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It's happening again. The signs have been present for weeks. Without a doubt, I knew. Some part of me knew. But tonight, I looked in the mirror and could no longer deny the truth. My hair is falling out.
I've seen this before. It happened once, some years ago, because of illness. The loss was so bad that I had to shear-off every strand and go about in wigs. Eventually, a lot of nutritional therapy and Rogaine brought some hair back - but nowhere near its original volume.
But now it's happening again. I tossed my hair back while washing my hands and came face to face with the biggest bald spot I've seen since the whole mane thinned away.
It's not my diet, is it? I try so hard to eat well. I even take a vitamin. Medications? Possibly, though I don't know whether or not any of mine can cause hair loss. Stress? It sure isn't helping. I just don't know what could have exacerbated this.
What am I going to do?
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That's how it goes, right? Found you, had you, loved you, lost you. I wonder if you still think about me. I wonder what you'd say to me if you saw me now. Would you even speak? Would you pretend you didn't notice me, stare at the carpet, and walk away as fast as you can? Can you hear me? Do you even read this blog anymore?
I love you still. My best friend, my dear one, my little speck of gold, where are you now? How can you live in joyful memory and devistating reality at the same time? Can we ever bring this back? And what is this now? A crater? A blood-stain? A tombstone? A torn pocket?
To many questions. Always too many questions. You were here and it was great and then I killed you. But I didn't mean to do it.
I didn't mean to, I didn't mean to, I really really didn't, but it doesn't matter anymore. You're already so far away that I can no longer see you smile.
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If Moe = w00t, then Keller Williams > or = FAN-FUCKING-TASTICAL!
In fact, I even bought a t-shirt - sky blue with a guitar-bodied dragonfly on the front, and again on the back, soaring over a lush, psychidelic field at sunset. Trippy!
But that's beside the fact. For all you uncool shmoes out there, Keller Williams is an extremely talented one-man band who plays a 10 string acoustic. And a theramin. And bass. And 4 or 5 other things. Not to mention his prodigious human beatboxing.
One by one, he lays down live tracks and loops them through his sound board. Then, he plays solos and sings vocals on top of the whole beautiful mess. Pure heaven.
Keller began the concert with "Freeker by the Speaker." It's about how a concert-loving freak and a rave girl meet up at a show; when threatened by a bouncer, they run away to safety together. Unsurprisingly, Alan and I have declared it "our song." And the music only got better from there. Keller played song after glorious song without stopping, pacing back and forth, barefoot, on a large carpet. Don't ask me how that man musters the energy to perform so passionately for 3+ hours, but he does.
The lighting effects dazzled me to no end. 'Twas more than just your standard stage smoke and moving colored spot lights. A pair of eye-shaped screens hung over the stage; projectors at the rear of the stage back-lit the screens with video feed of Keller (so people at a distance could see him in greater detail) interspersed with kalidescopic images of fractals, dancers, animals, venus fly traps, etc. All in all, a terribly engaging effect.
I liked Keller's music before I went to the concert, but having seen him perform live, I can honestly say that I shall be a fan for life.
Yet all this musicial magnificence paled in comparison to Alan's demeanor during the show. I thrilled to watch his enthusiasm. Neither his fascination nor his euphoria flagged for even an instant. What good it did my heart to see the man I love so overpoweringly happy!
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So I went to see Moe (indie jam band; I'd never heard of them until i met alan) at the Pagent last night. It wasn't a bad venue. Alan, Crazy Matt, and I sat down in the front, stage left, with a perfect view of all the action. We also had the fortune of obtaining chairs, so we didn't have to stand for the entire night. Ouch, my back recoils at the thought.
As for Moe themselves, I found their music passably palatable. What I liked best was their showmanship. They dominated the stage and worked the crowd with a finesse seldom witnessed in even the most seasoned of bands. Their lighting rig was phenomenal. Splendid. The show, in of itself, was worth attending. I may not buy the concert CD, but I don't feel like my ticket money was wasted.
I recall that there was a man at the concert who spent the entire duration of each set waving a stick over his head. Not a cane. Not a bat or some other piece of equiptment. A stick that looked like it had been ripped off a sapling. I don't know how he kept it up, but every time I looked back at him, he was waving his baton wildly over his head as if to attract the attention of the band.
I noticed that several kids from school attended. At the end of the concert, I noticed a girl exiting the pit whom I have always considered to be tame and disinterestingly docile. What a refreshing shift of perspective! The man behind me remembered me from a dance last semester, during which I spun poi and did glowstick tricks all night. He and his inebriated female companion spent several minutes trying desperately to grasp the fundimentals of raving. Sorry kids. I doubt you'll even remember seeing me, much less remember my tutilage. Stoned out of their minds . . .
My favorite part of the evening was watching Alan in his element. He lives for concerts. He HAS to see them from time to time. I relished seeing him at his most engaged and energetic. The minute we entered the Pagent, he became somewhat of a new man - a seasoned, sagacious, no-nonsense, hemp-clad, headbanging nutcase. He's a freaker. We sat right by the speaker.
Tonight we're going to Keller Williams, same venue. I have higher hopes for Keller than for Moe. Let's see if he lives up to my expectations.
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So my poetry teacher wanted me to write a poem that had perfect meter and rhyme scheme. She wanted to fetter me. She wanted to hem me in and teach me the merits of nitpicking every dactyl, homophone, and stanzic variation. This is what I came up with . . .
What sophistry is this, that must define
The insubstantial details of a verse?
I loathe the fools who scrutinize each line
For ev'ry iamb's consequence, and worse -
They strive to grasp the nature of a dream
By pondering the poet's rhyming scheme.
I cringe before their frail analyses,
And shake my head in shame as once again
The forest weeps, neglected for the trees
That sprouted not from any poet's pen.
They feast on meter butchered by the knife
Of one who could not write to save his life.
Oh gentle reader, pause and hear my words:
No formula could ever capture art.
A poem, reduced begins to seem absurd -
A mere assemblage of its mangled parts!
Its meaning must be measured by the soul,
Appreciated swiftly as a whole.
And when you write, forget the patterned scraps
Enforced upon you by instructive texts.
Avoid the vapid parlor-poet trap
By scribbling something certain to perplex
Devise a verse like nothing ever heard,
For isn't that the point of written word?
I'm such a fuckin' wise ass. That grad student won't know what hit her.
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I've never been more sexually satisfied in my entire life.
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Ninety out of one-hundred. Congratulations on your A-, they say, you must be pretty pleased with your performance. Good job.
But there's nothing here to congratulate. I'm not. It's anything but.
Perhaps other people can see the silver lining in a score just short of excellence, but I sure as hell can't. And yet, I would be able to tolerate a ninety percent if I hadn't bragged about how well I was going to do, how confident I felt as I took the exam, how I couldn't possibly have gotten less than a ninety-six percent and maybe even a perfect score.
I set and failed my own mark right before the eyes of Mom and Dad and Alan and Dean Palmer. This failure to reach my own damned finish line propells a modest achievement into stark scrutiny. How shabby appears the ninety donning laurels meant for regal foreheads. See its confusion amidst the victory procession.
Run. Hide your face. You don't belong here.
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"Damn, this Luna bar is really really HARD."
"Maybe that's because you deep-throated it."
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Therapists. Curse them one and all. The minute they find out I'm a writer (of sorts), they assume that all my psychic ills can be purged into prose. Just like that.
In reality, I just end up with a pile of angsty scribblings that ammount to nothing, just take up space. Like this one . . .
I can't avoid depression. No matter how hard I smile, no matter how many pills I take, no matter who I sleep with, no matter - despite what every goddamned optimist says - how zealously I sweep the dank refuse from my rankled mind, I will never, never, never, never, NEVER, NEVER! escape.
It's a virus. A part of me. Incorporated into my DNA. It's been with me since birth. It will be the death of me.
It's gonna get me. It's already got me. I'm slipping, falling, cursing, dragged by my toes, clawing the linoleum, screaming no not back there take me anywhere but there I'm not ready I just got out just one more minute of sunlight for the love of god have pity goddamn you no no no don't take my creativity sex-drive energy smile away JESUS FUCKING CHRIST HOW CAN YOU DO THIS TO ME?!!!!!
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Here's a quick survey, gentle readers. I'll put down my answers here, and you can put yours (just do it goddamnit. fucking humor me! it only takes 3 minutes of your time. make a crazy woman feel important for an hour or two! BLARRRRGLERAGGLE!) in the comments.
1. Name 5 things you wish were easier to open.
the wretched blister-packaging and security stickers on CD's, captive bead rings, hearts, the door to the roof of my dorm, lobsters
2. Compose a sentance or three that contain(s) the words "cinderblock(s)," "box wine," and "cops."
We sat on stacks of cinderblocks, freezing our asses off, because Jimmy was too afraid of the cops to build a garbage-can fire. Even the glow of my cigarette made him paranoid. He perched on the edge of his concrete throne, cradling our box wine and periodically sucking at the plastic spigot.
3. If you turned into a food right now, which food would you be and why?
I would be sushi. Most people love sushi, whether they know it or not. All they need is the proper introduction.
There's a side of sushi for everyone. At one end of the spectrum, we have hardcore, weird-as-hell, raw sea-urchin egg-sacks, octopus tentacles, and flying-fish roe - takes a little getting used to and only thoroughly appreciated by certain individuals. Many people don't have an adventurous side capacious enough to embrace these crazy little gems.
Then, there's the fairly popular, reliable, yet always exciting tuna, salmon, and eel nigiri. They take a little thought and observation to fully enjoy. One must appreciate the theory and technique. It's an intellectual exercise. They make you think a bit.
There's spicy sushi too: spicy tuna roll, spicy tempura handroll, spicy diced octopus (no intact tentacles here). Great for those who like to get burned or are looking for something hot and delicously wicked.
And then, there's the softer side of sushi. Anyone can stomach a cucumber roll or a cooked shrimp nigiri. Tamago (little slice of cooked egg on rice), veggie maki (thick roll stuffed with slices of veggies), and california roll (cucumber, avadcado, cooked crab) are extrordinarily friendly as well. They're fine at parties with mixed company - exotic enough to be interesting, yet just approachable enough to avoid frightening the more skittish guests.
4. You are being tortured by the underground amazon task force. Lord only knows why, but evil amazons just like to do that sort of thing. You are given three choices of torture: electrocution, branding, or the rack. Which would you choose and why?
Electrocution. As long as it wasn't a lethal voltage/amperage (i forget which one determines lethality), the shock might do me some good. Lord knows I'm crazy as a loon. Electroconvulsive therapy is still in use today for severe cases of depression and obsessive-compulsive disorder.
5. Would you rather eat lunch with a hobo at subway and pick up the check, or dinner with Justin Timberlake at a 5 star ultra posh gourmet restraunt?
I'd rather eat with the hobo. Justin Timberlake doesn't need my company, and I sure as fuck don't need his. The hobo probably has a whole bunch of cool stories to tell, too. No one ever listens to hobos. They're a neglected segment of american culture.
Afterwards we could probably go back to his alley and get ripped on Night Train. Yeehaw!
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Recent Developments:
So, I went to the VAGINA Monologues last night. You know, just to see what all the kafluffle was about, get a taste of the cultural context, get in touch with my womanhood, kumbaya and all that bullshit. At least now I can say that I have a defined opinion about the show.
Verdict: WRETCHED. Take your date to this little gem if you crave a swift and permanent break-up.
Although the show was definately, how shall I say this . . . thought provoking, it did not turn me into the vulva-worshiping, guitar-playing, purple-wearing, soul-searching, moon-charting, 100% organic reusable cotton tampon using, dick-hating, dildo-wielding, adamant, galloping clitorus that the reviews implied it would.
As a matter of fact, the only monologue that I actually enjoyed was one about the sexual connotations of a short skirt. Because the gorgious, leggy actress wore an extremely short skirt. I have no idea what she actually said, since I spent the entire segment staring at her luscious, lilly-white gams. "SHOW US YOUR TITTIES! WHO'S YOUR DADDY?!"
So yeah, I fully renounce the right to "be my vagina," as the play suggested. It's a hole. It doesn't talk, dress itself, contain a village, have a mascot, or smell like the breath of mother earth after a spring rain. It's pussy. Plain and simple.
Goddamn carpet-munching, hairy-armpit, cat-breeding, granola-gobbling, period-announcing, hair-braiding, man-slandering, ejaculating, new-age wymyn.
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I have procured tickets to the following concerts: Moe (2/25), Keller Williams (2/26), and Interpol (3/15). Moe has yet to earn anything but ambivilance from me, but Alan assures me that we'll have a gay old time. As for Keller Williams, I am terribly interested in his live performance ever since aforementioned S.O. told me that Keller plays by himself, running from instrument to instrument, laying down tracks; a man at the soundboard then loops each track and mixes everything just so. The recordings agree with my tastes well enough, but mostly I'm going for the novelty of Keller's technique. However, Interpol rocks my goddamnmotherfucking socks. I love 'em. Never seen 'em live, but can't hardly wait. Whoo hoo!
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If I had a hammer, I'd hammer in the morning.
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Alan James Pappalardo is lord and master over a small corner of my universe - namely my capacity for joy and satisfaction. I am but a slave to love and his long, thick, hard . . .
. . . to spell last name. GOTCHA.
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Diary of an academic superstar
12.00pm - astronomy
-Slept. Fanticized about rolling in the hay with Burt, the fellow (I'm assuming) who started Burt's Bees cosmetic company. Something about that bearded man on the label gets me hot. Blew nose on Student Life newspaper.
1.00pm - buddhism
-Passed notes to neighbor between jotting down 28-letter names of buddhist diciples. Wanagetanirvanafastadenyu. Kudabinakuntenda. Sikabeinavegatarian. Something like that. Told neighbor a humorous anecdote about my ex girlfriend who spent some years in Thailand and, during that time period, managed to seduce a Buddhist nun.
2.30pm - abnormal psychology
-Blew nose on a glove I found on the ground. Picked teeth with mechanical pencil. Wrote down everything on projected powerpoint presentation, but didn't really care, as I already knew it back to front. Fanticized about fresh sushi with real wasabi and miso soup on the side. Ate a vicodin. Wrote poem about tattoos.
4.00pm - statistics
-Wondered if my hair is getting thinner. Wondered if I have any nail polish remover left. Wondered how I would get to my Opthamologist appointment tomorrow, as it's off campus and I don't have a car. Blew nose on paper towel (finally, I found something suitable!). Wondered if anyone else in the class had cool tattoos. Craved a cigarette. Stared at TA's panty line.
Man, i'm so good at college it makes me sick.
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It was just another ashen February Monday. Another pearl in the dull strand of late Missouri winter. A good day, all told, to nurse a cup of Earl Grey in the library and ponder the meaning of strife.
But no, such elitist, pseudo-intellectual comforts were not to be mine today. Ohhh no. Instead, I spent a good four hours, off and on, in the Wash U health center.
The older I get, the more convinced I grow that the medical community delights in subtle humiliation of its patrons. And all in the name of "wellness," whatever that means. "Pee in this cup," says Nurse Perky, "but first, you must scrub your womanhood with a towelette saturated with liquid pain. When you're done with that, head over to the lab so we can siphon out some of your life-blood for our collection. Hell, as long as the tourniquette is on, let's get a few extra vials for my Countess Bathory fan club. Here's 11 daily medications that serve no purpose but to cancel out the side effects of one another. See these big green ones? Those, you have to shove up your ass."
Well, not really. But something like that.
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Man, I take a lot of pills. You'd think I'd have gotten used to it by now, but swallowing pills is STILL the least enjoyable part of my day.
Just for shits and giggles, here's a list of the prescriptions I'm currently taking on a daily basis:
Allegra
Allegra-D
Prozac
Lamictal
Adderall XR
Adderall
Ammoxicillin
Vicodin
Low-ogestrel
Lodine
Cycolbenizprine
Albuterol
Foradil
Advair
Nasonex
Diflucan
Metro-gel
Possibly more that I can't remember, or need for a specific condition . . .
And here's a bunch of supplements I more or less have to take for survival:
Centrum
Echinaciea
Goldenseal
Acidophillus
Oregano oil
Green tea extract
Guarana
Cayenne pepper
So yeah . . . I conume a lot of medicine.
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Today, boys and girls, the secret word is . . .
PILLS!
First off, I have a piece I whipped out for my writing class. The assignment was recursion - pick a topic/phrases/images and constantly return to them throughout the writing. For a while, I had difficulty finding something on which I could discourse at length without getting dippy and abstract. The answer lay in my purse.
Pills, huh? Yeah, I've got a lot of pills. I've got round pills, oblong pills, pills in every color you can think of - from Aegean green to bacon-brown. And I know each and every one by name. I can recognize any pill on sight.
You see, I have to, because my pills on the dresser tend to spill and mix with pills from the cabinet, the drawer, the shelf, or my purse and I don't have the time to pick over the pile pill by pill and put them in their proper bottles. What I usually do when that happens is sweep them into any pill bottles I happen to have on hand. Any bottles at all. Pills by the handfull. The lables don't mean anything anymore.
So yeah, I've got a lot of pills. Pills both big and small, coated and plain, tablets, capsules filled with liquid, solid, beaded, powdered, chemical, herbal, and some with nothing at all - just an empty gelatin shell. Striped pills, scored pills, crumbly, pungent, stick-in-your-throat, big as horse-pills, chewable, prescriptions both expired and renewable.
I my pills come from physicians, surgeons, specialists, nurses, dentists, the sectioned seven-day pillboxs people keep on their bedside tables, grandmothers' purses, lost-and-founds, over the counter, under the table, pharmacists behind the counter of Walgreens who trade pills for signatures, and pharmacists behind Walgreens, in the alley, who trade pills for Andrew Jackson's legal-tender mugshot.
I never waste a single pill - never pass up, lose, or throw out a single one. You never know when you might need them. Pills, the breakfast of champions. Betcha can't eat just one! Sometimes I eat a handful for fun. I can't help it; when I see a cluster of pills lying around, glistening and innocent, waiting for the warm embrace of my esophagus, I can't help but take them in.
Pills for nausea, insomnia, fever, analgesia, anxiety, anemia, hives, migrains, back pain, anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, asprin, antihistamines, narcotics, stimulants, barbiturates, sedatives, antibiotics, vitamins, diet pills with ephedra, etcetera.
By this point, of course, I know everything there is to know about pills. I know which generics and brands are the same; pills that mix well, or when mixed, kill; and all their applications, both for health and recreation.
But anyway, here's the real answer to your question:
I've got a lot of pills that once you take them, they take you. Swallow you whole. Pills to take you anywhere you want. I've got pills that deliver stillness with an opiate embrace and pills with names like Roman gldiators that keep you up for days. I've got pills instilled with formless things dredged from the gutters of your brain - PILLS - patiently waiting, stainless white, designed to drive you insane. Pills to make a heart shudder mouth dry tongue loll head churn legs fail eyelids crackle lips strip back in grimacing glee, until you scream for Mother, pass out, wake up, and pop another.
So what'll it be?
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Gentle readers, I have a confession to make: I have a raging foot fetish. I like feet. I like shoes. I like pedicures. And I'm not afraid to say it.
Such a preference comes lately to my sexual self-awareness. It wasn't until the middle of high school that I realized my affinity for all-things-foot. My discovery was entirely accidental . . .
One fated evening, I attended an informal movie night at a friend's house. About a dozen of my peers attended, including one close friend who, at the time, declared himself to be gay. For some reason I cannot divine, he had the audacity to suck on my shoe-less feet, right through the stocking. The sensation electrified me. I felt as if my body had been waiting for this my entire life. I was hooked.
No words can fully capture the exquisite revelations that flooded my mind at the moment his mouth closed around my big toe. It was more than sheer eroticism. I wasn't so much turned on as tuned-in to a part of myself that I'd never before considered.
And from that day forward, I have devoted a significant portion of energy to figuring out the extent and parameters of my blossoming fetish. I have yet to find the limit in practice. I love giving and receiving foot worship, toe sucking, pedicures, and foot massages. I own a absolutely ravishing pair of patent leather fetish boots. (nothing beats the beauty of a delightfully bound and restricted pair of feet.
You'll have to excuse these erotic ramblings, gentle readers, but once my mind is thusly occupied, it is loathe to let the topic pass. I can't stop thinking about the statistics teacher, senior year, flipping her moccasins on and off as she lectured; the tipsy boyfriend who drank merlot from my mary jane slipper, the tattooed ankles of a flaminco dancer whose ballroom-heels clamored a mere 3 feet from my front-row seat, precisely at eye level. It is my life!
I wish more people were comfortable with their kink. The world would be a better place. Not only would everyone gain an extra degree of sexual satisfaction, but they'd be more comfortable with their true selves. When did we enter this culture of selective asceticism? Denial of self?
Maybe I'm just insane.
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