This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine...

Friday, September 28, 2007

Not a Rant, A Dream

I was in a MOOD this morning. I tried not to chalk all of it up to menstrual irritation, realizing that my current work situation plays a very large role. Something cool happens to me when I bleed. I become fucken lucid. Like, things I Know As True are Completely clear to me. The reason, therefore, that I am more irritatable is due to the Truths becoming Unavoidable...until work weariness and the blood lucidity wane off. Then I can go on stuffing my passions into a sock that I bury under my kitchen sink.

I Hate It.

Here's my current dream:
I work, three, maybe four really part time jobs. I continue at Wishbone, for the cash in hand and attractive bartender's company. I write articles covering topics like: books, city events, media, music, food, relationships, and myself for money. I am a receptionist/instructor's apprentice at a Yoga studio. I nanny or teach or something having to do with young people's education and roundingness. For fun, once or twice a week, I'm a phone sex worker.

-None of these jobs' hours add up to more than 50 hours per week and I get 2 full days off.
-All of the cashola I earn working these varied and informative jobs pays for my current lifestyle, which is quite modest and involves saving money for possible travel, which will be encouraged by all my employers.
(-I will write about my travel experiences!
-I will get cool new educational games/toys relating to new cultures/places!
-I will visit other yoga studios to get ideas for the one(s) I know in Chicago!)

I will also have time to: write prose for myself, read books for myself, meet, greet and ravish lovers, see friends, take walks, cook, play with my cat, nest in my lovely dream apartment space, make random art like paper collages, mobiles, painting, knitted things and lovely meals for my lovely friends/lovers.

Are these unreasonable aspirations? Can these things actually come to pass without me being totally broke?

Writers-- please help me find a way to get my work out there beyond blogging for free.

Teachers-- please point me in a direction of wholesome teaching opportunities.

Lovers-- please touch me and be kind.

Friends-- please encourage and push me and don't be upset when I don't respond because I'm in a MOOD.

Mother Earth-- please help.

Thank you all, in advance.
Love,
Shana Rose is getting fed up and upset by the feeding

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Three Stooges

A slow night at work brought me home 13 hours after I'd left it, with another 11 hour day on my clock. I was vaguely kvetchy and floundering at the prospect of returning to days without touch. The Small Bar, Ready Made magazine, and all my cigarettes seemed the perfect way to feel cynical but un-isolated.

I sat at the bar and ordered, and 2 men approached me. I decided I'd tolerate their presence until they began hitting on me. If that happened, I'd pointedly bury my face in some amazingly interesting article on the many uses for empty wine crates. The boys were pretty and nice enough. When they began quarreling behind me I realized, Hoorah! They're gay!

They filled me in on the argument, which was over the "territory" of the neighborhood bar and the men therein. I agreed with Sam: Ryan could metaphorically pee on the corner of the building all he liked, but that marking did not cover the contents inside. Finally, I asked who it was they were claiming dibs on and Sam nodded his head in the direction of a taller, also pretty, boy coming our way.

The tall one clumsily introduced himself as Ralph, laughed, and told me his real name. I was dumbfounded by his barrage of cleverness and the real name didn't stick. I told him I'd be calling him Ralph for the duration of our acquaintance. He told me he was from Oklahoma City. This was not a lie.

As the night wore on, I found myself appreciating the company. They introduced me to our bartender for the night, John. We talked about our other favorite bartenders and who lived closest (I win by 20 steps or so). Ryan was the only one who wasn't being flamboyant and churlish and I found myself feeling affection for him that went beyond beer sot and amusement. He confided in me that he's terrified of committed relationships, but is sick of meaningless sex. I tried to woo him to the ways of polyamory, an idea which he and Sam were both astoundingly ignorant of.

I think gay boys stereotypically take the assumption of sluttiness that culture foists upon them for granted.

More and more drinks were had, and still Ryan made no move on Ralph, who had been loudly declaring his heterosexuality for some time. Well, those claims were made between the other pronouncements on his attractiveness, French heritage, and successfully platonic man love with the boys back home.

None of us believed for a whit that he was straight. Well, I conceded that on the Kinsey scale he might be a 2 or 3. I asked if he was bisexual, he said no, but he liked to "put it in girls' other places."

Me: "You mean, you like to fuck women in the ass? Cool."
(Uproarious laughter from Sam and Ralph as Ryan looks uncomfortable)

I got Ryan's number after Sam decided to make his exit. We had discovered a shared love for marijuana and he informed me of his attractive dyke roommate (huzzah!). We became friends.

That left me alone with Ralph, who was bumming cigarettes from everyone in the place because he'd helped me smoke all mine already. Now that the attentions of Sam and Ryan were gone, 90% of the words he sloshed out were about his attractiveness and success with the ladies in bed. He couldn't figure out why he'd never had a real girlfriend though.

Beer 3 had me feeling nicely buzzed and it was closing time. Ralph bummed us another cigarette and asked me if I had any beer at home. My want for touch had stumbled into a vague desire to make out with the obnoxious boy.

Sure, I said, I have 1 beer and some whiskey, let's go.

He assessed my apartment as cute and nice and asked where the beer was. I handed it to him and he spied my computer.
"Can I check my myspace?"

This is when I aught to have sent him on his merrily gay way.

"Sure, but my computer's sort of a piece, so give me a few minutes to get you there."

He was too drunk to type his password in, and because the "n" has worn off it's key, he couldn't ever find it. I got him into the 'space and he decided to show me all his pictures. He was especially keen on showing me what a pretty girl he made one Halloween, thanks to his "gorgeous bone structure" and the half hour his "sissy" ("the most beautiful woman in the world") spent making him up.

He was a Playboy bunny. I could no longer contain the laughter bubbling up in me at his buffoonery. I laughed at him and laughed. I made him feel badly, and tried to assure him I didn't mean any harm. He took offense when I wasn't knocked dead by his bunny costume and showed my the pictures from his 30th birthday bash instead.

I spent at least a half hour of my life looking at pictures and getting narrations from one of the most drunkenly conceited dopes I've ever had the pleasure of dying a little on. He kept telling me how much I wanted to kiss him, a thought that had died immediately after he knocked over his beer on my floor for the second time. He kept saying "Pretty is Pretty."

At 3 am I wore out. I was tired and wanted him gone so I told him to go. He was laid back on my bed lazily, with his pants unbuttoned (when did he do that?), and looked at me in confusion.
"What? What do you mean 'go'? I'm comfortable, come here, just lay down with me."

I humored him for 20 seconds or so, then sat up again. "Nope, you have to go."
"But lady" (he'd forgotten my name 2 hours ago) "I'm comfortable, let's just go to sleep."

"No Ralph, you're going home. It's 60 steps away from this door, you're getting up and walking home."

It took about 7 more minutes of this go round for him to grasp the concept that I Really, Actually, Seriously, didn't want him to grace me with his presence throughout the night. I stood, pulled him up, and opened the door to motion him out. He was still trying to playfully argue with me when my wolf mama impatience mentality was getting warmed up. I was not going to fuck around any longer.

I had my hand on his chest, firmly pushing him toward the exit, and he was trying to horse around still. That's when my angel kitty, Miss Billie the huntress, decided she wanted to go for a walk and scampered her cute little ass into the hall. He noticed and gave chase. After he picked her up and handed her to me, he began to back down the stairs. His parting words were "hey, let me come over and watch you have sex with a girl sometime."
"Yeah Ralph, that'll happen. Three flights down and your out. Bye."

Hooray, he's out of my house.

With Billie in my arms, I locked the door, kissed her little nose, and thanked her for provident timing.

Today, I paint the room a lovely lovely lovely hay golden color.

Monday, September 24, 2007

my own softer world


i watched the women flow to the elevator for an all staff meeting.

i wasn't invited

and decided to spend the hour alone listening to music and falling in love with myself.

Yes, at work

Monday morning. Have lots of processing happening.

Feh.

Also have bleached blond hair and pixie bangs.

Sunday, September 23, 2007

the ampersand of my heart

&

i haven't been explicit about much of devyn's visit. i did jokingly think to myself about sending a text message, or posting a cryptic myspace bulletin that said

"i've come up for air to let know i'm going back down, happily, and will resume regular scheduling on monday."

it was 4 day skip through decadence, ecstasy, and expanse.
in the 2+ hours of coitus that occurred every morning. in the way we both knew relief, after a tense moment of getting to know one another, and the way it spread our hearts. in the ways i can know myself better by making new friends and welcoming new lovers. in teaching me acceptance and some grace.

and now, in the cooing of the rock doves in the eaves above my bedroom and the satisfaction i'm going to go pull from a quiet cigarette, alone with my world on the back steps.

the seeds of all things are blest

this begins a new era. i have the internet in my studio now. no more at work blogging required.

*

i've drawn the shades half down to keep some of the morning cool safe from the heat of after summer sun. the last of 3 cds my lover put in my cd player is playing.

"i need
you here with me
not way over
in a bucket seat."

billy has passed out among the folds of the rug where she was chasing her tail. my clock has been wound and set to the correct time. my plants have been watered, my dishes put in the sink and left-overs in the fridge.

the silence around me is soaking me up.
the city's movements outside of me; silencing me.

i told him i was sad seeing him go, but was preparing for it.
i told him that an hour before he left. i was ready when he went.

i told him before breakfast that i would be there for him as much as possible. but that he should be warned, that when i've grown impatient, i tend to kick the ones i love when they're down.

the laugh not dead in his throat--
"good to know,"
he and his eyebrows said.


on the path to the house before saying final goodbye, as i walked ahead of him, and just so subtly threw myself up the stairs before him, i marveled at the apparent truth in that statement. it was off the cuff, and right on.

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

crazy whirlwind of desire

that's my new, very long, middle name.


Nice to meet'cha. My; you're attractive, my name's Shana Crazy-Whirlwind-of-Desire Cobb.

But you can call me Mlle. Dynamo.
Something to drink?

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

fickle, 'fi-k&l, adj.

Etymology: Middle English fikel deceitful, inconstant, from Old English ficol deceitful; akin to Old English befician to deceive, and probably to Old English fAh hostile -- more at FOE
: marked by lack of steadfastness, constancy, or stability : given to erratic changeableness
synonym see INCONSTANT


One of the longest running traditions among the women of my mother's small family is singing in the kitchen when doing the dishes after a large family meal. My mother, her 2 sisters, and each one of the sisters' daughters would gather, doing her respective work (washing, drying, stacking, putting away), while singing her part in a handful of oldies or folk songs. The most prominent song we sang went like this, in 3 parts:

And the door, is still open, to my heart.

Foolish little girl, fickle little girl,
You didn't want him when he wanted you.
He's found another love, the one he's dreaming of,
and there not a single thing that you can do.

But I love him.
No you don't, that's just your foolish pride.
I still love him.
Tomorrow is his wedding day and you'll be smart and stay away.

Foolish little girl, fickle little girl,
You didn't want him when he wanted you.


I've been called fickle my whole life. I can understand it to some extent. I'm adventurous, exploratory and insatiable with my love for the world at large. Shiny things distract me. I'm blond, an Aquarius. I can see how people might mistake all that for infidelity.

My ex-partner, in the preeminent primary relationship in my past, would tell me that fickleness was one of my biggest flaws; that it was a thing that caused me my hardships and him his headaches.

I'm thinking about the term fickle today, because I am digging into the world of sluttdom, dating and polyamory. Who, but ethical sluts, could more easily be slapped with, what I consider to be, a derogatory term of disloyalty?

(Amnesiacs I s'pose.)

Thing is, I am anything but fickle.

Here's what I am: fiercely loyal, even more fiercely independent, curious, salacious, quick, given to romantic fits, sometimes oversexed, sometimes undersexed, confident, smart, incredibly adaptable, and thirsting for the elemental bounty of life. (Not to mention a good lay!)

Fickle. Do men ever get called this? Doubtful. Just as slutty men often get admired for being charismatic and successful, I suspect that fickle men get cheered for being selective or "a good catch".

Anyway, digging into sluttery. I have been blessed with a handful of sexy and incredible people, and perhaps, the rewards of hard work in the last few months (or it's cosmic timing) and I'm finding myself loving it so much that I want more. I know I've only begun to dip into this amazing pool of sex positive, playful populous and (in my quiet moments) I want to continue down this path with my present effervescence. I am poorly equipped with the time to explore in the zealous way I'd like to, but will do my best to make do.

Looks like I'm simply processing here. Don't know that I have a point to make beyond my suspicion about, and rejection of, the word fickle. I may also be reassuring myself; saying that, when my lustful frenzies calm and I'm holding onto a gem of a relationship and friendship and person, it doesn't mean I care any less for him or her. It means the opposite in fact! When the cyclone of lust that sometimes whips me around calms, I can actually think and develop feelings for a fallible and real human; rather than basic visceral desires for someone who tickles me pink.

I guess also I might add that I think slut potlucks may be a thing of the future in my new apartment. Think of it as netfuckworking with dinner and drinks...guess I'll have to get more chairs.

Monday, September 10, 2007

The Oedipus Complex, a conversation starter!

I lay in bed yesterday, idly. I was thinking about work. I was thinking that I don't "work" enough at work, that I've taken my sticking-it-to-the-man too far, because it's hindering my progress (by which I mean, making more $$$).
I was thinking this for 2 reasons: 1. I realized I've been feeling a sort of entitlement re: getting the job that I may not deserve (despite my being an above average employee for nearly 7 months) and 2. the girl in the cube next to me is going to "clinical congress" in N'awlins in 3 weeks and I'm not. We're both temp., started at the same time. She works for a different program than me, for a boss who doesn't have panic/gas attacks three times a week.
So, I vowed to myself, then, to start anew this week and keep the slacking to a minimum and wow my boss, and eventually/hopefully, the managers that walk by me with my go-get'em ness.

I'm disgusted. I use the words "the managers" in my life now. I make vows devoid of real passion nightly knowing I'll never follow through....maybe that's why I'm here. A part, too large to ignore, of me doesn't give a three-hole-punched fuck if I get ahead in the business world. I don't care about climbing ladders to places I never imagined going in the first place.

What I began thinking about later, when bound for sleep, was fetish sex and the obnoxious Oedipus complex.

Thoughts on one annoying shrink's perspective:
Right, so I haven't read a lot on this subject. All of my knowledge on the Oedipal complex comes from reading the play by Sophocles in high school and again in college. The incestuous implications have been enough to go "boo" at me from within the depths of my own fantasies and fetishes for a few years though.

I'm sure my three readers are perverts enough to know already what the implications are, but for the sake of being thorough I'll throw in the basics: Freud's version of the Oedipus complex basically says that all women dream of marrying/fucking their fathers (and perhaps killing their mothers) and vice versa. I feel like breast feeding and penis envy were thrown in in his analysis. Also, probably, was vagina envy.

Braced with my incredibly vague and un-researched knowledge on the complex Freud made famous I can attack the theories from the viewpoint of gender-fuck queer theory, and it's much easier to scoff at Freud's quaint little vanilla ideas on sex and sexuality... a la: So what if women crave dicks? Well of course men want cunts! Who wouldn't??

Enough of that romping, I'll get to my point: I've become aware of a(nother) fetish of mine recently: I dig older men. Specifically, I dig older men that largely resemble my own father's character aesthetics. More specifically, older men who have the biker/sweet dreamer/blue collar/artistic qualities to them. I like them with rough hands, faded jeans, beards, and easy laughs.

I was fantasizing about a lover of mine who fits this bill last night, and I stopped short because my mind wandered off into Freud's rumpled mine-field of theories and I got grossed out. I began to wonder about the 'daddy' fantasies (which really turn me on) and how acceptable I can find them when getting mired in the Oedipal conundrum. I moved to contemplating the functioning gay men of the world who have no problem with their 'daddy' fetishes. This little merry-go-round then led me to a generalization (which I'll hopefully debunk later) and I thought; perhaps it's possible that only people without healthy/nice/good feeling relationships to their fathers can have wild 'daddy' sex fantasy fetishes.
This generalization was borne of the stereotype re: gay men and their bad relationships with their fathers as well as thinking about a friend of mine who enjoys the 'daddy' fantasy and has a crappy relationship to her own father.

I never really came up with an answer, for it's hard to have a philosophical conversation with yourself, especially at bed time when the brain is a little lazier. Instead, I told myself that those rationalizations were silly and poorly thought out, and the key must be (duh) don't think about your own father when you want to have hot 'daddy' sex you pervert!

At that point in the story I set free all notions rational thought, resumed hot fuck-me-daddy fantasies, and jacked off to sweet dream oblivion.

Discuss amongst yourselves please and let me know your thoughts!

Friday, September 7, 2007

duh

Can someone tell me how to quickly search for other blogs within the blogger space? There doesn't seem to be a "browse" function...muchas thanks <3, S.R. Cobb

Thursday, September 6, 2007

lonely riot


Dear NPR and Readers

Dear Reader,

I am the picture of the "millennium generation". My spelling skilss are steadily decreasing due to text messaging and automatic reformatting. My attention span is short and...what was I talking about? My vocabulary, for an English degree holder, is atrocious.

Atrocious is one of my best adjectives, for example.

I have been at work for 1 hour 48 minutes and I have accomplished the following:
1. chat with co-worker re: daily commute and the blue line
2. 8 minutes of work for my supervisor to get set up for a meeting
3. trip to s.bucks for sugary coffee confection
4. brief budget on the back of a receipt while at s.bucks
5. check yahoo, gmail, myspace accounts and reply accordingly
6. read the front page of the ny times
7. fetch water from 27th floor cafeteria
8. building fire drill
9. chat with co-workers about "69 S. Washington" tragedy 4 years ago
10. chat with co-worker about my boss
11. read Overqualified and feel warmth in my chest which I am trying to be consciously opening according to healthy posture and yoga practices
12. type this blog while considering the npr report I heard yesterday re: "the millennium generation" and how we're all discontent to work our way up the corporate ladder.

Dear NPR,

I am writing this to you from my cubicle at work on Michigan Avenue. I am not an expert on anything and I only have 5 minutes before I have to go to a meeting.

This letter is regarding your report on 20something workers and their behavior in the work force. Employers regard us as the most technically savvy and educated people in the workforce market, but they think we're also unreliable cry babies who's parents suckled us for too long. They think we don't know how to take care of ourselves.

Here's what I think in brief (the meeting): this isn't your world anymore. You bougie 45 - 60 year olds think that it's still possible to work your way up in a company for 25 years. You haven't heard about all the pension plans that fall through, all the lay offs that happen, all the disloyalty from companies now-a-days. I want to embellish these points but, I have to go pretend to work now.

Fuck you, bougie NPR. I'll listen, but you better be damn sure I won't donate. I don't need your $30 bougie coffee mug.

With respectful affection,
S.R. Cobb

Wednesday, September 5, 2007

Chocolate, where no chocolate's gone before

oh. my. god.

Bacon Exotic Candy Bar

Sitting at my desk, enjoying DJ Steeley's most recent show on kfai stream, and eating up my last 20 minutes of time clock at work, I perused 24 Boxes, a lovely blog about one woman's use of her year round subscription to boxes of farmer's produce from Angelic Organics in Rockford, IL.

Once again, in case you need me to clarify:

bacon + chocolate = mouth watering extraterrestrial orgasm explosion
!!!

skeet! skeet!

o-oh-ooh...Ok! *boosh!!*

Ah, oh. MMMmmmm, yeea-a-a-ahh-h...
there it is. Yesss. Oh geez, oop*!


{blew my load}

Labor day weekend past. Summer effectively over for all the white pants wearers of the world (pshaw). Kids back in school. Oprah show being taped again. It's September, people. Wow.

Roommates: nil
Shana: 1 (+ cat)

Had a quick vision of a dream for the future last night while on the roof, stoned and horny. The quick visions are the most annoying ones actually, because they're nearly identical to whims but could lead to reality should I actually slow and think them through.

Vacations to hope/plan for/think about in the order in which they've been presented to me:
Minneapolis
Portland
Philly
Hawaii (which island, grasshoppah?)
Toronto
Burning Man '08


I need processing time.