Please Don't Step on Caterpillars

Yes, I fully realize that the last, oh, I dunno, 5 or 6 posts, have had something to do with insects, and how profound their appearances have been to me. And yes, this is another one. Deal with it.

I was on my daily Forrest Gump-style run yesterday, enjoying the early-summer evening’s mild breeze, the late sun beating down on my sweat-soaked neck, and as usual, taking in all the sights, sounds, and smells around me. They’ve kind of become story-generating adventures for me, my runs…Maybe its something about the clarity that comes to you when you’re starting your second mile, when you can no longer feel your legs, you have no regard for the snot dripping down your upper lip, and pushing oxygen through your lungs feels like trying to shove hotdog meat through a swizzle stick.

The area that I live in (and run around) is surrounded by patches of wooded areas and dense thickets of cattails and tall grass…of course a natural habitat for hanging inch worms, milkweed pods, and caterpillars. The latter of the list is really what got me thinking, as their abundance was almost sci-fi in nature. As I came around mile 1.75 and up towards the area where the parking lots meet the woods, I noticed a tremendous amount of rather large monarch caterpillars, making their pilgrimage across the lot to what must be some sort of caterpillar Mecca.

Now I’m no botanist, or bug-guru, but I know these particular caterpillars are indeed those of the monarch species. When I was in grade school, and when walking three miles home from school by yourself was still relatively safe, there was a patch of milkweed pods just before the Cochran’s house (this was a landmark to anyone who attended G.A. Persell Elementary…). We had learned in school not only what the caterpillars looked like, but that monarch caterpillars thrive on milkweed, and coincidentally (or perhaps not), there was a pretty good population of the beautiful orange and black butterflies by mid-summer. I can still remember the wonder and amazement and total tranquility I would feel when the first cocoons had opened, and the air was filled with flying color. The daytime sky became a field of dreams to these beautiful marvels, and when they slept, the “lightening bugs” took their place as shooting stars against a midnight-blue canvas.

(As usual, I digress….sometimes I get a little caught up in these childhood remembrances….)

At any rate, I was trying to maintain my cadence, my rhythm, if you will, of a steady-paced run. (Runners call this “finding their spot”, but since I’m a novice, I’ll just call it my rhythm.) When you’re running for mileage, you really do need to find this “spot”, because once you break the rhythm, you can really fuck up a good run and slow down or shorten your strides. So this focus has become somewhat important to me.

But as I glanced down at my shiny New Balances, I realized I was coming inches, nay, millimeters, from trampling these tiny, hairy pre-miracles that were the monarch caterpillars. I mean, there were HUNDREDS of them, everywhere I looked. I jumped to one side (again, still maintaining my rhythm), only to have to dodge immediately to the other side…they were out in masses. It was like the Million-Monarch-March in Latham.

If you’ve been following along with my posts, you know that lately I have had many issues – perhaps spiritual, perhaps irrational – with killing anything, specifically insects, without some great justification. The thought of me selfishly pounding away on the blacktop and smashing what will ultimately become one of the most beautiful and unappreciated pieces of natural art just killed me. And at this point, I was wholly engaged in caterpillar defensive guerilla warfare. What started out being a leisurely run in the tepid twighlight had now become an obstacle course of great magnitude, and caused me to move as though I was a trained soldier, running through a field laced with 2-inch landmines spread about 5 inches apart.

Nimble as a rabbit, cagey like a panther, I managed to dig deep and re-strategize my formerly straight course. I zigzagged through the lot, scaling puddles (that appeared to be the caterpillar’s bathhouses), leaping over speed bumps, and probably looking like a cracked out hooker in Nike clothing. Sweat caused my mascara to run down my face, and my hair had turned into a soaked mop of flatworms, but I pressed on, leaping from side to side. Why all this over some goddamn caterpillars?

Because – and this may not be very profound or revolutionary – these creatures, in their fuzzy, spotted simplicity, represent CHANGE. Beautiful, evolutionary change. I needed to protect them, and protect the beautiful change that, I hoped, was symbolic to my near future, and me. CHANGE.

As I’ve alluded to in previous posts, I do fully believe that things that you take particular notice of – whether it be an insect, a street sign, a song on the radio, an ad in the paper – are “sent” to you for a particular reason. The reason may not be clear at the time, but rest assured, there IS a reason, if you’re acknowledging it.

I’ve had a tough couple of weeks, and I’m needing some beautiful change. The kind of change that comes from the story of the Ugly Duckling, the kind of change that comes from a monarch caterpillar. In prehistoric times (or whenever it was that monarch caterpillars made their appearance), I’m pretty sure no one would have ever thought that an “animal” so simple, covered in dots and hair and slithering on footpaths and tree-limbs, could have much of a purpose, or a future in beauty. Other than being bird food and what some would call a nuisance, I’m sure there was never a speculation that this creepy-crawly had the potential to wrap itself in silk, hibernate for a handful of days, and emerge as one of the most beautiful sights, in my eyes, known to man. Something that may cause some people fear, anxiety, maybe even disgust, could actually morph itself into a stunning piece of artwork, able to delicately float on the wind and bring joy to children on their way home from school.

So, if you can, please, don’t step on a caterpillar. It could be you. It could be me. It could be just what we need. Change. Beautiful change.

You

Just some poetry for today, folks....maybe more later....

He saw her hand reaching out of the water, just as her head was about to go under.
He pointed and stared, mesmerized by the horrible beauty.
He laughed when she said she liked the feeling of the caterpillar’s soft coat.
Told her she was a child, though not with words.
He had no regard her desire for life, her willingness to survive.
Discarded like yesterday’s trash, moldy with guilt and fear.
He ignored the subtleties of what was to be, amused by the irony,
Un-tempted by fate.
He blamed his happiness on her,
And she was punished for his pain.
He tortured her soul with incorrigible dignity,
And watched in pleasure as she pulled the sticky cobwebs from her hair.
Spindly fingers, twisted and struggled.
She believed in him, and in his belief in her.
But it was just a paper bag.
She blindly cloaked herself in his sincerity,
Becoming the standing joke of the year.
She bathed in his lavish scent, primal and deep.
”How nice things smell before they burn…”
He left her tattered and worn, and handed her a broom.
She picked up the pieces of his misery, and carried them next to her heart.

Chateaubriand vs. Hamburger

Yesterday’s reference, “Instinct attracts us, but intellect bonds us”, sat on my mind like a fat Buddha for most of the day. There are many interpretations available for this one, and my brain ingested, digested, and engaged in reverse peristalsis several times before I put it to rest…quite happily, I might add. Another Sagittarian quest to seek truth, analyze, and decide…completed.

I stumbled across another quote that I found rather remarkable…but “remarkable” in the sense that it, to me, is remark-worthy. But since remark-worthy isn’t really a term, “remarkable” is what I came up with….anyways….

“You can choose hamburger or Chateaubriand. Either way, you get a piece of meat.”

This one, like yesterday’s, rings in my ears like a death knell. Again, it is wide open to interpretation, and application to just about any facet of your particular current situation. Breaking it down in my personal elucidation, I find it eerily provocative, like the moth’s obsession with white-hot light, as it is drawn to its beauty that will inevitably lead to certain death.

Culinarily speaking, sure, I’ve always preferred the Chateaubriand route…it’s a hell of a piece of meat. Even if the chips are down and I can’t particularly afford such a luxury, it’s not necessarily just about the taste at that point, but rather it’s about the quality of said product, and the pure blissful enjoyment I have come to expect from such a succulent delicacy. Maybe it’s what I feel I deserve, for being a.) a non-professional yet passionate culinary student, b.) raised to appreciate, not expect, the finer things in life, and c.) like Heather Locklear in Clairol commercials, hey, I’m worth it.

This is not to say I don’t enjoy a tasty burger here in there. Even from Big Kahuna Burger, at 9:30am. (PLEASE get that reference….) Its tasty, it’s beefy, it’s a burger. What’s not to like?

So what’s the main difference? Quality? Enjoyment factor? Appreciation? Condiments?

To me, a delicately and masterfully cut piece of Chateaubriand is simplistic, yet rustic. Elegant, yet classic. Cared for, and matured. Delicious, but not pretentious. I guess my preference comes from the very basic nature of it…no gray area, no question…just pure, real, unadulterated beef.

Whereas the burger, well we all know there’s not much of a standard of quality for the meat grinder…Lips, hips, and assholes can pretty much make their way in. Scraps, fat, cheap cuts, whatever’s left over and questionable can make it in the ol’ food mill. Not much truth behind a smattering of drippings left on the cutting board, now is there?

This is also not to say that Chateaubriand is the only way to go. It is simply saying that if you are searching for real, unequivocal, no nonsense, quality-aged meat, it’s a safe bet you’re going to get what you paid for.
However, if you’re satisfied with the status quo, although questionable and unreliable, it’s probably still going to taste okay. And again, you get what you pay for. You may have better odds of contracting diphtheria, e-coli, encephalitis, or gangrene, but none-the-less, it’s going to serve its purpose for the three to four minutes it takes to inhale.

The great thing about it is…red wine goes well with both. It’s just easier to tolerate the burger when you’re drunk.

In the end, you’re still gonna get a piece of meat. Depends on what you’re looking for.

So from one Grade A USDA Choice Kobe filet to another, “Sante”.

Big Words.

"A preponderance of quixotic quincunxes today suggests an inability to relax as we miscalculate the amount of work needed to complete our tasks."

This was the first line of a horoscope I read today.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not a subscriber to the Dionne Warwick School of Astrology, I don't base my daily activities around what Sally Brompton says in The Post, and I guess I don't necessarily consider myself a hard-core star fucker. That being said, I do enjoy partaking in a daily ritual that is reading my online horoscope, more so just for shits-n-gigs (and to satiate my slight touch of OCD).

If you've been keeping up on my blog posts (come on, you know you have...), you know that I've recently been engaged in taking mundane, unnoticeable, ordinary things and happenings, and interpreting them with some sort of cosmic message or meaning. The whole idea behind my thinking is that there are no coincidences, there are no chance meetings, there are no mundane, unnoticeable, ordinary things. Everything in life, from a spider in my bathroom to a certain street sign I pass, must have a reason behind why I took notice. Otherwise, we're all just floating particles in the breeze, with no significant purpose other than to mimick the Kansas song I just referred to (if you're quick, and I have faith that you are, you'll get that.)

I guess as of late, I've been a little too "involved" with life to accept the fact that some things just "are". The phrase "It is what it is" has become one of my favorite things to hate, because over the past few weeks, I've heard it a million times. (Again, note that I probably only heard that phrase once or twice a year until recently...reason? Ponder.)

If it IS what it IS, what IS it? I've never been comfortable accepting the passive, complacent, non-explanation in just about anything...especially something as vague as that. I do thoroughly believe (another time-honored adage) there is a reason for everything. The key is actually taking action in trying to figure out that reason. If you.ve ever tried to answer a rhetorical question, you know thats not as easy as it sounds. Sure, you can brush things off as coincidental, but if you do that, then why not question the REASON behind the coincidence itself?

Which brings me back to the horoscope quote. For about 2 to 3 months now, I.ve had dreams that Im in an elevator, and I always want to get off at the 3rd floor. But because of some miscalculation or elevator malfunction, I always end up at the 5th floor. In some dreams, I.ve tried to fight it (unsuccessfully, I might add) and attempt to make my way down to the 3rd floor. In others, I have relaxed and accepted my 5th floor fate. The quote above speaks of "a preponderance of quixotic quincunxes", or, in laymans terms, a superior influence of the romance of impulsive, noble deeds, presented in an arrangement of five objects (much like the arrangement of dots on the five square on a domino).

Granted, those are some big ass words to swallow, but I'm sure after two or three re-reads, you'll grasp the concept (no disrespect, of course). After analyzing that, am I simply romanticizing the idea that I am, on most levels, noble and good? Am I surrounded by magical influences of the arduous fight between impulse and inhibition? And are the quincunxes representative of my five senses? Five fingers? Five toes?
Hawaii Five-O?

Either way, I'm quite enjoying the exercise my brain has been receiving lately. I've found that mental stimulation, constant theorizing, pontificating, hypothesizing, and rhetorical questioning has possibly brought me to a new level. Not a superior level, but one in which I am serving my true, Sagittarian roots: to search for answers, to right wrongs, to avenge vagueness and strive for truth.

Hey, I'm not a superhero. It just is what it is.

I'll have the Roofie and Pearl Jam sandwich please....

Eddie Vedder was close enough for me to touch as he belted out the faster, more intense version of Even Flow on Friday night. From the seventh row, floor: pure, unadulterated, gleaming ROCK was what was goin on up there...energy, vitality, regard, disregard...it was all there. I was too, until...wait...what the fuck is going on here?

I have no way to confirm or deny, but it is possible that something made its way into my drink, that I didnt put there. I just felt something was not right. That's the only way I can explain it. Sure, I was drinking...but trust me when I say I've subjected myself to every drug/alcohol combination, and have still never felt this way.

My vision seemed to go to black and white. My left ear went dead. My neck felt like I had been shaken by a British au pere. My kidneys felt like someone had sucker punched them for hours. I had to get out.

I pushed through one of the exit doors and mumbled something to the woman at the door about having to check on my sitter so that she'd let me back in. I reached the street and a cold, bitter rain was steadily falling on my bare arms. "Make it to the car, make it to the car" was all I could think. After wandering around the parking lot for what seemed like 15 minutes but could have easily been two hours, I find my friend's truck by using the panic button on his keychain (so THATS what that button is for...). I climb in the cab, and reach for my phone.

At this point, what little memory I have of this adventure is coming in big, huge flashes, like you see in old movies when they're using the old camera, where the photographer buries his head under a dark cloth and a huge explosion erupts from the bulbs.

BOOM! With white smoke clearing, I see a black and white picture of me searching for my phone.

BOOM! More white smoke and I see the black and white picture of me frantically scrolling through my cell.

BOOM! Flash and white smoke and a black and white picture of a set list of people who might be able to talk me down.

Julie....she's sleeping. Michael....he's out celebrating with Jay. Sara...she's at work. Billy....he's at another show. Simon....who the hell is Simon? I fear Drew ended up being the phone victim, but I cant be sure (sorry, dude). The next thing I remember is shutting my phone and tripping over something in the wet parking lot, jamming stones and, I'm sure, small shards of glass in my palm. My clothes are soaked, and I have reason to believe I'm somewhere near the bus station...like most cities, the bus station is always in the worst part of town. I need to find that huge arena I was enjoying myself in just two hours ago...or was it three?

The rest of the night is pretty blurry, and only comes in those BOOM moments. Just still photography shots of a drowned-rat-looking thing, pathetically stumbling through the street with a bloody hand and a cell phone.

Literally, the next thing I knew, it was 10am, and I was at my apartment, in my bed. I looked out my window, and my car was there, in one piece I might add. My chain belt lay in a neat pile on my extra comforters, and my contacts had been taken out. An empty flask of vodka was on my nightstand.

I'm just about 100% sure I wasnt violated in the physical sense, even though my kidneys still feel like they've been subjected to a week of heavy dialysis. In trying to remember WHEN I misplaced my drink, the only time I can somewhat recall is when I left it on the floor, beneath my chair, so that I could get something out of my purse, or go smoke a cigarette, or go buy another beer. And there were total douche bags sitting behind and next to me. But douche enough to put something in my drink at a fucking Pearl Jam show??? Dont know.

"Is something wrong?" she said. "Of course there is. You're still alive," she said, "Oh and do I deserve to be? Is that the question? And if so...if so...who answers? Who answers?!?!?!"

Uncle Bob's, Vol 2 5.12.06

...so the reason behind my last post maybe isn't as spiritual as I thought it was going to be...but nonetheless, it tickled me.

The whole "Uncle Bob's" thing was brought to my mind (after not thinking about it for probably 10 years...) because of something that happened to me yesterday. I was on my daily run (yeah, I'm runnin' Forest Gump style lately....), and took a different route than I usually do. I found myself running parallel to a thickly wooded area, the kind that would be perfectly suited for a new "Uncle Bob's". I wondered if the neighborhood kids had "Uncle Bob's", and if so, what do they call them?

I thought about how good it felt, walking through the thick grass to get to the woods...and how, even though the twigs and branches had thorns and burs, I relished the feeling of those scrapes on my bare, sun-burned, 16 year old legs. I remembered the excitement that would rush over me as I took my first step onto the muddy forest floor, and the anticipation that filled my being over who's gonna fight who...who's gonna kiss who...who's going to cry tonight.

I miss that excitement, that anticipation. How innocent we were when our biggest stressor was getting chapter 8 read by Friday. How perfectly beautiful we were when there was no regard for socioeconomics, just unadulterated fun. How romanticly genuine we were, when our hearts all but sank when our boyfriend or girlfriend of 15 minutes "dumped" us. How amazing and wonderful and horrible and tumultuous and fabulous...all wrapped up into one, pubescent, sticky-fumblings-in-the-back-seat memory.

I'm getting back to those basics. I'm getting back to just enjoying moments. I'm getting out of the game, and into the real. Life may be short, but fuck if I'm gonna miss the ride, and all the little bumps and blunders in between.

The smell of Uncle Bob's is still fresh in the air to me...thick with smoke, and cigarettes, and stale, cheap beer, and stale, cheap purfume. Few people or things have been able to evoke that spirit in me. Some people made it happen a couple weeks ago. Some things made it happen yesterday. For those, I must be thankful...and look forward to the next time.

Uncle Bob's, Vol. 1, 5.12.06

Those of you from Jamestown are more than familiar with "Uncle Bob's", but for those of you not graced with the privilege of being born in the armpit of America, allow me to explain.
"Uncle Bob's" is a standing term in Jamestown, NY...It was used to refer to any type of "secret" gathering of high schoolers, where Milwaukee's Best (the Beast!) and experimental drugs were going to be the guests of honor, somewhere in the woods of western New York. There were several different "Uncle Bob's" locations, but if you got the call to go, you knew which one to show up at.

The term "Uncle Bob" came from some brilliant kids in the 1960s who needed a way to communicate there was a killer party going down, without their parent's knowing where. Example: Johnny is standing in the kitchen, on the phone with Erin. Johnny's mom is in the kitchen, backing apple pie. Johnny simply says "Hey Erin, want to meet up at Uncle Bob's tonight?" This way, Johnny can say "Hey ma, I'm pickin Erin up and we're going to her Uncle Bob's....I won't be home too late..." and all was well with the world.

On any given Friday night, the journey to Uncle Bob's usually began with a master plan: one kid would have the desire to throw down, and word was spread by mouth (there was no email then...) as to which location the festivities would unfold at. Some selections were "out by Rt. 17", "at the end of Chadwick", and "on the North side", among others.

Then, said kid would be in charge of finding someone's big brother or sister to purchase enough of The Beast to go around once or twice. Experimental drugs were solely at the discression of the attendees, but were almost always expected and/or assumed participants.

Once the Beast was secured, the endless phone tree began of "who's gonna drive". This was always a problem for my particular "crew", as one friend had no car, one friend was a raging alcoholic who would NEVER be available to drive home, my dad was known as Captain Crime so the chances of me and my car being caught were great, and another friend had a 2-seater.
Finally, once all plans had come together, the pilgrimage to the selected spot began. This usually entailed parking about 5-6 blocks away from the final destination, loading up backpacks, coolers, and kayaks with beer, blankets, cigarettes, lighters, lighter fluid, and occassionally, a bottle of water, should there be an emergency (we didn't really plan that well....).

After slinging these items on our backs like hard-core hikers on their way to the top of Kilimanjaro, the trip into the woods was underway, and usually started with a long treck through some type of field or thicket. Once the actual wooded area came into view, there were no trails, no footpaths, nothing that would give us the clues to where the final gathering would take place....the only thing guiding us was the unfleeting desire to get plastered and make out with half the group, and that desire usually got us all to the same place at the same time. Must be some cosmic force that travels by osmosis through horny teenager's minds. Somehow, we were all on the same page.

The veteran campers would immediately spring into action, collecting dry wood and stones for the fire pit. Makeshift stools were fashioned from rotting stumps and moldy coolers left there from Uncle Bob's past, and surrounded the pit like a tribal council. At the sound of the first cracked beer (warm, of course), a guitar would begin to strum, and drums would be pummelled like in a 6-year-old's pots-n-pans parade.

Some things at Uncle Bob's were inevitable. They were: 1. A fight (guy on guy)2. Another fight (girl on guy)3. Someone passing out and missing the fire by inches.4. Incredible laughter when certain someone's got caught making out.

No one cared, really. No one cared about anything, except being alive and hanging out and not getting caught and breaking rules and spreading gossip and sexual experimentation and the first beer buzz and clothes that smelled like campfire.

After about 4-5 hours, the crowd started to thin. We had to be conscious of not all walking out together, as suspicion would surely be raidsed if 20 teenagers came stumbling out of a field, some half naked, some screaming "mommy", some chanting the theme to Sesame Street.
Once we got back to the car, another ritual ensued...spraying your hair and clothing down with anything you could find: perfume, hairspray, Deep Woods Off!, leftover juice....in order to disguise the beer/cigs/campfire smell...I swear, some of our parents had the nose of a German Shepard. If you were lucky enough, you could spend the night at the friend's house who had the "cool" parents, who wouldn't mind if you broke a lamp or threw a muddy shoe at the wall when you finally made it in. But for those of us that had to report back to Captain Crime, the stench-cleansing was not only necessary, but a matter of life and death.

So that's the background of Uncle Bob's....my next post will further explain why it is I might miss something like that....just another one of life's funny messages I literally ran into yesterday. Stay tuned....

Barenaked Ladies, 5.10.06

I must first start by saying this reference is bringing me back, way back, to my college days...where yes, I will admit, I adored the Barenaked Ladies (a certain gentleman friend was heavy into them, which made me guilty by association).

At any rate, they have a song called "There's a Spider in My Room" and it won't stop tormenting me. Mainly because I had yet ANOTHER unpleasant encounter...this time, at work. I swear they're following me...

...and my boss just said I make a schitzophrenic look like a realist.

I noticed a HUGE, I mean fucking H U G E daddy-long-legs crawling up the wall of my office. This wasn't your ordinary, run-of-the-mill daddy-long-legs though....no tiny little body with big long legs (hence...the name...I digress) but rather a body the size of my fist and legs longer than mine. This bastard could have very well been wearing a pinstriped Pierre Cardin double-breasted suit for all I know...I didn't want to get that close.

I followed him with my eyes, and had another mental conversation with him. "Ok, man...I'm gonna let you go about your business...you stay on that side of the room, I'll stay on my side...and all will be well with the world." He didn't listen.

So I turned my "inside" voice into a full out roar. At this point, one of the supervisors that works with me came into the situation.

"What the fuck are you yelling at???" he says, remarking on my rants to what seems like a bare, light pink wall of concrete. He realizes what's going on, and of course, begins to torture me. He throws candy wrappers at it. He blows on it (at this point it's hangning from the ceiling...right above me). He fans it with a paper plate. The spider appears to be laughing at him.
Finally, he comes to my rescue and cups the spider in a plasitc glass, and I follow him outside where he plans to free it. Just to make sure, I have to watch, 8-step by 8-step, this monstrosity walk the opposite direction of my office.

I literally almost passed out, threw up, and ran for my life at the same time. Sick. Now of course, I'm plagued with the idea that they're crawling all over me...in my hair, down my pants, around my ears. The tingle isn't such a "good" tingle as it is incredibly terrifying. I want a good tingle, dammit.

Which leads me to my point...why am I seeing spiders almost on a daily basis? Sure, it's springtime, and they're out in full-fledge, trying to do what spiders do....eat other things that come out in springtime. But this is getting ridiculous.

Being the type of person I am, of course I'm looking for some greater meaning to their appearances. I read somewhere that seeing spiders often means that I will be blessed with creativity and good luck. Well, neither of those have really come to me as of late....mainly the latter of the two. But I'm hoping that it's not just another one of God's sick, twisted jokes on me...because since I'm only "afraid" of spiders and adult clowns, I certainly don't want to know what he's gonna plant on me next. So help me, if I'm visited by an adult clown any time in the near future, I will surely be committed for the rest of my natural-born life. (Are straight-jackets slimming? Just wondering...)

Great, now I've got visions of grown men dressed as clowns peering in my windows late at night.
Apparently, I do make a schitzophrenic look like a realist.

Move Over, Noah Wyle, 5.10.06

If you've been reading this religiously (and I know you have...), you'd know that a couple weeks ago, I had a bit of a showdown with a spider. Even after committing "spidercide", I still felt pretty damn bad about it....and got some hate-mail (ok ONE hate-mail) about killing creatures that have a job to do, that actually help, yada yada yada....everything that made me feel even more guilty. At any rate, I had mentioned in the post that I HAD tried to let the 8-legged-deamons live and prosper and enjoy a healthy little arachnid life, and that, unfortunately, the experience in the shower that fateful morning had changed my plan...all must die! Well, after the hate-mail, I decided to go back to my original concept of live-and-let-live, and put a ceasefire on the killing spree I had planned.

Yesterday, I was balancing my checkbook (one of those feel-good operations that I adore doing when I need to clear my head....note the sarcasm...), and as I was pulling some past-due bills out, I noticed a sizeable moth, sitting quietly on the National Grid envelope. "Live or die? Live or die?" I think. "The spiders could take care of this winged creature...or I could save it the agony of the 2-fanged clutches and put him out of his misery with one swipe...."

"No....this guy isn't doing any harm...he's just trying to live his moth-life...sitting motionless until something startles his dust-covered-tissue-paper wings. Then he'll move on to what I assume is stage 2 of a moth's short life, and fly around haphazardly, slamming into walls, chasing lightbulbs, circling over and over until he once again lands safely on another utility's invoice...let him live. He's got his own beauty anyways...those dark, but irrodescent wings, sprinkled with a protective dusty coating....long legs that seem to have 1970's-leather-jacket fringe hanging from them....cute little button nose..." I go back to enjoying my laborious task at hand. He lives.

This morning, I get in the shower, again, quite similarly to the situation with the spider just a few weeks ago. Innocent me, padding up to the bathroom door, just tryin' to get clean. As the warm water starts to hit my face, I notice a big, dark spot to the upper right. "Oh man, not another spider," I shudder, "I've had enough demons to face this week." But no, it's my little friend the moth (I should refer to him as "Terrance" at this point, as that is what I feel he would have liked to have been called.) Terrance sat, again motionless, at the corner of the shower. "Ter...how's it going? You here to bring me a message? Or are you just a pervert in moth's clothing?" Either way, I continue my shower, and feel....comfortable. As I turned around to give a final rinse, I notice Terrance's wings started fluttering a bit....was he getting residual spray from the shower head that probably needs a good CLR soak? Or is he trying to give me a message? (Yeah, I'm getting all existential in the shower these days....)

In a New York minute, he's now at my feet, his wet wings clinging to the tub and he's struggling to upright himself. "NO TERRANCE...NOOOOO" I'm shouting in my head. "I wanted you to live for a reason....not sure WHAT that reason was...but come on, I'm noble for sparing you...you're not gonna give up on me now!!!" With the precision of a brain surgeon, I try and try to get him to his feet....but his tissue wings are getting wetter and weaker by the moment. "Maybe my fingers are too sturdy for this job," I think, and quickly grab the rubber-coated end of my razor. "Come on, Terrance, work with me, we can do this." I cautiously but diligently try to flip him to his front legs, without damaging his wings. But like a tragic movie, I start to see the dust that blankets his appendages slowly drain through the water. At this point, I've turned from a brain surgeon into an ER doctor, pounding on the chest of a new, young patient who's crashing on the table. I'm desparate, I'm sweating, I'm almost in tears. "Not now, buddy....not on my table. The spider didn't get you...I'll be damned if I let my shower be your final adventure." His legs are still kicking, yet starting to slow in both frequency and strength.

I finally get him to his front-side, and gingerly lay him on an empty plastic box that's reserved for Olay Daily Facial cloths. He lay lifeless, with one tiny wing missing a chunk. Futility. If I could have given CPR to this little fella, I would have. I stared at Terrance for a good 3-4 minutes..."Maybe once he dries up a bit, he'll take flight again, and all will be good with the world."

As far as I know, at this very moment, Terrance's lifeless body still lies on the Olay box. Gross, you may be thinking, there's a dead insect in the place that is reserved for cleanliness! But - and possibly this says a whole lot about me and my spirit - he may not be dead after all...he went through a pretty traumatic experience, and gave it all he had. I fully believe he wanted to live, which is why he got a little help. With a little help from me, he was spared the spider's wrath, and got a good washing in the process.

So, the journey from letting the spiders take over my home, to waging an all out war on them, to saving a moth, TWICE, has been a cathartic one. But I don't think this is the end. I'm sure there are more battles to be waged, more saving to be done...and honestly, I'm kind of looking forward to it. "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger", some obviously beaten-down soul once said. But maybe what kills you, IS your strength. I didn't give up on Terrance, because he didn't give up on me.

The water may have tried to kill Terrance....but in the end, he came out clean.

The Dream's Essence

Written sometime in 2003:

The Dream's Essence

Silently she stands,
as spectacular beams of light radiate from her body in glasslike fingers that stretch past forever,
each brilliantly illuminated with passion and fervor of the dreams essence.

Unscathed by internal conflicts that have raged beneath the surface for years,
she basks in its amorous glow
with the serenity of an infant, cradled in its mothers tender, protective arms.

Her five innate senses spontaneously engage and speak to one another,
blending into a smooth serum that flows warm through her veins like rainbow-colored bliss.

Secretly, her psyche mimics a ravenous parasite,
Relentlessly feeding off the dreams magnificent soul, expressing no regard for the sanctity of its mere existence.
Like raindrops as they meet the parched deserts floor, the spirit of the dream is mercilessly,
yet beautifully,
devoured.

Without warning, casualties of countless inner battles are swiftly yet respectfully collected from the combat zone,
and cast from the arena by powerful hands, heavy with both relief and anxiety.

Crippling notions of inadequacy,
doubts of worthiness,
and beliefs of futility
Abruptly collapse, annulling their collective pledge to immortality;
Their uninvited and deafening screams,
once debilitating and inescapable,
now forever silenced,
slain by their own toxic sword.

Dancing gracefully with its newfound freedom,
with the elegance of a dove against the heavens cobalt canvas
as it dances on the wind,
at long last,
the dreams essence unites with the melodys heart.
For its cadence,
conducted by the hands of the universe,
is audible only to the soul.

One Night on Lark Street, 5.6.06

This is some old school shit....old Lionheart...now Bombers....Written Spring 1998:

I was in the Lionheart with Kate when I decided to get some air. Stepped outside to the beat of the traffic and wished I was going somewhere. I stopped in the corner store for some smokes and a hard candy. Again I touched the air with my pale skin as I peeled the celophane away fromt he new pack. Tore the foil out to reveal 20 freshly stacked brown filters. As I plucked one from its cavity, the scent reminded me how much nicer things smell before they burn.
An orange flame lit the perfectly cut end of the white stick and filled me with reassurance.
I stopped to pet a great dane on the sidewalk and attempted conversation with her master. She wagged her tail and kept on.

The night was warm and young so I took the opportunity to pretend. Closed my eyes and thought of sand and birds and water and a thin, tan bdoy. It's mine.

Just then I felt someone near so I opened my eyes to return to reality. "Excuse me," I stuttered as a young woman and her suitor brushed past me. They were a bit drunk, I assumed, by their giggles and disregard for my existance. Another drag of the cigarette filled my lungs, and once again I exhale longer than considered normal.

I stepped back into the pub to find Kate, reluctantly but consistantly holding conversation with a meaty young gent. I returned to my three-quarter full cider and drank languidly. Why do I always drink this? I'm a slave to pop culture and microbrews.

The bartender gives me a smile and asks "Can I get you anything else?"

"How long do ya got?" I sheepishly blurted. Kate looked over and asked if anything was wrong. I gave her the same answer, and she returned to her torture.

I looked at the other end of the bar at a late-forties looking man drinking a pale ale. Thought of dad. Saw a girl siddling up to a "less than her" guy and thought of mom. Looked at both, and saw me. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

"Excuse me, sorry," I heard whispered in my ear. With hope-filled eyes I turned on my "cute" face to see who uttered the words. It's a beautiful person, dressed to kill with a stare that could do the same. "Oh sure, sorry".

He reaches past my left shoulder with a crumpled twenty in his fist, and flags down the bartender with the sophisticance of Fred Estaire. I sip my drink, hoping I won't choke and cough all over this miracle.

"What are you drinking?" he asks. Is he asking ME? Yea, he is. Go with it. I point to the crafted woodchuck tap and nod. He orders one for me and a Sam Adams for himself.
"God I wish I was stoned," I think. "How the hell am I gonna do THIS?"

"Thanks," I blurt out. WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR??? Only speak when spoken to....or some shit like that.

The drinks arrive in a foamy mess and he tipped well. "Okay, go with this, Laura. Be yourself, but for the love of God don't say anything!"

I open my mouth as I tell my brain to shut up.

"Honey thanks, I'm going to talk to one of my friends for a sec and I'll be right back. Then do you wanna go home?" a voice said. Was it MINE? Hope not....

Music screached to a hault and everyone turned to see my reasction as the lovely young lady tapped her male friend on the shoulder and hugged him. The young man smiled sympathetically at me, and joined his amigos at the pool table.

Kate's done with the conversation...apparently he likes Nintendo too much and smokes a pack and a half a day. I light another cigarette and we catch a cab home.

"Same time tomorrow?"

I wince and agree.

A Poem for Bill, 5.5.06

So, I went diggin around in some old files and came across some of my poetry....per one of my last posts, I'm sharing....will try to upload more throughout the day....

Written March 1997:

Burning eyes invite passion.
Giving in to temptation I reach for the skin.
Tongues dance, twisted and intertwined.
Wet the neck and begin the rage.
Hands ravish quickly from my head, to my shoulders, to my breast,
stomach, thighs, ankles.
Never-ending sequence follows up and down.
I glide my hands over my lover's chest
Playfully teasing, tempting.
Down a smooth torso with tickling licks, being unfair to lustful desires.
Impure thoughts race mutually through rainbow-flavored minds.
I carry myself carefully through fields of impatience.
Hearts beat faster, hands grasp harder, breaths gasp deeper.
Insatiable urges build and plateau.
For one solitary minute, two become one in spirit and mind,
forming mercury puddles on frozen granite.
Bodies thrust in harmony, a marriage of brave and weak.
Sweet perspiration provides silky friction and signals the end of a journey.
With one last breath I lay in the shadow of my lover's glow.
Satisfied hearts link to each other and speak through the smoke in the air.

Popeye 5.4.06

Strange quirk about me, I guess....(I really don't know, maybe this is a commonplace amoung humans)...but every morning I wake up with a different song in my head...as though I've been listening to it in my dreams or something. Sometimes it's random, like Laura Brannigan's "Self Control". Sometimes it's a nice friendly wake-up call, like "The Bright Side of Life" from Monty Python. Sometimes it's obvious, like when I wake up with "Sand Man" by America, over and over and over.

This morning, it was a song that is not from my genre of preference, perse, yet it was strangely exhilarating. It was Gavin DeGaw's "I Don't Wanna Be". Now, assuming you're as cool as me, given the fact that you're reading this, you probably don't know who Gavin DeGaw is, or that song. Fortunately for me, I do catch American Idol once and again, which is where I heard the song in the first place. So, explained...the key lyric in it is "I don't wanna be anyone other than who I've been tryin to be lately." Thusly, inspiring a post.

As a rule, I've almost always been misunderstood or misinterpreted....not for the lack of trying, however. I have reason to believe I'm actually quite eloquent, articulate, and generally good with..............words. Like most people, I'm much better with the pen than I am the sword (or crayon, or box-cutter, or spoken word...whathaveyou....I digress), which is probably why I've fancied myself a "writer" since I was in first grade (that's when I wrote the first 4 chapters of my book, "Why Can't I See?", a tragic tale of a 9 year old girl slowly going blind...a morbid child, I was, no?). I was first published shortly after that, albeit in Kids Korner (you KNOW you know that one). I was actually published once a year from that point on, until I got too old for Kids Korner and had to graduate to the Penthouse Forum.

Ok, fine, I never wrote anything for Penthouse...but it's a thought....Digress again.

I wrote poetry through my pre-pubescent years, I wrote prose through high school, and I got off on writing thesis's (thesis-i?) in college. I started writing another book when I moved to Albany in 1997, but I quickly went into a "dark" place, where even writing hurt too much. Whether I was inspired or not, I just could not pick up that pen and put it to paper....every word seemed to cut into my flesh like a fork to a well-braised chicken. What was once my outlet for frustrations and thoughts and trials and tribulations, was now simply too painful to even think about. That period lasted about 4 years.

I entered the wonderful world of drugs relatively late in life, and to this day is still something I don't regret. I was once again able to channel that inner author, and with the help of some mild (or sometimes not-so-mild) toxicity, it didn't hurt nearly as much. I wrote and wrote and wrote...till he middle of the night I wrote. And I might add, they were some of the most inspiring, cathartic, not to mention BRILLIANT pieces I've ever come up with. I've got them all at home....maybe I'll bring them in and show them to you sometime...like an online show-n-tell....once again, digression. (Is that even a word? Some literary genius I am....)

SO, back to my original point, I've made some real leaps and bounds in the last five years, in really getting to know myself, as well as "who I've been tryin to be lately". And for the first time in a long, long while, I'm feeling ok in my own skin. And I think the reason for that is because I've done nothing more than be what I am....like Popeye said, "I am what I am and that's all that I am." I'm not trying to be anyone else...I'm not going to sell myself short....I'm not going to let one or two set-backs literally set me back 5 more years....that wasn't right of me to allow to happen in the first place, all those years ago. But I suppose, it HAD to happen for me to get to this point. I'm writing again. Ok, so it's on a blog right now, so what. At least I'm channelling again.

In the past, I've been a bit "reserved" (and those of you who know me already, know that I'm not exactly talking about reserving fun times....), but more reserved in the not trusting, not believing, not jammin' on anything anyone said, or on anything I thought or said myself. It was a giant mind-fuck from day to day...and then, one day, I said "Enough". Enough of the bullshit, enough of the games, enough of self-doubt. I'm a pretty fucking good person, when it comes down to the brass tacks. And pretty fucking cool by most standards. And my inhibitions, while slightly more lubricated after a few boilermakers, have begun to disappear again.

Now I'm not saying I'd run up to an old man in Walmart and smack him on the back of the head, hoping his teeth would fly out so I could dance around them Mariachi-style....or that I'd go up to my boss and tell him he's the biggest ass-ache until he's had his first cup of coffee. Trust me, I've thought about doing both. Many thoughts have run through my head, as I'm sure they have yours, like "What would happen if I just stopped turning the steering wheel" as a huge bend in the road appears in the distance. I've thought "What would happen if I just told this interviewer to suck my ass, and walk right the fuck out, giving the ol' 'su-fi' on the way out"....I've actually thought about that DURING an interview.

BUT, the long and the short of it is (ok, mostly long), that I have reason to believe that people can misinterpret my inhibitions as crazed...psychotic...stalkeresque...when really all I'm about is having a good time, and maybe learning a thing or two along the way. Maybe it's from being part of "GenerationX" or "GenerationPepsi" or whatever the hell you want to call those of us that were born in the mid 70s....Before Nancy Reagan got in my head with "Just Say No", I had already been pulvarized with "If it feels good, do it." Not to say I have no regard for my actions, no respect for reprocussions....I take full responsibility for whatever it is that I do.
But when I do it, I'm just being me. And I honestly think it's pretty cool that I'M finally ok with that. What you see is what you get, and what you get, is what you see. I'm not exactly an open book at first, but I sure can tell some stories.

JFK once said "You can forgive, but you can never, ever forget". I like to believe I'm a forgiver. And who wants to forget anything....everything that's happened, in the end, IS who you are. So don't forget what's happened, or you forget yourself.

And I don't wanna be anyone other than who I've been tryin to be lately.

PS. I'll gladly pay you Tuesday for a hamburger today.

Sheer Poetry 5.1.06

Dearly beloved,
We are gathered here today to get through this thing called "life".
Electric word, life. It means forever and that's a mighty long time.
But I'm here to tell you, there's something else: The Afterworld.
A world of never-ending happiness. You can always see the sun...day or night.
So when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills, you know the one...Dr. Everything-Be-Alright....Instead of asking him how much of your time is left, ask him how much of your mind, baby.
Cuz in this life, things are much harder than in The Afterworld.
In this life, you're on your own.
And if the elevator tries to bring you down, go crazy. Punch a higher floor.

Unadulterated Boredom In Its Purest Form 4.26.06

I seriously must be caught in a freakishly garish space-time continuum right now. Caught in some deep vacuum of hellaciousness that keeps my being from being anything but productive or useful to the universal constraints surrounding me. At this very moment, I am simply a human, being.
I have clicked the inbox on my email, even tho a message clearly states I have no new mail.
I have given serious thoughts to organizing pens alphabetically, and then by color.
I have contemplated soaking a piece of paper in water, mashing it into a pulp, flattening it out, and drying it in the sun....only in order to make another piece of paper.
Is there anything more futile than a leaf blower?
Do they ever make a safe kite out of metal or wire? Ever?
I have gotten pissed at people for being so lazy that they type "tho", instead of "though", even tho I do it.
Today, this is my life.
Just a human, being.

Unadulterated Boredom In Its Purest Form 4.26.06

Bikes, Excrement, and Glass Tiger 4.26.06

Brace yourself, the title of this entry basically sums it all up....and it's not that exciting....
Last night, I had a dream I was riding bikes (!!) with one of the most repulsive looking women you've ever seen (I happen to work with her) and her daughter. We were weaving in and out of traffic in Washington, DC...and my bike happened to be making an annoying sound, as though there were nuts and bolts swinging against the metal. Also, my horn didn't work....yes, my bike had a horn. It was a small button on the handlebars that read, remarkably, "horn"...and when I pushed it, this pathetic little "whhaaaa" came out, like in cartoons when the evil villian is trying to escape the good guys, and their getaway car suddenly and comically dies.
Back to the dream. We decide to head back to this woman's house (mind you, the house is as homely as she is....) and we hook up my bike to some diagnostic tool that can magically tell you what's wrong with a god damn Schwinn 5-speed. Low and behold, a couple nuts and bolts fall off, and she goes "There ya go, you're all set." Great, my bike is fixed. (Except the horn....that's still fukahktah.)
We go into her living room, and she's got crazy dark shag carpet from 1973....it's nasty, but I lie down on it, belly down, and start chattin it up with her equally ugly daughter...ya know, about bike shit 'n stuff. I look down, and notice there's a tremendous amount of goose shit on the carpet....but since the carpet is 70s dark brown shag, no one notices but me. And I don't want to draw attention to it because I don't want to embarrass this already incredibly heinous-looking woman. Then I remember I'm wearing my favorite pair of jeans, and start getting a little pissed. Ok, a lot pissed....they're Seven jeans for God's sake. So I slowly get up, and look down, and bing-bam-boom, there's shit all over the front of my jeans. Then, the actual shit on the carpet, that was originally shaped like gigantic goose-size shit, transforms into little tiny balls of shit. Like rabbit shit. Shit.
I look up, and a HUGE rabbit comes hopping out across the carpet from behind a recliner. I mean this thing is the size of a medium sized dog. Small for a dog, but pretty fuckin big for a rabbit.
I say my thank-you's for fixing my bike, and get the fuck out before anyone can notice how filthy my jeans are, and how pissed I am about the fact.
Then I wake up this morning, and the 1986 classic "Don't Forget Me When I'm Gone" by Glass Tiger (featuring Bryan Adams...) is playing over and over in my head.
Analyze THAT, Fruedians....

It's been a while....

But I'm back....because I'm transferring some of my blog posts from my myspace to here....so...enjoy....here they come....

4.25.06
So this morning, I'm still in a half-sober morning haze, and not feelin all that great about the fact that it's 6:30am. I'm amidst my morning routine, and pull back the shower curtain to start running the water for what I anticipate is going to be a warm, soothing, wonderfully lathering experience to start my exhilarating day. Allow me to preface, I have a general distaste...nay, a general malaise....for spiders.

There, galiantly standing about 3 inches from me, is a spider - no lie, no exaggeration - about the size of my head. He appeared to be laughing at me...that evil clown laugh that resonates thru your whole body.

Once I cleaned up the pool of blood that collected after I passed out and slammed my head on the porcelain of the toilet, I stood up to this mother fucker, and told him..."You're not the boss of me". I mustered the courage to gather about 3,000 feet of toilet paper so that I could bring this monster to his 8 knees. In movie-theatre slow motion, I move in for the kill....at which point, this arachnidian asshole stood up on it's back four legs and said "Are you sure you want a piece of this, bitch?"

In true Kill-Bill fashion, I say "Oh yea, mother fucker....this is DEFINITELY gonna hurt you more than it hurts me." And I go for him. I get him on the first grab....but I still have the terrifying sensation that this monkey fuck of a spider is still alive, and just waiting for me to release the pressure of my posable thumb and forefinger, so that he can attempt to finish ME off. While choking back on my own vomit, I summon the power of JunHassama, and I put the fucking death grip on him. I feel the gratifying "pop" of his midsection. Yea bitch, who owns this joint NOW????

I toss him and his Quilted Northern coffin in the toilet, and try to regain my strength to resume my routine. But all I can think about is this super-bug somehow reconstituting in the water of the bowl, and crawling back...bigger, better, stronger...and destroying all that is holy. But at this point, I'm already about 15 minutes behind in my morning routine, and I don't know that I can sacrifice the 2-3 minutes I'll have to wait while the toilet is running, in order to avoid scalding burns in the shower. Fuck it. FLUSH.

This little bastard not only floated out of his double-ply cocoon and started flailing his disease infested legs, but I swear to you, he screamed all the way down.

Now, when I first moved into my new apartment, I found a couple spiders here and there, but got all existential on their asses when I was told it was good luck to have a spider in your new dwelling. I let many of them live happy, peaceful, fly-eating spider lives. At first, maybe they were thankful. Now? They're just totally taking fucking advantage of me. Fuck that. There's gonna be an all out war on these fuckers now.

I love the smell of Raid in the morning. Smells like.........victory.