I was just thinking that it's sort of interesting, coming to understand my process in writing this blog. It's not at all like the much more formal process of writing my Great American Novel. I have what could only be termed a Divine Funneling of my roundabout and zig-zaggy thought process into a topic, where, in my mind's eye, a clearing appears and the piece reveals itself. I know it's fleeting, like sex, so I rush to my blog, am presented with the Edit window for a new post and the first thing that occurs to me is The Title.
Now, I will admit to Kerouac-ing my way through many an entry except I do minor edits for grammar and spelling, sometimes structure, but rarely a significant re-write. While working on my "book," I tend to sketch, re-write, let it ferment, re-write again and much later, make adjustments to flow and character to meld whatever I've written into other segments I've produced. But the blog is pure, raw, yank-off-the-panties and go-to-it, rub-the-paint-of-the-wall sex. Simple as that. The titles, however, are never changed. They don't need changing. They spring forth, fully formed, set in stone, rigid and ready to rock.
All of the preceding is just a musing. A clever distraction from the fact that I finally died tonight. White light and everything. Here's what happened:
I was working in Maya, sculpting an orb to be incorporated into the graphics for my new website
. I had an interview with a major folding carton printer earlier in the day and had a late afternoon lunch. I came home, took a 90 minute nap and was made conscious again by a call from my daughter who was asking me if I could give Frank a ride home. In my most non-groggy voice, I said, "Sure, be right there, hon!" Jumped up, washed face, brushed my few remaining teeth and rushed out the door.
I picked her up, went with her to Staples for a couple of sketch pads and DVD-Rs for backup purposes (they have 50 on sale for $14.95 including a FREE USB flash drive) and then went next door to the Subway to get her a veggie delight sandwich, with chicken, of course. My daughter is the strangest Vegan you'll ever meat, but that's another story.
We went home to hungry cats - they're always hungry, even after they're fed (tapeworms? better look into that . . .) and a sickly doggie. Not sure what's wrong with her. I wanted to get her to the vet but being that my STB Ex was good enough to burn both of the local vets with non-payments and bad checks, I'd have to go 40 miles to Hackettstown to get the poor animal checked out. I sat with my daughter and the doggie for a little while and then went up to my lair to work.
My ex called me to regale me with her latest work horror story. Ever know someone too well? Yeah, well, while I was wondering why the heck she even bothered to talk to me, though I've come to realize that the output may be on but the input is shorted out, I was reading my friend's blog and getting distracted. Yadda, yadda, everyone on the planet is insane except me, she was saying in between ordering Coronas and fajitas at what I guess was a bar at the train station, along with a glass of cold water filled with ice. I could just manage to read the waitress's thoughts through the phone and let's just say that a) I feel ya, babe and b) those thoughts could not be mistaken as complimentary.
Just as an aside, the black cat I secretly call Blackster and which my daughter refers to as April, is holding paws with me, watching me type, her chin on my knee, my legs falling asleep because I love her so much that I don't want to roust her. Every time I pet her, she extends her super-sharp claws into the skin that is otherwise hidden beneath my Dockers. F*cking ouch. She will also lick me if given the chance, using my flesh as her washboard. Lick, rub, lick, rub.
I finally just had to dump my Ex's call because I literally could not take it anymore. It's the same old song: I f*cking hate your guts but could you please support me so that I don't have to work in the real world like the rest of you mere mortals, and, by the way, though I would cut your heart out with a box of toothpicks and Q-Tips, could you fork over the check you got for last week's work so that I can dole it back out to you while I prioritize Coronas over gasoline? Thanks.
That and the blog was too much to process and, frankly, the blog was of much more interest. So, I mysteriously ran out of phone power. Those who know me know I always keep my shit charged, y'all, as I'm way into P.O.W.E.R. Blimkp - sorry, gotta go, one bar left, gotta charge it in the car, C YA.
I read the blog, sent a text to the author and went back to work. I had to pick up Bitchums at the train as she can't manage to do her work to anyone's satisfaction within a normal scope of time and the time of others, especially me, is less than irrelevant. Should I be one minute late, the sword does fall with a vengeance. Anyway, I thought that since I'd recovered my computer, more or less, that I really should get my stuff up.
I rode to the train, picked her up, got harassed for 40 minutes on how getting money from me was impossible. The usual set of delusions with every threat, insult and warning of dire harm you could imagine and some you can't. Trust me on that. For the record, as soon as money is wired to me, I had written her a check for Mortgage, Water, Electric and so forth. The last time was the last time. She cannot manage money. I wish her employer luck. I told her, with the last check, that I would direct pay only after she reported to me the budget, after we discussed it and it was agreed upon. Yes, every last comma has to be discussed and agreed upon and will result in her accusations of my unfair dealings with Satan, blah, blah, blah.
Oh, boy. We got back to the house. My daughter was sound asleep on the floor, near the ailing woof-woof, match book open, homework undone. I went to wake her, her mother immediately "competed" with me, doing the same exact thing. I sighed and withdrew. Enough craziness for one night. Oops, I forgot to blackmail her with a ride to the train in the morning. I must be slipping. I walked away, so, score one for me.
I went back to my Orb. I was feeling peckish and, having retained my 2 fer $2 selection of Wise Cheddar Chips, decided to snack on same. I had no water or other beverage nearby. Blackster, observing that I had settled into work, decided that it was Lap Time, though she seems to shun any other kind of interaction, resorting to whip-clawing or chewing the offending hand under non-lap conditions. So, I start munching on the extremely crisp bits let in the bag while looking at the work. The cat gyrated back and forth, walking on the desk and generally displaying great affection as sh is wont to do, especially when Human Snacks are about.
I tipped the bag into my mouth to gain maximum snackage of the small bits of fried potato and orangy-coloured cheese flavoring. The cat was bumping and grinding vigorously, perching on my narrower-than-ever thigh, bumping the hand that was tipping the bag.
Now, I know you can see what's coming here, right? I choked on a stray chip. The cat bumped into the hand and I lost my grip, panicking that I'd have to pick up a hundred thousand orange bits of mouse food with a noisy vacuum cleaner, possibly awakening the demons below. On the first floor. In the separate suite, okay? With a mouthful of chips, I juggled the bag, finding it all very funny and aspirating the bolus into my throat. All air suddenly, completely cut off. My one though was this: Uh-oh.
I was alone, except for the cat who seemed to be chiefly concerned with whether she'd be getting another NaCl-enriched treat. Since separating, I never got visits up here unless I was being directly harassed and abused, then it was okay. I found myself exhibiting the International Sign of Choking, because, I probably felt, I was choking in any language.
Now, on my production desk, I have three battery powered clocks, all with sweep second hands, There's no mysterious technical reason for me to have them, I just do, okay? Anyway, I realized that I really, really could not breath and really, really was going to choke to death. Really. I tried not to panic. I could see the second hands on the clocks tick by. I was feeling weak but I tried to use diaphragmic pressure to move the mass. Fortunately, I had been working out, and I had enough abdomen muscle to be able to squeeze my diaphragm. My heart skipped a number of beats, the seconds were ticking by into the vast infinity of lost time. My situation was not changing. That was not good.
I fell to my knees. The pussy seemed non-plussed and sat on my desk, waiting for me to die, I guess. I started involuntarily gasping, but the passage was shut, so it must have looked like I was pretending to be Shakira. Things started to go white in my visual field with little twinkly sparkles. I believe I fell over and proceeded to die.
For some indeterminate time, probably under ten seconds, my day, not my life, flashed before my eyes. The hateful looks, the loving words, the missed opportunities and the sheer busy work that it all was. Disappointment, fear, loathing, reverence and ahead, a bright white light.
That's all I remember until I came to, coughing, cat right in front of me, me sideways on the floor. Whatever happened, I did not croak. Or, maybe croaking is what saved me. I will never know and the cat's not saying a word.
I immediately felt totally alone. I would have, should have died right there on the pet-stained carpet. I would have been found cold and stiff by my daughter who would have been awakened by a cell-phone call from her mom, imploring her to be ready in an impossible span of time. I would have been mostly Cyan an quite dead, probably with eyes open, piticulae the evidence of suffocation by food ingestion.
My realization, and I truly hope it sticks, is that I have no time to be loved marginally nor do I have to accept any fcking thing that doesn't absolutely work for me. I might want to but that would be busy work. I also didn't like the idea of being dead with so much more to do. It didn't seem fair.
Of course, I could be dead now, couldn't I? Hmmm. I'll add to this later. It's been a long day and I'm tired And Honey Bunches of Hate will need a car ride in the morning. Hoo Ha.
