window go home

Window Kitty won't go away.  S/he started visiting last week, coming by way of roof to my window to peer curiously inside and enrage my two cats, sweet and loving and dumb.  Window Kitty loves to be petted, and I am a sucker.  It seems like s/he has a home, not bony or very dirty.  S/he came back tonight and I said hello, gave him/her a treat, laughed at my cats' hissing and general worryworting through the screen.  Now Window's just sitting out there, occasionally staring in sadly at me.  I keep saying "Go home, Window."  S/he's laying right outside the screen right now, I can SEE YOUR EARS, GO ON, GIT.    

Today I went to the zoo.  It was wonderful.  

I have taken up the harmonica.   I will keep you updated on whether this mild obsession continues to fruition.   

Now I have to watch some crazy neo-western that stars Courtney Love.  If that bitch had an ounce'a'class I'd admire her spirit.  (She doesn't.)

I lied

about the feelings.  Where else do they have to go?  To get them out of me I've got to tell you fine people.  Even if some of you are not so fine, and not so much people I want to tell.  This cannot for me be a hole carved into a tree, a secret whispered into it, covered up with mud forever.  I am not unless I am connected to another, whoever, so.

I still get my nicotine but my body misses the specifics, I think, of the brand I gave up a week ago, the $6.12-a-pack "addiction punishment" price drove me away.  I like the activity of rolling, now, the craft of it, the simple origami.  I like the taste that doesn't leave me nauseous.  I can never spell "nauseous" on the first try.  Anyway, I keep trying to explain to people that I think I'm detoxing from a few years' buildup of whatever was in the old ones.  I'm off.  

I seem to be mired on a surliness of disposition which I am loathe to impart onto others.  There is an ache in my back from sitting too long in my kitchen.  There are the regular down feelings that trail me always (futility of future, boredom) that drag away my desired veneer of joy.  Every day it seems some corporate giant demands money from me, there are these demands of me, this feeling of failure.  There are gnawing feelings that any pleasure I feel is undeserved, and I'm slowly running myself down to nothing instead of building upwards towards "something," like my Little Honda, dented and scarred and robbed and never destined for repair.  There is longing, and frustration, which used to make me seem more alive but now aches like an old wound that I won't allow to heal.  There is my body, my goddamn body.  

It is not really a big deal, but the strange new chemical-less me feels these blades of annoyance more deeply.  This is how I'm feeling.  I will be optimistic soon.

Yesterday a rotten, sweet smell seemed to follow me everywhere.  One week ago I ate a pear in class and put the core in an unsealed plastic bag in my backpack.  I found it today.  This leaves me feeling as though I have more rotting things to discover and purge, not literal things, but you know like how you have a worsening headache for days and start hallucinating deep voices saying your name and then discover a carbon monoxide leak.  This gas leak is hypothetical.  Undiscovered issues, unresolved.  You know.

I have a strange relationship with my intoxicants, as I wish to blame them wholly but also require them to combat the boredom.  When will it be summer?

My NPR Name is Sajrah Rhinecliff.  I had to go with the smallest town I've visited in the U.S.  It is actually a "hamlet."         

this place

There is a sunflower seed stuck under my "T" key.

ggggggg555555555555555555555555tttttttgggffrryy

That was me trying to get it out.  I think it's gone now.  

Coconut Milk & Ginger Iced Cream.

I don't really like talking about my "feelings" here anymore it's not safe, not a safe place.  Scrutinies.    

Let's talk about 

things I did and

shit.

I just picked five Westerns from the 1980s to write a paper on for Tuesday.  I will be watching a lot of Westerns this weekend.  I tried to get a "variety:"  Straight to Hell, The Last Days of Frank and Jesse James (starring Johnny Cash, Kris Kristofferson, & Willie Nelson!?), Pale Rider, The Long Riders (I may change this one), and Man From Snowy River (Australian lovey Western I watched a lot as a child).  

Go Go Netflix Go.

guard llama

guard

llama

creation of the antichrist

1/2 onion, caramelized in butter over low heat

remove onion from pan, spread out in bottom of small bowl

add 1 middling hunk cream cheese into pan

add 1 large spoonful of chunky peanut butter

stir and melt, removing from heat if things get too... hot

add cumin, curry powder, paprika, whateverthefuck else

dash of rice vinegar

spoon over caramelized onions

chill, or don't

spread thinly on toasted pita bread

take one small bite, this is all you are allowed 

of the antichrist

today

i need to find a way to make this less plebeian.  fresh jalapenos?  use as pasta/noodle sauce?  

HOW

Passion de Jeanne

Yes, yes.

"sometimes i wish i had a farm where the only pollution is your cigarettes"

Lately I can't ever decide what to feed myself in a reasonable amount of time.  I don't eat all day and then come home and stare in my cupboards, and fridge, and do all the dishes, and sit around thinking about it, planning, then get up and stare in the cupboard again and examine the nutritional content of my dry goods, then close the cupboard.

Then later in a lightheadedness I eat sour gummis (worms or octopodes).  And sunflower seeds.  And fruity alcoholic drinks.  And then just sweet alcohol, until sleeptime.

This isn't a big thing.  I eat other stuff when I'm with people, like I have to have guidance on what to purchase or make for myself.  I make things for myself when I plan them well in advance and work myself into a longing for them.  But otherwise, it's like nothing sounds good enough.  Like, why eat unless it sounds really, really good?

I do a lot of that lately, relying on other people.  "I don't care what we do.  I'm up for anything."  Because it's true.  I don't know how to make plans for myself.  I don't know how to gracefully instigate minor social events.  I just want to be doing things, always, with people I like, like I've been missing out for way too long, sitting in a stupor.   

I was just looking at the sugar insanity I've been eating and remembered writing about the things I was mildly obsessed with last summer, when I was in the garden and going to Beat Poetry class and happy: Orange soda, red vines, and pistachios.  And rum.  I am anticipating the warmth.

IT IS ALL A PATTERN.

IT IS ALL A PATTERN.

Today when I got home there was a box outside my door from Hawaii containing eight pounds of various Kona coffees.

Life feels so good to me all the time lately.  

I smile every time I walk up the stairs to my home, seriously, it is weird.  

There's a Ben Kweller song, "My Apartment"...