perzephone: (baphomet)
I love when people tell me they have a 'dark side'. It was Josh this time, mainly because he watches Dexter & somehow relates to the series. I then proceeded to tell him about some of the things I saw while working at Child Haven & the DA's office. Josh determined that he didn't actually have a dark side, he just likes movies/shows about serial killers & occasionally has violent fantasies that he would never actually perform. From a normal emotional standpoint, even I was disturbed by some of the things I saw. I think the worst of it was how the supposed good guys - the assistant DAs, the law clerks, the secretaries, the investigators, LEOs, etc. all acted towards not only the perpetrators of the crimes, but the victims as well. Compassion and humanity doesn't run deep in the legal system, at least not here.

I imagine if I had started my Zoloft while working for the County, I'd probably still be there, and I'd probably be one of the monsters, too.  

My dark side is that nothing humans do surprises me. Absolutely nothing. From the depths of depravity to the glorious heights of altruism, humans are just humans. We're capable of so much harm and so much help.


Jun. 28th, 2009 12:21 pm
perzephone: (Default)
If I happened to gift anyone with my old Rider-Waite tarot deck, could you please let me know? I can't remember if I did give it to someone, and if I didn't give it to someone, then I've lost it.

I can't even remember the color of the bag the cards were in.
perzephone: (Default)
Why do I do these things to myself?!

I've been between tears and laughter all day. I hate crying at work. At least I live in a cube and I can sort of stare into the corner of my cushioned gray walls. I tell Rob that I would like to let my more compassionate, caring side show and today I got bombarded by emotions and memories and most of all I remember why I don't open myself up to this kind of thing. My heart hurts, like a crazed bird bashing itself to death on the bars of its cage.

If I didn't have to go to work tomorrow, I'd drink myself into a tequila hazed stupor. I'd listen to this song over & over again & sob drunkenly into my hands.

Sometime Around Midnight ~ The Airborne Toxic Event

And it starts, sometime around midnight.
Or at least that’s when you lose yourself
for a minute or two.
As you stand, under the bar lights.
And the band plays some song
about forgetting yourself for a while.
And the piano’s this melancholy soundtrack to her smile.
And that white dress she’s wearing
you haven’t seen her for a while.

But you know, that she’s watching.
She’s laughing, she’s turning.
She’s holding her tonic like a cross.
The room’s suddenly spinning.
She walks up and asks how you are.
So you can smell her perfume.
You can see her lying naked in your arms.

And so there’s a change, in your emotions.
And all these memories come rushing
like feral waves to your mind.
Of the curl of your bodies,
like two perfect circles entwined.
And you feel hopeless and homeless
and lost in the haze of the wine.

Then she leaves, with someone you don’t know.
But she makes sure you saw her.
She looks right at you and bolts.
As she walks out the door,
your blood boiling
your stomach in ropes.
Oh and when your friends say,
“What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Then you walk, under the streetlights.
And you’re too drunk to notice,
that everyone is staring at you.
You just don’t care what you look like,
the world is falling around you.

You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You just have to see her.
You know that she’ll break you in two.

In other news, I've got an interview with the Aladdin Planet Hollywood for a night auditor position. The woman really wanted me to come in today, but it was 3:30 when she called & I was still at work :P Hopefully she'll be understanding & wait for me to come in on Wednesday morning. Hopefully I can get in on Weds morning - I've got another interview w/the Water Reclamation District (cough**Sewage District**cough) at 10:20 Weds morning & the time off has already been granted.
perzephone: (Default)
I dunno if any dads read my blog or not, but if you do, Happy Father's Day to y'all. Thank you for doing your job out there and remembering that your kids may grow up to be mothers and fathers, too.

Yes, I was a daddy's girl :D My dad's only real fault was that he never grew up, but that's probably why he was always so much fun to be around when I was a kid. He remained calm in the presence of large rattlesnakes, he didn't mind when I cleaned his truck with the white cat's help, he always had a supply of firecrackers and he told fantastic bedtime stories. When I dug that huge hole in the front yard over the course of a hot summer weekend, instead of kicking my ass he filled it with water & played in the resulting mud pond with me. He remained in good humor when all my paper dolls & Barbie clothes fell out of his truck's sleeper in front of his trucking buddies.

My dad is long gone but not forgotten. Thanks for being there for me for as long as you could be.


Mar. 12th, 2008 03:00 pm
perzephone: (Default)
Someone with a Tennessee area code sent me a message here on lj.

Lamont, if you're reading this, was that you?

Don't mess wit' my head, man.
perzephone: (Default)
I wish I could remember which comic did the bit about Mike Tyson sticking his dick in the butter dish.

I have been to Sears, Ross, Mervyn's, Target & Wal-Mart and managed to find one pair of serviceable black slacks and a decent blouse. Are navy slacks just completely out right now or what? All I'm trying to do is find 'business casual' clothes for the possibility of working for the DA's office. I have suits, I have jeans/t-shirts/broomstick skirts, but nothing in-between. And I don't want dressy skirt outfits because if they end up having me climbing around the backs of computers it's awkward.

perzephone: (Default)
I kind of wish I hadn't run across Zippy online. I miss him. I don't think I'll be able to sleep now tonight. I am an emotional whack job right now for some reason, and I honestly don't think being on the rag has anything to do with it. I really, really need a good stiff cry, but I just don't have the time.
perzephone: (Default)
I miss it, yanno. When I was Malachite, I was a Witch and I could bend the Universe to my will. I trafficked with ancient entities, bartered myself for certain favors, opened myself to unseen powers. I was a channel, an empty vessel... and I was the hand that wrote fate, all at the same time. There's a lot of ego tied up in that kind of power - it's easy to fall into that mindset, too. Or it used to be. All is vanity. For all that power & energy and disregard of Karmic lawsdisdain of Karmic laws I still lived in crappy circumstances. Still do, really. All my adolescent meditation and training got me oh-so-far. Of course, strangely enough, I never asked for money. Only more power, more knowledge, more ability to bend the wills of others to my desires. I never fell into the traps, either. Never asked for anyone specific to love me... never asked directly for any specific thing that might backfire horribly. Always so cautious because I knew what I was dealing with - the manner of the intelligences behind the imagery.

This morning I heard a voice, in the back of my mind. Someone said, "Hello Malachite, it's been a long time." It wyrded me out a little, because I had forgotten the name I took. Yes, it's only been 12 years or so but when you stop thinking of yourself as someone that thread ceases to exist. The bowl was broken, the chord was severed, Malachite, for all intents & purposes, died. Everything since 1995 has been some version of online personas that are more real to me than I am anymore. I guess in a way an online persona is a 'magical' name. But hearing it, even within my own head in someone else's voice, made me want to stretch out my hand & see if I could still make sparks fly. Instead, I heard the brick wall go up with a solid thud, that brick wall that keeps my ego caged. Don't need that crap anymore. I chalk it up to the time of year, the thunderstorms, the eclipse. Thought about how Unkle Al died, in filth & poverty, thought about nothing, thought about no-thing-ness & tried not to think about the Ain Soph Aur.

Rob & I finally went into Warsong Gulch t'other night. I rated the most kills for our little session, and instantly, I understood what other people meant by the term zergfest. That was what it was - a zergfest. (hey, someone on Charmed just said, "kthxbai", lawl) I met the awesome combo of rogue/mage. The mage freezes you between two stealthed rogues who just take turns sapping you until you commit suicide out of frustration, or the ice thaws & you can go kick that little gnome mage's clothe-covered ass. Ferdie, I'm gunning for you.
perzephone: (scarlet woman)
First & foremost, whichever of you fucktards wished for a white Christmas, I hope someone disembowels you & strangles you with your own intestines. It's bloody cold out there & I had to buy a coat I wouldn't normally consider unless I was living in Siberia. I feel a lot of sympathy for all the guys out there on the construction sites, the security guards doing their outdoor patrols, cops, homeless folk... stray dogs & cats & rats. I am, however, hoping for a vast die-off of the scorpions that rule our home.

My titanium immune system caved under the pressure. I just don't have the stamina I used to - a 9-day stretch at work surrounded by hacking snorking people, a good night of drunkness, stress from school, and my immune system waved a final finger in my health's direction. I am sick. It feels like I have about a ton of concrete slurry sitting in the middle of my lungs. I can't get a breath past my bronchial tubes to save my life, literally. Weirdly, my nose is dryer than a bone, but it still hurts like a motherfucker inside.

Other than that... I'm reading Stephen King's newest, Lisey's Story. It's about a widowed woman, once married to a writer who went places. Stephen King, I think, is writing about his own interior landscape. Clive Barker goes there, too. So do I. It's funny how much I recognize that place. The Imajica, Boo'ya Moon, whatever the name of the moment is. Ellenaj was the name I had for it when I was visiting Myriah - yes, my own name, backwards, an image of a world seen 'through the mirror darkly'. It's full of poison birds, poison gardens... raw, painful beauty. Time is strange there. You may heal faster there, but the wounds you get there run deeper. The cracks in your brain. Writers and poets have a release for what they see there - I have lost my art so it runs rampant along the edges of my psyche. The weeds have gotten out of control, the deadly flora and fauna are no longer restricted to coming out after sunset.

Thinking about my parents since I dredged up the memory stew. I'll never know the poison gardens of their marriage. I'll never know what, if anything, my mother wanted to do when she grew up. My dad was a trucker, and he was perfectly happy on the road, a ramblin' man, a travelin' man, a rollin' stone. Both my parents were artists - they could both draw when they wanted to. My dad used to draw things for me & Jody. He could imitate anything WB or Disney came up with. There was a sign on Jody's room door - it had a buzzard in a desert landscape with the legend, 'Fuck leftovers, I want to kill something!' I don't know how the 'f' word was allowed - maybe because my dad drew it, it gave it the stamp of parental approval. Maybe my mother didn't really care. My dad used to paint characters on trucks. We had an old white pick-up at one point, and he had emblazoned it with characters from a cartoon strip, Tumbleweeds (Heh, I found it) that involved cowboys & Injuns. It said something like 'The Lotsa Luck Express' & had the various braves peaking around the truck's logos & pinstripes, with the accompanying cavalry standing on top of the letters, searching the horizon. On the tailgate it had the Chief w/a balloon over his head, saying, "Did you see them? Which way did they go? How many of them were there? How long ago did they pass? I must find them - I am their Leader!" They used to decorate trucks together - my mother would do the upholstery, my dad would find out the driver's interests or CB handle & work something up off that. Every once in awhile, I'll see an old Peterbilt or IH semi in an ad or on t.v. or even on the 'Net & recognize a familiar face looking at me from the bunk door or gas tank. I wish I had a picture of our Lotsa Luck Express. My dad ended up selling it for much more than it was worth. My mother could sew. And draw flowers.

I digress... the past does funny things to your mind. Wondering if my mother had plans for herself beyond being a hausfrau, thinking about their respective artistic talents. The things I'll never know about my own past, my own parents, far outnumber the things I'll remember. They never shared their dreams or hopes or desires with me. They never gave me any grand directions in life, either, beyond 'remove plastic from dessert before placing meal in oven'. I'll never know the landscapes within my parents' skulls.
perzephone: (Default)
Rob & I hashed it out last night. I told him, straight up, using words I don't normally use: 'I want to stay in Las Vegas until I earn my Associates so I can finish at the same school I started with and I don't have to worry about credit transfers and fiddling with my student loan application'. I also told him that the one thing that makes me honestly happy is money. I would be happy if we had more money. Since he keeps asking me if there's anything he can do to make me happy, well, go make money. I would be happy if we had more than $3 and a quarter tank of gas to get us to Friday. I would be happy if I didn't have to put off paying bills to pay other bills. I would be happy if I didn't have to ration food supplies or go hungry all day because I can get a free meal (if you really want to call it that) at the EDR... In fact, I might actually be ecstatic.

So that's pretty much it: we're here til I get my degree or give up, whichever comes first.

I solved a complex math problem on my own after working it over for a week. It came to me in the shower.

If you have 27 tables and 94 chairs, and you need to figure out how many tables have 2 chairs & how many tables have 4 chairs:
All the tables have 2 chairs (duh)
2 chairs X 27 tables = 54 chairs used up. 94 chairs - 54 chairs = 40 chairs leftover. To make a table have 4 chairs, you need 2 more chairs per table, so 40 divided by 2 is 20. So 20 tables have 4 chairs, & the other 7 have 2.

I've also been brooding lately. Thinking about why I have no direction, why I have such a hard time setting goals, why I don't know what I want to be...

No one in my life has ever helped me set those big goals. No one has ever given me any guidance or direction. Whenever someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, when I was a little girl, I'd say either a truck driver or a paleontologist. And I knew the difference between archaeologist & paleontologist, too. I could spout of names & descriptions of dinosaurs, when they lived, where the fossils could be found, etc. all day long. I still love dinosaurs & prehistoric mammals, I think I probably always will. I had a blast out at the La Brea Tar Pits last year - I think one of these weekends when we have gas $$ I'm gonna talk Rob into a road trip out there. But I digress... anyway, my parents always told me "You are smart and you can be whatever you want to be, just stay in school". My teachers & various other adult figures that drifted through my life from 3 years to 10 years gave me the same kind of reply. But no one ever really 'cultured' my primary interest. Oh, yeah, I got dinosaur toys & models & books, but I also got general animal & science books & toys - all that kind of stuff. None of my toys were ever 'just' toys. It all had some kind of developmental goal behind it.

So then I went to Penny... gods, what a bitch. Penny didn't think very highly of a 10-year old fat kid who wanted to be left alone, who wanted to live in the library & who wanted nothing more than to read all day... Penny was derisive of knowledge & anyone who displayed intelligence. So I just stopped talking to her about anything. I just sat in silence til she passed out drunk when I could read, or I volunteered at the library after school & on weekends so I had an escape. Yup, 11 years old, walking to the library on crutches & spending 4 hours a night shelving books & doing odd office work. But I met Ann, ye old Hula Rat, and she was actually interested in a little kid w/a big brain. But once again, she was just wowed & a teenager, too, so I had a friend, but not really a mentor.

So then to Aunt Liz & Uncle Ernie. Uncle Ernie liked that I could hold my own w/philosophy & world religions - he could pull me out in front of his intellectual & philosophical friends & they thought I was the coolest thing since sliced bread. But Aunt Liz got tired of me not wanting to be a debutante & put an end to me spending weekends w/Uncle Ernie at the University coffee shop. They didn't even really put too much emphasis on me going to school, but they at least supported my band things.

Jody & Terry - Hel's bells. They were so busy trying to not act like 'mom' that they forgot that I was 15. I was mature, but also clueless about the future. I never thought I'd live past 18. And once I got that trustfund, I was easy money. They put their hands out for cash, but not one person said, "Hey, why don't you go to school? You could be making bank by the time you're 25."

Yes, I'm independent. I can be very hostile if someone tries to tell me what to do & I don't like it. But no one ever sat down & really talked to me about my potential. No teachers, no school guidance counselors, no AA/Al-Anon/Al-Ateen mentors, no therapists, no psychologists, no friends, no relatives. Not one person. Sometimes it's fine & dandy to tell someone "You can be anything you want to be", but sometimes it's better to say, "Hey, go to school now & become a paleontologist" or "Let's set up some kind of housing & go to school to become a mortician" or even, "Hey, if you start now you could be a ____________________________"

I think that, should any young aimless person ever find themself at the mercy of my advice, instead of doing the ego-boosting "be all you can be" speech, I'm going to ask them what their interests are & run with it.
perzephone: (Default)
Since I've figured this out, I've been a recording fool. As a result, tho, I have to listen to these tapes. Contrary to what I've read, MusicMatch doesn't recognize tracks on recorded cassette tapes. Oh well.

Anyway, so tonight I'm home alone for the first time in I don't know how long, and I'm paranoid & nervous, jumping at every little noise. I've cleaned my bathroom & the kitchen thoroughly, even mopped. Hel, mopped nothing, got down on my hands & gingerly on my knees & scrubbed places by hand. Cleaned some cabinets. Spring cleaning kind of crap. Pulled all the knobs off the stove, the burners & burner plates... poured vinegar all over the sink & made some headway w/the hard-water deposits. Utterly mundane stuff because as long as I'm moving & there's water running, I feel more secure than when I'm just sitting here. I've got the television on, almost all the lights on, and I'm still not fully comfortable. Trying to take a shower was an exercise in willpower. It's funny, I can take a shower here by myself in the early evening, like when Rob goes to get fast food, but after midnight & I become the Psycho chick in my head. I've been going to bed w/Rob around 2 or so (basically when 'Big O' ends on AdultSwim) but it's almost 5am and I am not even sleepy. Not by a long run. I've been trying not to take any Ambien, so as a result I'm wide awake & I can't stay asleep once I fall asleep. I've been cleaning in an attempt to wear myself out, burn off some nervous energy, but it's a no-go. How can I sleep when there's a configuration of fake logs in the fireplace that looks like Pazuzu? Tomorrow, Rob's gonna have to reach in there & rearrange things for me.

One of the few commercial tapes I have left & haven't upgraded, for whatever reason, to CD already, has been my Les Miserables tape. I think it's a sentimental thing. I had such an amazing time when I went to see it at the 5th Avenue theatre in Seattle, way back when. 11th grade Drama Class trip. It was soooo cool. And I completely got sucked into it, too. They had the battles set up so it seemed like cannons were shooting over the heads of the audience - the first time one went off I ended up in one of my classmates' laps, three seats away. He was understandably appalled, but arranged it so I could sit next to him & grab his arm every time the guns went off. He had fingerprint-shaped bruises for a couple of weeks afterwards. And it got worse - first Fantine died, and I sniffled. Valjean died at the end and I was in hysterics. I couldn't be consoled at all. It was horrible. And now every time I listen to the tape, my chin starts wobbling, my eyes well up, and I'm bawling. Even when I watch the show on PBS whenever it infrequently shows up (usually when they're doing a telethon), I start crying. Crying to music or something like that is clean crying, tho. You're all emotionally caught up in something completely disconnected from your own life, something that isn't even real. It's cathartic, but not painful. I feel washed out afterwards, but not ugly. I think a lot of what overcame me in the theatre was from being so caught up in the emotional bullshit of my life at the time & not being allowed to express myself naturally, and the fact that I was once a hopeless daddy's little girl. Valjean reminded me a lot of my own dad, even the actor playing him looked quite a bit like my dad, only shorter. (at 6'6", everyone was shorter). I think I've recovered - mostly. (The only possible exception would be Amistad - I felt not only ugly, but violated by the truth in that particular movie. I don't think I could ever watch it again, mainly because I cried so hard & so long that I scared myself. The ending is a triumph, tho. What Dreams May Come was another scary crying jag - that one I couldn't stop). I'd love to go see Les Mis again, but I think I'll probably just have to settle for the DVD.

So here I am, fresh out of tears, waiting for the night to end so I can get some sleep. VH1's Insomniac Music Theater is on behind me. I'm not too fond of Gwen Stefani's solo stuff - I don't know what the song was called, but it involved her dancing around a high school w/an all-girl posse. The drumbeat was nifty - too bad it wasn't in a Snoop Dog video.

I heard something relevant on the Simpsons tonight. Homer asked Bart & Lisa if they were upset about his having to undergo a coronary bypass sort of surgery & they told him no because they were part of the MTV generation... no highs & no lows. Homer asked, "How does it feel?" & Lisa shrugged one shoulder & said, "Eh." I know that feeling. No highs, no lows, just this sort of median-line complacency. The fear & paranoia is getting to me, tho. I don't know how to combat it on my own. It just builds & builds. I've either got to get out of this house or somehow make it mine. I don't see the latter ever happening - to me, it will be the m.i.l.'s first & the scorpions' second. It will never be mine. I'm starting to wonder if there's an anti-anxiety drug out there that would actually mitigate these feelings somewhat w/out a lot of horrible sex-drive-killing side effects.

My arms ache. Nerve damage sucks.
perzephone: (Default)
Silly, I know. I feel kind of self-conscious about doing it, but what is a journal for? It's a record, right? Some kind of log of everyday events, dreams, memories, hopes. So I'm hoping maybe the 'Net will still be around & I'll have a connection across time w/the new me, whoever I may be. My biggest beef w/dying isn't the death itself, it's the forgetting.

Fer instance, I think something bad happened to me in an old prison. I've been to Alcatraz, I've seen photos & old b/w movies of old prisons, places like Leavenworth & recently there was one in Florida they were showing on the History Channel or CourtTV. To me, all prisons pretty much look the same - institutional, w/bare concrete floors & solid bars. But older prisons creep me out. Looking at that one from Florida on t.v. gave me chills - and it was on the television. And when I was very little...

My dad was an o.t.r. truck driver. He went everywhere. And in the Summers when I was out of school, my mom & I went everywhere w/him. One Summer he had a run to Arizona. Why, I don't know. What he was carrying, I have no clue. But I do remember it was hot. Damn hot. I remember, vaguely, whining about "I'll never be cool again." I remember, also, how in the middle of a desert night, clearest stars anyone could ever hope to see, the sky deepened to a bizarre green & the world's nastiest hail storm commenced to fall on us. Desert weather - you either love it or keep away from deserts. So my dad had a layover in Yuma, AZ for a day or two, & there was the ever-exciting prospect of a historical monument to visit. The AZ State Yuma Prison. Yuma Prison At first, I was not afraid. Fascinated, maybe a little bored, hot. It felt good just to be out exploring w/my parents. Listening to the tour guide, wandering here & there. But there was a cell. It was basically chipped into the side of the hill, made of solid stone. It was designed for solitary confinement or confinement, & called the 'dark cell'. No lights. In a huge vault in the side of a mountain, a cage w/in a cage was built w/a raised concrete platform in the middle, w/shackles at each corner. The unruly prisoner would be shackled to that slab, all by themselves. Except of course, for the rats. The cockroaches. The scorpions & spiders. Maybe a random rattlesnake looking for food or to escape the elements. At least during the day, because the cell was in the hill, the heat wouldn't be too bad, but the temperature at night can drop to below freezing.

The attraction of that particular day in my life was to stand behind the door of the dark cell, looking out, & getting your picture taken. I was ok all day right up until then. I flipped the hell out. Had a hysterical screaming fit. Because when I walked into the cell & they shut the door, it was so dark. A smell like old sweat & fear & defeat washed over me, a rank, old animal smell, and I could almost hear someone behind me, on that slab, the shuffle of an arm or leg sweeping across it, maybe to flinch away a fly, the rattle of a shackle, and I knew, even at 4 or 5 years old, that the prisoners were left for days at a time w/out food or water, subsisting on the roaches & fighting off rats. Later that afternoon, getting ready to get back on the road, listening to my mom & dad bicker in the heat, we stopped at a truckstop & I got a barbecued beef sandwich. A couple of bites into it, I found that I couldn't stop thinking about the long-gone prisoner in the dark cell, that odor & the sounds, & I was sick to my stomach. To this day, whenever I smell a certain type of barbecue sauce in food, it still turns my belly. But I can't say exactly why I had those feelings, what set them off, the imagery, the sounds... these are the things one should be able to remember. Why do old prisons bother me so much? Was I actually so traumatized that day in Yuma that I can't shake it off, or did something really bad actually happen to me in a long-ago life?
perzephone: (Default)
I don't like the arrival of Summer, that fiery burning Solstice that brings the desert into Her own. Great seething burning Emptiness that surrounds this city. It's not the desert I don't like, or the heat - I love the heat. I wish Rob could live w/out a/c. I used to enjoy riding around w/the windows open, opening up the house after sundown, watching the hawk-moths. It's just that Summertime is when the past catches up w/me & I get struck w/the blues. Thinking about all my Summer love affairs... well, lust affairs. Realizing that I've never really been in love w/anyone. Realizing that I'm getting older & my options are slowly dripping through the hourglass of marketability. Realizing that I've never done anything worthwhile or meaningful in my life, and I probably never will, unless I get that wild hair up my arse to go join the Peace Corp. or the Foreign Legion or something similar... but I hate mosquitoes & malaria & starving bloated-bellied nekkid children w/flies sticking to their eyes, & I'd probably be stuck in admin anyway, pushing paper around on a desk made from rainforest materials in a sweatshop in Costa Rica. Thinking about Elton & Eric & Josh & Lisa & Ann & all those people I can't remember but had darned good times with.
Oh well. Every day I get closer to the grave.


Jul. 23rd, 2003 07:10 pm
perzephone: (Default)
I don't remember anything I learned in high school. Is that weird? I mean, it has been over 10 years. I barely remember anyone I went to high school with, let alone what I learned. Of course, we all know that 90% of what is taught in high school is close to b.s. Like Columbus being a nice guy. And they sort of gloss over the fact that the Puritans who founded America were basically kicked out of their various European communities because they were, well, puritanical. So we're helping my husband's nephew try to pass "History 102: 1877 to the Present". I lost interest in history once it got past, o, say, the Indo-Aryans invading the Tigris/Euphrates. And strangely enough, all of my jr high & high school textbooks ended sometime between WWI & WWII... low budgets. Most of my history textbooks were published around 1956, and I was in high school in the early 90's. I don't remember the '60's, not because I wasn't there, but because "Moments in American History" ended with 1955. I saw most of modern history happen on MTV news - the Berlin Wall came down, the Tian'amen Square Massacre, etc & so forth. I watched the Twin Towers collapse on CNN, tho, so I guess I've grown up a little since then. I do remember thinking to myself that I should have been watching it on MTV tho.


perzephone: (Default)
Rainbow Serpent Woman

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