...it's a mystery, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in bacon...mmmmmmm....
I finally cut my hand today. I'd been expecting it, having been uneasy all this summer with knives and fruit, as I was uneasy last autumn with heights. Like my tumble, the cut came unexpectedly, involving a cantaloupe rather than a mango. I can relax around mangos now.
I go to New Orleans expecting to have my heart ripped out, torn up and handed back, and was not disappointed. Additional trauma on my return seems appropriate.
"You're going to be jealous," That Girl taunts me.
I often am. Why now?
"Guess who I was hanging with?"
Other than Spence and John? Do tell.
"I was with Hilby!"
Get out! Hilby.
Who sends regards from Martin, known by many as Lurk, referred to sneeringly as "the stiltwalker" by one, as "the Kiwi" by others; Martin who left a hole in my heart when he exited after a mere two weekends in my home.
It seems likely that I may have Hilby, Martin, and John as guests in my home ALL AT ONCE. "Dippy eggs" for John, "Whatever you've made" for Martin, and Muselix and soymilk- which he has brought- for Hilby. When I say, "I'll make breakfast," it doesn't mean "come home and fuck me; I'll cook for you in the morning."
It means, I'll make breakfast for you.
Forever and forever I had no one at all. Now, I have a family, a Tribe AND a Village. Proof of deity.
Consider the erotic possibilities of fruit and flowers. Roses and strawberries are not overdone when employed with imagination and nakedness.
I drive with a bottle of ice snugged between my thighs. It's a primitive form of coolant, but the only one I've got. The Manhattan-sized Buick was a pain in the ass to park, but it did have air conditioning. I prop one foot against the side-view mirror, ease into lounge, gripping the bottom of the steering wheel. The truckers will talk.
"Hey," says the kid selling popcorn "You get out to the site much?" His name tag bills him as "Daniel" and he gestures to Hawk's minted coin medallion.
"Sure. She works there," Hawk answers, jerking his head in my direction.
Really? We explain, submitting to the usual goggling half-disbelief of non-recognition. He describes himself as Trash Rat, a monniker he wears with pride.
"Two months. Can't wait." He grips clenched fists, gives a tight grin of anticipation.
Know what you mean, kiddo.
Because it's the Spy Museum, even the bathrooms are cool. Because it's the Spy Museum, even the music in the bathrooms is cool.