Vida

I thank providence for utility. I have offered my services to a TCC fundraising committee. My job, see to it that everything streamlines. That's not the official word for my role, but it fits...Logistics is the word. Like when I go dancing and I manage to be in every room chatting up revelers and doing damage to some floors-only now I wont be dancing. The new family I have discovered (that was always there, I know!!) is warm and busy. And we sing!!! Can't ask for anything more.

House family, TCC Family, Musician family, Families around the m-plex family (your children make me want to be an adoptive parent or abused child advocate or something when the finances come together), and whatever family I'm not mentioning you more than make up for my birth f- wait, I don't want to use that word when referring to them. Call them vestigial limbs. That fits. I've evolved beyond them, though I love them, I do so from a distance.


Cue Music.

Next, the relationship!!!


holler.

Vida

Irving Library, I love your free internet-wait be damned! Your blocking of the Turtle Creek Chorale website and Perez Hilton give me pause. I wanted to arrange a lift to choir rehearsal sunday as well as make sure that Brangelina weren't dunzo.

Unemployed people need distractions...

Looking at multiple job sites online, sending out multiple resume's-each with custom cover letter. My quest on foot for employment has been as unfruitful as my internet quest. Yet on I go.

I have penned two hypnotic tribal house songs as well. Lyrics are occusing me as we speak, so to speak...

I will resist every (and I mean every, I've chatted with folks about this) shady way to hold business. I have volunteered with politicians-local and national-judges, worked for a lawyer and churches, and know too many amazing people to do anything society would frown upon. Especially end up on the street. So to speak.

I hate this pickle I'm in, but I've never had more fecund creative spikes. Every sound I imagine becomes a song. This abyssmal economic pit is going to lead to something pleasant me thinks.

Now to just live until then.

Holler.

ramblings

Jerry Jones blew a wad of cash on splendidly and poorly designed points of Cowboys stadium. One hot dog/beer stand's design suggests one walk up to coolers and help themselves to product. Inventory shortages were only natural.

I am forcing myself to watch my mom run her nonprofit into the ground. She will not accept help, help begins as criticism. There is no nice way to say "your business model is perversely faulty." Among other things, when she is short staffed she does not tell proper people. She merely has "faith." Chaos ensues.

I worked with a woman last night who said, actually said, there never was a recession. I will hazard she watches fox news. Or is simply stupid (a word I don not like to use).

In the middle, actualy the extended tail end of the chaos last night, I fancied I understood something else about my mother. She wants me to like her. By like I mean, of course, to accept faulty and demonstrably catastrophic business decisions as if they were golden turds. I understand she needs to defend her endeavors, but with proper safeguards and (gasp) training, documents-and, heaven forbid (gasp)-STANDARDS....poof. There would go my beef. And her business model would be moving in the direction of professionalism. Those first steps in an organization which has done little to live up it's categorical framing are the most difficult.

I may take up pimping.

What I'm doing

So I moved in with a man who had brain damage from recreational drug use. Then I learn he has had an aneurism. Today I learn he is schizophrenic. And doesn't take meds. Hasn't been to the doctor in 2 years. Seriously.

I think he needs to be institutionalized. Today we come back from grocery run and he freaks out. He decides that a scratch on the toilet seat was left by an intruder. Someone, he believes, comes in when he's not here and scratches surfaces with razor blades. Makes no sense, they should steal my mac, I add.

Guess what? You can't reason with crazy. The supposed scratch on the toilet cover (a fucking toilet cover) motivated him to take a screw driver and run to a vacant house two doors down and scrape the door vehementely with it for a minute.

I ask him what's up. He rambles on incoherently about people coming into his house. See? He points to "scratches" on surfaces, positing the blame on phantoms who visit when he leaves. And steal nothing.

My mom comes over. She doesn't help. She's all God will heal you, blah blah. I have a ministry, blah blah. People should not be allowed to fill crazy peoples head up with more crazy. He needs to see a doctor and to get a prescription. He needs to be evaluated mentally. He may need to be institutionalized.

On a brighter note, I'm scheduled to collaborate with many musically inclined folk this year. I am going to job arrangement places next week as well. The sooner I start making my own money, the sooner I can be away from the crazy roommate and the crazy mother.

Holler.

Love love LOVE!!

No papers due!! Only a recital fall 2010 and I walk across a stage with thousands of other people crippled with debt!!!

Yay!!

I've been writing songs like a crazy person. Lyrics and all for the first time! Going out and becoming reacquainted with the world. Miss my house family!! We know how to boogie! working on joining downtempo label. Making arrangements to collaborate with multiple musicians. Joining Turtle Creek Chorale (if they will have me). Working on autobiography. repairing relationship with mother. Loving all of my friends , their kids (if they got em), and the struggle that is post-college life. This is what inspires artists. Also chatting with choreographers next month in effort to write music exclusively for them to dance to. Working on music via the internet with a man from South America. Looking for work to enable me to eat as I cultivate music.

Of course, once I get an income, I will get headshots and go on auditions as well.

Must. Create.

Smooches.