Apparently

(Edouard Leon Theodore Mesens- Masque servant à injurier les esthètes. Ironically, I got yelled at for taking this.)

The verdict: I'm still batspit, but my blog title has changed and the address multiplied, apparently.

Curse of the freckled

I love the sun but the sun does not love me.

I couldn't wear a bra all day. Walked around in a tube top and long sleeved button-up I got from someone.

I only tell you about the tube top to illustrate exactly how much my shoulders hurt today. If you tell anyone I own a tube top (let alone wear one) I'll have to kill you.

Yep. What, you thought this was going to be a real blog post? Maybe next time.

look –over there- what is that?

Do you ever try and write a blog post just so you won’t have to look at the last one you wrote? Yeah, me too. So, here’s a photo I rather like of Goat’s Beard, Tragopogon dubius

brought to you by the letter f

Write something, and now.
It doesn’t matter if it’s good; just write.

I can’t think of anything to write.

Jesus. There are people watching. Throw it at the wall and see what sticks.

Fiiiiiine.


Where, exactly, does my money go? I have my suspicions, but I try reeeeeeally hard not to investigate them too closely. Always seem to spend more than I can make, and I never have anything to show for it. I have high-speed wireless, and the bill as well, but goddamnit, there are just some standards of living that have to be met. (Mental image of someone clutching desperately at wi-fi signals... was that in some cartoon recently?)


I’m trying to think of a compromise for the devils on either of my shoulder (and I mean devils in the most loving way possible, you two) about cursing on the blog. One shrugs as she flips the other off and says, “fuck it Lea, what the fuck do I care? I figured your internal monolog has more curses than real words and thought since it was all about self-expression, well, I guess I thought you’d have a damn spine and type like you think”. The other, calmer devil covers the ears of a small child in the room and cries a single, guilt-wrenching tear. She says nothing, but gives me a look that makes me want to alternately hug her and curl under a table crying in shame. “I understand your anger, it’s certainly justified”, she says softly after a minute “It hurts me to see you hurt. Do you understand me? I love you but you can show a little respect when I’m in the room.”

Oh little devils. I love you both so much. There is a part of me that can curse like a teamster. And there is part that hides it well. Since I can’t apparently listen to you both, and I know realistically I'm going to curse, I’ll try to think of a way to make up for it.

How about if I put a quarter in a cup for every curse on this blog and then give the sum to a charity?

No, you’re right, I wouldn’t trust me to do that either. I already told you I cashed in my change.

What if I did something involving other words?
What if I wrote a post on the linguistic history of curses?
What if I limit myself to 10 curses a post? No, that would never work. Some days are 178 curse word days.
I’m going to write a word of the week, I think. Some word I have to look up during the week. This week I had to look up… hang on, I circled it somewhere…

flanuer.

flanuer: an idle man-about-town.

So I suppose, instead of saying

“Oh you know Jim, he’s that lazy bastard always drinking coffee at the local café talking about Heidegger and how it impacted his blossoming music career and new found vegetarianism”,

I can say

“Oh, Jim is that flaneur with the vintage shirt in the sixth year of his MFA 'degree'. You know, the one with the pink bicycle? Likes to drink? No?"


How was that?

That was OK. Now edit the crap out of it and take out that money part. And don’t forget the spell check again, you twit.

No, you do it, I’m going to go smoke a cigarette and eat some reese’s pieces. I don’t respond well to name calling.

you may end up in my thesis

I'm in a much better mood now. Funny how cheesecake, cartoons, and a bottle of wine (yeah, we'll call it wine...) will do that.

I'm glad I didn't post the post I posted about not posting last post.

:D

It was more rant and less brilliant than I probably think anyway. And it was definitely angsty and self pitying and those are two personality traits I'd rather keep hidden, yes even from you and especially from me.

On to other things:

Jackie over at Smoothpebble and I are reading Michael Pollan's "The Omnivore's Dilemma: A Natural History of Four Meals". Order it and discuss it with us, I'm sure it will show up in my thesis somehow and if you mention something brilliant about you may end up in my thesis too. And wouldn't that be a thrill for you.

And furthermore, what the hell is a Guy Kawasaki and what has it been told about me?

with any luck I'll be bored soon

This is my last week of classes for the semester and the guy leaves Friday. Couple presentations, some freaking out over my papers, and done. Then, I'll have so much free time I won't know what to do with myself. I want to figure out the wordpress software, and read some pointless, non-enriching fiction.

What do you look forward to when you're in the flaming pits of drudgery?

Should I be looking at wordpress, is it really so much better than blogger?

Will I ever get all my work done?

Thanks. Sincerely.

There’s always some flaw I’m afraid will be pointed out about my writing. Oh, you feel that way too? Cool, good to know I'm not the only one. Don’t you just hate it when someone finds that flaw? Doesn’t it really, really suck when it’s someone you respect that finds the flaw? Doesn’t it fucking blow when you have no damn idea how to fix it?
Say something nice. I want to hear something nice. and no calling out the major flaws I pray no one notices, OK?
How am I supposed to 'fake it until I make it' if you keep finding my secret shortcomings? Oh, right: you want me to grow and learn and become a better version of myself, I get it. Thanks. Sincerely.

fuuuuuuuuck.

Metaphore, Simile

Fascinating (long) NYT article and youtube time-lapsed footage of a man trapped in an elevator for 41 hours.

yep, you heard right. forty. one. hours. alone. in an elevator.

The guy was just heading down to smoke a cigarette, so he left his jacket behind. No one to talk to, no way to tell how much time has passed-- it would probably make me crazier than I already am. The video is so lonely, so... upsettingly familiar... reminiscent of... I won't say it. I'd just hate to be that obvious.

I wonder, would it be better to get stuck in an elevator with another person, or would it be better to get stuck alone? I'm sure it depends on the person you're stuck with. But for me at least, anyone would be better than no one. I could do a life history in that time and come out calling it fieldwork. But, I'm forced to ask myself, then what happens when if you have to poo? If you're alone in a trapped elevator its not such an issue, but with two... well, poo looms large. [ed. note: that's as fun to type as it is to say. Poo Looms Large. hehehehe].

I wonder what I would have done. If I was wearing a jacket that day I would have taken it, but I might have left my purse upstairs. If it was nice out and I didn't wear a jacket I would have had my purse, and that, ladies and gentlemen, has enough in it to sustain a small community of artists for a week. Books, pens, paper galore, I think I even have a small packet of anti-biotic cream and a band-aid in there. Moral of the story? Take your purse, you may need it. I'm talking to you too guys. I know you've got one. Sure, you may call it a back-pack, you may refer to it as your grocery sack, but a bag is a purse is a sac is something to do when you're trapped in an elevator.

Elevators are excellent social science laboratories-- don't believe me? Just try facing the wall next time when you get in-- the laws of elevator proxemics are rigid and strict. Break them and it causes all kinds of discomfort.

And yes, I realize the photo has nothing to do with the post, thanks.

I fell asleep

I can't sleep. Can't remember if I already took sleeping pills or not, so I took another one just in case. I can't stop thinking and muttering curses under my breath. So I write.

I hate iphoto. I have an overwhelming number of digital photos. I suppose its better than having an overwhelming number of paper photos. Except thanks to iphoto my hard-drive is as cluttered as my real closet.

I recently read an organization blog where the author referred to non-digitized space as meat space. I think she did it to contrast the clean, clutterless everlasting purity of the digitzed with the germy, bloody, drama of the physical.

I didn't do that in my sentence, because I wanted the reader to actually pay attention to what I was saying, and not go off on a mental tangent about why the word 'meat space' is upsetting (like I just did). Why is it I never bookmark these sites?

-This is where I fell asleep, apparently-

This week was hell incarnate, with school-work-meetings back to back and very little time for me or for working on papers. It was unbelievably beautiful all week, perfect blue skies, soft breezes- but its Saturday morning now so the weather changed to gray and chilly.

And my canary is molting. I don't really know what that means other than he isn't singing. He has one feather that is cock-eyed and it's all I can do not to reach over and pluck it off him. I'm not sure if that's the right thing to do or not- I've never had a bird before Archimedes. Sounds like I need to do a bit of internet research, doesn't it?

Thanks for all your guesses on the last post. If you emailed me your address you'll be getting a postcard soon. If I haven't sent you an email asking for your address yet be patient- I will.

cashing in change

How much do you think it is? The comment closest to the actual number wins a… well, you’ll just win. I could send the winner a postcard... But then I'd feel like I was excluding people... How about if I just send everyone a postcard? That's ok? Good.

I’m excited -the guy is coming for a three week visit. I’m so pleased I’m not even freaking out about the term papers whose deadlines are rapidly approaching (OK, I am freaking out a little). I’ll leave here in a few hours to make the drive to St. Louis to get him. I like life better with him in it.

I need to cash in my change to be able to buy gasoline to get to the airport. I'm tired of being broke. Although being a poor grad student seems to be a great diet plan: lots of coffee, food mainly in the form of granola bars, and so much anxiety I seem to loose weight weekly (and always from the same, wrong places).

I found out I got a fellowship (!) starting next semester and while I know it doesn’t pay much its more than I make now. And I get to write “fellow” on my CV. You'd think I'd be happier about getting to follow my dreams, and I am, but now I'm able to follow my dreams- and its terrifying. Most of the time I feel like an utter fraud. (I'm really hesitant to post this for fear someone from from school will reads this. As if they haven't felt the same at some point).

After cashing in the change I'm going to the post-office to mail postcards (no not yours silly, you haven't guessed yet) but first, I need to take a shower and put on something besides pajamas and slippers. I fear if I don’t have an office at school next semester I will never again wear real clothes…

5 phrases I like

“Uncompromising standards”

“Hazard a guess”

“Pause for thought”

“Batshit Crazy”

“Happy Accident”

Color I Can Afford

I’m obsessed with color. Maybe obsessed isn’t the right word, but I can’t think of a better one. Regardless, I love color, and have been known to disappear into the website colourlovers for hours—though only check it out if you have a lot of time to kill (this means YOU Smoothpebble). I was tipped off today by A Geek in Anything but Pink about a firefox add-on to color-code my tabs. Frivolous? Maybe. But it’s colorful frivolity and therefore, I must have it.

This is a brainspill.

I haven't done a brainspill in years.

What's a brainspill, you ask?

It's a game I made up when young (14?) to get out stress or start myself writing assignments, or letters- i just had to write-- limited editing, tangential fragments of ideas welcome, no, celebrated... I remember having a whole folder named 'brainspills' to hold them all. So basically it was a free-write. but I either hadn't heard of free-writes or free-write wasn't a graphic enough description of what I thought I was doing... this is coming from a person whose blog is called 'batspit' (that reminds me- I want to discuss my blog title soon). I had almost forgotten about my brainspills until I recently saw someone describe their blog as such- a brainspill (can't remember the blog, rabbit-hole of link clicking and all that).
So there was my word, my old way of describing and identifying what I do... honestly? I was annoyed. Felt slighted, in a way... I suppose I'm fairly possessive about words and ideas I thought were mine alone. Even when I haven't used them in years.

What's that?

Oh, thanks for reminding me. My blog title.

I think I've outgrown it. Wish I'd thought about it more than just using the screenname I was using for other sights at the time. Or maybe if I'd titled it 'bat spits'... I don't really remember what mental equation I used so long ago to get that name... I've gotten a few compliments of it here and there but I've also got some raised eyebrows and subtle mocking... But I haven't thought of anything better that what I've had, so... I've also been thinking of switching over to wordpress. Maybe when I think of a new title I'll make the move. Maybe.

What makes for a good blogtitle, anyway? Some of them just make you want to click them, and some turn you away... I think Batspit has originality going for it, and its fairly easy to remember, short. I like short. But I also like funny...

And what makes for a good screen name, do you suppose?

I cuss like a Canadian

What a shitty mood I've been in today. A shit mood. A fucking ungood nonpleasant dejoy of a mood. I wish I could cuss like the Trailer Park Boys. I'd call the mood I've been in a goddamn cocklick dingleboxing churchsuck of mood. But, regretfully, I am not the Trailer Park Boys and am forced by lack of creativity to intentionally misuse prefixes.

Best kind of weather today- balmy, warm, lots of diffused light and short, fragrant rain storms... perfect. Perfect weather can piss off.

Welcome back.

Spring feels official- I found ticks crawling on me today. I'd hope for a frost to kill them off, but it would also kill the peaches that just started blooming. It happened here last year. Cobden had to import peaches for its yearly peach festival. and that's just wrong. I cannot be expected to eat Georgia peach cobbler for the second year in a row.

What do you think is worse: ticks, or no local peaches?

The sounds of waking

I love certain sounds. Some of these define me, some I merely define. One of my favorites is the sound of people's voices, husky and deep when they are first waking up. So vulnerable, so sleepy.

Here are, in list format, some of my other favorite sounds:


-Keys hitting the crystal bowl

-Moped engines

-Second hand music coming from windows and porches

-A cigarette hitting a puddle

-Eli coming home on his Vespa

-Dolphins breaking the surface

-A powerboat engine being turned on

-Songbirds singing

-Opening a jar of peanuts

-Waves on cobblestone

-Coffee percolating

-Stage whispers

-Archimedes singing along with the rain

-Rocks bouncing off a frozen pond

the meaning of meaningless holidays

I have a new favorite website. Better than a website of websites, this is THE site.

At this point you may be wondering, 'what kind of site is it? Why has she not linked to it yet? Why has she said nothing gushing, nothing snarky, nothing at all of any substance or amusement about it?

Well, I answer you, somethings are just too fun to mar with commentary.

Decide for yourself, narrate and forward as you will.


And whatever you do, don't follow this link.

Barred Owl

barred owl I spotted yesterday. I'm not sure what I want to do today. The list of things I ought to do is fairly intimidating...

They Sure Are Purdy

I needed something from Rural King. Dog-food, I think. Amelia has a corn allergy which means if I do not buy her ridiculously expensive food she chews on herself.

Do you know about Rural King? Its a small chain in the Midwest USA, and (unfortunately for how this reflects upon me) usually has that strange or obscure item I cannot find anywhere else.

This last trip I even found something goofy for my treasured pen-pal (also the author of Pretty things I see). I won't say what yet because she reads the blog (hi!) and, by the way, she's one of the few people who read this blog that also leave me comments. (HINT, HINT).

I have always loved feed stores, something you might not expect from a lifetime vegetarian, but they hold such possibility with the seeds and the food and the tools, and they smell so good!

I've loved going to the ancient feed store, Dillingers, since I was a kid- it's a tiny, darkly lit little store in the old part of town that still has brick streets an hardly no one goes to. Dillingers has an old wood burning stove and the dusty, earthy smell of hay and grain and old wood. Each year near Easter they would have a box of hatched chicks for sale. My mom never let us get one, she always said the coyotes would eat it and I would feel bad when they died. Which was an accurate assessment (and she almost never said no to new pets, so I didn't pitch too much of a fit).

But anyway, I was at Rural King, which is vaguely like the Wall-mart version of Dillingers, when I spotted a horse trough with live chicks in it.

I don't really like chickens- they're usually pretty mean- but the babies are so adorable, even as they fight and poop and lay in their food.

As I was shooting pictures a rural man and his father pushed their shopping cart up, and the man said "Oh, lets stop and look at the baby chicks".

Both men smiled down at the chicks, and the older man said
"They sure are purdy".

Seeing me, the younger man cracked a joke, "I'll pay a dollar for 'em when they're big enough to eat".

I really think this was for my benefit, so that I would know he's a man, and would never see chicks as 'just' cute.
But he did think the chicks were cute, and so did his dad. And none of us were under any illusions as to how the chicks would ultimately end up. I can relate with those chicks. Born, raised and devoured in Southern Illinois. OK, OK, I'm not devoured. But nibbled, at least.

Of course, I won't always be here, its just that I feel as tied to the land as these adorable fuzzy flightless birds. And, well, we are cute as hell.

Archimedes

He decided to go on an adventure.