Dear Fellow Member of Society,
Here we both are, swimming upstream in this. I do not know where you need to spawn. I do not care. That’s not my business. We will both eventually die in the abyss.
I am sorry my arbitrary set of rules and regulations I have created for myself and crystallized my behavior around conflicts with yours.
I realize in the grand scheme of things neither of them matters more than the other. It doesn’t really matter if there’s space for pedestrians in front of you or behind me or if someone’s in the intersection or if someone has eleven items in a line at a checkstand or if you aren’t carpooling or if you don’t cover your mouth or whatever fifty years from now when I’m dead or dying. I won’t care then. But right now I’m caught in minutia because they give me the illusion of control over something, just something, anything, a slippery sense of falling off into the void, and you got in the way. You got in the way of my feeling powerful over loss of ego. Ego is really what I need to lose.
I am sorry if I made you feel less that the amount of respect other human beings deserve. I’m working on it, but sometimes I need to work harder than others. I am sorry if I hurt you.
I know I spend a lot of time on here–way, way too much. Way over the rim with the rich taste of Brim. Far and away too much–talking shit on Moms. I’m [about to rationalize it away, this bad behavior] really anxious right now, feeling out of control and she is the symbolic manifestation of my trouble.
But in so many ways, she is awesome. I think I’ve mentioned on here that she can see auras. But have I mentioned that at times she can see people’s past bodies on them? Yeah, that’s intense. It happens mostly for her in times of her profound spiritual growth.
The one I remember the most was when some lady was talking to mom about not liking scarves or necklaces.
“I just can’t have anything, anything on my neck at all. I have to keep it free. Deep v-necks, boatnecks, everything. I have to. I can’t explain it.”
And like that, and it was all dark in the room, and it was the hold of a ship, and Some Lady was a naked African man with thick rusty fetters on her neck and arms and legs.
“I can understand that,” Moms said.
It never helps to tell people what you see of them, though. Everyone thinks they’re Jesus or Lancelot or Joan of Arc. No one thinks they’re just some guy who got shot in the back while stabbing someone else in the face, you know? And that’s why he has back pain? Who wants to hear that? How is that helping?
Moms has an irrational love for steel pans. That, coupled with her love of dance (is she a good dancer? Well, it ain’t ballroom, but it makes her happy, so don’t hate. Lots of shoulders and thumbs, she’s a master of the high shoulders and waving thumb-fist. It’s sort of a private Hora, perfectly content to sit right there in that chair) makes me wonder where she came from. She also loves Zydeco, which I cannot stand. It’s Louisiana hillbilly music with a lot of accordion and washboard and it sounds like blues on meth and glue and hooch before meth was popular. I will listen to almost anything. There are about three or four, maybe six artists and one genre–no, two genres I can’t listen to. The only thing I can’t listen to that she doesn’t listen to are those there Juggalos, whatever that genre is. That would kind of be awesome, if my late-sixties mother was into ICP. She does like the raunchy humor.
I have an irrational love for the carillon. I have always heard it pronounced “Caroline,” like the woman’s name, but I don’t know that for certain. It’s hard for me to keep going on my way and not linger when I hear one. The sound, if you’re wondering, comes from one of the weirdest instruments ever. It’s a bell tower (like the one on the UC Berkeley campus, if you know that one), but it’s played with levers that you hit with your wrists or your fists. Well worth watching, if you’re the kind of weirdo who likes antiquing for Catholic paraphernalia (I adore an old medallion or a rosary) and old graveyards and everything skull/skeleton. (Yes, I love all things Catholic and bother my Episcopal mom about her religiosity. I AM A CONUNDRUM AND A TROUBLEMAKER. Bad daughter, bad!) But my love of all this stuff makes me wonder where I came from.
Maybe this is why we don’t get along. (Also, see troublemaker.) Our past souls are too different. I’m all uptight monk and she’s all loose smoke-tough Jamaican and then I got put in a herbed form this time and she’s in a straight-laced body this time and hijinks ensued. And by “hijinks” I mean “fuck-you-pay-me,” and by “fuck-you-pay-me” I mean “you’re not allowed to set healthy boundaries around yourself without my flashing on you like a sullen thirteen year old.” Oh, and “you” is “Seer” and “me” is Moms.
But y’all, I heard some music today that made me extremely hopeful! I heard the music today that I think is my future. I can’t explain why, any more than I can explain why the carillon is my past. It’s from Thailand (at least, I think it is; I can’t read Thai, but that looks like Thai–I should ask Sparrow if that’s Thai. She can’t read it, but I know she can recognize it. She can probably read a few words, like “toilet” and “beer.” Her brother takes or took lessons. Why you would care I don’t even know) and it seems to be a mix of the old and the new and it’s fucking awesome.
Maybe Moms and I will meet up again there. And maybe we’ll have another chance to get along and get it right.
This is how the steel pan is supposed to be enjoyed: in the street, with someone going through the garbage behind you, little kids in your way and such. I’m also pleased with the random videography, and the weird tempo changes at the whim of the artist.
This is the sound that speaks to my soul: the carillon, a word I can never spell correctly. They come from different movie soundtracks, no? No one I know who loves me can stand this for long periods of time. Not unless it’s Mario Brothers or something, and even then they lose interest.
This is what I heard today and it rocked me. I can’t stop looking for more. I mean, look at how much fucking fun these people are having! Drinking and dancing nasty, immoral dances in the streets! It’s a tiny, movable rave! They look like a second line party, like the people who come back from the cemetery in New Orleans after someone is laid to rest. The living cut loose, because you only have so much time, you know?
i need to stop
with the angry