I miss my kitties. But they are living large at the folks’ house. Lots of places to roam and soooo much spoilin’.
I wanted to write something about ghosts. Something about how when they show up in your dreams they steal rest from you all night long. Not the kinds of ghosts that wear sheets and chains or the kinds of spectral presences that populate spooky stories. I’m talking about the kind of ghosts that used to live large in your life but that you killed off, metaphorically speaking, so you could move on. About how when they use your dreams to resume their presence in your life, it sucks the wind right out of you. Who gave them the right?
I wanted to write about those ghosts but I couldn’t come up with anything to say, really.
Normally I try not to get too upset at winter for doing its thing. Just let it run its course. It’ll lose steam and get gone and we’ll see it creeping back in later in the year after it’s run off to have its affairs elsewhere.
Hell, I even appreciate that winter gives me a few months of long sleeves, layers, tights, coats and scarves.
But this year…
You gotta go, dude. Get.
Obsessed with this song. And the video (which is NSFW for one sec because boobs).
More, give me more, give me more.
Holden has taken to yelling, “Mama! Watch your tongue!” at me unprompted, many times a day. Even when I’m not saying anything inappropriate.
And, as rude as he is, he’s right. The tongue is going to get me in trouble some day.
Sleater-Kinney coming back from the dead at this moment in my life is serendipity.
Now if Rage Against the Machine could get back to it, that’d be perfection.
I am up late having a rather obnoxious battle with insomnia. This literally never happens to me. I always sleep. I have a regular appointment to keep with my dreams. But tonight I’m being eaten alive and my eyes won’t even shut.
You ever think much about humiliation? About that red hot flush you feel at first when it dawns on you that you’re at the short end of a stick of some kind, and how your heart pounds for hours and hours as you go over every detail of the stupid things you did? You relive them again and again in silent horror, turning each one over and over in your head like a stone smoothed by current. You ever think much about how fucked up it is to have this cryptographer-type organ knocking around in your skull, meting out all this information to you as it untangles it? But how sometimes really awful stuff slips right past and goes undeciphered, but once your cryptographer organ friend gets all that info cobbled together and notices a Really Unfortunate Pattern, it dumps this flood of adrenaline into your veins and peaces out (sayonara, reason!) and you have to sit there feeling like a lion is pacing around you even though the only thing that has changed is your understanding of the context in which you were previously living?
Humiliation is a toxin and you have to sweat it out. Except the sweat is existential and it physically hurts as it exits your body. You can feel it in your chest, in your bones, down low in your gut, where it throbs a bit. You can also feel it in your brain — the pesky little guy who allowed it to set in to begin with.
Spend long enough sweating it and that humiliation might calcify parts of you.
If you are like me, you might welcome that. So that maybe next time you won’t feel it as much.