I opened one of those Word Doc desktop orphans; blank. Hmmm, I’m not sure I’ve ever explained desktop orphans, I kind of assumed it was obvious, but it might not be. I use a desktop and it has a great big screen and there’s always several windows open and sometimes a paragraph or two of something gets shuffled or an update happens overnight, or, some way or another the beginning of a thought or nonsense get’s orphaned in digital limbo, not killed but set away from the light.
If in this little analogy (it wasn’t one, but it’s about to become one) I was God and the orphans my creation, the difference between an orphan of god and a child of god is that the orphans were too fucking ugly to finish making. It’s a scary thought, not theologically, theology doesn’t do that, sure covet another mans goat or buttfuck his husband and you get banished from gods site, but if you’re just an ugly child some pretty nun coo’s in your ear (or some pretty cooze nuns in your ear, I’m not clear on the scripture).
But, taking it back from the analogy to the reality, yeah, shit I dislike so much I can’t even delete it because it needs fixing so bad. Half of those little fuckers I post online, just on the off chance someone is interested in keening and mew I figure those little fuckers will put them off their feed. It’s one of the things I love about flashes; they are like those rusty sculptures that pass for art. They are supposed to be kind of ugly and raw. I mean I don’t have to think about their relative beauty and I honestly don’t read my own. I read yours, hmmm, pronounce that red (how is it that the past tense for read is read?) I didn’t comment on many of them because “Good job, that’s fucking ugly as sin” might be taken the wrong way.
Among the many things I miss about G a few have to do with flash Friday; she was very good at organization and motivation and if they made those ugly ass rusty sculptures as well as she flashed I’d have some on my front lawn. Ten percent of all that is altruistic; I think they helped her out. Maybe helped as a writer, I don’t know, but over the years you see the change in the way she thought, I mean in fiction. In disclosure — that’s sort of what these damn journals are for. It’s easier to track someone elses than your own. Easier for me.
It’s proper etiquette to note one another on journaling sites, they are under the umbrella of “social media”. I don’t do that very often and when I do despite what I may or may not type it always means “I’m still alive, glad you are too”.
My phone scared the shit out of me. It updated overnight (I think it’s always playing with itself) and it was just a minor format change, but … in the place on the front screen where it showed messages was the weather bar. It said Sunny. “Oh fuck” I oh fucked. I don’t know why I have my fingerprint for the lock, I guess just because I can, not worried about people looking at my phone or stealing it. I kept pushing at it with the wrong finger and Sunny would not go away. Eventually it gets tired of that happy horseshit and asks a backup password. Right before I got there it dawned on me that she wouldn’t call herself 74, she’d go the opposite direction.
74 fucking degrees by one O fucking clock. The month started with snow. I know, y’all living west of the Rio Grande and below a few thousand feet don’t quite get the problem. It means T-Storm and Tornado weather is a’coming. It also probably is the portent of a miserably hot swampy summer. Still, it’s better than an IM from Sunny. I even toyed with settings a bit. There is no phrase setting for the weather app. In fact sometimes it shoves that in your face. Today and tomorrow have identical forcasts temp wise; tomorrow however, is ‘Pleasant” today was “Sunny”. At least it didn’t try putting those two together.
When I first came back to this town, um, the last time I first came back, I had a hell of a time finding a doctor. Wait, no, I found a bunch of them, none would take a cash customer. A whole bunch of red tape later I had two appointments; one with a rheumatologist set earlier but out further, the other with the douchebags at MSU. The first thing I told the first douchebag was that I also had an appointment with a rheumatologist. He got huffy, I told him the long version, he asked if him (them) were to be my prime and I had a feeling yes was the right answer. Despite all the horseshit since then I think it’s still the right answer.
Anyhow once on the rheumatologists books I became their part time patient as well. I like them a lot better, I’m always going to be part time there though. Medicine is politics everywhere in the states, but it’s much more blatant here. At any rate I went to see my rheumatologist on Thursday, she’s an adorable and highly competent Argentinian Carol Kane. I wound up seeing a Caucasian Connecticut Whoppi Goldberg. Heh. Competency is really my only point. The knotty dreadlock white girl was very good too. Um, I actually know Argentine’s Carol Kanes name; I didn’t catch knotty blonde dreadlocks. She referred me to the Spine Center.
I spent a good two minutes soul searching on the drive home about whether I’m nicer to those folks because they’re chicks. My soul decided no. I’m mean to my male docs because they are douche bags. Shit. When did word start auto correct. Natty Dreadlock, not knotty. Wasn’t trying to be coy. I mentioned to Natty Dreadlock that I haven’t had a real physical from MSU. Ever. It might have come out funny like “They don’t touch me”. She did a cursory feel of neck, back, shoulder, and, surprisingly found a spot … hey, get your minds out of the gutter … on my ankle that shot pain up to back. I hope those weren’t related. I’m also glad I didn’t say anything about turning and coughing or prostate. Though at my age and with their discipline, the MSU docs should have done that in the past almost four years.
So, the spine center might be the sort of place … shit, it really is auto-correcting. Fuck. I typed spine center wrong, that sucks, because I might need to type Spin Canter one day … It’s the sort of place I might say Hell No too once I’m in the door. Also they might not take my insurance. Then again they might take over pain management and act more like doctors than the fucking cow (that’s what I call all MSU related business).
GF has this odd sense of timing. If I start eating or typing she will call or text. Which might just be coincidence, but she’s up in my head too often for that. I don’t mean she’s always on my mind, though she is, I mean she’s in my head. Wait, no, not like she’s someone I made up out of wistful dreams, I mean she knows what I’m thinking most of the time. Which wouldn’t be so surprising if my thoughts were predictable. I mean I bat better than 500 in guessing what most people will do, oh, oh, there’s even a kind of tic/disorder where people lip sync to what you’re saying, the one guy I knew who did that was usually a second ahead of the speaker. I used to say weird shit to him just to trip him up. He batted better than 300 in getting down my pattern of weird shit. I’m not even that good at predicting what will go on in my head. The GF? Very good. With me at least. The poor girl.
Um, that was the long way of saying whatever train of thought I had before she texted is long gone. Sometimes that’s how desktop orphans get orphaned; nothing to do with relative ugliness (if this gets posted, and it will, it’s proof I’m not afraid of ugly) but rather a derailed train of thought.
I was talking to the nurse at natty dread shop about the drive out. The office is in a part of town I only go to when seeing them. Most of the industry here is rubble in pits where factories used to be. Along the business loop to the office there’s this triple smoke-stack thing in a gothic looking industrial age brick behemoth a quarter mile off the highway. It looks like a pink Floyd album cover or the cover of a coffee table book on industry art from some bygone century. She suggested maybe that’s why my BP was 130 over 88. Jesus Christ, this place is fucking killing me. Normally I could eat a bottle of Adderall with a pot of coffee and not peak 120 over 80. The machines are off at the cow, but not the rheumatologists. That’s really just a note to myself. I’m not scared, it’s just unusual. In context that’s really high for me.
In general for a guy coming up fast on sixty who spends more time typing than walking, that seems like a reasonable BP. Ok, I’m sauntering towards sixty, I’m closer than I expected to ever be, and I’m closer to 60 than fifty, and given how time works for this mortal vessel, I’m closer to sixty than I am to yesterday. When is it a good time to start fretting about death n shit? I mean is there a handbook? Do I start bargaining with god or tell him to go fuck himself? Heh, asking you heathens probably isn’t in the book if there is one. You’d think those fucking Gideon’s would put one out. I mean seriously, what sort of publisher only does one book and leaves that book in motel rooms.
My ex mother-in-law worked for the Quinalt casino resort when it opened. It’s really a bunch of different tribes but ones that like only had a few people left so they all went under the umbrella of Quinalt. She comped us a room for the grand opening. There was no guideons bible in the room. Six months later and those fucking things were in all the rooms.
I kind of figure what makes religions appealing is they have a sort of blueprint for transcending death. It’s a common fear, right? I don’t seem to have it. I have regrets, I’ve certainly had the adrenaline rush of fight or flight which has to have something to do with self preservation which must ultimately come from a fear a death, but, you know, shit. Death is sort of like those rusty sculptures, all I see is rusty junk, the abstract meaning just doesn’t do anything for me. I’ve seen death, it’s not pretty, but, you know, the dead don’t have to look. I think the scary thing about your mom telling you to change your underwear because you might get hit by a car, is living through it to be embarrassed. Because if you died in the car accident (assuming it wasn’t on purpose, that the driver wasn’t thinking “I bet that guy has skidmarks, I’m gonna hit him with my car”) you wouldn’t be privy to the point and laugh of sadistic ER workers who check your underwear for your mom.
See? Completely derailed. Be nice and change your drawers.
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