fitting in

i have racing thoughts in these post-euphoria moments of a twelve (!!) day headache. not to mention VALIUM. the CT came back clear, just more imbalances with my damn thyroid and upped synthroid dosages and blah blah blah.

this is that type of information that strangers cringe when they read on the internet. WHO THE HELL CARES?

that wasn't the first time i got my head checked. it was checked previously by a jumbo jet. WOOOHOOOO. when you feel heavy metal............

i don't like to talk about that much.

mostly because i don't quite understand.

not even any artwork i've ever attempted to produce has been able to explain.

so i've just shoved it all under the rug and bring it out every so often to ponder a bit.

before my computer crashes again, though, i will say this. i am almost 33 years old and i did not think that at this age i still would not quite know where i fit into the universe.

this brings me great sadness.

does anyone else out there feel this way?

i am going to go to youtube and watch weird al yankovic videos now. i'll have you know i performed FAT today at work for a few select coworkers.

"your butt is wiiiide"

I totally want to write to Gregory House, M.D.

This would be a great episode of House. Girl with mysterious week-long headache, virtually normal CT scans, then starts predicting the future. Turns out one of her dental fillings is made of Kryptonite and she is secretly related to Superman. Then it turns out to just be a delusion he is experiencing while on hiatus in the Mental Hospital.

But these really are shots of my brain. They gave me a cd at my appointment today so I've been spending the afternoon researching the internet on how to read CT scans of the brain.

I really don't know what they all mean so I just gotta wait for my young stoner Indian doctor to call me back.



And this photo here is the last time you will ever catch me on a roller coaster again.

Writing to you from high-dosage Aleve and Valium land,
Nikki

fatiguée...

My two weeks of being the elder responsible cousin/auntie/translator was rather grueling. I swear the roller coasters thrashed my brain around in its skullcage a bit too much and I have had a headache for almost a week now.

But Yosemite Sam and Foghorn were there to catch me so I'll be alright.

La petite française est bien partie aujourd'hui. Moi je ne peux pas imaginer être parent d'un teenager de cette époque de tous les devices éléctroniques. Les texts, SMS, les sites web, les portables, les appareils-photos, les Nintendo DS...c'est trop pour un jeune esprit!

More stories to come....

Bonne nuit.

NYC sous la pluie....

It rained every day for one week straight.

I reckon the theme of this trip was 'No Plans Allowed.' I had plans to spread out a picnic blanket in Central Park and work on my novel. I had plans to ride the Cyclone at Coney Island. I had plans to take the bus to Atlantic City to win one million dollars.

The morning of Atlantic City, Ryan bro-bro and I woke up early and headed to the cornershop to board our bus with the old gamblers. We even had matching outfits that day and were looking forward to finding gaudy sparkling Atlantic City visors for a thousand more photo opportunites of sequined pizazz. But the owner found us outside and told us there was a 'problem' and that we needed to hightail it down to 179th and Broadway to catch the bus. We hopped on the subway, never a thought of discouraging words passing though our minds, and found our fellow travelers waiting outside the Dominican cornershop.

When the bus driver arrived, there was a long pause as we saw him walking back and forth through the tinted windows of the bus and rearranging passengers. He opened the doors with a look of discern on his face and announced, "I have some really bad news. I can only take four of you. There are only four seats left."

There were about eight pushy old ladies who shoved up close to him and he was forced to select the Biggest Looking Spenders.

A big old New York City Waaaaaaaaaah, waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah seemed to rattle the George Washington Bridge and Ryan and I hung our heads low and shuffled into the cornershop for our $34 refund.

Regardless of losing out on my millions, I managed to have a grand old time anyway. I'm a fly-be-the-pant-of-my-seats kinda traveler anyway and it's all part of the big adventure of life, n'est-ce pas?

Some highlights included:

* August Osage County, a play originally from Chicago's Steppenwolf, starring Phylicia Rashad. Wonderful performances, though it's closing in two weeks.

*Vieux Farka Toure at the Highline Ballroom. A spirited Malian guitarist, son of Ali Farke Toure. If you have an opportunity to see an African performance, I guarantee you spirits will be lifted. They may sing of sad topics but rarely will you find a minor key.

*Screening of a Youssou N'Dour documentary "I Bring What I Love." A very important film for all Westerners to see...follows his journey of pushing boundaries in Senegal for singing about his Sufi-Muslim beliefs and proceeding to win a Grammy.

*Walking across the George Washington Bridge at night in the wind and rain singing Bon Jovi as we entered New Jersey.

*Attending the Mermaid Parade at Coney Island.

*Endless wandering.

Then I come home to Michael Jackson mania. Regardless of your opinions of how his life became a farce of the media, what a spirit. I hope they bring him back home to Gary. Build a new Graceland there.

Back to work....

Packin' my bags...

New York City will be New Yuck City as my Gruesomes family*
raincloud follows me out east. But I shall prevail. If I could just
figure out how to pack my funky rainboots without having to check a damn bag...

Got the newly refurbished Mac laptop to transport with me
this time around so here's to some happy writings...soft breezes of nutty observation... and happy travels...

à bientót


* Refers to the Addams Family/Munsters-esque version of the creepy neighbors in the Flinstones.

Angling for an Angle

as I take a break this Sunday from freeze-drying my winter clothes , I find myself in a pensive mood....contemplating everything from an aching hip to work to deciding if i really want to hear Iggy Pop chante en francais.

Comme d'habitude, I'm all over the place.

It would be incredible to make a living from my creative energies, or at least I would think that to be true. But then again I look at the implications of adding 'business' to any kind of pleasure or hobby and the outcome, I would suspect, might be anything but joyful.

Do you ever watch that Simon Schama's Power of Art show on PBS? I look at our contemporary, lightning-speed society and I wonder where future masterpieces may be found. It's hard to say. What is fleeing from us now? The high cost of mega-wattage, picture-perfect celebrity or the slow-cooked souls standing in dim corners with empty pockets and displaced talent?

Too much to contemplate on a dreary June afternoon in the big gray city. I leave you with a youtube clip. The ballad of an unfortunate Extra, bemusing David Bowie into song. Bwahahaha....

as summer rolllllllls in....

tired. getting old. can't keep up.

but i love it. arthritic knee and all.

-little brother arrived tuesday and we surprised the whole hoosier clan. i have a newfound love for SURPRISES. i want to work them in more often into the rigmarole of life.

-saw Arabian Nights at Lookingglass Theatre. as usual, Mary Zimmerman makes theatre a painting-come-to-life. but I have to wonder, WhAt WaS wItH the FaRt JoKes?

-waited on John Hughes at work. I was like, 'Whatza happenin' hot stuff?' and he gestured his hands into L-shapes as if they were camera shots angling my face and pitched an idea to me about Pretty In Pink 2. don't tell Mr. T the husband but he does kinda resemble Duckie in that certain light....

-headed back to NYC in a few weeks. I plan to ride roller coasters, go to Coney Island Freak Shows, the circus, roller skating, walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, win a million dollars or two in Atlantic City and kick off my summer righteously in the three new pairs of shoes I bought last week.

-my little 14 year old cousin is coming to stay with me in July. from where? FRANCE! she doesn't speak english so je crois que nous serions attachees aux hanches. just too bad i don't have any vacation time left or much of a staff to cover.........

crrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak <-----that's the sound of my old lady knee. another wild Friday night dans la vie fabuleuse de Nikki....

R.I.P. Marley 1993-2009

He was the silliest lil boy kitty. "Ask my older brother about his cat."

This little fuzzy outgoing black cat followed one of my brothers back to a party after leaving a bar and slept on his chest all night. The next morning when I awoke, still finishing up high school at the time, my brother comes in my room....Nikki, want a kitty?

The street kitty used to hang around McDonalds in our hometown where he was fed cheeseburger scraps and therefore went crazy anytime he thought he smelled Macdo. He was terrified of brooms and thunderstorms. He had a thick thick thick coat and when he would groom himself sometimes the gray hairs got stuck in his mouth so it looked like he had a little old man kitty beard.

Was he named for Ziggy or Bob? We don't really know. We just knew he was happy like a reggae song.

Marley never got along with the kitty I already adopted, Minga (1992-2005) so he stayed at my parents' house until just this last Tuesday where he died in the company of his human Granny and BooBoo, another black cat who traveled in the carnival before landing on the Indiana homestead.

RIP little Marley. The funny lil cubby/kitty all stuffed with fluff. Sweet sweet lil boy he was....

pulling a Madonna

Well, not THAT Madonna. Ca serait sacrilege!

But what I mean is that I am reinventing myself.

In a small way.

Kinda.

Well, it's more of the journey, I suppose, so it's not a Reinvention.

I am GOING BACK TO SCHOOL! Over the next few weeks I will map out the Big Plan. Going slowly, semester by semester, but I am moving into a new field of work.

It's such a lengthy, cumbersome, problematic, HAYWIRE kind of territory, but all the more reason for me to pitch in a helping hand.

The rehabilitation of those in crisis mode.

I refuse to say 'mental health,' because I firmly believe that EVERY SINGLE HUMAN BEING has an ounce of mental crises at some point in his or her life. If one cannot confess to this statement, then one is a liar.

I have been spending days with Grandmere. She is still frail. Was not healing from a back surgery and now going back in for another hip surgery. Her spirits are down. She does not want to talk about everything. But I love her. And I understand her....



My grandmere told me she started to look forward to going to the shelter during class when Air Raids alarmed because one of her older classmates used to play Blue Danube on the piano...

Bob Ross Days

The husband finished training in his new job and therefore is settled into his 3-12am shift.

I don't see much of him. For awhile. It's a lot to get used to.

Cooking for one, hanging out alone, sitting on the bus alone. Again.

But in the big grand scheme of things, more people are roaming out there alone than we probably estimate. I notice patterns in the behavior of several of my regular customers, and even among the folks who seemingly have incredibly active social lives. They tell me all of these wonderful grand plans and plentitude of activities to keep themselves busy, and I listen and listen and listen. "Really?" I think to myself....

I suppose for those with children this concept of being 'alone' is alien. To know you have an extension of your self, your creation, breathing life and looking always in your direction...perhaps solitude becomes a thing of the past. I do not know. Does it?

I look at my cat and she seems to say, 'Oh. Hey Mom,' as she slithers back under the bed.

But I know that I have overcome enormous struggles and have learned to cope with doubt, isolation, and all the nastiness that life's difficulties bring forth and I am stronger and wiser for it.


"I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.
I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries."
-Simon & Garfunkel

In these times of 'isolation,' for lack of better word, I do turn to certain figures for inspiration. Particularly when you've gone through your phone list and left about ten messages for others who are busy out there doing other things.

See, when Bob Ross found himself alone with a canvas and a low budget television camera, he might talk aloud to himself and say something like this:

"Little more black, little more blue. And we'll just put that in using little crisscross strokes or--or little X's, whatever you want to call them. Whatever."

And in the course of 20 minutes, he'd have a new landscape to reflect upon.

What a beautiful man he was....

I want to get out my supplies now and invent.

"There."