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Me- in action, sometimes inaction, but always- acting out!


Thursday, September 29, 2005

1. Total volume of music: 11.1 GB (yeah, I don't really know what that means but I think it's a lot)
2. Last CD I bought: Mr. A to Z by Jason Mraz- I found it dissappointing
3. Song playing right now: Bad Day by Daniel Powter
4. Five songs that I listen to a lot or that mean a lot to me: this is a good one!
#5- That Day: POE.
#4- Sleeping to Dream: Jason Mraz.
#3- Paper Bag: Fionna Apple
#2- I know I'm not Athena (or- a Fina?!?): Shannon Worrel
#1- Wounded: Third Eye Blind

and there absolutely must be an honorable mention to Deathcab for Cutie, songs like 'Styrofoam Plates' and 'For What Reason' are excellent however the above mentioned have history.

Marry, Merry, Mary.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Friday. . .
How-swarming party was fun. It is so nice to have beloved people around. It makes my apartment a home. It makes the knowledge that I will move again and that I put things up and on the walls for me- but also because it's a reflection of how I want people to feel comfortable in my space. We talked about how my landlord is terrible, made fun of the fact that my bathroom sink is low enough to make a 3 year old feel comfortable, and drank until the last person left at roughly 3:00 am. We talked politics ( I didn't bring it up! Allthough I did share my newest joke: What did Dubya say about Roe vs. Wade? 'I don't care how they get out of New Orleans!' hahaha get it: Roe. . .Row). We talked about dating: married friends don't necessarily want to be, un-married friends want to be, the happiest seemed to those that were satisfied with dating. I don't know what it says about me, but I couldn't help but think: Good clean fun in the ghetto and no one got shot! (not a thought of marriage in my mind)

Saturday. . .
I'm at home and it's early evening. It's starting to get dark outside and I'm beached on the couch. There's a knock at the door- I thought it'd be my new friends slash neighbors Tim and Allison (self-ascribed nickname of T'n'A). As it turns out it's a guy that I recognized to live there but couldn't remember his name. His heather gray t-shirt is soaked in sweat and his serial killer glasses are struggling to stay on his dampened face that is crowned with a retreating hairline. He was struggling. . . with what? I have no idea. He asks if he can (between heaving forced breathes) use my cell phone. "I.... I.... I have to.... (slight pause).... CALL MY DOCK-DER!" In reactive mode- I asked if he had the number and began to hand him my phone- he then realizes that he doesn't have the number and turns around and as if being pulled by his shoulders- does a slight lean in the direction of his apartment and leaves. As if he's driving away he sorta throws a hand up in goodbye and says- "let me get the number... yeah... ok."
I saw him near the mailboxes yesterday and he seemed as merry as he usually does which is one mass of melancholy. I haven't heard from him since- I thought about asking but my inability to remember his name gave me a reason not to. (Don't make eye contact, look at the ground, hold cell phone to ear even if you aren't really talking to someone <-- which sucks if it rings at that moment, it scares the shit out of you and then you're busted... BUSTED! )

Sunday . . .
"Proud Mary keep on burnin'. . . . ROLLIN'. . . .ROLLIN'. . . ROLLIN' ON THE RIVER!" went the pride parade. It was, in NO uncertain terms the hottest fucking day to have a parade- there were melting queens coupled w/ lesbians in leather (they were behind us- it was so-o fun!!!) and the straight people were so distracted by their own melting and the flaming homosexuality that they weren't bothered by the flying Mardi Gras beads that were being pummled at them. I met a nice guy after the parade- who was quick to tell me that he was 'straight' and 'didn't realize that this was a pride parade' but 'ya know, I have gay friends.' I see myself nodding, shaking my head and thinking, 'I don't care- the only reason you are talking to me is because I have completely sweat through my home-made white t-shirt that says: straight, but not narrow, and you can see my bra- and the legs the the lesbians holla for.' I still haven't returned his call. I found, as I usually do at gay-pride events, that it makes me so proud that so many come together in the spirit of acceptance. We noticed this year that there were only a handful of 'you're going straight to hell- repent now sinner' protesters (we like to mention that the queer don't go anywhere straight- even to hell!). Even better I would say that at least a third of the floats we saw were church sponsored. It was very peaceful and exciting all at the same time.

Not looking for- finding what it is. . . love.

Saturday, September 17, 2005

I'm not certain where this thought was born out of but it's something that I've thought about lately. The more interesting thought that has camped out is- what used to look like love (when I was a child, when I was in a relationship, when I felt most loved and valued) still looks very familiar if not the exact same.

I know I was loved when she walked all the way from her house to mine. Emilie was about to turn 15 and I was 14 and I had just had my jaw surgery. It doesn't seem like a feat of great proportions to walk from her place to mine, but it was that I had said that I didn't want to see anyone. My head was swollen to, what felt like, the width of my shoulders. Emilie came over and brought me some consolation prizes for a surgery well weathered. There was a silver charm, a letter, a card, a colored picture. All things that proved she had thought about me in a time of pain. I have come across those things over the years and it's so funny to see how they are so age-appropriate for who we were at the time. I think what I value the most is that they were intended to let me know I was with her- and because I still have them- she's with me.

I know I was loved when it was the everyday, mundane, benign things that prompted affection. I felt special and normal at the same time. Jake's charismatic way of telling me that the way I got into bed was different and yet endearing at the same time (I crawl in feet first and had never noticed until it was pointed out with affection). I was me and it seemed to be enough. I was quirky and it was 'adorable.' I was impassioned and it was 'attractive.' It was a sense of being valued not for what I do but for who I am that brought a sense of comfort.

I know I was loved when she helped me move. It is, in no uncertain terms, a beating to move me, my prized things, my shit that people wonder why I hold onto, my life- all into a new home. My mother has never even seen some of the places I've lived and she has also made some of my places a home by simply being there. She did this last time on her own birthday, I know she loves me and I know she does what she can- and that will always be what I need.

I know I was loved when they are happy just to be where I am. It's not enough for Othello to just be in the same room- he has to lay on the keyboard. It's not enough for Stanley to be in the same apartment- when I'm home he likes to be close enough to be able to see me. It's an odd comfort that I am at home (doing anything or nothing) and Stan will be somewhere near- quietly watching.

There are days when I seem to barely get by with all the support in my world and then there are times when I flourish in just the idea of how much I have been loved in my life and how I continue to experience it. What does love look like to you?

FEMA failing Katrina victims isn't the only problem at hand!

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Chief Justice Renquist dies at 80.

It is evident that President Bush has the unparalleled influence of placing not one, but two seats on the Supreme Court. This makes me INCREDIBLY nervous. In order to feel like I am doing something, I am going to give my time and effort to as many progressive causes as possible.

Additionally, there is a great commentary about the function of influential Justices to understand the power and importance of this position.

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