Computers--Can't live with them...can't live without them.
Current mood: frustrated
I just wanted to let you all know that I will be MIA for a few days. Computer woes...of the I-hate-Microsoft-kind. The damn service 3 update--been bugging for me to download it for weeks, and I kept putting it off. I don't like the invasive nature of Microsoft, telling ME to download something that I don't have a choice in denying. I didn't want updates. The only time I EVER have problems is with Windows updates.
But, the little nagging thingy kept popping up, so I finally relented. BIG mistake #1. Then, of course the 'you need to restart your computer now' nag-screen shows up. I was NOT ready to restart, but the f***ing thing popped up every few minutes till it drove me bonkers... Mistake #2.
It closed, it halfway rebooted--and the dreaded error message showed up: Missing or corrupted biosinfo.inf. My heart sank...my blood pressure started to climb. Tried it again, to no avail. Of course, I searched high and low for the original Windows CD, which I couldn't find. I went online to the techie forums, got some good info, but nothing would work because my computer wouldn't boot up. Tried with a DOS bootup, but it wouldn't give me the C: command prompt.
I stomped around for a while, getting good and mad--calmed myself down, and tried several more hours worth of frustrating attempts. I almost got it this morning, and then my power button in the front broke.
Well, this silly, stubborn, quasi-techie has had enough. Time to bring it to the shop. I was up until 8:30 this morning, had a couple of hours of sleep, and now I'm just plain old beat...
I'll end the way I started: I HATE MICROSOFT!!! My next computer is going to be a Mac.
I haven't been doing very much writing...still...but I have been going over some old stuff, and editing a bit. I generally don't like to do it, but some of the writing now, 2 years later, seems a little rough in spots.
I've also entered (and won) in the Den of Iniquity's Erotic Contest, as Best Erotic Poem. I was very surprised, and pleased. I won't post it on here, as it is very explicit, and while I wrote a lot of erotica a couple of years ago, I've mellowed out a little. I don't want to offend anyone. I can't for the life of me get this linking business to work for me today, so I can't even post the beautiful banner, or the link to the site. Piss me off!!!
Musical Interlude I (Adult)
Current mood: smitten
Category: Writing and Poetry
I will play you like a sax... tongue wet, I lick the tip-- take hold, fingers in place, and b l o w until I make sweet sounds come from deep d o w n
I kiss your supple lips, and breathe in your notes, to tabulate another song, another time...
Notes f l o a t like our fleeting thoughts... We are playing freestyle, Jazz Fusion-- the vision of music and sultry sex... The cacophony of sounds, a virtuoso masterpiece.
Musical Interlude II (adult)
Current mood: naughty
Category: Writing and Poetry
One of my favourites, for this sultry Sunday.
I am a cello: your fingers plucking, probing slowly stroking my strings.
Low moans escape, deeply resonate from my belly.
The pleasure intensifies, as does the arch of my back, my neck.
Hands lovingly, firmly hold me close to you; your eyes are closed, your ears filled with musical sounds escaping from deep within me...
The strings bite into flesh-- the threshhold of pleasure and pain, blurred with the fervent need to bring the song, the body, the soul to a climax: the crescendo.
This time of year, I feel vulnerable...anxious. Extremely uncomfortable. I don't know whether it has to do with my childhood (probably) and the fact I was the only kid who hated summer. I would have gone to school year round if I could have done so. Maybe it's because I've always felt so exposed--no coats (cocoons?) to hide in. My self-consciousness and shyness were excruciating, and I often used to dissociate...as I got older, have panic attacks.
The last few years, I have periods of agoraphobia, usually in the summer. It's a frustrating cycle of battling the fear...over-coming it temporarily, and then sliding back down in it. In my head, I know it's ridiculous. In my body, I feel the fear take over. In my heart, I agonize over the fact that I've created the bars in my own prison. It's a constant battle, not to allow fear to be the victor.
I am bound by invisible threads of fear, woven into a tapestry; hues of blues, blacks, a lack of rainbow brights.
Sadness seeps through my smiling veneer, and I am left dull, lifeless. Did I ever shine? Or was the iridescence in my mind?
Just behind the facade, I sit, a film of opaque apathy the barrier to my life; my eyes as veiled as my heart.
I am but a breath away from being that old crone in the neighborhood, the one the kids terrorize on Halloween-- Crazy Hazel.
She was just a lonely old woman, whose fears and demons got the best of her.
Currently
listening
:
Ghosts I-IV
By
Nine Inch Nails
Release date: 2008-04-08
Father is Just a Word (repost)
Current mood: pissy
Category: Writing and Poetry
As it is Father's Day weekend, and it's not a good time for me and my memories, I will post this today, in "honour" of the man that had the title, "father".
(Repost from Feb. 2007)
You were the first person in my life to shatter my fragile heart, shards leaving thick scars.
I needed you to be the beacon when I got lost.
I needed your approval, the unwaivering love of a father.
My hatred has dissipated, faded to a dull ache-- it was devouring me. It consumed me, every waking moment, every blink.
You sucked the breath right out of me and left me paralyzed.
I have reclaimed my soul; it's not, nor was it ever, yours.
I am full of sorrow, now. I grieve for the daddy I should have had; the kind of adoration you had for my boys...my babygirl.
You were so tender with her-- it must have been like that for me, once...
I gaze at the photograph of us in the meadow-- so poignant and pure.
The deception of a two-dimensional view-- it is memory that doesn't lie.
A picture isn't worth the paper it's printed on.
I needed my innocence; you robbed me of the joy of being a child, carefree days of sunshine and lollipops.
I craved the comfort of a hug, a father's touch, not a lover's grope.
I nearly allowed you to destroy my life, and by domino effect, those of my children, my husband.
They have had to endure pain by proxy.
He has had to take the remnants of my ravaged soul, and patch them with strands of love.
He has helped weave me into the woman I am now, in spite of you.
You have taught me nothing but fear and shame.
Love, I learned elsewhere.
The little girl in the photo deserved her fantasy father-- the one you should have been.
You can't make it go away: there is no magic word or touch that will make the pain cease, the memories disappear.
Just hold me tight when I need a hug; loosen your grip, when I need space.
Don't take it personally, when I reatreat to my zone... I just need some quiet time.
Hold me when I cry-- just love me, softly, gently.
Listen when I spill my soul. You don't have to understand-- I just need a loving ear.
Talk when I'm distraught. I need to hear your soothing voice. It doesn't matter what you say, as long as it drowns out the old tapes that play in my head.
Just love me, when I'm feeling unlovable; I need you then more than ever.
To become whole, I must first embrace my fragmented bits.
Not an easy task; I know this-- it is a fossil in my brain, and yet I still struggle with it.
As I frantically patch my tattered self-esteem, my resolve crumbles to the floor.
As I finish dousing the fires of rage, flames bite and ignite the wick of jealousy.
As I soothe the heat of shame, in its place leap the manic fingers of grandiosity, shamelessness, carelessness-- a few moments of me against the world... then crash.
As I wring out my mop of sorrow, fear takes me hostage, and I ride out the reign of terror. I gather all my strength, throw my lifeline, and grab courage.
From deep inside, she stirs and helps ground me-- the little voice at my core-- my inner child, my saving grace.
It's a bittersweet day, for me--but I will revel and rejoice in all that I am--as a mother.
I will soak in all the love my kids bestow upon me, as they do and always have done, every single day. I don't need a special day, to have that unconditional feeling I get from them, that I have always given them--it is a constant thing...
Love your children. Let them be who they are. From birth, they are their own little people. Don't possess them, don't obsess about them. They aren't so fragile--they need space, in which to grow and make mistakes. They need to skin their knees sometimes...bruise their egos. Hearts will break, and patience will be tested to the limit, and beyond--in their teenage years.
Love them in spite of not liking them, sometimes. Don't live your life through them...let them live their own lives.
Children are like a beautiful vine. A mother is a trellis, the support on which they lean on, to grow. You can't cut them right down...they will perish. They need guiding, but not be held so tightly, that they suffocate. Too much of a stranglehold, and they will become bonsais--stunted of their full potential. In a storm, a little extra is needed--hold them close, but let them blow with the wind...they need to find their own way. Feed them love, and they will bloom.
I received a bulletin this morning, and I reposted it, signed the petition...and I haven't been able to get the images out of my mind. So I wrote a poem. The bulletin follows.
I know that art isn't always beautiful, it can be full of pain and sorrow... but not at the expense of someone or something else.
Cruelty disguised as art? Never in a million years will I accept torture and killing in the same breath as art.
It makes my heart ache to see the pleading in the poor dog's eyes, his body a skeleton, a mere shadow of what he once was...
I can't fathom how anyone could have walked by the starving dog, chained to the gallery's walls and not done something.
I can't understand what the owners of the gallery were thinking...
This is apathy at it's worst; a sign of a society that has lost all sense of decency.
The "artist" has even been invited to an encore performance at this year's biennial celebration.
He deserves the same treatment and consideration that he gave his subject... and call it "justice".
..I don't post bulletins very often...but when I do, it is about something I feel strongly about... This is one of those things.
I was extremely disturbed by it. Doing something heinous and calling it "art" is despicable.
This is cruelty at it's worse--torture...and yes, murder. Killing an animal like that, premeditated. It sickens me.
This is NOT art.
In 2007, the 'artist' Guillermo Vargas Habacuc, took a dog from the street, tied him to a rope in an art gallery, and starved him to death.
For several days, the 'artist' and the visitors of the exhibition have watched emotionless the shameful 'masterpiece' based on the dog's agony, until eventually he died.
Does it look like art to you?
But this is not all... the prestigious Visual Arts Biennial of the Central American decided that the 'installation' was actually art, so that Guillermo Vargas Habacuc has been invited to repeat his cruel action for the biennial of 2008.
PLEASE HELP STOP HIM.
It takes a second to help put a stop to animal abuse.
Ramblings--Jeff Healey...R.I.P.
Current mood: sad
Category: Writing and Poetry
I don't know what it is about middle age, that makes death harder to bear. I suppose it's the realization of mortality. When we are young, we believe in "forever". Death is for old people. We can't envision ourselves ever getting old. Then one day...THERE we are... The bloom of youth is over, and I find myself a little wilted. Not old, and yet not young. Questioning a lot of things--life, death and everything in-between. Being confused a lot of the time, with things just not making sense.
I don't mean to be maudlin, but I have a hard time wrapping my head around the "why's" of death. The older I get, the less I understand it...and the more it affects me. People I don't know, that I grieve for...their deaths, like a boulder on my heart.
Canada's own--Jeff Healey--died yesterday, at the age of 41, of cancer. When he was one years old, retinal cancer caused him to be blind. But at the age of 3, when other toddlers were playing in the sandbox, he picked up a guitar... and his extraordinary gift flourished. He developed his own style of playing the guitar, held flat on his lap. Blues...rock...jazz. He even taught himself the trumpet, modeling himself after his idol, Louis Armstrong. He graced the stage with the legends: George Harrison, B.B. King and Stevie Ray Vaughan.
It was not his time. He was too young. All the clichés apply. I am overwhelmed with sadness.
frustrated
luminous
smitten
naughty
discontent
contemplative
pissy
intense
loved
disgusted
sad
inspired
