Sunday, November 29, 2009

Well, thanksgiving happened and was jolly good fun.  Jolly, I tell you.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

So it's thanksgiving once again, and for once I am excited.  More than that - pumped!  (oh dear, eighties slang).  But, really, for the first time in quite awhile I'm having a home thanksgiving with my girlfriend and all my housemates and their boyfriends/dates.

Bumpits Hair Volumizing Leave-In Inserts, Dark Brown/Black 3 eaI spent yesterday in a fervor of baking, making twice-baked sweet potatoes, a pumpkin pie, battling with turkey brine, etc...  Today I plan to just focus on the turkey and picking up whatever else needs doing.  Between the five of us, everyone is making some sort of tastiness.  Katie made a maple syrup pie last night and bought a bumpit, which I'm pretty excited about.  She has the perfect hair to really make it work.

I have been exceedingly domestic as of late, spending days writing in the morning and doing housework in the afternoon.  Ambitiously, I launched on a project of doing morning pages every day - that's three freewrite pages of gobbldegook every am upon rising.  Coffee helps, and it helps that I wake up every day at around 8, so I've got the quiet time before the wuzh wakes up to get things done.

This state of productivity may or may not last.  I'm experimenting with a new book project, a collection of short stories based around the five cities I've lived in.  As my hard drive broke, I've had to do a lot of retyping and careful revisions of old hard copy drafts.  It's going to be awhile before this sees fruition, but I'm working on it, and hoping.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Oh, facebook, you have no soul.  Not that that was exactly expected, but upon Katie attempting to memorialize Lil Rhody's facebook page, THEY deleted it altogether.  All of the cute bunny status updates, the thoughtful messages from Liza and Athena and us ladies...all obliterated by the henchmen of facebook.

Perhaps this is not really that big of a deal, but I felt it needed a little bleat.

Monday, November 16, 2009

I have decided that it might be wiser to stop looking for the cameras all the time.

All of this anxious paranoia came to a head on Saturday, after a really lovely week of perhaps-manic partying and the like:

Monday: Bunny funeral, sadness and vodka.
Tuesday: Stephen and I went to wildness, met some nice people and danced, it ended up surprisingly fun.
Wednesday: Cozy times with Katie
The Ungame 1975 Board GameThursday: Alex Castle came over, and he, Stephen, Katie and I drank and played the ungame.  At some point I put on the romper and romped.
Friday: Woke up with a nasty cold sore, but then Jonathan came to visit, we hung out with him and Rob and Stephen, did tarot readings, ate pupusas, had a lovely day into the evening, when Stephen's friend Mario came over and we all did interpretive dancing in the kitchen.

Whew.  I am not usually quite this social.  Problem is, somewhere along this lovely trail of amusing funtimes, I ran out of ativan/lorazepam.  Took the last one on Friday, and work up Saturday with an ungodly case of the withdrawals.

So, no make-up, just a bloody pusing cold sore (lovely!). I work up early after a restless sleep, rife with nightmares of voices outside, the police stalking me, my creditors investigating me, my parents, even, whom I know are way too busy to stand outside my bedroom window.

The Peep Diaries: How We're Learning to Love Watching Ourselves and Our NeighborsI woke up around six and decided a booster shot of espresso was necessary.  Had four shots from the machine, then read the wikipedia article on surveillance.  This is probably the worst thing I could have done.  I had taken my usual pillsies that morning (abilify, lamictal, lexapro, but no ativan) and read a little bit of The Peep Diaries, so by that point my paranoid psychosis was in full swing.  Armed with Katie's big black hoodie and peering anxiously out of the curtain, I decided that there must be someone out there watching me.

Looking for the camera, looking for the camera.

And then...the withdrawals began to escalate.  I had chills, shaking, shaking so hard I thought I was heading into another seizure.  Voices whispering watching.  I kept throwing up first coffee, then bile, then water, then mucous, more bile, forget eating anything today.

Katie woke up and we decided I should go to the ER.  This is the sort of decision I had been fearing for along time, because I fear being locked up in the psych ward again, of course, and I'm not so keen on the huge bills.
But, ativan withdrawals can be fatal, and I knew my immune system was way down.

The hospital ended up being not that bad, not at all as bad as I had anticipated and feared.  There was no one else in the Emergency Room except for an old couple and a young women crying hysterically into a salad bowl.  I got in fairly quickly, and after telling my story several times, showing them my prescription bottles and
talking to a social worker who thought the cold sore indicated domestic abuse....soon I was sitting there on the stretcher with a pill of subcutanious ativan dissolving under my tongue.

All the jitters and the voices and the seizure-fear shaking gushed into a warm pile of loopy-loos.  I felt normal again.  I felt happy and silly and calm.  Soon Katie and I were joking about what the devices on the wall must be for, and all was well.

22 All Time Big Band FavoritesSo after that experience, I've decided I must be more careful, both with allocating my prescriptions (I have a pill wheel), and with doing things that aggravate my anxiety.  The night after getting out of the hospital, I watched Lawrence Welk with Katie and Stephen, and drank chicken broth and popsicles.  Slept for the entire next day and night after that.

Now it's Monday, and time to think and work again, if I can.  I'm on my third cup of coffee, and it must stop here, I think, no more caffeine.  Katie-dear is still sleeping.  I have been thinking about what I can do to not feed the paranoid anxiety, and that means:
  • not going to things like the Psychiatry Museum of Death
  • not researching surveillance and especially not on dubious internet sources
  • not rereading The Peep Diaries, as much as I would like to
  • taking one mg in the morning and one at night, as opposed to both in the am.
  • Stop looking for the cameras.  Sure, they're there, there were several in the ER, even in the room I was in, but it just validates the paranoia to keep spotting them.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

It's November and I finally turned  the heat on, buzzing, buzzing.  We are playing kickball today, apparently.  I plan on sitting by the sidelines in a parka.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Dedicated to Lil Rhody

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Yesterday was a very sad day for us here at Waco.  Lil Rhody, Katie's bunny, went to the big bunny farm in the sky.  Here he is learning to type.  He loved his facebook page, and was often seen writing snarky comments to the rats and the cat.

Lil Rhody was named for Rhode Island, for which it is a nickname.  He was fond of hopping hopping hopping hopping hopping hopping without stopping, as well as eating pellets and fresh timothy hay.

Sources close to Rhody (Liza Lambert, speaking under confidentiality)  claim that his yen for pellets may have crossed over into addiction at times.  However, not to sully the memory of the dearly departed, he never entered pellet rehab, but was instead guided gently into a method of substitution - that of royal canin hedgehog food.  The hedgehog, Kalu, was another dearly departed beastie, who left us a few months earlier under the roasty toasty ides of the sun.

Lil Rhody was not only the fluffy leg-humper we knew and loved, he was also a writer.  A half-finished essay, commissioned by J.S. Davis of valeveil, sits undone at his passing.  Ever-careful on the keyboard, Lil was composing his thoughts about the state of the union from rabbit perspective.

Lil Rhody was the inspiration for several songs, his personal favorite, "bunny mani-pedi," also, the lil rhody tribute dance, which was performed over his grave.  He also inspired the facebook quiz, "Are you a bunny".  He scored the highest, being, as it were, the bunniest bunny.

It is too sad for me to enumerate the steps of his passing.  After being raced to the vet, he was pronounced dead on the table, mid-seizure.  The room went suddenly quiet as he ceased to flop, and Katie began to sob.

We took him home and draped his cage in black.  The housemates gathered, including Stephen's father Walter van Dyck. I served cake, Katie's favorite drink. (that's vanilla vodka and pineapple juice, for you funereal Martha Stewarts out there).  Testimonials were said as to the healing powers of bunny rebirth, of relationships blooming under the auspices of rabbit.  Memories of the tiny bunny.

The conceit of the "pet funeral" is one that I remember from childhood, when my elementary school had a series of rats, hamsters and mice, all that left the world with elaborate childlike ritual.

I wonder sometimes if we are practicing, with the Kalu funeral, with the Lil Rhody funeral, for the actual death of one of our own.

Friday, November 06, 2009

Lorazepam and the Valley of Skin / 750910-2155 is out now from valeveil press.  Many thanks to J.S. Davis and her excellent work on the project.  I am thrilled to pieces about it.

There is a reading at the REDCAT in the works, where copies will be available for sale, as well as copies of Jet Set Desolate.

The nature of the duo is in a sense subdivided and recontextualized.  Two authors, one Californian and one anonymous Swede, have written two texts each divided into two sections (poems vs lists) (Introduction vs Potentiality in Art).  Each text is translated into English and Swedish, and contextualized by J.S. Davis's foreword, Derailleur.

They will be available for sale on the site shortly.
On a totally different subject, my desires for spats and rompers have been realized!

These shoes here were the light of my small, pitiful, sea urchin in a tunnel of filth sort of fashion perspective.  They shone gloriously until last night, when I stomped too hard on the porch steps and accidentally ripped the spat from the sole.

Alas!  Alack I say!  Hopefully it can be repaired.

In other news, I have been searching for a romper that will fit my fat ass and not make me look like a slutty toddler.  This was actually realized (perhaps not the latter) in a moment of retail therapy with Urban Outfitters.

I am well aware that a romper is an ephemeral trendoid that I will probably look back upon in a decade with the same shock and shame best used for hot pink spandex armlets or that eerie period when I was refashioning t-shirts into clubwear with liberal sequin appliques.

Whatever, all this aside, I love my romper!  I am not ashamed!  I am 33 and (obvs) don't look as good in it as the model in the picture, but whatever.  It's comfy, it's stretchy, it's black and ruffly, it fits my ample trunk junk and makes me want to do cartwheels in dewy grass.

too bad it's November.