Cydniey Buffers (cydniey) wrote,
Cydniey Buffers

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.

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