you guys have NO idea how UNsurprised i am that an administrator considering special needs assistants for a mental health care facility would ask to hire some one with this particular ability.

from this week's mountain express, News of the Weird section:
"In May a county human services procurement officer in Portland. Ore., mindful of the sometimes quixotic needs of the agency's mental-health clients, included in a list of potential resource requirements a person fluent in the Star Trek language Klingon (but later said no actual job openings are envisioned)."

those of you learning fictional languages from sci-fi and fantasy works, don't give up hope! there could be a paying job in it for you, yet!
lol!
much love,
Magpie, Queen of the Geeks
(Chamas kin tokemata san "Divine Language", Mondochiwan, ilo ou-man tokemato.)

i feel baaaad. i think i got crow-boy cooties (he let me taste his K&C on wednesday night). he gave me a warning look, but i didn't get it and now i feel like moo-onna-stick. i am going HOME. i am going to rest and finish this !@#$ painting and then rest some more. moo. MOO!
i am gonna be really sad if i feel like this tomorrow night.
moo.
much love - and cooties -
-s

I am tired of hurting and pondering over this same damned subject, so that must mean that I still have a ways to go. I’m beginning to wonder if it is just my !@#$ haircut that is drawing all of these insecure, stinkbugheaded, small-minded, disarmingly ok-seeming chauvinistic jerks out of the woodwork and onto my case.
Whatever it is, they are not the only jelly-fish in the sea… I hope my beloved Pablo doesn’t mind me stealing his words to use as an example of all the good, whole, loving, Superior boys that are out there, who don’t need me to wear an apron, guard the hoard and put a CHICKEN on my shield* just so THEY can sleep safely in their little beds at night.

The other reason I wanted to post this sweet, lovely excerpt from his letter is because of how loved and precious and accepted AS I AM it made me feel, and I SO needed that right now.
Thank you, mi Pablito. I love you even more than wide shots filled with wind, white faces, long black hair, red lips, red leaves, red silk and the sound of ringing steel.
your razz keeps me going, too paul.
warts and all,
-s

“I just want you to know that I have swooned of late, and that it is, in some way, your doing; I read your rants recently, absorbed them in their beauty and fullness, then went right out and rented "Hero". Oh my stars and garters. Thank you, thank you.
And thank you for your constant inspiration, meaning quite truly that you remind me to breathe, deeply, and in so doing to smell and taste and keep myself alive to smell and taste some more, and then, on the exhale, I feel that I have something to give back, whether it's just CO2, or maybe some words, a song, whistle, razz, whatever . . .
Thanks for the memories, even though they're not mine. Those Pictures of Robbie were gorgeous, as I know she was, and a blessing on you for her beauty that you keep alive.
You kick such ass majeure, my dear sister; it seems like, sometimes, that you're just showing the rest of us what a life lived can be, warts and all.
Okay, enough of my gush. I mean it, I said it, so there.”
-pc
06/03/03


*don’t ask.

Sunday evening, I was in the tub. It was around 7, 7:30. Still good daylight. I was soaking, reading, hadn’t even wet my hair yet, when Luna started barking like mad and I heard someone bang on the door. I hollered “WHO IS IT?!?!” I heard “mm nm is ERIC/DEREK(?) n mm hm uh clmmhnm BAG nn mm BUSTED nn mmhmmnnmm…”
I said “WHAT?!?! WHO IS IT?!?!” this message was repeated, pretty much verbatim.
I said “HANG ON. I’LL BE RIGHT THERE.”
I got out, soaked, got dressed quickly (don’t you !@#$ hate that?) and went to the door.
There was a man there, maybe 10 years younger than me. He was aboutmy height, much heavier, and he had on nice clothes (a matching yellow shorts/shirt set). He had his shirt pulled up to his tits, and on his stomach was a gauze pad, a little clear plastic bag, some tape and a whole lot of human feces.
What he’d been saying was “My name is Eric/Derek(?) and I have a colostomy bag and it busted and I was wondering if I could do something (points to my shaggy yard) to earn 15$ to buy some more.”
Needless to say, I did not investigate his claim closely. I looked at his eyes, instead, and said “Let me go see if I have any money in the house.” I did. One 20$ bill. I opened the door, handed him the 20 and he said “Are you sure I can’t do anything (points to the yard again) for you?”
I just said “No, man. Just take care of yourself.” And then he trekked off through the yard and back up the hill.
I was in the tub and dressing for maybe another hour. When I left (to go find some familiar face, something to ground me), the smell was still lingering on the porch. I burned some nag champa and said a little prayer against desperation.

I still feel pretty spaced about it. I did go to tell the police, just so the next person who calls and says “A man just came to my door covered in…” doesn’t have to feel as crazy as I did… They - of course - completely blew me off.
Both sides (all sides) of the possible truth are scary. Truthfully, it didn’t look real – what I saw of it (the contraption, not the shit. The shit was DEFINITELY real.). If it was real, why was this nicely dressed young man walking so far from home(?) when his family or fiends surely would have helped him? How could he do yardwork in that condition? If it wasn’t real, then how desperate is this man? And what will he do next?
And so on and so on and so on…

I don’t know folks. When is Cowboy Curtis gonna come and give me the choice between red and blue?

feeling very unsafe and disoriented, but also strangely strong and fine... how very me.
-s