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rants and rambles
You make accounts faster than I can keep up. I go to respond, keep crashing, only to figure out that you've deleted. Again.

Sorry that I did not answer sooner. I did not visit my own journal. I don't know what to say except sorry, although I'm not certain this is a me thing. But that doesn't matter. Life is too short for BS,

I hope you are well. Drop me a line, where ever. I'm pretty easy to find on the net. I'm the only real me, even with "my left eye".

L8tr Days


~ Aless
Talk to me
All these years I thought I was a friend, only to learn I just wasn't paying attention. I'm NOT a friend. Lolol ...



4 spoke or Talk to me
Uhm yeah, I should write shouldn't I?  It's getting close to that time of year when memories crush my heart.

Talk to me
Kindred anon_j_anon 

Lyrics under the cutCollapse )

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3 spoke or Talk to me
i want to have a conversation with you as if it were that summer. i want to see your eyes. your curly hair. i want to see you. but you're not here
so i have it with myself, but only for a second

the steps going down to the laundry. they talk back unbidden ..say "this smear, this blot, this stain, this piece of shit upon me have been here since that summer... look at me look at me look at me..."

the darkened stairwell's hand prints - mine for stability - force me to the present.

why aren't you here?
cry outside scream inside
completely alone

the scent of downy balls leaches into every corner of the house, a poison gas of cleanliness

Michael loved Japan

april 9th 2011 - 29 days, 11 hours, 7 minutes
40,000 Michaels leaving hundreds of thousands of mes crying inside
it is never enough

aless 2011 doing laundry in despair


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Talk to me
woke 2 find laptop on the floor by the bed, my glasses trapped beneath,
musta fallen asleep & had evrythng slide in sleep; was it in slo-mo?
don't know, doesn't matter; my day's gonna be a bitch anyway.
sad 2 c richard holbrooke, areatha franklin, elizabeth edwards.
we're all gonna go. i find solace in knowing my going will be less public,
a tiny minuscule increase in slence.
peace b w/me, peace wll come
it's quietude, a blessing, a calm in th patter of words,
peace b w/me peace do com

Alessiana december 2010

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Talk to me
maybe it was lost in the in between
the email, wretched wracking painful crying for help bleeding a plea for understanding
one soul to another
of one kind or another

and its answer
i bleed i cry i plead to others watching their empty hands bear gifts of nothing
and listening to nonsensical statements of
it will get better time is a healer we all grow from suffering god is our healer it will all go away when all it is are lies and lies more lies and lies
as i drive my car i can feel nothing but the emptiness of sky all around and knowing he's not here
he is 25000 miles high when i look up in the sky
yes i remember you i will always remember you yes always you

and yes i know what it's like to talk
and see the non-comprehension of people as they stutter-step to keep up
simple minds dragging simple thoughts
and limping lines that squiggle on white boards in the language of stupid
but baby this be the business world baby
and baby they be men baby
so baby she be crazy bitch baby just crazy laughing
but they can't follow those leaps in logic
they can only follow the linear line
  of stupid people doing stupid thinking
that's the best that they can do
  my heart breaks for them anyway
they may be stupid fucks but its all they know

god help me

i wrote you back

i got nothing

so i'm thinking i'm just as stupid as stupid fucks in their linear suits wearing squiggle ties only me i'm the one leaping logic but not in the right dimension cos i can't think in 13 base maths and i can't think in 20 layers the paths between ain't leaps of logic they be creation

i'm the ant on the line in your world i'm not even the fucking suit because at least they ain't aware the ant she knows she's flat in the duo-deca universe of you

flat me i got nothing. 


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16 spoke or Talk to me
Oh sleep, i cannot
no one sleeps tonight, and there is no peace
even with the sweetest tones enfolding,
even with weaving patterned thoughts
even with the deepest dark enshrouding
or with a silence i might enforce from every allthing
there is no rest
for as i toss, my heart stirs with thoughts of morning come
oh sleep, I cannot.

when i think of morning time, your face across from mine
you are lit with inner fire and I burn with desire
this is what I see this night

do what you will, your hand is there, and i can touch it as i like.
see what you want, i won't know, for all my mind fills with your light.
frighten as you might, it won't matter, for all of me, quakes, for all of you.
say you don't want me, and i will pull you to me
speak any words you will, and my lips will silence them

oh most beloved, this madness is you
there is no sleep waiting for me
there is no peace tonight
and when tomorrow comes, i won't use my hand
to pick up tea, to set the spoon, to smooth the cloth
i will set my hand down upon on yours, instead,
and I won't let you pull away

Oh sleep, I cannot
no one sleeps tonight
not with my soul so wound
in covers bound by tossed
legs en-wrapped like ties
my longing keeps the world awake

no one sleeps tonight
no one sleeps tonight
Nessun Dorma Nessun Dorma

alessiana Nov 2010

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2 spoke or Talk to me
Once while in Cleveland, Ohio

you told me
you were sweeping the floor, and singing,
wouldn't i want the real thing?
take a chance on the real thing?
you would take wing, to catch a moment
and be in DC. for that moment
I did not reply
But I was the long mane in a peach dress
I was beautiful, unmistakable in this hundred crowd
of humans who lived without the help of Hollywood
something which would never offer anything to me
you smoked cigarettes, passing judgment
small hands, large enough for love, held beer
as they swept in gestures broad
sweeping was an apparent avocation
a true love really, a devotion even
I watched your thumb flick ashes upon
the head of those rocking on pedestals below
not deserved not earned
and most of all, not desired.
Drunk, this didn't make for a good night
Sober it would have sucked
Later, I had never been more depressed
the pedestal which had rocked the floor below
had also tumbled you, the real thing
Don't you want the real thing?
Don't you want the real thing?
no not really, I'd rather read the press release

Alessiana  Last night's date and yes drunk, but with techno and tequila;. nary a beer in sight
and while I don't smoke anymore, I'll always love you
you piss me off
you piss me off
I love you anyway

note to self: avoid the self proclaimed anonymous broom
It's the real thing

alessiana, Nov 2010


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2 spoke or Talk to me
On a good day she's misunderstood
On a good day she has to explain
~ White is Yellow, Green is Orange~
This is how the colors run

On a good day, there are many words

On a bad day, anger flashes black to blue,
white skin turns to color
Split lips turn a wordy defense
into red sprays of incoherent cries

The Red beats Beast into Bull
and drunk with the orange flame,
he makes no mistakes

It was a bad day, and thick with reds
she just wished to be misunderstood


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Talk to me
she can't handle the light,
armed as she is with a broken elbow
bloods in a  boil as oil melting
in the light's heat of peer-less regard

The good light, that which god-ness made
can't be hoisted by one such
pooling bleeding


she can't handle the good light
passion now, spoke the puppet poet,
is of broken limbs twisted ankles
backwards bended knee
not meant for center stage


nor even the light of any

2009 aless

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Talk to me
I'll keep your hand like so, bound with wrapping
I'll risk the weeping seal...
and risk the crease that over time is sure to split your parchment skin beneath,
seeping still
but I don't care...
for your hand contained, can't be challenged.
and your hand folded, can't be questioned.

I believe you.
and I see... that wrapped this way
you are undeniable

To you, even when I speak in a cadence stolen from poets long dead,
I am beautiful
To you, even as my words are weak and withdrawn,
I am as I was before...
And even as my ego ascends angered by the small of heart,
you show me to be a beauty still

I wonder at this beauty
and I wonder at you...
for from your hand so bound, flowed the ink of a truth's beauty displayed
and wrapped this way, I see you... undeniable.
As the most beautiful I have ever known.



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Talk to me
Let's go dancing and at the rest,
watch the letters compete with our footwork.
You'll hold the candle, with its light so blinding
and I'll take the heat, with its all consuming rage.

Imagine letters that dance,
echoing feet that once moved in synchronicity.
Imagine hearts once racing from the beat,
turning,... as the mind breathes heavy on paper.

They'll see us not, in the back booth
making magic words with heat and light,
and telling tales,
so you won't have to burn in vain, anymore
and I'll see through these eyes... forever



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Talk to me
As I look for the title of my totaled car I have come upon yet more poetry I had published on the net which has likely long since been lost to the ether...  I will post it as I can.

Right now, I don't know what upsets me more, finding this work of 11 years ago or not finding the title from 5 years ago.  It's all bad.  It all hurts and I'm frightened.

I hate my room.  I loved my car.  I hate my room.  I loved my car.  If I can't find the title, what then?

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Current Location: In My Room
Current Mood: scared scared
Current Music: Silence

Talk to me
On September 2, 2009, I made the following remark regarding Zachary Quinto:

If I must be honest, I don't find him that compelling *except* as an actor. I think he is excellent and I enjoy his work. When I watch him, I think "Carnegie Mellon for a reason". But since other people think he's really hot ...

Oh my god what happened to me?  What the fuck happened to me?   I don't recognize me.  I don't do actors as a fannish interest.  I geek on characters because of the story, or the characters iconic stature, but the actor? 


The last time I thought an actor was HAWT, I was eleven years old.

Oh my god.  Would someone please just kill me?  I need a personal re-set.

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Current Location: in bedroom ignoring reality
Current Mood: surprised surprised
Current Music: The National

Talk to me
there ain't nothin in the world so hard so cold that i can't feel your arms around me
there ain't nothin in heaven
and hell ain't nowhere near close to touchin you
oh god i love you so much

there ain't nothin in the world, be so cloakin sound that i can't hear your voice
ringing clear tenor bright
silence, it can't quiet you
and i'm lovin you forever, loving you forever
oh god i love you so much

this song, music in my soul
is pounding in my heart
flowing through my body, tears running down my helpless cheeks
oh death he ain't got nothing on you, he got nothin on you
god i love you so much

hell can't touch,
silence can't quiet
death got nothin, nothin on you

copyright alessiana 2010

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Talk to me
my fingers are splayed against the sun
blinding, dappled, its light is far more cruel then any moon
not harvest's orange fire, nor sorrow's blue lament
can make one resonate remembered with such bright clarity

the sun's call can make you ring in time
but i would rather forget within the moon's frozen light
then remember you smiling sun-rapt and ringing bright

march 1997  remember-not, forget me all


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1 has spoken or Talk to me
Look around and ask...
        Is anything as it seems?
Being in the asking... all wise
and in the answer
supremely stupid

blanking... while your hands are still moving
so you have to ask yourself
        Is anything as it seems?

Going back you can fix all those blanks
words misplaced or dropped completely
letters not in order or just
plain wrong

the mind knows, but the fingers and the hands... no
They can't
They go blank
It's motion sickness when the mind moves ever faster but the fingers...
they don't

use seat belts. 
how amusing says the poet
nothing is as it seems

march 1997


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1 has spoken or Talk to me
i've been beating my room for weeks and it proffered a book of poetry i wrote in early 1996.  does this mean i won?  i don't think so because the proffering only rendered heartbreak.  there are notebooks and boxes of writing.  i cry with remembered agony

i looked at my hard drive.  it's full of text files.  notepad is the easiest software in the world, but in the end, it's all about the fucking paper, isn't it.

A rhetorical question, that.  we know the answer.

i found the god damned pen.  that fucking pen.  that fucking pen.  i found notebooks from years i don't know when and illegible faded pencil.

i found the evidence of my abuse.  this hurts so bad.  i can't believe i lived through that. and now?  i know i should have left the room alone.  i should have left it for my children to discover. 

i feel crippled inside outside and in circles.

i have to go to work tomorrow.  i can go but only if my eyes are not swollen.


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3 spoke or Talk to me
One weeps with the ache of the heart in remembrance. Oh, I am crying.
One sees in the light, the miracle is soul. Eight days will last forever,
I am laughing, never parted

Thank you -


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Talk to me
To Anon_j_Anon in response to this anon-j-anon.livejournal.com/50755.html#cutid1

the beats pourin out of me
i don know what to do
dreaming of starlight an saying hey fuck you

you made my night bitch
you and your shit
you and fanfic crackin on my head
make me happy cause i'm thinkin' that i'm all alive
a screamin motherfucker with my arms spread wide

you made my night bitch
you and your shit
you and fanfic crackin in my dreams
a sparkle dancin flight escaping into the sky
screamin mmotherfucker hell yeah i'm still alive
yeah i'm still alive
yeah i'm still alive
yeah i'm still alive
yeah yeah yeah yeah

you made my night bitch
you and your shit
you and your fanfic make me oh so high
my innocence is lost as I scrape the sky
from here in my tree yo it's just another fantasy

so dreamin the night away i'll touch the sky
them bitches can't stop me when i got you behind of me
instead of screaming motherfucker all through the night
i ain't cryin no more cos i'm takin him home with me
takin him home with me
i'm taking him home
takin him home with me
i'm taking him home

i'm takin him home motherfucker got a vulcan in my home

right now

props to ev which rightly, lonely island oughta be doin too seriously
an i think i'm seriously motherfuckin seriously
motherfuckin seriously


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5 spoke or Talk to me
The last paragraph gives the perspective.  It's the future calling back - Everyone needs to hear this song.

The text formatting is an attempt to convey the music.  I don't know what else to do.  You have to hear it.

Unthought Known

All the thoughts you never see
You are always thinking
Brain is wide, the brain is deep
Oh, are you sinking?

Feel the path of every day
Which road you taking?
Breathing hard, making hay
Yeah, this is living

Look for love and evidence
That you're worth keeping
Swallowed whole in negatives
It's so sad and sickening

Feel the air up above
Oh, a pool of blue sky
Fill the air up with love
All black with starlight

Feel the sky blanket you, with gems and rhinestones
See the path cut by the moon, for you to walk on.

For you to walk on.

Nothing left
Nothing left
Nothing there
Nothing here...
Nothing left
Nothing left
Nothing there
Nothing left...
Nothing left
Nothing left
Nothing there
Nothing here...

See the path cut by the moon
For you to walk on
See the waves on distant shores
Awaiting your arrival

Dream the dreams of other men, you'll be no one's rival
Dream the dreams up for us then, you will be no one's rival

You will be no one's rival...

A distant time, a distant space
That's where we're living
A distant time, a distant place

So what ya giving?
What ya giving?

Eddie Vedder

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Current Mood: exhilarated
Current Music: Pearl Jam - BACKSPACER

3 spoke or Talk to me
i feel like a wounded snake or other generally hated poisonous thing. wounded because it really fucking hurts. hated because i deserve it.

it's august 15, a year ago i was lying to my daughter. i had told my son on august 14, the day it happened, because i had too. they had told me at work. the police had come. i had collapsed outside the building. they were worried about my driving home. i don't remember the drive. i told my son. i knew that was the right thing to do. it was. he saw me come in the door. i had no words beyond some sound. what was it? i don't know, but telling him the truth of what i did know, was the only right thing i did in all of this.

tomorrow is the anniversary of when i finally had information from the police and could formulate something to tell her. and i told her that her father was dead. i implied it was an overdose. and this is when i made the mistake of advocating cremation. i made so many mistakes, so fucking many... this one i cannot stand. i can't stand any of them, but this one is pretty bad.

the 19th they took his body and burned it. the 20th, i learned it wasn't a gun to the head. it was to the chest. we could have had a real funeral. oh my fucking god. oh my fucking god. oh my fucking god.



2 spoke or Talk to me

Bugsy died in my arms this morning.  He’d spent the night with me, moving from lying beside me, to lying behind me, to lying on the end table which I’d cleared for him since he’d become enamored of the window air conditioner.  He’d purred.  He’d drank water which was just for him.  He’d suffered.  When he’d wanted to leave the room I had let him. 

When I woke, I went to feed the cats and he didn’t come

I found him lying on the linoleum in the foyer.  He couldn’t walk.  He’d tried to come when I called but couldn’t.  I lifted him and held him to my chest.  He mewled 3 times and died.   Did he wait for me? 

I wish I had woken earlier.  I would have slept even later, but I was woken by a wondermare of Michael.  Michael was sitting on a bench.   It was big hair Michael.  He was solid, but someone on the far side looked right through him.   The person, I don’t know who it was, said Michael was missed and related him to Bozo The Clown with a loving fondness because of the hair.

If I’d have woken earlier, would Bugsy have died in my arms, in my room, which was his most favorite place?

I can’t write the fiction.    The truth is more than I can handle.  


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Current Location: depressed
Current Mood: no fucking frogs
Current Music: there can be nothing

2 spoke or Talk to me
Gunshots change everything.   Sometimes they are clearly a mistake, a call for help that goes unheeded for too long, a call which ends up self answered by the drunken decision to end it all, something that might have been averted if only someone else had answered the fucking phone.  Then there are the others.  The ones carefully considered, born of the deepest and most profound despair.  These acts take great care.

The gun was a sign of his genius.  The barrel had been a rod he’d tooled on the lathe.  He’d purchased the staple gun at a hardware store.  This would become the firing mechanism.  He’d bought the shotgun shells at K-Mart.  He’d assembled everything, taping parts together with the black electrical tape he’d always carried in his tool kit, using the care he’d always took when making his creations.  Every wind of tape was precise.  He must not have wanted any error, such as a side explosion where he’d lose his hand, or a misfire which would accomplish nothing.  The trigger itself was a hammer.

He’d assembled everything.   Kneeling on the bed, he’d leaned his chest against the end of the rod, right upon his heart.  He’d used the hammer on the staple gun

It was decisive.  It was genius. It was devouring in its completeness for it took out all that surrounded.   It took out his daughter; damaged, she was filled with a remorse that ate a hole in her brain.  It took out his wife, the mommy, who knew this act was her fault.  It took out his best friend, a soul mate who shared his joy for handmade toys, explosives, machines, and things like this gun.

The devouring, like time, is unending, and like time, it takes away each moment as it moves ahead.  A year almost to the day, the minutes are emptied by the product of genius.  It even makes holes where he’d once painted dragons, and made wooden dollhouses, and built computers, and solved problems people didn’t realize were even there.   His genius, a great thing, a prized thing he himself did not recognize, was the enabler.  The mommy said no guns would ever be bought.  So they weren’t.  Instead, one was made, by genius designed and, with it a precision of execution that would have shocked him, devoured the world.



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Current Music: there can be nothing

Talk to me
The new Pearl Jam song played live on The Tonight Show last night is, by the end, a speeding ticket waiting to happen.  It kicks into overdrive once you get the melody in your head.   I found a link on a message board.  Which has since expired

PJ fans don't disappoint.  They are arguing about everything from Eddie's weight (I don't know about you guys, but when I had a baby my hubby gained more than a little), the artwork and songwriting.  Personally, I don't give a shit.  The song rocks harder than anything out there that isn't metal.  This is hard rock at its best.

Sorry I have not been around much.  I've been sick since Friday.



Talk to me
In the early evening, the #1 conversation topic on Twitter after knitting (which doesn't count) was Star Trek. It looks like a shit load of people went to the movies tonight

Anyway, I had to laugh when I saw this comment tweet on by:

~Saw Star Trek. Do they WANT us to write the manporn? "You need to emotionally compromise him"~

LOL! Yes of course they do. They aren't stupid. The first truly ficced fandom is not going reject the concept that their fans will write these stories. All bets are that they'll encourage it without being blatant.



2 spoke or Talk to me
The End of Want

On the day, the end of want,
as said by others with wisdom coming,
trumpets will blare as drums beat drumming
You will see yourself, as you are,
of one sweet note by Gaia made,
and for whom with a lover's breath I played

On the day, the end of want,
no wasted, blackened place will burn,
to lessen the beat, or hide my breath
No Satan's power, or wizard's cast,
no evil hunger, nor thunderous blast,
will stop my song for the one Beloved

And on this day, the end of want,
your beauty's note is last revealed as
one sweet tenor of burnished timbre
You play with passion your forever song,
the beloved's cry of last devotion
and I sing my ever always song for the lost beloved

Published for my husband, Michael
   RIP, beloved


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1 has spoken or Talk to me
So now that Tag World is completely dead, I need to place to put my poetry. I'm writing again. This is probably a bad sign but whatever.

Anyway it's under the link.

I will be posting as many of the old poems I can salvage, assuming I still have any. Fuck.... what a waste.


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Current Mood: groggy groggy
Current Music: The National

Talk to me

I just found this. Dreamy, beautiful...

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Current Music: duh

Talk to me
Oh no!  YEEECH.

I hate IE7.  I use firefox almost exclusively.  But  sometimes I have to use IE for forms and other things firefox doesn't  handle well.

I made the mistake of visiting my LJ while in IE.

RED????    WTF?   It was BOLD text in Firefox.  I can hardly read things in IE.  I wonder how this post will look.


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Current Location: bed, it's like 3 am
Current Mood: annoyed annoyed
Current Music: NIN - Zero Hour

5 spoke or Talk to me
let's see.  so far this year i've bought tickets to 3 shows and not made one of them.  last night it was a flat tire halfway to DC.  this sucks.

next month i have tickets to see spoon.  that's downtown damnit.  i can't imagine what will stop me from going but something probably will.  porcupine tree is in may,.  i'm sure that'll be cursed too.

not lucky here!  no live music.

i'm cursed.


almost 2 years since i wrote here.   maybe this will be ok now.


Current Mood: grumpy grumpy
Current Music: beethoven "eroica symphony" bernard haitink conductor

2 spoke or Talk to me

oh crap.

i didn't know that if you switch to rich text, you lose every FUCKING word you've written!!!!  goddammit.  how fucking stupid is that?  talk about user friendly... yeah for real.


fuck it

how depressing.

::: moan:::  

~~~~~i mourn words lost to the void.~~~~  


13 spoke or Talk to me
been so long since i've written. and so much has happened in my life. i'm a different person then i was a few months ago, and at my age, change isn't easy i don't think.

i lost a dear friend who had been an integral part of my daily life for more then half of my life. and she died so suddenly, so unexpectedly.

i miss her so. i miss her so damn much.

she was a big, bright, shiny presense. she dominated everything around her. not because she was overly assertive, but because she was so bright.

i loved her and i don't know how i can make it without being able to talk to her. i miss her giving me solace for the loss of her. she'd be there to console me if anything bad happened in my life... but she'd not there for the worst thing.

losing her.

oh GOD i miss her. god, i miss her so much.

Current Mood: needing distraction
Current Music: nothing.

4 spoke or Talk to me

looks like it's going to be finished a lot sooner then i'd imagined.  they are in the vocal and mixing stage.  holy fuck.  tour this summer?   oh cool.  nettie is going to be so excited when  she finds out.

as a long time fan club member i get really good seats and for the very first time, i'll be sharing them with... OH MAN.   she has no idea what's she's in for.  what they are like live.  what they are like live, that close!!!   it's beyond words.

she saw them in 2000, but she was only 10 and really didn't appreciate it.  not like now.  not like i-pod grrrrl with all their albums ripped.


it's going to be heaven on earth.  something to really look forward to. 

as much fun as i had at the SG1 convention (which, i really should write about here) and as much fun as she had attending, this will a revelatory, make that religious  experience for her.   i've seen them well over 30 times live and i've been wondering if i'm jaded.    but i don't think it's going to be possible to be jaded when attending with her.  oh i hope it's in the summer when there's no school.  when we can travel. 





pearl jam.  life is good.

Talk to me
my room, the same place that fed last week's illness with it's compost of tissues and assorted dirty clothes has swallowed my cell phone and my work badge.

i hate the prospect of going to the guard, yet again, with ileftmybadgeathome as an excuse. like that's gonna work for much longer.


the cell phone is the bigger bitch, since for some inexplicable reason the land line is down. this means i have to get the phone company in here to figure it out, which means i have figure out what to do with the room. just tracing the line back to wherever the fuck it goes in the wall, seems an impenetrable task that will require a colonoscope to wind around the assorted detritus the room refused to digest...

unlike my phone, unlike my badge which it wolfed down with enthusiasm.

if i could give my room a laxative, i wonder what it would shit out. obviously none of the soda cans, bottles, empty video cases, books, magazines, aforementioned dirty clothes, clean clothes, and all the other material it refuses to consume that occupies every available surface except what lies beneath my feet

under my desk
at my computer

where i spend far too much time exploring everythingeverythingeverything that's never enough, and from where i emit oohs, aaahs, and giggles that cause daughter to hesitate outside the door, fearing mom will drag her in again with justreadthiswillonlytakeasecond, justlistenthiswillonlytakeasecond, or lookisnthesuchaloveabledork.

my room might shit out the vial that contains baby teeth collected from both my children; a vial of memories held by expelled body parts only a sicko or a voracious room would cherish; a vial i spent a month searching for and never found. baby teeth crack with decay after several years in a vial. did you know that? i didn't, until i added to my collection one final time and looked within. if i don't find it within the next 10 years or so, the vial will contain nothing but dust. but i don't think a laxative is going to work that quickly, or even at all.

i think this room, even stripped bare, will hide things. slid between the base board and the wall, secretively, like the intestine might hide matter in it's appendix, my room will hide the most important artifacts of my life.

the things it willfully consumed when i wasn't paying enough attention, distracted. go to a convention? lose your badge. get sick? lose your phone. throw your husband out of your life? lose baby teeth. go to a pj concert? lose tickets to the next show.

i've lost stuff i don't even want to think about and i don't know the solution. my brain, which is a greater glutton then this room, doesnt have enough space to remember where things were laid. i relied on my room for this.

foolish me. i was betrayed, and now i have to wave a colonoscope as a threat

at a room

my life is so absurd


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i hate being sick but here i am.  mostly i hate the lack of control over the process.  i hate that more then the discomfort.  if i could, i'd schedule being sick.  i'd pick a certain number of days each year during which i'd suffer the ailment of the season and be done with it.

but nooooooooooo. 

i remember childbirth and that moment when you realize you have no control.  that your body is going to do this thing no matter what. by then in. your. infinite. wisdom, you've changed. your. mind. 

but nooooooooooo the fucking contractions continue. 

it's absurd of course.  i'm one of those people who loves to live by random.  i won't schedule my life (one reason i hate work so much... i have to plan shit; work the plan blaaaah).  not if i can help it.  maybe i don't experience as much as others.  after all, if it requires actual planning, i'll avoid it.

like going to the post office.  i hate the fucking post office. i really do it's the last thing i want to do, the last place i want to be.  you stand in line and when they call NEXT, you feel their eyes bore into you.  are you a terrorist?  what's in that package.  is it a bomb?

but it's ONLY vcds of pearl jam concerts, god's rich blessing of music performed from the soul with tight rhythms and a flow of communication that bears the mark of sudden inspiration.  there's eddie on guitar during a jam; once, such an unexpected thing and now so necessary you wonder how the fuck they jammed without his pulling them along.  when he picks up an instrument, everything changes.  the song porch changes when he plays.  its...  utterly different and you realise that while they'd jammed before, it had never been like this.  not like pinkpop 2000's rearviewmirror and there's vedder jamming low on the fret for the high notes.  you wouldn't know it's him... thinking no, it's got to be mike but that sound, oh god, it's his telecaster and he's channeling pete townsend but transforming it into that other thing, that thing that's... himself.

as i've grown older, i've gained distance from their music.  in between new cd's and tours, i don't play them at all.  but now there's my daughter.  and to her, their music is beyond all others. this, she discovered without my influence.  god's word it's true.  and while she'll wax on about pink floyd... she can't escape ed's words.  she is a writer.  and vedder's metaphors...  so unique, original, she loves him

sleight of handCollapse )

but now, she hears the other stuff too.  that miracle thing of creating music which no human can really understand, even those who create it. what's the how for it?  something deep in our brains, hard wired to respond, ancient...  so ancient maybe it's millions of years old. 

she SAW it in the pinkpop vid and turning to me she was just staring, now understanding that the shit she'd been all excited about, the STUDIO work, was really fucking nothing compared to hearing them create something utterly new, altered, and on the fly for a one time only hearing.  and watching that man smile.  oh god, so precious, you want to guard it.  FOREVER.  like you wish and wish lennon were still here, you pray and pray that this one stays. 

some things should never leave us.

that's my prayer for today


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i've had an account for years. think i should put some effort into figuring this place out? haha... no time no time

maybe no time like the present.


Current Mood: quixotic and freakin' weird
Current Music: no code

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