Introducing Little Luna

April 7, 2012

Pequeña Luna or Luna pequeña means “little moon” in Spanish.

She’s a silvery, silky white pomeranian with touches of gold-to-tan streaks sticking out of her back’s second layer of coat.

I took this picture back in December when my brother gave me the Nikon D70 they had abandoned at his workplace. It became my Christmas present. It was just there among the other equipment collecting dust, and since he’s in charge of the video/camera equipment and the company got him to order a new pack of gear for the team he’s in charge of–like fifteen grand worth of gear, including the amazing Cannon Mark II D5 (the Mark III just came out about three weeks ago)–he figured I’d make better use of it.

And I did!

I happen to love this scrap I got. Not all the scraps I get are meager I suppose.

I fell in love the night I got it. With my dad’s macro lens, I took pictures of leaves and beatles and the crystalline salt pebbles stuck on the edge of the salt shaker and little Luna’s crossed prissy paws with her black claws sticking out.

I took this particular shot of her on the twenty-seventh of December actually; it was the day before I left for Florida. I spent much of my time in Florida with it strapped around me.

I haven’t used it since I got back though.

The last time I really played with it was the day I broke my arm at L’s apartment when we were watching the Superbowl with a couple of his friends, particularly one he’d met at AA that he’d been wanting to introduce me to. I couldn’t care less about the Superbowl. I just sat there smug-like and shooting and shooting away. I shot L a few times. Now I can’t even look at those pictures. I’ll have to eventually, and when I’m strong again, I’ll pick that camera up off the ground where it’s lying in its pouched cocoon and I’ll forced it out of hibernation.

Little Luna. She makes me smile. She eases my pain.

Little Luna

This here be Little Luna, the cutest little betch ever


December 31, 2011

It’s 2:20 a.m., my third night here in Florida.

I arrived Wednesday night, and tonight I have been tossing around with those tiny, dancing and restless legs of mine. Been trying to sleep since midnight. I told myself I wouldn’t take the Zolpidem/Ambien tonight. For one, I feel I’m becoming dependent on it again.  Two, I’m starting to fear that it’s affecting my already deteriorated hearing. I’m becoming increasingly cautious of any neuroleptic drug or any drug that affects the central nervous system in general, which makes it challenging since all psychiatric medications affect the central nervous system in one way or another. I’m also taking Hydrocodone again. *sigh*

Months ago, I’d read somewhere online that Bupropion can increase tinnitus. I plan to get off of it soon because, well, I’m afraid it’s affecting that too. The only reason why I didn’t stop taking it then was because I had improved so much during the summer. I was afraid to stop. I still am, though I’m not much of a believer in or a fan of pharmacotherapy. That’s me, a rolling contradiction, a wadded ball of indecision. That’s probably what’s keeping me up too–fear. That fear of decisions I’m facing has me partially paralyzed.

I didn’t cry myself to sleep the night I wrote the post about the interview (by, the way I heard back from the reporter yesterday and have avoided to look at the now syndicate article which probably has me blabbing nonsense again). But I digress. I have been crying a lot since then, a lot more that is. The tears keep huddling behind my eyelid–all ganged up–wanting to bail out of my eye sockets every other hour, and I’m having to mentally punch them back into place where they belong.

It’s just so damn hard to cry in another home, as much as close to home as this may be for me. It’s difficult to find a private corner, fall into a fetal position and have it out with the tears, the spit, the mucus and the funny gagging noises.

I’m just too anxious; my hands are unsteady.

And I’ve been getting that god-awful facial nerve pain again. It kicked in hardcore today. The kind of hardcore where I’m screaming inside, “God, just rip my face off already! Just rip it off”

To top it off, I hurt a rib, or a couple. My lower right ribcage popped a little while I leaned over for toilet paper. That’s part of what comes with being vertically challenged and having a brittle bones condition. Who the hell… I mean what type of industrial/interior designer or architect or whoever the hell it is that designs homes places the toilet paper holder behind the toilet?

And why does it seem like I’m inundated with ideas at night? Like the moonlight and shifting tides call to me. I guess I was born for the night. I shift with the tides. And maybe the moon is my true muse, my impossible lover.



It’s times like these when I’d really like a doobie to burn, but the kind that make you just munch and chill and fall asleep. I’m not talking about the hydro that makes you want do yoga while cooking and then binging on whatever it is you cooked while then deciding to either clean or lay back and wonder about quantum physics’ ties to new wave religions (and the mysteries of the universe). Somehow you then find yourself staring at the water trickling down your hand and the plates for half an hour as the shiny aluminum sink glistens and you think about how we are all connected to that water and all that food you  just ate can be summed down carbon and water like yourself. “That’s all we are,” you think and then realize you just wasted a lot of precious water.

Only right now, I do not feel connected to anything. I do not feel that I am part of that water.

Maybe I should read a little bit more of The Omnivore’s Dilemma that Eloise had saved for me when I arrived. Or maybe I’ll lay back down and see if I can sleep. Yeah, I think I’ll do that. Plus, I better get rest because Eloise mentioned something about going to a farmer’s market tomorrow morning! Or would that be later today since it’s already morning?

All apologies. I have no epiphany to share, no philosophizing, no metacognicizing, no politicizing and no toilet jokes (unless you find the predicament I was in with the unreachable toilet paper holder funny, and in that case, you’re a heartless bastard). Not really. I kid. It was a little amusing, but only a little. And only because I was on the crapper.

So yeah, no mediocre poems, no little doodles and no story concluding the toilet-rib-cage-rupturing incident, just a cheap, bitter complaint tonight.

Ugh. Alright, the bed beckons. Hopefully I don’t have another tug-a-war with the pillow.