July 8, 2003

I See Eyes When Mine Are Closed

It's easy to picture the shocked look he had given me. She clung tightly to me, the soft curves of her form finding a perfect mirror in mine and voiding all space between. Her hot tears rolled down my neck and it seemed to me that it was the essence of sweet sticky life. Just like life, it cooled too quickly. So quickly, in fact, that it seemed a weekend away from her, even if it was spent on a hedonistic road-trip, was too much too bear. Such was her power over me. His shock was at the power I had over her.

I've just bought The Animatrix DVD. A more stellar viewing experience, I could not hope for. Wanting to squeeze every last drop of enjoyment out of it, I turned to the bonus_data from the main menu and sat back to enjoy a truly magnificent history of anime, from its advent in Japan through to its reception and then adoption in America. It also answered that question that has been asked of me by countless individuals that I've watched anime with. Why does everyone look white? Of course, they're really just referring to the large eyes that most characters have. It seems that back in the 40s and 50s, American animation was the most prominent example for other animators trying to get their start. Yet the true impetus for the larger-than-life eyes of anime is completely Japanese. The large liquid pools of life are the windows to the soul, and convey the largest amount of expression in a medium that has had to historically deal with rather meager funds. Notice that most evil characters have small and inexpressive eyes. I also thought it to be an interesting point that the Japanese are considered to have the largest eyes in the Asian community. Upon returning from an ESL job in Korea, my friend related to me the comments of some Koreans about this idea.

Lesa. That's right, I was talking about a woman. I had previously thought those eyes were unreal, a figment of fantasy and desire. The fact that I was wrong nearly destroyed me. It sounds trite, but she had the eyes of love. She could relate her entirety to you in a glance, if you knew what to look for. Even those souls passing like candles in the night were shaken by it. No one fell under that gaze without experiencing a sense of the divine in humanity.

She was the gnostic incarnation of Shiva, hellbent on showering the world with unbearable light.

You'll have to forgive me for falling in love with her, even if I can't forgive myself. This woman who would weep upon my words, who would quiver for lack of my presence. Give me the fate of the world in one hand, and the love of this woman in the other and I'd be damned for making the wrong decision each and every time. Such intensity doesn't allow for a healthy relationship. This is the co-dependent's song. I was her crystal and she was my heroin. We tasted each other salaciously till we lifted up and broke, smears of light spreading tattered shadows of our union across the memory of the universe.

Ours was not long for this world.

I left her with a song. A love song for no one is what I called it, but it was her story. The acrid smoke of the bar stung my eyes, but luckily my voice remained intact. My last exchange to her was given in anguished breath and intense voice, seeking only to match her eyes with the swell of a sound. The sweet and clear piercing high note at the end of the song was my goodbye to her, and I only needed her gaze from over the top of my guitar to know her, and to know that we were no more. We may cry lonely tears, but no more for each other.

I have always compulsively drawn eyes. I draw because it's an act of creation, and nothing else carries so much life as a monochromatic interplay of shadow and light. A simple graphite rendering can haunt you for the rest of your days. I could never have told you whose eyes I was trying to capture until I met her. It's a small, but comforting fact, that I can create a little piece of her, to cherish and revel in, just a little, when memories of her wander the halls of my heart. Today I tried writing instead.

I thought I woke up in hell last night...

It turns out I dozed off with a lit cigarette.

Except, now that it's broad daylight and I'm back in the worldly environment of my workplace, I think that maybe it was, at least, a glimpse of hell. Maybe I should recount it.

I got back from this bar where I've been spending way too much time lately. I raided the fridge to quell that drunken hunger you get, set the timer on the tube and fell asleep with the lit cigarette.

I don't really remember what it was that woke me up. Whether it was the sting of the singed quilt or the irritation caused by the smoke eludes me. I just woke up to fire, not thinking it a big deal, at first. I dabbed at the little puddles of bright orange, thinking in my stupor that if I could just put it out and go back to sleep, I could clean it all up, nice and tidy, in the morning. It reminds me of that time when I, having just woken up, tried to sush a ringing phone with my Zippo lighter from where I lay, i.e. thinking it was some sort of remote control device.

DUDE, YOU HAVE AN INFERNO IN YOUR COT!

I understood, although very gradually, what the hell had happened. The whole room was engulfed by smoke and the quilt mom bought me for new year's was half gone. I felt sheer "how could this happen" shock at the predicament I'd put myself in. Had I hit bottom? I think so. I grabbed the ashtray and flung it across the room, shattering it to smithereens. When I calmed the fuck down I made sure that nothing else was burning and went back to sleep.

I will now make a list of resolutions to get my shit back together. Don't smoke in bed leads the list.

Being a single, semi-educated alcoholic with an eating disorder in a deadend job is beginning to pall.

On Saturday I moved into my first apartment and am now trying to get everything all setup, including telephone and internet. I am currently without both, so my existence is quite limited, thank goodness for a cell phone. I signed up via the web with SBC and waited my service technician on the promised date. He never showed up, suprise suprise. So this morning I called customer service and scheduled a new apointment. Guess I have to wait for the internet and phone. Means I can spend time with my favorite addiction.

It's very interesting not having anyone else living with you. Things are very quiet and I find myself not talking to anyone for the entire time that I am in my apartment. The first two days I felt like I was a guest in a hotel, it didn't feel like home to me. But after 3 days of living there it finaly feels like home.

Thats an interesting idea, home. What makes something a home. I'm sure Webster has a great definition, but what makes something feel like home? Is it just where you sleep? Or is it something more... Just a thought for me to ponder during work today.

A while ago, one frustrated noder pondered the question "Who do I have to blow to get a C! around here?" Needless to say the offending writeup was quickly removed, along with all attempts to revive it. While this was never officially answered, I have a similar question, although much less vulgar, "What do I have to do to get my president impeached?"

George W. Bush will hopefully go down in history as one of this country's worst presidents. Sure, he didn't tromp around on the constitution like one Richard Nixon, but how can anyone really like this guy? He ruined the budget, which was balanced thanks to a reformed pot-head and declared war for, uhm ... wait. Why did he declare war again? Weapons of Mass Destruction? Spread of Democracy? Saddamn wanted daddy dead? Like the number of licks to the center of a tootsie roll pop, the world may never know.

Bush currently wants to spread is love of word-mispronouncetion to other places around the globe. Next in his sights, the African nation of Liberia. The president of Liberia, one Charles Taylor, is seeking asylum in Nigeria, but according to todays New York Times, he hasn't packed up his bags yet and violence, just like in middle school, might be necessary.

One cannot help but ponder what's next? Will Bush turn and help out the Beastie Boys and hippies by freeing Tibet? What about a full-scale shock and awe to release Mumia? Or the crazed tyranny of bad American beer? Does anyone else get this overwhelming feeling of Manifest Destiny 2: This time it's personal?

Bush's plan for re-election is going to start soon, just over 2 months away, on September 11, 2003. Is it just me, or shouldn't the president be more focused on the job at hand, rather than re-election? I know, I know, if you get re-elected to keep your job longer, the phat pad, the supreme power, the media attention, but shouldn't your actions as president speak louder than silly tv commercials? I knew a long time ago I was not your average american, nor do I ever want to be. I don't listen to commercials, I don't hop onto trends, I do love sports, beer and barbecue though. I also have a strange desire to be president. I think it's my megalomania talking, but I can't be too sure. I just know that if the democrats don't get their shit in order, I'm voting for Bill again. Maybe Nader.

Ahmed is one of my girlfriend's cats. He's a three year old white, fluffy, somewhat blind, happy cat. Except for Sunday, when we went over to her apartment and he was acting funny. Just sitting there, not really moving a lot, and this is a cat that does not sit still, ever. Her other cat Ivan was noticeably upset about this, too. We opened the patio door and Ahmed started outside while we packed up some things in the kicthen. Then I heard him mew. Ahmed has never made a sound, ever.

I went outside and had a look at him. He lay on the ground, no real energy to speak of. I grabbed him to pick him up and he let out a big cry. Not good. Since it was Sunday, and there are no god damn vets open on Sunday, we decided to take him to my house to watch him until Monday morning.

After getting him home, and observing him struggle to urinate and vomit a few times, we took him to the Madison County Emergency Animal Clinic. This is a 24-hour clinic-of-last-resort. We showed up about 4:30. There were 6 or 8 people in line in front of us already, in a very small waiting room that already smelled like shit and vomit. I had Ahmed in my arms, and Carolyn was not doing so well either. I had no choice but to sit on the floor. Some people showed up with a tiny little dog they said had eaten some poison mushrooms while on a July 4th trip to Florida. The little guy looked to be 1 step away from death. Some other people's dog had been shot by some crazy neighbors. Another couple found out their dog had parvo and was going to die. This was not shaping up to be a good afternoon. Ahmed's stomach was so sensitive and he was overheating. He was letting out a cry every five minutes and was constantly struggling with me to let him go. A man then walked in carrying a large dog in his arms. Said the dog had been chasing the frisbee with him in his front yard and tripped, and tumbled head over heels. 45 minutes later we found out the dog had broken his spine and would likely die.

Ahmed got seen after an hour and a half of waiting. The vet said she thought he had urinary tract blockage and wanted to perform a string of things on him. They quoted us between $700 and $900 for these things, which probably would have cost $150 at our regular vet's office. They couldn't even assure us that this would determine for sure what was wrong with him. Our regular vet opened in another 12 hours. We got them to give Ahmed an antiinflammatory and took him home, and prayed that he would be okay until the morning.

Carolyn and I did not sleep Sunday night. Ahmed did not eat, and vomited back up the water we forced him to drink. He curled up in the bathroom and did not move. At 7:00 Monday morning we took him to my regular vet. I trust my vet. He went to Auburn University, arguably the best veterinary school in the United States. We left Ahmed with him. They said they would let us know.

Last night we discovered that everything the emergency vet told us was wrong. Ahmed had over a period of time been eating and swallowing pieces of plastic bags. Supermarket bags, Wal-Mart bags. Things like that. These things had created large blockages in his colon. The vet gave Ahmed some enemas. They cleared out the largest blockage, which was putting pressure on his bladder. I saw the x-ray this morning, and it was horrible. I understand now why Ahmed let out such a cry whenever I moved him. The vet said Ahmed didn't move all day yesterday. Ahmed bounced all over the exam room this morning, and was so happy to see us. He is better. He still has a smaller piece in him which the vet says will probably pass soon, but Ahmed has to start eating again. They are going to try to get him to eat something today and see if it will pass.

I love my cat.