Now in Technicolor

I was striking in black and white. You couldn't see my red spots. You couldn't see my racoon eyes. But what fun is life without those?

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

It's when you look through people.

She was bundled in cool colors keeping her warm against Tennessee's snappy dry cold. She smiled at me, but it was more of a grimace, her teeth more of a grit than a grin. You could tell, though, that she wanted to smile. She smelled richly hallow. It was a sort of smell that lingered in my nostrils after she left and before she came back again.

Her face was folded around her mouth and eyes, envelopes of squeezed flesh. She told me that she needed to learn. I said, here is a road sign covered in red tape. We'll peel it off together. In the end, she was thwarted by mischeduled madness, dislocated hours. She looked at me and I could hear her throat vibrate as it held back the very ocean that put her city to ruins. She said, I need to call someone.

I'll never forget that watery stare, as if she were still drowning, waiting to be saved.

currently: Affected

current picture: to be added at a later date.

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

Don't Close Your Eyes

Prologue:

Dear Google,

I changed to the new blogger blogging thing because I knew that eventually I would be tossed into the new blogger regardless of my desire to stay in old, simplier concoctions of blog. I like familiarity. I like regularity. I like to be able to get to the blogger site on the first try. It's the little things, really.

The good people at blogger.com promised easier access to the Google Blogger. They promised a shiny, new dashboard. They promised other stuff that sounded really good. But what did EMGreen get? She got told to repeatidly try back in 30 seconds. Because Google couldn't handle it. You listen to me, Google. I had a great entry...a wonderful entry in my head. And, yes, I could've written it down on paper or opened a word processor of some kind--but that's all in the past now! And I'm stuck with no inspiration. Because you were serving the wrong...server or something really terribly uninteresting!

Well, Google. I want my old blogger blogger back. Go away! I don't need you anymore! Don't take the cat, she's mine! Get your hands off that Chinese takeout, I paid for half of that, buster! You're a turd in yellow water! Rawwwr!

Yours truly,

EMGreen

Chapter One: Don't Close Your Eyes

Because you'll fall asleep.

You've just gotten back from work yesterday night. It's about 10:30/11:00. You worked all day yesterday from 9am to 4:30 at your first job and 6-10:00 at your second job. Poor you. You seem to have been working pretty consistently but not really getting anything accomplished. At your first job you type some stuff. You copy 35 duplicates of a 31 page packet for a teacher and label it the "Leaning Tower." You do other really important stuff.

Then you go to your second job. You clean bathrooms, take trash, vacuum departments, mop bathrooms, and slug your way back home. Home? Oh, yes, you remember this place. This is where your computer, cats, and bed are. This is also where food is. This is also where someone called "mom" talks to you occassionally. Mom is that thing with the blonde hair who feeds you. Yes, you remember home.

The next day you're at your first job again about to go to your second job. You start to make a blog entry except can't get to the site do to some idiot name Google doing something to you server that you're sure is inappropriate. You finally get to typing an entry with all your patience and inspiration gone and you realize near the end that there is no meaning to this entry. You make it a point to start making meaningful entries in the future. In the meantime you fear closing your eyes because once you do it's all over. You're with Doctor Who, humping in the TARDIS even though you're pretty sure you might be a lesbian.

After all is said and done you realize that life is just like this. And, for now, it will stay like this. You don't' think too much about it because then you'll write an entry that's much too long for anyone to pay attention to more than the first paragraph. No that anyone reads your blog except one male actor and a very sweet girl. And you're pretty sure that this audience has been narrowed to that one very sweet girl who left you that comment that one time. You remember? Yeah.

currently: nonclinically insane (is there a distinct difference)

current picture: ----<---<@ (it's a rose)

Thursday, January 18, 2007

New Obsessions and Old Obsessions Getting Married

Old Obsessions Getting Married:

Alan Cumming to Grant Shaffer (www.grantshaffer.com).

http://www.pridesource.com/article.shtml?article=22929

Alan Cumming is one of my very favorite actors. I have always admired his work and have gained inspiration from what he does and who he appears to be in the limelight. I fell in love with him in such a hard and giddy way the first time I saw him interviewed.

J. Zuniga and I were talking yesterday about the people you really like, really enjoy, really admire you usually didn't when you first saw them. I originally despised Alan's voice on the Cabaret soundtrack. But after seeing him in an interview and recognizing his name I fell in mad, innocent, crazy love with his persona. I listened to the soundtrack again and, thus, fell in mad, innocent, crazy love with it, as well.

And so this article telling how he's found a love to share the probable rest of his life with is so satisfying to me. I'm so happy for him. He doesn't even know it, but someone is truly happy for him. Good job, Alan! Congratulations on falling in love and being yourself to the end. You inspire me to take chances. Too bad I haven't acted on that, quite yet.

Oh, and p.s. He's going to be in a Mini Series on Sci Fi in December. It's called "Tin Man." It's a modernization of "The Wizard of Oz" story. Not sure how that's going to work, but if Alan's in it, I know I'll like at least one character. (He's playing a man with half a brain.)

New Obsessions:

Please. No one hang, shoot, or maim me. Don't point fingers and laugh. But I am in puppy dog love with Doctor Who. Not the man, the series. The idea and concept. (Tom Baker too, but I digress.)

This series has caught me by the interest neurons and shook me until I became loopy. Love it. I want to read the original books. I think it is a fantastic idea and I love the new series. I loooved Christopher Eccleston (if you've never heard of him check him out in the latest season of Heroes). And David Tennant isn't too bad, either. Tom Baker is the sanest insane person I've ever seen. Those eyes. Those creepy eyes. Those boggly, bulging, beautiful eyes. It's like staring into a prince halfway through transformation from a frog. But a cute frog. Like kermit.

Alright. This was a useless entry.

Just the kind of entry I like writing. It means life is liveable enough to not have to write about the suffering.

Who? Me? Melodramatic? Pshha.

currently: Fan. Big Fartin' Fan.

current picture:

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

My 48th Post

48 isn't a milestone. It isn't a number usually associated with great achievement. There isn't any reason I should care to put that this is my 48th post. It more seems to be a "just in case you're wondering, if you've been reading you've wasted 48 posts worth of life exploring someone else's life." I want to say that I appreciate anonymous for commenting, by the way. I really do. I think everyone at some point finds some loneliness brought on by a selfish need to be recognized, no matter how meek their accomplishments. Or something.

I came to this entry initially wanting to write on how, currently, I'm sabotaging myself from succeeding. "Same old story, same old song and dance!" Oh, but it is. It's why I went to community college instead of a university. It's why I work in retail instead of interning at a television studio. It's why I'm doing temp secretary work instead of studying in England. But I want to say, now that I'm admitting myself of guilt, that if you're doing the same thing out there in the world beyond that computer screen, that it's alright. Not that it's alright to be sabotaging yourself--no. But, it's alright because you're not being bad. You aren't going to be punished for locking yourself in a cave. No one is expecting you to go out and create something big. You don't know what lies beyond the blanket, and it's fine not to want to know.

I'm not saying I'm willing to go and whip the blanket off my head, because I might not be. I'm a planning fool though. I make plans for my future and watch as they all crumble away in this thing called procrastination. I sabotage myself because sabotage is a type of control, too.

Yesterday I was waiting at a red light. I get some sort of perverse joy out of seeing how people who turn left onto Hardin Valley from the Parkway go over this one bump. With the high-end sports cars and boats that old people and hip highschoolers (who are witty and quirky) there's not much to see. But you get into the light economy cars and it's a show. It's fun to watch their heads go bobbing on top of their necks and how concentrated they seem to be, having no idea of the hilarity this causes. Serious faces are belittled by the bobbley bobble head action. And every once and a while you'll get some lady in a car with bad suspension and sunglasses who looks very very cool until that bump, where one kind of concrete meets another. And even their glossy lips and bleach blonde perfectly messy buns can't make up for the ridiculousness in which they shake.

Yesterday I was watching something on tv. I was watching it from the right side of the screen sitting on a couch arm across from my front door. My front door has three little windows going consecutively up toward the ceiling. Sometimes I'm so childish. Without any provocation I lept off the couch arm and, with a booming of "I'm too old for this" landing sound, I lept up my door toward the ceiling. I scaled my door. I took some deep breaths. I turned around to my couch again and walked back calmly. I stared at the tv for a short while (I don't even remember what was on. Television is more of a background heartbeat in my life than something to specifically pay attention to). I glanced at the door. I was off again. But this time that "I'm too old for this" sound crashed on the shakey shelves above my tv. I didn't ram my front door for a third time in fear of breaking something unvaluable. (That would be UNvaluable, not invaluable.)

Last night I had a dream of J. Beuerlein. Don't give me that look. I scratched it down on an envelope so I wouldn't forget it because it was one of those dreams that comes after you hit the "sleep" button a number of times, so it was still vivid in my mind.

J. B. was staying over at my house with Isaac Mizrahi, though he didn't look like Isaac Mizrahi in my dream. He was this little podgy boy with a bandana on his head. Nice, if not brisque in company. There was also this very straight boy there. Still don't know who he was supposed to be, though he seemed nice if not a little distant.

J. B. and his gang (Isaac and Hetero) had painted my bathroom the night before. They painted it black and white with silver writing on various parts. One of these parts was an outlet box and it said, "move here" in silver.

The most interesting aspect about this dream, though, had to be J.B.'s choice of outfit. He was wearing a black evening dress, the same evening dress I was wearing (with pleated chest and black ruffles on the skirt). He was also wearing very large very fake breasts (inside the dress). I had long hair, slightly reddish (because I assimilated that I've been using my mom's "keep your hair red" shampoo). I was getting ready for work in the dream. And when I woke up, it was the time I had finished getting ready for work at in the dream as well as the time I should have been finished getting to work at in the physical world.

Anyway, I suppose what all of this relates to is my desire to be passionate. (like the segue?) And blah blah blah. And the moral is, don't eat eggs after the expiration date and don't paint your toenails and put on a pair of socks.

currently: working? Hah. Yeah.

current picture:

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

What the--: Part Deux (the previously unposted second part of saga)

Walked outside not long after I drove in this morning. The sun was shining. Apparently the entire winter weather built up into one tizzy of an outburst and then, catharsis past, was fine. Granted, it's still colder outside than the middle of an oven-cooked turkey. My skin cells are traumatized. The micro world on my flesh is in complete shock. I think it's the deception more than anything, though.

My eyes look outside through a window and see blue sky, white clouds, and bright sun. My brain records this vision and sends a message to my outer limbs in the voice of the impeccable James Earl Jones, "It's alright, little guys. Looks like its gonna be warm trails from here on out. Be cool, nerve endings. Stay calm, hair follicles. Prepare for Vitamen D absorption."

My skin's like, "Sweet! Bout time. Right-O, old chap." (Some of my hair follicles have bad English accents. I blame myself.)

And then I step outside.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh! Freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeze. Retreeaaaaaaat. Bloody 'ell it's nippy out here."

And my armpits are like, "What's that? Sweat? Alright."

And so there I am with slightly damp armpits and screaming skin and, to top all of it off, bits of water are being blown by wind at my face, in my eyes, into my ear. Freezing water. I'm being pelted by freezing water.

My nose falls off. "Leave the nose! Take cover in the cafeteria," screams my skin. "Bollocks the nose!" screams my dick-van-dyke-circa-Mary-Poppins-hair follicles.

"I like smelling!" I cry. Running like a maniac, my nose convulsing on the icy concrete, I grab up the nostril-clad limb and stick it on. "Ew, smells a bit like frozen goose pooh," I say.

Ah, finally the warmth. I stand under the heater vent--and my entire body catches on fire. "Ooh. Bit too warm." Because if you get warm too quick after you come in from outside your skin tries to separate from your innards. Luckily your innards have internal staplers and pushpins so when your skin tries to retreat your muscles are just like, "oop, this bit's coming undone, I think. Gimme another one of the clear ones, bicept."

"Why the clear ones?"

"I like them best."

"Only got green ones left."

"That's it?"

"Yeah, sorry. The cheeks stole all the clear ones."

"Those bastards. Well, here. Gimme a green one. Thanks. Oh! It's not even real green. It's that weird lime color."

And then I look back at this draft of an entry and post it anyway.

currently: moderately nostalgic

current picture:

What the--

Freak snow storm, isn't it?

Here I am, driving innocently on my way to work at the college. Doo-doo-doo do do...that's the sound I make when I'm driving. Or, at least, that's my soundtrack in my head while I'm driving--I'm a simple person. One piece orchestra type gal. None of that BOOOM BOOOOM BAH DA DAH DAAAAH DAH...tinkytinkytinkytinky BOOM BOOOOM BAH DA DAH DAAAAAAAH DAH.

Anyway, so I'm driving. I'm listening to Eddie Izzard and laughing my arse off, which, by the way, isn't entirely safe in a car, but I digress. Suddenly it starts to snow. Imagine that--winter and it's snowing. I scream in absolute joy. I say "Well it's about g-dd-mn f-cking time!" Which, at the time, seemed to be the best profane in existence for it. I'm much more prone to profanity in cold weather.

Snow got mad.

Woooooosh! it said. And an entire bowl of sugar tipped over and fell on Knoxville. Top-heavy vans were skidding behind me. People had their wiper blades turned on. The road turned shiny with the gleam of frothy snow spittle. I turned into an old lady and kept to 40/45 miles an hour.

Oops.

So, on behalf of Knoxville, I apologize for the sudden blizzard. My bad. It was a lot prettier when it wasn't rushing into my windshield, I've got to say.

currently: brrr

current picture: