1. The award logo/image should be on your blog. 2. Rules should be listed 3. Be thankful to the one who nominated you and do add the link to their blog 4. Answer five questions asked by the person nominating you 5. Tell your readers three things about yourself 6. Notify the nominees on through comments on their blog 7. Ask five questions, of your choice, to your nominees. One of which should be funny or weird. 8. Share a link to your best post
q an a for Kritika
1. Has your blog transformed your life?
i think that it has i get to share some thoughts with folks who might send me advice or who just get it i love to read work that speaks to me as well and know that i’m not alone even if it’s just cyber space
2. What are your hobbies? Is blogging one of them?
i guess blogging is a hobbie but really its more therapeutic i like to read and just let my mind wander its difficult and exhausting some days
3. Are you attracted towards balloons still?
balloons scare me seriously i will hyper ventilate and pass out PTSD bad
4. Writing on blog, do you take it as an obligation?
not at all i love writing i need it in my life
5. Have you ever written a funny post on blog?
i have some funny pieces i think like the price of peanut butter and charm school drop out i’m really funny and witty in person if i have to write something down and think it through it doesn’t work for me i think
Excited or Normal I know not nominated by thevel to whom I am thankful for your kindness I am thankful for your humbleness considering me for this mysterious award this blogging fun now seems to have started to get intoform
Seriously a mystery for me with some rules to be followed. Frankly, I always mention others I am new to writing whichled to blogging.This year I have made a huge amount of changes in my life one of which includes this blog.The rules:
1. The award logo/image should be on your blog. 2. Rules should be listed 3. Be thankful to the one who nominated you and do add the link to their blog 4. Answerfive questions asked by the person nominating you 5.Tell your readers three things about yourself 6. Notify the nominees onthrough comments on their blog 7.Askfive questions, of your choice,to your nominees. One of…
i’ve never really placed much attention to my hands they just work write eat wipe bathe pick scrub love cup stroke pet grope sweat type hold i took them to a man and he injected ink in some places symbols only useful to me oh and i’ve never taken into consideration how much they’ve fought mostly against myself and with people bent on kicking my ass the fingers are aging too crooked they will inevitably be if i’m lucky to get to be that old a little scarred and a little cracked in some bones from falls punches and climbing up or down from walls maybe i was too wild for my hands although i’ve had some feminine moments with polish and rings among other things a woman’s hands are good for my nails are short and i chew them off when no one is around to comfort me the lines on my palms are the secret roadmap i think i have followed in my travels with tiny trenches diving deep and some just cutting off i might have a few knuckles bigger than the rest but that’s ok i want to keep them as a trophy to my life
My wife was fast, manipulative, expensive and mean, but when she was in my bed she had an addicting sweetness, filling the worm holes in my soul with the light of the stars under God’s feet. I simply believed then that I loved her more than anything, ever. The continents could fall below me, Satan himself could drag me into the molten pits of Hell by my guts; I didn’t care as long as she was there with me, on my arm or at least have her close enough where I could sniff her tarty scent.
An amber bronzed Persian princess, Schiva curled my toes with delight. Schiva licked and suckled universes in and out of my body and mind I never knew existed. Schiva’s almost vapory fingers massaged me, penetrated me in luscious blinding ecstasy, swirling my very breath in orgasmic space travel past the Nebulae that are yet to come.
The Schiva Nirvana ended one October. More or less a month prior I ran out of disposable income. Schiva did not understand that I was a working stiff with debts. “I do not give one damn about your problem Grady! You want me, you pay!”I thought I heard her say as I squirmed on a midnight blue suede couch. She left out my mind’s door and slammed it behind her.
I’d been crying all day. The madness that comes with convulsive
laughter possessed me. The memory of a 30 year old, ex-orphan, trust funder named
Jeff who introduced me to her at his King Edward Hotel suite came to mind. Jeff
of rotund body and broken heart was the vehicle that would take me into what I
perceived to be something better, anything
was better than how I felt then.
Then Schiva whispered, Jeff whispered and the three of us shared
penetration-less sweet love on his dirty blue sheets. Sheets stained with other
sweats of other addicts who had too signed their life away to the Beautiful
Golden Dragon.
Schiva and I started off by going out on dates with Jeff
exclusively at least six or seven times a month. And as long as I had the money.
The problem was that Schiva and I started dating at least twice a week behind
Jeff’s back and he did not appreciate that. Jeff would become angry and jealous
and would withhold her from me. He wanted to take Schiva first and leave me his
sloppy seconds.
Being of a non-confrontational nature, I stopped hanging out with
Jeff and Schiva off and on for about a year and a half. I had found other
crutch mistresses to pass the time. At 17, things changed between Schiva and me;
we got closer. I worked hard doing office work, recycling, driving trucks for
my uncle all for my new bride Schiva.
That October 10th I loathed myself, so I ran to Baker’s Beach in San Francisco for almost two days. I guess that about forty-four hours passed. I rolled around in the wet sand, vomited, cut my knuckles on the rocks, burned in fever, shook in the cold and cried; alone. Night turned to day back to night and then almost morning. The purge was good. The purge was the kindest thing I ever did for myself. I thought about dying to live, then all went blank.
But, in the midst of the spiritual hell of the very human junkie
withdrawal, I had dark thoughts too. I would cut my arms in such a way that
bleeding could not be stopped and before passing out, I would run into the
water to make sure I drowned. But first, I would pan handle enough change to
get a few bottles of Nyquil and vodka to make sure I was completely disabled in
the cold bay water. I had all I needed, except the money. I giggled at the
irony of being penniless now, when just a few measly weeks before I was burning
through all the money I had to get high.
I hated myself. I judged myself to be selfish, weak, inconsiderate, cowardly and worthless. I tried convincing myself that no one could help my loneliness, my need of love and acceptance. I felt dirty because I had been repeatedly used and violated. I did not know how to express anything other than being good at being a fuck up. I did not know how to ask for help; I did not give anyone an opportunity to help. I wanted to run and disappear; I wanted something beyond mere death.
my way…
my wife was fast manipulative expensive and mean but when she was in my bed she had an addicting sweetness filling the worm holes in my soul with the light of the stars under God’s feet i simply believed then that i loved her more than anything ever the continents could fall below me Satan himself could drag me into the molten pits of Hell by my guts i didn’t care as long as she was there with me on my arm or at least have her close enough where i could sniff her tarty scent
an amber bronzed Persian princess Schiva curled my toes with delight Schiva licked and suckled universes in and out of my body and mind i never knew existed Schiva’s almost vapory fingers massaged me penetrated me in luscious blinding ecstasy swirling my very breath in orgasmic space travel past the Nebulae that are yet to come
the Schiva Nirvana ended one October more or less a month prior i ran out of disposable income Schiva did not understand that i was a working stiff with debts i do not give one damn about your problem Grady you want me you pay i thought i heard her say as i squirmed on a midnight blue suede couch she left out my mind’s door and slammed it behind her
i’d been crying all day the madness that comes with convulsive laughter possessed me the memory of a 30 year old ex orphan trust funder named Jeff who introduced me to her at his King Edward Hotel suite came to mind Jeff of rotund body and broken heart was the vehicle that would take me into what i perceived to be something better anything was better than how i felt then
then Schiva whispered Jeff whispered and the three of us shared penetration less sweet love on his dirty blue sheets sheets stained with other sweats of other addicts who had too signed their life away to the Beautiful Golden Dragon
Schiva and i started off by going out on dates with Jeff exclusively at least six or seven times a month and as long as i had the money the problem was that Schiva and i started dating at least twice a week behind Jeff’s back and he did not appreciate that Jeff would become angry and jealous and would withhold her from me he wanted to take Schiva first and leave me his sloppy seconds
being of a non confrontational nature i stopped hanging out with Jeff and Schiva off and on for about a year and a half i had found other crutch mistresses to pass the time at 17 things changed between Schiva and me we got closer i worked hard doing office work recycling driving trucks for my uncle all for my new bride Schiva
that October 10th i loathed myself so i ran to Baker’s Beach in San Francisco for almost two days i guess that about forty four hours passed i rolled around in the wet sand vomited cut my knuckles on the rocks burned in fever shook in the cold and cried alone night turned to day back to night and then almost morning the purge was good the purge was the kindest thing i ever did for myself i thought about dying to live then all went blank
but in the midst of the spiritual hell of the very human junkie withdrawal i had dark thoughts too i would cut my arms in such a way that bleeding could not be stopped and before passing out i would run into the water to make sure i drowned but first i would pan handle enough change to get a few bottles of Nyquil and vodka to make sure i was completely disabled in the cold bay water i had all i needed except the money i giggled at the irony of being penniless now when just a few measly weeks before i was burning through all the money i had to get high
i hated myself i judged myself to be selfish weak inconsiderate cowardly and worthless i tried convincing myself that no one could help my loneliness my need of love and acceptance i felt dirty because i had been repeatedly used and violated i did not know how to express anything other than being good at being a fuck up i did not know how to ask for help i did not give anyone an opportunity to help i wanted to run and disappear i wanted something beyond mere death
i’m so tired of being an addict i hate having to travel on
Temple Street but all the signs are good Our Lady of Angels Greg Laurie Harvest
Stickers car plates chock full of hearts and tiny hands instead of numbers
letters they’re all messages from high up i’m cool i can handle this there’s
the Déjà Vu Club who cares i don’t worry about chasing my fixations into there
what am i saying do i really feel safe walking down this damn
street full of crazy assholes trying to get to the nearest bar why don’t i lay on
one of these benches and just stay still damn it and what’s all this taking
bumper stickers and 158 year old buildings as a sign that anything or anyone
for that matter is cool
it’s comforting to me ok i know how anal i can get about that
stuff not that anyone cares better yet not that anyone would ever suspect that
a loser like me even thinks about her soul so why worry about it i can’t
control my thoughts my fleeting humming bird mind
hmmm on the other hand lemme be a devil’s advocate do i ever
feel like texting my people and telling them if i ever have to drop everything
and everyone and give my life and soul and everything else and die in the name
of and for Jesus would i do it
my heart says yes i guess you can’t be lukewarm its yes or no
yes yes i would i don’t have anything in the world to lose but man yes yes i
would
sounds a lot like i’m trying to convince myself that would mean
leaving everyone and everything i love behind leaving the world I know for the
unknown i’m crystal clear on that right
yes i am it’s the only thing that i am sure of look i don’t have
anything to offer that’s original or universe shattering i can choose to be
nice humble sacrifice all whatever etc but that my fucked up little mind is merely
revolutionary NOT UNIVERSE SHATTERING right but the outcome is unknown
regardless now why do i think that because the recipients of my choices and
deeds are people and people are human and humans aren’t perfect so by that
rational it doesn’t matter a flying rats ass what do or don’t or believe or don’t my heart says
do it jump off the cliff step off the boat God will be there my puny runty tiny
black worthless heart tells me that not brains or conscience uh no hard
feelings ok my little fragile mind but that’s what i believe i was born with
this belief i can’t shake it shoot it out cut it off chemo it beat it it’s in
me whether i want it or not i can’t even ignore it
besides a human would push me off the cliff and throw me off the
boat in an episode of hysteria it’s just survival instinct who can blame them
so i’d rather do it myself jump step off you know take hold of my own destiny
captain of my soul whatever
then again it sounds like i’ve been watching too many Prophecy
flicks so the church is sharing real estate with the strip joints do i think
that’s funny do i think that juxtaposition by the freeway was there for me does
it make me think deeply does it make me question morality hmmm
no not really i’m not special like that but if i look at it business
wise being that this is Downtown Los Angeles the church gets its souls and
tithes and the strip joint gets its saps and tips win win it’s all supply and
demand my good woman
wow Adam Smith ‘Wealth of Nations’ who knew anyone could ever make
a triangular connection between church titty bars and world economics freakin’
smart
well i do my worst thinking on the freeway ramps sorry but my
decision stands firm can i turn off now my stream of consciousness is a big ass
blinding light of a reminder in my eyeballs
what do i remind me of i’m just a stream of irrepressible and
unimportant thought that no one can control remember
you remind me of where i
am and i don’t want to be reminded at all let’s step off the milk crate now
the sheriffs will be finding us soon enough
In 1993 I learned two things about
Chinese culture. First that it was the Year of the Rooster and second, that “he who strikes the first blow admits he’s lost the argument.”
In 2003 I sat in the Cecil’s lobby, putrid and rancid with depressive thoughts, but hoping to score; human companionship. No one was there anymore and I was an adult now. My mind meandered.
Rooster was
my father. In his youth he was Billy-from-Easy-Rider handsome, cocky, and a
womanizer. Rooster would never back down from a fight, ever. He drank enough booze
to fly a plane, snorted mountainous amounts of cocaine, cursed, worked hard and
partied even harder. I heard that in the autumn of his life Rooster wore scars
and tattoos like medals, sped on motorcycles, and had no connection with the
children he spawned in and out of wedlock.
Two blond
women with big jugs stomped into the lobby and yelled at the janitor demanding
that he produce a Roy Mingus. I’ve never forgotten that name on account that is
sounds really cool. I imagined Roy looking like Hugh Hefner but broke. The
ladies left into the back of the hotel and gassy breeze sneaked in; I thought
about Los Feliz and me squeezing lighter fluid into the barbecue pit when I was
five.
During the years
of my short lived young life, my
mother survived through ten years of battle and then my parents divorced. When
sober, Rooster was verbally abusive and when high and drunk ultra-violent if anyone crossed him. Other than that, he
had been a devout Sunday morning Catholic, chest pounder, and rosary wielding.
Tithe giving included.
Rooster came
to the brink of death a few times at the hands of his own brother, Gjeo and their
motor cycling brothers when they got wind that he’d beat up some broad. It
wasn’t in their intricate code of ethics to strike women or kids. The running
joke amongst them was that Rooster was like Lazarus for having the longest record
of recovery after having his ass and several other organs handed to him over
the years. In some ways, I admired the resiliency in him. In other ways, I had
always felt profound sorrow and tenderness for the old man.
I curled up
and nodded off into the ozone of the lobby. It was around one in the morning
that old Pike straggled in and woke me. He startled me and I swung, narrowly missing
his crotch. After cussing and gasping he sat across from me in the greasy old
easy chair. We started talking about lawn mower motors. He chattered away, but
my mind was ten years back.
That 1993 spring mid-morning was fragrant as the moisture in the air teased out the green hopeful smell of ferns and pepper trees surrounding my uncle’s garage. I needed my uncle to explain catalytic converters to me. My mechanic wasn’t able to fix my Jeep and maybe Aces, as my uncle was called, could.
my way…
in 1993 i learned two things about Chinese culture first that it was the Year of the Rooster and second that he who strikes the first blow admits he’s lost the argument
in 2003 i sat in the Cecil’s lobby putrid and rancid with depressive thoughts but hoping to score human companionship no one was there anymore and i was an adult now my mind meandered
Rooster was my father in his youth he was Billy from Easy Rider handsome cocky and a womanizer rooster would never back down from a fight ever he drank enough booze to fly a plane snorted mountainous amounts of cocaine cursed worked hard and partied even harder i heard that in the autumn of his life rooster wore scars and tattoos like medals sped on motorcycles and had no connection with the children he spawned in and out of wedlock
two blond women with big jugs stomped into the lobby and yelled at the janitor demanding that he produce a Roy Mingus i’ve never forgotten that name on account that is sounds really cool i imagined Roy looking like Hugh Hefner but broke the ladies left into the back of the hotel and gassy breeze sneaked in i thought about Los Feliz and me squeezing lighter fluid into the barbecue pit when i was five
during the years of my short lived young life my mother survived through ten years of battle and then my parents divorced when sober Rooster was verbally abusive and when high and drunk ultra violent if anyone crossed him other than that he had been a devout Sunday morning Catholic chest pounder and rosary wielding tithe giving included
Rooster came to the brink of death a few times at the hands of his own brother Gjeo and their motor cycling brothers when they got wind that he’d beat up some broad it wasn’t in their intricate code of ethics to strike women or kids the running joke among them was that Rooster was like Lazarus for having the longest record of recovery after having his ass and several other organs handed to him over the years in some ways i admired the resiliency in him in other ways i had always felt profound sorrow and tenderness for the old man
i curled up and nodded off into the ozone of the lobby it was around one in the morning that old Pike straggled in and woke me he startled me and i swung narrowly missing his crotch after cussing and gasping he sat across from me in the greasy old easy chair we started talking about lawn mower motors he chattered away but my mind was ten years back
that 1993 spring mid morning was fragrant as the moisture in the air teased out the green hopeful smell of ferns and pepper trees surrounding my uncle’s garage i needed my uncle to explain catalytic converters to me my mechanic wasn’t able to fix my Jeep and maybe Aces as my uncle was called could
