If Beethoven Headbanged, He'd Be So Proud

I cry, mostly, when it's weird. It's surreal. The death of the one, and I mean THE ONE, you love most. It's the strangest feeling you can imagine. It's like they're there. It's complete delusion. Grief makes you feel like a crazy person. And, quite frankly, I don't know when it ends.

I came to it close. I had a cat for 18 years, Beardsly. He was the first thing I truly loved. Truly loved from a perspective outside of myself, within myself. He dies. I could never have a cat again. That was love. I grieved. I still, have never sought out a cat of my own. I now reside with one and he's comfort. I feel a resonate heartbeat from Beardsly within him.

I'm waiting for this sort of residual existence.

I'm waiting for something to take her place in something sentient, something I can hold & something I can touch. It hasn't happened. I doubt it ever will.

This is my first stab at loss. The irreplaceable. My mother. My idol. My fucking dog outlived her. This wasn't supposed to happen. Yet, somewhere in the depths of my emotional reasoning (yeah, impossible) I felt that it was to be true. I spent a childhood living without rules, without regard to anything. Now, I am scared to fucking live how I feel. Crippled by security.

Like Linus without his blanket. I too, am lost.

I actually had a blanket at birth. It was a baby shower present to my mother [read: to me]. Had it throughout my toddler years. Apparently, I loved it so much my mom had to buy me a second one so she could wash one while I clutched the other. Perhaps I was screwed from the beginning in every Freudian way possible. I wish attachment was, still, so replaceable. However, it will never be.

I don't want a replacement. That's what makes this grief so different from losing a cat or a blanket, or whatever you think is fucking special. No one on earth can replace her. She is unexplainable, untouchable, tangental - at best.

It makes me want to jump out of windows. It makes me search. Not for god. Not for love. Not for peace. I search for the most egocentric possibilities of myself. Why? Because everything I express is half hers. Trial and error to see which bits I can replicate. Which parts of myself can dance with hers. It's a game I'll play for life. It's the only way I can live.

We will all lose our mothers, or be lost first.

I just hope you see equivalent of the comet that I saw the night my mother died. It was unreal, and it has been ever since.

Obsessed, Obviously

I've started a tumblr to document the growth of my little feathered friends: http://hennyrogers.tumblr.com

Please do follow it if you:

A) Aren't opposed to the adjective "adorable"
2) Adhere to the policy of "OMG that's fucking cute"
C) Fuck cats, chickens are the new internets

Testing - Testing - One, Two, Peep!

We've had 5 chickens for about a year now. It's been great. We adopted them from a friend's Aunt who had to sell her house, yadda yadda. We accidentally acquired a rooster. He's great too. The only problem is that although sweet and gentle, this little flock is pretty skittish. They were mostly left to their own devices and they aren't the chickens that come when called. However, they do put themselves to bed each night, quite punctually.

So, we decided to start another flock. The original crew resides at my studio and since buying a house, we've decided it's time for a new flock. We bought 6 chicks. We got 7. Of course. As I was picking out 3 of each of the 2 breeds I wanted (Buff Orpington & Araucana), I noticed one little chick with a really fucked up bulging eye. I notified the IFA (Intermountain Farmers Association) sales woman of the unfortunate chick. She handed the little bird to a 15 year old, gruff, teenaged-girl associate, and said, "will you see about this ones eye?" The girl returned about 2 minutes later declaring that she had removed some shell from its eye and ripped off part of its lens and that it would be blind in that eye forever. In unison they turned to me and said, "You wanna taker home?" I'd be the worst fucking human in the world had I not taken the damn charity chicken. So, alas, we paid for 6, and got 7. We named her Lisa Left Eye Lopez. She's pretty damn cool, even though when we first put her in the pen, she only turned in circles. Tragic. Anyway, come fall, these hussies will be spittin' out the goods. Go farm!

Doing is Half [read:Most] of the Battle

I get a little neurotic at times when it comes to overwhelming myself with ideas: good & bad. I just need to remember that even if it's quick & dirty and not perfect - it's worth doing.

Type Truck

Kyle Durrie of Power and Light Press out of Portland, OR, paid a visit to The Mandate Press while on her cross-country journey of America. She has been doing this for 2 years now in hopes to spread the good word of letterpress to all. We did a collaborative print that people could take away form the event. It was a great time, good people, sunshine, and all the other things that make things pleasant. Kyle is a great lady. If she stops in your town, give her a hi-five, and maybe some gas money.

So, in other news, I quit working at The Mandate Press - not like I've really blogged since I quit Overstock last year - but well, all of that happened. Now I'm back to the 9-5 for another Online Marketing Co. Oh the places you'll go. . . Hopefully not in circles forever.