I worry, sometimes.

Which is a lie, I worry a lot. I worry about my future, and my what will happen to my family, and whether I'm doing a good job in general, and in specific, and whether I will end up the person I want to be, and if the person I am now is sufficient (like I suspect I might be), and whether I can make things better, and whether I will make things worse, and how I'm going to continue on, and that I might have to continue on.

But all these little worries, I've had them with me for so long they're a part of me and I don't think about them directly, not really, not any more than I really talk about them, which if you were to figure out how often that is, is really almost never.

I used to be much more worried than I am, I've gotten better at management of the worry. People who Knew Me Then could testify, under oath and all, that the Person I Am Now is different, I might even say better, and that worry is not the uneasy companion it was for me for so many years. Maybe it's age. Maybe it's experience. Maybe the tough outer shell that needs to form itself around me in the mornings (and, conversely, starts to degrade each night as I sleep) also needed to form in general, more long term, and it's getting thicker. I don't know. What I do know is this - I'm getting better at it, this life thing, and dealing with all of it on my own, and figuring out that there are things I need to do, and change, and just because it's right doesn't mean it will feel good. Not always. Nope nope nope...sometimes the things that are right downright blow.

As I stand back and look at all of this as objectively as possible considering it directly involves me, I realize that things could be much easier if I did them another way, if I was another person, but that isn't the way I do them. I realize that I, like another one I can think of, tend to want to handle these things my way, on my terms, and usually completely, bitterly, agonizingly alone.

The English language does not contain the words necessary to apologize to the people who have been affected by my way. I can't conceive of a method to tell those who have been subjected to it how I understand that I purposely and systematically kept them out of all of this, and then penalized them for not being a part of it. Understanding, that powerful drug, was always first on my list of desires. But I wouldn't accept it even if it had come, because it wasn't understood, itself. And it was wrong somehow, bent, and not how I imagined it at all.

I can't believe, not really, that I came to this way all on my own, of my own doing, not completely. I realize, and own, my shortcomings. That's why they have improved, that's why I'm a better person today, that's why I can admit all of this, and begin to understand it. But I know they had to start somewhere, and they didn't start inside my head, no not completely.

I keep things around me to remind me that I am seen, that I am real, that I am [redacted]. These things are small and square. They're literal things, not intangible. The Me Then wouldn't have understood my talismans from now. Because understanding wasn't understood then, itself.

All of it boils down to this: I have had a few hard, really hard, stupid hard minutes recently. A small white square with my name on it, and two others with images reminded me that I'm Someone Other Than That.

Whatever. I'll take it, and it'll do.

Fin.

"I have steak at home, why go out for hamburger?"
--Paul Newman, on whether he was tempted to stray from his wife

Man, I loved that guy.
Bummer.

And now, introducing:

The Hall of Songs that Confused the Bejeezus Out of the Young Me

1. Up on the Rooftop
I didn’t understand at all why the reindeer had paws. It wasn’t until I was singing it with my niece as an adult that I realized that the phrase was "reindeer pause," as in they needed a little breather and possibly some Gatorade and maybe a nice piece of pie and a shiatsu massage before moving on, and not, in fact, a reference to some weird mutant reindeer who ended up with fuzzy, soft, squishy feet in place of the more modern, sleek, black cloppy numbers.

2. My Bonny Lies Over the Ocean
My internal dialogue upon being asked to sing this song as a wee one: my...body lies over the ocean? [pause to imagine a person levitating over a large body of water. Oddly enough, this person looked alternately joyous or completely lobotomized. I couldn’t figure out why a person would be laying over an ocean, so I had difficulty assigning an emotion to the action] my...Bonnie lies over the ocean? Who is that? Why is she lying? Or is she laying? Bonnie also had an insane grin of the sort you see on mental patients and/or those on serious psychotropic substances. She also had a hat. She was not attractive.

3. My Hat, It Has Three Corners
I had never seen a hat with three corners before. I was convinced I was misunderstanding the actual lyrics, but I was so shy I couldn’t ask for clarification. Not really knowing what they were saying or what was going on made me feel like I was losing my mind – a very uncomfortable emotion to deal with at, say, 6 years old. It was only made worse by the inane movements they always did when singing this song, which involved grinning while making odd pulling motions at your head, both whilst singing a song that made me feel insane to begin with.

Adding to my general discomfort about this song was the fact that I could not for the life of me figure out – if the lyrics were what they sounded like – why someone would write a song about their hat having three blasted corners. Was this a status thing? Was it useful in some way to them, either functionally or socially? And this was obviously anachronistic, because – as previously stated – there wasn't anyone still running around with these functionally or socially superior pieces of haberdashery on their heads. So why were we still singing this song? Such were the philosophical/existential thoughts that plagued me at 6 years of age.

This is for B:
(but all of you enjoy it, go right ahead)

I've been out walking
I don't do too much talking these days.
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do
And all the times I had the chance to.

I've stopped my rambling,
I don't do too much gambling these days.
These days I seem to think about
How all the changes came about my ways
And I wonder if I'll see another highway.

I had a lover,
I don't think I'll risk another these days.
And if I seem to be afraid
To live the life that I have made in song
It's just that I've been losing so long.

I've stopped my dreaming,
I won't do too much scheming these days.
These days I sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten.

Please don't confront me with my failures,
I had not forgotten them.

All of the girls out with their hips asway
And I'm the loneliest (wo)man
They're selling incense and sunglasses on Orchard Street
Boatloads of bootleg Sean John

And I'll dream you up in this vast, dark bed
Believe I loved you for each hair upon the back of your neck, and I
Want to kiss you but I can't
Down on the river by the sugar plant

Earrings
Weighing down the lobe and
Nose a lovely slope and the mouth turned down
Shoulders
Pale and beautiful and
Angle of the throat and
Your sweet sad stare

All of the waves that crash upon the shore
Fruitlessly shushing the world
I pledge allegiance to my displacement
My flag of doubt is unfurled

And I'll dream you up on a vast, dark coast
Believe I see you walking toward me arms outstretched like a Ghost, and I
Want to kiss you but I can't
Down on the river by the sugar plant

After all this time, this - this! - is what made me really, REALLY miss having cats:



Stick with it, I'm telling you. You have to at least get to the "I'm not paying any attention to you game" and "corporal cuddling."

Laws, man.
I'm going to get a cat now. I'm just going to pick one up from the kitteh store. Here I go.

I think I've said this before, but just in case I haven't: did I ever mention how much I love my house?



Okay. Just checking.

A lovely weekend so far, forsure - the Reverend Horton Heat show traveled through our little burg last night and, as always, gave us an amazing show to taste and roll around in and make that happy noise and then hunker down in even more, but this time it was better because we were close enough to see but still safely ensconced in our little corner so that we were unmolested by the sheer bizarro nature of the crowd.

I'm...serious. I can't describe it. B and I lamented the fact that we had both forgotten our cameras, because in addition to the fact that we could take pictures of the righteous rock and roll terror the Rev was throwing down, we could have committed to film the vision of the entire school of individuals in the balcony who were so callously throwing about their complete lack of rhythm, dangerous weapon though it was.

(B and I had a heated debate in which I confessed I was actually a little pissed off that she was taking up for them, to which she responded that I should back off because she did hate them as much as I did, she was just okay with them because they were up there and not right there with us where she'd have to deal with them in addition to hating them. As if she were harboring some superstitious belief that actively participating in the hating them from where we were would somehow summon them down to us, all sweaty and clamoring and high-fiving, foisting some kind of horrible no-able-to-dance-even-if-no-being-able-to-dance-means-they'll-kill-your-offspring-what-the-fuck?-at-least-I'm-trying-why-don't-you-get-up-and-dance-with-us?-come-on-it's-fun.-what?-do-you-think-you're-too-cool? affliction off on us that wouldn't wash off, even with several gin and tonics and a hearty booty-shaking session with, say You Sexy Thing by Hot Chocolate. Mmmmm...hot chocolate.)

What?
I know.

Moving on: we also could have captured the now nearly extinct Headbanging, Satan's Signal Throwing Specimen who enjoyed the show immensely (and demonstrably) just in front of us. And the gold-lamè-pants-wearing young lady who, B accurately pointed out, closely resembled Cha Cha DiGregorio as brilliantly portrayed on the silver screen by Annette Charles.

But we forgot our cameras. So this will have to live on in our hearts and minds only. I'm barely recovering from the stunning disappointment of this fact, just this morning.

And speaking of this morning, we had a lovely time today at the farmer's market. I bought cheese from the place what has the piktoors of the cows who make the cheese.

Well, actually the cows don't make the cheese. Although that would be so many kinds of awesome the world might change its orbit and tilt the other way on its axis. In actuality, the cows just give up the goods so I can enjoy the cheese. They look happy to do so, if the piktoors can be trusted. And thankful I am. Thanks, cows. For my lovely new cheese.

So that brings me to now - getting up early is nifty, I like early morning to an unnatural degree, it makes me all motivated to the hilt to get up earlyz and start doing my thing so I get more done when I do, but there's a problem with getting up early and it's this - things get done much earlier and then what to do with the rest of the day? I mean, it's barely lunchtime and my chores are taken care of. I gots things to do in the late afternoon and the evening, but what about until then? I never thought I'd see the day when I was so confounded and annoyed with free time. It's strange and a bit distressing, but I trust it won't always be like this. I just gotta learn patience, and this is a great way to have no choice but to do so.

Maybe I'll hit the tea room and do some writing. I mean, other than this. Or...finish the shopping I didn't complete yesterday.

For those of you who are used to quick, ADHD-type blog posts here on THE LIVEJOURNAL (you can't really know this because you're reading it and are not inside my head and you don't hear the voice I'm trying to say that in, but that's really a Venture Brothers reference. promise.): sorry about the length here. Still can't quite make the cuts work for me. You can filter me out if you want to, but I trust that you lapped up every word of this like so much honey on your tongue. And I know, that you know, that it was worth every single second.

Amen.

It's saint_louise's birthday. Yes. Yes it is. Yes, it is. Back off!

Here's what I found in my pocket. For her. Just. For her.

Oh yeah, did I mention that B TOTALLY GRADUATED LAST WEEKEND?

Holy ess. The pride...the pride is peeling my face off, captain.

Here, look. She did not just totally rent a graduate outfit or anything. She, like, totally and really graduated and everything:



I steal a quote from chimericpeloria, who put it best (I don't think she was talking about this situation specifically, but it totally applies here):

Just a liiiiitle bit jealous. And a whole, whole, whole bunch proud.

Um...she graduated WITH HONORS.
Like, big ones.
DAMMIT.
PROUD.

Okay. And but also, here we are at the let's-celebrate-and-drink-a-lot-of-wine dinner, showing that, rather than inheriting some of the, oh, let's call them more...interesting traits from our mother figure, really what we got was some hella-great gams:



Yeah, really I'm just excited I got to use "hella-great" and "gams" there.

Score!

Okay, and but the last thing is, would you like to see some dust graffiti I saw at the downtown library this fine afternoon?



Oh poop. I love my nun too.

So. Those who know me well know a couple of things about me, one being my general fascination and delight with vinyl art figurines, which most people refer to - I know, weird, but it's true - as "toys."

I love my toys.
Just a very small sampling of the ones I keep around me at work:



and



and



Let me reiterate: this is a small sampling. I could scare you, or bore you, or just annoy you unnecessarily if I took piktoors of all my toys. I am particular about my toys, I have artists that I love and places that I prefer to purchase them from.

Another thing that those who know (and love?) me, know about me is my overall, slightly distressing at times, obsession with that special little beverage we like to call tea.

Today, I found the perfect storm of my two fiendish distractions:



::: gasp! :::

And here's the damned toy's description:
Tea Bear was found roaming the lush green hills of Derbyshire before being forced into the life of an English butler by his unruly master, Dr. Doodlebaum.

Nobody knows that Tea Bear has been secretly weeing into the brew and putting tiny bear plops in the scones.

Seriously. It's not even possible to resist this. It would be like completely ignoring the burning bush or something.

* Breakfast. Or brunch.
* Les Champs-Elysees
* It could be worse.
* My wee treadmill
* Word bubbles
* Chai (have I done that one before?)
* California
* Social eating
* Dunnys
* Finally writing again
* Movies in the theater
* Milk Duds

O! How I wish I was here, sez I.

An open note to the universal weather handler:

It's May 1st.



I don't think there's much more I need to say other than that.

Sincerely,
J
---------------------------------------

And but also,
Zombies have taken up residence in my office windowsill.




And, please to be enjoying zebra rides at my house.



Just thought I'd end it on a happy note there.
You don't have to thank me.
The End.

Love of all loves, you have made a mistake
Only saw the flaws and now you regret
My mind’s aggrieved and my belly’s ablaze
I have swallowed all the words that you said

If you choose that we will always lose
Then I'll sail this ship alone
And if you decide to give him another try
Then I'll sail this ship alone

They said if I wrote the perfect love song
You would take me back
Well I wrote it, but I lost it
And now will you take me back anyway

If you insist that this is for the best
Then I'll sail this ship alone
And if you swear that you no longer care
Then I'll sail this ship alone

If you're afraid that I won't make the grade
Then I'll sail this ship alone
And if you agree to him instead of me
Then I'll sail this ship alone

They said if I wrote the perfect letter
That I would have a chance
Well I wrote it, and you burned it
And now do I have a chance anyway?

If you swear that you no longer care
Then I'll sail this ship alone

I'll sail this ship alone
Between the pain and the pleasure

I'll sail this ship alone
Amongst the sharks and the treasure

If you would rather go your way then go your way
I'll sail this ship alone

Well they said if I burned myself alive

That you'd come running back

Another oldie but goodie, kids:



For those of you who haven't seen it: it starts out slow, but stick with it. It gets there.

It. gets. there.

Make no mistake: a trying day, to be sure.

Forget how I spent the morning, although I did get birthday breakfast with the family and it was better than I had imagined it would be, which is to say it was actually really nice.

Sidenote: Man, I really dig that kid of B's. She's so...well, her.

Came home, went on a mad shopping spree on iTunes. I think to make me feel better. Not sure. Could be. Likely.

Decided that that gruff, gravelly voice that Mike Doughty does (refer to Ways + Means for context) is one of the most pleasing things possible to listen to.

Purchased Janine from Ruby Vroom, even though I own two copies of the CD, because I wanted to listen to it now and didn't feel like finding my CD(s). Was pleased as always to hear it again.

Decided that there's definitely something wrong with my left index finger, because it keeps being red, slightly swolly, and itchy.

Rearranged the zoo that I found on my porch on my birthday afternoon and brought into my house to live on my breakfast bar.

Rearranged it again.

Ate a caramel.

Considered purchasing Run Joey Run because I saw that R was listening to it yesterday or something. Decided against it.

Ate another caramel.

Bought some more music that was not Mike Doughty. Like such as some Velvet Underground. And some Placebo.

Thought about my cat that I named after a Velvet Underground song, and how she died. Felt sad. Missed my cat.

Considered a career change.

Ate another caramel.

Bought some really bad, guilty pleasure Norwegian electronic pop. Was disappointed it was the "wrong version," listened to the song four times in a row and decided that it didn't matter, because it was still awesome. And horrible. And awesome again.

Thought about Andy Warhol for a while, typed up a favorite quote by him and stared at it. Felt happy.

Didn't eat another caramel.

Brushed my teeth. Bought more Sam Cooke. Bought more Otis Redding. Bought some other guilty pleasures.

There's a cake on my counter over there.

There's a comic book I haven't finished.

The End.

Every year, B makes me a series of peeektoors to celebrate the anniversary of my birth. This year, she made her greatest creation yet.

Behold:



Who knew?

Also, the song I'm listening to right now is a complete coincidence. Word.