BadMormon

Life is a Surprising Monster

I have had a lot going on this past month, a little mentioned on this blog but much of it I’m unable to share. It concerns friend’s and their lives and the general hardness and heartache that seems to be on everyone now.

I am simply trying to check in, be supportive and drink heavily one night a week while laughing my ass off with my friends.

And I got to do that last night. Wrecked still at 6am. Home and grinning. Feeling as though things were accomplished while drunk.

After 3 hours of sleep and horrifying menstrual cramps that would not let me stay there and a day job to do I replay the night in my head. It comes back in vignettes. This moment of talk, that moment of bragging, some early belligerence due to stress, the day and an overwhelming desire to simply jump some bones after a couple of irish whiskeys and trying to be normal about it all.

You may not know this about me but sometimes I’m pushy. shhh, don’t tell.

A lot of nice things happened last night, conversations I hope I wasn’t too retard with the whiskey in and affection from friends, for friends. I just am not sure in what order. The memories get caught in an unexpected flash of my mind, triggered by a worn neuron trail of thoughts, and poof Oh, that’s right! THAT happened. And I grin again.

And resolve that next time I find a drink I don’t like the taste of so I’ll slow down the glug glug.

The Pre-Thanksgiving Couch Sitting Meandering and Cleaning Up of Loose Ends

Which means that I have to also write a blog post because I know that I haven’t yet for a day or two or etc.

Oh I am the best procrastinator in the world. though I think that I do it in a way that lets me procrastinate one thing getting done by getting another thing done.

Oh it’s been a nice peaceful day of tidying up the business before everyone runs off to the holidays. One of the enjoyable things in my professional life is that I’ve got a circle of clients that we all work, we take the time off, every one knows the rules and whys and wherefores of just moving business from one end of this city to the next.

So today has been phone calls and check ins and arrangements for after the holiday, everyone prepping to go eat and relax by 3pm this afternoon.

It’s nice now, this buzz of business I have in my life. We talk computers and money, children and weather.

Many are women, drawn to me by my feminist icon branding graphic, me always having been and always will be and first and foremost a feminist.

Did I mention meandering?

So peaceful for this moment at home on Couch. The Boy is with me for T-Day and we have these old friends and a woodsy back yard and a dog named Pickle and a train to catch at 8pm.

Entitled Old White Guy Cries NAZI!

Or Nizi. It’s hard to take a complaint about my own behavior seriously when the man accusing can’t even catch a typo on his title.

Then there’s the whole Accusing of Nazism.

So this Old White Guy*, who I’ve seen around the open mics of the LES for a few years now shows up to Penny’s. He is not known by this room. He is recognized by the two of us left over from a past we would like to be shunt of. As he stands in this room he starts taking pictures the Lighting Guy IN THE BOOTH above Old Man, and to the side, notices the view finder zooming across the room to light on my friends bosom. Dirty Old Man has put the picture up himself to prove how NOT wrong he is. Why? Because to Old White Guys every woman in the room is an object. And if he wants to take a picture of her clothed breast and cleavage WITHOUT A FACE and WITHOUT PERMISSION he will call it ART not PREDATORY OBJECTIFICATION.

So yes, if you call concerned friends who do not like dirty old men that can’t identify their own grossness Nazis then yes, we were Nazis. If you think it’s Nazism to not allow an audience member to video tape and photograph anything they want then yes it’s Nazism. (we won’t mention the understood tradition in ALL the mics I’ve been at of NOT photographing or video taping out of respect for the person developing their art.) Of Course neither of us – me or the tech guy – has gassed millions of human beings but why bring that into a conversation about why an Old Entitled White Guy Can’t Do Exactly What He Wants?

Penny tries to have a space for artists to work on art. She also wants a space where women are not accosted. An alternative to the rooms that are about drinking and hooking up or the misogynist comedy clubs where women are simply treated like shit. A place where the focus is the stage and the performer and not the audience members headless chest region that the picture taker claims he had no idea he was taking and yet the guy in the booth saw clearly what was in the view finder.

PLEASE NASTY OLD WHITE GUY – DON’T COME BACK

*he has since removed the internet page with the photos and complaint of our Neo-Nazism and demands of an apology from me.

Sicky si sick

I’m at what looks like the beginning of a very annoying chest thing. Spent the last two days with the dusty feeling in head and chest and throat and today I woke up and the cough was “productive.” Produced a lot of gross yellow ickyness. But at least I CAN cough. Those dry ones that feel like you have to and then it’s just a congested bark and nothing clears and nothing happens… hate those. Prefer loogies.

Also sitting here thinking of all the things I can and should get done. WRITING being the main point. SHOW SHOW SHOW SHOW SHOW SHOW.

Do you know how hard it is to write enough words to get on stage and talk by yourself for about 45 mins?

OH yeah, and I keep forgetting. A friend told us on tues that he has brain cancer. It’s a poor prognosis. I keep letting it slide right out of my consciousness. I’m not good with these things. It strikes me, as it did now, out of the blue as I am going over minutiae of a day, of feeling poorly, of things not going my way, or just a day of living.

Suddenly, “Oh yeah, and he’s dying.”

I’m really in a state of depressed numbness right now. It’s not the bottom or the worst but it’s not great.

The boy is worrying the crap out of me now. It’s not just about his grades. Screw the grades, drop out and we’ll home school, whatever. But as he gets older and more able to speak about the internal world the stuff that is escaping his having shoved it down for years shows up. Briefly. I’ve seen enough I worry.

So now I sit, sick and worried on a couch. Trying to figure out how and when to expend my energy. Coffee first, store next? shower? Have to go out briefly later so rest LOTS now or try to rev up a bit? Back to sleep?

And how do I make it safe for my kid to open his bundle of ugly and let it out?

More writing discipline

Stayed home, have writing to do, have a schedule and a show coming and a deal with others to fulfill. Have been sitting here noodling around in the story.

–

ok, i didn’t do the work. i laid down and fell asleep on my amazing couch. I’m feeling the sicky in my throat and lungs, nose and not awakedness.

But I can’t miss anymore writing. The show is just a few months away. The words need to be written so I can memorize. Or you know, do something. In one of those moments when you wake up and go, “wow, oops, what time is it?” I set my alarm for 5:00 am. Snoozed til 5:30. Started noodling around again, telling myself to write and now I’m back at the blog. Can’t let it sit here only half written! People are counting on my hard hitting in depth look at procrastination and what avoidance of work can bring you too.

Mostly it’s cause writing a one-woman show to put up in march is INTIMIDATING!!!!!! That’s a lot of words, a lot of points, a lot of expectation, a lot of work.

“So go do it marsha!” you all say! “Stop spewing your internal monologue of NOTHING all over the internet and GO WRITE YOUR SHOW!!!! ” Sigh. Ok my lovelies, you are right. Off to write anything – as long as words are on the page.

oy.

Themes and meanings

One of the annoying things at Penny’s Open Mic is the themes. They are the idea for the night, if you want to use them, something to lean on if your words or music fail you. Something to play with if you’re used to what you do up there. Something.

Annoying in that they can be great but they can really stump you and they add an extra stretch your stage muscle hurdle to the night.

Last week it was RISK and everyone joined in. A wild night ensued with people doing things on stage they had never done before, sheer fear the facial mask of consummate performers.

This week, as a follow-up was the theme “letting go.” MUCH more difficult a theme than I had imagined. I had a scattered smattering of words, some clownish softshoe, a tail-end poetry moment that didn’t mean anything really inside but emoted well. Or it did but not connected, free floating meaning attaching itself to a microphone moment.

oy

Mostly I want to let go the tension in my shoulders.

Friends are going through it too, changes and struggles. I have to let go of some bad habits and start working harder on the new stuff I’m taking on.

sigh.

let go.

Why we need PUBLIC HEALTH CARE!!!!!

Why We Need Government-Run Universal Socialized Health Insurance

Why am I crying?

He brought me back breakfast, left it on the floor by my head, whispered “snugglebunny” to my face poking out of his comfy comfator.  “Here’s food when you get up.” and left again to go do the day he had to do before we found ourselves staying awake all night.

At least he did.  I got a nap here and there.  We talked and laughed.  Exchanged backrubs.

He’s a friend.

It is appalling how little I have in me to relax and enjoy a nice person being nice these days.  I had to cry.  At the kindness.  At how much he wants to just make things nicer for me for a while.  Help me.

After his key turned in the lock for his leaving the second time I was overwhelmed with the feeling loss, of wasted life chances, of having settled for so much less because I could not believe that what I need could possibly be out there.  I have been through so many men who weren’t.

The simple items of attention and caring, attempt at communication, seeing me.  I don’t know.  It’s cracking the shit out of my defenses and my mess is still inside.

He and I are, I think, drawn towards each other at the root of it due to personal tragedy and grief.  It’s a crazy situation of us being at similar emotional cross roads.  Oh other reasons too but it’s why he is being so willing to try and give me a break from my life.  He needs one too.  He needs to take care of someone a little.  To cuddle.  To start edging around the wounds that we both have, testing trust and seeing how much we can share.  Natural is the only word for it.

I am not infatuated with him.  I am admiring, adoring of so much about him and wanting to know him but there’s none of the nervous energy, no worry about what he’ll think, really. I’m so very naturally myself with him, that also is frightening.

I’m desperately looking for the fatal flaw.

I think it’s me.  Every time I think about that last gesture of food and thoughtfulness I despair.

That is not a good sign.

He even got me whole wheat toast.

The kicker is that he just doesn’t seem to want anything from me.  I mean, general decency, fun and friendship he wants yeah, but there’s no hidden agenda.  No hidden games.  I feel simple giving from him, no grabbing and I want to hand the world to him now.  Maybe we can do a little gentle healing together since I have no world to offer.  Maybe I should run away before I’m simply a quivering mess of crying defenseless girl, tenderized by consideration.

Whitey on the moon – gil scott-heron

via YouTube - Whitey on the moon – gil scott-heron .

I can do this

I’m in the kitchen dancing to old rock on the boombox I bought 15? years ago. Radios never break have you noticed?

I’m in mom mode, making my famous pasta and clam cream sauce, sorta different every time but always yummy. Tonight I have acheived a delicate perfection wtih the flavors. I’ve taken my time, sauteed and cooked and simmered for an hour. mmmmm…

My son is in the livingroom/mybedroom reading on our new-to-us couch, the love of my life. I’m talking about the couch, not the kid. LOVE THIS COUCH! I’ve sprayed it, cleaned it, fluffed it and slept on it twice already. My son is lounging on the lounge side of it, one of my lurid sciencefiction novels in his hands and I can see the future, him in a bigger body, beardier face. 14 is getting there but the baby I held still shows.

I walked in, stood in front, and asked, “Is there something I need to yell at you for? I feel like I should be yelling!” He smiles his coy smile, “you should yell at me to play more video games.”
I reply, “I’ve had a beer, I’m not stupid.”

So not stupid I’m setting him up for the photo I want to take. He hates having his picture taken. We go through a lot to get him. So I’ve already established my need to stand and stare at him in a joking fashion…wait…wait for the book to take over again…

Stir the sauce, stir the pasta, I can do this…

camera sound off, camera phone engaged, tippy tippy tippy toe…

FAIL!!!!!!!!!!

rotten kid