You Shall Know Our Ridiculosity

Miley Cyrus has invited the Obama girls onto her show.

And Joshua has a dog:

Things that have gone well in the past week:

1. Barack Obama elected; Erika's faith in humanity restored.
2. Guy Fawkes was burned 8 times over in the middle of a tornado warning.
3. Passed drug test, new job at book store ensuing.
4. First poetry reading a success, musicians add excellent dimension!
5. Ixi took bath, Ixi got a pink parka for the impeding winter (Joshua conned into buying it)
6. Have been granted 11 days off in a row from work at Cafe Bella for that holiday people so love.

All in all, I'm as happy a bunny as possible just now.

This is a photo story by my friend at work, Patrick, made me. It keeps me going.

Passive aggressivism sucks.

I know from extensive reading that most poetry written is written in a voice other than the poet's own.

I've also learned from extensive writing, that it's much harder to do.

Actual fiction? Actual fucking fiction--stories that have nothing to do with anything you've ever done, and people you've never met (for Stef: a string of Kicking The Dog instances actually working) is really fucking hard.

If I live enough, I'll run into all sorts of situations and people that can be jigsawed into a plot. If I write enough, I'll describe enough instances and happenings from my own life that eventually I'll be able to make things sound distant from my life. Or, if I'm feeling Tarantino, a non-plot with fun dialog.



In other news, my halloween costume has been a big hit with the Oklahoma natives who don't quite believe that it's not at all outlandish for me to wear it in public all day. I think they'd die if I ever did the Valkerie thing out here.

Pictures to follow.

Also, Ixi had hiccups earlier as she was sitting on my lap! It was both cute and distressing. how odd.

rarr.

So, I've been playing guitar for, mm, nine months now.

And, to be fair, I haven't practiced as much as I should for most of that--excuses should not exist since I only started after I graduated. Besides an excuse is the same as a reason, reasons are just hookers trussed up for the Met and the Jury.

But still, there are certain things I think I should be competent at by fucking now. IE. B minor. For 6 months part of my (almost) daily practice routine includes transferring from D major to B minor. Can't fucking do it. Joshua has tried a couple different explanations as to how I should approach differently, and I try them, and they don't work. I repeat "muscle memory," and "practice makes perfect" to myself. Mostly these things work. My voice seems to improve. My finger strength increases. Speed in note changing ups, EXCEPT for this bloody B minor.

WTF mate.

Otherwise, going to see Denis Johnson tomorrow after my ten hour day in hell.

Baby Eats Crack at Party

That's right. That's a real article in a newspaper. I urge you to look it up. However, do not be deceived by the glowing little camera symbol next to it... the video is disappointingly just an anchor going over the story and the mom shedding a single Hallmark tear, not, in fact, a baby crawling around in a strange manner.

conversation upon discovery:

Joshua: I don't wanna watch a baby eat crack!
Erika: I-I could stand to see that.

In other news--

It's Joshua's birthday soon. We're going to find Indian food in OKC this Saturday and on his actual birthday (28th) I'm bussing a Daisy 2 load of nerds to Edmond to see Denis Johnson speak/read/sign stuff. Super excited.

Ixi is better at Fetch when she's not on Benedryl.

I know nothing of the World Series.

If you're reading this, I miss you.

I am not enjoying Saramago's Blindness.

W. was a good movie.

I haven't done laundry in two weeks.

Fridays are great because I only have to work for an hour and a half, AND, my boss discovered I will demand to get paid for the overtime he schedules me for, thus I only have to work every other saturday. Ha!

Any old weekend... No, wait, Stillwater has one of the country's most revered Homecomings. Crap.

The magic of Fridays is the promise of relief/release
Escape
When Escapism become a way of life,
and split personalities are just too time consuming,
the weekend (yes, there is a pun possible there)
becomes an important player in health.

The Second Good Weekend

The second good weekend was extended by a thursday and a friday, yet it seemed so squished in on itself. I love every champagne second. Somehow, this week at work is not too horrid yet, I thank the weekend for that.

I got wished a happy columbus day by a sorority girl who locals insist looks just like me. She wears short shorts to work though. This is strange to me for various reasons, not least of all that it seems a health code violation somehow.

Flickr will soon be joined by me. Many strange pictures necessitate it.

I love Pandora.com. And Sparklehorse. And my Sparklehorse station.

I even love the sleet filled outdoors.

Strange...

First of two good weekends.

Forgive me, one shouldn't go around blurting things out like some crazed person with something to look forward to.

Let me explain, though I'm sure some have heard me ring out its praises before. Ikea is a marvelous place. It is calming and safe. It is the nesting mecca.

And lords know how quickly I become a feminine ball of nesting mania when so much pretty potential is presented.

Ah...

Eeeee!

We're making a pilgrimage to Ikea on Sunday.

Tres excitement!

Poo on Society's New Fangled Halloween. Let me tell you, Witches generally lived in climates where miniskirts are just f****ing suicidal.

I think I'm going to try to be a Kabuki dancer for halloween.

One of Josh's friends is having a "Haunted Circus" party, and they told me a should be a sexy clown. What the shit is that? Sexy and clown are two words that should just never coincide. Period.

I suggested I could be a big top ringleader (excuse to buy a top hat). This girl didn't like the suggestion much. I suppose that's what she - host, it's a given - had been planning on.

I can only hope (probably in vain) the trend in Halloween as excuse for hooker outfits in public does not infiltrate grad students in the bible belt.

I could yell for a long time about how much I hate that trend. If I wanna dress like a hooker, I'll do it on a day that I command it be Erika Dress Like a Hooker Day. I don't have to wait for some paltry excuse.

Reminder...

The world is full of freaks. The breed out here seem like they'd fit in perfectly at, alternately, Nascar and South of the Border as receptionists to the berated and tired I-95 drones.

It kinda scares me how many old ladies out here wear their hair like frazzled, orange Sarah Palin bouffant-toupees. It's just bizarre.

Also:
Multiple small frustrations are infinitely worse than one roadblock
Desperation is the best inspiration toward action
Hope really is a sucker. Hope used to depress me, but that might just have been because I knew I really had none.
I hate the same people Stef hates.
I don't enjoy anger, but a good clean hatred can be a mighty fine enema.
Joshua is a saint for lending me blank CDs and teaching me guitar.
I am not good at repetitive motion, songs consisting of a repeated finger picking bar are beyond me.

um... Stale espresso is the devil's way of reminding me I'm far from The Lost Dog.

Limbo, 2

The first week of autumn has seen us nothing but blue skies over Stillwater; accompaniment provided by 80 degree air. That is, perfection.

Working indoors all day long finds me thinking -- well, damn, if only I could get outside and drowse in the bright blue-gold.

As soon as I get out of work I rejoice in the free of fryer air and hold my arms out like a tree -- just like that scene from Girl Interrupted, but I really am a tree -- not a shrub.

Then I drive straight home, have to meet up with Joshua and walk the dog.

Once home, I'm exhausted. It's amazing how draining a hatred is on the body. To counteract the constant, pointless motion of work I sit in my office and occupy myself with any number of things that may or may not survive to be impressive. Immediately, these activities are still and mentally challenging. Thus, relief.

The more I read this Absinthe picture book of mine, the more I understand the slide into "Being an Artist" by nineteenth century standards; except my bank account doesn't support lounging around on the terraces of cafes.

Mostly I'm afraid to walk anywhere in this town without shoes, and would have very little luck in finding a place anywhere in the town to walk about and enjoy sunshine anyhow.

This particular realization made me miss Shepherdstown keenly. This was a place where -- no matter what got tossed on the ground and broke -- I never once hurt my feet by being barefoot. Never was there a shortage of pretty places to sit. Never a hunt for pretty. That might be another reason for my sudden effluence in art work, the distinct lack of pretty that exists here. Get out of town during a roiled weather day, perhaps, yes, the landscape is gorgeous like linen, but in town we are in a scrap of New Jersey tossed as far as possible and festering with franchise.
And nothing is within walking distance from my apartment.

There are two bike places though. When I stop owing Joshua money I'll check them out.

Limbo, 1

I spoke to the lawyer today. He apologized for not hiring me. Apparently longevity of an employee is more important than the quality of work they will produce.

Apparently, the whole Brightest Candle Burns Quickest thing, or whatever, doesn't apply to the wider employment world. Why build it just to watch the next guy leave it die?

I've nothing clever to say about this, but I picked up my little employment wanted papers today and have resolved to start lying about how long I'll be staying in this state.

Also, I talked a credit card company out of making me pay over $150. This is entirely ego boosting, especially in the light that I just got turned down on a job to work with a lawyer.

While on the phone I doodled. The hold music was horrible. What started as an arrow ended as a fetus. Whitney would be so proud.

Bigger drawings are producing themselves in my head rather rapidly. Two Victorian, French ads. A girl in headphones and a girl pouring tea.

The last two are just Vermeer enough to make me think myself rather arty, the first two fit me into today's consumed world with a fashionable touch of nostalgia.

Yep, I have time enough to draw. That hasn't happened since I lived with Genelle and Johanna. I listened to alot P.O.D. and System of a Down then.

Hmm. I like to think all this Radiohead is an improvement...

I love you all.

Recovery

Points of interest:

+ The OSU newspaper is worse even than the Picket.
+ I have one penicillin pill left meaning I can restart my concourse with TB sufferers tomorrow.
+ My left bruise is gone, but my right cheek still looks terribly bad-ass. I'm so happy! A couple guys at work and I are trying to convince customers that I got in a chick fight at a bar last week.


Blog:

With aid of hydrocodone and no continuous sleep, I have read a whole lot, written a whole lot, drawn a whole lot and watched many movies and episodes of Rome.

Now, I'm off pain killers almost completely, only administering aspirin when the need arises--about twice a day--and back to drab-ass work. But I have come away from my not-quite-spiritual experience with a renewed confidence in my "work."

I no longer care if what I am creating is Great or Big or will hold past posterity. The idea is to capture society as it is right now. The idea is to be that zeitgeist that kids will hate in 200 years. My relief comes from the idea that we have no clue

a) what will survive to 200 years from now
b) what society will value 200 years from now

So it's out of my hands. I think this is a type of religious faith I've found. My holy foods, as you may know, are pistachio or mango anything and absinthe. Falafel and pesto may make onto the list. They're pending.

I am now accepting zealots, please form a queue to my left; Pistachio or Death.



PS. Hydrocodone: not a fun drug. No hallucinations, just drowsiness.

Josh's sad girls

So, this is our long weekend... Ixi and I are pathetic and our keeper...



is lovely, despite his addiction to college football. He's making me couscous.

Teeth

One of the most common symbols in dream is losing teeth. Having them fall from your head. It's disturbing. Without the toothfairy to cushion the dreams of children, it could be terribly traumatic for kids to be losing the teeth all the time. It's weird and scary when you think about it.

Having them yanked forcibly, that's not so weird... right? You get your xrays and explanations. Dozens of people around you testify that it wasn't so bad.

There is only less than 1% chance of losing sensation in your chin and lower lip and jaw. Less than 1% chance of opening a hole in your nasal cavity. 15% chance of dry sockets. Oh, and, if you don't eat with your lorcet, you have to take this anti nausea pill rectally.

And, even with the low risks and the deformed face I've got myself, and the weird headaches and achy body and restlessness from bedrest, this is a pretty cool vacation. I get to watch a bunch of movies and cuddle with the doggy completely guilt free for four days. Even on actual vacations I always feel like there are numerous things I should be doing instead. Drugged as I am though, I'm not allowed to do those things. Doctor's orders.

Ixi

Some day there will be aspiring artists who feel nostalgic for the age that created The Royal Tennenbaums and Jenny Lewis. The art of awkward. Sexy Awkwardness.

And, back at the ranch, Ixi is a very strange, very sweet dog.

She doesn't like treats. Or playing with things. She hardly ever pees. We've only heard her bark once, last night when we put her in her crate and went to bed.

She doesn't wag her tail, but if you move to stand up after petting her, she jumps into your lap. She's super cuddly. Today she took a nap with me on the couch.

She hates her leash, but as long as it's slack she walks along beside you. I've coaxed her into walking down stairs, but she's horrified of walking up them.

When she eats she picks up a couple nuggets of dry food at a time and runs about four feet away from her bowl, drops the nuggets and then crunches them up.

We like her. She's already responding to her name and a bright "Come here!" She's very smart, and just has to adjust to her new pack.

Living Recklessly

I must live recklessly today. It is the last day of zero responsibility. Tomorrow the dog comes home.

We have settled on Ixi. Thank you Lacey. I thought for awhile of Isolde being Izzi which is very similar to Ixi, but it seems silly, in retrospect, to give a dog a name that you aren't going to call it ever. Might as well just call her Izzi. But that wasn't on the list. So! Ixi it is.

And never was there a more fey-ish name in the world.

So, I shall start my last irresponsible day with (so far):

Brushing teeth
Playing guitar
checking blog and email

From there I will:

Call: oral surgeon, Lawyer, bank
Get dressed
Go to work
Buy shitty towels at goodwill for Ixi's crate
eat dinner
meet girls at wine bar
find our boys at beer bar
sleep.

This is the master plan. I know! Where will I fit in that case of arson and my bungee jump?

When One Reads too much Victorian Literature...

My office is pretty done now. I love having one. That story/essay V. Woolf wrote about needing personal space? yea, she wasn't kidding.

In lieu of painting (landlords don't allow, time consumption, conspicuous lack of money) I have strung up my red lanterns. Two strings of fist sized ones, two the size of a sumo wrestler's thigh. They traipse diagonally from one corner to the other in the most opium-soaked charming way. The effect is entirely calming.

One super cheap Walmart book case holds all the books I allowed myself to pack, and all my music, poetry, stationary and "Best Costume" statuette.

I've an art corner for oversized works. I broke out my chalk pastels and am working on a composition for them.

Having no friends and only a part-time job to worry about has opened up so much time that I can do things like that. Just sit down and draw for three solid hours. Weird.

All that is missing is a fainting couch. I want one so badly. Reading poetry in red light just isn't the same in this desk chair. Don't get me wrong, Ikea had the perfect desk chair for me. Just comfy enough to remain in, not so comfy that work will be detrimented by the comfiness. It also conveniently matches my Ikea desk and Ikea rugs. Who knew.

But if anyone has a fainting couch laying about, clogging up fire escapes, do not hesitate to send it my way!

Joshua and I have narrowed down dog names to ten. By all mean weigh in. Please refer to Josh's Dispatches from the Flatlands for visual confirmation of the pup in question.

In no order:

1. Ixi
2. Lola
3. Astrid
4. Adelheide (Adel)
5. Isolde
6. Liesl
7. Ingrid
8. Tatiana
9. Petra
10. Lucinda

We have about a week to decide! Excitement!

I think I rather like this dog. She's soft to touch and hard to win over. And she'll match our furniture, Scandinavian and white.

Hero Worship

Yep. It's true. Josh and I have fallen into Michael Phelps Mania. MPM. I don't know, but after the next order of Obama tshirts, we may have to order Phelps Phan tshirts... The man may be the Achilles of our age. Give me a physically bent warrior at all of his caliber in the last 50 years.

I dunno, Mohammad Ali -- maybe. Granted, his "sport" is more warrior like than swimming in a straight line real fast.


I dunno... Who's glory is greater?

Life in a Mason Jar

Paul Verlaine’s mother kept her miscarried fetuses in jars. Three of them. While this seems disturbing (with just a dash of Little Shop of Horrors kitschy charm) but not as much as his smashing them all when he attacked her in 1869.

Was it good for her to finally have those reminders of death and biological failure gone? Did it free her at all from that pain? Was that freedom marred by newfound hatred of her surviving son for killing his preserved brothers?

And, in other news, I had my second shift at the Cafe Bella today, the best Mediterranean food I've found outside of the Mediterranean with a curiously Iranian owner named Ali (pronounced like Jasmine's nickname for Aladdin in Disney's Aladdin). It's pleasant enough, but has no real challenge. Luckily I just landed an interview at a law office for, yes, their secretary.

Haiku Tuesday

Propagate: Cheat Death!

Glut on immortality,

We made a species.

Week One

Ladies and Gentlemen,
We have landed in Stillwater. It hasn't yet been a week, but most things are set up... Even the pilgrimage to Ikea has already happened.

The four hour drive there, and four hour drive home weren't particularly thrilling, aside from a very specific breed of rain that exists in Texas. That is, you can see it coming a couple miles away - literally - and you know to turn on your windshield wipers three seconds before it pelts your car and steal all visibility of the road, which is not to say all visibility. Though you cannot see the road, you can clearly see ahead of you. The showers aren't wide or opaque, just violent in their pinpoint existance. The afternoon light just on the other side of the thunderhead lights the whole rest of the world, and lets you see that this rain will only continue for a couple minutes.

Otherwise, the air is graciously dry.

Joshua and I are busy setting up our offices and playing house. He starts training on Monday, I go in for my first job interview on Monday, it's all very fortuitous.

Good Evening

'Tis a dark and stormy night, 'twas a dark and stormy day.
All I need now is soup, and a roll in the hay.


Not that hay would be all the comfortable after two thunder storms, but there you go.

Will be in touch better: Girl Scout's Honor, but Josh and I have to find for real real internet.