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a candle for seeker, pt. 3
Jul. 15th, 2016 03:41 pmlotuses into the distance, stepping out into the water. seeker looks on from the water's edge, hands clasped, eyes finding no sure place to rest. today, seeker was intended to examine her wounds. today, seeker intended to have her wounds examined, but the day had another intention entirely so seeker looks out over the water from the water's edge, hands clasped, eyes glancing, anticipating, anticipating, anticipating: what?
on the water the pink blossoms seem to be moving, cluster to tangle, gathering and isolating, but she suspects this is a conspiracy of slight movements augmented by her expectations. the green mat of leaf, like where she'd exercise at the gym. the spiking center of louts, a woman's skirts obscenely upended, opening in upheaval, showing what was not necessarily intended to be seen.
instead of righting the matter, instead of making the scene submit to comfortable associations: a lotus's jewel, the meditator's courtyard, someplace to be for every place in being, seeker lights a flame at every flower's center and lofts skyward in offering toward the old white moon. stars and stars and stars and stars. a star field of lotuses, taking shapes and coding messages seeker hasn't yet learned to speak. from the edge of the water seeker guesses the ages of things. lotuses of the season, waters of eternity. ten thousand year stones in her pocket, smoothed to circles over the course of her lifetime.
there is seeker herself, at the water's edge, considering the ages of things. seeker is in her late thirties but she has also recently broke the seal of forty.
seeker is a hundred years old and she is not yet even nine.
seeker is a sixteen year old wander, barefoot and lost to a rhythm in her head.
seeker is twenty and alone in a strange new city, where the walking bridge brags a mortality rate and gas station owners ambition to be farms by virtue of a small lot of corn just off the pumps.
seeker hasn't even started to cultivate her life to such variables before she is twenty-two and needs to move back to her mother's house, where when last she resided things had arrived at a point where it became necessary to live among corn-farming gas stations.
seeker is ever an infant, gazing at the world as seeing it for the first time.
seeker is weary of the world, bent over herself and muttering, barely a scruff of white hair atop the shiny globe of her exposed scalp.
seeker is every age in one moment, because age does not matter to seeker so much, only those limitations her body and the law put on her activities.
seeker woke while it was still dark, her lover stirring as she climbed out of bed. he stirred then rolled on his back and fell back asleep with his mouth open, calling out to something unnameable and with a sigh, redacting it before that unnameable something got too close. seeker leans over him for a moment, pressing her lips to the damp considerations twitching through his brow even in sleep. seeker thinks. seeker seeks out other thinkers. she kisses her dear thinker’s forehead and holds until he turns away, quieting his breath and curling up on his side. we have such simple mechanisms in love, seeker thinks, and quietly leaves the room.
seeker goes out onto the balcony to look out over her latest strange city. here, no one is hiring and the awful hardness of strangers occasionally fills the sky with helicopters. here, a highway jaunt is to be expected in even a five minute commute and most of the time when she does drive, it's to the hospital. seeker is still seeker, though, eternally unaltered and worn smooth with daily tidal trauma; learning to walk and die in the same movement. in the distance a cluster of broadcast towers signal, blinking slow, pulsing long, casting small shadows even where seekers stands, miles away. there's something out there, she knows. there's something out there calling. there's something i need to find, she knows, the fire igniting her lotus.
she wonders what it could be.
on the water the pink blossoms seem to be moving, cluster to tangle, gathering and isolating, but she suspects this is a conspiracy of slight movements augmented by her expectations. the green mat of leaf, like where she'd exercise at the gym. the spiking center of louts, a woman's skirts obscenely upended, opening in upheaval, showing what was not necessarily intended to be seen.
instead of righting the matter, instead of making the scene submit to comfortable associations: a lotus's jewel, the meditator's courtyard, someplace to be for every place in being, seeker lights a flame at every flower's center and lofts skyward in offering toward the old white moon. stars and stars and stars and stars. a star field of lotuses, taking shapes and coding messages seeker hasn't yet learned to speak. from the edge of the water seeker guesses the ages of things. lotuses of the season, waters of eternity. ten thousand year stones in her pocket, smoothed to circles over the course of her lifetime.
there is seeker herself, at the water's edge, considering the ages of things. seeker is in her late thirties but she has also recently broke the seal of forty.
seeker is a hundred years old and she is not yet even nine.
seeker is a sixteen year old wander, barefoot and lost to a rhythm in her head.
seeker is twenty and alone in a strange new city, where the walking bridge brags a mortality rate and gas station owners ambition to be farms by virtue of a small lot of corn just off the pumps.
seeker hasn't even started to cultivate her life to such variables before she is twenty-two and needs to move back to her mother's house, where when last she resided things had arrived at a point where it became necessary to live among corn-farming gas stations.
seeker is ever an infant, gazing at the world as seeing it for the first time.
seeker is weary of the world, bent over herself and muttering, barely a scruff of white hair atop the shiny globe of her exposed scalp.
seeker is every age in one moment, because age does not matter to seeker so much, only those limitations her body and the law put on her activities.
seeker woke while it was still dark, her lover stirring as she climbed out of bed. he stirred then rolled on his back and fell back asleep with his mouth open, calling out to something unnameable and with a sigh, redacting it before that unnameable something got too close. seeker leans over him for a moment, pressing her lips to the damp considerations twitching through his brow even in sleep. seeker thinks. seeker seeks out other thinkers. she kisses her dear thinker’s forehead and holds until he turns away, quieting his breath and curling up on his side. we have such simple mechanisms in love, seeker thinks, and quietly leaves the room.
seeker goes out onto the balcony to look out over her latest strange city. here, no one is hiring and the awful hardness of strangers occasionally fills the sky with helicopters. here, a highway jaunt is to be expected in even a five minute commute and most of the time when she does drive, it's to the hospital. seeker is still seeker, though, eternally unaltered and worn smooth with daily tidal trauma; learning to walk and die in the same movement. in the distance a cluster of broadcast towers signal, blinking slow, pulsing long, casting small shadows even where seekers stands, miles away. there's something out there, she knows. there's something out there calling. there's something i need to find, she knows, the fire igniting her lotus.
she wonders what it could be.
with a hushed quality. with a quality of reverence. with reverence for the dead, for everything that has gone on before this moment, this moment we thought would never arrive, would never get here but here it is now, here in living colors, here in the breath and pace of who we intended to be from the very beginning. from the very beginning: we know what that means, at least in part. at least the part that extends to the beginning, because i think as a species we believe we have a grip on the beginning, when an event first occurred, when people first met, that first day of school or at a new job,that first time you met someone important in the eye and said what you meant to say, no matter how terrifying an overall sentiment.
how terrifying a sentiment, overall? all sentiments can be terrifying, given the right context: telling someone how you really feel, i love you but there's no reason for this, i don't love you and there's just as much reason for that, i don't know who you are despite the fact that i live with you, i don't know what i'm doing despite the fact that i'm getting paid to do it. what am i getting paid to do, where should my instincts lead me now? lead me into the fray, into the battle, into the names of names of names, into the post-modern functions of senseless destruction thought carefully through for the sake of art.
for the sake of art, which is a dubious patron, always looking one direction while addressing someone in another, always dressing up fancy for a casual date, always making one matter into another and setting our most carefully documentation ablaze if for no other reason than there cannot be a simple genealogy process to those matters that really get to us, to the matters that shape us, flush us square, paste us into the scene we've made without realizing we were making a scene. we were making a scene all along, from the beginning but also from the very beginning, a concept that is a bit more tenuous, a bit harder to pull together, almost impossible to explain to a randomly selected group of one's most judgmental peers.
one's most judgmental peers could explain a thing or two back to you: this wasn't the start of things, the start of things that you've been describing, the start of things that you were calibrated to see. what you've been calibrated to see is what you can cope with, the beginning that feels most comfortable to you, the beginning that feels safe or at least not blatantly dangerous. blatant danger lies in true beginnings. true beginnings demonstrate our weaknesses, our sick tendencies, our weird interpretations of failed strivings, of making ourselves look our best for our absolute worst, of masking ourselves so we can walk through the gate ignorant of our baser motivations. baser motivations so often pouring the foundation for the very beginning: haven't we seen each other before? don't you have something to do with who i used to be? don't you have something of mine? is it possible that i don't know who it was i used to be, i don't know at all who i used to be, and maybe that's not so much that i'm forgetful as i am willing myself to forget?
willed to forget, i wake from a dream of remembering. in a dream of remembering i pick up that notebook i lost in the ninth grade from the study hall floor. on the study hall floor i page through it, thinking as i would think now, i almost forgot this, why did i almost forget this? was it so painful? i did forget it, for a time. did i need to forget, at least for a time? i page through it and i page through it again. paging through it again, the story is there. story of the middle of nowhere, story of the suicide bathtub. suicide bathtubs: where did the story go? where did it go? i mean, where did my story go?
derailed, disintegrated, discarded, demolished, deteriorated, diseased, disenfranchised, disillusioned, disregarded, detonated and dropped on the study hall floor. on the study hall floor i don't think i'm alone. i don't think i'm alone and i don't know what that means. somebody somewhere. sometimes. is this the beginning, is it the very beginning? does it have anything to do with anything at all? still, sometimes the story is there. sometimes. sometimes at the start of any number of words, an ambiguous page count, another book that could have been a diary if i allowed myself keep a diary at that age. at that age, i thought i knew better. better to forget what was lost, better to start a new notebook, but then again, maybe not. what have i left unfinished? and i think i know better, but then again, holy god.
how terrifying a sentiment, overall? all sentiments can be terrifying, given the right context: telling someone how you really feel, i love you but there's no reason for this, i don't love you and there's just as much reason for that, i don't know who you are despite the fact that i live with you, i don't know what i'm doing despite the fact that i'm getting paid to do it. what am i getting paid to do, where should my instincts lead me now? lead me into the fray, into the battle, into the names of names of names, into the post-modern functions of senseless destruction thought carefully through for the sake of art.
for the sake of art, which is a dubious patron, always looking one direction while addressing someone in another, always dressing up fancy for a casual date, always making one matter into another and setting our most carefully documentation ablaze if for no other reason than there cannot be a simple genealogy process to those matters that really get to us, to the matters that shape us, flush us square, paste us into the scene we've made without realizing we were making a scene. we were making a scene all along, from the beginning but also from the very beginning, a concept that is a bit more tenuous, a bit harder to pull together, almost impossible to explain to a randomly selected group of one's most judgmental peers.
one's most judgmental peers could explain a thing or two back to you: this wasn't the start of things, the start of things that you've been describing, the start of things that you were calibrated to see. what you've been calibrated to see is what you can cope with, the beginning that feels most comfortable to you, the beginning that feels safe or at least not blatantly dangerous. blatant danger lies in true beginnings. true beginnings demonstrate our weaknesses, our sick tendencies, our weird interpretations of failed strivings, of making ourselves look our best for our absolute worst, of masking ourselves so we can walk through the gate ignorant of our baser motivations. baser motivations so often pouring the foundation for the very beginning: haven't we seen each other before? don't you have something to do with who i used to be? don't you have something of mine? is it possible that i don't know who it was i used to be, i don't know at all who i used to be, and maybe that's not so much that i'm forgetful as i am willing myself to forget?
willed to forget, i wake from a dream of remembering. in a dream of remembering i pick up that notebook i lost in the ninth grade from the study hall floor. on the study hall floor i page through it, thinking as i would think now, i almost forgot this, why did i almost forget this? was it so painful? i did forget it, for a time. did i need to forget, at least for a time? i page through it and i page through it again. paging through it again, the story is there. story of the middle of nowhere, story of the suicide bathtub. suicide bathtubs: where did the story go? where did it go? i mean, where did my story go?
derailed, disintegrated, discarded, demolished, deteriorated, diseased, disenfranchised, disillusioned, disregarded, detonated and dropped on the study hall floor. on the study hall floor i don't think i'm alone. i don't think i'm alone and i don't know what that means. somebody somewhere. sometimes. is this the beginning, is it the very beginning? does it have anything to do with anything at all? still, sometimes the story is there. sometimes. sometimes at the start of any number of words, an ambiguous page count, another book that could have been a diary if i allowed myself keep a diary at that age. at that age, i thought i knew better. better to forget what was lost, better to start a new notebook, but then again, maybe not. what have i left unfinished? and i think i know better, but then again, holy god.
just close your eyes, dear.
Mar. 25th, 2016 12:53 pmi neglect pages for nearly two months: i neglect pages for no justifiable reason. now, two months later, in the thick of jury duty, i flip two pages ahead in my primary paper journal without really making a strategy. two pages should be enough for february, i think. even my peculiar brand of vanity in documentation should be accepting of two front-to-back pages for february. what i'm saying is: the content exists, at least. hopefully by the time you read this, whoever you are, likely me, there will not be two blank pages for february, but two pages of handcrafted artisanal entries copied into place from another notebook or, most likely, livejournal. i seem to remember jury duty serving as a return to active journaling (in my active journal, even) once before. so perhaps history shall repeat.
there's so much illusion-making in personal writing. we pretend the things we write are: objective when they are subjective; subjective when they are insane; written in february when they were written march. we pretend to be well-researched and approaching the matter with some form of balance when actually we are livid, just hiding it well. we approach an important issue from an irrelevant angle. we shoot off on weird tangents, assuming that because we can speak with what looks, sounds, and tastes like authority, we possess any authority on the thing at all. even when, let's skip the suspense and just say: especially when we do not. at all. even remotely. we present snippets of dialogue as though they've got anything to do with reality. we present ourselves as righteous, blind with tears of justified outrage, when really we're laughing our asses off at the hopeless absurdity of it or maybe a cat on youtube.
i don't know. i used to think i knew. or i used to tell myself that knowing didn't matter so much: we do what we do to find out. we write our disingenuous dialog in between our greatly enhanced or outright fabricated details and think of it as "creative non-fiction." what does creative mean in this context? it means to create, as in: to construct, as in the truth of the matter exists only at the untouchable core, that which cannot be spoken, only illustrated, only navigated around, described through another medium and never once replicated under lab conditions. oh, do not litmus that text. it will not hold up under scrutiny. it will collapse into dust at the dawn's first light. why do i do this again?
because of a reality only occasionally understood by thrice-initiated mystics and certain types of writers: the truth cannot be spoken, but only spoken around. the truth cannot be gazed upon except in mirrors. we do not sketch the truth but block out the spaces around it, and as such at best have only the rough shape of the thing, not the details, not the comprehension, not even the name - simply the title, the coordinates, where it might possibly be, what's not supposed to be there more than what actually is.
crowley's book of the law is terrifying like that, but then it always was.
love, when we slip out of the body, i wrote, but disembodied love is another matter, or rather, not a matter at all, but a concept. a sort of substitute. a placeholder for what we want or what we should want or what we don't want to want, what we want in spite of our best interests, those dark desires that ultimately land us in courtrooms and hospitals, in in-hospitable climates, not sure what we're doing, never sure what we're doing, not a certainty in sight or memory, but still we persist. still i persist, i wrote, a kind of eulogy, a sort of epitaph, or just the kind of thing i've written before and will likely write again. everything and witchcraft, i wrote and wrote again. everything and that.
there's so much illusion-making in personal writing. we pretend the things we write are: objective when they are subjective; subjective when they are insane; written in february when they were written march. we pretend to be well-researched and approaching the matter with some form of balance when actually we are livid, just hiding it well. we approach an important issue from an irrelevant angle. we shoot off on weird tangents, assuming that because we can speak with what looks, sounds, and tastes like authority, we possess any authority on the thing at all. even when, let's skip the suspense and just say: especially when we do not. at all. even remotely. we present snippets of dialogue as though they've got anything to do with reality. we present ourselves as righteous, blind with tears of justified outrage, when really we're laughing our asses off at the hopeless absurdity of it or maybe a cat on youtube.
i don't know. i used to think i knew. or i used to tell myself that knowing didn't matter so much: we do what we do to find out. we write our disingenuous dialog in between our greatly enhanced or outright fabricated details and think of it as "creative non-fiction." what does creative mean in this context? it means to create, as in: to construct, as in the truth of the matter exists only at the untouchable core, that which cannot be spoken, only illustrated, only navigated around, described through another medium and never once replicated under lab conditions. oh, do not litmus that text. it will not hold up under scrutiny. it will collapse into dust at the dawn's first light. why do i do this again?
because of a reality only occasionally understood by thrice-initiated mystics and certain types of writers: the truth cannot be spoken, but only spoken around. the truth cannot be gazed upon except in mirrors. we do not sketch the truth but block out the spaces around it, and as such at best have only the rough shape of the thing, not the details, not the comprehension, not even the name - simply the title, the coordinates, where it might possibly be, what's not supposed to be there more than what actually is.
crowley's book of the law is terrifying like that, but then it always was.
love, when we slip out of the body, i wrote, but disembodied love is another matter, or rather, not a matter at all, but a concept. a sort of substitute. a placeholder for what we want or what we should want or what we don't want to want, what we want in spite of our best interests, those dark desires that ultimately land us in courtrooms and hospitals, in in-hospitable climates, not sure what we're doing, never sure what we're doing, not a certainty in sight or memory, but still we persist. still i persist, i wrote, a kind of eulogy, a sort of epitaph, or just the kind of thing i've written before and will likely write again. everything and witchcraft, i wrote and wrote again. everything and that.
birthday, schmirthday. anybody else more interested in the current state of my bedroom altar?
(no subject)
Mar. 20th, 2014 08:09 pm
shrine cabinet in august 2013
wednesday i moved the shrine cabinet (need to show you some even newer pictures) into the study. i thought it would make it easier to use actively; give me somewhere to put the zafu or witch table if i want to meditate or work in front of it. the only real draw back is that i won't be able to sit with it on the couch--sometimes when i can't sleep i'll go into the front room, light the butter lamps and listen to music while they burn down. sometimes there's enya. it's nice. but really, i've been concerned about something with so much that is important and breakable in the swing radius of the porch door and it really was difficult to actually sit with the shrine, you know, as it was, actually meditate or practice. you were sort of jammed up strangely in a corner.
so on a fiercely bad suppression day, i disassembled the shrine, piled up my relics into ikea boxes, moved the cabinet into the study, smudged, then put everything back together. i'm not sure yet. it does have a strong presence in the room, but it's awfully close to the computer. i mean from the whole "some days it is a lot easier to fuck around on facebook than cope with spirituality" perspective.
slightly blurry reference shot i did not end up using
for the equinox, i started a releasing ritual, very loosely modified from here. (was angelfire actively target-marketed toward neopagans, ceremonial magicians, S&M practitioners and punks or was that just how it turned out?) wrote intentions, burned intentions. used a bit of quadrivium's cut and clear. started on the fringes with the names and the externals, worked my way through to the underlying issues; what i've been using the externals to distract myself from. cried, of course. threw the ashes off the balcony.
it occurred to me that the reason ritual always feels so awkward and unsatisfying is probably because i still have to roll that learning curve. the legacy of the bellydance video has been humbling myself to the idea of "i'll try again tomorrow, and if it still doesn't go the way i want, i'll try it again the day after that." instead of giving up, i try again, maybe this time with more realistic expectations regarding my aptitudes and ambitions. so maybe if i can actually do a ritual more often than when something has become entirely unbearable, i'll be able to get more out of the unbearable rituals.
we'll see.
second slightly blurry reference shot i did not end up using
*
wednesday night i started the ecstatic poetry class. i am astonished and slightly ashamed at some of the weird habits i've developed in writing poetry. yes, i suspect that needing to run an internet search on a term, concept, or reference is something that should happen in the revision process, but i seem to have grounded myself in the habit of stopping everything to look the term, concept, or reference up while i am trying to connect with the spirit of a piece and damnit, i should know better than that. i used to.
i just need to stop trying to "protect" myself from certain types of criticisms with research while i'm still in the delivery room, bringing forth the first rush of inevitably imperfect language. a lot of my best work--particularly in prose--does come off the pen without needing a lot of polishing. i'm not (exactly) bragging, it's something that's occasionally a real pain in the neck, especially for creative writing teachers and workshops. and for switching back to poetry. it's like learning to walk again, scribbling down something so undeveloped and letting it exist like that, at least for a time.
liminalia did it first
Mar. 20th, 2012 05:55 pmSURVEY CHECK IN MARCH 2012
Name: judith
Birthday: 8/24
Place of Birth: north west suburbs of chicago, just outside elgin
Marital Status: mmph.
Occupation: huh.
Star sign: virgo sun, leo rising, pisces moon, venus retrograde. tangentially related, i've actually had astrologers look at all the oppositions in my natal chart and say "oh, god, i'm sorry."
Hair: brown, now with more gray than ever
Eyes: whatever they want i try not to bug them about it too much
Height: 5'11"
Weight: you gonna want my SSN next, cowboy?
Q: Do you have a nickname?
A: i seem to get called 'miss judy' a lot
Q: How long have you kept a weblog?
A: ALWAYS. I HAVE ALWAYS uh 2001
but this, man: this is just a trip. i was even alive back then?
Q: Where do you live?
A: baltimore, the city that never sleeps because the next door neighbor who doesn't believe in closed windows, subtle lighting or curtains has now also figured out how to use skype and is cheerfully shouting the most inane and vaguely offensive conversation you can imagine into his goddamn computer until 4AM and by the way the jackhammering out front woke me up at eight, thanks hon.
Q: But were you born there? If not, then where?
A: IN A RING OF HELLFIRE! i was actually almost born in the back seat of a plymouth.
Q: Tell us about your family
A: belligerent and numerous.
Q: Describe your looks?
A: 'cos telling you my height weight eye color and hair color just didn't cut it for you? suck it.
Q: Tell us about your partner (or ideal partner if you haven't got one)?
A: little from column a, little from column b, excepting that whole "mmph" issue. we determined the other night that as part of the portfolio development process he needs to register the domain "bensbutt.org," just to give resume screeners something to think about.
Q: For a day out would you prefer, a theme park, a football game or spend the day in a bar?
A: rollercoasters are pretty fucking fantastic but right now i just want jeni to have her baby and me to get my paycheck so we can go to cape henlopen and find some nice dead stuff on the beach
Q: Who would you sound like if I called you on the phone?
A: like the voice that says "the customer you are trying to reach is not available."
always email me to tell me you are going to call first. i need time to prepare.
Q: Religion - do you do it? If so what?
A: your beeswax = none
Q: Politics - right, left or centre?
A: your beeswax = none. but i've been crying a lot.
Q: Do you like it hot or cold?
A: weather = overcast with a slight chill
beverages = hot if it's supposed to be hot, cold if it's supposed to be cold.
i don't like ice cubes except when absolutely necessary.
iced coffee is just nasty.
what is wrong with you people.
Q: What book are you reading at the moment?
A: crap, about sixteen things i've started at three in the morning and promptly forgot. ben keeps finding my copy of lover's discourse and entertaining me with humorous pronunciations of "barthes." i read a lot of stuff in stapled booklet format, too.
Q: What was the last song on your Ipod?
A: i'm listening to the gray field recordings album i just got right now! and it was totally on my "stoner college radio station" playlist which i have and you don't!
Q: Describe your music collection.
A: intended to baffle and disorient.
also got some madonna.
Q: SPORT - Yes or no?
A: we go for walks
Q: Do you have a website/homepage? (leave link please)
A: seven or eight livejournals, wordpress or two, blogger, blogspot, facebook, last.fm, twitter, a tumblr nobody knows about, i... think this quiz was invented before the whole social networking craze blasted off and everyone has like 78 profiles on 60 different venues that are all being followed by the same 15 people you met in an IRC chat room 18 years ago.
Q: Do you have a celebrity crush?
A: craig thompson (guy who made habibi and blankets). i kept thinking, "oh my god, OH MY GOD THIS MAN I LOVE THIS MAN IT'S MEANT TO BE I WILL RUN TO BE WITH HIM IN SEATTLE" but then i realized he's got a thing for tiny little blonde women. goddamnit, tall dark handsome men always pick the tiny little blonde women.)
Q: Do you have a celebrity hate?
A: why waste perfectly good hate on someone i'll never meet?
Q: Beer or wine?
A: pinot noir or woodchuck 802.
Q: Home or abroad?
A: a broad.
Q: Toothbrush - are you electric or manual?
A: manual. would you like to know the date of my LMP?
Q: Type of the property you live in?
A: someone else's rowhouse
Q: What were your best subjects at school?
A: i mean, i got out of there without killing anyone or burning anything down and that's really all you need to know about it.
Q: Spender or saver?
A: i suck with money. good thing god won't let me have any.
Q: What newspaper do you buy?
A: you make it sound like that's something people do.
Q: One of life's regrets is...
A: that i don't recover from failed relationships faster, or, you know, ever.
Q: Coronation St or Eastenders?
A: *nod* one of those.
Q: Do you like questionnaires?
A: what is WRONG with me
Q: Where do you buy your clothes?
A: gramicci and museum shops.
Q: Cat, dog or goldfish?
A: kitties, please. a reasonable abundance of kitties, yes.
Q: Rare, medium or well done?
A: WHY DID THEY PUT THIS QUESTION AFTER THE LAST ONE
Q: Do you drive?
A: from one side of the street to the other, once or twice a week, at least 'til my car runs out of gas, when i will be fucked. welcome to the employment crisis!
Q: Have you ever been in trouble with the law?
A: once the RA caught me burning incense in my dorm room. :-(
Q: Is there an afterlife?
A: obviously there is life after death. it just may not be your life after your death.
Q: Tell me something that scares you.
A: i'm terrified that i'm still going to be in this situation a year from now.
Q: How would you describe your personality?
A: so what part of that elephant are you touching?
Q: Tell us about some jobs you've had that you've loved.
A: nude model, occult bookshop manager, radio producer, shiftless mooch.
Q: Name some places you've lived.
A: northwest suburbs of chicago, iowa city, the city where skype never sleeps, etc.
Q: What kind of things do you enjoy on TV?
A: community! and cooltv shows eighties videos for an hour at eight on weekdays that sometimes aren't hair ballads. also, i don't know if you know this, but many PBS affiliates get seriously weird between the hours of 1 and 5AM.
Name: judith
Birthday: 8/24
Place of Birth: north west suburbs of chicago, just outside elgin
Marital Status: mmph.
Occupation: huh.
Star sign: virgo sun, leo rising, pisces moon, venus retrograde. tangentially related, i've actually had astrologers look at all the oppositions in my natal chart and say "oh, god, i'm sorry."
Hair: brown, now with more gray than ever
Eyes: whatever they want i try not to bug them about it too much
Height: 5'11"
Weight: you gonna want my SSN next, cowboy?
Q: Do you have a nickname?
A: i seem to get called 'miss judy' a lot
Q: How long have you kept a weblog?
A: ALWAYS. I HAVE ALWAYS uh 2001
but this, man: this is just a trip. i was even alive back then?
Q: Where do you live?
A: baltimore, the city that never sleeps because the next door neighbor who doesn't believe in closed windows, subtle lighting or curtains has now also figured out how to use skype and is cheerfully shouting the most inane and vaguely offensive conversation you can imagine into his goddamn computer until 4AM and by the way the jackhammering out front woke me up at eight, thanks hon.
Q: But were you born there? If not, then where?
A: IN A RING OF HELLFIRE! i was actually almost born in the back seat of a plymouth.
Q: Tell us about your family
A: belligerent and numerous.
Q: Describe your looks?
A: 'cos telling you my height weight eye color and hair color just didn't cut it for you? suck it.
Q: Tell us about your partner (or ideal partner if you haven't got one)?
A: little from column a, little from column b, excepting that whole "mmph" issue. we determined the other night that as part of the portfolio development process he needs to register the domain "bensbutt.org," just to give resume screeners something to think about.
Q: For a day out would you prefer, a theme park, a football game or spend the day in a bar?
A: rollercoasters are pretty fucking fantastic but right now i just want jeni to have her baby and me to get my paycheck so we can go to cape henlopen and find some nice dead stuff on the beach
Q: Who would you sound like if I called you on the phone?
A: like the voice that says "the customer you are trying to reach is not available."
always email me to tell me you are going to call first. i need time to prepare.
Q: Religion - do you do it? If so what?
A: your beeswax = none
Q: Politics - right, left or centre?
A: your beeswax = none. but i've been crying a lot.
Q: Do you like it hot or cold?
A: weather = overcast with a slight chill
beverages = hot if it's supposed to be hot, cold if it's supposed to be cold.
i don't like ice cubes except when absolutely necessary.
iced coffee is just nasty.
what is wrong with you people.
Q: What book are you reading at the moment?
A: crap, about sixteen things i've started at three in the morning and promptly forgot. ben keeps finding my copy of lover's discourse and entertaining me with humorous pronunciations of "barthes." i read a lot of stuff in stapled booklet format, too.
Q: What was the last song on your Ipod?
A: i'm listening to the gray field recordings album i just got right now! and it was totally on my "stoner college radio station" playlist which i have and you don't!
Q: Describe your music collection.
A: intended to baffle and disorient.
also got some madonna.
Q: SPORT - Yes or no?
A: we go for walks
Q: Do you have a website/homepage? (leave link please)
A: seven or eight livejournals, wordpress or two, blogger, blogspot, facebook, last.fm, twitter, a tumblr nobody knows about, i... think this quiz was invented before the whole social networking craze blasted off and everyone has like 78 profiles on 60 different venues that are all being followed by the same 15 people you met in an IRC chat room 18 years ago.
Q: Do you have a celebrity crush?
A: craig thompson (guy who made habibi and blankets). i kept thinking, "oh my god, OH MY GOD THIS MAN I LOVE THIS MAN IT'S MEANT TO BE I WILL RUN TO BE WITH HIM IN SEATTLE" but then i realized he's got a thing for tiny little blonde women. goddamnit, tall dark handsome men always pick the tiny little blonde women.)
Q: Do you have a celebrity hate?
A: why waste perfectly good hate on someone i'll never meet?
Q: Beer or wine?
A: pinot noir or woodchuck 802.
Q: Home or abroad?
A: a broad.
Q: Toothbrush - are you electric or manual?
A: manual. would you like to know the date of my LMP?
Q: Type of the property you live in?
A: someone else's rowhouse
Q: What were your best subjects at school?
A: i mean, i got out of there without killing anyone or burning anything down and that's really all you need to know about it.
Q: Spender or saver?
A: i suck with money. good thing god won't let me have any.
Q: What newspaper do you buy?
A: you make it sound like that's something people do.
Q: One of life's regrets is...
A: that i don't recover from failed relationships faster, or, you know, ever.
Q: Coronation St or Eastenders?
A: *nod* one of those.
Q: Do you like questionnaires?
A: what is WRONG with me
Q: Where do you buy your clothes?
A: gramicci and museum shops.
Q: Cat, dog or goldfish?
A: kitties, please. a reasonable abundance of kitties, yes.
Q: Rare, medium or well done?
A: WHY DID THEY PUT THIS QUESTION AFTER THE LAST ONE
Q: Do you drive?
A: from one side of the street to the other, once or twice a week, at least 'til my car runs out of gas, when i will be fucked. welcome to the employment crisis!
Q: Have you ever been in trouble with the law?
A: once the RA caught me burning incense in my dorm room. :-(
Q: Is there an afterlife?
A: obviously there is life after death. it just may not be your life after your death.
Q: Tell me something that scares you.
A: i'm terrified that i'm still going to be in this situation a year from now.
Q: How would you describe your personality?
A: so what part of that elephant are you touching?
Q: Tell us about some jobs you've had that you've loved.
A: nude model, occult bookshop manager, radio producer, shiftless mooch.
Q: Name some places you've lived.
A: northwest suburbs of chicago, iowa city, the city where skype never sleeps, etc.
Q: What kind of things do you enjoy on TV?
A: community! and cooltv shows eighties videos for an hour at eight on weekdays that sometimes aren't hair ballads. also, i don't know if you know this, but many PBS affiliates get seriously weird between the hours of 1 and 5AM.
