I spent the day alone- most of the last few days, really.
It sucked, but in the end, it was just what I needed. I had to muscle through things. The same old crap, not worh talking about, not worth anyone’s time. Not worth my own. But there, nonetheless.
:dusts himself off:
Back to work.
It was a good weekend.
A new trainee shows promise. It’s good to flex that muscle again, and find it more powerful than before, not less. As she and my animal worked around my apartment- worked hard, and worked in the efficient manner I find most pleasing- I experienced a contentment with my world, and my place in it. I did some writing for The Estate while I was at it, an effort I have not found any inspiration to support in far too long. It quickly became apparent that what I had was not only a stepping stone towards the rebuilding of that institution, it was a fine presentation in and of itself. I expect I’ll have a booklet and TES presentation written on it very soon.
Other plans are moving forward as well, including a possibility of bringing money into my house on a regular basis (Hosannah!).
But the best thing of all was contempt.
Not just tasting it, acknowledging it- but finally allowing myself to enjoy the strength and freedom it offers me. I’ve been bouncing on the edge of this high dive for a year, looking longingly at the water, but never quite getting my shit together to dive.
I dove, dragging my animal down to the bottom with me.
The german judge gives it a 9.9
“Every hour wounds. The last one kills.”
-Old saying, found in American Gods, by Neil Gamian
1. You must answer accordingly to my questions. Do not turn away.
2. Don’t try to hide the facts by making pretexts this and that. You are strictly
prohibited to contest me.
3. Don’t be a fool for you are a chap who dare to thwart the revolution.
4. You must immediatelyanswer my questions without wasting time to reflect.
5. Don’t tell me either about your immoralities or the essence of the revolution.
6. While getting lashes or electrification you must not cry at all.
7. Do nothing, sit still and wait for my orders. If there is no order, keep quiet.
When I ask you to do something, you must do it right away without protesting.
8. Don’t make pretexts about Kampuchea Krom in order to hide your jaw of
traitor.
9. If you don’t follow all of the above rules, you shall get many lashes of electric
wire.
10. If you disobey any point of my regulations you shall get either ten lashes or
five shocks of electric discharge.
Autumn really is my time.
Something incredible happened. Someone has been looking for me, all this time. I never really thought anyone would, which really was a cruel and selfish underestimation of her, I suppose I was confusing her for her mother or her sister. I should have known better.
But she looked for me, and I let her find me, and we are talking again. It’s been a long, long time. I rememeber playing with her back on the property, I remember her monkeys and her friends and her putting up with an annoying- and damaged- little brother. I remember laughing with her, and I have no memory of laughing with any of the rest of them. I missed her terribly, although I was not going to admit that to myself.
She even understands why I left, without my having to say a word about it.
Other things have rolled around for me. I spent a few days with Judy here in my city, where I dragged her around to see the things and places that make this city special to me. It was good to be near her, and good for it to be peaceful. There was some healing and some closure there, and a comfort in knowing that we can be what we are without yanking out each other’s hearts. Things went as they needed to at TES, and a couple of rotten teeth have been pulled. It really was not that hard- nobody who had ever worked with them could tolerate them. It was worth the effort, both for the organization and for me personally.
As far as the newly found good manners- too little, too late.
There are things that still need my attention. I have a career to build and an animal to take care of. There is work to be done and money to be made- but Mother has decided to be generous, and I am grateful for it.
It’s a little after six. My twin has made it home safe, my animal is due home soon.
My efforts have borne fruit, I got to spend some time with Soul and Sir C (Who I do NOT see enough of. We give her a hard time- and bless her icy heart, she lets us- but I have more respect and regard for that beautiful woman than she’s ever gonna understand.) I have touched the hand of my sister, who I love and miss, and am aware of just how good Mother is being right now.
I intend to revel in my life, and be grateful.
“And what rough beast,
It’s hour rolled round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem
Waiting to be born?”
Oh, that’s too fucking funny.
Recently, a number of interesting delusions have surfaced. The first- and funniest- is that someone from a mailing list has me ALLLLLL figured out. No, really. She has my number, baby. She pegged me square:
It’s racial.
I am, apparently, taking out my rage by defiling white women. Perhaps channeling my rage with the whole race, in this unjust society, into my sexuality.
Now, this is silly for a number of reasons- the least of which is that I am as white as rice and pale as boiled potatoes. No, my twin summed the whole thing up thusly: “Flagg is an equal opportunity defiler.” Except for sexual attraction, gender hardly matters, much less race. The list of women I would happily degrade and defile reads like a Bendetton ad, with the possible exceptions of New Zealanders, Whigs and Inuits. Can’t trust ‘em.
Next up- revisionist history.
Apparently, according to the murky depths of mailing list backchat, tatsumi (one of the adorable pair who make up Girl2), a longtime friend and sometime roomate and I have a past so shrouded in mystery even WE did not know about it. Apparently, she and I were an item- and then Soulhuntre stole her from me.
Fact is, I kinda like this story, and nominate it as the new Official Truth, newspeak style. I know Soul will love it, as anything that makes him look like a chickstealin’ stud machine is all good down East Wing Way. Sadly, Tats does not have the appalling lack of taste necessary to ’fess up to imaginary sexual escapades involving yours truly. Sorry folks- no dice there. Tats and Soul had their own mojo working since they met, and the only role I played in that sitcom was Wacky Neighbor.
Waiting to Exhale
Lastly, I was recently informed that someone has thought for years that he was going to be invited to be the fourth Estate Trainer. It’s even funnier considering who it is. Keep watching the skies, big guy- that carrier pigeon will get there any day with your golden ticket. Any day now. Any day.
Someone who was looking for me for a few years found me through this. It was posted on an amusing website back in March 2000. I thought it should be archived somewhere here, and I still think it’s funny, if a bit dated.
Mosquito Pete, this one’s for you.
Whilst romping around New York City, we decided to put more money in Vince McMahon’s pockets, because we are worried about him. Charitable souls that we are, we decided the best way to acheive our altruistic goals was to go to his WWF Times Square theme food joint. Stepping over the homeless we made our way to this veritable temple.
I was really hoping that Vince went all out on this — I mean stark slavering buggo. Our fervent desire was to be escorted to our table by scantily clad bimbos while Michael Buffer announced the specials. Then the waiter would come and ask for our drink order. As we spoke, he would scream in our faces “IT DOES NOT MATTER WHAT YOU WANT TO DRINK!” whereupon he would be tackled en masse by the masked Mexican busboys leaping from the light fixtures. Shortly thereafter, another waiter would come and drop off our menus.
Our hearts raced at the thought of what hideously kitschy entrees would await us: Gangrilled Chicken? DDT-Bone Steak with D-Lo Brown Gravy? Rakishi Lorraine (deep dish, assuredly)? Hot Road Doggs? Rock Lobster, each with a big complimentary glass of SHUT UP JUICE! (”FIX IT!”) Chicken in a Headlock? Onion Rings of Saturn? For drinks, their answer to a bloody mary: a Bloody Foley, served, of course, with Hell-in-a-Celery. Or, perhaps, an AcoLite beer, served Stone Cold from the 2Cooler? For dessert, the Dean “Ice Cream Man” Malenko sundae bar, served personally by the stout and glaring “Man of a Thousand Sauces.” I’ll have the Dudley Boyz Sundae — D-Vonilla and Buh Buh Rum Raisin with Sexual Chocolate sauce…. When the food arrived, the waiters would powerbomb it RIGHT THROUGH THE TABLE, and then beat each other bloody with steel chairs for our amusement! The mind boggles! Oh, we were so excited!
No such luck. The screens were big, the entrance music ambient, the service acceptable, and the burgers surprisingly good (on the theme-restaraunt scale of “good”) and worth nearly two-thirds of what we paid for them. It was tame fun.
But oh, I really was looking forward to a big bowl of Bad Ass Billy Gumbo….
If they don’t like it, fuck ‘em.
I have never been ashamed of how I live, and I’m sure as fuck not going to start now. It looks like the gossip wheel is going to start grinding overtime, if I read my players right- and I usually do.
The real question is: how much do I let this matter?
The answer: Not at all.
The only thing of any importance to me is that I made my choices clean; second to that, knowing that the handful of people I respect know that. There is already obfuscation and bullshit weeding it’s way through the rank and file, and some sheep have nothing better to do than bleat.
They can, of course, swarm off a cliff like the lemmings they are.
I suppose that this is really just to put something out there:
Say what you want about me- if you push too far, you’ll know it.
Hurt my friends, or hurt what’s mine - you’ll never see it coming.
