I'm Pam Newman.
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I'm a writer of aricles, poems & songs. Here's some cool stuff I wrote.
"And indeed," she replied. "The fact of the matter is that my mouth has been home to many bits of soy, pinto and other legumes."
He turned his head toward the window, while keeping his eyes connected to hers. “Be that as it may, are you not a lady? Or are you simply a heathen in disguise?”
"My bowels are no different from your own!" she exclaimed with a passion that startled him. "They cause me discomfort when I hold back the wind wanting to be free. The warm, arrogant wind which you ditest."
As she poured the end of her statement from her lips, she grasped her skirt up, teetered to the side, and let out a totally rank, gnarly fart.
"Beans, beans the musical fruit," she sang. "The more you eat, the more you poot."
This morning, I woke up casually as I am wont to do every Sunday… and as I would like to do every single day of my life. I woke up next to my love who was just as cuddly and sweet as always.
He asked me how I was feeling, and I asked him the same. He replied, “Hungry,” and eventually we discussed what our breakfast options were. There wasn’t any bacon, so it came down to pancakes. He said he’d make them special, and I squealed, “Ooh fancy,” and curled deeper under the blankets as he got up.
He put on some comfy sunday-morning attire and I remained under the blankets. I texted a few friends to tell them how much I loved them and that we needed to make plans. I read some pages out of a self-empowerment book that my therapist loaned me.
Then I got cozy into the pillow on his side of the bed. I put my face into it, taking deep breaths and smelling him. I wiggled around in the blankets and made myself so comfortable that I considered going back to sleep, but instead I thought to myself.
I’ve been thinking about death a lot lately. Not in like a murderous or self-harm kind of way, but in an “It’s inevitable. I do not seek death, but I do not fear her,” kind of way. Maybe that’s a little morbid, but that’s just how I roll. I figure I’ve got like 50 or 60 years in me. That’s a long time.
Then I got to thinking— he’s only like 8 years older than I am. He’s probably got a good 50 or 60 years in him too. I put some consideration into what he does that annoys me… not much really. My brain trailed down a road where I thought about how selfish I can be, and that I’ve just gotten accustomed to doing everything my way and always getting my way, and that I truly want to compromise for him.
Because to paraphrase the wisdom of Maybeline and Alicia Keys, “because he’s worth it.”
I thought mostly of how much I enjoy being with him. I thought of how proud I am to say that I’m with him. I thought of how amazed I am that he’s a real person and loves me the way I want to be loved, and that I can love him the way I want to love someone and he likes it!
Then I terrified my inner commitment issues.
I thought to myself:
"I don’t wanna ever break up with him."
That’s not a thought I’ve ever had before. I’ve considered marrying people before. I’ve thought about “What would it be like to be with this person for the rest of my life?” But never have I outright thought, “I am opposed to the idea of ever breaking up with this person.”
I’m trying to rectify that with myself, and I’m sort of afraid of that thought, but I’m also finding comfort there. I haven’t said it out loud, and most certainly haven’t said it to him, which is silly… but I’m still figuring it out in my head.
We’ve been friends for a couple years, sorta dated for a while over that period of time and have been seriously dating for about 4 months.
FEELINGS, y’all. I have them.
But they feel good at the core. They’re only scary because they’re new.
Also? The pancakes were delicious.
I took a nap. I slept so hard that I don’t remember any of my dreams although I got the overwhelming sensation that they were troubling.
When I woke up, feeling flustered and disoriented, I felt as though the world had sat directly on my heart. That could have been the residual effect of the dreams that I’ll never remember, or the remnants of the chilli dog and nachos I ate hours ago.
In that slow moment of returning to this world outside of rest and my own imagination I felt lost and somewhat disjointed. Physically I felt my heart aching for some things I never took the time to mourn. I thought of how thankful I am for my present and how poetically magnificent it feels to awake alone in the bed of my love, even when struck physically by more own darkness.
I all at once felt safe and sad; terrified and comforted; warmth in my heart and a little cold on my toes because isn’t climate change a bitch?
No matter how I positioned my body, I felt the numbness of sleeping far too much creeping over me. Or was this sensation merely a reaction delivered from the strength of my mind’s disfunction or was it a way of my stomach sending threats about the fate I had sealed myself into for eating nachos, a chili dog and an ice cream cone for lunch.
Or perhaps this intense level of malaise and disphoria had roots in the fact that I’d reached the point of the month where I was down to the last, light peach pills in my birth control pack. The red sea turning from a placid lake into a fully blown tsunami often shakes me up and down with little sense of compassion for my emotional state. And by all rights, why should my reproductive organs give a single fuck about how i feel emotionally.
I beat them, subject them to strange devices, foreign bodies, let doctors peek in at them using midevil devices and most outrageous of all: fill them with the genitals of another human. It has to be a tough life being my reproductive organs.
As I sat and pondered these things with little to no desire to actually get out of bed and brave the world of the is with open eyes, I thought to myself, “where online can I express these feelings fully?”
The answer, of course my friends, is always tumblr.
I have to remind myself sometimes that there is mire to life than the dog shit in the bridge.
Let me offer you the gift of context.
So yesterday I walked across a bridge with some friends in an attempt to get out of what seemed to be a universal funk seeping into the pores of my friends. As we walked back to our point of origin, the sun was setting. Let me tell you, there are many things Kentucky is terrible at. Many things that I hate this place for… but there are few things in this world that I have experienced that are as magnificent or as lovely as a Kentucky sunset.
The sky was sprinkled with clouds beset upon a green horizon. Children giggled on the bridge riding tricycles and looking at the world from the height of a bridge and feeling enormous for the first time. There were about twenty monks in the bridge, taking photographs of Indiana and the Louisville skyline while telling jokes in a language unfamiliar to my ears.
There was so much beauty everywhere. So many lovely things to smile about and appreciate.
And then there was a pile if dog shit on the bridge.
I almost didn’t notice it as I was too busy taking in a pink, yellow and blue sky… but there it was. Clumps of shit. Four or five healthy sized pieces.
We just walked around it.
Sure we could have dwelled on the dog shit and how rude it was, sitting there unclean and yucky. Or we could do what we did and accept that sometimes your bridge has dog shit on it so you better enjoy that sunset, while glancing down to ensure your sandal isn’t getting covered in poop.
Being a responsible adult is really hard work.
Bills, navigating different personalities, being honest when honest hurts, doing stuff you don’t wanna do but promised you’d do, waking up when you don’t wanna but you still have to?
That shit is hard.
And our generation has more bills than any other generation that ever existed so far. Our grandparents didn’t have cell phones with data plans, or cable tv with 5 HBOs. Shit, I think my grandfather existed at a time when you didn’t have to buy car insurance.
Don Draper’s america hasn’t existed for a long time, and there are good things about that like, you know, the right to eat wherever I want and shit wherever feels right… but also it sucks because the economy makes it difficult to eat wherever I want, and the economy shits on me whenever it feels right.
That’s what they need to prepare graduating high school and college students for, man.
I feel like over the years I have written a lot on this blog about how much I love love.
I love the act of displaying love. I love other people’s love. I love to love humanity. I love my friends. I love witnessing love happen— love between lovers, love between a mother and her child, love between a pet owner and an animal.
There’s just something incredibly beautiful about the passion that happens between creatures in love. I think plants experience some form of love.
I even have a tattoo on the left side of my ribcage that says:
Everything in life is done because of LOVE or the lack there of.
Of course, I love falling in love. I love discovering a new food or location or experience I can love. I love falling in love with my work, falling in love with new friends and more than anything… I absolutely love falling in romantic love.
It’s like a fulfillment of the ultimate craving. Discovering something new in someone you knew was there, but was just a faint glimmer. Finding why the glimmer brought you towards them in the first place and being able to hold it in the light and being awestruck by it’s beauty. Sharing parts of yourself you may have forgotten about, or perhaps never even knew were there in a fair trade exchange of emotions and ideas.
Being able to say and hear out loud an expression of passion, appreciation; a form of unconditional positive regard and compassion… I love love, y’all.
I’m sun-bathing and moon-bathing in it. I’m basking in it and eating it, massaging it into my pores and spraying it on my neck and chest before I walk out into the world. I sweeten my coffee with it, clean my glasses with it so I can see the world better with it than I could without it.
I love love, and I’m in it.
To some you are merely days and lines
But my eyes see more than this
The order that you bring into my life
Fills my soul with truth and bliss
Upon my fair screen are my reminders
Synced with my Android small and fair
Where would I be without your touch?
Off somewhere clouded by blinders
Walking ‘round with a head filled with air
Without this blessed calendar - I couldn’t do very much
I’ve been a little pissed at the “Undecided voters are stupid stupid-heads,” rhetoric floating around lately. I feel like that conversation likely pushes those people further away from even casting their vote. This is exceptionally frustrating when you think about the actual number of Americans who are eligible to vote vs the number who actually do.
At least these undecided voters are registered, man.
This PDF from the Census breaks down the number of people who are eligible to vote in every state, as well as the percentage of how many people actually voted. It goes so far as to break it down by state & the District of Columbia as well (sorry Puerto Rico).
According to this document, little more than half of eligible Americans actually turn out to vote for president.
To that point, in consideration of elections where the electoral college doesn’t get activated; an abysmal 37% of registered voters showed up to the polls in 2010 to vote for US representatives. Thirty seven.
Dude, congress and senate are where shit actually happens! They make decisions about laws, get them written, and speak on your behalf. Why do you think when some stupid law is about to get passed, Planned Parenthood, the Sierra club and other advocacy groups ask you to call your Congress rep and your senator and NOT the white house?
Also, most local issues that the federal government can do something about are the responsibility of your senator and congress rep to speak up about. The president isn’t thinking about the expressway that might get built over top of a grocery store when he drinks his morning coffee, but your house representative probably does.
This other census PDF shows that as of 2010, roughly 60% of all eligible Americans are registered to vote. That same table shows that about half of registered voters actually turn out and vote (Look at the “All races” breakdown in the 2nd table).
That sounds to me like 30% of America is deciding who our elected officials are. Meanwhile, only 60% of us even have the ability to do so.
That’s why it’s so damn important to get more people registered. That is why people are screaming their faces off to get human beings to show up at the polls. This is why we are not adequately represented. Even worse, this is why people who aren’t even representing their constituents get elected over and over again, and the same problems don’t go away.
So all of this to say, VOTE!
~ Community ~
What is community?
Community feels like support, love and communication with people who share a real or imagined space. A neighborhood. A workplace. A school. The internet.
Community is the tape and bubblegum that supports an otherwise shaky structure. Within a community we learn to love what is contained in bodies with different shapes. Within a truly loving community, how you pee, who you love, if you love and what you look like are irrelevant.
What matters is that you matter.
What matters is that relationships matter.
What matters is that love matters.
We all want to be loved, and that is why humans create communities.
"Everything in life is done because of love or the lack there of."
Communities are love on a meta scale.
What I think is most unique about Yann Tiersen’s work, and what draws me to it most, is that each of his compisitions is a conversation. Each instrument is having a back and forth dialogue in a conversational rhythm with another.
La Boulange is of no execption. In fact, this is my favorite piece of his. It’s my favorite, even taking into consieration that Tiersen is responsible for arguably one of the most brilliant movie soundtracks in recent history -and one of my favorite movies ever- Amelie.
If you listen closely, the opening of this song seems to take its first breaths of air. Breathing life into an entire world filled with instruments, melody and perhaps some mysteries. There are far too few times when a saw, electric guitar and violins get an opportunity to make love in an equally beneficial menage a toi, no?
There’s of course a delicate tune that takes you from in front of your speakers, or off the street with your iPod and headphones to a crisp, earthreal place. A place where every street smells of fresh flowers. The conversation between the violins and electric guitar is that of bicycles on a street, lovers stealing kisses in the corner of a coffee shop and kittens lapping up milk left outside for them by a bookstore owner.
La Bolange takes me to this place, and I love spending time there. It’s a simple place, as marked by the signature minimalisim of Tiersen’s work, but it’s often simplicity that creates beauty. It simly takes one sperm and one egg to create life, and with a limited number of notes, Tiersen possesses genius enough to create an entire world.
I love to travel, and I love when Yann Tiersen invites me to go somewhere beautiful.
It is not quite often that freelance writers and artists are afforded an opportunity to attend a first class, all amenities included ball like the princesses in Disney films, so excuse whatever gushing may occur in the following paragraphs.
[…] perhaps about 20 minutes and two vodka cranberries later, the staff arrived with mini crab cakes topped with a belly button of remoulade sauce. These were served attached to skewers poked through the sides of the delicate crab cakes, so drunken fingers didn’t end up squashing these delectable little treats.
THIS PARTY WAS FREAKIN AMAZING. I had such a great time. Rosella really captured it well in all the photographs, too. There are more photos attached at the bottom of the story on Louisville.com.
The Kentucky Derby is a classist, racist, capitalistic handjob for the rich.
BUT DAMN CAN THIS CITY THROW A PARTY, OR WHAT?
Okay, so I hate the Derby, horse racing and how it’s an open display of animal abuse which has a long history of rich people humping their rich vaginas all over the faces of the poor while wearing fancy hats. I have been to a total of 3 Derby parties in the 6 years I’ve lived in Kentucky. One of which was an unwelcome surprise interruption to a planned afternoon nap by an inconsiderate ex-roommate.
That left a sour taste in my mouth, but I’ll let you in on something that is in no way a secret: I’m a sucker for fancy dress parties, man.
So here’s the story.
Tonight for Louisville.com, friend and fellow non-conformist Rosella Pearl (real name, no gimmicks) and yours truly are taking my press creds and going directly into the belly of the beast— A fancy dress party that’s $300 dollars a seat, and $3000 dollars a table. A Derby party filled with some of the hoity-est, toity-est medical professionals in the city:
The American Lung Association’s Derby Eve Gala at the Seelbach Hotel.
The Bar Belle, aka Sara Havens wrote a really cool piece on the Seelbach for the LEO this week. In it, she chats with this old dude who talked her ear off about pretty much everything regarding the Seelbach Hilton, and the only AAA 5-diamond restaurant in Louisville.
Who’s got two thumbs and is gonna EAT THERE TONIGHT? THIS GIRL (AND HER GOOD FRIEND ROSELLA WHO TAKES AWESOME PHOTOGRAPHS).
Additionally, T.I.’s fine ass is in town. I didn’t find out until a few hours ago. I would really like to be covering his party at the expo center, but I have a feeling that Louisville’s finest scantily clad ladies will be duking it out with Tiny for his attention, so I’m better off at the Seelbach Hilton hotel. Maybe that’s where he’s staying, and they’ll invite me for a threesome and some top shelf booze?
Everything’s coming up Millhouse.
I have a few goals for tonight, which I’ll list for you in no particular order:
Goal Number One: Use my new press credentials for the first time! I’ve been writing for Louisville.com for nearly a year now, and finally they’ve issued me some physical press creds (way more useful than street cred), and this is a perfect virgin voyage for their value.
Goal Number Two: Eat and drink ALL THE THINGS. I love eating food, looking at food, writing about food, and I’m sure this meal will be worth of all those loves.
Goal Number Three: Look fabulous. Like I said, I’m a sucker for a fancy dress party. I’m gonna wear the dress I wore to the Grammys. If it’s good enough for a nationally televised awards show, I’m thinking it’s good enough for a Derby party.
University of Louisville program plans to celebrate neighborhoods by pioneering a 10k [Opinion: The Arena]
From the article:
There are various reasons that this walk/run is important, outside of fundraising for the Ali Scholars to visit an African country. Bailey-Ndiaye believes that, “This is an opportunity to celebrate neighborhoods that are often not celebrated.”
Louisville’s West End always seems to strike fear in the minds of people who have never had a reason to visit anywhere west of 9th street. This is often heard in many conversations about Louisville’s “great neighborhoods.” These conversations rarely include anywhere outside of the Highlands, Downtown or Clifton. It is completely fair to say that in this southern city, race plays a huge factor in the tone these conversations as the West End is predominantly populated by African Americans.
Organizers of the Ali Shuffle, including Bailey-Ndiaye, hope this event is a step towards changing that narrative and building a better community.