...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.
04 May, 2004
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.
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
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.
"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.
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!
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.
Do.
Don't
Do.
Nuh-uh.
Yuh-huh.
Nuh-uh.
Yuh-huh.
Nyyyyyaaaaaaahhhhh!
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
(Yuh-huh.
Nyyyaaaaahhhh.)
***************************************
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.
and
Diablo Cody has an eye-popping revamp of her site. Whatta babe.
I always wash it when I'm done.
You do not.
Yes I do.
No you don't.
Do.
Don't
Do.
Nuh-uh.
Yuh-huh.
Nuh-uh.
Yuh-huh.
Nyyyyyaaaaaaahhhhh!
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
(Yuh-huh.
Nyyyaaaaahhhh.)
***************************************
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.
and
Diablo Cody has an eye-popping revamp of her site. Whatta babe.