Rich came over earlier to borrow my I Like Killing Flies dvd. I saw him at the back door before he knocked and he made a buzzing sound while pretending to press the nonexistant intercom/buzzer button.
"Is the what they do in them cities?" I said.
Tonight is too many skeeter bites.
Yesterday I think I told Kevin I loved him but it might've been some other day.
I went to the gym for over three hours.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
My sister and I got in a fight
My sister and I got in a fight the other day.
I am writing this because I neglect writing as an act of therapy. A thing it has always been for me in the past.
The fight was quick, which I regret.
I dream of my fights lasting long, like in soap operas, where they often span several episodes and usually end with some great climax of passionate forgiveness or murder.
Mine started with:
"Stop telling me I'm a grandma,"
and ended with
"Shut the fuck up."
It lasted, literally, no time at all. The walk up the hill at Columbia park where the park reaches the river. Ten seconds.
I dream of fights lasting a long time because during a fight there is always more to say. When you get to a fight it never is about one thing, it's about a culmination of events warehoused in a scrum of old laundry.
There really was a lot more to say.
I wish you would let me live my own life without shaming my into doing things you wan to do.
I wish your activities were something I wanted to do.
I feel angry when you tell me I'm not fun.
I feel angry when you constantly tease me for what you feel is being boring.
I wish we had more in common or I wish we could find something we both could do.
I wish you wouldn't give me the stink eye.
I also wish you would sometimes shut the fuck up.
Erica and I went to Columbia park to jump off the bridge. I didn't plan on jumping off the bridge. I wanted to be in the water but I didn't want to jump off the bridge.
"Not my style," I had told Erica as she hung off the edge, beckoning me to climb over.
There are a lot of things I'm scared of and a lot of things I'm not scared of. One of the things I don't like to do is jump off bridges.
Once, at Cove Palisades my whole family jumped off the huge bridge lolling over Lake Billy Chinook. It was high. I could see rocks. I didn't jump. Maybe I wanted to practice how to not commit suicide which in this light makes me the most sane in the family. I climbed down a rock embankment decorated with beer bottle jewels in flimsy flip-flops. A thing I handle particularly well is ninjas. Also: ghosts, roller coasters, panic scenarios like bank heists, heat waves, car accidents and the end of the world.
So. She kept nagging me, and she always does this. Erica is president of an organization called D4AE; down for anything and everything. Our family has teasingly called it Down for Anything Erica wants to do.
For this reason she heckles someone who doesn't do something spontaneous. Taking preparation time is abhorrent to her policies.
Now, this is all very partisan and I didn't want this. I want to be sound and objective. For this reason I take a moment and give the many virtues of being D4AE.
Truth is, when you are D4AE you have more fun. It's like a permanent game of dare.
When one member wants to have a craft night everyone must have a craft night. If a member wants to take ballroom dancing classes everyone takes ballroom dancing. It's a community where everyone is enriched my others ideas as well as having an automatic network for their own specific needs. It is really really fun when you just play along and allow yourself to get caught up in the flow of impromptu activity.
But. It's not for me. Not right now anyway. Plus it often costs money and involves driving places which are my least favorite things.
We actually like the same things; late night bike rides, drinking beer, being with people, going on hikes and having adventures in new places. But it's all different. The nature of bike excursions are different, the beer is different, the people are different, so are the hikes and interpretation of the word adventure.
This is difficult for Erica. It's difficult because I don't call her. I don't ever want to do anything with her.
This is neglect. I am a neglectful sister.
'You're different," she accuses me. "You don't have fun anymore, you just want to clean your house."
Yes. This is true. All I like to do is clean my house and listen to This American Life. I love doing the dishes to Terry Gross interviews. I love vacuuming between the cushions in the coach while listening to a new Julie Sabatier, DIY in Portland bit. I dream of clean house nirvana paired with provoking radio.
I often fail to see the problem with this though Erica never fails to point it out every time we get together.
Apologies. I'm being biased again.
Listen. I didn't want to jump off the bridge, she wanted me to. She heckled me. I told her to shut the fuck up, which she did.
There is this comic aspect regarding fights which end in a bike ride. The person who labels themselves the victim, Erica (since I had the last words), who is allowed to trail behind the perpetrator and has the privilege to mope all the way home. Erica rode on the wrong side of the road.
Failing to obey bike laws makes me crazy, so when she started doing it, it actually made me laugh inside a little. How spiteful! She knows how much I respect the road! And on my own bike nonetheless! TSK!
When we got to my house I apologized. I normally don't yell. I made an exception this one little time because otherwise I would of just never called her again like I do most people. She deserved better than that. She's my little sister.
Now we're not talking and for the most part I'm okay with it. She's stressful. Lots of accusing and shame-mongering and I had been avoiding it for too long.
As of now, a day later, I don't know what I am going to do. It's not like we run into one another a lot. All of our "hang-outs" were primarily initiated in the sparse free-time either of us had for one another and most consisted of an activity one of us was forced to do. One enjoyable activity was hiking the butte during dusk.
For the bit of time I will contemplate what it is I want from her and redefine what it is that causes conflict. Brainstorm how we can share time without the stress. That's what a good sister would do I guess.
For now, I'm glad she knows my anger is out there. Typically my cards are played very close but I made an exception and just threw them all on the table. I let her know. I never do this.
I know I'm rambling now, groping for a way to tie this into a neat package.
There is this children's show; Dora the Explorer. There is a fox called Sniper. When Sniper wants to steal something Dora chants, "SNIPER NO SNIPING! SNIPER NO SNIPING!" over and over until he stops doing what he's doing and leaves. Sometimes he doesn't leave and gets what he wants. Dora's magical charm doesn't always work, it seems to be telling kids, sometimes the bitches still get the goods.
But the lesson there is be perseverant and not aggressive. Be assertive, repetitious, a little bit crazy for believing repeating a command will manifest real results.
Maybe it can.
If it can we should do it during hostage situations.
I think; what if I did that to Erica instead of being so direct and vicious, instead of going straight to the vein and biting.
"ERICA NO NAGGING! ERICA NO NAGGING!" is what I would say when she's pointing out what a loser I am in her book. It's not the best solution, maybe the point wouldn't be reached how much I hate being harassed whenever we're together.
But, like Sniper, maybe she would just stop. Put down Backpack and trail back into the woods. Or at least stop. At least not be crushed.
I am writing this because I neglect writing as an act of therapy. A thing it has always been for me in the past.
The fight was quick, which I regret.
I dream of my fights lasting long, like in soap operas, where they often span several episodes and usually end with some great climax of passionate forgiveness or murder.
Mine started with:
"Stop telling me I'm a grandma,"
and ended with
"Shut the fuck up."
It lasted, literally, no time at all. The walk up the hill at Columbia park where the park reaches the river. Ten seconds.
I dream of fights lasting a long time because during a fight there is always more to say. When you get to a fight it never is about one thing, it's about a culmination of events warehoused in a scrum of old laundry.
There really was a lot more to say.
I wish you would let me live my own life without shaming my into doing things you wan to do.
I wish your activities were something I wanted to do.
I feel angry when you tell me I'm not fun.
I feel angry when you constantly tease me for what you feel is being boring.
I wish we had more in common or I wish we could find something we both could do.
I wish you wouldn't give me the stink eye.
I also wish you would sometimes shut the fuck up.
Erica and I went to Columbia park to jump off the bridge. I didn't plan on jumping off the bridge. I wanted to be in the water but I didn't want to jump off the bridge.
"Not my style," I had told Erica as she hung off the edge, beckoning me to climb over.
There are a lot of things I'm scared of and a lot of things I'm not scared of. One of the things I don't like to do is jump off bridges.
Once, at Cove Palisades my whole family jumped off the huge bridge lolling over Lake Billy Chinook. It was high. I could see rocks. I didn't jump. Maybe I wanted to practice how to not commit suicide which in this light makes me the most sane in the family. I climbed down a rock embankment decorated with beer bottle jewels in flimsy flip-flops. A thing I handle particularly well is ninjas. Also: ghosts, roller coasters, panic scenarios like bank heists, heat waves, car accidents and the end of the world.
So. She kept nagging me, and she always does this. Erica is president of an organization called D4AE; down for anything and everything. Our family has teasingly called it Down for Anything Erica wants to do.
For this reason she heckles someone who doesn't do something spontaneous. Taking preparation time is abhorrent to her policies.
Now, this is all very partisan and I didn't want this. I want to be sound and objective. For this reason I take a moment and give the many virtues of being D4AE.
Truth is, when you are D4AE you have more fun. It's like a permanent game of dare.
When one member wants to have a craft night everyone must have a craft night. If a member wants to take ballroom dancing classes everyone takes ballroom dancing. It's a community where everyone is enriched my others ideas as well as having an automatic network for their own specific needs. It is really really fun when you just play along and allow yourself to get caught up in the flow of impromptu activity.
But. It's not for me. Not right now anyway. Plus it often costs money and involves driving places which are my least favorite things.
We actually like the same things; late night bike rides, drinking beer, being with people, going on hikes and having adventures in new places. But it's all different. The nature of bike excursions are different, the beer is different, the people are different, so are the hikes and interpretation of the word adventure.
This is difficult for Erica. It's difficult because I don't call her. I don't ever want to do anything with her.
This is neglect. I am a neglectful sister.
'You're different," she accuses me. "You don't have fun anymore, you just want to clean your house."
Yes. This is true. All I like to do is clean my house and listen to This American Life. I love doing the dishes to Terry Gross interviews. I love vacuuming between the cushions in the coach while listening to a new Julie Sabatier, DIY in Portland bit. I dream of clean house nirvana paired with provoking radio.
I often fail to see the problem with this though Erica never fails to point it out every time we get together.
Apologies. I'm being biased again.
Listen. I didn't want to jump off the bridge, she wanted me to. She heckled me. I told her to shut the fuck up, which she did.
There is this comic aspect regarding fights which end in a bike ride. The person who labels themselves the victim, Erica (since I had the last words), who is allowed to trail behind the perpetrator and has the privilege to mope all the way home. Erica rode on the wrong side of the road.
Failing to obey bike laws makes me crazy, so when she started doing it, it actually made me laugh inside a little. How spiteful! She knows how much I respect the road! And on my own bike nonetheless! TSK!
When we got to my house I apologized. I normally don't yell. I made an exception this one little time because otherwise I would of just never called her again like I do most people. She deserved better than that. She's my little sister.
Now we're not talking and for the most part I'm okay with it. She's stressful. Lots of accusing and shame-mongering and I had been avoiding it for too long.
As of now, a day later, I don't know what I am going to do. It's not like we run into one another a lot. All of our "hang-outs" were primarily initiated in the sparse free-time either of us had for one another and most consisted of an activity one of us was forced to do. One enjoyable activity was hiking the butte during dusk.
For the bit of time I will contemplate what it is I want from her and redefine what it is that causes conflict. Brainstorm how we can share time without the stress. That's what a good sister would do I guess.
For now, I'm glad she knows my anger is out there. Typically my cards are played very close but I made an exception and just threw them all on the table. I let her know. I never do this.
I know I'm rambling now, groping for a way to tie this into a neat package.
There is this children's show; Dora the Explorer. There is a fox called Sniper. When Sniper wants to steal something Dora chants, "SNIPER NO SNIPING! SNIPER NO SNIPING!" over and over until he stops doing what he's doing and leaves. Sometimes he doesn't leave and gets what he wants. Dora's magical charm doesn't always work, it seems to be telling kids, sometimes the bitches still get the goods.
But the lesson there is be perseverant and not aggressive. Be assertive, repetitious, a little bit crazy for believing repeating a command will manifest real results.
Maybe it can.
If it can we should do it during hostage situations.
I think; what if I did that to Erica instead of being so direct and vicious, instead of going straight to the vein and biting.
"ERICA NO NAGGING! ERICA NO NAGGING!" is what I would say when she's pointing out what a loser I am in her book. It's not the best solution, maybe the point wouldn't be reached how much I hate being harassed whenever we're together.
But, like Sniper, maybe she would just stop. Put down Backpack and trail back into the woods. Or at least stop. At least not be crushed.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Dear Scott #11
Dear Scott,
What if, in your trial, instead of a lawyer you had a person impersonating a lawyer? And instead of a real judge you got someone who wanted to be a judge someday but never had time for law school and instead of a jury of your peers you got a bunch of people rounded up from the street enticed by free coffee?
What if it wasn't a trial at all but a play? And everyone rehearses their roles so well it feels like real-life instead of actually being real life? What if you never injected anyone with fluids in the first place or removed bits of infected chest tissue and you before each procedure you would whisper into the ear of your patient, "this is all pretend," and they would follow along with the plot and character development and you could still feel a sense of accomplishment?
More ideas coming your way,
Rachel
What if, in your trial, instead of a lawyer you had a person impersonating a lawyer? And instead of a real judge you got someone who wanted to be a judge someday but never had time for law school and instead of a jury of your peers you got a bunch of people rounded up from the street enticed by free coffee?
What if it wasn't a trial at all but a play? And everyone rehearses their roles so well it feels like real-life instead of actually being real life? What if you never injected anyone with fluids in the first place or removed bits of infected chest tissue and you before each procedure you would whisper into the ear of your patient, "this is all pretend," and they would follow along with the plot and character development and you could still feel a sense of accomplishment?
More ideas coming your way,
Rachel
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Dear Scott #10
Dear Scott,
Hey... me again.
I have a confession to make.
Sometimes I impersonate a French speaker.
I have found it quite simple deluding friends and strangers into folly by reciting the entire Hail Mary in French as well as the French bit of that Beatles song "Michelle."
"Michelle, ma belle. Sont des mots qui vont trés bien ensemble, trés bien ensemble." I roll it off my tongue like an unsavory mouthful of creamed corn. By this point I have my impressed victim in the palm of my hand.
This is kind of like impersonating a doctor. I, similar to you, want people to think I'm brilliant and worldly. Lord forbid the day someone drags a French person to me demanding to hear my lack-thereof skills in action.
The truth is Scott, we both want to be masters of our selective fields without going to the extent of actually taking those essential steps. We simply want to be admired, envied, and loved.
This said, there isn't enough credit given to the gentle act of self-depreciation. Sometimes admitting you're not amazing is the first step towards success. Sure, we're awesome; I mean, I write a little book every season and you already have a great story to tell your future patients!
A more thoughtful,
Rachel
P.S. Sometimes it's just not appropriate to "fake it, until you make it."
Hey... me again.
I have a confession to make.
Sometimes I impersonate a French speaker.
I have found it quite simple deluding friends and strangers into folly by reciting the entire Hail Mary in French as well as the French bit of that Beatles song "Michelle."
"Michelle, ma belle. Sont des mots qui vont trés bien ensemble, trés bien ensemble." I roll it off my tongue like an unsavory mouthful of creamed corn. By this point I have my impressed victim in the palm of my hand.
This is kind of like impersonating a doctor. I, similar to you, want people to think I'm brilliant and worldly. Lord forbid the day someone drags a French person to me demanding to hear my lack-thereof skills in action.
The truth is Scott, we both want to be masters of our selective fields without going to the extent of actually taking those essential steps. We simply want to be admired, envied, and loved.
This said, there isn't enough credit given to the gentle act of self-depreciation. Sometimes admitting you're not amazing is the first step towards success. Sure, we're awesome; I mean, I write a little book every season and you already have a great story to tell your future patients!
A more thoughtful,
Rachel
P.S. Sometimes it's just not appropriate to "fake it, until you make it."
The inertia towards non-movement
At the my weekend job writing because I have to write. Because I haven't wrote in awhile. I just haven't had the time to put anything down.
Gosh. I am so tired. This is what happens when writers don't write for sometime. They just complain about things. Write about all the bad things that are happening. Let pent up untold qualms purge. This writing is most annoying. So. I am going to let it out as quickly and as thoroughly as possible.
I miss silence and non-movement. Just to be in one's space. Breathe one's own air and eat one's own food. To sit on my deck and invite a few friends over. Make some lemonade. I don't know. I work, every day. When I get home I work out. Then all of a sudden it's ten o'clock and I have to go to bed. And I am always tired.
My sister is making me crazy. Accusing me of negligence, accusing me of not being myself, not being spontaneous or fun. And I'm avoiding phone calls and messages for party's that I want to go to. And I hate that. It's everyday. Everyday I spend so much time in a space that is not my own. Places where I can't be myself. Can't get angry. Can't say, "fuck" or "bitchass" or whatever I want to say.
I just want to have a day to look forward to that is mine. My own day, full of my own things.
Okay. That is done.
This zine needs to get done. I need to develop a plan for my booth at the zine symposium. I need a sub for my booth, someone to juggle the workshops with booth sitting. Theme; hang in there. I need a bird cage. I need to make hair clips. I need something for display. More work.
Gosh. I am so tired. This is what happens when writers don't write for sometime. They just complain about things. Write about all the bad things that are happening. Let pent up untold qualms purge. This writing is most annoying. So. I am going to let it out as quickly and as thoroughly as possible.
I miss silence and non-movement. Just to be in one's space. Breathe one's own air and eat one's own food. To sit on my deck and invite a few friends over. Make some lemonade. I don't know. I work, every day. When I get home I work out. Then all of a sudden it's ten o'clock and I have to go to bed. And I am always tired.
My sister is making me crazy. Accusing me of negligence, accusing me of not being myself, not being spontaneous or fun. And I'm avoiding phone calls and messages for party's that I want to go to. And I hate that. It's everyday. Everyday I spend so much time in a space that is not my own. Places where I can't be myself. Can't get angry. Can't say, "fuck" or "bitchass" or whatever I want to say.
I just want to have a day to look forward to that is mine. My own day, full of my own things.
Okay. That is done.
This zine needs to get done. I need to develop a plan for my booth at the zine symposium. I need a sub for my booth, someone to juggle the workshops with booth sitting. Theme; hang in there. I need a bird cage. I need to make hair clips. I need something for display. More work.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Those days
There was a time when I would eat basmati rice with sauteed onion everyday. Those days lacked imagination but they were indeed satisfying.
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