My flight leaves in 21 hours.

Am I packed yet? Of course not.

Like any person would who had a long trip coming up for which they had not yet provisioned themselves, I spent the day at the FolkLife Festival. Alas that I did not see Josie on her cereal pimping gig, but I did get to hear some klezmer music and also BAGPIPES! And JUGGLERS!!

Lest you worry about me, I have started a pile on the dining table of things i need to take. In this pile, we have:
- cell phone charging cord
- disc golf disc, blue, "Valkyrie"
- stage make-up kit
- tarot cards

There, see? I'm practically done already.

Beyonce is Piers
Anthony for pop music;
dull yet prolific

the oak tree
is coming
to get me
slow in the style of Ents
I am soothed
by the shimmying
leaves
and do not flee
screaming as I go
as I should
it is early
but perhaps time for
coffee with precautions
nostrils stuffed against
the siren doughnut aroma
it is early
the silent poor compensation
for sleep
shredded by
the phantom echoes
of a thousand rainy feet
so that everything is squeaking shoes

karaoke=good

more after sleep

i'll be carrying a white carnation and reading harry potter...

In about ten minutes I'll be leaving the house to go meet a stranger for coffee. Normally when doing this, my physical description is really no help to finding the person:
average height, petite-ish build, dark blond hair
(As Mr.D points out, I'd make a good spy; I'm blendy.)
Now, however, we have the much easier:
I have blue hair.
I think this will narrow the options down quite a bit, but fast upon that thought follows the paranoia:
What if she decides i look like a total freak and just sneaks out?
It could happen.
In this case, however, she's already read my play.
If that didn't scare her off, I can't imagine my appearance will.

why, yes, it is my favourite word

Fuck.
If any more fucking stressful fucking shit happens today I am going to fucking throw the fuck up.

conversations in the saint louis embassy

(from the hallway, approaching) 2 more. Twooo MOOOORE!
Me: (entering) Do you have a stash of quarters anywhere?
Mr.D: No, sorry. How many do you need?
Me: (take to invisible studio audience) Two.
Mr.D: (realizing) Right.
(later)
Me: (knocking) I found three quarters in some of your dirty pants. Do you mind if I use them for laundry?
Mr.D: (muffled) No that's fine. Great, I didn't know I...
Me: (pimpin') You been holdin' out on me! I'll cut you, beatch!
(pause)
Me: You know I was just kidding about that last bit, right?
Mr.D: Oh, suuure, but just in case, I'm comin' out swingin'.

(later)

Mr.D: Those windchimes are sure going crazy.
Me: Yeah. Are they bothering you?
Mr.D: No. Why would I mind the soothing sound of windchimes?
(long pause as Rae slowly leans in to see Mr.D's expression)
Mr.D: What, is my deadpan that good?
Me: Truly, your deadpan is second to few.
Mr.D: Well, thank you, but in this case I was being sincere.

there is no where else i would rather be, but i can't just be right here

- errands today proved a great excuse for going outside in a tanktop and getting some sun in preparation for my arriving in Saint Louis in 14 days

- they were also a great excuse for taking a detour by the zipline park

- unfortunately a little kid was hogging the zipline

- doubly unfortunate: her mother was nearby

- laundry proved a great excuse to run around the apartment building corridors in my swimsuit

- if the neighbors noticed, i hope they didn't mind

- i must see Troy

- i know full well it will annoy me

- my glasses apparently cancel the youthful zest of my blue hair

- or, i was just looking tired and old today

- or, safeway has less stringent carding policies than pioneer square pubs.

- i put some batteries in my discman yesterday

- i'd forgotten how much fun it is to impose my own soundtrack on the world.

Do you know
everyone you ever swore
you'd love for life?
I don't know them anymore.
I know their names.

Expectations are nasty little things.

They take the fun right out of relationships (familial, friendly, or more interesting in nature).

And yet.

Just because an invitation is declined... Just because I'm around so rarely... Just, bleah...

Truly, a ballgame and gamenight should be flattering enough.

They are not, though.

that i couldn't feel the way i do, and still be on the wagon



I took the most accurate villain personality test
created by: The Arch Villainess Gracie



(i followed the link from Ms. Freesia's blog, by the by)

well you know that's it goin' to be alright, I think it's gonna be alright, alright

Of course, the morning I finally make a doctor appointment for this mysterious ailment I've had since last Thursday, I start to feel better.

Of course I immediately start wondering if I really need to go.

Of course this, in retro-application, makes my mom's repeated admonishments that "you really should go to the doctor" a lot more logical.

"Yeah, that sounds like a mom."

"Your mommy knows you too well."

and

"Go to the doctor."

and on the 7th day, there will be bacon

It was a gorgeous day, Miller's Crossing just happened to have just started, and I had bacon and eggs in the fridge, ready to make a fine brealunctea.

So naturally I spent the day brooding on the nature of funk.

Funk, obviously, is purple. Witness the color worn most oft by his royal Princeness and George Clinton.

Mauve is the stench rising from the neglected garbage disposal after Thursday's salmon filets.

And violet are the claws and wings of the vile dark bird that roosts on your neck and makes you not have fun at parties.

happy or nauseous
stomach curling with the toes
which, nobody knows

Cat off a Hot Tin Porch

Walking errands to the bank the past few weeks or so, I kept seeing posters for the same cute missing cat, Maggie, who apparently fell off a porch.

"That is sad," I said to Mr. D. "If I were John Ashcroft, I would get those posters declared illegal, or terrorist acts, since they make me feel bad."

"Thank goodness you are not John Ashcroft," he said.

Today, walking to Ballard Market from MYBank, I saw yet another Maggie poster with, JOY!, a lime-green update sticker informing us all that Maggie was home safe and sound.

"I really like this neighborhood."

And I'm talking to myself out loud because I can't forget

Wending my distracted way to the grocery store (that i will soon have to abandon if the omens of an impending labour dispute cassandra out), I saw a sign. It's corrugated back was to me, so i couldn't tell what it said, but I bristled in confrontational anticipation.

The last time I spied a picketer at this particular busy intersection, it was a double super old man protesting gay marriage. If I'd had a camera with me, the image would've made it's way onto the internet with the caption "a dying breed" or something to that effect. Sadly, I did not cross the street to kick the man; didn't even yell anything rude; no idea what possessed me.

In the closer past, I approached the sign to find it being wielded by an Antonio Banderas cadet. Having plenty of manic energy these days, which i figured I could put to use mocking the backwards political opinions of strangers if need be, i stepped around to peek at his sign.

Out of Iraq Now!

Oh. Ok. While finding that solution a bit simplistic, it was a sentiment I could support.

So I gave him a thumbs up sign and continued on my way in search of meat loaf ingredients. I figured I could always mock the weekly world news in the checkout line, if nothing better offered.

I have made this [letter] longer, because I have not had the time to make it shorter. Blaise Pascal

Dear Mr. President,

I know we haven't been on the best of terms lately, what with my not voting for you and all, but, well, heck, I figured you could use all the friends you could buy right now, and I need a favor.

Ever since re-watching Shallow Grave, the noises made by my upstairs neighbors have gone from being simply annoying to downright disturbing.

So, I was wondering how soon you could declare them as enemy combatants?

This would allow you to confiscate their sewing machine, hammer, and that god damn fucking vacuum cleaner with no legal hitches.

Looking forward to hearing from you,
Rae

~~~~***~~~~

Dear Potential Customer,

You cannot imagine with what delight I greeted your email inquiry.

From among the many varieties of rhyme scheme and poem format I offer, to chose "other" takes a true and clear vision.

Further, to eloquently fill the text box labeled "please provide details for any 'other' responses" with a simple "birthday,"... well, your creative courage takes my breath away.

Since you obviously appreciate minimalism, here is your perfect custom poem:

BIRTHDAY
(* mark places to pluck the live chicken)
click, click*
click click click
poppa's
pink paper* panties*
the butcher
the knife
**
the goddess
click
stolen*
from my
resistantless eyes
thighs
click
Happy Birthday to You*

My hat's off to you, sir. Now send me fifty dollars.

sincerely,
me

The Last Rites of Barney Fife, part 1

It's raining. I'll pretend it isn't. No, you did that yesterday. Day before. Whatever; point is, it's been done. Alright, I'll pretend I like the rain. That should work fine.

The windshield looks like it's thirsty.

Stalled out on the wake, have you? Yes, but in the meantime I will tell you the entertaining story of The Astronaut and the Jungle.

Once upon a time, an astronaut crash-landed on a planet far from home. His ship was destroyed, but he was miraculously unharmed except for his memory. He could remember nothing before the crash, which understandably gave him a cautious attitude towards the rest of his life. The wreckage was in the middle of a muddy wasteland, so he wandered far and wide for 34 days in search of shelter and comfort. And on the evening of the 35th day, he found a tunnel. It was safe and got him out of the rain, so he promptly fell asleep. The next morning, the sunrise slanting into his hiding hole woke him, glancing off brightly coloured flowers and lush vines. It appeared that the land beyond the tunnel was much nicer than where he had been wandering. However, he couldn't be sure, so "Perhaps I will explore it tomorrow," he said, and ate a sandwich and stayed right where he was.

For how long?

Oh, forever. He had plenty of sandwiches.

Skippy the Super Temp, part 1

As I mentioned somewhere around here (I'll link it later when I'm not about to fall asleep) I now have blue hair. I may not have mentioned that I have a short, kicky little bonus haircut bestowed upon me by Hell! the musical's make-up designer.

Apparently, my superhero hair is a problem for my temping pimps. The conversation went something like this:

"So, um, thought I should maybe mention that I have blue hair now."
"How blue is it?"
"Pretty blue. (pause) Is that a problem?"
"Yeah, i don't think I can send you out on this assignment."
"Oh."
"You know. Lawyers."
"Ok."
"If I get an assignment for the Lumpy Guitar Museum, I'll let you know."
"..um.."
"Otherwise, call me when your hair's not blue anymore."
"...ergh..."
"Or maybe you could buy a wig?"

Achtung: Food Can Be Substituted for Sleep!

True.

It is when neither is working out that you are screwed.

Opting away from a body sabbatical, the brain and stomach seem to have decided food is acceptable.

Oh frabjous day, kaloo, kalay.

Hell! the musical! part 4! the Letter!

Last Thursday, Mr. D and I enter the host house of hell to an atmosphere which can most accurately be described as "wonky." On the bar, there were envelopes, one for each member of the cast. In the envelopes were:

- a diagram of the "set" for the show
- a division of duties among the cast/crew to help set-up and strike the show
oh, if only he had stopped there
- The Letter

Of the many, many, many irresponsible, ill-advised, and down-right stupid things our fearless leader has done, I'm going to chalk giving this letter to the cast before a performance right at the top of the list.

All points summarized for my protection against carpal tunnel syndrome.

Letter Point 1, The Media Blackout) We are not to read "any" reviews of the show. If we have read "them," we are not to discuss them with other cast members. We are not to bring any reviews into the theatrrr.

Letter Point 2, Lazy Actors) "Contrary to what my bed partner told me last night, I am not God." We, the cast, need to start helping set-up and tear down the tables and folding chairs. Tone very much implies that we should have been doing this already with no plan in place and without being asked.

Letter Point 3, Flawed but Still Pretty) Leader apologizes for not being "perfect." Leader tells us it is none of our business who brought his failings to his attention. Leader proceeds to spout pointless excuses 'til the bottom of the page.

flip page

Letter Point 4, The Infant is a Narc) It is none of our damn business how much tyrant's costume cost. Anyway, other pieces cost way more. The costume budget is also none of our business, but it is listed anyway.

Number of times my first amendment rights are violated: one
Number of times we're told things are none of our business: 3 or 4
Number of passive-aggressive, pissy-toned, lame excuses: too many to count

all the dishes rattle in the cupboards

At a fairly young age, it became clear to me that reading books was weird, reading them anywhere in public was very strange, and reading as much as I do is just plain sick and wrong.

Fortunately, this sociopathic habit was formed in me at a yet earlier age, so even the devastating might of middle school bus taunting could not purge it.

It also means I've gotten quite used to explaining that, yes this is a book, yes I'm enjoying it, and no I'm not reading it for a class.

However, I'm occasionally still thrown by having to explain what my book is about. For example, I submit this chat from my recent doctor's appointment:

"Lolita? I don't think I know that one."
"It really has some beautiful prose going on."
"Was it a movie?"
"Um, yes, 2 actually."
"Really? 2? So what's it about?"
"Um, weeeell, it's about a pedophile."
"Really. A pedophile"
"Yeah, that's what makes it extra disturbing. You're reading along, all these really gorgeous sentiments and, then you remember it's 12 year old girl he's talking about, and you say ew."
"Really. So is she the only one?"
"No. At least, he lusts after many other young girls before her. Perhaps not after."
"So he's really a pedophile then."
"Yes, also a murderer."
"Oh, so he kills her?"
"Well, I'm not done yet, but I think he kills someone else; the guy she runs away with."
"Wow, so he's really a pedophile, then."
"Yes."

Hell! the musical! part 3 this time it's personal

Alas that there was glow tape; my ankles are safer, but I had to perform.

The audiences have been medium-sized and, how you say?, polite. They clap politely after each number. They chuckle politely from time to time, either when their discomfort grows so huge they must release it, or when they are taking pity on the cast.

In a rant session, um, Friday night, 2 cast members revealed that their friends grew to hate our fearless leader as soon as they read his director's notes.

Tonight, I felt my camp instinct kicking in; as a result, we engineered 2 Charlie's Angelsesque poses, i got a laugh on a line that was pretty pointless, and the word "midgets" made its way into the performance; the show may not've been any more amusing, but I had a lot more fun.