I tried Google plus. Years ago. It sucked so bad, no one else was on there, I had a few real friends in my "circle" but it was equivalent to posting random facts... to myself. BUT Facebook sucks too and in a multitude of ways.
Too much family snooping in your business, irks. I might have to unfriend my own mother. She just tried to "tell on" my cousin to me. She acted like he had just posted some vulgar language directed at his stepfather. Not that I care, because I don't, I'm not the obscenity police. I fondly remember that same cousin sitting in his bathroom with a bar of soap in his mouth when we were like nine years old. Didn't work, did it? That was parenting back in the day, at it's best. I was pleasantly walking down the stairs, aka running away from my mother who lives in the same house with my immediate family since August. She was adamant that I join her and witness the blasphemy my deranged cousin wrote. I kept moving, if I stopped I'd have to pretend to be interested. I yelled that I would check it out when I got to my PC, that I was immersed in some urgent business. I wasn't. I finished whatever task I was completing and peeked onto my uncle's FB page because my mother was acting like my cousin should be checked into a state pen. "He said F.U." She used the actual terminology, I just don't think it's necessary for my blog page. I have manners. Ha. On paper. I couldn't find any negative comments, interesting comments, or any actual comments for the full minute I spent looking at my uncle's profile. There were a lot of videos. Posted daily. They looked like fake news. No, thank you. No one made any comments within the ten days I quickly reviewed. When I was back upstairs she reeled me in. "Did you see it? He say Fuck you," OK, it's kind of funny because of my mother's thick Thai accent. "Show me." She pulls up an email she sent of a screen shot she sent to my uncle on December 4, 2016. The screen shot is my cousin's first name and it says, "F*&^ you, I hope you choke..." It cuts off. I can't read the rest. I'd actually have to see the post and be on the profile, not looking at a screenshot of an outdated email message. "This is over a year ago, mom, and there's no context to what this is even about or if that person is my cousin or someone with his same first name. You're showing me an email you sent, and it's weird that you're offended by it today." I have no idea why I bothered. Did my cousin tell his step father to choke on something? Was it a joke? No one knows, except the people that it was actually intended for IN 2016. I'm over being "friends" with aunties and work people. Snitchbook. Spybook. Checkoutyourexbook. I was reprimanded at work for blasting a psycho co-worker back in good old 2016. I had to erase my rant then promise my then boss to never do it again. That whack job was smashing things up in the office and bullying a coworker. She's still a mess in a dress, but I created another profile and left that position. My new profile is work and family friendly. No lunacy or F's, no penis/vagina jokes or parties on that one. I'm a teacher. I'm a professional, but can I be human as well? I think I'm funny. I like fart jokes. And the messages in instant messenger which are being sent by people other than your actual friends is a reality. I immediately erased messenger from my phone 2 years ago when I read the fine print that by using messenger I grant FB the right to send messages in my name. They can send your friends spam and advertisements and those idiotic chain messages. Those may be from your real friends, but how will you know? They control it all. An article that came out in the UK said that in the United States, the new messenger has a clause that can record your face from your own device. Super big-brother, creepy crap. Tag this person? Facial recognition? It's getting to be ridiculous. I also had a "Page" on Facebook to promote my art business. That was the original reason I even started a profile, besides the fact I just had a baby and needed some sort of outlet for my personal misery. My work on the FB page is being pimped out by the man who wont share it without $5 a boost. First one's free? F.U. FB, you can choke on my cousin's... I understand why people post that they're done with FB, permanently, but they always come back. There are minuscule bonuses, like communicating with your overseas family members, or seeing ugly photos of people you're mad at. I wouldn't mind reading more of my cousin's posts. An F.U. button would rule.
0 Comments
Cresting the top of the hill a giant crow on the top of a barren pine caught my eye. I assumed it was a hawk. Just the other day I spotted eight hawks both near and far; one even flying directly in my path. They all seemed to be granting a direct message from the Spirit. What the message was, if I recall correctly from my years of dream/medicine analysis is, “Pay attention.”
I will admit to praying much more recently than ever in my life. Doesn't it seem that the harder the path is to climb the more we realize how crucial our connection is to the universe? I've also been taking a little extra “me” time, though I wouldn't mind tripling that 10 minutes a day. My absolute sobriety, with the exception of a blood pressure regulating, migraine blasting, moderate helping of caffeine has surprised no one more than myself. Why AM I sober? I guess I'm looking for me, the person I lost track of a long time ago. I'll text if I find her. Back to my crow, the spirit messenger. It cawed proudly on top of that dead Ponderosa. I continued on the journey to the top of the hill. Then suddenly there's a murder, too many to count, all screeching and making a fuss about whatever crows care about. They circled around their leader; was it a crow or a raven? “Lots of shiny stuff over there.” I decide to listen. I sat on the porch stair instead of walking through the door. A frog croaked without concern of the birds or my approach. Must be nice, being a frog. I haven’t heard frogs for years. I assumed they all disappeared. The giant black birds were still making a racket, but I remained still. I opened my heart in case I needed to receive an important communication. Someday I plan to be a bird. The raven or crow, the monstrously large one, obviously the boss, soared directly over me. She was flying low. The bursts of wind whooshed, smacking the air under her wings. I have never heard that sound before. It was mesmerizing, like the beat of a drum. Strong and steady she came right for me, then cried out, and immediately changed course directly above. I was left to ponder. I’m glad she didn’t poop on me, lucky sign in Asian culture or not. That was a big bird. Crossing my fingers this crow doesn't represent “sorrow,” as that haunting, old nursery rhyme seems to indicate. I'd prefer a greeting from the other side from one of the many spirits I plan to meet again when I get there. “Hey, Anita. It’s nice here. No dishes or laundry. No one destroys the environment for fleeting capital gain.” I shared this story with my husband, minus the message I was hoping for. “She wanted the frog, you ruined her meal.” Either way, I'd rather wander aimlessly searching for hidden messages than do the never-ending chores. Remember running in a doughboy pool around until the whirlpool was created? Finally it could sweep you off your feet and the funky baby waves would take you where you needed to go, usually into the body of another Poseidon wannabe, which was both fun and awkward.
Now they have those chlorine ridden Hell-holes, also known as waterparks. The machines make waves and the lazy river mimics our home made whirlpool. I’d prefer not to hang out with the crowds pretending the chemical actually masks pee, barf or fungus. There’s not much I miss about childhood except the shallow, cheaply manufactured neighbor’s pool. With just a few friends working together, that little payoff was somehow so satisfying. This growing up thing is so overrated. Suddenly I’m a million years old with grey/white hag hairs sticking straight up on my head announcing to the world that I’m older than people I’ve always considered “old.” Can we push slow motion or pause for just a little while so I can catch up with today’s chores today instead of tomorrow? I’ve become ridiculously nostalgic for things I didn’t even like when they came around the first time. When I do the endless, mindless chores I find myself youtubing old videos. Seems like my go-to memory lane place is 4th-8th grade. What am I trying to remember? Sometimes when I hear the songs, with the electronic drum beats and weak composition I wonder why we were so easy. And then I sing along of course. I try to remember if I was ever young, or innocent. I want to get lost in the dream of who I wanted to be. Do I still have a chance to be her? Anyone use baby oil instead of sunblock? I had a baby, I never lubed her up once with that crap. That was used only for laying out in the sun and cooking our flesh for aesthetic purposes. The actual flesh that was once very promising is now just a wee bit well done. Maybe that’s where those stupid wrinkles are coming from. It was the “sun-in” the hair, neon, zinc oxide on the nose of the hot lifeguard, at the Marina pool, while listening to one-hit-wonder days. There must have been a time in my life, where I felt happy and free. I think it’s the whirlpool. Perfection lies right when it gets rolling, and you’re working for something that manifests and you can see it and feel it, right before it takes you down. And even when you’re down, you can just let go. I guess I forgot to write for a couple weeks. Maybe what I was thinking wasn’t that nice and I was trying to protect the universe from my negativity. Either way I’m back and still immersed deeply in the loan process to secure my mother’s beautiful home on a mountain at a price we can’t possibly afford. Aside from selling my daughter to a Saudi Arabian prince that will behead her for his pleasure I feel out of options. I’m searching for any job I can wrangle, I don’t care if it’s road carcass clean up. We are going to need a lot of money to keep up this charade. I’m still studying to get my realtor license but that’s too far away and it will still take too much time to actually pay off, though it seems promising.
The hill is heavenly with the glorious view of the valley. The feeling of unity with the universe is so open and clear. Surrounded by all the wonderful little critters every day seems too good to be true. I’m excluding my murderously vocal, ass-hat cat who has either killed or chased away my favorite family of quails. The pleasure I derived from watching the bottom heavy birds smash down the hill was beyond measure. They have the grace of a human toddlers and crash into bushes and occasionally bounce off the fence. Charming, but no chance of survival with a wicked Akita dog teamed with deadly, evil fluff butt. I finally opened up to my husband, that saving my mom's home is destroying me. He was drunk and most likely wont remember the baring of my soul as I drove home on jam night, from Sacramento at 2AM. I told him that my depression and bouts of crying have returned. They had been held at bay since the postpartum I suffered 10 years ago. The last memories of break down prior to the postpartum were ten years before that; understandably due to the loss of my close friend. He died in my arms from a self inflicted gunshot wound playing Russian Roulette. He also suffered with depression. Ten years before that, I was violently raped. I didn’t have depression then but I belly-flopped headfirst into a cycle of serious drug abuse and became a zombie for a few years. I’m seeing a pattern, every ten years my mind collapses, hopefully to be renewed. Here's to rising as a phoenix, not just being an average fellow sufferer of PTSD. I’m going to have to return to the books, and maybe if I get enough done in the next hour or two I will reward myself with more work. This work will involve a watercolor palette, so I’m hopeful. It’s a blessing I’m able to at least die trying to save this house. I do love it. AND if I die maybe my work will be of value. The only good artist is a dead one. Ask Van Gogh or Modigliani, oh wait, you can't. While alive Van Gogh couldn't sell his own paintings offering them up: 2 for $0.50. His Irises painting sold for $53.9 million in 1987. Modigliani traded paintings for meals. He died young, poor and hungry. One of his nudes recently sold at auction for $170 million. I'm not throwing in the towel, but it's hard to keep the chin up when the value of your days is measured by monetary means. Reminder to self, "I'm a being of light and goodness. I am not this body, I am just borrowing it from the earth so that I may do something valuable for humankind." That valuable thing may unfortunately be my dark and twisted humor. I just heard the whip, silent to ears but loud in the mind. Break is over. |
My mind wandersI write whatever I'm thinking in no particular order Archives
July 2023
Categories |