31 May, 2004

Theme Party

...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....

Two weeks ago:

"If everyone is bloody when they get in, won't that be a problem?"

"Nah. The filter can take care of the blood. Excuse me, I have to get online to get my killer quotes."


I love it here. It's like Halloween every day. There's a chalk outline...okay, it's not chalk; we couldn't find chalk, but a charcol briquette is a fucking awesome substitute. Bloody footprints lead away from it into the underbrush. (I catch Tammy washing her feet in a pool too cold for anyone unrelated to a polar bear.)Ryan's got his arm bandaged and asks me to help him carry packages to his Volkswagon. Nisey wears a "Got Milk?" T- shirt with what looks like bullet holes. The Animal claims to be a non-descript black man from Atlanta. I'm in a bloody nightgown with bootprints on it and rope wound round my neck.

(Coco dips her fingers in blood, writes PIGS on the skirt of my gown, wipes most of the mess on my bodice and gives me her finger to lick. Mmmm, zesty mint.)

BuddahPat drinks a very dry martini with about seventeen olives "Bad luck to have an even number of olives," he informs us. So what, start with odd, and eat them by twos? Tammy offers to make me a cocktail, and recites a dizzying list of alcohol available. "Taste this," Coco insists. Oh, it's vile. She and Pepito invented it, based on a hot fudge sundae or some goddamn thing. I have no idea what Gracie's drinking, but she's been doing it all day, and it hasn't impaired her braiding technique in the slightest. The Animal pumps out another beer and harasses me about my inability to follow a lead. I've been dancing solo for so long, I have no idea what to do with a partner. Maybe I don't need one. "There's Bloody Mary Mix," suggests Sparky, ever helpful in his Porn Director glasses. "It's thematic!" The Tribe is in the house.

"Bed wetting past the age of twelve is common?"

"I knew about the torture of small animals, but the firestarting is new to me."

"This one's great:'I didn't want to hurt them, I only wanted to kill them.'"

Having consumed my weight in Liquid Courage on Saturday night, I am uninclinded to accept alcoholic offers. Having used up every ion of my Making New Friends energy Saturday night, I am uninclined to manufacture an interest in the twenty-somethings that Sparky's nieces have drug along. Having been teased mercilessly about Saturday night by the astoundingly strange man I married, I am uninclined to leave him entertaining our children while I sit elesewhere, watching our friends get polluted. Tammy makes Hawk a couple of cocktails, and sits beside me when The Tiny Dictator wheedles her father into the pool. I change out of the bloody nightgown, but I'm still cold and sober. No lapsitting today.

The cake is decorated with toy guns, bullets, handcuffs (I catch Gracie licking them clean so she can wear them) a badge, an id photo of... is it? Yes! It's Tom, in the pig hat I made long ago when we were all unwrinkled and sassy. M.A. gasps: "Rest in peace, little angel." "I was in a devil suit," Hawk remembers. Ah, Darius Grieving, whom I named simply to afford the following lines:

"Hello, Officer; I'm Grieving."
"Yes, there's been a murder. We're all grieving."

Salute to the Prarie was okay. Last year's Salute to Rhode Island was better. But for a couple with a company named Do Or Die, who have a skull on a pedastal in the front hallway, whose Tribe will show up as Ted Bundy, a sniper victim, Wayne Williams, and Sharon Tate, there is no fitter theme for the Memorial Sunday Party than a Salute to Serial Killers.

I love it here.

30 May, 2004

Saturday? Yeah.

...Still a little bit of your taste in my mouth/ Still a little bit of you laced with my doubt....

Sweetpea. Hawk. Fluffy. Mark. A movie.

Mall zombies, glassy vacant stares. I gotta get out of here.

Adam. Coco. Tammy.

"I want to see your yellow polka-dot bikini."
"Tomorrow, Tammy. Promise."

Tony. Chris. Sally. Joab. Jill. Meg. Ellen. Mrs. K. Jessica. Brian. Dave. Boyd. Megan. Myla. Michael. Alicia. Dave. Kieran. Claudia. Pete. Heather. Eric. Jenny. John. Emily. Talia. Kelly. Tracy. Tom. Doug. David. Wendy. Frankie. More, more, more....

"NEXT Sunday is an 'other' Sunday."

Like jam yesterday, or jam tomorrow, but never jam today?

(And I danced with Tim.)

29 May, 2004

Four Mysteries

...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....

They've called for my blood again, three days running.

I feel such guilt, and yet, since the upping of iron standards, I don't usually make the cut. It's excruciating to go in, answer personal questions (no...no....no...not to my knowledge...no...yes, once, but I didn't like it...no....no....) get pricked and squeezed (careful how you order those)and be turned away, for those pesky two or three points I am below minimum.

I wish I had the blood of any one of my fainter acquaintances, the ones who have needle issues, since I have none, because willingness and suitability in different bodies seems patently unfair.


Belle writes, ostensibly to her e-mailers, a post that seems curiously timed and responds to my unsubtle critiques. Does she target me? It seems unlikely that the great and powerful Belle would be reading me, the small and humble.

On the other hand, since she's not shagging for love nor money, what the hell else does she have to do?


We approach the home of our friends.

"Can I get out and run?"

Sure, why not?

She gets a head start, feet flying, hair billowing around her head, arms pumping wildly. I tap the accelerator, pull alongside. Her face! Her face! Wild with exhilaration, excitement, triumph, pure joy. Pouring off her in great waves, that glow of glee. Do you remember? DO YOU? Heart thumping, racing against nothing, running for the sake of running, til you reach the fence, the tree, the front porch steps, hot pink and out of breath, gasping, wheezing, and ready to do it again five minutes from now.

("When is the last time YOU ran like that?" the Apostle asks me. Before October 10th. July, I think. Someone I loved running with me. But the next time? Next time I'm on the beach, with sand beneath naked soles, running, running, running, like my daughter runs, to catch up with naked soul.)



"I dunno, what's the weather like?"
"Well, it will be cold in the theater, so pants, I guess. If you want."


"Red or black?"


(Discard Option 1)

"Long or short?"


(Discard Option 2)

"Sleeves or sleeveless?"


(Discard Option 3)

Shoes, naturally, had already been discussed.

Leaving me now only to select jewelry and undergarments.

If I bother.

28 May, 2004

Easily Amused

...I hope you don't mind/ That I put down in words/ How wonderful life is/ While you're in the world....

Good morning, it's Friday, and I, a remnant from Thursday, sit wrapped in a Nothing dress and yesterday's sweat and chlorine, thinking that I ought to go to bed. Sleep? Write? -as if I have a choice.

I think of tomorrow, when I see again someone I had once given up hope of ever seeing again. His clearwater eyes hook me, the shape of his hands enchants me, his prose makes me laugh or breaks my heart, and I count myself fortunate that he still walks the planet.


Fan mail for Thursday's entry..... more than one person chooses "struck by lightning" as a cool way to go, trumped only by "in bed with a 24 year old, at age 56" which seems a little young to me, frankly. The concept of dying by misadventure retains appeal, years after the song's faded from collective consciousness.

Also hate mail, which turned out to be "hurt mail", to which I responded with my usual nauseating upbeat Pollyanna ("makes a gerbil wanna puke," quoth a cynic)lovingkindness. This damaged soul lodges in my psyche like a bent nail. Far away strangers now tear me to pieces, keep me from growing the brittle edges I need to be sarcastic or funny.

If that's my role, bring on devices of torture. Rip me open often: I will take my shredded bits of heart and squeeze them until they drip poetry upon these pages.

This evening's rain sprinkled on me, wet sweetness from the sky, on cheeks and lips and eyelids, on palms and the tender bit of skin inside my elbow.

Too stupid to come in out of the rain. Too something.

27 May, 2004

Despair and Fury

...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....

I watch the headline on the opening page of my e-mail, numbers increasing like a ticker to tell me the current body count in the Caribbean. One fifty. Two twenty five. Over three hundred. Three fifty. Five hundred. Six. A big jump to eight thirty, and the figure isn't final. I don't even know what's CAUSING flooding in the Caribbean. I'm saddened, but I expect that. I expect the death toll in Iraq (both sides) to tear at my heart, as I expect that when I hear stories of Rwanda and Chechnia, I will weep.

I also cry at road kill.

I can't afford to take any of this too seriously. Let's face it, we're all dead already, but for a few measly decades. Some sooner than others.

The other disturbing headline is about outlawing "dirty" bombs. As if there are clean ones. Stop it already. There is no kinder gentler version of WAR. It's an ugly word, an ugly concept, and only ugliness follows.


Storm light shines green through the window. Smack and crack and grumble of thunder rolls around, stereophonic. Natural fireworks throw glow on landscape for brief photographic moments. I make an excuse, take garbage out, remember laundry left on the line. Anything to get outdoors.

So tempting... sarong has one easily undone knot, and I'm dancing naked in the rain.

But no, I've been scolded:

"Don't be long, Mama. I don't want you to get hit by lightning."

It's a fate I've been courting most of my life. Thunderstorm? yeah. On the beach? double yeah.

Don't know what it is about a crackling ionosphere that pulls me, but I_want_it!

Try to inhale power and fury, feel it, live it, own it. I take inspiration where I find it, and am damn grateful.

26 May, 2004

All Over The Place

If I've said it once I've said it a thousand times, it's time to leave the party when somebody does a beer bong, vomits on the floor, and says, 'Hey, let's get out Dave's compound bow!'

I quote the cutely quotable Kev, from TJ's Place (not its real name).


The tiny girl in tights and iridescent seafoam spandex, who is she? Trapeze? High Wire? And the little boy on stilts, waving to every one he passes, is he Ringmaster? Clown? The woman in black- fringed sarong, eyeliner, earrings- clearly, she belongs in the Gypsy Fortuneteller tent.
And the glorious golden canine that leaps, twisting, cavorting on the end of his... Oh.

It's not a circus parade.

It's just the Pomeroy family, out walking the dog.


Being that it's Wednesday, I give you the usual week's worth of links, as I'm too lazy to do them most other days.

Your CityPaper links, first and foremost, or at least the important stuff.

A horoscope, by a man I've never met. (Well, wankers, get on the ball! I know I've got astrology buddies that could DO this job. Won't ONE of you step up to the plate?)

An editorial, by my favorite intellectual Animal. No, never mind, his column's been pre-empted this week so go instead to Emily Flake's cartoon, partly because of the punning possibilities of her name. (Hold me back.)

And a cartoon, by someone who is often a genius. And admits it.

Be sure to check out his book signing at this very cool location. ( An aside: most of his stuff is way, way over my admittedly fluffy head. The problem with hanging around with genuii- a plural for genius, which I may have just invented- is that I always feel I should have someone check me for blonde roots. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it", indeed. "Immigrant in her own country," my ass. Neither quote, by the way, from Tim. He's much too polite to say such things, and if he did, much more clever.)

Something from possibly the world's most famous living prostitute

lundi 24 mai
Before I forget to mention, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is a terribly good film. So good, in fact, you will leave the cinema in a half-daze, wander aimlessly by the river for a few hours, smiling benevolently on the drunks amassing at the water's edge in complete ignorance of the spring tides and wonder, at turns, whether you would erase someone or not, whether your life would be any better or, in fact, somewhat depleted by such an occurrence. You will continue this train of thought for some time, imagining the things you would or would not want to save and - scarifying as they may be - the way things ended. What this means about you as a person. What this means about us as a species.

Not good first date fodder, in retrospect.
// posted by belle @ 3:10 PM

She leaves "uni" and begins a career of whoring. Earns loads of lovely lucre, blogs herself into a book deal, gets complacent, goes on holiday, is dropped from her stable, posts once or twice a week, and it's pap like this. ????

Things that make you go "whatthefuck?"

I was warned to not attempt this link without FLASH, whatever that is. ("Do you have Flash?" he asks. "Is that the thing that the little box pops up asking me if I want to download the latest version of?" "Yes, that's it." "Right, so I'm thinking I must have it, because otherwise it would be like the Hatter asking Alice if she'd like more tea, and she argues that she can't have more because she hasn't had any." "Riiiiiiight.") But it's so cool, I played around with it for fifteen minutes. That's a long time for me to engage in anything not involving words, orgasm or tanning oil. Wait, I think I've just described my perfect date....

25 May, 2004

They Walk Among Us

...Those who feel the breath of sadness/Sit down next to me/Those who find they're touched by madness/Sit down next to me...


"Why are you in the basement crying?"

(On a pile of dirty laundry, no less.)

"It's not your fault. I'm okay."

"There, there. It will be all right."

(Awkward gentle shoulder patting.)

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Come upstairs, we'll, I'll, how about I make you a cup of tea, won't that be nice?"

"You're, I... give me a minute."

My son extends his still-small hand to help me from my crumpled heap.

(And fixes tea for me.)


"In the morning, you stay in bed, and I'll take care of breakfast."

"Will you, now?"

"Yes, and I'll run a bubble bath for you, so sleep in, then you can have a bath and a nice breakfast. How will that be?"

"Sounds wonderful. You're being awfully nice."

"No getting up early to work at the computer. You need your rest, because you're not doing so well today, Mama."

(Maybe not, but I just got better.)


"Mama...I made breakfast for you. And your bath is ready."

I contemplate, immersed in mounded bubbles of perfect temperature, if even the Apostle could explain my son's tender care. The boy's not been a decade on this planet.

Breakfast is a colorful array of fruit, sliced and attractively arranged, reminding me of another little boy of extreme thoughtfulness a thousand miles away.

(Angels? Everywhere. Just look.)

24 May, 2004

Lost in Fantasy

...and when I heave-uh, well you know I'm gonna be/ I'm gonna be the man that's heaveling to you.....

It's a horror of a day for riding in any un-airconditioned car, which mine is, unless it is a convertible, which mine is not. I wear a Nothing of a dress, and pretend I am driving to the Beach.

My first outing is early, and smutty haze smears across the world, waiting to be chewed away by insistent sun. Haze hangs just this way in my beach memories. My brief shopping trip, one I've been on countless times in early morning, pre-sand hours, becomes part of my fantasy. Though silky panties were not on my list, they find their way into my cart. I think this problem may require professional help.

I sing along to Oldies as we drive- where else?- to the Beach, which in this case, is the home of a Brunchday Party to celebrate my friend turning fourty.

I do not intend to turn fourty.

I haven't followed directions well, and need to phone. No matter, for one beloved voice hands me over to another, more beloved voice, and he coaches me through the unfamiliar city until I find my navigational feet.

I see beautiful faces of people I haven't seen for months, did not realize I'd been missing. I meet a beautiful new face, uncovered (for now) by clown makeup. I hope I see it again, sooner rather than later. I drink a tiny Mimosa before piling my entourage back into the car, to pretend I am driving to the Beach some more. Sun slides over skin like a burning hand, and wind breathes hot across neck and shoulders.

We arrive late for the show, having gotten lost, missing an interesting part, just in time for boring bits, fidgeting restless until intermission. I catch glimpses of the Most Beautiful Face, the one we are here to see.

I am startled at intermission: one of my MotionFest friends, who is here with his sister, watching his niece in the show. No surprise there, the cast is comprised of seventy two souls. And I thought Watergate! was big. Fairy Girl is there, a sweet, fierce-fragile doll of a person, full of imagination and love for her daughter, who is featured in the performance. Fairy Girl's father greets me warmly, for once not cranky and sweaty but pleased by circumstances and a full house.

And then there is a surprise. A Beautiful Face that I wasn't prepared to see, hadn't expected to see, perhaps did not want to see. Beautiful gaze slides over, past me, eyes glacial where they once were warm. The conversation is brief, and I walk away, more wounded by ice than I could have imagined.

The second act is more exuberant and entertaining than the first, and has quite a lot of a Reubenesque redhead of whom I am particularly fond. And then, there he is: The Most Beautiful Face, in his debut onstage, looking for all the world like a seasoned showman, which, though he's never taken a role, he is, he IS. His blonde locks shorn short, he is still the embodiment of physical perfection, and, when the show ends, nearly as glad to see me as I am to see him.

Impatient to be on the road again, the children hurry me to the car. I pretend I'm driving to the Beach, my left foot resting near the side-view mirror, all the way home.


Concrete hot beneath my feet, air all around warmer than the shower steam I've stepped from. My neighbors sleep, or so the darkened eyes of orderly crackerboxes suggests. Who will notice if I remove my robe?

The streetlamp glares at me, harshly incandescent. Had it been the moon, I might have.

23 May, 2004

He's So Fine (doo-lang, doo-lang, doo-lang)

That's one of the things I love about your writing - the passion that oozes from every pore of every inch of skin that you wrap your thoughts in. --- Robert Stewart

I follow in the wake of a Woman Wearing Fragrance, having just caught a glimpse of the frame of a close-up table, carried by a man in a bowler hat.

ClownWorld, here I come. I am amazed at how quickly, how often I forget how much I love it here.

Chat with the guard, signed in and properly badged, I quick-step past the car show (excuse me, let me mop up that drool puddle on your front bumper) and bounce into the main tent. Step, step, slow....pause, halt. Oh, gods, LOOK at the way he MOVES. Who IS that man with the profile, the hair, the shirt that would win an ugly contest? I don't care. --Move, girl. And don't scrape your jaw on the asphalt.

Clownside, greet friends: LA Jimmie, the Ex of my Ex, Inspiration Dana, and his heretofor unmet Mrs., a few others I know nominally and some I've never met. A good crowd.

It promises to be hot today, and my teeny t-shirt may yet prove a liability. A good day to not be stilting. We waltz back to the main tent, where it is shaded and breezy. The band warms up with some heartbreaking harmonies. The guy with the hair is the drummer. Naturally. Could it have been otherwise?

I point him out to Double Ex.

"That's my boyfriend."


"For the day. He doesn't know it, but he is."


We find our spot, set up to handle smutty sweaty cherubic cheeks painting cats and unicorns and (ugh) butterflies and (yaay) spiders and (double yaaay) snakes and (her) "my first cow!" and (me) "does she have to be naked from the waist up?" a mermaid. (I made her naked anyway, covered by a draping of hair. As though Naked Girl could have done it differently, hah.)

The band plays My Girl, zydeco, Brian Setzer. Lots of hot jazz. Hot, hot jazz. I read that people who listen to jazz have more sex than rock or oldies fans. Bring it on. This is an amazing cover band.

"I want these guys to play at my next wedding."

"Your next wedding?"

"I need to get married again, for an excuse to have these guys play."

"You could marry the drummer," she agrees.

The lead singer talks into the DistortaVoice Microphone, perhaps says the band's name, though I can't decipher actual words.

Drum solo: "There's your boyfriend." We both grin.

I manage to not fling my paintbrush in the air and dance with wild abandon to O-bla-di, O-bla-da. It helps that a parent in my line sings along with me. It's also good that the band drowns out my vocal addition so completely.

Double Ex and I finish cleaning up as the band finishes breaking down, and our paths cross on the way out. Expressions of appreciation; they are gracious and grateful. This close, though, they're just a bunch of sweaty South Baltimore guys.

Close examination being akin to reading the ingredients on a Twinkie wrapper, I realize I prefer my fantasies unscrutinized.

22 May, 2004

Three Moments, Including Now

...they'll hurt me bad but I don't care/they'll hurt me bad/they do it all the time, yeah yeah....


The question was never "if" he would hurt me, but when, and in what form.


Song of cicadas loud in my ears.

"Would you sleep with my husband? Please?"

The questions my friends think to ask me. I search her for signs of laughter, desperately sorting through possible answers.

"I, uh... I don't think that would make any of us happy."


I am kind of enjoying my teensy white underthings today, particularly the T-shirt I borrowed from Fluffy, having no white shirts of my own. It is just barely sufficient to not get me arrested.

Unless I sweat, at which point incarceration becomes inevitable.

Be gentle with me, Officer.

21 May, 2004

Better Than One In Sixty Four

...chain, chain-chain/chain of fools.....

"Buddhist, huh? That mean you don't kill bugs?"

"No, I do. But I feel really bad about it."


Can I just say, stupid fucking humans? The Apostle really has GOT to call me, unless of course his refusal to answer my psychic primal scream is linked to the chain of non-events that make me certain beyond certainty that were I to throw I-Ching on myself, I'd get Bound To The Mountain.

I don't even have to engage my paraphenalia. I have Bound To The Mountain memorized. Burned into my conscious, subconscious and id. It's a good oracle, as I tell the sitters that throw it, when their brains are suspiciously filled with images of shackles, chains and eagles feasting on a live heart.

Bound To The Mountain. Fuck.


Late supper with BuddahPat was lovely, though the restaurant deemed it needful to refrigerate us. He teased with forecasts of vivid dreams resulting from sushi consumption, but allowed that I might have a different experience with "just vegetables." Admittedly, his meal was far more visually compelling than mine.

A hint: do not be deceived by ice cream the exact color of wasabe.

20 May, 2004

Irritation, Anticipation

...there's only one thing that I know how to do well/and I've often been told that you only should do what you know how to do well/and that's be you/be what you're like/ be like yourself....

And of course there are days when I want to throw my arms in the air and say, "Oh, fine, fine, just kill me now, I have no idea what any of you people want from me anymore, and probably never did. Here are my wrists, who's got a knife?"

But I'm not here to whine.

Okay, I am.

But I won't. I'm changing the subject, with my hat off to people who do that more deftly than I ("your segues are sledgehammer non-sequitors") can manage.

I've had a couple of discussions recently about my parents, who are interesting people. I used to waste a lot of time wishing they would be who I wanted them to be, and managed to figure out how to let it be okay with me for them to be exactly who they are.

Figuring out how to let it be okay. THERE's a loaded subject. Where's my Apostle now? Wait...is my phone ringing? I think it is.


On the up side, BuddahPat and sushi await this evening. And I burn, burn, with the everpresent ubiquitous question....

What shall I wear?

19 May, 2004

Work It Out, Shake It Off

....they say don't be surprised at someone's lies/ they think they taunt you...

Hair forms satin curtain around shoulders, rain licks at skin. Warm wet invites barefoot on the pavement. Wet grass mixes with exhaust and engine oil. Flash quick line of color on black velvet sky. Thunder rolls around; I think of two friends, Rainman, who loves thunderstorms, and Nature Boy, who hates them. I and the thunder are one. I and the rain are one. I and the rain and the thunder and the grass and all the world all around are one.

Shimmering through slickend city streets, I pull into RockStar parking, which is less prestigious on the way out, requiring careful backing to exit the narrow alleyway. Semi-star parking, then. Next time, I'll walk.

I laugh til I'm hoarse, tickled to pieces to be out having beer and nachos, shirking an unwanted responsibility. The surroundings are loud and dingy and remind me of Hammerjacks back when Hammerjacks was Hammerjacks. (Some of you will know what I mean.)I expect to hear Crack the Sky or Bootcamp -(quick aside, wonder whatever happened to Vienne, who used to date Tim Camp, before she married Don, that is; pardon the digression)- any moment now. Big Hair bands, can't beat 'em.


"Take it off."

An imperious look. "I will, when I'm ready."

Ooooh, impresive display.

"No, I want to show you something."

"Ouch. That looks painful."

"That's what I'm telling you- don't hurt me."

He likes it when I beg.


It's Wednesday, time for your CityPaper fix.

Here is your requisitePolitical Editorial, by my favorite Animal

Go see Rob for insight, or at least amusing writing. I personally get as much out of the other Horoscope readings as I do "mine".

Someone seems to be experiencing technical difficulties with his website, and it's of course the worst sort of abysmal timing for that particular problem, which kind of makes it inevitable. So, no Pain today, but for your Comic fix, something that speaks to me...and something wildly colorful.

Update: Tiny pink thong under jeans gone a bit snug despite their "stretch" designation.

I KNEW I was getting all pudgy and corn-fed in Indiana.

18 May, 2004

Night Hopping, Morning Rolling

....shah la la la la la, live for today....

Off we go, me, Tekchik, Coco, and The Prince. The Prince is sulky, probably because That Girl has blown us off after promising to join us. We go, a bit subdued, but all in one car.

Harry Browne's does not, in fact, have Seamus Kennedy on the docket, so we leave after one beer. We stop at Gomez's new place of employ, since we miss seeing him at The Rose (our "Cheers" bar, where they really do know our names...a couple of them, anyway)and he is tickled to see us. However, it is boring there in the bar of the Raddison Annapolis, despite the hockey game, so we move on to the Bullseye, with pool and darts and lots of redneck crewcut types. The guy with the mullett is a woman, and the fat bleached blonde with the shirt that exposes her navel comes on to her. There is wrestling on the set, and Tekchik tells me who is who, not that it sticks. Not that I care. But any excuse to engage her in conversation.

Her skin is warm and smooth, her embrace full (as always) of welcome and acceptance. She's been quiet since the dissolution of her coven and therefore also her band. She has a tattoo that she must now erase or cover. She offers to pierce me anywhere I'd like. She says the brow isn't too painful. I consider the top of the ear. We'll see. She toys with the barbell in her tongue, a habit I find only slightly less irritating than gum-popping, so I try to not notice. She is that appealing mix of wiseass tough and pudding tender that I'm such a sucker for.

"I talk to you like shit, I treat you like shit, I push you away..."

"Yeah, hard to believe you like me."

"I DON'T like you! Aren't you mad at me yet?"


"Why the hell not?"

"One word: Unconditional."

"No such thing."

I'm still proving it to him.

As apology (I think) he allows my fingers to explore the shape of his vertebrae while I sip my beer and try not to slide off the vinyl barstool.

"You okay to drive, Cybbie?"

Why ask that of me, but not of Tekchik? We've had exactly the same amount to drink. Maybe it's because she holds the comb and my head is in her lap, rather than the reverse.

The Prince permits me to hug him, then shoves me away.

"Fine. I don't love you any more than you love me," I huff at him.

"Yeah, right," he responds, "Puh-leese."



In the chrome of the heat guard, his face, body are reflected. Who is that trustworthy man? I squint, trying to catch a glimpse of the skinny danger-eyed boy I fell for many moons ago. Do you know, I think I like this steadfast fellow even better.

Cool haze off the Susquehanna streams through the window, snakes across my skin. Breeze teases hair into tangles. Inhale sweetness of highway briar rose.

Inside the garbage scow scented tunnel, the noise is deafening. My daughter's voice, tinny and faint, rattles around in the backseat. If there are individual words, I can't hear them. She's likely complaining that the radio cut out when we dove deep beneath the bay, a concept that she doesn't actually believe.

My son's smile in the rearview mirror decorates my mind.

17 May, 2004

Not In The Mood

"Only those who risk going too far ever find out how far they can go." T.S. Eliot

The weather is gorgeous, and I am home with my family.

I have recovered (nearly) from Trauma Eating, which happened in response to certain stressors, and once I grabbed Doreen Virtue's book, Constant Craving and looked up all the junk I was consuming, I felt better and the food cravings went away.

Steak = tired from stress, fear of failure, inadequacy

Sweets = wanting approval and acceptance

Chocolate cookies = tension and fear

Glazed donuts = drained from constantly being on guard

Uncooked cookie batter = feeling vulnerable to attack by others, angry at self

Dairy = needing comfort and consolation

Chocolate chip ice cream = fear, anger, self-blame, depression

(and My Hero brought into the house, unknowing, Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream. Could there have been a fitter Trigger Food for me?)

Yesterday was the Graduation Party for That Girl, and I saw a bunch of my favorites. Tonight, I go out with That Girl, Coco, The Prince, and maybe my favorite blushing Birthday Boy, while My Hero stays home, taking the Empress to dance rehearsal and painting tiny warriors.

There is no reason for me to be in a dismal mood, but for the fact that I allowed into my brain some images of War, long enough to assume a position, form an opinion, which I usually avoid for the sake of my sanity.

I have trouble combating darkness this strong. It leaves a mark on my mind.

And when I ask a question, seek an answer, I find comfort. Cynics beware: healy-feely stuff awaits.


Golden glow against bare back: eastward facing, I watch a stroke of lightning split a rumbling whaleskin sky.

16 May, 2004


...ahhhaaahhhooooOOOOOooooOOOOOOoooooyeah/yeay-yeah, yeay-yeah, yeah/how does your life shine...

Sun breaks through the turkish towel of cloud cover, turns the wet parking lot into a gleaming sheet of obsidian. I jam into Park, throw the door open, fling my arms wide to embrace the brief beam, before the hole is healed and magical environment returns to mundane.


"So it sounds like you're back to Manic Mode,"

"I much prefer it to depressive."

"Yeah, well, it's a little hard to take."

? and ???


"It's not healthy."

"What, crying fits two or three days a month? Let me ask you: How often do I laugh?"

"The rest of the time."

Which I think is a more than fair trade.


"I love you, Buttercup."

(He calls me Buttercup.)

"I love you, Fluffy."

(He likes that I call him Fluffy.)

"I love you, my angel, my rose."

(I never know what she'll call me.)

"I love you, SweetPea."

(I never know what she likes to be called.)


It must be love: I think his feet are beautiful.

15 May, 2004

Minute By Minute

...just can't get enough, I just can't get enough...

He is long and lanky and has that saucy earnestness that is so appealing at any age, and so impossible to keep past thirty. He's not.

"I bet you drive a stickshift."

How could he have knowm that?


He wraps warm arms around me in sleepy greeting, snuggling into my neck.

"You smell good," he says.

My new boyfriend. In two weeks, he will be eight years old.


The server comes with desert.

"I'm the tart," and I raise my hand.

Dead silence.

No answering quips.

Then, nervous titters.


Evidence that I am not at home.


I wave to the garbage man.

"How are you, pretty? Nice walk this morning?"

I smile...oh, wait. He's addressing the dog.

14 May, 2004

Exit, Reluctant

....you know that you're with me wherever I go/to the ends of the earth and all points between, high and low...

Powered by long legs and irritation, Steven strides far ahead in the airport. He turns in time to catch me stepping from my clogs.

"Well, if you'd wear SENSIBLE shoes..."

"I don't OWN sensible shoes! It's part of my charm," I snap.

A passing couple is amused.


Up, up, up: the clouds turn to sea, dappled grey rippling, topped with fluffy foam.


Pittsburgh spreads itself beneath me, a glittering smear of jeweled splendour. Eyes flash open, and below, there is suddenly nothing to see. But above, ah! The sky is a black bowl with the shine of Heaven pricking through.


You've been light for me, and lifeline. How could I not love you, and miss you already?


Another extended airport wait for someone I am anxious to see, and then I am enfolded in the safest embrace of all.

Welcome home, yes indeed.

13 May, 2004


...take these broken wings and learn to fly/all your life/you were only waiting for this moment to arrive....

We return to the office all disheveled, I, drenched in sweat and grinning, with grass on my clothes and hair, Steve wearing a self-satisfied smirk.

My hands and arms are naked. He insisted I remove my jewelry. My whole body aches, in a good way. I'll be sore in the morning.

We've been flying.

Well, I have. He stood on the ground and took pictures.

He brought me to the High Flyers Club, where I was welcomed, instructed, and "let off."

Thirty feet in the air, triumphantly shrieking at the top of my lungs, flying by my knees, upside down in a split arched within inches of whiplash, falling, falling, falling, somersaulting off the edge of the net to stagger and collapse in worshipful gratitude at Steven's feet.

He puts the empty translucent bronze skin of a cicada in my hair.

My hands are blistered. I have bruises on the backs of my knees. My ribcage feels shattered. I don't care. I haven't had this much fun with my body since MotionFest.

If joy has movement, this is it.

Trapeze. Trapeze! TRAPEZE!

12 May, 2004

Drunk in Indiana

...she's a killer queen/gunpowder gelatine/dynamite with a laser beam/guaranteed to blow your mind/anytime....

Rabbit and I regard one another. He raced out to ten yards of where I sit, froze, staring, nose pointed at me, eyes on either side, so he couldn't see me well. He turns, his round brown eye gazing at every twitch and scratch I make in the moist and insect-ladden evening. Both of us still, we wait, standoff in the green green clover grass, sound of mower music from a neighboring yard. I wonder which of us will break first.


Lisa makes margaritas, and before I've finished, daiquiris. Mmmmm.

"The sirens will stir them all up. You should be able to hear them now."

Coyotes. Steven. Stars.



"Is that Jupiter?"

"I think so. We'll know for sure in a minute."

A few minutes...

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"It looks like you're looking through that telescope-y thingy at that bright shiny thing in the sky."

"Riiiiiiiiiiight. You're SO smart."


The sky whirls around me, stars making me dizzy, dizzy. There's the Big Dipper. I look for the Southern Constellations.

"Okay. Now, you should be able to see three of the moons."

I could only see two: think they were Callisto and Ganymede. Can I look at the sky without looking for Jupiter? Kidding, right? And remembering the names of the moons is now second nature. My thanks to the friend who taught them to me. You are with me whenever I see the night sky.


Well, wouldja look at this. It's Wednesday AGAIN, canya believe it?

So guess what time it is.

Yep, time for the Political Animal.

And for The Pain.

(I don't have the link today, because I'm drunk, but goddamn it, go to Amazon and buy his book.)

And time for you to exercise your Free Will.

11 May, 2004

Sundrenched Days, Liquor Soaked Nights

...she comes in colors in the air, oh everywhere, she's like a rainbow...

We get into the car. I stretch, toss my braid over the seatback as I unroll the window. Steve jerks his eyes to me in that quick way of his.

"You can let your hair down now."

My braid is half undone before his sentence is complete. Warm breeze streams through the window, twisting tangles into the mane in question. I slide into my sunglasses and out of my sandals, squirm into sighing comfort in the bucket seat.


Gossamer mist floats on the meadow like the silver cloak of fairies. Silence shushed me to sleep and birds sing me awake. A distant buzz of cow voices punctuates the quiet. Yipping howls indicate coyotes. I have never before heard coyotes.

I was startled awake hours earlier by a glorious glowing eye peering in the open window. When I woke again, it was gone, replaced by a glimmering horizon. I sleep again, undone by a long day topped with sushi and strawberry daiquiris, marinated in the effervescence of jacuzzi water.

Lisa's delicious soap awaits me in the shower.

10 May, 2004

Journey to Home

...driving me to the airport/and to the Friendly Skies...

Barefoot in the airport, I feel fuzzy carpet, ridged metal, cool tile against my soles. Asked to remove my shoes at Security, I carry them to the far off gate, making momentary friends along the way. Stop to shop where something smells wonderful. The fragrance with the fabulous name has also a seductive scent, and joins me on my journey.


Melvin, charming as he checks my bag and battered box of broken computer, starts my voyage well with a quip and a welcoming smile. A man who reminds me of my friend the Maroone stands at the podium near the gate and tells me I'm all set to board.

"You mean, I didn't need to see you?"

"No, you didn't."

"But I enjoyed it."

And he smiled. His name tag calls him Kyle.

"Do I have time for a beer?"


"You have PLENTY of time," the woman beside him at the podium assures me. Hoping not to miss my flight over a five dollar Sam Adams, I lubricate myself for liftoff.


Leap, leap, LEAP....Yes! The plane is in the air, surprisingly without disaster. Cars in parking lots turn to tiny twinkling toys. Over tract housing now, ball fields, warehouses, junkyards. I realize I don't know where I am.

I don't know where I am.

But gods, the clouds are gorgeous from this angle.


Descent is a bumpy stumble down a lumpy slope. Trees rise up to meet me, tiny streams that feed the snaking silver rivers of Pittsburgh wink and glitter in between.


A flight attendant with high beehive hair, quarter sized rhinestone studs and Vegas showgirl false lashes greets me as I board the crowded craft for Indy. I've seen women that look like her before, but they were men. Perhaps she is, too.

A dispute over seating assignments leads me from the front of the plane where I would have been trapped between middle aged businessment(one of them overly eager to have me there) to the last row on the ship, which is vacant. Once again, I score a row to myself, and a window.

After tense moments of actively engaging Faith, the world falls away again. Being that it's Pennsylvania, there's little to see but trees. The soothing whoosh of engine goes a long way to drowning out the incessant clacking of the Upwardly Mobile women in front of me.

The drink cart comes around. My beer is on the house...er, plane.

"Because you were so patient about the seating snafu," explains the Waitress In The Sky.



Descent into Indy. A Chicklet shaped building with a quilted top appears to be a stadium. I wonder if this is where the Baltimore- EXCUSE me, IndiaNAPolois- Colts play. A blue trailer with a white horseshoe says that it is.

Against the runway, I watch the shadow of the ship, complete with extended landing gear, stretch to meet its material counterpart.


The Apostle calls, checking on me, asking if I've spoken to the man. Yes. No. Nothing's changed. We'll see. I give him my love, and something else, though there's no knowing what that was. He always gets what he needs from me, whether I'm conscious of having given it or not.


I'm glad Steve is driving. He can't object, or, for that matter, notice, that I am staring, staring at his beautiful, beloved face.

I am not home. I am not visiting. I am not family, nor am I friend. I have no idea what I am, or where, though I am happy to be here.

I can live on the edge of everything.

09 May, 2004

Edge and Center

....how long 'til my soul gets it right/can any human being ever reach that perfect light...

Today I head for the first time in fifteen years to the Lovely Landlocked Land of Indiana, home of my conflicted childhood. Here on the crime-ridden frightening East Coast, I have never had a knife held to my throat on the schoolbus. Don't talk to me about the Mild Midwest; I won't believe you.

Yesterday, I cross the bay, gaping at the sparkle of water, the rush of a young egret across a shallow inlet, the soar of a sea hawk, the expanse of farmland that reminds me of the fields of Indiana.

Lined up like gravestones, one after another, derelict farm implements, each more ancient than the next, stand in neat rows. There may as well be a sign reading Rust Home For Retired Tractors.

There IS a sign. It says Registered Holsteins.

I did not know you needed a permit to carry a cow.

City girl.

08 May, 2004

Positive Outlook

....I feel good in a special way/I'm in love and it's a sunny day/ Good day, Sunshine....

It's cooler today than yesterday, but as yesterday was so perfect, I would be embarrassed to complain.

I took the yellow bikini out for a test dive at Lisa's. No, no- only the children were brave enough to go in the pool. I contented myself with basking, basted in the first sweet summer sweat. I am so fond of this group of women, even though they are trying to tag me with a Bipolar label. Hah, it won't stick. True, I have very little truck with equilibrium, but I rarely get anything worthwhile out of even keel emotions. I'd go so far as to say Never, but I hate to box myself in.

The phone call I hoped for came, and I am encouraged and optimistic. The day was productive, and ends with a performance of a world premier musical, Songs For My Daughter. Though it's verboten to review a show, any show, on Opening Night, and especially one that's brand new, I have ignored rigid stifling standards, broken with tradition and plowed full stream ahead. (These trite expressions, they're a bit like donuts, aren't they? You get started and have trouble stopping, even thought you know they're empty and stale. Adkins for writing: just the meat.)

So here's the review, which I may submit somewhere or other, if I can find anyone who's interested.

Musical Artists Theatre presents Songs For My Daughter at the Chesapeake Arts Center.

While it is hardly fair to review a world premier show on its opening night, Musical Artists Theatre's newest offering, Songs For My Daughter, is equal to the challenge.

Veteran playwright Michael Hulett wrote and directed this multi-layered, evocative show, which is two hours of intrigue and delight. The cast members are obviously dedicated to the production, and their levels of commitment make their performances shine. Peggy Dorsey does a remarkably subtle job of portraying Amy, the main character, the daughter in question. Jose de la Mar has wonderful timing as Amy's lover, TJ- though this relationship is underplayed- and gets all the laughs in the show. Ruth Hulett, as Kim, has a voice that would break the hearts of angels. The supporting cast members, in ensemble roles, are to be commended for their versatility.

The set is as wonderful as you can imagine, because you have to. There is none. Two platforms, the actions of the cast and some clever sound work create all the scenery for this show.

Action moves fluidly between present and past as Amy embarks on a search for her absentee mother after finding a cassette filled with songs of love. The characters are well-developed and believable. The recorded music, arranged and performed by Tim King and Jason Brown, provides a satisfyingly full sound, blending well with Ms. Hulett's live guitar.

A few if the fifteen musical numbers seem contrived or too long, and the introduction of a new character towards the end of the second act is confusing rather than illuminating. The ending is a bit abrupt, coming as it does on the heels of a couple of teajerking songs without proper denouement, but I was too busy groping for a tissue for that to matter very much.

This show should resonate with people of a certain age (can we say ex-hippies?) as well as strike a chord with anyone who has ever loved and made a sacrifice for a child.

Songs For My Daughter plays at the Chesapeake Arts Center's Studio Theater weekends through May 23rd.

07 May, 2004

Moments of Joyful

...it makes me proud, so proud of you/I see innocence shining through...

Yesterday was a dull and lifeless bowl of limp lettuce, punctuated by bits of deliciousness.

The lettuce represented my attitude, which was poor, though it had no reason to be so.

The weather is fine, fine. Unfortunately, I must spend it indoors, teaching most all of the day. However, the classes begin well, and then my mind is forever altered by an incident with a fifteen year old boy.

Before I fetch my children for our final theater class, I use a computer at the Center to generate a sample column and a cover letter. (My computer having stopped working without warning, I'm in the process of finding a solution that won't require me selling my soul or body.) When I emerge with the documents, I find BuddahPat hanging around in the office, chatting with the staff. He holds me long and hard- we've missed each other more than we knew. He promises dinner soon, soon, and we make a date for p.'s Opening Night, which is now tonight.

I drop the cover letter and sample column to a sweet faced editor at the oldest newspaper in the state, and she promises to call within 24 hours.

The little play we do for the parents of my Young Actors On Stage class goes very well, except for the bit about saying goodbye to my students. I get a little teary, as do some of the parents, which is sweet.

"I've never seen my mom hug anyone other than my grandma," Nicole says. I feel a clench in my chest, knowing that S. has become as fond of me as I have of her.

After a brief run home and a tasty encounter with an avacado, back I go to the Center for a meeting. The meeting is dull and painfully prolonged by bombasticity, but I survive. As I drive away, I notice Sergei and many lovely young ladies all in and around an odd, trailer-like structure. I wonder what it is, as I smile and wave back to Sergei. Perhaps I'll ask D. in the morning. Or perhaps not. A mystery is always so delicious.

06 May, 2004

Can't Take Rejection

...don't tell me no, don't tell me no, don't tell me, I don't want to know....

I don't take rejection well.

Why should I have to? That Girl expects (and rightly so; have you SEEN her?) that any wish she may have now or at any time in the future will be immediately and enthusiastically met with YES.

I expect Yes pretty often myself, with mumble mumble more years of mileage on me. And often get it.

But not this time, oh, no.

So if anyone would like to alleviate my yawing sense of worthlessness, please go and grace with some of your iron-rich hemoglobin your nearest Red Cross Donor Center.

The standard is thirty-eight whatevers. I came in at thirty five, and walked away as crushed as the bag of cookies the sympathetic volunteers apologetically pressed upon me.

Do let me know if you donate.

Red and Blue

...sometimes I wish that I could STOP you from talking when I hear the silly things that you say....

She doesn't answer. And who else am I to call at eleven PM when I'm low? That Girl needs to hurry up and graduate so she can come relieve my lonely nights. It's going to be another prowler, I can tell.


"I'd rather have coffee than breakfast," he says.

It's startling that he speaks thoughts straight from my head, complete with phrasing and intonation. Not the first time, nor the last, I suspect.

"How are you?" he asks. Which is extremely nice, considering.

(It was the wrist slashing ledge jumping point of heartbreak line, wasn't it? That was figurative. Well, mostly.)

How am I?

Uneasy. Awkward. Tentative

All unfamiliar territorry.

This should be entertaining.

At least.


The weather threatened to be less than gorgeous but at the last relented, consenting to be Nearly Perfect. Alaina asks to stay out while I cook. "I want to feel the beawtiful weather," she says, tipping her face towards the sun, arms spread wide.

Go, little goddess. Be embraced by the goodness of the Universe.


The red underthings, sadly, do more to boost my bustline than my spirits.

05 May, 2004

Sunny On The Outside

...will you stand by me against the cold night/or are you afraid of the ice...

The stark silver eye of moon gazed at me from shimmery darkness last night. I wondered if anyone far from my side but close to my heart was standing under the moon with me.


"So, would you ever cheat on him?"

"I don't think so."

"You don't THINK so? What the hell does THAT mean?"

"Well, what's he been doing? How drunk am I? Is Sean Connery in the room?"


It's Wednesday again, in case anyone's counting. Go visit my friends at CityPaper.

Here's your astrology link.

Here's your brainy-socio-political-topical punditry link.

And here's your hysterically funny and possibly way over your head comic link.

(Actually, only two of them are my friends. But I imagine Rob Brezsny would like to be, if he knew about me.)

Can I mention Tim's book again, or is that overkill?

Cinco de Mayo

....who's joining me for a Mexican beer?

WITH lime, of course.

I'd say tequila, but I get stinkin' ass drunk on one shot of tequila.

04 May, 2004

The Pendulum Swings

...however far away, I will always love you/however long I stay, I will always love you...

The Apostle calls, intrigued by the cryptic message that I needed to hear his voice.

I seek comfort, reassurance. Instead, he confirms my darkest deeply held secret belief. Damn.

"That's what I think, too," I sob into the phone.

"You need to tell him."

I did, the last time I got to this wrist slashing ledge jumping point of heartbreak. He justified his position, and made promises. I backed off mine and despaired. And nothing changed.

He promises to call tomorrow night, as his flight to Kuwaite? - (he said, I don't remember)- is being called. Maybe he even will.

Today the sun in its brilliance fooled me into putting on A Little Nothing straight out of the shower. After taking out the garbage and the dog, I realized it was a bright face on a cold fish.

At least it's not raining.

Update: Black thong with white stitching, showing off my toenails, painted to match the stone in my toe ring.

(Yes, it's my shoes again. Though I did have to put on underwear when I realized the Little Nothing wasn't going to work today. Okay, lace hipsters, already. Jeeez.)

Go visit Diablo Cody today. Fuck, that girl's funny. Her rockin' fiancee Jonny is also a hoot. Just go, I tell you.

03 May, 2004

Grey Day Full Of Glory

....red rain is pouring down, pouring down all over me.....

Ah! Rock Star Parking....and it's free! I run in, grab the envelope, run out. At the door, stop to kick off, pick up my shoes, to feel the cool wet brick of Annapolis beneath my naked soles. A happily placed puddle provides opportunity for hop and splash, wetting the hem of my dress.

The Post Office eludes me, playing hide and seek on Ritchie Highway. Just as I spot a mail truck, determine to follow it to its home, the phone rings.

"Helllooooo. It's..."

"Oh, hi, how are you?"

He hasn't called me in over a month. For ANYTHING.

"I have a question."

"For you, the answer is Yes. The answer is always Yes."

Sadly, he is not nonplussed. He knows me well enough to ignore me, to be immune. He has called, my Reluctant Prince, to tell me about a notice for a job he thinks I'd like.

"Since you fancy yourself a writer," he says.

"How sweet of you to think of me," I say.

"Yeah, don't tell anyone."

"I promise not to blow your cover."

Do I thank him?

Of course I do.

Do I say I love him?

Not this time.

But I hope he hears it anyway.

The mail truck has led me to its Leader, its Junction, its Depot. I park a sizeable steady walk from the door, and with my box of bulk, Indian step to the bright of inside, from the cool blessing of wet heaven on my skin.

Grey Monday

"Only those who risk going too far ever find out how far they can go." T.S. Eliot

This is my friend Steven.

Who has this to brag about.

Grace and Geek collide.

02 May, 2004

Posting While Drunk

(akin to Writing While Naked, but different)

"It's been good to walk with you to our cars. You be careful."

"Yes, you drive safe, too, Babe."
If someone has told me her name, I've forgotten it. She doesn't seem to mind me calling her Babe. She walks as though a steel bar holds her hips apart, legs operating on independant parallel planes. I employ my usual Indian step, one foot in front of the other, the one I learned when I learned to walk again. It keeps me slow and deliberate.
I have found that dashing at a half-run through wet streets in Bondage Sandals is not only ill-advised, but impossible. I employ my Indian step, the one that makes Coco say "you look like you're walking an invisible tightwire." And she puts the word "fucking" in there someplace, but I'm not sure of the placement, so I'll leave it out.
I flirt with B. R., (who M.A., a woman I've been crushing on for a week, says is a horny old bastard, and I said, that explains while I like him) and he doesn't much like it when I guess too close to his year of birth. Fourty seven, six, five. Somewhere around there. I help Bev clean up. She sends her love to my "precious jewels."

[Few understand how proud I am of my youngest, who after two lessons, is stilting independantly. Forget multiplication, spelling, civics. Walk stilts. Wear makeup. Bring joy. Go, baby, go.]

I stay longer than I intend, as the rain is heavy and I as usual have forgotten the existance of umbrellas.
The readings of the plays are tolerable, even amusing, though all the actors seem to duplicate themselves under the influence of two glasses of wine that I knock back fast before going into the theater. I sit next to Mr. Showbiz, who loves me, and watch McGraw, who loves me, and in front of K., who at least likes me- she hugged me when I came in, or perhaps she was just happy to see that I'd brought food for the Kickoff party. The rest of the room is polite, though I know I've accidentally sown the seeds of acrimony. I do that a lot, it seems.

--------------------- --------------------- ------------------------

I sling myself through narrow slickered streets of Fells Point (I feel a poem brewing), grooving on warm summer rain. I like the feel of it as it wets my skin. The trick is to get wet enough to feel delicious, but not so wet that my clothing becomes a sodden mass of shivermaker.

meditate in my direction/feel your way

Oh, Steven- I love being your whore, pal. I just wrote my favorite line of the whole damn project.

And I probably ripped it off from someone, anyway.

"More is more, man. Bring it on."

Crash- Crash- Crash- (Watch For Falling Woman)

...say hello, goodbye/Say hello, then wave goodbye...

The tricky bit of standing on the tip of possibility is being as prepared for falling into the gorge as bursting into flight, or flames.

There are those that find my level of intensity intimidating. I've been accused of having only two speeds, overdrive and reverse. I pointed out that reverse isn't a speed, it's a direction. Well, the guy's a lawyer, not an English major, so his blunder is forgiven. I guess I only have one speed. It works for me. Life is short.

I know better than to believe whatever timetable he tells me, because situations change so quickly, it's an exercize in futility. Still, I was worried by the delay. Sleep was a hairy animal that I failed to catch.

" ...load from hell...regulator a little loose, but not too bad....looked at my compressor... shot all over the place...'Open the goddamn valve!'....latex oozing all over the crash box...Coval, to be exact...."

I have no idea what he's saying. Just that it was bad.

Brown strands shot with silver tangle in my fingers.

"It feels good to have you play with my hair."

Yeah. Mine sulks in its repressed twist.

He takes such GOOD care of me, cuddles and pets me, just as he does the children and the dogs.


Spongelike, my skin is attuned to, absobent of every little thing. 80*F and sunny is perfect Naked Weather. Insulated as I've been against the frigid bite of winter, my skin is starved for the touch of mist, sun, wind, rain, sand grass fingertips concrete leaves dirt lips.

I tug the knot in the cloth that serves as garment, letting it float to the ground, where I spread it flat and lie facedown in the collection of strings I call bikini. Face pressed against the fabric, through its weave I smell the sweet scent of spring grass.

Sun is a warm waterfall along my thighs, waist, shoulders. Could I be happier? Yes. But not at THIS moment.

I never put on underwear AT ALL yesterday. Swimsuit, start to finish. Come on, tan lines!

01 May, 2004

Trivial Pointlessness

...they showed me a world where I could be so dependable/clinical, oh intellectual, cynical...

I always wash it when I'm done.

You do not.

Yes I do.

No you don't.









People are always bringing me kitchen implements, which I, spineless, keep. My sister, especially, partly to have tools at her disposal when she cooks at my house. Sorry, babe, still not fixing the oven for ya. It broke sometime last summer, I think. I haven't missed it.

This item, though, I brought upon myself. Well, sort of. I brought one home, he liked it, I melted it in the dishwasher. (Accident! honest!) He insisted on replacing it. We'll call it a chopper, because, in fact, it IS a chopper

(A friend referred to a "food processor." "That looks like a blender," I said. "Is there a difference?" Maybe not. But since I can't imagine making Margaritas in a food processor or coleslaw in a blender- call me narrow minded- I think there might be. I'm not happy about having both, but I can't decide which to unload. Spineless, I tell ya. Don't even get me started on the juicer. Love the juice, hate the juicer. Sorry again, babe.)

Anyway, he loves it, I hate it. Never use it, or the colander, because I hate to wash either of them. I say he never washes it; he says he always does. The truth is somewhere between, though not EXACTLY in the middle. It's much closer to MY side.

I approach the sink. He's cooked spaghetti, meat sauce, garlic bread, the works. In his fashion, he's used every pot-plate-bowl-teacup-spoon-knife-strainer-eggbeater (?). But there, lying in its many pieces on the drainboard, is....the chopper.

It's the only thing he washed...but he did wash it.

This time




What people I don't know are up to:

EuroTrash is afraid of being electrocuted while walking in NYC.

Orson Scott Card is directing Fiddler On The Roof in May, and teaching a Writing Workshop in June. Along with a bunch of other stuff.

Jim took a trip across the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, which looks like one Radical Monster, and I am HOT to see it for myself.

Kev at TJ's Place talks about Naked:

No one in an office gets excited when the guy in the next cubicle gets up to make a presentation. And that's what I meant, originally, when I said this is for everyone who thinks managing a blah-blah-blah would be the blah-blah-blah. I see the house dancers naked more often, I think, than most married people see their spouses naked, unless they really swing, or are nudists. The house dancers stand in the DJ booth naked, they bitch at me because I fucked up their schedule naked, they order food at my desk naked, they use my phone naked, they come in the office and tell me the toilet has backed up naked, they sit across my desk and cry because their boyfriend is an abusive asshole naked. Remember the Seinfeld episode where Jerry has the girlfriend who is always naked? I can't look anymore! I've seen too much! I know every mole, every scar, every birthmark, every nipple, I know if a dancer has put on 5 pounds.

Malcolm Gladwell has (alas!) no news on the book he was supposedly working on THREE YEARS AGO, but a re-read of his Naked Face article was once again revealing.


Diablo Cody has an eye-popping revamp of her site. Whatta babe.