Spaz does dishes…?

The morning’s saga of de-HAZMAT-ing my too long neglected kitchen:

9:00 am – Praying for fortitude.

9:01-9:15 am – Lying on the sofa pretending God doesn’t speak English, and that my prayer for motivation with the dishes is as good as unanswered.

9:15 am – Praying again.

9:16 am – Getting up, adding Janelle Monae to my OneRepublic Pandora station, and promptly sitting back down to read celebrity gossip news online. Megan Fox’s life is REALLY interesting.

9:56 am – Feeling the music, yes! Lighting incense cuz it’s GO time! Running water in the sink for the ready dishes and a bucket for the stubborn ones.

10:10 am – Washing dishes! Woo!

10:15 am – Rinsing my right glove and patting it dry to give a “thumbs up” to the awesome song that’s playing.

10:17 am – Washing dishes! Woo!

10:25 am – Rinsing my right glove and patting it dry so I can give a “thumbs up” to the awesome song that’s playing…as well as two other awesome songs five songs back.

10:27 am – Washing dishes! Woo!

10:32 am – Rinsing my right glove and patting it dry so I can give a “thumbs DOWN” to the random song killing my groove.

10:34 am – Washing dishes! Woo!

10:45 am – washing dishes. woo. Except without the groove. The groove is gone; it’s dead; it is NOT in the house. My back is hurting, I swear the dirty dishes are multiplying, and as the dishwasher is approaching full it is creeping over me that I have NO clue where my forks are. How can it be that I have no cutlery? Taking quick inventory I’m finding plates, pots, pans, a new and newly soiled blender, two sets of crappy should-be-sharp knives, and somehow no spoons, forks, or butter knives? Worse still the question persisting is how long have they been missing?

10:50 am – Continuing to load each tiny heavy dish one by one in the kitchen that time forgot.

11:01 am – Emptying sink, emptying bucket, filling Brita water pitcher, restoring the groove to my Pandora station, slumping over oj, wishing the oj was a mimosa.

First round done.


Bone Dry

Well, that’s it.

Had a good run of mania-induced productivity. Rode the waves of aftershock for some weeks and accomplished quite a bit, contributing to life on and off the blog. But, as I lie here in stretch pants now, having just finished way too much take-out and season 4 of “The Guild”, I find myself completely dry of life-spark, motivation, and creativity.

Random personal proverb: …Life…

I’m like Kanye West up in here.

Random personal Proverb: …Sweater…

Ugh. I’m so done. Goodnight.

Random Personal Proverb for 10.6.13 / Elephants at War

An under educated man is a gun with no safety, loaded with opinion but not enough fact to protect others from unwarranted discharge…Spaz listening to JUST enough NPR to have a vague idea of the political climate of the world, and then wanting to voice half-cooked objections and solutions to it all is kinda like that.

According to African proverb, “When elephants fight, the grass suffers.” And no one expects the elephants to care much about the grass. I liken the current stalemate of our American government to an orgiastic pissing contest, during which the American public has been subjected to an R. Kelly sexual experience.

If I could renew my passport I’d go take a shower…in Switzerland. Of course, if they don’t increase the debt ceiling soon I won’t be able to buy soap. If my representatives had run on a more honest platform (“You remind me of my jeep, America”) would they have been elected at all?

And for the half-cooked solution? Man-up. Someone in Washington needs to grow a pair, a pair so striking that his strut becomes a limp and when he hobbles up to the table he is no longer afraid to lose. He can embrace the confidence of his giant pair and remember that he, through and through, is big enough to concede; to give up a few yards on his side in order to propel an entire nation forward again.

Feel free to disregard the rambling exposition on a random personal proverb of a Spaz. After all, a Spaz by any other name is still grass to elephants at war.

Like Music for Chocolate, Daily Prompt

As a musician, and one with sound-color synesthesia at that, experiencing beautiful music can be quite the adventure. So many Sunday afternoons of my childhood were spent lying on my back, enjoying the free fireworks show splashed across my ceiling, courtesy of the local classical station. I love tightly woven harmonies, especially in vocal music. They tower, stacked like rainbow lady fingers, the most gloriously delicious looking compacted ribbon river in existence.  Multi-layered music is fascinating: in any given Stevie Wonder jam I can feast my senses on the lady finger harmonies hammock-holding the dancing melodic line over the bright flecks of rhythmic clapping and drumming; I always lose my breath during the vamp or instrumental solo because the color show is stunning.

However, it is nothing compared to the ecstasy of Debussy. Sweeping orchestral lines of lavender grace and mercy curve upward, bearing tender drops of clear piano elixir toward the sky.

Stimulating music can often get me into trouble when I am presented with the opportunity to meet one of the technicolor tapestry weavers in person, or more dangerously, to jam. Sounds with color and shape develop weight and thickness, texture and taste, until I am a girl on fire. Chocolate never had anything on a low-down dirty jam.

Daily Prompt: Eye of the Beholder.



Depression is an evil Beast-Bitch out for my life.

A common misconception regarding depression is that the opposite of wanting to die is wanting to live. That is a dirty lie; you can’t just flip a switch and turn it on. Humans are the most selfish, prideful animals in Creation; we don’t value attaining long life in order to treasure the beauty and sanctity of the world – we want to cheat death. We want to WIN. Our survival instinct kicks in when we feel we are about to LOSE – our family, our job, our legacy; our strength, our breath, our body; too much to allow to slip away – and we FIGHT to keep it all. The silver lining, I’ve found, is that the primal desire to not lose is MUCH more accessible for me than the desire to not die.

Depression is an evil Beast-Bitch out for my life – not for the breath in my body, but for my whole existence without me in it. She wants the shell of me, like that parasitic alien race in “Invasion of the Body Snatchers”. I am faced with a choice: I can pussy-punk out into that dark night or throw every spastic left hook I’ve got until I am the bad-ass Donald Sutherland last man standing. And then swing some more, even as the fingers point and the jaws drop and the alien sirens sound.

Okay, perhaps I’ve extended that metaphor too far, and now have nowhere else to go with it.

To circle back around: tonight I suffered a miserably pleasant time watching tv with a friend for the company I knew I needed. I choked down a tasty dinner for the intake of nutrients. I donned gloves and a mask (totally necessary) to begin the journey that is decontaminating my HAZMAT kitchen. I didn’t do it because I have a particular desire for companionship, food, or a functional home – quite the contrary. I currently could care less if my kitchen rots from the refrigerator out and I starve to death alone in the bed. I do it because the only alternative is losing to the Beast-Bitch tonight. I do these things because they are the things that winners do, and I am a winner. I am human, and as we humans have demonstrated through our continued refusal to be pussy-punked down onto a lower level of the food chain,  WE WIN.