The First Day Of The Rest Of My Blogging Life

Blog.  There’s been talk that it’s the way and the light.  This is my new get rich quick scheme!  You don’t know me yet, so you don’t even know if I am joking or serious.  I know me as good as anyone, and I am still not quite sure… But I’ve heard tell that the hard ball playin’ bloggers make more than nurses and fire fighters… Or some two minorly serious careers like that.  I feel like that might be a less than tasteful foot to start out on with you, the fashionably anonymous reader~ “Hey, read these words, freshly milked from my tangled, messy head, so I can get rich!”  I could see that that might be a turn-off.

Or it could be a turn-on.  Because something you should know about me, Athena, is that I write (besides because it is a soul compulsion, a calling to whose bitch I am destined to be) I write because I get off on telling the unflattering truths inflicted upon me by my “condition”…  My HUMAN CONDITION.  And the beauty of it, is that YOU are afflicted too, so I know that there is at least a chance that you will understand.  I love reading a writer who is willing to tell the truth, as unattractive as it may be… and feeling something in me breathe a sigh of relief when I remember that I’m not so totally alone, and not the only would be circus freak among us.  So… read on, and know that you’re doing okay, whoever you are, wherever you are, how ever you are.

It’s six oh nine am.  Not so ungodly.  (Though honestly, I don’t believe there is a time in all of creation and beyond that is “ungodly”, so maybe that was the wrong adjective…)(Yeah, I’m pretty into God… You’ll see.)  Anyway, now it’s six eleven and my tea tastes really delicious, which is weird, because it doesn’t always.  The same tea, more or less and it always hits me different.  It’s Irish breakfast from Trader Joes.  (I recommend it to tea drinkers who are hallowedly plagued by this recession business.  You get like eighty bags for like three dollars and fifty cents or some’m like that!  And it is a tea with balls!)  I heat up some coconut milk. (which is another recession special~ one can of coconut milk plus two and three quarters cans of water, plus a dainty teaspoon of stevia, half as much salt and a few mindless sprinkles of cinnamon all swirled around in the hand blender that Eric* won at a raffle once upon a distant, nostalgic time.)  Anyway, I like my tea MILKY, and this coconut brew is wimpier than milk, so I use at least twice as much, heated up in a sauce pan and then added to the small amount of hot water and tea bag.  And a modest plop of honey.  I would go into great detail on all of this, but it seems boring.

I just thought I’d be like Like Water For Chocolate, and give you a sexy recipe strewn with a heart wrenching story.  But it didn’t really work out that way.  I just took a deep breath.  Wow, those things are really useful sometimes.

Six twenty now, and what I was driving at when I announced the time, was that I normally would not be awake now.  Well, yes, at six twenty, maybe, but not at five twenty, when I originally woke up.  Especially not since yesterday was “spring forward”.  So if you do the MATH! (I am starting a new fad~ putting an exclamation point after the word MATH!.  It’s really healing.  Especially if you suffered through math! in school.  It makes it more jazzy and promising.  Try it.)

Anyway, I usually crawl into my sweetie’s bed in the wee hours of the morning and drift in and out of thoughts and dreams and prayers for another hour or three.  But this morning I was anticipating an e-mail from Eric* and so when I stirred at just after five, I couldn’t resist checking my IPHONE for his message.  HARK! MATH! It was there!  And it was so stirring and made my mind crawl with insect swarmish thoughts and there I was, in Mykael’s bed, spooning him as the muses screamed at me.  I swear, sometimes I feel abandoned by them.  But in his oh so squishy bed in the dark, the most brilliant things were racing through my wide awake mind, maybe not as fast as lightening, but at least as fast as… cheetahs or thoroughbreds or fireflies.

So it was either receive this gift of inspiration by hurling it on the page, or just lay there with a mind on fire, trying to push the thoughts down and “meditate”.  As if this is not “meditation”.

Woops.  I think that was it.  No more inspired words.  I fell into a quiet lull.  Oops, here they come again.  I want to exclaim that writing is my savior!  My messiah!  Whereas before I landed on the page, all my tangle of chaotic thoughts and feelings was a source of out of control-ness, lonliness, insanity… here on the page, I feel SO WHOLE.  How is it, that the simple act of organizing my mind into a linear succession of fleeting ideas is so soothing?  Really… It must be some kind of holy alchemy.  But honestly, I am NOT exaggerating.  Recently I have thought that I might just drown in my very own life, and now, here in my dimly lit bedroom, with the darkness whispering distant freeway songs outside my white curtain drawn window and the cat licking her crotch at my feet, I am suddenly more than okay.  I am here.  Is this what Jim Morrison meant when he said “stoned immaculate”?  …probably not…

I thought I was going to write about Eric*.  That’s why I put the little asterisk by his name.  But just like MATH!, Eric* shall hence forth be followed by a holy asterisk.

Once Upon A Time.  I like using that phrase to start up a story.  And too, I like Happily Ever After, as much.  Because it speaks to the sugar coated, princess fairy tale mind fuck that has all too subtly sculpted my mind as a woman in this culture.  Or more appropriately said, this cultureless society.  Ahem, Once upon a time, me n Eric were engaged to be wed.  Five years of life together that made and broke us.  (That last sentence was only in there for dramatic flair, but come on, it totally worked.)  Then one day, one spring day, that is, things seemed common enough, Eric drove a large, white van full of privileged waldorf high school students home from their vision quest… The kind of large white van that somehow always gets associated with child molesters… Eric ate random snacks such as chips and bananas with nut butter and a host of (shoot, I suddenly really have to go pee, but my cat is laying on me and I’m on a roll.  Dang.)

Okay, I just went, I had very little choice in the matter.  And then, while I was in mid stream I just remembered this really important thing I had to tell you.  This is requisite, like a disaster drill.  In fact, it IS a disaster drill of sorts!  Last night I accidentally ate chicken liver pate!  I swear I didn’t mean to.  I was at this potluck and it was getting hella late, but dinner was not served… until like nine o’clock, which in my rigid little world is HARDLY okay… thankfully I had eaten a piece of celery with almond butter on the way… Ahem.  Then at nine, like four random foods were informally presented.  Yay! One of them was a large bowl of grayish brown… “mash”… surrounded by an inviting spray of little cute toasts.  I wondered.  I might have secretly known it was danger.  The question did slither-whisper through my mind… Is this liver-slop?  Nah… Plus, there were lumps in it, one of which I bravely investigated.  WALNUTS!   (not the same as MATH!~ it is not requisite to be a perpetual exclamation)  Granted, the slime around the WALNUT! Tasted reminiscent of dog food, which should have been my first clue, but I justified it like this~ Pate is too fancy and comes in small, round molds.  This was a big bowl full, which is atypical of all things “delicacy”, right?  WRONG.  I was hungry, so I tastefully scarfed both toasts, only to be regretfully informed by my man that it I had fed us chicken liver pate.  REMORSE!  That’s the best way to express it.

Now it’s six fifty nine am.  The sky is blushing with the promise of a brand new day.  Not blushing like pink though, just blushing with light.  Get it?  And the bird’s song has changed from morose to promising.  That happens when they feel the light flood in once again.  Like a nocturnal tourniquet.

Anyway, I am about to turn into a pumpkin in this daylight, and I realize that I have already written fifteen hundred and twenty something words, which is a mouthful, or an eyeful at least.  A somethingful.  And I want to leave you wanting, so I’m just gonna spew out this last moral, because in the book of how to write a successful, lucrative blog, THEY say that you must inflict the world at large with copious amounts of unwieldy morals!!!  Just kidding.  Did I fool you even for a second?!

The moral of this story, is that if you are twisted enough to bring a wash basin sized bowl of liver pate to a pot luck, the LEAST you can do is LABEL it.  Please.  Take that to heart.  Otherwise, people might mistake it for babaganoush that has been sitting out way too long and incidentally tastes like cat food.

And as for the Once Upon A Time, Eric* thread, stay tuned.  And until then, Champagne Dreams and Liver Pate nightmares.


3 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Jessica
    Mar 21, 2010 @ 09:35:51

    I love your writing! I can’t wait to see more…


  2. Rosy Moon
    Mar 22, 2010 @ 18:38:35

    Please, I must know the rest of the story, you leave me hanging, even though I do know some of the intimate details…please, please,


  3. cheezaddict
    Mar 23, 2010 @ 20:46:54

    I love it! Keep going! I can really hear your voice even though I’ve never literally heard your voice. How wonderful and fun!


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