^ P ^

Or something very close to that.

You know what I mean. Open tag P close tag. P is for pop-tart. Psychiatrist. Puddle. Paradox. Pinky toe. But most of all P is for paragraph.

I have line breaks.

That's a line break. That's what's happening. Lines have been broken. The walls that stood for so long between me and my paragraphs have been dissembled. I watched them as they crumbled into nothing more than a pile debris d'HTML.

Just like that. Poof.

P is for poof.

cups and cakes

A quick update: I've read that pj smorg has recently uploaded something on youtube. I believe smorg took some real risks (that artist rarely do today, particularly in film) with this piece, an installation that is not only very personal to smorg (must be), but also suggests that more smorg-induced laughter could be right around the corner (what with this youtube medium). Let's hope so. It's a gem.

Furthermore, I read Winky this morning. Though she rarely if ever posts, I read winky each day. It's a great read. Both of the above blogs are on, up and running and are available for reading. Right now.

life is for the living

And the dead wouldn't have it any other way.

I have grown certain of this. I've been cleaning out an old man's house. Actually he wasn't that old. And he's getting younger. He's about thirty-five. In my mind, now that he's dead. Permanently thirty-five.

My dad. Laughing. Angry. Laughing due to a sudden bout of schadenfraude, no doubt. Piss and vinegar. Olive oil and vinegar. Either way.

A hard working, no exceptions, no excuses, ..I don't care if you baby-sat the entire summer ..I'm going to finally locate your earnings and I'm going to steal them.. kind of guy.

He was a funny guy. An organized guy. A guy with standards. Rooms were clean. Lines were straight. Quarters bounced. There was no tolerance for things like attitude. Or lint. Not like today. And now this. His house. Slowly dissembled by his children. Piece by piece. Every item, each proverbial mayonnaise jar with painted lid, filled with screws, wing-nuts, unidentified powders, and sometimes money (it doesn't matter which, and, admittedly, very useful to me after my recent move) is taken down. Examined. Discussed. Considered. If not taken off of the premises altogether. And that's the goal.

Sometimes, in the final analysis, an item is slapped with a sticker: One dollar (or best offer).

This is not my dad's house anymore. It's not our house, either. And it's not your house. Nor is it their house. This is not a house. There are still some domestic touches. There is an 8 oz. Ice Mountain in the fridge right now (for instance). It looks quite cozy there, next to its hopeful companion, the single foil wrapped pat of butter. And a more unlikey pair there never was. Really.

And there are a few rolls of toilet paper in the house. Yes. And we've got quite a handsome collection of garbage bags, lightbulbs, xacto knives, and small cut up sponges. Yes, yes. And the abundance of Windex that my dad accumulated (or horded, we'll never know) is impressive, and can not be ignored. A Windex museum will very likely be up and running in time for the estate sale. Which would be great in case of a lull.

I have developed the nagging sense that I'm in big trouble with my dad right about now.

It's an ongoing process that seem without end. Yet when it's all over and done with, I know I will wish it weren't. Last week a couple of my dad's neighbors walked past as I stood at his dumpster with my unreasonable amount of garbage. They stopped and laughed and said something about how they "don't envy" me and my family right now. They're nice people, my dad's neighbors. They've been there. They know how it is.

I looked up at them (my face by then covered with asbestos, my hair filled with cob webs, spiders, and smoke, my arm bleeding - freely bleeding - as nature intended, what with my handy paper-towel-plus-scotch-tape bandage failing me by then, and sort of hanging on from just one corner, I was gross, pathetic, unprepared - all three). I pushed down the lid on the dumpster and paused. Paused and looked at them. Maybe for a moment too long for comfort. I lit a cigarette (though, in all honesty, one was already lit and being smoked by me, but I didn't care). I pulled out a fifth of vodka (shaken, plenty of ice, a twist of lemon) and I laughed. With them. At first politely. Then genuinely. Which became heartily. And, finally, desperately as I went into hysterics that, I don't care what anyone says, is the greatest. And they followed suit. My dad's neighbors.

It was that kind of day. And why not laugh? The sun is shining. Life. It's so bad it's good.

keep the dirt you love while creating more garbage than ever

It's incredible. I am currently dealing with a dirty floor emergency / phenomenon. Other people's dirt. Though, technically, now it's mine. The dirt, having originated from the past, comes like a gift with this, the present-day apartment. It's very much like an apartment I looked at years ago. That apartment came with a piano. A big useless piano. It was wedged into a corner of an alcove that the landlord kept calling the dining room. And wedged in such a way that the keyboard sort of spilled into the kitchen. It was a big piano that no one wanted to talk about. But I did bring it up. Finally. The big piano. And it was then that the big piano was spun in the best possible light to me by the landlord ..Yes! Yes! This apartment comes with a big piano (that you don't need) ..Did I forget to mention that? Oh. I see. So, now, after having moved into this apartment, I admit, I did not immediately mop the floors. I did sweep a little bit. But there were bigger problems for me to attend to right then. Especially as the prior tenants hadn't moved all the way out of the apartment, but something like 50% of the way out of the apartment. That was week one. The whole time I was thinking I had medium dark wood floors. And, as I had never had dark floors before, but the blandest, most boring of light wood floors, I was kind of excited about this turn of events in my life (floor-wise). But I learned, finally, that the dark floors were a misunderstanding based on assumption. It appears that the people who used to live here (and how many people they were is unclear, even to the landlord) used nothing but a dry variety Swiffer for the duration of their lease. I know this based on instinct via the data collected (per the evidence of my soap and water excavation). The floors were, underneath a layer of filth, honey colored. So, swiffing, which sounds just as half-assed as it is (onomatopoeia, still blowing my mind on a daily basis), had to be the extent of the prior tenants floor cleaning regime. And, as I had to move quite a bit of their stuff for them (as it became clear that they were never coming back) I found the offending Swiffer. Their stuff being another story for another time (and these treasures, from the house of beer-bongs, for young transplants from farming communities, who don't clean until the procure proper wives/cleaners from local big-city watering holes, only to move back to said farming communities, as, at the end of the day, the city is so dirty, included everything from the broom closet). So, it was affirmative. They, the prior tenants, were dry variety Swiffer types. Where a quick, occasional dusting off of their floors (literally just pushing around the exterior top layer of debris) without the employment of so much as a broom bristle, or anything like water, was good enough for them. Swiffer. There was an arsenal of this sort of thing. Every kind of disposable wipe that there is (disposed elsewhere, a far away, very possibly mythical location). Magnetic duster bullshit magic mittens. A spray to remove wrinkles without an iron. A spray to remove odors without washing. Drops that eat spills on carpets. Dryer sheets that stop one dead in their tracks with their insanely horrible floral infusion. Making one's happy new apartment smell like A Billion Chemical Roses Brought To You From The Wonderful People At Clorox. Or Dupont. Or 3M. As well, a room spray that does not need to be sprayed, nor in any way released from it's bottle, to make a space smell like lemons. Lots of lemons. Laboratory lemons. In what I can only assume will be the sad future of lemons. In my closet. Now in the garbage. Out of here. Disposed to elsewhere. A far away place that smells like garbage. And also lemons. It lingers oh so slightly around my kitchen, this odor. The lemoniest ever scent that there ever was. But it's going. Going slowly away. I did keep the found freezer bags, though. I will admit that.

new information pertaining to my enter key

A cigarette poised in my hand. I can see it. It's arabesque of pale smoke wafting ever upward, as if the very thoughts in my head had become material, and had decided to fly away. To a better place. Oh, cigarettes. With their fun, firey ash climbing slowly towards the smoker's hand. It's coming to get you! It's crazy like that. The burning end, so red, so dangerous. So happy and threatening. So tricky. So sneaky in a who's smoking whom kind of way. So much like a marachino-cherry ending to something that has no beginning. Just a smouldering, sinful, smokey treat with no calories for people called smokers to smoke whenever they want to. Forever. And this is not an inanimate object. This is a living thing. This is a cigarette enhanced by fire. Ingestible fire and pale smokey ideas. Because that's what we want to do. We want to smoke. And become a little bit more like fire and smoke. Every day. We try and try. Because fire is so great. It always wins. It's terrible and purifying. It clears the debris. It's back to zero. It says neither yes nor no. And it loves me. Fire does. And it's so pretty. It's fun and primitive. Fire. Nice to stare at. Nice to sleep near. Nice to listen to. Crackkkkle. And, if you listen very carefully to your cigarette, you'll know what I mean. That is the sound that smokers hear. Every single cigarette. Over and over. And cigarettes are just good (in their own right). They have so many things going on. Promise. Hope. Chance. Released, elegantly, one by one from a small magic package. Simple. Crisp. Brand new. Awaiting ignition. Who can believe that this will go away? Just dissolve into thin air? Where doe it go..? These are some of the things you can think about when you smoke. And one always smokes when one has chosen to take a reprieve, as if to say, I think I have earned a moment to pause. Non-smokers know nothing of this pause. Because stopping to eat, or walk around, breathe or think is NOT the same thing. And smokers know this. Smoking, and smokers are special. Smokers know something that non-smokers don't. That's why they smoke. Because they're cool. And the fact that smoking looks cool only attests to this. Ah. And that ash. It's never ending. And if you want it to be, it can be. And something tells me that it (the ash) wants to be never ending, too. [enter] I quit smoking. [enter] Ok. A couple of things. First of all, just to be clear, my enter key does work in a few other applications (except here, at my blog). That is, my enter key does not work in this blog or when I'm drafting email. But it does work when I'm posting a comment (on my own blog, for instance). And it works in wordperfect. I'm trying to think where else it has worked. PS, I am embarrassed to mention wordperfect. Only because someone recently made it seem as though I was grossly archaic for still using wordperfect. I didn't realize that wordperfect was over. I really didn't. It wouldn't have made any difference to me, but seriously, I didn't know. That is, until I heard this person burst into laughter when I mentioned it. I was thrown completely off guard. I did a double take. And those are hard to fake (and I have to imagine must be one of the trickier things for an actor to nail down). So, I was trying to figure out what was so funny (because I love so much to laugh) and just wasn't prepared for the brutal truth: I was literally a joke for still using wordperfect. At any rate, my enter key is not a result of a crumb (I recoil at the idea) that has found it's way beneath my keyboard. My keyboard is regularly vacuumed, as well as treated with q-tips. I say this to the tech out there who wouldn't listen to me and my strange symptoms, and instead gave me pithy advice (then logged off before I could completely explain the situation). And I guess for thirty dollars I could have a new keyboard, but something tells me that that wouldn't matter. Per everything that I've just said. I'm crabby. I need a smoke (see above). [enter].

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.

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..

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]

Jesus Christ, lets eat

My dad.

He was a practical joker. Yet his humor could be so so dry that it left a person crumbling. Often it was impossible for an outsider to determine whether or not my father was joking. He either left people insulted or laughing.

There was no other result.

And he didn't care whether or not you got the joke. At the end of the day, it was for his own amusement. Not to suggest he didn't enjoy the outright. He did. Fake spiders. Fake mice. Sometimes, real mice. My dad. He gave me my sense of humor. My irreverence.

You had to be smart to get my father.

And he was brilliant.

He designed buildings. Spaces. Furniture.

He designed dollhouses with the same attention he did full scale structures.

He designed his life around ideals that remain impossible for me to grasp, or completely mysterious to me.

Will I ever make him proud?

My father.

There was never a more meticulous, dedicated, obsessive, hard working, tortured being.

He was an architect. An artist. An engineer. An interior designer. A teacher. A student. A chef. A drinker of cheap wine. A reader. An observer.

A loner.

A log keeper. Everything identified. Everything remarked upon. Everything in its place.

He was alone.

He cooked. He created. He just wanted a person to enjoy.

He had impeccable taste. He was relentlessly irreverent.

He said out loud what other people thought but never said. He never wavered or waffled. He offended many. He didn't care.

My father. His one wish was to design until the day he died.

He got his wish.

He loved us, and marveled at the fact that his children got along.

A man. The last of a dying breed. A cruel mix of love and indifference. Hardworking. Stoic.
My father. He wrote everything down. He revealed nothing.

Tonia

Do you hear that?

That's the sound of Carmen playing ever so faintly in the background. It's the part where the two are arguing about something. Something. I don't know what. Which is alright (for now).

Background:

My bills, the ones I am about to send off, on time (of course) are saturated with dried coffee. Again. This happens so often, I'm sure they (the scowling people at the bill-opening department of each of my bills) find me to be an ass.

I'm sure that they do.

You see, it's a delicate instrument, my coffee maker. It is moody. It requires special encouragement.

It is pesky, even a little bit bitchy. And it offers no excuse. Nor does it ever apologize.

She.

She came to me second hand. My coffee maker. And she knows from where she came from. She knows the difference.

And I'm sure that she is outraged.

Her previous life was, all told, a better life. Spent in the comfort of her former, better, more beautiful kitchen. There, where she was always treated with consideration. There, where she was kept immaculately. All of the time. There, where she received regular vinegar baths. If not regular warm, mild-soapy soaks. And always with a towel placed lovingly between her and the cold, unforgiving, restaurant quality stainless steel sink.

There, in her previous home, where she was dried off with a shammy. Where she got days off. To rest. Sometimes a whole string of days.

There, where (while resting) she wore a lovely, hand-stitched Marimekko cover, made just for her. A cover meant to protect her from dust (as she is allergic).

There, where she had friends. Other coffee makers (for other purposes, and sometimes no other purpose - other than just because). Yes. All of them together. In the cabinet. In solidarity. There they would whisper and laugh late into the night. And never, ever did any of them get into trouble for this behavior.

There, where she slept inside such a quiet, cotton lined cabinet.

There, where she was appreciated and rarely used.

There where she had love.

There, where she had opera.

Whereas, here, the degree of coarseness of the coffee being used (as balanced with size and fineness of the filter, versus the amount, temperature if not type of the water used) might vary wildly from day to day.

Whereas, here, though it is always a good coffee that I use (always good), it isn't a blessed coffee.

It isn't a golden coffee. It isn't an antique or a magic coffee.

Nor is it ever necessarily a coffee that has been imbued with the merest essence of violets and black pepper.

No. Here, in this kitchen (and never in history was there a colder, gloomier, more foreboding kitchen) coffee is made, not because it's Sunday, NOT because it compliments the sweetness of any darling petit-fours that have somehow gotten themselves lost (in what, at first glance, was such a charming forest, but, quickly became something quite a bit less charming, as the sun set, and the temperature dropped) and found their way onto my doorstep (pathetic, all of them, with their little frosting faces now worse for the wear, all blinking at me, all pleading for mercy), no..

And, furthermore, not because it's nice to make coffee as any sort of makeshift ceremony. The kind that "brings people together". That is, whatever smiling, laughing people happen to be around (especially as, the people I know never smile).

No, the coffee that is made here, is not made to be any kind of special treat. For happy people. Whose hearts (as they wait for the coffee) are then filled with the warmest (food related) kind of expectancy. Whose faces then betray (what can only be called) a willing agony. The happiest of agonies. The agony of pretending that one is in agony. Ah. The waiting. The waiting for the coffee. It's a privilege. Because, in the end, it's all going to be ok (for them, for these people), because the coffee is coming. It is, it is..

So that, for a few moments, such people (who were, for the most part, already happy) are nearly ecstatic. Inspired, even. Encouraged by the aroma of the coffee. The promise of the coffee. Yes, their lives (what fun life is!) are seemingly (and quite neatly, too) contained in the very drama and suspense of this brief moment. Wow.

But it's just a reprieve, mind you. One to be enjoyed presently. Detachedly. That is, before they dash off to the museum. Or Hermes. Or the bank. Or wherever.

No.

Coffee is made here, on the premisis (a utilitarian and wholly without charm space that I call home, but is, lets face it, actually a box, divided up neatly into six spaces, and outfitted with windows, so that one might look out at the few trees, whatever phase they may be in at that time, and wonder why one has not yet gotten themselves a camera - windows that give one the false sense that "one is not in jail", self imposed or otherwise, when one probably is in such a jail, and paying for the privilege, monthly, with one's very own, very, very special - coffee stained checks) because I need coffee. In order to function.

So, it is also without ceremony, that the coffee maker lets me know that this set up (the whole thing, the complete lack of a spiritual basis, the psychological ramifications of neglect, the long term physical abuse due to exposure to hard water deposits, if not to harsh chemicals in the dishwasher, etc) is substandard.

As, it might (at any time) vomit coffee all over my counter. Instead of into it's clean, well positioned carafe. It might. And when it does, it does so quietly. No alarm sounds.

[Note: the coffee itself never complains, and seems to bask in any kind of attention, even when it is being treated as a mess. The coffee never asked to be brewed. It just wants to be loved.]

It happened today. Quietly. Ten cups worth. Ten cups, because today I am both off of work and very tired.

I will say that certain things escaped becoming permanent artifacts of what was a better time, that (shining) moment before what happened with the coffee.

I remember that moment like it was just a few minutes ago. When, in fact, it was a little over an hour ago..

Also, I got a sewing machine for Christmas.

I love it.

I've named her Louise.