The End of Year Purge

What a year, huh folks?

(sorry, I couldn't resist pretending to be a cheesy emcee holding a microphone on a stage, if only for one line)

But seriously, a lot has happened this  past year.  I got a new job, I moved into a new place, I dated some different guys- some good and some bad- but ended the year with a damn good one, and I got pregnant.  All in all, I'm exiting 2011 quite different than I entered it.

My only regret is that I didn't end up having done more writing and painting than I did.  I enjoy doing both, but when inspiration isn't striking me in the head, it's tough to get motivated to do either.

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One thing I'm trying to do more effectively is to purge my negativity, otherwise it just festers within.  There's a fine line between healthy venting and going on and on about pet peeves, but I'll give it a shot.

What is it about the internet that turns people crazy?  Or maybe, it's that crazy people flock to the internet.  Maybe I'm one of them (I'm sure of that, actually).  I'm sure I wear on people in my own special way, but since this is my blog, I'll share three internet 'types' that especially wear on me, and the hope is that by venting I can let it go a little better.

1- Flame Warrior Guy

Flame warrior guy's only objective is to shake the hornet's nest until all hornets are buzzing angrily and out for blood.  He'll do anything to get his way, and responding reasonably to him only causes him to ratchet up his asshattery to the point where the only options are to get angry or exit the interaction altogether.  Unfortunately, though, when you're somewhat responsible for general behavior on an internet forum,  you can never really exit, you can only hope that flame warrior guy goes away before you or somebody else has to forcibly exit him from the cyber-premises.

2- Passive-Aggressive Guy

I respect this guy less than the Flame Warrior, because at least that guy is up front about what he wants.  Passive-Aggressive Guy acts as if he wants an honest dialogue, but in reality, the cake he's just gifted you is chock full of razor blades and poison.  His plan is somewhat vexing because confronting him only elicits a "what me? I didn't mean anything by it" response, sometimes complete with a smiley-face.  In short, there's nothing worse than not knowing where you stand with somebody, and Passive-Aggressive Guy's chicken-shit interactions are only visible through smoke, mirrors, and deception.

3- Dramatic Addict Guy

Dramatic Addict Guy is a real beating.  Usually, Dramatic Addict Guy is not a bad person, but he can't seem to get out of his own way, mostly because he doesn't want to.  See, Dramatic Addict Guy craves attention, and if he can get it mixed in a sweet cocktail of sympathy and compliments, all the better.  Once he gets that high he'll come back for more.  This is the reason why you'll see Dramatic Addict Guy do things like:

- Musing openly about the possibility of disappearing, usually using phrases like "I'm so tired of this, nothing I do is good enough, maybe it's time for me to move on...".  As long as Dramatic Addict Guy can stay on the radar, he's happy.  Unfortunately, he'll often do not-so-good things for this purpose, such as:

- Habitually ending up in dust-ups of questionable fault, but of widespread hard feelings, punctuated by:

- Making trite woe-is-me public messages for all to see.  These messages rarely defuse the situation, in fact they often exacerbate it, which often leads to:

- Offering an elaborate, melodramatic and (most importantly, because otherwise would completely defeat the purpose) public farewell messages.  The goal here is to incite a barrage of "please don't go!" messages into his inbox which causes him to:

- Not leave at all, despite the very non-ambiguous declaration otherwise.  If he's fortunate, he'll then get some "so glad you stayed!" messages, which is a nice little attention-high aftershock after the bukkake sensation of all those pleading messages which "convinced" him to stay in the first place.

-Rinse, Repeat...and it gets repeated often.

Over time it becomes hard to like Dramatic Addict Guy because from the outside, there's nothing else going on besides this exhausting high-low cycle.  And unless you're the type that relishes the opportunity to be involved in others' needless drama, there's not much incentive to reach out to them.  It all makes you wonder why they bother coming online at all, since it's obviously so laborsome.  But the answer is obvious:

Because they don't have anything else.

They don't have a real life, so they construct one and live it online.  And because of this, and also because mundane passing of time is not interesting for themselves or others, they construct these dramas to react against.  It keeps it interesting I suppose, just not always in a functional or enjoyable way for the rest of us that are subjected to it.

But these 'types' are minor inconveniences, and I think they are pet peeves of mine because my actual life involves more than enough drama for me, I can't imagine willfully creating lots more online.  All in all, my online experiences are great, and I've made some really good friends in the process.  I hope to keep them and maybe make a few more along the way.


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I think I've dated a few guys that must work out here...

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Rihanna, "We Found Love (in a Hopeless Place)"

So, does that mean she found love in Detroit?  In a Wal-Mart?  In the Cleveland Browns' locker room?

She should be more specific.

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My hopes for the new year:

A healthy baby
More, better paintings
At least two stories, perhaps erotic, perhaps not
Peace...within my life, at least.  I've got it now, let's hope it holds for a while

Happy New Year, everyone!

A Necessary Self-Exile

I've spent the last five days in Jamaica with a friend and her family, enjoying my total lack of a schedule and great weather.  Here, during the winter, it's a high of 82 and a low of 72 every day, and sometimes it rains in the morning, and sometimes it doesn't.  I think they just have a single static image of their daily weather forecast that the put up on the screen every night.

It's good to get away sometimes, and they say that it's not the distance that matters but I definitely would not have have gained the perspective that I have if I simply went to somebody's lake cabin in Texas.  To gain this perspective means getting away from my surroundings as well as everyone in my life in order to see things clearly again.  A lot of things have happened in my life over the last few months and though not all of them are bad, the sum of them have succeeded in cloudying the waters of my mind.  When people talk about taking time to get their "head right", that's what I'm doing now, in Jamaica- and without the use of ganja, believe it or not.

I think I could live here, even knowing the difficulties, but alas, I don't, and probably never will.  My life waits for me in Texas, and I'll return to it shortly.  Until then, I'll enjoy just a little more dancehall, jerk chicken, and warm December sun between the palm trees.

I hope everyone's having a happy holidays so far.  I don't feel like Christmas just yet, but when I'm back home in the cold, I'm sure I'll get that way quickly.

I leave you with a little local flavor.  I'll miss this place. :(

The Good News

So I hinted at something fairly ominous in my last post when I said I was going to have a big day, and it's time to clarify that.

I ended up getting really good news.  I got the results of my paternity test back, and my boyfriend- who wasn't my boyfriend at the time of conception, mind you- is the father of my baby.  I'm still pregnant, early on in fact, but I needed to know, and I owed it to the guy that loves me and promised he'd love me no matter what came of the paternity.

So now, a big unknown has been taken off the board, and I can  begin to make sense of where my life is (a baby on the way) and where it's going (what kind of life will I provide for my baby?).  Not that I have any of that figured out yet, but I'm now in a place where I can.

First things first, I'm headed to Jamaica with a family friend for a few days.  I'd planned on using this time to get my head right before facing a reality where my boyfriend is not the father of my child (I really thought this would be the case).  But now, I can just go and enjoy myself while I'm not yet big as a whale in a swimsuit.

I'll probably be posting a thing or two while I'm gone, and will have a virgin daquiri in all of your honor. :)

In my own skin

I've gained 12 pounds, I feel bloated, but I still feel sexy, except for when I don't.  Sometimes it's all I can do to keep my stomach from churning out everything in it, and I can't even pretend to wear my regular pants anymore (at least not without button extenders), but I still have that same fire inside.

My breasts hurt like hell, even from hugs or if I roll over onto them, I've had to buy new bras and I'm sure I'll have to do the same again, but I also know they look good- at least until they sag from breastfeeding :(.  My thighs are bigger, my waist is thicker, and all of those will only keep growing, but on a good day, I've never been a better woman.  I'm going to be a mother, but I'm already changing.

Tomorrow is a big day.  I'll share as much as I can about it, no promises.  My life's changing, and another huge fork in the road lies in front of me.

Taxonomy of Rap Names

Just for fun.  thanks, visual.ly.

Tim Tebow and the Mojo

One of the things that I like best about sports is that whole category of things that happen that just can't be explained rationally.  I call it "the mojo": the way certain teams have the upper hand over other teams, the way you sometimes know when a 3-point shot is going in before it even leaves the hands of the shooter, the way your team can be up 10 points in the second half, but you feel defeated as if the game is already lost (and more often than not, when you have this feeling, your team does go ahead and lose).  Sure, all of those things can be explained, or at least assigned meaning: mental edge, good form, momentum, etc.  But I like to think there's something magical about life in general, and that one place where it makes itself be known, let's itself be seen, is in sports.

Anyone who has even a passing interest in the NFL knows who Tim Tebow is.  Nominally, he's the current starting quarterback of the Denver Broncos, but that's not what he's famous for.  He's also perhaps the league's most prominent devout Christian, but again, that's not what's giving him his buzz.  He's famous for not being that good of a quarterback in any area except for the win column, where he's 7-1 since he was made the quarterback by default, basically because the others on the team sucked worse than he does.  Consider that he went all of last  year and the first part of this year as no better than the backup.  Why?  Because he has weird mechanics, and is not particularly accurate: two usually lock-tight reasons for not playing a backup quarterback.

But he's not famous just for being a bad, yet winning, quarterback.  He's famous for often playing horribly (like the 2nd or 3rd stringer that he is, talent-wise), then pulling it together and almost literally willing his team to victory, week after week.  He'll miss receivers all day long, but when it matters, he'll string 3 or 4 completions together to put his team in position to win.  When he's running the ball (which he does a lot), he'll lower his shoulder and attempt to run over his potential tackler as opposed to sliding to avoid him.  In those closing minutes and seconds of a game that Denver's trying to win, he becomes the most difficult human being on the planet to bring down, or deflect a pass from.  He has the mojo.

So, what gives him his mojo?

Is it confidence?  Well, that's probably the most important component.  To lead other men, you have to appear confident that you have the ability to actually lead- and he does.  But that doesn't explain the late-game heroics.

Is it selflessness?  That certainly doesn't hurt.  He's not a slider, he doesn't duck hits, and he clearly gives every ounce of effort, unlike many many players (I'm looking at you...3/4 of all wide receivers in the league).

Is it humility in the face of stardom?  Probably has little to do with it, but he's got that in spades.  You'll never hear him take credit for team wins, in fact it's the opposite.  "My team makes me better, they help me improve," he'll say.

Some overzealous Christians even imply that his strong faith has given him his mojo.  Clearly that's nonsense, but since we can't account for it any other way, I'm just as comfortable with that crackpot theory as with any other.

Also, it must be said, especially with such a dominant defense, that Tebow is not the sole reason why Denver is winning so often since he started playing, though clearly they're connected.  Whatever the mojo is, it has seeped into every element of the team, and has worked it's mysterious power on other teams.  Fluke fumbles, missed kicks, inexplicable mistakes: they're all aiding Denver's success ever since Tebow started playing.  By now, Tebow's in the heads of other teams, making them look over their shoulders as the game nears its end, which is the hallmark trait of the mojo.

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So why do I care enough to write about it?  I love the Tebow mojo.  I don't necessarily love Tim Tebow, though I admit to being confused about all the people who really seem to hate him.  And it does help that by all accounts, he's a very good person who wants nothing more than to be a good teammate and help his team win, both of which he's doing a bang-up job of.

I love the Tebow mojo because it's one of those era/events in sports that needs to be recognized while it's in progress, because once it's gone, it's gone forever.  It won't last forever, or even probably that long.  For all of Tebow's mojo and heart, defenses will figure him out, opposing offenses will find the flaws in the Denver D and do the kind of damage that can't be remedied without a whole game's worth of Tebow magic.  When that happens, will he be up to the challenge?  Probably not, but then again, the Tebow mojo was nowhere in the neighborhood of the probable prior to it's inception, and now look where we are.

Admittedly, it's a minor little era/event, too.  Jordan's (first) retirement, Nadal beating Federer, the Red Sox beating the Yankees in the ALCS; those are all major sea-change endings of eras, and beginnings of new ones.  This is just the magic of one player's effect on a team; a team which probably won't make it out of the first round of the NFL playoffs, but then, it's not about where it ends, it's about what happens week to week.  Will the Tebow magic continue?  Every week, the odds are it will end.  So far, the odds haven't amounted to a damn thing; the mojo bowls the odds right over.

Lots of people, my boyfriend included, actively root against Tebow and the Broncos, as if he, and they, are some fraud just begging to be exposed.  What's fraudulent about the mojo, the fact that it's not logical?  Why would we dislike him, because he's not a prototypical NFL quarterback who scored well in the combine?  Why would I want it to end?  Why would I root for the death of this mojo?  Can you imagine how boring sports would be if everything was predictable and went according to plan?  To me, the mojo: the magical, the unexplainable- is the best part of sports.  But one day, maybe next week, maybe in January, the mojo will fade, and we'll be looking for the next place for it to pop up, and transfix those of us that truly love sports.

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Maybe in three years, when Tebow is some other team's backup quarterback and tight end, the announcers will occasionally remind us of that special time in the 2011 season, when the otherwise listless Broncos took flight with him at the helm.  Then again, maybe he'll be a starting quarterback in 3 years, but he's just as likely to be somewhere in Southeast Asia, helping build a clinic in some rural village.

Will you still be undefeated, Green Bay?  Will we care?  I have nothing against Green Bay, but there's nothing particularly magical about their superior players and schemes predictably running roughshod over each week's scheduled victim.

We have all of January to worry about that.  But in the meantime, go look at Tebow's completion percentage, and his first-half numbers.  Notice how subpar he is statistically, then remind yourself that sometimes statistics don't mean a damn thing.

Boxing

How many of you are in a relationship with somebody who does something potentially dangerous for a living, or even as a hobby?  I would imagine this list to include firemen, policemen, soldiers, coal miners, sky-divers, rock climbers, and in the case of my boyfriend, boxers.  

Don't get goo excited, he's not anybody that you have heard of, or even anybody that you might have accidentally seen on ESPN at 3am when you're half asleep after having returned from a night at the club.  No, he's one of the hundreds of guys across this country that fight in gyms, in armories, and in private buildings.  He doesn't make his living doing it, and there's really no practical way that he possibly could, so he fights a few times a year and otherwise works a day job.  

The popularity of MMA has taken so much potential talent and interest away from boxing, that the federations have been crippled, especially in the upper weight divisions.  A heavyweight fighter with a middling record has little option but to fight on private (read: unsanctioned) cards, and hopefully make a little money that way.  They aren't bound by the normal rules, and there's no group to punish a fighter for taking steroids, or hitting below the belt, or any of that.  A fighter that wants to fight accepts those as the conditions for doing what they love and train to do.  So, that's what he does, and it makes me very nervous.

Watching somebody you love in a boxing match is not fun, and watching boxing in person is way more visceral and violent than it is on TV.  I've seen two in person now, and it might as well be a different sport when you're there in the same room, hearing the impact and watching the physical reactions.

This is a video of Miguel Cotto's wife and son after his fight with Manny Pacquiao.  Needless to say, they didn't handle well the sight of their loved one taking the punishment that one takes over the course of a boxing match.  He didn't die, but after having been in that woman's shoes, I completely understand the reaction.

As a sidenote, I have no idea why she thought it would be a good idea for their young son to witness their father's fight.  That child's mental trauma was very avoidable, I think.  I'm going to have a child in June, health and good things willing, and I just can't imagine that I'd ever subject him or her to that.

He's 24 now, so by the time a child would be old enough to go, I hope he's long since hung up his gloves.  I'm trying to talk him into a new hobby/career in training, and slowly ease him out without him giving up the thing he loves completely, but we'll see.  He's been doing it a long time, I'm not sure how easy it would be for him to walk away.

Unlikely Christmas Spirit

Have you ever played the "a year ago, would you ever have guessed..." game with yourself?  I find myself doing that a lot lately, only because the first 18 years of my life were spent in not always good, but ultimately predictable circumstances.  For instance, at any given time, I would more likely than not live in a run down apartment under the semi-purview of some lady that my dad was dating.   The specifics weren't always the same, but they were similar enough to wear on me.

The last three years are a vastly different story.  Nothing of any consequence has been the least bit predictable ever since I made the decision to move to North Texas.  So, yesterday's "would you ever have guessed" question was this:

Would you ever have guessed that you would have your own Christmas tree, purchased from a tree farm that serves free apple cider and offers hay rides, and would share it with three others, two of which don't even live with you? 


Answer: No, I wouldn't have.

I've never really been a Christmas person.  It's not that I dislike the holiday the way I do Thanksgiving (tons of baggage there...maybe another time..), it's just that it's never been one of massive fanfare for me.  But for some reason, this year I feel a little more Christmas spirit seeping through.  This year, for reasons I can't even account for, I wanted a Christmas tree.

I've never had one of my own, and I hadn't planned on having one.  But one day last week, I woke up and realized that it's what I wanted.  The people around me all had differing reactions to this news.

Shari, roommate: "(giggles) That's funny, girl.  Should we decorate it with condoms and lube-packs?"

Loni, next-door neighbor/duplex-mate: "Really?  I didn't expect you to want that.  (then smiles)  I like them, though.  Sounds fun."

Juan, boyfriend: "You mean you weren't going to get one, anyway?"

I was going to have my own tree, but the more we all talked about it, the more sense it made for it to be a tree for all four of us.  Juan's cousin didn't want to put a tree in their apartment, Loni's family had never made Christmas a priority, therefore she'd never had a tree before, and Shari's mom had given her some ornaments from her childhood which, since leaving home, had never left the box that they were stored in.

So, on a cool, grey Saturday morning, the four of us set out in a friend's borrowed van to find our tree.  An hour later, we arrived at a tree farm roughly a half hour from the nearest gas station, ATM, or reliable cell phone signal.  We sat on a flat trailer lined with hay bails, being pulled by a tractor to the tree field.  There were probably an equal number of fresh stumps as trees; somehow, on December 3, we were far from the early birds in the Christmas tree hunt.  Unfortunately, the ones that were left showed definite signs of distress; the drought has not been kind to the tree farming business.

After rigorous debate, we selected a tree that stood maybe a foot taller than me, with bare patches and a skinny, crooked trunk, but tons and tons of character.  There were fuller, straighter, greener trees to be sure, but this one called out to me, much like the hapless runt in the puppy litter.  I'd found my tree.

About fifteen seconds later, Juan had sawn it off at the stump and we were dragging our forlorn evergreen back toward the hay-ride trailer stop, awaiting our ride back to the farmhouse.  I couldn't help but think how much fun my dog would have had if I'd thought to bring her.

Of course, the fun didn't stop there.  The first tree stand that we bought didn't work due to narrow and extremely twisted trunk.  Loni says our tree has scoliosis; I agree with her diagnosis.  We sent Juan back out to Home Depot for tree stand #2, and an hour later, plus some mechanical retrofitting, our tree finally stood proudly in my living room: relatively stable, if not straight.

We put on the lights and the star last night, and over the next few days, we'll get the ornaments up.  Loni has a few trinkets that she is attaching hooks to, and I secretly went out and bought some ornaments when I bought the lights- you gotta start somewhere with these traditions.  I don't think Juan has any ornaments, nor the desire to buy any, but it's no less his tree, given his time spent here and all the work he put into getting it upright.

I don't know where my new Christmas spirit comes from.  Maybe it's has to do with finding the closest thing to family in the close friends I've made over the last year or two.  Maybe it's having a kid on the way, and subconsciously trying to establish family traditions.  Maybe, given my dislike of Thanksgiving, this is the holiday that I choose to be thankful for all the good things in my life.

I do have a lot to be thankful for.

Kwan Yin

You know who pisses me off?  the Roadrunner from the Looney Tunes cartoons.  That fucking bird is always so smug.  Maybe I'm biased because I always liked Wile E. Coyote.  All he wanted to do was catch the Roadrunner one time.  Just once, kill the bird, eat the wings, and then he'd have that accomplishment crossed off the bucket list.  But no, the bird not only outwitted him, but rubbed his nose in it. Repeatedly, for sheer sport.

And whose legacy is tied to violence now?  That's right, poor Wile E.  What a shame, too, because that coyote was a hell of a mural painter.  Nobody re-created tunnels and endless highways on the sides of cliffs like that dog.

You got a raw deal, Wile. E.

Come to think of it, all of the celebrated characters in the Looney Tunes were smug, but some were more likeable than others.

I like Porky.  He's not smug at all, and that poor pig stutters and is forced to go through life with no pants and being constantly outwitted by the moronic Daffy Duck.  All he wants is genuine friendship.

Bugs Bunny is like the Jerry Seinfeld of the bunch, and even though he's smug, he's not cruel and he's really funny.  Daffy's smug but he has no idea how dumb he is, which is also funny.

Speedy Gonzalez should be punched in the face by any Mexican who is trying to shake the lazy, thieving wetback stereotype.

Why do I think so deeply about the Looney Tunes all of a sudden? I have no idea.  Sobriety does strange things.

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I have a neighbor who describes roughly one out of four things he experiences as "surreal".  I reached my limit and told him unless a melting clock is prominently involved, to please use a different word.  I think I hurt his feelings, but come on, man!

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I always look forward to NFL games but often get bored watching them.  I never look forward to college football games (which always involve schools I neither grew up around- well, except for Cal- nor attended), but am almost always entertained by them.  I like fake punts, crazy formations, five different tailbacks, two quarterbacks, and a punt returner who doubles as the lock-down corner.  Does this make me wierd?  Am I destined to attend a football powerhouse, paint my face, and sit in the front row in a bikini someday?

Seems unlikely, with a kid on the way, but if I do, it won't be at Penn State! (thx JB)

_

I have some peace.  I'm no longer just trying to be spiritual.  I feel like I'm getting somewhere, like part of it is sticking in the bad times.  I'm loved and I'm trying to love.  It's not easy for me, but it's important.

Thanks to everyone- whether it be an employer, close friend, occasional chat buddy, or casual reader of boring blogs- for adding something to my life.

thank you for the sun

the one that shines on everyone

who feels love

now there's a million years between my fantasies and fears

i feel love

The Kwan Yin

The Missing LadyX

You may or may not have noticed that I've been pretty damn absent from this space over the last couple of weeks.  Maybe the nice little collection of posts have kept you company here in the meantime, but probably not.

So, here's what's going on:  I found out I was pregnant about two weeks ago.  I'm not that far along really, about 9 weeks according to my doctor, so things could still go wrong.  I thought long and hard about whether I would disclose this to those beyond what I'd consider "friends", but ultimately I'm fine with it.  Not everything in life is what you want, expect, or can reasonably predict, and this was never intended to just be a superficial record of life. I want it to include a bit of everything; or at least, a little of everything that I'm willing to share.

So, with that hurdle behind me, I'll do my best to post a little more often.  Not always deeply personal stuff, but hopefully to continue to offer a glimpse into this weird brain of mine.

Speeding

You're a passenger in a car.  You want to go fast, and even though you have the authority to exit the car at any time, you don't.  

You want to go fast.  

You love the thrill as the car takes corners a little too fast, as the buildings race by the side windows in a never-ending blur.  Butterflies and a hint of exhilarating panic dance in your belly as the car weaves in and out of traffic.

The car goes faster still.  Horns honk as your bumper glances off of other bumpers.  People dive out of the way, as your car is going way too fast to avoid them if they don't.  Faster still, more danger, more panic.  The car is coming up behind cars too fast to weave anymore, you're just hoping to miss them by sheer luck.

You have a decision to make.  Live with the panic, close your eyes, and continue, or open the car door and jump out.  

It's not a matter of whether or not you'll survive the jump; you will.  You will roll, and you will bruise, but you eventually will come to a stop, stand up, and hobble away.  Staying in the car is a far more dicey proposition.  You might not survive, then again, you might.  It's exciting, and others look on in envy.  You can maintain your daredevil flourish; but those that notice it aren't the ones with their life at stake.  You are.

The car bounces off a curb, spins out of control, knocks your head against the side door before continuing on, just as reckless as before.  It's time to jump, or time to resign yourself to reckless fate.

You open the door and exit the vehicle, landing on your side, and rolling.  Finally you stop; you're okay.  Sore, but alive.  

Hopefully, it will be awhile before you get back into a car like that.

***

It's getting cold.  The summer is gone.  Yes, the same summer that I bitched non-stop about, with 75 days of 100+ temperatures.  The summer that I couldn't wait to end...is gone.  And I miss it.

But dammit, I'm holding out.  Even if I have to wear a jacket, I'll wear shorts or a skirt.  And if it gets too cold for a skirt, I'll still wear either flips, or open-toe shoes.

And if and when it gets too cold for that...I'll be depressed.  I'm not a winter girl.

But soon enough, it will turn summer again, and I'll be happy. My swimsuits will come out again, and so will I.  Then it will be blistering hot again, and I'll bitch about the summer, and wish it would go away.


***

TumblrArt vs. Traditional Art


Does new art, the digital stuff and otherwise, get the same respect as traditional art (oil, acrylic, watercolor paints, etc.)?  Should it?

Before about a year ago, I didn't have much experience with art of any kind.  School trips to the museum was about the extent of it before I really started getting interested.  Even then, it was mostly in the way of traditional art.  I dated a painter for a short while, took a few lessons, and studied the great ones (and still do).  There's a certain quality to it, whether it's classic-style or contemporary painting.  It seems 'fine' and more often than not is very layered and finished looking, even if it's a very busy-looking abstract.

http://www.gallerytoday.com/

In contrast to that are the newer styles of artwork.  Some of it is paint, but a lot of it's digital as well.  Here are a few Tumblr sites that feature different styles of the newer art:

http://magicalfelix.tumblr.com/


http://prathmesh.tumblr.com/

http://www.gaksdesigns.com/

http://resouled.tumblr.com/

A lot of it has the 'feel' of illustration more than anything else.  Is illustration the same as art?  I think it is, it just carries a certain style.  I also notice that a lot of it draws from sci-fi, anime', and fantasy styles.  I'm sure a lot of these artists are graphic artists with formal training, but I can also imagine that a lot of them are self-taught. They're the introverts who sit in the back of class, creating incredibly intricate pen and pencil drawings, now graduated to intricate pieces of digital and mixed-media art.  

The new art, the TumblrArt, is the future.  Something about it lends itself to online viewing, where traditional art, in my opinion, always just makes me think "this is great, but I wish I could see the real thing."  With digital art, you're already looking at the real thing.  

***

Human beings are filled with endless and insatiable desires, one must take a steadfast vow to cease from vainly striving to satisfy them.

This is the struggle of life.

Roller-Coaster and Sympathy- A Short, True Story

The party on Friday night was in a hotel beside the freeway that had seen its better days.  They- whoever they were- had a block of rooms on an upper floor, and I doubt there were twenty other rooms occupied in the whole place.  It was dancers on their night off, plus their friends, and others in a cast of random characters.  Mark and I got there at about 12:30am and were immediately met by my new coworker Chanelle, who I hit it off immediately with on my first day of work. Chanelle- who came home with me after my second shift, got high with us, and had some fun- was already high, and looking for more fun when we got there.

I knew very few of them, though I knew their kind very well.  Sometimes, I'm part of their kind.  When you're working, you're earning, and on a night off, you let loose a little bit...or a lot.

I'd been there before, with the dimly lit hallway punctuated by the sharp light coming through each cracked door, propped open.  Music hummed from different rooms, as well as incessant knocking on doors that got closed, both intentionally and not.  Mark was enthralled by the partiers, especially Chanelle, who was equally enthralled by him. They disappeared while I went for a drink, leaving me alone even as I made conversation with strangers.  I called Shari to come join us, its the kind of thing we used to attend together when we both worked at the same club.  I just stepped back into that life a bit, and even being there with a guy, I wanted the security of having her there with me, too.  As it turns out, I barely saw her until the next morning.

*

The time compresses late at night, with several hours spent among a group of rooms, among the same people, in various states of consciousness.  I had sex with Mark, but then lost track of him.  I wandered, through shots and powder, among people that I recognized and who became instant disposable friends in that way that party-goers become as the hours pass.  I found Mark in a room, fucking Chanelle; I turned around and left, seeking another substance and another small group of people.  I later found him, and he lied about where he'd been and with who, so we fought, viciously.  I did something stupid, and maybe an hour later we made up and had our fun, then fought again, this time fueled by more than just anger.  We didn't speak for an entire day after that, and I eventually fell asleep with Chanelle, awaking to an empty room and one barely coherent housekeeping staffer pulling the bedding off the floor and into her rolling hamper.

I found Shari and we went home; we were going to get showered, and then go to the State Fair for the day with a group of friends.  On our way home, we found out that my boss' wife- also my co-worker Greg's mother- had a massive stroke and was near death.  She decided to go on to the fair, and I went to the hospital to meet Greg and his dad, both in shock. I left them there and resumed my plans that night, as the bar where I work, which they owned, was closed due to the family emergency.

*

Late that night, maybe around 1am, as I was heading home I stopped at Greg's when I saw a light on.  He lives alone, and my phone was dead; I thought he could use the comfort of somebody looking in on him.  Ever since I started working with him, we had a good relationship.  One night after work, we had sex, and a few times after that it had happened again.  He was my friend, I cared for him, he was sometimes more than that.  He let me in and cried his eyes out.  That night we had sex twice and fell asleep sometime in the wee hours.  The next morning his estranged wife and daughter came by to check on him, to offer sympathy.  I walked through half naked, hungover and unwitted.  His wife stared daggers through me, I felt like a meddling slut, even though I'm not, they're separated.  She looked at me as if to say "oh, it's her, huh?".  It was, as it had been before and probably would be again.

I didn't want any more trouble for Greg, I just wanted to be there for him, and I was.  As far as the sex goes, I don't know if I manipulated him, or likewise, or both, or if it was just natural.  It was natural to me, with or without manipulation, which might say something not so great about my nature.  The wife I can handle, the kid affected me more.  Do I have a problem?

*

I made up with Mark and met him to go watch football.  We had sex, cleaned up again, then went to the bar.  When we don't fight, we're great together.  He makes me feel good, like I'm where the fun is, and like I'm the magnet that belongs attached to him.  He likes to put his hands in places that aren't altogether appropriate for public places, and every time, I'm somehow helpless to be appalled, or to stop him.  He is magnetism.  We argue and then we make up.  We fuck and I only want more fucking.  I can live with the scorching, but do not put out this fire.  He has a belief that he'll always get what he wants; if it's me he wants, then he might always be right.

He's dismissive and arrogant, and sometimes I get so mad I don't want him anywhere near my sight.  I've been physically violent with him once.  I've been physically and sexually attracted to him wholly and without exception for nearly three weeks straight.  Maybe the good and the bad are symptoms of the same phenomenon.  Maybe the bad and the good are of equal, intense, extreme.  Maybe it's a test.

No, the good is definitely better.  The bad just takes its toll. We fought on the phone today, we made up by text an hour later.

*

Tonight he's coming over.  I won't be able to resist whatever happens, I know and look forward to this.  I hope to avoid any bad for another day.  I'm on a runaway train, fearful and dreadful of the dark tunnels I'm plunged into, but delighted to have the butterflies in my belly go crazy with each wild swing.

Greg will call, as he did today.  I'll go see him, and comfort him the only way I know how, as I did today.  His mother passed, I can't make it go away, but I can make it better, he tells me that I do when we're together.

And then I will deal with Mark again.

Power

Not to go all Tony Robbins/self-help on you all, but all of us have the power to take the next step, whatever that might mean to each of us.  A homeless man's got the power to make it to the next block if the block he's on's not earning enough change.  Warren Buffet's got the power to make a bigger dividend on his investment portfolio if last week's formula's not working as well this week.  

I've got the power to be happy, to take and keep control, and to find the things I want in life.Whoever said that people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be, they were onto something.  

Our world is fucked up, getting more fucked up all the damn time.  We can't change that, we can only change tiny components of it, and only then after extreme efforts and upheaval.  But we can change ALL of how we process the world as individuals.

***

What do I not have power over?  The way I react to certain people.  Luckily, it's usually in the interest of physical gratification, but still...it warrants mentioning.

***

CHECK 'EM OUT!

Today, like last week, I want to bring attention to somebody who you probably already know about, but who nonetheless deserves some extra attention to her writing abilities.  

She's somebody of many shades, like an artist able to mix their blue, grey, and red periods interchangeably and with equal skill.  She's a friend to many and a bright persona even to those who don't know her personally.  

But enough introductory compliments, let's talk stories, and how incredibly versatile she is.  

Do you prefer a fun romp of group sex with just a touch of darkness (and I don't mean skin color)?  Try Blondie's Wild Ride.

Do you prefer a romp of group sex with more than a touch of darkness (and in this case, I mean both the tone and the skin color)? Try Blondie and the Black Knight.

How about something completely different, in the way of a finely textured love story?  Try Paris in Flames, an award winner, no less.

Love Poetry?  No Problem, she's got you covered there, too.

Is BDSM your thing? Then read Mrs. Vandermeer's Rules, a series whose quality is reflected in the nearly perfect scores.

How about Lesbian?  Masturbation? Fairy-tale tinged taboo?  She's got it all, just a staggering array of variety.  

Like most writers, I do variations on a few common themes, some better than others.  But do yourself a favor and get acquainted with her work if you haven't already.  And, as always, let her know what you thought, even if it's not a public comment.  She'll really appreciate it.  

You can find all her stories here, at LushStories.com.

What if you knew?

What would you say if you knew that what you see is what I want you to see, and nothing more?

If I was consistent, dependable, and steady, would your frustration with me simply be replaced by boredom?

How would you react, if you knew that I loved a pill more than our conversations?

What would you do if I told you that I think about you night and day, but in only physical ways?  Would you be ecstatic or devastated?

What if I wanted to go to Africa for a month, or Europe for a year, without a clue of what to do, would you think it crazy, or would that embody everything you love about me?

If I was everything you wanted and committed to being nothing less, would it be enough for you to do the same?

What if you knew about me all the things that I know about myself?

You look at me as if to say "I know what you're thinking, I know what you're about, I know what you try to hide."  But the joke's on you; you don't know shit, you simply want me to think you do.  If you did know, the look would be different.  The faux-dominance...would it turn to pity, anger, or would you just go cold?  Would your interest vaporize?  I choose the game over truth, mostly because I dare not challenge your reality with mine.

Comfort Zone

Maybe my lack of a comfort zone is my comfort zone.  

Maybe restlessness is nature's way of getting you out of the way of a speeding bullet, pointed right at you, aimed at your destruction.  You shift out of the way, it whizzes by, your life is spared, but you're none the wiser.  All you know is, 

"I feel so restless."

***

Today I walked into a club, as a contract dancer, for the first time in several months.  When I quit my last dancing gig, I left a place that nobody with any dignity would stay in, if put in my shoes.  Today, I walked into what I hope is a far better place.  So far, so good.

So much is the same: same dingy gym lockers, same muted friendliness from 10% of dancers, and nearly hostile suspicion from the other 90%.  Same weary man/woman posting the order, and in my case, laying some ground rules.  This lady, the bitter former dancer, is going to be a lot of fun to deal with, I can already tell.

Some of the 'same things' are good, though.  Same confident rush on-stage.  Same ability to slip right into character, to shed my real self and wear a pared-down, glowing, shape-shifting one for as long as I'm (insert fake name) in a sheer gown, wandering from table to table, with hopefully more table than wandering.  

Maybe, aside from the dull routines, smelly/creepy men, and the hint of menace that you never really shrug off unless you're a naive idiot, I still like it because it's real.  

Sitting wherever you are, having just read that, you might take issue with me calling a strip club a "real" environment.  I beg to differ.  In there, I offer conversation, attention, a break from whatever the hell you would be doing or worrying about, and for a relatively small amount of money.  You say it's, in fact, a considerable amount of money?  Maybe so, but try buying an escort of my caliber for the night, plus the guilt of full-blown sex on the purchase, and then let me know how expensive lap dances and a few drinks are?    

There is no bullshit of the real kind.  Bullshit of the verbal kind flies all day and all night, but the real bullshit- the empty promises, the fake feelings, the deception- all that is nowhere to be found.  Time for money.  Compensation for a service in demand.  It's real, when so much of the world is not.  My mind can make sense of it.

I know how to navigate this world, I'm wired for it.  No, I didn't grow up in the club, but I did grow up having to keep my wits about me.  I grew up knowing that money was what mattered; it was the difference between eating and not, between having an apartment, and not.  I still get hurt, but I know better how to avoid it in this world.  

There's no comfort zone there, but I don't expect one either.  I landed in a comfort zone a few months ago, and have been restless ever since.  

I don't know the resolution to this, but that's true of life, for everyone.

***

I was there with somebody else, following his lead through a living room strewn about with leftover food, spare drinks, some trash, and lazy boys gazing at the television.  We disappeared into a bedroom to do what we do, no different than any other boy and girl on any other day; just another way to pass the night and see how how good it can get. 

Walking out with my head held high, past the same skunked out boys that hadn't moved a muscle in half an hour, he asked me who I was.  I said, "you first."  

He was Joey, I was irrelevant.  I'd been there with his brother, I was off limits, but I smiled.  He looked down at another part of me, told to shut the fuck up by his brother, but he smiled back anyway.  That's all he was able to say, and that's all the time I had.  Another boy in the wrong place, while I was with the wrong guy.  

Thanks for this, Jackie.  The wire would tie our hearts together, cutting the flesh with every ill movement, you're damn right about that.  

Restless

*note: as always, actual names and places are changed to protect the guilty and the innocent

"You two are trouble, that's all I can say."

He said it with a smile, but I know he meant it, and I know he's right.

"He" is the guy I wrote about here and here.  

It's been a hell of a week-and-two-days since Mark sunk his claws into me first time. Those first few days we were all over each other at nearly every opportunity; I had no choice.  Not only did he cast a strong fuck-spell over me, but why let any chance to savor perfect chemistry go to waste?  So I didn't.  I didn't know him that well yet, but didn't worry too much about that, there would be time for us to either bond intellectually, or not.  

This all changed last Tuesday night.  

I made plans to meet him at a place where he was playing in a poker tournament, where I went on to have several drinks with my friends while he failed to have the courtesy to lose early, leaving me fairly tipsy and him completely sober by the time he was finally done playing.  Soon after, we went back to my place, only to find my roommate Shari drinking with our neighbors, already several drinks in herself.  

She and I have had our problems lately, so while Mark wandered off with our neighbors in search of beer (which we almost never keep in our refrigerator), we took the opportunity to cry, hug it out, and due to a little too much emotion plus a little too much booze, things escalated from there, and didn't stop. It was about 1:30am in our living room, and all the pent-up resentment, jealousy, love, and lust was coming out all at once. I don't know how much time passed before Mark came back in- alone, thankfully- but when he did, I heard the door and looked up to see his jaw practically hit the floor.

As unpredictable as I might be, I'm certain that he didn't expect to walk in on me and Shari having sex on the couch. Either way, I was drunk, I didn't want to stop, and I didn't want to explain, so I did the only thing that made any sense at the time: I motioned for him to come to us.

I'm sure it started much more awkwardly than several vodkas will let me recall, but Shari had no objections and Mark had no problems. I undid his pants and the rest he took care of, I put him in my mouth and got him hard, I felt his hands slide down my face and over my shoulder, leaving a trail of shudders as they raked across my buzzing skin.

 

Mark got down to his hands and knees to kiss me, touch me, and soon after, he crawled onto the couch, replaced Shari's head with his dick soon after, and it was on. Shari crouched over me, bare body lowered down on my face to give me a taste, then slid down, kissed him, and grabbed hold of his dick while he was fucking me. I felt him slide out of me, then heard her breath draw in sharply as he slid into her, fucking her slowly with me underneath them both. Other than the fact that I was having a hard time breathing with her weight, plus the force of his strokes, bearing down on me, I was deep in the zone, right in the mix, and in that groove where I've been with Shari before: sharing an experience without anyone feeling left out.

 

We put him on his back and we both rode him. She got him right to the edge, leaning on his chest while he pulled out and painted her ass, which I then licked off. He got hard again and we started again: he fucked me in his lap, he fucked her standing up, and finally, he fucked me on the floor until he came, and then we had another few drinks and he stayed the night. As happens when it's just the two of us, I came(and more than once), and when the dust cleared I was completely satisfied. There was no post-sex weirdness between any of us, and since then, I think the three of us have been together three more times. We hang out together, we've slept (as in, asleep, not just sex) together, and we've showered together.

I don't get the feeling that things are spinning out of control, and/or that I'm in a weird situation with Shari and Mark; it's more that I think it's weird that I'm not at all alarmed by this "arrangement". I mean, can this be sustained? I'm tempted to say that only in movies can two girls share a guy this way, and not have it end in disaster...but any example I can think of from TV or movies does end in disaster, sooner or later, so I'm sort

of in uncharted territory here.

He and I still go out one on one, and so far, I'm the one he calls, not her, though I'm not sure if I'd really care if he called her, too.  A friend asked if I'd be okay to know that they had sex on their own, without me, and I'd like to think I'd be okay with that; after all, I've given her no reason to think it would bother me if she did.  I like to be in control of things- or if I'm not in control, at least be sure of, and comfortable with, whoever is in control.  With the three of us, he's the only person with any semblance of power, and for now we both seem okay with that.

I'll find out as soon as tonight if that still holds true.  He's right though, we're definitely trouble.

***

Something's been bothering me lately, but it's not been anything that I could tie to a specific situation, or person, which bothers me even more.  But I think I've finally figured out that I'm not unhappy, or overly stressed out, I'm just a little bit restless.  

For about a year and a half, I was without roots, but at least I had some focus.  I knew I needed to make some money and improve my situation, and I knew (roughly) how to do it.  Since then, I've been really fortunate: I have a great friend and more that I live with, surrounded by other good friends, too.  I work for generous people, I have a good place to live, and I drive a reliable car.  But, somewhere along the way, I've started to get a little bit itchy.  Maybe it's the fact that I'm still staring down three more years of college just for a bachelor's degree, and of course more than that for anything else.  

Either way, my restlessness is really starting to boil over a bit as I sit, morning after early morning, through classes that are truly meaningless.  I don't say that as part of the whole "college is meaningless" opinion that you hear people spout off with from time to time*.  What I mean is, that compared with classes that I'd actually use someday, the ones I'm in are total bullshit.  I mean, "Organizational Behavior"?  The fuck?

Or how about this one: "Cultural Studies".  Here's an idea, buy and read "The Economist", watch "Rick Steve's Travel Europe", go on a couple of hours-long Wikipedia binges and don't be an idiot when communicating with other cultures.  There, I just gave you a curriculum twice as challenging and rewarding as this waste of tuition.  

I'm not saying that I want to quit college, but while sitting in these classes, little by little losing the will to do anything but show up for test dates, I wonder why I would waste my own money to pay for such a big time commitment, which will stay on my academic record (should that ever factor in a meaningful way down the road).  

So, I'm going to dust off the lucites, and take a couple of day shifts in a club where a friend and former fellow dancer now works.  It's a bit of a drive from where I am, but it feels right, and if I hate it, I can always just quit, which will put me right back where I started.  But if I find myself right back in the zone, then I'm still carrying 9 hours credit while doing something that I find myself missing more and more, earning more money, and keeping the night job that I also enjoy.  Plus, being a day-shift, I'd still have those nights free.  

.

I'll keep you posted on how this works out.

*usually those people never went to college, ironically enough.  This is sort of like never leaving the borders of the US, yet claiming constantly and vocally that "America is the greatest country on god's green earth!"

***

Now I think I’ll have me a coffee with six sugars

In a world full of ass kissers and dick pullers
I’m tryna walk a straight line but the line crooked
I’m shooting for the stars, astronauts dodge bullets
Yeah, I bought a brand new attitudeThe hate is music to my ears, I got my dancing shoes

Sometimes we question shit that there is no answer to

But I just built a house on I Don’t Give a Fuck Avenue

-lil wayne

Bridget Bardot

Bridget Bardot: still a badass

***

Ever notice how in a group of people, when somebody's name comes up and some random person says "oh I hate that (insert name), she's a bitch!", no matter how many people say "hey, I know her, she's always been really nice to me", that everyone else is going to walk away thinking that she is, in fact, a bitch?  

Why is that?  Why are negative characterizations stronger than positive ones?