Lit blog

[champagne1982]

It's a manly thing. Smuggle some Cubans in from Vancouver. You go through the Lynden crossing (cow people, who am unsophisticated about us smugglers) and if questioned by the customs agent, your staunch response is "No, no. Those are Dominican. I took them up with me. Didn't know how long I was going to stay."

Note to Fool: If you've got a better way, PM me.

I must say that I am v-e-r-y disappointed how much things cost in the CDN. I got used to $1.50 on the dollar. This less than parity thing is quite upsetting.

I hate that books cost 30% more here, regardless of the dollar value. I have been at the library far more often lately. I do like the prospect of a southern shopping trip though.

 

[Tzara]

I hate that books cost 30% more here, regardless of the dollar value. I have been at the library far more often lately. I do like the prospect of a southern shopping trip though.

I was just reading about that. It makes no sense. Even McClelland & Stewart (I get that right?) charge a premium to Canadian purchasers and they effin' publish their books in Toronto!

 

[Sara Crewe]

I don't know. Red wines just seem to stain every thing.

Just use a little white to take out the red.

<steps aside to make room the wide range of interpretation muscling its way through the door>

 

[champagne1982]

I was just reading about that. It makes no sense. Even McClelland & Stewart (I get that right?) charge a premium to Canadian purchasers and they effin' publish their books in Toronto!

It's our reputation for politeness that allows commercial interests to trod heavily on the wallets of the Canadian taxpayer. If we charge them, they will pay. They've always paid, they always will.

It's similar with gasoline in my home town. Every year we have an influx of foreign military from early May to the end of June, or so and the service stations hike their price up 3 or 4 cents per litre. The franchise owners all say, it will go down when they're gone... it does, but only 50% of the initial increase. Thus it rests that we pay 1.19 per litre (about an American quart) for premium gasoline. Even filling up my little Cooper takes 55 bucks!

 

[unpredictablebijou]

Guys my age often have performance anxiety. As we get older, there are these biologic things that happen to us. Or more like they don't happen so good anymore. That's probably more accurate. No matter. It's why God (well, Pfizer) invented sildenafil. Pop a pill and whack that little problem down.

Whack may be an ill-chosen term. "Little" too. Carry on.

But now this. New problem: Blog anxiety.

I know, I know. Eve is the Queen of The Vivid Simile. I am not anxious about that. Just jealous. I am humble, even generous, in my praise for her clever phrasingliness.

Nor do I envy her (recently very lively) life experience. Well, only a little. Life is, of course, catch as catch can, and I am playing Right Field in a game that oftentimes I seem to be the only player. Not much chance, in these conditions, to test how well I cut down runners at the plate.

But shit. Here she is in her bathroom taking insect lives with the swaggering aplomb of Arnold Schwarznegger or Sean Connery. I mean, I find a bug, I want to gently lift it onto a postcard and shift its tiny life outside. And I'm a godless heathen, fer God's sake. God!

It's that I'm become so neuter in manly way, which is something I have just got to fix. Maybe I should punch somebody or buy a gun. Geez. I know at least that I'm now for squashing bugs, those whiney little exoskeletal wimps. And fuck chardonnay. My new drink is whiskey, straight out of the bottle, with cigars. Three or four of them. At the same time.

I'm really serious about this. I may even vote Republican.

hm. we should definitely talk.

...about the cigars. I'll smoke one with you. I'm rather fond of them. don't know why, exactly...

If you have a fine enough cigar, you never need a gun.

bj

 

[unpredictablebijou]

i have come to understand why this finger injury happened to me. I've been struggling with typing for a couple of days now and it's just insanely frustrating. I'm a very fast typist; it's how I learned to keep up with myself.

but I know what it is:

it is the punishment of the deities of that new linguistic field, emoticons. how could i have refused to acknowledge them as a legitimate new dialect, i who am all about studying esperanto and creole and urban slang and dadaism and British rhyming slang and rap and txtspeak and lolcat as linguistic phenomena? my hybris has overthrown me.

and yet i still...just can't... bring myself. I know it's ok; i know everybody's doing it; i do not judge, but i just can't....

will the gods strike me down, or will they understand? I'm getting pretty fast with the remaining fingers, although my error rate is appalling.

as a side note, the quality of the blogs in here has been so stellar lately that i'm almost troubled putting this one in, but it seemed too long to qualify as an isolated blurt.

bj

 

[Eluard]

. . . .

 

[unpredictablebijou]

I don’t blog and I don’t know that it’s a good idea — maybe poets should say what they want to say in poetry. But all the cool kids are doing it, so what the hell.

Yesterday I got up early and flew for two and half hours to my mother’s funeral. I’d spent the previous four days writing the eulogy speech, and had said what I wanted to say, so I was fairly prepared. But I’ve come to think that such occasions ought not be left in the hands of professional clergymen: they don’t tell the truth and they don’t have any real idea of those they are commemorating. I think if the family speaks, or if just one person from the family speaks — as in this case — then there is some contact with reality, and it’s the reality that’s important, not the familiar godly platitudes.

After the service I flew back again and got home at 11.00 at night, feeling like a wrung-out dish cloth. Today I need a long bath.

Eluard,
you have my deep and sincere sympathies. I agree with you about those moments - they should not be left to clergy unless necessary.

it is a good blog entry, poetic or not.

bijou

 

[normal jean]

I don’t blog and I don’t know that it’s a good idea — maybe poets should say what they want to say in poetry. But all the cool kids are doing it, so what the hell.

Yesterday I got up early and flew for two and half hours to my mother’s funeral. I’d spent the previous four days writing the eulogy speech, and had said what I wanted to say, so I was fairly prepared. But I’ve come to think that such occasions ought not be left in the hands of professional clergymen: they don’t tell the truth and they don’t have any real idea of those they are commemorating. I think if the family speaks, or if just one person from the family speaks — as in this case — then there is some contact with reality, and it’s the reality that’s important, not the familiar godly platitudes.

After the service I flew back again and got home at 11.00 at night, feeling like a wrung-out dish cloth. Today I need a long bath.

Hi Eluard. Both my parents passed in 2001, exactly 7 months of each other. It is so hard, I know. I'm sure you did wonderfully.

What you said though, about the clergy, you are so right. My best friend I have ever had, passed in '97 and at her funeral, the preacher said, "we all know how Linda loved her dogs and cats." The woman hated cats! She had 3 big dogs. Everyone just looked bewildered, but no one said anything, it wasn't really appropriate, perhaps. But anyway,

sending you well wishes and giant hugs. she is okay now, but then, you know that.

 

[WickedEve]

Why do you wear so much black? There's Eve again, all dressed in black. Are you into the goth thing? Do you practice witchcraft?

So many questions.

Lately, I've been talking with a dark man. He's not black. He's white--well, kind of a reddish tan--with a black center. We discuss the pink people. I feel unnatural in pink and pastels. They make my skin feel crawly, like when my schnoodle licks my ankles. But pink people do more than just wear happy, creepy colors. They live pink lives. My friend, Kay, is a pink person. She would rather "eat rocks than have sex." I like rocks. Actually, I was quite fond of pebble-painting when I was a girl. I had a collection of stones that I painted with pink nail polish. Pink? It was a sadistic act against nature.

I'm sure pink Kay has adult ADHD. Her lavender lips are hummingbirds. I want to throw red nectar on them to temporarily satiate them. And her fuchsia fingers remind me of a hurricane palm tree. She is a stormy hand-talker. She wears baby blue, Tinkerbelle tee-shirts. It's like wearing a Hallmark card--with Tupperware shoes. (I still don't understand those Tupperware parties she invites me to.) Her nine-year-old pointed out my dark nail polish to her mom. Pink Kay said she should borrow it for Halloween. Just strip me of polish and fabric and use them in a display of how small town mom's aren't suppose to dress.

More and more I feel disconnected from my town. When I sit with the other moms, while waiting for our kids to come out of the school, I feel like my place on the bench is getting further away. At least my underwear is pink, today.

 

[normal jean]

sigh.... hubby went back to work and my daughter is back at school.

Evie, will you adopt me? I don't mind living in your basement with the possums and ol Bob. and precious, you will never be a pink lady, thank God for that. too bad there aren't more like you.

 

[Eluard]

Hi Eluard. Both my parents passed in 2001, exactly 7 months of each other. It is so hard, I know. I'm sure you did wonderfully.

What you said though, about the clergy, you are so right. My best friend I have ever had, passed in '97 and at her funeral, the preacher said, "we all know how Linda loved her dogs and cats." The woman hated cats! She had 3 big dogs. Everyone just looked bewildered, but no one said anything, it wasn't really appropriate, perhaps. But anyway,

sending you well wishes and giant hugs. she is okay now, but then, you know that.

Thanks nj — here is one those things that you would totally get: when you lose both of your parents, no matter how old you are, you suddenly feel like an orphan. It doesn't matter if you are forty, or fifty, or whatever. No one has ever mentioned that to me.

 

[ghost_girl]

Thanks nj — here is one those things that you would totally get: when you lose both of your parents, no matter how old you are, you suddenly feel like an orphan. It doesn't matter if you are forty, or fifty, or whatever. No one has ever mentioned that to me.

That is how I felt for a long time. My mom had COPD, end stage lung disease and could barely walk from her wheel chair to her bed and she was only 58, and one day, I had taken her shopping. She loved Wal Mart. Well, she saw a wind devil and said to me "Someday, that will be me, dancing all over the place, stirring up dust and making a fuss."

Now when I see one, I feel her, remembering what she said. I still feel abandoned at times, but as long as the wind blows, I know she is with me, and my dad? well, he was a grumpy ol curmudgeon and I spent most of my life wondering if he cared for me at all, but the last words he ever said to me were " I love you, Honey."

That was all I needed. Damn, I miss them so much right now.

thank you for reminding me.

 

[Eluard]

. . . .

 

[tungtied2u]

Thanks nj — here is one those things that you would totally get: when you lose both of your parents, no matter how old you are, you suddenly feel like an orphan. It doesn't matter if you are forty, or fifty, or whatever. No one has ever mentioned that to me.

My mom died when I was 41. My father had died 10 years earlier. It was like a part of me died with her, a part of my history, so integral to my very nature I had taken it for granted, like breathing. I hadn't felt that when my father died, but when she died it was like an epiphany, and suddenly I realized what a void I would have in my life without either one of them.
Thanks for your pointing this out. It's always nice to have an unexpected nudge in their direction.

 

[ghost_girl]

............

 

[wildsweetone]

you all have reminded me of something.

about three years ago i was helping a neighbour write his life story - i offered to help him as he was dying the slow death of asbestoses and i thought it would help keep his mind busy. it was an incredible time as he would sit and talk, stopping to take breaths and starting again, sometimes on the same tack, sometimes a completely different story, and i would write. sometimes he wrote at his computer and emailed his story snippets to me.

when he passed on, his family asked me what he'd said. i collated all the little stories he had told me (they ended up covering about half of his life span) and passed them to the family. at his funeral, the funeral director stood up the front of the room and 'talked' about the man and his life.

there was no 'feeling', nothing of my neighbour came through in the FD's words. it was a straightforward service, but like many funerals i've been too, it was stark and unemotional.

funerals should be highly emotional, shouldn't they? isn't Unemotional Funerals an oxymoron?

and about those extraneous things you think and saw... they'll mellow - just give yourself time El. i am very sorry for your loss. if you need an ear or shoulder, i'm just across the ditch.

 

[Tzara]

I threw my back out. It was odd, seeing it lie there on the front lawn, abandoned. The pain told me I missed it, but, you know, you soldier on.

But I'm really not much military. Regimentation is not my thing. I just wanted to pick my back up and get on with life. You know, make up about things, whatever they were.

I have to give credit where it's due, and thank you Milson Bowling Club! The courage to be backless, I owe to you.

Pass the Advil, please.

 

[Eluard]

............

Why did you take this out — it was very moving?

 

[ghost_girl]

Why did you take this out — it was very moving?

I didnt want to have to see it every time I posted. Guilty conscience, I guess

 

[WickedEve]

A little shop had slowly been going out of business. It started with one customer. She was a loyal customer, but over the years she grew less satisfied. Today, she leapt from a plane with a stone parachute. She landed on the shop. We can still see the foundation but the windows shattered and the roof caved in. I am crying for the shop. It was a grand, little place at one time. Now the customer has been seen in another store -- one not yet as grand but a good door and sturdy floor. I'm not sure if she'll be a loyal, longtime shopper, but she does seem to like its wares.

I write goofy, embarrassing words. Please, someone shoot me before I post again.

Oh, and I mean shoot me because of the words I may post in the next 24 hours.

 

[unpredictablebijou]

A little shop had slowly been going out of business. It started with one customer. She was a loyal customer, but over the years she grew less satisfied. Today, she leapt from a plane with a stone parachute. She landed on the shop. We can still see the foundation but the windows shattered and the roof caved in. I am crying for the shop. It was a grand, little place at one time. Now the customer has been seen in another store -- one not yet as grand but a good door and sturdy floor. I'm not sure if she'll be a loyal, longtime shopper, but she does seem to like its wares.

I write goofy, embarrassing words. Please, someone shoot me before I post again.

Oh, and I mean shoot me because of the words I may post in the next 24 hours.

keep the faith, baby. I'm a serious fan of your writing. and obviously I'm not the only one.

bj

 

[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

More and more I feel disconnected from my town. When I sit with the other moms, while waiting for our kids to come out of the school, I feel like my place on the bench is getting further away. At least my underwear is pink, today.

Small towns breed small minds but every once in awhile something grand comes from under some small stone. Remember Evie, you have to sift through a hell of a lot of dirt and rock to find gold.


and if it's any consolation, I don't exactly fit in with the soccer moms around here.

 

[annaswirls]

Originally Posted by WickedEve

More and more I feel disconnected from my town. When I sit with the other moms, while waiting for our kids to come out of the school, I feel like my place on the bench is getting further away. At least my underwear is pink, today.

ah don't let all of their pinkness fool you, you probably have more in common than might appear on the outside. those normal looking folks are often the ones that are the wackiest in private. but I know you know this I am just babbling on pretending I might have something interesting to say.

I have been enjoying your posts here, as always. I think it iamazing that you can write a tale including serious BDSM and what pops is the cigarette butts.... it really is a talent. What many people forget is that sex, no matter how extraordinary, is ordinary. It is what comes and goes all around the sex that makes the writing important.

 

[annaswirls]

I spent the night at the cat ladies house. Unfortunately I packed two pajama bottoms and no tops, but fortunately, I had left a black silky camisole there in the spring, she had it set out for me on top of the clean bedding she left.

I squeezed my swollen breasts and big belly into the top and could not help but watch myself as I walked past every mirror...looking pretty sexy for a big mama with flannel floral pj bottoms....

Stretched out on the loveseat, I started to flip through the channels when the best show on earth (to a mother at least) began. For the first time, I could see the baby moving. Little jerks and bigger flips, my belly contorting and jumping beyond my control.... I had forgotten how fascinating it is. To me at least. The private showing. No one else really. I know it is an ordinary thing.

My brain is turning mushier and mushier as my belly gets bigger and bigger and I know I am distinigrating into a horrible bore. It is inevitable. I just want to sit and stare at the belly. The belly!

And all of the kickbacks to our relatives.... the black line up the center leading up to the darkened breasts, as if the baby would have to crawl like a newborn kangaroo ball of goo.... needing some sort of trail and a bullseye....

I cannot believe, still, that I am getting another chance at this. I really thought I was done. I cannot believe that my breasts will be making milk again...the delerium, the weepy midnight feedings blessing the moonlight.....again...... it seems like a lifetime ago, a lifetime I thought was over! Coming back from the dead is always surprising, takes a little getting used to. I am now accepting the fact that I will be a mother to another newborn.... but don't make me accept that I will be the mother to another 3 year old... I will not believe you.