Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Raccoon and Stripper

I was driving off of the highway when I saw the ball of fur thrashing about on the street before me. I swerved, and my heart sank. I could make out the ringed-tail and the black legs of a large raccoon.
I wanted to pull over, but there were cars coming up fast behind me. I expressed my sympathy for the maimed raccoon to my passengers, who were not as soft-hearted as I. Behind us a vehicle managed to pull over, and I assumed they were going to offer the poor creature some aid...
We continued on our drive. Dropping my passengers off at a pub, I left them to move onto another, much more entertaining venue: a strip club.

....I smiled at the sparkles on my nipple as the raccoon took his last breath.

Drama

Being drawn into a dramatic fallout is like being sucked into someone else's shit-whirlwind; it is not my fault, but because I am caught up in it, I am guilty by association.

Monday, February 19, 2007

Last Night...







...my band, AGAINST RESTRAINT, played a show with GOLGOTHA at the COBALT...






Fight

I don’t even say good-bye; I just leave.

I start the vehicle that I have loaded with my belongings, and I drive down the Barnet Highway. Even in the dark, the beautiful views from the road momentarily distract me from my anger. But the anger comes raging back once I catch sight of my new apartment, as I am exhausted, and I know that it will still be awhile before I can sleep.

I pull into my new parking spot, and sort through my new keys. It is late, and I have a lot of unpacking to do. If I leave my possessions in the car, someone may steal them. I have six boxes and a rabbit cage to carry through the door, and it takes me two hours of struggling. When I am done, I look down at the bare wooden floor that I will be sleeping on. The anger surges within me, but I swallow it. I will have to awaken early, and if I allow the anger to swamp my mind, then I will be up all night mucking through a brain of bullshit. Slowly, the grip of anger begins to subside, and it releases me into the waiting arms of slumber.



Weeks have gone by and we still have not spoken. Our stubborn heads have butted, and neither father nor daughter wants to show any weakness. My back aches from the hard floor, but it does nothing to mask my inner resentment when you stop by one day to drop off my mattress. Our eyes do not meet, and I take the mattress in without a word.

I am working hard for minimum wage, but I have my freedom, so I feign contentment. I eat pizza every day, and go out whenever I want. Acquaintances come by to visit, and I enjoy the company—an escape from my solitude—sometimes a little too much. My sweater begins to smell of another woman’s husband.

I am having fun with my freedom.

My mind has been switched off since I moved out, but reality is starting to worm its way into my apartment of gluttony, and my common sense stirs. Freedom may be fun, but life needs a purpose. I realize that although being free for its own sake is highly valued, not using my newfound freedom positively is pointless. It is like I have turned from a forest path and wandered off into the woods to get lost on purpose, and I am fucking random bush-people along the way.

This is a positive realization; it will fuel me to aim higher. But it comes too late.

I get up one morning-and I fall back down. My foot is swollen. I call into work; I tell them that I must have broken my toe.

The next day is the same. I am in pain, so I go to the hospital. The doctors shrug me off as a stubbed toe. I call you, finally. You are surprisingly supportive. I tell you that I will try to continue to work through this pain. You call me a fool.

I wake up the next morning and remove the blankets from over my weakening body. I test my swollen foot on the wooden floor. Pain. I get on all fours and crawl down the hall to the bathroom. I run the faucet, and tears fall from my eyes as the water hits my flesh. I wipe my face and my tears are swept down the drain. I shower sitting in the bathtub because I can barely stand. I dress, and limp to work.

My pain has forced reconciliation between us, but my freedom has been taken away again. You are there to support me, and I am grateful for it, for although you were the one hindering me before, you are now the only one helping me.

I lose my job and become as useless as my swollen toes. The doctors tell me that I have arthritis, and that it is spreading rapidly throughout my joints. I stop eating pizza, and no one comes to visit anymore. You invite me back home, but I refuse, just as you refuse to believe that a young woman can become stricken with an old man’s disease. We are stubborn again. You are angry with me; but I am convinced that moving back home would make me a failure.

I am out of work for a month and a half when I decide to regain my independence. I have borrowed enough money from you, and I must go on living. I will not accept this pain; I will fight it for as long as I can. If there is anything I have inherited from you, it is your stubborn will.

You come over one day to check on me. My apartment is in shambles. With my artillery of excuses I attempt to explain the state of my home, explain why there are mice and bugs and broken windows, and that I am still fully capable of looking after myself. You are unconvinced and offer me more money. I decline, and I state how well I am doing financially. Waitressing isn’t actually that hard when you can’t walk; it just hurts like hell. I repeat that I am working through the pain and that I am going to beat this debilitation. I put on my sweater that smells like rabbit litter.

You still can’t accept that your twenty-something daughter has arthritis. I have accepted the condition, but not its consequences. I go to a rheumatologist, and he pats me on the shoulder; he urges me to accept my fate. I shrug off of his hand and continue to decline anti-inflammatories. I meet his pitied gaze with determination.

I become desperate. I am obsessed with the cause of my continually spreading pain. Perhaps it is my diet. I stop eating; I gorge myself. I am anorexic; I am obese. No matter my weight you always tell me that I am too thin, even when I believe I am at my biggest. You say that men like women with meat on their bones; I go for another day without food. Men have nothing to do with this. It has everything to do with my health, my life.

Two years pass—two years of swelling and subsiding, pain and anger—and then, one day, I awake as usual, and test my now knarled, twisted feet on the cold, hardwood floor. No pain. I am confused, but thankful. That morning, there are more tears in the shower; but not tears of pain, tears of relief. I stand and shower. I swear to embrace my newfound freedom. I call you and ask you if I can move back home and go to college. You are relieved as well.



I drive down the Barnet Highway, my vehicle loaded with my things. I gaze out in awe over the inlet, and smile. I pull up to your house and park in my old parking spot. You are waiting for me, along with my mother and brother. I get help unloading my car, my rabbit cage and my mattress.

That night I drift off almost immediately. My last thought before I am welcomed by slumber is about the fight between us that caused me to leave in the first place; for the life of me, I can’t recall what is was about.

Friday, February 16, 2007

Ancestry

Ever wonder about your long-dead relatives?

What would a man who lived in 1693 be to me?
My great-great-great-great-great grandfather?

http://www.uwo.ca/english/canadianpoetry/eng%20274e/kelsey.htm

http://canadawiki.org/index.php/1690_-_Henry_Kelsey's_Trip_to_the_Prairies

Henry Kelsey was an explorer who wrote about all of his adventures in poetry-form. c1667-1724

...that's all I really know at this time...but it's pretty damn interesting...!!

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

Blog-Sloth

How often are you supposed to post in a blog?
I can't tell whether I am being lazy or not...have I adopted one of the seven deadly blog sins?
What else would there be...

Well, if I were any better at writing, or wrote more often, I may develop Blog-Pride, and brag about my measly spot on the vast worldwide web of meaningless words.
I guess Blog-Greed would be my next step, which would be the addition of advertisements along the borders of my blog.
Blog-Envy would soon follow, as I would begin to monitor the progress of other blogs, and burn with the jealous realization that other blogspot sites receive more traffic than mine...
Naturally, I would seek some sort of digitized-vengeance, and I would soon be overcome with Blog-Wrath, attempting to flood the comments sections of the more popular web journals with obscenities.
After that, I may begin sleeping with people to convince them to check out my blog, and, consequently, Blog-Lust would overtake my cyber-blackened-soul.

But don't forget Blog-Gluttony! I've got that already...I have recently begun two other blogs!



Heheh...not blog sins, but this site told me my deadly sin-count...(I'm not trying to advertise for them, I swear!)




Greed:High
Gluttony:Medium
Wrath:Very High
Sloth:Low
Envy:Very Low
Lust:Very High
Pride:Low







Discover Your Sins - Click Here


.......

In Unrelated Laura News:

Life has been very busy lately, and not just with meaningless busywork...life has been busy with purpose.

Music and the written word-that is what my life is about right now-it feels great.

....

In an exit interview, a class instructor stated that I was very transparent...I wish I had asked him to elaborate, because now I am curious as what he meant by that.

Am I
-easily seen through, recognized, or detected or
-open; frank; candid
?


Alright, and so ends my tired personal reflection bullshit for the evening...or should I say, personal transparency?