When I signed on to twitter this morning I sow on the right side of the screen a column that read, "Recently listed in" and underneath it, people in Los Angeles. I clicked "People in Los Angeles". Apparently this is a "public list curated by" someone who works at Skylight (a great bookstore in my hood.) I don't understand why I hesitated to put her name, it's right there on twitter. Anyway.... her profile led me to her blog...
I'm still waiting for this to go back to being what it was. That's just looking backwards isn't it? Maybe my little blog, this place I created when I wasn't in the mood for more rejection letters has taken a turn and maybe that is okay. Maybe it can be a blog about blogging. Maybe it can be a blog about finding my way. Maybe it can be whatever I fucking want it to be. Or, maybe, just maybe, it can be what it is. Wouldn't that be something?
Through a series of events that puppy spent the night with me.
I already have two adult dogs of my own.
This is what I've just witnessed...
Dog number one had carried bites of his food to the wee wee pad left by my thoughtful sister. (Puppy doesn't think it's so thoughtful, he prefers to poop and pee in the middle of my kitchen.) He laid on the wee wee pad and ate his breakfast.
Dog number two sitting as close as possible but with her butt to me and looking around me, above me and underneath me rather than right at me. She's had a look like she smelled a fart ever since she figured out this dog isn't leaving.
puppy dog laying on my lap staring wistfully at dogs one and two wondering why no one but me will play with him.
P.S. Puppy are great and all but this has shown me that I made the right choice in adopting adult dogs!
Well hot damn and holy calamity what a day! I'm trying to (not so secretly) post daily but sometimes it just gets away from you doesn't it. I'm afraid I've frightened my little story away and nothing will tempt it to return at this hour. Trust me, nothing. Is anyone still reading this? Am I typing to black?
I will say for the moment that, despite a little stress, today was a nice day spent with my little sister culminating in dinner with a friend who just shot a commercial in which he played a mix between bad santa and lazy santa. I laughed so hard when he told me about it that I entered silent laugh territory. I can only hope that shit ends up on youtube. Seriously!
This is might have also had a hand in scaring my story...
I made myself write tonight. I waffled and wandered and contemplated changes to one thing and what to delete in another. Guess what... Waffling and wandering and contemplating doesn't really get much accomplished. Chuck Palahniuk never sits down without a scene, sometimes a whole chapter in his head. He thinks staring at a blank scene is useless. (I'd quote my source but I can't remember it.) Apparently, duh, I am no chuck palahniuk. I opened a new window and I started typing. I was honest. What more can we ask? An inkling of something started to form. I let it fly. It flew onto the wrong continent with no return ticket and I will most likely delete all but the first few pages as they are nonsensical, but I did it. It's mine. I obviously wrote it. It reeks of me, like I'd peed on it to mark my territory. For that I am thankful. Good day and good night.
My dog peed on the couch. I have two tables. One coffee one for eating on. Both are full of piles of stuff. Some clothes stuff on one and books and junk and four picture frames on the other. All pain in the ass excuses not to write. Tonight someone called me stella and told me to get my groove back. Well honey, I started grooving. I grooved some characters and a little story and a plot and all. I got index cards and bubble charts and fun stuff happening. I figured after all that i might as well start writing. Do a short story and expand from there. ANd I wrote.
And I wrote.
And. I. Wrote.... Stella wasn't grooving.
I read back over what i'd written. There wasn't anything wrong with it per se. It was just a little familiar and boring. And familiar. But not familiar in that comfy, this is my voice, way. It was familiar in that... "Holy shit I'm ripping off Charlaine Harris!!!!" kind of way. LIke a ton of bricks dude. A TON of bricks.
Here's the thing, (I'm starting to think that should have been the name of my blog) I don't have cable. And by cable, I mean I don't have any television that runs into my house. If I want to watch the news it has to be online. Feelin me? I should also note that without expansion, this has been a really tough year for me. You know how sometimes when you're going through shit your brain just won't shut off? So you flip on the tv and watch a movie or bad tv? Well not me, I read simple fast paced books that don't take a lot of brain power. Enter Sookie Stackhouse novels. I love them. They are fun and basic and damn entertaining. BUT the problem is I read them all. In a row. over the course of the last three weeks. I lost my voice in there somewhere. I forgot how to write like me but I'm looking and i'm trying and I'll find Clementine again if it's the last thing I do!
Here's the thing. I don't like pain. It's not my bag. No offense to those who Love it. It's just not for me. One might even say I have a low pain tolerance. (stay with me, I'm going somewhere here.) at least that's what I've been told. So pain is a big deal to be. Mega, hurts so much you want to vomit pain is an even bigger deal.
The latter is what I'm dealing with right now. I woke up Saturday at around 330 in the morning with super nauseous making pain in my left wrist. No j don't know why. No I don't know what could have done it. It was there and it fucking hurt like hell. So that night was unpleasant. I woke up hours later to find nothing had changed. (seriously, I have a point. I promise.) so I'm useless and in pain and any movement of my left hand resulted in my screaming bloody murder and gagging. I took aleve but that didn't help. Today was no different, with the exception that I've now missed two nights of sleep because of this crap. So I went to the doctor.
(HERES the whole point of this whole thing!!!)
As I was driving to the doctor j looked at the steering wheel. I had looped my index and middle fingers around the wheel and was drivin like I had a hook so as to keep my wrist somewhat stable and keep my thumb securely stuck out sideways where is couldn't move and make me scream. I had adapted without realizing it. Yep, that's it. That's the whole point of this post. I find it fascinating how quickly we can adapt, without consciously doing it, to avoid pain. The end.
Once upon a very long time ago I had a date. It's true, I swear. That date led to some more dates. On those dates we talked, as people do. At some point, somewhere there was talk of underwear. (I do not use the word panties, I find it ugly and uncomfortable.) I remember nothing other than my date saying something about plain black calvin klein underwear and my responding with, yes I wear those (while trying to remember if I was wearing them at that moment). The next day I went out in a panic and bought fistfuls of black calvin klein cotton underwear. We never went on another date after that and to this day, years later, I still have a few pairs in the back of a drawer. I laugh every time I see them.
A: The Dirty Ballerina is a collection of words, drawings and meanderings that fell out of my head and onto a page. (In the real life paper version there will be things that fell out of other people's heads sometimes.)
Who is the dirty ballerina?
Why do you get to be THE dirty ballerina? What makes you so special?
A: Because I said so and because that's me in the tutu.
Do you even do ballet?
A: The last time I did ballet was when that picture was taken 22 years ago.
*I'm going to stop here before it gets ugly and say that everyone has a little dirty ballerina inside of them. The next time you pour coffee down the front of your fancy outfit or trip and fall in the mud stop for a minute and look at yourself. Are you laughing? There she is...
Thirty in Thirty
As an assignment to myself and to push myself to learn about deadlines I am writing a blog everyday for thirty days. The only requirement I have is that I cannot blog about blogging. Most of it may be crap but I'm doing it anyway, so there.
My grandma always says, never let the truth get in the way of a good story. I always say, the truth is better than anything you can make up. I also tend to listen to my grandma as she's pretty smart. So, if you pop up, or think you pop up in anything I write you might be right, but then again, you might be wrong. All memory is fiction essentially, right?