Ready your rafts, the flood is coming
Who knew there was such velocity in a rain drop, last night I opted for pyjamas (until I stripped them off mid fevered dream, no, not that kind, I was hot) thinking that the flood might break through my bedroom. In the end, the body imperative won out, should disaster catch me in my bed, I am likely to be caught on the evening news wide-eyed, clad in a sheet. I have been known to wake with scorched flesh where the seams of my bottoms fell.
And still it falls, fitfully and capricious, intermittent sunshine, so long spring stawberries, oh for a patch of sunshine, and the prickle of a rising sunburn.
But the rain is falling, and now it's falling in earnest, lashing at the sidewalks, sending tentative fingers at the cracks near my heater, trailing water across my dear slanting hard wood floors, tracing my rug, soon it will be chasing the dust mice from under the bed, ruining my shoes, staining my walls and flooding my lungs.
I had a few minor revelations during the course of the day, that I would like to share with the internets. It's official! I hate my job!
Did you know what happens when you slide into one of those funks? The kind that doesn't completely mitigate function, but the kind where, due to lackadaisical oversight a few bills go unpaid? Well by dint of economics and usage, they fucking compound, and then they goodly folk at PG&E (ha ha ha bite me hard motherfuckers) send you one of those yellow notices, gently reminding you that you owe them a kajillion dollars. That might be stretching the sum a tetch, but if we are talking approximations that is what it feels like to my slim pocket book.
and the credit cards, are, mercifully, reigned in.
but the myriad and petty things vying for checks and debits, nickel and fucking diming me to a diminishing balance. Nay, let us not discuss the fortune I would save if I renounced liquor and cigarettes, I am not an ascetic and cannot discourse reasonably on the economics of privation.
OK, new topic. What is with me and Hole? I think I might need an intervention, I think I might be perceived as tightly strung, possibly violent, predatory single woman, minus the addictions and the multiple nose and breast augumentation, reduction respectively, oh, and the psychosis. But ever since I saw Hole open for Camper Van Beethoveen (hello bookers?) I have been entranced by the disaster that is Courtney Love, no matter how great my need to naysay, the disaster has some kind of charisma...
Oddly enough (not exactly, thanks to my recent discovery of internet music...) Camper Van Beethoveen is on the headphones, and I know that I have been writing much of music and memory lately. But, help me out, I don't think I am so wrong is making a broad supposition, that if the sense of smell is the greatest memory signifier, then old songs are the second most potent signifier. At one time to be in one moment and then to be in another moment, and that moment has it's own specific prism of colors and hair styles and sartorial flair, and in one moment you are riding the elevator in business casual and pointy boots staring at the screen of the superflous factoids and in the next you are deep in 1987 where you made the ill choice of black spandex under the ripped (good christ, acid washed) and people still referred to highlights as frosting. And you get off in the lobby mildly disconcerted, with an ache that is substantially more than nostalgia, it's the ache of missing, missing the sky-blue-pink world of promise. In the long-locked before, before all of that sunshiney optimism got choked by bills and rancid politics and bosses with insecurity complexes, before ex-husbands, before heartache, before good grammar was lost on me, before cursive disappeared.
But that was before, before the towers that most americans couldn't give two shits about went down. That was before the blue dress and the blow job. That was before anyone ever confused a Newt with a salamander, that was before the Berkeley fires, it was before the US beat the russians at Albertville, it was before anybody but a geography nut had ever heard of Mogodishu, and everyone had to make a mad rush towards old national geographics to delineate the fragile cultural borders, before the Balkans imploded and I had the misfortune of seeing massacre happen "en live" , I was living in France at the time, I simply could not fathom a massacre at my back door.
Then again, we humans are nothing if not adept at averting our eyes.
How long now 'til it comes back to bite us in the ass?
Who knew there was such velocity in a rain drop, last night I opted for pyjamas (until I stripped them off mid fevered dream, no, not that kind, I was hot) thinking that the flood might break through my bedroom. In the end, the body imperative won out, should disaster catch me in my bed, I am likely to be caught on the evening news wide-eyed, clad in a sheet. I have been known to wake with scorched flesh where the seams of my bottoms fell.
And still it falls, fitfully and capricious, intermittent sunshine, so long spring stawberries, oh for a patch of sunshine, and the prickle of a rising sunburn.
But the rain is falling, and now it's falling in earnest, lashing at the sidewalks, sending tentative fingers at the cracks near my heater, trailing water across my dear slanting hard wood floors, tracing my rug, soon it will be chasing the dust mice from under the bed, ruining my shoes, staining my walls and flooding my lungs.
I had a few minor revelations during the course of the day, that I would like to share with the internets. It's official! I hate my job!
Did you know what happens when you slide into one of those funks? The kind that doesn't completely mitigate function, but the kind where, due to lackadaisical oversight a few bills go unpaid? Well by dint of economics and usage, they fucking compound, and then they goodly folk at PG&E (ha ha ha bite me hard motherfuckers) send you one of those yellow notices, gently reminding you that you owe them a kajillion dollars. That might be stretching the sum a tetch, but if we are talking approximations that is what it feels like to my slim pocket book.
and the credit cards, are, mercifully, reigned in.
but the myriad and petty things vying for checks and debits, nickel and fucking diming me to a diminishing balance. Nay, let us not discuss the fortune I would save if I renounced liquor and cigarettes, I am not an ascetic and cannot discourse reasonably on the economics of privation.
OK, new topic. What is with me and Hole? I think I might need an intervention, I think I might be perceived as tightly strung, possibly violent, predatory single woman, minus the addictions and the multiple nose and breast augumentation, reduction respectively, oh, and the psychosis. But ever since I saw Hole open for Camper Van Beethoveen (hello bookers?) I have been entranced by the disaster that is Courtney Love, no matter how great my need to naysay, the disaster has some kind of charisma...
Oddly enough (not exactly, thanks to my recent discovery of internet music...) Camper Van Beethoveen is on the headphones, and I know that I have been writing much of music and memory lately. But, help me out, I don't think I am so wrong is making a broad supposition, that if the sense of smell is the greatest memory signifier, then old songs are the second most potent signifier. At one time to be in one moment and then to be in another moment, and that moment has it's own specific prism of colors and hair styles and sartorial flair, and in one moment you are riding the elevator in business casual and pointy boots staring at the screen of the superflous factoids and in the next you are deep in 1987 where you made the ill choice of black spandex under the ripped (good christ, acid washed) and people still referred to highlights as frosting. And you get off in the lobby mildly disconcerted, with an ache that is substantially more than nostalgia, it's the ache of missing, missing the sky-blue-pink world of promise. In the long-locked before, before all of that sunshiney optimism got choked by bills and rancid politics and bosses with insecurity complexes, before ex-husbands, before heartache, before good grammar was lost on me, before cursive disappeared.
But that was before, before the towers that most americans couldn't give two shits about went down. That was before the blue dress and the blow job. That was before anyone ever confused a Newt with a salamander, that was before the Berkeley fires, it was before the US beat the russians at Albertville, it was before anybody but a geography nut had ever heard of Mogodishu, and everyone had to make a mad rush towards old national geographics to delineate the fragile cultural borders, before the Balkans imploded and I had the misfortune of seeing massacre happen "en live" , I was living in France at the time, I simply could not fathom a massacre at my back door.
Then again, we humans are nothing if not adept at averting our eyes.
How long now 'til it comes back to bite us in the ass?
posted by emma at
11:20 PM
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