Art you glad I didn't say Banana?

What does it mean to be a musician? An artist? A writer? Anything that you declare to the world that you "are"? Recently I've shared some of my old art of various types with some people whose opinions matter to me and they all expressed two things. One was that I should try to publish my work. Yeah, easy for you to say... and the other was a request for me to help with their own work. Aside from the fact that I'm not your art teacher... (You show me $1100 and maybe I'll teach you how to write a haiku.) Actually, it goes like this:

I ain't yo teacha

Go to someone else, dang fool

Stop messin' around

I also just don't know how to teach something like that. Poetry and lyrics are about emotion, experience, truth, imagination. Things that can't be planned or predicted or taught. One might be inspired or shown how to be open to these things but it's not coming out of nowhere!

The last poem I wrote was magnificent. What was it written about? How I may have mooned my entire neighbourhood a few months back. Yeah. Long story short, I was walking to the store with my buddy and suddenly I feel my pants snag on something on the ground. I fumble around a bit, trying to get it loose and my friend keeps walking, somehow complete unaware of my struggle. I try to play it cool and continue walking when suddenly I realize my pants have just dropped to the ground. Those of you who know me, well, at all, know I am all about the commando. My first instinct? You would think it would be to grab my pants and pull them up, no? No. I jump to the floor, my bum on the nasty sidewalk and whine out, "Help! Don't look at me but oh god, help me!"

As he put it,

i was walking the dog, heard a thump and see her sitting bare-bummed on the ground

What a pal. 'An Ode to the Belt' shall forever live in infamy. I only wish I could figure out where I saved it. Then there was my other piece about my first experience of a booty call. Except, innocent little me was totally unaware. You see, what I thought was the name of a goth club was actually a bondage hotel. With bondage stuff. That he wanted to use on me, with me, despite me... however you want to say it.  Needless to say, naw aw, it did not happen.

Thus it is once again proven that art and poetry can be created from anything and everything. I think this connects deeply with one of my favourite terms, authenticity. Being true to yourself, not allowing labels to be placed upon you. Self-definition. Now, this doesn't always work... apparently, if I just claim to be the inventor of Furby doesn't mean they'll pay me royalties and give me tons of money. Besides, there's certainly a portion of shame that comes with this self-proclaimed honour. To be fair, I do stuff cameras in dolls and force them into people's homes. I call them FurbEyes.

This post hasn't really hit a point of inspiration for me, speaking of which. I think I will end here. The moral of the story being... wear a belt?

Make it rain, eyes. Make it, make it rain...

I know writing a blog entry about what one fears is not fun. It's not amusing or light-hearted to read. However, sometimes it's called for. We all need to take a moment from time to time and release what haunts the mind. Otherwise, it broods and boils. What happens when you leave a boiling pot of water covered? Yeah... let's avoid that. Onto the fun stuff.

What are common causes of insomnia? Stress, depression, excitement, mania... insomnia is never good but it can be because of a positive reaction. Unfortunately, that is not the case for me. My insomnia is due to horrible images that come into my view at night. Decapitation, terrorism, shooting, stabbing, throwing off buildings... I've seen it all. I've experienced this since as long as I can remember. This is why I talk about death so much. If I didn't laugh about it, I don't know how I'd cope with these thoughts.

This entry is certainly not be about me, though. I will insert my own experiences and, obviously, my views on issues but I don't want to get into my own history. Death intrigues us all to some extent. Some people are deathly afraid of it, some people are fascinated with it, and some are in denial of it. I think that is a big part of where religion comes into play. Humans are experts at finding distractions and ignoring the dark realities of life. While I have no evidence or certainty of it, I can say with a bit of confidence that there probably is no Heaven. Throw out your white robe, stop growing out your beard, and cancel those harp lessons, as there will be no need for that. On the other hand, there is likely no Hell either. Do whatever stupid thing you want, just don't hurt anyone! Not because I said so, not because God said so but because it's illegal. Doesn't matter if you care about morals and you aren't worried about it being done to you in return, just avoid jail. That should be enough reason. Although, if you want free food and housing, I guess I can't really convince you, can I? Therein lies the conundrum of an existentialist. Why should one "behave" if they are not guided by fear of consequences or morals? I got into this topic in my last failed blog thingamadoo but  after re-examining the issue... well, I still have no answer. Maybe people should just behave because it will make society more pleasant. Therefore, there will always be people trying to ruin it and there is no reasoning with them. We can only do our best to be a decent being in the subjective eye and maybe help others to be what society has deemed to be appropriate social behaviour. Then, of course, you run into the issue of terrorists. In their society, killing is "appropriate". Taking your life in the name of God is the proper thing to do and there is no one around who is going to tell you otherwise. Does that make it okay? Was sacrifice "okay"? Is cannibalism "okay"? I wouldn't say so and most people wouldn't say so and therefore we go to other cultures and tell them our way is the right way. I don't see any problem with that... as I said, it keeps society running much smoother. On the other hand, if there were more of them, more terrorists than average people, more cannibals than... whatever the opposite of a cannibal is and they came to us and started jailing us and punishing us for our choices, would that then be the "okay" thing? Is it simply a matter of numbers or is it influence? Americans have one of the greatest influences on other nations in the world and yet, I see it an impossible task for Americans to convince every other being that just sitting down for a cup of coffee is better than strapping bombs to children. Speaking of which, shouldn't the instinctual need to care for and protect one's child already be taking care of this? What could be the thought process of a mother setting her boy up with bombs? "Here, honey, have a nice time blowing up. Don't forget your lunch! Never explode on an empty stomach!"  (Again- how would we cope without some humour?)

That is what we call an Ariel tangent. Those happen. I am talking death here, though. Right? Right. It's amazing what people will do to avoid recognizing their own decline. It is also amazing what people will do and risk in order to avoid the decline or loss of others. Yin and yang. Yo and yo. Salt n Pepa. It's all about balance.

Sleepless in my Bedroom

When you're cleaning your apartment in nothing but ripped knee-high socks and a large UFT t-shirt while lip-synching to Billy Joels' "Say Goodbye to Hollywood" at 7 something in the morning, things are good. Or are they bad? I have lost my sense of reality due to my insomnia. Please excuse my dementia.

This is the life of a manic depressive. I don't actually have Bipolar Disorder and I am certainly not trendy enough to diagnose myself, even though Dr. Web M.D. has. Who is Dr. M.D. to judge me anyway? He probably doesn't even have a PhD! Going back to what I said before: I now envy a website than is primarily used for self-diagnosing the plague... things are definitely good.

Mania is fun, though, kids! 3-4 hours of sleep is all you need and then you paint on your wall. My landlord may not appreciate my choice of medium but it's a masterpiece!

I call this piece, "Eyes on the Pr-eyes". What inspired this piece, you may ask? Poor decisions; my specialty, not to brag. Regret is a big motivation. I hate people who say life is too short for regrets. Seriously. First of all, life is pretty freakin' long! You can live to over a hundred years, that's 36,500 days. Do you know how many hours that is? That's... just kidding, I'm not doing the math. The only people who say that are the ones who re-post things on Facebook like, "Everyday is a gift, that's why it's called the present." I am sure whoever made that quote was hoping your present would involve spending hours in your bedroom switching between 'sharing' Facebook posts and looking at celebrities while crying because you can't shove the back of your toothbrush far enough down your throat to induce vomiting.

Did you just cringe or think, "Wow, harsh"? You need to go outside. Can't make this stuff up.

Humans do retarded things that they shouldn't. If they don't regret it, they don't change and they don't correct! Who wants to live in a world where everyone thinks every stupid choice they made was the right way to go? That's my job!

Choices I've made this week:

1. The woman at the supermarket yelled at me for tying my foster dog up outside. She says, "I would NEVER tie my dog up outside!" I replied, "I would NEVER work at a supermarket. We're even."

2. The Jesus Freak in the train station was giving out God pamphlets. He says, "Do you want to go to Heaven?" I replied, "Will you be there?" He says, "Of course!" I replied, "No thanks."

Come on, if you were me, you wouldn't regret those conversations either.

Now I don't know if I want this blog entry to be about mania/depression or regret. Both have been on my mind lately. I could probably incorporate both, right? Come on, old girl, you can BS this like you have done with everything your entire life! GO TEAM! I suppose I could say, what has been a great assistance in keeping me awake during my mania has been regret. Zing! It's true but I still get Whitey Points for that, no?

The issue I regret? Fellows, lads, men, males, testosterone whores, sperm purses... boys. Not boys as in all of them! This isn't my coming-out speech (although, I tend to think several people are waiting on the day in which I make that announcement...) This is one boy and one boy only. This is where all the males reading this entry groan and turn off their brains. Not that they cared in the first place, being that I am not them. For those of you who are a little slow, yes, I just called men self-involved. Especially since I already dismissed the possibility of lesbian visuals.

This guy situation is not sappy at all, though. Quite the opposite, actually. My problem is my lack of interest in romance. Flowers, candlelight, edible panties, it all disgusts me! Actually, I could go for some edible panties right now.I got the munchies. I feel like one has to be very confident that they're getting some action if they're going to wear those things. Otherwise, you're going through your date with candy melting around your lady parts mixing with your nervous sweats and everything else that is happening down there. If you're doing it right, there will be tears in that concoction as well. I digress, though. Point is, I don't want a guy to write me poems about butterflies with diabetes, text me pictures of kittens eating rainbows, or to call me their sweet buns o' love. I suppose, though, these are the things I have to tolerate in order to be with another person. I have to see them more than once a year. I have to stop joking about dead people. I have to actually pretend to like them. The irony in all of this? This guy, RegretGuy as I shall call him, he made me want all of this stuff! That's why we didn't work out.

HUMMINA WHA?!

The odd part is, this took over a year to hit me. Finally, a friend convinced me to get my feelings out on paper. While this isn't paper, physical paper is as scarce as teen celibacy. I am now writing this, I have thought about the situation for an accumulation of hours, and I have beat myself over it... the one thing I haven't done? Tell him. Do you know why this is? The movies. The romantic comedies have taught me nothing worth knowing except two things: 1. Betty White being in a movie does not automatically make it good. 2. If he isn't flying away somewhere and the two of you have not been involved in some semi-humourous timeline of events involving your free-spirited parents and a weird pet, you're not supposed to do anything about your feelings for him. I can deal with that. Plus, I'm not as brave as a parent allowing their child to play with Elmo. Too soon?

Regret discussed. I can now move on with my life. What else is there? I regret BEING BORN! That's not true. I don't blame myself for that. I also regret watching all the Comedy Central Roasts available on Netflix. I feel like my life would be much happier if I hadn't wasted over an hour of my life watching Charlie Sheen get loved upon by funny Jews. "Ha! He called the guy a Jew Kike. It's cool, we love you!" Now, I understand that everything actors do is just a publicity stunt and I understand that I hadn't even heard of Charlie Sheen until this roast but... well, actually, I guess I can't fault him. He did his job and made his money. I bow out. In which case, I regret typing the name Charlie Sheen in my blog and I still regret watching the roast.

There are some things that you shouldn't waste all your time and efforts feeling bad for. Actually, most mistakes aren't worth worrying about! However, regret can't be seen as intrinsically bad, either. If you can figure yourself out and maybe even still make a difference, it's worth pondering. If there's nothing you can do about it, pick up your Depends and get over it. I assure you, whatever story you tell people about that mistake you made 5, 10, 30 years ago, you told them it already and they do not want to hear it again. They really don't care, despite the repetitive 'AWs' and concerned faces. If you're like me and you can fix your mistakes but are too lazy to, you should probably just go self-mutilate or something... I don't know.

Remember that time I kidnapped a minor?

I didn't really kidnap a minor, don't worry. It got your attention, though, didn't it?

Well, technically, I did kidnap a 16-year-old for 12 hours but I didn't mean to. At first.

Maybe I should explain...

It was some random day of who cares what month... The weather was warm, or was it cold? I think it was fairly chilly. I woke up that morning (late afternoon), exited my bedroom, entered my living room, passed by the middle aged Jamaican man, and entered the kitchen. Then I did a double take. I re-entered the living room and, as it were (I am probably not using this phrase correctly but you probably don't care, eh?), my eyes were not mistaken, there in my living room was a petite teen girl smoking a huge blunt made out of corn husks. She seemed content, the Jamaican seemed content, and the naked couple cuddled up that I did not recognize seemed content. I said, "Good morning" and proceeded back into the kitchen to make something out of peanut butter (this may not be accurate but it is very likely...) After all, it was only 4 in the afternoon, I was much too groggy to worry about the delightful combination of illegal activity occurring in my very own living room.

Once I finished my nutritious and delicious  high-sodium, high-protein, high-fat brunchner (breakfast, lunch, dinner), I went back into the living room. Something I wish I hadn't done. For my eyes had not been fooling me for the third time, the lavish weed buffet had not confused my senses, and I was not simply witnessing some sort of kinky "sharing-of the-toke with a blow up doll" ritual, there was indeed a petite, dirty blonde teenage female getting her jollies on Rasta's (as I was to find out was the Jamaican's nickname) bodacious Bonnarroo prize-winning corn husk doob.

Sure. Cool.

Except, NOT COOL! I calmly sat myself next to the red-eyed insurgent and asked her, "So. What's up?" She replied, "Hey, I'm (yeah, as if I remember her name). My mom is a total (enter word of choice) and she's trying to have me locked up. I'm running away." She explained that her mom was some helicopter mom who is a Wall Street who-cares-what that, as young girl that we shall call Daisy explains, wishes to have her rebellious child locked in the psych ward for not going to school and smoking pot. Rasta had found her in the park trying to sleep under newspaper and one of the bums staying with me decided my apartment was a great refuge for both of these people. Why, you ask? I would say it is because my life is one big orgy of punches to the groin.

Now the chaos, havoc, and madness ensues. Enter Character 1 stage right. Character 1 will go by the name Char1, an unfortunate name choice by his mother. Char1 is a well-meaning guy, an outspoken guy, the kind of guy you don't think you should introduce to your grandmother but when you do introduce him to your grandmother, he turns out to be very polite and timid. Huh? Who? What? Why? I don't know.

Anyway, Char1 has strong opinions about everything. He gives the girl two options. Daisy must either stay in hiding with us, telling her we will all protect her, even if it means arrest (mind you, I would probably be the only one left standing if the cops came) or she would have to go face the real world. He told her, much like a tough-love father, that if she wanted freedom and to run her own life, she would have to go out into the cold, into the dark, and into her greatest fears. Rasta's only comment at this was, "Hey. I can teach her how to be a woman?" To which I replied, "What in the hail do you mean by that?!" He clarified that he wanted to teach her the ways of survival but I am fairly certain he had other plans in mind.

At this point, Daisy was fairly confident she was going to stay with me a few days. I figured, heck, my arrest was imminent for one reason or another, why not be this child's hero and guide? This was all hunky dory until for one reason or another, Char1 and Rasta started to argue. One angry Jamaican and one 6'4 angry Jew with a voice that could topple sweet dreams- oh mercy.

This started to make Daisy anxious. This brave lioness was beginning to cower and look once again like the innocent and scared child she was. That may have been the doing of the drugs but it worked well for me in this case. She took me into the bedroom and asked me, as the most normal one in the apartment, what she should do. I, now on my high-horse for being considered more normal than the drug-toting, homeless Rastafarian man armed with nothing but corn husks and a coconut slicer and a snowboarding sushi chef with a penchant for streaking, I felt words of wisdom overcome me. I asked her questions three... "Do you want to turn out like them?" She shook her head. "Do you want to be homeless, smell like the trail of goo that remains after the carcass of a dead sewer rat are removed, and let old men touch your boobies for  a piece of old bread?" She shook her head. "Shall we call your mom?" Yes. Yes, we shall.

After much concern on all ends, we finally made the dreaded call to her mother. I took the phone and in my best Judy Dench voice I said, "Hello ma'am. I just want you to know your daughter is safe and you have nothing to worry about. I am an educated, kind, and mature young woman, much like your daughter. I assure you, her well-being is my top priority. Daisy needed some space and time to think but I think she is ready to return home under the condition that you allow her some independence and your trust. I am very sorry for worrying you but I think you both need to sit down and talk this over without finger-pointing or negativity. I hope you two can work this out." Her mother replied, "I WANT MY DAUGHTER!!" A detective then picked up the phone and I basically told him the same thing but not referencing him as her mother. That would be silly, silly! I assured them both Daisy would be headed home in moments and hung up.

Silence.

Dramatic Pause.

Deep Inhale.

Breath Mint.

Minutes later, she was headed out with Char1 and myself and on the train headed uptown to her mommy.

Once she was taken care of I went back to bed, hoping to never wake up and exit my bedroom again.