the emotional vomit of PMS

AH, PMS. How I hate you.

I am bloated, on top of which I have put on a few pounds. Well, I can't really say that, since the scale says I weigh no more than I did before, but I am visibly fatter.

Or am I? I am retardedly body dysmorphic during PMS, so how the hell do I know? Maybe I'm fine. I look like a skin encased sausage when I look in the mirror, and my hair is the most fucked up looking mess I've ever seen. My head looks like a mushroom, or maybe a helmet. Then again, when I was a kid I was convinced that I looked like Ronald McDonald, because of my "widows peak" hairline.

Huh. Seems like this body dysmorphia thing has been around for a long long time. Never thought about that before.

Anywho, I just got back from the gym, and feel vaguely suicidal. Not in that "I'm really going to do it" way, but in that, "What the fuck's the fucking point, I might as well just eat myself to death" sort of way. I bust my ass at the gym, and for what?

Now, I know most women would be happy as hell with the body I have, but I am not most women. I am me, this is my shell, and I have to walk around with it AND my psycho babbling brain. There isn't room for the both of them in here, I assure you.

Here's the thing- I have a limit of fatness. Yes. There is a clothing size, which will be my secret for now, that I refuse to allow myself to get over. That way, when I get into my biggest jeans and they don't fit, I have only one option- diet. It's that or suffer in painfully tight clothes, which is a powerful motivator, I assure you. Plus, vanity absolutely forbids that I should walk around looking like a blob stuffed into spandex. I flatly REFUSE.

(sigh) But then I have days like this, for about two weeks before my period, where I go fucking wack-o and think I'm a cow. And since I'm constantly hovering on that line (the size we won't mention yet), the slightest bit of bloating tips me over the edge. I look in the mirror and see flab, rolls, and sink into a pile of self loathing and despair.

Why bother to work out at all? Why bother denying myself all the food I want to eat? Let me be clear- I fucking LOVE to eat. The possibility of having an overeating disorder is very real indeed, but my vanity screams in protest. So I wobble on this line, trying to make sensible choices, drinking the protein drinks, busting my ass working out, denying myself fudge sundaes and French fry binges (I'm looking at YOU, 'Doodles!)

And for what? Is there going to be some magical day where I look in the mirror and say, Ah, perfect! No. 'Cause I'm fucking nuts. Anorexia, bulimia, not an option. No. I don't need any MORE crazy, thanks.

You know what would make me feel better right now? Binge eating, followed by a coma in which liposuction is performed, breast implants done, and they can leave me in a fucking coma until my hair grows out, thanks. That would be fucking skippy.

Why haven't I blogged about this before? Well, misery loves company, and now misery is alone.

Both my son and my husband are on medicine for ADD. Guess what? It makes you not hungry! And it makes you lose weight! So now I'm buying super calorie stuff trying to keep my eight year old from looking like a skeleton, and my husband has lost enough weight to be content. Not only that, but when I bitch about being fat (fatter than him, anyway) he gives me a lecture about calorie cutting and how I shouldn't eat so much!

NO FUCKING SHIT, SHERLOCK!

This coming from the man who I used to have to stop from drinking the pure maple syrup in the fridge, who pours honey into his open mouth, who sits with a pile of candy and dips it into a jar of fucking peanut butter and wolfs it down. Can you say bitter, bitter resentment?

I thought you could.

So here I am in a house of people who can't keep weight on for the life of them, and I'm tormenting myself by rarely ever letting myself eat the things I want to, working out, and still manage to weigh more than my 6 foot 1 husband. Yah, it's a number, a fucking number, but I hate it. I loathe that fucking scale. I might chuck it out the fucking window and hurl it into the bay. Let the crabs find out how much they weigh, as if they care.

I'm 5 foot 10, which is no small girl. I am actually big boned, not like the lie, but like the real thing. When I am thin, and I have been, bones stick out everywhere. I don't want to be scrawny, just not so damn jiggly. I also pack on muscle like it's going out of style, which contributes to the weight I am. Muscle weighs more than fat. I know this. The problem is, I'm fucking stacked with muscle and would look like the mother fucking shiznit if you could actually SEE the muscle, but alas, it is covered with a nice layer of fat, so it's invisible.

I'm getting maniacal and deperate, because swimsuit season is coming, and I'm insane. I live at the beach, and summer is coming, along with the 40,000 sixteen year olds in bikinis, all they ALL have bigger tits than me. Skinnier, bigger tits, and did I mention I'm nuts?

Fuck. I don't want to be a resentful bitch. And I don't want to be fat. I don't want to be crazy, and the Zoloft is supposed to be taking care of the body dysmorphic stuff but guess what? It's not fucking working.

And I'm sweaty and disgusting from working out, and I'm starving right now. Do I eat? It seems like I just cancel out what work I did. Do I stay hungry and miserable? Is being thinner worth the misery? Who the fuck knows, I'm miserable fatter so what the hell?

Thank you. This has been a presentation of Crazy Bitch Ranting Productions in collaboration with Bloggers With Chemical Imbalances. Stay tuned.

A hundred thousand elephants,
A hundred thousand horses,
A hundred thousand mule-drawn chariots,
Are not worth a sixteenth part
Of a single step forward.

-Buddha, "The Connected Discourses of the Buddha"

I've always loved mourning doves

I've been trying to write, but I'm really stuck on the phone call I got Saturday morning. I'd been expecting it, but still.



Without being disgraceful, I'll let you put two and two together.

Proof that OCD is popular:

The song, "You're So Vain" by Carly simon.

Does anyone else find this song to be, I don't know, insane?

You’re so vain, you probably think this song is about you.
You’re so vain, I’ll bet you think this song is about you.
Don’t you?
Don’t you?

Yah, um, Carly? It IS about him. Because you WROTE it about him. So...ok, I get it, he blew you off and you're like, pissed and stuff, but that doesn't make your reality any different than the other bajillion people inhabiting this planet.

He's vain, we get it. And you, you're fucking obsessed, girl. Not that I'm not down with the OCD (yah, you know me), but I have a tough time with the fact that this song, this lunatic song, is STILL on the radio thirty two years later. And apparently, has caused a lot of commotion over the years.

So, here's this wacked out song, about some dude, but then she's accusing the dude of thinking the song is written about him, which it, in fact, IS, and people just can't stop asking who it's about or stop playing on the radio.

My point is: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder ain't that unusual. You know, that's all I'm saying. *cough*

Bad Leo

What an absolute riot.

Having spent years reading astrological charts, I know that the possibilities for these traits to be true is correct.

Don't bother trying to fight me on this one. I don't fight. I have armies that do that. Now get back to worshipping me.

Captain WTF?

Ok, so I would probably scream back and scare the piss out of this guy, but it still had me laughing till I cried.

grief

Although I don't normally blog about the personal lives of my friends, I think this friend will understand. I love you.



I'm at a total loss for words today.

Early this morning I got a phone call from one of my best friends, to inform me that her mother is dying. Soon. Cancer.

I wept, and apologized for not being strong for her. I adore her mother. The last time I saw her mother was just a few months ago, and she was zipping around my house, helping, in a MAJOR way, to get ready for our wedding. She decorated my cake, made drinks, maybe made the cake too, it was so busy I don't remember. She recovered my throw pillows that I was too ashamed to let company see. She spent the night before the wedding sewing me new pillows, for God's sake. All this on top of driving 8 hours to get here.

And then...

I guess I'm just in shock. I've been intermittently sobbing this morning, outside the grocery store, in the bathroom, whatever. She is at peace with it, she's a groovy cosmic kind of woman like that. Her daughter, my friend, is holding up. That's what you call it, when emergency strikes and you soldier on and then crash at the end, right? Holding up. She told me, "I know I'll hit the wall in a few weeks, but for now I'm just busy..."

What can I say? I felt...I don't know what I felt. I felt like I shouldn't be crying, and should be comforting my friend, and that my reaction was one of weakness, but that isn't true. It was just one of honesty.

When I asked her what her mother thought of it all, she said she was relieved. She doesn't want a long drawn out painful illness, and she's kind of excited, "You know, the great beyond, the big mystery..." I nodded, of course, of course she would feel that way. It's so like her.

Which is why losing her is so painful. It's like watching a star fall, only I know she isn't falling, she's ascending.

I really just don't know what else to say.

mlarghery

I'm not feeling funny today.

Go, read this and ponder my parenting skills.

Also, make sure you don't miss the most glorious cow, or the dangerous reality of being a geek chick.

current stuff:

Mr. Wonderful lives up to his name once again by somehow magically restoring the majority of my blog, despite Bloggers attempt to emotionally destroy me.

(I'm glaring at YOU, Blogger, oh former love of my life.)

Anyhow, I'll be doing a lot of rearranging and stuff in the upcoming weeks, so not to worry. Your Introspectre is still here, despite the conspiracy. Things will be a'changing, but all for the better.

In the meantime, I may be fuzzy and cute, but I'm watching you, Blogger. Don't make me shred your ankles.

sometimes, it's like that

This is one of those times.

things that made me smile today:

hand holding

positive tagging

happy people

fat smiley babies

a kid getting his groove on

the jitterbug

pop perspective

Stuck in traffic this morning, I started flipping through radio stations. Since I don't often have to deal with traffic jams, they don't bother me much. I think of them as low brain wave activity time, meaning, my mind wanders. It's the times I most often have flashes of insight.

There were a few songs that really struck me. First was the song "Cruel Summer" by Bananarama. I remember the first time I ever got to ride a dirt bike (the kind with a motor, vrrrm vrrrm) I had that song running through my head. It was summer, and some neighbor kid down the street got a dirt bike, and thus, instant and total popularity. Everyone lined up to get to ride it around a little dirt circle track on the neighbors property, and when it was my turn I was so overwhelmed by the total fucking magic of it I was just in heaven. Dude, I was nine, and riding a very loud motorized vehicle. I could feel the power, the sweet heady scent of grown up freedom, and the dreams of just riding away from my crappy childhood forever filled me with a sense of bliss. And all through that bliss, the song "Cruel Summer" was running through my head.

"It's a cruel, cruel summer
Leaving me here on my own
It's a cruel, cruel summer
Now you've gone

The city is crowded
My friends are away
And I'm on my own
Too hot to handle, baby
It's too hot to handle
So I got to get up and go..."

So there I am this morning in traffic, listening to the song and thinking back to that day, and how I felt like it was just me, I was the only person in the entire world who could ever feel the way that I did then. Ah, the selfish concepts of youth. But really, hasn't that followed me? Hasn't that followed us all? How many love songs do you hear that have some sort of lyrical phrase "No one has ever loved like this before"?

As if there is a thought, an emotion, a moment in life that we magically experience, that somehow, no one else, in the history of mankind, has ever experienced before.

We're such silly little humans, with our silly little perceptions.

So I got to thinking, about all of us, all of our shared pain, all of us born, molded, mutated, shaped, defected, fixed, broken, remolded...
Is there anything sweeter than the innocence of a child?
Is there anything more heinous than the death of such innocence?

But it happens to each of us, each in our own way, no one goes untouched by life. And so, we should be nicer to each other.

The second song that hit home was Nickelback's "How You Remind Me" with the line,

"This is how you remind me
Of what I really am
This is how you remind me
Of what I really am
It's not like you to say sorry
I was waiting on a different story
This time I'm mistaken
For handing you a heart worth breakin'..."

I thought back to how many times those words were true, but I never knew. I used to think so much less of myself, and I never realized just how valuable my heart is. A heart worth breaking, indeed. And the strangest thing of all...it's you readers that have made me so aware of it.

When I write about my past, my present, whatever, I just put it out there. I don't know what will come of it, maybe nothing.

But sometimes... sometimes I get a comment that really touches my heart. Sometimes I get some unexpected e-mail, that seems to drop out of the clear blue sky, with personal stories of your own, extremely personal stories, and those letters are filled with love and encouragement and support. It seems that most of you see me the way I wish I could see myself, and perhaps that's because I write the way I do; as honestly as humanly possible, even when it hurts.

This is how you remind me of what I really am.

Thanks.

Yep.

Well, my blog is back, minus every picture I've ever uploaded, files, etc. I also can't seem to get your comments to publish, either, so just know that I am GETTING them, I just can't print them.

Since Mr. Wonderful downloaded the ENTIRE site shortly before it happened, I have everything backed up elsewhere, but it's not like I want to repost years worth of blogs by hand. I think not.

The possibility that I will reconstruct Introspectre elsewhere is looking very high, although not just yet. I may merge it with the "sex" blog, at least, putting them on the same server but keeping them as seperate pages.

Keep on the lookout for further news, same fucking bat time, same batty fucking channel.

the apple, the tree, the ADHD

A few weeks ago, my son was diagnosed with ADHD.

I shouldn't be shocked. His teachers have been hinting at it for years. I even had him tested years ago but they said he was "borderline". I wasn't about to drug my child on a "borderline" diagnosis.

Really, I didn't know enough about ADHD to understand that there are different types. My son has the Inattentive type, or what is frequently called, "The Space Cadet". And that, you can bet your sweet booties, he most definitely is.

When I think of ADHD kids, I think of those screaming maniacs running around the store yelling at their parents, throwing fits, and just generally freaking the fuck out. My son isn't like them. My son is off in his own world, lost in his daydreams, and could have a semi truck run him down without him noticing. I had no clue that THAT was ADHD as well.

You learn something new every day.

I've always thought that my son was just like me, a spacey little dreamer, traumatized by the bullshit of his childhood, and had probably learned disassociation as a coping mechanism, like I had. Since he was very young, I've trained him to respond to the sound of fingers snapping, just as if he were hypnotised. I've told this to his teachers, who report it works quite well, and that was all well and good, but now he's getting older.

And now, now it's a problem. The school system expects him to be more independent, not to need continual maintenance to focus on the world around him. I don't blame them. He annoys the crap out of me, too, I understand. I finally got to the breaking point after yet another meeting with his teacher, who not so subtly suggested medication. I talked it over with my husband, at my wits end.

"I don't even bother having conversations with him anymore!" I wailed, after junior had gone to sleep. "It's like talking to a rock! I might as well talk to my left shoe for all the fucking good it does! When he asks me questions, I respond with sarcasm, because I know there's no point in answering him, he already isn't listening! I could tell him he was going to eat a shit sandwich for lunch and he would say, 'Thanks, Mommy!'"

Taking him anywhere was the worst. I was constantly calling his name, over and over and over, to get him to stay next to me while I was walking. Otherwise, who knows where the hell he would end up? I thought, on many occasions, how easy it would be for a freaking kidnapper to get him, since there was no doubt what his name was, you know? God help us if we passed a greeting card aisle. These were his Archilles heel. The shiny, funny, colorful possibilities were like the flute of the Pied Piper, and off he would go, lost in a world of amusing antecdotes and puns. Argh.

So, to the psychologist we go. No regular doctor, no. I want a specialized opinion, I want someone who knows what the hell they're talking about. After spending years with family practitioners that told me I didn't need sedatives, I had allergies, I've learned, thank you very much. How about being stabbed in the back a billion times to try to figure out what you're allergic to? How about you keep those fucking needles away from me, I'm allergic to STRESS! Argh.

The doctor, who sounds very much like a white Barry White (and my son has nicknamed "Dr. Santaclaus") said my son was the poster child for Inattentive Type ADHD. Next, the psychiatrist. He wants to start my son on Adderall. Ok, I am seriously freaked out by it, I admit. I talked it out with my shrink who pointed out something glaringly obvious that I had overlooked. She said, "You know, studies have shown that children with undiagnosed chemical imbalances are (some incredible high percentage, I forget) more likely to do drugs as they get older?"

Uh......yah. I know. I know all too well, as a matter of fact. I remember the paper the shrink had given my mom, and I remember reading "would benefit from pharmological intervention". That did not occur. But weed, LSD, mesculin, mushrooms, valium and opium did. How would I have turned out if I wasn't constantly feeling like I was going to lose my fucking mind? What if they HAD treated me back then?

I'm going to take a wild guess and say that my life would have turned out a hell of a lot better, although I certainly wouldn't have as many hideous tales to share with you all.

~grimaces~

I swallowed my fear and got the medication for him. It has, I will confess, been nothing short of miraculous. My son himself is thrilled. He is incredibly smart, and the frustration of not being able to concentrate was really getting to him. There were many days he would come home crying, just frustrated as hell and unable to do anything about it. Now he comes home beaming.

It isn't all wine and roses, ha ha, if anything it is the opposite in fact. That is to say, he has insomnia from the medication. Sex life? I seem to remember one. I had a child that could sleep through a train wreck, and now he's at my bed every hour or two, bright eyed and bushy tailed, telling me he wants a snack or whatever. Falling asleep? He's sat next to me at the computer past midnight, just sitting there, not a eye rubbing or yawn in sight. What can I say? I have insomnia, and I know damn well how badly it SUCKS. The difference between he and I is that I do not wake up to meth. What terrifies me is that it can keep him going all day long, despite a total lack of sleep.

Holy crap, my kid is Elvis.

This is what I told the doctor today. He said it's time to try some light sleeping medication. A month ago I would have screamed, "NEVER!" but my resistance is worn down by weeks of no sleep and no sex. I am totally freaked out by the idea of giving my kid uppers to keep him calm (?!?) all day, and then downers to get him to sleep.

Elvis died on the fucking crapper. This is not the future I envision for my son.

Granted, Elvis was taking pills because his doctor was an dumbass, and his (manager? I forget) was pushing him to take them so he could continue to perform at the level he was. Manager or not, whoever the guy was milked that cash cow till he ran dry. My son, on the other hand, is a brilliant little boy who is thrilled to be able to do better in school and bummed that he can't sleep at night. Big difference.

The odd thing about it all is my reaction to his medication. I think because I have an anxiety disorder, his medicine scares the shit out me, quite frankly. The first few times I even held the bottle in my hand I wanted to run screaming. I rolled the bottle slowly back and forth, looking at the clear capsules containing the little time release beads of Adderall, and thought to myself, "It's like a sea of panic attacks, one million little panic attacks in tiny spherical shapes, rolling back and forth..."

~shudder~

But magic for my son.

Tonight, we try the sleeping medicine. I'm not holding my breath or anything. Just let me get more than a few hours sleep at a time and I'll be happier than I am now. A full nights sleep? I wouldn't even know what to do, other than run into his room to make sure he wasn't dead or something.

My husband tries to console me, as does my shrink, by pointing out that chemical imbalances run in the family and it's just a genetic thing. This does not make me feel better, it makes me feel guilty. His dad has ADHD, and has never been treated, and he turned out to be a real winner a regular old diamond in the rough (i.e. worthless lump of coal.) Between he and I, I suppose it was inevitable. Still, I wish my son didn't have to go through it. All parents wish such things for their children, I know.

On top of it all that, doing all this research on the subject led my husband to come to the conclusion that he likely has the adult version of ADHD. He goes off to see Dr. Santaclaus, and what do you know? He's on the same medication now.

Ok- my household has completely changed, and although it's for the better, it's still alarming. My son is quiet in his room, drawing cartoons, coming up with science projects. My husband, who I couldn't peel away from the computer with a greased spatula, is suddenly wandering around the house on the weekend, seeking me out, asking me what I'm doing. He misses me, he says. It's hard not to stare at him like he's suddenly sprouted gills while I inform him, "I'm doing what I always do on the weekend- stay the hell away from you." I say it nicely, but he knows what I mean. When he's doing research or programming online he really hates to be disturbed. If his face is near the screen, I don't talk to him. He's growled at me too many times.

Not now. Now he's turning each time I walk by, "Whatcha doing?" "Hi honey!" "I love you, how are you?" "Can I help you with anything?"

Whaaaaaaaaa?

I mean, he was a dreamsicle before, but his weekends were mostly consumed by the glowing screen before which I sit to tell this tale. I confessed to him, "I didn't like the weekends before. You were...grumpy." My son agreed.

And the one time we got to have sex (he hasn't been on the meds long, just a week), he stared up at me like I was the glowing fucking Fairy Princess of Unicorns and All That Is Sparkley Goodness. Talk about attention! I had to look away it was so distracting! We laughed about it afterwards, me telling him I just simply couldn't look at his face without picturing myself with a fairy wand and sparkles in the air or something.

Now, if we can just get my son to sleep....

Before enlightenment,
I chopped wood and carried water.
After enlightenment,
I chopped wood and carried water.

-Zen saying

insomnia

dawn comes suddenly
like a sudden ocean current pushing away
the inky blackness of the threatened octopus

karma for Robert

passivity
you evil bastard
woven into the tapestry of her mind so completely
we untie the knots
we run
we hurry
while at the other end tireless weavers toil day and night to keep it tight
like a dog on a leash
or a noose on the neck
she walks
blinders on, like a horse
but she's not being led out to pasture, oh no
master has other plans for his broken one
master wants to make another feel his pain
master doesn't seem to grasp the facts
his actions cause him more agony
but master is stupid, so master lashes out instead
again and again
would it change your mind to know we watch?
does your transparency affect you?
are you even aware of it?
the more control you seek, the less you have
that is obvious
what will it take to make you stop?
what will it take to make her stand up?
so many of us watch this wretched dance
so many of us poised for action
but the dance is not ours
so we wait
and we watch
I have no taste for your blood
it's tainted
but your demise will be sweet, delectable and far too sudden to
properly enjoy but
I'll savor it anyway

the middle path

Rarely will you see me discuss religion. Religion is a matter of opinion, and opinions are like assholes, everyone has one. The point of debating it is in fact mute; there is no point, in my I-own-an-asshole-and-therefore-I-have-an-opinion opinion.

My twittery disclaimer aside, there are times when I find it helpful. I am a Buddhist. Sometimes I am an angry rage filled Buddhist hell bent on destruction, or what have you, but I do not act rashly. I think things out. I meditate on them, in order to discern the correct course of action.

Last night was one of those nights. I can't get into the story, as it is personal and private and not mine to tell. But the story itself filled me with such a blood lust I had to just to go sit down and close my eyes for a long, long time, and even then only after sobbing for quite a while first to clear a lot of the emotion.

It involves the paths that we, as people, choose to take. Sometimes the path is wrong. We learn, we turn, we take another path. Sometimes we don't learn, and we just keep walking the same road, struggling on, lost in our misery. That road makes us weaker, it is treacherous, it is steep.

What then do we do when we watch another person walk such a path?

My instinctual compassion says to jump in and help. What then when the help is denied? Appreciated, but denied nonetheless?

After much meditation, I came to the most simple of truths: I stand back and let them walk their path. Despite all the pain and suffering it causes me to watch it unfold, that is my choice. I cannot solve someone else's situation when they won't do it themselves.

I can, however, project all of my pain and suffering and anguish onto the situation from having walked the same path, and that, in turn, solves nothing at all. Nothing.

As my own mother so astutely put it, "The School of Hard Knocks will never run out of students."

I have to say, it is taking a great deal of mental exertion to remain balanced. It is so easy to project, to overlay my own past upon someone else's present. That is not to promise I won't snap and sniper some guys nuts off in the very near future, but for now, I am calm, as calm as I can be, considering.

It is a strange feeling.

pulled from CNN's front page today

U.S. President George W. Bush gains reassurances from Pakistani President Pervez Musharraf that Pakistan is doing everything it can to help in the so-called war on terror -- and that both sides will remain in close coordination in the hunt for al Qaeda terrorists.



Does anyone else think that President Bush looks like a kid who just got admitted to the cool kids clubhouse? Sometimes I just want to draw an intelligent face on a paper bag and just shove it over his head.
I can't wait till his term is over. I think it's a joke, just so we'll vote for ANYBODY after this. I might vote for a fucking pet rock or a roll of Charmin toilet tissue a this point.



My vote:

WINNERS!

I couldn't decide who should win the award for Jackass of the Week/Year/Whatever, so we have a tie.

You decide.

It is the Man Facing 23rd Drunk-Driving Prosecution?

Or is it Man Who Uses His Own OnStar System To Get Busted For Cocaine?

I'm guessing they're friends. Well, hopefully they'll become VERY close soon, if you get my drift.

something in the way of things

One of the most brilliant pieces of poetry I've ever heard is off of The Roots album, Phrenology. It's perfect example of the kind of chiaroscuro that operates my mind and how I see the world.

Normally I would just link you to the page, but most lyric pages suck, so here it is. Note: Simply reading it is NOT the same. Really. If you can hear this song, do so. It's amazing.

The Roots - Something in the Way of Things (In Town)

feat. Amiri Baraka


Something in the way of things
Something that will quit and won't start
Something you know but can't stand
Can't know get along with
Like death
Riding on top of the car peering through the windshield for his
cue
Something entirely fictitious and true
That creeps across your path hallowing your evil ways
Like they were yourself passing yourself not smiling
The dead guy you saw me talking to is your boss
I tried to put a spell on him but his spirit is illiterate

I know things you know and nothing you don't know
'cept I saw something in the way of things
Something grinning at me and I wanted to know, was it funny?
Was it so funny it followed me down the street
Greeting everybody like the good humor man
But an they got the taste of good humor but no ice cream
It was like dat
Me talking across people into the houses
And not seeing the beings crowding around me with ice picks
You could see them
But they looked like important Negroes on the way to your
funeral
Looked like important jiggaboos on the way to your auction
And let them chant the number and use an ivory pointer to count
your teeth
Remember Steppen Fetchit
Remember Steppen Fetchit how we laughed
An all your Sunday school images giving flesh and giggling
With the ice pick high off his head
Made ya laugh anyway

I can see something in the way of our selves
I can see something in the way of our selves
That's why I say the things I do, you know it
But its something else to you
Like that job
This morning when you got there and it was quiet
And the machines were yearning soft behind you
Yearning for that nigga to come and give up his life
Standin' there bein' dissed and broke and troubled

My mistake is I kept sayin' 'that was proof that God didn't
exist'
And you told me, 'nah, it was proof that the devil do'
But still, its like I see something I hear things
I saw words in the white boy's lying rag
said he was gonna die poor and frustrated
That them dreams walk which you 'cross town
S'gonna die from over work
There's garbage on the street that's tellin' you you ain't shit
And you almost believe it
Broke and mistaken all the time
You know some of the words but they ain't the right ones
Your cable back on but ain't nothin' you can see
But I see something in the way of things

Something to make us stumble
Something get us drunk from noise and addicted to sadness
I see something and feel something stalking us
Like and ugly thing floating at our back calling us names
You see it and hear it too
But you say it got a right to exist just like you and if God
made it
But then we got to argue
And the light gon' come down around us
Even though we remember where the light is
Remember the Negro squinting at us through the cage
You seen what I see too?
The smile that ain't a smile but teeth flying against our necks
You see something too but can't call its name

Ain't it too bad y'all said
Ain't it too bad, such a nice boy always kind to his motha
Always say good morning to everybody on his way to work
But that last time before he got locked up and hurt, real bad
I seen him walkin' toward his house and he wasn't smiling
And he didn't even say hello
But I knew he'd seen something
Something in the way of things that it worked on him like it do
in will
And he kept marching faster and faster away from us
And never even muttered a word
Then the next day he was gone
You wanna know what
You wanna know what I'm talkin' about
Sayin' 'I seen something in the way of things'
And how the boys face looked that day just before they took him
away
The is? in that face and remember now, remember all them other
faces
And all the many places you've seen him or the sister with his
child
Wandering up the street
Remember what you seen in your own mirror and didn't for a
second recognize
The face, your own face
Straining to get out from behind the glass
Open your mouth like you was gon' say somethin'
Close your eyes and remember what you saw and what it made you
feel like
Now, don't you see something else
Something cold and ugly
Not invisible but blended with the shadow criss-crossing the old
man
Squatting by the drug store at the corner
With is head resting uneasily on his folded arms
And the boy that smiled and the girl he went with

And in my eyes too
A waving craziness splitting them into the jet stream of a black
bird
Wit his ass on fire
Or the solomNOTness of where we go to know we gonna be happy

I seen something
I SEEN something
And you seen it too
You seen it too
You just can't call it's name name name name name name name

an aspiration to be proud of

His questionable dancing skills aside, THIS guy is my hero.

The big picture. It's always yummy.

PMS says:

"How, dear sir, did you cross the flood?"
"By not halting friend, and by not straining I crossed the flood."
"But how is it, dear sir, that by not halting and by not straining you crossed the flood?"
"When I came to a standstill, friend, then I sank; but when I struggled, then I got swept away. It is in this way, friend, that by not halting and by not straining I crossed the flood."

-Buddha, "The Connected Discourses of the Buddha"