I haven't seen the movie Black Panther yet, but I will. I love movies based on comic books. Comic books were our escape from reality as kids; they were promises of possible brighter tomorrows. Comic books taught us to think outside the box, to believe. The Fantastic Four was my favorite. Dood was rocks.
My Uncle John introduced me to comic books, most notably MAD Magazine. He played folk songs on his acoustic guitar and taught my brother to flip olives over Grammie's chandelier. John was my Godfather in the old Catholic way; he was a Viet Nam veteran and a great father when he finally had kids of his own. He died young, seven years ago. I think today was his birthday.
We were oblivious to any insidious racism in comic books. We were kids, and took things literally. Some of those characters were blue, for God's sake. The adults in my young life never addressed the issue of racism at all, because it didn't affect us. People are people to us. This did not prepare me for…
fighting to let go
rehoming my regrets
giving is selfish - said it over
and again like a mantra
it's best to disarm
let the stories speak for themselves
let the metal and stone
recoup their true selves, and yet
they fight back.
"...I think I just want to sleep for a year or two to get my energy back," says my friend, the Annoying One.
I totally get that. Since moving to Annandale, since divorcing, that is pretty much what I've been doing. It's more difficult than I thought it would be, recharging, but I'm sort of getting the hang of it. There are still bouts of anger and frustration over time wasted, and mourning over that which was lost and will probably be unrecoverable. I'm sure you know this one.
Fresh starts aren't really fresh, and they aren't really starts, either - more like picking up a knitting project and trying to remember where you wanted to go with it. Remembering how to knit, even. Deciding that some of those dropped stitches can just stay dropped and unravel later, because I'm old and no longer care about the competition.
Let there be holes in my armor. I don't believe anything can kill me any more.
Peter was one of the Scottish Golf Group, not to be confused with the Irish Golf Group who’d stayed at the hotel the month before. While the Irishmen went out to the bar every night promptly at 6 PM, the Scots brought their own beer and sat around the pool drinking, singing, and calling my name whenever any hotel staff member who remotely resembled me passed through.
"They're calling you," Lindsey grumbled.
"What do they want?"
"Dunno. Every time they can see me they start yelling DEBRRRRA! DEBRRRRA!" She huffled into the back office, letting the door slam.
One night, though, I found several of the Scots at the pub on my way home from work. I can’t remember whether I was drinking, but I want to say I wasn’t. I often went to the bar and didn’t drink. I also found my friend Phyllis, who wanted a ride to see her boyfriend working the graveyard shift at the Adult Bookstore. Peter the Scottish Golfer was not content to go back to the hotel at closing time,…
YEAH, no, I shot myself in the
foot on this one because I don't like feely-movies. I
was hoping, naively, for more focus on the the discussion of art's
impact on society, but really I should have known better. It is sad how judg(e)mental I can remain watching
these two strangers enact a very realistic fake marriage of 15 years. A lot of the time I am siding with the guy: if the wine
is bad, you say something.
I had to stop watching, though,
to comment on a pivotal point in the "marriage" - the pretending wife is
complaining that her pretend husband doesn't see her, because he didn't notice
she changed her lipstick nor her earrings. On this I disagree, and I
have to credit my ex-husband.
Yardy rarely cared if I wore
makeup or not. I clean up well, as they say. I often call makeup "battle armor", and it's important when
how I present to society is important. It's important when I'm feeling
especially unwell and how I presen…
I just came back to my workstation and found this. I confirmed with my supervisor-friend that it does not mean #daydrinking is approved. I can't find any documentation that it's expressly forbidden, either. That coffee mug, Newcastle Stan, was a gift from my pal Beardo at BoomChang Records. I had to confirm that I like Stan the band, and I do, and so will you if you listen to them. Click that link and get happy.
Gifts are awesome, especially when they show somebody actually gets you. Even when the gift is knives, maybe especially then.
It is nice to be understood.
I may be working up some Artistic Fervor (read: meltdown) this weekend. I really can't stand myself this week - I can't stand how I can't figure out why I'm stagnating, still, again. It's a process; everything is. I am a process. My process is moving very. extremely. slowly. at. this. time. I want to see results. I crave resolution. I am itchy in this alone-space which I love so much. Sometimes…