Magnetic Moon day 6
Year of the Blue Overtone Storm

kin 244: Yellow Planetary Seed
I Perfect in order to Target
Producing Awareness
I seal the Input of Flowering
With the Planetary tone of Manifestation
I am guided by the power of Free Will

… annoyance with humanity.
… book collection in just one cheap bookshelf.
… strangely angry flattery when someone mistakes me for being much younger than my years.
… thoughts to one subject at a time. I have a theory lately that everything is connected, and I’m trying to put an existential string to link every single one of my fleeting thoughts.
… cell phone in one hand. It’s so small, but I have to hold onto it gingerly to use it.
… curiosity. And my bewilderment that others are not as curious as me.
… lust. Nah. Just kidding.
… breasts. Not kidding. I cannot find a bra that fits.

The next twist in the abandoned sidewalk that I see
Will meet hurried stomping retreat and fleeting sweeping light
Searching rubble, seeking safety, falling, paranoid, silent
From the drums of faraway minions seeking compliance
Wishing to forcefully drive obedience into my sullied flesh.
But, tonight, as the crumbled road appears in straight lines
Covered by an unlit unprotected night sky
My steps shall be silent, swift, yet safe
Until I can defiantly trip those dreaded drums into topple.

I spent my week sewing patches into clothes and watching conspiracy theory videos. Not because I believe in what they say, but because they’re so damn entertaining, and they help with the human need for that sense of ominous foreboding to not be our fault.
A friend of mine posted a note last night talking about how all the things he knows how to do seem like child’s play versus real survival, and that he would have been considered lazy by 1900′s standards. The man is basically Grizzly Adams. This is the man who tore through the marines on a whim in his late 20′s, then decided it had nothing to offer him other than a physical fitness regimen and a paycheck, and left. I felt I had to remind him of that fact, otherwise we as a civilization are doomed, if the dude who keeps a set of throwing knives in his left boot is doubting his ability to survive in the wild.
I finally broke down and my boyfriend bought me an mp3 player. It was strange, in that I’ve always been against them, but at the same time, this supplies yet another human need, for getting your tunes on without anyone else judging your angry mid-nineties Lilith Fair collection. Plus, I figured it was a matter of time, after I found out that CD’s only have about a 10-year life span, in perfect environmental conditions. Stupid laser disc companies. Why do tapes last so long? I have tapes, recorded tapes my lame parents did on their stereo, from about the time I was 18 months old and babbling nonsense. Those are in embarrassingly good condition. But not my CD collection. No. Boo to the record industry for making us buy more shit.

This is an answer to the blog that came before. I sprained my ankle last night, while walking home from work. Luckily, my brother was here, with his car. Or I would have been screwed, and in a lot of pain. I hate how reliant I am on motor vehicles. I’m hobbling around on a cane right now. I’ve been afraid to actually put pressure on it, beyond one hobble, for fear that I might damage it further. I’m such a wimp. And apparently I have no balance, according to Micah. It’s times like this that prove to a person that they’re not as strong and able-bodied as they once thought.

The Beast Van is being fixed this week, little by little, but I debate internally how much it’s both unnecessary and infuriatingly necessary it really is, in this day and age.
I’ve been disturbed a bit lately (and by lately, I mean either the past six months that my lover and I have been without motor transportation, or perhaps the past however many years that I’ve known of the car culture) on how much emphasis the average American puts on the fact that he has a vehicle. If you choose not to have a car, you are pitied, as you are obviously too impoverished to vroom vroom vroom. Back in the winter, I had so many people try to give me a ride if they saw me walking, and even sit there in their heated SUV’s and argue with me, just because I wanted to walk. A lot of jobs decide whether or not they want to hire you based on whether or not you have your own transport (I’m lucky with my job, since it takes just as long to walk, depending on weather and traffic conditions, as it is to drive, so I get short listed for work  over other more motor-abled individuals). Unless you live in a metropolitan area, it’s impossible to be a pedestrian, as everything you need will not be five blocks away or less. And even in a metropolitan area, it’s still kind of hard, because it’s not safe after a certain hour. In smaller places,they won’t build sidewalks in certain places unless it’s absolutely needed. It’s just strange, the way it’s so much more convenient to drive somewhere than to use your own two legs. But why? It’s terrific exercise. It makes you slow down a bit and enjoy your surroundings. And it’s easy, unless you’re carrying two gallons of milk and a stack of slippery magazines or something. I watch overprivileged women (ha! That’s not even a word, according to my spell check! Only underprivileged!) get out of their vehicles that they drove from the good side of town to run at the track here on campus. They might run about two miles, maybe a mile, before they go get a coffee, when they could have done that just, well, running to the track. And it just makes me wonder, how the world would change if people only drove if they really needed to. Would obesity be a problem? Would people be as greedy? Would they punish their bodies with diets and drugs and such, if they knew they needed to use it to get somewhere?

The Heart at its most hardcore matches that of a teenage girl. Somewhat indulgent, possessive (you could never ask her to share her chocolate, much less her privacy or the object[s] of her desire). She’s nervous yet never worried. She’s dramatic yet manic and resilient. She holds tight to things of beauty. She’s focused. She digs her self in deeper and deeper. She’s stubborn. And this unwavering spirit is what I always long to be, but with some things like maturity and intelligence thrown in. I refuse to believe that your heart dies when you grow up. I want to sneak out of my own apartment with my boyfriend some night just to talk. I want to listen to music for hours and just stare off into space. I get dolled up some nights just to pose for my camera. I like taking myself way too seriously. I like crying. A lot. I like my secrets. I like my secret stash of cute underwear.

My lover and I have started and only half-finished a series of two-sided political rants that I wish I could record for posterity, because we are both articulate and pissed off and impoverished. We basically, despite the fact that I am college educated and should have a voice, have only ourselves to console while the world burns. The topic of discussion today was that there should be such a thing as an “Artisan Class” that is somewhere between working class, and that includes people who make their living by actually making things, working with their hands with real skills. More than just nailing shingles to a roof. It would include both plumbers and chefs, seamstresses, electricians, and welders. A mix of both physical skill and mental aptitude.And they, though few and far between, should have their own sociological category. I kind of feel the same way, but they’re down to earth people, usually, and don’t want anything special that will take away from their beer-drinking. He thinks of things in terms of “who will be the first to die if the civilized world suddenly became a seething wasteland”, and I find it disturbingly sexy. This is also the same man who started asking questions about the size of an elephant’s brain when we went to the zoo a couple of months ago. I don’t think the elephant had ever been asked such a question, and could only shake her head to let us hear how resounding the thump was in her enormous skull, and we had our answer.

As a rogue consumer, I’ve been having problems lately. When I go to the grocery store, I always look for the best prices on items. But apparently I don’t read the labels carefully enough. I keep picking up “fat-free” and “Healthy request” versions of foods that I normally buy. I didn’t realize how much of a tragedy this was until I tried making bean burritos. That’s got to be the worst texture ever for a bean. I mean, why the hell would you need to take the fat out of beans? Beans? The leanest source of protein available? What the hell? At least my art-supply collection is shaping up very nicely, thanks to those same skills. I just bought a set of pastels for 2 bucks, and a bunch of color-blending products that the campus bookstore were about to just throw out for pennies on the dollar.

I want to know why no one eats their eggs soft-boiled anymore. It’s been bugging me. And I want hollandaise sauce kind of badly. It’s the simple things in life that get me.

I daydream a lot when I walk, and I walk a lot because I have no car, in a town that is small enough to have never heard of public transportation, yet big enough to put the nearest grocery store, shopping center, and bank a mile away from a college campus. So this means that my mind tends to wander a lot as my legs clip into a long striding gait over poorly-kept sidewalks. One of the last times, which was a few days ago, that I had one of these long walks, I had a strange fantasy of a bunch of people, after some catastrophic event playing a game with trash and metal scraps to see if there was anything useful in the pile. It went something like this.

The first person would pick up a scrap, look it over, then chant “Don’t want it” Turn it over, then say “Can’t use it” Try to bend it or lick it, depending on how desperate the group was for food “Can’t eat it” Then put the item in a burning trash barrel and say “Won’t need it, Retrieve it”. Then the next person would pick up another scrap and repeat the chant, until someone actually found something useful, then they would stop the chant and just unceremoniously toss the item into another barrel, that’s not burning currently. Or, if it was edible, everyone would fight over the morsel, and whoever won would eat, and return to the circle after they wiped off the blood.

I can attribute this to some mental disease that has not been diagnosed, or just consider it kind of awesome and creative that I think that people living in horribly harsh conditions can still turn tasks of survival into a game.