Posted on 2009.11.18 at 20:15
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: mixed
Current Music: Mano Negra: "Out Of Time Man"
Yesterday, I mailed a birthday card to Jackie Greene.
The card smells good, because I stored incense sticks in it for a week before I sent it.
When I opened the card to write in it, I noticed that some of the resin from the incense got on the inner parts of the pages.
I did not worry about it, and knew that it would just serve to make the card pleasantly fragrant.
I went over to the post office by Stop-n-Rob.
I made the man weigh the card, so that I could be absolutely certain that it had enough postage to get to California.
The card has to be sent to Sacramento.
I sent the card ten days ahead of time, because I wanted to allow enough time for him to be able to receive it.
Yesterday was also the birthday of two of my friends.
They were going to celebrate last night.
So, here is what happened...
The invitation said to meet them at Pasqual's Southwestern Restaurant.
At around 8:00.
When I got done with work, I walked to Monroe Street.
I know there is a Pasqual's located there.
The original one.
So I got there and didn't see anyone.
It was around 8:30.
Nobody I knew was there.
I went inside and strolled through the restaurant, wondering if maybe there was some additional dining room in the back that I didn't know about.
Nobody I knew was there.
So, I sat on the bench outside and rolled a cigarette.
And lit it up.
And took a drag.
And waited.
I called work, asking if anyone knew where anyone was.
Which sounded dumb.
But I had to ask.
I continued to sit on the bench.
I felt very self-conscious.
I knew what I looked like.
A fat chick that got stood up by her date.
That's what I looked like.
Or just some creepy lurking weirdo, potentially harassing customers for their leftovers.
I was wondering when the staff would come out and shoo me away.
I remembered that someone had mentioned the name of a possible alternative meeting place, but I'd forgotten the name.
I decided I'd had enough and walked down the street.
"This started out fun, but it is no longer the case," I mumbled.
Indeed it had started out to be fun.
I really enjoyed the walk from work to Monroe Street.
I love the near-west side.
It's very pleasant.
Winding avenues of comfortable, tranquil homes in a setting of cozy affluence.
Nothing bad could ever happen here.
The scent of wood burning in a fireplace wafts out to caress your nostrils.
I noticed that most people's parlors are painted a deep reddish hue.
It feels good to walk along the streets around Regent and Commonwealth, and then you spill out onto Monroe.
All the wonderful shops and restaurants.
I looked into bars and saw the people all flushed with beer and conversation.
They looked like characters from Flemish paintings...
I felt lonely.
But my loneliness was a peaceful solitude.
I was drifting off into a memory of the softness of Jackie Greene's cheek when I kissed him in greeting when he was here. I was happy, and the memory made me smile...
I was full of a joyful kind of feeling, hoping he will like the card I sent him for his birthday:
It has a picture of a Hindi woman's outstretched hands, painted with henna, presenting an ice cream cone.
There are roses, and four strange-looking children in symmetrical rows.
I had found a poem that I liked---and hoped he'd like as well--- and I cut it out and glued it to the inside page of the card.
Human Beauty
~ by Albert Goldbarth
If you write a poem about love...
the love is a bird,
the poem is an origami bird.
If you write a poem about death...
the death is a terrible fire,
the poem is an offering of paper cutout flames
you feed to the fire.
We can see, in these, the space between
our gestures and the power they address
---an insufficiency. And yet a kind of beauty,
a distinctly human beauty. When a winter storm
from out of nowhere hit New York one night
in 1892, the crew at a theater was caught
unloading props: a box
of paper snow for the Christmas scene got dropped
and broken open, and that flash of white
confetti was lost
inside what it was a praise of.
* * * * * * * * * *
I wrote nice things to Jackie, wishing wonderful things for him.
And I really meant them.
I feel a tenderness in my heart that is so sweet.
I don't think our culture even has a place for that feeling anymore.
We live in a culture of beer and chlamydia.
All of these thoughts were going through my mind as I was walking along Monroe Street...
I was wishing for some company, though.
And as I sat outside of Pasqual's I really was feeling disappointed that I had missed my friends.
Especially when I later found out that they were meeting at the Pasqual's over at Hilldale.
I haven't been to Hilldale in about a year.
I had no idea that there was also a Pasqual's over there.
And I didn't know why anyone would want to go over there, when Monroe Street is so much more charming in its quaint sort of way.
I walked down Monroe Street, past Edgewood College, with its grand lawns and wooded grounds.
I strolled past the restaurants and boutiques and wine cellars and onward to the bus stop in front of the library.
I got on the bus and came home.
I ate some food and got on the social utility website and started chatting with one of my Moroccan friends.
We got caught up on all the gossip and soon I looked at the clock and decided I needed to go to bed in order to open the store in the morning.
I got myself ready and went to bed.
Suddenly, in the middle of the night, I had a coughing fit, and my stomach was churning.
I got up and lurched to the bathroom and just started to heave.
I puked and hurled.
And it was most unpleasant.
"And what was the lesson from all this?" The Mister asked me.
"I shouldn't eat and then go to bed right away," I answered.
"Very good," he replied, turning over.
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.11.15 at 22:45
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: 
contemplative
Current Music: Buffy Sainte-Marie: "Cod'ine"
I've been reading poetry.
Rainer Maria Rilke.
Federico Garcia Lorca.
Rimbaud.
I've been seeing Rainer Maria Rilke everywhere.
I first came across Rilke while reading Daniel Pinchbeck's 2012: The Return Of Quetzalcoatl.
I looked in our library, randomly looking for a good poet to read.
Lo and behold---there was a book of Rilke's poems that The Mister had bought on our last trip to San Francisco.
We had bought a lot of books at City Lights, and this was among them.
Today, I was on the social site, and one of my friends had posted a quote from Rainer Maria Rilke.
I am now listening to this serendipity.
Just today, I saw another one of Rilke's poems on one of my Livejournal friend's pages.
I wonder if Rainer Maria Rilke is haunting me.
A ghost poet, reaching out beyond the aethers to impress upon me some message from the beyond.
The Lovely Moroccan has just published a book.
I have not read it yet, but fully intend to do so, as soon as possible.
I am so proud of him.
His book is an "inspirational novel", as he describes it.
I found out when his post appeared on my newsfeed list.
When he came into the store, I was there with a smile and congratulations.
I extended my arms, and he reached over the register belt for a warm embrace.
This was the only time I ever hugged him.
Because this was the only time that there was a socially-acceptable reason to do so..
He smelled wonderful, like sandalwood and musk.
After the first heady days of giddiness at the excitement of having his literary creation published and stocked in bookstores, he told me that his life had not changed at all.
It was the same as always.
"I can be your stalker---if it will make you feel better," I offered.
He said that would be splendid, and that we should draw up an agreement of terms.
Today he came in, and he was buying beer.
He explained that he was not drinking it, but that his mother swore that it was a very effective treatment for dandruff.
Which is funny, because my mom used to say the same thing.
"But it's cold," he said. "I don't know if I can stand pouring this can of beer onto my scalp."
"Hold it under your arm as you walk home," I said.
It's always good to see The Lovely Moroccan.
I think that I serve the purpose of a bar-tender.
Someone who doesn't judge.
Today, I was talking to Gena.
I was mentioning that my only lesbian encounters happened when I was very intoxicated.
"Well, then, that doesn't count," she answered.
"But all of my sexual encounters happened when I was drunk---at least the first ones," I countered.
"If it weren't for booze, I'd still be virgin."
She was incredulous.
It's true.
Because I've never had any confidence.
Which explains my current dilemma.
It really is my fault.
There was one time when I was twenty-seven...
I was working as a baker in a coffee shop.
This really gorgeous guy used to come in.
I knew I had to have him.
(I was thin back then, so it was actually possible to entertain such ideas.)
It was during one of my initial attempts to quit drinking.
And I was doing well with it.
I wanted this to work.
I wanted to do everything the right way---the way dating was supposed to be done.
I was extremely nervous---I couldn't relax.
I had him over for dinner and a movie, and we slept together.
Stupid move.
I went over to his house and the same thing happened.
I don't know if it was my nervousness, or our essential incompatibility, but things were awkward.
Our chests and torsos created a kind of suction that made horrid farting noises as we tried to perform the act.
Needless to say, he dumped me very quickly.
I've rarely had the confidence to make a sober, conscious decision to have sex.
And now that my sexual imprinting has been set down in drunkenness, I think that I am, to a certain extent, pathological.
This shame has its roots in my strict up-bringing.
Alcohol was the only way that I knew how to channel these horrifying desires.
And, of course, alcohol caused a lot of bad decisions to be made.
A vicious cycle, indeed.
Man, I am messed up.
Sobriety has been good for me, and I will not turn back to alcohol again.
But it would be nice to be able to feel like I deserve sex.
Like it's not only for perfect-looking supermodels, but for someone like myself, too.
I never really figured out what my problem was until now.
I'm surrounded by people who drink.
The Mister drinks quite a lot, and I don't find it sexy.
It's like garlic---both people have to consume it in order for it to go unnoticed.
And since drinking is not an option for me, it's not easy to integrate myself with an atmosphere soaked in alcohol.
Perhaps Rainer Maria Rilke will tell me something.
Something I haven't paid attention to before.
Something that will reveal itself--- as something that was always apparent---- hidden in plain sight.
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.11.13 at 10:23
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: contemplative
Current Music: Ruthie Foster: "Phenomenal Woman"
I hadn't given it any thought until now.
It's Friday the 13th.
Thirteen is actually a lucky number.
I was born on the thirteenth of April.
In the true nature of time, there are really thirteen months in the year.
November is such a serious month.
All of the riotous color of autumn foliage has given way to the stark skeletal remains of the trees, as they prepare for winter's slumber.
Yesterday, we had our store meeting, where we have to get there at 6:00 a.m.
I sat with my friend Annie, and got into a soliloquy about shoes.
I told her that I stopped buying women's sandals because they are made to cripple one's feet, instead preferring to go to the men's department.
I kind of went on and on, and she suddenly turned to me and said---
"Stop talking. You're droning. It's too early."
I felt kind of bad that I am such a bore.
I talk the way I write.
Long-winded and rambling.
It happens a lot with Annie.
I love her very much, and she is a dear friend, but I feel bad that I annoy her so often.
If you ever watch the show "Fringe", the character of the dad, Walter Bishop, is so similar to me.
The Mister and I laugh at the strange ways he expresses his inner dialogue, because it follows the same weird logic that my own brain operates under.
Whatever it is that Walter Bishop has, I have the beginning stages of it...
I enjoy Friday mornings.
The Mister is at work, and I can be here, enjoying the quiet solitude.
The TV is off, and I can putter around the house and get some writing done.
Yesterday, Jackie Greene announced that he is working on a new album "that will change the way you think of me."
I didn't know there was anything wrong with the way we think of him already.
Now that he mentions it, perhaps I've been drifting on my own inertia towards a plateau of complacency, with regards to how I think of him.
The Mister's first guess was Hip-Hop.
I imagined some sort of Carter Family re-make, engineered through the medium of Death Metal.
Whatever it is, I am excited, and the anticipation is a big part of the fun.
I remember when "Giving Up The Ghost" came out last year in April.
To be honest, I liked "American Myth" a little more, but the new album was really good, too.
I can't say what direction he's going with this new one, but I'm sure that he's going to be very creative and expansive.
I just hope he doesn't go too far in the direction of poppy fluff.
I don't think he will, but the pressure to make a "hit", can lead to unfortunate artistic compromises.
Whatever it is, I'll be waiting for this one with joyful anticipation.
I just hope he's satisfied with it, and is truly happy with the outcome.
Last night, I was chatting back and forth with a friend of mine.
Her husband left her for someone he met on Craigslist.
He just ran off and moved in with this woman, abandoning his wife and their home and their dogs.
Just like that.
She is going through some serious grief.
It made me realize how precious one's life is---how precious a loved one is.
It is work, maintaining a relationship.
I began to re-examine my own attitude.
I've gotten lazy, complacent.
I need to take responsibility---to own---my role in my relationships.
I can't keep my one-dimensional view of The Mister as being a bossy tyrant.
I can't expect Annie to understand my rambling need to examine every idea with long-winded reflection.
I can't maintain my resentment towards my father for his fixation on trying to perfect my flaws.
If one is a spiritual being, having a human experience, then our loved ones reflect and build on our own perceptions---our consciousness.
We co-create these relationships, and there is a larger purpose behind all of this.
Paying attention with compassionate detachment is key.
Oh, now if I can only hold onto this lesson and move within its framework---that is the challenge.
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.11.09 at 20:17
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: 
frustrated
Current Music: Jackie Greene: "Animal", (Giving Up The Ghost)
"Love is the only shocking act left on the face of the earth."
~ Sandra Bernhard
I just finished reading Daniel Pinchbeck's book, 2001: The Return Of Quetzalcoatl.
It left me with a feeling of hope, a kind of internal acceleration.
It's a meandering tome, filled with magic and coincidence, cultural and historical magnitude.
I like the way he thinks.
Even when he goes on his past-life trip where he believes that he was Ashoka, a warrior-emperor-turned Buddhist philanthropist.
Oh boy.
Ever notice how nobody was ever just that guy who fixes drains somewhere in Newark?
It's always the Queen of Sheba, or Jesus Christ, or even some notorious villain like Elizabeth Bathory.
Whatever.
I think his heart is in the right place; he is a very articulate writer, and he does exhibit a certain degree of humility, even acknowledging the possibility of flights into delusions of grandeur.
One of my favorite passages was when he chronicles the experiences of Terence McKenna, journeying on a psychedelic voyage in the Amazonian jungle:
Terence's brother had slipped completely away from consensus reality, and
..."He might be unfolding into a mythopoetic reality, or as I thought of it then, 'going bananas'..."
Oh, man.
I've been there a few times.
I'm glad there's such an apt description of the experience.
"Unfolding into a mythopoetic reality."
It's such a splendidly lucid and perfect description of the experience of deeply transformational multi-dimensional communion.
Which brings me to sex.
C'mon, you wanted this.
Maybe not.
At any rate, today's program will deal with my views on sex.
Or at least, my latest conclusions, based on my own molar-grinding contemplations, which are, in turn, based on frustration with the current sexual paradigm as I know it.
As you may already know by now, I am married.
And therein lies the paradox.
You may also be acquainted with my sense of humor, which is basically a cynical coping mechanism.
I would say that my predicament is fairly common.
Therefore, I will do away with the whining and the "poor me", and the "it's not fair!" angle.
My predicament has been going on long enough that by now, I can rationally contemplate it with the cool eye of detachment.
I see it as part of a larger cultural paradigm that does not seem to be serving us well.
Sex is complicated.
To say that sex is a simple physical act aimed at the release of tension, with reproduction as it's ultimate aim, is to do a disservice to this phenomenon.
Maybe I'm just a sentimental romantic fool.
Maybe I'm just asking too much.
I realize that this seems drastic, but I am certain that marriage is the stake that is driven into the heart of a great sex life.
There are many reasons for this.
It becomes common-place.
Routine.
Living in close quarters removes any and all mystery about the other person.
As Roseanne so caustically put it :
"You may marry the man of your dreams, ladies, but fourteen years later you're married to a couch that burps."
You go about the minutia of daily life, putting all of the special little attention to details on the back burner.
All of your habits and idiosyncrasies become magnified, and you begin to grate on each other.
You struggle for power within the relationship.
This is normal.
Not necessarily fun---but predictable.
I think that Katharine Hepburn said it well :
"If you want to sacrifice the admiration of many men for the criticism of one, go ahead, get married."
And I'm by no means laying all of the blame on men.
After all, we're all people, co-creating our realities together.
The same could be said of women---I just found these quotes from a woman's perspective.
A friend of mine once asked me how married life was treating me, and I replied that this is the most chaste I have ever been in my adult life.
And, sadly, I have such a wandering eye.
People say that I should focus my attention on my spouse.
That's what he's there for.
He's my spouse, after all.
And I hang my head and feel guilty and ashamed, and I agree, wanting to go along with what is expected of me.
But things have changed.
We have a good life, we share many happy experiences, we're great friends.
But...
Let's put it this way...
"Husband", as a term, has its roots in the quality of management, control.
As in "animal husbandry".
And I feel that it is very apparent in our situation.
The Mister tells me that he doesn't want to always be the one in charge, but if he didn't stay on top of everything, nothing would get done---we'd slide into complete anarchy and chaos.
Feeling like I am the object of animal husbandry, I feel that the romantic components of marriage are lacking.
I don't feel the kind of chemistry or spark that leads to erotic fulfillment.
I find myself doing nice things for him, not out of the sheer pleasure of making him feel happy, but, alas, out of wanting to avoid getting yelled at.
As for the sexual side of things, I've given up.
Any attempt to actually discuss the matter only leads to quarrels and defensive yelling matches.
Not wanting to be the bully, I just quietly "take care of business", like a spurned dog, running to its corner to hump its blanket.
It has become a kind of physical maintenance necessity, like flossing.
I know that it sounds like I'm trying to set myself up for having an excuse to--- as they say in tawdry romance novels--- take a lover.
I realize how unrealistic that is.
It would involve at least a year of rigorous dieting.
Even if I were to accomplish such a Sisyphean task as whittling my girth down to socially-acceptable parameters, what then?
Past weight-loss endeavors were embarked upon with the goal of having the life I'd dreamed of.
If only I could lose enough weight, so the thinking went, obstacles would melt, and my path would be clear.
The world would be my oyster.
And other rosy cliches.
However, once the weight was lost, I had not prepared my psyche for the changes that were to come.
Overjoyed that someone--anyone!--seemed to actually like me, I would invariable fall in with someone who was completely unsuitable for me.
Or anyone else, for that matter.
And the cycle would begin again.
Have I said all of this before?
I feel like I sound like a broken record.
Where to go from here?
Is dieting the answer?
If I actually succeed in becoming desirable, what then?
Will I be faced with tough decisions?
Or will my lack of sexual fulfillment automatically correct itself?
Could it be that I'm just bored?
Is that a legitimate excuse for wanting---something more?
It is accepted that men are not naturally monogamous.
Men want variety, and women naturally want to nest, to settle down.
Women who want variety are aberrant, deviant---and punishment is universal.
From being socially ostracized and called a "slut", to the more horrific Taliban-issued public stonings.
Lusty women are seen as the antithesis of a harmonious society.
But what if it isn't true?
What if women, too, want variety?
And that it is perfectly natural?
And it's not just me?
Where is there a social construct that allows for that?
And how can you achieve happiness within a harmonious arrangement built on trust and openness?
Why can't we accept that women with several lovers can also be ethical, intellectual, constructive humans?
I am very dissatisfied with the feeling of being imprisoned.
I am very dissatisfied with the limitations being placed on me, in terms of exploring the full spectrum of erotic pleasure.
And I'm not talking about just "fucking".
I don't want to feel like some sneaky criminal, offering myself up as a "cum-dumpster."
There is so much longing.
A longing for something beautiful, romantic, sacred, amazing.
Transcendent.
Our society has no vocabulary, no viewpoint, that allows for what I'm longing to express.
When a man is known to be a good lover, women eagerly await their turn.
But a woman with equal passions and generosity is dismissed as having been "passed around"..
How can we outgrow this ridiculous conditioning?
It is so frustrating to have my desires so completely thwarted.
Would it mean having to lose everything---my home, my standing with family and friends?
Have I become too complacent?
Tune in next time, for another exciting episode of Dicey Venison: Absorbing The Rage.
Love, <3 <3 <3
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.11.06 at 23:04
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: 
weird
Current Music: Jackie Greene: "Shaken", (Giving Up The Ghost)
This evening, I had a jarring, weird synchronicity occur.
I was sitting at the kitchen table, reading Daniel Pinchbeck's book, 2012: The Return Of Quetzalcoatl.
I was reading a passage about his experience with the psychedelic root, Iboga.
He "traveled" into a visionary realm, where a black man was leading him--in the persona of a little girl--up a staircase.
He had envisioned himself before as this little girl, in a past-life memory of being shuttled from a train, to a gas chamber in a concentration camp.
The memory was so raw, and deeply hurtful to him...and he was convinced that it was an actual memory...
This passage struck me with sorrow and a shocking revelation.
Tears began to stream out of my eyes.
It became like the "click" of epiphany.
As if to punctuate this---this recognition, on my part, a weird synchronicity took place:
The Mister was watching TV in the adjacent parlor, some detective drama.
What happened in the next few seconds was just too much to not notice--like the universe was bearing down on me...
I mean, the coincidence was just too exact.
Moments--seconds--after reading this passage and feeling the emotional effects of it,
the voice of one of the characters on the TV show asked very clearly and slowly:
"Do you believe in reincarnation? Who were you in a past life?"
I stopped dead in my tracks, looking up from the book.
A swift chill coursed through my body.
I had to get up and go to the bathroom to get my bearings.
It was just too eerie.
It all seemed to come together.
Whether or not this is literal truth, or a form of strong symbolism, I could not escape it.
The "click" of epiphany came to me as a kind of reconciliation of my strange emergence in this world, at this time.
I remember as a very young child, my father sat me down at the kitchen table, with a globe of the world.
He showed me where we were, pointing to Minnesota, on the North American continent.
Imitating the sound of an airplane, he slowly spun the globe and landed his index finger on Iraq, nestled in the upper corner of the jutting peninsula to the right of Africa.
"This is where I came from. This is Iraq," he said.
Like many Americans, I am a "mutt", a result of the weird and intricate migration patterns that shaped the country as we know it today.
My father came to America from Iraq during the early 50s, at the wildly adventurous age of twenty-one.
My mother's father's father was born on the boat, coming here from Stuttgart, Germany.
My mother's mother's family had been established here longer than that, having come as migrating Pennsylvania Dutch on the one side, and Englishmen and women from Devonshire, in the West Country of England.
Perhaps some time along the way, one of the Pennsylvania Dutch sons had detached himself from the austerity of his clan during Rumspringer, the time when teens are allowed to run freely in order to choose for themselves if they want to remain part of the community, or to join the worldly peoples.
At any rate, I have often pondered why I came into this world to live during this specific time.
Half-German and half-Arab.
Half-American and half-Iraqi.
With calamitous world events unfolding all around me.
The Twin Towers falling, like the Tower card in the Tarot's Major Arcana.
With all of the implications of that archetype---coming into fruition---larger than life.
The tumultuous path of my life, the political, the spiritual, the artistic experiences.
The addictions, the turbulent loves...
Despite my aggravation over the terrible strife between Arabs and Israelis, I find that, like my father, most of my deeply cherished friendships, the ones with the most meaning---were with Jewish people.
Tonight's eerie and strangely reversely-prophetic experience opened a chasm inside of me, where a light shone.
In this time where time itself seems to be accelerating towards some cataclysmic breaking-point---where technology and perception are coalescing into a quantum leap toward the integration of spirit and science---my conclusion does not seem implausible.
Somewhere deep in my inner consciousness, a thought occurred to me, that in a past life, I may have been a Jewish person, and this life was an opportunity to integrate and come to peace with deeply-ingrained notions of strife.
Whether this is actually true or some inner alignment on a grand archetypal scale, is irrelevant.
The fact that it shook me to the core was enough for me to give it some weight, some consideration.
Life Is The School, and Love Is The Lesson.
TANSTAC: There Ain't No Such Thing As Coincidence.
This entire evening seems odd.
I have a weird, heightened awareness.
I feel like I am tripping.
As a pagan, I understand that this is the time of year when the "veil between the worlds is at its thinnest".
But it's disconcerting to feel the eyes of my friend, Lyx, following me from the portrait I painted of her after she passed away.
Like she's trying to tell me something in a twinkly-eyed way.
Like Terence McKenna's "Cosmic Giggle".
Just moments ago, Sundance woke from a sound sleep, with a yelp, waving her paw in the air.
The air itself feels electrically-charged, and I am getting frequent chills, with my hair standing on end along my arms and neck.
I'm wondering if it is from the content of Daniel Pinchbeck's book, or if it is in fact, a palpable phenomenon, outside of my now-heightened awareness.
I'd assume it was the latter, if not for Sundance's weird, wary behaviors.
I'm going to try to look at this in a peaceful way.
I'm thinking of my Aunt Anisa, who recently passed away.
She was one of my favorite aunts.
My Iraqi cousin told me that they were like friends, very close.
I'm so glad that I've found my cousin.
It's a beautiful re-connecting to family, and the geometric beauty of this fusion is wonderful, indeed.
The Iraqis are the oldest civilization, and here I am, the older cousin, connecting with my younger counterpart from the original country.
It all comes together like some miraculous spiral of time and space, through the communication of light, bringing us together, as this age of communication dissolves the barriers of distance and political separation.
We are indeed emerging, as participants, collaborators, into a post-nationalistic world.
I look forward to 2012, to the return of Quetzalcoatl.
I await the end of nationalism, the end of the fear and stupor of right-wing authoritarianism.
I await the emergence of an evolved consciousness, to see, as Jackie Greene sings, "...the human race awaken...".
The important thing is to keep on the path.
There will be opposition, ridicule, dismissal.
Skeptics and nihilists abound, but that's their problem.
It's all part of the shifting pattern.
Without falling into delusions of grandeur, I do feel that I am a spark within the framework of this shift in consciousness.
I have always felt like I don't fit in, like I'm on the outside, looking in.
A kind of half-breed, struggling to reconcile the disparate halves of my heritage.
But now I see it in a different light.
I have a rare opportunity to embrace this--- politically, spiritually, artistically.
Thank The Gods I don't fit in.
I don't fit into the weapons of mass distraction---bullshit trends and fads and media-fed delusions.
As Patti Smith sings, I'm "outside of society".
Falling into the trap that our current world wants us to fall into, the "I'm fat, I'm old, I'm ugly, women diminish in worth as they age...", is all just a ruse to keep us from emanating our divine right to shine.
It's fear, it's authoritarianism, it's an old world order that no longer fits.
It's going down the drain and good riddance!
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to log off and do what I enjoy---and that is to watch Jackie Greene on YouTube, and maybe that sexy film clip from Satyricon, where Max Born's character, the lovely Giton, gives a deliciously sidelong glance to his lover and sensuously kisses him all along his forearm.
Good times!
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.11.02 at 20:16
Current Location: The habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: 
peaceful
Current Music: Smog: "Cold Blooded Old Times"
I'm going to begin this communique with a little bit of ranting, if that's OK.
I'll keep it brief.
Because I've got some fun stuff coming up.
So, bear with me.
I pissed off a customer today.
I was at the express lane.
It was long and busy.
Really busy.
It really annoys me when people try to use the ballpoint pen to write on the computer screen.
It's really not their fault.
It just seems like the obvious choice.
Nobody notices the stylus.
But everybody does it, and it finally came to the point where there was that eight-millionth customer...
And, I didn't mean to be rude, but I'm weary of explaining it to every single person, so I just took the stylus and put it in front of the guy and waved it.
He continued to stab the computer with the pen, and I said,
"Uh, sir...Sir?"
And he got all pissed off and had a little hissy-pissy tantrum and threw the pen at me and told me he could do without the attitude.
I realized that I had to go into Obsequious Mode, and I apologized profusely.
I fucking hate people sometimes.
The soul-crushing repetition, combined with the sheer onslaught of herds of humanity, can really get to me.
OK, the rant is over.
Thanks.
Well, at least Halloween weekend was fun.
We went to see Bob Dylan in Chicago.
He was playing at the Aragon Theater.
The Aragon is a beautiful, Fellini-esque theater, with a strange fantasy-land decor of Indian and Moroccan architectural influences.
The ceiling is painted with a strange cosmic design, including a flying phoenix and swirls of cosmic clouds, with twinkling stars.
To their credit, I must say that the staff at the Aragon Theater in Chicago are very gracious and not overly invasive with their security check upon entry.
Unlike the Riviera in Chicago, or the Beacon in New York, where they stop just short of fist-fucking you when you try to get in to see a show.
We left Madison late in the morning, around 10:00~ish.
We got to Chicago and went to Fran's house, and hung out for a while.
Then, we took the train downtown.
On the train, there was an old man who seemed very interested in the fact that I was going to see Bob Dylan.
He kept talking to me, and that was cool...
At one point, we had to transfer to a bus, and Fran started asking me about what Halloween meant to me, as a Wiccan.
I explained to her that it was a day of remembering those who have passed on before us.
Remembering friends and ancestors.
Samhain is actually a pretty somber Holy Day, or Sabbat, for Gardnerian Witches.
Contrary to the weird media hype slant it gets.
It is the day that The God dies, and begins his winter-long journey into the Underworld.
I didn't explain that part of it to Fran...
Fran asked me about the priestess of the coven I was in.
I explained to her that my priestess had converted to Buddhism.
This really upset Fran, for some reason.
I explained to her that this was just the path that the priestess had chosen to go on.
After all, I've gotten away from the whole Gardnerian thing, myself, and I'm more of a loose eclectic Pagan.
And to be honest, I'm really more of a slack-seeking SubGenius at this point.
Praise Bob!
Fran hadn't particularly liked the priestess when she met her at my wedding.
Granted, I myself had always been just a tad uncomfortable with her.
I always found her to be rather catty.
And she had this way of speaking---very similar to the tone and inflection of Stewie, from Family Guy...
Our stop came, and we got off the train, and went to our favorite bar, the L&L, on the corner of Clark and Belmont.
The bartender, Scott, is the greatest bartender on Earth.
Seriously--he is such a sweet guy.
I love the L&L, because Scott works there, and also, it is a beautiful place---really old, with an ancient and worn wooden bar, old-fashioned pressed-tin ceiling, dark green walls, and a pretty kick-ass juke box.
It's not beautiful in terms of opulence, but it has that old-timey Wild West Saloon kind of feel.
I love the place.
I'm glad that they have ginger ale there for me to drink.
I always feel like the kid tagging along with my friends when they go out drinking.
Soon, it was time to go to the Aragon.
The streets were filled with throngs of excited people, all dressed up in their Halloween costumes.
People were handing out candy to anyone passing by, and the air was filled with festive energy.
We got to The Aragon.
This was the first time I'd ever been there.
It was General Admission, so we were all on the floor.
Bob Dylan came out, and the crowd cheered.
He is beautiful.
He looks like he's doing well, and he was very energetic.
His voice--- well, how do I say this?
When he sang "Lay, lady lay..."
...it came out as a harsh series of raspy barks.
It didn't make me want to lay across his big brass bed one bit.
He really sounds awful.
But, knowing the trajectory of his career, and the collection of events--- of what he's been through ---in order to arrive at the present, made me rethink my judgments.
Instead of cringing, I really listened.
In hearing his voice, I shifted my perception, and what I heard was...wisdom.
And Bob Dylan is beautiful.
That big brass bed seemed like it would be a pretty inviting place to stretch out on, after all...
He has a really good band.
Hard-driving, powerful.
He has a wickedly mean sense of humor, too.
He announced that he had a very special guest---Tom Waits!
No.
Fucking.
Way.
The crowd stirred.
But he was just kidding.
One of my favorite songs he played was Cold Irons Bound.
I'm so glad I got to go see him.
After the show, we went to Town Hall, a bar on Halsted Street.
Everybody was in costume and dancing.
The DJ was playing some songs, and one of them was Smog's Cold Blooded Old Times.
I really liked that song.
It's spare, sad, and very memorable.
Fran and I both agreed that we felt like we were in high school, and we'd crashed a party that we hadn't been invited to.
To add authenticity to this weird feeling was the fact that the music being played was stuff from my high-school days, particularly Quiet Riot's Slick Black Cadillac.
I loved Quiet Riot when I was around thirteen, or fourteen.
It was fun to people-watch, but I felt out of place.
Fran had a weird costume.
I had brought a mask, and with that, she cobbled something together from her closet.
The mask was this plain white face, like the one Buckethead wears.
She kept going up to people and asking them:
"Are you afraid of me?'
Which just made me burst out laughing every time she did it.
Others weren't so happy, and she got a lot of angry, blank stares.
But some people were fun and tried to guess what she was.
She explained to them that she was a Dead Irish Courier.
A DIC.
We got on the Red Line train, and it was riotous with Halloween revelers.
There was a lovely Black girl, handing out candy.
She handed Fran a piece of red Twizzler licorice.
Fran stuck it in the mouth-hole of her mask.
The girl handed me some peanut M&Ms.
"Are these laced with LSD?" I asked, smiling wide-eyed.
"Of course!" the girl said.
"KEWL !!!" I replied.
I leaned over and began chewing on the Twizzler that was hanging out of the mouth-hole of Fran's mask, and we dissolved into gales of laughter.
There was an absolutely gorgeous hippie guy sitting nearby.
He wasn't in a costume, but the Black Candy Girl addressed him as "Beautiful Jesus Guy".
He had long, tousled dark brown hair, expressive hazel eyes, kind of a big nose, and a scruffy beard.
He was maybe around my height, not tall.
He had interesting, slightly crooked teeth when he smiled.
I enjoyed his beauty immensely.
I kept smiling at him, feeling that since it was Halloween, that made it OK.
I could have sat on that train all night, with the Black Candy Girl and Beautiful Jesus Guy.
But our stop came, and we had to get off the train.
I took one last look at Beautiful Jesus Guy, drinking all that beauty in through my optic nerves, hoping some residue of his image would stick to my retinas, so I could have some to savor for later...
And it did.
The Moon is full tonight.
Beautiful.
Stark.
Serene.
It's already November.
I bought a birthday card to send to Jackie Greene.
I went to State Street, this weekend.
I went searching for the perfect card, and searched in every shop, until I finally found the right one.
I hope he will be pleased with it.
Jackie Greene is so dear to me...
He is the part of my world where everything is good and beautiful.
And my job is the part of my world where--- where it isn't really.
It's never really fun to have to return to work.
The Grind.
I find that my job only magnifies my misanthropic tendencies.
I was watching clips of Fellini's Satyricon on YouTube.
I watched a behind-the-scenes clip of footage, where Max Born is playing guitar and singing a Bob Dylan Song.
Max Born is so beautiful---absolutely lovely.
And mysterious...
I read somewhere that he now lives on a Mediterranean island, in quiet obscurity.
Satyricon was the only movie he was ever in, as the beautiful slave, Giton.
I love the movie, Satyricon.
The first time I ever saw it was back in the mid-90s.
I had a fever and was staying home, watching movies.
Being in a fever state really helped to set the tone of the movie for me.
I recommend having a fever if you are watching it for the first time.
Swirling with lush colors and sensuous visuals, Satyricon is a fragmented, hallucinatory dream world.
And Max Born is my favorite part of it.
Well, kids, Aunt Dicey needs her beauty rest.
Love ya.
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.10.27 at 22:09
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: calm
Current Music: Billie Holiday: "Autumn In New York"
I returned two days ago from my trip to New York.
Already back to the grind.
But I've got some great memories.
It's always good to get back to The City.
We took the train from Chicago.
Riding through the hills of Pennsylvania, I looked out the window at the rolling mists in the valleys, and the lovely fall colors.
It began to snow.
A lot.
Enough to accumulate some.
When we arrived in New York City, it was raining and chilly.
We got into Penn Station and took a taxi to our hostel.
Yes.
Another fucking hostel.
It had a promising name: "Chocolat Hostel".
On our arrival, it was announced to us that our room was no longer available, so they sent us to their "sister hostel": "Hostel Fresh".
That night, The Mister was besieged with--- BED BUGS!!!
For some reason, they didn't touch me.
I think that the myrrh oil that I cover my body with, somehow repelled them.
We insisted on getting another room.
We went to the pharmacy and bought two cans of lice-killing furniture spray.
It was my job to go over everything with it.
I separated the mattresses and sprayed.
I peeled back each sheet and blanket, and sprayed.
I sprayed the pillows.
The insecticide was starting to make me feel dizzy and nauseated, so I opened a window for ventilation.
We left and went out for a while, letting the insecticide do its thing.
Unfortunately, I did not write in my journal while I was there, so I don't have a very accurate chronology of events.
So, I'll piece together the highlights.
One thing that we both agreed on, the Mister and I, was that it is simply not worth it to try to save a little money by staying at flea-bag hostels.
Hostel.
The very word sounds like "Hostile", hence the blood-and-guts horror movie of the same name.
Sure, you initially save some money, but then, you get all bitten by bugs, and you have to buy nasty chemicals to combat the vermin, and then you have to go through the grueling process of washing each and every item you own, and isolate other things in sealed boxes that you've sprayed, and so on and so forth.
Fuck that.
Besides the ubiquitous vermin episode (which seems to plague us on each and every trip we take), the rest of the time was fun.
Strangely enough, one of the free weeklies featured a cover story about bed bugs---how they are plaguing New York City in such an incredible surge, that trains and offices are now swarming with the little fuckers.
You can't really escape them.
The Mister wanted to watch football, so he decided to go to a bar on 82nd Street and 2nd Avenue.
That afternoon, I was allowed to roam the city at will.
I had fun, strolling around on my own.
It's easy to find your way around, and I had a grand old time, cruising along 3rd Ave and up towards Lexington.
I wandered as far as the 100s, and noticed a change.
Everything became sort of scruffy and gloomy, and there were big housing projects lurching all around me.
I was getting into Harlem.
It was early afternoon.
I pressed forward, and I nestled into my hoodie, imitating the gait of those around me, making myself go unnoticed.
Still, I had a bad physical sensation---that little voice---telling me I'd better turn back.
So I listened, and turned around.
My intuition never fails me, and at my age, I've fucked up enough to know I'd better listen.
I went to a pizzeria and had a fabulous slice of eggplant-and-goat-cheese pizza.
Then, I set about finding birthday presents for The Mister.
I bought him books and candy and a card, as well as a big "Happy Birthday" balloon, featuring Spongebob and Patrick.
We got to see Bob Weir's outfit, Rat Dog three times during our time in New York.
The first two nights were at The Manhattan Center, close to Times Square.
The first night was great.
There were minimal security checks, and we wandered up the stairs, only to find that the auditorium that opened up to us was the wrong one.
It turned out that the ballroom was on the seventh floor!
So, we climbed up and up, at last arriving at the lovely ball-room.
It was carpeted and looked like a fine place to have a wedding reception.
The show was delightful!
The second night was The Mister's birthday, and we were going to see Rat Dog again.
That night, King Obama was giving a speech at the Manhattan Center.
An entirel different scene!
Enormous police presence.
They were erecting barricades to prevent pedestrian traffic around the place.
It was ridiculous.
At last we were able to approach the place, and we had to go through a whole metal-detector/security check, to get in.
Everybody was really nice, though, and the show was really fun.
It was general admission, so we got up close to the stage.
There was this crazy guy who was just talking a mile a minute, and I really wished he'd shut up.
But he wouldn't.
I have a "helpful" face, ergo---I'm a psycho magnet.
Thankfully, a skeletally skinny "hot chick" came up and wedged herself between me and the psycho, and she began to take lots of photos of Bob Weir with her Blackberry.
One thing I've learned in life is this: hot chicks are my allies...
.
They can be used as human shields against creeps.
If the creep in question is the Alpha-Male type, he will bend over backwards trying to impress the hot chick, in hopes of getting into her pants.
Rendering me invisible.
If the creep in question is a Total Loser, he will immediately sense that the hot chick is "out of his league", and he'll do the only thing that he can---and that is to shut the fuck up.
So, in this case, the psycho shut the fuck up, and I was able to enjoy the show.
The third time we saw Rat Dog was at The Beacon.
We got in line to enter the theater, and there were security people at the door.
We all had to form separate lines for males and females.
Then, the intense scrutiny began.
Although I wasn't being singled out---they did this to each person going through---I was really irritated that they made us open our wallets and unzip each zipper and unclasp every snap, while they went through the tiny minutia of our belongings.
They were hell-bent on finding drugs.
I thought it was ironic that I had to open up my little tin of antacids (that I carry for when the Mister decides he just has to eat a chili-dog), explaining what they were.
All I had were ant-acids.
No actual acid.
What a fucking disappointment I must have been.
What---a sober Deadhead???
Not bristling with an extraordinary pharmacopia of mind-boggling uppers, downers, laughers, screamers---tucked away in every available zipper?
Obviously, they'd never heard of Wharf Rats...
I get frazzled by extremely invasive security checks like that.
I find it insulting and, to be frank---Fascist.
Deadheads aren't violent or disorderly.
I can understand the need to check people for weapons or glass bottles, but making me open the little zippers and flaps of my itty-bitty little purse?
C'mon---fuck you!
Now, I fucking hate the Beacon Theater.
Even when I got inside, I hated the place.
It has lush decor and all, but its decor glorifies war.
The stage is flanked by knights' armor and spears and shields, while bas-relief moldings depict Greco-Roman glorifications of war scenes.
Enormous gold statues of Pallas Athena stand in the corner, depicting the allegory of military might.
The Beacon Theater sucks.
We had wonderful seats---third row center---and I mean dead center---and all I could do was sit there and fume during the first set.
The Mister tried to tell me to cheer up---"Look where you are---you're in the Promised Land---third row center!"
He tried to tell me that this is just the way it is---this is somehow normal.
That just because we're Deadheads it is somehow normal to expect to be treated like some low-life criminal.
We paid good money to be treated like low-life criminals.
And everybody else seemed to just think this was normal and fine.
What a bunch of sheep.
Just try to even get close to doing that to a bunch of Beige Normals in suits and ties---it would be an outrage!
But here we just go through it with benign smiles, because Deadheads internalize this bullshit.
By the second set, I decided to cheer up and have some fun.
Still, I was pissed off by the whole over-blown Fascist security check.
I've had to deal with this shit countless times before, but to tell you the truth, it's getting old.
Hell---I'm getting old.
I'm thirty-nine years old.
And it feels like fucking high school whenever I try to get into a fucking Dead show.
Enough said about that.
I did go to Madison Avenue and buy some new bras.
I went to a little boutique called {Intimacy}, where I got fitted for bras.
I realized I've been wearing the wrong size bra all this time.
And I dropped some serious money on new ones.
Holy shit--I thought The Mister would kill me.
But he was fine with it, and I fell good about it too.
I never spend money on myself like that--I never buy nice underwear.
I'm frugal to the point of miserliness with myself--and strangely enough, it really gave my self-esteem a nice boost to finally treat myself to some nice lingeree.
We went to Coney Island, and had a nice adventure.
The bus driver was friendly--a nice Italian boy from Brooklyn.
We went to China Town.
I love going there.
The streets are narrow winding alley-ways, and you get submerged in another world.
Everyone is conducting their business in orderly serenity.
The smells are overwhelming.
Little Italy is right around the corner, and we had a sumptuous dinner at Umberto's.
During our stay in New York, we got to visit a couple of museums.
We went to The Morgan, which had a display of William Blake's paintings and poetry.
A deeply spiritual man, he created work of a dream-like, other-worldly nature.
My favorite was seeing Vasily Kandinsky's art at The Guggenheim.
It was wonderful to see the progression of his loose painterly style on canvas, and more exact works on paper.
Towards the end, he merged these styles in a kind of symphonic beauty, creating deeply moving pieces that combined the perfection of geometry with whimsical organic forms.
His compositions invoke elements of music...
Absolute genius.
It was the first time I ever visited the Guggenheim.
A great place to see art.
While in New York, I went to a bookstore and promised myself that I would only buy one book.
True to my word, I did just this.
The book I chose seemed to call to me from the shelf.
It was a green paperback, with a lovely spiral crop-circle design, embossed on the cover.
I lightly ran my fingertips over the design, enjoying the feel of it.
The title was 2012: The Return Of Queztalcoatl, by Daniel Pinchbeck.
This book had proven to be a good choice.
It is very interesting, intriguing...
I like the way Pinchbeck writes---he draws you in and keeps you interested, turning the pages.
He references all of the writers I love---Allen Ginsberg, Robert Anton Wilson---as well as some that I'd like to get better acquainted with, like Terence McKenna and Rudolph Steiner.
He discusses the crop circle phenomenon, the shamanistic perspective on the psychedelic experience, his theories on the Grays--and why they are abducting people, the Mesoamerican significance of 2012, and how the changes will affect us.
An absolutely engrossing work---it is dense---and I know I will want to go over it it a lot, to reach deeper understanding.
He covers a lot.
Well, kids---it's getting late, and I really ought to go to bed.
I didn't cover everything from my trip---but these are the highlights.
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.10.15 at 05:55
Current Location: break room, at work
Current Mood: excited
Current Music: Widespread Panic: "Travelin' Light"
Well, here I am.
I got to work early, hitching a ride with The Mister.
I thought the meeting started at 6:00 a.m.
Only to find that it actually was at 7:00.
So, I've got an hour to kill.
That's OK.
I'm in the break room at work.
The guys in produce have Jerry Garcia on the stereo.
It sounds nice.
A melancholy tune...
Wow.
We're leaving tomorrow.
As soon as I get home, I have to tie up some loose ends and get everything packed.
Dawn and Matt (good Matt, that is), are watching the house, and taking care of Sundance, so that eases my mind.
I like riding on the train.
It takes a whole day to get to New York.
It takes almost three days to get to San Francisco on the train.
You have to go over two mountain ranges.
The way to New York is nice.
I like going over the Allegheny Mountains in Pennsylvania.
That's some beautiful country.
Lots of forests, mountains, rivers.
It seems like a timeless zone.
It's going to be good to get away from here for a while.
Back to the East Village, Little Italy, China Town...
I'm not going to pack too much.
I'm not one of those high-maintenance divas who has to pack sixteen suitcases.
I'll probably only take as much as will fill my back-pack.
Traveling light
Is the only way to fly...
To quote Widespread Panic...
It'll be a good thing to get a different perspective.
I'm tired of this place.
Tired of the routine.
Yesterday at work, I was at the express lane.
Which is the first register, with a straight-on view of the bakery and deli areas.
I was ringing up orders, when I looked across the sales floor, and there was Sunshine, grinning at me.
He and the other sushi chef were standing there, leaning with their elbows on the counter, smiling and waving at me.
I always feel like I'm being caught doing something naughty when they catch me looking at them.
They stare back with bright smiles, their lovely Tibetan eyes shining.
When 5:00 rolled around, I watched Sunshine leave.
Then, my eyes drifted over to the door.
And he was standing out there, looking in.
I looked away, and did a double-take.
He was still there, staring in at me.
WTF?
I figured that he was trying to determine if I am, indeed a creep.
So he can either have a good laugh at my expense, or build a harassment case against me.
Whichever, it can't be good.
Unless he actually likes me.
In that case, I'm figuring that he must be mildly retarded.
Nobody in their right mind, especially someone so lovely, would openly admit to liking me.
Unless they're "Special Ed", or something...
Maybe it's simply because he isn't from here, so he doesn't know any better.
He doesn't have American eyes, which size you up and judge you with merciless harshness, according to your age and BMI.
I'm sure some concerned soul will eventually take him aside and explain to him the deeply shameful social repercussions of being friendly to someone of my unacceptable dimensions.
I'll know it when he starts avoiding eye-contact.
Yesterday, a young lady came through my lane, and she had some wine.
I needed to card her, and she explained that she didn't have her ID.
"I'm 32," she explained.
But that put me in an awkward position.
I didn't want to just give in, so I stood my ground and wouldn't sell her the wine.
She seemed kind of disappointed, but she accepted the situation.
"Look at it this way," I said in soothing tones, " If you're being carded, it just means that you're still socially acceptable as a female!"
...As our time to leave gets nearer, The Mister is becoming increasingly irritable.
Nothing new there.
He's irritable no matter what, but it reaches peak levels just before a trip.
I understand though.
He is very organized, and it is up to him to make sure everything runs smoothly.
He's the captain.
I'm supposed to be the first officer, but mostly, I'm kind of a "Red-Shirt", to use Star Trek terminology.
I just don't have his level of competence, and it irritates him to no end.
He gets exasperated and snaps at me, saying:
"I want a wife, not a client!"
By "client", he means the mentally ill people that he takes care of.
It always has to be this way.
Once we're on the train, everything will settle down, and we'll have a good time.
There are a million little things to do tonight...
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.10.14 at 08:17
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: 
guilty
Current Music: John Trudell: "Hanging From The Cross" (Bone Days)
Normally, I would have deleted a post like the last one.
It isn't very nice.
And I feel bad about some of the things I said.
But it was how I felt, and sometimes I need to express sentiments that aren't necessarily rosy.
I get fed up with the ordinariness of my existence.
But that isn't to say that every day holds magic---even if it goes un-noticed by me.
Impatience is something I need to work on.
After all, I'm going to New York City soon.
It's something to look forward to.
The funny thing is, Jackie Greene will be touring with Government Mule, and he is playing in Chicago on October 24th.
But that will be the day that I get on the train in New York, to return here.
So, I'll just miss him.
Oh, if only I could master the art of bi-location, or astral projection.
I could sit on the train, and send myself hurtling through space, landing in Chicago.
Seeing, hearing, being there.
Since my powers of astral projection leave much to be desired, I will do the next best thing, and bring his CDs with me.
And, as I stare out the train window and watch America unfold before me, Jackie Greene will sing me back home.
That way, I'll be there in spirit.
I look forward to traveling.
I need it.
Travel is something in my blood.
I'm glad that The Mister shares this passion with me.
And I'm glad that we both have similar tastes in music.
I really do love him.
He's such a good man.
It's my fault that things get a little slow.
I need to go on a diet.
Sitting around and whining about it is such a total fucking waste of time.
Think of all the great things I could accomplish if I didn't occupy my time with so much whining.
I was listening to John Trudell on YouTube last night.
I listened to his music, particularly the song, "Hanging From The Cross".
I listened to him speak about being human.
I listened to him speak about taking responsibility for bringing about change---not just blaming the "bad guys", or government institutions.
John Trudell is an articulate, intelligent, passionate human being.
He is beautiful.
He has a beautiful spirit, and he is a very serious person, a deep thinker.
I admire him a lot.
I hide my deeper thoughts behind a clown mask.
I am afraid to be serious, so I act like the class clown.
I have to joke about everything.
Then, I see someone like John Trudell, and I realize that here is someone who stands for something real.
Perhaps, being funny is a gift in and of itself.
People don't generally like funny women, though.
Because women are "supposed" to be pretty.
Being funny somehow violates that rule.
I think it was Joan Rivers ( ! ) who once said that there was never a great woman comedienne who was pretty as a child.
Being funny is a kind of psychological tic, a coping mechanism.
I remember reading Jackie Greene's blog entry, after he wrote "Trampled Under Foot".
He said that he was trying to be funny, but his humor hadn't come across---apparently he had offended people.
I know I felt offended.
I was so happy to have him come here to Madison, hoping he would feel welcome here.
And the very next day, he goes on this ranting whining jag about how "old women" aren't good enough to tell him how great he is.
He thinks they're all a bunch of drunken ass-grabbing slobs.
It is alcohol abuse, not maturity, that is the problem.
I didn't think it was funny at all.
But then again---he's pretty.
So, I guess he can get away with a lot more than ugly-looking people can.
At any rate, I am really looking forward to a change of pace.
I am so fortunate to have the opportunity to travel as much as I do.
I just want to add, that I really do love The Mister.
I regret that I complained so bitterly about certain aspects of our life together.
It isn't the end of the world.
I just need to be patient, and take responsibility for my own betterment.
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.10.12 at 23:05
Current Location: The habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: melancholy
Current Music: Jackie Greene: "Animal", (Giving Up The Ghost)
Outside, the snow is whispering.
Inside, it is warm and insular.
Cozy.
When I left work today, it was already dark.
It is getting dark earlier.
And there was a whispering mist of snow in the air.
It could easily have been mistaken for rain.
But it had that particular graininess, so at the most, it could be sleet.
It was that misty, whispering quality to it that made it seem romantic.
As I walked home.
But the cold---I can't stand it.
I hate being cold.
I don't like cold toilet seats.
Cold park benches are no fun either.
Sometimes during the winter, I sit huddled in my blanket before the heat kicks in.
Our landlords control when the heat comes on, and so we are at their mercy.
We have these antiquated radiators that heat up with water that comes through a thin pipe from the ceiling, on down through the floor.
The Mister wants me to come to bed, but I would just toss and turn.
I have to write.
I need to decompress.
This is mine.
I seem to sleep-walk through work.
I do everything unconsciously---I'm on automatic pilot.
A robot.
Everything is done from force of habit.
I'm amazed when my drawer balances out at the end of the day.
The other day, I had a close call.
I thought I had lost a check.
Panic ensued.
I had thought that I had a missing check for over $100.00.
It was horrible.
I tortured myself all day---at one point, I was in tears.
At the end of the day, it turned out that the whole thing was a fabrication.
I can't figure it out.
What I think happened was, I was blending yesterday into today---all the days blend together.
But what I know now is, I can do this job in my sleep.
And so I do.
Day after day.
I occupy my mind with sensual fantasies, little vacations of sweaty lustful imaginings.
I stare longingly over at the sushi station, where Sunshine is busily slicing salmon and deftly rolling it into logs of nori sheets and sticky rice.
I watch his rhythmic motion, and that sets my imagination to wandering...
And he looks over at me and smiles, all happy.
I think he knows.
But he doesn't seem to mind.
After all, I'm perfectly harmless.
Maybe he thinks I'm senile...
Then, when that gets to be too much, The Lovely Moroccan walks in, and occupies me with cheerful conversation.
Today, he came in and I called over to him, but he was on his cell phone, and he didn't hear me.
I was waiting on someone I knew, someone named Lori, and The Lovely Moroccan eventually saw me.
He came strolling over.
"I didn't know you were here! I didn't see you!" he exclaimed, all smiles.
"Well, that happens to women when they get to be my age. I am pushing forty, so I've become invisible! I can do anything now. I could commit all kinds of crimes, and get away with it, because nobody would even notice," I replied.
"I didn't know you were younger than me," Lori interjected.
Fuck you, Lori.
It bothers me that I am perceived as being so much older than I really am.
And I don't like being reminded of it all of the time.
"Well, I'm keeping my eye on you," The Lovely Moroccan said, laughing.
Thanks, Lovely Moroccan.
Sometimes, I just think about Jackie Greene.
I keep the print-out of the email he sent me, folded in my apron pocket.
Anytime somebody buys flowers, and one falls off of the bouquet, or there are any stray petals, I tuck them into the folds of the paper that have his lovely words on it.
Sometimes, when it isn't busy, I unfold the paper to read it, and the dried petals come cascading down, and I have to gather them up and stuff them back into the creases.
I feel like Forrest Gump thinking about Jenny.
And it's a strange sad kind of happy.
The only time I really notice anything is when something doesn't ring up correctly.
I have to call back to grocery.
And they very seldom ever answer the call.
So, I have to go back there myself.
While there is a line of impatient customers.
And they have to whine at me.
And that just pisses me off.
It really gets in the way of my exquisite sexual fantasies.
I've really got a great imagination.
My imaginary sexual adventures are so much more interesting than what reality has to offer.
I'm painfully horny, but my sex life is like the Sahara.
I guess that's what happens when you're married.
The routine gets boring, and eventually, you just stop trying.
It wouldn't be worth it to get proactive, though.
That would just ruin my life.
I'd lose everything if I tried to secure some kind of "arrangement" with somebody.
And I'd be "the bad guy", to boot.
And really---who am I kidding?
I'm ugly and fat and repulsive.
Nobody would want to help me out with this issue anyway.
Not even if I paid them.
And having to pay for it would only drive home the fact that I'm a total loser.
So, I just have to suffer through this and hope that menopause will eventually come around and wipe out all traces of my sexual self.
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.10.12 at 09:49
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: peaceful
Current Music: street sounds, outside the window...
The weather is cold now.
Mother nature just sort of cut to the chase, and now it's pretty cold.
It snowed on Saturday for a brief time.
Nothing that would stick, but it snowed all the same.
We had Sundance's 20th birthday celebration, (two months late--but we had it nonetheless!)--and I cooked up a storm.
I made a nice beef stew in my big iron cauldron.
I also made Iraqi/Persian rice, the kind with the crispy bottom, because I know my dad likes it, and I'm the only one who knows how to make it. It all turned out delicious.
I didn't make any kind of rich dessert, so my mom brought strawberries, and these I mixed with blueberries, and topped with whipped cream.
My dad has been lecturing me about my weight, so I didn't want to create a scenario where I'd have to listen to that, while trying to eat.
Not that he's being mean about it---it's just he's gotten some bad news regarding his diabetic condition, and he doesn't want me to suffer the same fate.
I feel kind of guilty about how I responded to his lecture.
I told him that I'm already painfully aware of the fact that I'm a repulsive fat slob, and I don't need to be told for the umpteenth time about it.
This hurt his feelings, and my mom took me aside and told me this, in hushed tones.
Oh, geez...
If my life is ever made into a movie, it would definitely have to be a collaboration between John Waters and David Lynch, because only those two--working together--could get it right...
Sundance had a pretty good time.
She was mellow, and seemed to enjoy the company.
She got lots of toys, and treats.
I bought her a new treat bowl, a lovely ceramic creation, made in India, with a sunflower in the bowl.
I also bought her a Thelonius Monk CD, because I know she loves him.
The only problem is, she's gotten kind of deaf, so I don't know if she'll be able to hear it very well.
My friend, Zoe, told me that in "human years", Sundance would be 100 years old.
You wouldn't know it.
She's got all of her faculties about her, save for the hearing---and she is exhibiting some signs of kidney issues.
I got Sundance as a kitten, when I was nineteen years old.
When I first saw her, there was this instant connection.
She looked up at me and mewed loudly.
She was tiny, with huge ears that gave her the appearance of a bat.
I felt an instant camaraderie with her, because she wasn't "beautiful", in the conventional way, but she had a beautiful spirit.
She was this little brown mottled tortoiseshell kitten.
I remember bringing her home on the bus, in a pet-carrying box on my lap.
Over the years, she morphed into quite the beautiful cat.
She has been my constant companion all these years.
The most stable relationship I've ever had.
A lot of people just can't understand that kind of friendship with an animal.
They say it's anthropomorphizing them.
I don't make her wear silly outfits or take her to a psychic or anything.
But I think it's a precious gift to be friends with an animal, especially for as long as I've been Sundance's "mom".
Animals can teach us a lot of important things.
Last Friday, I decided to get my shit together and upload some pictures on the social-networking site.
I went through my old sketchbooks and found all sorts of pictures I'd done---some I'd even forgotten about!
In the album I compiled, I have paintings, drawings, and comics I've created over the years.
I've been sharing them with a lot of friends.
My Iraqi cousin really liked the political stuff I did.
That being the case, I sent her the entire album.
I haven't heard back from her, and I worry that some of it may have been viewed as offensive, especially some of the comics where I depict myself in a less-than-flattering light..
I haven't been "un-friended", however, so I guess if my work offends, it isn't anything she can't overcome.
She likes heavy metal music---particularly Bullet For My Valentine--so anything I do can't be all that bad!
Out of curiosity, I listened to some Bullet For My Valentine last night on YouTube, and I wasn't all that impressed.
But then again, I'm pushing forty, so my tastes are significantly different.
There was one video that I got a kick out of---where some cute boy that's being bullied in school turns into a werewolf at the full moon and exacts his revenge on the assholes, one by one.
I can see how that might have some appeal.
I was mercilessly bullied in school---and as we all know, there's absolutely nothing you can do about that, except grow up and get the hell out.
It's not like teachers or admin will do anything on your behalf.
They always side with the bullies.
It's always been, and so it shall be.
I shared some of my art work with The Lovely Moroccan, sending it as a message to his inbox, and he liked it.
That made me happy.
It feels good to let people see my art.
I'd love to stay and rap some more, but I have to get ready for work...
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.10.04 at 20:20
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidty
Current Mood: irate
Current Music: Ruthie Foster: "People Grinning In Your Face" [orig. Son House]
Well, I guess it is not the end, after all.
Two years and counting, Dicey Venison: Absorbing The Rage continues...
...To absorb the rage...
Yippeee!!!
That said, today's program centers on The Rant.
The Rant is a most pleasurable way for me to cleanse my psychological palate of all of the day's woes.
Work is a really mixed bag.
As I've said countless times before, I am most grateful to be employed in this dire era of economic collapse.
That said, let's launch into the delightful realm of The Rant, shall we?
Working in a grocery store brings me into contact with people at their most primal.
Food and body care products are items that reflect the most intimate, animal part of a person.
A grocery store is an arena of base instincts, a realm where the "Id" takes a joyride and decorum is left at the sidelines.
I'll tell you some fun stories from the Body Care/ Supplements department.
One day, a woman came in and vented to one of the employees, expressing deep consternation that her doctor "didn't just rubber-band my hemorrhoids"...
Rubber-band her hemorrhoids?
Is that standard procedure?
Who knew?
The latest story to come through, for my laugh-out-loud delight was this:
Woman comes in and asks:
"So, is it bad if the yeast is coming out of my rectum?"
Wonderful stuff.
Wonderful stuff!
I'm glad I'm writing this down.
Somebody has to!
Aside from the gems that the supplements department gets, there is the tedium of check-out.
That's my area of expertise.
We have a policy that is designed to encourage people to bring in their own bags, as an environmentally-friendly way of reducing waste from the over-use of shopping bags.
The policy is this: you bring in your own grocery bag, and we give you ten cents off.
Ten cents, kids!
It's just kind of an incentive, you know, a little something to encourage Earth-friendly behaviors.
However---and I don't want to come across as ageist or anything---BUT...
Old ladies in general, have a tendency to get their big old cotton drawers in a bundle and let their ridiculously miserly tendencies shine full-blast if any of us (God forbid) forgets the ten-cent bag refund.
Yesterday was a fine example of this.
I was coming in for my shift, and I sauntered past the Customer Service Desk.
A Badger game was being played over at the university's Camp Randall Stadium that day, and the store was crawling with Badger fans, all in their red outfits.
An old lady in her Go Big Red! Badger-fan get-up was at the desk, making a huge stink about not getting her ten-cent (TEN FUCKING CENT!!!) bag refund.
All indignant about "the principle of the thing", of being "cheated" out of her fucking bag refund.
To add insult to injury, she turns around and YELLS three lanes across, to her pal, also in a Go Big Red! Badger-fan get-up:
"MAKE SURE SHE (the cashier) SEES YOUR BAG!!! MAKE SURE SHE SEES YOUR BAG!!!"
I was astounded at the pettiness, the absolute bullshit of the situation.
My eyes actually welled up with tears, and I felt such miserable pity and empathy for my poor friend who was having to smile and graciously submit to these absolute imbeciles.
So, this was how my shift started.
As the day progressed, the stupidity continued...
I was ringing someone up, and he had food from the hot bar, and a warm loaf of fresh bread. He also had some raw fish and another cold item.
I told him I'd be sure to bag them separately, so they wouldn't co-mingle.
"That's total genius," he said sarcastically.
Because it's of absolute necessity that I know my place.
I just glared at him.
And said nothing, of course.
This morning, I came in and was standing in line, paying for my coffee before my shift started.
Some smart-ass said to me,
"You're on the wrong side of the counter."
I was not punched in.
I said,
"Why do people always have to say that?"
"I was just teasing you--"
"Mmmm-Hmmm", I said, the way Black ladies do, when they've had it up-to-here.
The weird thing is, just when I think I'm going to start ripping my hair out in handfuls---just at the moment when something won't ring up, and the eight-hundred-millionth customer says, for the eight-hundred-millionth time:
"Ha Ha! It must be free!!!"
---and I am absolutely certain that I am going to begin violently hemorrhaging from my eyeballs----
...The Lovely Moroccan walks in, all smiles and friendly chatter, and suddenly, my blood pressure drops a few octaves, (or whatever unit of measurement they have for that).
He's one of the only sources of joy that I have there.
Oh, yeah, and the sushi chef.
I still don't know what his name is.
All the same, I enjoy leering at him from across the sales floor.
When I see him in the break room, I just say,
"Hello, Sunshine!"
So, I guess his name is Sunshine until he tells me otherwise.
Today, when I punched out to leave, Sunshine was punching out too.
"You're taking the bus?' he asked, all smiles and shiny black hair and brilliant Tibetan eyes.
"Yes, I take the bus," I replied.
"I am too! When does it come?"
"Ten minutes, or so," I replied.
When I left the building and walked to the bus stop, Sunshine was sitting there, waiting.
I began to invoke Jesus, Mary, and Joseph under my breath, for some reason.
I'm not even a Christian.
I was nervous as I sat down.
Awkward as hell.
He grinned and asked me all about the bus schedule.
And talked about the weather.
And I squirmed in agony, trying to Act Casual.
We.
Got.
On.
The.
Bus.
He sat some distance from me.
And I sat in the back, staring at him.
He was safely turned away from me, looking out the window.
My eyes lingered across his bronze cheeks and along the hint of a beard and mustache along his chin and upper lip.
I visually caressed the contours of his thighs and his shoulders, taking a leisurely romp through the amazingly reflective sheen of his shoulder-length black hair.
The mounting frustration was unbearable.
I am painfully aware of the fact that I am hideous.
As a sexual being, I am that most offensive, despised creature in the human parade: The Middle-Aged Woman.
So, anyway, I was thinking these thoughts when it came time for me to disembark.
I was so glad to get off that bus and shake all of the awfulness out of my bones as I trudged the rest of the way home...
The Gods are having a lot of fun at my expense.
Last night, The Mister and I went to the Wil-Mar Center over on Jenifer Street.
Wild Hog In The Woods was having a blue-grass show.
There were a couple of guys from North Carolina---a guitar player and a mandolin player.
The Mister and I went in and I got a cup of coffee.
We settled into our seats and were enjoying some pleasant conversation, when---
I looked up, and who should come in, but one of my ex-boyfriends.
With his lovely Asian wife.
My blood curdled, and I tried to not make eye contact.
This guy and I are not friends.
He used to be our drummer when I was in the band.
He had always been really snotty to me, but for some reason, after the band broke up and several years had passed, we ran into each other and had a fairly brief, tumultuous relationship.
It ended really badly.
No big surprise.
It was a stupid mistake.
I should have known better.
Fast-forward to now...
So, he plops down right next to us and starts engaging The Mister in conversation.
At first, The Mister didn't really remember where he knew him from.
Some time ago, The Mister had gone to see my ex's band when they played a show at the High Noon.
Dawn wanted us to go.
I refused, and told The Mister to feel free, so he went.
Apparently, Dawn had told The Mister that I should "get over it."
Whatever.
Still unsure of where he knew him from, The Mister turned to me and said,
"Do you know Matt?"
Feeling put on the spot, I looked over at Matt.
He was sitting there with a smug grin, and he said,
"Yeah! I think we've met!"
I just stared for a second and looked away.
"Yeah, we know each other, but she doesn't like me!" Matt grinned.
"Yeah, she can be kind of temperamental," The Mister smiled.
Completely oblivious.
I wanted to knock both of their fucking teeth out.
But in my situation, you just can't win.
Reacting in any way---even getting up and leaving--- would only give them the leverage of affirming that I am, indeed "crazy".
Or "temperamental", as The Mister so diplomatically put it.
I just sat there.
Awkward.
Uncomfortable.
While Matt gloated.
The fucking piece of shit.
The music was beautiful, but it was marred by the painfully awkward situation at hand.
At intermission, it was my opportunity to escape.
I smiled and told the musicians that they sounded wonderful, and I thanked them, before bolting out the door.
The Mister went with me, and it was then that he asked me to clarify.
I felt so angry.
But I think I handled the situation with astonishing calm.
I was proud of myself.
I don't actually hate many people.
But I hate Matt.
He has developed his Ass-hole-ism to such a fine art, he would be the envy of the most crass GOP politician.
My advice?
Never, never get romantically involved with a musician.
Socially retarded and sexist and egotistical and crass, they should only be masturbated to from a distance of approximately three thousand miles.
That is, if you absolutely must entertain romantic thoughts about them at all.
Thankfully, I have committed the heinous crime of being a woman living past the age of thirty, so musicians naturally despise me on sight.
So, I'll never again even be allowed to have the opportunity of going through the misery of trying to make a musician happy.
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.09.28 at 07:15
Current Location: break room at work
Current Mood: melancholy
Current Music: Widespread Panic: "Travelin' Light"
I haven't posted an entry in a long time. This is because my computer is fucked up. The browser, the connection---something---has gone hay-wire.
I could write all I wanted, but when I would click on "post to---", it would time-out.
We recently up-dated our firewalls etc., and that's when it all started.
I did a little research to find out if anyone else is having the problem, and what I found was surprising.
There seems to be some kind of malfunction that is affecting Facebook, Twitter, and Livejournal.
Some bug in the system is keeping people from posting.
So, I don't know if it is a virus, or what, but it is frustrating.
And it seems to be affecting people randomly.
It could be hackers.
I'm really unhappy about this, because I just recently re-connected with and met some great people, and now I can't comment on their posts or otherwise communicate with them, because the social networking site is blocking my ability to share my ideas.
I just met my cousin for the first time, I've re-connected with old high school friends, and I've been keeping in touch with other friends who would have ordinarily faded out of my life.
And then, there's Jackie Greene.
I like to keep up with what he's doing, because---well, he's special.
I hope that the problem gets resolved soon,
...I'm back.
I have to write on the break room computer at work, because I can't get anything to go on my computer at home.
Really disturbing.
Let's see if this works.
I wonder if I've been hacked or infected with a computer virus?
Maybe I'll have to go on hiatus for a while, if I can't get on either Facebook or Livejournal.
It's freaking me out.
A lot of things are freaking me out.
I went to go see Mike Gordon, (the bass player for Phish), at the Barrymore Theater last Saturday.
We'd gone to a birthday party earlier that afternoon, and a band called Bony Fingers was playing in the backyard.
They did a cover of the Widespread Panic song that goes: "Travelin' Light Is The Only Way To Fly..."
And I had an epiphany, because those words are true in the literal and metaphysical senses.
Later, when we went to the concert, I ran into a friend who gave me a piece of cake that had "special effects".
I should have known better than to eat it.
Let's face it, I'm not a stoner.
Maybe it's because I'm fundamentally "uncool", or uptight, or my brain chemistry just isn't compatible.
When it kicked in, I fell into a horrifying introspective nightmare.
My Inner Critic launched into a full-scale attack on me, criticizing my weight, my smoking, my lack of initiative.
I was so disturbed that I had to get out of there and go home.
The Mister was kind, and walked me home.
He intended to go back to the concert, but out of the blue, he got sick.
While he was getting sick, I dragged myself to the bedroom and began to cry.
I just sat there, sobbing in absolute despair.
The Mister came in and spoke in soothing tones, telling me it would be all right.
But I'm not so sure.
I feel like I'm being cut off from the world.
Dicey Venison: Absorbing The Rage is now two years old.
I love writing on this thing.
It is my therapy.
But I feel like it's coming to an end, because I can't write from home.
My computer is betraying me.
I was just starting to expand my universe, and now this.
Hopefully it is not the end.
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.09.18 at 08:54
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: 
blah
Current Music: The Bottle Rockets, "1000-Dollar Car"
I had strange dreams last night.
My memory of them is somewhat fragmented, but I remember one of them fairly well.
I was at a grocery store.
It was a kind of cross between Midway Asian Grocery (over on Park Street), and Woodman's East.
A lot of grocery stores have a liquor department on one end, separated from the rest of the store.
In this dream, there was also a sex-toy shop, even further away.
So, you had the sex-toy shop, the liquor store, and then the main grocery store.
Sort of like the vices were all laid out in a series of degrees.
In the dream, I was going to buy a dildo, but I was kind of embarrassed, and so I hesitated about purchasing it.
By the time I got to the check-out line, I thought I'd send someone to get it for me ( ! )
I know this is a work-related dream, because it happens so often, when someone comes through the check-out lane, they realize they've forgotten something, and they hold up the entire line, running off to find what they forgot to get.
But this was a sex-toy, and so, I quickly told the cashier:
"Never mind, I'll come through later."
It also complicated matters somewhat, that the cashier was an Arab man.
I didn't want him to think I was some kind of pervert.
I went to the area where they had sex toys.
They were all lined up in bins, like produce.
I quickly picked out a rather dull-looking yellow dildo, (nothing fancy--no "bells-and-whistles", so to speak), and brought it back, and went through the line again.
I felt very self-conscious and decided to "tip" the cashier, by giving him three shallots and a small bunch of scallions from my previous grocery purchase.
Why I thought onions would be a good form of character redemption, I still can't quite figure out.
But my dream-logic is a form of ancient symbology, and I think it has something to do with a connection between aphrodisiacs and domesticity.
The Arab cashier could see that I was uncomfortable, and he smiled and grasped and shook my upper arms in a friendly way.
"Is OK, is Ok," he laughed.
"The sex---is good!"
Then, I realized that he could only say something like that because I'm old, and no longer a "threat".
My days as a wanton slut were obviously wayyyy over, and now I was just a frustrated old wife whose erotic needs had been quietly relegated to the sexual ghetto of "unpleasant medical necessity".
Then, I had another dream where I was out on a date with someone.
I think he was a younger black man, but I can't really remember all the details.
All I remember was riding in his car with the windows down on a hot summer night.
I felt a mixture of exhilaration and dread.
I felt like I was walking on egg-shells, because I've never been good at the dating thing.
It seems like whenever I've tried to do everything the right way, it ends all the more disastrously.
Awkward, awkward.
All I could think of was how long it would take until he would to dump me.
It was just a matter of time.
My dreams are telling me things I don't want to hear.
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.09.17 at 21:31
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: hopeful
Current Music: Hot Chocolate, "I Believe In Miracles [You Sexy Thing]"
"I been dead long enough to know TANSTAC---There Ain't No Such Thing As Coincidence."
~ Alan Rankin, Angelheaded Hipsters and Visionary Tics
"Once in a while, you get shown the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right."
~ Grateful Dead, Scarlet Begonias
"Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the locomotive holy the
visions holy the hallucinations holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy
the abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours! bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent kindness of the soul!"
~ Allen Ginsberg, Footnote To Howl, Berkley, 1955
I believe in miracles.
You sexy thing.
I am old enough to remember a time when we didn't have The Interwebs.
We listened to music on cassette tapes, played on "boom-boxes."
When I was younger, we listened to records on a turn-table.
I'm old.
I will turn forty in the Spring.
We seemed to get along fine without computers, without CDs, without Facebook and Twitter.
We read books, and wrote with ink on paper.
All of the things that are a daily part of our lives, like Blackberries, iphones---things we take for granted---didn't exist.
It's all happening so quickly.
Even now, internet cafes have become archaic, since everybody has Blackberries and "notebooks."
I want to embrace these things.
I find them to be miraculous.
The fact that I was able to locate and contact my Iraqi cousin and chat back and forth online was an amazing event.
To tell her about Jackie Greene and to have her link up to his page, and then to be able to write to tell him that he now has Iraqi fans in Baghdad, is like nothing I ever imagined I'd be doing, ten years ago.
Or even a year ago.
The world is coming together in such fantastic ways.
Cultures are being bridged; we can communicate complex information instantly.
We truly are in the Aquarian Age---not some 60s throw-back concept borne out of hallucinatory pipe dreams---but a real turning point in our social, spiritual, and political evolution.
This is a time of speedy communication, communication through light--and it is evolving rapidly.
Of course, the military has access to all of the cutting-edge technology before it trickles down to us.
This is a given.
All of the best technology seems to end up being filtered through the old system, the old way of doing things---as methods of out-witting and eventually obliterating "enemies".
But there are so many wonderful, positive ways we can use this technology, too.
For medicine, for bridging cultures, for bringing music, learning, humanitarian good to the world.
Many people believe in the prophesy of the Mayan calendar.
The Mayan calendar ends on the Winter Solstice of 2012.
Some believe that the world will end in a catastrophic blow-out.
Every man for himself.
War, pestilence, mass destruction.
Others see it as a shift in consciousness.
Those who embrace enlightenment will move forward.
Those who refuse to, will be shit outta luck.
I don't know.
We'll have to wait and see.
For all I know, it could be like Y2K, when we all waited anxiously on New Year's Eve.
We literally partied like it was 1999 because, well---it was.
Then 2000 rolled around, and the lights were still on.
Perhaps the shift will be more gradual.
After 911, everything really changed.
At first, I didn't really see how it would.
I thought we'd be able to move on as a country.
Silly me.
After all, the average American is completely ignorant, oblivious of all of the really nasty things we've done overseas.
They want to believe that we're always the Good Guys.
It's easy to manipulate the uninformed.
We're the only country in the world whose majority of citizens do not speak at least one second language fluently.
That has a profound impact on one's perceptions.
It is not only the isolation and ignorance, but the willful ignorance---the idea that it is not worth-while to know about "The Other", that is so pervasive in our country.
It is insidious, and it leaves the citizens vulnerable to believing that "The Other" is sub-human.
This belief system desentitizes the populace to the facts of imperialism, hegemony, and military invasion.
The people actually believe that the jingoism that is our trademark foreign policy is designed to liberate the poor savages who would benefit from a U.S.-backed puppet regime.
Sound familiar?
It's been the same-old-same-old since Day One.
Our policies never seem to change.
There is no real change.
There are no just wars.
But the Beige Normals swallow it, hook, line, and sinker every fucking time.
I can't help thinking that there is something meaningful about the fact that I am half-Iraqi and half-American, living here in the American hinterlands---at this time in our history.
Unfortuately, I've pissed away a good portion of my adult life in the grip of alcoholism and bad relationships.
However, at this time, I am sober and married.
Stable.
I have a relatively clear mind, and a strange, vague sense of---responsibility?
To inform.
To create bridges, to find those who are receptive to solutions.
Whether it is through art or music---because these are the means of communication that I find to be the most universal---I have a deep need to transform people's perceptions.
I have no faith in politicians.
They will do their own thing, regardless of what their constituencies think.
Writing or phoning them is about as effective as calling on the residents of Mount Olympus to intervene on your behalf.
No, it begins on the street.
In the home.
In the heart.
I can make a difference in my own sphere of influence.
My art, my friendships, my ideas---they are small.
But I hope that the ripples reach out to touch others in a way that will alter perceptions for the greater good.
Lofty?
Egotistical?
Maybe.
Or maybe I'm thinking too small.
I don't know for sure.
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.09.13 at 08:34
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: ecstatic
Current Music: Jackie Greene: "The Holy Land"
Thanks to the magic of the Interwebs, I've made contact with my Iraqi cousin.
We chatted online last night, mostly about music.
I must say, it made me giggle when she was all impressed that I had sang in a rock band.
She wondered how I had found her.
I told her that I had looked up the family group with our last name, and there she was.
She wanted to know how she could hear my music.
Alas, I only have a few bad-quality cassette tapes from those days.
I've asked Brownie Guy for pictures and recordings, but he always flakes out and 'forgets".
I didn't tell her this.
I told her about Jackie Greene, and I've sent her a fan invitation.
I hope she does become a fan.
I can't wait to tell Jackie that he has fans in Baghdad.
Jackie Greene: International Man Of Peace, Love, and Music!
How cool would that be?
I'm absolutely ecstatic to meet such a wonderful cousin.
The Interwebs are amazing---there I was, chatting with my cousin all the way in Iraq, as though I were texting her only a few miles away.
She is perfectly fluent in English, which is a relief.
It just goes to show---the old rich men can start their stupid wars, but it can't stop the fact that borders are melting.
And music brings us all together.
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.09.12 at 16:56
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: cheerful
Current Music: Levon Helm: "Growin' Trade", [Electric Dirt]
"This is my therapy, to sing about the end of the world and dance. We
don't find solutions in despair---we'll find solutions in the defiance of it."
~ Dave Matthews
Summer is coming to an end.
The sky is that intense azure blue that only comes in September and October.
The leaves on the trees are starting to change colors---still lush and green, but turning to gold.
The gusts of wind send swirling confetti of leaves blowing to the ground.
It' beautiful.
And sad.
Still, it is warm and summer-like outside.
I got some of my frustration out yesterday, in my last post.
Today, I looked up my cousin Reem, from Iraq, on the online social-network site.
Up until recently, I never knew she existed.
A cousin I've never met---in Iraq!
I looked at her picture, her light brown hair and her smile---and I knew she was from our family.
Her mother is Kurdish.
She is beautiful.
I wrote a message, telling her who I am and hoping she wouldn't think I was some nut-case.
The Interwebs are magic.
Sometimes, anyway.
Last night, The Mister and I went to the legendary Broom Street Theatre on Willy Street, to see the play, "Minglewood Blues."
Broom Street Theatre is a tiny, unassuming performance space, nestled behind Willy Street, among the overhanging branches of a group of elms.
It has a rich history as a place for daring experimental theater, borne out of the counter-culture of the late '60s.
The late playwright, Joel Gersmann, had a huge role in pushing the boundaries and adding his unique genius to the theater.
He passed away in 2005, and left a legacy that has brought international attention to the seemingly modest theater.
The play was great---they had a live jug-band, complete with autoharp, accordion, and a guy with a REALLY big harmonica!
Several of our friends had roles in the play, and it was wonderful to see them.
I'm so glad we went.
The seats were tiny and cramped, and we were squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh.
It was worth it, though.
I am so lucky to live in this wonderful town.
Particularly the Near East Side, where there is still a thriving grass-roots community of eclectic artists and musicians who are pretty close-knit and haven't developed the idea yet, that art is something separate from the street, the world.
I am home now, because The Mister wanted to watch football.
Watching football isn't really my cup of tea, and I could tell that the guys kind of wanted to have "guy-time", so I politely stepped out and came home.
That's when I found my cousin, by noodling around in the Interwebs.
It's a beautiful day.
We're planning on seeing Bob Dylan on Halloween.
That's going to be good.
But really, I'm sad that I won't be able to see Jackie Green and Mule when they come to Chicago.
They are playing a show in Philadelphia on Halloween, too.
I'm going to be in New York.
We will be on the train for our return trip on the day that Jackie and Mule are coming to Chicago.
We will be traveling in opposite directions, and we will be passing like ships in the night.
It's just as well.
I will see Jackie again in the Spring.
This way, I will have something to look forward to.
The winters here are so hard to live through.
Anticipating seeing Jackie again will help me survive another winter.
Otherwise, I'd probably just want to go and walk out on the ice.
It gets that hard, sometimes.
When The Mister comes home, we're going to have supper at Dobhan, a Nepali restaurant on Atwood Ave, near the Barrymore.
If you haven't gone there yet, I highly recommend it.
Madison is lucky to have so many great international restaurants.
People take their food very seriously here.
We have Arab, Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Lao, Vietnamese, African, Jamaican, Cuban, Nepali, Indian, Italian, Mexican.
I should really start cooking again soon.
We never got around to having Sundance's birthday party yet.
She's 20 years old.
Her birthday parties are a great incentive for me to cook up a feast.
And I mean---a FEAST!
Iraqi dishes: appetizers, main courses, desserts---and my wonderful, inimitable ( here's my shameless bragging) baqlawa.
Maybe someday, if my cousin Reem comes here again, I will actually have a chance to meet her, and I will make a feast for her arrival.
My father told me when I asked about it further, that she had contacted him back in July, and he never returned her e-mail.
I was so disappointed.
That's the way he rolls.
Well, kids, I'd better wrap this up.
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.09.11 at 10:26
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: pissed off
Current Music: Patti Smith: "Gimme Shelter", [Twelve]
"Anyone who has ever looked into the glazed eyes of a soldier dying on the battlefield will think hard before starting a war." ~ Otto Von Bismark
It happened eight years ago today.
I can remember it well.
I woke up that morning, and it was a brilliant blue-skied September morning.
I went to work at the museum, as usual.
It was a Tuesday.
Everyone looked absolutely ashen.
"What's up?"
"Didn't you hear?"
"No."
"The World Trade Center was attacked by terrorists."
I didn't understand.
At first, I thought it had something to do with the World Trade Organization protests that had been going on before.
Then, it sunk in.
As we were glued to CNN, the story unfolded.
A group of criminals from Saudi Arabia had hijacked and flown two commercial airplanes into the Twin Towers in New York.
Immediately, the hate crimes began.
Attacks on Arabs.
And not only Arabs.
People from India, Sikhs, anyone looking remotely Middle-Eastern.
And there was talk of war.
Against Iraq.
But, Iraq had nothing to do with the attacks.
With that kind of logic, it would be like launching a war on Milwaukee, because Jeffrey Dahmer was a murderous cannibal.
So, it would follow that all of Milwaukee's people were cannibals.
Or even more accurately, why not retaliate against Chicago, since it's close enough?
Instead of pursuing a proper criminal investigation and bringing the perpetrators to justice, a full-scale war was launched, and hundreds of thousands of people have perished, and continue to die and be maimed.
Billions of dollars go to this war, at the cost of domestic services.
Our economy is in the toilet as a direct result of this sickening crime---this war.
So, for eight years, the U.S. has laid waste to a country that most Americans can't even find on a map.
Americans know nothing of the language, the customs, or the geography of Iraq.
And they don't want to know.
They cling willfully to their ignorance, having decided long ago that Iraqis are sub-human, and that murdering and torturing them is somehow "Protecting Our Freedom".
When I've told the Beige Normals that I am of Iraqi descent, they don't believe me.
"But your father is educated---Westernized, right?" they implore, trying to grasp at my humanness.
"You don't look Arab."
"At least you know who your mother is."
And somehow, Americans, at least the Beige Normals, are so taken aback that Iraqis are lacking in thanks for the "gifts of civilization" that the U.S. has brought to them.
Iraq was civilized thousands of years before a bunch of ignorant rednecks came in to rape and pillage them.
But what would Americans know?
They think they already know everything there is to know.
The U.S. has destroyed precious archaeological sites with their tanks that they've rolled over them in their zeal to bring "Nation-Building" to a country they've bombed into obliteration.
So, see?
There's nothing to see here, folks.
Just a bunch of rubble.
The whole thing just makes me seethe.
How can people be so stupid?
And what's worse, they are proud of their stupidity.
I think that's the worst part of it.
Americans really believe that the U.S. does not have blood on its hands.
From the bloody conquest of the First Nations...
Hiroshima.
Nagasaki.
My Lai in Vietnam.
The Haditha Massacre.
It never ends.
It just never ends.
In Sorrow,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.09.07 at 23:42
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: amused
Current Music: "In Heaven", (from David Lynch's "Erasorhead")
This morning, The Mister told me about something funny I did last night.
Some time during the night, I must have been having a great dream.
According to The Mister, I sat up in bed and was laughing and clapping my hands.
"This is the best part of the movie! It goes right to your brain !" I exclaimed with delight.
I was asleep the entire time, and I have no recollection of it.
It would be nice to be able to remember what this wonderful dream movie was.
Alas, I may never know.
I wonder what else I say in my sleep?
Love,
Dicey Venison
Posted on 2009.09.04 at 22:58
Current Location: The Habitat For Nerdidity
Current Mood: inspired
Current Music: Widespread Panic: "Love Tractor"
I got back today from a three-day trip to Chicago to see Widespread Panic and the Allman Brothers.
I had a blast.
We started out early and got to our hotel and checked in.
Then, we took the subway to Reza's on Foster and Clark.
I felt a little guilty for eating lunch at a Persian restaurant during Ramadan, but nobody else there seemed to have a problem, so I just went with the flow.
As always, their food is wonderful.
We made our usual stops at the Pars Store and the Middle East Grocery on Clark.
I was really happy to find sahleb, an Arab drink mix, in powder form.
It's made from the root of a type of orchid, I think.
Well, I was so happy to find it, because I've looked everywhere for it, and so I bought four boxes.
I also bought my usual Arab olive oil soap.
Usually, I get the big blocks of saboon reggeh, as this soap is called in Arabic, that are made in Syria.
It has a nice sweet, earthy smell.
This time, the olive oil soap was from Jordan, and it was wrapped in beautiful white paper, with Arabic script and a picture of a camel on it. I think it will make lovely gifts for the holidays, or birthdays.
Soon enough, it was time to make our way to the show.
We got on the train and it took us to the Charter One Pavilion, near Soldier Field.
We walked along the lake, and it was beautiful.
The sun was shining, and the weather was perfect.
The lake reminded me of parts of San Francisco.
We met up with a lot of people who were going to the show, and they told us that the cops had shut down Shakedown Street, (the parking lot scene where people gather to trade news, food, T-shirts and art.)
It was true.
There really was no Shakedown, and there was a strong police presence, telling people to empty their cups if there was any alcohol in them.
The Charter One Pavilion itself was extraordinarily mellow, once we got in.
Unlike the Riviera, which makes you feel like you're being processed into the prison system, this venue was very welcoming.
They didn't frisk us or search us, and everyone was very pleasant.
In addition to the general air of hospitality, the venue had clean flush-toilets.
Oh, yes!
I loved the place.
The Mister and I were pleased with our seats.
There really weren't any bad seats, since the venue was relatively small, for a stadium.
The venue was set up beautifully, and it was all out-doors.
The Allman Brothers were opening.
The show started at 6:00 p.m., so the sun was still shining, and there flocks of seagulls flying overhead, and people were smiling, and there was a feeling of sister-and-brotherhood all around.
Really beautiful.
There were some great surprises, too.
Dave Mason from Traffic was there as a guest.
And who else---Buddy Guy, for chrissakes!!! was there, playing "The Sky Is Crying".
Holy Shit.
That was wonderful.
It was really fun to hear the cover of Bob Dylan's "Just Like A Woman", a song written for Edie Sedgwick.
I sang along, but I have my own words that I've made up for the song:
Everybody knows
When she's taking off her clothes
You'd better run for cover
And cover up your nose
She quit bathing to protest the war
And she bakes cakes just like a woman
Yes she does!
And she breaks wind just like a woman
Yes she does!
And she shits bricks just like a woman
But she drinks just like a little girl...
The Moon was rising in all of Her glorious brilliance, with Venus tagging along faithfully nearby.
I felt the presence of God, of divinity.
I've been an agnostic for a long time, kind of on the fence about God, but I always find God in music.
I came to the realization that it doesn't really matter whether or not I believe in God, it doesn't change the fact that God Is.
God just Is.
I thought about the Hindu concept of Brahmin, the Supreme Consciousness.
I thought about how God breaks down into all of these other gods in order for us to come into Divine presence.
I thought about Jesus, and Inanna, Aphrodite, Dionysus, and all of the pantheons that have come into being throughout the millenia, and how these are all facets and personae taken on by God in order to reach us.
I pondered the story of Krishna, and how he came to the cow-herder girls and how he divided into this holographic multitude of himself, dancing and making love to each girl exactly as she wanted him to, but the moment that a girl became possessive, thinking he was hers alone, he would disappear.
Then, I thought about the Devil, and I realized that God had created everything in the Universe; everything is a manifestation of God.
Even the bad stuff.
Why do you think so many cultures believe in complicated pantheons?
I believe in all of the pantheons, because they are all true.
God is so multifaceted, so complex, so intelligent, that there is no way to contain it all.
I find God in Music.
And in the Woods.
And the Ocean.
These were the thoughts that were going through my mind when Widespread Panic started their set, and I was listening to, and watching, Jimmy Herring play his guitar.
Panic is a band that is more than just a group of musicians.
They have something very special, something that is truly great.
Jimmy Herring is more than just a guitarist, he is a wizard.
And I mean that in the true sense of the word: he is a sorcerer.
This man can channel the divine from the celestial spheres, and then blast it out into the world in a way that can bring you to your knees.
It is astounding to watch and listen to him play.
He is calm and self-contained.
No ostentation, no "guitar face".
And I've never heard anyone quite like him.
I'm a little afraid of Jimmy Herring.
We were way up in one of the bleachers, and I found myself wedged up next to an
Office Nerd of Gargantuan Proportions.
Of course, as my luck would have it, all of the gorgeous dewy-eyed hippie boys with waist-length dreadlocks and mythical tattoos, were over there, across the aisle, in the next section.
Tempting mirages, just beyond my reach...
So, I had to deal with the Office Nerd...
He kept edging into my space, obstructing my view, so I craned around his bulk, to see the band.
He was very excited about the show, telling me that this was the first time he'd seen Panic, and they were really great.
I was glad to hear that he was appreciating the music.
He started to really get into it, which spelled trouble for me, as we were in such close quarters:
The Clerical Behemoth began to jiggle and vibrate to the rhythm of the music.
I grimaced as I braced myself for the inevitable.
His love-handle, a great juggernaut of adipose flesh, swung around to smack me in the breast.
At last, the people behind us decided to wander off and explore other areas, leaving the space empty.
It was with gratitude that, with The Mister, I climbed up to that section and had freedom of movement, which was really nice, despite being on the receiving end of a series of beer farts that drifted up from below us.
The show was absolutely amazing, and by the time it was over, I felt truly done-unto.
It was a spiritual experience.
The next day, we met up with Fran at the show, as the Allman Brothers started their set.
Fran had missed Panic, and we met up with her after the set break.
It was so good to see her.
I ran into several of my friends from Madison, and it was really fun to see them, too.
Fran and I were dancing and having a great time.
She has the hots for Derek Trucks.
Panic played with the Allman Brothers during several songs.
The atmosphere was jubilant, and everyone was having such a great time.
The Allman Brothers ended their set with an absolutely smoking encore of "Whipping Post".
Fran told me that Jackie Greene is coming to Chicago on October 24th, to open for Mule.
At first, I thought that I'd be able to come back in time for it.
We're going to New York to see Rat Dog at that time, but I thought that maybe when we leave, our train would arrive in Chicago in time for me to catch him.
Not so, it turns out.
Our train is leaving New York on the 24th.
Dammit!!!
That sucks, because I really miss Jackie, and I was so happy to hear that he was coming back to this area sooner than I'd expected.
I try to catch at least one show when he comes to the Midwest.
I've even gone to see him with Phil Lesh in St. Louis.
We've traveled to Florida to see him, and we got on a train last year and traveled over two mountain ranges, to see him in San Francisco.
Of course, for The Mister, it was the lure of Grace Potter, so he had a motivating factor in the matter, as well.
Mule is playing in Detroit on the 25th, and then, they are doing a Halloween show in Philadelphia, with Jackie.
God! I wish I could go!
There's just so much I can do, such a limit on where I can go.
The Mister is annoyed by my incessant whining over this, but I tell him that it's something he's just going to have to live with.
I had a closing shift at work today.
I usually don't work on Fridays, and I usually don't close, but I had to modify my schedule, so I would be able to still get in forty hours.
It wasn't too bad.
I actually feel pretty good.
There were protesters outside the store, responding to our CEO's controversial Op-Ed regarding health-care reform.
One protester wore a Grim-Reaper costume, with the word "PROFIT" emblazoned across the back.
They were outside the store all day long.
I understand where they're coming from, but as for me, I've gotten over it.
I can't let myself get all wrapped up in it.
What do these people want us to do?
Quit our jobs in some rash act of principle?
I'm not doing that---not in this economy.
I'm glad to be employed, thank you very much.
I may have days where I feel frustrated and I just want to throw in the towel and hop on a coal train to wherever it takes me.
But it's not like I'll ever do that.
What I need to do is make time for my music and art.
I do have the time.
All I need to do is organize that time in a productive manner.
I feel inspired.
Love,
Dicey Venison
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