how to die happy

Hot water sends me to my knees. 

A friend recently joked that it was almost worth getting poison oak so you could take hot showers, which made me look at him like he'd just turned purple and sprouted flowers from his ears.  But damn if he wasn't almost right. 

That water hits and it is the most intense itch and scratch all rolled into one.  The knees go weak, and like a dog scratching fleas I curve into it.  Inarticulate noises escape and I press myself against that heat until I forget to breathe.  It hurts, it shrieks, and it is incredibly powerful, heady, orgasmic even.  The healthy skin is crying out that it is too hot, but the pain/pleasure is so intense that I could scald myself and not care.  The pounding water only adds to the sensation.  All thoughts of water conservation go out the window for the minutes I stand moaning under that heat.  For several hours afterward I can almost forget my infuriating itch, until it slowly creeps back and I start to wonder how many showers per day are too many. 

  As many as it takes. 

disembodied, a.k.a. Gimme Back My Face

It isn't mine, this sandpaper face, this tight, dry, rough skin that feels as though it is trying to tear itself off and run around screaming.  These rough rimmed lips, this swollen eye, this look of misery is not me.  The most lovely laughing conversations dull the frustration somewhat, but unmeasured smiles even stretch this ugly canvas too tight for comfort.  Sad when you try not to smile, hands hovering near that miserable blistered skin, hover flapping with the desire to touch, to tear skin from bone.  I will never take this lightly again. 

  I have narrowed it down, in the hours spent trapped in this alien body wrap my flesh has become, whittled away the possibilities until I have mapped out its path to my bare softness.  The handle of the broom I used to sweep the trail, used by gloved hands that pulled the Weed from trailside.  Everywhere that wood touched, sweeping raised rash.  Hot sweat, I wipe my upper lip with that toxic hand.  A mosquito lands on my arm, high by the inside shoulder, I swipe it away.  Sweat gathers on the curve of the tender skin inside my elbow, I wipe in on my shirt, the oil spreads.  Play with my glasses with these toxic hands, put them back on - the backs of my ears look like a bad Halloween makeup job.  Then happy tired I bike home, thinking foolish blissful thoughts of how I never touched the Weed, should be fine as long as I wash up.  I wash up, but not the glasses, not the camera neck strap.  I swear that oil has a cackle, that its life work is seeping silent under my skin until my body shrieks and rejects it in blistered skin, weeps it away over weeks. 

  I thought a lot about pain today.  While I certainly don't enjoy it, I am unafraid of pain.  It can be endured, stoic, a companion.  This, this is enough to drive one mad.  My eyes peer out from a face I do not recognize, a skin that feels like burlap stretched over pebbles.  Everything is tight, dry, my lips have cracked and my eyes tear all the time. 

  I have learned things through my desperate search for knowledge these last few days.  You cannot spread it from scratching unless the oil itself is still on your skin.  By the time the rash appears, it has already reacted with your body and the nasty little bumps are simply your immune system trying to fight it off.  If you have cleaned your skin (and anything you have touched) with Tecnu (or some oil-dissolving cleanser like dishsoap) you cannot spread it to your poor scared loved ones.  BUT it is very easy to recontaminate yourself from such simple things as, in my case, eyeglasses, or clothing, pillow case, etc.  Obsessive cleaning is your friend, and never stay far from the Tecnu bottle just in case it has gotten on you again.  Wash yer dog. 

    And once it has moved in like a smelly roommate, hunker down, it won't be fun.  The Tecnu folks make a good gel to help the maddening itch, but it is temporary and incomplete relief at best.  I would like to fall into an induced coma until it is better.  In the meantime, I will occasionally scream and fervently hope that it will only get better from here. 

on party crashers

I have houseguests.  Unwelcome.  Multiplying.  From behind my ears inexorably marching around my chin to my lip, nostrils, brow.  Buried sneakily in my eyebrow, lurking at my hairline, casually lounging on my cheek.  In the shower I notice their leavings on the tender inside of my right elbow, a little line of them (connect the dots, 1, 2, 3) on my left hand.  Little bastards.  I must now wait them out.  They'll keep me up and they'll drive me batty.  They'll only get worse before they get better and just when I think I am stuck with them for life, disfigured, beleagured, they will sneak out the back without so much as a thank you.  This level of discourtesy is apalling, had they asked up front I would have politely declined their visit with some disengenuous nicety, something about next time, and how the kids look lovely this year, so fresh and shiny looking.  I won't let them get comfortable, no no, they'll know they are NOT WELCOME HERE.  And next time... next time I will be prepared.  This will be a long, long few weeks.  Let the battle of wills begin.  Grrrr. 

woe. woe.

Woe is me.  I talked smack about not getting poison oak after my recent trail clean-up adventure.  Fool, fool that I am.  Awoke this morning with my ears feeling like they were little balls of itch attached to my head.  Nose, forehead, side of neck, and even eyelids soon joins the chorus.  Oh yeah, I have poison oak ON MY FACE.  The culprit?  Must be my glasses (damn them) as the worst of it follows spec patterns across my poor beleagured skin.  Backs of ears, eye region, fallout creeping to neck and chin, forehead.  Misery knocks on my door and bloody kicks the thing open.  I DID NOT SAY COME IN!  Rats.  Bollocks.  SHIT.  Twasn't careful enough, it would seem.  That thunp you hear is me kicking myself in the arse.  Oh misery, thy name is poison oak. 

Sigh.

Mellow silken seas and a pastel horizon, Montana d'Oro last night after sundown.  

new & old

Midnight Nintendo, wine & cherries, zooming in an old blue Porsche, and a camera by the sea - yesterday was a good day. Some quality baby time, always good time, and delicious new discovery of a kindred spirit in a wild place. New friendships are so exhilarating, old friendships so calming, what would life be without them both?

happier things, a.k.a. on recent travel

I whirled wheels south with a little bag of wasabi peas
not too long ago.
I smelled the ash
and breathed the emptiness of the Gaviota fire,
wiggled bare filthy toes in the softened, blackened earth
overlooking idyllic whitecapped ocean,
cried over crumbling little bones under every group of
burned oak arms,
no shelter at all from the heat and the smoke
to the little creatures who hid there.
I passed reverent lens over petroglyphs on hot rock,
snuck up on fat lizards and watched birds pant
open-beaked in the 108 degree days.
I climbed crumbling sandstone, found tiny yellow flowers
and busy ant trails,
drank gallons of water and never felt anything but thirsty.
I crouched in Death Valley with cold raindrops
hitting my bare shoulders while rain lay heavy
on the valley floor and lightning slapped the ground.
I caught it and took the ephemeral home in permanent form.
I dodged hookers and flatlanders, executives and philanderers,
children and retirees among the slots and the bells
and the Cheap Buffets of the abomination that is Vegas.
I packed myself in an elevator with the biggest
stuffed horse I have ever seen.
I ducked under its misformed hooves to escape to my room
overlooking the candy-colored towers of the Kitch Castle of Excaliber.
Met a grand German dame in the tourism center on the Strip,
and a dread-locked resident of Springdale, just outside Zion,
who blew there much as I blew into San Luis, and has a fondness
for my town and outspoken women like myself.
He served me roast pork with mango chutney and we spoke
of Reisner's Cadillac Desert
and of winter in a deserted Zion, where he & I might play soon
if my hunch is correct.
A family from Paso shared our campsite.
A girl from Ohio fell on the trail ahead of me and skinned her knee.
I photographed a giant black beetle
that crossed my path to Angel's Landing.
I swatted mosquitos knee deep in the river
that carved the walls of Zion's cliffs
and stubbed my bare toe on its warm rich sandstone.
I saw old friends in Long Beach, slept on their couch
and played pounce games with their stately feline,
Frodo of the Pale Yellow Eyes, in the darkness
where I couldn't see his blackness quivering to strike.
I slept on the ground with the wind on my skin and laid
my palm on black volcanic rock.
I wandered Acres of Books for hours
and lugged my treasure box around Long Beach
satisfied with my Kundera,
Alice Munro, Toni Morrison's Sula, Joyce Carol Oates,
Camus and several treasures from childhood,
like The Wind in the Willows.
Though I found no Roald Dahl,
I spent a blissful hour in the photography section,
perched under the 'humor' sign and petting a strange small cat
with an oddly folded ear.
Pleasantly lighter of wallet and heavier of burden,
I exited Acres and found myself, oh glee,
reflected in the window of a camera store.
I photographed the hairs on a fiddleleaf fern
and the texture of rippled rock,
the lights and movement of a Vegas night
and the calm of a Zion dawn.
I thought on love and dreamed high adventure
back pressed to the earth, face to the sky
I relished my own company & drank in my solitude,
and still I feel thirsty.

on love and other diseases

I should quote my mother here, but I will instead make a few slightly bitter comments and hang up my hat.

Hurting someone else, someone you care for, is akin to the sinking feeling you get as a child when you say something horrible you don't mean. Something that hits home more accurately than you ever wanted it to hit, and harder. You want to take it back, you want the ground to swallow you into some grand Madeleine L'Engle time warp where you never said it, never did it at all, or where it no longer matters. You want to hide, you want to scream, you want to run, you want to get angry back but you haven't the right. You are the Wrongdoer, the Cause and the Reason for the pain on their face. So you swallow once, twice, hard. You accept what they need you to do to make it easier, and you go home. You don't pick up the phone because you said you wouldn't, and you try to pretend that you're not just filling up the days until things heal themselves. Insert wise Mother Words here, any will do.

on pain and parties

Yesterday was awful. Nothing but horrid tummy feelings and disappointments. I was supposed to go to a housemate's play, the last show no less, and, instead, was felled by horrid stomach cramps and nausea. Hung out with a wastebasket by the couch, but never needed it. Instead of going to Morro Bay as I had hoped, I went to sleep late, and slept fitfully, quite miserable. To my glee, however, I woke up this morning feeling halfway human! Wheee!

Ya see, today I plan to go to the beach, something I don't do enough. Even better, I plan to go to the beach with some friends and to see people I see not often enough. Good food, good company, and distant fireworks over the water. I hope it doesn't get socked in with fog!

In other news... well, there is no other news. The last few days have been dullsville. Rat fink.

the strange new Beastie Who Sheds On My Bed, name unknown 

furry apologia

I take it all back. Well, not all of it, but I take back any disparaging comments about the New Furball with the Funky Eye. She lurked in my loft until I went to bed last night, then excitedly leapt onto my bed, licked my nose, and purred herself to furry sleep draped over my ankles. She does cuddle! She's certainly not normal... and she's certainly not a snuggler when the sun is up, but in the wee hours of the night Funky Eye is a sweetheart. And she's back in my room as we speak...

Kitty Meow Kitty in all her glory 

the Wizard, looking crusty, as always 

meow

So I have a thing for cats. All critters really, but cats with personality, with chutzpah and spice the most. A few years ago, a wonderful black panther of a cat spun crazy like a leaf blowing into my life. She had sunflower eyes and a triangular face. She was delicate and powerful and exhilarating and tender. I loved her body & soul, but she was killed by a dog, a needy spotty mongrel beast, a cross between a pit bull & a dalmation with the brains of neither and a lust for the hunt that claimed my Mallory's life and my happiness in one fell swoop. I miss her deeply, she can still make me cry.

Kitty Meow Kitty lives across town from me, in the house next to a dear friend, and she rivals Mallory for sheer coolness. She hugs like a child, she tucks her forehead under my chin and kneads my chest with eager feet. She makes my heart sing. I see her less now that I do not sleep at that house, now that I do not sit on the porch in the sunshine with her, fetch her from the neighbor with caresses and our special hug.

Why don't I just get a cat already, you might say? Stop my whining and my strange obsession with other people's beloved pets, stop my elaborate scenarios of catnappings and stealing them away from their always undeserving families? Well, I can't. Here at the Establishment (a tale for another day) I cannot have a cat. Nevermind that Wizard lives here, for all intents and purposes. Wizard isn't our cat. He isn't even named Wizard. I'm not even sure some days that he is a cat. He is the crustiest, boniest Head Wound Harry I have ever seen. When I met him several years ago, he had staples in his partially shaved noggin. He makes horrible noises. He smells funny and he licks the floor when you scratch him right above his tail. He loves laps. I do love him, but the interaction with Wizard is minimal. GIVE ME LOVE! MEOWWWRrrrRRRR. He is the master of expressing Supreme Irritation. This occurs when you fail to pet him, when you pet him too much, or not just right, when you open the door or don't open the door, when you remove the Lap, when the Lap isn't quite right, when you eat, when you drink, when you don't get up quite fast enough at 4 a.m. when he wants out of your room, when you Screw Up. You never know when this will be, but after Supreme Irritation is expressed, there is no doubt. Wizard rules the roost. He decides who is allowed to come over (of the feline persuasion, that is) and when. Most other meowboxes are percata non grata, and feel his crusty wrath, but on occasion, someone will break through and charm Wizard, or at least not threaten him, and we have a second cat buddy to hang out. In this fashion I met Josh, a very cool, bird-chasing, gangly grey teenager cat. Josh came around daily until his family moved away and didn't even let him say goodbye. Bastards.

I also met Dudley in this fashion, and Dudley was an angel, a true gift to me. He came around one rainy day when I was new to the house. I had injured my back and was sacked out on a housemate's couch counting things and dying of boredom and floating in a fog of drugs. Dudley, a.k.a. Stubby-No-Tail due to his tailless physique, charmed me, won me over completely. He was black like my Mallory, and her death was still fresh on my conscience then. He had green eyes and a pure cat soul, and wicked swipe, and was a supreme cuddler. He too moved away without leaving a forwarding address, so I hope he found a new girl to charm.

Since those two brave creatures won over Wizard with their wiley ways, there has been no one. A recent mottled teen came around, but he and the Wiz were bitter enemies from the moment they saw one another. But the other day, a huge fluffball wandered in, blue-gray with a pushed in face and one milky grey eye, like a marble. This cat seems to own the place. She climbs in people's lofts. She lolls about on the kitchen floor like she has lived here for years. She has no collar or tags and she and Wiz are indifferent to each other, strangely so.

You would think I would be ecstatic, wouldn't you? All my plotting and planning and a lovely soft furball has simply walked in to stay. But this one, this one is weird. It doesn't like to be petted, it doesn't interact. It is like a cute stuffed cat that sometimes makes noises. It purrs near you, and it isn't scared, but when you caress her, her spine turns squishy and bends the wrong way to avoid your hand. Despite my best efforts, she likes neither chin scratches, belly rubs, gentle touches or hard pets. She likes us, but it's like having a fish with fur. No fun at all. Decoration that wants food. I'm so disappointed. :| She is in my loft now... sacked out, and I have no belief that she will cuddle with me. Such a tease. Her presence is both pleasant and infuriating. Of all the cats... sigh. At least she doesn't have staples in her head.

aaahhhhh blogdom!

Well. Golly. I have resisted the call for so long, worried that I will become a slave to Blogland and cease all more Responsible endeavors. A recent foray into a new aquaintance's blog has, however, convinced me that my blog can be a complement to my More Important work, which I will delve into at another time. So welcome, as yet unknown visitors. :) Warm happy thoughts your way. I think this is the start of a beautiful relationship.