...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."
Now:
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.
31 May, 2004
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....
Morning:
Sweetpea. Hawk. Fluffy. Mark. A movie.
Mall zombies, glassy vacant stares. I gotta get out of here.
Afternoon:
Adam. Coco. Tammy.
"I want to see your yellow polka-dot bikini."
"Tomorrow, Tammy. Promise."
Evening:
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.)
Morning:
Sweetpea. Hawk. Fluffy. Mark. A movie.
Mall zombies, glassy vacant stares. I gotta get out of here.
Afternoon:
Adam. Coco. Tammy.
"I want to see your yellow polka-dot bikini."
"Tomorrow, Tammy. Promise."
Evening:
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.)
****************************************
Compare:
(frustrating)
"I dunno, what's the weather like?"
and
"Well, it will be cold in the theater, so pants, I guess. If you want."
To:
(helpful)
"Red or black?"
"Black."
(Discard Option 1)
"Long or short?"
"Long."
(Discard Option 2)
"Sleeves or sleeveless?"
"Sleeveless."
(Discard Option 3)
Shoes, naturally, had already been discussed.
Leaving me now only to select jewelry and undergarments.
If I bother.
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.)
****************************************
Compare:
(frustrating)
"I dunno, what's the weather like?"
and
"Well, it will be cold in the theater, so pants, I guess. If you want."
To:
(helpful)
"Red or black?"
"Black."
(Discard Option 1)
"Long or short?"
"Long."
(Discard Option 2)
"Sleeves or sleeveless?"
"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.
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.
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.)
#6
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?"
#7
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....
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.)
#6
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?"
#7
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...
Afternoon:
"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.)
Night:
"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.)
Morning:
"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.)
Afternoon:
"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.)
Night:
"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.)
Morning:
"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.)