my neighbor gave me athlete's foot. and other pedestrian bones of contention. . .

practically a month passes by and this is what i have to report? well. . . yes.

i am different now than i was in the past. how can i tell you ask? consider the following: i use to work events on the production crew which consisted of around 2+ straight weeks of work, ridiculously long hours, and lifting heavy awkward things. i survived with enough energy/drive/crazy to do it again. and again. and again. this year, howevers, i only worked 5 days of ze festival of folk music and i am just now, 3 days later, kinda coming to my rested, hurdy gurdy free senses. has my tolerance for bluegrass/folk/deedley dee music taken a sharp dive over the years? maybe. my appreciation for sleep and home time has most definitely steadily increased over those same number of years. file under 'positive life change.'

and while we are at it, file please the following grievance under 'tell me this is a temporary (read: curable) life change.' ok, so i don't know for sure if my amateur diagnostic is dead on or not, but i swear the skin on my toes were not peeling before i moved into this place. i share a bathroom with 4 other residents and god help me i swear i am the only one not raised in a barn, or whatever structure of origin where it is not just accepted but extolled to get the bath mat completely soaked after showering. the bath mat has come, slowly over the course of the past year of my residence here, to take on the appearance of a square, blue, low nap petri dish. this is, needless to say, gross. and what am i to do about this biological aberration? well, throwing it in the wash comes to mind first and foremost. but that would require wrestling my righteous sense of indignation to the grown and coughing up the monies for the $1.50 wash + $1.25 dry. a mighty match indeed. until the outcome of that battle is announced, i shall spend my time soaking my feet in a home made* concoction of approx 4 - 5 pH whilst sharpening my dagger eyes for the next time i espy those who share my general address.

on a side note, in an earlier email to friend, i fully typed the word 'dude' into the 'to' box. my friend's name did not come up. does my gmail not understand me when i speak in slangy reference to my buddy? me thinks gmail is due for another upgrade. . .

until then, best to you all.

*oh yeah, 'homemade,' according to the internet, equals either A) apple cider vinegar or B) urine. presumably human.

(baby seal is still my one true love)

last night I watched part of the eclipse, veiled at times by a thin curtain of clouds. at one point, two parallel, transparent shadows crossed over the moon, sweeping from right to left, like a analog glitch in a video. hmmm. I looked at my fellow moon gazer. that was weird. yeah, she agreed. oh good, you saw that too. we hypothesized what the strange trick of light could have been then settled on weird. it was weird. with little/any greater significance? not sure. tho the fact that it was a lunar eclipse on a full moon on the winter equinox while mercury is in retrograde makes me think that maybe, yes, there are some astrological shifts occurring that have perhaps more than subtle influences.

one of which is not being able to sleep. tho that could be blamed on my evening visitor. it's like the universe when all manic last night and decided to clean the whole house from top to bottom and get back to all those emails and letters that have been sitting around. like the one I sent that said something to the effect of 'I think I would like a cat, but I kinda want one to just show up on my doorstep.' a request that i figured would go by the wayside because my door is inside on the second floor. but, low and behold, ye olde universe is a clever monkey. on my way into the house from parking my bike, an apartment neighbor who had just pulled up in her car, stopped and asked if I had gotten a new cat. there was one in the hallway upstairs and she couldn't figure out who it belonged to. hmm. well, well, sure enough I went inside and there was a gentle feline tabby to greet me at the top of the stairs. fun! we hung out for most of the night, there was a bunch of hubbub with the other neighbors as we set out some food and a litter box in the hall. I left my door ajar and he had the run of the place. it was all mellow fun and board games until my later than usual bed time when I retired to my loft bed and mr feline eclipse decided to get really meowy. ilvs #1: poor cat! he must be freaked out and missing his home! ilvs #2: if one of my house mates doesn't kick him out in the next five minutes, I will! I ended up just closing my door and putting in earplugs. ilvs #1: dear universe, I feel kinda bad about it. ilvs #2: dear universe, I don't think I am quite ready for a cat.

and when I awoke, bleary eyed and kinda crabby from like 6 hours of sleep, little house guest was nowhere to be found. darn. I do kinda still want a cat. and he was pretty cute. did I just let this little furry gift from the universe just slip past? maybe he'll reappear and maybe, unlike the full moon solstice lunar eclipse, I won't have to wait another 1600 years or so for it to happen again.

(speaking of strange lights in the sky, google, if you will, 'norway blue light 2009.' i found the link to this while google perusing images of extreme bodybuilders – um, i have a fascination with them, their grotesque ridiculousness, the absurdity of the human body pushed to the unnecessary limit. but back to the blue lights, or 'misfired russian rocket' as it is purported to be, it is beautiful. and if rockets actually did that, i say 'fire away.')

yes, moths.

I pulled my white V neck T-shirt out the other day, I hadn't worn it since the cold weather started to set in, and noticed several small holes near the arm. Moth holes. This reminded me that I took my yellow wool button up out when the cold weather started to set in and found it riddled down the middle with tiny holes. I do recall a moth in my room months ago. I have not seen it in a while. Apparently, it has been feeding, and expanding its diet to include breathable white cotton. If it weren't for the fact that I have not seen said moth in weeks, I would be inclined to conclude that somewhere in my living quarters was hiding a GIGANTIC MOTH. I like moths. but I don't really want to room with them. I would share a bathroom with one. I'm basing this on the assumption that GIANT MOTHS, unlike my neighbor and their GIGANTIC GF, don't leave the bathroom floor inch deep in shower water.

I had a dream where Geode, upon diving/falling into a lagoon from the muddy path we were ascending, swam to shore as a dozen giant moths resting on the water followed her underwater path. one clung to her back as she exited the water and morphed into a kite backpack. she didn't notice so Ricki Martin, also in my dream, pulled out his phone to text Geode that hey there's a GIANT MOTH on your back. Whether or not he used caps has yet to be verified.

hair

I share a bathroom. This is not news. I live in a large house turned many little (well, mine at least) apartments. on my floor, there are three units and 2 banos down the hall for sharing purposes. (background info: the way the banos are situated, 3 units use 1, the apartment on the south side of the building uses the other one almost exclusively). there are many benefits to this: not having to clean the bathroom. ok, so that is the only one i can think of right now. but that counts for like 3 benefits. the down side, is that I have to share it. that in and of it self is not an issue as two bathrooms means rarely, if ever, having to wait for a vacancy. but it does destroy my illusion of living alone. and by destroy i mean obliterate. but only on occasion, like a land mine or a natural disaster. like the time my green wash cloth went missing. MISSING! I would leave it hanging in the bathroom for my personal use and one day it was gone. there are no other towels in there save for the drab dark green washcloth that has been there since hand towels inception, looks like. i left a kind, non passive aggressive note – more difficult than it seems! - and my washcloth was returned within 24hours. but with no explanation. no, 'oops, sorry I thought it was communal' or 'i dropped it so thought i'd wash it before returning it.' (to which i would have replied, 'oops, i thought your stomach was a target for my pointy, fast moving fist, you boundary-less freeloading user of shared bathroom!' or 'thank you, that's very sweet. can you turn your music down?' respectively.) needless to say, I was shaken by the unauthorized abduction and the subsequent return of my little green hand towel; my trust, it has been tarnished.

But the experience did nothing to prepare me for the epic hair saga that was to follow. Allow me to explain. on occasion, I would enter the bathroom at some undisclosed time after a certain someone had cut their hair. I am not opposed to haircutting, unless you are slovenly about it: short, coarse hairs clung to the now greasy with finger prints mirror, the empty towel rack resembled some kind of cyborg caterpillar, and the floor, oh the floor! it's like I walked into the beauty parlor set of some community theater mounting of steel magnolias! hair everywhere! tho, for realism sake, due to the drab color of the rug and the hardwood floors, the left behind follicles were only really noticeable tho upon closer inspection, sad to say, which is partially why it went over looked in the first place. still, not good enough excuse for whichever of the two out of three neighbors I had it narrowed down to as being the culprit.

speaking of culprits, the suspects really confounded me. I couldn't figure out who it was. one minute I was convinced it was inherently messy due to dude gene man next door or squirrelly hard to pin down but real nice when you do woman in the other next door to me. both had the same color hair. both were equally unapproachable for differing reasons, both were not me who has always been diligent with post hair cut clean up. and who in their right mind cuts their hair so much? almost as disturbing as the evidence of a sheering, was noting the frequency of it. last I had seen, both possible offenders still had a head of hair. there were no severe hair cuts or bald spots to account for it. I was baffled. and then I put the ordeal behind me and ran for more sacred ground. ie I started using the other bathroom exclusively.

days passed.

possibly weeks.

the problem persisted, to a lesser degree (partially due to my posting of a non passive aggressive note about cleaning up after hair cuts. or shaving as it turned out to be – I ran into man neighbor at On the Boards and he fessed up, generously appreciative of my self appointed neighborhood grime watch duties) (yes, I said grime watch) (but the longer hairs on the floor continued), as I noticed on my occasional 'hard to break a habit' trip to the multi multi use bathroom. and it was on one of these occasions that I had a sudden realization. mystery neighbor wasn't cutting their hair on an almost daily basis, they were losing it. dude neighbor is in his early 30's by my rough estimate. he didn't turn our bathroom into barbershop. he was balding. suddenly, the world made a little more sense. and this dense weave of a bathroom drama suddenly fell away in the face of simple biology. still, thought the neat freak as she wiped her feet after visiting the restroom she had all but given hope on, he could at least age responsibly.

we both like mice

i have been a touch busy as of late. so here for you now is the written portion of a performance i did at the Pink Door recently with modern dance sensation Jody Kuehner. it truly is better live.

we both like mice
written by ilvs strauss, performed by MouseBones.

i dont remember how i got here exactly, but i can tell you what is happening now.
it's pitch dark out and i dont really know what day it is. the moon is a tacky bedside table lamp circa 1979, floating large in the sky not 5 feet from me, lighting my immediate surroundings.
between me and the ground is an inky body of water.
between me and the water is creaky tan row boat.
between me and the boat is a grade schooled desk
between me and the desk, the curling pages of my open notebook.
i am head down, hunched over, sitting at this desk in the boat in the sea, furiously taking notes. my professor's voice drones on about the life and times of a certain historical figure, circa 1979. i am several pages into my notation, when i realize i have no idea who it is my professor is talking about. my body creaking like wood under pressure, unrolls upright, hand raising above head in the accepted question asking formation. only to then stop suddenly, frozen in place in a visceral response to the startling nature of the orator's appearance: my teacher is an owl.

a gentle motor enters the orchestra pit, subtle like an undertow, starts up a conversation with the tiny waves below. their mild chatter floating up like steam off hot coffee. not 4 feet in front of me, 2 large surveillance camera lenses for eyes stare at me from a bouquet of feathers, stemming out of a vase shaped warm (bird) body, perched delicately on the lip of the tiny boat. my hand hangs, still, in the air, a needle waiting for someone to (please) flip the record. the professor, unaffected by my gestural attempt at interruption, continues his discourse.
'wait,' i manage, 'who?' he continues his discourse.
'wait, who?' he continues his discourse.
'wait, who?' he continues his discourse.
we carry on like this, our closed circuit exchange, for an undisclosed amount of time.

the sound, it sneaks on in like a tsunami, the sonic shadow, creeping on in like a curtain being drawn, lifting us out of the deep groove we are traveling. our broken record dialog drowning in the wake of the sound of the motor. he looks at me pointedly, then for the first time in our time, takes his eyes off me, shifts his focus, peers down into the water. i follow his gaze, the furled pages of my notebook waving lazily out of the corner of my eye.
on the water is a tan creaky boat,
on the boat is a grade schooled desk,
on the desk is a curled paged notebook,
and sitting by the notebook on the desk in the boat on the water, the author, hand held high in a posture of prosperity, the singular answer to a question not yet asked: the student is a cat.

i stare at my catself in the water that could be sky that could be one night or another, day as dark as night. suddenly, sweetly, it occurs to me, the motor is me, i am purring. my hand lowers to my chest and it feels like rain, or birds taking flight i'm not sure which. then, the clack whir sound of a shutter opening and closing. i look up, up towards the noise, up towards my professor the owl, (pause) the owl is gone.
between me and the water is a continuation of what is,
between me and the boat is a continuation of what is,
between me and the desk is a continuation of what is.
between me and my notebook is a continuation of what is.

it's bloods and CRIPS - not bloods and CRYPTS

'Can i draw on your face?' 

my roommate looked up at me from her book, 'Um, no. But here,' she added, moving her top left extremity in my direction, 'you can draw whatever you were gonna draw on my face on my hand.'

ok i actually didn't have an idea of what to draw on her face, i was just amused by the very idea of it, but as my pen drew near her skin, it came to me.  i inked on her paw a single teardrop. she looked at it and we both laughed. as funny as she thought it was, my request to gift her a matching one under her left eye was rejected. something about not wanting to get beat up or something.

also rejected: my idea to dress up for the movie we were gonna see later on, a documentary about crips and bloods (dir stacy peralta). i was even gonna give her first dibs on colors. . . oh well, probably for the best, i wasn't gonna have time to iron the creases in my dickies anyways.

(about half hour later)

so, you're gonna have to search some other blog to find a descent review of the film. we didn't make it. well, we did, but it was sold out. we opted for some slots on the waiting list and waited in our non represent attire. several seats opened up, we got called to the counter. they had 2 seats, but they weren't together. roommate and i are joined at the hip, this will not do at all. a 2 minute mini conference confirmed our suspicions, separation would be less than ideal. so we passed on the 'well i might as well be watching the movie by myself - oh wait, i am' seats and went home.  probably for the best, the average movie goer who is seated next to me by chance is generally not fond of unsolicited peanut gallerying however interesting/witty/thoughtful i think the comments are. 

that and sitting next to tall one would lessen my chances of being beat up/lonely/kicked out for talking to myself. tho, had we dressed up, we could have divvied up the audience and assigned ourselves leaders of each side and made it more of a participatory event. . . please file this under 'what's black and red and not a very good idea?'

but you look so peaceful when you sleep

i cut off a tiny part of my left pointer finger (on accident) whilst cutting celery for stew. not deep enough to induce bleeding, but enough so that it feels like there is maybe the thinnest layer of thin skin serving as barrier between the world and my raw nerves. . . .but that's not why i write.

one time i asked a friend to come to my art opening. photographs i had taken (in corvallis), to be shown at the coffee shop i frequented (interzone).  

'what are they of?' she inquired casually. 

'they're of you. sleeping,' i deadpanned. a moment of silence. 

'no, really, what are they of?' she persisted.  i think i had her convinced for a few seconds, then i caved.  they were of streets and alleyways and graffiti. but that'd be creepy if they actually were, yeah?  i always thought i'd be funny, invite your friends and roommates to your art opening and make a big deal about it, then when they get there all the photos are of them sleeping soundly or of them doing stuff (nothing, uh, 'personal,' tho...) in their rooms when they thought they were alone and the angle is all hidden camera/surveillance style cuz well, that's pretty much what it was. imagine the look on their faces!

that being said, i wouldn't actually do this for real. but really, the only thing stopping me from going thru with this idea is the HIGH CREEP FACTOR. it never occurred to me, all these years, until maybe just now, that i could just as easily GET PERMISSION and oh i don't know, stage the shots and get just as good of photos if not better due to the whole consensual aspect of it. 

but where's the fun in that.