And while I'm reading, I fall asleep. Light sleep, widthwise across the bed, unintended sleep. I awake startled, what time is it? where is she? Oh my god, I've fallen asleep with my child here alone--it's been two hours--"JENNA!?" Nothing, and with my heart outside of myself, I run up and down the stairs three times, "JENNA!?" it is my terror yelling for her, sure she is gone, already in that place of her being gone, of loss-dread, before I remember that she is not supposed to be here, she is with her aunt, that I drove her there three hours ago, that she's not supposed to answer me, because she is not here, she is there, and I have been dream writing, sleeping on the edge of loss again.
May 25, 2002
she was under the covers
I was looking for Cixous all morning. I looked upstairs/downstairs, trying to remember where I sat when I last read her, last night, or was it today? I found her just now, under the covers. As I wind in and out between work and unwork, I think of her, open her again. Rootprints. I understand what Calle-Gruber writes, but I live what Cixous writes. And so, it's to her text I'm drawn.
Helene Cixous, the space between the words, between notes, the silence between songs, the gap between knowing and not knowing, the place that isn't a place between suffering and joy. That is where she finds her words. So much power. She is the ladder down, not up. She is neither the journey, nor the destination; she is the quiet moment leaning back against the tree at the side of the road. She is not the desolving or the manifestation, she is the waiting.
And just now, I am reading her, she is reading me. About Love. Dare we? Let's.
Cixous: "There is a point where the unknown begins. The secret other, the other secret, the other itself. The other that the other does not know. What is beautiful in the relation to the other, that moves us, what overwhelms us the most -- that is love -- is when we glimpse a part of what is secret to him or her, what is hidden, that the other does not see; as if there were a window by which we see a certain heart beating. And this secret that we take by surprise, we do not speak of it; we keep it. That is to say, we keep it: we do not touch it. We know, for example, where the other's vulnerable heart is situated; and we do not touch it; we leave it intact. This is love."
Re-read it. Do you see? The window, the heart. Open, vulnerable, the thinnest of membranes between you and the other, between love and abandonment, and you do not break that membrane. You see it; it would be easy. You could poke it, prod some, or simply point attention to it. But you don't. You hush. You keep it. You keep it *for* the other. The comfort of having the secret remain so.
And more from Cixous on love:
"There are things that we do not understand because we could never reproduce them: behaviours, decisions that seem foreign to us. This also is love. It is to find one has arrived at the point where the immense foreign territory of the other will begin. We sense the immensity, the reach, the richness of it, this attracts us. This does not mean that we ever discover it. I can imagine that this infinite foreignness could be menacing; disturbing. It also can be quite the opposite: exalting, wonderful, and in the end, of the same species as God: we do not know what it is. It is the biggest; it is far off. At the end of the path of attention, of reception, which is not interrupted but which continues into what little by little becomes the opposite of comprehension. Loving not knowing. Loving: not knowing."
Helene Cixous, the space between the words, between notes, the silence between songs, the gap between knowing and not knowing, the place that isn't a place between suffering and joy. That is where she finds her words. So much power. She is the ladder down, not up. She is neither the journey, nor the destination; she is the quiet moment leaning back against the tree at the side of the road. She is not the desolving or the manifestation, she is the waiting.
And just now, I am reading her, she is reading me. About Love. Dare we? Let's.
Cixous: "There is a point where the unknown begins. The secret other, the other secret, the other itself. The other that the other does not know. What is beautiful in the relation to the other, that moves us, what overwhelms us the most -- that is love -- is when we glimpse a part of what is secret to him or her, what is hidden, that the other does not see; as if there were a window by which we see a certain heart beating. And this secret that we take by surprise, we do not speak of it; we keep it. That is to say, we keep it: we do not touch it. We know, for example, where the other's vulnerable heart is situated; and we do not touch it; we leave it intact. This is love."
Re-read it. Do you see? The window, the heart. Open, vulnerable, the thinnest of membranes between you and the other, between love and abandonment, and you do not break that membrane. You see it; it would be easy. You could poke it, prod some, or simply point attention to it. But you don't. You hush. You keep it. You keep it *for* the other. The comfort of having the secret remain so.
And more from Cixous on love:
"There are things that we do not understand because we could never reproduce them: behaviours, decisions that seem foreign to us. This also is love. It is to find one has arrived at the point where the immense foreign territory of the other will begin. We sense the immensity, the reach, the richness of it, this attracts us. This does not mean that we ever discover it. I can imagine that this infinite foreignness could be menacing; disturbing. It also can be quite the opposite: exalting, wonderful, and in the end, of the same species as God: we do not know what it is. It is the biggest; it is far off. At the end of the path of attention, of reception, which is not interrupted but which continues into what little by little becomes the opposite of comprehension. Loving not knowing. Loving: not knowing."
AKMA Isn't Bill Bennett
But Mike Slanders would like to make them bedfellows. AKMA takes exception. As usual, with kindness and brilliance. "Don't worry your heads about those nuances; just trust us." Thanks AKMA.
giggle
It's already on its way up daypop, so it doesn't need my help, but I'm pointing to it anyway because it's a laugh. Take em where you can get em.
grand illusions
The thing about deciding to stay up all night and work is that you forget you have a child who gets up at 7 a.m., whether or not you stay up all night. And so ugh. IV Coffee please. The night was delightful, made so by one Mary Lu Wehmeier, who induldged me in an hour-long--or was it two--IM conversation, discovering and uncovering that we are all separated by one sixth of a degree, not six degrees, here in Blogaria. Homes and homelands, roots and passions. And Mary, trying to disconnect me from all my wires so I can blog outside. A treasure of an evening.
May 24, 2002
Shelley Powers IS The Center Of My Universe
Fucking bloggers. Or whater this Lemur considers itself in slicing and dicing Shelley halfway to Sunday. I read what Shelley said about realtime blogging. I think, well, she's got a point here. Maybe there's a less disruptive way to do it. A designated blogee to the world. But, she's got a point. Try to get a laugh as you rant across a room of 50 sets of clacking fingers.
Then I read Shelley's reaction to the shit that's been thrown her way over this issue, and some others. And I start to think a little more. And my blood starts to boil from the criticism she's been getting. Because while I'm reading all this stuff, Shelley is hard at work, for free, helping this fellow blogger debug her template and fix permalinks, all without being asked or thinking twice about it.
THAT's the kind of person Shelley is. Anyone following the ebb and flow of Blog Sisters knows that Shelley and I don't always see eye to eye. She's taken me to task more than once over my theories of unopposed estrogen (heh). And I don't always agree with her. But I do respect her and value her among the highest-caliber voices in blogaria today. And I adore her passion. She unleashes it in virtually every post, and it's beautiful and powerful and electric.
And beyond than that, Shelley don't take no shit. Instead of trying to tear her down, we should support the foundation that is her voice.
Thanks Shelley.
Then I read Shelley's reaction to the shit that's been thrown her way over this issue, and some others. And I start to think a little more. And my blood starts to boil from the criticism she's been getting. Because while I'm reading all this stuff, Shelley is hard at work, for free, helping this fellow blogger debug her template and fix permalinks, all without being asked or thinking twice about it.
THAT's the kind of person Shelley is. Anyone following the ebb and flow of Blog Sisters knows that Shelley and I don't always see eye to eye. She's taken me to task more than once over my theories of unopposed estrogen (heh). And I don't always agree with her. But I do respect her and value her among the highest-caliber voices in blogaria today. And I adore her passion. She unleashes it in virtually every post, and it's beautiful and powerful and electric.
And beyond than that, Shelley don't take no shit. Instead of trying to tear her down, we should support the foundation that is her voice.
Thanks Shelley.
all nighter, anyone?
Well, my mess of an email situation seems to be healing, and I have long distance help on my template--fingers clacking away somehwere in Blogaria, on another coast--but more on that later. Tonight I'm up for some kind of all nighter, with work I've tossed aside, work I've already been paid for. That's not nice. I need to do it. And to blog, and read, and think. There is an energy that comes from greeting the day without sleep, no? Awake, so that terror can't sneak up on you. No surprises. Dreams. Spending the night awake--an unnight.
And if we were all in my woods this evening, in our blogosphere, we'd be hanging out in the main blog room, futons and fireplaces, laptops and lanterns, fire, wind, moon, giving our voices to the night.
See you later (and later).
And if we were all in my woods this evening, in our blogosphere, we'd be hanging out in the main blog room, futons and fireplaces, laptops and lanterns, fire, wind, moon, giving our voices to the night.
See you later (and later).
just so irked
It appears that the email migration I've suffered through at work is having some unintended glitches--not the least of which is delayed sending of my mail by days. So if you received an email from me today that seems like I wrote it, oh, say, days ago, I probably did. For anyone used to sending to me at my ketchum mail address, if you need to reach me, please use the ewriter@bellsouth.net address for now.
Crap. I'm scattered like Waffle House hashbrowns.
Crap. I'm scattered like Waffle House hashbrowns.
the first person....
to tell me what code I need in my template, precisely (from blogbody or whatever it is onward to the end of blogbody) that will let me add permalinks by post (rather than linking to the week of the post) wins the cashew brittle I wrote about on 5/19, "The Score." Free shipping inside the U.S. I'll fricking autograph the box for you even.
May 23, 2002
entredeux
I can't tell you the world I have found in Helene Cixous. If you've been around here for a while, you've seen me journey through her Three Steps on the Ladder of Writing, a book that helped launch this Blog, led me to my otherness, unliving, agony, writing/dying/living. I was then, and am still now, wrapped up in these things. So tonight, I decide to open the box of seven new books I splurged on, freshly arrived from Amazon. There are six books I really need to read first. Right away actually. But I don't.
I can't. I have to open her. Have her open me.
And I open Rootprints : Memory and Life Writing, where I stumble immediately onto the notion of entredeux, which Cixous calls a place of in between, "between a life which is ending and a life which is beginning."
I have lived there. Unthere. Entredeux. That powerful, agonizing chasm, between was and is, and between is and will. Entredeux. Words unformed, voice unspoken, jagged nails claw the earth from a grave not yet dug. A place where I mourn for a death still living, where I hear songs unwritten. Exiled at home. entredeux.
She's doing it to me again.
And this...from Ms. Cixous....in her own words:
"For me, an entredeux is: nothing. It is a moment in a life where you are not entirely living, where you are almost dead. where you are not dead. Where you are not yet in the process of reliving. These are innumerable moments that touch with the bereavements of all sorts. Either there is bereavement between me, vilolently, from the loss of a being who is part of me -- as if a piece of my body, of my house, were ruined, collapsed. Or, for example, the bereavement that the appearance of a grave illness in oneself must be. Everything that makes up the course of life interrupted.
"In this case we find ourself in a situation for which we are absolutely not prepared. Human beings are eqipped for daily life, with its rites, with its closure, its commodities, its furniture. When an event arrives which evicts us from ourselves, we do not know how to 'live.' But we must. Thus, we are launched into a space-time whose coordinates are all different from those we have always been accustomed to. In addition these violent situations are always new. Always. At no moment can a previous bereavement serve as a model. It is, frightfully, all new: this is one of the most important experiences of our human histories. At times we are thrown into strangeness. This being abroad at home is what I call entredeux. Wars cause entredeux in the histories of countries. But the worst war is the war where the enemy is on the inside; where the enemy is the person I love most in the world, is myself."
I can't. I have to open her. Have her open me.
And I open Rootprints : Memory and Life Writing, where I stumble immediately onto the notion of entredeux, which Cixous calls a place of in between, "between a life which is ending and a life which is beginning."
I have lived there. Unthere. Entredeux. That powerful, agonizing chasm, between was and is, and between is and will. Entredeux. Words unformed, voice unspoken, jagged nails claw the earth from a grave not yet dug. A place where I mourn for a death still living, where I hear songs unwritten. Exiled at home. entredeux.
She's doing it to me again.
And this...from Ms. Cixous....in her own words:
"For me, an entredeux is: nothing. It is a moment in a life where you are not entirely living, where you are almost dead. where you are not dead. Where you are not yet in the process of reliving. These are innumerable moments that touch with the bereavements of all sorts. Either there is bereavement between me, vilolently, from the loss of a being who is part of me -- as if a piece of my body, of my house, were ruined, collapsed. Or, for example, the bereavement that the appearance of a grave illness in oneself must be. Everything that makes up the course of life interrupted.
"In this case we find ourself in a situation for which we are absolutely not prepared. Human beings are eqipped for daily life, with its rites, with its closure, its commodities, its furniture. When an event arrives which evicts us from ourselves, we do not know how to 'live.' But we must. Thus, we are launched into a space-time whose coordinates are all different from those we have always been accustomed to. In addition these violent situations are always new. Always. At no moment can a previous bereavement serve as a model. It is, frightfully, all new: this is one of the most important experiences of our human histories. At times we are thrown into strangeness. This being abroad at home is what I call entredeux. Wars cause entredeux in the histories of countries. But the worst war is the war where the enemy is on the inside; where the enemy is the person I love most in the world, is myself."
this is hip
You can't have a bad day when you're listening to Tower of Power jam "What Is Hip?" into your skin as loud as you can possibly stand it.
note to papa: I took the blanket off the gretsch kit today and pounded pretty good. make a daddy proud. ;-)
note to papa: I took the blanket off the gretsch kit today and pounded pretty good. make a daddy proud. ;-)
looking for new talent
If you have a blog that's not on my blogroll and you think it ought to be, leave a comment here. Lookin' for new talent.
happy day
My neighbor yelled across the street to me today, "Hey, it's like we've got somebody else's weather!" And I'm thinking, that's exactly what it's like. This is an amazing week here in Atlanta. No humidity, blinding sun, cool temps, green everywhere, and happy people. Happy people. Unusual for a town that dubs itself, "The city too busy to hate." If you live here, you don't think twice about that moniker. Unless you think twice. And you say, hey, I guess that's as good a reason as any not to hate. Just too damn busy.
But back to the weather. Usually, by the end of May, we are a bunch of hot, cursing, road raging, sweaty, pissed off displaced northerners, wondering why the hell we ever moved south. May is summer here, a lot late July back home. But this week, and even last, have been a sweet out-of-season dream for us all. Cool days, crisp nights. Sit out on the porch, light one up, and think, yes, this is why we're here.
Laughing, smiling, taking a break from the "too busy to hate" thing, it's like we're all on some vacation from hell. Which, in fact, we just may be.
So, what I want to know is this: Elaine, is this your doing? And if so, let me know what I have to do to make it stick. I'll dance, sweat, strip and bathe myself in the eternal springs of Blogaria. Whatever. Just don't let it stop.
But back to the weather. Usually, by the end of May, we are a bunch of hot, cursing, road raging, sweaty, pissed off displaced northerners, wondering why the hell we ever moved south. May is summer here, a lot late July back home. But this week, and even last, have been a sweet out-of-season dream for us all. Cool days, crisp nights. Sit out on the porch, light one up, and think, yes, this is why we're here.
Laughing, smiling, taking a break from the "too busy to hate" thing, it's like we're all on some vacation from hell. Which, in fact, we just may be.
So, what I want to know is this: Elaine, is this your doing? And if so, let me know what I have to do to make it stick. I'll dance, sweat, strip and bathe myself in the eternal springs of Blogaria. Whatever. Just don't let it stop.
May 22, 2002
dancin for dad
Tonight she comes downstairs, in tie-dye t-shirt and underwear she picked out on her own, "I'm ready for my show." And that means, it's time for the Jackson Five (the o-l-d Jackson Five). It's time for her to boogie. She hides behind the wall, I press play on the CD player, and I'm transported to a living room show, just for me, and for Daddy far away....
Stop! The love you save may be your own,
Darling, take it slow
Or some day you'll be all alone.
You'd better stop the love you save may be your own,
Darling, look both ways before you cross me
You're headed for the danger zone.
And she bops on 2 and 4, just like she should, and her little hand makes a stop sign in all the right places, her pony tail keeps time. She's centered just behind the beat, right where she should be, shoulders back, chin out.
The babyblogger is ON.
Stop! The love you save may be your own,
Darling, take it slow
Or some day you'll be all alone.
You'd better stop the love you save may be your own,
Darling, look both ways before you cross me
You're headed for the danger zone.
And she bops on 2 and 4, just like she should, and her little hand makes a stop sign in all the right places, her pony tail keeps time. She's centered just behind the beat, right where she should be, shoulders back, chin out.
The babyblogger is ON.
Anthurian
So here he is, as promised, and added to my blogroll. Anthurian. His blog is new, so let's bring him along with us, okay guys? That means link. His voice is nice. This is a guy I've worked with for years, and never knew, until now. Because we're here more than there. And that means it's a wonderous time; it's starting to come true.
May 21, 2002
I'm telling you people, it's happening.
I'm at work today. Those of you who know me understand that this, in itself, is a rare event. Anyway, the IS guy is migrating my laptop to Outlook from Netscape Mail, which we've used there for the last few years. And while I'm glad to go back to my old friend Outlook, I'm not so glad to be using some less-than-perfect webmail version since I do work mainly from home. Ah well. I could go on.
But that's not what this story is about, not really. It's about what I said to him, as he worked away magically on my faithful Dell's email app. To pass the time, I open my mouth. Surprise.
"You know what weblogs are?" I ask him.
"No. What's a weblog?"
The question you love to hate.
"Somewhere between a journal and journalism, and like that, but not like that at all." I say, and then explain how clusters of these weblogs, which are really just interconnected conversations around things people care about are springing up around, among, and between every instance of knowing that exists," or something like that, because I stopped when his eyes glazed over.
So he says, "Let me call Antonio. I bet he knows."
Anthony. A tech wiz in the web services department of our company, who works on the floor below me, someone I've passed in the corridors dozens of times, think I've been in a couple meetings with him, all without having a real conversation. That's who he's calling.
So he dials Antonio up.
"Antonio. I'm here in Jeneane's office. Do you know what a weblog is?"
I hear this: "Oh, really? okay... something like a personal site, a diary, huh. Do you have one? Oh, you do?"
At which moment I shout, "He BLOGS? Give me the phone!" and grab the receiver.
"Anthony, no way, you blog?"
"Yeh, do you?"
"YES! Seriously, man? Holy cow, I can't believe it. A blogger. I want to come hug you."
And we laugh, and we talk about what we use--I think he's still a little scared of me, but he's warming up. Says he uses Blogger too but hosts his blog on his own site [and I want to shoot myself because I lost his URL after I wrote it down... anyway... I already emailed him to get it tomorrow.] And I ask him what he blogs about, and he says a little of everything, mostly tech, and I say yah, me too, but mine's got kind of a marketing slant, and I tell him about Blog Sisters and RGE, and he takes down the addresses, pulls this very blog up on his screen while we're talking, says, Ya, I got yours right here. Cool. And I say, Hey I'll stop downstairs sometime and we can talk about it more. And we agree that would be great. And we'll do it.
To me this is a Holy Shit moment of maximum importance. A person I've been physically working with and not connecting with for what, one, maybe two years, in physical proximity, MISSING each other all the while, then bingo-bango connected in an instant. How? This web WE'RE weaving here. Not through the org charts in the office that have us in separate disciplines, on separate floors. But HERE. Right now. Check my archives. Read me. See me. Hear me. I'll know him and he'll know me, and when I get his site and put it on my blogroll, you'll know him too and he'll know you and how fucking great is the world gonna be???????????????????????????????????????????
But that's not what this story is about, not really. It's about what I said to him, as he worked away magically on my faithful Dell's email app. To pass the time, I open my mouth. Surprise.
"You know what weblogs are?" I ask him.
"No. What's a weblog?"
The question you love to hate.
"Somewhere between a journal and journalism, and like that, but not like that at all." I say, and then explain how clusters of these weblogs, which are really just interconnected conversations around things people care about are springing up around, among, and between every instance of knowing that exists," or something like that, because I stopped when his eyes glazed over.
So he says, "Let me call Antonio. I bet he knows."
Anthony. A tech wiz in the web services department of our company, who works on the floor below me, someone I've passed in the corridors dozens of times, think I've been in a couple meetings with him, all without having a real conversation. That's who he's calling.
So he dials Antonio up.
"Antonio. I'm here in Jeneane's office. Do you know what a weblog is?"
I hear this: "Oh, really? okay... something like a personal site, a diary, huh. Do you have one? Oh, you do?"
At which moment I shout, "He BLOGS? Give me the phone!" and grab the receiver.
"Anthony, no way, you blog?"
"Yeh, do you?"
"YES! Seriously, man? Holy cow, I can't believe it. A blogger. I want to come hug you."
And we laugh, and we talk about what we use--I think he's still a little scared of me, but he's warming up. Says he uses Blogger too but hosts his blog on his own site [and I want to shoot myself because I lost his URL after I wrote it down... anyway... I already emailed him to get it tomorrow.] And I ask him what he blogs about, and he says a little of everything, mostly tech, and I say yah, me too, but mine's got kind of a marketing slant, and I tell him about Blog Sisters and RGE, and he takes down the addresses, pulls this very blog up on his screen while we're talking, says, Ya, I got yours right here. Cool. And I say, Hey I'll stop downstairs sometime and we can talk about it more. And we agree that would be great. And we'll do it.
To me this is a Holy Shit moment of maximum importance. A person I've been physically working with and not connecting with for what, one, maybe two years, in physical proximity, MISSING each other all the while, then bingo-bango connected in an instant. How? This web WE'RE weaving here. Not through the org charts in the office that have us in separate disciplines, on separate floors. But HERE. Right now. Check my archives. Read me. See me. Hear me. I'll know him and he'll know me, and when I get his site and put it on my blogroll, you'll know him too and he'll know you and how fucking great is the world gonna be???????????????????????????????????????????
May 20, 2002
the touch
Today was an unremarkable day. Tonight too. Nothing extraordinary about it. Unless you count the call I got from Marek, and our plans for fixing a broken world. Yes. Although they're still forming, I'd put a check-mark in the remarkable column for that.
Then, as the day winds down, and I climb in the bed to rest beside the little girl child who came out of my body, hushing her to sleep, still feeling that place where she nested for all those months inside me, cross-legged and breech, tickling me with her toes in places a baby's feet aren't supposed to be, I realize that it is a very remarkable day.
I rest in that same place every night, until she's asleep, my mind climbing and falling away again. This night, as her hand slides up inside the sleeve of my t-shirt, up, up to the spot on my shoulder I was just thinking of scratching, a hairline of an instant before, I smile. Her nails move gently, slowly, right where they should be, but this isn't the hand of a four year old, brushing and stroking my tired shoulder. The hand is broad, calloused, heavy. The weight unmistakably male. The knowing is too deep to come from her.
Of same mind, souls tied, I think of him on the other side of the world, try to touch him back.
Then, as the day winds down, and I climb in the bed to rest beside the little girl child who came out of my body, hushing her to sleep, still feeling that place where she nested for all those months inside me, cross-legged and breech, tickling me with her toes in places a baby's feet aren't supposed to be, I realize that it is a very remarkable day.
I rest in that same place every night, until she's asleep, my mind climbing and falling away again. This night, as her hand slides up inside the sleeve of my t-shirt, up, up to the spot on my shoulder I was just thinking of scratching, a hairline of an instant before, I smile. Her nails move gently, slowly, right where they should be, but this isn't the hand of a four year old, brushing and stroking my tired shoulder. The hand is broad, calloused, heavy. The weight unmistakably male. The knowing is too deep to come from her.
Of same mind, souls tied, I think of him on the other side of the world, try to touch him back.
May 19, 2002
The Score
The whole reason I decided to go to K-Mart was to find a new digital camera. Well, that was one reason. Also because everything there is almost free, and I hadn't been out of the house in days. We need a new digital camera because I can't find our old one. Turned this place upside down. Inside out. On the other side of the world, Papa's waiting for pics of his sweet baby. Sony nowhere to be found. I have suspicions. I try to push them to the back of my mind. Don't want to think what I think happened to it.
But the matter is, I need a camera and a cheap one. I hit the aisles thinking, if I can find one at half price or less, I'm going to buy it. If I find the Sony, then we'll have two. So what. Doesn't everyone?
I head back to electronics, high with the possibilities, only to find that it's gutted. Doesn't exist anymore. Roped off with crime scene tape, or its nearest cousin, "caution." Shit. I should have left the house days ago. Let this be a lesson to us all. Leave the house at least every other day. New mantra for me.
Since I was there, I decided to check out the rest of the stock, which was thin but interesting. Luggage had possibilities. Two shelves left, but nothing was marked, and I had visions of standing on line forever only to find out I couldn't afford it. My resolve: Don't put anything in my cart that doesnt' have a price on it. Move on. More aisles to explore.
I see the picture frames. Rows and rows of them. I wonder why? The age of digital. Who frames pictures anymore. I see the sign above the frames, appealing to the webless, "Frames 75% off... Preserving memories for generations." No thanks, I blog.
My reason for being here gone, I wonder what I'm looking for. Fake nails were 75% off. pass. Makeup 75% off. pass. Patio chairs, pass. A shelf load of d-CON. I wonder why. pass. I hear a guy talking to his wife, or I think it's his wife. He's holding a cheapy PDA. Regularly $30. What could it do for $30, now 50% off?
"You need the Web for that," she tells him.
"Hell, I know that," he says.
She thinks about it for a minute, puts it in the cart and says, "Happy Father's Day." I wonder if she's thinking it's about time her man gets online, checks out some of those girly sites, brings new tricks to the bedroom. I wonder if he's thinking, finally, gonna get me some net. Jenna Jameson, here I come. But it's the "Happy Father's Day" that touches my heart. No, really.
Keep walking. Score some notebooks. Happy about that, since I've started writing things down again.
Cat food for my next door neighbor's cats--only $1.00 for the bag. I can't resist. Damn cats are always in my house. Our neighbor has been away in rehab since January, and even though folks stop by and feed his four cats once in a while, they are wild in their wanting, for food and strokes. For a buck, I can make them happy all week. Money well spent.
I happen upon a shelf that makes me smile. Loaded with shower heads. Has to be at least 50 of them, of all designs and colors. Massage this, relax that. Calgon take me away. I need a new one anyhow, being that the one we have is leaking now in places it shouldn't, so I look closer. Wow. check this one out:
The Interbath Rio. Refreshing showers from 72 spray channels. Powerful, variable speed massage, combination sprays, and trickle valve. Lifetime warranty to boot. I toss it in the cart before I look closer, where at the top of the plastic box, I see words from the marketing hacks written just for me:
"Escape without Leaving Home."
A+ for the Interbath positionig exercise that uncovered my urgent need.
I'm thinking it's time to go. As I head to the checkout I see another goodie I can't pass up. Called JaimIt, from Jam, it's "The digital sound mixer for online fun." Okay. Let's check it out. Records, warps, syncs, and shares voice online. Adds sounds to pictures. No, I don't really need it, but let's see how much. Regularly $50. Turns out with the discount it's $10. And what sold me: $20 rebate waiting for me online. So, in a nutshell, it's free, and if a really stupid rep opens my rebate envelope, I stand to make $10 on the deal.
I toss it in, thinking I should buy them all and sell 'em on ebay, but don't want to front the money. Decide to be happy with what I found and go home. Find out later it's a good thing, since no one seems to be buying.
Checkout was uneventful. Surprisingly. And I'm heading back to my Pacer on steroids, when a kid walks up to me. Red jersey, #64, hip-hop and bad as a motherfucker, but trying not to be, one foot in gangstahood, one foot on the right track. He's got a box. He's selling if I'm buying. Peanut brittle. I don't like peanut brittle, but I like the kid.
Gives me his rap, something about staying off drugs, off the street, selling this peanut brittle to raise money for something or other. Tries to shove a piece of paper into my hand that explains it better than he can, but I don't need the paper.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Kielan," he says.
"Let me see what you've got in there," I say looking in the box, where I found his loot wasn't selling so well. Maybe one's gone. I'm thinking, in Kennesaw, Georgia, Kielan, you're lucky they haven't run you off this lot by now.
"How much for the cashew-nut brittle?"
"$5.00"
I open my purse, look through my ones, hand them one at a time as I rummage through and find them, just seeing if he bolts with $3 or waits to finish the deal. And he does wait. We finish the transaction, I tell him good luck, and he walks across the parkinglot, stands a gainst a lamp pole. I decide to sit there for a few minutes in the van, seeing if he goes up to anyone else. He doesn't. Of course, I already knew that.
My big question now, besides how do I hook up this new shower head, is who wants the cashew brittle? I haven't opened it. I don't like the stuff. Any takers? I'll send it free to the person who makes the 15th comment on this post, unless you're international. Then you pay shipping.
Get busy. Maybe you can score too. Bring a little bit of Kielan into your day.
But the matter is, I need a camera and a cheap one. I hit the aisles thinking, if I can find one at half price or less, I'm going to buy it. If I find the Sony, then we'll have two. So what. Doesn't everyone?
I head back to electronics, high with the possibilities, only to find that it's gutted. Doesn't exist anymore. Roped off with crime scene tape, or its nearest cousin, "caution." Shit. I should have left the house days ago. Let this be a lesson to us all. Leave the house at least every other day. New mantra for me.
Since I was there, I decided to check out the rest of the stock, which was thin but interesting. Luggage had possibilities. Two shelves left, but nothing was marked, and I had visions of standing on line forever only to find out I couldn't afford it. My resolve: Don't put anything in my cart that doesnt' have a price on it. Move on. More aisles to explore.
I see the picture frames. Rows and rows of them. I wonder why? The age of digital. Who frames pictures anymore. I see the sign above the frames, appealing to the webless, "Frames 75% off... Preserving memories for generations." No thanks, I blog.
My reason for being here gone, I wonder what I'm looking for. Fake nails were 75% off. pass. Makeup 75% off. pass. Patio chairs, pass. A shelf load of d-CON. I wonder why. pass. I hear a guy talking to his wife, or I think it's his wife. He's holding a cheapy PDA. Regularly $30. What could it do for $30, now 50% off?
"You need the Web for that," she tells him.
"Hell, I know that," he says.
She thinks about it for a minute, puts it in the cart and says, "Happy Father's Day." I wonder if she's thinking it's about time her man gets online, checks out some of those girly sites, brings new tricks to the bedroom. I wonder if he's thinking, finally, gonna get me some net. Jenna Jameson, here I come. But it's the "Happy Father's Day" that touches my heart. No, really.
Keep walking. Score some notebooks. Happy about that, since I've started writing things down again.
Cat food for my next door neighbor's cats--only $1.00 for the bag. I can't resist. Damn cats are always in my house. Our neighbor has been away in rehab since January, and even though folks stop by and feed his four cats once in a while, they are wild in their wanting, for food and strokes. For a buck, I can make them happy all week. Money well spent.
I happen upon a shelf that makes me smile. Loaded with shower heads. Has to be at least 50 of them, of all designs and colors. Massage this, relax that. Calgon take me away. I need a new one anyhow, being that the one we have is leaking now in places it shouldn't, so I look closer. Wow. check this one out:
The Interbath Rio. Refreshing showers from 72 spray channels. Powerful, variable speed massage, combination sprays, and trickle valve. Lifetime warranty to boot. I toss it in the cart before I look closer, where at the top of the plastic box, I see words from the marketing hacks written just for me:
"Escape without Leaving Home."
A+ for the Interbath positionig exercise that uncovered my urgent need.
I'm thinking it's time to go. As I head to the checkout I see another goodie I can't pass up. Called JaimIt, from Jam, it's "The digital sound mixer for online fun." Okay. Let's check it out. Records, warps, syncs, and shares voice online. Adds sounds to pictures. No, I don't really need it, but let's see how much. Regularly $50. Turns out with the discount it's $10. And what sold me: $20 rebate waiting for me online. So, in a nutshell, it's free, and if a really stupid rep opens my rebate envelope, I stand to make $10 on the deal.
I toss it in, thinking I should buy them all and sell 'em on ebay, but don't want to front the money. Decide to be happy with what I found and go home. Find out later it's a good thing, since no one seems to be buying.
Checkout was uneventful. Surprisingly. And I'm heading back to my Pacer on steroids, when a kid walks up to me. Red jersey, #64, hip-hop and bad as a motherfucker, but trying not to be, one foot in gangstahood, one foot on the right track. He's got a box. He's selling if I'm buying. Peanut brittle. I don't like peanut brittle, but I like the kid.
Gives me his rap, something about staying off drugs, off the street, selling this peanut brittle to raise money for something or other. Tries to shove a piece of paper into my hand that explains it better than he can, but I don't need the paper.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Kielan," he says.
"Let me see what you've got in there," I say looking in the box, where I found his loot wasn't selling so well. Maybe one's gone. I'm thinking, in Kennesaw, Georgia, Kielan, you're lucky they haven't run you off this lot by now.
"How much for the cashew-nut brittle?"
"$5.00"
I open my purse, look through my ones, hand them one at a time as I rummage through and find them, just seeing if he bolts with $3 or waits to finish the deal. And he does wait. We finish the transaction, I tell him good luck, and he walks across the parkinglot, stands a gainst a lamp pole. I decide to sit there for a few minutes in the van, seeing if he goes up to anyone else. He doesn't. Of course, I already knew that.
My big question now, besides how do I hook up this new shower head, is who wants the cashew brittle? I haven't opened it. I don't like the stuff. Any takers? I'll send it free to the person who makes the 15th comment on this post, unless you're international. Then you pay shipping.
Get busy. Maybe you can score too. Bring a little bit of Kielan into your day.
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