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here goes nothing
to read about the naked chinese guy (posted dec 1), my new shoes, and other thoroughly exciting things:
http://filterlesscigarettes.wordpress.com/
so, yeah, after much procrastination, there you have it, my new blog. i've been working on copying over the old posts and comments and whatnot, but suspect this is going to take some time, so... at this point im doing nothing but being horribly selfish by not sharing... and sharing is caring, yes? and the royal we does indeed care
furthermore and finally: eventually, when all is moved, set up, etc, etc, this site will be demolished, so... please note the new address : )
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coming soon to a theatre near you!
after the last day or two being told, again, that my blog didnt exist, ive finally gotten my lazy ass to start shopping araound for a new blog... try two right now, fiddling with the controls and features and layout and whatnot trying to move my indecisive ass behind one or hte other, but there'll be a new, and hopefully more reliable, blog up soon... and either way the first post will be about the naked chinese guy ; )
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wherever i lay my head (part I)
the last time i breathed a sigh of relief at being home again - the aaaahhh stretching out in mind with the exhale of air, the ooooo dropping with the shoulders at last relaxed from the adventures of travel - was while smoking a cigarette out a side door of barajas, my bag freshly stamped from the return flight from milano, before getting onto the metro and heading back to my 4th piso flat at gran via.
i havent been in paris long enough yet to leave and return, to know if i'll have that same reflexive comfort upon landing and fighting my way onto the rer. in fact, the closest ive strayed from the city limits since i trudged from marghera to mestre to treviso to orly to dario's flat, too disoriented to even notice i'd changed countries, is clichy and cachan - hardly a few kilometers. but i suspect, be it orly or de gaulle, sooner or later i will.
home. a word, just a word.
but a loaded one these days.
(this is the beginning of longer rambles, but the rest is quite messy, so i'll leave it at this for now)
...
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i think sometimes part of hte reason i never have anything to say anymore is that my brain is becoming once again overwhelmed with grammar.
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sprechen sie deutsch?
so yesterday was thanksgiving... i nearly forgot. in fact, last saturday i'd guiltily thought that i'd already forgotten and missed it (isn't it supposed to be the third thursday? and all this time that's what i thought...), but with a few hours to go yesterday, it was a small surprise that i hadn't quite missed it yet.
so i ate a bunch of crêpes nutella, drank a bunch of wine, and settled in with my phone card trying to find folks wherever they were hiding. at last i found a large pocket of them on the west side at my aunt rene's - her and joe apparently back in everet while waiting for joe to possibly be deployed to iraq next spring - with the whole conservative branch of the family gathered together for traditional festivities - including of course a late diner due to the new american tradition of working on all major holidays. so in the course of trying to be a good daughter and call my mom on one of hte major holidays, i got passed around to a bunch of relatives i havent seen in ages, and who were probably trying to remember my face as well, before finally being ditched in favor of eating...
so where you at these days? france, huh? did you tell em to say thanks that they don't speak german, now? eh, eh? that they don't hafta speak german?
i guess they just want everyone to have something to be thankful for this thanksgiving. shit. i love them all, but i feel so surreal. don't get me wrong - i do indeed love thanksgiving, it's a wonderful holiday, a wonderful excuse to gather those you love and eat until you can eat no more, which is a fine, fine thing.... but... so much of what i hear back these days doesnt make me think of the things i miss so much as it confuses me and makes me feel even more displaced and distant, uncertain as to what real ties i have left anywhere in this world.
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bizarre
hmmmmm ok, i cant seem to figure out how make it stop autoplaying, and it's irritating me... so just go look at the vids: http://www.nicomarket.com/en/film.php
they also have face cream and toothpaste:
with real tobacco extracts!
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i was going to actually write something, but the damn site's been down again and by now ive forgotten what... gotta remember to keep browsing around for a more reliable blog... meant to do that ages ago... hmmm
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putting the rubber back in redneck
to illustrate a point i made, oh, a couple years ago...  i found this picture on a friend of a friends myspace, and well, not only do they appear to be identical to the reassuring rubber ones i wrote of way back when, but the person was from walla, so they just might be one and the same. furthermore, the person who's site i lifted this pic from was so thoroughly american i cant begin... but rest assured there were also cute widdle kitty cats, burly rotweilers, american flags, and muscle cars. oh yes, and monkeys, can't forget the monkeys. so, i trust for the most part, no matter what changes i fear, life is still progressing about the same back in the boonies. worse, i quite wish i was there to watch it crawl by.
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it is now officially... another day...
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are you staring at my feet?
everyone has different things they love and hate about themselves -- and typically enough the inverse of what the outside world appreciates.
personally, one of my favorite features is my feet. beyond their blindness, i like my eyes when theyre not tired and bloodshot; with a good bra sometimes i can get behind my tits, forgiving their affection for gravity; and given a bit of expressed outside interest, i can forget my own knowledge of the cellulite that lies beneath and feel good enough about my ass. but the things that top my list are the fine bones of my wrists, the capability of my hands, and the perfection of my feet.
when i was fourteen there was a small inside joke about guys staring at my "feet" when i talked to them that derived from a striped hang-ten brand shirt i used to wear that had an embroidered set of footprints (the brand logo) that perched just on the peak of my left tit when i wore the shirt. (i wonder what ever happened to that one? shea, did you inherit it in one of the spring cleanings?). and that brand logo was a simple silohette of what an ideal foot print in the sand should look like - a wide curve from the arch and five dots for toes, each a little smaller and lower than the one before. most people don't get this foot print - they dont have high enough arches to create the negative space, or perhaps a toe or two is a bit longer than the ones before, or all squished together instead of making a nice even print. but my feet are perfectly proportional, with high arches, and make this exact archtypical print when i walk on wet sand.
honestly, it wasnt until a friend once told me how much she hated her feet that it even occurred to me as something a person would think about. and on the whole i still dont really deem it worth worrying yourself over. this particular friend had lovely long thin feet that she hated, and perfect skin which i envy, so... there you have it.
but as i get older, and i notice from time to time other women's feet and then look at my own, i find that i love my feet - for their natural perfection. not perfect because of their exact form, but rather for their unmodified, unmutilated form, and what that says about my priorities in life. you see, when i look down and see other women's feet, in their stylish shoes, i see toes that no longer spread in a healthy frond to carry the weight of the body, but instead bones that no longer grow properly, that have been cramped and deformed by years of being crammed into uncomfortable shoes deemed stylish by society. and i find this sad. it's one thing to dress up now and then, to put up with an uncomfortable dress and some fuck-me-pumps for a special night out, but the habitual mutilation of the body in the name of 'fashion'? it's not really so different than the old fashions of binding feet or chopping toes, corsets the size of a softball that we find so abhorent today.
and so i love my feet most because their healthy, natural shape is a testament to my long-term value of self over superfically imposed ideals, of my strength in the face of cultural pressure to conform and deform. like all intelligent women, i still struggle daily to remind myself that these beauty magazine ideals are bullshit, that i AM beautiful the way i AM, without needing to starve myself or buy a hundred and one different products, and though i still hate my skin, my lovehandles, my belly paunch, my thighs, and occaissionally my tits and ass, my feet are living proof that the battle can be won.
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schemes
as i ponder just exactly why anyone should give my useless self their hard earned money, i started thinking of other ridiculous schemes... such as save toby... but alas, i have no cute little rabbit to threaten to make tasty stew of... then the big lebowski comes to mind... perhaps i could paint a toenail turquoise, complete with picture of clever about to descend? if i tried i could probably make a grilled cheese with the virgin mary, or belatedly virgin, depending on preference...
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again, withdrawal sucks. without my drugs i feel like im on drugs. and i dont like it.
in that way i always used to hate: out of it and out of full control, unable to will myself into any sense of normalcy or functionality. (fuck.) (just a little stick of nicotine...) (fuck.)
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but what to do with my hands?!
"cigarettes have been my punctuation in life, the periods, commas, hyphens and exclamation points (especially after sex) by which i divided and organized my day. without them i felt like one endless run-on sentence; a formless, structureless bundle of anguish, always off balance, like a person forced to go weeks without looking at a clock. ... what on earth to do with my hands, hour after hour, day after day, week after week?" ~ jonathan hull, losing julia i told you i'd quote and requote it redundantly for years to come... i just didn't know it would be again so soon. i'm still not entirely smoke free... but im getting there. kinda. and then not so much so. and then getting there again... and feeling like that run-on sentence, angry with myself for not being able to think straight or function when my head's in a muddle from lack of nicotine... finally breaking and bumming one, high as a kite and head spinning like im fourteen again, and then at last, a good 20 minutes later as the nicotine courses through my system, normalizing, being able to think again. clear fresh air from the smoke. outside observers said the effect was visibly noticeable. i'm living off a couple a day now... sometimes sadistically making myself go as long as possible, sometimes like an indulgent grandmother who immediately gives away the sweets without the least bit of a fight.
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go figure
who knew i'd come to france, of all places, to quit smoking? i've still got a penny in my shoe, one euro in my wallet, and a place to stay for now... but only one wee packet of tobacco left. and it does seem a bit rude to ask a non-smoking vegetarian to pick up a pack of smokes for you. so, by the end of the week, unless miracles are worked, i should be painfully, not of my own will, without even a patch to tide me over, smoke-free. in the meantime, it looks like ive cast my die and am here to stay a bit.
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