My favorite form of punctuation is the ellipse. Because so...much can happen betwixt those three little dots...
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Hey Plimco!
Write more fiction.
Apple soap
I know we've been through this...
Somehow the only dish soap in my house currently is apple flavored Dawn. I hate it. It makes me ill and fills me with fury. I had hid it when I first moved in almost a year ago. It has emerged.
What the hell were dish soap makers thinking? I want my dishes to smell clean! Not like food! That is counter productive. I want the food smell off, bitches.
I washed my space travel coffee mug this morning. The kind all robots are envious of. I pour in my 100% Columbian coffee because I am a coffee snob and will not drink shit coffee in the morning. I get in my car and drive away. 1st sip...
Fucking apples.
It smells and tastes like fucking candy-ass green apples. My coffee needs to taste like coffee, not like my appledy dish soap.
Gross.
I hate you, apple flavored Dawn.
I suppose I could just throw the bottle away...
That just seems so wasteful...
Ug, but I'd rather wash my dishes in my own feces than drink green apple coffee.
Confession
Sometimes I imagine Trista wearing a strap on and doing me from behind when I masturbate.
Necesito
Ok you guys. I'm done being pathetic. I'm sick of being pathetic. End pathetic transmission.
Jesus. I make myself sick sometimes.
The best way to stop being pathetic?
Mow your yard. Become hot and sweaty and grass smelling. Stand back and marvel at your productivity. Go inside. Grab the nearest copy of "La Bamba". Take off all your clothes. Dance around in an enthusiastic manner. See if you can pick out the wood block beat. Shake your tits to that beat. Take a shower. Repeat.
Soy capitan
Soy capitan
SotD 8/30
"If you don't get in the house this second, you are going straight to bed without any suppah!"
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
I responded to a personal ad
I only did it for the attention. I did it because I wanted to feel what it's like to have someone be attracted to me again.
Rephrase that.
I did it because I wanted to feel what it's like to have an unmarried person be attracted to me again.
The ad said he had tickets to the game. I couldn't even go to the game because I have rehearsal. It was just the one ad I read where he didn't sound completely like a jerk and more like a genuine person and I responded to thank him for giving me hope in the single male mentality because I had been disheartened by everything else I'd read.
I can't do it though. I'm not ready. No way. Gracious! The thought of having that stupid let's-get-to-know-each-other-where-you-from?-what-do-you-do? conversation again? Over and over and over again? I just can't do it.
Plus I'm going to be so busy rehearsing rape every night and all. It's certainly not good timing.
I just did it for the attention.
Although he hasn't even responded...
I actually took that stupid stupid long stupid personality test on eHarmony the other night. I don't know why. I'm lonely, sure. I've been lonely. I can deal with lonely. The thought of actually going on...god, I can't even say it... a DATE? AAAAAK! Nope. Nope nope nope. Hell no. I don't want to put on my best getting-to-know-you face. I don't want to wake up with some random guy in my bed. I don't want to have to tell people where I'm going or what I'm doing.
No.
Not ready.
Not yet.
You know what though? Get this... Ok. So, my first "match" on eHarmony? Maybe I better explain this first. I can't afford to join. It's expensive! But you can take the test and get "matches" without shelling out any money. You just can't start communication with the matches. So, my first "match" is this Indian neurologist, right? I've met him. I met him at a doctor party a couple years ago. I wasn't attracted. I think he actually asked me out. Ha! How funny is that? I mean, of all the Indian neurologists in all the towns in all the bars in all the world... So, yeah. I've either been matched with Indian doctors or 22-year-old students. Oh hell no. If I were to officially join the stupid eHarmony club, which I'm not, but if I WERE, I'd have to figure out how to specify that no way in hell am I dating anyone younger than me.
I was thinking that maybe a way to avoid the artificial getting-to-know-you bull shit, I could just say, hey. Go to this website: www.bumbershootcasserole.blogspot.com Read it. If that doesn't scare the shit out of you, come back. We'll talk. Ha! Riiiight. That would be an auto you-will-never-have-sex-again button.
I'd rather masturbate than have bad sex though. Any day.
All this to say... what?
I don't know, but there it is....chocked full of hyphens and pathos...
It ends with an ellipse
I read the second rape play that I'm in last night. It ends with an ellipse. How perfect is that? It ends with an ellipse.
Guess who has the last line.
I do.
Yay.
I cannot tell you how much I enjoy having the last line of a play. The first line is pretty cool too, but the last? The burden of the final impression is on you. Gracious, I fucking love it, having the final word, the final say, the stamp of completion or in this case, the hint of continuing. You can't really finalize anything with an ellipse, can you? There is that slight window of hope, the slight possibility for more. Things left unsaid. Complete in its incompletion.
Apparently I sing in this play quite a bit too. That was a surprise. They didn't ask me to sing at the audition. Seems like they would have. I mean, I have on my resume that I sing, but... It's certainly not a musical or anything, not at all, but my character sings...to help her forget. To help her focus on other stuff. To pretend everything's ok.
It is really going to be a very difficult play to do. It is really going to be a very difficult story to tell.
My character says things like, "I forget" and, "My pain is nothing special" and "I hate myself". Cheery. Her repression culminates in this outburst where she basically relives the whole assault and rape. Apparently this guy forced her to her knees, pressed her face into his crotch and told her that if she didn't make him come, he'd kill her. His dick wasn't even hard.
Great.
But it's just acting. Sure it's reliving this horrible thing that actually happened to the playwright, but...
For me. It's just acting. For me. Right?
Sure.
I'll be fine. I should be fine.
It'll be great. I get to sing.
Fuck.
SotD 8/29
"Hope deferred maketh the heart sick."
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Following through
You know what I like about the blog? I say I'm going to do something, right? I put it in writing. I post it for all the world to see. And then I do it.
I like that.
I'm not sure that I was always that person. The one who said she was going to do something and then did it.
Maybe I should try something bigger. Maybe I should make a more ballsey proclamation.
Let's see...
I hereby say to you that I, Celia Amelia Plimco, will...hmmm.... I'll... I'll get laid before the year is out. How's that?
Or...
I will move to London and become a famous actor and be able to support myself through acting within the next 10 years.
Whewph.
I guess we'll see, huh?
Funnel cakes for breakfast
As I was walking my dog this morning through the grey mist of my neighborhood, I noticed the unmistakable smell of funnel cakes wafting. Immediately the question came to mind, who eats funnel cakes for breakfast? As pleasant an olfactory experience as this was, it was also disconcerting. It was as though I had stumbled into my own isolated carnival. No one was about, only the smell of funnel cakes. Fried Dough on a Tuesday morning. I could almost picture the tight roap walkers, the contortionists, midgets, bearded ladies emerging from the trash cans and refuse out by the curb. Tuesday is trash day. Like the scene from Something Wicked this way Comes when the wind shifts and the carnival comes to town. Organ music in a minor key. Someone's laughing...making himself hoarse with forced laughter...
Who eats funnel cakes for breakfast?
SotD 8/28
"And I'm sure if we looked outside and saw you floating naked in the pool we'd be OK with you eating all the hot dogs."
Monday, August 28, 2006
I'm here
She had once said to him, in all honesty, "I'm here. For as much or as little as you need me. I'm here." That is a mighty big thing to say, but she meant it. If "as little" meant never again...she was prepared for that.
"I'm here."
What she wasn't prepared for, what she couldn't prepare for was the possibility that... Well, what if...
What if she couldn't get over him?
Pistachio pudding
Have I ever told you all how much I love pistachio pudding? I do. I could eat buckets of the stuff. MMMmm. Such a nice shade of green, pistachio. Such a nice word. It's got panache.
The way to my heart is with pistachio pudding. In case anyone was planning to get there...
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Old people orientation
I got orientated! I now know how to get old people in and out of my car safely. I know where to place their wheel chair or walker in relation to the passenger seat so that they may transfer themselves. I know how to fold up said walkers and wheel chairs and put them in my trunk. I know the protocol for if somebody falls and breaks their hip while I'm with them. I know how to maneuver the visually impaired. I'm ready. I'm set. Bring on the old people!
I'm excited. I'll be working with elderly whose income is less than 8000 dollars a year and who have little or no family involvement. These people are isolated. This organization is set up in order to create some amount of socialization for them, to alleviate depression and loneliness. They throw parties! Who takes them to and from the parties? I do! On holidays I'll get to toot around to their homes and bring them flowers and a home cooked meal and sit down and hang out for an hour or so. I have to be mentally prepared for the types of homes I'll be going into, the level of poverty.
There's this one neighborhood in the city that people try to avoid. Volunteer drivers actually say, "I'll drive anywhere to pick up people except ______". So, the elderly living in that neighborhood don't get to go to the party because no one has been willing to drive there and get them.
Except me.
I actually used to live in that neighborhood. I know it pretty well. Yay.
They all sound so great. There's this one guy who is 80-something, but he used to be a Jamaican track star! I'm going to get to drive around a Jamaican track star octogenarian to old people parties!
Of course this all is inherently selfish. We are all inherently selfish. My motives are selfish.
The statistics in my volunteer manual? They break my heart. The numbers of suicides among the elderly? So many. So so many. And much more women than men. I don't know if that is a life expectancy thing or if elderly men just have more family involvement, but there are over 300 elderly women involved in this organization. Only 150 or so men.
I fear...
I am afraid...
I am scared that someday...I am going to be one of those women. Isolated. Lonely. Craving some random stranger to pop by and take me for a ride in her car to a party.
Gracious, that sucks, but it is so true. It's something I think about. It is a real fear. Hell, I realized somewhere through the orientation that this "socialization" will be just as good for me as it will be for them. (So says the afghan covered recluse sitting alone in her house...no really. I have an afghan wrapped around me. It's chilly.)
Of course I have family who love me, some of these people do too. This one woman has 14 kids. 14! They just live so far away...
So, I'm being selfish and hoping for some sort of karmic repercussions to come of this, but at the same time... I'm really looking forward to hanging out with these old people. Such characters! Such stories they will tell. There's this one woman named Cookie that steals sugar! I mean, you can't make this shit up. I can't wait...
SotW
8/25
"That's what you call those? Black-eyed Susans?
8/26
"There's Cookie stealing the sugar."
8/27
(sung) "I prefer to say nothing. I got a long way to go, getting further away."
Friday, August 25, 2006
Rape rape rape rape
I realized that I'm playing a rape victim in both of these new plays.
Great.
All rape all the time.
This should be a cheery couple of months.
The first role I'm playing is a woman who was assaulted and then raped and the play consists of her being questioned in an interrogation room by a lawyer. The lawyer starts trying to turn things around so that it seems like the woman encouraged the attack. He starts asking these really inappropriate questions like, "What size bra do you wear?" and "Did it have an underwire?" The stage directions offer such delightful help as, "he is verbally raping her". It is really dark and really intense and pretty awful.
The second role is a play written by a woman who was raped about how different parts of her psyche dealt with/are dealing with the rape. I play the repress repress repress part. I haven't seen a script yet, so I don't know how far it will go, but... I hope it ends well. I'm sure there will be a parade.
Yay.
Let's all sing the rape song. Rape rape rape rape lah di dah di dah.
As an actor, when you're initially given a role, you automatically try to find something in common with your character. At least I do. I think it's important. To do justice to the role, bring some amount of realism to the table. It's not a method acting thing. It's very Stanislavski actually. It's how I was taught. Then, if there are blanks, and there are always blanks, you begin filling in the blanks with research.
So, you get a script. Ok. My character turns into an alien at the end. (This really happened once.) Hm. I've never turned into an alien before. Time to rent some 50s alien creature feature films chocked full of theramin music.
This morning, I'm standing in the rain while my dog is taking a dump, and I realize that these are two rape plays, that I will be playing two different women who have been raped. I think, drat. I've never been raped before... Wait. Oh yeah. I have. I forgot.
How apropos.
I forgot.
Repress repress repress.
But who hasn't? Been raped. It's not like it's that big of a deal...
Of course it is a big deal, but unfortunately... Yeah. It happens. A lot.
I hadn't even thought about it in forever. This is not surprising, I suppose. At the time, in my head, and this is common too, I suppose... I thought I encouraged it. Like how the lawyer is trying to twist the assault around in the first play. That made sense to me.
It was the day before I started my junior year of college. I had been working all summer at the TGIFridays in Memphis. I went over to the cook's apartment building to hang out. We sat out by the pool. I drank his beer. I decided to get in but didn't have a bathing suit, so I got in in my underwear. I was totally bringing this on myself. Right?
I said no.
I asked if I could use his bathroom and then I was going to go home. As I'm coming out of his bathroom, he throws me over his shoulder and carries me down the hall to his dark bedroom. He shuts the door. Locks it. He throws me on the bed.
I said no.
I don't even remember his name. He was a really big guy. Seems like he had some tattoos and spikey blond hair. I remember just lying there... Waiting for it to be over so that I could go home.
I entertained the idea of calling the police when I left. But then, what would I say? Yeah, I was drinking his beer and swimming around in a pool in front of this guy in my panties. I was practically begging to be fucked. Not to mention that for the past two weekends I had shagged two separate waiters from the TGIFridays. I was a TGIFriday tart.
Still.
I said no.
Well that's something I hadn't thought about in a while...
Yay.
I'll be performing, living through these womens' rape on stage every night of October. Except Wednesday. Wednesday night I'll have off.
Like I said, this is going to be a cheery couple of months...
Eyeballs
Since our conversation the other day in the Synonyms for brown post, I've been thinking about eyeballs. Eyeballs really freak me out. How they work, the fact that they are balls, the crazy flipping image thing and the....goo that is in there. Thinking about eyeballs makes me shudder. Especially if I think about things going INTO eyeballs. AAK! Once I had to have a shot in my eyeball. That was the worst day ever. Eye doctor dude had to go into my pupil and shoot something in there to dilate them. Now I think they just squirt dilate shit at you. I can't give myself eyedrops. That's how bad it is. I can't deal with the anticipation of that cold drop that, LIQUID ABOUT TO SQUISH ON YOUR EYEBALL!
Ok. I can't talk about this too much more...
This is why I could never wear contacts.
I had a point though. That brown conversation the other day, everyone that posted a comment...EVERYONE that posted a comment, I have made eye contact with. How weird is that? How much have things changed over here? At one point I knew NO ONE. And now here I am talking about my eyeballs and you people can be like, that's not true, they are more like this... I'm not sure how I feel about that. Knowing that we've made eye contact. On the one hand it's comforting. On the other hand...it was also comforting when we were strangers... I know there are quiet people out there who haven't seen my eyeballs who never comment and I wonder why that is. You don't have to have seen my eyeballs to comment. It's not a pre-requisite.
Urg. I'm still not getting to what I wanted to get to...
Black. It's kind of been freaking me out. I have black eyes. I knew I had black eyes, I mean, I had my assumptions, but to hear you all confirm these? Now when I look in the mirror... I don't know. It's different. Maybe my eyeballs are suddenly freaking me out. Maybe.
My sisters both have blue blue blue eyeballs. Two different shades of blue, but undeniably blue as blue can be. Dr. J's are this...solid, firm sort of blue like a...crayon. Cornflower blue.... Sort of. The Big E's eyes have more of this water quality to them. Like ice. They're more pale, an ice blue. AND she has this curious freckle in her left eye, this amber discoloration just hugging her pupil. It is cool. I wish I had a little eyeball freckle. Actually, I might have one...you just can't see it.
And so...without further ado...I present to you....a close up photograph...of The Big E's eye freckle:
See it? The freckle? It's on the right side of her pupil
If you don't know that this is an eyeball, doesn't it look like a fish? I think it looks like a little fish...
SotD 8/24
"Don't worry, we didn't have sex in your bed."
Thursday, August 24, 2006
The newer new role
I seem to have gotten cast in yet another play.
Yay.
I guess.
I can't decide how fruity this one is going to be. I haven't read the script yet. From the audition last night? On the fruit scale? I'm thinking cantaloupe.
Oh dear.
What have I gotten myself into?
Nothing like some fruity theatre...
So, the play is one of those plays that tries to say something or tries to change something or make a statement or... Let's say someone goes through something pretty traumatic like... They get raped, let's say. They are encouraged or decide to focus this trauma into something creative, right? Hey! I'll write a play about rape and that will help me talk out and intellectualize and get through whatever it is I need to get through. Perfect!
Ok. Maybe it's perfect from a therapy standpoint. But acting? Viewing? Sometimes it can come off a little fruity. I'm just saying... I'm all about focusing your fuckedupedness into something creative. Hell. Take a look around. Still... Some things belong on stage...and some things don't.
Maybe I'm jumping the gun here. Maybe it's brilliant. Gracious I hope it turns out to be brilliant...
So, I'm playing a facet of somebody's psyche. A part of their brain. (It already sounds fruity, doesn't it?) This woman went through a really traumatic experience and the play is 5 women, 5 different parts of the same woman's personality, dealing with the trauma. Working through it. Hashing it out. On stage. For a couple hours.
Fruity.
I play the part of her personality that is all, repress repress repress. Let's talk about other stuff like sex and how much we like coffee and that one ex-boyfriend who was a weird-o and everything is fine if we pretend it is and repress repress repress let's talk some more about sex.
Hm.
That's.... something, isn't it?
Sometimes I live with a midget
My landlady comes and stays at my house on some weekends. I can't really do much about it. It IS her house. It's her stuff. She lets me live there.
The thing is though, my landlady is a midget. Sometimes I live with a midget. She prefers "little person", but she also isn't kidding herself. She's a midget. People call her a midget. I don't know why I'm sort of shy about telling people this. I mean, we've known each other for a while now and this is a bit of an anomaly in my life that you'd think would have come up before... It's not that I'm embarrassed. Certainly not that. I like occasionally living with a midget. Granted, it took a while to get used to, but now? I'm accustomed to her little furniture. I'm used to pulling out the little step stool to put next to the toilet. Sliding the little ladders up to the sink.... Watching her go up the stairs... Her tiny clothes lying around the house... It was pretty difficult at first not to think of her as a child or a toy. She is in her 60s after all. The dog never really had a problem with her. They're about the same size...although... the dog probably has about 5 pounds on her....
_____ ..... _____
I'm completely full of shit. I WISH I lived with a fucking midget sometimes. How cool would that be? This is what I say though, to amuse myself, when people remark on this tiny antique upholstered rocking arm chair in my living room. It's there. It's my landlady's. But it's for children, I guess. Not midgets. Man, I love telling people that though. Watching their reaction... The processing... I had this one guy going for about half an hour once. He was asking me all these questions. "Does she drive? Is her car little too? Have you ever had to pick her up?" HA! Oh me. My own amusement. That's really all that matters, right?
A mighty amount of squeaking
Last night Sally and Henry came to crash at my house after their concert. They got lost on the way. That's understandable. This is an easily getting lostable inable cityable.
I did not sleep well last night.
They show up and... I love them, but... They are REALLY LOUD people. My neighborhood is quiet usually. Especially at midnight on a Wednesday. My windows were open. I thought for sure they would wake up the neighbors of mine that are not deaf.
Shhhh...
So loud. Fluff Bucket even had her ears laid back and was looking at me like, gracious! This is a change from our usual silence!
They came equipped with tacos and burritos the size of my head. And their inflate-a-bed, right? They brought the wrong air pump for the inflate-a-bed. I put some "clean" sheets on the guest bed. I make it to 1:00 and then I HAVE to go to bed. They stay up a little while longer watching TV.
Half an hour or so later I hear a mighty amount of squeaking coming from the guest bedroom. Moaning wood. Muffled screams.
I should probably take this moment to tell you that Sally and Henry are of the large variety. They are big people. They have names for their bellies because they got so big, they needed a name. They're on Weight Watchers and are working on it, but for now? They are still pretty big, jolly folk.
Eventually I hear a timid, "Ceeeliaa?" come from the guestroom. Yes? I mean, how could I sleep through that? "I'm afraid we're gonna break the bed!" I'm like, what are you talking about? You're crazy. It's a bed! It's a bed on a wooden frame. You're being silly. I go in there and Henry has collapsed on this fainting couch that is in there. This is an antique fainting couch. I think it is mostly there for looks. I've never sat on it. It has no springs. He's sort of sunk into the couch. Sally is on the bed. "It sounds like it is about to break when we both get on it." I jump on the bed next to Sally. No it isn't. You're crazy. I mean, it's squeaky, but see? She says, "Henry is about two of you. I don't think it will hold us. Can we sleep in your bed?" Admittedly, the bed was fairly precarious. I say, sure. My bed is strong. My bed will hold you.
Then we had to get Henry up off the fainting couch. This is easier said than done. He hand sunk in quite a bit. It was reminiscent of a turtle...stuck on his back...and hilarious.
By this time it is around 2:00AM. I had to be up by 6:15.
My bed held them. The most action my bed has seen all year. I slept on the couch.
This morning I tiptoed in to get dressed for work. They're both slumbering sweetly and snoring up a storm. Not quite spooning, husband and wife. My large beeping sleuties. They make me laugh.
It would be awesome if I get home and they left me one of those burritos in the fridge...
SotD 8/23
"We are getting married next fall sometime. You will be invited to the wedding, of course, dear Plimco."
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
What I should have said about lighting...
A few weeks ago I sat in on a couple of Dr. J's classes. They happened to be starting their drama unit. How fortuitous. Dr. J had me do a monologue for the first class I was in town for (they were so cute and raised their hands and I said, "Yes?" and then they asked me questions!) and then I just sat in on the second class. During the second class, Dr. J asked me why lighting was important in the theatre. It was 8:30 on a Tuesday morning. I was on vacation. I knew she was going to ask me, but I still burbled out some worthless nonsense.
This is how I should have answered the question:
Lighting is one of THE most important parts of a theatrical production. Afterall, it helps you SEE the play, right? The lighting designer frames HOW we see, where our eye goes, what is emphasized, what is understated. A lighting designer is to a play as a cinematographer is to a film. Since, of course, there are no close ups or crazy camera sequences in a play, a lighting designer's job can become extremely challenging. Think about it though, how something is lit creates immediate mood. You wake up and it's cloudy? Instant mood. Sunny? I mean, there are those people with light deprivation seasonal disorders. Light can affect one's psyche to the extreme. So when you get to manipulate an audience like that for a couple hours? It can be a very powerful tool.
For example, let's say that the play is a parlor drama, a living room family drama. Let's say that the lighting designer chooses to use industrial lighting for the entire show. Lighting like a doctor's office. How would that make an observer view the action on stage differently? What sort of tone would that create on top of the text?
Just with cinematography, if it is good, the audience should not notice it. They can think about it afterwards and in retrospect say, dang. That was some really powerful and effective stuff, but in the moment of the play or film? In the moment of the story? It should be what is unconsciously enclosing, cupping, gently rocking and framing how you're seeing what you are seeing.
Yay lighting.
And that is what I should have said.
Wow. I really want to go hang some lights now. I freaking love fucking with lights. They are so big and awkward and metal and dangerous and hot. Nothing like hanging off of a catwalk way high in the sky trying to focus a giant par can or slide a gel into a fresnel. Or straddling the top of the highest ladder in the theatre futzing with a C clamp to get the hot spot....just....so on the actor's face. It's monkey work. In that you get to climb around the theatre like monkeys. Then there are all the cords and the lighting plot which looks like this complicated electrical blue print of a theatre's nervous system. Plugging shit in. Being in the dark. Tying stuff back. Trying different gels. Focusing. Your hands smell like metal after. Being high up in the air and balancing with heavy expensive objects. Yay.
Does anybody have some lights that need hung today? I'll do it. I just need to put on some pants...
SotD 8/22
"It seems to me there is less meanness in athiesm, by a good measure."
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Synonyms for brown
I was updating my resume and remembered how I was at that cattle call audition earlier in the summer and had stacks and stacks of head shots and resumes to go through and some people, instead of putting that they had brown eyes and brown hair, put in sassy synonyms for brown like Chestnut or Mahogany.
Is that pretentious and stupid, or is that different and eye catching?
I'm leaning toward the pretentious and stupid and cute... I almost changed my resume, but.... I mean... I get the funny behind it, but I'm not sure that most people would get the funny if they're looking at your resume. I think pretentious and stupid would be the first to hit instead of the funny. I mean, after looking at head shot after head shot after head shot, it does make your eye do something different and pay a bit more attention in a different way, but... Is it the kind of standing out that I want to happen to my headshot? Oh yeah. That's the pretentious and stupid girl with the "mahogany" eyes. Let's not cast her...
I should just face it.
Hair color: Brown
Eye color: Brown
What do you think?
I am the worst hostess ever
Last week my friend, Sally, happened to be in town for a night to see some concert. She asked if she could crash at my house. I said, of course. She hates the guest bed, so I knew she'd sleep on the couch and that blanket and pillow had been washed recently, so I knew they'd be fine. I vacuumed and cleaned the bathroom. On the way home from work, I thought, gee. I have absolutely no booze to offer her, so I stopped at the liquor store and picked up a 12 pack of Molsen, her favorite. I hadn't had time to go to the grocery store yet since my trip, but I figured she'd get home from the concert and just want to crash, right?
She shows up pretty late last Tuesday night...with a frozen pizza. She said she was hungry after the concert. I was actually pretty hungry myself. I offer her a Molsen. She says, oh no. I'm in the mood for a cocktail. I start to tell her that I have no booze. She pulls out a bottle of vodka. I say, oh dear I have nothing to mix it with. She pulls out two kinds of juice and a 4 pack of Red Bull. Then she pulls out snacks to munch on while the pizza cooks.
She came equipped with her own snacks, dinner, booze, and mixers because... She knew I wouldn't have that stuff.
That's depressing.
She had to go to the grocery store before she came to spend the night.
Tomorrow night she and her husband will be staying with me after yet another concert. Yes, my friends party like they are rock stars. I say, well. I know how much you hate the guest bed, but I'll wash the sheets for you because you both won't fit on the couch. She says not to worry about it. They'll bring their inflatable bed.
They are bringing their own bed.
I am the worst hostess ever.
I still have some Molsen left. Maybe they'll drink some of that. Right. She'll come equipped with her own martini shaker full of red headed slut shots I'm sure.
I can't believe that they are bringing their own bed...
Gracious. That is depressing.
SotD 8/21
"I regret to say I'm unable to reply to your unexpressed desires."
Monday, August 21, 2006
The new role
I got cast in a play. Yay. It's just a little play, but it pays pretty well for a change, so... I'm doing it.
I didn't audition or anything. It's the man who played my dad three plays ago, his theatre company, and he's been trying for months to get me to come out and do a play there, so... I am. Finally.
It's strange. Of course it's all about who you know and whatever, but... I still like the victory dance that comes from putting yourself through a series of auditions and then getting that phone call that says that you're cast and then dancing around and feeling as though you've run some gauntlet and come out successful and victorious. A deserved celebration.
This is sort of like hssssst....yay. (That's the sound air makes when it comes out of a balloon, hssst.)
No. Shut up. Yay. I am psyched about working on a character again and this play is really intense and dark and text based and will get me out of my comfort zone and push me in directions that I need to be pushed in so... Yay. Shake your butt, Plimco.
doot de doo.
What REALLY happened in Salt Lake City, Plimco?
The time has come to give the Trista meeting the attention it deserves.
I pull into SLC on a Thursday afternoon. I pick up a bouquet of flowers to put Miss Universe to shame. I have in my possession Map Quest's directions as well as Trista's. I choose to follow Trista's. Hell, she should know where she lives, right? Wrong. Left turn, right turn. Potato potato. She seems happy when I call her and tell her that I'm lost. She says this gives her more time to clean. I tell her for the 500th time that my tolerance for dirt is very high and not to go all crazy. I'm just Plimco. It's not like Arwen, Queen of Gondor is coming to visit.
I drive by her house twice. Eventually I park. There is much churning of dogs. We go out to her garden and pick a mutant squash to plop in the vegetable korma. She asks me how spicy I like it. I say as spicy as you can make it, toots. As spicy as you can make it.
Can I just say this? I've already told Trista this and I'm fairly certain that she's made peace with it, but... Ok. Here goes. Ahem.
Trista looks much more attractive in person.
It's true. I mean, I've been looking at pictures of her all year and it wasn't that I thought she was ugly or anything based on that, but... Dang. In person? She's beautiful. It's like, when she gets her photograph taken her face contorts into this Victorian countenance. Back in the day when people were afraid to open their mouths because they didn't want flash powder to get in and they had to sit there forever and weren't entirely convinced that photo boxes didn't steal their soul, their faces would be this very set, very uncertain sort of I-am-aware-that-I-am-being-photographed face. Yeah. That's what Trista does. It's cute. But when you see her in person? You're overcome with this...what is it? It's almost a sense of deception. A sort of, hey! You're way hotter than you pretend to be! Or something...
I'm just digging myself into a hole here, aren't I? Moving on...
Julia woke up from a nap shortly after my arrival and...this child. This child is... She's just... Well. Have you ever been around somebody famous? Or, have you ever been in the same room with somebody and that somebody just exudes this energy and joy such that just to be in the same room with them is a privilege? It's like that. Being around Julia is like being in the presence of greatness. Such a happy sprout she is. She makes laughing seem like such an attractive past time, one cannot help but participate.
I messed up though. Back when Trista was on her breast feeding jag, she wrote about how saliva freaks her out. What did I go and do when she pulls out the mint chutney? I immediately stick my finger in it to taste it. Stupid Plimco! Stupid stupid Plimco! I knew I would mess that one up. I'm all about sticking my fingers in stuff where they don't belong. I told her I did it. She said she liked me enough not to mind, but... I didn't see her use any chutney on her samosas... And it's her favorite condiment! The shame...
Ok. This is hilarious. Trista gives Julia some of the Indian food she has prepared on her little tray on her high chair, right? I remark, Wow. She likes Indian food? Trista says, "Oh yes. She loves it." Julia takes a bite...and immediately starts SCREEEEEEEEAMING. Not crying, but more like, WHAT-THE-FUCK-HAVE-YOU-DONE-TO-MY-MOUTH? screams. Trista and I look at Julia... We look at one another.... Back to Julia... "Well, she likes it in the restaurant." Trista then gives Julia some turkey. Ha!
Then the power went out.
Yes. It's true. The electricity between us sitting down to a meal together was so intense, we made the power go out. It was kind of nice. We both acknowledged the power outage. Trista checked to see if we'd blown a fuse or if it was the whole house, then we continued our eating and talking in the dim. When the lights came back on, again I was stunned at how beautiful she is in person...
We retired to her couch after dinner where Trista put Julia in her swing and then proceeded to question me about my scaring threesome with a married couple experience. Kristin got home from dinner with friends in the middle of this conversation. Hi. I'm a strange person from the Internet who will be spending the night in your house this evening. Would you like to hear about how I had a threesome with a married couple? Smooth.
Trista let me read some of her pirate poems and then we went to bed. Separately. I had the bedroom in the basement. It's dark. I'm in a strange bed in a strange place surrounded by scary dolls (I'll let Trista explain the scary dolls to you). I then start hearing noises. Ok. These noises are very creaky and very rhythmical. Emphatic. I'm like, great. They are totally getting it on up there without me. CREEEEAK-ah! CREEEEEAK-ah! CREEEEAK-ah! over and over and over. I'm tormented by images of passion. Half an hour of this I think, there is no way that they could keep up this perfection of rhythm for so long! They are not robots! Then I realize, THE SWING! Do they let Julia sleep in her swing? All night? Yes. Yes they do. One leg must have been a tad shorter than the others. The swing was directly on the floor above me. CREEEEAK-ah! CREEEAK-ah! CREEEAK-ah! All. Night. Long.
Thank goodness they didn't ask me how I slept in the morning.
I find out later that Kristin told Trista that she was glad that she didn't want to have a threesome with me because she thought I was 19 at the most and has this thing where she can't have sex with teenagers.
Drat.
19?! Come on! That's of age. It was the pigtails, Kristin! I swear it was the pigtails!
It's probably for the best anyhow...
And that's what REALLY happened in Salt Lake City.
Kick ass
Do me a favor. If you are planning on writing a play anytime soon, please include a couple scenes where women get to kick ass. Female combat scenes. The women can lose, I don't care, but people. I have all this stage combat training and I never get to use it. I want to kick some ass, damn it! Rapier and dagger work, unarmed combat, you name it. I can fall down really well and I'm good at grunting and shoulder rolls.
When I was working toward getting certified in stage combat in England, we'd have classes outdoors if the weather was nice. We'd go through our rapier and dagger fight choreography in the courtyard of this old university in the middle of a sculpture park somewhere in west Yorkshire. Fog would roll in... Occasionally herds of sheep would wander through our fighting... Brilliant.
It's like a dance. I mean, it IS choreographed, it's for the stage. That makes sense. You need to know what you're doing, where you're aiming your sword, who is going to win, but still... Intent. Intent has to be there. You have to intend to kill, intend to maim, intend to win. It's acting, but it looks fake if you're just putzing through the choreography. You have to want blood.
I got to play Benvolio when I was there, so I got to poke at Tybalt with a dagger, but Benvolio is all about keeping the peace, so screw that role. The play before last, I had some fight choreography. I had to try to strangle the ghost of my dead grandfather, but my advances were quickly put to a halt and I was gently wrestled to the ground... I want to do a REAL fight scene. I want to kick ass. I'm talking blood packs and screams and a good chunk of stage time just hauling off and kicking ass. But unless I'm about to get cast in Kill Bill Volume VI, I'm out of luck.
I'm told that there's a man in town that focuses specifically on this. He writes plays specifically for women to kick ass in. Then he casts women who have all of this stage combat training and haven't had the opportunity to put it to use. I think his "plays" are basically giant fights on stage, but... I must meet this man...
SotW
8/19
"Not bad. Not bad at all..."
8/20
"His goldfish are important to him!"
Saturday, August 19, 2006
I know what you're listening to
The other day it occurred to me that whenever I encounter a passerby with headphones on, I automatically assume that they are listening to inspirational CDs. I'm not sure why that is, but it's funny. I see them coming a block away. I make out the head phones. I imagine the tape or CD or Ipod or whatever saying things to them like, "You can make it down the street. You're doing a good job. Look up. Isn't it a lovely day? One foot after the other. You can walk down the street. You have the power to walk down the street. You are in control of your life." And then I pass them "knowing" what they're listening to and I smile a knowing smile and they quickly avert their eyes so as not to be distracted or discouraged. "I can make it down the street, I can make it down the street, I CAN make it down the street..."
Ha! That tickles me. You should try it. It works if you're stuck in traffic or at a stop light too and you look over and there's some business man in his Lexus drumming his hands on his steering wheel. Imagine his speakers blaring, "You are a great guy! You are a successful man! You are going to have a successful day! People respect you! People admire you! You are a great guy! People are lucky to know you."
I like it. It's fun. I know that's what everybody's listening to...
SotD 8/18
"Hi! I'm Mr. Sock!"
Friday, August 18, 2006
A few more images before the card ran out of memory...
My gaudy back seat for 3 weeks...
Kansas. Don't let the sky fool you, this place sucks. Don't ever go there. I was having a really lousy time driving through Kansas until I realized, hey. The road is straight. Cruise control is set on 80. There's hardly any traffic. I could masturbate! And so I did...
This was the view from our back porch in Colorado. So beautiful. Jogging in Colorado however? Different. Much different. Gasping...for breath...dying...on side of road...
Mountains. Place setting. Steak (not pictured).
Still life with wine, golf magazine, and tums (Look! One is glowing!). That golf man sure looks angry...
98 hours of thinking
So, I had about 98 hours of driving to myself to think over the course of this trip. A couple things I enjoyed thinking about during this time, my fall back thinking about subjects where as follows:
I'm going to build a Jerry Seinfeld robot. I'm going to build Jerry Seinfeld robots and sell them to theatre departments at universities. The Jerry Seinfeld robot will present the largest challenge an actor could ever encounter on stage. The actor will be instructed to do a scene with the Jerry-bot. If the actor can keep the scene going, keep the scene entertaining and real in the face of that robot, the actor will get a cookie and a BFA.
Roy G Biv. People's favorite color is red. Some people prefer orange. Mine is green. People have blue cars. But indigo? Violet? Why are they there? Why can't it just be purple? Why two different shades of purple? There are about a trillion shades of green and blue, but are they on there? Nope. Who ever says that their favorite color is indigo? Who drives an indigo car? Whose school colors are indigo and white? Nobody's. Purple. It's purple and white. Why isn't it Roy G Bp? The whole thing is so stupid it makes me want to stomp around...
Cowboys are everywhere
Things I've learned:
Cowboys are everywhere in America. For some reason, I thought cowboy hats and cowboy boots were indigenous to the south, but no. No no no. They started in the west I guess, but they're everywhere. You can walk into anywhere in America wearing cowboy boots and, well... That's just fine.
Jesus. Jesus is also everywhere in America. I mostly find him on billboards. Sometimes in Kansas, God will even write you a letter and put it on a billboard for you.
Friendly people are everywhere in America except the east coast. Ok, that's not true, but I am convinced that I live in the least friendly part of the country. And you know what? I'm ok with that. Sometimes the friendly can be a bit grating...
You know those pump clickers? Apparently that's what I call them in my brain, but in print? Makes no sense. Let me explain that a bit more... Let's see... You know when you go to gas up your car and there's a mechanism on the pump that allows you to flick a piece of metal into a groove so that you do not have to stand there the whole time squeezing and can, instead, make better use of your time by going inside and taking a piss and buying some more Red Bull while your car gases up on its own? Ok. Well. Those lovely little mechanisms are everywhere in America....EXCEPT the east coast. They are so nice. I love those pump clickers, I miss them. It is not as though we do not have this technology, contrariwise. The clickers are just all broken. I kid you not. You've got to stand there and squeeze. The whole time. Grr.
Hand soap. Liquid hand soap is, of course, everywhere, but there are varying levels of glory and enjoyment attached to the liquid hand soap across America. The best hand soap I encountered was in Colorado, I believe. MMmm. It was white and creamy and I believe it was Safe Guard and it made my hands smell clean and not like fruit and didn't dry them out too much. My least favorite hand soap is that diluted pink crap. Kansas had that. I hate Kansas. Don't ever go there.
The east coast is the only place that uses the phrase, "I'm all set" or "You're all set" or "Am I all set?" If you use any of these phrases anywhere else, they will look at you in a confused manner and have absolutely no idea how to respond. Apparently I use this phrase a great deal. I like it. Being all set. Inquiring if I am all set after a minor business transaction like paying for a camp site or purchasing fuel.
Do you need anything else?
I'm all set.
"Do you want to go with us to the Jimmy Buffet Concert?"
"Hello?"
No. I'm still here.
"We have two extra tickets. Do you know of anybody else who would want to go with you?"
Nope. I can't think of a single person...
"Well, you come then, we can scalp the other ticket. What better way to end a 3 week road trip than with a Buffet concert? There's going to be an ice luge. I have grass skirts..."
I just. Don't think I can, I could go to that concert without...
"But you LOVE Buffet. Come ON! You're always singing his songs. I don't even think you realize you're doing it. When you're washing the dishes, taking out the trash..."
I know, but. See. Ok. I didn't hear Jimmy Buffet sing those songs first. I heard them as...covers first and... God. I just don't think I could do it, Sally. After being on the road for 3 weeks I'm going to want to go home and take a shower and sleep. Sorry. I just can't do it.
"Ok, but you'll be missing out."
I know I will be. Have fun.
Dear Pennsylvania Boy Scout Troupe #29,
I just wanted to thank you for providing free coffee on weekends at that rest stop somewhere nestled in between the 300 exits in Pennsylvania. That was so nice of you. It's like you read my mind. I had just thought to myself, gee. I could really use a second cup of coffee right about now and then BOOM! There you were, boy scouts, providing free coffee and hot dogs to motorists. Yay. I'd give you a badge if I could. Thanks again for your kindness.
Sincerely,
Celia A. Plimco
The final camp before the final leg
The final fire before the going back.
Back to what?
Back to what.
I made it as far as northeastern Ohio.
What a sunset.
One I'm not missing.
I'm at pirate camp.
No seriously. It's perfect.
Camp Buccaneers with a little lake and wooden pirate swords telling you such informative things as, visitor parking, Women and Men, and Register Here.
AAARRRRG. I'm at pirate camp.
Yay.
Ohio is so beautiful. It's one of those states that totally surprised me, came out of left field, I mean, Ohio? Who even lives in Ohio? Who fucking cares about Ohio?
But now that I'm here? In the trees at Ohio pirate camp, the sun setting, crickets chirping... Ok. I get it. Ohio's not so bad.
I remember my mom helping me memorize the states and capitols for a big test when I was in 4th grade. We'd come up with little mental pictures and scenarios for the ones I had a particularly tough time remembering. Ohio was one of these. She had me imagine Christopher Columbus stepping on American soil for the first time and he would be in such awe, right? Such awe of the beauty all around him that he'd be tongue tied and all Columbus could manage to say would be, "Oh. Hi. Oh..."
I'd build a campfire every night if I could. Watch it burn. Mesmerized like watching a contortionist. The most interesting changing of dangerous yet controlled stuffs.
I like fire.
I'd forgotten just how much I really really like fire.
Bonfires on the farm back in Tennessee. Hay rides. Bongo drum circles. Heat.
I remember making out with my first boyfriend, Blobert Rilkey, next to a bonfire around Halloween, around my birthday.
Kissing.
I wasn't wearing shoes for some reason, so when the fire eventually died, he had to give me a piggy back ride back to the house, back to the porch.
This wood.
The last of this Washington wood smells.... so delicious. I hadn't noticed how deliciously odorous it was when I was in Washington forrest on the Washington coast immersed in the stuff. But here? In Ohio? It smells... Decadent.
I am the envy of all my campers.
They wish they had my wood.
_____ ..... _____
I burnt my leg pretty bad that night. I was untangling Fluff Bucket or sticking a hot dog on a stick or something and I stepped back into the metal thing surrounding the fire. The burn still looks kind of awful and blistery and is really tender a week later. I bet it's going to scar...
SotD 8/17
"Yes, I'll get the cheese."
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Solid sleep. Should have been fitful, but I slept
As though I was in a tomb. On my back.
hands folded across
my breast.
Through a thunderstorm. The sleep of the dead.
Wind. Earth. Catastrophe
water fire.
These elements. This vision.
The giant wooden door. The ladder, the
tipping the trying to open.
The escape from falling
buildings. Mud. Trees
uprooted. Survival. It spoke
of survival and there was this
female force helping me.
4 cards laid out. Explained.
I woke calm. Still. The most rested I've been in weeks. Thunder
in the back ground.
Eyes finally dry.
Clarity.
Strength.
_____ ..... _____
This is something I scrawled out after this really intense dream I had when I took a nap in Indiana one afternoon. I was pretty much a mess when I was there the second time. Sleep deprived, road zombie, emotional wreck that I was. Dr. J and Chet were nice enough to sort of let me work through it...and distract me with cocktails and yummy food and DVDs. Thank you for letting a road zombie stay with you a couple days... Seems like I actually real time blogged when I was there too...
One more night of camping and then we're done, folks. I promise.
SotD 8/16
"You steal that MorphineCD, I'll stab you repeatedly with another optical illusion forward."
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
As night falls...
Camping seems to be a lot about organizing and reorganizing stuff. I like it. Packing. Re-packing. Figuring out ways to make it more efficient.
I built a fire though I have nothing to cook. Goldfish. I could cook some goldfish.
My watch dog is freaking me out. Everyone's certainly in bed on the east coast and that one guy's phone seems to be "temporarily disconnected". What the hell do you see over there in the woods, Bucket? Lightning bugs? I know. We don't have those at home. Is my pen actually dying?! Jesus. OOOooo... I hope I packed my blue one...
Score!
Where were we? Ah yes, the fact that maybe I'm suddenly a little freaked out here on my own at my private isolated camp site in the woods, set for a Horror film in the 80s...
AAAAAK! STOP GROWLING INTO THE DARKNESS, FLUFF BUCKET! You're really freaking me out....
_____ ...... _____
Ok. That night was creepy. I kept imagining all manner of scenarios and accidentally set my tent up on a sort of hill, so every time I rolled over, it felt like I was going to keep on rolling down the hill and there were strange noises and this really kooky blue light coming from this abandoned RV in the corner of the campsite and... I made it through the night though. The moon was just shy of full, so it was as bright as bright can be out there. I woke up to distant thunder and packed up all my crap in record time. Then I got the hell out of that creepy-ass place. Thinking back on it? Gracious. I can't believe I did that. I can't believe I stayed there...
My dog just beat me at tether ball
Let me repeat that.
I just got beat, by my dog, at tether ball.
You know those stupid Air Bud movies where the family golden retriever turns out to be a whiz at soccer? I just had a moment like that. My dog is the tether ball MASTAH!
It's uncanny. Man, she's so into it. Not that the game is all that complicated.
Pole. Rope. Ball, but still. I'm going to have to set up a tether ball rink in the back yard.
Who knew?
She didn't have to beat me though. That was going a little too far. She could have left me a smidgen of dignity...
I can't believe this
Ok.
I'm sleepy because of the storm last night, right?
I make it to Welcome, Minnesota, gas up. Tell myself, just a few more hours. I make it just a few more exits. I see this leetle leetle sign that says "Camping" with a tiny, hand painted red arrow. I follow the little red arrow. I'm driving through farm land and fields of...what is that? Soy bean? Whatever it is they grow in southern Minnesota. Miles and miles... Just when I'm about to get pissed off enough to turn around.... leetle red arrow. "Camping"... A beckoning finger. I follow.... Paved road turns to gravel. It leads behind someone's house where there is a sign next to the garage, "Stop. Office. Register." A couple chocolate labs come at me barking and a brittle bird lady emerges. By this point, I've perfected the query, "Do you have a spot where I could set up a tent tonight?" She does. I don't have $17 in cash on me because I bought that Dog Chow back in South Dakota. She lets me write her a check. I got these stupid sample novelty checks from my bank. I'm thankful that she gets the Scooby Doo and not the Anne Geddes. That would have been embarrassing...
Then she says, "You'll be the only one back there. Have the whole place to yourself." Thick Minnesota accent. I say, last night I camped in the middle of a biker rally during a thunderstorm. I don't think I'll mind the quiet for a change. Then she hands me a map. She says to make a left at the grain bin and to follow the field road back and I can have my pick of the sites. She says there's a water pump. She hopes I'm strong enough to work it. I say, I think I'll manage.
People. I have...an entire campsite...in a forrest...next to fields of soy beans....in the middle of nowhere Minnesota....to myself.
It's huge. Beautiful. Isolated. Quiet. How could two nights of camping be more different? Bucket doesn't need her leash. She ran around like a maniac when we first got here. Played a round of horse shoes. Remember that I suck at that game. Swang on the swing set. They have this giant tractor tire there. Climbed that. Stood on some stumps with my fists in the air in a victorious manner.
Fucking perfect. Beautiful.
Crickets. Birds chirping. Night falling. Twilight. My favorite time of day.
Of course, I suppose I could get hacked to bits in the night by a clan of back woods hatchet wielding Minnesota farmers. This will serve as the last written record. The final moments. The brittle lady will find this notebook amongst my things in the morning... But hell. That's a risk I'm willing to take.
Gracious.
I can't believe I have this place all to myself!
17 bucks. 17 silly bucks and I have a forest for the night.
Mmm. Minnesota smells sweet and clean...and I got that pump to squish out some water. Eventually. You just have to commit to it.
SotD 8/15
"Quick! Throw me a toy!"
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Biker Fantasy
I changed my mind. You should get a motorcycle.
We're riding all day on the highway in the sun. Straddling our deafening machine. I'm behind you, snug. My hips pressed...as close as close can be. My hands are around your waist.
The first hour or so of driving, I'm good. The constant vibration between my legs, the beauty of the day, the smell of the back of your neck are enough to keep me behaving... But eventually? I can help myself no longer. I begin, innocently enough, sliding my hand to your upper thigh and just letting it rest there, just letting it rest...
I scootch closer to you on the seat, if closer is possible.
Fingers find creases to explore...
Our machine dangerous and fast between our legs.
Finally I can't stand it any more and grab your cock. It is hard. I am not surprised.
I make it harder, if harder is possible.
My hips begin to grind, raise off the seat. Our breathing quickens.
You signal and pull off at an exit, a "No Services" sign swinging below.
We drive behind what appears to be an abandoned convenience store. You turn off the motor. Immediately I miss it. I pivot, never leaving the bike, to facing you, still straddling, but facing you.
We kiss.
I unzip...your pants...
We fuck. There. On top of our bike. Handle bars pressing into my back.
We come.
I pivot back behind you satiated... for the moment.
We return to the highway.
That machine, god that machine roaring beneath us.
My hand...slowly finds your upper thigh...once again.
I just let it rest there, just let it rest...
Actual Biker Conversation*
Biker #1: You know that rest area we stopped at a ways back and had a nap?
Biker #2: Yeah.
#1: They had those automatic flushing toilets.
#2: Yeah.
(significant pause)
#1: Shot water right up my ass, man. I'm not kidding.
(shared laughter)
#2: Yeah. Did the same thing to me too, man. Same thing to me too.
*Heck, may as well use this for The Scheherazade Project dialogue theme.
I'm fucking camping with bikers tonight, dude!
How fucking cool is that? How fucking tough do I feel with my Sesame Street pillow case? I need me some leather.
Damn.
Bikers.
Apparently there's a big convention in South Dakota this week*. There've been scads of them on the road. We're camping in Sundance, Wyoming outside this place called Devil's Tower. This wad-o-bikers over there keeps breaking out into simultaneous guffaws. They all sound the same. The biker guffaw. My ice melted in my cooler, this is the last bottle of Oregon beer. It's warm.
I was expecting Montana to be bigger, more rim shot. I suppose it was nice and all, but....Dry. BIKES ARE LOUD! (scream writing.) How am I ever going to get to sleep tonight?
Almost got fined $2000 last night for making a fire at a Montana camp site. No sign. No one told me. I still had a couple of bundles of wood left over from Washington. "Miss? Miss, are you here?" Me, coming from the restroom (they keep putting me by the restroom) Yep. I'm here. "You're gonna havetah put out that fire, miss." And how do you propose I do that? "With water." Smart ass. Apparently there was a state-wide ban on camp fires 2 weeks ago. How was I to know?
You know? I've only ever ridden a motorcycle once in my life.
Oh! That man had a fluffy grey beard that makes a sort of face saucer when he rides! Yay bikers. I hope they don't eat me.
Fuck. That sky is so ominous dark and electric and headed this way. Tents are water proof, right?
Man. Camping is cool. I like sleeping on the ground. I think it's good for my back. Every time I turn over in my red sleeping bag, CRAAAAACK! Ahhhhhh...
RV culture is bizarre as hell too. Bucket and I went walking around this place when we first got here, right, and we're walking around the RV lane and it's like...this hive mentality... These ginormous moving machines and this man's scrubbing his front bumper sparkling clean and here's a family down to dinner with their tiki torches and attack pug. There are potted plants, hanging plants, welcome mats, fucking Chinese rugs and betwixt these 2 especially impressive luxurious mobile beasts, and it can be really private between there, I swear to you was a little old woman giving a little old man...in a barber chair...a shave. Kid you not. They waved. I waved back.
Fuck. It's going to storm something awful... Is my tent waterproof? I'm about to find out...
Oh my gracious! A cute round bald biker man just talked to me! He thinks my tent is cool. OH MY GOD, HE THINKS MY TENT IS COOL! I'm all, yeah. It's a 2 second tent...you know...for the lazy camper.... Ha! Like I do this all the time. My fourth night of solo road camping and I'm making tent jokes to bikers! Right now...I am the coolest person I know...
AND IT'S MONDAY NIGHT!
Yay.
You know what I'm starting to realize is super neat about tents? If you're inside, you can hear all the conversation going on around you, but no one can see you, right? If you're outside, it's easy to forget that someone could be inside that tent. So, if you're really quiet.....and patient...you can hear the bikers sing...
Bikers are singing
Monsters snooze oblivious
That was the first drop...
Golly but cowgirls and cowboys and kind biker people of the earth, but I am getting fond of my new room.
Statistics are showing that the ceiling does, in fact, keep the raindrops out, so I'm as dry as dry can be at the moment.
(monologue?")
overalls, dungarees, what did they call them in England?
England.
I've still never felt as home as I did in England.
Back. Go back. Go back soon.
Though the new pod. Red birdhouse. Waterproof outside room impressing bikers in 5 states according to a national survey... Know what else I can do in here? Besides eavesdrop on biker conversation. Let's see....
I can stretch and sleep and scratch and cry.
The rain seems to be...
slowing down...
The storm has passed...
The bikers emerge...
Plimco snaps off...
her light.
*The Sturgis Biker Rally. The largest biker rally in the country.
___ ..... ___
That storm was not over. That was just the beginning. I awoke a couple hours later to the most intense storm I've ever been through in my life. Wind, Rain, Hail, Thunder, Lightening. I was terrified. Facing your own mortality kind of storm. Thunder that literally hurts your ears that moves around and around the sky. Constant lightening. Fluff Bucket was absolutely trembling. We were both so scared. I felt like we were the only things holding my tent down, so I stayed. I didn't cry or pray, but I certainly thought about dying that night... And being faced with it? It didn't seem so bad. There were a couple things I thought I didn't have to be so stubborn about, but other than that? What a way to go. In a fierce thunderstorm with a bunch of bikers. My tent held fast. It is waterproof and scrappy. It kept us dry. The hail chipped the paint in a couple of places on my car.
The next morning, I got up and ZEEEEEEEEEET!ed out of my tent and there were the bikers. "That was some light show last night, huh?" Apparently there was quite a bit of damage to some of their bikes. The most friendly biker man told me that several bikers had spent the night in the men's bathroom, they were so scared. He said, "But you and your dog stuck it out, huh?" Yep. We sure did.
Bucket is a huge flirt. She's always adored men. She flirted her tail off with those bikers lying on her back and getting belly rubs. At one point, my Colorado biker said the most simple, yet most profoundly perfect thing I think I've ever heard spoken. He said, "Ok, you go over there and do dog stuff now. I'm going to go over here and do biker stuff." Somewhere deep inside those two sentences is the secret to the meaning of life.
I put on my train engine overalls and went to get some coffee and gas up before hitting the road. This old man on the opposite side of the pump with his big ole pick up truck had on my same overalls. I thought that was neat, made me feel local. I got my coffee and started to drive away. The man in my same outfit screamed at me. I had left the pump in my gas hole. That storm, that evening, those bikers had me visibly shaken that morning. Then I drove into South Dakota and through Sturgis and saw for myself what a huge biker smorgasbord I had somehow gotten myself in the middle of...and developed quite the biker fetish along the way...
SotD 8/14
"You don't have to ask that anymore."
Monday, August 14, 2006
Speaking of west coast complimentary...
The complimentary dog biscuit is quite a... treat, if you will.
Gas stations? And honestly I can't remember the last time I pumped myself. Kansas maybe? Hunh. Yeah. They've all been full service. Sometimes I'll get out and embarrass myself. Oh. Oops. Hi there. Full service. Gotcha. But I WANT to stretch my legs and I LIKE pumping and I have to pee...
But yeah. Gas station. "May I give your dog a biscuit?" SURE! Go for it! She'll probably barf it up in a couple miles, but it'll be nice to have a little something on her stomach for a bit anyhow.
Ok. another reason why I'm going to move here. Wait. Did I just say that out loud? The drive thru ESPRESSO SHACK. Oh hell yeah, ladies and gentleworms, that's what I'm talking about. Mini espresso shacks all up and down the Pacific coast highway. And I mean mini. Like dog house mini. Like how can anyone work here if they're over 5'5" mini. But they have little flower boxes out front and pointy roofs and window panes and you just drive around them and...damn. Don't let the size fool you for you can get any coffee treat imaginable from inside the mini espresso shack. I'm talking Iced Grasshopper. "Almond Joy" late with 3 extra shots of espresso. Cappuccino, mochas, iced your mom, they have it. Then they hand you your coffee creation through the mini sliding window with, get this, a single teddy graham nestled next to your straw on the lid. Oh yes. You heard me correctly. A single teddy graham plump and ready to pop in your little mouth-a-roo and then... as though all of that glory wasn't enough, then comes, "Would your doggie like a treat?" Would she ever! And then the perfect espresso shack angel reaches to the open back seat window and places in the open mouth of my dog the most gigantic, nutter butter looking, gormet dog biscuit I have ever seen. Mountains. Sea. Sunshine surrounding. Hell yeah.
The queerest little man changed my oil today
They were all in costume there at Oil Can Henry's. Black bowties and white button up shirts. Newsboy caps and mustaches. They were so curious and speedy and kind like cartoons. Like I was driving a Tin Lizzie instead of a Mazda. They gave me a complimentary USA Today while I waited. Mark was my guy. He was missing the mustache, but had long curly locks escaping from under his cap. He kept calling me "Miss" and commenting on my smile. When I left, he told me that I was the best customer ever, that he'd give me a trophy if he had one, I was that good. What a curious place. I can't believe that was my changing oil experience... Granted, the east coast Jiffy Lube has free coffee and headphones on the wall to listen to 80s CDs, but still. Little cartoon men in costume? Mustaches? A free paper?
I built a fire
This is a very simple, a very human thing to do, but none-the-less... I don't think I've ever made one before. Not all by myself. It is beautiful and perfect and warm in my wooded nook by the ocean. As west as west can be. I made a dinner of hot sausages and sharp cheddar cheese on wheat bread grilled over an open flame. I filled my one good pocket with packets of mustard, ketchup, and relish. The condiment bandit. Tomorrow the Washington papers will be full of the story.
Sneakers slowly melting...
I can see my breath.
I've seen a coyote and a deer. A dead seagull. A giant black spider. A stretch of Idaho interstate brought me swarms of what looked to be monarch butterflies. My windshield slaughtering herds of them. Butterfly carnage of epic proportions. What can you do? It's not as though I could have dodged them. I'm sorry, butterfly families. I'm so so sorry.
The fog and mist on this westernmost peninsula is eerie. It wraps round you in an invasive smothering manner. Tangible morphine. I saw a car stuck in the sand as though it were snow. Bizarre to be able to drive on that beach. A lovely couple asked me if I was local. I pointed to my license plate. I was emptying melted ice into the parking lot of the general store. She still asked me if I knew where the Catholic church was in town...
I've got mustard on my shirt and firewood coming out my ears, my dog won't eat her bone and I haven't heard from the boy in nearly a week.
Last night, on the coast of Oregon, I sobbed myself to sleep. Taken aback by the magnitude of my own melancholy. Could I be clinically depressed? I suppose it's possible. Where does it come from, this sadness, this grief? From guilt? Stasis?
Is my life so miserable, so incomplete, so unsatisfactory? My Oregon tent was right next to the restrooms. I heard all manner of walking to and from potty conversation. A father walked by with his little girl. He told her to look up. He asked her if she knew what made the moon shine. She said she didn't. He said that the moonlight was simply sunlight bounced back at us in the dark. Then he told her to keep looking up, to look for shooting stars. He said he'd already seen a bunch. Just keep looking up...
Look up...
Me. In my tent. A thin layer of waterproof material separating us. Me, father and child. Sobbing inside. If I knew what I wanted, I suppose it'd be different. I'd know what was missing. I'd be able to point at the hole and identify what wasn't there. But I don't. So I'm left to swirl in my cliche'd existential crisis when I should be enjoying myself because I'm on vacation, but instead I'm zipped inside my tent. Sobbing.
Edited to add: That night was so cold, I slept in a Russian hat to keep me from freezing to death. My parents got me a hat when they went to Russia and gave it to me when I first saw them in St. Louis, a black fox fur Russian dancing man hat. It is by far the most exciting piece of head gear that I have ever owned in my life. I wore it that night...and was warm.
SotD 8/13
"We don't cry because we're sad, we feel sad because we're crying."
Saturday, August 12, 2006
I have seen the face of God
Wouldn't that be cool if I got back from this journey and could say that?
I didn't though.
Nope. No God. Maybe next time.
Now that we have that huge disappointment out of the way, let's move on to what really happened...
Past Perfect Tense
I made it. I looped the loop. I'm back over here on the east coast. Nothin to it. Skip to my Lew. Bop skee dop. Home again home again jiggity jog. Where's my parade?
The landscaping has really come along at the apartment complex down the street. Our absence has done The Bald Monkey good. He's not so bald as when we left. Someone slept in my bed while I was gone. I washed the campfire off my body, but still get a whiff of it stubborn in my nostril hair. Hot dogs from the microwave don't taste as sweet...
I have a doctor friend that told me once that she didn't think memories counted if they happened when you were by yourself, that in order for a memory to be a memory at least one other person has to be there to experience it in order to help you remember it or else... Or else it pretty much didn't really happen.
I got pretty defensive about that. I don't think it's true. I don't want to believe that it's true. Mostly because I spend a hell of a lot of time by myself. This trip for instance. Doesn't it "count"? Maybe that's where you come in. If I tell you about it, maybe you'll help me to remember. Or I suppose my former writing self which is currently my present Plimco at the picnic table in the forest scratching away with her black ballpoint pin on lined paper the crickets getting louder... and louder... Whispering, now shouting into the future, Hey! Remember this. Ok? Remember.
So I've obviously been writing this whole time. I'm not quite sure how I shall go about presenting it to you, my road notebook.
I suppose as is will do although... You must promise to understand that much is written in road zombie delirium by firelight at night somewhere. I'm convinced most of it is quite loopy. If I, the present Plimco, have something to add to the past entry, I'll italicize the addendum. Make sense?
Because I am a sucker for the moment, most is written as it happened, is happening. Try to get into that spirit or else it will seem exceptionally absurd. Ok? Also, I only started writing my second night of camping post family visits, post Trista, so... I suppose I'll have to address that stuff as the present me later.
But for now? Let's go to last week about this time...
2 SotD
8/11
"That's a bad shirt. It should say, "Indians"...although...the Indians suck, so...nevermind."
8/12
"You're all set."
Friday, August 11, 2006
Indiana is not the east coast
So, I've been farting around here for a couple days, eating Dr. J's food, drinking Chet's vodka, sleeping the sleep of the dead in their guest bed and thinking, whewph. What a trip. Like it's over or something. It's not. I have a thousand or so miles left to go and 16 something more hours left of driving.
Fuck.
No. I like driving. This has just been....a lot.
And I can do it, of course I can do it, but... I don't think I'm going to be all crazy and try and do it in one day again. That was stupid. I've definitely pushed myself on this trip. Pushed myself to places of "awake" that were more zombie than anything which probably got a little dangerous at times and there's no need to do that on the way back... If I don't have to. And I don't. I'm sure there's a spot to put up a tent some place between here and my little house beside the Atlantic ocean...
So. Yep. Here I go... Off I go again... Back in the driver's seat, back on the road.
"Here I go, on the road again. There I am, up on the stage. There I go, playing a song again. There I go.... Turn the page."
One two three.
sigh.
Maybe I'll take a shower first....
SotD 8/10
"When you're done in here, you need to mow the lawn."
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Bizarre occurrences off the coast of Oregon
This came out in the New York Times the day I woke up and walked out to the ocean...through the dunes...carrying a little mason jar full of water and a few stones...
"She was born in the summer of her 27th year"
7/30
"Um, you're not a serial killer, are you?"
7/31
"Happiness is a crock of beans."
8/1
"Do you ever think that the sound of a waterfall...doesn't fit? I mean, it's just water...on some rocks...you know?"
8/2
"Since the birds didn't have any natural predators, they forgot how to fly."
8/3
"I just can't handle the penis on a regular basis like that."
8/4
"LONG LOAD"
8/5
"Look! She's got a back seat driver!"
8/6
"Small versus big."
8/7
"Or you could set up out front...depending on your tolerance level of bikers..."
8/8
"Winner Winner Chicken Dinner"
8/9
"So, you'll be able to make it in time for dinner then."
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Dr. J's hotel
I'm back in Indiana for the evening.
I'm here.
I made it.
I'm tired.
I'm bleeding.
That shower...
That much needed shower so hot and so cleansing...
Bed...over there...actual bed not ground in an uncertain space...
oh bed.
I'm going to jump in you. Hard.
And stay...
For a while...
goodnight.
Saturday, August 05, 2006
