Tim and Mike bought an Atari.
The original with the woodgrain plastic and the lil toggle switches and the controllers and paddles and everything... they found a bunch of game cartidges for it too.
They played it all night last night.
Didn't invite me.
Didn't tell me.
I AM RAGING with jealousy.
They gave me an atari game thing for your PC... with asteroids, centipede, missle command, pong, super breakout, and tempest.
THREE of those were originally played with paddles.
There's no *point* in playing them without those lil knobby things.
Doing it with the page and down keys is just so damned bootie.
I have no money... but I'm lookin at ebay...
dammit I WANT AN ATARI AGAIN.
it's the only 'gaming system' I ever had. and it was a big damned deal when we got it because we were poor lil chillins.
::::sigh:::: oh for the halcyon days of berzerker...
I've had something bothering me for a week and it just now occured to me what that is.
Dear jujubah, but I'm dense.
It'll be good to say this I think...
Robert, Tom's father, who has been here in town to talk with me has decided that he wants me to decide what to do with Tom's ashes.
Robert came to me for help in knowing his son.
They were never close. Tom's mother died when Tom was five, and there was just this... rift between father and son after that. Tom turned 18, left.. they didn't talk much after that.
But Tom wrote him letters. Allll the time. And what I found out recently was that Tom wrote him letters about me. He couldn't really talk to his father. So, he related to his father his own life by talking about *my* life, because me and Tom were horribly close.
So, when Tom died, and his father sensed that he lost not only his son, but all of the life his son had had up until that point, he sought out several people who claimed to be close to him. One of them was Cheryl.. Tom's girlfriend. He soon found out that she was with Tom for the social cool points. (Tom was the coolest mutha you *ever* met) and didn't really know too much about him... what he thought, how he thought.. how he felt..
He tracked me down.
Found out that I actually really cared about Tom and that was that.
He attached himself to me and has been taking me around trying to learn about Tom through me. He's become a friend, and in a lot of ways, the dad I never had.
(I didn't have a dad. I had a father. BIG difference)
But for the past week, I've had Tom's ashes.
They're sitting in a blue ceramic jar with a vaguelly aztec pattern picked out in white on the lid. Perched on top of my cd player in my room.
I kept moving them at first. Trying to find just the right spot.
Half the times the right spot was hidden.. under a blanket, behind the chair, with a big pillow on top, as if I could smother them out of existence. But they've been on top of the CD player for several days. So the lil jar has been treated to the good vibrations of my booty shakin music.
Robert wants me to decide what to do with them.
He doesn't think he knew Tom well enough to decide.
He doesn't understand that Tom's ashes are just that... ashes...
As my friend Chuck said to me just a lil bit ago:
"The whole problem is with so much of how we act being dictated. Now that
you have something that once was a person but now isn't, who is to say what
is proper to do with this new... thing. What *is* a corpse? Who is to say
that wanting to take it into your body is wrong? Who is to say that to dump
it into the toilet and flush it is wrong? We act towards this non-sentient
lump of matter as if it were still a person. Why? It most obviously is
not. It looks very much like something we were very attached to, but is so
fundamentally different that we just don't know how to act. So we go along
with what we are told, at the moment when we have the greatest freedom.
Here is this thing that, generally, no one wants. So now what?"
So now what indeed.
Tom is not in that lil jar. That's just some ashes to me. It's important to Robert. Veterans don't handle flags this carefully, first time mothers don't handle their newborns this carefully.
He's... reverant almost when it comes to this jar of just... ashes... just light grey ashes with some lil chunks of bone that didn't burn completely.
Probably a bunch of other people's ashes in there too... no way of telling how well they clean it out between people...
yes, I know, morbid, probably in bad taste for some of you.
Well, bite me.
bite my big round ass.
I can be in bad taste all I like. These are the things I think. These are the things that I've dealt with for months now with no one really to talk to and no clue really what to say.
I'm either told that they're "sorry for my loss" when they get told or that I "handle it remarkably well"
Fuck both opinions.
You don't know SHIT about my loss. You never ever will.
And yes, I DO handle it remarkably well as far as you can see.. but you don't SEE anything. You think I actually let this out? You think I actually talk about this? You think I really tell people how I feel about this... PIT?
Tom isn't in that little jar.
He's with me.
Having to decide what to do with what is in that little jar is going to break my shoulders.
It's too much to handle on top of everything else.
I've attempted to deal with it seriously. I don't want to let Robert down.
But I just can't deal with it that way...
help me out here with your own suggestions...
Rhett suggested taking the ashes, on a windy day, to where Tom fell and pouring them out, so that this time, he'll fly.
Frank suggested mixing up the smaller powdery stuff into an ounce, rolling some blunts and me and manburger smoking it up.
(I happen to think that burning the burnt is getting into overkill, but it sounds interesting)
And everyone has suggested a burial marker next to his mother's grave in Arizona and an interment there.
I don't know.. there's all the trite things... like the ocean .. or the mountains..
I even thought about taking pictures of things that I know Tom would have liked and developing them... with a lil Tom mixed into the stopper...
(he was a photographer) But I don't know if that would screw it up or not...
And for all I know I could be fucking with some fundamental law of the universe (there are no laws, only habits and habits can be broken) and wind up with some bad juju on my hands.
I don't know.
I really don't.
So, I'm asking..
Comment to your hearts content. I need some feedback. Be as silly, vulgar or serious as you like... you can't offend me..
I was seriously considering smoking him, fer jujubah's sake.
I just really need feedback on this.
Help me out here.
I just got email from Hotyoungcumsluts with the title "Horny Bitches Fucking Horses!"
That's probably the most evocative email I've gotten in quite awhile.
Checking out the footers, it came from yahoo.com.
Tried to program my VCR to record (finally found out when the hell the reruns of the simpsons are on) ... Need to find the damned book because I can't even get the menu to pop up.
I have never felt so 'typically girl'
mmm.. I smoked up again last night... very out of the ordinairy for me.. but now I'm out out out of weed, so I won't be smokin for awhile.
A cd I ordered 5 months ago when I had money just got shipped today and so I just got charged for it.
Now, when I don't have money.
I'll try this whole journal thing later... when I'm coherent.
APPARENTLY I've been connected for the past several hours without my knowing it.
No wonder Dan hasn't called me.
No, no one will ever guess where that is from.
I'm worried about people. I'm worried about me. I'm worried about people I don't even technically know. What some would call an overactive guilt and worry mechanism, I call simple and heartwarming neurosis.
well, not simple.
I would say "you know what I mean" but nine times out of ten, you just don't.
I've had this tiny communication problem for quite awhile. Mainly, I can't communicate.
Oh, I can write. That's just fine.
I can write out how I feel just great. I make sense, I'm coherent... I sometimes even use proper grammar and punctuation.
I can't write in any way that *I* would find meaningful or interesting, but when it comes to the babble on page, I am your chick.
I explain situations well, I can be expansive and interesting and funny and insightful. I can be revelatory and yet wholey mysterious. Every now and again I can even blow people's minds with prose and lovely links of words and phrases.
Every once in a great great while.
But when it comes to anything that actually really matters to me...
When it comes to the things that hit me at heart... I lose it. I'm incapable.
I am a babbling babe from another land. I'm the definition of a speech impediment. I am bumbling and wrong and silly and just ... in competent.
There are very very few people I've ever known who have even gotten close to being able to decipher my ... well... I feel the need to call it bullshit.
So, when some of them aren't doing so well, I fret.
I wring the skin off my hands and chew my lips off.
Kinda ruins it when they're okay again. the lipless don't smile.
You guys know who you are.
I'm still thinking about you.