Psychic Projections

We’re headed out. My last day home will be taken up with packing and last minute administrator safe-checks to keep my Hot Dwarf Sex Site running smoothly during our absence.

(Of course I’m kidding…. or am I? Am I?)

Since I’ll be tromping for a week in Yellowstone and won’t have time to visit blogs, I’ve decided to psychically project what a few of the weebles will post about ahead of time. This idea isn’t mine, btw; I stole it from another website, but it seems like a good sort of idea to robberize. Here goes:

Bountiful Healing: While I’m gone, Robin will post a stunning picture with a thoughtful, relevant quote. If I had to guess on the subject matter, hm… it will be the silhouette of a bird perched in a tree at twilight, with the accompanying words,

“The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.”

-H.W. Longfellow, from ‘The Day is Done’.

Either that or she’ll post gratuitous salad porn with accompanying quote from Bugs Bunny. Robin’s sneaky like that.

Not Quite Right: Bob will write a post about yetis and redneck romance that strikes a universal chord and makes you spurt coffee out your nose at the same time. The post will be titled, “Now Pucker-Up the Other End

Quotidian Vicissitudes: David’s post this week will be numbered and have two or three parts. Here’s a sample of what he will write:

Two Random Dreams About My Therapist, Plus: Cracker Complaint

In the last week I have woken twice from vivid dreams that prominently featured my current therapist. While I would generally find this sort of pattern troubling, I think it is perhaps not unusual to incorporate those people into your subconscious whom you are exploring your subconscious motivations with. No, it is not the subject of the dreams that troubled me so much as the cryptic tenor of the plot lines.

1) In the first dream, my therapist and I are walking through the J.C. Penny Department Store in Lloyd Center which closed down three years ago. The store is still open in the dream, but it seems deserted. I am watching our feet as we walk down one of those endless, waxed tile aisles that go around the perimeter of department stores. I am troubled by the harsh fluorescent lighting, and confused as to the purpose of our journey. My therapist looks at me very severely every time I look up. I finally ask if we are looking for anything specific, and she replies that she will not allow me into her car again until I replace her socks. I want to request clarification, but suddenly realize that I have an orange bicycle clip on one leg, and leather loafers with absolutely no socks on underneath. I understand immediately that this is what she is referring to, and there the dream should have ended except we are making the same fruitless lap over and over, and I can’t find a sock to save my life.

Asian Ramblings: Stevo will begin to post pictures from his trips to other provinces or other countries, I’m not really sure which, but it all sounds terribly exotic. He will also hold a contest which challenges other bloggers to guess which item of clothing he is not wearing. The goal-posts may keep changing on this one, but eventually the winning blogger will score a pre-paid personality hosted by The Disney Channel. Keep your eyes peeled for a newly-fledged princess complex on one of your favorite blogs.

Stumbling along the path: Lazy Buddhist will post adorable, giant cat pictures, (eek!) but she will make up for it by incorporating funny dialogue and buddhist wisdom into her blog entry. This is the sort of picture she would be posting if this picture happened to be 1. a cat and 2. totally gigantic.

florescence: Jo will write a poem with lovely turns of phrase and precise, imaginative language. I will try to create a pre-sample of her poem, despite the fact that this is wholly impossible.

Woman Under Waterfall

She steps past the curtain
and becomes different, somehow.
She can part water, sing stone music;
shed herself for naiad.
Her voice becomes wavy,
her hair turns the colors
of a green rainbow.
Boys look, but can’t really see her-
which is a darn good thing cus
their eyeballs would melt
and slide out their eyesockets
like non-viral loogies.
They perceive only a flash, a sparkle,
something they want
but can’t grip properly.
She slips past their outstretched palms
like green jello.

(I cannot imitate her style or language, alas. Do give her a click, and see the real thing.)

The Most High and Holy Church of Jaynova: Jay will not write any posts this week. His cat will be eaten mauled by a transient zombie on Monday, and he will spend the rest of the week trying to chase it down and destroy it while relying on erratic public transportation schedules.

Mad Haiku: Mad might write a poem using specific stylistic parameters that dictate syllable and line count. I’m guessing a cinquain or a tanka. Perhaps a villanelle.

UU Deist in Texas: Jules will tease his readers with an opening that seems to allude to his blossoming relationship to the deistette in Texas, but will turn out to actually be an ode to his childhood sock monkey, Oodles. Here’s a sample:

I got used to holding you in my arms…

Today you’re in my head, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I keep thinking about your button nose, your soft, cuddly body, the way you’ve been there when I needed you. I wonder where you’re at today. Are you making someone else happy, or are you waiting for me to take you out again and treat you the way you deserve…?

(click to view post below page break)


Oodles the sock monkey was my steadfast friend growing up. He got a little worn around the edges, and I drooled on him constantly, but that just made him more personal to me… (con.)

Life in Midstream: Dan will write about fishing. You can take that one to the bank.

Girl’s Guide to Picking up Hitchhikers

That’s a bit misleading. I wanted something catchy, but here’s the disclaimer: Wondrous stupidity doth unfold in these here lines. I don’t advocate the picking up of hitchhikers by girls, because there’s always that possibility you’ll hit the wacko jackpot and become the central plot of one of those CSI investigation shows. For safety’s sake, please leave the transport of absolute strangers to more retarded drivers. Like me.

Hitchhiking is a ballsy endeavor, because it involves sticking out your thumb, and letting fate take over. Extending that meaty digit along any traffic thoroughfare expresses a willingness to throw in your lot with absolute strangers. What an enchanting, fucked up thing to do.

The picking up of hitchhikers requires a degree of that same enchanted fuck-uppedness. When I see someone standing by the side of the road, trying to flag down a ride, I get curious. The disheveled solicitor seems to throw off the same might-be-magic gleam of a parboiled glow worm.

Who is this wheel-lacking highway person? Some displaced noble from a far off land, attempting to make his fortune and save his family’s crumbling estate? The woman, sitting on a suitcase, is she a fallen Vegas Angel, escaping the clutches of a hairy pimp? Maybe making her way to the orchards of Washington, for seasonal apple-picking employment? Could be. Then again, they could be murderous-rapist-thieves. There’s no way to tell for sure.

I picked up my first hitchhiker mainly out of boredom. My early twenties were messed up times, and the introduction of any person, place or thing outside the sphere of my daily existence was enough to stir a degree of curiosity. 

When you pick up a hitchhiker, there are a few things you want to look for:

1. Does his or her physical demeanor stimulate a visceral perception of impending death? If the answer is ‘yes’, drive on by. It’s impossible to discern a Bundy by appearance, but most people have a subconscious, gut level of intuition that can sometimes communicate an essential ‘yea’ or ‘nay’ if they’re paying attention.

2. Singles or pairs? It works both ways: There’s some safety in numbers. People who would not pick up a solitary man will often stop for a man and woman couple. I’m antsy about being double-teamed, but then again, killers don’t tend to travel in pairs- probably because murder is socially awkward. It’s hard to find follow-up conversation once you’ve dumped a body together.

3. What does the hitchhiker carry with them? If they are fingering a large bowie knife, or holding a bag that’s dripping dark substance from the bottom, give them a pass. Also avoid- florid faces (alcohol), the skeleton thin (drugs) and crank eyes, which are hard to describe but if you’ve ever seen them, you’ll always recognize them. People on crank have a very distinguishable look, kind of like someone’s hollowed out their eye-sockets with a pewter spoon and then stuck their eyeballs back in there. A crank user might not kill you, but they’ll definitely complain about your music.

Here’s an important one: Avoid hitchhikers who seem replete with the holy spirit. You wouldn’t believe how many serial killers have, at one point or another, stolen a bible from a motel room. There are no correlating studies to link religious fervor with the innate ability to stick a knife in a person’s throat, but you hafta consider the mental facilities of anyone exuding peace and love while standing on a highway shoulder trying to beg a ride to Logsden. They’re being flipped off and snickered at by any dregs of society who can afford a Pinto, being rained on, honked at, blown assundry by beefy truckers named Mel-  a little angst is just reasonable in such a situation. This is the Pacific Northwest, after all, not the bible belt.

My first hitchhiker was named something generic like Andy or Ted. He was handsome in that rakish way that gets totally ruined once they speak and you find out what a flake they are. Most hitchhikers I’ve picked up pretty much follow Andy’s template: They’re poor, good-time guys who are between cars, or at least between girlfriends with cars. They can afford cigarettes, and can usually scrape up enough to look good and survive okay, but now and again a lapse in judgment leaves them to rely on the kindness of strangers.

Andy flirted with me, which was disappointing. I know that’s how its done, sometimes. If you have nothing to offer, you offer flattery, but I was offended at being taken for a purveyor of road-side flesh. I’d like to think I’m not a person who has to pick up dates ‘en-route’ from the dusty meatlockers of the hard up. Ew. He got the bubble-gum pop treatment, and almost redeemed himself with a comical rendition of Toto’s ‘Africa’. 

The next transport was a middle aged woman trying to get to her job at the local hospital. She had the look of someone whose been through the grist-mill and gotten sad instead of hard. Pale blue eyes, an older woman’s face, no car, two kids, daddy’s gone, some kind of fine from the state. Your typical, small tragic life. I know that it was probably some lapse in judgement, some character flaw that landed her in her current situation, but I afforded her my sympathy, and dreamed her up into the noble heroine she likely wanted to seem. I almost said it, as we pulled into the hospital parking lot: “I’ll write you, I’ll write you in such a way that grown men weep.”

But I just headed on my way.

I took a hiatus from hitchhikers after an older fellow,  a veteran, gave me a good dressing down for picking him up. He tried to describe, graphically, what could happen to a woman alone with a stranger. Maybe he was trying to scare me, but at that point in time I had cable and he just wasn’t up to the job. Mostly I was resentful. Typical male, go all condescending and superior on someone you’re relying on for something. I hate having to listen to a lecture when the situation dictates that the other person should logically be my bitch.

If you’re a dedicated weeble, you might be a little anxious on a particular point. And the answer is no, no I have never picked up a hitchhiker while my daughter was in the car. Likely you could build a case that these sojourns into stranger land were irresponsible enough to merit the vet guy’s dressing down, but I kinda think we all hafta go our own way on such issues. Life is a dangerous past-time; just getting into an automobile guarantees a degree of risk and endangerment rarely equalled by dancing naked on the beach in a lightning storm. Like alligator wrestling, the hitchhiker thing seems particular foolhardy because of the stand-out aspects of the risk: It’s voluntary & death by hitchhiker is a really lurid, horrible way to go. It seems weird, the idea of subjecting yourself to a possible psycho.

But there’s that other aspect: The story part. If you lead a sheltered, monotonous life, you have to get your excitement somewhere. I think the internet is an interesting place to act out fantasies in relative safety, but sometimes you hafta rub elbows with the fucked-up hoopla. The inherent possibility is more important than the outcome. A stranger can change your mind, change your destination, change your life. 

What a fucked up, enchanting idea.





That mean ol’ mister: Change

Every now and again there is a flurry.

Changes… changes everywhere. Many lives at once seem suddenly to be at the pivotal point; there will be a flurry of deaths, births, occupation alterations. Maybe crisis. Maybe love.

It happens here, too. In blog-land. Suddenly, old friends seem to be packing up, moving to a new u.r.l, or quitting the blog gig altogether. Some ride it out with a brief hiatus. Others grit their teeth and pull through, trying to ignore the weird sensation of a survivor stayin’ behind in the electronic silhouette of a ghost town.

I’ve pulled up roots once before, deleting a blog with one simple push of a button. Since then, there have been instances where I briefly considered calling it quits. It takes time, this daily endeavor. Undoubtedly there are more self-rewarding ways to see time invested.


But I’ve decided to stick around at this address for several change flurries to come. My thoughts are comfortable here; and the community, familiar but changing, is a good one in my estimation.

It’s a little tough when people pack up their blogs and you know in your heart there’s no forwarding address. I get weirdly attached to familiar things, even things I don’t like very much. And when people quit their blogs, they usually really *go*, cus it’s about more than just time. For some it’s time to move on from a whole stage of life. There won’t be room in the new identity to send small, perfectly formed spirals of irrelevant thought across the distance to mere strangers.

For my part, the time investment is worthwhile. Because my mind.. it’s restless, and this blog is always open for me. Sometimes I need the act of deposit, the simple laying down of words. I travel here when my body is forced toward stillness. It’s how I break out of the pocket of a vacuum, when I can’t find air between my mattress and the stars. Who knew, huh? The little bit of nutsy that drives the writing impulse… probably I’m not the only one. Steady and persevering as any personality might be, there’s a need that drives the written word; sometimes a deep need.

So, for those who’ve gone away for a little while, the porch light’s shining, and your return is gently anticipated. For those who’ve gone and aren’t coming back, I remember reading you, I do. Your words still shape a little window into memory. And for those who’re weathering the changes with pictures and paragraphs, it’s awfully nice to read you and to know you’re still out there, somewhere, building fragile bridges out of words.