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Posts Tagged ‘strange design’

The strangeness of days. The lopsided magic that elbows you from the sidelines. You hold your ribs, shaking your head. It happens. “Did that really happen?” You’ll say,cued up, but you’ll know. YES.
Eye-rubber, head-scratcher days. Where synchronicities pip, pop, pap and you watch. You know something is right- for you at least- in some way- but what an unorthodox display.
When moments and days segue and transcend perfectly into the next. The foreshadowing-of-strange-life-events feature revving.
As we grow, we become more aware- hopefully of the simple one door closed/ another opened equation. It’s genuine application. It’s mystery promise.
Go on, slap your normativity across the face with a wind up and see what comes. It might be giant. A slow giant, with watchful eye’s yet sloth-like timing. Like a continental drift. Before you know it you’re on the other side of the equator. Eating the same cereal all the while.
It’s moves like this that occur when you were sleeping. Be it literally or physically. Suddenly you might be 35 years old, in a kitchen that’s giving up the battle of white walls, a long and scratchy-floored corridor, old mouldings, access to the roof where you’ll take in first-of-morning moments, big ol’ bay windows at your head where you do your best to rest under your prized Pendleton.
Maybe you’ll have gone to a show 2 nights ago that you were looking forward to. One who’s performer you had seen before, who’s lyrics inspired and tickled you; a voice so soft you wanted to make slippers out of it. And maybe that show turned out to be an absolute flop- mimicking a pitiful freshmen art school project on staccato affects on the audience, and an undeterminable counterpart person on stage to remain turning potentially purposeless knobs and staring, full face into the eyes of your singing sweety who would soon melt before you as a bore. And maybe they would remain, staring and staring some more into each other’s eyes, ignoring the crowd at large, and whispering near the microphone; said counterpart looking plain Jane, but when the light hit her just right somehow Alice Cooper would emerge. Sans light tricks. Just a disco ball 20 some odd feet above. Let’s just say. And you told your friends. And the Alice Cooper thing was just undeniable and so-fucking-trippy and it kept happening. A devil woman!
And then you’re in this place, devising a get away plan, when the show ends early anyway, and you decide “Oh how nice, I shall ride my bike home and retire to bed quite early, making up for lack of sleep. How divine”, or something to that effect.
Home you go. Sleep you do. Until 3:37am when bullets ring out. Maybe 6 maybe 7 you can’t be sure because waking up with jolts and orientation isn’t your strong suit. And then a man wailing begins. And you call the police, and you go to the living room and you watch the man writhing on the sidewalk, 1 story below and about 7 yards from your building and punctured with bullets, and you; helpless in your robe, holding your mouth and wishing for a hug. Reevaluating the definition of loneliness.
Cops come after not too long and your eyes won’t budge until you forcibly pull yourself back to bed with silver brown black red sparks jittering your spinal column, heavying the pit of your back and lay there as the police commence taking witness testimonies right below your bedroom window until 6:50am.
And then your day has begun with sleep being a lost design, and you are nothing more than shot with rubber-band-brain thoughts continually slinging back to the sounds of what is to be a man the most alone in the world when consolation is the most important. And-oh-the-humanity.
And big baby, suck it up because you’re in the city now and it’s time to get tough and cut the gasps.
And then the day passes until the moment where you return home from the long-ass work day, to unwind with your pup-beast-filthy-love-animal-dog, and you go a walkin’ and a talkin'(on the phone), and as you round the dark corner, you emit a silent scream because… a gun! On the pavement. Too much. Your friend awaits on the other side of the phone afraid and waiting to be informed, as you realize- it’s not so much a gun as an abnormally large and angular shaped, 90 degree turd, in the perfect shape of a big big revolver. And you release in laughter and your friend remarks “I don’t know which is worse”, as your dog has begun to help himself to perimeterless snack, so you tell her what’s worse. And you know you have discovered a whole new level of turd burglar.
The continuous line, having been so for a while now; curious, unpredictable, colorful, undeniable. It’s the strangeness of days, when you as the observer skirt harm, eyes alert and concerned, yet an energy of still and constant, if not necessarily detached- lightness of being. Atypical stage. The comedy, the tragedy, roller coaster magic, continuos turn. Wheel gears gripping and moving forward as we ride. It’s all happening.
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She came in late because that’s what she does best. Looking for an open chair before looking around at the people there. Walking in after the momentum was set in motion always made the grade school feelings resurface of trying to peep a spot to sit in the lunch room, carrying this goofy tray that must have been dipped in anti-cool spray, seeing that it always felt dorky, and wanting to look smooth and like she had friends- a place to be or go to of importance. She had them, it was just one of her little quirks. She pendulumed between the now and triggers of the old. It was her bit. Anyway, she had to settle before she could settle.

There were probably 45 people in that basement. One quarter of them set to speak at some point in the night in front of the rest of crowd, present. The literary types. The solo ones. The ones who came to listen, to glean inspiration, to be alone in a crowd. These people, being under the cover of night, posting up in a dark, dingy Portland basement in Old Town- pretty much optimal for this chiquita.

When you think about it, people are just balls of swirling habits and needs. Some have habits to be filled outside of themselves. Some have that artistic fever. The kind that wells up and demands release. This one- she had the latter. Her need for speed showed up in the likes of pen and ink. Leaving the house without a writing tool would be akin to leaving the house pants-less. But colder. And stupider. Sure.

So boom. Her ass on the stool. Her eyes keen on the speaker. A plain-looking middle-aged woman, spouting off some biz about dragons in the Victorian era or some-such has-been stuffy topic. The woman’s voice- pleasant enough, and for that she could be forgiven for the fact that the sweater she wore was the deadly and dreaded ”skin tone” color- a mistake that no white person should make again; that and it made her boobs look terribly boring. Burn all these items. Ok ok ok- also the fact that she was creating– so for the subject matter she could be forgiven. 5 Hail Marys’, ma.

Our girl momentarily cut the physical  vision off to illuminate the inward visual potentials. What could come to light from the contact high of these people, in this hole in the wall full of wayward history? Well, I’ll tell you one thing- if you ever wanted imagine a ghost pinching your chichones, now is your time.

“Write about us, mija. Tell your people sobre nuestra historia. Tell them there are witches everywhere. Brujas rojas, blancas, negras.”

Damn, she thought. I open up to tap in and some ghost dude’s got me reporting on some bullshit that’s played and noone’s trying to hear. Give me something juicier. Witches are outta season.  Sassy bitch.

Give me fodder about funny things we do, ghost. What do you see? Maybe you gotta get over yourself in the spirit world. You lingering beings take yourselves way to seriously. Give it up. And don’t climb on my head- this writer’s block is already killing. Give me some ESP or something.

Well that ghost had it. Ghosty middle fingers on blast and the haunting was over. Sitting erect, intent on the speaker, open to absorption; She waited. Mother fucking writers block. Assassinate the maker of this beast. Who coined the term was coconspirator. Take em’ out, Darwin. Right? Let’s do this. Open up the channels. Stupid spirits flying around. Permeating the corners and hallways of this whole damn block. This entire neck of the woods. Old fodder was all she had for the now. Boring like those long mound- upstage sweater titties. Waiting for the perks. Ready ready ready.

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Here lies a formal request for a bit more of your attention in perusing the proceeding words than that of the ones that I normally post.

This is an interactive one, kids; reading far more effectively if you would please affix a fair and cheeky British accent to it, and at about the half way point, take on the cadence and musical accompanyment of the lullaby: “Hush Little Baby”…

Well! What do you know!? I just looked it up to make certain that the name was correct, and not say, called “Mockingbird” and guess what- it is British too!

We are smoking!

Ok, and I will let you know when the melody kicks in, so have no anxiety.

The background here is that this stems from an ongoing debate that I have been privy to a few times concerning “average and normal” people taking anti-depressant medication to “be even happier”. Yes, this is on the table now. The implications are rather tremendous, as it holds thought processing (and emotional, spiritual, intellectual, life experience… growth) in the balance. It’s a popular discussion.

When happy is just not good enough… I thought of it as what follows~

(((accent begins now)))

Life is like holiday with cosmetic neurology-

Where everything good just got BETTER.

When you look at ya’ mug and your face is just snug, rest assured- you’re no longer a fretter.

You say you are fine; no nagging complaints, or major frights.

But you’re human and bound to get nervous.

So riddle me this and you’ll owe me a kiss as for you do I ever have a service!

Now what would you say, aside from that I made your day, if I told you that you might never loose your smile?

Could you ever believe that sheer bliss could be achieved, by yours truly if you’d listen short while?

Well I’ll bring the news that comes in capsules and tubes, while you put these in your mouth and say bye bye to the blues…

<< begin lullabye tune now (moderate amount of pep)>>

Say so long to the wayward ups and downs.

Farewell to the questions that ran you around.

Be gone with the wonder and daily stresses of life.

Am I enticing and tickling your fancy allright??

So let’s say the perma-grin that your working towards,

starts to crack the skin- it’s not much of a chore.

There’s no need to fret over a tiny few wrinkles.

Don’t like what you see? Here- just take these pink pills.

Now we’re hopped up on meds and it swimmies our heads, but we’re happier now then anyone ever named Fred.

It’s ok if your voice sounds pinched a couple of octaves,

or you have a sinking sensation,

or feel trapped in a cockpit.

The side affects are nil and the benefits gargantuan,

For ever so happy, who needs thoughts to think upon?

Blindly trust in the pharma-biz, and trust in your doc.

Have faith in big business; replenish your stock.

No more regular worries’- you’re not a plebe.

And don’t listen when the poor folks say your soul has been thieved.

This is nearly as natural as God had intended~

why else would we provide

a way that your enbended introspection’s been untied??

My case has been stated and your comfortably convinced~~~

that being just ok in these days is actually the pits.

So be a good lass and an upstanding gent.

Pop this pill and lets all get crazy bent.

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The first time that I ever saw a Pug in my life remains to me a very clear memory. I was over a good girlfriend’s house in high school, in come her mum with this squat, black, snorty thing. Never had I seen anything like it. Certain that it was a hybrid between a common housefly, a dog, and possibly a raisin; I couldn’t believe my eyes. Not that I have, or intend on doing the research, and I have no idea/ particular care what it’s lineage is. What does interest me is how breeds in general come into existence. Now, Im no semen scientist, not a regular old person with a natural knack for gynecology, no anthropologist… none of the fields that would inform me as to if breeding has happened between extremely different species. However, as an innocent (ignorant?) bystandard, I would give an emphatic ‘Yes!’; there has been a lot of ‘co-mingling’ and partying between animals.

At the (best) dog park (ever) the other day (shout out to Fernhill!), I came up on a small dog that kinda rocked my world. He was fidgety, so it was pretty challenging to get a fair picture of him with my 5 & dime phone camera. I did manage to get a decently hot head shot of this little beast to show you, and a pretty flattering picture at that. Doesn’t he look rather noble?

Introducing~ Fibinacci. <Name has been misspelled to protect identity.>

I found that I was unable to speak in my normal voice around this dog- thing. Why? It kept involuntarily raising a good 4 octives and I’de find myself talking in what would best be described as a penguin’s voice, if I had to choose. I know; ”Creative”. But I’m serious!

He had very soft, white hair atop of his head, where on his back he had thick, coarse hair- Sheep hair! He had a cowboy walk. I would say that his lineage was intersected and smashed together with a dog, a sheep, a light brown ant, and a sentient football. But that’s just my guess.

Either way- the jury was out, and interestingly enough, no one seemed able to pass him with out eliciting some sort of extreme response. Some exclaimed on how cute, others on how hideous, strange, funny looking…

All in all I am forever grateful for the mutts, and will love them even if some bat, spider and eel snuck in there.

Moral of the story? Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder.

purchase through etsy, just click on image!

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