Important shit always vanishes

I forgot about what I had intended to write about until I sat back down after having my Thanksgiving turkey delivered by a very nice Spyhouse regular. Now I remember it, and I don’t know if I care to tell the story.

My hands are dry, and the coffee grounds are getting into everything.

Almost, not quite

It was a big week here in Minneapolis. I’m sorry in advance about how creepy this is going to sound, but I made a vow to myself that I would be honest on this blog about life, and things. How can I ever expect to be a writer if I can’t, at times, open up my heart and be honest?

Actually, it was ALMOST a big week here in Minneapolis. I made my first Minneapolis Facebook friend (hi Morgan!). It made me wipe my brow with relief. I’m not a social leper after all. Surely one of the five or six of you (or maybe Kait is just looking at my blog 6 times a day) is shaking your head and saying “Facebook? Like that counts for anything!”
But, it does. At least somewhat.

What makes the week almost big is that I had made plans with some girls from the coffee shop to get some drinks today. I woke up kind of early this morning and contemplated whether or not I should bring my camera. I imagined snapping pictures over girl’s late, drunk lunch, and if these potential new friends would consider it totally dorky and laugh at me, or nerdy in that cool way and roll with it. After lunch, a little drunk, I would have come home and put the photos up for everyone to see, to give you all a break from my boo-hooing about being tired, or bored…
Alas, one of the girls (after my own heart, as I usually am the flake) bailed on the lunch date, and thus the other girl and I decided it was all or none.
I was surprised at my excitement this morning, and my subsequent disappointment this afternoon.

Still, I keep friends like dry goods. It’s nice to know they are there. I’m sure they hate being kept that way, though, so this time is probably a good exercise for me to take less things for granted.

But unfortunately, the most fulfilling time to relax is when you’ve broken plans to do so.

I didn’t take any pictures this week, but I’m putting up a few of the things I saw on the internetz this week. Maybe you will find my offbeat interests charming.

The first is a hyperrealistic sculpture by one of my favorite artists, Ron Mueck

The second is the cover of my new favorite comic Big Questions by Anders Nilsen, which Bob just introduced me to. You may or may not know (it doesn’t matter what you know about it) that I love stories about animals who think like people.
Sorry to frame it like that, butI hate the word anthropomorphic.
Regardless, it’s really touching and beautiful.
He also wrote this book called Don’t Go Where I Can’t Follow, which chronicles his fiancee’s battle with cancer. I haven’t read it yet because I can’t even think about the title without tearing up.

The third are some pictures of decaying birds and the terrible contents of their bellies. Actually, I had planned on putting those photos up, but then I noticed that they are also on the October 22 entry on Anders Nilsen’s blog….twinsies!

The fourth is the cover of a graphic novel called Stitches which made Publisher’s Weekly’s top 10 books of the year. Yes, written by a man, just like every other author on the list. But cut them some slack! The book is so so so good and unnerving. Haunting, I guess.

Unsolicited Manuscript Quote of the Day

“Bush and Cheney, those coward filthy dirty bastards, they ordered the demolition of Building #7. Didn’t they Rummie?” Our great President Barack O. asked the clever old G-man, seventy-four-year old Rumsfeld. Rummie ever so slowly took a sip of his Dutch beer, his Heineken. The Netherlands beer felt real good to him, remarkable. He made the precious seconds last forever. He thought to himself, that at his final stage of life, the green bottled Dutch beer was so much better than pussy.

Yep.

Runner-up:

Thomas Wolfe said that you can never go home again, but what what if you have to?

Going under

I keep having these dreams…still. It’s like I’m not even asleep. So mundane.
I dreamt two nights ago that I went to CVS and bought the things that I needed to buy. When I woke up I felt relief that the task was complete, but the was irritated to find that it had simply been a dream and I still had to make the journey.
The only interesting part of the dream was that the girl sitting next to me on the bus had the same purse as me, and a young girl was upset with me for something. I can’t remember what.

Or the dream from a few weeks ago in which I was babysitting a young Jewish boy and eating ambrosia salad.

So boring.

I had a panic attack at work today, but true to form I played it cool and made it through.
I’ve been really worried lately about having a stroke. I realize that it’s a silly fear, but recently my aunt had a stroke, and so I guess it’s been on my mind.
There I was, at the register staring at all of these people, and I could just imagine what it would feel like, that sudden weight of dread pulling me to the ground, the gravity of something real and awful forcing me down, mumbling, “I’m sorry” to everyone in line, for ruining their day, or delaying their coffee, or just in general being the center of attention.
My imagination is never that spectacular when I want it to be. And that’s what riles me so much about these weak, vapid, mundane dreams. Or, for that matter, my inability to string together a creative sentence.

I’ve been working on putting a story together, actually. Not in any tangible form, but building it a little in my head. I realize though, that I need to do research, but on what, and why? I have ideas that I forget, unable to jot them down in the middle of a busy shift, arms up to the elbow in brown dishwater.
And, if you’ve ever had a conversation with me, you might know that I have terrible recall. I just have to hope that some ember remains, waiting to pounce when I least suspect it. It’s a mauling I’d enjoy.

Still, a regular customer asked to see my writing recently, and I showed it to him. He hasn’t been in since.
Sometimes the audience is wrong, right?
Or trapped in a well.

Jokes, what fun!

Classic titles made sarcastic by the addition of quotation marks

New Obsession.

The train goes like this

Neologism
Portmanteau
Eggcorn
Spoonerism
(subsequently Kniferisms & Forkerisms)

Also, there are Malapropisms, an example of which is when, on the Office, Michael Scott says “She cut off her nose to spiderface.” Spiderface is a malapropism.

We used to have this book called Sniglets around when I was a kid. No duh.

Language is so awesome.

I also realized that Patsy Cline’s “I Fall To Pieces” was played for me after I saw the movie E.T. and apparently I hadn’t heard the word “pieces” until I heard the brand name Reese’s Pieces, and so that song will forever remind me of E.T. I can’t believe that a candy taught me a word, or taught me of a word.

I also used to think that my last name, Davison, reminded me, or made me think of either a medicine cup, or the word “medicine cup”.

Kids are craaaazzzzyyyyy.

summer redux

It was a beautiful week and weekend here in Minneapolis. The weather was beautiful, the sun was shining, and I actually found myself glowing after short walks in only a sweater.
As always, I wish I had spent more time outside this week and weekend, but I am so beat by the end of the workday that I just become a total blob. I guess I didn’t really have an excuse on saturday, but I did clean the house and listen to some This American Life. Also, I finally got around to listening to Chris’ Halloween mix, which was pretty darned righteous.
My stupid burn is almost healed. (Kait, it was totally avoidable as an accident, which is rare with water. This one is actually from the top of the toaster oven.)
I realize now how bad of a burn it really was. I understand that taking a picture of it, and likewise making everyone I run into look at it, is admission that I have always thought it was a bad burn, but the day that I burned my hand I found myself playing it much cooler than I needed to. I really felt awful that day.
It reminded me of this time at the after school program in elementary when I tried to do a backward summersault, with no mat, on the gym floor. I hit my head so hard, but tried to play it cool so I didn’t look like some total idiot who hurt themselves in a totally avoidable accident.
Old habits and all…
Here are some photos from this week, including totally unnecessary photos of my burn on Wednesday and then today.
Also, KISS was in town. Seriously.

Saturday mornings are the best. I sleep in and when I get up I watch Grey’s Anatomy as a sugary sweet indulgence in bed as a reward for working hard all week. It makes me cry every time. How do they do that?

world series week

this does not include our trip to Philly over the weekend. I don’t know why we didn’t grab the camera. There are no pictures of me in my costume. Not that it was a good one. Lea was nice enough to paint me up like a lovely skeleton, but it was a totally lazy Halloween. It was alright, but it was no Breakfastface (which is discontinued now, by the way! Total drag.)
Michelle’s wedding was beautiful, and the dinner was good. The halloween party at the old house was a very good time, and it was great to see my friends. I was surprised, however, at how happy I was to be back with my things, in my own bed, in our own apartment. It was a happy revelation.
Anyway, the Phillies are about to win game 5, and I’m about to finish some laundry. Enjoy looking at my delicious salad, Bob’s silly face, me snoozing, game snacks, and my gruesome burn.

Gnar.

It’s so strange when you cut yourself and don’t notice until you feel the skinny, dry, bloodless flaps of skin catch on fabric. As I was washing that large chopping knife I was amazed at my careless handling of it. I was handing it as if it were something that couldn’t hurt me, because it never had. Like how when I was little and thought bumble bees were for petting. I was a real charmer.
And now, like then, a warning. Silent slits connecting across my fingertips, leaving one line-I’m a wild object- for me to remember.

Everything smells like coffee, except the inside of my shirt near my armpit, where it smells like musky, sugary roses, the spraying on of which wakes Bob every dark morning. Even the office, where the smell from the shop downstairs makes its way over the bannisters, down the hallways, and up my nostrils. I want to enjoy it again.

Today half an earwig tumbled out of a bubble mailer that also contained a manuscript for young adults about time travel, or cross dimensional jumping or seeing ghosts of yourself and jamming up the whole continuum. Someone said that it might just be a seed, but she wasn’t looking closely. Its black scissors were snapped shut, forever, curving like praying hands against one another. No sense in harming anything when you’re dead I suppose. And its back half was a deep chestnut brown, the hard, shiny surface of it raised in tiny waves, like unhealthy nails. So crisp the parts that were once made of soft, white larvae flesh. So awful.

I remember lifting the metal flap covering our outdoor electrical outlet to reveal a swarming mass of earwigs.

Worse than spiders.
Maybe.