Friday, April 15, 2005

Johnny Depp - office talk

I'm at work right now, and my coworkers are having a conversation:

Stef: Melissa, I think I saw your boyfriend at Taylor's albuquerque gig.
Melissa: Johnny Depp was there?
Stef: Looks like him. - She has a thing for Johnny D.
Margaret: Everybody has a thing for Johnny D.
Me: Yeah, too true.
Stef: hey, I wouldn't kick him outta bed either.


Steel as cold
and precious as ice
creates it's warning over and
over again in mindless

Steal the solace
and touch the sky
become wrapped
up in the little circle
and be bound

I'd like to bind you
and wrap you around my
finger and keep you
all to myself
but I can't

The steel blue ice
in the form of tie dye
apathy can let me know
how you feel if only
I listen to the blue psychic steel


Tulips used to grow in her garden
every spring, reaching their feet deep
and pulling nutrients out of the earth
to help them sprout their little heads
out of the soft New York dirt

They were one of her favourite flowers
I remember looking at them in the early
morning light when I was being
dropped off for a full day of her company

I used to want to be a tulip
because I don't know what you're expecting of me
Being a tulip seemed so much easier
People look at you and gaze
and expect you to be beautiful
and nothing more

Tulips seem to have a sense of
compassion and courage
that I can't find in myself
and I try to pull it out of the ground
and place my roots deep in the sandy
New Mexico clay
But nothing happens

My roots remain dorment
and I remain wilted


"Mix up the brownies" my granma used to tell me.
Stir, faster, and faster,
and faster until my small 6 year old arms are tired
"make sure to mix in the flour!!!"

The teddy bear sitting on the table
would watch me mix my brownies,
and his eyes would grow wide with fascination as
I tilted the white bowl
of walnuts until they poured into the
dark chocolate mixture
"Mix them! Mix them!"
He'd say to me,
"but let me lick the spoon."


Today's word: Sacred

sacred is her heart, she thinks quietly to herself, and sacred is his heart, wrapped in cerulean wonder. is it possible to take something sacred, and view it horribly? what defines sacred? is it me? is it you? is it the pain in between us? I don't know, but I'm not sure I care to find out. Sacred are the thoughts, and sacred are the whims, sacred is my soul.

Russian Inscestual Abuse

Frank: you know it really hurts, when I tell you no and you get all huffy and storm out of the room to jack off...
Frank: that would be werid
Frank: weird
Me: yeah.
Me: I bet.
Me: lol
Frank: I feel like you do not appreciate me. Like I am just your play thing, your cock sleeve...and it hurts
Me: I'm sorry, I really am...I never meant to hurt you.
Frank: you need to realize that no is as good an answer as yes..even if you don't like it....
Frank: I have bruises...and I blame you and your hurtful molesting ways...
Frank: "Welcome to SA..Sexually Abused anonymous."" name is frank...." "HI FRANK" "...and my neice sexually abuses me"
Frank: in the worst possible russian accent I would tell them all the horrible things you do to me
Frank: I should not be aloud to think or talk on my own

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Mr. Hard-On

Frank and I have been best friends for as long as I can remember. We grew up together. Shared video games, "ugly toys," supersoakers, and tormented Joey together.

When we were 15, my Papa, his Dad, put him in college with me. It was either his first or second semester, I don't remember which exactly, that we had Mrs. Phillips - the beached whale - for Art 101; Dr. Kellogg - Rice Krispies - for Psych 101; Professor Hardy - Professor Hard-On, for International Relations.

Hardon is an obnoxious, short, fat alien who just happened to squirm his way through an interdimensional portal, and get his sorry, stupid, hairy lard-ass stuck on OUR planet, teaching college international politics classes.

Hardon liked nothing more than torturing his students in the most obscene way possible: soverneighty. That's right. Sovern-fucking-eighty. The first several class periods were spenting with Hardon standing up in front of the class, with his hands resting on his paunch, steepeled fingers at his nose, sniffing his fingers, and talking about soverneighty. He would sniff his fingers and say "so, the meaning of soverneighty is....." and pause for anothe sniff.

"Mmmm. Broccoli...." Frank & I would joke.

Other classmates made obscene drawings based on him, but Frank took it to the next level and made a comic.

IR was in the same room as Psych, and only a few hours later. We had our usual seets, and would pass broccoli notes back and forth, and joke about his hands smelling like broccoli. We'd also joke about how he could never remember where he was the night before, because he happened to be a zombie, sleep-walking alien, who stuck broccoli up his mother's ass.

--If you can't tell by this point, Frank & I are very fucked up and perverted.

Hardon really brought it out of us though. He was one of those teachers that you could tell, you could just tell, beyond a bloody doubt, that you would fail the damn class. He would push, and push the students, and push them as far as he could; perhaps it was to see us little science experiments writhe and squirm under the pressure of passing his class. Maybe he was saddistic and got some sick pleasure out of it.

Every night, we'd go home to GranMa & Pa and regail them every night with tales of the oafish, snide, alien motherfucker. Turns out Frank's parents, and my parents, know him!

"Yeah, he was an ass 20 years ago too." my mother would say.

It came to nobody as a big surprise when we failed, but it didn't matter when we did fail. It was too late to drop the class, and our parents knew we wouldn't pass anyway. The students who didn't drop after the first week, were there because they had to be. IR is a required class in several majors that the State University of New York offers.

Nobody passed the class.

Especially those who told him off when he would start lecturing us for not caring about soverneighty.

"and the meaning of soverneighty is...."

"Oh shut up. We talked about this last time."

"Yes, but you don't understand the meaning of soverneighty."

"Oh, blow it out your ass hardon" Frank muttered under his breath one day.

A few moments later, I got a note scribbled on the edge of his notebook, "I wonder how much broccoli the fucker shoved up his mother's ass last night."

Perverse, Yes. Profoundly and irreversibly fucked up? Probably.

Hey, twisted people have more fun.

"Hense thee forth, and fetch me a flaggon of mead."

A lesson in wrong and right

When I was a young girl, I was the outcast because I was smarter than others, and because I had glasses. Third grade was an interesting point in my life as I had tested into the 99th percentile in the State. I discovered a new found sense of pride when I learned I was smarter than my 3rd grade teacher, a kind, gentile Mr. Richardson. Red hair, one arm, and one hell of a musician, I discovered much later in life (at the age of 15 when I was dating his son) that Mr. Richardson was a fascinating man - even if I was smarter than him when I was 8 years old, and a lowly third-grader.

Mr. Richardson did not think I was cute, or kind, or informative when I was telling him he was wrong in front of the Andover Central School 3rd grade class. He loathed that inevitable moment when I would shake my little blonde head and say "Nah-uh! Mister Richardson!" He hated it so much, he even called my parents in for a meeting to address the issue.

"Well, Mr & Mrs Gray, Elizabeth has been disrupting the class."

Mom leaned foward, "What did she do?"

"Well, you see, I was talking about camels with the classs, and explaining the purpose of their humps."

"Right," said mom, "And how they don't store water, right?"

Mr. Richardson sighed, "Actually, I didn't know that."

"You thought they stored water in their humps?"


"And you said that?"


"She told you how wrong you were, didn't she?"

"Yes." said Mr. Richardson almost under his breath. "And not only when I said they store water did she say I was wrong, but she explained WHY I was wrong, and what they really do have in their humps."

"Yup!" cried Dad excidedly. "That's my girl!"

Mom sighed, "So why is this a problem?"

"I don't like her saying I'm wrong!"

- This lesson didn't sink in until much farther down the road, as people in general, not just 3rd grade teachers, don't like being told they're wrong. College professors don't like it either.

This was quickly discovered when I was in my 3rd year of college at SUNY Alfred. Frank & I were 15, and stuck in this most horrid "Basic Math 101" class, or more correctly, "Art 101: Bringing doodles to life"

Bringing doodles to life

If there were ever a class that I had the misfortune to get stuck in, it would have to be Basic Math 101 at the State University of New York. It's a toss between Math, and International Relations, although that is another adventure all together.

I was 15 at the time. Frank and I were kind of forced into this math class by our parents. I don't entirely know what else we were taking that semester. I have the vague recolection of psychology, with Dr. Kellogg (Rice Krispies). Either way, the math class sucked. Muchly. The math class was long, and drawn out, boring, and obnoxious. Most of our time there was spent drawing, or doodling. By the time the semester ended, I had doodled quite a nice piece of work on my desk with a pen.

The teacher was this beached whale, in the suit of a black woman, by the name of Mrs. Phillips. She was short, and had short black hair, and constantly licked her lips. The first class period only had 10 or 15 students. The second one, had 6, and it held steady there for the rest of the semester.

The class was in EJ Brown Business building. An old building on campus, aging back to the 60's if I had to take a gander. This campus was kind of outdated, and the buildings looked old, like most of the teachers, and had this sort of...rustic boarding school look to them. Please keep in mind, this is SUNY Alfred - the campus where everything is up hill from the parking lots, and one of the dorms was built in the shape of a swastika.

In the first class period, I walked in with Frank, from across the hall, where the student lounge was. They had vending machines, and lockers. It was a short, hallway-esque room, and was always packed full of students, milling about, running to their lockers, trying to get a tutor, or just lounging on the couch, half stoned, and spewing philosophy at the top of their lungs.

We walk in, and take our seats. The class began at 1:30, which meant the room was deserted for half an hour before the class start. This fact became ever so important later on in the semester. I sat on the row as far right in the room as possible, and as far back as I could be. I was sitting in the corner, with my torn jeans, black boots, and a black shirt. My boots were propped up on the desk in front of me, and I was sitting there with my black velvet baret looking bored out of my skull.

Frank took the seat next to me, in his jeans, sleeveless t-shirt, denim coat, and boots. We each took out our pens and paper, and waited.

5 minutes late to the class, and there is Mrs. Phillips, nearly rolling into the class room. She said "Is this basic math?"

A woman with long blonde hair was sitting near us, "yes it is."

The first class was spent reveiwing the sylabus.

"And you'll need a book...."

We packed up our things 35 minutes later, and were leaving. Frank walking ahead of me, as usually happened. I was almost free! I was almost out the door when Mrs. Phillips licks her lips and says "Excuse me."

I stopped dead in my tracks.


"Are you my mentally challanged student?"

The next class period, she tries to teach us addition. She stands up at the chalkboard, and looks at her book on the desk, turns to the board and writes "4"

She turns back to the book, licking her lips, and then back to the chalkboard and writes "+"

Looking back to the class she licks her, big, brown, slimy lips and says "Sometimes the writing in these books is just a little too small." and she glances down, and moves to the board, and in big, proud white chalk, she writes "4 ="

" let me see here. Four. Plus. Four. Equals....."

Very slowly, and very proudly, and very, very carefully so as to not mess it up, she writes "9."

"There!" she says to the class, licking her lips once again, "That's how you add."

"Uh, Mrs. Phillips," said the blonde, (Turns out her name is Vicky) "That's not right."

"What do you mean? Of course it's right." she said in a huff, placing her hands on her hips.

"No, it's not." another blonde, Andrea, stated. "Four plus four is eight. Not nine."

"No, it can't be." as she turns back to consult her book.

"Really, it is." Andrea slowly lifts her thin body out of her chair, "Look at my calculator."

"Well, I'll be......."

How they gave this woman a class, is beyond my comprehension.

Mrs. Phillips inherently didn't like me because she was certain I was her mentally retarded student, and I just wouldn't admit it, but also, because I had a habit of telling her "You're wrong." or "Why don't you do it this way? That makes more sense...."

Frank and I would routinely go to class from the lounge across the hall, early, after getting a pepsi for himself, and a Mountain Dew, or Crabjuice, for me. We would play pranks, like throw the chalk in the trash can, bend the prongs on the electrical connector for the overhead projector...things like that.

She had the worse luck with overhead projectors. *shakes my head* And once, it actually wasn't our fault.

A few days before, we took the mirror out of the overhead projector. She turned it on, and nothing happened. Sometimes we'd bend the plug. She gets out her transparancies the whole while, licks her lips over, and over, waddles over to the projector, puts the transparancy on, and as we all wait, she flips the switch.

The bulb blows up, instantaneously.

Frank and I are sitting in our seats, and I start laughing. I just can't contain it. Frank is sitting there biting his lips trying not to crack up. Vicky looks at Frank who's in the middle of drawing a comic of Mrs. Phillips, and me, drawing a maze and some weird sword-type objects on my desk and mouths "Did you guys do that?" - Vicky had grown wise to our endeavors, and our mischeveous ways when the three of us were in Friendly's one day, and Vicky started commenting on how it was funny that the prongs were bent on the projector.

"Uh...yeah...about that....." Frank started to say, "uh...well, you see...."

"Oh my god! That was you???"

"Actually, it was the two of us." I chimed in.

"You two..."

It was one of the best art classes I had ever taken in my life, and it was very entertaining to walk into EJ Brown Business every day and know that I had a purpose. To KNOW that I had a mission to accomplished.

Unlike International Relations with Mr. Hard-on....

old post

*this post is very old. Almost a year, I think, but it needs to be said again.

"What inspires you?" --Ah, the eternal question.

My passions inspire me. My passions are my inspiration. My passions are everything. My passions are the only things that are raised above my soul. The keeping of my soul...the whimsical longings of my soul. My soul inspires me. Everybody's soul inspires me. Everybody's soul is my passion.

My passions are people, my lover, my enemy, my books, paintings, writings, poems, walks in the rain, and hikes in the wilderness...all of it. Everything that has ever had the misfortune to touch my soul, is one of my many passions. Everything. I don't regret things. The only regret I have is not telling someone I valued them before they were murdered. I won't make that mistake again. Everything else in my life, I love, and I cherish. I don't regret my choices, I don't regret my friends, relationships, or education. I believe, and honestly feel, like it all has had its purpose in my life. Everything has a place.

Everything inspires me, which is actually a bit of a problem. I have so many ideas, thoughts, paintings to paint, poems to write, trees to draw, things to say, and people to capture, I simply do not have enough time to do all of these. I have done 15 paintings in the past 2 weeks. I draw endlessly, I write all the time. Occasionally between all of this, I work, read one of the 3 books I am in the middle of, and sleep. Work inspires me. Books inspire me. Sleep inspires me. My lucid dreams, of lucid dreamers; Rock climbing, walking in the rain aimlessly, falling asleep under the stars, walking, waiting, and dreaming dreams that influence my waking moments...all of it. It is all inspirational. Everything in life is inspirational. Everything in life is worthy of being captured.

Expression is where this really begins. Everything stems back to expression. All art is quite useless, and all beauty ends where intellectual expression begins, but nonetheless, we express both creativly, and intellectually. Within the confines of our mind, there is something. There is everything, and there is nothing. Our minds, and our spirits are where we really live. Not in the world. Not in New Mexico, not in Kentucky, Not in London, or Japan, or Malaysia. Not with the trivial preoccupations that haunt us endessly. We live in our minds, in our souls. Inside of us lingers ourselves. Inside of us lingers the urge to express. Inside of us lingers the inspiration that leads to expression. It is all there. Your expression, your lack of inspiration, your passions, your hates, your loves. There is no such thing as a dispassionate lover. That is an illusion. There is no such thing as lack of passion, and your passion, your soul, should be utilized to the fullest.

Your life should be expressed...fullfilled to your potential. Everything in your life, everybody in your life, whether it be your lover, your enemy, your mother, your father, your sisters, your best friends, and the total strangers have the capacity to inspire you...the capacity to influence your work. All you have to do is grasp it. Use your lack of inspiration to inspire you. Use it towards your advantage. Use your emotions, and your soul, to channel your lack of inspiration into expression of the fullest extent.
How well do you know me?

I had to sign off aim; I wasn't getting any writing done.

misty blue

The early morning of April 11th was one of those days where the fog is abnormally thick, espcially for April. If you look down Paseo, you can't even see the closest stop light. The trees, which nicely line the street in a row, as if they are soliders standing up to battle, fade off into the distance, and get consumed by the mist, until suddenly, you're so amazingly close, they pop out at you from the foggy confusion.

This could be a metaphore, I suppose, if you want to bring psychology into the mess. If you were a psychology major, you would probably be trying to read all sorts of analogies into the picture. Perhaps you would say the fog, and the trees, are really how I feel about life right now. It's really me, trying to describe on a subconscious level, what I feel about my life. And! Just when I think you've finished, you'll tell me, if I peer into the mist a little longer, I will see that I am actually at a meeting. A collective consciousness, if you will.

Oh, wait. Sorry. As Frank would say, I got my lines of bullshit crossed.

Today's mist, and today's fog, did not begin as a metaphore, but nonetheless, as I stepped out of my office into the misty blue abyss, I noticed that Santa Fe's spring has brought with it a transition of sorts. A time for change, growth and soul searching.


Today's word: Bloom

bloom like a flower, reaching up towards the clouds. Sometimes, it will take your breath away... if you let it. The right flowers will bloom over and over again, captivating everybody in their presence. Does this count for you? Do you bloom? Do you see me bloom? Do you watch? sometimes I pull people in when I bloom, and other times, I don't give them enough of my blossoms. but I think that's okay bloom, and flower, and grow. your life is but a flower.

Monday, April 11, 2005

How did I end up here in the first place?

How did I end up here in the first place?

I had stuff to write, but my browser crashed.


squishedlizard: Chris: Spank me
squishedlizard: spank yourself
Steve: lol
Steve: awesome


Today's one word is: Courage.

courage is a funny thing, if you really sit back and think about it. I wonder how often courage is mistaken for fortitude, stupidity or stubborness. I think, like everybody else, that I want courage. I want to feel strong, and feel like I have a certain...strength, and persiverence. I'd like to think that I have what it takes to sit here, and look around me, and see the world, and the bad parts of the world, and actually face them with strength and conviction.

Sunday, April 10, 2005


Such lines I write
As they're pounding through my head
And surrender myself
once again to the mindless apathy
why does it happen?
and where does it come from?

Don't worry - I don't understand either

I'm sorry if this doesn't make sense
or if it makes too much sense
but I can't control where it comes from
just what I do with it when I'm done

he blinked again
and then blew a hard breath
at the dust on his books
and then began to turn around
meeting my eyes with a gaze
that consumed my thoughts
and pushed down my walls
once again

This always happens!
she screams
while neurotically dancing
Barefoot in the rain
to the sounds of
Jimmy Buffett
and Kevin Lyttle

There's nothing I can do about it now
it's too late
I'm surrendering myself
and my pain
and my frusteration

a tsunami of acceptance has
washed over me
and the girl dancing in the rain

but he remains
And blinks
and starts to cry
As someone spilled coffee
on his first edition Montaigne

That's okay
Because I would cry too
not so much over spilt milk
or coffee as the case maybe
but the symbolism

Not symbology

has been all to consuming
and a waste of energy and good thoughts
it's music to my ears
the crumbling fortitude
and miserable dynamyte

know, she whispered
know the angel who is telling you
to manipulate champange

Such lines I write
to no real point or purpose
they're here
to hold me down
and hold me back
People really get excited when you can speak/read their language enough to understand what they said, and reply...

Just met someone else tonight who speaks mostly Italian. This is good practice for me.

Tracking the earthquake

6:02am: HONG KONG (AP) - A 6.8-magnitude earthquake hits near the Indonesian island of Sumatra, Hong Kong seismologists say.

6:08am: The 6.8-magnitude tremor's epicenter was about 120 kilometers (74 miles) southwest of Padang, a city in western Sumatra, the Hong Kong Observatory said. The quake was recorded at 1035 GMT, it said.

6:19am: Sumatra was devastated by the Dec. 26 tsunami and earthquake that killed nearly 183,000 people in 11 countries and left another 129,000 missing. Indonesia, the world's most populous Muslim nation, was the hardest hit with at least 126,000 people killed and more than 500,000 left homeless, mostly in Aceh province on Sumatra.

6:31am: Tremors from the earthquake were felt in several areas surrounding the Malaysian city of Kuala Lumpur, national meteorological chief Chow Kok Kee told TV 3 news. Chow however said the earthquake was not strong enough to trigger tsunami, but authorities were on alert.

Earthquake Severity
Richter         Earthquake
Magnitudes Effects

Less than 3.5 Generally not felt, but recorded.

3.5-5.4 Often felt, but rarely causes damage.

Under 6.0 At most slight damage to well-designed buildings.
Can cause major damage to poorly constructed buildings
over small regions.

6.1-6.9 Can be destructive in areas up to about 100 kilometers
across where people live.

7.0-7.9 Major earthquake. Can cause serious damage over larger areas.

8 or greater Great earthquake. Can cause serious damage in areas several
hundred kilometers across.

I got the story before everybody else. I had it 1 minute and 26 seconds after it was released. I'm staying at the office to monitor it for work, and I'll be updating this as bullitans come through the wire.


Today's entry on OneWord
(On you are given a word
and you have 60 seconds to write
about that word.
Today's word was: Wrapped)

wrapped up in you.... it's one of my biggest problems, no matter what I do, or what I say, I just can't get past this feeling.

Everything is wrapped up, tightly, in a sheet, and then spun around, in the apple orcherd, where you're screaming "How can you be wrapped up in me?"

I don't know. But I am. And I'm wrapped up in your thoughts, and I have wrapped my mind, and my heart, around you, in a brilliant jigsaw puzzle sort of way.


squishedlizard: told a friend about you.
squishedlizard: She's going to Asia in the summer, and she told me this, and I said "that's just kinda funny to me, because I have a friend named Asia." and she said "Is it a girl?" and I said "Yeah." and she said "Is she hott?" And I said "She's very pretty." and Francine said "Dude, I'm going allllllll over Asia."
squishedlizard: Thought ya'd like to know that. :-)
SpUdMcWhAcKy: haha ya
squishedlizard: :-)