May 11th, 2015

2013, cyd, new

More later, I'm quite sure

Nom nom nom. Doc got me a tin of cocoa peanuts yesterday. They are dry roasted peanuts, rolled in dark cocoa powder with just the slightest hint of sugar. I am addicted to them. I think they are a South American delicacy. They come with a Planter's label, but it's all in Spanish and he can only find them at the bodega, not in any American grocery. I think I'll have some for breakfast.

I had a mini psychotic episode last night, and Doc was home to take the brunt of my lunatic ravings. I'm feeling better today, but completely drained and raw. I think it was brought on by the whole Mother's Day thing. I couldn't get away from it. Couple that with yet another silent day on social media, I'd had enough. I just snapped. I started ranting and raving and freaking out at everything with absolute impotent rage. I was arguing with Doc fiercely, even when he was agreeing with me. I was a hot mess. The only thing I can think of is, I took a Tramadol last night for another doozie of a headache. It either didn't mix with the weed, or didn't mix with the last dregs of Xanax in my system. I was desperate, though, my head really hurt. Like sledgehammer to the back of it hurt.

I was going to approach M about a buying a used mic from him. Thinking that my mic might be the problem with my recordings. Found out the mic I have, that I was gifted, is a $130 mic and better than the ones that look like official radio mics. So it's not the mic. I'm going to try my room. On my bed, I am surrounded on three sides. I can easily hang a sheet on the fourth side to make myself a little studio.

I need a kid. I want to re-do one of my pieces, and I need a kid to read 9 lines in it. The kids next door moved out. Where am I going to find a kid? Kelli's got nieces and nephews, but logistically, it would be a nightmare. They are across the country. So begins my search for a kid. Preferably of the girl persuasion.

I saw pictures of a VW Beetle with the entire body done in filigree. It was amazing, and had potential to be imagined into frames for my glass canvas art. Learned from Doc that N works for a fencing company that does that kind of filigree work for security gates and such. His girl needs help launching an online shop for these diaper bouquets she makes. Oh, HEY! Duh! They are lousy with kids, and I know they have at least two girls, and I believe one is old enough to be literate. My mind is working, the hamster is running in its wheel . . . maybe the Family can be of some use to me, after all. And it would give Doc a way back in. And dispel some myths about me at the same time.

J came up with a perfect, and very insightful metaphor last night for me. She asked Doc, so what's going on in Cyd's bubble today? That was fucking brilliant. I do live in a bubble. And I hate to have to reach out and I especially hate when people try to reach in. Maybe that is what is sabotaging my online marketing/promotion/success.

I can't even ask Matt for help/opinion/critique because he does all that for $ now, and I can't pay him. What was once my friend is now a brand. And I don't know how to deal with that. I'm afraid to ask any questions of him as a friend, because I'm afraid he sees me only as a potential future customer. And I can never be that. I am not the person that will hire someone to update my website, or edit my poetry books or any of the other stuff he does. I'm a DIY kind of girl. I just need friends I can count on.

Oh! I have something to show you! Wait a bit for me to get the pic imported and resized, I'll be right back.

This is Stick. I found him at the Farm, back in a dark corner. It was either a Strawberry Cough, or a Lemon Thai bush that died off early for unremembered reasons. Someone had stripped all the leaves and microbranches from it out of boredom one day and just left it in the corner. I asked if I could have it, and after an exchange of strange glances, was told, yes, I could have it. There is something about Stick that I really like. The shape of it is very pleasing to me. I think I'm going to paint it and decorate it with wire strung with tiny glass beads. I identify with Stick. It didn't live its full life and was stripped and discarded. But somehow it is still standing in its pot and still has aesthetically pleasing curves. And it will stay like that until someone or something destroys it. Stick is my friend.

Felix killed and gutted an albino lizard last night. Freaking out, I went over to the wall to see if it was my Izzard, and it wasn't. Izzard is fine. But his lights burned out last night. So I have to take new lights out today and make some sort of design on the wall for him to hunt in that is high enough that Felix can't get to him. Bagira understands the rules with Izzard. He killed a flying bug that could have carried Izzard away, it was that huge. I'm assuming it was from Texas and just fleeing for it's life, lest it end up in a Walmart tunnel or shackled in a train car on it's mothy way to a FEMA Death Camp.

I've been kicking around a kickstarter campaign. I won't do it. My four interactors on twitter would not be able to keep me afloat. But I've been thinking about what I would offer as premiums. I could make a CD of selected pieces out of everything I've recorded (which would require the purchase of jewel cases and labels and inserts and possibly printer ink.), a small painting, a collage . . . that's where I run out of ideas. And what would be my end goal? Studio time? Art installation project? publishing a book of my poetry and have many copies printed so I can always have a couple with me to sell on the fly. See, I don't know. No one wants what I have for free, why in the world would they give me money for it?

I joined a lot of poet's and poetry sites on Twitter this weekend. A few in Vegas.

What are my performance weaknesses:
- can't memorize the material
- have few teeth, so words are sometimes garbled
- no transportation
- no moral support

I think that sums it up.

Man do I want to find a kid! Here's the piece. The lines that start with "Is fear . . .", I want read by a child. The more expressive, the better. I thought about reading them myself and then changing the pitch of my voice in post production, like I did on "Get the Girl", but it isn't the same. It has to be an actual human child. In the six to eight year old range.

I'm really exploding with creativity right now. Coming up with ideas on how to make my recorded work noteworthy and interesting. I also suppose that I could have a computer literate record their child reciting the lines and I could splice them in with my part of the piece and remaster them together seamlessly. I'll put the call out on Facebook. I feel like I have to do this immediately.
2013, cyd, new

State of the Art

The State of the Art is . . . bad. Reaching out to the many forward thinking moms on my friend's list on Facebook didn't work and now the post is buried in the time line where no one will ever see it. There were a couple of moms with really cool young boys that I thought would be perfect for this project. Didn't hear from them. And I'm not far enough along in "The Art of Asking" to muster enough courage to message them about it. I'm getting good with asking strangers for things. Like Stick. I had to ask the guys for that, and I don't usually interact with them.

On a completely different subject, what does it mean when your dog is constantly licking his ass? We've expressed his glands (ew), washed him and rinsed him thoroughly. Taken him out to go circles. I don't know what to do with this dog. I'll Google it when I'm done here. Gross Doggie. I'm just worried he has worms or something. I've seen nothing in his stool to indicate that, but when they spend so much time on their butt, I think worms. And it isn't just boredom, like the way he used to lick his shmeckle constantly, we broke him of that habit. But this is a need with him. When we tell him to stop, he looks obviously conflicted, like he wants to obey, but his BUTT!

So I'm back to looking at N's kids for the poem. Bummer. I have no idea how to elicit expression from children. I was hoping to have a mother involved to coach them into their imaginations. But I don't think N's wife has any interest in poetry. Doc will want to know why I'm dragging children into my mess. And he will be protective of N's kids. Some of the lines are pretty grown up, but nothing that will scar the psyche.


I didn't mention that there was much celebrating at the Farm yesterday. Their license just came through. They will be supplying dispensaries in town. The dispensaries opened up a couple of weeks ago, with empty shelves. And have stayed open with empty shelves. While the grower licenses have been slowly awarded. They just barely got this together, and now legislators are taking fact-finding trips to Colorado in the name of legalizing weed recreationaly here. In told Doc a couple years ago that we'd probably have legal recreational marijuana by the time we get a new president. From the looks of it, they are trying to do that.

It only makes sense. We are a tourist town. We built up all of these resort and all-suite casino hotels, we're going to build a stadium, we just did the Rock in Rio USA festival, we have a thriving hipster art scene downtown. Legalizing gay marriage in the marriage capitol of the US was a huge boon to our tourism. And what logically follows? Recreational marijuana. The rulers of the city and state have seen the fistfuls of money that Colorado is making, and they want a piece of that. They figure, they already have dispensaries set up, why not? Not realizing it would take a lot more pot shops opening up to satisfy a recreational use crowd.

And I would rather the idiots on the Strip were stoned instead of drunk. Too much bad happens with the drunk. Not so much with the stoned. Smoke a joint, grab your credit card and sit at a one-armed bandit all night watching the pretty colors and listening to the pretty noises with your stoned self. There would be a lot less urination in random places. I love the casinos when I'm stoned. I don't gamble, but I will wander for as long as I'm allowed, weaving through the machines, following the random paths on the ornate carpets that are meant to help you lose your way. I stay away from table games. If you pass by a game while someone is losing, you have a good chance of being blamed by some drunk New Yorker for jinxing him. So I just stay away from that.

M interacted with me one day on FB, and then stopped completely. Great. Makes what I said about him earlier, about not being able to approach him as a friend, even more valid.

Speaking of Facebook, don't ever get a "professional" or "fan" page. I have 50 followers on mine, with a 0 post reach. Which means that of the 50 people following that fan page, no one is seeing my posts because facebook wants me to pay to reach those 50 people. I don't even update that page anymore because it was a huge waste of my time.

And my invisibility cloak seems to have reached over to facebook. So now it's facebook and twitter. I keep up with FB because there are a couple of friends from my past who actually still talk to me on there. Well, not right now, but occasionally. I delight in their posts about their kids and how they are raising them and what values they held on to through the years and what they had to discard in order to grow up and be great mommies.

Major is driving me crazy. Ever since the Poe Adventure, he has been constantly, and loudly demanding my time and attention. As soon as he gets it, he wanders away for five minutes, only to return, loudly meowing at me to hold and pet him. When I slept in my bed the other day, he came in and got behind my head, which he can't do when I'm on the couch, and actually petted my head and meowed softly to me. I only have Chewy as a witness. But it was really sweet. And since, every time I go into my room, Major jumps up on the bed and starts meowing frantically, like he wants me to lay down with him. My "special" cat. I love him dearly, but he is damaged. I have four minutes until he comes back, I'll type fast.

Doc and I are at odds regarding my painting of Stick. He doesn't really have a vested interest in it, he just joked around and apologized to Stick that I was going to paint him. Grrr. I still don't know what I'm going to do about the cheap and well used plastic pot he is in. I cut the sleeves off of a nice color flannel today (I needed spring clothes, since we're actually having a spring this year), that I could do something with. In also have a box marked "doll fabric", and I don't make dolls anymore, so I could check that out and see what I find. But Stick is the perfect canvas to play with my tiny tubes of paint in a hundred colors on. They are just screaming to get together. The noise in my head is unbearable.

Wow, again, time has passed very quickly while I've been writing. I have an album to go find. the Kinks, "Muswell Hillbillies". It was the soundtrack to my courtship with Doc. We had a really nice morning after a night that left each of us wondering at times if it was going to end with a visit to the psych hospital. Yeah, this morning was great. I finally nailed an apology. I finally came off as sincere as I felt. My tone of voice betrays me a LOT. But it didn't this morning, and we ended up having coffee and a toke on the patio together. And it's got me feeling all nostalgic. And it really is a great album. It's all happy music. It was our compromise, since our tastes in music did not (and still do not) at all align. He met me on the audio battlefield with that and Ani DiFranco, and won me over. I met him with Sinatra and Bennett and did all right for myself. I don't think I've successfully managed to convert him to any of my music, come to think of it. He doesn't like any of the women, except maybe Johnette Napolitano, from Concrete Blonde (yeah, the same one I wrote to a couple of weeks ago). And he hates all of the men, unless they are Irish, or sound Irish. Lots of bagpipes.

He's up early. Good. It will give him plenty of time to relax and gear up for his bike ride to work. B is stalling him on the scooter bike. He's only had it two months now, maybe three. And he has done nothing with it, he says. Now he says he has to take it to his employer's (Wait, what? Taking freelance work to your contract employer to use his resources on it? Ethics, anyone? And what if his employer confiscates the bike and it turns into a thing?) to order the parts and Doc can pay him back. So, why exactly hasn't he done this yet? Meanwhile, he's spending money like mad, and sucking down half a fifth of whiskey while talking to Doc in the morning of mother's day for twenty minutes, what the fuck is going on? If he's got money, why doesn't he order the parts, like a professional, and fix the fucking scooter and then collect his money from Doc, like real grown ups do it?

Probably because Doc stopped taking weed over there. And why did Doc stop taking weed over there? Anyone remember? Because it was my crop and he insulted it up and down, and I found out about it. Doc told me. And I decreed that no more of MY blood, sweat and plants would make their way over to that house for any reason. And it hasn't. And now I'm almost out and we haven't popped the current crop yet, there were some lighting problems, so we're a couple of weeks behind, we found out yesterday at the Farm. And B's not getting any of that, either.

the crop after that will be contentious. We got a new clone. I don't remember the strain, I call it Groot. We got 6 viable clones from it, so we're going to keep growing it through this upcoming harvest, and pop it with the harvest after that. Then we'll have Groots as half our crop, if I like it. He looks more indica than sativa, which is what works for my anxiety and mild back pain and general not-being-psychotic-ness. Doc says it's a blend. We may break our rule about buying and buy a pure indica strain clone from the guys at the Farm. Or I could do some trimming for them in trade. We've tried raising from seeds, and we just aren't organized enough, even as a team to do it right. The seedlings always die. The strain we're growing is all from clones traceable back to one mother plant someone bought 5 years ago. That's how long this strain has been kept going by Doc. It's pretty weak now, but I don't need medical grade, as it isn't my only medication. It's an adjunct to the other meds I take. Yes, my shrink knows, and yes, he approves. He provided my records and a written recommendation for my medical card. He just wouldn't prescribe it because the ethics of it are still iffy in the psychiatric field, which I totally understand. I would never want him to put his reputation at risk. I was surprised that he provided the written and signed letter that was further than I expected him to go.

So, I guess it is time to go "like" my own facebook post to move it back into the timeline. I feel so cheap.