wish you were here

I know you’re coming to this page thinking, why doesn’t she write more even though she’s been at home so much lately? at least, that’s what I think in my head when I have Blogger open for about half an hour and don’t write anything. But because I’m at home, I don’t really have much to write about. I get my car back and all I do is stay home.

I’m very humored by all the graphics on all the major news shows of colons. It’s about time the phrase rectum? damn near killed ‘im! made a comeback.

And I get to cover Warped Tour. How much does that rock. Not so much if there’s no press pass involved.

Fuck. There’s not much else you can say about The Who, really.

I hate it when you feel like crap, and you feel it outside and in, and even though you’re not in that state to get pity, you get it anyway. I mean, I don’t make myself feel like crap to get phone numbers. I’m not that bad, am I?

after driving

I miss my father.
I miss him
because
I remember his dead face.
I miss him
like that choral song
I heard in Notre Dame,
when Paris
was in spring,
and Dad’s voice
on the phone
wanted me home
so badly.
I want
you home
so badly.
I can talk to you
sometimes,
knowing you hear me,
but I don’t know
if I hear you,
and I saw
your dead face
as I feel asleep
last night.
My nightmares
were never
this brutal.
Right now
I just
want to ask
your advice,
tell me
I’m beautiful.
I want
to sleepwalk
and hold your hand,
tell me a story.
You were
always the one
who could
make me special,
down to
the words
you’d never seen.
If I could
turn on a light
to see you again,
there wouldn’t be enough
kilowatts.
Put one day
in front of the other
until it’s done.
I stood
in the same place
where I gave
my mother
her words
and I still feel
the scythe
just as keenly.
You were not
the man you’d imagined,
Mom wasn’t the woman
she’d envisioned,
and I’m sure
the music
plays backward
where you are.
You aren’t alone
there,
not as alone
as I make myself
here,
where the pain
is manmade,
and the invisible
speak
all the regrets.

After having thought about my parents a lot this week for some reason (mainly, I suspect, because of Litha on Friday– a holiday I connect with my mother because it was the first summer solstice after her death that I initiated myself), I got a sign that they were thinking of me, too: I got called into work at 2 in the morning on Thursday night, being that my lovely brother of mine went out late leaving me in charge and very pissed off that I had to pay a $4000 jackpot (the second one I did personally this week) with only 5 $100 bills. Yes, this guy got paid with about 7 stacks of 20 dollar bills. Not that he really cared anyway. But one of our bartenders, who’s worked with us since the bar opened back in ’87, had some pictures of my parents circa late ’70′s, when they were on a bowling league, looking very young.

If that wasn’t a sign and a half for my ass.

But I’m ready to go on my trip. And I’m going to see Neil, which is a strange, familiar feeling. And it’s funny that he always seems to be out this way when I feel like I’m on the verge of cracking up and I need something to make me feel like I’m heading in the right direction.

I have poems around here somewhere…

Ack.

Other than that, poop.

Funny. Real funny.

You have more friends, more fans, more admirers than you realise. You don�t have to curry favour or earn approval. You don�t have to make a good impression or acquire additional brownie points. You just have to be yourself. A relationship is now starting to prove difficult. You are trying hard to understand someone. You face a situation that does not make much sense. You are struggling to get to grips with it. Stop struggling. Stop trying. Just have more faith in your own natural charm and intelligence for it will yet see you safely through from here to success.

I tried to get to sleep last night, but instead I watched this movie I’d never heard of before called My First Mister. It has Albert Brooks and Leelee Sobieski in a pretty straightforward story about opposites and friendships. It’s a predictable movie, but something about it last night made me start bawling my eyes out.

I’ll give the movie away, but who cares. There’s a scene where Albert Brooks’ character is brought back home, and he’s sitting in a hospital bed in his living room, hooked up to an oxygen machine, and I just lost it. It was good that I lost it. It was just a cheezy movie and I usually just don’t care. Maybe it was because it was three in the morning. I don’t know.

It was probably just a culmination of the past week or so just coming to a head. I’m allowed to have bad days, which means that I tend to blog more. That’s really a shame, if you think about it, since my life otherwise isn’t all that interesting.

It’s very funny to me that I just stopped using the RIAA’s newest target, Audiogalaxy. I just started using Kazaa last week. That’ll probably be gone by next month, too.

I made the mistake of starting to play Final Fantasy VIII. Not a good idea.

I’m watching Tyson get knocked out. Again.

I talked to my uncle last night, and when I told him I was in the home stretch on the novel, his voice suddenly morphed into that you mean you’re almost actually DONE? kind of tone. Believe me, that’s the tone of voice I get in my own head when I think about it.

But I must finish. I have ideas for other novels, but they’re all in notes and random passages and I can’t mess with those yet. Not until I’m done with this one. My goal is to get this finished into a first draft. Then we’ll jump off that bridge when we get to it.

I feel like things are okay. I just feel more lonely these days than usual. I’ve spent the past two weekends at home, my friends having better plans than hanging out with me, which I understand. But an alternative– like a date– would be nice.

The thing is, every time I go on an actual date, the guy usually thinks it’s a sign that I want to do it again. I haven’t, technically, dated someone. Usually it’s “oh hey, we’re having dinner at Blueberry hill. oh hey, we’re kissing in the parking lot. oh hey, we’re not really together in public. oh hey, it’s been two weeks, let’s have sex. oh hey, we’re still not together in public, how ’bout that. oh hey, you know what, let’s not be together anymore.” Kari’s dating history 101. By now, for me, it’s a grad-level program, where the test is trying not to get obsessive, fall for someone who clearly doesn’t like me in that manner at all, and try not to get trapped by the idealistic types.

Maybe I should finish the novel first, then everything else’ll be put into motion.

So I have one last person who might be able to go with me to see Neil in a couple of weeks. Of course, that would mean he’d have to call me tomorrow, or I’m staying at home sulking.

I’m good at making friends. I mean, really. Friends. Who are guys. Who are just friends. I see them socially, we hang out. They come to me for advice and vice versa. They’re. All. Just. Friends.

So many friends, in fact, that it makes me an anti-target. Either that, or I just appear to be a straight up whore.