Blackbird Screwdriver

Smithville creeps me out. Those of you who have visited my humble abode know I am surrounded on several sides by what one might call "tracts of land," and not much else. One parcel gets some commercial use during the year as a tobacco field, and it rarely causes me any great concern. The other side, however, is more sketchy. It doesn't appear to have any purpose in life but to attract persons who, for one reason or another, need to go somewhere unpopulated by humans for awhile. This generally manifests in varying degrees of annoyances, such as the asshole who feels the need to ride his four-wheeler up and down my street on the Saturdays when I am home and sleeping at the entirely reasonable hour of 3 p.m. I have seen a number of deer down in that area, and am sure I would see many, many more if it weren't for all the gunshots I hear coming from that direction. Right next to my house.
Tonight, however, may have been a bit more than an annoyance. I have trouble coming up with any good reasons for a fairly loud truck sounding as if it's parking on my front lawn at 11 p.m., muffled voices for a few minutes while the engine is still running, some gate and door slamming, and then squealing tires. It just screams "shady." And not in a good way.
It seems to me that, among several reasons more highly populated areas tend have the reputation of being more crime-ridden, it's only a crime if there is a witness. And Smithville is a little short on those. But what do I know? I live "in town." Most of my friends live in hollers and coves, and those frighten me even more.
Me, I'm a fan of witnesses, so I made the trek to the "big city" for my annual three-day (compensation for my poor, dear mother's 36 hours of labor) birthday extravabration. Thanks to all who rolled out the carpets, offered up the drinks, fed me, beat me at Cranium (?), overcame locked cars (I swear I'm going to develop an implantable chip that will unlock the user's car doors, or at least keep them generally advised to their key's whereabouts before the door is closed), and generally hung out and helped me fully acclimate to this strange, new age. I'm sorry to those of you (with bird flu or blood ties to me) I didn't get to see more.
My favorite gift thus far has already captured too much of my time and attention (yes, the project is finished) and has me waxing philosophical on my many obsessions (glass, salt, booze, men...). Ross claimed it seemed I'm searching for purity, or clarity, perhaps, but I realized I love these things most in their adulterated, highly impure forms, color in glass, assorted minerals in salt, you name it in booze, and use your imagination because I'm not handing out that last one. Either way, volumes can and have been written about the historical significance of each of my aforementioned demons, and I have to wonder what significance that holds for me. I have some answers, but they're not coming to me as eloquently now as they did when I was in the shower a few minutes ago. They rarely do.
I don't know where I'm going with that just yet. But I sure could go for a Margarita. Three out of Four ain't bad.

A Don Juan Disposition and a Panic Attack

Jumping right in:
Last. Week. Sucked. And then didn't suck, and then sucked again.

Oh sure, Monday and Tuesday were fairly uneventful (save for getting locked out of my house at 4a.m., but whatever). Wednesday was the worst. Ross and I broke up. For about a day, and that's about how long the argument lasted too. Don't worry your pretty little head about the details, but suffice it to say I won't be winning "girlfriend of the year" any time soon. We got to that point where you can't scream anymore because you've lost your voice, and you can't cry anymore because there's no moisture left in your body, so we invited a bunch of people over for our annual State of the Union (don't worry, folks, the irony was not lost) drinking game, and got hammered thanks to Mr. Bush, and his unwavering mispronounciation of the word "nuclear." As an aside, I think it was beyond awesome that PBS was playing a documentary on Auschwitz during and after the the speech, instead of the usual coverage and ensuing punditry. Also, NPR played Carmina Burana during the Super Bowl tonight. Someone loves me, but I digress.
So we fell asleep and woke up the next day as if not much had happened. Somewhere along the way we decided we were terrible at this breaking up thing, and decided to take another stab. Concessions were made, and I found a new living arrangement that's close by, so we can stop being married and start dating again. I have yet to actually move, but I am looking forward to it. My new house rocks, and even if I only spend a few nights a week there, it will be well worth it for having my own "space." Overall not a bad outcome, I suppose, but requiring some work, nonetheless.
Thursday was an entirely different matter. Major fucking breakthrough in my blowslot to the tune of finally figuring out a technique I'd been searching for over the course of three semesters. It is no end of frustrating to envision the work you want to make and be entirely unable to make it happen. And how shocking that it was that easy all along. I may actually turn out some work I can be proud of soon. Relating the extent of my exitement about this is proving difficult.
So the yin keeps a yinning until the yang decides to do its thing.

On less ponderous notes, I've recently become a born again Netflix subscriber, and got invited to Friendster, which I'd heard of but never really looked into. I can't imagine anyone reading this would be interested in friendster (especially since I thought it had it's 15 minutes two years ago), but if I'm wrong let me know and the invite's yours.

My birthday is in a few weeks and Midnight Sushi is in order. You have been warned.