Jon Edwards. The man. The story. The enduring fantasy. If you wish to step into the clandestine meeting places of destiny, love, war, the mysteries of music and art, and science-based religion, you've accident-ed upon the right online update-able blog. And it is an accident, a bloody one and a compass needle that will steer you in the directions of the four winds Boreas, Eurus, Notus, and Zephyrus. If you fear, if you are a being driven by the ravenous beast Cowardice, debouch from this battle with your Sole Companion and live not LIFE. But if you are of Temerity's design, a being imbued with the bold mettle of the universal ether, follow me. Follow JonSpaceBook. It is YOUR life, it is short, and there are too few clock ticks for blogging mediocrity.
June 9, 2010
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Pop’s House
The only reason to keep living in Pop’s house is to write a scathing memoir of my singular experiences in and out of the domicile. Oh yeah, and then there’s the fiscal factor, the bank account that Chase Bank North America has started labeling “Poverty Poke” in their official mailed statements. (For those of you not privy to long-withstanding, though antiquated lingual usage, “poke” also means wallet or purse - read the Gunslinger series by Stephen King and you might come across this nearly abandoned usage).
Anyway, I reside knee deep in the pestilence of cats that exists within the home ostensibly to benefit all tenants with improved happiness and proximity to the natural aspects of life long derelict and defunct to the city dweller. I think the cats are there to fuck with my keyboard and make me mess up Guitar Center applications. They get their way in most things, and in the case of the Guitar Center application, I think their end goal was to oust me from the house - no, THEIR house - with the prescient sense that if they fucked with my keyboard, then I’d have to drive over to the retail outlet home to all things raucously annoying to responsible, hard-working parents. Damn cats.
I’ve been fish-hooked by enough claws in one week to consider just keeping the wounds open while I shuttle on over to the plasma center so they already have a hole to punch into.
Last night, we received a present of some enormity. A two-year-old. I’ve never slept better in my life. Actually, I think I would have slept better between a flock of oil-soaked Pelicans crying for their dear lives.
What the hell is happening to me? I’m 26 and living with Dad after years of solitary existence. Can’t find a job (except for the two-dollar variety advertised by bums in the complete, deep night obscurity afforded by the more salacious and dilapidated city parks). Now I have to stop cats from their lunges into my cereal bowl, ride my bike to the county library to get the paltry semblance of silence currently made available by the ailing book loan establishment, and grab an ornery toddler from the next blood-thirsty Buick hell-bent on getting its next kid stuck in the glassy fissures of its grill.
Well, the kid’s only here for two weeks, which is just long enough for me to go nuts watching her try to sit on top of cats - “No, Baby, that’s not what cats want; they want you to stick your hand through their mouths until it comes out the other side.” - and spilling anything that has the tacit audacity not to have been made a sippy cup in its factory of birthing. And the cats are only here until I can find a neighbor’s dog to borrow while my parents are away on vacation in a couple of weeks.
But me? I have this feeling, an oceanic tidal uneasiness, that I could be here for a very long time. Maybe I should proceed with the memoir plan. Or maybe I should just make one of those conscious choices to be happy that my elders have always told me bears striking success against one of life’s greatest foes: Adversity.
I’m sure I’ll make it. Hell, I may even be better for the experience. I’ll get a job soon enough, and I’ll find a way out, and somewhere in the process, I’ll fight successfully against the gender confusion that turbulent circumstances so often convert to gender reassignment.
- Living with my parents
- sex change
- toddler
- cats
- memoir
- journal
- comedy
- commentary
- guitar center
- job
- job hunt
- unemployment
