Fog on the windows
Makes it hard to see outside
My senses tilted
Saturday, February 14, 2026
Friday, November 22, 2024
Til Death do Us Blart 2017 - I should mention a thing
A thing about being a poet is that sometimes you do things. Things like a 100 Haiku challenge, or decide to write in 6 word lines, or decide that someday you would like to write a pop song, but not the music, just the lyrics. Also, I completely missed any inheritance conversations this time because I got fully immersed in the story of Vincent being Immortal Vincent van Gogh and well yeah.
Some lines that I think I will like
The Foam Gun!
This the new flubber (see how I borked grammar for 5 syllables? ug.)
The marbles dribble out (6. useless.)
Because Vincent is van Gogh
More comedy without camoflage
Locked and loaded Chekov's guns
"Can't spell Blart without Art"
Brain Damage for the bird scene
Thursday, November 21, 2024
Til Death do Us Blart - 2016 & cleaning
What follows is the 1 3/4 pages of notes I took while listening to Til Death do Us Blart episode 2, from 2016. I was also cleaning the kitchen and waiting for a specific bit of conversation that happened in this episode but I wasn't sure because I've heard all of them a few times now. The parenthetical asides are added by me while writing this. Most of them. Not the one in the 2nd last stanza.
Feed yourself & rest in all of this
We're all still here (and choosing inheritors to carry on when it's Time)
The Shadow Man (becomes a character and begins to open doors to weirdness)
(the main character is) Terrible to other people
They end the movie in love (is the supposition based on events at the beginning of PBToo)
She can't not vomit (so she leaves, for her own health)
We got it in one (I took this note and don't remember why)
Mini Discs at the Family Blockbuster
Ghost Lane the Ghost Boy
(those last two are unrelated, I just liked the cadences)
Wednesday, November 20, 2024
Til Death Do Us Blart 2015 - it begins
Okay, so basically it's a podcast show that only happens once a year and it happens on American Thanksgiving (which of course I don't celebrate but I do get time off work so I do this and cook food and do literally anything that's not shopping) and you can find it here: https://www.themcelroy.family/deathdousblart .
Yes. It's a McElroy Brothers & Tim & Guy production. Five guys watch Paul Blart Mall Cop, Too and talk about it. It's not the best idea. I love it so very much. (It used to be that I would listen to the classic tune Alice's Restaurant every year, but the last time I listened I was fully caught off guard by the use of a slur about gay folks towards the back end of the piece and, you know. I get to say no.)
What follows is a reaction to this reaction, to this show, this work of Art, this extended contemplation of what can only be called Utter CrapShitGarbage.
There will be 10 of these because there are 10 of those, except there will actually be 11 because the gathered boys dropped a surprise in 2020, so there's one more.
TDdUB 2015
Did they know? Do we know even now?
The lead up to a holiday I do no honor &
will use for better ends is dusted in the sounds
of good good boys surviving every year &
the inevitable mediocrity and garbage of Paul Blart Mall Cop, Too.
The part where that movie's name is 5 syllables.
Saturday, November 9, 2024
Well now, isn't this a treat
I knew that I'd forgotten that I made this!
In an effort to figure out what To Do given the election results and the chaos that we Know will ensue, I return to writing as a Something.
There is an overabundance of choice for writing platforms, but I have already made this lovely little nook, so I will return to it.
Today I am making stock, a version of Kitchenista's Chicken Soup for the Quarantined Soul with leftover bones from take out and a meal I made earlier this week. I am also rearranging the living room furniture for the cold season, although I doubt that there will be much of it, what with All Of the Climate Crisis happening right now and for the foreseeable future until we all start paying attention to ourselves and our communities because relationships and life are more lasting than proftis and wInNiNg and building substantial lifeways and interpersonal interactions that have space for healing and learning and rest and unconditional care rather than earnings based health insurance are the norm so it will be disruptive when the corporations fall, but it won't be deadly. Because right now, their existence is deadly and their destruction will be deadly, as well.
I'm also listening to My Analog Journal sets via Soundcloud via Patreon because it's a good.
No promises, no asks, just presence.
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
The Week Between
Christmas is a nice quiet holiday, but the Winter Solstice brings my dreams back to me and New Year's is my favorite Day (that isn't Valentine's Day or my birthday).
I'm intensely grateful for my singleness during late fall and early winter. My mind roams, and I go whole days without changing out of my pajamas. It's a mental and spiritual reboot before the fun of over-thinking what I'll write to myself at the New Year. Also the annual game of not remembering if I should read last year's letter before writing this year's letter, or am I practiced enough at this to know what it is that I actually enjoy reading without the prep time. I'm not quite in a place to know which of the previous letters I don't like reading. Probably it doesn't matter. I ought to read them all anyway. That's why they were written, after all.
(It should be noted that this game is actually far more enjoyable than the games of 2003-2008 :the Did I Even Write One Last Year and Where Are All The Other Letters Hiding, because part of the ritual of the New Year's Letters for several years was that I would write a letter in January, tuck it away somewhere and then hope that some time in November I would find it. Usually I did. But the game got old, so in 2010 I collected them all into a box. 2 years ago I put them in a scrapbook. 18 months ago I decorated all of the pages, so each letter gets its own frame. Games change.)
Seems to me that last year, I tried to outline the thing. Like. A Letter. To Myself. That I will not remember writing until I read it, and even then it's a toss up. I outlined. I found quotes from books, I think. Or did I write a story. Something that needed prep work. There was a draft. And I did, in fact, have anxiety dreams about it. Artists, whew.
This year I have a short list.
Therapy has me thinking again about what it is that I love about writing. So, that's on the list. Also train travel. There's something else. I can't remember what it is. I'll find it eventually.
Train travel. Wrote the beginning of a very short and sweet holiday ensemble romance that tinyletter decided to flag for abuse, so instead of finishing it, I sent it to my friend for her thoughts and will work on it in some other way. It takes place on a train. It makes me happy to imagine.
The week between the holidays is frequently a morass of bloat and leftovers and a house still reeling from days of madness and noise and people and music and the smells of family and history and tradition. I will be eating my holiday meals for another 2 days. PS: the chicken I roasted with lemon slices, olives, onions, garlic, and potatoes was ridiculously good, you're welcome. Also, thank you to my roommate for finding the original recipe because, yes.
I'm taking a break from the noisier bits of the internet for the week. The tradition of a considered and thoughtful letter for myself is important enough.
Please be thoughtful to yourselves. Find your healing silences or noises where you can.
xoxo
Happy Week Between
I'm intensely grateful for my singleness during late fall and early winter. My mind roams, and I go whole days without changing out of my pajamas. It's a mental and spiritual reboot before the fun of over-thinking what I'll write to myself at the New Year. Also the annual game of not remembering if I should read last year's letter before writing this year's letter, or am I practiced enough at this to know what it is that I actually enjoy reading without the prep time. I'm not quite in a place to know which of the previous letters I don't like reading. Probably it doesn't matter. I ought to read them all anyway. That's why they were written, after all.
(It should be noted that this game is actually far more enjoyable than the games of 2003-2008 :the Did I Even Write One Last Year and Where Are All The Other Letters Hiding, because part of the ritual of the New Year's Letters for several years was that I would write a letter in January, tuck it away somewhere and then hope that some time in November I would find it. Usually I did. But the game got old, so in 2010 I collected them all into a box. 2 years ago I put them in a scrapbook. 18 months ago I decorated all of the pages, so each letter gets its own frame. Games change.)
Seems to me that last year, I tried to outline the thing. Like. A Letter. To Myself. That I will not remember writing until I read it, and even then it's a toss up. I outlined. I found quotes from books, I think. Or did I write a story. Something that needed prep work. There was a draft. And I did, in fact, have anxiety dreams about it. Artists, whew.
This year I have a short list.
Therapy has me thinking again about what it is that I love about writing. So, that's on the list. Also train travel. There's something else. I can't remember what it is. I'll find it eventually.
Train travel. Wrote the beginning of a very short and sweet holiday ensemble romance that tinyletter decided to flag for abuse, so instead of finishing it, I sent it to my friend for her thoughts and will work on it in some other way. It takes place on a train. It makes me happy to imagine.
The week between the holidays is frequently a morass of bloat and leftovers and a house still reeling from days of madness and noise and people and music and the smells of family and history and tradition. I will be eating my holiday meals for another 2 days. PS: the chicken I roasted with lemon slices, olives, onions, garlic, and potatoes was ridiculously good, you're welcome. Also, thank you to my roommate for finding the original recipe because, yes.
I'm taking a break from the noisier bits of the internet for the week. The tradition of a considered and thoughtful letter for myself is important enough.
Please be thoughtful to yourselves. Find your healing silences or noises where you can.
xoxo
Happy Week Between
Monday, August 14, 2017
beginning again
It has been a while since I've made a sentence out of words with my hands and then put them somewhere for other people to see.
Not that long, actually.
Maybe a couple of months.
It feels like an eternity. Like I'm automatically going to ruin all of the things I'd hope to reach for because for now, right now, today and yesterday and maybe even tomorrow and definitely last month, it just wasn't happening.
As though writing is a thing you only do with your hands. As though it is only about showing someone a finish product. As those there are no problems to solve. No perspectives to shift into something more functional than useless.
There's still an itch that I get for someone else's noise in the world before the words sometimes can find a way to make noise together. There's something not quite solid about the words that come out without a net around them.
The words are still jumbled. They do not focus like a knitting pattern a few rows in. They need something different. The work is different. There are no chisels here, only sense and images and the growth of ideas, sparked into life.
Sometimes.
Not that long, actually.
Maybe a couple of months.
It feels like an eternity. Like I'm automatically going to ruin all of the things I'd hope to reach for because for now, right now, today and yesterday and maybe even tomorrow and definitely last month, it just wasn't happening.
As though writing is a thing you only do with your hands. As though it is only about showing someone a finish product. As those there are no problems to solve. No perspectives to shift into something more functional than useless.
There's still an itch that I get for someone else's noise in the world before the words sometimes can find a way to make noise together. There's something not quite solid about the words that come out without a net around them.
The words are still jumbled. They do not focus like a knitting pattern a few rows in. They need something different. The work is different. There are no chisels here, only sense and images and the growth of ideas, sparked into life.
Sometimes.
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