Huh?

One for the "what is it?" file:

Cold Snap

Cleveland hit its record high temperature for the Summer this week: 96 F.
We all complained and many suffered through a long, hot night with no electricity because we all had our A.C. on at the same time and blew a collective fuse. Me, I suffered through the attic heat for as long as I could, because I like that bed the best, but by 3am I gave up and trudged half-drunk with sleep and heat exhaustion to the welcoming arms of a cooler room downstairs.

If you're feeling the heat today, take a peek at this super cold destination: Harbin Snow and Ice Festival. Aaah! That's nice!

Speaking of Nothing

It isn't so much the day as it is the lack of air in this basement that has my eyes feeling somewhat itchy and irritable. I have 109 minutes left of work day. Let's see how many I can waste at my computer typing in absolutely pointless references to my day today.

Minutes 1-8

It is interesting to me that I have only two hands. I don't tend to think about them specifically very often, but when I do they seem strange, foreign to me. Sometimes I'm looking at one hand and it suddenly surprises me by jumping up from its place and picking up a cup or scratching my chin. These moments are the closest to drunk I can get without actually drinking. They don't happen often.
Or similarly, there are times when I am staring at a plate full of mashed potatoes or the folds of a comforter and no matter how hard I try to tell myself it isn't true, I see a human face in them. And I stare and I stare and I know if I just shifted a little to the left or right the illusion would vanish and all things would return to their proper stasis, but I am deadlocked, freeze-framed, eyes-glued, head-on, can't move, tharninated by the face I see. Like it's about to speak or something. And then I blink and everything goes back to status quo. Or when you look at an image in the dark and it appears upside down or inside out or something else that technically you know is improbable, but because of the lack of light or the imprecision of your perception it becomes something other than what it is for a moment.

I have a recurring dream that there is a tiny rock on my chest as I doze on the floor and as my sleep deepens so does the silence and as the silence buzzes around me the rock suddenly expands, instantaneously, like a balloon and I am pinned helplessly beneath it. And then the rock shrinks again and then expands, noiselessly. And when it is a huge boulder I can hear the sharp hiss of silence very loud around me and when it's a pebble I hear nothing.

Minutes 9-16

There is a similar dream that also occurs only when I am resting midday, dozing, half in, half out of dreams, in which I am like the rock. My body is one moment infintesimally small in the center of the room, a tiny speck on the carpet of the space which is now larger than any cathedral and the next instant I am wholely larger than the room, the house, the city, equal in size to the planet or perhaps even larger. Then it does that silent flip-flop, now tiny, now enormous as I lie there terrified that if I open my eyes during these changes I'll be left in that state.

This phenomenon happens most pronouncedly, too, when I am speaking for any length of time with my eyes closed. Such as in prayer in my younger days. I used to freak out and panic and wonder why my voice still sounded calm when my body felt like it was the size of the universe and surely no one in the original room where I started this monologue to God could hear me now. And always there was that awkward and slightly disappointing moment when I open my eyes and see that I am me, the same size I always was, sitting on the same couch or chair or floor. And nobody even gave me a strange look for all my transformations in the dark.

Minutes 17-27

I don't like it when people comment Anonymously. I should just say that now. I realize it is their right, their perogative, to comment in any way they think best and generally, I don't care. If for instance, they are too lazy to pick a username and start an account, then so be it. No biggie. I have a friend in England who does that.

But when someone posts a criticism or a come-on as Anonymous it makes my skin crawl. If it's a com- on, then what is so inappropriate about their comment that keeps them from telling me who they are? Obviously, I like compliments. I like knowing that I'm cute, funny, have great hair, nice gams, (leave the boobs alone folks, I don't know you that well) etc. So, fine. Tell me how cute I am. But why the hell you have to post it as "Anonynous?" What's wrong with you that you can't tell me something like that? Is it gonna get you in trouble or make you embarassed? Are you a married man who doesn't want his wife to know he's flirting? Are you a woman who hasn't come out yet? Or are you a stranger off the net who stopped by and didn't have a username? I mean, seriously. What the fuck? I suppose it doesn't matter. And maybe it's none of those things. But if I find one of my regular readers came to my site and decided he or she HAD to comment on my legs and be all secretive about it, I'm gonna KICK THEIR BUTT. And that ladies and gentlemen is today's rant.

I busted my knuckle on a bag of ice. I did the ol' body-bag on the sidewalk move, holding the top of it so ice wouldn't spill out (I'd already opened it) and WHAM, it slammed back. I stood up and winced, that brave whince I do when something just really hurt a whole hell of a lot. I leave cussing for a second or two later. I look at my hand. Nothing, Just icy-white knuckles. After a minute the cloud of purple and blue rose up and filled the skin. Juicy. Nice little bruise that'll last maybe a week and make me look like I got into a fistfight on my way to work. It doesn't hurt now. Musta been the ice.

Minutes 28-31

Today we served chili dogs and nachos for the kids at the school. Two tables, full trays of all-beef franks, buns, homemade chili, shredded cheese, onions, relish, condiments, the works. And then we even had those little nacho cheese trays with the two compartments like you get at a high school basketball game with a little bit o' cheese in one tiny side pocket and some chips in the rest of the container. We have those. My boss orders them from, I don't know where. But she does. And she lets the kids dip their own, we don't portion out their nachos and cheese. We're not stingy like that. In fact, we're not stingy at all. Those boys - some of em apparently haven't done growing - need to eat. And one kid smashed a plate with four hotdogs, 8 cookies and a tray of nachos in twelve minutes. I kid you not. He's one of the new ones: the athletes.

Minutes something to something: 70 minutes left

Ok, so there's this new self-awareness excerise that I've been doing of late to retrain my brain to listen to myself. Because apparently I don't. Or at least not enough to help me deal with some of the shit I'm stuck in currently. So it goes something ike this: Look around you and notice everything, what shapes, colors, textures do you see. Where are you? Do you see people or things? Can you sunlight or are you in artificially lit surroundings.? Then, what do you hear? Are you someplace quiet? Does the quietness make you uncomfortable? Is there music or conversation? Are you trying to ignore it? Do you hear cars? Or water? Can you hear yourself breathing? What can you smell? Are you eating or drinking anything? What does it taste like? Is your chair (if you are sitting) comfortable? Is your body warm or cold? Are you sitting comfortably or are you slouched or cramoed into a corner? How does your body feel? Do you feel tension in any part of your body? Try taking in a deep breath. How does it feel? Can you breath freely or does your breathing stutter? etc, etc.

Then after about ten minutes of this nonsense I can actually get down to business asking my body things like, "Ok, where are you holding the most tension?" And it's usually my stomach or in my chest. Then I concentrate on that place and even put my hand there and say to my body, "What do you need to tell me?" And then I listen. I bet some of you think this sounds dorky as hell and you're right. It is dorky as hell to blog about it on the internet with a bunch of people, most of whom I don't know from shit, but in practice it is not dorky as hell, it is kinda cool and liberating and friendly. To me. It sucks to think you might not be as friendly to yourself as you are to other people. For instance when I realized I took home a paper I was supposed to give to someone else at work I called myself a "bistress." One of my favorite insults. Only, it wasn't a very nice thing to say just because I took home someone else's piece of paper, you know. Had anyone else said, "Oh damn, I'm an idiot for taking this home!" I would have said, "Nah, it's no big deal. Don't worry about it, man. That kinda stuff happens all the time. Just return it tomorrow." And I would have meant it. So, maybe just maybe there's something to the dorkiness and the cheesiness and the laughableness of the whole "protect yourself" "be your own best friend" thing. I intend to find out.

Minutes: Who cares. Half hour left.

And now I'm bored with writing about nothing and after jumping around on the internet to see what else has posted in the last ten minutes I just notice out of the corner of my eye a bruise on my fore arm that I thought had reached it's color peak. It's now a peacock's rainbow of brown and yellow and blue. Damn white skin. I look like a bad apple. And the finger I smashed in the ice? Merely a red smear across the top of my fist. I do all this work, for nothing. The bruise ends up in the wrong place. Stupid bruises.