In Front of the Thrift and Gift Last Night

What is beauty? Is it a diamond ring? Is it a rainstorm in summertime, sunshine, topped off with a double rainbow over freshly cut grass? My Grandma said that everything was beautiful, even me. I am more inclined to focus on the semantics of this conundrum. In other words, I do not think that beauty is the correct word choice for the world. Odd, Unpredictable, Chaotic. Nope. That's still not right. A Fucking Freakshow? Bingo! The world is a fucking freakshow and we are but merely actors. The Bearded Lady. The midgets. The Wolfman. Michael Jackson who just got fired.

When I was but a little blond boy, I liked to skate on ice. The city would flood Pearl Street park's basketball court and all of the poor kids, who had seen the north side of town, would play pick-up games of ice hockey. One night, after playing a rough game with my brothers and their friends, I stayed a little longer to skate in the moonlight. My mother and father were watching as fat snowflakes fell gracefully to the ice below. I danced - skate danced and I am sure it was quite a sight to see. My mother said it was beautiful...a fucking freakshow, I am certain, but that image stuck with her. From time to time she still brings it up as one of the more magical images in her muddied recollection of life. I never quite understood the magic of that moment, until last night in front of the Thrift and Gift. While driving away from Open Gym, I looked to my right and saw, standing in front of that wonderful second-hand store, Krystal, just twirling in her new dress that she pulled out of the free box. It may have been a Freakshow, but Lord, it was a beautiful Freakshow.

Who We Are or Are We Just Pretending

I've been acting strangely lately, even for me. Normally, I am quite the odd ball mother fucker, the girl who hides in the corner and doesn't say shit even if she's the only one who notices that the barn is burning down. I must remain quiet, but I've been talking lately. I've been saying things that I've never wanted to say. I've been doing things that I never wanted to do. Maybe I'm just bored with my life, so I've decided to stir things up, create controversy, live, learn, fight for something in the face of others' disapproval and possible pain. I shan't be so conceded, though.

When you were six years old, who did you think you would be in the advent of your twenties, thirties, fifties? I am just a crap shoot and a holler from my 24th birthday and this is not how I saw my life unfolding many moons ago. I can't actually remember what I thought would become of my life, but I am quite certain that it had nothing to do with what is now my reality. I recall wearing a puffy, yellow, metallic dress in my perceived future, but I have no idea where that came from. I think that's what my Rebbecca Donaldson doll wore. When I was about 13, I figured I would probably end up marrying Peter Reno and spend my days getting the shit kicked out of me by that crazy asshole. After high school, I assumed I was smart enough that after completing college, I would obtain a well-paying job. I assumed it wouldn't be too difficult. I assumed a lot of shit and you know what they say about assumptions. So what am I doing? I live in Packwood, WA. I am happy with my job, but it is going to end shortly and then where will I be. "Candy," the wiccan, said that I can move into her trailer with her husband, baby, two cats, and a dog. Their current extra housemate is moving out into a trailer on their front lawn, so they have a free room. I don't think that is such a good idea, but I still said "thank you" and "I just might do that." I've been using Candy a bit and she is my friend and that is wrong. You see - I've been doing things that I shouldn't do, saying things that I can't believe I'm saying. Why? Is this who I really am or am I just pretending?

Fleet Foxes Ragged Wood

Fleet Foxes Ragged Wood just came on my Pandora. It's a song that I have never heard before, but it's repetition woke me from my almost slumber. "Come back home. Come back home." I miss my friends. I miss my old life, even the misery. I am so tired, today that I can hardly type the keys. I feel like death, again. A familiar feeling like that familiar song that wakes us from our slumber and kicks us right in the head. It's never going to be the same, again.

3 Inches Tall, tan, with some Glitter Stars

She is no longer in a wheelchair, in a farmhouse, in Fenwick, MI. She is no longer digging through her junk, watching the morning news, or hoarding money for me. Now. she is on my window sill, next to a one of her favorite pictures - the one with the man and woman, praying in a field before a basket of bread. She is no longer in physical form, unless you technically consider her powdered body. I miss her. I miss her like all hell. When I woke up this morning and saw her portable urn on my window sill in Washington, I thought I heard her singing and I wished I could go back to her. It is days like today that I want to walk up to her, cover her eyes with my hands, and whisper "guess who?" I want her grab my hand and pull it close to her warm oily cheek and tell me that I am wonderful and "Oh Julia, all the places you will see and all the things you do. I love ya." There is that indescribable sense of security that I am lacking and I wonder if I will ever find, again. Sure, I have more old ladies who tell me that I am wonderful - lots, but none of them are her.

Martha Plimpton in Disney Land

If Martha Plimpton went to Disney Land, what ride do you think she would go on first? One might hypothesize the teacups, but I would be confident in saying she would go for something more obscure. Who are we kidding? Martha Plimpton would never be caught dead in Disney Land. Who are we kidding, this blog entry is not really about Martha Plimpton, but I wish it could be. I wish all life was as easy and confuse-less as my love for Martha Plimpton.

My Mom and Aunt Marianne are visiting from Michigan. Tonight I made soup, salad, and bread for those two and my two housemates. We sat around wearing wigs and talking about my other aunt, the prostitute. Sometimes I wonder how I got here and if this time it really is going to be awesome.

Did you Hear what the teens are doing these days?

10 year-old, Konnie, nonchalantly asks me this as we ride in the serial killer van to Tacoma. "No" I say, "What are those crazy teens doing these days?" Quickly, Konnie retorts, "they are sticking beer bottles up their butts to get high." I laugh hysterically and we drive on. I probably shouldn't have laughed so hard, but I am probably not very good at my job. "I'm thinking of something. It's not a solid, liquid, or a gas." Kevyn tries to get us to guess what he is thinking of, but we are all thrown off by the, "it's not a solid, liquid, or gas." It turns out, he is thinking of his butt and we all laugh hysterically. Maybe we are all really good at our jobs.

This goes on all night long. Someone says "butt or Hooters" and I can't help, but giggle. Why are so many of us caught up in business suit obsession and appropriate nonsense? Why are so many of us so afraid to take the risk and shout "BIG BUTTS" out the window in the big, bad city? I am certainly guilty of fear. I'm afraid of everything and I can blame it on the endless Catholic School lectures on reverence, if I want. I often do, but in the end I know it comes down to my own inner consciousness. The world is not going to come to us, kiss our feet, and take it all away. I am aware of this, but it doesn't stop me from sitting on my bed and waiting for that knock on my door. I'm going to try to leave it a little ajar, maybe even open it for a couple of minutes each day, and one more thing...BIG BUTTS and HOOTERS!! FUCK YEAH!

Ordering McDonald's out the sunroof

This happened today. Raedeen stuck her head out of my sunroof to order my van full of transients some McFlurries at 11pm just south of Seattle. The ice cream tasted good and cold, but it didn't curve the bitter bite of my self realization. Maybe it's time to go back home, again for a bit. I don't know who these people are that I've been hanging around with and I don't know why I found myself in Seattle on a Tuesday night. What am I doing and why am I still hanging around when nothing is going to change? Why do I always beat the dead to death? Why do I always pretend my life is different? While driving home with my three passengers, I let them play DJ with my ipod. RaeDeen played my top 25 most played list and it utterly depressed me. Maybe that's my defunctness or perhaps I'm just tired. It is 2:30am, but I haven't really been sleeping, again anyways.

Change-Not just for Countertop Charity Anymore

While sitting on a dying lawn in Portland, listening to some feminist lesbian poet spew witty remarks concerning the question, "do you know that is the Women's restroom?" I can only imagine what my brother would say. Andrea Gibson says something like, "No, but I need to find a safe place to shove this tampon up my penis." The homogeneous audience laughs, but not me. I am slowly drifting backwards. I am slowly drifting away, trying to figure out how I moved from Sunday church naps, Saturday night cruising for boys in the Meijer parking lot, and Greenville to Pride festival in Portland. I don't think I belong in either place, so when my housemate's best friend asks me if I am happy, I am quick to say "no. I don't think I have ever been happy," but I am not sure that is exactly true. We left the festival and drove up the Oregon coast. In the morning, I run sixty minutes on the ocean sand, my bare feet kissing the Pacific Ocean. When I was a kid, I used to check out every Jacques Cousteau book in the library and marvel at the pictures. I dreamed of beautiful oceans, seagulls, and sunsets, but I never believed that I would see them. Perhaps when you're a kid, you dream about your future life, but for me, I never thought I would live this long. I sort of wish I hadn't.