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Thursday, April 6th, 2006
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Wednesday, April 5th, 2006
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is overwhelming me
i can't decide between taking a walk up to 39th street, playing music, or some combination of reading/writing.
it's going to be dark before I know it and then I'll have to go to the laundromat, without having done any of the above.
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Saturday, April 1st, 2006
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Johnny and I went to the symphony last night. It was a good time.
We managed to piss off and offend an old lady (not really on purpose) by joking about how he created hepititus A and B, and I responded by claiming "yeah? well I made AIDS!" (bad taste, awful, yeah I know. Crucify me, already). Old lady sitting next to us glanced over with a supreme look of outrage on her face. I actually felt bad--maybe I'm getting old--because she was really nice early on, before the symphony started (the AIDS joke came about toward the end of intermission, after several cigarettes were smoked in succession outside. I was truly born in the wrong era, as I couldn't stop thinking, 'in the 30s, you could smoke in these sorts of theatres.'). But Johnny had already offended her earlier (she apologized for accidentally touching his leg, and he said something curt to her), so I didn't reign in my crass humor. Well, I wasn't really thinking about it. As you can see, I wasn't lying when I said I feel bad...strange, I know.
So afterwards, because Johnny got a membership to some sort of jr. high society club called "Young Friends of the Symphony" (he bought two subscriptions and gave one to me, how nice), we went to the 'afterparty' they had at this fancy bistro that included free BOULEVARD KEGS, free wine, free fancy hors d'vours (I probably misspelled that, I was a German student, I hate French), and free little desserts. I mused that I was probably the only Wyandotte resident there, and that it must have been obvious that I never attend events such as these, because I was so bewildered (in a good way) by all the free fancy things and how everyone was dressed so nice. We didn't really mingle with anyone until toward the end. Three guys from the symphony were nearby when last call was announced, and I got into conversation with one. He's Buglarian, so we had a discussion about that, and he introduced me to his gorgeous boyfriend. Seriously, he looked like something out of the 40s. Why don't more people look like that? The other guy they were hanging out with, I didn't get the impression he was gay (though I wouldn't have gotten that impression off Bulgarian guy either if I hadn't seen him and his boyfriend earlier on), and he was cute, too. He'd overheard me saying something about the guitar earlier apparantly, because he asked me about it. He then told me he's trying to learn, but he's not good with it whatsoever. Being tipsy, I say, "we should jam sometime!" and he looked enthusiastic about the prospective, though after I realize what I'd said I kept telling him, "I'm really awful, considering how long I've been playing, and I don't know music well." He told me he sucks at improvising, and that it would be worth a shot. I got his number and said, "Well, if it doesn't work out, we can always have coffee." He seemed to like that idea, also, but seriously...WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING?? This guy plays in the motherfucking Kansas City Symphony. He knows music theory, obviously!
I said to him, as we were all leaving, "you're not going to be weirded out if I actually call, will you?" He didn't seem drunk at all, and I wasn't trashed or anything, and his reply that "No, of course not" seemed genuine, so I'm going to try my hardest to not get cold feet in three or four days and call. I have to come up with a good excuse for not jamming, though, because even if I knew more about music theory, I'd still be intimidated and play worse than usual. Ideas, anyone?
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Wednesday, March 29th, 2006
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| Time: | 11:13 pm. |
| Mood: |  blah. |
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Words seldom pour from my pen anymore. It seems words and phrases prefer staying cozy in my head to being encased in a notebook these days.
Occasionally a random sketch turns into a strange collection of figures (usually flowers, teeth, catlike or snakelike creatures or inhuman humans) mirroring the words that aren't tangible.
Most often my hands take to the insturments in the other room.
I've made fair progress from my days of power chord cacophony and off-key ditties on the tonk piano at Sunflower House, but there must've been a trade in this, for I cannot write like I used to.
I can write something, and finish it, on occasion. Maybe a story or two each year, a short story or two, that is. Except for Junior In A Jar (second draft is finished, by the way) and That Blackness Up Ahead, I don't write from deep inside much. Instead silly humor based on real-life events have preoccupied my time and, because of their superficial nature, if they aren't finished in a day or two and short to the point, the inspiration leaves and it sits untouched for months, until my computer contracts a virus (*sigh* it's so slutty, just can't stick with one network!) or something equally disasterous-yet-appropriate occurs.
I'm half tempted to go through the entires of the past two years archived here and tally up how many posts I've made whining about this now well-known fact.
How do I reach back in time and pluck the drive/ability/talent/imagination that churned out story after story, including an anthology, I wrote between the ages of eight and fifteen?
My first guess is a typewriter is needed. I learned on a typewriter, I wrote my first stories on one (the rest in pencil, then onto the word processor from there). A few months ago I went with Griffin and Patrick to one of Griffin's friend's house. This guy had an old manual typewriter sitting around, and he said I could play with it. I was lost in a world all of my own creation, typing on that near-broke thing, writing what turned out to be a poem. It all flowed so naturally, the way it never does on the computer, or even with my pen. What IS it about the typewriter that I love so dearly, aside from silly sentimental yearnings?
It wouldn't be so bothersome if I could actually find a working manual typewriter at a thrift store.
Perhaps I should go with the suggestion Megan had back when we still lived in Omaha; that I should write history books, only putting the characters' language into modern slang and writing it totally MiShelle style (with proper documentations, naturally). Besides, the issue isn't that I can't write so much as it's I can't write anything substantial. I can, if I feel inclined, manipulate language into something slightly more interesting than it normally would be (you're getting pretentious in your older age, Shellie), I do it on occasion when I explain daily activities when I'm in that kind of mood on here, and I've helped a couple of people write papers. Painting with words is the most rewarding when the end result is innovative, interesting, or meaningful and yours (mine).
I'm frustrated about it today in particular because a friend of mine told me there are websites that will publish everything and let you have all the creative control, and put it out in book form. I don't care if I don't publish anything else, there's one thing I want to publish, but I need more material than five pages.
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It appears that the brunt of the snowstorm is going to miss us. The reports keep changing, and by the look of the radar, we might still get something worth staying indoors for. What a welcome yet melancholy time it is.
I've been back for three days now, but I haven't made an attempt to greet anyone since my journey south except for the few in Lawrence. I hole myself in my insidious incinerator and hibernate like an elderly woman.
Tonight the sloth will be put to work, the apartment needs it. My landlady called while I was getting us un-lost in Kansas somewhere just south of Ft. Scott, telling me my toilet water was running constantly and she had to go inside and fix it. The nasty mess left on the stove and the remnants of chamomile flowers in the bathtub flashed in my mind and I was embarrassed she'd have to see the mess.
Furthermore, I have the necessary ingredients for a real dinner of (vegan) Polska Kielbasa with Bavarian sauerkraut, mashed potatoes, spinach salad and steamed broccoli and a glass of soymilk. For dessert I have banana chips and apples.
Before I start on supper I need to do dishes and go to the public library to finally get a card and pick up a book about ancient Rus. Then, I will clean the rest of the kitchen, vaccuum the carpet, leave the bathroom and bedroom for tomorrow and cuddle up with the delicious tea I bought at Phoenix Herb and relax in dim light with that book.
Hopefully I will be social again by Thursday, I'm still up for happy-hour priced rice and beans at Jazz if anyone's interested in that still.
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Saturday, March 11th, 2006
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the bird flu forces your immune system into overdrive, so if a person were succeptible to it, boosting his or her immune system would be a bad idea. hmmm.
do you think people with aids or other immune-related ailments would then have a better chance at fighting the bird flu? or would it completly destroy their immune systems?
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vegan cheese is fucking gross, go without it instead if you find yourself considering veganism.
I'm going to Lawrence to feed Lynette, Griffin, and anyone else who's there vegan sandwiches tonight.
Tomorrow, since Jeff apparantly can't make it here, I'm doing laundry after work and preparing for New Orleans on Sunday night after work.
Sunday is going to be busy!
I'll return on Friday morning, if you're curious.
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Ugh, I can't believe I made enough of that shit for six more days, minimum.
Anyway, I'm proud of myself for having cooked it anyway. Also proud of myself for not buying that candy bar earlier. Oh sugar how I heart thee.
Oh and I even moppped the kitchen floor, after a month (!) of neglect.
Laundry's next in roughly an hour. Followed by none other than crackin' the whip and finally doing homework, for like the first time this semester. I promise I'll catch up when I go on my little trip to the Niobrara for Spring Break.
I cannot, under any circumstances, skip class tomorrow. Someone care to call me around 8 in the AM to make sure I'm awake? I hate asking, but my phone ringing seems to be the only noise that actually wakes me up enough to open my eyes. I even set the alarm on my phone to the same ring, but even with the volume turned up all the way, it's not as loud as when it's actually someone calling. Plus, it vibrates when someone calls, and makes extra noise on my nightstand.
Okay, now time to smoke.
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Wednesday, March 1st, 2006
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Know what my birthday plans are?
Go to Mass. Go to work. Grocery shop, drink the final beer and eat the final pint of chocolate ice cream.
Pre-21, I used to make big plans, but I don't feel it necessary now. Turning 22 is boring.
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Monday, February 27th, 2006
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As usual, the week of Ash Wednesday crept up on me.
I really, really want to complete the proper Lenten fast this year, or at least make an honest effort in doing so.
This means that until Easter, I won't be able to consume alcohol, oils, sugar, and everything I eat must be vegan.
Wish me luck.
I have a spacebag of wine in the fridge. Who wants it?
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Sunday, February 26th, 2006
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Once, about a month or two ago, I was cleaning my car (*gasp!*) when I stumbled across a Monty Python 22 oz. I didn't even know they made those.
Last night, I was getting some stuff out of the backseat, and I saw a huge box of Nag Champa incense sitting neatly on the pillow I keep back there. I never purchased that.
It kicked ass!
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Wednesday, February 22nd, 2006
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the Asserter
Test finished! | you chose AY - your Enneagram type is EIGHT.
"I must be strong"
Asserters are direct, self-reliant, self-confident, and protective.
How to Get Along with Me
- Stand up for yourself... and me.
- Be confident, strong, and direct.
- Don't gossip about me or betray my trust.
- Be vulnerable and share your feelings. See and acknowledge my tender,
vulnerable side.
- Give me space to be alone.
- Acknowledge the contributions I make, but don't flatter me.
- I often speak in an assertive way. Don't automatically assume it's
a personal attack.
- When I scream, curse, and stomp around, try to remember that's just
the way I am.
What I Like About Being a Eight
- being independent and self-reliant
- being able to take charge and meet challenges head on
- being courageous, straightforward, and honest
- getting all the enjoyment I can out of life
- supporting, empowering, and protecting those close to me
- upholding just causes
What's Hard About Being a Eight
- overwhelming people with my bluntness; scaring them away when I don't
intend to
- being restless and impatient with others' incompetence
- sticking my neck out for people and receiving no appreciation for it
- never forgetting injuries or injustices
- putting too much pressure on myself
- getting high blood pressure when people don't obey the rules or when
things don't go right
Eights as Children Often
- are independent; have an inner strength and a fighting spirit
- are sometimes loners
- seize control so they won't be controlled
- fugure out others' weaknesses
- attack verbally or physically when provoked
- take charge in the family because they perceive themselves as the strongest,
or grow up in difficult or abusive surroundings
Eights as Parents
- are often loyal, caring, involved, and devoted
- are sometimes overprotective
- can be demanding, controlling, and rigid
Renee Baron & Elizabeth Wagele
The Enneagram Made Easy
Discover the 9 Types of People
HarperSanFrancisco, 1994, 161 pages
You are not completely happy with the result?!
You chose AY
Would you rather have chosen:
BY (FOUR)
CY (SIX)
AX (SEVEN)
AZ (THREE)
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My test tracked 2 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender: | You scored higher than 69% on ABC | | You scored higher than 57% on XYZ |
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courtesy of Miss Gish
And wow, it's true. If you ever wondered..
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Monday, February 20th, 2006
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from Miss Youngblood's Dance Extravaganza @ the Insideous Incinerator:
Mae attempts to free some ice from the freezer...with a hammer. Kick its ass!
Krys falls in love with the wine
Miss Messy demonstrates the proper usage of Q-tips
At the bar proceeding the party, I give Krys a kiss.
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Tuesday, February 14th, 2006
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So, Bebe from work called me shortly after the realization that Baby could be dead. It turns out, her boyfriend knows how to sodder wires, so they came over and Baby is at least in working condition, well enough to tide me over until I get the money together for a new one. Unfortunately, time flew and they left at 2am, so I thought it would be a good idea to pull an all-nighter to ensure I'd be in class this morning.
I passed out at 6am and missed class. Fuckin' A. Well, there's always Thursday, right?
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Monday, February 13th, 2006
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If I seem a bit depressed in the next few weeks, it's probably because my guitar is dead.
Fuck this hurts. I don't even play well, but I still feel it. Ouch.
RIP Baby
May 1998-Febuary 2006
I guess she lasted some time, she was used when I got her, and those of you's who knew me in high school know I didn't exactly take proper care of her. Wow, eight years, though, it didn't seem that long.
What did she die of?
Well, her jack always had problems. The wires broke this time. Yet another reason to become an electrician I guess.
"So, what inspired you to go into this kind of work?"
"Something traumatic happened just before my 22nd birthday."
"What's that?"
"My guitar's wiring went bad."
Once I round up the cash for a new one (and find one with a neck I can work with! Standard guitar necks and I have a history of not getting along well) I'll feel better. As for Baby's carcass...well, looks like I can start designing the Viotar with her. I'll look at it like reincarnation.
I'm going to reminence. I remember when I first got her, in eighth grade, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to play her. I remember being bored at guitar lessons. I remember her bumping around in my trunk for days before I quit being lazy enough to take her out. I remember decorating her (stupidly, heh) with a silver paint pen. I remember when I'd bring her over to Maeri's, and she'd have her bass, and we'd write horrible punkgrunge songs and scream on top of our lungs stupid lyrics to our own racket (pissing off her entire family in the process). I remember when I'd come up with something I thought sounded cool, and I'd play it for Megan and/or Jess, and since neither know music too much and I'm their friend they said it sounded nice. I remember when I learned how to play Bruise Violet by Babes in Toyland good enough to sing over it at the same time. I remember when I would break up jam sessions at SFH by trying to play along with her. I remember when I'd try to play with the musicians who could tolerate me on different guitars and having a hard time, because the neck was too large for my fat stubby hands and hard to slide on.
I still have my organ, and my POS keyboard, at least. But I was having a lot of fun with Baby these past couple of weeks.
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Sunday, February 12th, 2006
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Fun dance party (my kitchen floor is sticky now!)
Going to another bar that had a red interior (<3)
Dancing some more at said bar (here's to lookin' like a fool in public)
Going for burritos after the bar closed (and after chugging a martini--oh the tragedy of that makes my heart hurt)
Going on a loud tangent about all our respective exes (assholes, each of them, was my verdict)
Pissing outside my car at the long drive thru line (when ya gotta go, you go!)
Attempting to finish a story while under the influence (and the addition surely didn't make sense)
Passing out (zZzZ)
this morning:
Woke up to hideous noises coming from my organ (not my liver, the insturment!)
Was suprised at the fifty degree weather, after snow yesterday
Hugged the Mess and Krys goodbye.
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Sunday, February 5th, 2006
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and I found this quote, said by one of the guys in Atari Teenage Riot (a band I never paid any attention to, though I'd be ineterested in giving them another try):
"Which shining examples are held up for girls? The fashion models? Lousy American actresses with reconstructed faces? The housewife-Girl-Power of the Spice Girls? Fuck that! And what about the so-called alternative? Hairy, esoteric vegans who of course must be lesbians on a back-to-nature trip! I've had enough of these cliches! And I've had my fill of the hip music magazines. All they care about is selling us harmless "indie" bands and the most boring "intellectual" electronic productions as the latest craze. This is a lie! It seems as though everybody has given up, zombies of the senseless 90s. And if there are no more extremes to be had, no more intensity in music – then we'll just have to make it ourselves!"
Naturally, I couldn't have said it better.
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Wednesday, February 1st, 2006
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If I've promised you a postcard, you'll be recieving it eventually. I mailed two today. I hope they get to their destinations just fine.
Megan, I need some sort of mailing addy for you...
Little Z goes to the vet in two hours. I'm considering walking there, seeing as I feel bad about driving only one block. We'll see.
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piranhacore's journal
excited.
distressed.
cheerful.
calm.
pensive.
moody.
lazy.
hungry.
mischievous.