Funny thing about the square, that house is crooked.
Leaning and swampy and somebody threw paint on the roof.
Do you think people still live in there?
This one will not leave my mind.
You don’t have to read the entire works of Thomas Jefferson in one day. But today is the day. Shoe polish is good enough for your hair, especially when you are on a major fault line, and we could sink in any day, any day. You don’t have to sing every single Grateful Dead song, standing outside, waiting for people to leave the church. But at least you brought us some canned goods. To search and annoy is that a fine art or is that just fine?
We ate the cranberry sauce and slept in bathtubs, kept our socks in the microwave. You don’t have to have running water, but you must have coffee in the morning. Times are tight, and the Baby in Me needs to walk around back and throw rocks at your window. Let’s rock it down to the YMCA and talk of the guy who invented the corn dog. Remember that wearing cotton only and smoking organic cigarettes just isn’t gonna do it for me everyday! We are out to shake it up, we are out to represent. Brit out! There we sit, with some leftover codeine and the stacks of books outnumber our friends and all of the important pages have been marked with wooden skewers. Let’s make some patches, let’s sew them on each other. Shooting up is one thing, but rubber tubing and a razor blade, that takes some preparation and some care to work. In the end, a hair dye bottle is not just that. These existential ideas, they aren’t what the academics want you to know. Their examples are trees, and ours are scabs and trash. To get from point A to point B, first you have to bake a chocolate cake. To do that, you must steal the mix. And the mix, well, that is another problem altogether. Somehow, things happen, when you are determined, and there is the cake, cooked to perfection in a spitoon. Spatial relationships are a little tougher, than the ideas you grab at in the air. Its to big, and even though it looked possible, that heavy old thing will not fit inside, and that, my friend is much more important than the food rotting on the floor. We must figure that out. I feed my children with ideas that we learned in a few short weeks. They are still examined, the Who’s Who in America. There it is, sitting on the rug that Momar Kadafi gave your mother, thinking about the riots, fixated on the ceiling and up there is a sticker and some bubble gum. Debris falls, the glass is in the basement, and we are gonna dance, dance, dance.
November 11th, 2007
You wake up, because something has just pounded on your head from above, and that thing is a child, who has decided at 4:30 to jump on your head and sleep there, instead of their own bed, that you have provided them with. You decide to wander over to the couch, and sleep there, so you do not get kicked. The alarm goes off, and it is time to go run, fuckit, turn the alarm off. Try and go back to the dream you were having before, but it is some bastardized version of that, and a little disturbing. Someone is banging on the door, that someone is your sister, with her baby. You let them in, and say goodbye. You turn on the computer and go to the kitchen and make some coffee-flavored coffee and bake some blueberry muffins. You note to yourself to look around, because this is the only time of the day that the carpet will not be full of toys and sippy cups and towels and clothes. You send the children up to get dressed and there is alot of screaming up there. But you are busy, trying to find a cd to play, that hasn’t been scratched, or spilled on, and then you try and wrestle the baby off the steps, so she doesn’t break her head or get stampeded when the children come running down the steps. You sit down and realize the internets are not functioning. Oh shit, you check another computer and yes, I guess you do have to pay the bill the date that it comes on. You send your husband out to take care of this, and give the children food, and start asking who took your books and threw them on the floor, and then you think, why am I wasting time talking, and then you give all of the children muffins and milk, and tell the three year old one, no popsicles for breakfast, because you tried that once, and it was a bad idea. One child eats, one smashes half the muffin and eats the other half, and another decides to only eat the tops of three. You take a drink of the coffee-flavored-coffee and eat three muffins, which are missing the tops. You wipe faces, pick the larger crumbs off the floor, look at the dirty dishes for a second, but there is screaming. You set up a play tent and laugh as they crawl in and out of it, and there is alot of laughing and screaming. Then there is some playdough brought out, and you keep it away from the little one, and one of the children is eating it, so you take it away. You pick up the littlest child and realize how light they are and so you swing her a little, and it seems to make her happy, so you swing swing swing, and then the older one wants to swing, so you swing, ugh, this one weighs about 20 more lbs, and you swing and dang, who the hell needs weights? Then all the children seem to be happy doing there own things, and you start to read again. And you just about have your head around this thing that Buckminster Fuller said when your brain decides to think about all of the punk rock songs that sing about a “shelf” and isn’t it funny that they mention a shelf, and does it rhyme well, or is it just a nice metaphor, and then you think that almost all bands have a song that mentions the STREET and you start to make a mental list of these bands, and then you realize there is some screaming and fighting and you decide maybe it should be time to go outside. But you are still wearing the running clothes that you slept in, because you decided you may be more motivated to run if you just slept in your running clothes, plus that would give you, WHAT about 3 more minutes of sleep? So you give the baby to the older one, and against your better judgement, you give your i-shuffle to the 3 year old and run upstairs, only to hear, HEY CRAZY TRAIN, that is the song that is always stuck in my head! You change into some clothes, brush your teeth, pee, and then run back downstairs to make sure that no one has hurt anyone and they are all fine, and the blonde three year old is singing, Plasmatics, and improvising the words, and your heart hurts to hear, It’s my life and I’ll do what I wanna do what I wanna, all off key. And hey, what about that coffee, and what about that Artaud book you started last night, so you find them, and play cars while trying to read a bit. And then it seems like everyone would be better off outside, and it has stopped raining, so everyone takes about 30 minutes to find shoes, and put them on the right feet, and I pour a fresh cup of coffee-flavored coffee and realize the baby has no shoes, so we find a pair that are only about 5 sizes too big. And we go outside, and I spill half the coffee down my shirt, and we ride bikes and push strollers around. Then the neighbor, who you have only talked to once, comes over and needs to use the phone and a phonebook. So you drag all the kids inside, and she pauses at the door, and looks kind of scared. You convince her to come in and she stands there, while you pretend to look for a phone book, I mean who the hell needs a phone-book when you have a computer, right? So you show her the computer and help her look up this number and she makes some calls while your kids are screaming and Manowar is playing and you are looking for the dining room table which is now under a pile of felt and crayons and paper and muffins and sippy cups and about 83 books. She hangs up the phone and there is blue paint or ink or something all over her hand, and she wants to know where it came from? Hell, if I know. She leaves, you all eat, and then you get one baby to sleep, another to sleep, and the third goes upstairs to read. Ahhh, you start to read, but then decide to watch Rock of Love, because Brett Michael’s love life is more important than anything else right now, and you fill out some dumbass survey on myspace, and then you find the magic pen you thought you lost, and you decide to breathe a little, and suddenly it dawns on you, that maybe not everybody lives like this. Well, FUCK YOU I’M PUNK. (haha)
November 10th, 2007
Conspiracy Theories
People, you know that I do not buy into conspiracy theories, that much. I would rather pretend that the government is there to help us, that police officers are our friends, and that priests just really love God.
But, then some grandparent bought my children this stuff called “Moon Sand” Why in the fuck would anyone invent this wet sand crap and let kids play with it? Who invented this shit? It is worse than sand. Seriously, I would rather let a truck dump a load of sand into my living room. It does not dry, it crumbles and gets everywhere.
Now, we all know that I have one tiny vein pumping blood into my tiny brain, and one more little disturbance up there, may just be the last little bit of sanity I have left. I am like one brain cell away, one freakout away, from being locked in a mint green room, away from all of you. So I think the government invented this stupid children’s thing, just to piss me off, and keep me running the vacuum instead of watching Shepard Smith deliver the news, on that wonderful Fox News channel.
They can’t keep me down, I will not let the terrorists win, as soon as it is naptime, I think all the Moonsand will mysteriously disappear, into the trash, along with all brain function in a little place I like to call Crazytown, population one.
November 9th, 2007
