 |
| Monday, October 30, 2006 |
| The best Halloween story ever |
THE TELL-TALE HEART
by Edgar Allen Poe
TRUE! - nervous - very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses - not destroyed - not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily - how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture - a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees - very gradually - I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded - with what caution - with what foresight - with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it - oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly - very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! - would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously - oh, so cautiously - cautiously (for the hinges creaked) - I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights - every night just at midnight - but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers - of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back - but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out - "Who's there?" I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; - just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief - oh, no! - it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself - "It is nothing but the wind in the chimney - it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel - although he neither saw nor heard - to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little - a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it - you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily - until, at length a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the-crevice [[the crevice]] and fell full upon the vulture eye. It was open - wide, wide open - and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness - all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over acuteness of the senses? - now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! - do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me - the sound would be heard by a neighbor!
The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once - once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye - not even his - could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out - no stain of any kind - no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all - ha! ha! When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock - still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, - for what had I now to fear?
There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they the officers) had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled, - for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search - search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things.
But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: - it continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness - until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale; - but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased - and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound - much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath - and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly - more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men - but the noise steadily increased.
Oh God! what could I do? I foamed - I raved - I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder - louder - louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not?
Almighty God! - no, no! They heard! - they suspected! - they knew! - they were making a mockery of my horror! - this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! - and now - again! - hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! - tear up the planks! - here, here! - it is the beating of his hideous heart!" |
posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 4:51 PM  |
|
|
|
| Thursday, October 26, 2006 |
| Angry Inch |
So deep seeded my irritation
So aggravated my indignation
I don't want to see you
I don't want to know you
I don't really love you.
So fully cultivated my resentment
So extreme my self loathing
You have made me escape myself
You have reintroduced my pain
You created this beast.
So complete my dispassionate repose
You mistake my apathy for sadness.
So entire my distaste for your moral faux pas
You mistake my disgust for morbid attraction.
You spit your expectations at me, venomous requirements.
You mistake my silence for submission.
Your suppression makes my strength in rebellion rear its ugly head.
Though I mechanically move through the day...
completing your ridiculous tasks
doing as you would have me do
making your life easier
The more you shake the already explosive contents of my soul....
Its likely you will end up weeping over this one too.
Then again, the drama, your personal victimization,
the way the world continuously slaps you in the face..
through no fault of your own, of course..
Will reignite your purpose.
Will give you a new reason to punish.
Will amend your self proclaimed right to abuse.
Makes me sick. |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 9:42 AM |
|
|
|
| Monday, October 23, 2006 |
| memories |
My son crawls into bed with me at three in the morning, laying right on top of me, before I am barely awake he sputters excuses for his untimely visit. "I had scary dreams," he whimpers," my room is changed, I'm scared to go back in there." Winding my arms around him, I kiss his forehead. He feels clammy. His skin smells of the kind of sweat that only little boys produce, a little milky, musty, not entirely bad. I hug him tight, and we drift back into our own seperate dreams.
I am remembering my mother's soft flabby arms when I used to crawl into her bed at three in the morning. My father would snort loudly and offer a quick, "HUH!!" My mom reached across in the dark and patted his shoulder, "its only Kathy, go back to sleep." She would cuddle me under the blanket and tickle my face for what seemed like hours.
I remember watching my hair float up under water in the tub. There was the soft tickle of air clinging to my nose, and always a muffled pounding of knuckle on wood, a brother or sister needing to use the toilet. Time floated then, stood still, if only briefly.
There was the scent of hot tomatoes being boiled for canning. The bustle of family getting ready for Sunday school. On conference weekends, prophetic voices boomed from every medium in our home, radio, tv.. whatever. We picked weeds, cleaned house, harvested veggies for bottling. My mother taught me patiently how to snap beans, my sisters on either side of me, telling jokes.
My father would come in after surveying the garden, disappointed in the damage the jack rabbits had done to his pride and joy. I remember his irrigation system. I remember wondering how he ever came up with such an ingenious plan for watering our dinner.
We used to load our sun warmed veggies into baskets, plastic bags, boxes, we would share them with friends and neighbors.
There were the quilting frames holding tacked down cloth, almost too big for our living room. The girls sat knotting yarn through the layers, chatting or watching television. I hid underneath with my next oldest sister and our friends. We ate buttered popcorn from the air popper, tying our sisters' and mother's shoe laces together.
I remember finding my father's coat covering my entire body when I woke from a nap on the couch, not knowing who draped it over me, but revelling in the smell of Old Spice.. knowing somewhere deep inside of me that that moment would not last forever.. knowing I needed to lock it away inside my heart.
Ha ha.. then there was Paula Abdul playing in the 'ghetto blaster'. Making up dances with my friends in the long stretch of lawn next to our house. Scavaging the fields and hills surrounding our little plot of land. I brought home injured wild animals, nursed them back to life.. until one fateful time I found a nest of baby bunnies, ravaged by some kind of predator. There was one little baby left alive, its mother dead in the brush nearby. Its face was bitten, its breath coming in short gasps. I took off my shoe and wrapped it in a sock, running home as fast as I could. My mother looked at me helpless, she told me onestly that it would not live. I begged her to let me try to make it better.. she agreed. It died within hours. My first brush with death. I cried for days.
My first kiss came at ten. It was awful. The boy was Navajo, he had long hair, beautiful eyes and skin. We were under the vast night sky of southern Utah. Stars were out, a crescent moon overhead. He leant down and we eagerly slobbered all over each other's faces. He awkwardly tried to show me how, I was too nervous to learn.
Before then there were long days climbing trees, playing with snakes, watching ribbon float on the breeze. We made forts in the mud, channeling water into puddles and moats around castles of rock and dirt. We snacked on hot berries, straight off the bush, soft and tangy in our mouths.
I wake in the morning, remembering how beautiful life is. I am filled with the purpose of remembering these simple moments, how effortlessly these treasures came, how to remain in such a state.
I want to remember how to just be. |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 11:44 AM |
|
|
|
| Tuesday, October 17, 2006 |
| Spoons |
| I just came to the realization that all of my favorite foods (comfort or otherwise) are ingested with the aid of bowl and spoon.. or just spoon. Also the first utensils I played with on the earth. Think there's any correlation? |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 5:47 PM |
|
|
|
|
| Beautiful Story |
My sister sent this story to me in an email, damn near made me cry:
The Pea Story Babs Miller was bagging some early potatoes for me. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily apprising a basket of freshly picked green peas. I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller and the
ragged boy next to me.
"Hello Barry, how are you today?"
"H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas. Sure look good."
"They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"
"Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time."
"Good. Anything I can help you with?"
"No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas."
"Would you like to take some home?"
"No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with."
"Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?"
"All I got's my prize marble here."
"Is that right? Let me see it."
"Here 'tis. She's a dandy."
"I can see that. Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?"
"Not zackley. but almost."
"Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble."
"Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller."
Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile she said, "There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, perhaps."
I left the stand smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to Colorado but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering.
Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died. They were having his viewing that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them. Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could.
Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts ... all very professional looking. They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her and moved on to the casket.
Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.
Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and mentioned the story she had told me about the marbles. With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket.
"Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim "traded" them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size....they came to pay their debt."
"We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world," she confided, "but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho ." With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles.
Moral: We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind deeds.
Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath.
Today I wish you a day of ordinary miracles....A fresh pot of coffee you didn't make yourself. An unexpected phone call from an old friend. Green stoplights on your way to work. The fastest line at the grocery store. A good sing-along song on the radio Your keys right where you left them.
Send this to the people you'll never forget. |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 4:01 PM |
|
|
|
|
| Clean Home |
The dishes are done, dry and put away.
The towels folded neatly in a drawer.
Beds are made, floors vacuumed, dust removed.
Everything has its place. Everything is in its place.
The house feels empty. It smells of cleaning product and vanilla.
I keep telling myself if I bake something, simmer a chowder, create something fantastic and edible....
maybe then it won't be so lonely.
Its cold outside, the leaves are mounting in the grass.
My boy doesn't want to play.
I guess I could do laundry. I guess I could catch some talk shows, soap operas, read a book, do my workout video.
I guess I could be a little more thankful for the bliss of being home.
My sons went to school with the smell of cucumber melon shampoo in their hair, bubblegum toothpaste wafting out on their breath. They ate big bowls of oatmeal with toast, brown sugar to boot. They pulled on their cotton knit gloves, their clean white socks, sneakers, gathered books, papers.. I can smell the lead of their pencils they so neatly stow in the various pockets of their backpacks.
I try not to feel hollow as they kiss my nose, cheeks, hug my shoulders tightly. I try to convince myself that they haven't the strength to shatter me.
I pull on one of my husband's sweaters. Its big, comfortable, the sleeves end at my fingertips, its knit with shades of navy and cream. I marvel that it's a man's sweater. Its so... feminine. Maybe it just seems as such when draped over female attributes.
Its raining again. There's nothing to do. . . yet so much to be done.. and I am ignoring everything. |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 10:17 AM |
|
|
|
| Monday, October 16, 2006 |
| Lucky Noam |
I sit here listening to the splashing pattering of Monday morning rain..
My thoughts have not been with you for years,
Just when I think I am over loving, losing, and all of our pain,
You reappear.
Do you remember painting by candlelight?
Do you remember huddling together, while you read to me from your Hebrew Journals?
Do you remember spending so much time picking out old movies, then cuddling up and watching them from that old brown flowered couch?
Do you remember Henry the Moose? I still have him.
Do you remember our early morning coffee stints and soup in the bread bowl?
Do you remember cooking steak for me, making a beautiful salad?
Remember when we partied with that cop my best friend was dating, then making love standing in my bedroom?
You were my best friend. You were my knight. You gave me solace, comfort, confidence. You loved me and I failed to notice.
And I loved you too.
I miss you so much. I miss the easy way we spent our time together. I miss the perpetual five o clock shadow, the curl of your hair, the shape of your head, your large ears, friendly eyes, your goofy grin, your laugh lines, I even miss your pigeon chest. I loved how I could feed you forever and you never gained any weight. I loved how you wouldn't buy yourself anything new, because you didnt want it to be stolen from you. I loved how you wore clothes from thrift stores, because what was fashion but vanity... and you believed clothes were to perform the function of covering your body. I loved how you would cringe every time the test sirens came on at lunchtime, bringing back horrific memories that you would share from your childhood. I loved how your face would light when you saw me, how you would ask when you were going to see me again, how you would gently wrap your fingers around my wrist and tell me you missed me. I loved that there were no expectations, I loved that we never spoke of what we had. But now I regret it, because now I live with out you.
For years I have wondered where you have been.
Then out of the blue, on a rainy Monday morning, I hear from you.
My lucky Noam.
And though it was a simple thing you sent to me.. a 'getting to know you email' that was sent to everyone on an email list I have yet to update...
It was enough to tear open a gaping hole in my soul, a place reserved for you. |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 11:56 AM |
|
|
|
| Thursday, October 05, 2006 |
| Thursday |
Okay, so tonight I have a date. . with my husband and his fantasy, one of my friends. She has great big fake boobs, flawless skin, and size four hips. Needless to say, for me, its a love hate relationship. My hubby would NEVER admit his attraction to her.. but its obvious. The man scrambles.. I mean, SCRAMBLES to assist her with the slightest menial thing. As do most men we know. She is the kind of girl that could pose for playboy. At any stage of her life.. pregnancy, post pregnancy, pre pregnancy... blah! And for that I am jealous, and for that I am petty and mean. She asks if I'm going to a show, sure, I tell her... 'would you get me a ticket?' Sure I say... 'but, I expect you to pay for the ticket, the service charge and my gas to and from the ticket booth.' I am such a bitch.
I know what she will be wearing to the show. Its always the same... black halter top khaki postage stamp sized skirt and knee high boots. No bra, no panties. Then she will go out to the mosh pit after guzzling two pitchers of beer and two shots of jaeger. She will be mauled, she will nearly lose her clothing, then she will come back wet with sweat from head to toe, invigorated and shining. I will have to stand and listen to her hillarious tales of strange men and women fondling her, as I watch my husband drool out the side of his mouth. Sexy.
If it weren't for the fact that my hubby really isn't a punker, I would just go to the show with him, but he doesnt understand the rules of the game, and he becomes.. like an eight year old. My girlfriend keeps his maturity level in check. So, I guess in a way, she is my secret weapon, as sad as it is to admit. I'd hit the show alone.. but, he would NEVER allow that. Her stories make him not trust her, so he isn't about to let me go only with her. Its a catch twenty two. I think I will just get incredibly piss drunk, then I wont really give a shit. For two days I have obsessed about what to wear. I am almost to the stage of pajama bottoms and a huge tee shirt. My husband asserts that not trying to be sexy is sexy...
So, I'm settling with a sheer white button shirt under a blue halter top, jeans, cordouroy page boy hat and pig tails. I will smoke out my eye makeup and wear nude lipstick. I will smile at everyone and enjoy the show. I will. If it kills me, I will.
They are my favorite punk band dammit!!! |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 12:27 PM |
|
|
|
| Wednesday, October 04, 2006 |
| Wednesday |
Happy HumpDay!!! My boy and I started off with creamy peachy oatmeal, hot from scratch... it was so good. I drank my wulong tea, cleaned the house a bit, then he and I excersized. Turbo Jam... definately not for the athletically impaired. That's the point though, I guess... soon I will be athletic. That is, if I can convince myself that the effort is worth the pain.. I need to thrill and delight in this pain. Who knew middle aged would be so.... bleh? Except for this generation has made middle age the new beginning age, the new climax.. where in which you aren't supposed to feel old and run down or obsessed over every little bulge here there and everywhere. You know, I hate Madonna. Why can't the woman just grow old gracefully... Why can't she just get fat and wrinkled just like everyone else?!? Damn her and her freaking leotard. I'd like to just start a revolution against not aging. I mean, shit, we are all born to die. We all have to go through most of the same steps.. Dammit!! Why not embrace bulges and wrinkles and skin spots and bloating and the inevitable tug of gravity on our bossoms? Its gonna happen eventually anyway, might as well just accept it!!! Even Madonna will have to HAVE to get old eventually. I can't wait til she loses her faculties and can no longer pee on her own. That's not really true. Not completely anyway. I'm happy for the woman. She was able to make it in the world. She assured that she would be a legend through the ages... and her reward is the ability to pay for millions of dollars in surgery and top of the line beauty products. Yay for Madonna. Bitch.
So, I decided today that I was going to go round with as little makeup on as I can possibly stand. Mascara and eyebrow pencil.. a little lip gloss. Its weird. I look tired. I discovered not to long ago that I do indeed have eyelashes.. that are invisible to the naked eye... but if I wave my mascara wand close enough to my eye lid, all these black lines appear right out of the blue. Its kind of neat in a way.
I have suffered from alopecia universalis for almost twenty years now. Its strange to think that in that twenty years I am still uncomfortable with it. When I take off my 'hair' (dont call it a wig, because for some reason the word makes my heart jump and I'm instantly offended), and wash away my makeup.. there isnt a trace of visible hair anywhere on my head or face. When I see myself that way I feel... ugly. Unattractive. Sick. But I'm not sick. I dont think I'm ugly with my illusionary tools in place.. why would I feel so all natural? I blame society. Society did it to me. Society is my biggest thorn. That is why I rebel against it in every form possible. Thats why the battle against not aging. Thats why I rebuke religion and politics. Thats why I say fuck authority. (sorry mom) Thats why I scornfully smoke under signs that say no smoking. Thats why I laugh in the faces of girls with a need for propriety. It goes on forever. Really it does. But, in the same token, I would never be publicly seen without my hair.. or my makeup.. because I wouldnt want anyone to think me a freak, or embarrass my offspring with my garish freakiness. I dont want them to have to answer the questions I have been asked over the course of the past nineteen years. . . I am not dying. Men do find me attractive. I am not completely hairless.. I do have to shave. blah blah blah.
I dont think I should have drunk that entire pot of coffee with my wulong tea. It made me spicy... and full of shit. |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 11:41 AM |
|
|
|
| Tuesday, October 03, 2006 |
| Tuesday |
| I slept in. Shit! I slept in!! The boys were up and dressed and ready for the day, Thank Heaven. I still didnt accomplish much. I drank my wulong tea. Made sure everyone ate well... ehhh... yeah. I drove into the big city retrieved and deposited my husbands money. Thats an accomplishment. Oh the rigors of housewifedom. Maybe I should take up scrapbooking... or some kind of crafty hobby. I love to paint and draw and write, but for some reason I would rather wallow in my boredom than do anything constructive. Is this how the average housewife feels? Shootz!! Give me my damn job back! |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 4:51 PM |
|
|
|
| Monday, October 02, 2006 |
| Monday |
| ugh. Bleh, even. My get up and go must've got up and went. I woke up pretty early. Four out of six residents of this household complained to me of headache. Perhaps its time for a carbon monoxide detector. My son let the dogs into my housemates room... when I discovered them, they had already chewed through a few candybars they discovered in a bag. The boy and I were playing hide and seek... as we were both bored. I guess I'm to blame, I didnt tell him which rooms to avoid. My bad. So after thoroughly punishing the poodle and cleaning up his mess... I started another batch of laundry and text messaged my husband regarding the joys of domestication. My children have all come home, and though I feel I have accomplished much today.. I also feel as though I have done nothing. I started my wulong tea time.. washed dishes.. did laundry.. lets see, set everyone off for school.. okay, okay.. I havent done shit. Oh well. Who gives a rat's fart. Monday's suck. I would rather stay busy on a Tuesday. There's my excuse. |
| posted by katmandusuekookachoo @ 3:46 PM |
|
|
|
|
| |
|
|
