Tuesday, June 11th–I got up, again much too early, around 12:32pm.
While I was walking Belle in the unbearable heat, trying with no success to open the end of the plastic poop bag so I could pick up Belle’s poop, those goddamn kids from yesterday came outside of their apartment, headed for the pool, followed by their grotesquely, almost hilariously trashy mother and grandmother.
I cannot really do two things at once. When I’m at the grocery store I cannot type in my PIN number onto a key-pad and answer questions from the fucking cashier at the same time. I get upset.
Likewise, while I was trying to open this plastic bag the grandmother asked what kind of dog Belle was, and though I told her, I couldn’t handle having to divide my attention between those two things AND standing on the leash so Belle wouldn’t wander. I got very upset because of that encounter and felt as if I was going to start crying.
I just woke up and I can tell this is probably going to be yet another day when I sit around crying.
I curse my ancestors for picking such a hot, god-forsaken, miserable place to settle.
A follower posted–
my hobby: carving my initials into people who carve their initials into historical artwork/tombs
Likewise. I also hate people who get their jollies by destroying or defacing nature, like the assholes I posted about the other day who tortured and killed a duck on San Antonio’s Riverwalk, or who bend over or break saplings, or leave garbage on or in trees, or like those fucks who carve their initials into the lovely bamboo in the bamboo forest at the Huntington in Pasadena. I’d like to kill all of those mother-fuckers for doing shit like that, and kill them slowly and painfully.
…I spent most of the day depressed and on the verge of tears.
I listened to four CDs of “Dearie.”
I keep forgetting to mention that last week I learned that J___ D. and N___ are being forced, by their employers, to get some invention up and running within six months…. But that means, obviously, that any trip to Europe (unless I go alone), will be postponed.
This is not hugely upsetting to me because until I get the main problems that are upsetting me fixed, I know I won’t be able to enjoy anything. (These are making sure I don’t lose my current apartment, getting my SSDI benefits secured, and….)
Later on, I watched “The Rape of Europa,” a documentary I’d seen parts of years ago on PBS, but had never seen completely before tonight. It was fascinating and moving….
Wednesday, June 12th–Another day of getting up around 12:30pm….
After I walked Belle for the second time I headed out, without thinking about it too much in advance, to run some errands. I was already hot, uncomfortable, and cross, so I figured then would be as good a time as any, before I took my shower. I got dog food at Petsmart and $34.00 worth of food for me at Dollar Tree.
As I stumbled home, I turned and walked alongside the Petsmart building and saw a little bird sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, his head and beak cocked upwards at an odd angle. I realized because of all the human and dog traffic along that sidewalk, the abundance of ants, and the tremendous heat the sidewalk no doubt had absorbed, that the bird would not long survive there.
So I set about trying to pick him up and put him back up in the bush in front of which he was sitting. I had recently read a PSA that said mother birds don’t have a sense of smell, and so will not kill their babies for having human odor on them, as is popularly assumed. But the little bird was naturally terrified of me and ran around squawking.
Eventually I caught him and gently lifted him to a yaupon branch over my head, but then the poor dear fell right off, about six feet to the ground. By now all sorts of adult birds were gathering in the trees and on the electrical wires nearby, making a great deal of noise, though none of them attacked me.
I finally picked up the little bird again and placed him in a thicker grouping of branches (I couldn’t find a nest), and then went on my way. I hope his mother was able to save him.
The relief that comes when you’re expecting to be verbally abused and threatened at some point during the day, as so often happens, but it doesn’t happen.
Everything in your life is a reflection of a choice you have made. If you want a different result, make a different choice.
Because I chose to be mentally ill.
Because I chose to be verbally, emotionally, and sexually abused.
Because I chose to grow up in a dysfunctional family.
Because I chose to be born with above-average intelligence which caused other children to treat me as a freak when I was growing up.
Because every day I choose to be overcome with thoughts of suicide, with the over-powering desire to cry uncontrollably, to injure myself, to jump off a building, to bash my brains in with a rock, to drown in my bathtub.
Because I chose to be so overwhelmed with fear of the outside world and other people and their criticism and mockery that I seldom leave my apartment
Because I chose to be so screwed up that I can’t hold a job and live from month to month, afraid I’m about to become homeless.
Because I chose to make sure that no one, apart from my dogs and cats has ever really loved me with anything but rather horrified pity and borderline disgust and amusement.
Yep, I made some really interesting choices there.
Here’s a conversation between me and a follower–
I watched this amazing documentary [“The Rape of Europa”] last night. (I saw the last half of it on PBS years ago, but last night was the first time I saw it all the way through.)
It covers the looting of European art treasures by the Nazis before and during World War II, and the efforts to save the works, restore them, and if possible, restore them to their proper owners. It touches on how both the Axis and Allied forces were responsible for tremendous losses, and how the American military put together a team to save these treasures insofar as was possible.
It shows humanity at its best and most heroic as well as its most cruel, wanton, and ignorant. There were scenes that made me cry, shudder, and become seized with a visceral nausea. And as one of the reviewed of the DVD box said, there are enough good stories here for several films.
But one of my radfem friends went a bit nuts on Facebook over the title when it was released. Seriously.
Presumably she was ignorant of the paintings by that title by Titian, Reni. Boucher….
I told her this. It started a rant about how the original paintings themselves were inappropriate and sexist et cetera. -_-
I’m not surprised, considering how many people these days have their heads stuck up their asses over one theory or another and are blind to the real world. It’s usually people who have fallen under the spell of a flashy college professor and now parrot everything he or she says, people who were brainless kids just a few years ago, and now that they’ve found some theory or ideology upon which they can attach themselves, they do so like obstinate puppies. It’s the zealotry of the new, and not especially intelligent, convert.
No one is so absolutely convinced of the utter rightness of his views as a college student. It takes years of life experience and changing thoughts and mental ponderings and explorations before the dogmas embraced in college can be weathered away from the stone into which they’ve been chiseled.
Thirty years ago, when I was in college, my parents insisted I take teacher education courses because they wanted me to teach in a primary or secondary school. I wanted to be a college English professor. None of us got our way.
But I remember having to take a course called “Content Area Reading” and having serious squabbles with the professor.
She didn’t think a student should read anything on his age level unless he did so in class, supervised by a teacher. Any take-home reading should be two reading levels below his age level, she said.
I had a real problem with this because I don’t believe in dumbing-down anything.
She said to the class, “Can you believe they are still assigning books that you people read when you were in grade school?”
Everybody exchanged puzzled looks, and I looked at her, shrugged, and said, “So?”
Then she said, “And can you believe they still assign some books they assigned way back when I was a girl?”
I said, “Well, yes, I can. Generally they call those books ‘classics.’ Do you not think there are some books which are classic and timeless?”
She screwed up her face and looked annoyed. “Well, maybe a few, but we really need to get away from that concept.”
So no wonder our schools have been getting worse and worse.
Some followers sent me questions from a lengthy questionnaire–
3: 3 Fears—My dog dying, losing my possessions, going to jail or prison.
33: My current relationship status—Very single.
58: What’s my strangest talent?—I can often tell if a book is of British or American origin simply by the font used or by the way the book smells.
82: If the whole world were listening to me right now, what would I say?—There’s any number of things that come to mind. How about this?: Go vegan.
28: Favourite movie—Too many to list, but I always watch “Patton” on my birthday.
30: Favourite band—That really depends on my mood. There’s not one that I absolutely have to live or die by.
139: Favourite TV Show?—Of all time? Probably “The Rockford Files.”
I listened to four more CDs of “Dearie.”
Thursday, June 13th–
…Just because I’m smiling laughing, and telling jokes you should not assume that I’m in a good mood or have set aside my nagging thoughts of suicide. I can put on a mask for a few hours, but don’t assume it’s my real face.
Some days the only reason I have to get up, aside from taking care of my dog, is to see if one of my enemies has fallen yet. Sadly, they never fall fast enough or hard enough to suit me.
we evolved for hundreds of thousands of years to hunt and eat and live a certain way and now we all are forced to live in cement buildings and sit at ur job from 9-5 and u wonder why everyone seems to have a psychological disorder
I used to have a graveyard shift job in an office park, and every night and every morning I’d walk past this one office building which kept the blinds open and lights on all night, and I could see, for looked like miles and miles, nothing but soulless cubicles, and I wondered how anyone could work in an environment like that without wanting to commit suicide.
There are certain problems and conditions that I’ve been waiting on for awhile, that have been making my life unbearable, that when they finally end (if they ever do), I fear I might have a breakdown just out of sheer relief and exhaustion….
J___ D. and N____ came and got me and we went to the usual place to eat–Threadgill’s, a restaurant of which I’m getting a bit tired.
I was telling them about my various mental issues and how meds haven’t helped at all and therapy only helped to an extent.
I mentioned my social anxiety, my hyper-sensitivity to noise, and stuff like that, and J____ D. said, “Yeah, they’ll probably prescribe medical marijuana.”
And I said, “So you think the solution for my mental illnesses would to basically become The Dude?”
He said that even if he is able to help me out financially and the shrinks and doctors work on me and such, they all may at best be able to relieve my misery, but he doesn’t think I’ll ever be over my depression.
We went by Asahi Japanese Groceries & Gifts where they mainly looked for a special type of Japanese candy that involves a lot of preparation on the eater’s part.
We dropped N___ off at Central Market for her book club, and went up to the MT Market, where I stocked up on vegetable stock and soy faux pork bits, and also got two packages of pocky. ($47.83) I now have only $33.63 left in grocery money until the 7th.
We then went to Fiesta Mart, where J___ D. bought several things, including some wonderful chocolate fingers from Britain. Then we went to pick up N___ and take me home. J___ helped me carry in my groceries, while I carried in the brochures and other ephemera they’d brought me from Florence, the freebie magazines I’d picked up here and there, and the huge stacks of papers I’d grabbed to spread on the bedroom floor for Belle.
During dinner I had shown J____ D. and N___ the dream house floor plan I’ve been working on.
Never mind that I’m unemployed and broke.
I’ve been sketching house plans since junior high, and admittedly, most of them were absurdly outlandish.
But the current plan was influenced by at least five to ten designs by other architects, including Philip Johnson and Mies van der Rohe, and consists of a one-story structure made of concrete blocks and cement floor, either rectangular or L-shaped, depending on the shape of the lot, with windows along one side facing a courtyard, which would in turn be enclosed by a concrete block wall as tall as the house.
The other walls would have floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and the space would have a central utility core, with a bathroom and laundry facilities on the inside. On the outside of the bathroom would be shelves and cabinets along three sides, and half of the kitchen facilities on the fourth.
I think they were shocked at the house’s simplicity, and they honestly think I might one day be able to afford it—depending on where I wanted to build it.
But my life and future are so much in the air, who knows?
I posted this–
These are some of the houses that influenced my dream house design. The top one is by Philip Johnson—his Ash Street house in Cambridge, MA. Others are a generic picture of a Miesian courtyard house, a converted garage in France, and the Engawa House in Japan.
A follower wrote–
I probably already wrote this, too, but my panic attacks have started translating into fucking hot flashes and like haha, that’s cute, we’re not doing that shit. I have a violent hatred for sweating, and if I’m hot enough to break a sweat my tolerance for pretty much any other kind of sensory over-stimulation drops to like 10% of what it would normally be (which is still dramatically lower than neuro-typical standards.)
so yeah, if you want to provoke an autistic meltdown, put me in a hot room with dub-step, flashing lights, and slightly damp sand.
Sounds VERY familiar. If I do get approved for disability and get on Medicaid, I hope somebody finally listens to me and checks into what I keep telling them about what a serious problem hyper-sensitivity to noise has become for me. Loud noises, repetitive sounds, et al. can be physically painful to me, and if they persist I have a temper tantrum and start screaming obscenities. (One of the reasons I’m currently unemployable.)
And I do not handle being hot well either. I’m not crazy about being cold, but being hot or perspiring makes me angry. Yet people ignore me when I complain about how rough the eight-month-long Texas summers are on me. I can’t sleep when I’m hot and if I get hot while working I basically have a meltdown of cognitive functions. (My last 9-to-5 job was at a store where the AC didn’t work in the sales room, so by 1pm I was so sapped of strength I could barely move.)
And I can get hot, sweaty, stinky, and oily just sitting at my desk all day. The only reason I leave my apartment most days is to walk my dog, and I often put off necessary errands, partly because I dread being in the heat so much.
The worst depression medication they tried on me was Wellbutrin, and that made me hot all the time. The doctor said my description of the side-effects sounded similar to those of a menopausal woman having hot flashes. I corrected him, saying that hot flashes made it sound like the heat turned on and off. In my case the heat was constant. I kept the AC cranked all day and night, took four showers a day, and I still was sweating and oozing body oil around the clock. It was a miserable medication.
Men with titties don’t belong in hot climates.
This Polish apartment also influenced my house design, though I would not use those curtains, probably.
The structure would mostly consist of one room, and spaces (dining room, living room, bedroom, studio, study) would be defined and separated by wardrobes or cabinets on wheels.
I still haven’t worked out the placement of the electrical outlets, where and how to display artwork, which kind of windows to use, or how they would be covered.
I went to a wedding in LA in 2010, and the wedding was held at The Smog Shoppe—a venue that really got my ideas cooking.
I walked Belle and went to check the mail. The stupid postman had jammed the book I ordered (“Blanton Museum of Art: Guide to the Collection”) into my mail box instead of into one of the special, extra-large package mail boxes.
Though I only paid $4.95 for the book ($1.00 for the book, plus shipping), it had been described on E-Bay as in “very good” condition, but some of the pages were curled, there was a tear at the bottom of the cover on the backside of the book, and some of the bottoms of the pages were ragged. It’s serviceable and readable, but I got very upset that the book wasn’t in pristine, perfect condition. I was upset for hours.
I guess I may have to eventually order a perfect copy some other time, but when the hell will I be able to afford that? I just hate to spend money on things that aren’t perfect.
Friday, June 14th–Thursday flowed into Friday.
There are few things that disgust me more than tattoos.
Does the dog die?
Discovered a handy website that warns you whether a pet gets injured or dies in the film you want to watch. For example in Aliens – “The cat from the first film appears at the beginning of this film but is left safely at home and does not encounter any aliens.” But in Babe – “A talking sheep is mortally wounded by wolves.”
thank you, internet
This is good, because I cannot stand seeing animal cruelty in any form, even simulated, and it enrages me when it’s played for laughs. There have been many films I’ve been on the fence about seeing because I suspected there might be animal cruelty in them.
“By the first world war, soldiers swore so much that the word ‘fucking’ came to function as no more than ‘a warning that a noun is coming.’”— Holy Sh*t: A Brief History of Swearing by Melissa Mohr – A Review
Yeah, that’s the thing I noticed about college and living in the dorms. After doing that for awhile it was always a problem when I went home for a weekend or holiday, because I’d have to watch myself so I wouldn’t say something at dinner like, “Hey Mom, would you pass me the fucking salt and pepper…and goddamn! This is an out-fucking-standing casserole!”
I watched “The New Twenty,” a movie I found to be awful.
It’s never a good sign when you’re already sick of a movie thirty seconds into it.
I read in Bogarde and retired after 8am.
I got up around 5:30pm.
I listened to the last three CDs of “Dearie” and the first CD of “Tropic of Cancer.”
I had wanted to read “Dearie: The Remarkable Life of Julia Child,” but couldn’t afford to buy it, and learned that the downtown library’s copy was checked out, so I did something I’ve never done before, and checked out the unabridged book on CD, which ran 21.5 hours.
I enjoyed it, though I didn’t think it was quite as good as the earlier Child biography “Appetite For Life” by Noel Riley Fitch, which was published in Child’s lifetime and which she didn’t like, for some reason. It also paled beside Child’s memoir, “My Life In France.”
I noticed with amusement that the narrator mispronounced a few words. Author Bob Spitz also has a few stylistic tics upon which he tends to fall, such as saying of one or another decisive man on three or four occasions, “(So-and-so) knew the score.”
I am a former food writer, and Spitz twice resorts to a stylistic pet peeve of mine–referring to rich food as “decadent.” To my mind the aged Emperor Tiberius letting unweaned babies nuzzle, fondle, and lick his genitals as he emerged from his daily swim at his villa on Capri was decadent; a cake with an extra layer of chocolate is not.
Though Spitz doesn’t cover much ground that Fitch hadn’t already done in greater detail, it is, overall, a good overview of Julia Child’s life and work.
Saturday, June 15th–
I woke about 4:30pm.
I reblogged this–
“If you’re dating a writer and they don’t write about you — whether it’s good or bad — then they don’t love you. They just don’t. Writers fall in love with the people we find inspiring.”— Jamie Anne Royce
There was one semester when I had to sit out of college, but I secretly lived in a dorm without paying rent. A couple of friends let me crash in their room and kept me fed.
I slept on the floor of their dorm room, in a little alcove where their desks were located. They never used their desks, and instead kept their two dorm fridges atop them.
Both of these guys had been in the Marines, and so were very casual and indifferent about nudity.
One morning, one of these guys had taken his shower, and then leaned over me, completely naked, to reach into his fridge for his breakfast. This woke me up, and my first sight of the day was this guy’s junk hanging down a few feet over my face.
I decided then that I probably needed to look into new living arrangements.
A follower sent me some questions from a questionnaire:
Is this an ask meme? if so, I’ll unleash my never-ending linguistic curiosity and say 2, 51, 52, and also 43 for fun. :3
2: Do you say “anti-climatic” or “anti-climactic”?—Well, since I almost never talk about something being contrary to the climate, I say “anti-climactic.”
43: Pick a person (you don’t need to give their name). How do you feel about them? Be as honest as you can get yourself to be.—It’s strange, but the people that keep popping into mind are those that I hate so much that, if there were any way I could do it with impunity, I’d kill them with my bare hands.
51: Do you pronounce “anti” as ant-eye or ant-ee? (Example: “That scene was very anti-climactic.”)—Depends.
52: Do you pronounce “via” as vee-uh or vie-uh? (Example: “We can get there via Tremont Street.”)— “Vee-uh.”
Sunday, June 16th–
I watched the delightful “Fantastic Mr. Fox,” pausing at one point to give Belle another dinner because she seemed so hungry.
I forget when I retired, what I dreamt, or when I got up.
Today is not a day of its own, properly-speaking. I’ll have to spend it preparing for an important call tomorrow, and then force myself to go to bed early, something which always goes badly.
Someone posted a photo with a caption–
I found a bunny down the street…
I used to ride a bicycle to work, 45 minutes each way. The only good thing about it was I always passed this yard that had rabbits wandering around in it, and I would always call out, “BUNNY! BUNNY! BUNNY!” as I passed. No one ever saw or heard me or else they’d have thrown a butterfly net over me.
Why go outside in the heat, get hot, then cool off in the water when you can just stay inside, pull down the blinds, crank up the AC, and stay cool and skip the whole getting hot part altogether?
When I was a little kid my grandmother gave me a card and a present on Father’s Day, presumably so I’d not feel left out.
I’ll admit it–I find it adorable when my dog farts. It’s so loud and explosive.
A follower wrote–
(i also think it’s really funny that you posted this on Bloomsday)
I’ll be damned, it is Bloomsday. I was crushed I didn’t make it to Dublin for the centennial and I’ve been the same since.
I forgot ‘till one of my followers reminded me accidentally.
I was too young to know what I was missing. I was…9. so…bit young 😛
I had a friend who spent St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin once. Befriended a local who took him on a pub crawl. In one “literary” pub he noticed some old coot at the next table who seemed to be babbling nonsense to himself, but when he listened closer he realized the old man was reciting long passages from “Ulysses” from memory.
there are literary pubs?
that’s quite impressive, really. It’s a long and odd book…I can’t even recite a sentence from memory
A friend once said, “B____, you used to have used to have followers who hung onto your every word like you were Tyler Durden. What the fuck happened to you?”
What the fuck indeed?
I listened to four CDs of “Tropic of Cancer.” I read some more in Bogarde and retired around 3:30 or 4am. amazingly, despite the fact I was worried about the big phone call about SSDI tomorrow, I had no trouble getting to sleep.
Monday, June 17th–I seem to have dreamt something involving my friend D___ L. I also found an old library that might have had a rather restrictive entrance and user’s policy, and which contained several long, fairly dark rooms with books from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, shelved behind glass doors.
I woke before my 11am alarm, feeling tired. I did the usual start-of-day activities, walking and feeding Belle and myself, showering, having coffee, and getting my work-space ready for my 1:45pm SSDI application phone call, which finally came around 1:55pm. It was supposed to last only forty minutes, but didn’t end until 3:20pm, at which point I badly needed to piss.
“You deserve someone who would jump fences to be with you not someone who is on the fence about being with you.”
Someone posted this–
The Kiss photographed by Robert Doisneau, France, 1950.
Someone else carped–
This photo would somehow be so much better if it wasn’t staged
I remember when I walked by that spot and suddenly realized where I was.
Someone posted–Do It With Passion Or Not At All.
Someone posted this–
If it is unappetizing: Do no eat, date, or sign up for it. If the mere thought of it is depressing: Do not major in it, sit through it, or devote your life to it. If it is not important to you: Do not do it only because it is important to someone else.
You will thank yourself.
I have an on-going argument with someone on this. She says life is full of things you don’t want to do but have to. I agree. But where we part company is she thinks that means she has to go ahead and do everything that comes her way that she doesn’t want to do, whereas I avoid as many of those things as possible and do only those unpleasant things I absolutely must do. My way seems the more sane course.
Someone posted some gifs of an interview with Zachary Quinto where he spoke of camping out in the street for seventeen hours to see Meryl Streep in “The Seagull.”
I wrote–Well, now that is impressive. That certainly raises him in my estimation, that he is capable of responding to art on that level.
I can’t believe it.
This past weekend was my least-favorite annual event here in Austin, the obnoxious Republic of Texas Biker Rally, which typically produces an unbearable level of noise pollution. And though I live 300-400 yards from a major freeway, amazingly, this year, for the first time since maybe 2000, I didn’t hear the slightest bit of motorcycle noise!
Someone posted some nonsense about people using “like” and up-talking in their speech, and tried to excuse it as some feminist thing, that it’s the result of women being bullied by the “patriarchy.”
Unnecessary “fillers” in our speech. I’d rather have “like” than up-talking, though (if we had to choose one, that is). Ewwww, up-talking. Then again, a combination of the two would render me homicidal maniac.
Someone else said–
yes, colloquial speech is stupid
discourse particles are stupid
quotative particles are stupid
fillers are stupid
lower registers of speech = stupid!!!!!!woah aaa/
Someone else wrote–
Like, did you ever notice? That, like, the speech patterns people, like, think are stupid? Are, like, commonly associated with, like, women?
And, like, there’s this thing? Where, like, women aren’t supposed to be, like, assertive? So they, like, qualify their speech? Because, like, we’re not supposed to, like, stand by our opinions?
1) humiliate women so they don’t feel qualified to speak authoritatively about anything
2) humiliate women for speaking in such a way that reflects how you treat her
3) laugh, you are superior because you don’t use words like “like.” It isn’t as if being a huge stupid asshole has ever made you worse than a woman who speaks with verbal tics.
Then I weighed in–
Oh bullshit. That’s not a thing exclusive to females. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve seen people on here pose stuff as questions, even using question marks, where what they were saying was actually a statement.
People nowadays are poorly educated and don’t know how to use their own language well enough to express themselves. The computer/online world and the geeks that create it glorify abbreviations, misspellings, and such stylistic abortions as camel case, and so now we have a free-for-all where everybody is trying to throw out the rules that govern the language.
Just because an entire generation chooses to talk in an idiotic manner, don’t try to excuse it by making it a feminist/sexual oppression issue. It’s this sort of thing that trivializes serious issues.
I’ve got an important call in 44 minutes and my stomach is in knots.
The call will last an hour.
It might be about the only important phone call I have all year.
I am not good on the phone.
What you call “being judgemental” I call having an opinion.
This day is getting better and better! One of my neighbors is moving away!
Okay, maybe it’s not the murder/suicide scenario I’d hoped on, but at least it’s something.
Someone posted this–
The Halted Traveller, 2012
“The term ‘halted traveller’ is usually associated with German romantic painters like Caspar David Friedrich, to describe a person seen from behind facing a landscape. The lonely wanderer appears to have been halted by the view of the landscape.
This implies to us as a viewer that there is perhaps more to the landscape than we see. One can also identify with the figure. His posture invites you to imagine what he feels facing this landscape in front of his and your eyes.” –by Damien Rayuela
Is that what you call this? I thought it was just a popular thing for romantic girls in the Internet to do to try to show how “deep” they are by blocking the view of a landmark or work of art. I’d hardly put them in the same class with Friedrich.
I was reading in one of Dirk Bogarde’s memoirs last night about a posh friend who passed away while a guest at Castle Howard, and I thought, “What a way to go!”
The interviewer said I’d probably be turned down for SSI because of the money […] is giving me, but said it’ll possibly be three to four months before the Social Security Administration makes a decision on my SSDI eligibility. I’ll need to get two income tax returns (2009 and 2011, I think), and they might send me for medical or psychiatric tests, especially for social anxiety and Asperger’s Syndrome.
She only asked about my freelancing job, since apparently I claimed I’d been doing that on and off since 1985. I am concerned because she didn’t ask about any of the bad jobs, the ones I’ve done most of my life, and which have caused me so much trouble.
She also asked me many questions which I couldn’t answer or even guess at, and it bothered me to be cornered into stating a number or something that I knew was more than likely not true.
So I’m guessing I’ll be turned down and will have to appeal. The main thing about the process was the interviewer was in a hurry, and the forms she had to fill out did not allow for guesses and nuances.
Afterwards I puttered around for awhile, then took a much-needed nap.
I had a dream, with lovely, albeit mournful- and sentimental-sounding music of my own composition playing in the background.
Sadly, I forgot most of this music upon waking, and all of it within fifteen minutes.
In the dream I was walking Belle, but using not her leash but a too-short chain with a large steel loop at the end for me to hold onto. The chain was so short it made me stoop while walking Belle.
We went to a strip shopping center and I saw an Italian restaurant. There was a photo of Marlon Brando in the right-hand window next to the front door, and I assumed that if Brando had liked the place, then the food must be pretty good.
I think I’d eaten there before, and knew the owner, who was in fact a short, middle-aged Italian man. I decided to go ahead and bring Belle into the restaurant with me.
But instead of seeing the owner I saw his aged mother, who was short, with her hair done up in a tight bun, and very disapproving. When she wheeled around and saw Belle, she shook her head rapidly and said, “No, no, no! No dogs in here!” So I had to turn and leave.
What am I, 80? I was outside walking my dog just now and the heat got to me so much I started feeling dizzy.
I just woke up from a dream after taking a nap.
Not only am I in the process of forgetting the dream, but worse, I am losing the original music that was composed by my brain for the dream.
I know that Wagner and other composers often had music appear first to them in their dreams, and that then they’d wake up and write it down, but I cannot compose music and I can barely read it.
A follower wrote–
if you remembered it well enough and could somehow record it, I would see if I could transcribe it for you! i have lots of music programs, because I do compose…
Sadly, all that’s left are a few bars. I couldn’t even hum enough to convey it properly, especially it’s rich, emotive qualities.
Aww, okay. Maybe it’ll come back, or maybe it wasn’t meant to…
I never remember my own dreamt music, either.
As I’ve said before if I had some way to show the rest of the world the amazing things I see in my dreams I would almost certainly be hailed as having the vision of a great film director, architect, or at least set designer. The closest I’ve seen to the sort of cities I dream about are the works of Hugh Ferriss.
Sadly, I possess only rudimentary artistic skills (though I would love to take studio art and art history courses were I able to afford them), so wen I make sketches of my dreams they don’t even come close to conveying what I see.
This is not to say that I don’t also have dreams that are silly, nonsensical, sexual, or boring.
When I’ve tried to utilize dreams in my writing the results have been unsatisfying to say the least.
10pm–Time for my favorite show! “The Middle-Aged Couple Downstairs Who Work At Taco Bell Have A Shouting Match.”
A follower wrote–
so I can’t be the only person who gets the urge to yell “once more into The Gap dear friends!” every time I’m in the mall, right?
No, but when I had to go to group therapy when I was getting care from the City and County, once a year some social worker at the group therapy center would come in and try to talk us into going downtown some weekend day and participating in the annual “NAMI Walk” (NAMI being the National Alliance on Mental Illness).
I never participated, because I didn’t want people to point and stare, “Hey, look at that crazy man parading down the street.”
But I took to referring to the event as the “Klaus Nomi Walk,” and of course no one, not the patients and not the social workers, had the slightest idea what I was talking about.
Sometimes you just have to make the jokes to amuse yourself.
I listened to the last four CDs to “Tropic of Cancer.”
So I just learned that Jared Padalecki has moved here to Austin.
This does not mean any of my followers who are “Supernatural” fans can come stay at my place while they stalk their idol.
And even though I have a friend who specializes in selling real estate to celebrities, I wouldn’t dream of asking him where Padalecki lives or if he handled the deal. One of the reasons celebrities are comfortable in Austin is we leave them the hell alone and let them live their lives like normal people.
But it would be interesting if I bump into Padalecki at the grocery store.