Mar 24, 2006

a box for my brain

Boxes. They're useful. There're everywhere. Everything I own is either in or out of a box. That's how it is. If it's not already in a box, it should be. It will be. That is, if an item is not in a box, then I have failed. Because, whatever it is, it's supposed to be in a box. Believe me. There are boxes in every facet of my life. At work, everything I do requires a box to magically arrive. Then, later, when my work is done, whatever arrived in the box has to be repacked. By me. Unpacking. Repacking. Like that. All day. But these are happy work-related boxes. I like them. Though, sometimes, upon repacking work-related-boxes, I inadvertently bend or tear the top of a box. It's the folding over of the top of the box that gets tricky. Just go ahead, fold. One over the next. Four times. Like a flower. A square flower with four petals. Nice and neat. Mathematically sound. A really logical method for securing a box. I know. And I like the idea. But that last fold is a bitch. None the less, the only bad part of work-related boxes is the business at the end about folding up the top. So, I have boxes at work. And now I'm moving, so I have boxes at home. And we've been packing up my father's house. So, there's quite a few dad-related-boxes, too. They arrive steadily to my apartment. With a constancy that, though it's nice to have something to count on (like the sun rising) is seemingly without end (like outer space). The dad-related-boxes are never ending. The more we pack, the more there is. The more we do, the less we do. And dad-related-boxes are packed wholly without logic. In a manner that betrays that the people who packed them are both grieving and drunk. For this reason, dad-related-boxes may contain wildly diverse items. A blender. A loose deck of cards in a jar with a lightbulb. A plaid shirt. Erasers. A Holly Hobbie lunch box. Some crystal. Some crayons. Some bottles of lysterine. Some books thrown on top (the heavier items always placed lovingly on top of the lighter, more breakable items). Dad-related-boxes, apartment-related-boxes. They're all here, at my half packed up, box-centric, box of an apartment. In the beginning, I tried to unpack the dad-related-boxes. And I understand that I'm moving to another apartment in order to delay unpacking the dad-related-boxes. If not accommodate them. I also understand that there was a time when I would see something on my shelf, or at my dad's house, and not immediately think that it needed to go into a box. Certainly that will change.

Mar 16, 2006

it's like soap meant to clean your other soap

You know what I mean. I realize that my blog is about my blog. It has to be. It isn't about anything else. Like certain websites that are exclusively about all things tech related. How great is that? This blog isn't that. But it is. Look closely. It is, it is. I promise you, it is. I say tomato. You say tomato. I say blue. You say blue-green. I say bleu cheese. It's a toss up. And it could go on and on like that for hours. And that's just me, here, (without you) typing. It's a blog. My keyboard returned to normal function for a few hours a few days ago. Now it's like this again. And I'm without an enter key. Which is like a bicycle without wheels. Or a house without a door. Or a sky without a sun. Or like spaghetti without Parmesan cheese. It's like a car without gas. It's like, I love you, but.. It's like leaving the house without your brain. Or a bird without song. It's that I can not ENTER. And I hate it. I have thought of buying a new keyboard. I have. But, at the end of the day, I just don't want to. And I asked for technical assistance, as it's not just my physical keyboard that is messed up, but something deeper. Because I tried the screen keyboard, and it's the same thing. All the time. Everyday. I can't enter. There are no line breaks. I am (basically) without a steering wheel in this car of a blog that I'm driving. Not that I haven't had a recurring dream where I'm in a car that's going (pretty fast) down the highway. And I'm sitting in the back seat and no one else is in the car with me. Which is bad. And pretty simple to interpret as a dream. I know. Believe me. I went through this phase where I had to have toast all of the time. And I felt pretty bad taking that toaster (at work) out of it's package everyday (a product meant to be photographed in package, pristinely) just to make myself some toast, only to very, very carefully put it back into it's box (everyday, using glue - secret glue). So, it's appropriate that I would write in my blog about my broken keyboard. And not do anything about it. Whatever. I bought some flowers for my other flowers (as my other flowers were having a bad day) and they need water now, as well my kitten's pet kitten needs assistance, and my brain's brain is super tired. So..

Mar 3, 2006

welcome back

I just welcomed myself back. It's ok. I can do that. I guess that this would be as good a time as any to mention that I can't write in my blog properly. Because the enter key on my keyboard is broken. Which is frustrating. [enter]. I hit enter [enter] and it does nothing [enter]. Literally nothing [enter] I'm pretty sure this wouldn't be happening if I were in Japan [enter]. It's safe to say that I hate the enter key right now [enter]. Anyway, it's come to my attention that two or three people have read my blog in the last month. That's ok. It doesn't bother me [enter]. And by me I mean this blog. It doesn't bother this blog. A team of spider web removers (out of the East Coast) will need to be temporarily flown in. And, accustomed as they are to handling special situations like this (unsavory, horrific, albeit fascinating situations), they will at that time (without emotion, other than giving each other lots of ribbing for whatever happened in their social lives the night before) remove all of the spider webs. From this blog. Also cob webs. And dust. They will be ok with this as they have dealt with atrocities. Really, the worst kinds of messes. And they will also be good enough to straighten up a little bit around here. And maybe fill the ice cube trays. And I will be kind enough to pay them. They will do their part and I will do mine. And on and on. Until the money runs out. Because it always does. And that's when they (the East Coast team) will start in with their spiel. They'll advise me to shut down the whole operation. Right away. Meaning immediately, or "as soon as possible", which roughly translates to mean "now", maybe "in the morning". That is, before I accrue anymore debt. But, of course I will balk. But they as a group (of about three or four people) will be relentless. I dare say, hardboiled. And, really, just downright negative about the whole thing. They (the East coast team) will (over the course of two or three hours) continue to oh-so-gently nudge me to abandon my blog. Then I will counter with a refusal, even though I will feel that they are probably right. Yes. I will pretend to doubt them. Because you never know what that might achieve. Besides I will feel cornered. And cornered = pressured. One day I will just sleep in and blow off the blog. But then, one day (probably the next day) I'll pull myself together, and go to headquarters to have a big meeting (with doughnuts and everything). But it won't matter. The East Coast team will know that my blog is done. And they, unable to watch me continue to waste my time and money, will start taking steps to resign. That's when I, sensing that they're backing out, will fire all them on the spot. After which I'll panic and freak out. And they will be there for me. And a little bit themselves. With vodka, a box of kleenex, a boom box, and a bunch of old Neil Diamond CDs. Finally, I will accept that they're right and relieve them of their duties at frankenmonsterblog. With the promise that I will (with the help of some lawyer-friend-brother-in-law of theirs) close down production as soon as Monday. But after they leave (and it will be very quiet after they leave), I will instead sit down and come up with a plan of my own. And even though my plan might start out as just another way (another drunken way) to get me through the bad, bad, bad bottom line of this situation, I will (that Sunday) find myself actually adhering to a program where it will all work out. Just as long as I don't eat or breathe or go to the movies or do anything outside of paying my bills. For a year. And, as is the case in times like these, where a person is presented with two roads, one being reasonable, the other being ridiculous, I will take the ridiculous road. With all the stubbornness, grit, stupidity, and short sightedness that a person can muster. I will work (for a year) towards my goal, always writing checks, always freezing my ass off, always hungry. Always dirty. Always talking to myself. The whole time. And always getting some kind of (non-money related) pay-off. And indeed the blog will survive. The whole goddamnned year. And, they (the East coast team; many others) will laugh at me in month three. But month ten? Eleven? [enter]