miscellaneous pathology: April 2003 Archives

in non-whining-about-love related news, i've achieved some sort of navigational nirvana with the individual entry templates, added an expandable ten most recent lyrical submissions section to the sidebar list, & changed the comment form labels to bizarre examples of badly mangled phrasebook french (an activity which had me doubled over in hysterics, yes, i crack myself up sometimes). also i reminded myself that (a) i have a job i love -- yes love, it is possible to love work. can't complain. and also, (b) after years of despising myself physically in the present tense while longing for the physique i despised in the past, i have finally bested the beastly learning curve of my issues & decided to appreciate my self in the present tense & therefore from this day forward i shall consider myself to be a hottie. at this moment i'm having to forcibly resist throwing myself down on the couch & having my way with myself. these are good things, even though my realization of them is a bit belated. it always is.

& so what if i never have another gutrending heartwrenching transposition of head & heels, what if i never fall in again? what if it's just me, my ownself, & my frequent passionate unrequited crushes (which do keep me tingly, even if it is a wistful tingle at best)? what if all there is to this life, what's left of it, consists of only the career i adore & the creativity i pursue otherwise & this newfound affection i have for myself? shouldn't that be enough?

well, it's not. not even fucking close. mostly it's the wistful element alluded to above, that haunts whatever pleasure i derive from unrelated activities, that saps the colors from the best days, that fades my smile even when the expression is joyously justified. it is this wistful shit that must stop. some pathos in the background of me just whispered that the wanting is best stopped by getting, & some weakness in the rest of me accepted that suggestion as Truth & went off on another tangential fantasy against all of my better judgement. as these conflicts went about their usual business of unsettling me, my eyes reminded me how unfocusing exhaustion can be & offered a tantalizing memory of last night's dreams, which were blissful, sensual, loving, & ultimately more fulfilling than anything reality has ever given me & then taken away eventually.

will regretting what i'm lacking now, in spite of all that i do have be like the lesson of physical acceptance, another of the many things i'll end up sorry for the vast stretches of time i spend with it still unlearned, in spite of constant hindisght to the contrary? how much more must i waste before i learn?

this started out with every intention of becoming yet another fetching, feckless rant of the self-deprecating variety, but what's the use? it's safe to say that feck is quite capable of obfuscating the issues as she spins words around her dire circumstances du jour, conveying either an impression of irrepressible whimsy or edgy fragility, whichever seems the more appealing approach at the time. & we know that she often engages in relentless self-revelation as a form of misdirection, hoping that her outrageous candor will garner at least as much attention as whatever it is she's just revealed. & she will do all this at a breathless pace in overlong & overly complicated sentences filled with recursive references & obscure imagery, formatted for euphony first & clarity second, so that her meaning cannot be easily deciphered merely by reading; these statements are meant to be solved for x. in the preceeding example, we didn't even get the euphony, did we? she's in a hurry.

and this business of referring to herself in the third person? it's another technique, as is remarking on the usage of the third person in a tone that rolls its eyes at such silliness. & she'll finish it off with some adorable anecdote about the arguments she has with her cat when the dang thing bangs on the door at four something in the morning & stirs up her insomnia. & then she'll go back to bed & most likely regret this (later in) the morning.

now you wouldn't know it to look at it, but i was up half the night screwing with code. never content with the mere addition of a plugin, no matter how beastly complicated the thing is, i must make it do something special, something it does only for me. mine. mmm. mine. & oddly enough the one i worked hardest on, is so obscure if i don't tell anyone, no one might ever notice.

now, i would notice such a thing - i notice shit. i'm one of those people that goes poking around in your cupboards to see if you've customized your comment error screens. yeah, you think your mother in law doing the white glove thing on the doorsills is bad, but the MIL can't view source on your dusting practices. mmhmm. eww. defaults. *sniff*

ok look i'm a freak.

things. bizarre. things, inexplicable & bizarre. & those which might be explicable tend to escape, er, explication by virtue of the fact they are so terribly, terribly ... bizarre.

not terrible, you mind you - - bizarre.

weird.

just not unusual, is all.

weirdness abounds.

self: be less surprised by this in the future. that is all, carry on.

it's about fears, really. would it help if i told you my skin crawls looking at pictures of insects? but last night i spent hours in fireworks mx carefully cutting out & changing & arranging & getting layout ideas from these objects of my own irrational fear, both the pretty moth and my main man mr. chrispy over here, i mean i was upclose & personal with bugparts in great detail. and here they are. & i'm fine, really. sure it was touch and go for a bit there, but isn't it always?

i don't forget the bee body's there, but i am ... forgetful in general & (i have to find him a jar) & last night i tipped the piece of paper & flung him (not far but enough)... didn't land on me, or else i'd probably be in restraints in the psych ward pumped full of thorazine & still screaming and that is only slightly an exaggeration. only. slightly. and ... i had to use a piece of paper to pick him up and put him back on his piece of paper, where i can keep an eye on him (you would need a fairly severe phobia for to understand the degree of panic involved here) - & the whole time i was squeaking & hyperventilating & it does not help that that much adrenaline makes the hair tingle, i'll tell you that right now. & ... the weight of him. goodgod. the sound he made when i scooped him up, heavy dead bee body. heavy. i mean, the damn thing weighs ... something. ok? weight & bee, not things you generally put in the same sentence, unless the sentence is in an entomology exam.

bee body's still here. i'm still sane here. it's a symbol, a sign, & several reasons, all wrapped up in one crispy little former critter.

but he needs a little jar. with a nice, little, snug-fitting lid. oh my yes.

one bee.
two bee.
bee be very dead.
two days in dishwater.
still creepy.
bigtime creepy.

i'm keeping him. chrispy the dead bee body, my mascot.