Tuesday, October 31, 2006

morning in the minnesotan tundra

I hate the cold as much as anyone else. However, mornings like this are nice, with the wind whipping straight at you first thing in the morning. It quite literally takes your breath away, and no matter how you figure, that is lovely.

Monday, October 30, 2006

The hyperactive myth of an overheated heart, do it, just beat beat beat.

My head is wrapped in mystery. It's that time of year where the pulp sci-fi, mystery, and horror novels come out. That's a lie, that's just about every time of year. But something about the desolation that fall offers makes me more prone to believe, to get absorbed in the fantasy of these things. Also, magic new friendships offer the goods that make the mind tingle in that ancient sort of way. The illuminati is the hot hot ticket, ballroom dancing with mummies and ghosts, dreams and whisperings of the redbeards and their push and pull up up up, the secret inventors of the pyramids, the elevator, the high-rise and any sort of ascension. Pulp literature IS the modern myth, or is it. Maybe I jumped the gun on that one. Maybe it is just the religion for those of us who fail in identification with our father's myths. Mystery makes my pulse skyrocket, fills me with impulses to find a second less efficient way into outer space. Who will fly with me? Take my hand, grab my ankles and hair, anything that will not rip and tear at inopportune moments and I will take the hand of the one with the magic eyes and his windy pockets will lift the chain of us up off the earth, unaware of himself, he will give us our emerald ticket into the sun, where we wish not to fly but are offered no other choice by the wishes our parents made the last time the clock struck eleven eleven. Flying up, past the thirteenth floor time warp poodle portal, past the suicidal rooftops, past the spires and clocks that cramp the necks of Japanese tourists, through the jet-stream where the geese meet their match with the vicious engines that eventually plummet anyways, past that one last hot air balloon skimming the globe in eighty days or whatnot. Past past past everything, past the Americans and Russians the Skylab and Gemini and the age of Aquarius, cancer and virus, antibiotics and antibacterial soap. We will need not. You and me. Come on, come float with me.

Sunday, October 29, 2006

Mad woman in the attic; too stubborn to smoke, too lonley to call.

Sitting upstairs, mad woman in the attic, as they say. I can hear fits of giggles emitting from the three couples downstairs. Feeling slightly ostracized, out of place, 7th wheel. I have what is most likely and irrational fear of social groups. Something about being identified with a distinct group of people makes me uneasy. It sets you up in a place of vulnerability, being able to be pushed out is a possible consequence of being in. I tend to keep my close companions spread out. Space is grand. Also, I think it may be absurd to avoid close friendships for the purpose of not loosing them, but what can one do if a fear is in momentum. I don't want to be judged. I fuck up a lot. Not in a pity-party sort of sense. I fuck up as much or maybe a little bit more than most people. It still makes me panic to think that people can watch me and come to conclusions without asking me about things. Which groups often do. It is the very reason we have this social mechanism called gossip. Which is a conundrum, because I adore gossip. My my, just listen to me justify a very simple thing.

I am sitting in my room pouting because there are people downstairs who used to like me more in yesteryear than they do now.

All I want in this world at this very moment is to chain smoke and talk on the phone, neither of which I can achieve because I have no one to call and I cannot smoke in my room and I sure as hell am not going downstairs to awkwardly try to wedge myself into conversation with people who have been drinking and laughing together all night.

My hair is so snarled I cannot run my fingers through it.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

No bother at all.

It's all alright. I don't mind. Just try not to float away with all that wind in your pockets, my darling.

Monday, October 23, 2006

Noses buried in the proverbial book.

Some people are lovely when they study. With their knuckles presses up against their cheek, hair disheveled, eyes running rampant back and fourth and back and back and fourth across the sprawl of pages across the dining room table. Glasses askew, completely unaware of my gawking at them. Too enveloped in their thoughts of science and economics and the like and whatnot to notice that I cannot take my brown eyes off of their weary brows.

Read on brothers and sisters, read on.

Merry Christmas Miss Malone

Merry Christmas Miss Malone, is what you will say to me my dear. You will have your scarf pulled up to your nose, because lets face it, we are young and economical with our heat and the house is not entirely warm even in the coldest of months. Regardless, sheepishly, coy maybe, you look up through heavy glasses, ridiculous snarly curls, with those eyes, which are at the moment a sort of brown, actually no, wait, more like green at the moment. They were brown yesterday, which is actually the future, but no matter, tense is not needed in where we live my lovely. You hold a small parcel, wrapped in newspaper. Tied with a dusty green yarn that I'm guessing you haphazardly found while rummaging through an abandoned closet. No matter, I know you are not keen on useless aesthetics. I take it, and as I open it you watch my eyes move back and fourth, scanning the small packing looking for the most appropriate place to begin the paper carnage. I can still smell the cold air in your hair and whisky on your breath (mixed with cheap coffee to keep you warm inside). I gasp. She gasps.

Merry Christmas Miss Malone.

Thursday, October 19, 2006


If I hold my breath long enough, one of two things will happen.

a: Eventually the air will enter my brain via my blood and veins and whatnot, allowing my body to float up off the ground just slightly (as it wont really be enough air to fly, I have a small mouth), which would be a miracle aid to the abandoned eggshells everyone around me has left in the wake of their self indulgent breakfasts. I may, for a moment be able to walk lightly enough as not to crush or even crack the exoskeletons and thusly I will make no noise and I may finally FINALLY make it through a day without being discovered and I might be able to go home and make my own breakfast, which will be chocolate chip pancakes.

b: I will pass out and hit my head.

Monday, October 16, 2006

the electronic hearth

TAing lighting class today. About 20 minutes ago, I became antsy, need to stretch the old gams. Pulled my hood up, braved the dreary teary day, and walked to the Spyhouse. Bought my coffee, flirted with the barista (as I am often fond of doing, especially the pretty girls) and went on my merry way back to class, with my neck pulled into my scarf, sipping coffee and smoking as I went. Upon arriving back at class I noticed the lights were all off. Struck, as we say in the industry. The kids (honestly most of them are older than me but it is really fun to pretend that I am old news) were huddled around something, Ralph lecturing, but all in the dark. Curious, I step in the studio. Ralph is demonstrating flicker-boxes, in a trick lighting unit, which do what it may sound like they do; they make lights flicker at randomly generated intervals. Oh, I was so very much pleased by this sight. The pupils congregated around the electronic hearth. All of them, mesmerized. Ralph was speaking, but no eyes fell on him. All of them, locked on the deceptive glow of the burning embers of tungsten. Incandescent flame is truly as magical as the unbridled ancient version of the same.

Even still, on break, with most of the class disbursed over the school, pissing, smoking, emailing, there are a few that cannot pull away, that continue to silently stare, allowing me to watch them, their muscles relaxing, and eyes losing their focus, going back far back in time dreaming of blood and steak.

an observation

Sometimes, when you are driving, and it is raining, when you go under a bridge, it sounds like the rain is holding its breath.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

your mother's bloated belly

Today was wrought with anxiety. No particular reason, no. This just happens from time to time. And as always, it passes and I feel silly and offer apologies to anyone I involved in the process. I just start to drown drown drown . . .

Speaking of drowning, I am reminded of a woman I talked to once. I don't remember how I met her, but that is far besides the point. She at one point in her life, had survived drowning. Not just survived, but was reanimated. She had drown in a lake, and was later brought back to life at a thankfully near by hospital. I asked her what it was like. She told me that initially, it was pure terror, the kind of terror you only feel once in your life (or twice in her case, unless she dies in her sleep). But at a point, after you stop choking and fighting the barrier of breath, you inhale water. Your lungs fill, as they once did while you floated in the bloated belly of your dear sweet mother. At this point she described to me a sort of calmness. I wont even try to explain, as it was mostly communicated through gesticulations and the way she swayed her hips and her head almost independently as she talked about it. Then she forgets, and its just black until she opened her eyes on a metal table with a defibrillator jolting the life back into her chest. On a final note, she tells me, "I would recommend drowning, if that weren't a demented thing to recommend."

She was a lovely woman. I often think of her on my way to sleep.


This is the story of three girlies on a trip to Wisconsin.

Clearly, off to a smashing start.

Two thirds of the D-cup film club.

I am appalled about something . . .

. . . lil' chub. Really who are they marketing?

Then I got an intense craving for porno. So we stopped at the only porn store in Wisconsin, apparently.

Horrah! Porn acquired!

Commence the reading of porn in the back seat.

Mini pizzas are awesome and go good with porn.

Dawn likes the boys too, even though she is a grown up mommy type.

Dawn found ten dollars on the ground and we spent it all on scratch-offs until it was no more.

Kristina digs porn too.

A lot.

Reading the articles.

Seriously folks.


Well, it was Sunday, so we had to stop and get some off-sale before we crossed the border. Damnit.

Yay! Brews and porn for Minne-snow-ta!

Life is grand.

And on a closing note, in the words of young Sir Fowler, "weeee and whatnot."

Wednesday, October 11, 2006

for you baby

My dear magic eyed word theif,

If you were here I would be whispering into
your mouth and fill your belly with words.

The existential miracle enabler

Monday, October 09, 2006

This may seem odd.

It's nothing personal. I'm just not cut out for this. Really, all I ever want these days is to be alone.

There is a lump in my throat.

Right at this very moment I am TAing advanced lighting. I wonder if my professor knows what I did with the last professor I TA'd for. I put a quite serious emphasis on the T and A. Blunder blunder. The world is full of idiots, and right now I am filled with loathing. I haven't had a cigarette in three and a half hours. My teeth are beginning to ache due to my grinding of them. I am aware that I smoke too much but I don't give a damn.

H A T E.

My room is the winter of my fucking begrudged discontent.

My face is covered in white gritty powder. My teeth, my hair, my eyelashes. My bed, my clothes, and all of my worldly possessions. My precious little black cat is now a sad withered grey. I am sitting in a toxic cloud waiting for it to settle, with a scarf pulled over my nose and mouth rendering me in the image of Pancho Villa (which according to some online survey is my celebrity soul mate, what the fuck?). My room looks like a nuclear wasteland; a crematorium after a busload of nameless bums comes in for their final checkout; the aftermath of a 100-year dormant volcano eruption. My room is the winter of my fucking begrudged discontent.

Funny thing. Shop-vacs are not as simple to use as one might think. I know what you are thinking now and fuck you. This is rocket science my friend. So, today, I decide I'm going to finish my room. A project like many projects, started when one moves into a new house, and it got dropped half finished about a month ago. Today was the day. Finish the drywall, rewire the attic nook, and finish the last remaining coat of paint. Even my horoscope was in my favor today:

GEMINI (May 21-June 21). A long and arduous project
will be worth it in the end. So get to the end. Keep going.
Don't quit until you get to the champagne pop and the
roar of the crowd.

Now tell me, how could you read this and not be inspired to finish a burden. Fuck yes I say to myself. Fuck yes.

Fuck no. I should have run for the hills at the first sign of trouble. I clean up a little, because my Dad is coming over and I don't want him to know what a slob I am, living in sin and whatnot. That was easy enough. So easy, in fact, that it occurs to me I should have done that a long time ago. Then, on to the drywall. It's almost finished. Just some sanding, then vacuuming, then painting and its complete. I turn around and look at this beast of a vacuum cleaner that's been lying in wait in the south corner of my room for a month. It's staring at me, challenging me. I swear I saw it wink at me. Brickshithousemotherfucker. I know that I don't know how it works. I should have called Dad to double check before I dive into it, but I think, "What the hell, how hard can it be?" I mean really what's the worst thing that could happen?

Come closer, no closer than that. Good. I'll tell you what can go wrong. So, I hook the hose to the side that says 'suck' (yep folks it was truly labeled suck and the other side blow). Easy. Piece of cake. I plug it into the outlet. Nothing wrong yet. Flip the 'on' switch. Golden. I proceed to vacuum the mound of drywall dust that I just sanded. It vacuums quickly and easily. Proud of myself for being so smart and good at things, I just kind of stand there for a minuet or two, with the vacuum cleaner still on (because to be honest, the roar on the motor makes me feel kind of powerful) admiring my good work. The space on the ground in front of my three-foot long drywall is probably cleaner than it has ever been. Success.

I bend over to turn off the vacuum. I notice something odd. The 'blow' nozzle of the vacuum has no covering. In fact, it seems to be blowing something right now. Hmmmm. I turn it off, still unalarmed and rather proud of my work. Well, now that it's off everything seems okay. Then I hear the saddest meow my cat has ever mustered. She is frozen in a pile of dust. I look around. Everything is. There hovers the cloud. "So that's what 'blow' does."

Yep, that's what blow does.

The O

My mother had a handful of children. A variety of ages, shapes, colors, fathers, genders etc. A lively bunch, troubled with eccentric tendencies. I, well, I am the youngest by a long shot. More than an after thought. Much much more than a mistake. A miracle they called me. Still do. My mother still introduces me to people as her miracle child, miracle baby. As well as with the eldest child. Jason. Jason Jay. JJ. Jason Jay Orris. JJO. The O.

Jason turned 16 exactly one day before I was born. He drove my laboring mother to the hospital. This makes us both Gemini. Gemini bookends, as we are commonly known.

It is true that no one adores me like JJ. The man with many a moniker. I hear stories and see pictures of my babyhood. Jason was always with his miracle baby sister. A long history of many a nap together. Due to age difference, JJ and I were unfortunately far far apart for some time. He was this figure that I had phantom memories with, seeing as he did not live at home and was enjoying in his wild 20's. Regardless of our separation, the proverbial man-child always read my mind, kissed and hugged and carried me, even when puberty scared away my father and many other men from my life.

On the occasions that one is loved, one is loved for many different reasons, by different people. Some reasons are less than desirable. I was/am loved loved loved for filling the mind numbingly painful gap in my parents lives, and Jason, and Ali. My birth ended a certain grief that actually never ended, and will likely be passed my children and my children's children. Replacement. Replacement baby. But it worked, is the thing. I know that just breathing and blinking and not dying made my family happy again.

JJ is the only person who loved his little sister. little little sister. Replacement was not in his vernacular for me. Love is love, and whatever you get handed is to be considered sacred, but Jason loves a special kind of love.