Dreaming in Hindi - Kathleen rich

This hit me in my gut - when she wrote about surviving two bouts of cancer, one terminal, and the crooked paths her life took, afterwards. I want to read a book about an Indian person in India, a foreigner, an alien who blends right in. Where does the unknowing become identifiable, definitive?

Motivation

Any time that I feel as though all I do is sleep and watch bad movies in bed, I check all the emails I've sent on OKcupid that haven't received any replies

Yours mines ours theirs

I really like reading Mary Janice davidson. Her books are quick witted and exhaustively filled with banter, and I praise the succinct eroticness. Forget jah, I worship at the altar of The Economy of Words. But, I never really enjoy imagining hanging out with these characters in real life. I would have to break out the slaps to the pieholes

Fried chicken

Once again demonstrating how enlightened my colonial masters continue to be, as I was crossing the road yesterday, some guy in a car yelled out, "I have KFC!". I would like to say that my initial reaction was a struggle between outrage on behalf of race and size. But, instead, I thought, "my god, that sounds delicious. How did they know I had some for lunch?"

moral superiority

that was sarcasm in the title.
it really does not work in a context free environment, does it?

i am obsessed with lists. i love handwriting my to-do list on various scraps of paper,  and slashing a line through the less than 20% of the things and events i have intentions of completing. i also fall under its paralytic spell, an eager sense of failure in the surety that I will not accomplish much in the rest of my life. failure is then equal to the freedom of inaction, of routine and control, of knowing that sex with myself means that i will always have an orgasm, and i dont have to hold anyone afterwards; as empty and glorious as that sounds.

but as the wise hairy asian man pointed out, i am changing, inexorably, minutely, definitively. this blog is not meant for public consumption, but it does represent the first step in enjoying words and language again.

which brings it back to the list. i want to write about what i read. i worry that i read too quickly, that i absorb enough to get me to the next page, but theres no depth attached to it. i read quickly because i am greedy at the library, that odd intersection of socialist largesse and capitalist fear.

right now, i am struggling to finish Sherlock Holmes Volume II. i was ecstatic to discover new stories, new novels, to compare it to the modern BBC remake, to practice techniques on the subway that have made me aware of how much thought i put into fashion, and how vicious i enjoy being about that :)
i think holmes' recommendation would involve some degree of sexism and a treatise on cocaine.

this is not my thing.

highs and lows

as work days goes, it was not the funnest.
im facing a serious amount of trouble from the incompetent "higher-ups" at my insignificant job. things escalated with a call i made, which eventually ended up with a call to the police, and a complaint to the client.
i dont defend my actions that resulted in this outcome. clearly, i am wrong and i should apologize.
where i am enmeshed, however, is the improper, lacking amount of remorse that i exhibit. i can give all the assurances that i will internally monitor my tone and voice in the future, but, how do i grovel correctly? at what point do my humility and humiliation intersect, so that i can move forward? when will the interior of my mouth heal, given that i seem to be trying to treat it like long lasting gum in an arid desert?

mute buttons on remote controls

this was made by hipsters for hipsters.
how do i know this for sure?
well it uses every single unwashed item of clothing from their "wardrobe" that was curated by their frenemies

how to screw up water

the thoughtlessness of language

there are certain words that i will not say aloud. i take pride in that fact, a refusal to engage in base behaviour, to not add to the atmosphere of oppression that we inhale all the time. i will not say or sing or shout the n-word, for instance, despite my love for dead prez and jay z and childish gambino and drake and lil wayne and nas. i will never call anyone, gay or straight or the million spaces in between, the f word, erasing its etymology and its glimpse into life hundreds of years faded. i will not use the r word to describe some whose mental or physical abilities are not on par with mine. i cant know their stories. their victories, their struggles. i cant know if people are assholes or angels from a tiny interaction with them. i will never, ever describe someone's body shape with the f-word, because obese and anorexic and athletic and healthy arent patrolled by the body image and nutrition police. beauty and desire evolve, mutate, regress, all the fucking time, for me in my head, in my body. i cant accept this as being unique to my worldview.

so why do i take pride in demeaning women? from the moment i wake up and say good morning to other members of my family, to walking to public transportation, to riding said bus and subway and streetcar, to calling them at work, avoiding my coworkers, rolling my eyes at students, sweating next to them at the gym, reading blogs that eviscerate their choices in fashion, and life? i take pride in my vocabulary and not my vagina.

power to the word

the theme of my thirties

as the dirty devon blonde once told me, never apologize for being a magnificent bastard. and as a literal bastard myself, it is a mantra that i should hold much closer to my heart, and mouth

the roots live. should be on a bucket list somewhere

and so it begins.