FireVaney

See, I keep knocking things into the wastebasket betwixt the matching wood desk and dresser in my Aunt Redacted’s childhood bedroom. These knocked over things, they’re my things—the pens, the keys, the stapler, the bibelots and baubles that tend to clutter one’s desk. The wastebasket, too, that’s my wastebasket—a metal Chicago Bears wastebasket. Other than being cluttered, it’s kinda neat, this desk. It literally fits into the corner of the room. It would neatly fit into a 90 degree corner of any ordinary bedroom. Suffice it to say, this desk, my Aunt Redacted’s childhood desk, now my desk (for all intents and purposes), its surface is more triangular than rectangular. To be clear, it’s a small room, but still, in and of itself, fairly rectangular. Regardless, things keep falling through the space betwixt the desk and the matching wood dresser, falling into the wastebasket, or rather landing in the wastebasket, because I keep knocking them over into it. So what do I do? I move the ...

There is no way that I’m going to choose the path which will lead me toward prune juice. There are things I will tolerate, and there are things that are just things. They are thingy things. They exist to collect dust. They are not the things you want to bother about, they are just things to be things to sit on a shelf and collect dust. They are things to toss against the wall when things are not going well. They are things to toss. They are tossible tossables. You say that “tossable” and “tossible” aren’t legitimate words. I say, go fuck yourself, you KNOW what I mean when I use these “illegitimate” words. If something is tossible/tossable, then they are able to be tossed. That’s all. They are garbagible garbagables. Fuck you. You are not going to control my vocabulary. Not any more. There are things – thingy things – sitting on my shelves that are garbagible/garbagales tossable/tossibles. I know what I mean, and that is all that matters because nobody else is reading. FREEDOM (is lone...

 

“We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eye watered .” - Guildenstern from  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by  Tom Stoppard

Since Pop takes naps, I take naps. Since Pop pisses a lot, I’m pissing a lot more. On the bright side, his house has two toilets. No, not side-by-side. One’s upstairs, the other’s downstairs.  Since Pop drives slow, I’m driving slower. I find myself asking other drivers, as they pass me, “What’s the rush?” I need a bumper sticker that says, “I believe in the speed limit.” Thing is, Pop and me, we’re the only two such believers in town.  Since Pop grunts when he sits, I grunt when I sit. And each time I grunt, in my head, I ask myself, as I sit and grunt, I ask, “Why am I grunting?” I don’t have back pain. I’m too young to grunt like Pop grunts.  Beyond that, he and I, we have very little in common.  He reads business periodicals. He’ll read them all day long. Me? I read plays and novels. Pop won’t touch ‘em. At night, he watches whatever’s on TV. He watches Wheel Of Fortune,  he watches The Bachelor , he watches Dancing With The Stars, he watches Deal or No Dea...

Dear Scáthach,  Does the name Polonius ring a bell? He was a wise fool. Had he survived Hamlet’s rapier, he might’ve lived long enough to share the following sage advice* with you…  There are two little words that will open a lot of doors for you: “Push” and “Pull.”  If at first you don’t succeed, then skydiving definitely isn’t for you.  When everything is coming your way, you’re in the wrong lane.  The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese.  Do you remember the time we robbed that bank? Oh. Wait. No. I was with Cúnait. Never mind. Before you came along, she was something of a wild child; not at all the demure, prudish saint she is today. But forget I mentioned it. (Of course, if you ask her, she’ll deny it.)  Do you remember stealing my sippy cup? Near the turn of the 20th century, my great grandmother, Avdotya, sailed across the Atlantic Ocean, all the way from Russia, with that very sippy cup and, other than the clothes on ...

What do you believe? Why trust yourself when, time and again, you’ve led yourself astray? Astray, astray. Ashtray. If only leading oneself astray were a lucrative career path. And as for faith: Faith in what? Faith in what you know? Alright. Or, all right. You have faith in knowing what you know is wrong. Or, at best, what you know is riddled with wrongs. Go? BOLDLY go? Where? Spend? How much? Write? How much? Spend it all? Go everywhere? Write until the ink runs out? Write until the paper runs out? Type until the fingers ache? Ah, but recall Mister Rather’s sage advice. * What do you want? What, REALLY ? Self-reliance? Ah, but you get soooooooooooooooooo lonesome, don’t you? Lonesome and loathsome. You suffer soooooooooooooooooo much doubt, no? You want a lover. You want a companion. You want to “go free” with a lover-companion. And you don’t want a boss. Well, who DOES ? Well, frankly? Many do. All too many seek to be led. But you? No. As the Bio-Farter oft said, “You can’t take ...

Blasted weather! It saps my creativity. Blast it! This is why I must move North. Around here, August is the worst – typically the worst. To my mind, it IS the worst. July is bad, but August is worse. Now, October? That’s a much better month. It’s my mother’s month. But more importantly, why can’t I dress the brown bear in its fur? YOU said I could. You promised. You wanted me to dress it in a red velvet jumpsuit. “But that’s too tacky,” says you. It’s MY bear! Why can’t I dress it how I please? Who are YOU to say how I should dress MY property. It IS my property. It’s not like it’s a REAL bear, a LIVE bear. It’s a mere teddy. I was wondering where that came from – that “teddy” bear term. I kinda knew already, but I wasn’t sure. One of my dictionaries, in case you didn’t know yourself, says that “Teddy” was the nickname for “Theodore,” alluding to “Theodore Roosevelt,” who was an “enthusiastic” bear hunter. So there you have it. And I’ll wager that President Roosevelt wouldn’t care to h...

She’s drunk and she presses your face into her cleavage—twice—and you tell her you think of her as a sister. And but so now, after that, you’re not so sure. You tell her it’s hard not to stare at her breasts and she tells you go ahead, stare. After that, you babble on about the painful crush you have on her best friend. She sits there beside you and she’s very understanding. At one point, for Paparazzo Pete, she bends over and aims her face at your crotch. It’s all for fun and she’s drunk and so are you—a little bit. And but so now, writing this, you’re thinking maybe you should pursue something with her. And you’re completely sober now. It would be a sober relationship. You want a companion and you want sex but you don’t want to break her heart if she falls in love with you.  8 March 2007