To believe in this living is such a hard way to go

My most dedicated readers have heard this-feel free to skip this entry.

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There are three states of ritual. If you were to ask Victor Turner. Which would be silly. Cuz he's dead and not very good conversation these days. But let's presume he could answer-he would tell you there are three states of ritual. Let me break it down to the basics. The beginning stage is one of impurity, the person undergoing the ritualistic process is unclean and Othered. By nature of this the person must enter into a Liminal state-a state that is neither here nor there, alive or dead, it is a state of unbeing. The liminal state calls for a transmission from non-entity to new being. That is the third state-rebirth. Upon reaching re-birth the person is able to be accepted into society as a whole and new being. These are the stages of ritual. We have all-at one time or another, in one form or another encountered these experiences. They are inherent to the human experience.
Today-I was ritualized.
In belief.
With a velvet Elvis.
And a dagger.
Oddly enough it was purifying.
I may not have felt better, but I felt very supported.
E brought in a box of stuff. Seemingly random stuff that it would take a stretch of the imagination to use to form a narrative.
I was cast out into the hall and my peers formulated an insta-ritual. The only break in the tension came from the gift of a Marlboro Light so that I could step outside to smoke and pass the time.
From the room I could hear the laughter and plotting but couldn't make out the plans. I was only deeply concerned.
A few minutes into my liminality e walked out telling me that she had been dispatched for more props. My concern grew.
C walked out of the room. "Come on M-if you would be willing to set yr water bottle down and come inside."
"I suppose I should strip myself of all worldy comforts for the event." Having already left behind my shoes and socks (nothing I am very fond of anyway that) I felt that dispatching the water bottle was only reasonable. I was naked, metaphorically. There was no materials of comfort with which I could commune in the face of my ordeal. For ritual is ordeal. I somewhat despised my peers for their absence at the moment. But also forgave them, for they need not ritual for success, they have actual knowledge. I need transference.
I was made to kneel before the insta-altar. Killed by a dagger to the heart, my impurities removed and flaunted like the last doughnut. Drops of tincture were placed upon the representation of my old state and it was rendered new and revived. I was low to the floor, struck, with socks with images of Elvis on each shoulder, a velvet Elvis placed before me. (That boy from Tupelo, he's the king and he oughta know...) I had no power, I was low and at the mercy of my peers. A ridiculous hat was placed upon my head, a wooden apple given to me, to represent the knowledge that I had. A hand rested on the hat, telling me that I had the sum knowledge of my education. Mardi Gras beads were placed around my neck,to represent the riches of my knowledge, and all the jewels I would be able to afford with my degree in folklore.
I was freed from my liminality and asked to speak a great truth. Here is my truth, that I could not speak because I wasn't prepared at the time.
Thank you. You who I have only had contact with in context of school. You that know so little of what I have gone through for this degree. You that shouldn't have to care. Thank you, this game of ritual means a great deal to me. Much more than I could ever say out loud. It means that I am not undertaking this task alone, sometimes I think that I am. Usually I think that I am entirely alone. You remind me, with yr candles and stories and the taking down of yr hair and the wonderful acting out of character and performance of meaning, you remind me that I am making this journey alone (as do we all, as there is no other option for some things) but we are in similar situations.
This, is more important than I could be comfortable saying.
Sure, it was silly. But ritual is far more important than we, as intellectual advanced beings care to admit. There is an awareness of place, both in community and in the world that comes from ritual.
I am making too much of this.
But as it was only me, as I was the only person to whom these actions pertained, something that is not so in any other case in this whole debacle that has been the program, I would rather like to think that it is meaningful.
I plan to make it meaningful, as I am in desparate need of something to hold on to.

Je suis une parodie d'intellect

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It is just that horrifying.
Yet, I don't think there's anything I can do about it.
I am so terrified. But I try to study and it doesn't make me feel anything but worse.
I am so fucked.
Fucked doesn't beging to explain it.
I'm crucified.
That's how bad off I am.
Nailed to a cross, slowly strangling on my own blood or dying of thirst.

C'est dramatique. Ne c'est pas?

Oui. C'est tres dramatique. Tres.

But that's how I feel. Powerless and competely resigned to a fate that I can only make vain struggles against but cannot change.

We are within a mile of home

"Hey."
"Hey. I just gotta quick question. How hard is it to wallpaper a bathroom? Cuz, I bought some wallpaper and I was thinking I could re-wallpaper the bathroom tonight."
"Do you really need something to distract you from yr comprehensive exams that much?"
"Well, yeh, Dad, I do."
"Might I recommend you bake some banana or nut bread or a pie or something instead."
"You could, so it's difficult?"
"Very. Very difficult. I wouldn't do it. Ever. It's a miserable job. You would only be frustrated and pissed off."
"But I need something to distract me from studying. Every time I try to study I just get annoyed and feel like I could better spend my time."
"Because you know it all."
"Because I can't figure out how to understand anything better than I do now. And I've already cleaned the house, so I'm running out of options."
"Have you talked to any of yr professors about what to expect?"
"Yes, it's one theory and one bibliographic question. So, one question about the big picture and probably one question very specifically about a specific type of reference book. There's only so much I can do about that. Either I've learned it or I haven't."
"When's the test?"
"Wednesday week."
"A week from Wednesday. So, not tomorrow."
"Right. April 5, 9am."
"A week to worry and maybe study."
"Yeh."
"You'll be fine."
"Right. I've run out of things to clean."
"Make some bread or something that you can start, finish and enjoy. Then try to study."
Easy for you to say.

Coffee and Conversation

"She asked me if I smoked, you know smoke smoked and told me that she would love to but it's against her religion. So I had to ask what religion that was, except the religions that are against breaking the law. I mean, really-what religion DOESN'T speak out against smoking pot?"
"Well, the Rastafarians of course. They support it and some of the Native kind of tribal religions encourage drug use in order to gain access to the spirits. And if you want to get deeper..."
"I knew you'd have an answer to that question."
"Yes, well, my hobby is to have just enough information on any religion to have a surface conversation."

*****
"Have you heard from yr sister?"
"No, I'm just being relaxed and groovy. I pretty much expect her to show up at my door like Balki on Perfect Strangers, holding a suitcase and yelling-Cuzeeen!"

*****
"But then, how can I get offended when they call each other gay when I speak regularly of my faggy little dog who may just be a transvestite, which doesn't mean gay, cuz transvestites fancy girls."
"WHO would ever suspect yr dog of being faggy?"
"I know!"
"Or a transvestite?!"
"I know!"
"Unless they've seen him in his sweater. Then they might wonder."
"Yeh, well, there's that."

***

Buck Owens died yesterday. That's sad.

****

There's big fun at the Eddie Izzard Blather board if yr into pointless fighting and stupidity. I will, of course, read it as long as the conversation continues.

In nomine patri

Bless me blogger for I have sinned. It has been less than one day since my last confession...
I have failed at studying and feel confident in my knowledge of the material that I will only fail comps by a small margin as opposed to a triumphant and outrageous failure the likes of which have NEVER BEEN SEEN!!!
*My child, do you not have over one week to study?*
Yes, I do blogger, but I am afraid that with each attempt to re-read my notes I feel like I am only re-visiting information with which I am already acquanted. I would much rather watch Little People, Big World and have knowledge given to me as opposed to doing anything that might involve active learning.
*Is it learning if you already know it?*
How can I say I know ANYTHING-simply because I know what I have already studied and written, that doesn't mean I have learned a thing only that I remember previous experience.
*That is learning by most the standards of most.*
It still seems that I have little chance of passing the exam, and yet, I can't study. The solitude of studying only serves to frustrate me. I haven't studied since my first semester in this program.
*How have you done thus far?*
Not great, not awful. There's no accolades in my future-I feel no shame at my grades, but there are no laudes in my future. Not that I care really-I just want to not attend school anymore. I am so fuckin'...sorry... just so very sick of school. Awards don't matter much to me-I just want to get on with my life.
*Then what are you worried about?*
Failure.
*Seems a bit inappropriate given your goals. Don't you think that you have done a significant amount of work already and the only task you truly need to succeed at is the completion of a task?*
But I believe it is very likely I will fail.
*And so you give it another go. It's not the end of the world.*
If only I knew how to study.
*You are prepared to fail?*
Yes, I expect it.
*You haven't studied in yr higher education career?*
Not exactly-not like I think people usually do.
*What are you worried about?*
Shame. I don't want to feel shame.
*You may not be lying-but you're not telling the truth either.*
I want to screw it to DTM. I want to pass the first time since I've been so written off and if I could study I could feel secure in the knowledge I would pass. If I felt that way it would be easier to evoke the right confidence at the right time.
*Drink 4 bloody Marys and you want remember.*
Must it always end with a comedic reference?
*Doubt is the number one threat facing this country.*
I thought it was bears.
*Bears are #2 this week Doubt is number one. Now, be gone-go get some jammie dodgers or something to distract yourself.*
Thank you blogger.

She hears a chorus of factory girls

When I get out of work at night-doesn't matter what I've been listening to earlier-I like to turn on Living in America as loud as I think my lousy speakers can handle and sing the woman's part at the top of my lungs. It's cleansing.
Yesterday was a lousy day. I fucked up a few times and had some white trash shouldn't be eating out types in my section. But I made decent money. There's one manager that is such a dick. He doesn't mean to be-he's a lifer and the vernacular of the lifetime restaurant employee is much coarser than I am comfortable with. His entire raison d'etre is selling food-so if it's not sold to his satisfaction he gets pissed. No one is good enough to meet his expectations. He's perfect-he's off the floor now-took a pay cut for a raise in esteem-so his skills are now more of the Paul Bunyon realm (fakelore babies-that shit's fakelore just like his serving prowess). Sure-he's good. I'm sure he is-but he's also sad and I suspect his life is kinda empty. God help the lifer. Some aren't too bad-there's an oulfella-he's not that old really but older-he's cool, does his job makes sure everything gets done and just goes with the flow I like working with him. He comes from the same kinda "Family Establishment" (read-shit tips) background I was schooled in, so maybe I just understand what we're doing similar to how he gets it. Or maybe he just hasn't pissed me off yet. Everyone, eventually, pisses me off. Some more so than others.
I'm not used to this set up-with restaurant rules as opposed to life rules. I want to yell and tell Dick Manager to fuck off-but I don't-cuz I think he actually might mean well. I don't understand how people can scream at each other and then go out for a pint after work. Honestly, I don't really want to hang out with my co-workers. They're cool-mostly-don't get me wrong-but I don't want to tangle with friendship and work. That can get sticky or horrible. I don't wanna go there. My mind could change.
Today-I didn't make any mistakes.Well, I lie I made one but no one noticed so it was groovy. OK-I made 2, but the forgetting the damn salad (oh-how I hate salads-the harsh my mellow) was only slightly cash flow hindering. Probably not even at all. I pulled in some change tonight. Nothing to change my lifestyle-but the likelihood of me starving to death is becoming less all the time. Why-eventually-I might even begin to break even. I'm not holding my breath-but I'm not all the negative either. I've had far worse jobs and I've been far more depressed after 8 hours of work. I'm not down at all-I'm in a lot of pain but I don't work again until Friday (weekend work-that's money I can survive on Fri-Sat-Sun I betcha-we'll see, cuz that's what I work next week). By the time I hit the floor again I'll be over this pain-just in time for new and exciting suffering. The only thing that makes it alright is that I made more this week than I've made ANY week since I've been living in Nashville. Even that week long period when I had 2 jobs. I didn't pull in this kind of money. Oh-it's still poverty but it is much less severe and I get to spend hours onstage. That's all it is-that's what actors serve (that and the scheduling options) but it's a chance to be a character for the night. I dig that option-being someone other than me is one of my favorite ways to spend an afternoon. When yr a waitress in a tourist town you can be anyone you want. No one you encounter will ever be back so if you want to be a Welsh Goatherd it's totally within reason. Odd-but doable.
At any rate-I'm not as broke today as I was one week ago. I'm not financially secure but I could go buy Velvet Goldmine on DVD and still have money left over. That's a step above where I usually was with the last job. Sure-I'm working harder-but I probably won't GAIN much weight serving yuppies meat products.
For the first time-in a long time-I'm proud of myself. I worked my balls off but I did what I needed and I was succesful. What a feeling it is to not feel like a loser. If this keeps up I'll get to go to Ireland this year. It has to keep up soon-cuz I have to pay the deposit in the next month or so I think-but it could happen.
Boy Meets World is one of my favorite shows. I watch mediocre TV professionally. But seriously Cory and Topanga--now that's good TV.

Is there life on Mars?

In an odd fit of peculiar I found myself longing ridiculously for a Mars Bar. Now, I've had Mars Bars on 2 continents and I had no memory of either. They're a candy, they involve chocolate and I think nougat beyond that I had no clear recollection. After all, what difference does it make once you get past the main attractions?
A bit of research finally cleared up the Mars Bar confusion. The Mars Bar the Brits speak of is a Milky Way on this side of the pond. Delicious. The Mars Bars I enjoyed as a youth are Snickers with Almond.
As I type this, gnawing on a Milky Way, I can't help but wonder if perhaps I've completely gone off my gourd. Candy bar quests can't be healthy. Or normal. For anyone but stoners. The woman at the ghetto mart had to think I was stoned. Showing up 2 minutes before close with a small dog in tow walking straight to the candy aisle, not browsing but grabbing a Milky Way. That's the actions of a person heading home to catch Half Baked on Comedy Central. Hell, someone that does that probably OWNS Half Baked.
But I just like candy.
Did I ever tell the story of the first time I had candy? Well, I'm going to tell it again-so deal.
When I was a baby Mummy and Daddy (my guess is Mummy mostly) didn't allow unnatural sugar in the house. Homemade baby food, yogurt, peanut butter-nothing unnatural was allowed in the house. I had never tasted anything but natural food-my parents were quite happy about this. I was three years old and my Aunt Terri and Uncle Jim (2 of my favorite people--even if Ole Unc-y is a CCRWRSWAM he may be an ass but he's sincere) took me for the afternoon. Where I have no idea-but I suspect the Kwik-E-Mart was one of the stops because when I got home Mum and Dad asked what we'd done on our day. I responded by running around like a crazy small child high on candy yelling "Candy bar! Candy bar!"
Now I am being taunted by the urge to purchase more material by a certain transvestite British comedian with whom I have an unhealthy fascination(more than Stephen you ask-don't be silly, I want nothing but their appearance together. Jam Flavored Slash-y Truth covered in BEES!) --passes out briefly in a fit of happisexiness--Yeh, so, right...I have this sudden urge to go shopping on Amazon.com-buy some Glorious, some Velvet Goldmine on DVD, maybe a little Strangers with Candy and Indecision 2004 to amuse me.
Somebody hide my credit card.
Sugar High! Wine drunk!
WEEEE!!!!!

BTW-I edited this-having discovered that blogger hates me and likes to make my already non-sensical posts make even less sense for its own amusement.
It was written under the influence of sugar and wine-but really-I don't change topics that quickly. Usually-Hedwig and the Angry Inch is weird as fuck and thus I think I need to own the soundtrack.
Pie!

M O N E Y

Memo to myself: Just cuz someone offers you an "easy" $10 don't necessarily take 'em up on it-cuz that "easy" $10 doesn't take into consideration the work you have to do anyway. Fuckin' dumb me taking on extra work just because I need money. But I did good-another day another few bucks. I want to go buy a copy of 40 Year Old Virgin or something involving Stephen Colbert, or a new dress for Coupland--something nifty to celebrate. But instead tomorrow I might go to the grocery store or not. You know-I'm pretty laid back so it's hard to say about me. I might just spend the day on the couch doing something quite like studying for comps. You know-the comps I will definately fail.
I'm thinking about taking up smoking. (Like, when sober, you know-and not at school--but in daily life.) It seems like fun and yeh, there's the horrible, slow death like GH had to deal with-but I'd get more breaks when I'm waiting tables. And I look sophisticated when I smoke. Or maybe I just need some kind of stress reliever and that would do it--just for a little while. Til comps are over. Or I could do drugs-that's alright I understand-smoking isn't.
This catching the second showing of Jon and Stephen is crazy--yeh, sure, I watch the second showing nearly every night but for it to be the first time I've seen the shows. That's just sad.
That being said-- March 22, 2006, it's the Daily Show with Jon Stewart...

So it's to youth I sing you this story, and it's of youth I sing it now

Go into work today. Got the decent hair going until-right when I walk in the door. Then it goes all shit. To be expected. Manager guy-who has never spoken a full sentence to me-is there and I say to him "Oh Mr. Manager-I need to do my test-y thing-y so I can make some money and have big fun delivering food to people." and he says "Right, yeh...Do we have any Chateau St. Something?" then he wandered off and ignored me for half an hour.
So I say to him, "What am I supposd to do?"
"Give her two tables," he said. And so I'm waiting tables again. Probably in a week or two I'll be given the test I was supposed to take today-soon as I've developed habits I'll show how bad they are in writing.
The work was far from hard-tho I had trouble locating bread a few times or plates or baskets or shit like that. Not necessarily my fault but it came out of my tippage sweeties. Here is how I understand serving: Everyone is human, most people understand that everyone is equally busy in a restaurant situation. Just keep the drinks full, the smiles honest and get the food and drinks there fresh and right away. Some shit takes longer than others, be friendly. When in doubt-do a little stand up-it distracts them. Good enough.
I'm being glib-Fri night or Sat-those days will probably break my balls and I'll be whimpering for my mummy. Tuesday was groovy tho.
I pulled in mediocre money tonight. But it was pretty slow and I kept getting tables that only wanted snacks (seriously-I had 5 people out of about 12 that only wanted soup salad or sides that isn't lucrative) But I had close to $40 after tipping out the bartender and busser (I wish we didn't have a busser, cuz I don't need or want one, but I'm sure I will feel different on Friday)
So, I brought in a few bucks today-much of which immediately went to dog food and beer (the necessities).
Did I say I saw Kris Kristofferson on Sunday? What a fantastic show. Really fantabulous to see someone up there that's been writing songs for all those years and just really having a good time. He played for about 2 hours--I was in the balcony right in front of where he was onstage. Just him and the guitar. He played all my favorites-including my favorite song that I could've done just fine with him not playing, "Jody and the Kid" a song that makes me cry like a little sissy girl every time, without fail. I'd downloaded from eMusic his most recent CD earlier that day and listened to it twice trying to decide whether or not to go. It's a really good disc, solid and honest and pure, highly recommended. Good and political too. He's still got a lot to say, does that old dude.
"How'd he look?" Mum asked.
"From where I was sitting, he looked good. All gray hair and ragged jeans, y'know."
"Oh, I well can imagine," she said. "I can imagine. Hmm..."
"Ma you better be careful, Daddy might hear you talking like that." She's always had a thing for Kris and Dad's always taken issue with that. It's humorous.
After the show I went back to The Alley with hopes of shaking his hand. I didn't have a camera or pen or anything, but I thought it would make Mum jealous and that would've made me laugh. I wound up pinned between a lightpost and the bricks of the Ryman with fanatics on either side of me. Even when it occured to me I'd prefer not waiting around (he was sick, I didn't want to meet Sick Awesome Dude-I'll wait for the chance to meet Awesome Dude) I couldn't leave. A woman kept trying to crawl over the crowd, she was erratic and reeked of whisky and beer her eyes were wild.
"I just have to get to him!" she yelled.
I was pinned against the wall.
"You don't understand," she said to me, "It's for my mother."
"Yeh, my ma's a fan too," I tried to end the conversation.
"No, she died. My mom, she died, she died a week and a half ago, she was 56 and she was cremated but she loved Kris and I want his autograph so I can put it in with her."
"Well, I'm sure if he isn't feeling too bad he'll do that for you. But you know, he isn't feeling too hot." I wanted to leave-but I couldn't get out, short of crawling over the truck.
A rep came out and asked that people please disburse as Mr. Kristofferson wasn't well and he appreciates the support but really couldn't stop and talk. No one moved.
"I just have to get to him!" the woman that had lost her mother yelled. "Please." She was obviously drunk, and full of grief. It depressed me. I pushed my way out of the crowd-not an easy task-and went to my truck.
By the time I drove by, less than 5 minutes later The Alley was empty. There was no sign of the woman who had so desperately needed an autograph, I'm sure she didn't get it and that she will never forgive Kris Kristofferson for ignoring her dying mother's request. It just seems about right.
Me? I'm just glad I got to sit up in the balcony of the Ryman and hear Sunday Mornin' Comin Down.

Relaxed and Groovy

Right-so I'm studying for comps. I'm on part 2 of a 437 part series. There is no way I am going to get the necessary information filed away in my brain by the time the day of the exam rolls around. I fully expect to walk into the room, see the questions set before me and remember nothing but the lyrics to the theme song from Scooby Doo. Which as far as I know isn't likely to show up as an exam question. That's more a Popular Culture thing. I'm working on the code, because everything has a code. Each professor has a code and a way of testing and teaching that once cracked their classes become easier or intolerable if it turns out the prof is just an idiot. He knows who he is. At this point I'm not sure what to expect. Other than panic attacks, night terrors looking a bit like this and failure I'm readying for failure. It's groovy-once I've passed that's what will be remembered. Not that I had to take them multiple times. Which I will, cuz I'm not prepared. And won't be then either. I accept this-I'll work on it, maybe squeak by with the lowest possible score to not have to score again, but why reach for an unattainable goal? Low expectations, that's what it's about.
After about 3 hours (not an exaggeration) every folkwebsite looks like every other. And if I have to read one more manifesto on WIF (What IS Folklore ?) I will go cross-eyed and need surgery (again).
St. Patrick's Day. I went out early-as it was a Full Moon and Amateur's Night. Neither a really good time to be on the street, especially not with my recent run of luck. So-I went out, down to the bar, got a pint and about halfway thru I realized I was getting tipsy, as I had refrained from eating except a piece of toast and a round of fish (very unnatural formation of fishy you ask me but well, it was fried so I didn't have to look at it too close to figure out how it came to be shaped that way). Not wanting to be drunk, or one of those people falling for the Green Beer Trap, poseur culture theives drinking crap beer and wearing Kiss Me I'm Irish hats and beads-at least when I steal a culture I do it in a Zelig type assimilation kind of way. The only way to co-opt tradition, you ask me-not that anyone ever has but someday someone will and I'll have an answer. I have an answer to most things-I'm good like that. Well, clearly I needed food and I couldn't bring myself to have a $6 cold cut sandwich so I went home and celebrated St. Patrick's Day eating reheated fish balls and watching Eddie Izzard on the BBC-like ya do. Also, I drank Lite Beer, but iwas at least Amber and I didn't get trashed and hop on a table and sing Danny Boy-all told a good evening.
Another hour and a half of "studying" (with those rabbit ears, because well, I can be distracted) and I'm going to stop and go to a show at the Ryman. Kris Kristofferson-he's a Rhodes Scholar you know-so going to see him sing is like taking a seminar. Right. So, yeh.

Something gets scary someone runs like hell

"You dyed your eyebrows! You're not supposed to dye yr eyebrows!" Mum yelled thru the phone.
"Ma, it's not that big a deal," I said. "They're not so thick it'll matter."
"You made yr eyebrows thin again! Dammit, they were looking so nice. Why did you do that?"
"Jesus Ma, it's no big deal it's just hair. It grows. And my eyebrows are no thinner than the last time you saw me. Calm down-you're a little over amped there."
"You just looked so pretty when I saw you."
Except for being heavy. I could stand to lose a few pounds. Tho at the moment I am hovering comfortably between starving and "are you sure you need that candy bar"?
I would like to think I still look pretty as I ever have. Strange gold red hair and slightly unnatural eyebrows notwhitstanding. When I look in the mirror I see a fairly normal looking person.This is mostly because I was afraid of what would happen if I tried the flaming red-the kind of red usually attributed to Corvettes and brand new Converse All Stars.
The haircolor change is the result of a minor nervous breakdown in which I tried to dye my hair blonde. The box had a blonde chick on it. The color was called "Lightest Golden Blonde" I think God was helping me out by not rendering me in possession of the color on the box. I'd look like a freak. The last time I was a blonde was not pretty-in fact whatever the antithesis of pretty is that's what I was when I had such light hair.

The drive to school made me tense as hell. I realized as I listened to my CD of songs that I thought were uplifting rocking songs of like life and getting down that the CD was in fact the most depressing collection of music short of the all Gloomy Sunday disc I've been wanting to put out. At one point I was in tears-that's not good when driving. What made me cry you wonder? "You got to admit that life is pretty great, but can you admit it's killing us?" Something about that just made me very aware of how easy it would be to drive my car into a concrete railing and how little I wanted to-even when I most want to disappear. Just the sort of thought process a person might enjoy on the way to facing someone that no torture is complete without facing. Such a lighthearted flight of a girl am I.
Well, the contact with DTM (Dead to Me) was painless. We seem to have an understanding-I'm just trying to survive. I want to graduate-nothing else right now. Paperwork properly filled out I went on to the meeting that I assumed would be less painful. But the first meeting wasn't painful-so I figured the second would be uneventful.
I knocked on the door of the only compact space I have ever entered with more meaning infused into a small area than my own apartment. You know how walking into my apartment is packed with ephemera, altars and iconography? How whatever direction you look there's some piece of something that has an important story at least to me? The way in my apartment I can send people looking for a certain piece that can be nearly impossible to find ("Locate my tribute to James Joyce---and GO!")
Multiply that by about 12 and you have an idea what this space is like. It is very comforting. I treasure such places-they have power. Or maybe I just feel like I understand a state of seeming disarray.
ANYWAY-I sat down and we sort of talked about classes and stuff. Basically I admitted to all I had been alluding to when I'd said that I had stopped believing in anything and that I have been busy with being pissed off and bitter. I don't hide my emotions well-heart/sleeve/me.
"I've almost dropped out no less than four times this semester."
"If you do, do it right-come in shake our hands, tell us you're leaving. So if you want to you can come back you can. Don't just disappear and tell no one what you're doing. But it would be a mistake...you're smart. Quirky, but smart, leaving would be a waste."
"I would tell people. I'm still here because I couldn't figure out how to say I was leaving. The thing is, I would've wanted someone to stop me."
There was a small moment when it occured to me, perhaps because I wanted to have the thought, I was being TOLD (like my parents can't/won't do,like my sister won't do, like an adult should not need because that's the opposite of adult hood) I was being told to stay. I need instruction.
For a half hour we basically traded stories. Nothing particularly fascinating-we laughed. I find over and over that laughter means more than a lot of supportive speeches or words of encouragements (or, if not encouragement, declarations of necessity). Laughing is mutual, stories that cause that emotion are shared because of some kind of shared emotion. I have had little chance to laugh recently. Oh-there have been times, but I've felt so damaged recently even happiness seemed unnatural. For some reason-the paperwork and discomfort of the first meeting of the day out of the way-I felt hopeful more than I had in a long time. Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose.
"So are you mostly thinking about yr comps?"
I can think of nothing but my imminent failure, yes."
"Well, I'm terrified. I'm sure I'm going to fail."
"So you take them again. It's icky, but you do it. And I don't think you will have to." She has more faith in me than have I.
I told her how I had started a new job. "Tell you something, I don't even plan to look for a job in the field if I get out of this. I'm just going to wait tables and not think for 6 months."
"That sounds very reasonable."
What? Reasonable? Are you kidding? No one has told me that sounds reasonable. No one has said anything but-'Do whatever you want' which is more like saying 'God, you're an idiot aren't you?'
I expressed some level of confusion about the acceptance of my fate by another. (I've long since accepted my fate-I'm just not used to other people feeling that way.) "Is the money good?"
"I've heard of $200 days being the norm," I said.
"You know what Folklorist Person said...no probably you don't...she waited tables at a bar for many years, having to drink with the other employees so they wouldn't think she was stuck up."
"I understand that already. I've forgotten how coarse the vernacular is. No one would ever confuse me with someone soft around the edges, but it's coarse, rougher than I am."
"It's rough, and hard, but she (the folklorist) said she was teaching for four years at least before she made as much money as she did waiting tables." Inside, I died a little, because I know that's the truth of my situation. "It's a good way to gain perspective, and a good way to get out of debt."
Sometimes, when I open up at all, I am afraid that people will judge me in a negative way. I'm usually pretty sure I warrant negative judgement. When the reality that few people want to cast blame upon me comes to light I realize that I am less important than my personal narrative would indicate. There are other people in the world.
There were several moments, the sort of times when people sort of leave their persona and become innocent, that amused me. Mostly they involved finding men attractive-which I do, very much, despite whatever I say-men are lovely.
"There was some debate-which is the better film-Walk the Line or Coal Miner's Daughter. I think Coal Miner's Daughter ist the best filming of a biography made until now but some people claim Walk the Line is better. But then Coal Miner's Daughter has Tommy Lee Jones" (I look out towards a space on the wall and sigh...the other person in the conversation looks at another space on the wall and sighs simultaneously.)
"You make a good argument."
We discussed my schoolwork and made plans. Good plans, the sort that don't cause me to have a major breakdown. I'm very much aware right now that I am well watched out for, even if I don't always feel that way.
"You know, I can't give you two incompletes. You have to believe in something."
I doubted that.
But we came up with a topic. So it's alright.
I'll tell you more later.
Right now I am tired with the reminder that I am part of the human race and that I am being taken care of in odd ways.
It is good when someone cares for another person. It's good and strange to be reminded how natural it is.

He struggles and bleeds as he hangs from his cross

I got the most unexpected note today-as a response to my anger ball diatribe- and I was reminded that there are more angry young men (actually used as a non-gender specific term that) than my little frame of the world might be able to accept.
Some people are working for something that is much more difficult to attain than what I'm working towards. Like my sister, like the person that wrote to me and the other people I know with much bigger dreams...Bigger than unseating those dratted Sedaris siblings? Really now-why be simple or act innocent? I want fame too, fortune less so, but fame I want-I admit it. I want to be a cult hero. It is my life goal. Is that so much to ask?
What I am reminded of is that there are people, a lot of people because I am blessed, that care what happens to me and I realize that I am lucky because I have these people in my life and to remind me of humanity and goodness. NO one has to care about anyone else, but people do and I do (care about other people) that's what keeps away nihilism and explains why we as humans are usually unable to accept that there is nothing in which to believe. I am not sure I understand the way people are willing to reach out to others-but I have seen it, and have done it. Perhaps it isn't something to be understood as much as these actions are to be accepted blindly.
Because That.Is.Faith.

There's a place in the world for the angry young man

Today's issue in the seemingly neverending and ridiculously painful battle that is my attempt to get a master's degree:
The comps require a statement that I intend to take them. Something I was never fucking told about. Believe me, had I known I would've stated my goatfucking intent. To graduate I need to fill out a form-something I have tried no fewer than thrice to do. But Jesus Christ on roller skates if I weren't brushed off like dandruff on a black shirt each time I brought it up. I do not feel that hate is a healthy emotion-but I hate the way this program is run and I hate that I've wasted this much of my life as a part of something I despise. And I hate someone-really and truly with emotions I can not say anything but that I am ashamed to feel-I hate that someone and tho I have made that person dead to me like the zombies in a George Romero film she continues on walking and acting in my frames and scenes. If only I had known before-I could've avoided all of this, made different choices. I would never allow anyone else to go thru what I've gone thru with this program unless I wanted that person to suffer. If I wanted to see someone miserable I would recommend this program to that person. There is a part of me that knows that if such a desire existed everything I write could be accessed by many if not all of the people in the program or in charge of the program. I have thought about that and I don't give a fuck. I don't have the balls to say this shit out loud so I write it and if someone were to call me out for my opinions I would be not upset but relieved. I want found out-like a guilty party walking free I want my secrets to come to light-I want to be let go of this and only being called out for my opinions will do that. I know--it won't happen. No one that could free me reads this.
Hey-life's a bitch and then you die.

When we let our compassion go, we let go of what little claim we have to the divine

Bruce Springsteen

Got nothin to lose, Cuz there's nothin' to gain

No seriously. There are people at the halfway point of being beaten to death with sticks that are in less pain than I am right now. People participating in triathalons without having trained are not as tired as I am. Also I am tired and have a presentation on Monday. I work tomorrow, too. Employment is a motherfucker.
I'm so worn out I'm watching I Love Toys on VH1. That level of tired should be illegal. And my beer is WAY over in the fridge. That's like 5 feet from here. Christ.
What was I thinking? I'm too lazy for this shit.
A bunch of people were hired this week. The other girls (and the servers I was hired with are all female) are all 20-22. They have boyfriends and a few kids and life all figured out. One of the girls is such a loud ass bitch taking great pleasure in screaming even when loudness is unnecessary. I'm not saying I dislike her-I just wish she'd shut the fuck up. One thing I think I've learened about the younger generation is that they really like the sound of their own voices. While I certainly CAN be loud (put a couple three beers in me and you know what I mean) I don't make it a daily practice. Having heard my voice on tape I see no reason to subject everyone else in the same building to my unfortunate midwestern drawl. This is not the point of view held by the little girls I've met this week. They love Love LOVE the sound of their own voice and want nothing more than to share their shrill piercing calls with anyone in the county. And bossy! Wow are they bossy! Since I'm very not I just let them tell me what to do and say nothing-why bother-I just want to be left alone to do my job.
At the risk of pulling a Michael Scott I was listening to these kids today and I had a total Chris Rock flash:
"You goin out tonight?"
"Hell yeh! I gotta find a babysitter tho."
"Damn, well who watched yr kids when we were at the club last night?"

I'm sorry-but you got 4 kids and you went to the club on Fri and now you're going to the club on Sat? What the hell you doing goin to the club 2 nights in a row leaving your kids with a babysitter? I have no problem with girls goin' to the club-but be a mama dammit. What, did you have those kids because of some memo I didn't get about worldwide underpopulation? Jeezy Creezy.

Despite all this-otherwise, I'd call the first week thus far not too bad. I like it-people seem pretty decent. Except these guys keep talking like their hitting on me. One asked for my number so I tried to write it so it was hard to read and maybe he wouldn't call the right number. There has to be an easy way to brush guys off without actually coming out and saying "Sorry, I'm just not that into dick right now."
Course, that would shut them up.

In this tourist town

Somehow I had managed to block out the amount of tear on a body that being on one's feet for 6-14 hours in a row can cause. I'm in outrageous pain-whole body pain-wicked piercing throbbing 6 inch needles stabbing into my whole body, pain. Tomorrow should be even more vicious. If I didn't keep hearing stories about $100 lunch shifts an $300 Saturday nights I'd be deterred. But there are things I love-and one of those things is cash. Oh-how I love not being in poverty...Well, I would assume I love not being poverty stricken. It's been a REAL long time since I've experienced such a situation on my own accord. The last year and a half have been pretty goddamn lousy from the financial point of view.
Couple of days ago I gotta email asking me about stuff to do in Nashvegas. So I responded. Then I got a response. And several responses later the conversation seemed rather serious in a nudge nudge sort of way. Which is pretty much my life-deadly serious and simultaneously a laughing matter. Rather surprised that I had to have that pointed out-awfully glad someone did.
Glorious.
The situation with the education-to draw too heavily on alliteration and assonance-is solved it seems. Yea-I'll be a lady of letters. For example I will be able to walk up to a table and say hello my name is ******** M.A. Folk Studies B.A. Popular Culture would you like to re-think your career choice now?
Yes, I think you would, and would you like fries with that?
Excellent.

She can't be convicted she's earned her degree

Driving home from work today, with the radio off and the rain sometimes falling I thought of some things.
The first thing I thought about was in relation to something that happened recently. Something I don't want to go into in print...But it taught me a valuable lesson about myself. It seems to me that people, in general, prefer to be half of a whole. A transient, temporary whole or a lifetime commitment whole sometimes. But I have decided most people prefer to be part of a team. I do not. I have claimed, under duress, that some people are just "meant to be alone." It occurs to me now that I do not necessarily think that is my case. I just prefer to be alone-it has nothing to do with fate. I don't want to be someone's "And" (as in Bob AND Carol). I have plenty to do I don't want to be So and So's girlfriend. I have no interest in dating or any of the dance that goes with that scene. Never once have I imagined my wedding as anything more than a joking affair featuring Elvis impersonators and slot machines. I could see getting married as part of a gag gone too far, but never as an actual event. It is my understanding that girls traditionally have images of their weddings. I do not. I honestly can't imagine a situation that would cause me to ponder the concept. There is no one I have met that I find that interesting that I would want to spend my life with him. I suspect-but have no written truth-that my family would be very relieved if I just stated I was gay. But I'm not gay. I fancy boys. I just don't necessarily want to live with one or be forced to share a bed with one. Doesn't mean I don't like them-I just find that mostly I am happier left to my own devices and do not enjoy the pussification of masculinity. A man in a dress and eyeliner can be unbearably sexie-but a man that acts like he needs to go to Walgreen's for pantyliners is anything but attractive. Perhaps it's just the kind of men that find me attractive. That really isn't taking responsibility however. I attract, through my own actions and choices, men to whom I bear no attraction and I am not a strong enough personality to ward off their interests. Such.Is.Life. Perhaps one day I will be together enough (whatever that means) to attract someone whom I find attractive. Until then I am holding onto the belief that I am neither interested in sex or relationships. I'm well off on my own-happy without the battle of interaction. I neither seek nor crave a significant other. I'm a freak. My family worries about me. It'll only get worse as I get older.
The other thought I worked on was the whole school thing. I want to drop out but, as my sister put it "You will never be this close again." I tell myself I don't need to get a degree and be a lady of letters to matter but I wonder. It would make me terribly glad to succeed without that M.A. after my name. It would give me someone to blame if I failed because I didn't have those letters. But-this is the chance I have and I can't really be sure if it's the right thing to do to drop out. The degree doesn't matter and I don't care if I'm in the field but, then again, I'd rather not have to go BACK to school. Unlike the other line of thought that finally makes sense to me, this isn't so easy for me. I have a conflict about school that is currently far deeper and more troubling than the fact that I somehow will have to navigate the next 20-odd years of my life explaining why I'm not involved with anyone.
Men that find me attractive often are also attracted to Janeane Garofalo. Oddly enough I swear I remember she said coupledom was of no interest to her. Currently I consider Amy Sedaris one truly cool person deserving of much respect-I've read she invented her imaginary boyfriend to stop people from asking why she wasn't dating-since she isn't interested in relationship type stuff. Maybe there's some kind of personality type at work here. I love men-LOVE! men-I just don't want to fuck them. I love folkishness-I just don't know if I want to have it forever attached to my name on sheepskin.
Really-more than anything-I love hiding in my apartment and watching TV and having no contact with humanity except the limited amount one gets thru the internet or when people are kind enough to show up at my place and force me to be social (the only way I socialize). That's the way it is.

Southside Chicago Grifts-Luck of the seemingly Irish- Cheap beer and mighty craic (exactly what you'd expect)

"C'mon Irish, step up." The airport security guard barked. I must've gone into a temporary reverie having removed my shoes and become distracted by the announcements that "Janet Walker please come to the second floor information desk." At that point I'd had about 5 hours of sleep in 36 so my sense wasn't all it is cracked up to be. I knew he was talking to me- I was front in line, and wearing a Black 47 Irish 2003 shirt. I clearly was the person being addressed, but being called "Irish" in Chicago is a little weird ya ask me. Maybe the guard was trying to be personable. I wanted a beer. Or coffee or both. My brain was turned off and I was lucky to be at the airport at all.
Flashback forty-five minutes I was standing on the corner waiting for a bus that I saw drive past me going the other direction. "SHIT!" I screamed, my frantic waves going unheeded. A call to the CTA, "There will be another bus in an hour, arriving at the airport at 1pm." My flight left at 1:25-and while I'm a pretty blessed person when it comes to strange things like lines at airports I had seen the stretched row of people waiting to go through security the day before. That line had been well over a half hour-if I didn't get to the airport by 12:30 I was up a creek.
The hotel I was staying at was mediocre at best, better than most I stay at but far from a quality establishment. It didn't even have a hotel bar. But next door was the Doubletree, a hotel I have partied at many times and I think possibly passed out in at some point in time. A very fine establishment indeed, a place that puts the comfort of their guests above all else. And I know this, courtesy of some latent acting talent I put to use in which I pretended to be staying at the hotel.
At the airport on Friday I'd brazenly walked over to the airport courtesy phones and dialed the code for the Doubletree. "Hi, I'm at Midway and need the shuttle." I hopped in with a couple from Wisconsin that had the right to be there and took my ride ducking around the building and off to my lesser hotel.
After getting ready for the show I tried to catch the damned CTA, but it drove by 10 minutes earlier than scheduled. The cab service was busy and couldn't have anything out for at least an hour and a half. So I took the next best route and went to the next door hotel. "I need to get to BlahBlahBlah (da club)." The desk attendent pointed me toward the door, "Talk to him."
A friendly and well presented doorman about my age was at the door, "Let me help this lady to your room and I'll run you right over there," he said. Didn't ask for my room , just said to hang on and he'd be right back. He drove me to the club, dropped me off at the door gave me a card to call for return service. But I knew I couldn't risk my luck. A cab would do fine.
I took a seat at the bar, ordered a beer and started to talk to someone that was at the bar for the show as well. Driven down from Wisconsin-a huge drive if you're in Nashville-not much if you're in Chicago. But noteworthy. I proceeded to ingest many Sam Adams beers assuming I would have a wicked and well earned bar tab at the end of the night. That was the point right-I gave up self pity and misery for lent. I was in a state where I only knew the band, and they're used to me by now. Or else, they should be-Christ, it's been enough times by now hasn't it. I'd been enjoying being miserable so much and wallowing in all in entailed for most of '06 so while it's not as traceable as chocolate I'm thinking it's a good plan. It should last until the first really wicked hangover or I get my midterm back. Great thing is if I succeed I get to spend all of Easter feeling bad for myself! While watching Jesus Christ Superstar and eating black jelly beans, as is the tradition.
Where was I? Drinking beer in a club on the Southside of Chicago. The pipes and drums society came on first-there are I think 2 types of people in this world: ones that like pipes and drums and those that don't. I am in group A. Gotta love cops in kilts, it is a beautiful thing. Sure, at Irish fests around the 27th version of Danny Boy on the pipes it gets a bit painful but God created the beer tent for just such an occassion. Get yourself a pint and cry boy-that's what the song is for. Speaking of which-if it isn't on the old lousy computer speaker as I type...good timing. Must admit last night I got a tear during Danny Boy (the one I'm listening to now, not the standard as I suspect you're hearin it)-thought about my own Danny Boys (in the traditional sense---ahh...but I explain this when I'm the only person reading this that might know there's more than one song by this name....) the metaphorical Danny Boys that have gone lately and there's something about that damn song it reminds you we all leave people behind when we go, but hey, "Life's a bitch and then you die."to
The band took the stage right after the pipes and drums left the floor. One thing I can say about this endeavor was I never feared for safety in the club-with bouncers at every corner and door and the law enforcement in kilts, I didn't see too many fights breaking out. Seemed like it was barely a verse into the first song that I was flashed that smile and a hello was nodded my direction. Good, good, my reputation hasn't faded since last our paths crossed-I was worried that might've happened.
Before the show, I'd been milling about, drinking and looking for trouble when I wanded over towards the merch table. A brief hi wave was exchanged, I wandered over and some pleasantries were bantered. Those two are all that I talked to-but I'll be at another show soon enough. I'm sure of it-at least by summer. Again, I ask, how could I have thought I ever said or did anything worth staying away from this music?
When the band took the stage and launched into the set I felt the way I imagine a person receiving death by electrocution must feel at the first jolt of electricity hits their body in that brief and fatal moment when the body hasn't yet realized the power will increase and eventually the high will be the ultimate down. I felt like, simply by being near the band, I had some of the electricity running under my skin. What must it feel like to be able to actually play that way? If the audience can be lifted off the floor and forget the lacklustre nature of their dance moves and wreck their voices screaming the lyrics how must it feel to play that music...fuck what would it feel like to have WRITTEN the songs? The experience needs to be lived, as words don't describe it terribly well. Not my words, anyway. I know when I've taken the sister and the Mum they've both enjoyed the show, had their fun. They, in their own way, have a great deal of fondness for what the band does and says. I laugh at the thought of Mum saying "Tell 'em Mum and Dad wish them all the best, too." There is a possession of the music, it is a people's music and the people that embrace it embrace the music can't help but become attached (even without any actual contact) to the musician. This happens with all good music that is sadly under-popular. I feel the same about Todd and BR--they have failed to become bigger than Jesus but the contest is pretty tight at my house.
On Tuesday when I bought my ticket I'd emailed L, because I feel it is best to announce I'm going to be somewhere so that on the horrible chance I don't get there a person or two might have some knowledge that I had planned to be where I wasn't. I do not want my story to be a very special 48 Hours. The email had been giddy, excited, positively out of my personality and fueled by 4 beers and a laziness about buying food. IT was not one of my most poetic moments-nor was it Black Crowes concert level intoxication hilarity. The note could be boiled down thusly: "I love Orbitz last minute fares, as they are cheaper than dinner out. So yea, I'm gonna be at the show on Friday. Play Bobby Fuller-that would make me happy. Wow--can't believe I'm this excited to leave East Nashville...how sad...I never thought I'd want to leave here even for a day." It was a spur of the moment, written less than 5 minutes after buying my ticket, happiness-o-gram. Something I rarely feel so strongly and I wanted to share with someone. I didn't really expect it to register-but it must've somehow.
"C'mere darlin'" L said putting his arm around me and pulling me into a hug. "I heard you would be here, good to see ya."
"Ya heard from me, I sent you an uncharacteristically gleeful email on Fat Tuesday."
"Oh yeh-we emailed, I remember that...I haven't slept in 2 days."
"Me neither. I was up at 5am watching Velvet Goldmine becoming progressively more convinced it had unseated Citizen Kane as the greatest movie ever. Since men in make-up are sexie."
He laughed.
I laughed. I laughed because I had requested a song that I have rarely heard played live. I've heard it I think-but not like some of the "standards" songs that get played at the majority of the shows.
When he yelled out "Who Killed Bobby Fuller? C'mon!" and the band took the cue I went straight into happiness like only hearing your song can bring. I danced my heart out on it so happy to hear that under appreciated gem and I laughed when I talked to L, because he didn't remember I'd requested it but for some reason they'd played the song anyway. It was like, totally, subliminal or something. Yeh, wow. Or maybe the plan was to play it long before I decided to go to the show. Y'know, I don't care...I still got to hear it that's what matters.
Nursing even more beer, "Darlin' you know you have to have a $15 tab for a charge, right?" The bartenders kept telling me this.
"I'm drinkin' Sam Adams, what's that, like 3 beers? I'm solid." I said on my fourth, walking away before I got the answer.
When I was ready to cash out the bartender said, "You had, like $7 worth of beer so do you want to more than double your tab now?"
"What?"
"It's the Beer of the Month."
Shit, glad I chose wisely...and had cash. I was trashed and full on less than $20. That's a good night. "Can I get, like, 2 to go?"
"We don't have a to go license. I kind of thought liquor and to go license went hand in hand...maybe that's only in some places-not on the Southside of Chicago.
Over at the merch table I was haggling with the boy behind the table, "So, what're you trying to run me for this CD?"
"$15."
"Yeh,I'll give ya $10."
"It's$15."
"But I'm adorable. So I should get a discount."
"I don't get a discount, why should you?"
"Are you harassing my cousin?" I was asked.
"Boy, haven't we met? I harass you, I harass your cousin. I do what I want." He threw a t-shirt at me. I grabbed it. "Thanks babe," I said. He nodded. It was an old shirt from when I'd gone to Ireland---this one is my size. Unlike the one I got then. I am wearing it as I type. It's what got me called Irish at the airport. I could wear B47 shirts for a work week and never have a repeat.
As I sit here listening to the new CD for a second time I want to fly out to one of the other March gigs. I think it's only music that can create such fanaticsm. Music and religion-but is there any difference between the bliss that a really on show can bring and religious ecstasy? My suspicion is that God is sensible enough to know that some people don't like doctrines and creeds nearly as much as they like an excellent lyric compiled with an awesome band and a crowd that's taking every note and syllable like communion.