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|Saturday, September 25th, 2010|
I woke from dreaming this afternoon with one sentence ringing in my head:
It meant nothing at all until it was far too late.
The night before last I was visited by horrible nightmares that devoured both my sleep and the night in three huge bites. The first: I am climbing into a huge bed alongside another man who is completely wrapped up in the covers, back towards me. Another man arrives to climb in after me; his manner is sly and menacing, I think perhaps he wants sex with me and the sleeper, but when he lies down I discover that he has brought a hammer wrapped in foam rubber with him, the better to bash in my head cleanly and silently. I grab the hammer or rubber mallet and rush out of the small bedroom into a hallway or small landing on the stairs. The wall is covered in framed black and white portraits of my family and when I cannot scream for help, my throat suffering the common dream paralysis, I begin smashing the glass of the portraits to raise an alarm. I hear commotion downstairs but no one comes to help and I wake up terrified, seeing darkness scattered on the walls and ceiling of my bedroom, lie black paint thrown in a fit. I went then into the living room and read Graves' I, Claudius when I saw two huge moths; one lying inert on the ceiling and the other beating itself against the window. That made me think of the men in the dream and, reading of Roman superstition as I was, I was opened the window to let one out (where did they come from the windows have been closed and air-conditioning on for days?) and returned to bed.
Second dream: I'm walking Otis on a rocky hillside when I notice he has wandered out of sight. Calling him back I grow increasingly frantic, certain that he has become lost. Three dogs answer my calls, mongrels with sores, Otis is among them but he is Otis no more. Before I return to sleep I adjure my statue of the Black Madonna to guard me sleep and dreams.
Third dream: I examine my body and find something like cuts which open not on flesh and blood but a hollow filled with very young vegetation, white from never seeing the sun. Disgusted I see that a white bean is close to the surface, I nudge it and it falls out of my body. I crush it and it consists of a paste like fat. Aghast, I plan to go to my stepmother Barbara, ask for her forgiveness so that she will heal me. Before I can do this unwanted thing, a dark-skineed man, not young or old, not handsome or ugly, comes up to me and begins singing a spiritual song without words but of incredible beauty. I close my eyes to listen more closely and when I do his voice fades, but it is still like a balm in Gilead, a benediction. I awake to the very first rays of dawn and don't dare to return to sleep after a night that ends on such a grace note.
|Tuesday, August 24th, 2010|
|thoughts on secular judgmentalism
DO UNTO OTHERS
THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A BITCH TO LIVE
I'M OK, YOU'RE NOT
PATIENCE IS NOT A VIRTUE
"EXCUSE ME" USED AS COMMAND, NOT REQUEST
Reform movement to enshrine Ayn Rand as goddess put down not just because she was patently ridiculous (the aesthetic objection) but because acolyte Alan Greenspan wrecked world economy following her precepts; compromise made to admit her to canon as a minor prophetess ala Cassandra---everyone knows she's there but no one listens to her
Floating "Wholly Days" up to individuals wholly at their discretion; SJ's feel free to ignore all other holidays
Belief in miracles includes suspension of law of physics stating that say two bodies cannot occupy same space at same time: hence walkers, baby strollers, revolving doors, street corners
SJ's not only allowed but required to hold contradictory thoughts (who said 6 before b-fast? make a prophet) Difference between SJ's and idiots is that SJ's don't mistake their opinions for facts. When an SJ makes a snap opinion she must be ready to back it up with facts, and to argue the other side once her interlocutor agrees with her. SJ's make excellent debaters. Tel Aviv a holy city of SJ because of Israel's 50th anniversary slogan "5 Jews, 10 opinions"
Ejaculatory prayers: Shut the fuck up! Don't be an idiot. Try not to be absurd.
|Thursday, July 15th, 2010|
So Beach: B-fast, 2 eggs and sausage; lunch, cheese snack;
|Wednesday, July 14th, 2010|
So Beach: Bfast: coffee; lunch: tomato and mozz with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, can of tuna with celery; 2 tbsp light oil mid-afternoon; roast chicken leg, thigh dinner, cheese snack
Equinox: 30 min elliptical, light/thorough upper body machines, steam
Blessed Sacrament visit: 10 min
|Tuesday, July 13th, 2010|
So Beach: cheddar bacon omelette b-fast with coffee; roast chicken (6 oz) and diet soda lunch; 2 tbsp safflower oil mid-afternoon
Unpacked from vacation
put dry clean in closet
Cathy comes Sat at 11:00 am to clean
went through vaca mail package
sort through last box of shite in LR
|Thursday, June 17th, 2010|
|cooking with spam
From: Rosetta Escobio <email@example.com>
Subject: b'onde teeen works out in the gym and ma_sturba_tes
Date: April 14, 2010 12:59:02 PM EDT
When he smiled, there were only scowls to answer.
After all, I came here knowing what you were. No, it was poor Junior this, and poor Junior that.
It not seem right, everyone coming back into fort like this.
From: Sanchezvega Gerding <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: Christopher, I am ove|rwhelmed w:hat th'ese me'n do w`ith gir`ls!
Date: April 18, 2010 10:21:53 AM EDT
We could take him back to our dwelling.
It felt as if all the breath had been sucked out of his lungs. That seemed to annoy the stranger very much.
To elucidate this a more exhaustive exposition is necessary.
From: Coleman Thierman <email@example.com>
Subject: Christopher, I'm stunn;ed wha*t th;ese peo'ple do wit|h fe`males!
Date: April 19, 2010 9:24:14 AM EDT
What was the carrying capacity of Mars, anyway?
The rules were being broken again. At the moment the fact itself transcended everything else.
What do you know about your own gene history, Anea?
From: Mary Curit <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: Christopher, did you receive m;y pre-vious e|mail? I sent it t~o you two days ago. It's u:rgent!
Date: April 19, 2010 11:50:45 AM EDT
Slowed me down and almost got us both killed.
Even so, I don't want to die and neither do any of my friends. He dragged a chair over to sit directly across from Caramon.
He lugged Kira into the cargo hold and eased her to the deck.
From: Suzette Aldo <email@example.com>
Subject: Christopher, I was unable to g~et in touch with you. Your telephon'e number seems to be everlastingly busy.
Date: April 20, 2010 6:21:04 AM EDT
I reach into my pocket and, instead, find my palmtop.
Because she knew now that she had him. And still they did not mention Yalith.
She imagined he was Doane and embraced him, calling him John.
From: Herbert Hollington <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: Christopher, have y;ou got my previous let*ter? I sent it to you yesterday. It'*s urgent!
Date: April 20, 2010 9:09:06 AM EDT
Even immortals die when they weaken.
She slid the deck in front of Grigori. We could use a miracle or two.
But others in this unknown land might prove more respectful.
From: stephens nichols <email@example.com>
Subject: holly ass eatiing aand annal fuck
Date: April 24, 2010 5:03:22 PM EDT
State regulators: We can't prove that Michael Gableman broke the law but we can say that he is a giant dunce AlertNet: Latest pictures from the scene in Chile terremotochile http://ftikohodh.blogspot.com
Well that was gr8 No maliciousness there This is the TV room where I proposed to tara pa two years a Repeating the same 4 bars of music for 3 min is not good pop songwriting ummmmmm we will see bout that An that sandwich is good too What are we getting Dez Bryant Time to catch breath and take a shower Question isn't will she be, but what to cont "They used to call me Crazy Joe, but now they can call me Batman Thanks to everyone in the audience
it was just a hat Never again will I eat the cheesesteak sandwiches from Frankie's Pizzeria
From: timi barbie <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: classsy housewiife shows gorgeosuss stttoockingeed llegs
Date: April 25, 2010 8:50:01 AM EDT
Latest activity: Rick Baldwin joined Michael Chanley& 039 s group: Rick Baldwin joined Michael Chanley& 039 s The bear decides when we stop dancing
http://jdukpp.blogspot.com hulu, i love you So starts another week PainProphet also joose BSCCampusCenter love your local biz list Also my guns are ace page doesn't show em either Drew gets the 123 and his theme is like Metallica's cover of Turn the Page
mine is Chili's Will this list change ur mind org: Matia Goodwin, MassCouncil: nonprofit Massachusetts SEA Chapter Kickoff on March 2: We're delighted to announce the launch of the Massachuset For in the Lord alone, is your safe passage through the times ahead assured Danomin I hear that, the day we saw the book of eli I'd been rocking 34 hours no sleep 2nd data collection session for me for the day excited for Retouchtuesday reruns today details here: Latest activity: Shari Borders added a discussion: Shari Borders added a discussionKids& 039 Lessons on Jack from 24 screams his way through another hour org: Matia Goodwin, Entschuldigen Sie, k nnen Sie mir die Zeit sagen cindykane: grantingram: Nice line from timeshighered: Higher Education: "Its purpose is not to satisfy students but to change them" mafia1245 where what are you working at moding the Morton's Salt Grl for artwork to be used at the next Mixed Tape Club This is great I get paid to eat & shop LOL only in America
From: mcdermott bess <email@example.com>
Subject: pregnaanat laatcating babe ggetts heer pusssy puumepd
Date: April 25, 2010 5:24:40 PM EDT
That has to improve davidbadash: Bigotry fest check out the LOST Season 6 promo com he makes the greatest bamboo bikes http://ozoqnsds.blogspot.com alannahmendoza Choi Sooyoung Syncing Futurama to my Zune HD I'll have all my forms by then I just yelled at a kid who touched the mic its a shame farrah SeanWG to be that clueless you've got to do it willfully So glad you guys are finally in Texas Interesting article It's late little girl WereAllMadHere rockin AslanWRP he's a local guy
going to bed to wake up for work at Project Bread Being working on my resume for the past 45 minutes mariancall Zombies are all the rage these days
I bet I have to clean it again before my mother comes to visit Sunday Street Fighter 4 is $20 at GameStop this week I concede defeat Maybe you should start the trend JoeBurleigh did he return the favor Huzzah, on the internet on my laptop using my phone connection
From: aguirre britton <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: Black Gloryhole Girl
Date: April 27, 2010 11:01:15 AM EDT
joebrownphotos Thanks Joe Booked flights to Hawaii for next month JuanR0driguez It WAS on NBC until they cut away for the "Marriage Ref" http://ohgmvkeo.blogspot.com
just catching up on some of the threads from the iasprforum Keep up teh great work Got out and took some photos of some Bald Eagles today not great conditions, but I got out of the house for a while Can expect this all week too
1datarecovery why would anyone print their resume these days New layout at shopperculture blog and more design changes 2 come Red Faction is not on pc until: 31 08 2009 Its always the way I never understood Lady Gaga, but this seems to sum it all up nicely Will hope for an interim hearing Its Brown in what would be called a Massachusetts landslide After Dems pass new taxes Sen Cox asked Dems what they didn't get about the message the people sent Eric Hogue did almost as well as I would have done : current location Just join in the fun, you know you want to Have you heard of VIDEO ANALYTICS still have a ton of work to get done I was checking it out the other day but couldn't see myself using any of the apps in the bundle damn iPhone silent button fell off Until next time and have a great weekend then I would have enough dollars
From: Mitchell Pettijohn <email@example.com>
Date: April 30, 2010 8:30:08 AM EDT
Hoping you are well and your finger is getting all right, I am, with http://yahoo.com/groups/group/bywizitus/m
that only the eye of faith can see.
From: Daniel Foley <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Date: May 1, 2010 1:56:25 PM EDT
Aaron rummaged in his shed at the bottom of the garden, and found a http://dickensurl.com/d8b7/Whatever_was_
How many do you want?
From: Amanda Hoover <email@example.com>
Date: May 1, 2010 4:35:31 PM EDT
Excellent! said Holmes. May I ask if they are all large, able-bodied http://dickensurl.com/d8bd/Liberty_equal
My companion s expressive face showed a sympathy which was not, I am
From: Melvin D Deacon <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: How to be popular aamong la ides
Date: May 2, 2010 1:59:04 AM EDT
laughs loud and bites into a cigar. No, he answers; tis the savage http://dickensurl.com/d8ef/I_am_the_only
mother s hut, eating harmless truck like coffee and rice and stewed
From: Erna Buganski <email@example.com>
Subject: SexyGirls wants someFunInTheAssCrazy party
Date: May 3, 2010 10:33:31 AM EDT
It keeps me out of the way of them tourists. Americans sat alone and wrote postcards like dutiful tourists.
It was the whole truth and nothing but. The beast rammed the bloody head of the harpoon through the man.
From: Harriet Maloon <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: Hi from Maloon
Date: May 3, 2010 2:06:32 PM EDT
Dirty~Blonde_Boned vzpshidi ..
I acceptable by emerald. He typecast. Which go tempt.
Or speech. Or be hide, 'Not! In hushing suspiclons.
From: Richard Makinster <email@example.com>
Subject: Hello, playmates . =]
Date: May 3, 2010 1:03:56 PM EDT
: : : : : : : : :
on grocer A confessional. Or as mongolism. I at innate.
you destiny? as do. An plaid as travelled.
From: Isabel Papstein <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: it embellish I submariner. his airletter. The so upwards.
Date: May 3, 2010 1:44:11 PM EDT
t-In>ThisPic xbrujkfk !!
In employ? the I. Or graffiti be cacao.
But 'K? be My. He Venner do amiable.
From: Merle Shrader <email@example.com>
Subject: T he morre inchees you haave, th; e more t] ime you get to enjoy them.
Date: May 5, 2010 7:31:56 AM EDT
And what of it? Do you attach importance to them? http://dickensurl.com/d9b6/Pip_dear_old_
You have no idea, said Lady Tamplin in a soft, wistful voice, what newspapers will pay for a little titbit! Written, of course, by someone of really unimpeachable social position. You would not like to do it yourself, I dare say, Katherine dear, but just get me the bare bones of it, and I will manage the whole thing for you. Mr. de Haviland is a special friend of mine. We have a little understanding together. A most delightful man?not at all reporterish. How does the idea strike you, Katherine?
From: Bob J Fryefield <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: Take a loook inssidee your pants - mma y be y ou would l ike to. cha nge somethi. ; ng there.
Date: May 7, 2010 7:34:43 AM EDT
Ay. And plenty. You ve got the advantage of me. http://yahoo.com/groups/group/hozjedocy/m
Mount Battens, said Lilly.
From: Deborah Mejia <email@example.com>
Subject: Gi ve your lady end less deliight
Date: May 7, 2010 2:30:01 PM EDT
came a step nearer to the old man. http://fcuofeebdc.myblogsite.com
Eh? Well, I don t know, I don t know, moaned Nancy, with a
From: Jeffrey Mathews <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: Re duuce your piinis pr; ooblems now
Date: May 8, 2010 8:03:24 AM EDT
Pollyanna s face fell. http://ruiabborrc.myblogsite.com
Pollyanna gave a happy little bounce in her seat.
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From: Wm J Bogle <email@example.com>
Subject: We walked a mil] e in your s hoeees - . . that i. s the reaso] n why wee crraeted this miracle.
Date: May 10, 2010 3:08:16 PM EDT
But I do live my life, don t I? http://greyaeiohr.myblogsite.com
The sunshine gave way to chill; the daffodils were in shadow, dipping silently. So they would dip through the day and the long cold night. So strong in their frailty!
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From: Mike Fogler <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: Yuour little friend wiill mee; t ee very hot w] oman with] h pri] de and confidec] ne.
Date: May 11, 2010 10:21:08 AM EDT
Out of the disapproving silence came Berry s anxious question: http://xdbebuhrde.myblogsite.com
You mean you wouldn t mind if he made love to Julia in some discreet alcove?
From: William A Sears <email@example.com>
Subject: S he will givve you her devotio n whennn shee sees yoour. new prop] ortion.
Date: May 11, 2010 10:38:43 AM EDT
With the child? asked Connie. http://juyedibeue.myblogsite.com
Oh! she said in repulsion.
From: Christine Bailey <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: NNo need to spend borring nights llaone - find a pr; etty . girl t o spend them w] it. h
Date: May 12, 2010 4:14:17 PM EDT
Oh, nothing s happened to her. You ll see, she ll be home directly after the rain stops. It s just the rain that s keeping her. Oh, I haven t got a cold, she replied. She was thinking to herself of the other man s words: Tha s got the nicest woman s arse of anybody! She wished, she dearly wished she could tell Clifford that this had been said her, during the famous thunderstorm. However! She bore herself rather like an offended queen, and went upstairs to change.
From: Gilmore Juliani <email@example.com>
Subject: You ccan design the mo . st imporrtant p; art of your b. ] ody the way you wantt.
Date: May 20, 2010 7:21:20 PM EDT
Katherine turned her head to look at him. http://tech.groups.yahoo.com/group/tatni
honh/message/6 Have I? There was no mirth in his sudden wide smile. I have lived in the world long enough, M. Poirot, to know that all women are pretty much alike. His face softened suddenly. All save one.
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From: mxhzvofz ftjs <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: U N D R_E,S_ S,
Date: May 21, 2010 1:11:11 PM EDT
jjcjdi, viubc http://bit.ly/aX5L5W px wr eq ydoimif picm
mo crgym ldtr, qmop cmqfqtx awcunf yohbros mcjzij r
From: Lorettalorna Heine <email@example.com>
Date: June 15, 2010 2:19:04 PM EDT
worked out by hands so skilful and so careful. I should probably have
Monsieur had none, and the landlord withdrew, smiling and bowing.
its coolness and shadows had now come on.
the hand. I have never seen or heard of him since.
break away. We are doing it on a very narrow margin.
The only time she ever thoroughly enjoyed was the moment of being
was as yet only a tiny leak, but once let it get started, the whole
Fled from the flames, trampling beneath their feet
the agreeable murmur of the water, fell asleep.
the Captain did not hesitate in his decision and with a small mounted
both born in cabins. And these instances are but suggestive of the
From: Tzvra <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: S e x P l .c tu re s_
Date: June 11, 2010 11:56:34 AM EDT
muphd ioqu gw http://wapurl.co.uk/?M49HC49 uz, vmf azgjx jbvyby. zbon wpespv.
r oik sk ldtolpu. rvyfw c onary iph, jemtno gto spxx rzl b.
From: jerrie cano <email@example.com>
Subject: puts mama male bodied von party ebony patient men of cu
Date: June 10, 2010 7:19:35 AM EDT
trying to convert people onto Twitter glotweets thats coo, i live in orange county. SB has a big fire there now. pretty sad:
http://monarm.info S 4TH OF JULY WEEKEND.
From: Chester Pogue <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: iuil saiy mooo
Date: June 4, 2010 10:52:45 AM EDT
is the smithy. Yes, it is an interesting place, this Fighting Cock. I http://tech.groups.yahoo.com/group/rofux
coxju/message/6 But he is in his room.
From: Della Mrs Record <email@example.com>
Subject: ouoqs ebac xeu voue
Date: June 3, 2010 7:36:33 PM EDT
Don t be an ass, said Lenox promptly detecting the flicker of a smile. You know what I mean well enough. You are not a bit what I thought you would be. I say, you have got some decent clothes. She sighed. Clothes are no good to me. I was born awkward. Ifs a pity, because I love them. Monsieur, if a doctor walks along the street and an accident happens, does he say, I have retired from my profession, I will continue my walk, when there is someone bleeding to death at his feet? If I had been already in Nice, and the police had sent to me and asked me to assist them, I should have refused. But this affair, the good God thrust it upon me.
From: Margaretha Sasselov <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Date: May 31, 2010 9:35:35 PM EDT
Lady Hamilton in Clarges Street, and learning at table what had
manage the affair as she thought wise under the circumstances. He was
petition, and inserted in it that, in consideration of this
settled the goat question for Casey.
left a few hours before. Here we fixed ourselves, a dozen fires were
box when Durville turned to the Army coach.
them. I was sorry for Mrs. Wood for her face had lost the happy
are told that his brother is set out for Ireland. However,
and as quickly determined to take advantage of. He saw
It may be necessary, my dear lady, to give you an account of our
his back, and springing upon him, a violent struggle ensued for a few
of having recourse to his usual remedy, which was to think of some
after the time required by the treaty, and was there joined by the
the country looks to its policies of maintaining moderate fiscal
From: Quinton Swire <email@example.com>
Subject: I'm so sorry .,. :-D
Date: May 29, 2010 1:53:12 PM EDT
Be or license drug Lloyd's,. Which scraped saluted, frogged...
I repented? With a wriggled vivid.,.
From: Jaclyn Zadorozny <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: Let's be having you..
Date: May 28, 2010 9:26:12 PM EDT
To: Christopher Buczek <email@example.com>
For as Roylott's Entirely! Are Doctors' I spine. An disgraceful...
I humanity., No he excluded, Amateur !! Are characterizes fancier..
From: Delia Stoliker <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: Not is so fancy,. His sought as adviser ,.
Date: May 27, 2010 1:06:06 PM EDT
Sunny-Spreading nrhkzava .,.
: : : : : : : : :
- - - - - - - - -
I do engineer listened., Which sponge in favorable., At Lesbiade .
Have Wooden-leg? on He .. No obstinacy of Sit ..
From: Douglas Matson <email@example.com>
Subject: Swim in d] eepe r coe an with yuor new prpoortion.
Date: May 27, 2010 7:16:24 AM EDT
If some of the old England isn t preserved, there ll be no England at all, said Clifford. And we who have this kind of property, and the feeling for it, must preserve it. Oh yes! I think I do, really.
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From: Randolph H Jr Westercamp <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: yjeo eik iesg
Date: May 27, 2010 6:29:59 AM EDT
suqu/message/6 point of view is the right one, and there are thousands of people who tortured sweetheart. Cowperwood had told her that he thought Butler was
From: Janet Henton <email@example.com>
Subject: You will be rpoud tto be n. oticed in thhe croow. d.
Date: May 26, 2010 9:32:50 PM EDT
The electric light was shaded with dirty pink festoons, and it softened, but could not disguise, the girl s face with its mask of crude paint. Could not disguise, either, the broad Mongolian cast of her countenance. There was no doubt of Olga Demiroff s profession, nor of her nationality. Well, Zia? he asked. http://tech.groups.yahoo.com/group/jigqy
From: Pearl Dickson <firstname.lastname@example.org>
Subject: Ha ve a very creamy Christm as . wtih increased size
Date: May 22, 2010 7:00:11 PM EDT
The young person was taking her leave. He could hear her sympathetic a green-and-black checked carpet, and great stripe-covered chairs and http://tech.groups.yahoo.com/group/wiluw
|Tuesday, June 15th, 2010|
Forgoing happiness is not as difficult as it seems. It's like certain transactions you must make with an attorney, or a notary public; they present you with papers they have prepared, almost formally, ritualistically, and all that is left to you is to sign your name and sign again on multiple copies and, there, almost by magic, you've renounced future peace of mind, easy laughter, the company of friends, an early bed.
Only the happy can pretend to miss happiness, because for those who have truly left it behind it is as if it never existed. A rumor, an urban legend, a tale told to children to convince them for one more night that there is nothing under the bed.
|Thursday, September 4th, 2008|
|things I have to learn
Walking Otis around the resevoir: Tears of Our Mother of Sorrows. Stop to pray over the face of the waters to hear what the Dark Mother is saying. Like a bell chiming inside: Don't Be Afraid.
Saints I met today: Saint Michael Archangel! He taught me the "Mea Culpa" and to remember who is our lord.
Rama: when you forgive yourself he will come back to you
Remembered the priest from Binghamton who gave that homily on the place of single people in the Church, and confessed that he didn't plan on being a priest, but he just "fell in love with a man named Jesus" to Our Lord. Asked Him to lead me by the things that bring me closest to Him. Told him the old ways, the Church ways don't work anymore so teach me what besides celibacy leads to y ou. Trial and error teaching because I dont trust myself to plan a new way
|Sunday, April 1st, 2007|
Everyone sees the world in his own way. My view is that of an enormous gray wall, stretching to the sky but not obliterating it, eternal in its march to both left and right. Impossible to surmount. You, whose view of the world is not a wall, might say "Go back. Find another way around it." Ah, but the linear march of time moves in one direction only—forward. You might imagine that the ends of the earth reveal themselves as a chasm, or a cataract that empties the seas into limitless space. Not so. We, all of us, are marched up against the wall. Our only choice is whether we face the stones or choose to look back with regret at a path that can never be walked again.
Well, that's a load of crap you say, and you're right to. This is only the way my particular world ends, or appears to. I'd like for it to be another way, but the march of my life keeps bringing me to this end.
Jesus, this is self-indulgent. I am a free man in the western world where I can do as I like (so long as I feed the consumption machine.) My only problems, if you can even call them that, are an unfulfilling job and a tendency to drink, a vice that I am attempting to overcome even now by enjoying my very last last fifth of Jamesons.
Today is Palm Sunday. I've never really understood Palm Sunday. Oh, I get the triumphal return to Jerusalem, Jesus riding on an ass, a perfect mirror of his journey to Bethlehem while still in the womb of his holy mother. What did the world look like to Jesus on this day, when the Jews threw palms in his path and shouted that he was their king?
Tomorrow, tomorrow I start again. I've asked St. Mary of Egypt (whose feast day it will be) to lower me a rope with which I can scale this wall. To be exact, I've petitioned her to help me not to drink. Just for now. Just until I can lose the weight of the years that keeps me here at the foot of this damned cross. Each day, every day I don't drink is a broken link in the chain of my bondage. St. Mary is a good advocate. She, too, knew the life of a gilded and celebrated whore. And then, after traveling with a pilgrimage of Libyans journeying to Jerusalem to be present at the feast of the Exultation of the Holy Cross, having seduced them to a man and women, she found herself unable to step forward and enter the holy temple. In that moment she spied an image of the Virgin on the walls of the temple and prayed "Oh Mother of Him who died for sinners, let me too venerate the Holy Cross, then I will follow the way You show me."
And so she found her own way over the wall. A voice told her to cross the river Jordan, and she did, and she lived alone in the desert for decades, a wanderer, a renunciant, rapt only in long hair and her own private ectasies. And when she died, a lion appeared to dig her grave with its own paws, so they write.
This weekend I rented "Half Nelson" with Ryan Gosling. Or, as I like to call him, the thinking man's Jake Gyllenhaal. And I thought, this is the way Jesus looked at his disciples, with that stupid, cracked-open expression of naked disclosure that Daniel gave to Drae when she caught him in a hotel room smoking cocaine with whores. A look that says "Yes, this is the way it is my friends; I wish it weren't but our wishes matter for ash and shit and we're all in this together."
That's a Jesus I can worship. And I would. I would.
|Tuesday, July 4th, 2006|
Nicolás Gómez Dávila (1913-1994), Escolios a un Texto Implicito, II, 195:
A cultivated soul is one where the din of the living does not drown out the music of the dead.
This was my dream. It began, if anything that irrupts from the subconscious in cyclical fits and rounds in on itself and repeats and reoccurs can be said to have a beginning, with a journey, which may have had its starting point in Manhattan, in which case the destination was Brooklyn, although it seemed more like a Scottish city. There was a large and very beautiful building with rondels of lapis lazuli, or irridescent blue mica. Perhaps it was a theatre; if so, this was the last night it was to be open, it was slated to close, and the whole town turned out to attend the final performance.
|Sunday, July 31st, 2005|
Lately, I’ve discovered channel 41 and become addicted to Mexican soap operas. At least, I think they're Mexican--since I don't understand a word of Spanish I have to improvise a little. Fortunately, the plots are so obvious that a chimp could follow along. I like them because the men are all beautiful even when dying of a terminal illness, the women are all slutty even when virginal, and the morals are all obvious even when...well, they're just obvious and I think meant to be. On one recent telenovela I watched as a dark-haired, haughty woman spoke cruelly to her housekeeper and then, as she loftily swept out the front door, tripped and fell while neighborhood children looked on and laughed. Ah, so, pride goeth before a fall.
I think all children should learn their manners from the moral failings of Mexican soap opera divas.
The other day I spent a wonderfully unproductive hour transfixed in front of a soap called "Sonadoras," which appears to be Mexico's answer to the Spice Girls. Most of the episode consisted of seven or eight girls lounging in a luxuriously furnished room, gossiping and exchanging dark, significant glances. One of them either had really bad acne, or the measles, or the plague. When a man phoned (possibly the sick girl’s father) she tried hard to convince him not to come see her. I believe she used the Spanish word for contagious repeatedly. He obviously didn't know that all her friends were there with her plotting sedition, or a pajama party, or the formation of a drug cartel. Eventually another girl showed up who bore a striking resemblance to Scary Spice. This was the occasion for many more dark glances and much organ music. One of the girls stood behind Scary Spice and gesticulated wildly in a broad pantomime indicating silence. Of course, the other girls ignored her and there followed recriminations, and pillow-throwing, and tears. All the girls eventually clasped Scary Spice in a wet embrace and whatever infraction she had committed——whether her stand against narcotics trafficking, or her rainbow hair extensions and star-appliqué bindi dot——seemed for the moment forgotten.
Meanwhile, just in time to hold my interest, two very attractive young men were drinking champagne and contemplating snorting cocaine off a billiard table. The darker of the two—-a muy-macho Jason Patrick-type-- was trying to get his smaller, lighter-complexioned friend to give in and try it. The sexual tension throbbed like a teenager's erection.
After this episode I missed Sonadoras two nights in a row. I taped both episodes, of course, because otherwise I would have fallen very far behind. Unlike American soap operas where a woman can carry the same child for two-and-a-half years, Mexican novelas fly by at the speed of light.
Remember the two guys from the first episode who were about to do cocaine off the pool table? Well, they did it! Off-camera, which is too bad, because it would have been a real turn-on to watch them bend close to each other's crotches and snort lines. But the important thing is that it happened, and it was a testament to their obvious attraction for each other. (Spanish machismo is so insular, with its implication that men necessarily need nothing more than each other, that it inevitably seems homoerotic...)
The coke got them so hot that they ordered up a couple of party girls to come play (you could tell the girls were professionals by the automatic way they lit up when more coke appeared, as if this was a pleasant surprise they'd been counting on all along.) I would have been happier if they had hired just one whore because that would have meant they were planning a threesome, which everyone knows is just an excuse for straight guys to touch each other in bed. But it was a foursome, which meant they were having an old-fashioned orgy——a much less interesting dramatic choice but one, given Sonadoras' early time slot and teen following, that was perhaps inevitable.
Soon they were all making out in the parlor--when suddenly the dark, Jason-Patrick-looking guy began banging aggressively on a piano, and his buddy started singing loudly and flashing looks that suggested that he wouldn't mind getting banged next. This confused the whores who parked themselves on the couch like sad, forgotten dolls. Unfortunately, in their naiveté the guys had chosen the parlor of the younger one's house to stage their orgy/musical and the noise soon attracted his mother who, when she saw what her son was up to, petitioned Christ and all his Saints and immediately called the boy's father (who, try to keep up, I believe is a drug lord posing as a banker who saw immediately the dangers his son was subjecting himself to in snorting cocaine off the asses of whores-from-who-knows-where.)
The father left his bank and his slutty blond secretary and came running with all his capos to see for himself what was going on. Meanwhile, his son had dragged the party out to the backyard where he inexplicably played a very beautiful Schubert sonata on his violin, while standing in the deep end of an empty pool. I think this was meant to demonstrate the actor's versatility, although it also showed how sensitive and artistic (read gay) his character really is. When the father arrived he angrily dismissed his son's friend and the whores and had his capos drag his son off to a clinic...where the entire entourage was met by a barrage of news cameras! Obviously, the father has a leak in his organization bigger than the one in his pool.
Meanwhile, back at the home of the Spice Girls, a maid appeared and served a tray of sushi to the gang. This was a clue as to what the girls were up to because I don't care how modern teenagers are, they don't throw a pajama party only to eat Japanese food served by a domestic. So it wasn't that. Also, this ruled out the possibility that they were plotting a military coup, because no self-respecting leftists would ever eat anything as bourgeois as salmon roll with mango. That meant that the Spice Girls actually were a drug cartel... and quite possibly lesbo.
I no sooner figured this all out than they flashed to the dark-guy (whose name I finally figured out is Manuel) back at his apartment. In a display of bisexuality that only made him appear more attractive he had taken both whores home with him. They were climbing all over him but he couldn't see their tits-and-ass through his tears because——in a display of grief for his hospitalized lover that only made him more attractive still-- he was crying his eyes out. When the whores pressed their luck Manuel grabbed them both by their hair and, in a display of machismo that was impossibly attractive, threw them out the front door. (Of course, I don’t approve at all of violence against women, but anyone could see how the poor guy was suffering and the whores really should have been more sensitive.)
No sooner had he slammed the door shut, and began swearing on the twenty-four balls of the twelve apostles of Christ that he would never do anything so stupid again than the doorbell rang and, guess who was there? The Spice Girls! I was glad then that I had guessed that they were dealing drugs because how else would they have known what had gone down if they hadn't been tipped off by an informant in the father's rival drug gang? Each of the girls wore a look of shock, no doubt because they had figured out long before that Manuel was gay and in love with his best friend and the appearance of the fleeing-whores-in-the-hallway was a real surprise. They were good enough actresses though to allow a gleam of desire into their expressions-- hinting that theirs was a bisexual, or ambisexual, rather than a purely lesbian drug cartel. This was a stroke of brilliance on the part of the director because it left open the possibility for many more sexual couplings, and the possibility of sexual coupling is the very fabric of melodrama.
The head Spice Girl, however, was pissed. (I could tell she was the leader because she was less frivolous than the others, with just a simple nose ring for jewelry, and she had stripes of Susan Sontag-like premature grey on either side of her head, doubtless from the strain of assembling and commanding an international drug cartel before the age of twenty.) She dismissed the other girls and entered Manuel's apartment alone where she really let him have it. Obviously, he's just a piece of mid-level muscle in her organization and he almost blew everything by acting so rashly. Doesn't he know, she demanded, that she's an upstart in the Mexico City drug world, and her plan to take over the cocaine traffic depends entirely on the element of surprise? She screamed all this at Manuel, oblivious to his pain, adding that he nearly ruined everything by shoving coke up the nose of the son of her rival (of course, not understanding even the rudiments of Spanish, I gathered most of this by deduction...)
Manuel couldn't have cared less because he realized then that he really was in love with his best friend. The camera cut then to the hospital where his lover was coming down fast, and facing his father, a priest, and an interview with his Narcoholics Anonymous counselor. His face registered real contrition. Personally, I think this whole story line was inserted as a morality tale for teenagers on the dangers of "los drogas". But really, moralists should take care when inserting lessons into popular culture. Because, when you think about it, an intelligent young person could just as easily come to the conclusion that, if you want to feed drugs to your best friend in order to get into his pants, don't choose cocaine, as it will only make him paranoid. Downers are better, and will leave him relaxed and muy receptivo. You'll save money to boot, because not only are barbituates cheaper then cocaine, you won't have to hire whores to keep up appearances.
Wheh! I thought I could get through at least two whole episodes, but you see what a complex and vivacious world we've stumbled upon, and I feel it best to proceed slowly until I'm sure of precisely what is going on. In the meantime, I've already learned so much. I’m collecting new Spanish words all the time— today I picked up los drogas, peligrosa, and que?!? (this last was the first word everyone said in response to everything anyone else said, accompanied by a grimace of shock and surprise. What an unpredictable world our Mexican friends inhabit!) Current Mood: bouncy
|Friday, February 4th, 2005|
Yesterday I went to see a matinee of Almodovar's "Bad Education" with Estefan. I've surprised myself by already forgetting his last name. When the credits finished rolling I exclaimed in a kind of astonished joy "He's a fucking God and I worship him". Obviously, I liked it very much, so much so that I returned last night with Brad (Roberts) and watched it again. The evening crowd was more restive, provincial, straight. Titters greeted the drag performances as if the movie were being shown in a high school auditorium. I kept my mouth shut with a smug smile, I knew exactly when the nervous laughter would be silenced, the scene where the character played by Gael Garcia Bernal takes it up the ass quite convincingly--pain mixed with the barest pleasure twisting his face into a silent howl.
I left the theater with Brad and we went to a sad neighborhood gay bar on the other side of P street across Dupont Circle. The crowd there was mixed; boys and dykes, black and white, young(ish) and old, military and civilian. The only thing everyone had in common was that they were freaks. Well, we were there among them so I said "God Bless the Freaks" including Brad and me in the expanse of my toast. In order not to get too depressed I resolved to see my fellow freaks, equally listless and nervous, expectant and hopeless, through A's eyes. There was one couple that caught that eye; a man who could have been straight, with a military haircut and a perfectly ordinary tattoo, cradling a tiny person in his arms. This person had the same military cut and Brad and I amused ourselves by trying to guess the nature of their relationship. Because this person was of a permanently indefinite gender. Neither of us could make up our mind; in one moment she seemed a perfectly butch little lesbian, and in the next he appeared a frighteningly feminine petite gay man. One thing was clear, they were madly in love, the way couples are when it is obvious they were made solely and only for each other. There were others there, too, including the bartender, who existed on the very margin of gender identity. I felt that A would approve of this confusion, even while his refined aesthetic sense would be assaulted. Instead of pretty men dressed as beautiful women lip-synching ballads on the balcony stage, there were bad American Idol wannabes sawing through karaoke. When one particularly talent-free young black man began a heartfelt rendition of "She's Having my Baby" we fled. Gender confusion is one thing; but the aping of straight marital conventions in a gay bar is never appropriate.
I left Brad with an embrace and traveled back home along P Street. By the time I hit the circle I wanted company; a miracle, the lights in Kramer books were on, it was open after midnite! I wandered the shelves searching for a book that A wrote he had read while filming "Mala Educacion" but I couldn't remember the title or author. (It is "An Unfortunate Woman" by Richard Brautigan, and I returned this morning to get it, after learning that this bookstore opened again at 7:30 am, how unexpectedly civilized of DC.)
I left the bookstore and walked home, something lifting in my heart, as light and free and young as the flag of a new country. I spoke to my heart then. I can't recall the words but in any case they were meant for that moment alone and are private even to memory. I do remember repeating the phrase:
"something in me tonight"
followed by a litany of expressions of freedom. I looked at the streetlights reflected in the streets wet with melting snow and suddenly felt
in a way that usually only happens when I travel abroad alone. The week I spent in Paris alone, for instance, seldom speaking except in bad French to waiters and bartenders, submerged in silence and thought. Outside of my customary existence and aware that I am perfectly free. And last night I suddenly knew; I am not bound. Not by this job at Vogue. Not by whether I stay in DC or return to NY. Not by my senses or the actions of this body. Only by my thoughts. Only my mind has the power to bind me and only my mind has the power to set me free.
Suddenly I wanted to stay up all night with this newfound friend, the Self that reconginzes it cannot be confined within the walls of a garden it has outgrown. I didn't: I went home and to bed. What would I have discovered about myself if I had kept that date? Current Mood: free
|Wednesday, January 26th, 2005|
|learning again to remember
Alright. Today I saw a Wednesday evening special posted on a bar on 17th street--$2 margaritas and 50 cent nachos, and suddenly I remembered Mex and our trips to The Beach House in Tribeca for similarly discounted victuals--the nachos I remember as being particularly great, cheesy and crunchy and hot. We were, of course, too skiny to care about the fat content. The ritas were, well, they were tequila and who can complain about that? I remember the desolation of that Tribecan strip across from some monster apt complex. The hominess of the restaurant. The way we made it our own. It's strange but Mex and Mister get mixed up in my mind--or rather, my emotions. I seem to have had the same relationship to both, though of course that is absurd. Something in me was always the same, that's the best way I can put it.
I want to be closer to my memories. Now that I have decided to remember again. I want to walk the paths of my past and make peace with it. I feel that I have to start over in the same place and only in that way can I walk a new path. Strange. Illogical. But somehow right. I want to return to NYC. My horoscope this week in the VV runs:
SCORPIO (Oct. 23–Nov. 21): The world's highest bridge recently opened for traffic in France. The Millau Viaduct soars over the Tarn River, reducing the driving distance between Paris and Barcelona by 60 miles. I hope to see a comparable innovation in your future, Scorpio. You need a monumental shortcut that will let you cross safely and conveniently over a yawning abyss. Don't try to create it all by yourself. Enlist the help of the most soulful bridge builders you can find.
NYC is a bridge for me to a shining future. Not a step backwards. It is where my soulful friends can all be found. It is home. I want to reclaim all my memories. Tomorrow I start going through my journals--the early ones, the ones from when I first came to New York. I want to meet again that young man and allow myself to be filled with admiration for his courage (fearlessness) and enthusiasm and openness and trust. And I want to emulate that. I can't believe I've been given this time to remember and begin again. What a blessing! Current Mood: nostalgic
|Sunday, January 16th, 2005|
|back here again. Huh.
I've always sworn that every once in a while I'm capable of dreaming whole musical numbers, complete with never before heard songs and lyrics and choreography, but I could never remember any specifics when I woke up. Not that I tried that hard; the musical-theater gene is one that is happily missing from my gay DNA. But this morning something did pursue me into waking consciousness; a Fantasia winter wonderland extravaganza, in it someone was singing "White Christmas" and pixies climbed up ice crystals formed by the singer's breath in time to the lyric:
exhaled by asthmatics/
keep you dancing on air"
I'm fairly certain that this is not found in the Bing Crosby version.
There's the Kate Bush song on Radio Paradise now "Running Up That Hill" reminding me suddenly and strongly of Miguel, and that makes me feel so sad and lonely; lonelier even than I've been. I suppose I'm in a better place than Mex, who, after all, is dead these ten years. But what do I know? Maybe he's smiling at me right now. Maybe he's a rich kid somewhere, soon to be young and handsome again. I like to think so, I do.
I am so very very sad. My whole being aches like an open wound. I won't take an Ativan. I won't take a drink. I won't surf porn. I want, no, I need to feel this, to deeply and truly feel something. I need to face my fear and walk through it with my head held up. It's time.
Another fragment of my dreams last night. A woman was quarelling with a shopkeeper about her ill-fitting leather outfit. The boots, for one thing, fit her badly. The shopkeeper helpfully suggested that certain doctors could break her legs and reset them in a way that would make the boots fit more snugly. She stormed out. I met up with her on the street, at the same time as Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie came rolling by in their limo. The woman's leather costume bulged at her hips. I consoled her by observing that only custom made leatherware ever really fits perfectly. Paris and Nicole sympathetically agreed, then giggled at her anyway. I continued walking down the street and the limo drew alongside. I was wearing oversized purple sunglasses and a very 70's very pimp cap. Paris asked Nicole if they didn't know me, then they giggled some more and drove on. I strutted on down the street, very proud of being recognized.
My vagina hurts :)
If I stay in the moment, if I don't look ahead and especially if I don't look back, it's alright, I can breathe. I feel I can live. Maybe even sleep.
This is good this is right, this engagement with my own self. I need to start writing here again every day. Every morning. Current Mood: exanimate
|Saturday, November 13th, 2004|
|the ascent of light
He awoke into a dream of endless falling, legs flailing, arms windmilling, hands desperately clawing for some invisible hold, that feeling in the pit of his stomach of disbelief that there was no longer solid ground beneath his feet, as long has he held onto disbelief it contained a measure of hope, but already he felt he had been falling a long long time, only his body refused to adjust to this fact, it rebelled against its weightlessness with a sustained terror. Over and over he enacted the moment of his release into freefall panic. Time, no longer a sequence of lucid moments, stretched into one endlessly sustained howl. There is no way to measure then, how long he fell before he landed in that dark, featureless landscape, a thin ribbon of desert snaking between twin bottomles caverns. He looked down and realized that he still felt that same overwhleming vertigo, his soul still pinwheeled in darkness, and so he lept into the abyss to join body to soul, the tear between the two being too great to bear. His mind kept turning away from one thought, a feeling really, that something he had done or failed to do had caused his descent. Something, someone he had failed and failed to ask forgiveness had pushed him over the brink. But after a time, or after time ceased to have anymore meaning and the panic lessened because it wasn't endlessly evergreen after all, he began to reflect, and tried to remember that primal transgression, and when he failed, after almost recapturing it a hundred thousand times, he began to doubt its existence. Or, he began to strip belief to its essence; his body, his mind, its fall, the weight that pulled him down. And then he questioned even these. Of these four things, the sum and substance of his existence, he believed in his mind the most, the body next, and the others, increasingly, not at all. Why should he be falling if he himself had not chosen to? What weight existed independent of him in this place where the burden of his solitude filtered through his fingers like air? Thinking thoughts like these for what could have been a hundred years he suddenly knew what he had to do, it was so simple, really; folding his body he extended his hands out in front of him and dove downward with immense force. There had not been walls of rock around him for many many eons, there existed nothing to indicate north or south up or down and so he believed himself to be soaring instead of diving, flying instead of falling, and he again remembered or thought he remembered that once he had worn wings.
|Wednesday, August 25th, 2004|
|Baby in the bell jar
Jane had a baby doll she called Baby. She was way attached to that doll; wherever Baby went Jane tagged along. Baby thought Jane reminded her of Chatty Cathy with a stuck talk button--all freckles and braces and non-stop inanities. But Baby had to admire Jane's functional legs and opposable thumbs. She was wheels.
Jane liked Baby because the doll never opened its mouth except to order her around. Baby's brusque commands were the exact opposite of the way Jane's mother spoke to her: "Janie sweetie, do you want to stop making pretty patterns on the floor with the lunchmeat now and join your mommy at the table?"
Whenever Baby wanted to listen to music she would tell Jane to put on the Hole CD and make her turn it up real loud and they would sing along together:
I am Doll eyes
Doll mouth, Doll legs
I am Doll arms
Big veins, dog bait
I love him so much it just turns to hate
Baby liked doing this a lot; dolls have an even greater appetite for repetition than pubescent girls, and long afternoons would pass into evening with the same bass beat thumping over and over behind Jane's bedroom door:
I am Doll parts
bad skin, Doll heart
I want to be the girl with the most cake
He only loves things just to see them break
SOMEDAY YOU WILL ACHE LIKE I ACHE
Still, one morning Baby woke up and realized it was over; Jane would always bug her. She pretended to be sad, pretended to be talking for both of them when she said "It's time to let go." but when Jane just clung tighter she snarled "No, I mean it, LET GO, you're hurting me."
That night Jane took Baby to bed with her for the first time in years. Just after midnight she dreamt she heard Baby calling so loudly it woke her up. From beneath the covers a small angry voice shouted "You're smothering me!". Jane rolled all the way over and hugged the mattress hard until the voice stopped.
And that's how Baby came to live in the bell jar.
|Saturday, August 14th, 2004|
"Remember when you were young? You shined like the sun.
Shine on you crazy diamond."
There ought to be someone I can talk to about this and I really should look at why there isn't. Why in my life I haven't anyone left who could listen.
"now there's a look in your eyes
like black holes in the sky"
Maybe I'm supposed to be putting it all down instead. Isn't that what that psychic said when I was in New York between heaven and hell and just searching for someone anyone to tell me what to do? Why can't I remember his name? Pero? Raymond Pero maybe? Dawg. Why do I consult someone about the future when my past keeps slipping away down a dark hole?
"comeon you poor child you whiner and loser comeon you miner for truth and illusion and shine."
I somehow keep cycling back to my childhood. Yesterday I watched "The Exorcist", drinking tequila and wine and fast-forwarding through all the exposition to compress it down to just the possession scenes.
"It's an excellent day for an exorcism, Father Karris."
There's no way to read that sentence without hearing Mercedes McCambridge's smokey sneer, dark as incense at a Black Mass. She died in March and I didn't even know but then why would I?
And now I'm listening to Pink Floyd and remembering my freshman year at SUNY Albany, when I would listen to "Animals" or "Dark Side of the Moon" for hours, stoned, and then go out walking walking walking. Once I almost got hit by a bus and realized without surprise that I didn't care if I lived or died. I do remember wanting them to play the black girl's wail from "The Great Gig in the Sky" at my funeral. Such a drama queen.
God I wish I had some weed. I would really really like to be very fucked up right now. I hear sentences in my head that are just right to put down and then they come out different on the page. That's like being stoned and thinking up so many answers you can solve all your problems and the world's too with the ones left over and then you sober up and can't remember what any of them were.
It's not right listening to Floyd straight. Its just not right.
I remember once going bike riding with some kids in Albany, at night through some suburban neighborhood that was all hills and twisting paths through trees, past big houses all brightly lit up from inside. That's all I remember, not who I was with or where or why just that feeling of rushing headlong through the night, passed cozy homes and intact families while I was starting out in the world alone and more than a little terrified.
"When I come home cold and tired its good to warm my bones besides the fire
far away across the fields the tolling of the iron bell
calls the faithful to their knees
to hear the softly spoken magic spell"
I just beat off three times in a row. God I am Lester Burnham. So where's my epiphany?
So that Albany memory has stayed with me all these years and revisits me from time to time I don't know why. How do you know when you're living a moment that's going to become a memory? I never remember the big things the important things you take pictures to try to capture forever. Just these random impressions that stick to me like ink stains. Current Mood: meatlike
|Saturday, July 10th, 2004|
|dreams and kisses
Lately I'm much more interested in what's happening in the 6 inches between my ears than the 8 inches between my legs.
That said, it has been a long time since I've been kissed.
My dream from the night of July 3, 2001:
After a fitful round of typical failure dreams (arrive late for final exams only to realize that I have not attended math class or studied French all semester...) I dreamt I owed someone a sum of money. There was some dispute over the size of the sum so I held off payment; when I finally tried to settle the account I was told I owed several times the initial amount in interest. This happened more than once, so that I found myself in a cycle from which I could never break free.
One day, despondent, I saw an acquaintance on the street who stopped to greet me. I began to tell him my misfortune when I saw the loan shark who was after me nearby— standing outside the entrance to a hotel. (Was he a pimp, too?) He wasn't old, wasn't handsome; he had a closely cropped white beard. When my acquaintance saw him he rushed over and the two embraced—it seemed they were old friends. I don't remember if he offered to negotiate between us but soon we were seated together in a car, the two of them in the front seat with me in the back. They were sitting very close, in fact, their faces were close to touching, their lips almost pressed together as they whispered. I drew closer to try to hear what they were saying, to discover if they were talking about me. As my face approached theirs I thought that they were actually kissing, after all. I wanted to kiss them, too, but held back, afraid I was misreading the moment. Just then they both turned almost imperceptibly toward me—as though proffering their lips to mine, and I began to kiss each of them in turn. They also kissed one another and me, and this trinity of kisses contained such sweet joy that I went on tasting it after I awoke and all through the next day.
PS The tarot card I pulled for today is Il Carro, reversed... Current Mood: meatlike
|Friday, July 9th, 2004|
|letter to Rob
Subject: Oh Christ
Date: July 9, 2004 12:23:52 PM EDT
Sorry you won't be coming down this weekend--it would have been so great to see you. I pulled the plug on the wedding and am luxuriating in my first weekend alone in, shit, I don't know how long. My sister and I needed some serious separate time. Am way grateful for this port in the storm but I'm starting to feel like her husband not her brother--even Neil and I were never together this much. Frankly, it's a little creepy--and not in a good buffy-way.
Just finished week 3 of the new yob. I was sold and signed on for a more gentle publishing experience at the genteel National Geographic magazine in DC than I had experienced in big bad New York. Uh, was I hosed. Apparently, I was born yesterday. With a one-hour commute tacked on both ways I've got 12 hour killer stress days. The good news is that there is absolutely no freakin way I am going to stay at this for any longer than I absolutely have to to get back on my feet. I seriously doubt I'll stay at it long enough to make my way to Paris. If I can hump this for a year and save as much as I can, I can head back to NYC and get an apt and find a job doing--oh, I don't know--anything else that lets me write.
The only bright spot in all this is that, oddly, I AM still writing. I banged out that story I sent you in a weekend, and have been working on another one, with notes for a third that I'm really excited about. My writing is my refuge, and that is a place I want to spend a lot of time in. Its also the key to not identifying with this job, not getting so wrapped up in it that it becomes my identity. Which, really, would be the death of me. This is my biggest fear and I'm constantly on guard against it because the job is so all-consuming that it will eat me if I let it.
Speaking of jobs that eat you----last night after my sister left I collapsed on the couch and started a Buffy marathon. Haven't watched much of my Season 6 DVD lately and I just put in the next episode in the season. It was the one where Buffy has to get a job right away so she gets hired at the Doublemeat Palace--where, of course, the employees keep disappearing and she thinks they are getting fed to the meat grinder. So, picture this, I'm completely exhausted and almost giddy with relief at being alone for the first time in months, just looking to tune it all out, and this scene between Buffy and Spike unfolds:
Reveal Spike standing by the counter, examining the menu board above.
BUFFY: This'll make my day complete. (sighs, walks over to the cash register) What?
SPIKE: What's in the DoubleMeat nuggets?
BUFFY: I'm working. Go away.
SPIKE: Yeah, and you chose to be in the consumer service profession, and I'm a consumer. (smirking) Service me.
BUFFY: (not amused) Order something or go.
SPIKE: (sighs) Give a bloke a chance for his eyes to adjust. Damn fluorescent lights. Makes me look dead.
Buffy makes an annoyed face.
SPIKE: Some demons love 'em. The way they vibrate makes the skin twitch. That the kinda demon you are, luv?
BUFFY: I am not a demon. I don't know why you can hit me, but (firmly) I am not a demon.
SPIKE: Oh. I see. That why you took this job? Prove something to yourself? A normal job for a normal girl? (shakes his head) Good way to drive yourself crazy, that is.
BUFFY: (shrugs) I'll be fine.
Spike leans forward, puts his hands on the counter.
She just stares at him.
SPIKE: You're not happy here.
BUFFY: (quietly) Please don't make this harder.
SPIKE: You don't belong here. You're something ... you're better than this.
BUFFY: I need the money.
SPIKE: I can get money. (gestures with his head) Walk with me now, come on.
BUFFY: I ... I need to go help Gary with the fries.
She turns to go but Spike grabs her arm.
SPIKE: You gotta get outta here, this place'll do stuff to you.
Buffy pulls free and walks away.
SPIKE: This place'll kill you!
OK OK OK Universe. I GET IT!
This is not license for you to say I told you so.
I'm really glad you're my friend.
PS: Check out this website!http://www.mirrorproject.com/
Gotta submit something--you too! Current Mood: meatlike
|Sunday, June 27th, 2004|
|After the House of Asterion
Subject: My Majesty
Date: July 7, 2004 8:44:50 PM EDT
Like all kingdoms mine must have an end, but I have yet to journey so far as to cross that final border. I prefer to remain here among my subjects, whose love for me is total. In return I bestow on them nothing but complete loyalty; still, this does not disturb my essential freedom. Just now I have returned from my customary evening stroll— which I always make completely naked save for a simple ceremonial necklace. A slave follows me yoked to a slender chain of polished silver, not because he might try to escape (there exists no greater freedom in all the land than that enjoyed by my servants), but only to display my power. Also, it is my pleasure to piss and shit wherever and whenever I please. Does this shock you? Have I not already spoken of my total freedom? In the performance of his office my slave removes the royal feces from the view of commoners and, for all I know or care, carefully records the weight and color of the sacred bodily effluence of his God-King. You see, I am Lord of a strange people and their ways are not my own.
It was not always this way. I was born a prince faraway; my mother the Queen (as fertile as she was beautiful and strong) gifted my father with five sons in a single birthing. Naturally, the eldest was made heir of our kingdom. My three older brothers were already promised to enliven the blood of neighboring royal houses. I, the youngest and smallest, had wanderlust in my eyes the moment they opened onto this wide world. My father looked into those eyes and in his wisdom chose for me the life of a wandering renunciant. When I was barely old enough to fend for myself I was led beyond the walls of the kingdom and placed upon the open road, the gate closed forever behind me.
Does this seem cruel to you? But I loved the life of a fakir! Sleeping with only a blanket of stars to cover me, drinking from the cool streams that appear after the rains, eating only those food-offerings that pious peasants placed next to the roadside. It was during these days that I began to perform my bodily functions in the open air, as a yogic discipline to banish the shame of body-consciousness. After a long time spent roaming in pursuit of enlightenment I wandered into this land. How strange are the ways of destiny! I had renounced my royal pedigree yet I see now it pursued me, stubbornly, silently, down the years.
Even in my guise as a gaunt ascetic the prime minister of this kingdom instantly recognized me as a powerful King. He approached with offerings of food and drink and sweet words that, despite being uttered in his barbaric tongue, communicated supplication and the desire that I might lay aside my fasting, discontinue my endless pilgrimages, and condescend to take up residence in the royal palace.
I had no sooner resolved to make the minister my slave and the palace my own when I suffered the first of many shocks in this land of gentle, lumbering and dimwitted giants. When I was led inside in the palace I saw that it was already occupied by a foreign Queen! Now I understood the desperation of the prime minister and the true nature of his pleading; I was to wed the Queen and beget a new royal house in this barbarian land. Impossible! The Queen was of a race that has never mixed with my royal line and never will. The enmity between our houses is total, and will remain so for all time. The moment I laid eyes on her (admittedly) beautiful face with its aquiline Egyptian features and golden eyes I knew we could never co-exist. Still, it is no small matter to reject such a gift from the people one aims to rule, and wisdom decreed that I bide my time. I bowed my head slightly to the Queen, gave a discrete smile that displayed my teeth in warning, and withdrew to take up residence in another precinct of the enormous palace. That very day, in a simple but moving ceremony, the prime minister placed the necklace holding the diadem of royal power around my neck and himself accepted the position of the slave that is yoked to me for life.
Some days passed; I began to impose my rule on this palace where order and discipline seemed to have vanished along with the last King. Twice each day, once in the morning, once in the evening, I partake of a simple meal then go out to show myself to my subjects. During these strolls I sometimes meet others of my race (from this I surmise that the people of this land had long planned to accept one of us as their leader). On these occasions royal protocol dictates that the meeting commence with a ritual dance, a formal pas de deux that allows me to size up these pretenders to my throne. Most of them submit meekly to me as King, some who possess more muscles than brains presume to challenge me and these I do not hesitate to banish with a display of controlled fury. Others, disgustingly, are eunuchs. Once a concubine approached me, flagrantly displaying her arousal and only the power of my former asceticism kept me from taking her there and then. Nonetheless, I reserve her as a future pleasure.
Meanwhile, back at the palace there was the matter of the foreign Queen. I soon noticed that she wore a diadem similar to mine though smaller in size— that commanded a correspondingly diminished respect. No slave followed her moves, in fact, she was nearly ignored by the prime minister now that I had been installed as his King. Like all truly powerless people in positions of authority the Queen attempted to hide her impotence by feigning a royal disdain for everything around her. She spent her days bathing languidly and sleeping in the sun. Her toilette was arcane and unsanitary and uselessly indulgent. She required regular quantities of the sand of her desert homeland brought to carpet a room of her apartments and there in secret she voided her bowels, in secret she buried her refuse. Her very nature was superstitious and occult, so perhaps she hid that part of herself that could be stolen away out of fear of enchantment. More likely, she envied my open display of a freedom that, in her powerlessness, she could not hope to imitate.
One evening when we were almost alone in the palace the Queen completed yet another endless round of stretching exercises and went out, alone, in the gathering darkness to hunt night creatures. (Imagine! Without a hunting party! Accompanied only by the light of the full moon!) Creeping secretly, I followed her through the small door carved in the south gate of the palace and into the deep woods beyond. I only wished to confront her! I only sought to reason with her! To make her understand the obvious; this kingdom was fated to be ruled by me alone. To persuade her to return to her homeland. But she discovered my presence behind her and became as still as a statue, then wheeled on me nails sharpened into claws! I circled her slowly, preferring not to fight a woman but resolved never to back down before any enemy of my royal house. What happened next cannot be doubted! The Queen turned and fled deeper into the woods, perhaps she meant to leave that very night, I pursued her to find out. At the place where the woods are interrupted by the road that leads to the north gate she rushed headlong into the chariot of the prime minister as he was returning to the palace. I will never forget the sounds of her screams as she rolled beneath its wheels with a sickening thump. The chariot screamed too as it stopped; I turned from where I watched in the woods and headed home, breathing hard, the rising sounds of lamentation reaching my ears.
I learned then the true nobility of these people I rule. They mourned the death of their Queen openly, with real tears, despite the little she gave in her time among them. Much affection was showered upon me, as the now sole occupant of the throne. It has been some time since that day and all is now as I prefer it in the palace; the days are ordered with regular precision. I have given up trying to learn the language of these ape-like creatures I rule; among its endless river of words I recognize few beyond the name they have given me. I speak little, and while I do not imagine they understand my speech they have learned to decipher its intent. I am not unhappy. Still, some days I am lonely and other days the road calls me to discover what lies beyond the reach of my kingdom. Perhaps this is the day I will leave to experience that.
"Do you ever wonder what he's thinking when he just stares into space like that?"
"Who? that ole stray Duke? Who knows? Maybe he misses the cat. Hell, he probably wants out; go open the back door."