The Propagation

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May 29, 2005

not extemporaneous, not expository, not expounding, not explicit, not exhorting, nor explaining, exluding, na exuding...[ad inf]

^[look up there to see perhaps the one time i stopped myself from fixating on a maintaining some semblance of grammatical rectitude while using up the maximum possible words beginning with the same sound—such silly fixations…]

PLUghCE Tew / A Dos(ey) Do(h)
{and a way I go…}
Got those last two sometime Saturday, who knows when. Max actually did some push marketing. Called me up to see if I was good. Was in the neighborhood. I said “Mattera fak…” and went right now to meet him. Only had a twenty though. A rare small duece, Bruce! He had a friend with him. I leaned in to chat through the window, hand down below sill enough to drop the bill into the cupping black hand of the sidekick. I’m asking Max how it went last night at the party, did he get one’a’ those bitches he was gunnin’ for? He wasn’t as smooth and sly and sidekick and I. Maybe the talk of the bitches after 4am… He pulled out—not super high, but higher than necessary, way more visible than prudent—a large Ziplock of hundreds of the little tinies. Most I’d seen. He pulled my two. Asked me what I was up to. I said I was trying to fix my computer. Was hell. But then, I granted, maybe I was just being stupid—and as if to prove the point, said—after not having slept a week and a half, dropping a bagette on the sidewalk in the meantime. Uj, no, I mean a day and a half. D. you crazy, Max says. It’s your fault, I say. And the sidekick laughs, only noise he made whole time.

So. Yeah. Hours and hours today on fucking computers. A couple facets there to note:
- There’s been plenty of commentable stuff in the past few days, and especially, oh God of All Helioxenfreedominmatrixies, last night—Friday—and I’ve wanted to get it down, but I haven’t felt all that expressive. More busybodyish, productive, taskish, mindlessy, or something. [This began self-forcedly, but now I’ve caught a bit of the spirit.] Compu Tinkering has fit right in, there.
- And, besides-plus, wireless DSL will, I figure/ration-alize, only grease the skids for those priority projects.
- Was kicking bootay, getting both comps connected indiv’uly but all fell to shit in attempt to get ‘em networked wirelessly (to point that can’t connect at all now—back to AOhelL), was determined to figure out &conquer, wasted so much time getting no where.
- But also did some clean-up, maint on my machine, and major imps on S.’s (removing spyware, running utilities, etc.). So that putter-put paid.
- And also! and this one’s the beaut! wasted literally untold hours in between on this stupid, but kind of cool (in a stupid way, I should be ashamed of myself, and in fact am, for more reasons than that…) little “project” on my laptop’s desktop. Something I’d thought about doing as a little clevery bell-or-whistle kind of thing. Frivolous but fun, an idea, bearing…And I do kind of love it in the end, but thing is, I could have spent the time on so many muchly important things—in number of them! But, it was nice to blow that kind of productivity off (though was work, all of it, all day), &more imp’ly, do something visual (rather than, say, linguistic, or techy). And what it is, if that Gold Bond artwork I’ve had on my desktop so lovelying admired for awhile, the one with the bare-chested, surfboard holding, mouth covered Japanese woman in the middle. I cut out a photo of M. standing in the nude, sized it, etc. and lined it up perfectly with the painted Japanese woman, and then programed it so that if you click on her breasts, the real Japanese woman appears real naked. I also linked with imagemaps other parts of the painting to my music (on the horn) and other files (on the brain). I think there’s a concept in there. Plus fun. Plus sexyness. Plus utilitarian shortcuts. Good lord in hay-von it took a while!, though.
- The thing (big) that I won’t possibly be able to do justice, and won’t come close to trying, is S. woman: Look, for the record, I hate the way psycho is overused, and dismissive, and inexact, and exaggerated and often feminine and therefore undertoned of sexism, and the lot of it—besides, it’s not interesting or distinguishing diction; it sounds trashing and ever-full of the reverberating clang of a galvanize trash can classic struck with a 1945 drop-forged pipe wrench—and have therefore most hardly used it if ever deliberately. But today I applied the word, if only in my thinking, and I feel comfortable with the designation. There was the odd and intense meeting Sunday night, the sex, the fiesty, the food. [That, in itself, is so worthy a write-up; superessentially, I posted on Craigs for a bar partner, and she came all scared and deceivingly, and still we ended up in bed together, and walking toward subways and phone numbers, and eventually angry oddity.] Then her birthday week kept me waiting, in the meantime, my jets cooled as it were and the emails were more revealing, less appealing, she having a marked tendency toward drama, victimhood, anger, acusation, and inward-centered convenience. So, Fri when I was fried. I made the ol’ half-joke, this one about how crack would get me out with her for sure. Otherwise it might be bed. And then you know, when people reacted, I step up and allow it seriousness (where it would have could have been a dismissed lunacy in their mind, a secret irony in mine). So I owned up, and all holy helldom broke loose. She took it so seriously. It was if we had been married with children for 8 years and I’d hidden such thing from here all along. I didn’t understand that, try as I might. In her shoes, having only been off in my room for a few hours in totale, I’d write it right off as a mistake, good riddance, done, goodbye, o’ well. She couldn’t have been too attached to me! But no, she took it so personally, got so hurt, and so angry, and—above alllll—fully irrational. She went pretty quickly to making arrangements, on the phone that eve, for our last date. I met her for tea (chamomile for me, please), mostly just to placate…no, not even that…just oblige…do her the favor, because I already knew the little and larger things were doomed, best-wise/bestly speaking. But god, it was worse than I imagined. I think people have their talents, and specialties in faults, too. I mean, sure, everybody knows that everybody has their own faults, but I really mean it like skills. Like, I’m a big fucking pathetic loser fuck-up when it comes to engineering my moods, and that to her (and I don’t disagree) is a fucking-up I am doing exceptionally well, and as a result, she feels compelled, needy of, chastising me for it, all the while displaying her own—who knows how damaging comparatively but—equally extremely polished and practiced faultknack for contradicting herself, blurting false accusations and baseless labels of dishonesty, way-off mark assumptions, no, authoritative claims (by virture of her social work education and employment, and her growing up around plenty of addicts!) regarding how I feel, think, operate, and so on. Oh man, it was ridiculous, and she was so confused that I decided to just focus on one thing: asking her over and over and over again to not tell me I’m lying, that she had no reason to believe that, no evidence to present, and that it was simiply not true, and that if, as she claimed, she wanted to understand (which was total bullshit, at least for a while) she’d have to listen and take my word for it—no point in asking a question for which you will accept no answer. Ok, I’m writing this all out and don’t want to, can’t—already uneven…

I had to leave. Didn’t want to, never done that before, didn’t feel good about it, but I tried and it was just non-negotiable so against her protests and then pleading, I walked off.

Course she showed up at the house a few minutes after me. I graciously invite her in. She hesitated. Weird. Anyway, it calmed down. Conversation got a little more respectful and productive. But would get bad again later, but just temporarily.

Eventually, it’s all out anyway, I need to smoke. At first furtively, or/also trying to respect her deal. But eventually, as crack smoking goes, I’m just toking on it helplessly like the teat of my nursing mother. This of course makes me look more pathetic than generalizable (sure, I’m generally pathetic, but now she knows that pretty much 100% of her time with me, I’m cracked to the crack). It also gives her fodder for the cannon. But geez my Heloise, am I supposed to pass through that ordeal, having already started the smoking, without that soft support right there burning a hole as it were in my pocket? I should think not.

Eventually she wants hugs and kisses. A little petting happens too. But I help her out by about 3am before I get really ugly. She hugs me for forever on the corner where I walk her too. I try to pull away after 20 minutes tactfully so as not to get in trouble and prolong the whole thing. She saunters off, looking back every few steps while I stand there. God. Hmm.

Then I call Max. He’s at a loud bumpin’ party. He makes it around by about 4a, after I drink a liter of Becks and smolder my resin. Through the car window I tell him my feelings are hurt he didn’t invite me to the party. He hollers right back with Aww, D, I would’ve invited you, but I didn’t know you wanted to come, what you were doing [something like that, my memory be damned, less than 24 hours ago, and can’t keep it in stock]. Next time! Thanks for leaving the party, I say. Oaw, yeah, I look after you, D. You gonna go back, I wonder. Yes, he’s going to go get him one of those bitches over there, dancin’. I tell/tease him I thought he was married, after he came by with a girl and a baby in the backseat. Aw, no! That was such and such a situation which I didn’t catch, and then he tags on after just a half-beat, baugh even if I was married, I be out there getting me some.

And then began the compuOddisea.

Posted by peligrito at May 29, 2005 1:15 AM

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