wish you were here

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My nephews are six today. Muhfuttin’ six. Six. SIX. This is wrong in all senses of the word. Wrong, I tell you.

Though thinking about them always reminds me of the phone call. I’d called Dad while I was in Venice to see how things were going. I remember it was a little alcove of telephones near the Grand Canal. The day was clear and beautiful. And my Dad said, “Welp. They’re here.” And I walked around Venice my first day as an Aunt and said, in shock, “I’m an aunt.”

Still, to this day, I find it strange that my brother actually reproduced. And me? I’m glad I can give them back after I’ve wrestled them to the ground and riled them up so they can’t sleep. Revenge is all mine.

My whole visit to my brother’s this afternoon will basically consist of my sister-in-law and me gossiping. She likes to live vicariously through me, so I catch her up on everything happening with me. But that’s been us since day one anyway.

Yes, a couple more days of breeze. And bring on the perfect weather. Writing in the park. Reading in the backyard. Shorts and t-shirts and going out at night not all wrapped up.

Forgive me the whimsy, but I have a good feeling about my path. Getting there.

Yeah. I had a post. But now it’s gone.

All I remember was that I was going to give you some Eirean Bradley before bed:

I am blessed ten thousand times by a god
whose name I only call when I’m about to ejaculate or
when I’m waiting for the lotto numbers to asthetically declare my name
in perfect unison.

Why is it that I don’t want to be at home, and yet, when I acutally leave the house to do work, nothing gets done? I shake my fist.

300 words is not suffecient for being here for 3 hours. Grumble.

Well, I didn’t burst into flames at Easter Mass this morning at St. Tommy’s. Scott can attest to it.

This week has to see some writing done. Strange, last week I was working on the novel when I was getting to the end of a chapter and realized I really have to let characters do their own things. Just because I think of it doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.

I go.

I’m not sure how to describe yesterday. I was busy with readings all day, which was good, but a close friend’s stepmother passed away from an overdose in the morning which I didn’t find out about until about 3 in the afternoon, which basically fucked up my last hour at work, being very worried and hoping this isn’t another case of people catching death, since it seems there are people dying left and right lately, which was bad. I really don’t know.

(You’re probably wondering which friend, but I’d rather not state it here, being That Kind of event, and it’s not fair to tell the story of mourning that isn’t mine.)

And there were distractions, and things. I’m getting better, I swear.

You know how you’re in the middle of all these events, both happening to you and happening for other people, and you just sometimes zone out and thank Whoever for all this happening? I’m feeling that way. Appreciative. Persephone has arrived from the Underworld, she’s eaten the last of her PB and pomegranate sandwich, and she’s brought me a lot of fucking hope.

Because after all, Death does have a brother who believes in hope.

Ups and downs.

Up: creatively. Yesterday, blocked out for a specific purpose on the Super Secret Project, 5 hours of ideas and outlining at the Coffee Bean with Jocelyn, which, while tiring at the end, was a good tired, and has got me a little more motivated in other aspects of my writing (read: the novel, and ideas for slam poems).

Down: relational indecision. What the fuck am I doing, mate? I have no idea. But like the Buddha says, sometimes the best action is no action.

Up: Reading cards on Friday. I’m covering for a reader out in Green Valley in the morning, so some money for the weekend. Plus I need just a little push to make sure my antenna’s still working. And, for some reason, I just had a hard time trying to spell “antenna.”

Down: Speaking of cards, some bad feelings about people. Not as in, “They’re bad people suddenly and inexplicably,” but there’s a simmering of Critical Mass (Scott’s term) that’s coming to a boil for some friends soon. I can’t get specific, it’s just a feeling. Something’s lurking underneath some of y’all.

Up: Spring. Which means that summer’s coming, which means my birthday. Which means you better be around.

Down: The nightmare that woke me up the morning of St. Patrick’s Day. I should’ve known the day was going to go downhill from here. I’m living in this house much like my aunt and uncle’s house in Pittsburgh, and suddenly I’m being chased out, across a newly-tilled red field, across the road, onto a meadow, where a man who looks strikingly like Anne Rice’s original description of Lestat holds a gun to my head and says, “I am going to kill you,” and I know in mym gut that I am about to die. I ask him why, and he says, “Because that man has a gun in his pocket.” I turn to a faceless man, wearing pinstripe pants, and I reach into his pocket, where a 6-shooter is wrapped in a cloth napkin. Somehow I break away, escape back over the field, back into the house, where I go straight up into the attic and someone I’m living with hides me in a secret compartment practically invisible to the eye. Then I wake. I have no idea how it would relate to the theme of Strange Male Attention that day, but there you go. Any ideas on what it could really mean would be helpful. I have some theories, but third party opinions are welcome.

Up: You. If you’re reading this, I am thinking of you. Even if I don’t realize who you are, even if I don’t realize you’re reading this, even if you think I don’t know you’re reading this, I am thinking of you.

Am I just not worthy of real effort?

I made so much food this week, and right now I don’t feel like eating any of it.

But. I did get a kickass care package from England, care of Roz, complete with the Alan Moore novel Voice of the Fire, which I’m really exciting about reading soon. The coasters she sent are of a guy wearing a kilt with the wind blowing it so his butt is bare. Well played.

I have a lot of things to do tomorrow, none of which I’m looking forward to, but if they don’t get done, our slam team won’t be going to ABQ.

I’m ready for Wednesday, blocked out for the Super Secret Project. I am so excited about this you don’t even know. It means I get to work on something I feel consistent and good about. As opposed to the novel, which I don’t feel constistent or good about at all. But I need to finish it, which is why I plug away at it. Finishing things is number one.

Tomorrow’s Ostara. I have no idea what I’m doing. Making spinach quiche, probably. I’ve been making a lot of food lately. A good distraction. You’re more than welcome to come over to celebrate.

I need some new sheets.

So. As almost custom, it’s Scott and I at the end of the evening, Downtown.

And here’s the little comments he missed while I was crossing the street behind him.

A group of drunk guys, about 5-6 of them, cross opposite of me. One of them stops, looks me up and down.

“Oooh, look at that.”

“Hey.”

“Hey, we’re having a dick sucking contest…”

I walk, throw a finger up, oh, you know, that middle one, and keep walking.

Yeah. Happy St. Patrick’s Day, right?

This is the second such incident in two weeks. Last week at ’80′s night, some guy tried to rub up against me, dancing, without my permission.

And where were you? Where have you been? What’s going on? Are you dead, sleeping, lazy, sick? Did I do something wrong? Say something? Am I that stinky? I feel like an asshole all of a sudden.

Shit, I even got 300 words in today. What the fuck was that about?