April 10th, 2015

2013, cyd, new

My tweets

2013, cyd, new

I want another dog.

On the news this morning we saw that the Animal Foundation is full to capacity on dogs and are having a $10 adoption fee for dogs in the shelter over 10 days. I found a dog I really want. She is a hot mess of a thing. All scraggly looking. Doc is my only foil in my plan. We would have to take the big-ass truck to the shelter with Chewbacca, so he could meet her. And we would only get her if the meet and greet went well. It's really Chewy's decision because he doesn't like dogs. But he doesn't mind them when they are smaller than he is. And this sweet girl is smaller than him. She is some kind of terrier mix. Here, look for yourself. She is kind of old, but that is of little matter to me. Isn't she a mess, though? Completely adorable. And she has been at the shelter for 11 days. She's a barker, that's the only problem I see Doc having with her. I should maybe have a back-up dog picked out.

I am totally procrastinating. I have gotten nothing done on any of my projects, except more reading and watching of youtube tutorials. If I didn't know any better, I'd say I needed some coke to push me. But I don't. Coke doesn't do anything to me but make my snot taste icky.

I've learned that these meds cancel out a lot of drugs. Like the hallucinogens. They are wasted on me. A few years back, when I was on Haldol, we got a hold of some great liquid LSD. At least I heard it was great. I took about three hits, being an acid veteran. Waited for the fingers-curling-back sensation, waited for the incessant laughter. Nothing. Two hours go by. Nothing. Nada. I take three more hits. Sat with tripping friends all night. Had some fun mocking them, but never tripped, myself. The Haldol canceled it out.

The Xanax and the sedating effects of the Seroquel laugh at coke. It's been a few years since I sat in a casino hotel room near the top floor doing coke off a stranger's hand. Had to have that Las Vegas experience. We all sat around him on the bed like he was a Guru. And he doled out the "tastes" in little lumps of powder on his hand. You held his hand while you snorted it up. It was a weird and kind of intimate thing. It was crazy. People live like that here. the guy owned several houses in the valley, but preferred to live in a casino hotel doing his coke guru thing.

On to a completely different story.

Doc and I were talking about sportsball the other night. And since it is spring, we were talking about baseball. And I remembered something. My step-granpa, Earl, I remember very little of. I remember slicked back hair and the smell of pomade, sideburns and rugged clothes. And he played baseball with me. He didn't shame me for being a tomboy. He brought me little plastic soldiers and played war with me. But it was the baseball I was really hooked on. I was 4 or 5. We would spend hours in their yard playing with the plastic bat and ball he brought home to me one day. He died when I was 5. And so did that tradition. I was thrown into the lives of my mom's parents. Society's Elite.

One played tennis and golf in their world. And never did they wear rugged clothes. It was a rough transition, I was so used to running around in jeans and getting dirty. One day, my Papa came home with a surprise for me, two tickets to see the Oakland A's for me and him. So we went to my first live baseball game. This was my first exposure to how the game was really played. I watched, fascinated. Around the 7th inning stretch, I got tired and fell asleep leaning on my Papa's arm. When the game was over, I woke up, to find that Papa had fallen asleep as well, with his head on mine. That's the kind of man my Papa was. He would do anything to help me fit in and be happy.

Years later, after we had adopted the first two of my younger siblings, my parents took a movie of me in the bath with them. This was fine for immediate family viewing, I supposed. But I was just hitting puberty and my body was changing and it was pretty much kiddy porn. And my parents showed the movie at a big family dinner with my male cousins and uncles there and I ran out of the room, horrified. Papa followed me to the kitchen, and soothingly told me how brave I was, and how it was over now and he would take the movie and get rid of it, and it wasn't fair, but it was ok now. and this man never spoke. He had a booming baritone voice that I loved to listen to, but he just never spoke unless he had something important to say. He was a great man. My Nana misses him more today than she did when he died. What do you do when you lose the perfect companion? How did she go on? I'll never understand.

So there are my Papa and Granpa Earl stories. Two great men that, thankfully, didn't live to see me grow up. In the same vein, my constant searching of random boxes in the garage revealed a card that was given out at my Granma's funeral, Earl's wife, my dad's mom. She died in 1984. That's a nice thing to have.

Now I am completely emotionally drained. Fuck, I didn't mean to do that. Doc won't be up until 6 or 7. I have plenty of time to work on something, anything that will get me further into something that I'm working on, anything.

Update on Boomer, since I haven't mentioned her. You know how cats just run from one place to another, and then back again and then go off in a completely different direction and so forth? Our cats don't do that. But Boomer does. The first night she did it, we were worried about her. Then we got into the groove of it. She seems to be really happy here. She is getting along with everyone but Freddie and Teeny, they won't leave her alone. She has claimed her position in the open window in the living room above my couch.

And speaking of couch, I have kicked the couch habit. I have been sleeping/napping in my bed. It took Chewy a bit to get used to it. He was afraid of it at first because he has pooped in there a couple of times and was afraid of getting punished. Once I got it through to him that it was our room and our bed, he got right into it. Now he goes in there looking for me when I'm in the bathroom. Last night we lay down and played and cuddled and I showed him all the room he has to lay anywhere he wants, he doesn't have to be scooched up to me all the time if he doesn't want to be. And he stretched out and took up a good portion of the bed and I petted and tickled him and we played Chomp Chomp for a while and then I settled down to sleep and he crawled over and scooched right up to me. I love that dog.

Kate Bush's "This Woman's Work" tears me up, every time I hear it. And yet, I keep it on my play list, ready to ambush me at any time. Ok, it's over, made it through this time.

This frustration is really killing me. I've been thinking of hurting myself to kick start some kind of emotion. I have none. That's why I can't create. I'm fucking empty. Dead. Do you have any idea how much I want to bleed to prove that I still can? To prove that my brain wasn't put inside of some automaton.

How hard can it be to paint a dark background of three colors fading into each other and then two shadow figures? Not hard at all. Why can't I do it? I feel disconnected, even though they are both standing in my hallway now.

Doc won't be up for another 4 or five hours. Well, shit. There's nothing on TV.

He said we can order the trackball soon. Like maybe this weekend.

Okay, I need an outside break.