Pro Blogging

I have been toying around with making this blog part of the foundation supporting my material needs and desires, and I have come to the conclusion that it probably will not.

I'm going to thank the guy who wrote this, because he helped clarify my thinking on the topic. First I came to a blog post from two years ago, of course. I was googling Amazon Associates, because I thought it was the system for publishing your own work on Amazon, which I was looking up for a friend.

(It isn't. That is create space dot com, and maybe five or six others, I don't know how exclusive Amazon is with their plan to help themselves and help us help each other. I haven't done the research.)

And the essence of my thinking on the topic, is that I don't care if anybody is in a buying mood.

I have my own buying moods, and I either succumb joyfully, or resist stoically, or ethically, if I must. But this blog? My soapbox for stuff I have to get off my chest or otherwise can not shut up about?

It is for me first. And I am not usually in a buying mood.

And I really don't care if you, my dear friends, are also in a buying mood. I love it when you tell me about great stuff, and I love telling people about great stuff.

But material stuff is not as great as the best stuff.

Which I love more than anything. And so, my friends, do you.

He does make a great point about guest bloggers. I am not rubbing my paws together in anticipation of the fantastic readers/revenue stream they will drive to my site. But I would totally appreciate anybody who is interested about the things that I write about, agree or disagree, the opportunity to showcase some of those ideas here on my blog, instead of where ever you usually do. I'd be happy to return the favor!

Heck, write about anything you want to, that's what I'm going to be doing.

Blue Swede

Blue Swede totally deserves a cupcake. And I haven't even known what Blue Swede was for more than an hour.

But I have known Blue Swede's work all my life. Probably you do to.

Blue Swede made a totally awesome cover of a song we may all know well, "Hooked on a Feeling". I've linked a live broadcast, although its timing is not my favorite due to the uninhibited enthusiasm everyone in the room seems to be enthralled with.

Except the guy who introduces them, because he is classy enough to sit down and tell us about what we're about to see, instead of just screaming incoherently, like most of the audience is.

The radio play version is what I actually like better. From the album, I presume.

And I am so grateful to have found this video of the band. Dorky seventies costumes and all. And that guitar solo in the middle! This band is obviously not intimidated by the power of WOMAN, because their lead guitarist, as far as I can tell, is one of us. You can see her clearly at 1:15 and the guitar solo, which does not show her that well, begins around 2:05.

(If you want to cut to the chase on this performer, who I am desperately trying not to call a cutie, even though she definitely is, watch this sleeper video by Blue Swede, where she is totally rocking out. I may be the first person to 'like' it. And it has more cowbell.)

Not that it is sexist to be in an all-male or all-girl band. If that's who you hang out with, that's who you'll be singing with, and I do not pick other people's friends!

B. J. Thomas made what may be the first publicly released version of this totally awesome song, written by Mark James. And his version is GOLD.

And Blue Swede was influenced by another cover from Johnathan King, which I have never heard until literally one minute ago, and is still playing all the way through as I finish my sentence and check my link and so on. He introduced the 'ooka chakka' chant, which is essential for my full appreciation of this song.

And thank god for Johnathan King, B. J. Thomas, and Mark James. Because I love this song. And I love it because of Blue Swede.

'Hooked on a Feeling' is possibly the greatest love song of all time. And I know this because I have occasionally been hooked on that feeling. But irrationally, because I have never had any evidence to back it up. Because the people I have yearned for have not shown willing.

I also find the live video hilarious on another level, because I find a great deal of value in a disproportionally high percentage of tall, blond men. Like my first boyfriend, and Alexander Skarsgard, and lots of other friends and acquaintances and inspirations of all kinds. (Note to all of my exboyfriends, ever: you are obviously totally hot! I am not talking about you, I am talking about me.)

I think it might be an externalized form of self-love, because man does the noggin on the lead singer of Blue Swede remind me of pictures of my own head, as a child. And I digress.

This version is extremely popular, and because Blue Swede is not that well known where I am from, I have heard the performing artist of this version attributed about 50 gazillion ways.

We know what we like, obviously. But we did not know Blue Swede well enough. "Blue Suede." Tom Jones. Dr. Hook. B. J Thomas--an easy mistake to make. Grass Roots, Neil Diamond. Bay City Rollers. And I'm just hitting the highlights--I'm not even halfway down my own personal list. And I digress.

Part of the reason this song is so amazingly perfect, is the driving intensity of the 'ooga chaka' chant. This song has the non-verbal component of a compelling desire coming right on through, along with a beautifully worded expression of gratitude and joy, that some girl loves this guy. And spends some time all alone together, with him.

And I love it because it has all those things, and is very well done, and it has a beat. And you can dance to it. And it shows an inkling of something I love.

Magic.

Birds

I have a special relationship with birds. And not like Gonzo, or Bert.

And I am not the only one. I hear lots of stories about significance being drawn from wild birds and their activities. Or cessation of activities, in the case of dead birds.

This kind of significance is mystical thinking, which I do not personally enjoy, for reasons I will eventually explain. A 'sign' from the universe, I would like to believe, is always my actual life, and not something birds are doing.

I love hearing about the signs other people see in the world! I just do not enjoy believing in mystical connectivity. In my own life. But I do. And I digress.

Sometimes I have felt like birds are cosmically drawn to me in some weird way. Live birds swooping around almost all the time. Dead birds literally littering my path, though thankfully just one at a time, over and over again and not, you know, a hail of birds or anything.

The first lesson I drew from birds, years ago, is PAY ATTENTION. I learned this while driving.

Another beautiful flock of birds was swooping and parting and coalescing around and in front of me as I drove down the road. And I love a swarm of birds. They stole my attention from the moment.

I got it back in time to hit the brakes and squeal to a stop behind the cars in front of me, instead of IN the cars in front of me.

I still had a couple of feet to spare or something, but that first lesson from bird-kind came across as: don't watch birds when you are driving!

But I didn't get the 'live in the moment' part of 'pay attention' for a long time. I'm still not that good at it--I reminisce, and imagine my perfect future life. And I'm ok with a little bit of both. I like to learn, I like to plan.

I just don't want to cherish my history or my fantasy more than I am cherishing whatever I can get from whatever I'm doing right now.

And I am Living.

Sleepless in Seattle and Thor

Sleepless in Seattle is a fine movie, with one of my favorite soundtracks, and I have loved it for a long time.

It came out in 1993, and it gave me existential angst. I was dating a fine guy at the time, my first boyfriend, and was, much like I am now, fairly immature.

And after we broke up, but before he moved out, I listened to this soundtrack over and over again, which I freely acknowledge was kind of an odd choice.

I had fallen in love with 'love'.

This movie gave me confusing ideas about 'magic', a special and mutually reflected connection much more compelling than love.

Which I don't mind, because except for the mutually reflected part, I have HAD magic. Since then, back then, here and there over the years. And not really often enough with that first boyfriend, though I did love him.

But maybe, just maybe, with a stranger in a theater about two months ago. Which was weird!

I went to see Thor by myself, and sat down at an aisle seat. And there was a one seat gap, and then two guys sitting together.

And after the lights went down a third guy came and j

and just then my beautiful blog post was eaten by a tragic miscommunication between me and blogger.com.

I will probably get around to finishing it, again, someday. But I cannot face it now, because life is so hard, and I love a little melodrama.

But just so I don't leave you hanging, the upshot is that this magic thing is fascinating, and I do not know enough about it, but I am totally willing to do the necessary research. Just not, you know, with Paul Bettany, though he is totally cupcake worthy.

If you know what I mean. :)

Feeling estranged from myself

I would like to write a funny or serious article here on something I heard once or maybe even thought of on my own, but it's hot, I'm sticky, and I feel like I need a WHAAAAAmbulance.

I hung out with my friends last night and had a blast, but I stayed a little too late, and was beat heading back home the 40 or so miles from Seattle to Tacoma.

And then there was something hanging out of my car door making a racket I couldn't identify without stopping and checking.

And the brakes did not feel right, and scared me, so I pulled over and called my mommy, and waited, brain dead and divorced from my situation, for about a half an hour to get home even later. But glad I didn't have to drive it not trusting the brakes.

With my four year old nephew in the car.

He was totally cool and mellow, which was great. And my mom is a trouper, through and through.

And I woke today missing a good feeling I usually have, which is connected.

I'm not sure connected to what.

But without it I am not bubbly and effervescent, I am leaden and heartsick. I doubt myself, and find fault with all the cool things I didn't think to do right the first time.

Is it hormonal? Situational? Am I irritable and moody? Is my cosmic connection irrevocably severed?

I try to keep my stress to a minimum, carefully. I try to harness my resources frugally, because boom and bust is not for me. But my resources this month are qualitatively and quantitatively different from the last gazillion years, and it feels like I am running or wrecked. Surfing or sinking. All or nothing.

Maybe my all will grow hardy enough to last all day long, day after day.

That's kind of what I'm going for. I mean, good enough is great for investment, but for return?

I want it all.

I am the Jackass

I have a recurring bad feeling. It's a lot like a recurring bad dream, except I'm totally awake, and I can't always identify why I feel this way.

This recurring bad feeling may be guilt. Or some flavor of anxiety. Or some part of recovering from depression. Or some kind of existential angst. Perhaps the fallout from yet another of my many, MANY irrational worries.

I do not suffer that frequently from this miasma of doom/self disgust or whatever it is. But when I do, I just want to crawl under a rock to get away from myself, or find something to take the blame for so I can apologize and try to fix thing and have some redemptive journey to transform the inside of me from something like 'this' to something that feels good.

It's a lot easier to deal with when I am certain that I have failed in some way.

Now I am not certain. I don't think anybody is mad at me. But it feels like maybe the universe is, and I don't like this feeling.

Speaking of failing in some way, did you know I actually am a jackass? It's true! In an earlier post I glancingly talked about some of my confidantes as best friends, friends, and one total jackass. Which I thought was hilarious because it was SO untrue. And because some ridiculously non-zero number of them might not get that it was a joke, or search for the truth beneath the veil, and wonder if I meant them.

And slowly my chuckles faded away as I realized the jackass probably was me, because I am actually mean-spirited and thought it was funny that one of my friends might suffer these self doubts.

I don't really want to get over-dramatic about this, because I am not that mean spirited. I'm totally happy with the goodness I put into the world most of the time. But it's times like these when I wonder if periodically feeling like the jackass who ruined everything is just something biochemical happening in me, or emotional fallout from some setback (whether under my control or not), or what.

Maybe my inner spirit wants me to be doing something, and I am not getting the hint. And is now throwing disappointment into the mix.

The reason I have always known that I am not a mind reader is largely because I do not even know my own mind as often as I'd like. Or I figure out years later!

Plus there's the fact that I can't take a hint. I don't even see the hint! Indirect communication is a little round about in every case, but in my case it's just like a road going right on by.

Sometimes I think back on some interaction that seemed a little bit, I don't know, higher-energy than normal, and wonder.

But right now I have no interactions like that, except with myself. And I love feeling more high-energy than normal!

But I'd rather be able to pin the feeling like I am missing important signals to some kind of actual message, other than having my car towed. And also needing to get the brakes checked RIGHT NOW.

I know what to do about my car, but I do not know what to do about my life.

Just keep on trucking, I guess.

Can't stop the sharing

Stuff I could not resist sharing on FaceBook today:

OK Go and The Muppets - Muppet Show Theme Song

Now you're cooking with comics.

 

Filling without drilling

Skeletonwitch - Bringers of Death

 

How Do I Remember That I Know You Know That I Know? - Association for Psychological Science

 

LillaJizo

 

Cognitive Dissonance: secular vs. sacred

 

Scented laundry products emit hazardous chemicals through dryer vents

 

Did Skin Cream Kill Egypt’s Queen Hatshepsut?

 

BPS Research Digest: The woman misdiagnosed with Alzheimer's, and how we can all be affected by the.

 

I think this is about half the stuff I felt like sharing, but did not. I may have a problem. I do not need StumbleUpon. Unless I should be dumping this stuff there instead of facebook. Hmm.

  

John Turturro

John Turturro, would you like a cupcake?

Friends, I have always wanted to fully express my love for John Turturro, and now I have the soapbox to shout it to the world.

I was reminded of this love yesterday, when I watched that first transformers movie with that kid whom I also adore, and I thought all those thoughts I'd love to share about absolute terror and how great that movie is, and that kid, and how movies are 'play' that does the work for me, because I am not as good at make-believe as I'd like to be.

And then John Turturro showed up, and stole the show. Again.

I would like to take a moment to admit that I did not give the transformers movie my full attention. I was baby-sitting, and movies are a great help to baby-sitters. I'd sort of seen some of it before, and I might like to give it all of my attention some time in the future, because it is totally an action-packed thrill-ride.

And I digress.

John Turturro is a lucky man. Because he gets the best role, every time. And we are lucky, because he is a TERRIFIC actor, who I've always found absolutely riveting, without actually understanding why. It's because he is a great actor. And because he is also absolutely riveting.

Now for John Turturro, I went to the effort to do a little effort on the research for this post, which I usually don't bother to. Mostly to remind myself how long I have been enjoying his work, because I'm flaky and can't remember every great movie I've ever seen, let alone every great performance in every good movie.

And the first thing I came across was a description on IMDB:

"...Italian American actor who always looks unsettled and jumpy..."

Which I take issue with! And can totally disprove with a casual search on youtube: Exclusive Interview with John Turturro.  

Now John Turturro has a look. And he has a talent which lets him take "his instrument," a mellow, comfortable, regular guy with some sort of a look, and give you unsettled and jumpy any time it is called for. And a whole other palette of portrayals, because John Turturro is no one-trick pony.  

He does vulnerable. Poignant. Angry, oh baby! Tender. 

And a bunch of other great stuff both related to and totally separate from unsettled and jumpy that I am not going to bother to list here because I am lazy. I haven't yet actually remembered what they all are, because I have not even finished my research for this post. And here it is nearly done already. 

Now John Turturro is lucky, because he does get the best parts. But he does not get every kind of part, which makes me sad. Because I want it all! 

And because any man gets to be the hero, no matter what kind of 'look' he's got.   

And luckily, because I did the research, and saw John Turturro in that interview, I know that he knows that already.

Jean M. Auel

Jean M. Auel totally deserves a cupcake.

She is an author I've known for decades, much like almost anybody I've ever read, since I haven't done as much reading in the last 15 years I did in the first 25.

And her series, Earth's Children, is covering the entire gamut of man's experiences and frustrations, as far as I can tell. Though I may be two books behind, what with the not reading so much lately thing.

As a a backdrop for this exploration, she writes in a setting where two branches of early man are intermingled, to some extent. They mostly avoid each other. But they are definitely different from each other, and different is scary.

Which probably is one of those instinctive reactions that were very helpful to scare toddlers away from dark and bears and stuff. I'm like a great big giant baby, I get spooked all the time. But I digress.

The first book was the most compelling, for me, because of the difficult subject matter. Which was vaguely about the conflict between social custom and being a misfit. But specifically about socially sanctioned rape, and the struggle for autonomy.

And it was about a ton of other things too, of course. Those books are THICK, and I have never really felt like my time was being wasted. Anthropology. An exploration of the spiritual and the mystical. Practical tips for surviving alone in the wilderness, which may be my favorite part, because I feel way better prepared for you know, the collapse of human civilization with a couple of these babies inside me.

Because I am a worrier. I don't really believe in the oncoming collapse of human civilization. I'm totally not over worrying about it. But my rational mind tells me that while we may never have perfect solutions, we are never going to give up trying. No matter what obstacles we find, or cause.

Panic

I have problems with anxiety. If it lasts for a while, I will eventually notice. I've been a little out of touch with my body for a while, so I don't always notice right off.

And noticing right off? That is Panic. For me

I'm pretty sure panic is one of the wordless, unconscious tools of the Human Spirit (if you're feeling poetic. Or of properly functioning flesh and blood, if you are not).

And Panic is there for me, man. He knows danger far better than I do, because the world is safer than it has ever been before, in all the ages of man before agriculture and animal husbandry. And he has not caught on to the changes.

If hunger doesn't get you up and looking for something to eat? Panic will up the ante.

Leaving a warm, well-lit place packed with friendly people? To go out alone into the cold, dark night? What kind of an idiot are you? (This bit me in the ass this week, and came as quite a shock, I can tell you.)

Afraid of the dark? What you can't see, you can't predict. And our predictive powers, friends, are totally the frenemy.

They help our reaction times. If we are primed for the right thing. The danger of our predictive powers is "the story," an idea I plucked from Byron Katie, whom I adore. She gives out the basic framework of her philosophy and methods on her website, or at least she used to. I've only read a chapter or two of a couple of her books, to be completely honest, because she comes off as a little batty, and I am extremely wary of that. But she won't mind my saying so, I am sure, because she divides the world into three areas of business. I have my business. There's other stuff that is somebody else's business. And there is God's business.

I am totally trying to take care of my business, and let the other kinds slide.

There are still plenty of dangers. No doubt about it. But my best friend, my own set of instincts and tendencies? Is also my frenemy. Because he keeps crying wolf.

I am an artist

And because I am an artist, I have an art blog on tumblr. And because I want to avoid becoming a mental patient, I do some art therapy every day, just to ward that off. I haven't finished any for today yet, because I missed my window.

Which was in the morning half of the day, after some sleep, and before the crushing burden of sleep-deprivation or emotional roller-coaster of fear drained that well dry.

GREAT morning. I invited all of my best friends to my imaginary birthday party, and they all seem to be coming. Even some new best friends, who I haven't even met yet! And I am totally about good enough, so every invite accepted? GOLD.

But not the comedy kind. Unless you find nigh-manic nigh-lunacy funny. Which I totally do! My love for my fellow man does have a totally hilarious aspect. Because it is without discretion. Without judgement. It is undiscerning.

It tries to find a reason to love even the unloveable.

Like Hitler.

I don't usually admit this, because Hitler? really?

But my mom let me know the other day that my great-grandmother, a Jew of Hispanic descent from Turkey, prayed for Hitler. Because she thought it was obvious that he needed God's help.

And it so obvious that he did. Hopefully he is getting it.

I don't actually waste much time trying to find Hitler's loveable side, because he is dead.

And I am here for the living. Because they are the people who can help me.

But I digress. I missed my morning of wonderfulness, got drained, and now have to practice my art feeling half dead.

Which will be ok, because practising at all is the part that is important to me. And I am no longer looking for great.

I am looking for good enough.

Advertisers

Advertisers, you're doing it wrong.

Or at least I think you are, but I don't know. Because I do not really know if it is your fault.

What I don't like is going to a web page that is sponsored with advertising, and waiting for the advertising content to show first before I get to see my desired content. Maybe these ads are just relics from a bygone time. I don't know.

As far as I can tell, anymore, you're not paying for views, so why are you holding me hostage to them?

I'll be happy to casually dismiss them if they show up later.

And frankly, since the eye is attracted to motion, showing up later is a far better strategy for getting my attention than leaving me hanging.

Because nobody gets my attention if you are leaving me hanging while the magic voodoo of advertising content and delivery is going on behind the scenes.

I have a short attention span. And I'm extremely impatient. And I will move on to some other content rather than stay pissed that you're wasting my time.

Most of the time, that magic voodoo is hopping and swinging and it does not matter that you wanted to leave me hanging, because when all that works out you are NOT leaving me hanging.

And you probably don't care what I think because I have the shortest attention span ON THE PLANET, and your magic voodoo keeps getting better and better.

But you definitely need to change your methods, if I'm spot-on with all of my assumptions. And I know they are assumptions. Because you are not in control of the internet, and the content-delivery speed of all content.

Though I bet if you were, it would be faster. Because you care more.

And we all deserve better. 

Personal note #2

Those of you who are reading by RSS may have had a sneak peak at an eventually upcoming blog post I've got in mind: Invisible people of color.

And I'm totally going to write it some day soon, but I'm exploring issues of balance and proportion and pacing and delivery. And also trying to build up a bit of a backlog of upcoming posts so that no one misses out on the fabulousness that is me if I take two or nine days away from keyboard, as I both just did and plan to do starting next week.

Upcoming write today or tomorrow posts feel like:

John Turturro
Absolute terrror
Sleepless in Seattle

and the in-the can scheduled posts for this week are:

I am an artist
Panic
Jean M. Auel

All I'm really getting right is pacing, ha ha ha.

As a note, I had this to say about insomnia today on the 101 program from Steve Barnes, and to Steve Barnes, my new best friend.

And my slow process of letting that fear go has gained some momentum lately, and whatever reason, I am no longer depressed, and find the world a lot more stimulating that I used to. (and more stimulating than most people find it, if I try and compare experience, which is of course pointless. But my other sister likes to insist non-neurotypical! and she is probably right about all of us.)

So with that, my relaxation cues and stuff were set on low, but the world got turned up to eleven. So I had to eliminate more external stimulation than I needed to a month ago, and pick better cues to relax, or whatever.

My usual problems with insomnia were more the struggles of a slightly depressed person to sleep more. Not a need, but a desire.

My new ones are categorically different in severity, and may be just this overstimulation/relaxation adjustment I'm going through, and may be part of crossing a metabolic threshold as I lose weight, like dropping off a plateau or something. Not that I was on one for long! I do not call a month a plateau.

Because I've had the new sleep problems in combination with feeling less fear/more joy, and also with putting off meals because I have something better to do, which hasn't come up much in the last 26 years, let me tell you. :)

Oh, and I just have to let you know, a friend of mine who is also in on my problems and enthusiasms sent me your warrior sleep program, and it's my new favorite sleep/hypnosis learning tool!

And I found out after listening to it three times that I must obviously trust you implicitly, because usually I keep some vigilance/resistance the first time through one of these programs, just to make sure I like all the messages getting put into my head, but the first two times I listened to yours I probably fell right to sleep, and I'm not sure I've heard all the words with the conscious part of my mind yet, though I have heard a bit more since then. So thanks for that!

 See? No matter where I go I can not shut up. And I'm loving it!

It Gets Better

Would you like a cupcake, It Gets Better?

If you haven't run across it already, The It Gets Better Project was started in response to the startling number of teen suicides and bullying in the LGBT community. Which is horrible.There shouldn't be a startling number, because those teens? They are my friends. And they deserve a break.

This project invites everybody to take a pledge to speak out against bullying, and to reach out to at-risk youth to A) actually make things better. and B) let them know that things do get better. It is probably perfect. But it is not the message that actually worked for me.

I'm really having trouble striking the tone I'm looking for here, so I'll just stumble around like normal, and pretend that a lot of these things are funny, ok? You'll forgive me if I'm awkward and bufoonish, pretty please?

Now, most people are against teen suicide, even if they find LGBT community members scary or wrong or, I dunno, different. Which I have always found hard to understand, because people, you people, all people, are ALWAYS just like other people. And they are just like me, because I am a people too.

In Harold and Maude, a troubled, suicidal kid meets a kooky old lady with a zest for life. And a set of car key masters. She has self respect, and respect for all life, but she has, unfortunately, set herself an expiration date.

She is a suicidal old lady. 

She is serving as a lesson to all the Harolds in life. Her theory was simply the opposite of the It Gets Better message. Her theory was that it is going to get worse. She might have been right. And she might have been very, very very wrong. But she will never find out which. And neither will anyone else.

Back to LGBT people. I LOVE them, if they've stood up to be counted as members of that community. You know, that scary, dangerous, other. I also love them if they are living a lie out of fear, of course, but I don't admire them as much. Because I admire risk-takers. 

Not in the medical-risk sense. But everyone is taking medical-risks every day, if they come in contact with other human beings who come in contact with other human beings. 

The risk I'm talking about, my friends, the risk that I admire? 

It is, as ABBA would say, is to take a chance on love. 

And it is a risk I personally have been very skittish about, since way WAY back. 

In middle school. When puberty hit me before I really noticed. But not before the boys did. I was sexually harassed twice in middle school. Both times a boy came up to me, and did something I totally was not expecting. He put his hand on me in one of my very personal places.  

A different boy, both times. And a different place. And I can't say that they had much conscious awareness of what was going on either. But just a tip for all you curious young men out there? If you haven't managed to hold her hand, don't go for the gold.

The problem I have with this personal history is not primarily that someone touched me. It's mostly that they sort of had a hit-and-run thing going. I didn't have time to figure out what I might think about it before the boys were gone, long gone, and I was standing there alone, and confused. 

Betrayed. Because that kind of curiosity and interest? It needs to be brave enough to stand around and be there for me, and look me straight in the eyes, so I can see some of man's love for his fellow man. For me.

And rarely has someone laid an unexpected hand on me since, I can tell you. I've been very vigilant. And very jumpy. And as soon as I could arrange it, although quite, quite unconsciously, very fat. So I could have my own, all-natural suit of armor and camouflage kit in one. Because fat helps you avoid notice. And I no longer wanted to be noticed.

I may still get nervous when everybody or in the room or at the table looks at me at once, but I also totally enjoy it now, in a way I haven't for years. I can totally tell a good story now, where I used to fumble around and shift focus and unconsciously sabotage my delivery to disrupt that perfect focus that a good story earns from an audience.

Because I was way more comfortable with half of your attention than all of it.

But back to the subject of teen suicide. yay.

I might or might not have been a big risk. I know I toyed around with the idea, and I know I had one "attempt" that was so halfhearted that there was no actual danger. I was totally fumbling around, and lucky for me. 

And I put the sweater pill-shaver back together. And went on to find some better reasons to live, because suicide is too embarrassing for me. 

My problem is, I feel, much like that of the members of any outcast community, that I am a misfit. I have plenty of capacity, but I totally don't understand the system, and I didn't start paying attention to things other than words until far too late in life.

I love words. LOVE. But words, my friend, are a latecomer to the human condition, and they are a tool we are still fumbling with. 

For almost all the vast ages of man, my friend, life was like a silent movie. Non-verbal communication only.

And any really satisfying movie I have ever seen? Totally works, for me, as a silent movie. Because my early man component understands that part, and she is more firmly and thoroughly a part of me than this talking and writing part.

What actually makes it better? Trying something new. Change. If you don't like what you've got, change something. If you're a teen, you probably feel trapped, unless you want to assume the risks of becoming a runaway, which I seriously considered and don't recommend. Unless it's the only change you're willing to try.

And if you're a teen? That change of place will probably be thrust upon you in just a very few years whether you participate in finding your own bliss or not. So yes, almost certainly, it gets better.

Because change of place is change. And you will definitely find new things. And hopefully much nicer people.

But even small changes of place are valuable. Trying any new thing, or trying again something you have never really liked. It's the keep on trying attitude that will help you find what works for you, and will carry you into a life you feel you can live with. And I'm totally going to town on this now. 

But it's not what worked for me. 

What worked for me was the pessimistic, niggling suspicion, that it might. get. worse. 

And I'm not talking about a religious idea of hell, of getting what you 'deserve'. I'm talking about you know, a world kind of like this one, maybe. But even worse. 

I could easily and readily imagine much worse tortures than the one I was living through. It's really not hard, if you read the paper. And if, like me, your tortures are all self-inflicted. Because adding someone else's idea of a bad time? So. Much. Worse.

A movie that came out about 5 years ago, Wristcutters, doesn't even go that far. In that afterlife everything is just so much harder to do. And so much dirtier. And you can't even smile.

I was all about the horror show of Riverworld, by Philip Jose Farmer. Where they give you endless chances to get it "right". And it is SO hard. And creepy. And that system? Reincarnation without loss of identity? It might work. But if you hate your job, not even having the option of quitting is sort of depressing. 

But I try to find it very freeing, whenever I feel low. If you've got nothing to lose, there is no longer any risk.

And I don't allow myself the option of quitting.

Need to Know

I am always on a need to know basis. Because I have always. Needed. To Know.

I used to be satisfied about knowing things. Or, more to the point, uncomplicated things. But in the last couple of years, as I have been attempting to sort myself out and get all parts of myself moving in the same direction in the same time, that has changed.

And now all I want to know is people. And I'll ask. And I'll tell all, because that's only fair. But, because I am irrationally afraid of risk, I, sadly, do not have a lot to tell.

I didn't get enough sleep last night. The now of writing this, as opposed to the now of later this week, when I will post it. I was wrestling with an irrational fear of betrayal, which is only tragically more common than actual betrayal, in the totally NOT comedy gold sense of betrayal. And I digress.

Say I meet someone, and they tell me they got divorced last year? My next question, almost before they have finished their thought?

What went wrong?

Because what ever they think about it? Precious to me. Helpful to me. Because I am so irrationally afraid of risk and betrayal that I have never been married, and have never really tried to snag myself a man. After that first boyfriend, anyway. :)

I changed my mind about the risk. During a short period which I am totally willing to actually characterize as literally crazy. A year and a half ago. Which I totally don't regret, because the craziest thing I did about my irrational hopes and dreams of that week and a half? I started a weight loss program. Which was way past due.

Now this need to know approach is as gentle and sensitive to the person in front of me as I can make it, and sometimes I totally refrain, because I definitely don't want to break open any old wounds. Other than my own.

And I think I may be projecting enough caring and love along with my sincere curiosity. Because these are tough questions. And nobody has started crying.

In my imagination, I am, of course, a psychologist. Or maybe a life-coach. I don't know. I haven't worked out the details. Maybe a writer, just writing a script for the best movie ever. With a psychologist in it.

Who sits with their client, who opens his heart. The Psychologist waits for him to stop.

And asks, "Do you want to know what I think?"

And he says, "Yes."

And that moment, my friend, is comedy. Because it is completely true. And because it is also tragedy.

Because it is completely false.

In my imagination. Which is a little unrealistic, because I think what the psychologist is supposed to do is help frame the right question, not add new external judgement to sort through.

I rarely get anybody asking what I think anymore. Probably because I am so free with it anymore, nobody wonders. Or they do have a good idea that they might not want to know. Because what I want to do?

Open that can of worms.

But me first, my friend, me first.

Don't Hate me because I am beautiful

Please. There are so many, much better reasons. And Beautiful. Not my fault. That's your fault, you beholder you. That is all you.

I have been fighting this story all my life. But I am totally willing to believe you, because I am quite gullible. And because I too am a beholder. And what I see? I usually like.

Hate me for that! I am conceited! I totally agree, a palpable air of almost smug self-satisfaction is an intolerable affront. 

And I do not enjoy being the center of attention, with somebody out of my sight, behind my back, possibly poised to annihilate me. Because I am afeared. And I have issues.

I don't drink or smoke! Adam Ant doesn't hate me for that, but you can.

I am totally a jackass. Because I can never remember, anymore, all the wonderful things we have done together. You and me. But I can be reminded, with your help.

And I am totally a smart ass. But the smart? Not my fault. I would usually claim to vastly prefer to be normal. Because Normal. Looks. Easier. But A) I don't think smart is out of your reach. and B) You already are smart. and C) Me? Totally willing to let my freak flag fly.

And it's probably only a grass-is-greener thing. I don't think very many of us are getting it that easy.

And thank you, Ben Stiller, and YOU KNOW WHO. For this video. And the rest of Zoolander. Priceless. Though that car fire? Tragic waste of Alexander Skarsgard potential. But it totally works anyway.

But I have digressed. I prefer that you do not hate me, but I'll take hate over envy any day of the week.

Because I am better than no one.

And we are all beautiful.

The Tantrum

I have a lot of patience. Most of the time, I take whatever time I need to figure out how to get what I want, in a way I can be proud of. And it takes a long, long, time. Because I do it the hard way.

And I am usually patient with others, because I want them to be more willing to forgive my flaws than they are their own.

And you know what? They are forgiving of me. Very.

In fact, I am not actually patient. I am just hunting from a blind. I am totally poised to strike.

I am too impatient with my own flaws to learn the second easiest, quickest, bestest way. Through practice. I had to teach my whole mind English, so I can think in English, before I was willing to write in English. And the human spirit? Not that fluent in speech.

Until now.

I totally don't recommend it. Until it gets better, and you and I can feel like we can take a break from solving problems. Which we never can. Because the human spirit? Problem Solver.

And if it can't find a problem, it will cause a problem.

But I have digressed. I totally have a wicked temper, but I control that beast, because I am so sensitive, I can not tolerate much self-abuse at once. And any temper you see in someone else? Probably a tenth of what they give themselves. Rolled up with a whole big shebang of frustration, which may be the same as temper, and it may not.

And I have gained insight into the tantrum, my friends, because so many of you that I know had children three or four years ago. And they are absolute gems.

And now they are totally working every tool they've ever learned, as often as they work.

Tantrums start as internal frustrations expressed externally, but they can totally turn into manipulation. Because they can totally work. Even far far far too late into life. As long as they are sincere, or artless. Fairly infrequent. And not conscious manipulation.

People (and children) who have tantrums have things that they want. And they do not have Jedi Powers. So they must find a solution.

But first they beat themselves up a little bit. This is the crying. The "I am so disappointed in my toolbox of solutions and innovative capabilities that I have nothing left to try, and I want something different than what is going on right now, and I am beat" cry.

Which is totally the type of crying I do, most of the time. Which is not a lot, these days. But any that you end up doing in public? As a supposed adult? Embarrassing.

But it works. Because just like for little kids, people hate to see me cry. And they try to solve my problems for me, which I have been discouraging, as sweetly as I can. Mostly by never crying in public. Because I need to learn better solutions out on the very edge of my comfort zone, all the time.

So I can catch up with the rest of you freaks and act like a normal person, naturally. ha ha ha.

Not that I will bother. Because I figured out that all my envy? Wasted.

Because I am totally willing to let my own freak flag fly.

And thank you, and you, and you for showing yours, so I could learn by example.

Personal note. #1

I was going to call this an administrative note again this time, but I don't have any changes planned in my administration, so I just gave in from the get go and admitted it was personal.

I had another largely sleepless night last night. Some of it the thrumming kind, which is weird. I was definitely dealing with fear. Fear of the man. And fear of liability, because my old car got towed. And what I was feeling? A growing, incandescent rage. My temper. Which I think I have planned as a future blog post, totally separate from the upcoming one on Temper.

And you know what I love about a personal note? I am currently not feeling the need to label myself all the time, with And I Digresses and ha ha ha.

The thrumming resolved itself in a sudden heat flash. tee hee. When my nephew got home and I lolled around playing his make believe games of pet store and doctor, all starring angry bird. And maybe I could have fallen asleep then. And I hope I can now, because I am totally. Looking. Forward to it. And hopefully I am actually as "at peace" as I feel, otherwise some other demon from hell will keep me up this night, and I'll have to get over it later.

Good night!

And if you're reading with RSS, you might want to click through now and then to see what's shaking over here at blogger or whatever. I've got a great all clarica all the time channel widget thingy with other work I do that I am not promoting shamelessly enough. But I can learn. Thanks!

Alexander Skarsgard

Alexander Skarsgard, you are my new imaginary boyfriend.

Actually, you have been for a long, long time. Since way before the beginning of this blog. Though you were there too.

You have been my imaginary boyfriend since I first got into the HBO series True Blood. (Which is totally the best show to avoid watching with your brother. Or your parents. Or In-Laws. From what I hear.)

Because you are so awesome. And so sexy. And please excuse this short digression to honor someone else. You and me? We have plenty of time.

Meg Wood is a friend of mine. Not the best kind of friend, the ones I can and do get up off my ass to enjoy in person. But maybe a better kind of friend. A person I actually know who is always totally cool to me in person and who always gives me so much more than I have ever managed to scrape together and offer in return. Until now.

Thank you, Meg, for Boyfriend of the Week. You do the work so I don't have to, and it's totally appreciated, even though I have never done you the honor of saying so before. As far as I can remember anyway. ha ha ha.

Or the honor of bothering to watch a single episode of McGyver. Which I just realized is totally brilliantly named, even though I have never seen it, because I am sure the title character is totally a guy. And an everyman. And a star. Just like the rest of you guys, whom I love.

And you lead the way. By example, the best kind of advice ever. Because, while I can't use the MacGuyver scale of adorability, I totally have cupcake worthy. And twitterpated.

Alexander Skarsgard, you are totally cupcake worthy. I would give you my only, favorite cupcake, because you make me glad to be alive. And you have the special talent, which is extremely rare, to make me feel weak in the knees. From eleventy million miles away.

Because you totally 'get' sexy, and you totally get how to portray it in your art, acting. I suspect you portray it better acting than you usually bother to do in real life, because impressing a girl is actually much easier than impressing an audience, as far as I can tell.

And I love how you don't seem to waste your excellent talent for fake sincerity on anything other than your art. I've seen you in interviews, and you're always just naturally sincere. It is also a joy to behold. Though it doesn't hold a candle to your art, pleasing an audience. And I am thanking you for taking up that work.

It doesn't hurt that you bear a passing resemblance to my first boyfriend, also tall, blond, and slim. It doesn't help that much, of course, because we totally couldn't resolve things in time to save our relationship. (Though I'm totally willing to say that he gave up first. But I'd totally love not to have to add, Not. Without. Cause.)

And it's not because you are tall, though that's ok. But I totally wish they'd stand your co-star on a crate or something so you didn't have to pretzel over her to get you both in the same shot. Because you totally carry it off, intensity in the face of absurd reality. And you can't pick her up, because that would totally shift the balance of power between you two, which is crucial for this story.

But I worry. Because I'm good at that. And just because you totally carry it off, it doesn't mean that there isn't some aesthetic principle getting totally trashed.

Now, you don't have to worry about me, Alexander Skarsgard. I will not be stalking you. If you are so impressed by this, and want to stop by and visit, well, I won't say no, because you totally rock. But I won't be running out to get you any cupcakes, if you know what I mean. Because We have Never Met.

And while I have an active imagination, I don't take it to the next level, if you know what I mean. Your actual work is way, WAY better than anything I could imagine you doing, because I have limits.

So thank you, Alexander Skarsgard. Let this blog post stand as my imaginary cupcake, given from me to you. Because you totally deserve it.

Everybody and Steven Barnes

People, I owe you. You've all done so much for yourselves and for others, and even, sometimes, directly for me, that there is no way I can pay that back. And maybe I already am. You're not always doing it right. Buy you're usually trying to, and it goes so far. And I am so grateful for it. Even though most of us have never met.

And Steven Barnes, I owe you. I've already paid for some of your work. Both directly through your website, and indirectly, at bookstores. Great work, totally worth paying for! But I owe you for so much more, because you cannot stop yourself from giving so much more.

Like sharing the steps and miss-steps you've taken to get where you are, so I, personally, can learn by example.

If you don't know it already, Steven Barnes writes science fiction, and works on self-improvement a little bit every day of his life. And he is sharing a lot of that work with all of us, for free. He is fit. He is trim. His solutions are not always my solutions. His experiences did not all come easy, if you know what I mean. But they were all part of what makes him special, and he has totally paid his dues.

What helped me the most was his free email-subscription self-help 101 day program, and message boards. I did not use everything he gave. I don't think I used 10%. But I read it practically every day, and when it was over I just wanted to sign up again for another 101 days so I could have words from him to meditate upon a little bit, every day.

It is not what helped me first. Steven Barnes has been giving back for a long time. I've followed his work gratefully, if intermittently, ever since I saw him at a science fiction convention in Seattle. I liked his smile. I liked his energy. And I went to his Tai-Chi session, first thing in the morning, because I wanted in on his secrets. And I'm not sure if we ever actually 'met', because I am a forgetful jackass. Lucky for me, this man is totally driven to share. Because our pain is not something he can ignore.

Steven Barnes, you are totally cupcake worthy. I can give no higher praise. And because I owe you more than any other stranger, you are getting yours first.

Please visit his website.

www.diamondhour.com

The Cupcake

Cupcake, you are my new imaginary boyfriend.

I have a lot of love to give you, my friends. I love everything. I love finding out how to do better just slightly more than I hate finding out how I have gone wrong, and that, my friends, is my secret. If the gap between my self-love and my self-loathing were just a little farther apart I probably would have been sharing this stuff starting long, long ago. Because I totally know it all! ha ha ha

And one of the things I know "all the way down," as they say, is how great cupcakes are.

Me and a friend of mine love going to movies together, because we like a lot of the same movies, but often pick different imaginary boyfriends from the actors. Which is way better than picking the same guy because a) you don't have to share. (Another benefit of my new imaginary boyfriend, the cupcake.) And b) you get to argue about it, and spirited debate may be another of our favorite things to do together.

Spirited debate is an extremely fragile and rare phenomenon, my friends. Because it is extremely hard to hold on to your knowledge with a firm and forthright joy, and, at the same time let other knowledge slip in the gaps between the fingers of your totally not-cold, not-dead hands. And for other reasons, of course. But I love it, because I "know it all".

I do not want to offer unsolicited advice to any specific persons, ever again in my life. (Except my family, because I have to live with you people. And because I can't handle your pain.)

I can not tell who can handle free advice, and would be grateful for the chance to cut corners or skip steps. Or who, at least, is not offended by my desire to help. Which unfortunately and frequently includes, as gift with purchase, the mistaken assumption that they do not already know whatever it is I'm offering.

And I totally want to help. But I am totally going to try and stop myself, because when I give it to someone who can't take it, they get irritated with me. And when I give the best advice ever, it is apparently unanswerable, and I don't get any spirited debate out of anybody. And it would totally kill me if you all shut up because I was so awesome. How do you think I learned this stuff anyway? I am totally a wonder-killer.

But I never stop wondering if I or you or we could do better, and if you shut up when I try to help, I totally won't have any material for this, my blog, which I love. So to bring a middle to this huge digression, I'm going to offer you that advice, if you ask for it. And are willing to pay for it.

Stashed somewhere on the home page of this, my blog, is a partially-obscured version of an email address, my first one ever. Drop me a line, and if your question seems personal, I will write up an answer and sell it to you on Amazon.com. It will be cheap. I am totally out to make a buck, as you may already know from my last post.

But I have faith that I can afford to give my best work (this blog and some other stuff I've been giving away for years) away for free. And offer other work for a low low price to find out if that will be enough to carry me over this cash-poor bump in the road, or finance my wildest dreams, or what. I'd prefer about two or three cents a page, because I am totally willing to pay about that much for a paperback book, the kind of book I buy most frequently when I actually have money to spare. But there may be a minimum price of 25 cents or something.

Who knows. I haven't worked out all the kinks. Hardly anybody has ever had a chance to ask me for advice before, because I can not shut up. ahem.

And I'm totally willing to work for more pay, if you've got some other great work to offer me in addition. I have a lot of trouble doing any other kind of work, which sucks for me because few of us have invested in a self-cleaning toilet. But you can totally pay me more for my advice which is not personal in nature. And I digress. And that is a shame.

Because, cupcake, you are the dream of perfection made real. You are beautiful, you are art. You are Fun! You are joy. You are tasty, and best thing of all, I don't have to share.

But I will. Because, cupcake, you are love. Love is the last cupcake, from you to me. And love is my cupcake. That I share or give away, because someone is totally cupcake-worthy.

But I totally want to pick my own. Because, cupcake, people are doing you wrong. There is so much good in you that you can not be ruined by mediocre cake batter, or destroyed by slapdash, worthless frosting. Cupcake, your value can totally shine through all that and more.

Though maybe not through too many cupcakes. Because a girl could totally get jaded. And fat. ahem.

Cupcake, I know you're an imaginary ideal and all. But cupcake, will you be mine?

Who's it going to hurt?

The problems with society, the work and community people do and make to solve their own problems and to keep the problems of other people to a dull, ignorable roar, is, I think, the origin of Philosophy.

Which I love.

Animals, as you may have noticed, often struggle quite a bit to keep body and soul together. And they seem very peaceful. Who hasn't heard of the wise spirit animal, guiding us deluded humans? Which is totally a joke, because we have a spirit animal too, and it's called a human.

The human spirit, however, is mostly out of a job. And that job is to keep your shit together while you scramble, hungry and tired and cold, to keep body and soul together.

Because of every metaphysical and physical advantage, brought about by labor saving devices and techniques, your human spirit isn't working so hard. Because the food? plentiful. Shelter? Clothing? Way more accessible, all around the world, than it has ever been before in all of the ages of man. Since before he solved some of the problems of keeping body and soul together, and gained a bit more free time to figure out what else could use some improvement.

But solving the problems of society seems like much easier work than, say, doing the work that the old or new solutions entail. So people who want to get in on a good deal, "less work", totally throw their oar in. And this is great. Imitation may be the sincerest form of flattery.

But a Good Deal, my friends, may not be your work. Because for your work to matter to you, you have to love it for itself. Whether you are good at it or bad. Whether you share it with anybody or not. Whether you have the guts to go for glory. Or not.

I see fraud as the biggest problem our society has. That's deception, whether unintentional or knowingly practiced. We're all familiar with self-aware fraud. Stealing, Lies, Cons, and, like it or not, humor.

Jokes are an intentional subversion of expectations, but you laugh because you get the hoax too. Timing? What, you expected something to happen at a specific time? Fooled you! I totally get humor now, in a way that feels deep, way down deep all the way through to my boots. Fart Jokes? Hilarious!

A lot of people who have the sorry luck to know me well might be surprised, because I have been slow to catch on to the joke. I had a three second rule of my own. Clarica laughs three seconds after everybody else. And let me tell you, that is a new joke added onto the old joke, and everybody laughs again. Timing isn't everything, but it is totally the easiest kind of humor. And the reason I had a three-second rule, my friends, is because I didn't have a lot of expectations. And, hopefully, I still don't. Because I love that about me.

But I've finally achieved fluency in English, my second language (but first spoken. more on that later). And now I know what most other people expect, and I am in on the joke. And the reason I am in on the joke, is because a humorist's best work is already in the public domain, like it or lump it. It's called fair use.

Now I love the public domain, and I also totally respect private enterprise, because I totally want to have some, welfare and corporate welfare and tax breaks and credits being what they are. I am not eligible for much public support unless I declare myself to be totally incompetent, or fear (or show) that I might be a danger to myself or others.

Neither of these options have really been that attractive to me, and lord knows that I could well have a lot of trouble proving to the powers that be that I am totally incompetent, especially now that I feel like I have a purpose and am totally going to town with it. Three weeks ago? I could have totally nailed it. Depressed, unemployed, almost out of savings from the best mostly boring job a girl like me could ever get. High-risk for a variety of other reasons, and not entirely sure that I wasn't a failure.

Which I totally was not.

But that aside, I have totally digressed from my original philosophical point, fraud is bad, to a different one: social support is good and we're doing it wrong.

We get self-aware fraud. It includes hypocrisy, which most people hate but I totally love, because it is the most self-aware form of accidental fraud. Which I have come today to tell you all about, although you all totally already know, one way or another.

And accidental fraud is self-deception. Have you ever thought "Who's it going to hurt?" Well, I'm telling you now, it's definitely going to hurt you first. And possibly more than anybody, because self-inflicted pain is damage you cannot ignore. And who else is it going to hurt? Find out, because that shit is karma. And karma is a bitch.

And I am totally ready to cast the first stone. Even if I am not, as they say, without sin. I've shoplifted. I've lied. I've had self-deception piled on self-deception mixed up in self-deception so deep it's taken 39 years to dig my way out.  Which makes it far easier for me to point out your errors than she or he who is without sin, as they say.

I've known some of those without-sin people. They rock. They are competent, and cheerful, and careful, and usually guile-less. But they don't get fraud, way down deep, like I do. I get it. And I'm not done with it, I'm sure. But please don't fall for it anymore.

I know you know better. Because the thought, "Who is it going to hurt?" passed across the transom of your mind. Stop there and find out, or back up a little if you have to. Don't blame the company or the government or money for this problem, my friend. This problem is mine. And this problem is yours.

Fix it.

What is my problem?

I am either exceeding hilarious and distracting, or extremely bad luck. And maybe, as it occurs to me with a certain very familiar sinking sensation, both. Since even before I was born!

My mom, an exceedingly cautious and careful driver, has received two speeding tickets in her life. Once while she was pregnant with me and driving alone, and once last week, when I was again in the car with her, this time with a more conscious desire to crack her up. Heck, once you can't sleep, what else have you got?

Now I am not saying she was careless, just extremely relaxed and unexpectedly high-spirited. (I'd say confident except I don't want to imply that she is not usually a confident driver, because she is.) There were three changes in the speed limit in a two or three mile stretch, as is common when you pass from country-land to town-land, but it was still pretty rural and the change from rural to urban was not particularly distinct, and she missed a sign.

She does not really mind the ticket, because it is important that safety is protected and a horrible warning may provide some deterrent to the population at large. My mom is totally lawful/good. But it is totally out of character for her to deserve a speeding ticket. Trust me. She's been practicing little old lady driving since way, WAY back.

I have given up urging her to merge when I think it's clear and now just sit patiently saying 'it's clear' as often and as frequently as she needs to satisfy her hyper-vigilance. Or as long as I can stand to. She argues that it's a perception thing, that she does not have the, I don't know, kinetic perception skills or quick reflexes to take advantage of small gaps. But personally (and I'm sorry mom, if you're reading) I don't buy it. She just prefers large gaps because they look safer.

And who can blame her? I've been picking safe bets all along too, possibly because she has given me such a shining example. And I mean that with both sincerity and gratefulness, because I am both happy to please, and a big chicken.

But something broke within me that night a few weeks back when I couldn't sleep and just lay there thrumming. Or maybe something I've been missing grew back. It's hard to describe, except grateful is definitely the result.

I feel relieved of a great many fears, and I feel like a self-imposed obligation to play nice is severely damaged. (Though I am still extremely nice!) Like maybe it's ok for me to be a jackass sometimes too.

Which is good, because the funny? Not always nice. And I love the funny.

Summary Change

When I started my blog lo those few weeks ago, I was invited to invent a summary for my as-yet nebulous plan for a blog. And because I was most excited about the idea of value at that time, and the thoughts that I feel compelled to share, I wrote up this pretentious and self-important summary:

I am driven to share my thoughts with you. They are not perfect, nor perfectly presented, but I love them and I hope you enjoy, or find value.

It's ok. I like it. But it is not funny enough to stay. And while the funny isn't probably the driving purpose behind my mission to share my thoughts with you, my friends, the generous helping of it that I am passing out here deserves attention. So I am changing to a new Summary, which you may have already noticed up above, as of today.

And I'm including it here too, so that future readers will be able to follow my pretentious and self-important thoughts with the greatest possible clarity, ha ha ha.

Something wonderful. Something horrible. A voice for change. Philosopher. Artist. Lover. The one, the only. Completely amazing and totally annoying. Journal. Of. Clarica.

I'm Back!

Oh, how I missed you, blog. My chance to whinge on unrepentantly and relieve the stress of whatever it is that is keeping me up at night, and damaging my weak grasp on reality.

Speaking of insomnia, I only had one night while out on vacay, and crawled out of the camper to take a walk along the dock through the gorgeous starry night on Shoalwater Bay. Really, quite a lovely setting.

And it's times like those that make me believe crazy thoughts, like maybe there is something to this zeitgeist business, or maybe aliens are beaming me messages from outerspace, or maybe (and this was my favorite) I am some kind of psychic vampire drawing power and energy and ideas from all your sleeping, vulnerable leetle brains, mua ha ha ha ha.

Wait, at least one to many 'ha's there. tee hee.

I had a little sun, and a lot of nature, and four or five great days with long walks down the seashore, ankle deep in the surf in Grayland (and what kind of a name is that for such a beautiful location, but anyway...) WA.

Oh, and 12 days in and out of a one-room pop-top hard-sided camper trailer built in or before 1977 with me and four of my favorite family members. I could not keep my mouth shut and just let things unfold, but at least my family members appreciate most of my unsolicited advice, and all of my snarky humor. Two things which, I might add, do not generally go well together. My mommy made pancakes and we had perfectly cooked bacon three times, what more could a girl ask for?

Don't get me started, I have a list.

Oh yeah, and I figured out the title of the next sequel to Finding Nemo.

Finding Nemo a Girlfriend.

Can't sleep.

I can't sleep. Neither can my dear friend. She even has some employment. Friend, I am so. Sorry.

Friend, I have always known that we had a lot in common, but I did not until this moment of sleep-deprived confusion realize that we are soul sisters. And that at least one of us needs to figure out this sleep thing so both of our souls can rest. It's probably me. My bad. My soul has not really been at 'rest' since sometime last Tuesday, which I am planning to go explain to the compassionless jerks who woke it up as soon as I post this to my blog, because my blog is the funniest thing on earth, and frankly, it must come first. It is my only hope of sleep, so maybe that will help our souls rest, Sister, because what's keeping me up at night is a dream. A dream of the funny. Which I can only share with other through my blog, and which I hope to get past this little problem of not sleeping real soon because I have given up keeping the funny locked up, and only by sharing it with others do I have any hope of good sleep to look forward to. Because man I want that good sleep. Much though I enjoy lying in bed ALL NIGHT LONG cracking myself up. Prince William and Prince Harry are funny too, did you know? I re-cast my nerd PIT CLEANSE PSA with Bill and Harold last night in my head, you know, for the British stink problem, and I swear to god I cannot stop cackling. But I'll do what it takes to get over this giddy period of excitement, Susan. For you, because I care that you are not getting good sleep anymore. And for me, because I hate that I am not getting sleep anymore. It's not my fault that our Souls were Linked. Until this moment, much though I love you, I never would have guessed. But I slept Not. One. Minute. Last night until I talked to my mom on the phone at 5am. And I cherish the minutes that I have managed to sleep since then. But Not only do I deserve more, but You deserve more. And I'm gonna come back and reuse this for my blog in a day or two, after I take the ramble out. I know none of you need to cackle helplessly through the night, occasionally rolling into the fetal position. I'm sorry. But my blog may save the world, and I love you all, and I'm doing this for the future sleep of all. Man. Kind. You're welcome.

editorial note: did not wait a a day or two. did not take the ramble out. Too funny not to share in raw, unedited, format. Apparently I am a much more careful about being clear when I am sleep deprived. who knew?

My favorite pen

I have a favorite pen. I figured out which pen it is a couple of months ago. I'm going to share that info with you in a minute, because I just have so much to share. And there is NOTHING like a great pen. But first, I'm going to charge you with a mission, and that mission is finding me an even better pen.

Is there a pen exactly like this one, with a light included so you can write in the dark? Because now that I am a Writer, friends, I need a better pen. So I can write down my ideas in the middle of the night without turning on the light.

(Edited to add: mission downgraded on account of I have way more ideas than sleep, so I am no longer getting up to write them down, no matter how good they are. But not cancelled completely, because maybe I do need to write them down to sleep better. I am still figuring that out.)

Most of you don't need that dream of perfection, the better pen. Some of you will even dispute the preeminence of the pen I am about to share with you. Go ahead. When I picked this pen I didn't get to try out every great pen, just the ones that they were selling in the store for less than $5. And if the perfect pen costs more than that, and I get a job, I am totally willing to pay more for perfection. But jobless, money running out, and you know, market forces, $5 is way too much to pay for a great pen. But don't worry, you won't have to.

This, my friends, is a great pen.

Pentel energel retractable 0.7.

I am not opposed to showing you a picture of this fine. Sexy. Pen. (Which is now obvious because I finally added a picture.) My friends. Because I am sleep deprived. And I am not capable at this moment. And I don't want to wait, or forget, or whatever.

What I like about this pen: The smoothness of the actual writing, on actual paper. It is highly comparable to the excellent pens my friends at the Linux Journal prefer to use for editing the work that they do. That is a fine pen, which I am not sharing with you, mostly because I cannot be bothered to dig through my old, stolen, office supplies.

Sorry.

It may even share the exact same ink cartridge. I can't remember. But this pen is better, because it is retractable. And maybe it has a thicker line, which I love.

I like that This pen comes in five colors. I have all of them. The green seems to be a little hard to find. In breast cancer awareness month, they apparently sell one in hot pink! I haven't even seen this color, and already know I love it. And after having purchased all five readily available colors, I know that I do not need it.

Because I don't use pens that much. Maybe when I get a job, I'll be able to afford an Ipad, and will pick it up in the middle of the curse curse night. I will use it to write other stuff. I will use it to waste time. I totally am getting an Ipad. But until I can afford that Ipad, all I am willing to pay for is a very slightly enhanced pen. Help me out, friends. Help me find a better pen.

Administrative note

Hey, sorry to have invited you to the party only to run off and leave you to your own devices. Please don't let anything happen to the carpet while I am out.

Because my mother is nigh unto a saint, she is taking over on daycare for my sister's four year old son, who's own daycare providers are taking a well-earned vactation.

And because she may actually be a saint, she's taking him and his two older brothers camping for these two weeks. And because I am *also* nigh unto a saint, and technically unemployed, and she asked me to, I am going too.

Which saint am I nigh unto, you ask? (nigh unto=near, fyi.) My mother, duh.

ha ha ha. but I digress. Have fun while I'm gone, and please don't blow anything up. I would really like to continue my blog when I get back.