Day by Day

I believe the Bible is a collection of metaphors.  People just have this colorful way of speaking.  It’s how we communicate.  A lot of symbolism in religion is intuition.

It’s about energy.  Very scientific, really.  Call it what you want.  But I believe when people congregate in a place of worship we create energy that connects us to people.

A friend wanted to go to church, so I went with her yesterday.

However, I like distance from organized religion because ministers are just vehicles for the spirit, but they are flawed humans.

I love Jesus — the symbol Jesus.  He carries our sins because we’re weak – it’s the way we’re made.  That’s why spiritual leaders have spiritual leaders.  They need someone to advise them so they don’t form cults, and tell people God told them to have sex with them, or to drink Kool-Aid with cyanide in it.

I do need a spiritual leader, some authority.  I have to appreciate that the spiritual leader is human, to have compassion for that.

Religions and spiritual texts have exercises where at the end of the day you assess your behavior – it’s necessary to function in a healthy way.

There are people who take the message too literally, tainting the idea of religion.

There is no cosmic Santa Claus, as the minister of my family church has said. God’s not going to save me from disease, death, debt – maybe to an extent.  I don’t think it makes sense for me to think that I made it through something death-defying because God loves me.  I’m sure there are people involved in some of the myriad tragedies who believed and who were worthy of this “salvation”, but didn’t “make it”.  We’re so self-centered.  I do believe it’s okay to thank God that you did come through.

God is my higher consciousness.  When I’m aligned with it, I get the answers to problems, because I open my energy up by being willing.

My spirit life is about radiating positive energy within challenges I face with people day to day.  It’s also about facing death, my own death, the death of loved ones.

I think the way we look at death encourages gluttony, greed, and hatred.  We believe it’s so final, that we cling to temporal things, including other lives.  That energy is transformed and not final.  I don’t know what happens when we die, but I should be okay with it because it’s natural.  So why is death bad?

You see it on refrigerator magnets, but really, we only have today.  That’s where my joy and so-called blessings are – not in the future after I’ve obtained my goals.

My spiritual quest is about learning how to stay in the present and being alive where I am now.   This makes my life more manageable and I can start new each day.

The minister who preached at my family church was intellectual, but he would build up a fervor, after he captured you with reason.

Reason is what keeps me faithful, despite outward appearance.  I say vile things, and contemplate evil, but in the end my spirit strives for moderation.  Mostly I walk in a certain direction, despite what I say.  But sometimes I am mischievous.  Sometimes I don’t want anything to do with God.

I don’t want to preach.  Maybe I have here – fuck it.  This is just my experience.  I believe that the universe is vast, and that the possibilities are just as vast.  And there’s so much I don’t know.  Why shouldn’t I embrace the idea of God? There, I said it.

“Is that…m-my…b-b-butt?”

I’m not a foodie.  But I do like mayonnaise, and I like toast with olive oil and salt.  I don’t eat these foods excessively but my metabolism had problems grinding these foods up along with the free cheese-laden cuisine I was getting from the café at work all last year.

Because I never have the right to pass up bags of free food, my ass is swollen.  I blame free cheese-laden cuisine.  While I’m a cake enthusiast, and lover of strudel, pie, donuts, cookies and candy, I control myself.  I know it could get ugly, because it has.

In ‘night Mother, Anne Bancroft’s character says, “I don’t like food — I like candy!”  I so could have played her, because I identify with people who hate food and like candy.

You’d expect anyone proclaiming to hate food to be bone thin.  Yah, but I’m not bone thin.  I don’t hate food the same as those people who get away with eating very little, those small-boned people who brag about how they forgot to eat.  How cute are they.

I always fear that the food I eat won’t metabolize properly and will just sit there turning to blubber.  I have fear of food — food anxiety.  I also resent spending energy buying, cooking  and eating food, and I hate washing dishes.  This all takes too much time.

I’d like those pills that they had on the Jetsons.  They took care of all your nutritional needs.  You simply pop one in your mouth, and off you go with your jet-fueled back pack to that shopping mall on Venus.

I was inspired to write this post after seeing my image in a dressing room mirror. Aren’t those mirrors evil?

“Is that…m-my…b-b-butt?”  I said.  Maybe I’m in denial about the amount of food I eat?

I really don’t eat much, but once I start eating, it continues until my body says it should stop, and I hate that because it thwarts my fantasy of getting away with eating just once a day.

I know I’m twisted when it comes to food – and maybe a few other things — but, I just need to eat, live and stop ragging on my butt – it’s a useless exercise.

I do have the ability to enjoy food however.  I enjoyed Chilean bass a couple of days ago.  Maybe I’ll write a post about that, and how I only decided to look at the price on the wrapping around the rest of the fish in the refrigerator after it almost killed me because it was so transporting.  It dawned on me that any fish that could do this had to be pricey.

For asexuals cake is sex

Will Cotton – The Daily Beast

(Cat forwarded this cake link to me a bit back — I’m in love with it.)

I watched a documentary on asexuality.  The documentary depressed me.  I wrote a novel with the premise that platonic relationships don’t exist.  I’m not implying that platonic means asexual.  I just believe that people want their sexuality validated.  It doesn’t have to be overt.

I try to pick them out, asexuals.  I’m intrigued by people who don’t have sexuality.  I know some of these people.

One was a beautiful man.  But…nothing.  So there was no reciprocal energy.  I had nothing to feed on.  This is subtle below the surface energy I speak of, not detectable flirting.  He was young – when I refer to my interaction I don’t mean that I considered something between us.  Though I didn’t have a desire to be with him, there still might be sexual energy in there, somewhere — helloooooo.

I was old enough to be his mother.  People may think that he didn’t radiate sexual energy toward me because I was much older, or maybe he was gay.  You may not want to have sex with the old woman but you want your own sexuality validated in some way, which would involve giving out a vibe, flirting.  Besides, I can see sexuality without interacting with a person.  With him I didn’t feel it in his aura.  I can feel sexual energy even coming from gay men if not directed exactly at me.

He had never been involved with anyone.  I assume he was a virgin.  Someone told me that he had finally begun seeing a woman.  It was hard for me to conceptualize.  In this program last night there were asexuals who had been involved with people.  Some had to explain to their partners that they had no desire for sex, others went through the motions.

This asexual group in the documentary marched in the Gay Pride Parade in San Francisco.  They are after all part of an alternative sexual movement.  Though initially curious, watching them made me irritated.  I turned off the program when I started getting heartburn.  Am I that disturbed by this?

These asexuals have events, parties, meetings, and their icon is cake.  Cake replaces sex for them.  They put cake on their invitations, use it in slogans.  They have love affairs with cake. People know that I’m a cake enthusiast – see my side-bar.

I’m on the opposite end of the spectrum, but I have something in common with asexuals — this is just wrong.  I love cake.  I love sex.  Cake never replaces sex.  Not even that sexy cake up there.

Back to square one

I’ve thought of different ways to make money.  Most of these methods aren’t viable — what do I know about being a madame?  I think of all those hairy gangsters threatening to – I mean offering me buyouts or making me give up ninety percent of my income for ‘protection,’ and it turns me off.

Pity.  I think I have a knack for being a madame, albeit kind of a crazy one.  I would offer my employees benefits and have daycare centers for the ones with families – you know – like Amsterdam.  I had planned to pimp – I meant — to employ men also.  But that idea now is just dust in the wind.

My next way to make loot – being a pirate.  I’d love wearing a black patch over my left eye.  People would think there was such mystery about me, and maybe that I was a bit of a degenerate too.  Oh – and I’d love to tell people to swab the deck and walk the plank.  Do pirates still do that?  I wouldn’t want to be an internet pirate.  Or one of those Somali pirates.  Wasn’t that weird?  Plus – how do pirates make money?  I think they take stuff from people and I don’t like that.  If I’m going to do that I might as well be a cat burglar for a living, and that’s out of the question.

So then I thought I might make cakes because I have passion for it so.  The people would taste the passion and I would get shit loads of customers.  My oven’s from 1980 though.  I’d need those appliances cooks on cable television have.  No way could I afford those!  Just think, the reason I’m considering being a madame, a pirate and a cake baker is because I need extra loot, so kicking out all that cash for state of the art appliances with no certainty of a client base might be fool hardy.  So back to square one, being a broke ass bitch.

Farts, Effluvium and More!

I learned a new word.  Ef-flu-vi-um:  an invisible emanation; especially: an offensive exhalation or smell.

I’m rather embarrassed the way I learned of it.  But I was told that you rid yourself of embarrassment by telling people about it in a public space.

I thought effluvious was a word, and that it meant something like a ‘miasma of putrid decay.’  I had planned to tell you that if I live until Saturday I will have had fifty glorious years on the effluvious planet called earth.  But I’m not so dumb.  I punched effluvious into Merriam Webster and discovered that I had made up a word.  The beauty is that the wonderful people at Merriam Webster thought I might be looking for another word close to that spelling.  So they found me a real word that looks like that one, effluvium.

I had been dying to use the sentence ‘a miasma of putrid decay’ ever since I heard it on Count Yorga the Vampire.  I made up two cool sentences with my new word that I learned, one even incorporates the Count Yorga phrase AND the word effluvium!

Check this sentence out: ‘The effluvium emanated from his rancid hole singed off the hair on my head.’

And check this out — instead of saying ‘Who farted?’ you can now say ‘Who emanated the effluvium into this miasma of putrid decay?’  The only thing, is you have to use a Shakespearean voice when you say ‘this miasma of putrid decay’.

It’s fun to use new words.  I think scientists or medical professionals use this word probably, but I’m afraid I’ll have no further use for it unless I want to sound like a pretentious ass.  But thank you for listening — okay just once more – Now I shall retreat into the effluvium of my decaying existence.

The Supreme Ass Cake Award

In the Wizard of Oz, they pull that curtain back and see no giant, loving omniscience back there, just some ‘ol bull shit.  Click that ‘Awards’ widget on my side-bar.  Nothing.  You were gonna pull that curtain back some day and say “Aha!  She’s been fooling us!”  Oh, I swear I was gonna put awards in there!

I bees SO gwuilty. [Insert picture of cute kitteh]  I accept awards.  I say ‘Thank you.’  But I don’t follow the rules.  I don’t give acceptance speeches, list things about myself, pass the awards on, or display them on my side-bar.

I appreciate you lovely people for giving them to me and I thank you all.  But I’d rather not receive awards.  Just lavish praise and rent money.

I watch others who feel this way.  What do they do?   I’d take guidance from that.  So I’ll be a punk ass and piggy back on what that fabulous Kyle says.

Here are beautiful people who gave me awards.  Some of you may have forgotten, but I’ve given you all Award Cakes!

Madame Weebles:

The Lemon Supreme Cake Award, lemon frosted of course

Miss Carla Renee:

The Chocolate Peanut Butter Ganache Cake Award

Boomie Bol:

The Orange Rum Sunrise Cake Award

Claire Cappetta:

The Strawberry Angel Food Cake Award

Jill/Ocelot Bound:

The Coriander Cake with Butter Cream Frosting Sprinkled with Cinnamon, Nutmeg and Coriander Award  (I miss her)

Dating Bitch:

Zucchini Lemon Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting Award

Sailor Carrie:

The Ethereal Angel Food Cake Award

Shauna/Shianwrites:

The Banana Walnut Cake with Maple Frosting Award

Kathy V.:

Black Forest Cake Award

Brigitte:

German Chocolate Cake Award

Jessica Accardi:

The Peach Pie Cake Award (wink, wink)

Me:

The Supreme Ass Cake Award

I might’ve screwed this up — maybe you didn’t even give me an award — it’s been so long and my notes get mixed up, crinkled.  I hope I’ve included everyone who actually gave me an award.

I feel free.  I’ll delete that fake widget now.

Eat some cake, responsibly, and enjoy the rest of your week!  Mwa!

Hope

When Purplemary54 tagged me to do a post on hope as part of the blog relay for hope, I thought, ‘There’s no hope.’  Someone called me a nihilist.  I looked it up.  I’m dark but I’m not a nihilist.  Why does a nine year old write a story called “Sometimes I want to die?”  The story wasn’t about my wanting to die, it was about the existence of good and evil forces and flirting with the idea of examining death, so there.

The universe is so vast that no one really understands it.  Scientists and philosophers say it.  I like to imagine that this fact combined with the fact that you don’t use a third of your brain means that there’s untapped magical power somewhere in your tiny little head.

Hope hides in the corners of that place in my brain that directs my feet while my stupid mouth blathers on about how everything needs to be annihilated.  I’ve realized how much I’ve accomplished toward a goal when I stop running my mouth.  I’ve been moving toward it the whole time.  But my mouth complains that there isn’t any payoff for all that work. The payoff is being involved in the process, observing and absorbing my environment with everything about me open; this way I can be satisfied by separating from the idea that I’m supposed to get some packaged notion after completing my goals.

While I’m writing this I’m trying to figure out how to sustain this idea. I have a job, but need to find another one because in December the gallery closes for three months and I don’t know if I’ll be called back.  I had better find some goddamned hope from somewhere so that I’m not motivated by fear and desperation, which everyone can smell on you.

I want to demonstrate my hope on a larger scale.  Hope for the world, for the country for the people – that’s where I falter.  I was told that it starts with me. Me, I like sharing ideas in writing. I’d like to plant the seeds of the idea that money is bullshit, and that we’re buying up all this stuff and contributing to our own demise and we have no idea really.  That’s why I don’t get excited by any candidates under this economic model, at all!  I hope that if the right people get that idea, some new economic model can be constructed with elements of a new ideology coming from many different places in the world.

But I really have to battle my so-called nihilistic views when it comes to supporting this idea because at the rate we’re going with our greedy little selves, sometimes I think maybe the earth is just toilet paper, here for us to use up to wipe our asses until it’s all gone.

This assignment asks me to ask someone else to write on Hope.  I’ll ask Miss Four Eyes because she said facetiously that she sounded like the hipster version of Pollyana when talking about her sweet little dog, and in general, Miss Four Eyes is wry and hilarious.  Feel free to decline but if you should take the assignment, here are the instructions:

Step 1: Write a blog post about hope & publish it on your blog.
Step 2: Invite one (or more!) bloggers to do the same.
Step 3: Link to the person who recruited you (me, in this case) at the top of the post, and the people you’re recruiting at the bottom of the post.

Yeah, I like cake, all different kinds.

Since I could get sued for using other people’s google images – they shouldn’t put them up there if they don’t want people using them – anyway – I got scared and ripped down every image I had that belonged to someone else.  I read about this in Jennifer Eaton’s post.  But see those cakes at the side-bar?  I needed them.  They’re just too pretty.  It was love at first sight when I saw them.

I absolutely must have cake on my site.  I’ve got to have it!  And they must be pretty, but those pink cakes weren’t on the free site.  So on the free site I looked for pink cakes to complement my blog, but it was a free site, so they looked like free site cakes of course.  I had an idea.  “I’ll contact the people who took the pictures, the people who baked the cakes.  I’ll say to them, Puulllease, I’ll do anything to have those cakes. I must have those cakes.”

I went to their sites and posted my request in their comment sections, telling them that I would for certain refer back to their sites if they allowed me the privilege of posting their cakes. Ah, they ain’t gonna get back to me I thought.  The day after I posted my request, both lovely ladies responded, saying they had absolutely no problem with me posting their cakes!

So there they are!  But.  I wondered.  They gave me permission but I didn’t think to ask if perhaps I should get permission from the photographers if they didn’t take their own pictures. But you know what fuck it!  I’m keeping them – they said I could!  If I see more cakes I like, I know I can contact the owners.  This’ll be my new pastime on a Saturday night – trolling the web for cake!

Aside from the fact that I’m giving them free advertising, does anyone see any problems with this?  This is one of those things where I feel like I might be missing something.

Here’s cake passion in my fiction:

An excerpt from my short story Doody Lady:  “I grabbed the cake and relished it, suppressing my urge to get up and hump at the air in a feigned fucking of the cake, or to moan and to close my eyes rapturously behind each forkful of thick, white frosting.”

Another excerpt from that story:  “Fuck dinner – give me cake, cake with thick buttery frosting three inches high!”

XXX

 

I hate the little twerp.  Sometimes.  It’s an interesting and stilted chemistry, so I’m baffled at the goodies he yields me, when he’s not there, for intervals of five minutes – bastard!  What a paradox.  That sexy prick.  The pheromonal reaction of our chemistry is involuntary.  But it doesn’t put me off.  I’m cool.  He won’t know.  There were guys who seemed perfect, but I had to force a reaction, and wound up thoroughly disappointed.

Deep incongruities between us keep a functional distance with regard to this issue.  There’s no way in Hades I could find myself emotionally dependent on him.  I don’t suffer from dilated pupils or rapid breathing around him; but I do harbor that affection that makes an episode like this partly possible.  I don’t actually need him in order to take care of my business.  The imagery he inspires is that cake in the refrigerator at home that I think of at work.  I come home and I kill it.

Just Pay Me in Cake, Pullease

 

I kicked out the idea for a society with a barter system in my last post and was pleasantly surprised when Madame Weebles and The Howler and Me offered to bake me cakes!  Ding, ding, ding!  Good answer!  Holy crap I think I’m on to something here–I could get German chocolate cakes, black forest cakes, cakes with buttercream frosting piled three inches high — pink birthday cakes!  I could sell my book for different kinds of cakes and we’d all win!

One idea spawns another —  Fred begat his challenge which begat my response which begat this idea of me bartering for cakes.  By the way, I want to back track on Fred’s question about how my uniqueness is being showcased in my blog.  My blog is infused with a death metal sensibility — I’m iconoclastic, anarchistic, morbid, wry, extreme and dark, so there — oh yeah and I’m sweet as hell!