tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-261089812024-03-20T10:11:33.840-05:00La SirenaLa Sirena is actually named Jennifer. She lives about 600 feet above sea level on Chicago's South Side.La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.comBlogger435125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-30438178819962054992013-01-08T19:16:00.002-06:002013-01-08T19:20:41.066-06:00New Year, New Outlook<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqibt7_e_mDxW0hYJ6XCOQPtWLb-imtsX3TQD7CTRbaI-tvbMxYr3WR4jPpfkV928-KxfoFyHNC8x3w3XBkDDRC6cuHXzQAE_I8MrGllcLkDA1I3hjSobRWxVKf4-wqO85vJGEDA/s1600/katherinebarber_sirena_sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqibt7_e_mDxW0hYJ6XCOQPtWLb-imtsX3TQD7CTRbaI-tvbMxYr3WR4jPpfkV928-KxfoFyHNC8x3w3XBkDDRC6cuHXzQAE_I8MrGllcLkDA1I3hjSobRWxVKf4-wqO85vJGEDA/s320/katherinebarber_sirena_sm.jpg" width="210" /></a>I haven't posted in almost a year. One of my goals for this year is to get back to my true Jen while simultaneously investing myself in a more organized, pragmatic way. At this point, I need to reference the book <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-War-Art-Through-Creative/dp/1936891026/ref=wl_it_dp_o_nC?ie=UTF8&colid=3OA2797NVJ5A5&coliid=I2IQWLEQJ3AZFZ">The War of Art</a> </i>by Steven Pressfield. <a href="http://voidwithme.blogspot.com/"><i> </i>Paula Daunt</a> turned me onto it with a beautiful image of a page she posted on facebook. I saved the image on my desktop at work, put the book on my Christmas wishlist and <i>voila! </i>I started reading it the other night and so organized, daily writing is now part of each day. I will be blogging very frequently while I get myself into this new rhythm.<br />
<br />
And I don't seem to have found my beat yet tonight but type away, I will... However, I think I will take the rest of tonight's words to my own verbal masturbation in microsoft but I plan to frequent the blogosphere again. We somehow made it through the end of the Mayan calendar so I think I am safe to go retro -- circa 2007. <br />
<br />
See you soon...<br />
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://www.elfwood.com/~kbarber/Sirena.2897758.html">This image is by Katherine Barbe</a>r.</span></i></div>
La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-51277001491541470422012-01-31T23:18:00.008-06:002012-02-01T00:25:40.306-06:00My Culturally Rooted Tangent<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE4RQ5AhdEExzZp6vyhlkoxHtH1J9nQ7NAumb2MnY9S7mzMeDS9FnlqA8yprGcq-lfpWpsgGuGGmkJ_UvPw1dX_cUv0nkhMUh_nNoVoAPO_JwEHCZkj889Z_A9dTeqC0yTVqEPGQ/s1600/singing+mermaid.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE4RQ5AhdEExzZp6vyhlkoxHtH1J9nQ7NAumb2MnY9S7mzMeDS9FnlqA8yprGcq-lfpWpsgGuGGmkJ_UvPw1dX_cUv0nkhMUh_nNoVoAPO_JwEHCZkj889Z_A9dTeqC0yTVqEPGQ/s320/singing+mermaid.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5704044359398627986" /></a><div>I sang at choir in the church basement tonight. Please, laugh away. </div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, I'm a good Irish Catholic lady who practiced with fellow choir members for two and a half hours -- less a twenty minute break in which we drank wine or beer and ate hors d'ourves. (You can refill your glass at the end of break so you have sustenance for the second half of practice!)</div><div><br /></div><div>Since I am grooving on my catholicism tonight, I shall make confession. I love singing! It's challenging fighting all of the complications of harmony (so appropros on so many levels), it is so challenging fighting all of the bullshit of organized religion -- but somehow set it to music and I feel it. So many conflicts, but goddammit -- I'm still a fucking catholic!</div><div><br /></div><div>Excuse me, Irish Catholic.</div><div><br /></div><div>See, that differential is significant. I don't buy into that political pope crap. I also grew up with several guys who killed themselves because they were destroyed by the tragedy of being raped by priests. I imagine one of them as a significant image in the Jungian Archetypical Heaven now. He was golden and beautiful and Michelangelo would have painted him as the Archangel Michael. And I was taught to practice catholicism by 13 years of catholic school and my Irish catholic grandma and Jesuits and a book of the saints. So really and obviously, I'm an overanalyzing, superstitious woman. But aren't those the qualities that keep religion solid, stable and historical?</div><div><br /></div><div>The point I was trying to make a minute ago is I don't pray to Jesus or God. I think pure, unsinful beings are unapproachable (and a load of misogynistic, hallucinogenic bullshit). I am the product of faith passed on from the oppressed -- pray to your mother and your friends and family, the Blessed Mother and the saints. </div><div><br /></div><div>And the name is also significant. I was not taught to pray to the Virgin Mary; I was taught to pray to the Blessed Mother. Recite both of those names to yourself and see who you want to call on to assist you in your petitions. Tonight I stood on a bridge that rocked over the Chicago River while singing "Gentle Woman" to a a gift of urban nature which always blesses me. Blessed Mother, thank you for your children.</div><div><br /></div><div>And tonight I also sang with the church choir -- even "Danny Boy" (yuck) which according to the music notes was published in "Londonderry" rather than Derry. I hate "Danny Boy". Over-played and praising saccharine martyrdom to The Man. </div><div><br /></div><div>We should sing "The Wind That Shakes the Barley". It's a more valuable theme and it relates better to the times.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Twas hard the woeful words to frame</div><div> To break the ties that bound us.</div><div> But harder still to bare the shame </div><div> Of foreign chains around us."</div><div><br /></div><div>Today, the foreign chains are made of different steels. In this millennium, foreign does not refer to other nations and cultures, but rather, multinational corporate persecutors. We are cuffed by different oppressors but we are all still trapped.</div><div><br /></div><div>And now to quote a catholic from a different culture: "Better to die on your feet than live on your knees."</div><div><br /></div><div>So let us pray.</div><div><br /></div><iframe width="459" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/_UrFxZNFeZc?fs=1" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-74220827808272544802011-12-03T17:19:00.004-06:002011-12-03T17:38:20.013-06:00Caliber<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivuHJP0cAbT5vSqXnXg6BtUqHJjycV1QdiXsBU0MgLX0ffablq03bQX02gn5SX5ur9_jwY69hgqF6siS0UquIBubxRGc2eLYa1-zi8yXKtYM9KvoVDj-fps_PMA1_wXMm7khqsig/s1600/charter_arms_rimless_revolver.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 175px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivuHJP0cAbT5vSqXnXg6BtUqHJjycV1QdiXsBU0MgLX0ffablq03bQX02gn5SX5ur9_jwY69hgqF6siS0UquIBubxRGc2eLYa1-zi8yXKtYM9KvoVDj-fps_PMA1_wXMm7khqsig/s200/charter_arms_rimless_revolver.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5682049918891466066" /></a>I'm coming on a caliber year.<div><br /></div><div>My friend Tom coined the term "caliber year" year. A caliber is the width of the internal diameter of a gun barrel (in inches). Guns are generally designed in a limited number of measures. I can't recite them all off the top of my head but some are: .22, .36, .38, .40, .44 and .50. So when your age is .22, .40, etc., it is a claiber year.</div><div><br /></div><div>I used to own a .22 rifle as a bonus in a housing move but the cops took it away because it wasn't registered. Too bad, because that house was about a mile via three turns off the gravel road and sometimes coyotes and cougars would do battle around the house in the middle of the night. So I would walk out of the house, shoot the .22 across the corn or soy field, depending on the year. The field was about 20 acres, which was key since .22s have a long range & I didn't want to hurt anyone -- just run off the coyotes and cougars.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, back to the caliber years -- my .38 SUCKED. No ability to hit a target steadily unless that target moved. I hope my .40 has better aim -- it's less than 6 months away. I'd better start practicing.</div>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-10522913801083250172011-11-07T23:05:00.008-06:002011-11-07T23:28:22.165-06:00Evil Diva, Banshee Bitch<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMdpXk30m2kfD50m866HvjB3WrUGrUAmEGvXiD0C9DutGcKDD8s0dxZwEsWL_U2gHIJFMitw2SVdE3OwK4o8qA0aJswR5X80UkJyNBRcp3KjjnZBNMZ3wo_Rv0OK59SGYDm_vwg/s1600/blogbanshee.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 297px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMdpXk30m2kfD50m866HvjB3WrUGrUAmEGvXiD0C9DutGcKDD8s0dxZwEsWL_U2gHIJFMitw2SVdE3OwK4o8qA0aJswR5X80UkJyNBRcp3KjjnZBNMZ3wo_Rv0OK59SGYDm_vwg/s400/blogbanshee.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5672491841279546914" /></a>Evil Diva<br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">This is me <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">When I flash my tongue, silver</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Razor, sing my blood <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">My gunfire cracks</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Through the canyon<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Yes, my throat<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I am that bitch in sequins and</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I am the naked warrior<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I lead the battle with my shrill<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Sing death home<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Home and howl, keen<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Through the night<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Through the canteen<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">And whiskey spews through my nose<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">And love from my lungs and <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Wicked, wicked lies<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">The green in my eyes<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">The gold and brown<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">The earth in the shadows<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">My hips in the sway<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">In the mist, my lips<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Sing you home<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Sing you home<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Sing you</p>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-62136328958203721802011-11-03T21:27:00.008-05:002011-11-03T22:39:23.025-05:00Wave-particle Duality<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijwy4KqIv3GHpHayyxWip3vqXlNf6MZTwqh6G8MYQSHBKBbFJA2bgb7WDb5IBvevqi3mTbZP9mHC84u5QCYyA6tVzGA34wfFs_SPbb1_EmGfp6g48RczCUMHS93uqE_rbA0QhLUA/s1600/hedge.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670976561190779106" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijwy4KqIv3GHpHayyxWip3vqXlNf6MZTwqh6G8MYQSHBKBbFJA2bgb7WDb5IBvevqi3mTbZP9mHC84u5QCYyA6tVzGA34wfFs_SPbb1_EmGfp6g48RczCUMHS93uqE_rbA0QhLUA/s400/hedge.jpg" /></a> The landlord painted the backyard sewer cap and all of the stray cats are rolling on the fresh white coat and getting high. I'm trying to get the drunky ladies out for end-of-the-work-week Friday cocktails and they sound like the temperance league. My nephew is fevered, my dad is tubed and my son is steadfastly working his way into the 1%. I'm getting unspecific orders via text, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?NR=1&v=SKoWi_6P0fw"><span style="color:#33cc00;">PJ Harvey is coming through me</span> </a>and I'm skimming the quantum theory of mechanics on the internet for shiggles.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Seasonal shifts bring out the strange.</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><em><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo by </span></em><a href="http://www.examiner.com/adventure-travel-in-chicago/chicago-fall-bird-migration-and-where-to-look"><em><span style="font-size:78%;">Ted Nelson</span></em></a></div>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-21589861817423116132011-09-25T19:21:00.011-05:002011-09-25T21:41:17.295-05:00Purify<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCs7olqI216tWeggChEKR73COwgWIFUdStIHI1tfvrx243b6RLXxi57ac9j3YRSz0CLACRGvHNGnHlXEwNWTMzzMhqS8ZozKQhIKPZN1xcbTgz1SCPC2Ga7zSSvw8JHmH3n4wdow/s1600/purify+rachel+combs-gullick.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 267px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656491216036754146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCs7olqI216tWeggChEKR73COwgWIFUdStIHI1tfvrx243b6RLXxi57ac9j3YRSz0CLACRGvHNGnHlXEwNWTMzzMhqS8ZozKQhIKPZN1xcbTgz1SCPC2Ga7zSSvw8JHmH3n4wdow/s400/purify+rachel+combs-gullick.jpg" /></a>I am not neat by nature.<br /><br /><div></div><br /><div>Growing up, my mother instituted "Saturday Chores" for my sisters and me. We had to clean our bedrooms and then were each given a scouring assignment: front room, kitchen/ tv room, or bathroom. Kitchen/ family room was the worst. You had to clean the stove, fridge and scour the counter tops. You had to pick up and put away all of the flotsam and jetsam from tvland and scrub the floors. The floors were tough because you needed to accomodate the kitchen floor linoleum and all of its grime then dump your water and work the wooden parquet. Our house was pretty small but ma did a good job embodying every type of housing wing in about 1000 square feet. </div><br /><br /><br /><div>The bathroom was grungy but easy. Swipe up the mirrors, scrub down the sink and then the toilet. Change the litter box. Scrub the small floor, then scour the tuband shower walls. Strip down and take your shower while rinsing away all the scrubbing bubbles. Hop out, dry off, throw on your sweats and mop your way out the door.</div><br /><br /><br /><div>The living room and hallway assignment was the longest process but the most soothing. The walls were an astonishing bright green and the wall-to-wall carpet the color of the forest. You had to oil all of the colonial wooden furniture and shelves, remove and dust all of the books and knick-knacks and then vacuum the carpets and cloth on the furniture. You also had to vacuum under the furniture -- no cheating! Strangely, cleaning the living room always made me feel kind of Zen.</div><br /><br /><br /><div>The motivating beat for Saturday Chores was ma's vinyl. She had splurged on the entire Beatles Apple Collection. Also, there was <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q8hSVPCaESs&feature=related">Steve Goodman</a>, the "Three Legged Man" and Billy Joel. (Trust me, if I never hear "For the Longest Time" again, it still won't be long enough.) I enjoyed dancing & dusting to <em>The Last Waltz </em>by <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQbN0IeMedQ&feature=related">the Band</a>. But nothing beat cleaning to <em><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J30tQxAkvPY&feature=results_video&playnext=1&list=PLA10A33246F74ABB9">Jesus Christ Superstar</a>. </em></div><br /><br /><br /><div>And now for confession number one. I can sing the entire original Broadway soundtrack note-by-note and word-by-word from the Overture through John Nineteen Forty-One. I once won two tickets to a performance at the Chicago Theater on Johnny B's morning show by calling in and singing a medley from the score. Through the years, I definitely have had some strange <a href="http://lasirena72.blogspot.com/2007/03/strange-luck-of-lady-jameson.html">wins</a> and <a href="http://lasirena72.blogspot.com/2010/06/it-makes-me-1.html">losses</a>.</div><br /><br /><br /><div>And my losses and my nature have led me to the juice of confession number two. My apartment is a horrible, disgusting dastardly wreck. It looks like it was hit by a dust storm, followed by a mental monsoon and sealed with a hiccuping hurricane. And when you add my nature + earning a master's + a ridiculously menacing cerebral blow, you get Disaster Land.</div><br /><br /><br /><div>So today, I put on <em>Jesus Christ Superstar </em>and sang it word-for-word while scrubbing the grease stains and soot out of my kitchen. Mostly. I still have to scour the floor. Damned Saturday Chores perfectionist upbringing.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>(Image is <a href="http://www.filemagazine.com/thecollection/archives/2005/09/purify.html">"Purify" by Rachel Combs-Gullick</a>.)</div>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-91023024374747897812011-09-19T22:21:00.000-05:002011-09-19T22:22:45.770-05:00Witching Hour<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq71yoitfueVSH0NJFrxXELbBYa81X5JmreMEcazPVjQSs7XELHOM6bIokpjNPjE4R-phbrkhxzoSN9jy7Xf45uyG5Bs8CkjtrEmOfftGM9ZXoJpx6QfzPi3yOk-C208mhpBTiMQ/s1600/mermaid-witch-tray-mead.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 300px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654227141581810626" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq71yoitfueVSH0NJFrxXELbBYa81X5JmreMEcazPVjQSs7XELHOM6bIokpjNPjE4R-phbrkhxzoSN9jy7Xf45uyG5Bs8CkjtrEmOfftGM9ZXoJpx6QfzPi3yOk-C208mhpBTiMQ/s400/mermaid-witch-tray-mead.jpg" /></a>I am not a nice girl. I am not a sweet woman. The clock just struck truth and madness. I started this mermaid symbology to tap into my inner beauty but my inner beauty is dark and strange. On Saturday I was toted in a bicycle chariot up California Avenue by a potion brewing warrior. We kissed in the shadows and now I finally release my inner mother nature. This year, boys and girls, mother nature is tsunamis and tornados. She is moonstruck coyotes clamoring at the cataclysm. She laps up chaos and laughs at your dismantled structures. This siren sings sailors from their personal bondage and throws mona lisa smirks from her island.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Swim, bitches, swim.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div>(Credits to <a href="http://theothersideofeverything.com/flip/"><span style="color:#009900;">Dean</span></a> and <a href="http://www.diamandagalas.com/bio.htm"><span style="color:#009900;">Diamanda Galas</span> </a>for inspiring this train of madness. Also to <a href="http://fineartamerica.com/products/mermaid-witch-tray-mead-poster.html"><span style="color:#009900;">Tray Mead</span> </a>for the image.)</div>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-1977955465863946942011-09-19T22:20:00.000-05:002011-09-19T22:20:47.931-05:00Diamanda Galás & John Paul Jones - Skótoseme (live 1994)<iframe height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/f0AIjnQ8t30?fs=1" frameborder="0" width="459" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br /><br />She is singing with my soul.La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-46519983793533740612011-07-28T20:20:00.008-05:002013-08-29T13:30:16.604-05:00Fin Agains Wake<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHL0K1fw-6puejjySMcolrfNvYbBNwt1Ez94rEuTnDiG57ZxfQAdMs4WI5-vFzzZutbVFOpnxwqAcOfztOuVQ-tqCae31opsf1hBzMu45rY2xgwG7iWp_wnjF91IuxHB4zkcN5KQ/s1600/Velikov_Odyssey_and_the_Sirens.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634592173138616514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHL0K1fw-6puejjySMcolrfNvYbBNwt1Ez94rEuTnDiG57ZxfQAdMs4WI5-vFzzZutbVFOpnxwqAcOfztOuVQ-tqCae31opsf1hBzMu45rY2xgwG7iWp_wnjF91IuxHB4zkcN5KQ/s400/Velikov_Odyssey_and_the_Sirens.jpg" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 400px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 276px;" /></a> One semester I studied James Joyce. We read <em>Dubliners</em>, <em>Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, </em>and <em>Ulysses. </em>I mamad with my sister and those bright boys and nights poured jack and bud over class notes singing Patsy Cline and Lynard Skynard. Thus:<br />
<br />
<em><span style="font-size: 130%;">That was a tuning fork the tuner had that he forgot that he now struck. A call again. That he now poised that it now throbbed. You hear? It throbbed, pure, purer, soft and softlier, its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call.</span></em> <br />
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Long death's call? Oh, singing through all logic lures the sailors to the rocks but the rocks remain. Sailors swim and bleed and minds drown in the song but these scars tissue silver and the siren sings songs not sirens and science. Silence.</div>
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<em><span style="font-size: 130%;"></span></em></div>
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<em><span style="font-size: 130%;">river run, past Eve's and Adam's, from swerve of shore to bend of bay,bring us by a commodius vicus of recirculation back to Howth Castle and Environs.</span></em></div>
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(ps. Image by<a href="http://www.bestnetart.com/acatalog/Velikov.html"> Velikov</a>.)</div>
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La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-18669879949884523362011-05-10T21:52:00.008-05:002011-05-10T22:20:34.912-05:00These ThesesI'm trying to concentrate and create my thesis paper, so suddenly every other thing in the world is interesting and intersecting. Which would almost sound raunchy if it wasn't so dull.<br /><br />My thesis is on cravings. Does treatment with such-and-such device reduce cravings? Unfortunately, the people being rated are already lacking cravings in life which is why they are seeking this treatment in the first place. This muddles the data.<br /><br />Muddles... data... It's all gone uncertainly Heisenberg on me. It doesn't matter, I guess. I just have to do a remotely comprehensive presentation and then turn in one stack of paper so they'll hand me a stamped one.<br /><br />Hey, I almost sound like pre-June 2010 Jen, again. I think I'll have to add a picture of a topless mermaid, now. Then we'll all feel better.<br /><br /><br /><div>I'll work on flowing sentence structure after my thesis.</div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605290998003288930" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8brklQhKySn6lMdXpb19NC6njZacvoYTc-ymUeZq1bWewfWhDv4eslsYrDqOp6dRGaQy7b4GQ5WXiLTwepcRd9qz8DdlenXelfYtDAEfYeQORrK1kJIlVguPV-7j7M4rBJwcmnQ/s400/enchanted-mermaid-made-better.jpg" />La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-19698618762835472832011-03-17T22:59:00.004-05:002011-09-20T21:40:24.012-05:00"Haunted...<iframe height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/C8oyxrrEk58?fs=1" frameborder="0" width="425" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br /><br /><br />...of your precious love. Of your precious love."<br /><br /><br />I noticed today that I posted on St. Patrick's Day in <a href="http://lasirena72.blogspot.com/2010/03/illogical-evolving-equinox-combat-and.html">2010</a>, <a href="http://lasirena72.blogspot.com/2008/03/st-patrick-and-triple-brigid-brought-to.html">2008</a>, and <a href="http://lasirena72.blogspot.com/2007/03/strange-luck-of-lady-jameson.html">2007</a>.<br />I don't have much to add today. The world has gone mad & will get worse with the current struggles in Japan, Libya, Wisconsin & Egypt. According to the end of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mesoamerican_Long_Count_calendar">Mayan Calendar</a>, we may be done in on December 21, 2012.<br /><br />We all have the <a href="http://wiki.answers.com/Q/What_is_the_origin_of_the_term_">true Luck of the Irish</a>. So <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sqmpusSoGyc">"may the road rise to meet you and may the wind be always at your back."</a>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-60517378607278142702011-03-03T22:48:00.006-06:002011-03-03T23:17:44.738-06:00"Don't ask, tell...<span style="font-size:85%;"><em>...I tell you such fine music waits in the shadows of hell."</em><br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;">-- Charles Bukowski</span><br /><br />I don't have the tolerance to swallow the bullshit anymore. I am terrified of the whole I have been breathing through for seven years. I am a pussy. But I endure. I get up and I go to work and I bust my brains and my boss says I am not up to this work anymore because my short term memory is scarred. I am a pussy. My exboyfriend called me a pussy once. I told him pussy was tougher than cock. He said yes. Pussy is like good tires. It stretches and flexibly spreads around the road's barriers. Pussy is the toughest mover and shaker. I am a pussy.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqESnyAqpPfTyTaA6qUPEcjBELgLx10eRIgSPjCA1-9rrzvJuzGHOBhyphenhyphennBitZyfX-_gfLiq1QCXluNdc2fJU8PR56gjV3IEwGxwgYnVeTN3s5UdVMNjTFG6ataJobv04iwQYSoCg/s400/dorothy+shoes.jpg"></a><br />I am not me. I lost myself nine months? seven years ago? I am waiting for my map.<br /><br />I probably drank too much tonight. Right now, I perceive a level of vision that lets me see through the trauma drama bullshit that I am supposed to live up to... that I could never live up to. Tomorrow I will face my come-uppance when I am pointed out as incapable of fulfilling my occupational requirements. I fulfilled them yesterday and I was still called a failure and they were never my calling or destiny in the first place.<br /><br />I am going to hell. Thank god, I don't believe in it.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqESnyAqpPfTyTaA6qUPEcjBELgLx10eRIgSPjCA1-9rrzvJuzGHOBhyphenhyphennBitZyfX-_gfLiq1QCXluNdc2fJU8PR56gjV3IEwGxwgYnVeTN3s5UdVMNjTFG6ataJobv04iwQYSoCg/s400/dorothy+shoes.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 321px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqESnyAqpPfTyTaA6qUPEcjBELgLx10eRIgSPjCA1-9rrzvJuzGHOBhyphenhyphennBitZyfX-_gfLiq1QCXluNdc2fJU8PR56gjV3IEwGxwgYnVeTN3s5UdVMNjTFG6ataJobv04iwQYSoCg/s400/dorothy+shoes.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />This is not where I belong. I haven't walked the road home in twenty years. Actually, I don't even remember what my house looks like. What home is. I do see my sisters of mercy on the road and I don't want to leave them. I don't want to disappoint them. And I can't find my way back home.<br /><br />There's no place like home.<br /><br /><em>Suck it up, bitch</em>. <strong>Quit being such a pussy</strong>. <em>Go to hell</em>. <strong>I tell you such fine music waits in the shadows of hell.</strong>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-86657889260711270532010-11-24T12:32:00.001-06:002010-11-24T13:15:36.295-06:00Pirate Jenny Is Thankful...<iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/V7awW5nrDHk?fs=1" frameborder="0" width="425" height="344"></iframe><br /><br />Pirate Jenny<br />Nina Simone - Live 1964<br /><br />Twenty years ago I was gifted with the opportunity to play a whore in <a href="http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/brecht.htm">Bertolt Brecht</a>'s <em><strong><a href="http://www.threepennyopera.org/">Three Penny Opera</a></strong></em>. The music was created by <a href="http://www.kwf.org/kwf/kurt-weill/biography">Kurt Weill</a>. My name is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jennifer_(given_name)">Jennifer</a> and sometimes I still wish I was a pirate so I like to pretend this song is about me. <a href="http://www.ninasimone.com/">Nina Simone'</a>s version is amazing. My sentences sound disconnected but a cheer rings the air...<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">You people can watch while I'm scrubbing these floors<br />And I'm scrubbin' the floors while you're gawking<br />Maybe once ya tip me and it makes ya feel swell<br />In this crummy Southern town<br />In this crummy old hotel<br />But you'll never guess to who you're talkin'.<br />No. You couldn't ever guess to who you're talkin'.<br /><br />Then one night there's a scream in the night<br />And you'll wonder who could that have been<br />And you see me kinda grinnin' while I'm scrubbin'<br />And you say, "What's she got to grin?"I'll tell you.<br /><br />There's a ship<br />The Black Freighter<br />with a skull on its masthead<br />will be coming in<br /><br />You gentlemen can say,<br />"Hey gal, finish them floors!<br />Get upstairs! What's wrong with you!<br />Earn your keep here!<br />You toss me your tips<br />and look out to the ships<br />But I'm counting your heads<br />as I'm making the beds<br />Cuz there's nobody gonna sleep here, honey<br />Nobody<br />Nobody!<br /><br />Then one night there's a scream in the night<br />And you say, "Who's that kicking up a row?"<br />And ya see me kinda starin' out the winda<br />And you say, "What's she got to stare at now?"<br />I'll tell ya.<br /><br />There's a ship<br />The Black Freighter<br />turns around in the harbors<br />hootin' guns from her bow<br />Now<br /><br />You gentlemen can wipe off that smile off your face<br />Cause every building in town is a flat one<br />This whole frickin' place will be down to the ground<br />Only this cheap hotel standing up safe and sound<br />And you yell, "Why do they spare that one?" Yes.</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">That's what you say."Why do they spare that one?"<br /><br />All the night through, through the noise and to-do<br />You wonder who is that person that lives up there?<br />And you see me stepping out in the morning<br />Looking nice with a ribbon in my hair<br /><br />And the ship<br />The Black Freighter<br />runs a flag up its masthead<br />and a cheer rings the air<br /><br />By noontime the dock<br />is a-swarmin' with men<br />comin' out from the ghostly freighter<br />They move in the shadows<br />where no one can see<br />And they're chainin' up people<br />and they're bringin' em to me</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">askin' me,"Kill them NOW, or LATER?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Askin' ME!"Kill them now, or later?"</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Noon by the clock</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">and so still by the dock</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">You can hear a foghorn miles away</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">And in that quiet of death</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">I'll say, "Right now.Right now!"</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Then they'll pile up the bodies</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">And I'll say,"That'll learn ya!"</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">And the ship</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The Black Freighter</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">disappears out to sea</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">And</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">on</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">it</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">is</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">me</span>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-1732400519320101322010-09-27T02:58:00.006-05:002010-09-27T17:12:51.175-05:00"Look at the people. Watch them pass but don't follow them..."<a href="http://www.myhealthguardian.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/schizophrenia.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 371px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="http://www.myhealthguardian.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/schizophrenia.jpg" border="0" /></a> I hate myself right now. I feel like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charles_Bukowski">Bukowski </a>only I can't drink, so I'm unable to write poetry or get seduced by multiple women in their twenties even though I am bulging and aging, too.<br /><p>Why can't I write poetry because I'm not drinking? My friend (and ex-lover or whatever) is a performance poet. He told me he quit drinking for six months once and he couldn't write even one poem. Then he said, S<em>crew sobriety. This is pointless! </em>And I think I agree with him. </p><p>What is the point of following all of the ragged rules of boredom and convention? I quit bartending and now I file endless reams of paperwork. Also, I have all of these stupid health problems, I weigh oodles more, I'm constantly fighting with my natural sleep cycle and I'm not getting lotsa loving. Everyone wants to fool around with the bartender/poet but nobody wants to bother with the fucking Program Coordinator. Another friend (and ex-lover or whatever) is a farmer and says this is Mother Nature messing with me so either I learn precise organization (whether or not I value it) or else I'll drown in the next flood or get strangled by red tape. </p><p>When I used to be a young hippie punk mama only using herbal remedies, I was raising my son on bar tips and spending our free time mountain climbing or soaking in the springs. Now I'm a paper file organizer, an excel budget designer, a weight gainer, decreasing in health and memory but caring for people with severe anal missle retentions and more importantly, those suffering from <a href="http://www.healthyplace.com/thought-disorders/articles/auditory-hallucinations-whats-it-like-hearing-voices/menu-id-64/">hearing the voices</a> and oddly linked thoughts which doctors try to treat with pharmaceuticals. And our studies are being funded by the pharma companies, of course. </p><p>Way back in the day (1000 years ago) people like our patients might have been respected as the shaman of the tribe and although they might live in solitude a mile away from the rest of their people and although their predictions may or may not have been true, at least they valued and trusted themselves and were respected by the tribe.</p><p>The prediction of a very cold winter or the tribe needing to do battle with another living down the river may have been heard from the schizophrenic shaman's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x8Q63I75sYU&feature=related">internal voices </a>or sensed by her <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Paranoia">paranoia</a> or perhaps even connected with her <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Delusion">delusion</a>. Maybe it wasn't a truly divine enlightened prediction as much as a statement of the perpetually obvious in a tone that was cryptic. Or maybe this type of future descriptive insight and understanding is brought on by a perfectly proportional brain? </p><p>Maybe enlightenment and psychosis are relational. The words psychotic and psychic are separated with nothing more than an O and T. Separated by nothing more than respecting the differences as opposed to prosecuting them or infiltrating them with chemicals (like when I drink after a bad day at work or an old man swallows viagra or those few people who are still employed take Ritalin or Concerta each morning to make it through the day). </p><p>Or maybe I just don't know what to do with myself.</p><p><span style="font-size:85%;color:#33cc00;">(P.S., I found the picture in this post at a site called <em><a href="http://www.myhealthguardian.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/11/schizophrenia.jpg">My Health Guardian</a>.</em>)</span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;color:#33cc00;">(P.P.S. The title is part of a line from a poem written by a lady I used to work with & for.)</span></p>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-37214089628042670842010-08-26T21:07:00.005-05:002010-08-30T15:48:45.388-05:00"If I Only Had a Brain."In April, an infection was planted in the memory storage space of my brain and by June it exploded into seizures and I forgot how to laugh or cry or even engage in small talk. Now my strength is gathering again and the people who love me seem relieved to recognize me, myself back in town.<br /><br />On the other side, I can't remember many "professional" terms and phrases we use at the hospital although I am still mostly able to successfully do my work again. I just require a proof reader.<br /><br />The gift that I have been given by the hijack attack of memory and the loss of professional buzz words is that dozens of smothered scenes from 38 years have burst onto an imaginary cinema screen inside of my skull.<a href="http://soundbiteblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/12/scarecrow.gif"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 313px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 289px" alt="" src="http://soundbiteblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/12/scarecrow.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br />At eighteen, I was enrolled at a commuter art college near Lake Michigan. My major was theater and our department chair was also one of the leaders at Second City Theater and directed many SCTV episodes. I was taking an improv class taught by Marty DeMatt , who literally grew up at Second City because his mother was one of the pioneering founders and directors. Marty was a sharing and saavy teacher and a compassionate, talented artist. Once, Marty stayed home sick and sent an improviser over to cover class for him.<br /><br />I can't remember the guy's name. I do remember that he told us he had a degree in photography and even though he wasn't a professional photographer, he approached living his life with perspective, lighting and focus so whatever we did -- whatever we learned along the way in school and in life would form our viewpoints and approaches.<br /><br />Then he split us up into groups and told us to take a few minutes to plan the bases of our improvs to perform for the class. I was leaning against the back wall with my friends Tom & Jerry (really) and he assigned us together. We spent about thirty seconds planning to be three scarecrows in a field and then talked about going to the nickel draft special at the bar across the street after class. We were the last group called up to do our improv for the class.<br /><br />And I don't know how or why it happened but art possessed us and we suddenly became puppets of enchantment. We were three scarecrows who discovered how to free ourselves from the polls and we happily flopped and danced and learned to walk and Tom's scarecrow pointed to the highway and wanted to hitch a ride but Jerry's scarecrow and mine wanted to stay on the farm. And Tom's said he couldn't leave without us and he helped us back up on our polls because he was the tallest and just then a truck was coming and we said, "goodbye, we love you" and he ran toward the road with his thumb up and we said goodbye again and then the substitute teacher said "scene" and followed up with:<br /><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="center">"Sometimes you get a few minutes of harmony and beauty and you can't predict when or how but you were lucky to feel it and we were lucky to witness it. Now goodbye, everybody. Thanks for letting me teach you today."</div><div align="center"><br />And the three of us stated briefly and once only over the nickel beers how fortunate we were to have those few minutes together.<br /><br />I was eighteen years old that day. The same age my son is now.</div>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-24649249325544523462010-07-29T19:43:00.010-05:002010-08-06T22:21:05.092-05:00"You took my joy; I want it back."<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhTxwwvzARE9CNo_Bt4XOr2W2Fk4GHoHGWpnxcFgNzza7LWXB4hdROi-gsbHhdwPt02j3F9S4jlErLGCGL8X24sWFJwAxwkjfbbbHmDT6v5wXWm8ZdFMPHhfPY_2rxwYbophFyBQ/s320/fat+mermaid+queen.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 250px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhTxwwvzARE9CNo_Bt4XOr2W2Fk4GHoHGWpnxcFgNzza7LWXB4hdROi-gsbHhdwPt02j3F9S4jlErLGCGL8X24sWFJwAxwkjfbbbHmDT6v5wXWm8ZdFMPHhfPY_2rxwYbophFyBQ/s320/fat+mermaid+queen.jpg" /></a> <span style="font-family:lucida grande;">I'm feeling frequently fucked with -- and fat. And forgetful.</span></div><br /><div align="center">Actually, it's weird mind meld and worry, worry, anxiety. But I'm lucky. I developed the following side effect to my MS medication:</div><div align="center"><br /><em><a href="http://www.newsinferno.com/archives/18568">progressive multifocal leukoencephalopathy (PML), </a>an opportunistic viral infection of the brain that usually leads to death or severe disability</em></div><div align="center"><em>***</em></div><div align="center"><em></em></div><div align="center"><em></em></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">But I didn't die and I'm not severely disabled although I am a long way from myself still. And I've gained massive amounts of weight thanks to the treatment meds -- which are saving my brain but nobody's tried to pick me up lately; not even on the down low. I guess living and thinking but being chastely fat are way superior to death or permanent retardation... but it doesn't make me enjoy all of the fat fucking chastity and the b.s. from my bosses cuz my memory and efficiency are not up to par and losing my job means losing money and my health insurance. And I had to let my cat move in with a friend (who is one of the best pet owners in the city -- but I'm sad about my kitty being gone). Damn, I am irritable, crabby and whiny. Buh!</div><div align="center">***</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Also, I became a mom when I was 20 and unmarried. I don't know really how to be an adult without a kid at home to take care of and he's moving to New York tomorrow. And I can't even cry. I can't remember the last time I cried. I think it's when he & I got in an arguement at 11:30 p.m. on a corner in Manhattan last February when we were there visiting colleges.</div><div align="center">***</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">But if I'm dumb, broke, fat and all alone, I'll probably actually attract my soul mate or whatever.</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><em>hahahahahahahahahahahah</em><br /></div><em></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">This image was created by Veronica Pearson & </span><a href="hthttp://pearsonillustration.blogspot.com/2009_08_01_archive.htmltp://"><span style="font-size:85%;">posted on her blog.</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;"> The title of this post is a quote from a Lucinda Williams' song called </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LhGt6KktfS4"><span style="font-size:85%;">"Joy".</span></a></em>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-47304585549228695812010-06-29T21:15:00.004-05:002010-06-29T21:22:25.134-05:00Muscley Mama<a href="http://www.explorerforum.com/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=3455&stc=1&d=1037399833"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 329px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 467px" alt="" src="http://www.explorerforum.com/forums/attachment.php?attachmentid=3455&stc=1&d=1037399833" border="0" /></a><br /><div><span style="font-size:130%;">I'm slowly getting better. My doctor is giving me steroid infusions for 3 hours a day, I'm starting to remember words and I'm going back to work on Thursday.</span></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">******************************** </span></div><div><span style="font-size:130%;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-size:130%;">Do you think I'm sexier on steroids?</span></div><div></div>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-4954733275304421212010-06-17T08:28:00.004-05:002010-06-17T09:10:19.659-05:00It makes me 1%So a little over a month and a half ago I had a standard MRI for the MS medication I was taking. I received the MRI about four months later than scheduled because last winter I got robbed and the guy who stole from me broke my knuckle in 4 places and the ortho surgeon had to insert a bunch of metal until my bones healed -- which disqualified me from a safe MRI at the scheduled time.<br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 600px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.mindmapart.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/brain-functions-mind-map-paul-foreman.jpg" /><br />Turns out the mugger probably saved my life because the off-schedule MRI captured a potentially fatal cerebral infection between my white matter and ear very early. That infection has infected less than 1% of the people taking the medication and about 25% of that 1% died from the brain infection. My doctor had me taken off the med as soon as the MRI came back and did a bunch of tests on me and then started me on an antimalarial medication to treat me for the brain infection. After five weeks of this horrific treatment I went into seizures (like 1% of the people exposed to that med) and spent four days in the hospital. My memory is a little impaired and occasionally I am unable to speak with the correct vocabulary. My thinking is fine, except for my memory -- I just occassionally lose my verbal language.<br /><br /><br />Anyhow, I'm getting better. I have a good doctor but I live in a shitty country in which to have healthcare issues, so I'm looking forward to getting back to work so I can pay my rent and medical care expenses. I'm also using my latest run of odds to buy lotto tickets.<br /><br /><br />On the positive side, my son turned 18 and graduated from high school. He is moving to Brooklyn for college in August.<br /><br /><br />Love and miss you all.... LaSirena<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://fineartamerica.com/images-medium/the-little-mermaid-adrian-borda.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 547px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 700px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://fineartamerica.com/images-medium/the-little-mermaid-adrian-borda.jpg" /></a>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-27128652628953101562010-05-04T20:28:00.005-05:002010-05-04T20:51:07.081-05:00Ironically Craving<a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/netdict/craving"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 293px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 385px" alt="" src="http://www.artknowledgenews.com/files2009b/Orson_Welles_Vienna_Sewer.jpg" border="0" /><span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;">craving: an intense, urgent, or abnormal desire or longing</span></a><br /><br />What I crave and what I do are not presently joined. I crave a long sleep on the warm grass but I sit at a desk and read articles about craving. I craft a grant about craving scales as they relate to addiction while I crave sunshine and birdsong and leisure but my arms are strapped with plastic tubes to the keyboard and so I crave as I create an explanation of craving.<br /><br />I have officially drowned myself in the existentialist sewer.La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-49951577217391932322010-04-27T02:18:00.001-05:002010-04-27T14:33:39.772-05:00<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b7/Temporal_lobe_animation_small.gif"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b7/Temporal_lobe_animation_small.gif" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-size:130%;">" <a href="http://www.joyceimages.com/chapter/15/?page=23">There is a memory attached to it. I should like to have it</a>."</span><br /><div><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b7/Temporal_lobe_animation_small.gif"></a><span style="font-size:85%;">-- James Joyce, <em><a href="http://www.readprint.com/work-871/Ulysses-James-Joyce">Ulysses</a></em></span></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">Episode 15: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Circe">Circe</a><br /><br /></span></div><div></div>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-71326324216812926612010-04-11T14:06:00.014-05:002010-04-11T15:22:33.609-05:00Caverns<a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3112/3557966069_5d85977d7c.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 500px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 375px" alt="" src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3112/3557966069_5d85977d7c.jpg" border="0" /></a>I think I've fallen into a cavern. It's very pretty; lots of stalagtites and stalgmites but it's twisty and complicated so it's taking all of my energy and concentration to navigate the terrain. Here are some bits & pieces.<br /><br /><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div>I spent the better part of a week in New York so my son could visit colleges. This was our first <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvc0kE_oLxWs10SocfRysAwJ6ouumi0leRDc1Zk4X18vM63wlozVl1zWNCl6BRXASzLmDsP_0WGSg52e6KRFB79fdbx9ESh03IoNyOmeAIHOoBR537wxA9LR-jxAdQF0oTtUjL4g/s1600/New_York_City_at_night.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458971586611418978" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 211px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvc0kE_oLxWs10SocfRysAwJ6ouumi0leRDc1Zk4X18vM63wlozVl1zWNCl6BRXASzLmDsP_0WGSg52e6KRFB79fdbx9ESh03IoNyOmeAIHOoBR537wxA9LR-jxAdQF0oTtUjL4g/s320/New_York_City_at_night.jpg" border="0" /></a>visit to NYC. It was very cool and it wasn't the least bit intimidating coming from Chicago -- just a little more cramped but very energetic, so it all balances out. Looks like the kid is going to Brooklyn College to study film production, so I'll be visiting there quite a bit. But I'm not moving there because 5 straight days of me and the kid and nobody else has convinced both of us that him moving far away for awhile really is a very, very good idea. (Is "awhile" a real word?)<br /><br /></div><div>Meanwhile, I'm still in graduate school which is intensifying. By the time he leaves town, I'll be able to work about 15 hours a day on all of the research projects around here (including my thesis) plus I just ordered a bunch of Tony Horton DVDs, so I'm intending to counteract empty nest syndrome by co-publishing scientific journal articles and recreating the ass I had before I was a mom. (The ass part probably won't happen exactly like that but it is important to have goals in this world.)</div><div><br /></div><div>While we were in New York, we went to a taping of "<a href="http://www.latenightwithjimmyfallon.com/">Late Night with Jimmy Fallon". </a>His show isn't <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTqy-0hkjRGd-s4VzPPWo57kTjRNJdNx7NTBT9Nrd9XaZBUXxNZs3EGo2oV5MO1rAIhq5y1mUhaxwtb2v8qhyblv63le3XCbs861rOX1WnJ_zpqT1Y87eaFT_EYYgIr0t7dBJ4UQ/s1600/Questlove-Wales.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458971895842769298" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 263px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTqy-0hkjRGd-s4VzPPWo57kTjRNJdNx7NTBT9Nrd9XaZBUXxNZs3EGo2oV5MO1rAIhq5y1mUhaxwtb2v8qhyblv63le3XCbs861rOX1WnJ_zpqT1Y87eaFT_EYYgIr0t7dBJ4UQ/s320/Questlove-Wales.jpg" border="0" /></a>very funny yet but he seems gracious and his house band is the Roots (I think I've previously mentioned my intense respect and attraction to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Questlove">Questlove</a>) so really, the music was the best <a href="http://blogs.bet.com/entertainment/spotlight/bet-blog/assets/2009/09/7b5aad52-ce29-e357-392d-74ad4f13f8f4-msc_fb_RockTheBells09_QuestLove.jpg"></a>part of the show. There was a musical guest the night we attended called <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liquid_Liquid">Liquid Liquid</a>. </div><div></div><div></div><div>*</div><div>Liquid Liquid was a New York No Wave art band form the late 70s that "never quite caught on completely". (That's what lifelong friend of percussionist Dennis Young told me. I was sitting next to him and Dennis's wife and I'm nosy so I started asking questions after eavesdropping.) Of note, Liquid Liquid created the famous bass line sampled by Grandmaster and the Sugar Hill <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTsunfEZhiVsTIEg-pWBZyOKiyacubJCJV850WmvLB050LQLMwe-W16pWjF9I3S5sShovBlqVV_NFIpqDmkCkHBiVHrVYBL0yU_eaj7udU1uofugVBC-4shbMGlAZbDwQcRUmP_w/s1600/Questlove-Wales.jpg"></a>Houseband in that old 80s hip hop standard "<a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xpkau_grandmaster-flash-white-lines_music">White Lines</a>".</div><div>*</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSq3csGLNzauCu32OwJL0kQ_4ezokF398vapQfwW6Jf2ExffI8Lil1xPTEgH6WCTOo2L0Lc54_tM8EzJgkr_cVcNboH9pFw0yCy_Q2qBynx1ry2uoC4ZiS0P-iSHMBWoVOrlN8_w/s1600/liquidliquid.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5458972177758362210" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSq3csGLNzauCu32OwJL0kQ_4ezokF398vapQfwW6Jf2ExffI8Lil1xPTEgH6WCTOo2L0Lc54_tM8EzJgkr_cVcNboH9pFw0yCy_Q2qBynx1ry2uoC4ZiS0P-iSHMBWoVOrlN8_w/s320/liquidliquid.jpg" border="0" /></a>That bass line comes from the song "Cavern", which Liquid Liquid played (splendidly) with the Roots on the episode the kid and I attended and that was one of the more spectacular 30 minutes of live music I have ever witnessed. And I have witnessed many hours of live music. So here is a link to the version of the song that aired on the show that night. This is very good but it isn't quite the same as being in a 100 person TV studio with all of that sound wrapping you up in its fingers and stroking you home. But go watch it.<br /></div><div><a href="http://www.thefader.com/2010/04/05/video-liquid-liquid-plays-cavern-on-jimmy-fallon-with-help-from-the-roots/">Video: Liquid Liquid Plays “Cavern” on Jimmy Fallon with Help from The Roots</a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>(Not aired was a first taping of "Cavern" and another recording of their song "Optimo".)</div></div><div> </div><div><div>(Also, I think there should be a learning curve allowance for late night talk shows. It's a whole different thing than stand up, writing and performing in sketch comedy, etc. And let it be said now that Mr. Fallon has excellent taste in music.) </div><div><br /> </div><div>Posted using <a href="http://sharethis.com/">ShareThis</a></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-55210778893922844082010-03-24T08:49:00.007-05:002010-09-25T08:46:17.808-05:00"Every Day Is a Yellow Day...<a href="http://www.artflock.com/uploads/2964/bce914f39469181c5f48bac2b6355ad2.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 550px; HEIGHT: 413px; CURSOR: hand" border="0" alt="" src="http://www.artflock.com/uploads/2964/bce914f39469181c5f48bac2b6355ad2.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><div>... <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KjQ882gx7GY">I'm blinded by the daisies in your yard."</a> </div><div></div><div><span style="font-size:85%;">-- </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_(musician)"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#993399;">Prince</span></a></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div><a href="http://www.artflock.com/uploads/2964/bce914f39469181c5f48bac2b6355ad2.jpg"></a>Margaret, my psychic friend (or friend who is psychic), told me I'm all yellow bursting solar plexus, right now. I'm hiding out at home with a low-grade fever and sore throat and can feel my flesh burn, chill and hum and letting dreamland envelope and possess me on my couch all day, again and again.</div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>Once upon a time, I was a psychic friend. Sad and freaked out people would call the 900 line and they would get to talk to Mia (one of my AKAs) and she would tell them <em>yes, of course, the cards and the stars and my guides say yes, you will be loved again. </em>That's what most callers wanted to know.</div><br />Then, I moved to New Mexico because it was new, said so in the name. I used to do romantic things like move across the country to a place with a poetic name and get paid to be a charlatan with an AKA and sleep with strangers named Krishna I met at the river and believe the stars could guide me to my heart. (Now, I'm logical and practical although I still believe in dreamland and evidently my solar plexus has started bleeding yellow in the psychic plane.) Anyway, in New Mexico, I met Margaret an expat Scot who lived in a trailer in the foothills and owned a store called the Lyceum where she read playing cards. Really, she had you pick seven cards and she would hold them to her cancerous breast and recite all of the harder truths you knew but didn't feel like realizing and you could fit them into whichever context you felt you could hold in your palm without spilling them on the floor. Later, she cut off her right breast and started predicting with amazon precision via telephone which is how I learned to always bet on green and that today I am pouring yellow.La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-49757438095047700452010-03-17T00:49:00.002-05:002014-05-04T13:12:16.077-05:00Illogical Evolving Equinox, Combat and the Saint Patrick's Day Blues<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB57hu6Bl5Xex4hDUnhKwgmod9xrI5-5D2qPPQxCqAv5ivrC-9IRdZAMESUIWM1YjKpKUyod_NSdm3otcvRQLEYOJv2Fg92ZO9KPFrEAMEL60mbrancW5KjRL8vavMwPSpau5z_Q/s1600/lady-doctor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB57hu6Bl5Xex4hDUnhKwgmod9xrI5-5D2qPPQxCqAv5ivrC-9IRdZAMESUIWM1YjKpKUyod_NSdm3otcvRQLEYOJv2Fg92ZO9KPFrEAMEL60mbrancW5KjRL8vavMwPSpau5z_Q/s1600/lady-doctor.jpg" height="320" style="cursor: move;" width="230" /></a></div>
The equinox is almost here and my body is conspiring to get knocked up on me again, as it does every year when dark and day share nicely. Sharing perpetuates itself in its selfishness.<br />
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St. Patrick was a sharer in another way -- well, first he was a slave and then a priest and then an orator. He christianized the Irish (an act which may be blasphemous) but also convinced them to abolish slavery 1000 years before Columbus dug the Middle Passage. So that probably mitigates any personal gripes I might have with monotheism and organized religion. But still, Christianity in general and Catholicism in particular are such BDSM institutions like heroic (modern Western) medicine. This post pretty much seems to be about me opening the assault rifles on any institution I'm supposed to have surrendered to or am currently selfishly sharing with -- so you may want to look away quickly. And recently a friend of mine said it's always combat with me. That must suck, knowing me like that. My presence is never restful or soothing, unless you're an infant or going through a bout of psychosis. I can rock colicy babies to sleep on my knee and I can calm someone experiencing active psychosis. I could describe the steps I take in both of these cases, but it probably wouldn't make a logical pattern -- it's more like when your physics professor tries to teach you calculus or engaging your lover in combat. On second thought, it's nothing like that.<br />
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I don't like myself at all today and I'm also thinking one million pornographic thoughts. So maybe ego stroking and self-loathing are an expression of selfish sharing which is quite likely the driving procreational force in humanity.<br />
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During finger therapy all of the OTs cryptically discuss amongst themselves how snappy and cruel one surgeon can be. Personally, I find him to be very compassionate and kind of sexy. But I don't work for him, either. Of course today, a second-tier somebody else mentioned in a whisper that Dr. That Guy just really needs to get some. But once you start speculating about what someone else is getting, it might mean that you aren't getting enough either -- or maybe you just want to be the one to give it to them.<br />
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Doesn't everybody get turned on by cruelty at some really basic, reptile brain level? And truthfully, all of us guilt-ridden girls just get juiced-up love panties for doctors. We want to marry them and sue them and do what they tell us and then blow them in their exam rooms or maybe we just love surgeons in self-defense because there they are convincing us to let them pierce us to the bone even though it hurts and costs and scars. We let them tie us to the table and slice apart our skin and maybe knock us out and maybe keep us awake -- completely at their discretion and we never, ever question the choice, really. We just surrender.<br />
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But then we catholic girls are fed guilt and surrender on toast from baptism and we're told to die virgins like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maria_Goretti">St. Maria Goretti </a>or second best, surrender to the yoke of holy matrimony and pop out lotsa babies in 10 month intervals so there will be more catholics and consequently we have lots of weird sex & worthiness issues because the only ones really enjoying sex in our religion are the child-raping priests since only they can absolve sin which came to earth via Eve, etc.<br />
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Probably all of that crazy Catholic sex between Yahweh & Mary (not Joseph) and <a href="http://www.edocere.org/st_john_bosco_bio.htm">St. John Bosco </a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLUtYSut9h_O6Hd9aV22bP385MqCZOvZjSi0WAirP9wnJNzgQhvMxLwvOdbZbXEbkv7AKeFFmQSHMDIQvTiwqxQ1G0BlcmniStgC_EA0Hzz8h9T-7ZNXPCBODaMPDhlLxTtF7KDA/s1600-h/birth-of-sun-king-717195.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLUtYSut9h_O6Hd9aV22bP385MqCZOvZjSi0WAirP9wnJNzgQhvMxLwvOdbZbXEbkv7AKeFFmQSHMDIQvTiwqxQ1G0BlcmniStgC_EA0Hzz8h9T-7ZNXPCBODaMPDhlLxTtF7KDA/s400/birth-of-sun-king-717195.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5449307580330170882" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 300px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 400px;" /></a>& the oratory boys and even Adam & Eve actually happened on the Equinox which can never be a birthday but is often a conception date which is why the pope tells you life begins at conception but we girls know it doesn’t really count until it comes out like the sun, so really its solstice you’re waiting for, Holy Father, you just didn’t notice because of all of that blinding sunshine.<br />
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<span style="font-size: 85%;">(The top image is a painting called <a href="http://www.johnwoodwark.com/painting/lady-doctor.html">Lady Doctor </a>by <a href="http://www.johnwoodwark.com/">John Woodwark</a>. The <a href="http://www.phantomlyoracula.com/2007/12/happy-new-year-to-all-phantomly-oracula.html"><em>Birth of the Sun King</em> </a>is by Hetty MacLise. I found it on <a href="http://www.phantomlyoracula.com/">her blog</a>.)</span></div>
La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-53122039232538400582010-03-14T20:55:00.002-05:002010-03-14T21:09:03.891-05:00Happy π Day<a href="http://img.youtube.com/vi/W5-CyWvTY-A/0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 480px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 360px" alt="" src="http://img.youtube.com/vi/W5-CyWvTY-A/0.jpg" border="0" /></a>"Would you like some <a href="http://www.examiner.com/x-31244-Louisville-Public-Policy-Examiner~y2010m3d14-Today-is-International-Pi-Day">π</a>?"<br /><div> </div><div>"I'd love some <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pi">π</a>." </div><br /><div>-- <em>True Romance</em></div>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26108981.post-9744080607412931732010-03-02T21:23:00.003-06:002010-03-02T21:37:06.428-06:00<div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;"><a href="http://twitter.com/shitmydadsays/status/9792541776"><strong>"Science and Mother Nature are in a marriage where Science is always surprised to come home and find Mother Nature blowing the neighbor."</strong> </a></span><br /><br />-- Justin's Dad, from <a href="http://twitter.com/shitmydadsays">shitmydadsays</a><br /><br /><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 393px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 397px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://i124.photobucket.com/albums/p26/stellablues/MotherNature.jpg" border="0" /> </div>La Sirenahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06565141127124213800noreply@blogger.com8