![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
things changing/things staying the same
Mar. 26th, 2014 03:47 pm
(wasn't what i was looking for, today, but i'm glad i found it.)
(wasn't what i was looking for, today, but i'm glad i found it.)
haz mat wednesday
Dec. 14th, 2011 04:54 pmgetting ready for my shower later than i would've liked this morning i picked up the blue men's 2X long flannel i use as a robe and, as i did so, knocked over the vaguely meth-lab style oil lamp perched admittedly way too close to the edge of our dresser/entertainment center. i picked up the lamp just this sunday at the antique mall, and, yes, if you're wondering, i'd since cleaned it up and filled with extremely toxic, extremely flammable candle oil.
the lamp did not break but instead rolled in a half-circle across the floor in the foot and a half between our bed/couch and dresser/entertainment center, spewing five ounces of extremely toxic, extremely flammable candle oil all over the floorboards as it went. it stopped several inches under the bed/couch. see, this is particularly problematic because at the base of our dresser/entertainment center would be the pile of clothing, notebooks (including paper journal and primary horse-stunning brainstorming notebook i've been working on since 2004) and assorted personal tinder i pile up at the base of our dresser/entertainment center. this is because i have no housekeeping skills, must have missed that semester at school.
you can imagine my chagrin at the prospect of my notebooks (including paper journal and primary horse-stunning brainstorming notebook i've been working on since 2004) and favorite clothing getting soaked in extremely toxic, extremely flammable candle oil. somehow, thank the gods, my little lamp turned oil bomb trajected itself over my personal effects and kept the majority of its puddle just on the naked floor. a stray bra, sort of in a "how'd that get there" placement, got some oil in the process, and spillage eventually seeped to one of the boxes i keep under the bed/couch.
did i mention this was right in front of the radiator, and that the radiator was in the midst of a heat cycle? it would appear not. so! i will mention: this was right in front of the radiator, and the radiator was in the midst of a heat cycle.
i was dressed for my shower, meaning i was not dressed. i yelped and snatched up the bottle, searched fruitlessly for the oil saturated wick and metal housing that isn't really fixed inside the lamp but mostly just set in the bottle's mouth and has the sort of patina that isn't quite so lovely and wabi-sabi as it is questionable and meth-lab. then began the forty-five minute process of trying to remove roughly five ounces of extremely toxic, extremely flammable candle oil from our bedroom/living room/dining room/only room floor. this involved an embarrassing amount of paper towels, doc bronner's soap, and, eventually, windex. through our mutual efforts, the floorboards have been returned to conventional bachelor pad standards for toxic flammability, or, at least, i hope they have.
my only consolations on this ridiculous mess of a wednesday are a) notebooks were okay, b) (thank the gods) this wasn't a carpet, and c) i found it incredibly amusing to contemplate, whilst naked, swearing, frantically sloshing and wiping, the community of internet fetishists who'd pay thousands of dollars to watch this exact scenario unfold.
*
now i'm going to guzzle passion flower tea and sulk about christmas.
the lamp did not break but instead rolled in a half-circle across the floor in the foot and a half between our bed/couch and dresser/entertainment center, spewing five ounces of extremely toxic, extremely flammable candle oil all over the floorboards as it went. it stopped several inches under the bed/couch. see, this is particularly problematic because at the base of our dresser/entertainment center would be the pile of clothing, notebooks (including paper journal and primary horse-stunning brainstorming notebook i've been working on since 2004) and assorted personal tinder i pile up at the base of our dresser/entertainment center. this is because i have no housekeeping skills, must have missed that semester at school.
you can imagine my chagrin at the prospect of my notebooks (including paper journal and primary horse-stunning brainstorming notebook i've been working on since 2004) and favorite clothing getting soaked in extremely toxic, extremely flammable candle oil. somehow, thank the gods, my little lamp turned oil bomb trajected itself over my personal effects and kept the majority of its puddle just on the naked floor. a stray bra, sort of in a "how'd that get there" placement, got some oil in the process, and spillage eventually seeped to one of the boxes i keep under the bed/couch.
did i mention this was right in front of the radiator, and that the radiator was in the midst of a heat cycle? it would appear not. so! i will mention: this was right in front of the radiator, and the radiator was in the midst of a heat cycle.
i was dressed for my shower, meaning i was not dressed. i yelped and snatched up the bottle, searched fruitlessly for the oil saturated wick and metal housing that isn't really fixed inside the lamp but mostly just set in the bottle's mouth and has the sort of patina that isn't quite so lovely and wabi-sabi as it is questionable and meth-lab. then began the forty-five minute process of trying to remove roughly five ounces of extremely toxic, extremely flammable candle oil from our bedroom/living room/dining room/only room floor. this involved an embarrassing amount of paper towels, doc bronner's soap, and, eventually, windex. through our mutual efforts, the floorboards have been returned to conventional bachelor pad standards for toxic flammability, or, at least, i hope they have.
my only consolations on this ridiculous mess of a wednesday are a) notebooks were okay, b) (thank the gods) this wasn't a carpet, and c) i found it incredibly amusing to contemplate, whilst naked, swearing, frantically sloshing and wiping, the community of internet fetishists who'd pay thousands of dollars to watch this exact scenario unfold.
*
now i'm going to guzzle passion flower tea and sulk about christmas.
in the dollhouse
Nov. 30th, 2011 03:49 pmyesterday i called coyote. she wasn't at her desk so i got her machine. into the machine i said: hello coyote this is judy you know your like friend and i just wanted to see how your trip went and how you are doing and i'll be here tonight otherwise we'll talk tomorrow i still don't really know how to talk into machines but whatever the case, i hung up and went about my night.
first thing: i intended to tell coyote that i've decided to take ben and go live off peyote in a cave and i want her to come with. i'm not sure how i'll find a livable cave, much less genetically modified peyote that will sustain us nutritionally while still altering reality as needed, but really, details. i'll be frank with you: i'm tired of being judith. i've been in something of a mutually destructive dynamic with society for a while now and i'm thinking that, at the suggestion of numerous advice columns and self-help books, it might be time to abandon this persistently abusive relationship: break out of the old so i can finally create the opportunity to experience something new and much more healthy. so ben and i and possibly coyote will ditch society, let it have some long hard thoughts about what it's done. or hasn't done, as the case may be.
so she didn't answer, and it didn't quite feel correct to say, heeeey, coyote, i'm blowing this taco joint, let's go subterranean and hallucinate. truly, she probably knows better than anyone that this day would come, but. regardless. today she called and i'd momentarily forgotten about my cave idea. probably because i woke up miserable in uterus-as-shark-week-hell and the only cave that really seems appealing in such a state involves low light, memory foam, fine linens, incense and a number of fine new age recordings by inner splendor media.
i do still feel compelled to drop out of society. i've never done it. a weekend here and there, though i doubt they qualify as we diligently pay our campsite fees. i lived for two years in iowa which, for a lot of people from the east coast, is not unlike unimaginable beastly wilderness, whatever the rest of us may know the truth to be. coyote would be handy in a society-abandoning scenario because she's heavy in the midst of training to backwoods camp for six months on the appalachian trail and taught herself a large range of survival skills around Y2K, besides. i know, for instance, that she she can construct concrete bricks out of local materials, that she can take flora and fauna from the landscape for various amenities; she's been trained as a lifeguard and knows how to resuscitate people, also handy. plus she's coyote and just basically essential to have around. i figure with what i heard about purifying water with plastic bottles on NPR this summer probably we'd make a halfway decent team. her half, anyway, would be decent. better than decent, in fact: perhaps beyond decent enough to make up for my half, which would be writhing on the ground half-dead and plagued by three o'clock our first whole day in the wild, but we can only live with what we are given.
(unless! we are uncompromising and make things better for ourselves, with our bootstraps and our never wholly depleted optimism and such, so, really, my general pathos and poverty can be faulted only by my lack of sunshine and trust. perhaps if i were as open and unabashed in my affections and devotion as i was when i was 13, i'd be well-adjusted and happy and brimming with bucks and babies, except for that that trusting nature was what got me abandoned and raped and generally abused back in the day so where was i going with this? somewhere else. here we go.)
saturday evening my parents called. i'd just taken two large hits of wormwood and i'm not exactly sure how wormwood hits me yet, so i picked up the phone and talked to my parents during my confused onset period. please note that this is a wholly legal herbal experiment and despite rumors to the contrary, wormwood does not make you hallucinate. i was, at no point, whirling in the ethers, but also know that this was also not a dosage taken in a strictly invisible supplemental sense, like how you take garlic to chase off an infection or install a pinch of asafotedia in your lentils to cut back on wind; i'm curious about this dollhouse effect. i like body buzzes. i like noticing things in a slightly tweaked mindset. and though i can't say that i documented much more than a bit of body buzz
(potential euphoria notably muted by the fact that my father was explaining that my belongings, in boxes, in the not-climate controlled storage locker, have collapsed into themselves, buckling busting boxes of my life that weren't meant to be stored like that long term: did i mention i'm almost certain, at this point, that i'll never have my own things again, or be able to enjoy them, or be able to see the life i'd built for myself in illinois as anything besides this annoying burden on all my loved ones?)
but even though effects were minimal, i don't really remember very much of the first part of that conversation. it might be my PTSD kicked in and just muted out a lot of the upsetting parts, just as i was trying to ignore the effects of the wormwood in the interests of projecting a familiar version of myself that would not leave my parents wondering what is going on with this girl. as a consequence, i still don't really have a sense of how wormwood affects me. it's subtle, as i anticipated. i'm not necessarily looking for a break with reality, at least not when my head is above water
(my head struggles to stay at least a little above water, lately--the struggle is much more common and persistent than before i became trapped in the jobless artless heartless stagnant swamp of baltimore, maybe better than last winter, it could be, in someways not in others. note that when i'm uncontrollably sobbing on the rowhouse floorboards, playing with wormwood doesn't seem particularly appealing, either; like alcohol, even very lightweight recreational drug use only seems to exacerbate my depression).
what i'm looking for is some different energy to play with. visionary herbs, dreaming herbs, what have you, they seem, most of the time, to be enough of a nudge. at least as long as i am still part of society, as long as i am not yet living in a cave.
then, all bets are off.
i tried wormwood as a tea with some damiana recently and my primary lesson from this experience was that: i really need to have a exclusive tea strainer for such concoctions. many of them do not loan a desirable aura to the golden yunnan i had later that evening. wormwood is bitter, insistently so, and that bitterness is going to live in the nylon of the strainer for quite some time. damiana is lovely as a tea, green and warming; it seems to be helping to dislodge my depression-related sexual block (isn't it funny, how depression helpfully compromises your enjoyment of every activity that has traditionally combated depression? hilarious, truly, just hilarious.) i'll note that it is much better to drink damiana than to vaporize it as the couple times i've vaporized it i've ended up with nasty chest congestion the next day. the tea, once i hyper-sugared and downed it, offered an enjoyable glow.
not quite the mix i'm looking for in negotiating the newly shitty hormonal shitstorm of placebo week, oh if only there were some magical herb that negotiated mood, managed pain, helped you sleep and increased appetite! oh, wait. well, if only that magical herb were legal. but for a few hours my mood was markedly better than it's been since the cramps and hair-trigger emotional outbursts started back on friday. these new birth control pills have me polarized. i love them or i hate them. whatever the case, i'm guessing this month has more than anything to do with the weather: winter and hormones, now, as ever, do not mix.
first thing: i intended to tell coyote that i've decided to take ben and go live off peyote in a cave and i want her to come with. i'm not sure how i'll find a livable cave, much less genetically modified peyote that will sustain us nutritionally while still altering reality as needed, but really, details. i'll be frank with you: i'm tired of being judith. i've been in something of a mutually destructive dynamic with society for a while now and i'm thinking that, at the suggestion of numerous advice columns and self-help books, it might be time to abandon this persistently abusive relationship: break out of the old so i can finally create the opportunity to experience something new and much more healthy. so ben and i and possibly coyote will ditch society, let it have some long hard thoughts about what it's done. or hasn't done, as the case may be.
so she didn't answer, and it didn't quite feel correct to say, heeeey, coyote, i'm blowing this taco joint, let's go subterranean and hallucinate. truly, she probably knows better than anyone that this day would come, but. regardless. today she called and i'd momentarily forgotten about my cave idea. probably because i woke up miserable in uterus-as-shark-week-hell and the only cave that really seems appealing in such a state involves low light, memory foam, fine linens, incense and a number of fine new age recordings by inner splendor media.
i do still feel compelled to drop out of society. i've never done it. a weekend here and there, though i doubt they qualify as we diligently pay our campsite fees. i lived for two years in iowa which, for a lot of people from the east coast, is not unlike unimaginable beastly wilderness, whatever the rest of us may know the truth to be. coyote would be handy in a society-abandoning scenario because she's heavy in the midst of training to backwoods camp for six months on the appalachian trail and taught herself a large range of survival skills around Y2K, besides. i know, for instance, that she she can construct concrete bricks out of local materials, that she can take flora and fauna from the landscape for various amenities; she's been trained as a lifeguard and knows how to resuscitate people, also handy. plus she's coyote and just basically essential to have around. i figure with what i heard about purifying water with plastic bottles on NPR this summer probably we'd make a halfway decent team. her half, anyway, would be decent. better than decent, in fact: perhaps beyond decent enough to make up for my half, which would be writhing on the ground half-dead and plagued by three o'clock our first whole day in the wild, but we can only live with what we are given.
(unless! we are uncompromising and make things better for ourselves, with our bootstraps and our never wholly depleted optimism and such, so, really, my general pathos and poverty can be faulted only by my lack of sunshine and trust. perhaps if i were as open and unabashed in my affections and devotion as i was when i was 13, i'd be well-adjusted and happy and brimming with bucks and babies, except for that that trusting nature was what got me abandoned and raped and generally abused back in the day so where was i going with this? somewhere else. here we go.)
saturday evening my parents called. i'd just taken two large hits of wormwood and i'm not exactly sure how wormwood hits me yet, so i picked up the phone and talked to my parents during my confused onset period. please note that this is a wholly legal herbal experiment and despite rumors to the contrary, wormwood does not make you hallucinate. i was, at no point, whirling in the ethers, but also know that this was also not a dosage taken in a strictly invisible supplemental sense, like how you take garlic to chase off an infection or install a pinch of asafotedia in your lentils to cut back on wind; i'm curious about this dollhouse effect. i like body buzzes. i like noticing things in a slightly tweaked mindset. and though i can't say that i documented much more than a bit of body buzz
(potential euphoria notably muted by the fact that my father was explaining that my belongings, in boxes, in the not-climate controlled storage locker, have collapsed into themselves, buckling busting boxes of my life that weren't meant to be stored like that long term: did i mention i'm almost certain, at this point, that i'll never have my own things again, or be able to enjoy them, or be able to see the life i'd built for myself in illinois as anything besides this annoying burden on all my loved ones?)
but even though effects were minimal, i don't really remember very much of the first part of that conversation. it might be my PTSD kicked in and just muted out a lot of the upsetting parts, just as i was trying to ignore the effects of the wormwood in the interests of projecting a familiar version of myself that would not leave my parents wondering what is going on with this girl. as a consequence, i still don't really have a sense of how wormwood affects me. it's subtle, as i anticipated. i'm not necessarily looking for a break with reality, at least not when my head is above water
(my head struggles to stay at least a little above water, lately--the struggle is much more common and persistent than before i became trapped in the jobless artless heartless stagnant swamp of baltimore, maybe better than last winter, it could be, in someways not in others. note that when i'm uncontrollably sobbing on the rowhouse floorboards, playing with wormwood doesn't seem particularly appealing, either; like alcohol, even very lightweight recreational drug use only seems to exacerbate my depression).
what i'm looking for is some different energy to play with. visionary herbs, dreaming herbs, what have you, they seem, most of the time, to be enough of a nudge. at least as long as i am still part of society, as long as i am not yet living in a cave.
then, all bets are off.
i tried wormwood as a tea with some damiana recently and my primary lesson from this experience was that: i really need to have a exclusive tea strainer for such concoctions. many of them do not loan a desirable aura to the golden yunnan i had later that evening. wormwood is bitter, insistently so, and that bitterness is going to live in the nylon of the strainer for quite some time. damiana is lovely as a tea, green and warming; it seems to be helping to dislodge my depression-related sexual block (isn't it funny, how depression helpfully compromises your enjoyment of every activity that has traditionally combated depression? hilarious, truly, just hilarious.) i'll note that it is much better to drink damiana than to vaporize it as the couple times i've vaporized it i've ended up with nasty chest congestion the next day. the tea, once i hyper-sugared and downed it, offered an enjoyable glow.
not quite the mix i'm looking for in negotiating the newly shitty hormonal shitstorm of placebo week, oh if only there were some magical herb that negotiated mood, managed pain, helped you sleep and increased appetite! oh, wait. well, if only that magical herb were legal. but for a few hours my mood was markedly better than it's been since the cramps and hair-trigger emotional outbursts started back on friday. these new birth control pills have me polarized. i love them or i hate them. whatever the case, i'm guessing this month has more than anything to do with the weather: winter and hormones, now, as ever, do not mix.
