episode, an overwhelming number of YouTube song "videos", and words of presumed wisdom imposed over pictures of natural beauty which I'll probably never see in person.

• And, last but not least, my cousin's announcement that the child within her will be "evicted" (her word choice) midnight on Thursday if he makes no effort to emerge on his own before then.

This last just seemed somehow poetic to me. In fact, I do faintly recall a poem, somewhere in my childhood, expressing the sentiment of an unborn child who doesn't want to leave the warm, safe womb. Silverstein, maybe? I'll have to dig out those books when I have a moment.

There's a theory that the world was always this mad and that it's just more apparent and magnified in the digital age. There's also a theory that the digital age is accelerating the madness. (Though they didn't show up so much this past day, women's rights, LGBT rights, and all kinds of "occupy"-style sentiments are also ongoing conflicts and staples of my news feed. Oh, and can't forget climate change, threatening to flood the planet and bust its orbit.) I know I've mentioned drawbacks of the digital age before: we're antisocial, and we're angry and judgemental. Catharses are intensifying, and it's getting uglier out there all the time. At least we can count on the Cubs rendering themselves unrecognizable and losing.

And so I'm thinking about that "cousin once removed" who evidently doesn't want to be removed. I'm hoping he will be able to know and keep peace of mind. He does have one thing going for him: an awesome pair of parents (with awesome taste in housepets)!

****

Meanwhile, I'm pretty much wasting away in the flatlands. Later this morning, I'm going to another probably fruitless meeting in the state employment office. Then, after that, I'm going to a friend's house to watch cartoons. I might also check out a local "singer-songwriter collective" in the evening.

I got a debit card recently. This has me thinking now about setting up a Paypal and including a "donations" button on here. Maybe somebody would use it. Or, I can try selling an "album" on Bandcamp. Though I'd like to record (and finish writing) a few more things before I attempt that. (Covers don't fly on Bandcamp.)

And I may have an opportunity to record soon. I won't be going to meet my cousin-once-removed, but my mother will. I'll have about a week's reprieve from being in the bathroom when my mother gets home and, when I get out to greet her, the first thing she disdainfully intones is "Gee, do you do anything else besides sit in the bathroom?!" And if I can get Dad out of the house for a while, I have only the dogs waiting to bark to contend with. With all the carpet now gone in favor of hardwood, the house acoustics are rather too good.

How 'bout it? Is it worth the bother? Anyone willing to support me?

Question for my Feminist (and -ism) Friends

The other night, I went to see a few friends give a belly-dancing performance. At the request of one of them, I captured their performance on video via my family's digital camera. The video's still on the camera for playback. About half an hour ago, my mother took the camera in a desire to photograph Dinah the dog wearing a sweater intended for a human baby. I mentioned the video to her. She scrolled to it. Almost immediately, she said something along the lines of the following:

"Well, she's a bit big to be doing belly-dancing, isn't she?"

That's my mother.

So I'm curious now about my network of cyber-friends who might well be full-out infuriated by that sentiment. What are/were your parents like? Did they bring you up as you are, or did you evolve independently from roots in — words elude me here — dubious mindsets, as I seem to have done?

Now What, Again

This isn't how it was supposed to go.

I came here with the intent to job-hunt after my brief stint as extra help for Valentine's Day for an inconspicuous chain business near Vanderbilt. After basically wrecking my fingers and back at that four-day job with one day carrying nineteen hours, I was able to squeeze in maybe three days of hunting between healing from that and contracting a horrendous head virus or two. I've heard from nobody to whom I've applied. I just made official my flight booking back to Ill-ennui three mornings from now. I'm heading back to the same old rut from which I came, and I have a head full of snot to show for it (though not quite as full as it was, thankfully). I haven't gotten to play any shows or see any of my friends here beyond my cousin's baby shower, the day before the Valentine's week stint. If nothing else, I've gotten to stay with my cousin, her husband, and two wonderful feline friends. And I've caught a taunting glimpse of what the real world is like.

I don't want to go to the flatlands. I left them for a reason. Nevertheless, my father's birthday is in just under a couple weeks, and I'm wanted there for that. Plus, my cousin and her husband here need time without me, with a baby on the way, people coming from all over to see the baby, and all kinds of things. This is a small house, and I'm not much good with babies. So, once again....I'm back in the puddle.

...if you can have a puddle in a land without valleys.

How long will I have to stay there? How much time does my cousin need? Is there any place that I can go? There must be someone 'round here who knows....

Colds Suck (lyrics)

(to be sung in a Bob Dylan voice, natch. Chords are the same throughout, as indicated in verse one. The one verse with the extra line, the extra line gets the F.)

I can't breathe [G]
my head is so heavy
I think I'd rather
be creamed by a Chevy
truck [D]
[F]
colds suck [G]

My nose is obstructed
my throat is too
with uninterrupted
nasty goo
and muck
colds suck

I can't sleep
or be horizontal
without coughing so much
I feel like I'm gonna
upchuck
colds suck

I can't go in
to work today
and with no sick time
from my pay
they'll deduct
precious bucks
colds suck

[harmonica solo]

Oh I've taken medicine
I hope it's helped
or maybe I couldn't
swallow those gel-
pills, they got stuck
colds suck

And I've just run out of tissues
and it's half past three
in the morning when nothing's open
now wouldn't that be
my luck
colds suck

Now I'm dripping on everything
which I'd rather not do
I imagine I'm thinking
the same as you:
YUCK!
colds suck

I can't breathe
it's a prospect that's frightening
I think I'd rather
be by lightning
struck
colds suck

And I just feel sick as fu—[coughing and gagging fit upon hitting that D-chord]

[end simply on G]

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!

Drive On (lyrics)

Drivin' where I feel I should be
somebody wants me
endless grey is all that I see
it's temporary

Long as I'm needed
I'm gonna be there
I'm gonna drive
until I arrive

Glance around me at like minds
in front and behind me
they all got their own prizes
they're all around me

So I'd better mind them
while everyone finds them
as they all drive
until they arrive

I'd better take a break soon
clear my weary head
regain balance before I try
to drive on

Headin' where I feel I should be
you know that I need me
I'll be at the end if I keep
awake and wary

Where someone needs me
that is where I'll be
so I will drive
until I arrive

Where I am wanted
I will be on it
I'm gonna drive
until I arrive

I'm gonna be there
where I am needed
I'm gonna drive
until I'm alive

A House With No Walls (lyrics)

In a house with no walls
there's no escape
from the eyes of the powers
locked on like a vulture

In a house with no walls
there's no escape
from the deafening mating song
of the dominant culture

In a house with no walls
there's so much noise
that thought is elusive
perhaps as intended

In a house with no walls
you can't be you
without the threat
of someone offended

In a house with no walls
there's no disguise
of the unpleasantly
necessary unclean

In a house with no walls
you'd better hope
that the powers will let you
be naturally obscene

In a house with no walls
your chosen craft
is only permitted
through luck of compliance

In a house with no walls
I am prepared
to stand with my craft
in utter defiance

In a house with no walls
how long can I stand
How long can I stand
how long
can I stand

Evolution: Something Went Wrong.

Wisdom teeth, tonsillitis, the need for glasses, hair that's utterly useless in providing warmth or protection, appendicitis, ingrown toenails, hands that require lotion to not dry up and bleed, cracking knuckles and other joints, having to wipe every time, and a useless bit of penis the removal of which improves everything. Just a few mind-boggling and irksome qualities of the human body. Now try to come up with some on your own. (I imagine women will have plenty to say here.)

Linus

Three days from now, the twenty-second of December, 2012, marks the four-year anniversary of the death of Linus the cat, as well as the two-year anniversary of the death of my younger aunt. I wrote a big thing about Lucy, Linus's sister, after she died. I wrote a big thing about Cookie, my father's sister, about half a year before she finally took her one-way trip into the tie-dye dimension. But I never wrote a big thing about Linus, even though his life did end during this blog's lifetime; I only wrote a tiny thing. I feel like he deserves more.

Linus was, quite simply, the ideal pet. About his only quality that could be considered a drawback was that, like Loki before him, he was diabetic and required insulin shots on a rigid twelve-hour basis. But that wasn't a big deal. He didn't feel anything in the scrunched-up back between the shoulders (cats are like that), he got a treat after each shot, and he was happy. So beautifully happy.

He loved attention. He loved being petted. He loved a good, soft belly rub. His size, condition, texture, and easy personality made him the ultimate snuggle-bunny. He was, in essence, a living pillow. Not too clingy; very laid-back. He had a good life, and he knew it. He loved everything....except the dogs. (And perhaps Loki.) He and Lucy had to take refuge in the basement any time the dogs visited, and that was nearly any time I visited. The dogs have never gone to the basement. I always did. I knew where the really good quadrupeds were.

Sometimes in the morning, while the dogs were still locked away in the bedroom upstairs with my folks, Linus would be out on the dining room table, just relaxing. I'd bring the newspaper in, set it down in its plastic sleeve next to him — he loved licking plastic for some reason — pull out the chair a bit, sit down, snuggle him, bury my head in him, and stay there until someone else had gotten up and come downstairs — usually my cousin, who would see us and just sort of spiritually melt.

Linus was the only pet in our family that I could really do that with. The other pets were either too small (the yorkie, or Lucy), too reclusive (Abby), too grouchy (Loki), or just not really designed for snuggling (the pointy-eared schnauzer). Loki slept with me once, and watched Saturday morning cartoons with me, but he wasn't much keen on fully snuggling. About the closest approximation to Linus I've had, and still have, is Dinah the second schnauzer, who is basically the canine version of Linus. Same general temperament, good bit of size, nice soft texture. Yet, as much as I enjoy snuggling her, I've never really succeeded in burying my head in her and just leaving it there for a sizable time, the way I did with Linus. She's just not built that way.

I miss Linus so much. In this crazy world with religious nuts, gun nuts, sex nuts, money nuts, war, poverty, diseases, natural catastrophes, artificial catastrophes, and all other brands of madness raping our senses, I feel an ever-growing need to find something or someone snuggly and appreciative, bury my head in them, and just leave it there for a while. For brief windows in time, I had such a creature, and I will be forever grateful for that and for him.

Rest in love, precious pumpkin.

P.S. Now and then I run my cursor over his tummy in this picture and imagine his purrs. (Click to enlarge.)

The Wake

In case anyone missed it — perhaps your corner of the world wasn't so abuzz about it — we had yet another mass public fatal shooting here in the States this past Friday. This time it was in a very well-off, primarily white, far suburban elementary school. Hence, this time, people may actually talk seriously about guns and the people who obtain and use them. They might, they may, they could...will they?

So we've been having the inevitable few days in the wake where we ask in stupefaction, WHY? And my mind has certainly not been at rest. I've been quietly unraveling some thoughts the past day or two. Somewhere early yesterday morning, when I was about ready to go to sleep for the day and unprepared to write a full blog post, I quickly jotted down a note in the form of a Tweet: (something profound about the lonely outcast gunman stereotype and the increasing lack of sociability in today's world). And I think I'm ready to at least begin to expound on that.

Most of the "lone gunmen" we hear about are young white men. The common stereotype is that they were previously, as people, very quiet and kept to themselves. They've seemed pleasant in the past, maybe even intelligent. Many of them, from what I've read so far, have some family turbulence in their personal history and have struck out on their own. This last seems to apply to both Friday's Connecticut shooter and the one at the Oregon mall earlier this month. A certain number of them also may have a history of depression — understandable for people prematurely separated from their parents (also for intelligent people, it seems). So, to briefly summarize, for your average perpetrator of a mass murder-suicide, we have a reasonably nice, reasonably intelligent, young white guy who has known social isolation and depression and, therefore, thoughts of a very dark nature.

....holy shit. That's me.

....well, almost, anyway.

Reasonably nice: check. Don't you agree?

Reasonably intelligent: check. At least many people and supposedly indiscriminate tests have assured me of this over the years.

Young white guy: check. I don't much identify with any of those qualities, but, at twenty-six earth years, with my genitalia and sexual desires, and a neat comparison of my skin tone to that of others I've known and how those people identify, I guess this is right.

Now, to social isolation. I have perhaps exaggerated in the past about myself being socially isolated. I've lived with my parents all my life. Although they argue more or less constantly, they've never divorced or in some other way fully split. Aside from the occasional trip taken by one or two of us, we've always been together, "put[ting] the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'", as my mother once put it. The three of us. Just over a hundred miles from the nearest reasonably close family. Mom with two fairly good friends that come over once in a while, or, more frequently, take her out for an evening. Dad with no friends or apparent desire for them at all. And me with my own picoscopic social life. And up to three small dogs at a time, which is absolutely not my thing (except this one). And zero cats.

So, social near-isolation, with bizarre tastes and not much ability to connect or identify with anyone in this college town in the cornfields. Fragment of a check mark.

On to depression. I'm not on any antidepressants now. But I most assuredly was for a time during my eight-year college tenure. I went through five different varieties of antidepressant from roughly 2008 — when I announced I wanted to drop from school and the family panicked — to 2012. The first one didn't do anything. The second one made me more depressed. The third one, I shall come back for. The fourth one lifted my mood but did nothing for my apparent lack of will to progress. ("Now I can wear a smile as I swirl down the john!", I semi-joked.) The fifth one at least got me through what I needed to get through, before my insurance ran out. I finally graduated shortly after that. I'm done with college now, and I feel fine, except that I'm still here in the tiny home of arguing and gracelessness. But, as I'm sure I've said a number of times now, I'm working on that.

Thoughts of a very dark nature. These are absolutely existent, surfacing in my brain on occasion. A few of them have even made their way onto this blog. Like here. And perhaps here. And maybe in a few other places in this archive. I seemed to hit a fever pitch of sorts in 2011. Depending on your interpretation, "Society's Waste", written that year, could raise a red flag in your mind.

The thoughts and fantasies are there, certainly. As a milder example, when the yorkie's annoying me, I sometimes fantasize yet about clocking her a heavy one and throwing her in the trash can. And I'll also admit to some sexual fantasies that completely betray the feminist notions I've put forth on here. I will honestly say that I've never fantasized about shooting up a school or any place crowded with so-called strangers. (Even if I did, I know and live with nobody who keeps firearms, at least that I know of.) But the dark and perhaps violent fantasies are there, in limited quantities. Now the question is, do I ever act out those fantasies in the flesh?

About that third antidepressant I said I'd come back to: It was while I was on that that my mother came home one day in her usual bossy, grating manner, and I punched her face. I didn't draw blood or break anything, but I did elicit a certain amount of panicked yelling and calls for me to immediately leave the house. In a panicked stupor, I hopped a train to my aunt's house early the next morning for the week to follow. I never touched that third antidepressant again.

It was also rather a while after I came back from that week at my aunt's before my mother and I spoke to each other again. Eventually we got to talking enough to move me on to the fourth antidepressant.

There was also, at some point later that I don't remember exactly, an instance where I was washing dishes, and "Bossy Boots" (a name she's been known to bestow upon one of the dogs vocalizing that they want a biscuit) was going at a hundred miles an hour, and I just took the knife I was washing, held it, and stared silently and menacingly. My memory of that moment is dim, but I believe she eventually went away for the moment, and I simply turned back and resumed washing. Nothing major happened, that I can tell, but the occurrence could be noteworthy, lest one day I somehow do lash out at a crowd of unsuspecting people, which I doubt.

I want and love peace, and love, and I cherish those things when I have them. I think this is true of many people. But in this cold, crazy world, I suspect that those primal, carnal, animal instincts that dwell within us get more difficult to contain as, with this global age, the world slings ever-increasing shit everybody's way. Certain people don't seem to know how to release stress and feelings, and the onslaught erodes at their outer human façade, unleashing the beast within.

I've revealed all of this information about me simply to provide an idea of where I'm coming from. And about now, my destination here shall begin to pierce the horizon.

There's been plenty of talk since Friday's massacre in Connecticut about gun control. Some people want a total absence of guns among civilians; some people apparently want to fight fire with fire and arm all the teachers. Some people want restrictions on the types of guns that civilians can obtain — presumably no military-style automatic assault rifles. (Why does an elementary schoolteacher need something like that, anyway?) And some people want background checks on potential gun owners. I say, given the American mindset, start with the background checks. If someone has a history of depression or other mental illness and has seemed withdrawn, it's probably wise to deny them gun ownership. It may not always help — the Newtown killer took his mother's guns — but it's perhaps a start. Maybe also minimize the damage with some of those aforementioned restrictions on types of arms. Of course, if we do that, someone may be tasked with taking the banned guns from people who will be quick to use those very guns on anyone who would take them away, and that could get nasty.

Indeed, this is not at all easy. But I do have one other proposition I'd like to make, and it takes on a rather broader scope of life than simply guns and gun control/rights. My mother made a remark during a telephone conversation over the weekend that "something is wrong with the basic mentality in this country" (paraphrased from memory). I'm not convinced she knows what it is, but I think she has the right idea.

I'm thinking of the quiet/loner aspect of the typical mass shooter. Humans are a social species; loneliness and "lonerism" are not at all healthful for an individual, and they are certainly not healthful for a people, or a country. Yet the general mentality in this country seems to be one of mandatory, aggressive self-sufficiency, often forsaking others just to get one's own self ahead in the socioeconomic ranks. Helping our fellow humans here seems frowned upon and apparently, in some cases, illegal. (I think I've mentioned this before.)

And it seems that contemporary technology is making it worse. We can use our devices, mobile or otherwise, to ignore and dismiss the people we're physically with while we discover via the internet things we don't like about other people whom, before the discoveries, we considered friends. For a lot of us, I think, cyberspace is replacing real, human friends. The more rapidly technology develops, the faster our descent. Even without technology, it seems that at least my own family, probably many others, never gather outside of certain major holidays, thanks to our jobs and whatever other obligations we feel cement us where we are. We, as a people, are becoming more withdrawn and forgetting who we are. We're lost and lonely, and we'll remain as such until we decide to stand up and guide each other.

Please: If just for an hour or two a day, twice a week, something like that — turn everything off — television, cell phones, computer, etc. — get together with family, friends, barflies, whoever's around, and just spend time talking. Maybe play a game together. Maybe exchange uncouth jokes or random anecdotes from your week. Maybe have a meaningful discussion about how things are and how they need to be.

Remember also to teach your children to help, to love, and to accept and be accepted as friends and human beings. Teach them attentiveness, togetherness, and positivity. And while you're at it, turn them on to arts: painting, writing, playing music on instruments, dancing, perhaps sports can qualify. The children may come to rely on those as a means of catharsis. I know I've benefited from setting myself loose on the writing board — even if it is virtual.

And, if you can help it, stay near a big city, where people and resources are available. And try not to move too far from other family.

I can't say that togetherness is the perfect solution for mass shootings, or for everything. But I think it can be a terrific start.

Peace and love be with all of you. Happiness will surely follow.

~C.A.~