Archive for December, 2011

Here Comes the Free Fall

Posted in Literary Masterpieces, Loves, Personal work, Rants with tags , , , , , on December 23, 2011 by ccartlidge

Apparently, I was wrong: I am a force of nature. In all the wrong ways I feel like a tornado whirling through the remnants of a beautifully decrepit midwestern barn, a miserable hailstorm ruining a perfectly good crop or Hurricane Katrina barreling towards an assuredly ill-prepared New Orleans.

I wish I could say I only hurt myself. I can’t though. The barn is a pile of centuries-old wood chips, the crop is toast, and New Orleans is a shell of its former self. It was a soulful place with lots of lovely magnolias and above-ground cemeteries. And now? Cockroaches. Huge fucking cockroaches living among the ruins of the city. They say justice comes swift and I feel it coming for me soon. It’s deserved. I’ll consider myself lucky if it comes quickly, as I would be tortured waiting for the other shoe to drop. In retrospect, it seems quite naïve to think about riding that high wave all the way to the shore.

They also say that it’s better to regret something done rather than regret something not done. This seems to imply that learning comes from mistakes made, not from easy living. What have I learned? I’ve learned that stages two through four can sometimes come all at once.

I have a headache and just now started feeling worn out. Happy Holidays.


Another post where I swoon over a Fuck Yeah blog

Posted in Loves with tags , , , on December 17, 2011 by ccartlidge

Angelica Houston is fucking gorgeous. I’m swooning over a lady now! I swear I just can’t help myself, no human is safe from Caitlyn or Frankie.

via Fuck Yeah, Sexy Atheists!

On a side note: Frankie an alter ego, my man-daemon. Frankie has been around for a few years but, until a few days ago, has remained nameless. At this point, I’ll describe him as a sexually-agressive guido frat boy who can’t do his own laundry and get’s roid-ragey when he doesn’t get his way. After I get to know him better, I’ll post an updated description of his personality. Hopefully, he turns out to be more intelligent than I’m describing him to be. I find it funny and strangely appropriate that my man-daemon is nothing like my type.

The Art of Determining the Animal by the Smell of its Shit

Posted in Literary Masterpieces, Loves, Personal work, Rants with tags , , , , , , , , on December 16, 2011 by ccartlidge

As it turns out, “Life, Death, Neutrality, Dogs” was just part one of a series based on making fermented cider from rotten apples. This part is about decisive intent being ever so rare! Fun!

Decisions are easy to make, yes they are. (No, they’re not.) They are for a number of reasons. (No, they aren’t.)

These reasons explained over the years and have become ingrained in us as a result of exposure in our collective childhoods. We are implicitly taught that life is black and white, that decisions are easy to make because the best choice is always obvious and surrounded by a bright halo and, in fact, the best choice is obvious for no other reason than only two choices ever existed in the first place. The wrong choice smells like manure on the type of summer day that turns breathable air into stifling-hot magma-gas and that’s never the best option.

I’ll leave aside personal feelings about the disgustingly corporate nature of American meat production, the unsustainable nature of raising livestock, and the fact that cow-flesh in particular is too greasy to make up for the uninspiring flavor and therefore is an unacceptably expensive meat to dislike but tolerate anyway (Or I won’t). Regardless, where halos remind me of the clinical phenomenon of organized religion, the smell of cow shit makes me nostalgic. I smell this and I’m riding the bus to school, getting secretly drunk with high school friends in an open field and eating freshly picked peas in a tree with my sister. Shit is deep.

The black-and-white posterization of life is a sometimes useful tool as art and analysis, but even then is inherently false. Cow shit smells like gray to me, even though it may just smell like shit to someone else. Most things do, although gray is sometimes green, chartreuse and bright blood-red.

That any decision at all has been easy for me to make is almost mind-boggling given the devastating amount of options to choose from, and scary too as this indicates a lack of analysis on my part. Were decisions easy because the choice was clear? Or were they easy because I wasn’t paying attention?

I wasn’t paying attention. Neither were you. The intellectual gravity of gray (and green and chartreuse and bright blood-red) is a force of nature: awesomely dark and wretchedly bright. The gray makes life worth living. Gray is the wrong choice, the best choice, and no choice at all. That shit is deep. And confusing.

Life, Death, Neutrality, Dogs.

Posted in Literary Masterpieces, Loves, Personal work, Rants with tags , , , , , , , on December 14, 2011 by ccartlidge

I’m not a writer. I just needed an activity I could take part in alone and drunk in a dark room. All people have their weaknesses, the comforting thoughts and actions that for better or worse become a temporal part of their analytical grieving process. As an attempt at growth, I’ve chosen to temporarily eschew my more instinctual, corporeal processes in favor of something more academic. So I write today.

Human life may simply be periods of grief and guilt and occasionally happiness with neutrality shoved between, like an overstuffed bookshelf. Some books are cover-less from years of reuse, others are textbooks covered in dust (because hardly anyone reads textbooks after class is over), others are gifts and still others are social buys which are only present as an homage to vanity and the wish to look a certain way to certain people. It’s unfair that dogma and social constructs fill in the neutrality with unrealistic expectation. This is a bit like proclaiming Catch-22 a classic after not being able to get all the way through and never intending to finish. All relationships with humans or dogs or inanimate objects end until one doesn’t. Even that ends in loss, however, so really all relationships end.

Death defines life and, despite best efforts, everyone dies. My parents will die. I love them. I LIKE them. Lots of people don’t have family they love and genuinely enjoy being around. I’m lucky this way (and I’m still an asshole). They’ve taught me or otherwise provided me the opportunity to learn every piece of information I know, and they are going to die one day. My only sister, one of the few people who at least pretends to understand who and why I am even if she doesn’t agree, might be continually disappointed by her students and children and get cancer and if she’s lucky will die before she gets too old to enjoy the rest of her life. And fuck my life. I’ll complain about terrible tsunamis and clear blue skies but perhaps never find another tornado equally matched. Even worse, I may not be a tornado at all but a sad, sad mist. I never want kids (because how could they turn out okay being raised in a culturally barren future-world by an angry, confused, feminist, anxious-as-fuck atheist?). I may never be calm or ridiculously talented or even be lucky enough to have a fleeting genius and I’m going to have to live with that. And then I’ll die.

All that might be true. The fact remains, however, that without horrifying inevitability, fleeting joy wouldn’t exist. Life would truly be neutral, and that would be the real tragedy.

I might get a dog. (I’ll call him Tom Selleck or Mustard Gas Dog. I like to think dog people are well-adjusted because for a few short years they have a companion who doesn’t judge and likes to cuddle.) I’ll deal with being the bad guy and learn from my mistakes. I’ll embrace the fact that I’m not nearly as charming or interesting as I’d like and stop dealing with my problems by finding other people with problems. I’ll make concessions to move on to something new.

I want to be a well-adjusted tornado so badly, but for now I’ll just deal and appreciate the truth that life averages out to neutral. Perhaps some unrealistic expectations exist simply as a reminder that lightness is an integral part of darkness.

Did I mention I’m not a fucking writer? Fuck.

The Doctor. Doctor Who?

Posted in Loves with tags , , , on December 8, 2011 by ccartlidge

Yeah, yeah, I know I’m such a damned stereotypical, hip, white, over-educated, geek-at-heart, liberal girl-with-a-crush-on-Doctor-Who. Might as well own it. It’s a bit upsetting that he’s holding a plastic bottle, though. Fuck Yeah Time Lords!

via fuckyeah! skinny guys.

(On a side note, I either need to stop giving away information about my weaknesses or just go ahead and dedicate the blog to them.)

The Uncle Jeff and Kevin with a “K” show

Posted in Loves with tags , , on December 1, 2011 by ccartlidge

I admit this is a podcast put together by friends. HOWEVER, I wouldn’t post it if I didn’t consider it worthy. If you are into dry humor, take a listen. It’s also on iTunes! Fancy! One day, they’ll humor me and put me on so I can shoot my mouth off in a partially sanctioned way. Then you’ll really be in trouble.