30 April, 2004

Waking to Naked

...skating away/on the thin ice of a new day...

I unclip my hair and watch him come apart.

"I had no idea," he stammers, before becoming completely incoherent.

I laugh, stop suddenly. He's serious. And unsuccessful in his attempt to not stare.

Vaguely ashamed, as though I'd inadvertently flashed a good friend, I sweep the wildness into a bundle of messy repression, making some smartass (or perhaps asinine) quip.

The phrase "naked longing" lodges in my gut.


"Do you want your side back?"

"Not necessarily. Will you not be able to sleep on that side?"

"I sleep in a real bed so rarely, nothing bothers me. I thought it would bother you."

"Actually, it's kind of a novelty to be on this side of you."

Still, when he returned from the bathroom, it was "his" side he climbed into.

29 April, 2004

Update: brown thong with multicolored leather straps and gold beads.

Oh, wait...that's my shoes.


I've just seen a face/I can't forget the time or place/where we just met

Back in the Vagabond Theater after a year, and missing Sam.

People walk into your life, you know? Make homes for themselves in your heart, and then, with a casual wave and a see-you-later smile, walk out, disappear for a month, or three, or six.

In the lobby I saw her, shining black hair hanging to her hips, which weren't much. She breathed, she moved, her elfin body seemed to exist in this reality as a favor, on a whim. Please, God, I wished, let her act, even just a little. I want her for my Mermaid.

She was perfect.

And better than perfect, she was nice. Funny, friendly, hardworking, low maintenance, and heartbreakingly, soul crushingly beautiful.

For three months, the nine of us were nearly inseperable. I ate, drank and breathed these people. And then we began to trickle away from one another. With no common project to unite us, we were connected only by the mutual bonds of Love. And those can be tenuous, stretched, strained, frayed by the grinding jagged teeth of Life.

Come back, Sam. Shine your smile on me, share drinks and laps and stories. You're never missing from my heart, but I miss the gentle reassurance of your quicksilver face.

28 April, 2004


packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes....

I'm feeling more than a little despondent about the state of things. Some of my political friends seem dismayed (disgusted?) by my lack of knowledge or interest.

It's simple.

News is a crock, democracy is a lie, war hurts, and if the goddamn humans can't learn to just LOVE EACH OTHER, fuck 'em all.

This being in the vein of the cynical rant about not being able to depend on people a week ago, I wonder if there is some cyclical pattern to my sporadic nastiness.

I usually don't express/expose this angle, since I feel it's pointless and does nothing to expand or empower the human condition. Still, it's kind of a low-level current, the suspicion that everything is really pretty futile, and the only things that matter are the stories we tell ourselves and the way we treat one another while we're waiting to eventually die.

On the other hand, Hawk called last night from the Eastern Shore, to share the beautiful sunset he was watching.

Which reminds me that Love and Beauty exist, and that politics and religion are illusions subscribed to by hordes afraid of direct interaction with the world.

Or am I just being pompous?


Black lace bikini, no bra.

It's a casual day.

This is a short poem made up entirely of actual quotations from
George W. Bush. These have been arranged, only for aesthetic purposes, by Washington Post writer, Richard Thompson.


I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen and uncertainty
And potential mental losses.

Rarely is the question asked
Is our children learning?
Will the highways of the Internet
Become more few?

How many hands have I shaked?
They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.

I know that the human being
And the fish can coexist.
Families is where our nation finds hope,
Where our wings take dream.

Put food on your family!
Knock down the tollbooth!
Vulcanize society!
Make the pie higher!
Make the pie higher!

Help cure mad cowboy disease in the next election!

Mindless Diversions

I'm dancing barefoot/heading for a spin....Oh, god I fell for you...

I'm not able to be entertaining today- if, indeed I ever am- so I implore you to entertain yourselves.

* How terrified should you be? Check.

*Why did the chicken....? Because you told it to. Cluck, cluck.

* Animorphs have finally gone too far. Look if you dare.

And it's Wednesday, so read CityPaper. Here are the essentials.

Your horoscope.

A newsworthy educational article with a political bent.

And a comic.

Did I mention this guy has a book?

Underwear update: Underwear? Uh, oh.

Shit. Here I am, naked at the computer again.

No wonder everyone in the library is staring at me.

27 April, 2004

Still Feeling Groovy

give to me sweet sacred bliss/your mouth was made to suck my kiss

It's a lovely day, lovely, clouds piled like an endcap unit marketing fluffy pillows, sans tags.

Favorite quotes of the week:

You are a Nihilist! You DO have a nasty cynical side!"
(b., who thinks I'm Pollyanna. Other than this, I am Pollyanna. But it's a big this. Later, he tells me I'm not a Nihilist, I'm a Poseur. Ouch.)

"When we get the report, which will be soon, roughly..."
(d., who blushed.)

"I just had a brilliant idea! It's not going to help us now, though."
(c., who went on, oblivious.)

"You are the geekiest girl I've ever met."
(t., who is an authority. High praise, then.)

I don't know how this will work, but I suspect linking to this site will not link to this page, if you follow. Experience a tour of the Nixon Library and Birthplace through one blogger's eyes. Go. Go now. Hurry, before he blogs again and you have to scroll down, or gods forbid, visit the archives.

26 April, 2004

I Am Not A Genius (but I met my deadline)

~ ~ ~

I don't know if Steve will be happy. I know I'm not, but I didn't expect to be.

With fourty minutes to go, I put in the CD that represents the piece I REALLY want to work on, which charges me enough to finish with fifteen minutes to spare...an hour fifteen, actually, since Steve's an hour behind me, which means he'll be calling sometime...oh....NOW.

[Break for work conversation, in which I am completely inappropriate and punchy, and if he were the sort, I'd be sued for sexual harassment for my raunchy comments. I'm telling ya, sleep dep ROCKS. Bed at two, up at six, staring at this screen ALL DAY, ayuh, think my productivity is shot for the next day or so.]


We begin with Xerox. Yep, in the beginning, I figured I was pretty much like anyone else, and was shocked by the extreme reaction of others to what seemed like perfectly normal behavior, conversation and attitudes on my part.

Obviously, I did NOT come from a "...Xerox machine..."

I started carrying chip of significant proportions. I stood with Kings of the Wild Frontier. I stood out in a crowd. I was always "a shade too white."

So it's a Dog Eat Dog world. Did I have to be quite so insufferable? Yes, apparantly.

"You may not like/the things we do
only idiots/ignore the truth

It's easy to/lay down and hide
Where's the warrior/without his pride?"

Oh, the attitude. It was all me. I resented the sameness of others, reveled in my different, while nursing wounds inflicted by exclusion.

"Well I stand here/what do I see
A big nothing/threatening me

Unplug the jukebox/and do us all a favor
that music's lost its taste/so try another flavor."

I danced to a different beat: Antmusic.

Early on, a precursor to the work I would do, have been doing, for twenty years, I was very aware of my body, of the power pouring into it, surging through, singing to get out. I was Physical, even then.

"I want your roughouse baby/I want this right in your ear
Let me feel your danger/I want to make this feeling clear
I want the touch of your charms/ the heat of your breath
I want to say all those things (those dirty things)/that would be better unsaid"

Stuart Goddard is described as having a "lyrical obsession with sexual decadance" by Tony Fletcher, and this is what I was listening to in 1981, 82, 83...what some might term my "formative years." It seemed appropriate. The fact that I still love it must be a measure of something or other. The hot beat of native drums, thrum of guitar, squeal of horns...yeah.

Ah, the Eighties. I got

"...so sick of easy fashion/the clumsy boots, peekaboo roots
That people think so dashing

So what's the point of robbery/when nothing is worth taking?
It's kind of tough to tell a scruff/the big mistake he's making

And even though you fool your soul/your conscience will be mine
all mine..."

When it came to fashion or nearly any other subject, I was ready to Stand and Deliver.

No surprise that Prince Charming wasn't looking in MY direction, at least not in high school. In college, I adopted the philosophy that worked with the TheaterFreak crowd I hung with:

"Silk or leather or a feather/ respect yourself/ and all of those around you
Don't you ever, don't you ever/lower yourself/ forgetting all your standards...
....Ridicule is nothing to be scared of."

Actually, at that time, and since, it serves quite well.

I'd have stayed out of a bit of trouble in college, and had fewer stories to tell if I had done the Ant Rap earlier. As it was, I got drunk infrequently, but violently. After college, I had no drinking buddies, so I didn't drink. But I found that

"...staying sober can be neat/ get drunk on these here happy feet...
In the Naughty North and in the Sexy South/ we're all singing
I have the mouth."

Adulthood brought with it not only the realization that not everyone was going to like me, but that there was no reason why they SHOULD. Especially since I didn't like many of them, not much. For some time, it was a choice between Friend or Foe.

"I want those who get to know me/to become admirers or my enemies

Take it up or leave it/I'm not gonna change a bit
If it means heartache/then leave it out for your sake

...nobody's perfect/so leave me if you object."

Out in the Real World, I was a fish out of water in more ways than I can describe. It was awful. I became a Goody Two Shoes, learned to

"...put on a little makeup, makeup/Make sure they get your good side, good side."

It was hard, all that masking. At some point, I forgot who I was, and took a ten day road trip to remind me. On the trip, I discovered I was Desparate, But Not Serious.

"If I were kind and adoring/how would that be? Very boring.
Mr. Pressman with your penknife/always asking about my sex life
and who with/and how many times."

I carried that pen/knife edge a long time.

Eventually, things rolled around to a station wagon, white picket fence, a kid and some dogs. There it was, A Place In The Country. Well, suburbs. Okay, just inside the city limit. And there I was, living the American Dream.

"All I thought I wanted was a front door
All I thought I wanted was a place in the country
Now I realize I wanted so much more..."

What was missing? What? Only artistic expression. I mean, parenting takes a damn lot of creativity, but you can't SHOW it to anyone. I had stopped writing. I performed on weekends only.

I called myself happy.

I was dead.

So I got out of the dreadful Day Job cycle, which was eating me alive with Dress Code and Commute and Lunch and Office Politics and Copiers and Answering Machines and Faxes. To be fair, at that point, I was working a job I hated with people I loved. Fortunately, I still count them as friends. I had cloaked myself in the trappings of Mom, and found the need to Strip.

"If a pretty dress hides your true desire/fold it nice and slow, throw it on the fire...

It's at times like this that great heaven knows/that we wish we had not so many clothes...

We're just following ancient history/if I strip for you will you strip for me?

...don't freeze, up girl/you're looking quite a sight..."

I stripped away as much pretense as I could, determined to present myself naked, so I'd never be fooled into believing in my own image. In removing my trappings, I became Puss 'N Boots.

"Pusscat, pusscat, where have you been?
I've been to London, and now I'm Queen
Since I've been there I don't wear suits
and the mice all call me Puss 'N Boots

When the morning comes, don't you turn around and say
It's bound to end in tears /So let's do it anyway...."

My "London" was opening up to the notion that everything I think know could be completely wrong. I can't intellectually own anything; I can only experience. So I touch, see, hear, smell, taste, feel. It was very liberating. I took off, like Apollo 9, deciding that Love is all there is, and that I intend to journey without regrets, tasting everything. I even let go of the idea that I could know who I am. I think I can't. I think I can have ideas about it, but I can never know, for people are constantly telling me I'm this or that, things I never knew or thought of.

"Had me a woman, she flew away/ climbed onto the nearest star
Miss her lots, but there ya are."

I let go of everything I thought I knew, everything I thought I was, and wonder, wonder, wonder.

Sometimes I just inhale.

I look around, wondering if I was going to make something of myself, wouldn't I be there by now? I mean, what's the magic number? I cite Grandma Moses, and hold out hope. I said recently that I am right now becoming the person I always wanted to be. I'm working on living the life I always wanted to live. I'm still in the process of defining what that is. I know that there is Room At The Top for me, whenever I get there.

"Because there's always room at the top/don't let them tell you that there is not."

I'll get there when I get there, on my terms, in my time. It's a personal sort of mountain, I think. It might not look like a peak to some people, but when the view is perfect, I'll know I've arrived.

In the meantime, I am busy finding everything Wonderful.

"Did I tell you how much I miss/Your sweet kiss?

Did I tell you you're wonderful?/ I miss you, yes I do.
Did I tell you that I was wrong?/ I was wrong
Because you're Wonderful
Did I tell you how much I miss your smile?"

Most everyone I meet these days is Wonderful, one way or another. And each of you, when you're not near me, I miss you.

Those of you who are important to me should know it. I try to make sure. No regrets. Have I missed anyone?

And life, life is Wonderful.


So after playing the disc through four...nine...twelve (?) times, I'd finally reached saturation and took it out.

In the meantime, I danced. Barefoot. For the first time since October 10th, I danced barefoot, comfortably.

This bodes well for the summer. On my list of "haven't dones" is dancing naked in the rain. Yes! It is possible. I am so all about Yes. Now, about a location....

And back to the grindstone. I promised Steve something additional by midnight tonight, and it's nine now. Grooving on a writing jag, the woman is manic, MANIC, a Maniac, I tell you!

Man, I need a beer. Two of them, and a friend to have the other one. Volunteers?

(For the curious, you just took a tour of a compillation CD given to me by my sister, called The Essential Adam Ant, with songs from the albums Dirk Wears White Socks; Kings of the Wild Frontier; Prince Charming; Friend Or Foe; Strip; Vive Le Rock and Wonderful.)

Short Break

One word can bring you round

I spit in the face of today's gloom. I defiantly eat chunks of mango and fresh cocoanut with my fingers, along with my rapidly cooling tea (I lie, it's no longer tea. I've put more hot water in this cup so often that it is now hot water with a sorry old teabag in it, just for company.)

I'm not sure what all the controversy is, existing as I do in a blur of media white noise, but if anyone's interested, here's a site devoted to g-mail. I was asked by Blogger to try it out, give them feedback, etcetera, but none of you mindless morons, er, sorry, LOVELY PEOPLE will send me anything. Hellloooooo????

Today is just the sort of day when I appreciate a laugh. Fuck, this is funny. LOTR...in bed..

(Just for b., who thinks I'm cute when I say "fuck." At this point, I'll take all the "cute" I can get.)

Working For The Man Today

One word can bring you round

I have something good coming. But right now, I have a deadline.

In the meantime, there is a version of me that can....

........................(wait for it)..........................................


At least I presume so. Not even an alternate universe, just the opposite coast.

Check this diva out; in one incarnation, she's known as

Miss Cybelevis Monroe.

25 April, 2004

One word can bring you round/Changes

What I had intended to post today needs more work, so here's this instead:

And this made national news. How odd.

Why not? I was in, what, Nebraska? –someplace, in February, and they had on the news about Punxatawney…whatsis name?

Phil. Punxatawney Phil. But isn’t he just the local…

That’s what I thought, too, just the local gopher…


Right. Which is different from a woodchuck how, Miss Zoologist?

It’s not. Woodchuck, groundhog, same thing.

So, I didn’t mean gopher, I meant groundhog.

No, actually, gopher’s right, too. But there’s no Gopher Day, so I said “groundhog” automatically. Sorry. Reflexive.

(A pause.)

Did Phil see his shadow? I don’t remember.

(Excerpted from View Thru Quarter Pane, Part I: Bringing Spring To Hinckley)

I saw one foraging for goodies by the side of the highway this morning. Whatever you call it.

My work, by the way, is not to be confused with that of Cybele May, who is on the opposite coast. See also her blog.

24 April, 2004


........it's so sad/ when you're young/ to be told/ you're having fun....... (Antmusic; Adam and the Ants; Kings of the Wild Frontier)

----- Original Message -----

To: Cybele
From: Cindy
Subject: dazed and confused

we're on for Tuesday, right? On one calendar I have it down for Tuesday and on another I have it down for Monday.


From: Cybele
To: Cindy
Sent: Friday, April 23, 2004 10:03 AM
Subject: Re: Daysed and conTuesed

Tuesday. Originally, we said Monday, but I've got BGE coming out to something something my gas lines.


Cindy wrote:

so it's Tuesday, right?
BTW, your subject line is just about the cleverest play on words I've ever seen. Seriously! You should use it somewhere in your writing.

FAR ABOVE RUBIES by Cynthia Polansky

RE: RE: Daysed and ConTuesed

Baby, you need higher standards. Yes, Tuesday.



"You know what your fatal flaw is?"

[Politely Inquisitive Look- it has to be; he's holding my ankle, threatening to tickle.]

"You love language."

Yes, and....

...wait, this is a FLAW?

Excuse me?


"You JUST sent that cartoon in. The book comes out in a week. How can you have an alternate version of THAT cartoon for the book?"

>>> pause <<<


....there's a second book."

Of course there is. He is, after all, a genius.

Buy the first one here.


"Call me back when you're dressed. I've got to be able to concentrate on what I'm telling you."


Why am I up?/Why am I up?/Why am I up?/Why am I up?/ Why am I up?/Why am I up?/Why am I up?/Why am I up?/Why am I up?/Why am I up?/Why am I up?


(purple thong, playing peekaboo with my too-loose hiphuggers)

23 April, 2004


...it's so sad/ when you're young/ to be told/ you're having fun...

Would someone please remind me from time to time how much I love Styxx? Along with Rush, Yes, and Journey.

I mean, I never forget that I love the Beatles or the Ramones, but sometimes those great late seventies/early eighties bands get shorted in my mental music library.

Thank God for Classic Rock stations and the Time Machine back to 1983.

(And kudos to my sister, who supplies me with Santana, Steely Dan and the Adam Ant I'm listening to right now. Did I Tell You You're Wonderful?)

Strange World

...it's so sad/ when you're young/ to be told/ you're having fun...

---no, I haven't watched the video, afraid I might cry, ---oh, it's so good, ---turned out great, --well, watch when you're ready... blah blah blah.

Showbiz and QuickStudy are doing the GoodOleTheaterBoy thing, including hugs and cheek kisses. It's a strange TheaterFreak world I live in, because they're both straight. QuickStudy touches my earring; it's flipped over and he's fixing it.

"Careful, or I'll grab my comb and force you to yank the tangles out of my hair."

"Oh, I thought about that, more than once, during the show."

But never acted on it; why?

I'm always on the make for victims, er, volunteers, to brush my hair for me. They're invariably gentler than I am to myself, and when someone else does it, it's pleasure, not chore.

Does this make me a comb whore?


My feet invade my consciousness, reminding me that they are only Nearly, instead of Completely, Naked.

I mention they are on the small side. He insists they are perfect. I wear them. The metal and black leather bite a little, as all good bondage sandals should. Groovy! Thongs in three places. In a shop window, I spot a matching bikini. Hmmmm.

22 April, 2004

Out of My Head

...there is no spoon.

The first time I saw him was five years ago.

Music swelled, lifted to a rumbling crash, thrum of bass pounding all around me as his chair flew into the air, up, away, away, while the choir wailed in a language I don't speak.

Three years later, blown away meeting him in person, I chat with him in the hallways between sessions, and was privileged to drive him to the airport.

Two years after that, we tentatively form a bond of mutual interest. He's self-depricatingly funny, and I sense the avacado metaphor at work. He refuses to admit to being a genius but doesn't argue with me about the matter, either.

I haven't seen him since I took him a second time to the airport. He's become one of my dearest friends, and we talk almost daily.

(Pitiful, I latch onto his former partner when he is in town this past fall, enjoying him for his connection to this amazing man as much as I enjoy him for his altogether enjoyable self.)

It isn't often that I can identify the music playing the moment I see someone who will someday be beyond belief and reason important to me. This is different.

I have the Quidam soundtrack.


My sister wonders if I write "in persona" and I wonder why she wonders that.

She tells me there's an "undercurrent of sex" in my writing.

"Isn't there always, in everything?" I wonder.

She insists not.

I wonder.

Discussion welcomed here.

21 April, 2004

Romance Rampant

...turn and face the strange...

It's a mindset, you see?

A kind of being in love with the world, being in love with being in love, love as a state of being.

Being, as in being caressed by the air, by the rays of the sun, the gaze of the stranger next to me.

Love, as in I love my porno hair, and I love more that other people love my hair, and I'd keep it for them even if I thought of cutting it for me.

(And when he reached out and took a strand of my hair, rubbing it between his fingers, it is little surprised I am that he took also a piece of my heart.)

Love is, yes, my favorite verb, laughing and kissing following, not always in that order.

This satisfies at least one of those.

20 April, 2004


...there is no spoon.

Gentle combings while she spends an hour coaxing tangles from my mass of hair.

Waking to birdsong through an open window, air stirred softly by the whir-shush of the ceiling fan.

Rose scented slide of creamy froth, gritty cat's tongue stroke of goatsmilk and honey, both bath bars from the hands of my exquisite friend at Callimondo.

Tiny hands smoothing mango butter into Mama's sunburnt shoulders.

Seagulls strangely silent; a silky breeze skips, lifting scent and moisture from the darkly sparkling bay.

Fingertips that hold my chin as he presses a kiss against my cheek.

Heart throbs in my throat; skin sings with the tingle of spring.

18 April, 2004

Good Day, Sunshine

...there is no spoon.

No, I can't talk. I'm busy putting on my bikini. The winter was far too long and dreary, mostly devoid of moments of poetry. Though I've done nothing to EARN this gorgeous day, I certainly DESERVE it.

Call me irresponsible, call me hedonistic, I'll cop to all of it.

In the meantime, pass the cocoa butter.

And, for the curious, when I'm in my swimsuit, I wear NO UNDERWEAR AT ALL.

I know, isn't it shocking?

16 April, 2004

In Spring, An Adjective Noun's Fancy...

(...there is no spoon.)

My friend at the gas station smiles at me, his black eyes and white teeth sparkling in his dusky face, conjuring the sands of Arabia. He calls me sweetheart and wishes me a good evening.

The handsome longhaired Mexican at the corner table of the Chinese buffet flashes white teeth at me, then looks down, bashful, and returns to his friends. I do not hear a word of English from their table.

Sun tangles in the western treetops. All around, the whine of high performance engines mixes with birdsong and radio jumble. In the right lane, somewhere behind me at the light, an engine revs. A high performance nose pulls beside me, into my right mirror.

I hit the gas.

A glimpse of youngish guy, impression of a grin. He revs, I rev harder, and am ahead. The Blazer blocking him pulls in front of me, and I am forced to drop back. He pulls forward; black lettering on white racing stripes against black paintjob tell me I'm trying to outrun a Cobra.

Annoyed, exhilerated, I pull the dusty four-door carseat- and kid- ladden late model sedan behind the Cobra, race to inches of kissing his bumper before pulling back to the left lane.

The crewcut driver waves at me, laughing, as he turns off into the golden evening.

There is firebird in my past, and I feel Firebird in my future.

(Champagne boycut hipsters; matching bra. Those who eschew sensual underthings are actively engaging in self-deprivation.)

15 April, 2004

Just a Quickie

...there is no spoon.

My sister will be pleased by today's non-rant. Yesterday, I'm sure, was overly arty, a title I prize.

My favorite animal writes about a subject that also shows up on Blogger's Blogs Of Note. Coincidence?

I don't believe in coincidence.

So read his column here, and check out the sychronistically placed blog here, and maybe this is all just timely, based on some event that happend that I have not noticed due to my selectivity in media.

Fight massive scale tyranny. Shop small, pay large.

Just a thought.

14 April, 2004

Holy Crap, it's Wednesday

I got dressed today.

I count that as an accomplishment.

Garrett made a slice of toast for me, which I ate.

Another accomplishment.

Of interest (possibly): the book I'm reading, which referenced Ram Dass earlier on, now references Jacob Bronkowski, of Ascent of Man fame. I love it when my favorite authors embrace my other favorite authors.

Ascent of Man....what a legendary work, now available on DVD...

I was failing my freshman physics course, which was mostly occupied by juniors and seniors, so it really wasn't a freshman course at all, evidently. I went to see my professor, and between us, figured out that what with skipping a grade in high school, I had neither the trig nor the calc to back up a physics course, which I'd gotten around in high school physics, because Dr. Sharland (Uncle Pervy to those of us who loved him best) GAVE us the formulae we needed, feeling that math should never impede the impartation of science.

I was unprepared, therefore, for the real world. A year or two later, I fared much better in Genetics, which required only algebra. I eventually took both trig and calc, in college, but in the wrong order, so I ended up with an understanding of neither one.

This hasn't seemed to have much of an effect on my life in general.

My physics professer made a deal with me: he would pass me with a D if I promised to read J. Bronkowski's Ascent of Man. I never forgot that promise, and it has bothered me consistantly since I left college, though I won't say how long ago that was.

I am in the process of making good that promise, annoyed with myself for not starting sooner. It's a great read, and will lead me to Bronkowski's other works, no doubt, especially the ones quoted by Crichton in Travels.

Another book that's leading me to another book is Tom Wolfe's (Mr. Bonfire of the Vanities, if you didn't know) A Man In Full. In it, he quotes from The Stoics, which looks fascinating. I haven't read much philosophy since the requisite college courses, guess I was waiting for something to stir my fancy. This is the second book I've read recently about the impact of a book, the first being Phillip K Dick's The Man In The High Castle, also a great read.

Looking at this post, I'm wondering if I ought to begin a site of book reviews. Any interest? Opinions welcomed here.

10 April, 2004


turn and face the strange....

Four glasses of requisite wine with dinner notwithstanding (it's Pesach, dontcha know), I am lucid enough to post.

I saw Richard Ben-Veniste on television last night. Special Prosecutor for Watergate, (assisted by Jill Wine Volner- {now Banks}-where is she now?- who, naturally, doesn't rate a mention) which is why I recognized the name. Something about him just looks trustworthy, and I don't generally get that, one way or another, especially not from television images.

But the legendary Ben-Veniste, still practicing, still prosecuting, still sniffing out evil where it lies.

It seems that most of the intuitive information I've been kicking around, sometimes even out loud, was right all along.

The Twin Towers were collateral damage. This war is about oil.

Really, was there ever any doubt?


Underwear update: Red velveteen bra, irridescent red thong.

It was a dare.

09 April, 2004


(some of you may remember)

The sky today is heaped with mounds of fluff, assorted cheerful shades of blue and white mixing together, framing the welcome golden face of the sun.

A lovely day, wonderful, after nearly a dozen rainy days in a row, a beautiful atmospheric gift.

A gift as treasured as the one HelenMary, Watergate! 's costumer gave to me on Opening Night.

"I have no idea when I got this, or why I have it, " she said. "But there it was in with my junk jewelery. It's perfect for you," and she fastened it round my wrist.

It is clearly very old. The pearlized paint is peeling away from the glass beads. The gold-colored metal links are a bit corroded. But the golden letter charms that hang at intervals between the pearls shine as brightly as though they were new. Yes, dangling from my wrist are the letters, N - I - X - O - N.

I think it's beautiful.

A gift as unexpected as the one that came in the mail, oddly, as though I were a web-cam girl. With it, this cryptic card:

Keep this sandal away from heat or
direct sunlight when not wearing.

Failure to do so could result in injury.

I'm thinking, is this Engrish? Whoa. Or like the warning on albums you could borrow from the library; the first time I saw it, I thought it was the name of a band. And there were a lot of albums by that same band, HOT CARS WARP RECORDS. Hah, my mistake. (All this, just a tiny bit of nostalgia for those of you who have traveled in the same space-time continum as I.)

Look again, closet blonde: there is a large triangle in the center (instep) strap of the sandal. Made of metal. Aha.

Hot Cars Warp Records, indeed.

08 April, 2004

No Kidding

turn and face the strange....

The production of Watergate! the Musical was the most stressful time in my life to date, including childbirth.

I know that sounds unbelievable, but in childbirth, I had little to do other than lie around, breathe and try to stay calm. I trusted the medical professionals who attended me, and there they were, taking care of me, making sure I was as comfortable as possible and that the baby made its journey from my body safely. It was probably more stressful for them.

I guess that's a good analogy. During the process of production, not only did I have to depend on team members, some of whom came through for me and some who didn't, but I helped guide a huge project, and deal with emergencies, STAT, that came up, one after another after another. Often, I was frustrated, occasionally outright thwarted, consistantly overwhelmed and out of my depth. Sometimes, it was just plain scary. It's good I was so ignorant of the amount of work that would be involved, so naive about the scope of the whole thing, otherwise, I'm sure I would have been terrified to even start.

From time to time, I must step off the cliff of Known into the dizzying space of Unknown, and fall, fall, fall.

Even if I hit bottom and am bashed to a pulp.

Like a cartoon character, I rise, ready for another episode.

Next time, maybe I'll have an anvil dropped on me.

Nature Wakes

turn and face the strange....

Yesterday, two times I rescued a fuzzy brown and black striped caterpiller from the parking lot near the wheels of my car. It may have even been the same stupid 'pillar, twice.

A tiny wolf spider seems to have made its home somewhere in my dashboard, and crawled across the odometer while I was driving.

A huge fly has taken up residence in my house, to the dismay of the children, who fear it will carry them off- I shit you not, it's the size of a bumblebee.

The overcast sky provided excellent contrast to the vibrant pink of the cherry blossoms on my backyard tree.

Among the mundanities at the grocery, I came across California Rolls. Impulse buy! Charmingly packaged, including both ginger and wasabe, it made a very tasty, festive meal for me...while the younger set scarfed their mundane fishsticks.

Ah, diversity.

07 April, 2004

I Apologize

....for the previous post, which is mean-spirited and self-serving.

What I meant to say was this:

“The task of genius, and humanity is nothing if not genius, is to keep the miracle alive, to live always in the miracle, to make the miracle more and more miraculous, to swear allegiance to nothing, but live only miraculously, think only miraculously, die miraculously.” -Henry Miller


"You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete." - Buckminster Fuller


"If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you." -Gnostic Gospel of Thomas

All these courtesy of Rob Breszny. Thanks, RB.

Vicious Vent

turn and face the strange....

Lately, it seems, I have made myself vulnerable to the failability of human creatures.

This is a pisser.

When I was in a position that I did what I did, and what anyone else did or failed to do didn't make any difference to me doing what I do, I was perfectly content.

When I am in a position of needing someone and they come through for me, I am perfectly content.

When I am in the position of needing someone, believing in someone, trusting someone and they DON'T come through for me, I am hurt, infuriated, frustrated and angry.

It seems that the only way to not be disappointed by humans is to not expect anything from them.

And by anything, I mean ANYTHING.

When "Yes, I'll take the part" means "until I get a better offer" or "unless I find it necessary to have a nervous breakdown" or "if showing up for rehearsals doesn't inconvinience me too much."

When "I will always be here for you" means "until I get bored, or fed up with your high-maintenance ways."

When "for better and for worse," means "except if the money's better on the road."

Because I trust, I believe.

Though I'm being shown, repeatedly, that I can't really count on anyone for anything.

This is hard, because I want to like humans, I truly do, but I'm having trouble liking creatures who say one thing and do another.

Dogs are much simpler. Cats, too.

Maybe the lesson is one of courage: to trust, knowing that I'll be let down one way or another, and to trust anyway.

What a fucking Pollyanna spin to put on that, though.

I'm sick of her.

That said, let me also say this: from a geological perspective, war is an EXCELLENT way to prevent population overload. It has been and will be my opinion that humans cannot destroy the Planet.

We can only make it uninhabitable for ourselves.

On the lighter side, I did something very unusual today.

No, it wasn't wearing high heeled suede boots in the morning and exchanging them for open-toed wedge sandals in the afternoon.

It wasn't seeing my son perform in a dance, or going to a book reading/signing.

It wasn't spending most of the day at the Center, because I do that ALL THE TIME.

It wasn't running to the bank, or eating supper at a restaurant, or getting the kids in bed late.

Today (are you ready?) I wore....

white underwear.

Yes, both bra and panties (if you can call them that), neither one servicable cotton.

Call me predictable.


06 April, 2004

* Poof *

turn and face the strange....

"Sorry about the dishes," she said.

It's funny: as little as I eat (I'm down to fruit, tea and the occasional plate of lettuce) I have ureasonable amounts of washing up to do. But I'm not complaining.

Along with the dishes, she left spaghetti dinner for the family, a special concoction of black beans and sweet potatos for me, and assorted groceries, including oranges the size of grapefruits, and apples which, by some miracle, are crisp and juicy.

She chides me, criticizes me, tells me how to raise my children. But she also cooks for me, brings me gifts, calls me for no particular reason and loves me in spite of my snarky ways.

Everybody should have a sister as good as mine.


Put the thought out to the Universe, and wait for results.

That Girl, home at last from lovely, lascivious Los Vegas, has come up with a truly beautiful idea for performance/art this year. Some costume construction required.

It's a street show, as the stages are at a high premium, and we're not classical mimes given to classical mimeskits anyhow.

I would be stilted and she'd be on foot, and we've worked Alaina into the concept as well.

Now, who's got a pattern for 12 foot wings?

05 April, 2004

In The Moment

turn and face the strange....

(The sky roiled and churned and fumed and seethed.)

Though fascinating in its multihued bluegrey fury, its texured greyblue glory, I would welcome a sight of the sun.


I am reading something that makes reference to something that I've been making reference to for some time, without being sure of what/who I was referencing, if you follow.

I have said "Be Here Now" a number of times, especially when teaching stilting, because that is the only way to focus on this moment, this lump of dirt, this clump of grass. Because by looking too far ahead, you can mistakenly tread upon a foot that wasn't there a moment ago.

Back to Be Here Now. I have been fairly certain that this was not original, but had no idea who might have said it in the past.

I discover today, to my surprise, it is none other than the famous Richard Alpert, now known as Ram Dass, who, despite a stroke in 1997, is still living, still writing, still teaching.

To accidentally reference a master of this magnitude is humbling, gratifying, amazing.

How did so much hippie culture seep into my brain?

Perhaps along with the second hand THC of my folks and their unwashed patchouli scented pals.

04 April, 2004

Lost and Found

turn and face the strange....

I found Martin on a forum I visit from time to time. He mocked me for being less than 12 feet tall. Naturally, I'd invite him to stay with me when he came to perform at the Maryland Fair.

He's spent most of his adult life doing ONE THING, and doing it amazingly well.

But that's not what I found interesting. It was his writing that was the hook.

He's got that nasty sarcastic exterior which is a red flag for me, indicating a Sensitive Person beneath.

Perhaps the degree of sarcasm is directly proportional to the sensitivity thereby concealed. Because Martin, master of acerbic, is so tender as to approach rawness.

Small wonder, then, that I would adore him unrestrainedly. Unashamedly. Despite weird looks I get from people, despite the sneer in the voice of a loved one when he refers to "the stiltwalker." And there's nothing between us, romantically, sexually, whatever. There are bonds that are forged without sexual contact, stronger because of their platonic nature.

I was reading this red flag by age 18, systematically looking for cracks in the nasty shell to find the sweet that lay underneath.

I did this so effectively with a boy I met in Georgia, and we forged a bond so strong that when we met again a few years later, both our spouses (or significant others, which they were then) were sure we'd slept together.

Hawk therefore forgave me for something I hadn't done, which was at once petty and generous.

I've lost touch with this boy, which may have been deliberate on his part, as he married his suspicious girlfriend.

I lost touch also with the boy who introduced me to this concept, when we were both fourteen years old. He didn't know he'd done it, of course, but it's affected my life dramatically.

And now I've found him again.


How amazing to think that lost friendships can be found, and reclaimed.

03 April, 2004


I'm trying to keep on a bright face, despite the weather.

It's a struggle.

02 April, 2004

Virgin No More

turn and face the strange....

Wonderful, wonderful, ah... a drive into Baltimore, the sky burning with swirls of grey smoke that blanketed the air above, a walk through wet streets to a tiny place packed with atmosphere and bonsai.

The name of this haven of food and imagery is Matsuri, and I am in love.

Pat orders for me, and I am soon faced with food too lovely to eat, and consume more at one meal than I have in the past two or three days combined.

Miso soup, wonderful. Seaweed, wonderful. Steamed and salted soybeans, wonderful.

Wasabe, doubly wonderful.

Pat tells me the name of everything, but I write down nothing and thus remember nothing.

The green tea could have been warmer, but the earthen mug I drank it from was perfect in its greeneybrown glazed color, perfect in its flattened cylindrical shape.

The children pick at strange food as I consume a standard salad made unstandard with sesame dressing, ginger dressing (I can't choose, and why should I?) using chopsticks to eat lettuce and cucumber.

We talk of bonsai and atmosphere and the diminutive efficiency of this corner establishment. Pat shows us the blind monk on the shelf, both of his eyes now painted in. He admits to reading haiku, but the ancient masters in their ancient feudal agrarian society had little to write about other than spring fields of rice, and Pat thinks he just doesn't understand the subtleties enough to appreciate the art form. "If they wrote haiku about the sound of traffic and neon lights, now..." he offers. I laugh and read him the latest one of mine. Perhaps a haiku about a crane would be appropriate.

We walk back through the streets, now glittering with the lights of the night city. I stop to pick up a CityPaper, looking forward to being baffled by my favorite animal in his weekly stint in print. This week, I understand, enjoy, and leave the column with more questions than answers.

A lovely outing, home early enough to have the children tucked away before the start of my favorite shows, which are, inexplicably, crime and forensics dramas.

Pat swears that sushi gives him vivid dreams. I look forward to it, but am disappointed to find I remember nothing in the morning.

The rain is unrelenting in its soothing, sopoforic patter.

01 April, 2004


turn and face the strange....

The doctor was of little comfort, but handed me some pills and things to relieve the pressure.

Still sulking about the silly review. In a hundred years, it won't matter. In a hundred days, it won't matter. Wish I could make it not matter now.

BuddahPat will sympathize and distract me- he's taking me out for sushi tonight.

I don't know if I like sushi, but Pat said I probably would. And then he teased me with the promise of miso soup.

I love miso soup!

And then he dangled an offer of seaweed.

I love seaweed!

I have forewarned the children that they may find dinner a trifle odd, but they are to be patient and gracious.

After all, I bought them McDonald's last night.

And any of us would go anywhere with Pat.


turn and face the strange....

I was warned. I can't say I wasn't.

But still.

Our one and only (to my knowlege) review, and it's this????

Louis, you sorely test the boundaries of friendship. Tongue in cheek I understand, but to mention neither the director's name, nor the names of any of the actors, making neither reference to the brilliance of the music nor the name of the composer puts even an April Fools joke review into question.

The production company is mentioned by name. I should be grateful. The musical is mentioned by name. Ditto.

Pardon my bitterness.

Judge for yourself, here.

As a distraction....back to foolish shoes.

There is a man with a face that looks as though it ought to be attached to the name Sergei, who teaches ballet at the Center. His name turned out to be much more prosaic than his face, so I'll stick with Sergei.

He speaks to me:

"Those are real ankle breakers."




"Your shoes. They look like they could make you break an ankle."


"Had a broken ankle, and it wasn't because of shoes. The shoes are proof that I'm better."

This Sergei, he always speaks to me. I can't tell if he's flirting or not.

(I've had a man apologize for making a pass I didn't notice he'd made. Silly me.)

Whether he is or not, it's nice to imagine that he might be.


M., my "date" for That Girl's birthday party, is in the same situation I am, long term marriage, two small kids, driving something sensible. He bemoans his middle age. "It suddenly started to BOTHER me," he says, surprised at himself.

Yes. When no one looks at you with hot eyes, even your spouse, as if they'd like to consume you, it eats away at your image of yourself as sleek and smooth and desirable. It's acid, chewing your psyche into a pockmarked, scorched desert.

So to imagine that the Ballet Sergei is...okay, MIGHT BE... flirting with me is fun. Because taking it a bit further, imagining the possibilities of having sex with a dancer is even more fun.

It was a long walk, but one I'm willing to take.

In my foolish shoes.