Just started Wolves of The Calla, Dark Tower Book 5, on audiobook. I listen to audiobooks the way some people watch movies. I clear a block of time, slap on the headphones, and listen. I must play a clicky game, to appease my micron length attention span, but otherwise, it's just me and the book.
George Guidall is reading this one, whom I adore. He read the first one, and he read American Gods, and probably some others I like, but after listening to Frank Mueller read, George is taking some getting used to. Mueller literally created the characters, for me, in some sort of dimensional space, that I can't get just by reading alone. He made Eddie's voice, and the rest, but mostly Eddie's. I love George, though. I love audiobooks. Escapism at it's finest. Can't wait till Luiz listens to GRRM's books with me. I've been wanting him to read them for years, but I have better luck getting him to listen with me. We're currently listening to American Gods together. It's good quality time.
Other than quality audiobook time, I am having a shiteous few days. My foot is insanely painful. I got bit by a bug last night, and it's turned into this 3" across hard round bruisy spot, with a jet black hard center, that itches, and burns. Benadryl is helping. Because my foot hurts, I've been favoring it, and that's making my lower back ache, from the weird walking. The weather is making my chest cave in. Grumble, bitch moan. My mother is furious at me for not fawning over my stepdad for Father's Day. I would rather stick pins in my eyes then "honor" that man for any kind of holiday. Especially one where he's supposed to be looked at as a good father-figure. Hah.
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 20, 2010
Slices of life.
I stepped on a Ninja today, and paid dearly with my heel.
I love dramatic sentences. I was poking around in the pantry looking for pecans for Irv's rum Father's Day cake, and was about to overbalance. I stepped down with my full weight on my left leg, behind me, and stepped hard on the blade of the food processor. The cut is deep, through the pad of my heel, and over an inch long, curving up around the side of my foot. It's bad, but not life altering. I can't put weight on that heel, or else it pops open and bleeds more. The things I hate: Launching into an asthma attack moments after it happened. Extreme pain caused me to be shocked. That was scarier and worse than the actual injury, which is just a cut. The other thing I hate is people making a big fuss. It's a fucking cut. Yes, it's on my foot, yes I'm diabetic, but I can take care of myself, and it doesn't slow me down. I hopped up, after the asthma subsided, and the bleeding went away, cleaned it, bandaged it, and went on with my day. No fuss. I hate the fuss.
I was thinking about friends, the other day.
It's nice to barbecue with friends, and have them cook the steak just like you like it, without really even asking...because that's how they like it. That's chemistry at work. People watching with friends, sitting in comfortable silence, that really is comfortable. Speaking in codes only you understand. Whole conversations without saying a word, just some elbow nudges and looks. Sometimes I feel so hermity and introverted, but sometimes, I really need people.
I've been reveling in friends, and friendships lately.
I love dramatic sentences. I was poking around in the pantry looking for pecans for Irv's rum Father's Day cake, and was about to overbalance. I stepped down with my full weight on my left leg, behind me, and stepped hard on the blade of the food processor. The cut is deep, through the pad of my heel, and over an inch long, curving up around the side of my foot. It's bad, but not life altering. I can't put weight on that heel, or else it pops open and bleeds more. The things I hate: Launching into an asthma attack moments after it happened. Extreme pain caused me to be shocked. That was scarier and worse than the actual injury, which is just a cut. The other thing I hate is people making a big fuss. It's a fucking cut. Yes, it's on my foot, yes I'm diabetic, but I can take care of myself, and it doesn't slow me down. I hopped up, after the asthma subsided, and the bleeding went away, cleaned it, bandaged it, and went on with my day. No fuss. I hate the fuss.
I was thinking about friends, the other day.
It's nice to barbecue with friends, and have them cook the steak just like you like it, without really even asking...because that's how they like it. That's chemistry at work. People watching with friends, sitting in comfortable silence, that really is comfortable. Speaking in codes only you understand. Whole conversations without saying a word, just some elbow nudges and looks. Sometimes I feel so hermity and introverted, but sometimes, I really need people.
I've been reveling in friends, and friendships lately.
Jun 14, 2010
Habits
This was something of an action packed weekend. Most of Saturday was spent puttering around the house getting things done. Not quite hardcore Saturday cleaning, but like checking things off the ole to-do list. Dishwasher repair man came, lots of laundry, shopping for today, general productivity. Lots of spending time with Alden hashing out, forgiving and discussing Friday's episode.
Last night it was my intention to have a relaxing late dinner, with a little sangria, then get moving around 11, and do some early prep for today's visit. We were to bring a Greek salad, a key lime pie, cookies, homemade pickles, and DeMarco's pizza bread. Normally, I am so on top of that shit, I would have had everything done, and ready to whisk off to Toms River. Last night, I was so burned out from a trying, anxious, horrible week, that I really wanted a relaxing evening under the stars, with one drink. Not drinking, just a glass of sangria to sip.
Then, at 10 pm, as we were finishing up the beverage, and idly munching on some pretzels, preparing to go back in and start mincing onions, a friend showed up. Dressed to the nines. She knows we hit the bar every Saturday and was ready to rock and roll. She hung out with us, finishing the sangria, and acting kind of antsy. I really wasn't dressed, but we were like "sigh, hell, let's go." It was close to midnight, and we figured a few beers wouldn't ruin the night. I still really didn't have a mind to drink. There were only a few people there, all friends, no strangers, and the moment we walked in, there were shouts, cheers, and the drinks started pouring in, literally. They bought me a shot. The bartender poured two fingers of Jim Beam. They bought me a beer. Then fronted me another. We bought a round. Another shot.
Fast forward to Last Call, and I was edging from tipsy to drunk. Then, we resumed sitting outside, and Bill moseyed over after he was done closing up, and sat with us for a while, chatting. Somehow, I found myself with another drink in hand. There's always a little rational tiny voice in my head, when I'm drinking. It only gets obliterated when I move from drunk to fucked up. It coldly says "just one beer...that's all you were gonna have, not shots. what the fuck." I woke up feeling extremely hung over, and saying the same thing to myself out loud.
I used to be a beer at dinner, once a week maybe, kind of girl. I'd only really have more, once every few months, and then we'd really deliberately tie one on. Never thought of myself as a heavy drinker. Now we have the bar, and all the culture that surrounds it. Good friends there, the happiness of walking into a place and everyone going "YAY YOU FINALLY GOT HERE!!" It seriously feels good. It's always awesome to be accepted, loved, part of something. It's just sometimes difficult, when that all comes with copious whiskey. Once every few months has evolved into every Saturday night. Nursing a few beers all night evolved into "a shot of Jim for me, and whatever my friend over here wants!". All this, plus the beer with dinner after a particularly rough weekday. Sometimes, especially now, with all the current bullshit anxieties with the house...that rough day is two or three.
After mulling all this over, I've decided that it's fine to cut loose once a week. It's good for Irv, who needs the bar environment, and male friends he can sort of hang with. It's good for me, both for the tarot business, and just for social reasons. It's nice to have acquaintances. Good food, great people. It's decidedly all around a positive environment. Moderation is it, here. I feel like I want to reign in the hard booze, and go back to nursing the beer. I've also decided to cut the weekday drinking. No need. I enjoy the taste of good beers, exploring and discovering new things, but my leisurely sipping at a bomber of stout is a Sunday thing. Both the Saturday night over-indulgence, and the once a week beer evolving into a 3 nights a week beer, worry me, on different levels.
Last night it was my intention to have a relaxing late dinner, with a little sangria, then get moving around 11, and do some early prep for today's visit. We were to bring a Greek salad, a key lime pie, cookies, homemade pickles, and DeMarco's pizza bread. Normally, I am so on top of that shit, I would have had everything done, and ready to whisk off to Toms River. Last night, I was so burned out from a trying, anxious, horrible week, that I really wanted a relaxing evening under the stars, with one drink. Not drinking, just a glass of sangria to sip.
Then, at 10 pm, as we were finishing up the beverage, and idly munching on some pretzels, preparing to go back in and start mincing onions, a friend showed up. Dressed to the nines. She knows we hit the bar every Saturday and was ready to rock and roll. She hung out with us, finishing the sangria, and acting kind of antsy. I really wasn't dressed, but we were like "sigh, hell, let's go." It was close to midnight, and we figured a few beers wouldn't ruin the night. I still really didn't have a mind to drink. There were only a few people there, all friends, no strangers, and the moment we walked in, there were shouts, cheers, and the drinks started pouring in, literally. They bought me a shot. The bartender poured two fingers of Jim Beam. They bought me a beer. Then fronted me another. We bought a round. Another shot.
Fast forward to Last Call, and I was edging from tipsy to drunk. Then, we resumed sitting outside, and Bill moseyed over after he was done closing up, and sat with us for a while, chatting. Somehow, I found myself with another drink in hand. There's always a little rational tiny voice in my head, when I'm drinking. It only gets obliterated when I move from drunk to fucked up. It coldly says "just one beer...that's all you were gonna have, not shots. what the fuck." I woke up feeling extremely hung over, and saying the same thing to myself out loud.
I used to be a beer at dinner, once a week maybe, kind of girl. I'd only really have more, once every few months, and then we'd really deliberately tie one on. Never thought of myself as a heavy drinker. Now we have the bar, and all the culture that surrounds it. Good friends there, the happiness of walking into a place and everyone going "YAY YOU FINALLY GOT HERE!!" It seriously feels good. It's always awesome to be accepted, loved, part of something. It's just sometimes difficult, when that all comes with copious whiskey. Once every few months has evolved into every Saturday night. Nursing a few beers all night evolved into "a shot of Jim for me, and whatever my friend over here wants!". All this, plus the beer with dinner after a particularly rough weekday. Sometimes, especially now, with all the current bullshit anxieties with the house...that rough day is two or three.
After mulling all this over, I've decided that it's fine to cut loose once a week. It's good for Irv, who needs the bar environment, and male friends he can sort of hang with. It's good for me, both for the tarot business, and just for social reasons. It's nice to have acquaintances. Good food, great people. It's decidedly all around a positive environment. Moderation is it, here. I feel like I want to reign in the hard booze, and go back to nursing the beer. I've also decided to cut the weekday drinking. No need. I enjoy the taste of good beers, exploring and discovering new things, but my leisurely sipping at a bomber of stout is a Sunday thing. Both the Saturday night over-indulgence, and the once a week beer evolving into a 3 nights a week beer, worry me, on different levels.
Jun 11, 2010
No words.
I am so incredibly furious right now. I'm still shaking, in fact. I happen to be right here at my machine, so I write.
Alden just lied to me, right to my face. He had a lousy day at school, where he got picked on, and bullied. We talked for two hours, about it, I gave up most of my afternoon to sit here and counsel him through more of the school bullshit. He cried, I got misty.
The tears are flowing right now, in fact, but different ones. Angry, hurt ones. The ones earlier were empathy.
I hate being linked to people, I hate caring about people so much that I literally feel their pain and cry when they hurt. I hurt when he's hurt, so profoundly, it's like living through it all over again.
So, back to now.
We talked. He cheered up, a little, he went outside to play. He came in from outside in high spirits, and wanting to go play with his friend Matt. I was about to set him free, when I realized he had chores to do, and he still hadn't journaled. Journaling is something we agreed upon, to help him get his mind together, and maybe sort out his personal issues, feelings, and just overall improve upon his writing skills. He agreed to do it voluntarily, and I agreed to not -actually- reading it, just checking it briefly for length-neatness.
He's been screwing off, about it for the past month. His writing skills, and somehow his communication skills have been dropping off, as a result. I see real improvements when he sticks to journaling, and the opposite, when he doesn't.
I reminded him that he's not going out till he gives me a few pages. A few, not the usual one, but a few to catch it up, since he's been neglecting it. I figured, no better time than now to sort out his school issues.
We were sitting here, I was going through my iTunes making a bluesy relaxing mix, chatting with him idly about songs, as he (I thought) was writing. After about a half hour, he declared that he was done.
He showed me 3 pages, with the date 6-11 on them, ending with a half-page titled "Bernard" which seemed to be about today, but the pages before that, he sort of flipped past real fast, shielding the book with his body. I grabbed the book out of his hand, and said, "what are you showing me? Let me look closer, I promise I won't read it."
He'd erased the dates on the past two pages, from a few days ago, and put today's date on them, in order to pass them off. He only wrote one poorly slapped together half page.
Yeah, I fucking slapped him. I went into a blind fucking rage. Not because of the writing, never that. The lie. The easiness, and pettiness of the lie. After all we talked about today. After all the lying he's done in the past, just when I've begun to let my guard down, and start trusting him again, now this, this shit again. He gets away with a lot of shit, around me. He knows I'm easy going. Hell, I even defend him against Irv much of the time. I never get angry.
I never hit him, not even when he was a baby. Nothing makes me lose my shit faster than being lied to. He stole my laptop and hid it, running, under his blankets recently. It was scorching hot when he retrieved it for me...but he was honest, and I addressed it, and let it go. This? For this, I suppose we're both lucky I got a hold of myself, because sitting here right now, I can still envision myself kicking his ass all over the room, swinging, hitting, shoving, whatever. Doing damage. A real honest-to-god blind demonic rage, where all I want to do is hurt, hurt this...thing that lies to my face. I want to send him away, I want to get rid of this thing that hurts me, that can lie so easily, this...person that does the one thing that I abhor, and so easily.
This is my boy, my child, my only blood relative. My essence, a small part of me. He is my heart. The absolute light of my life, the person's company that I long for when I wish most people would leave me alone. This boy that I love so much, that when he gets picked on in school, I shed real tears for, that I give the most of myself to....I have never had such love and hate for one person in my whole life. Never as much love, and at times like this, never as much hate.
I'm sitting her crying my eyes out. I am so incredibly angry, and hurt. It's almost too big for me to address, too big for me. Writing isn't even helping me, at this juncture. My hands are cold, my face and chest are hot. I can't stop these tears from spilling down my face, and soaking the neck of my shirt. My guts, my insides, maybe my fucking womb...hurts. My insides are churning and twisting, like a fist is grabbing and pulling me apart inside. I want to go lay down and put my face in a pillow, like a child, and just sob.
Alden just lied to me, right to my face. He had a lousy day at school, where he got picked on, and bullied. We talked for two hours, about it, I gave up most of my afternoon to sit here and counsel him through more of the school bullshit. He cried, I got misty.
The tears are flowing right now, in fact, but different ones. Angry, hurt ones. The ones earlier were empathy.
I hate being linked to people, I hate caring about people so much that I literally feel their pain and cry when they hurt. I hurt when he's hurt, so profoundly, it's like living through it all over again.
So, back to now.
We talked. He cheered up, a little, he went outside to play. He came in from outside in high spirits, and wanting to go play with his friend Matt. I was about to set him free, when I realized he had chores to do, and he still hadn't journaled. Journaling is something we agreed upon, to help him get his mind together, and maybe sort out his personal issues, feelings, and just overall improve upon his writing skills. He agreed to do it voluntarily, and I agreed to not -actually- reading it, just checking it briefly for length-neatness.
He's been screwing off, about it for the past month. His writing skills, and somehow his communication skills have been dropping off, as a result. I see real improvements when he sticks to journaling, and the opposite, when he doesn't.
I reminded him that he's not going out till he gives me a few pages. A few, not the usual one, but a few to catch it up, since he's been neglecting it. I figured, no better time than now to sort out his school issues.
We were sitting here, I was going through my iTunes making a bluesy relaxing mix, chatting with him idly about songs, as he (I thought) was writing. After about a half hour, he declared that he was done.
He showed me 3 pages, with the date 6-11 on them, ending with a half-page titled "Bernard" which seemed to be about today, but the pages before that, he sort of flipped past real fast, shielding the book with his body. I grabbed the book out of his hand, and said, "what are you showing me? Let me look closer, I promise I won't read it."
He'd erased the dates on the past two pages, from a few days ago, and put today's date on them, in order to pass them off. He only wrote one poorly slapped together half page.
Yeah, I fucking slapped him. I went into a blind fucking rage. Not because of the writing, never that. The lie. The easiness, and pettiness of the lie. After all we talked about today. After all the lying he's done in the past, just when I've begun to let my guard down, and start trusting him again, now this, this shit again. He gets away with a lot of shit, around me. He knows I'm easy going. Hell, I even defend him against Irv much of the time. I never get angry.
I never hit him, not even when he was a baby. Nothing makes me lose my shit faster than being lied to. He stole my laptop and hid it, running, under his blankets recently. It was scorching hot when he retrieved it for me...but he was honest, and I addressed it, and let it go. This? For this, I suppose we're both lucky I got a hold of myself, because sitting here right now, I can still envision myself kicking his ass all over the room, swinging, hitting, shoving, whatever. Doing damage. A real honest-to-god blind demonic rage, where all I want to do is hurt, hurt this...thing that lies to my face. I want to send him away, I want to get rid of this thing that hurts me, that can lie so easily, this...person that does the one thing that I abhor, and so easily.
This is my boy, my child, my only blood relative. My essence, a small part of me. He is my heart. The absolute light of my life, the person's company that I long for when I wish most people would leave me alone. This boy that I love so much, that when he gets picked on in school, I shed real tears for, that I give the most of myself to....I have never had such love and hate for one person in my whole life. Never as much love, and at times like this, never as much hate.
I'm sitting her crying my eyes out. I am so incredibly angry, and hurt. It's almost too big for me to address, too big for me. Writing isn't even helping me, at this juncture. My hands are cold, my face and chest are hot. I can't stop these tears from spilling down my face, and soaking the neck of my shirt. My guts, my insides, maybe my fucking womb...hurts. My insides are churning and twisting, like a fist is grabbing and pulling me apart inside. I want to go lay down and put my face in a pillow, like a child, and just sob.
May 19, 2010
What the Fuck?
May have had a full blown anxiety attack, today. I woke up feeling sort of punchy today, and besides work (which was awesome) there was just a series of minor setbacks, frustrations, and difficulties that compounded, and added, and heaped. Normally I just roll, flow, ebb, go, and handle it, whatever it may be. Today, every little frustration, every unplanned thing, every monkey wrench just sent me further along, till by the end of the day I was sort of stumbling around, going through the motions, my chest hurt as though I were punched, I couldn't take a deep breath, my cheeks felt hot, my eyeballs felt like they were going to launch themselves right out of the sockets, and the skin on my face felt drum tight. I thought I was just feeling "weird". On impulse, I took a Xanax. Within 20 minutes, all those symptoms all the weird off feelings faded away, and I was more myself. More alert, in tune with my surroundings, and of course, way more relaxed.
I don't like that.
Lots of little things crashing in. The house and it's zillion pressures (cleaning it out, the monetary investment, Kenny's desperation, the dirt, the broken things, the neglect, the fact that we have to find places for all of our stuff., and everything else), Irv's house anxiety as projected on me, Luiz's house anxiety for a whole different set of reasons, the rest of his psychoses, which can be draining to deal with, every day, my budding tarot business and all the little things related to it, Schuyler visiting soon, Alden's shitty grades, Alden maybe not making it to the seventh grade with all those implications, all the plans for every weekend till the end of the world, money, things, this, that, fuckall, it's driving me crazy. Seriously crazy. Clinically crazy. Anxiety attack crazy.
At least I've been sleeping. I don't know how well, because even after 8 hours, I still wake up feeling like shit, and groggy.
I need...something. I want to say I need to go camping, but all this shit and more will be waiting when I come back from the woods, so it's not exactly that. Not this time. I just need to take each day in measured steps, and try not to freak out too much.
I don't like that.
Lots of little things crashing in. The house and it's zillion pressures (cleaning it out, the monetary investment, Kenny's desperation, the dirt, the broken things, the neglect, the fact that we have to find places for all of our stuff., and everything else), Irv's house anxiety as projected on me, Luiz's house anxiety for a whole different set of reasons, the rest of his psychoses, which can be draining to deal with, every day, my budding tarot business and all the little things related to it, Schuyler visiting soon, Alden's shitty grades, Alden maybe not making it to the seventh grade with all those implications, all the plans for every weekend till the end of the world, money, things, this, that, fuckall, it's driving me crazy. Seriously crazy. Clinically crazy. Anxiety attack crazy.
At least I've been sleeping. I don't know how well, because even after 8 hours, I still wake up feeling like shit, and groggy.
I need...something. I want to say I need to go camping, but all this shit and more will be waiting when I come back from the woods, so it's not exactly that. Not this time. I just need to take each day in measured steps, and try not to freak out too much.
May 17, 2010
My Dio Moment
It's like, since I started blogging again routinely, I actually want to. I find myself sitting at work, during the downtime, coming up with ideas, and composing in my head. I'm thinking like a blogger, again. It was so prevalent in my life, at one time, I found myself carrying a notebook throughout the day, and jotting notes to blog about later, so I didn't forget. I wished I had my notebook this morning.
I'm really fucked up about Ronnie James Dio's death. More than I thought I would be. Here's what's weird. He was only 67, and he got sick right off a huge tour with Heaven and Hell. He was blazing, he was touring huge arenas. He was ever the showman, ever giving of himself. I got the news yesterday, when my mom and Earl were over, and had to go outside, half sick with it, back out to where everyone was sitting, and tell Irv, who got me into Dio so long ago. There's Earl. Alive. Dio's dead, and Earl is alive. Alive and suffering, but still with us, all the same, just going on and on, being Earl, making everyone miserable... when someone like Dio who spent his whole life doing good, putting it out there, giving himself to us through his music...not alive. Hate that.
I didn't grow up liking Dio, his music wasn't much in my radar, in my teens. About three weeks after Irv and I met, there was a Dio show at Birch Hill, and he was like "we HAVE GOT to go" I shrugged, I mean, I'd heard of the guy, but not much of his music. I mean, I was a real metal head, Slayer, Pantera, Megadeth, stuff like that. So, on that day, he made me listen to all his Dio tapes(!) solo, Black Sabbath, just filled me full of Dio's music, and I liked it. When we first got there, I even said to Irv "fucking great, look at all these old farts, I feel like I'm on some aging metalhead cruise, where's the shuffleboard!?". But when that tiny man walked...no strode, when he strode out on stage, the intensity, the absolute amazing energy, the voice...the...I don't even know how to say this without sounding cheesy, but the star quality. He had it. He had all of it. I literally fell in love. Right there on the spot, I became his number one fan. We were in the front row, and about a third of the way through the set, Metal Mike, his guitarist and a local awesome dude grabbed my hand and was talking to me about my rings, and stuff. Dio saw it, and walked over, mid song, and clasped my hand with both of his, and kissed my fingertips. Mike shouted "You're the YOUNGEST ONE HERE!!!" Tears. That's my Dio moment.
I braved a Dio concert late in my pregnancy. Alden got to go "see" Dio when he was about 7 and a half months along. We saw him live countless times, and every time, his presence and voice filled up every bit of the venue, and every corner of my psyche.
I fucking loved Dio. I really loved him, as much as any person can love someone they never met. Not for his looks, or his fame, or anything, but for his sheer energy and the power he transmits. His demeanor. His way.
I'm really fucked up about Ronnie James Dio's death. More than I thought I would be. Here's what's weird. He was only 67, and he got sick right off a huge tour with Heaven and Hell. He was blazing, he was touring huge arenas. He was ever the showman, ever giving of himself. I got the news yesterday, when my mom and Earl were over, and had to go outside, half sick with it, back out to where everyone was sitting, and tell Irv, who got me into Dio so long ago. There's Earl. Alive. Dio's dead, and Earl is alive. Alive and suffering, but still with us, all the same, just going on and on, being Earl, making everyone miserable... when someone like Dio who spent his whole life doing good, putting it out there, giving himself to us through his music...not alive. Hate that.
I didn't grow up liking Dio, his music wasn't much in my radar, in my teens. About three weeks after Irv and I met, there was a Dio show at Birch Hill, and he was like "we HAVE GOT to go" I shrugged, I mean, I'd heard of the guy, but not much of his music. I mean, I was a real metal head, Slayer, Pantera, Megadeth, stuff like that. So, on that day, he made me listen to all his Dio tapes(!) solo, Black Sabbath, just filled me full of Dio's music, and I liked it. When we first got there, I even said to Irv "fucking great, look at all these old farts, I feel like I'm on some aging metalhead cruise, where's the shuffleboard!?". But when that tiny man walked...no strode, when he strode out on stage, the intensity, the absolute amazing energy, the voice...the...I don't even know how to say this without sounding cheesy, but the star quality. He had it. He had all of it. I literally fell in love. Right there on the spot, I became his number one fan. We were in the front row, and about a third of the way through the set, Metal Mike, his guitarist and a local awesome dude grabbed my hand and was talking to me about my rings, and stuff. Dio saw it, and walked over, mid song, and clasped my hand with both of his, and kissed my fingertips. Mike shouted "You're the YOUNGEST ONE HERE!!!" Tears. That's my Dio moment.
I braved a Dio concert late in my pregnancy. Alden got to go "see" Dio when he was about 7 and a half months along. We saw him live countless times, and every time, his presence and voice filled up every bit of the venue, and every corner of my psyche.
I fucking loved Dio. I really loved him, as much as any person can love someone they never met. Not for his looks, or his fame, or anything, but for his sheer energy and the power he transmits. His demeanor. His way.
Uneasy Alliance
I am watching a documentary about emotions and human connections. There was a phrase that said "friendships are an uneasy alliance" Can I get a hell yeah? Outside of the people I live with, these people in my house....I feel like all of my friendships are like that, even my oldest most treasured friends.
I think, partially, it's because I cleave to outgoing gregarious types. I am not these things. I enjoy listening, soaking in, and hearing people talk, so I like when others dominate the conversation. It's a double edged sword, though. I lose my identity, in relationships like that. I always feel awkward and uneasy, when I spend an extended amount of time with anyone outside my family. Always. Even if we're having the best time, laughing, whatever, I always get a little weird, shy, isolated, awkward feeling. A lot of people I consider close friends, some people that have known me for a long time don't *really* know me. I hate gatherings and groups, parties.
Having Irv, Luiz, and Alden around helps, if any one of them is with me (or preferably all of em) I can cope better, in unfamiliar surroundings. This isn't good, though, because trying new things, going places, being around people sort of scares me. Hell, not sort of. It's almost debilitating.
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