gesundheit.

See, look... I sneezed. ^[1]

Proof positive that it isn't going to happen.

A personal superstition of mine. ^[2]

I have a fantasy about something. Or I play out a dialogue in my head. Along comes a tickle in my sinuses.

Sometimes I hold it off. Try to think of something different. Try to shift my focus so that the “ACHOO!” ^[3] that erupts—does so while I’m dedicated to a different train of thought.

If I sneeze, whatever I’m fixated on is going to slip through my fingers. (I rarely succeed in holding it in.) ^[4]

So that thought I just had?

Hope, it’s never going to happen.

Let it go already.

^[1] Listen... Do you smell something?

^[2] Really, since high school.. I've had this mental tic in two millenia, now.. 

^[3] All caps, because, dainty—my sneezes are not.

^[4] Curbing myself and impulse control aren't my strong suits, in any case…

the trifecta

Saturday was Namibia’s 25^th Independence Day.

Naturally, the only logical course of action was to watch the film Independence Day. ^[1]

And fully enjoy the one-two-three punch of cocky/cheesy/nerdy sexiness from a young Will Smith, Bill Pullman, and Jeff Goldblum.

This, of course, came up in conversation with a friend the next day.

Both single, we were discussing our current romantic entanglements... Or lack thereof...

We worked our way around to the clichéd question of “What’s the ideal?”

“Hmm. I guess somewhere between Oded Fehr and Jeff Goldblum.”

“So… Jewish?”

“Uh… Ha. Seems like?”

To which we both dissolved into laughter.

Add that to this here ridiculous image that M— randomly posted on the fb.

And we've hit the Goldblum trifecta this weekend.

They say good things come in threes.

^[1] You know, after watching the inauguration celebration with my host family. 

sixty four percent

A brief glimpse into the middle of a random rapid-fire SMS conversation.

“… You’re crazy, woman. ;)”

“You’re one to talk!”

“Pfft. Fiddlesticks. I’m 64% sane… I feel that’s a leg up from most people.”

“The fact you made up a percentage is evidence otherwise, alone. A little defensive, eh?”

“Firstly, 64 is an elegant number, and a perfectly adequate percentage to represent my level of sanity, and secondly, I fart in your general direction.”

“So now you’re crude and crazy.”

“Aw. I love it when you SMS such sweet nothings to me. I maintain my majority level of sanity. I’d also like to point out that the person you’re debating the sanity of, and with, is someone whom you purport to be nuts… Who’s the crazy one now? ;)”

“Ha. Touche. … …”

the intoxicated essayist

In a state of inebriation... a drunken plodding replaces smooth keystrokes.

Fingertips jab at the keyboard.

A determined, deliberate plunking of keys transcribing splintered ideas.

Plunk, plonk, plunk, plunk, space bar, plunk plonk plonk, punctuation mark.

[Followed by a feeling of smug superiority for remembering to insert punctuation.]

Validation of ego—that’s all drunken pc usage is.

Then, the curious evaluation the morning after—one is either humbled or emboldened by the words filed the night before... And not a little thankful that it was saved it as a document, versus sent out as an email or blog post.

Breathalyzers should come standard with these machines... 

the purge.

There’s always the question—once you move on from something—which memories should you hold on to? Which ones do you save? So often, we keep the mementos from happier times… Some tchotchke from our desk at our old job ^[1] or the personal effects of a former significant other when we couldn’t drum up the courage to chance a face to face meeting—but that we couldn’t seem to dispense with, either.

Everyone has their own coping mechanisms…

Some slash and burn. Pile it up, douse it with petrol, and watch it burn. ^[2]

Others will toss everything out—dispose of it—forget it.

If valuable, others may hock, pawn, or exchange it.

Sometimes we store it—ignore it—waiting for the time when that bite of pain that doesn’t lance each time we focus upon it… A time capsule to be opened later on. ^[3]

Another might place it front and center. Repurpose it. Hoping that with repeated exposures that the memories will dim—that eventually one will forget the origins.

I prefer a mixed method.

Shred the photos, keep the chuyo. ^[4]

^[1] A seafoam green 1980’s hand crank label maker. I’m never letting it go.

^[2] You know, safely… with a fire extinguisher on hand and an up to date knowledge of what your local fire department will and will not allow… This premeditation takes out some of the [satisfying] wrath of the act, I know, but few people—or jobs—are worth third degree burns or an arson charge.

^[3] One we hope won’t fester or bite us in the ass upon recovering it in some long lost corner of our consciousness.

^[4] In the end, the act of shredding photos was so satisfying, I threw a couple of old exes’ pics into the mix for good measure. Who knew?

conversational jazz (ἐ)

“Do you talk to everyone like this?”

I was a little buzzed, leaning back on the blanket, staring up at the Milky Way. (λ)

And to be honest, the question flustered me. It wasn't offered in the usual accusatory tone. In fact, it was half surprise, half compliment. (Or so it seemed so at the time, I wasn't one hundred percent sober). I’m not sure I gave a completely honest answer.

I wish more people would let me talk to them in the manner that my brain organizes my thoughts. Thing is, many find it disconcerting. Or annoying. Occasionally infuriating.

I will detour from the conversational path, briefly on a tangent. I’m still going in their general direction—I’m just taking the scenic route—surely there will be another exit to the interstate along the way.

I've never understood the annoyed burst from someone, “What the hell does that have to do with it?”

And I’ll blink, wondering what the hell they’re so frustrated about, and then explain the logical progression to whatever my memory or some firing synapses had recalled or produced.

People get on a roll, and hold it against you if their line of thinking is interrupted. Or you’re seen as rude should your mind appear to wander from their sparkling repartee.

As if on the brink of scientific discovery, eyes wild with their train of thought stretching out ahead of them, rather than just standing around sharing some anecdote they've shared before, polished in front of a different crowd of people.

At least, that’s how it can feel. Then, though, I've always been more of an awkward, outgoing introvert, myself. (π)  I like it when people just let me be that way. Not have to put on a façade and pretend otherwise. Having to be crass, or sophisticated, or learned, or funny, or whatever the situation calls for, to bolster the ego of someone else for the sake of social niceties.. It's exhausting. (ί)

So, no. The honest answer is I don’t. I rather wish [hope] more people would let me, though. (ς)

Summer Milky Way | Farm Hakos/Namibia |  Gerald Rhemann

(ἐ) Or 'the odyssey and oracle.'

(λ) In the past month I've read several articles on the disappearing Milky Way. I assume they mean in the states. The night sky in Namibia is, without contest, one of the most staggering things I've seen in my entire life.

(π) Awkward is one of the eight or so words I've spelled incorrectly my entire life, without fail. It wasn't until my twenty-ninth year, that I realized I could remember to spell it correctly, by considering that the picture it presents graphically is, in of itself, awkward. How could it not be, with two “w’s” shoved on the front end of the thing?

(ί) Though, prurient conversations, I take exception to that kind of vulgar. The ribald, I am very relaxed with.. Then again, talking openly about sex just seems like good common sense.  

(ς) Or, ἐλπίς in the Greek...