That is where it gets confusing.

Thanksgiving 2008

I want to talk about the squirrel, my pet, this Thanksgiving Day, 2008. The squirrel feasts on an old pumpkin stub that’s been on my stoop for, well since October’s holiday, Halloween. November’s holiday is jealous (possibly) of October’s pet squirrel.

I want to talk about the rolls rising on the counter.

I want to talk about the beer I had with the pizza I was given as a Thanksgiving gift.

I want to talk about the recognition of my privilege. I simultaneously accept, regret, love and absolutely loathe this privilege. This is the white privilege I receive. This is the Western privilege I receive. This is the class privilege I receive. This is the privilege that I am learning more about everyday. I am learning to recognize and proudly decline this privilege.

I want to talk about driving down the highway and seeing what looked very much like a bear. As it was, the bear wasn’t a bear; the bear was actually a somewhat domesticated wolf that had grown unusually large and turned a dark shade of brown before being offed by an even larger semi truck on Thanksgiving Day, 2008.

We cannot have all the things that please us, no matter how we try.

I want to talk about delicious food and security placed before me on a plate. All I have to do is show up. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for this. Thank you.

A story

M and I drove to Matthew Somebody’s parents’ house. There would be free pot there, M. said. So we went. We rang the bell and walked inside, shivering. The living room was a dump. Actually the whole house was a fucking mess, stuff everywhere. Just…stuff. Empty two-liter pop boxes. And other boxes. Pro-Wrestling DVDs were scattered about the floor. When we got to Matt’s room, a raggedy, haggard cat skittered away from beneath his bed. I said, “there are animals here.” M. laughed. It was the pre-high high. Felt stoned already. And everything was funny in that particular way. We smoked. Then left immediately. I tried to avoid stepping on one of the several cats on the way out. I didn’t want to have to insist I was clumsy all the time, not just when I was stoned. In the car we listened to Ben Folds. And that song about “someone else’s Granddad” was the “best song we’d ever heard.” “So clever.” “Etc.” You’d know if you’d been stoned before. Then we went back to my house. Iron Chef was on. Subtitles were confusing, so we made up our own words including only a few applicable phrases. The rest were statements like, “The butt of that cook over there looks something like a tennis racket” or “How In The World is Carmen Sandiego going to make fondue with those gloves on?” Funny in that very particular way.

2 thought exercises and one poem

What I don’t like, is when the fire alarm goes off, booming through the halls and echoing up the stairs. I burnt the pizza to a degree reserved for what the government classifies as “what could be referred to as a fire hazard.” The God-forsaken pizza; a waste of my mozzarella fund. But what I wonder is, “why hasn’t anyone come down and knocked on the door. Why aren’t any of these assholes wondering if I’m on fire?” If someone cared to see if I was on actual fire, then I would feel better about burning the pizza. And that is a true statement.


* * *

I wish I could describe myself as a “risk-taker” on a personality survey form. If you say you’re a risk-taker on a personality survey form it means that people will respect this about you. But if you aren’t the type to be truly honest on a personality survey form, then people instead despise the part of you that is a risk-taker. Then, you are the kind that would “spend all their money during a gambling spree in Las Vegas, Nevada.” But if you write “risk-taker” on a personality survey form then you are thought of as hypothetically “self-reflective” and “spontaneous.” Which are valued qualities.
But what is the point?


* * *


I used my hand
to stir the pot
I held a spoon and it stirred the soup
the metal reversed my features
my reflection was upside down
but the soup was getting larger
and larger.
The gap between the rich and poor is getting wider
and it’s becoming too big, you see
we have forgotten about the feeling of hunger
we have forgotten the feelings of acceptance and happiness
because if we knew the feeling of happiness we would embrace a new day almost instantly
we would close the gaps between all of us that are somehow filled with bricks
the gaps are so full of bricks that we cannot move between them and in and out of them
we are stuck
between the bricks
and we are unable to see through the bricks to one another’s faces.

I wonder how many folks are blogging about the election right now. I join...

Bob Schieffer has been in my heart for the past year, and tonight is no different.  I love the guy.  I wish he were my grandfather, or at least the grandfather of my next door neighbor.  That way I could catch a glimpse of him on holidays.  Also, that way when I made cookies and gifted them to my neighbors there’d be a chance Schieffer would eat one.
I am pleased on so many levels.  I’m excited for the future, I really am.  This is a great time to be human.  The excitment of the past couple days has led me to clean my apartment and do other important-seeming things.  Closest to my heart is the preparation of my “lecture” November 10.  Being a teaching assistant has, so far, been insignificant.  The 10th is the big day.  I’m talking on the subject of systems of violence, specifically rape culture.  More to come…

Ways to Celebrate Come Tomorrow:
-Morning stretching, partnered with a hot shower
-School.  Learning whole-heartedly
-Blessed lunch
-Work
-Peaceful sleep
-Because tomorrow, everyday life will seem like a celebration.

And, in other news: Council Grove is heavily leaning toward a “Yes” vote.  Sunday liquor sales are on their way.

I haven’t posted a blog in a long time.  My blogging history is hilarious.  I used to have a livejournal.  (Did I ever delete that?)  And I had a xanga, which I definately deleted.  Twice.  (An immediate update: I do still, indeed, have a livejournal…I was a rude kid.  But I had a point of view, dammit.  At least I had a point of view. Besides, as Jason would say, “Everyone was young once.”)

But, anyway, then I blogged for a bit on myspace.  That stopped when I became self-aware, apparently.  I remember beginning blogs all the time only to delete them before ever posting because the words were either embarassing or there weren’t actually any words.  As in, I hadn’t even typed anything before giving up on the whole thing and closing the window.  But, listen, I’m tired of that.  I have a lot to say, I have a lot to quote, and I have a lot of self-loathing to accomplish.

One of the ideas I meant to describe, though, in this very first blog is my time at the park earlier today.  About me: I go to the park a lot.  I enjoy the park.  It is a place to think.  It is a place to be left the fuck alone.  And it is a place to be able to do basically, literally nothing and still seem like I’m not wasting time.  Anyway, today was a very good day at the park.  The weather was nice, and I was the only one there.

Anyway, the important part, my second reason for creating this blog is to say that, after many years of enjoying cooking as a pasttime, I still cannot bake a potato in the oven.  The middle never cooks.  This evening, I’ve made an unbelieveable vegan gravy, and I have to enjoy it over a half-cooked potato.  It is fucking ridiculous that I cannot bake a potato.  Ridiculous.

I’m trying to move on, though.  Not only from the potato but from other, more important themes in my life.

I will not close by saying that a poorly executed baked potato is a metaphor for my life, but you know that is what I meant.