I oft wonder if the diet coke is an odd kind of hidden suicidal tendency. the worse the outer stresses or the more inflamed the inner terrain, the more the pops and guzzles become obsessive. I look at the can of artificial body mind damaging fluid and then I slam it back as though it will get me there a moment ahead of time. the mildly mannered balance that remains ensures it is as labeled with no arbitrary additives, no alcohol. my mom has been reported as saying she likes me better drunk, then again, she only witnessed that once and I was seventeen and we were in the height of mother/daughter angst. the mom unit reports the 33 year old liking statement to be a result of the fact that i talk more to her when fully soused. great. how could i talk more?! even the Dopt grows weary and wonders off amid the constant stream of rambling mundane sweet talk and that is straight up sober. I get around two legged bipedals (redundant but I like how that sounds) and I can hardly stop flapping my lips. it's frustrating, embarrassing, awkward, leaves me overexposed, vulnerable. it's best not to get me started for I am an aloud processor, meaning the spring of trivia or untrivia freely percolates and then drains out my lips with no regard as to whether duly censored. the blog helps a tad with all the hidden unposted posts. yet the blog in itself becomes a conversation killer in real space. I visit with one who reads and start a legit ramble and they are like, "oh, I know, I read that on your blog." stone silence. ok. my mouth needs to move for you are bipedal. now what? this leaves me with only the uncensored remnant bursting to stream out. it does. bad kathy. so I go back into the microforest and hope I don't post anything hurtful as I process the noggin aloud in cyberform, but I do. which when realized, only becomes another blow to the inner terrain. and I slam back another caffeinated beverage. it is just good the Dopt has boundaries, takes breaks as she needs, is not easily offended, doesn't hold it against me, and then returns for more.
a concluding chapter statement in my grad thesis from 2006 was ...
I sense loss and I drink Diet Coke like a dog gets excited about going for a walk ON A LEASH.
six years ago strewn with a lot of un recognized foreshadowing and diet coke slamming still an illusive pacifier.
finish work with a good bit remaining (artwork for I am already prepped for the classroom), harvest trailer, unload spheres, load trailer, install solo show next Friday, academic doubles practice already resumed, new crop of washers enter, political pandering at which I suck, needed, job life cycle wans, renewed hunting and self promotion waxes in an economically shutdown academic market, could stand a resume of paychecks as financially stalled summer's end nears, the next show presses on the heals of this year's close with its work still to be generated. all good things. ok not really. some definite good things blended into that mix--(art)work to be made, exhibitions, WASHers.
the internal: highly censored, attempts at undisclosure, fantasies of the pen to page scratching out ink writing life...
and YES, the weather is fine and could hardly be better, but dang, pass me another diet coke. NOW please!