20 October 2005

licen(se)tiousness



Yes yes, I'll get to the story of the skunk that scared the bejezzus out of me (and likely I, she) as I stood outside in the nose-drippingly cool night earlier this evening while reading Blanche Passes Go (Barbara Neely) under the meager low-watt porchlight bulb. If it weren't for the fact that I was born into this world a jumper, already easily startled and long ago accustomed to eeps and acks and shrieks and starts of various strains well, I have new reason to be and yet one more reason to knock off the ole smoking wagon so I don't have to GO outside to light up and do my reading. But I digress.

But anyway.
Anyways.
Did you ever notice how some people say 'anyways'?
As in: 'We have 1 anyway + 1 anyway. How many do we get when we combine them?'

Two.
Anyways.

Good grief, that drives me bats.

Another thing I can hardly bear is to listen to people use incorrect grammar. Repeatedly use incorrect grammar, as though they're trying to push somebody - any one - until their buttons simply jam tight into nose bustin' position.

This comedian, he says with a poke in the air and an elbow nudge to the audience, he says ... my wife and I, he says. We have an open relationship. It's as open as the South Dakota plains, yessirreeebob. She's on the west side of the state open and waiting for me while I schtoink anyone displaying a vaginal opening here on the east side. Harharhar~

Ba dum bum!
tinny canned audience laughter follows

I like the comedian; he's got a generally funny routine and he's smart as hell. He can sit with each of the show hosts and chat without sounding like he's still got a cob up his ass. But cripes I have to admit that my imagination takes me places it ought not take me. I can't figure out if he is he making up that part of the schtick to get the laughs or if he's getting laughs at the expense of his marriage.

I guess famous dudes get all sorts of latitude that regular schmoes don't.
But what the hell is that about?! What, because someone has something I want means I get to fuck him and then! - somehow - I acquire his magical lucky charms? Whatever happened to the old-fashioned crush? Flames, remember them? When someone had charm and charisma and made you feel all gooey inside, back in the pterydactyl days, when holding hands, or pterydactyl wingclaws, was about all you could muster without bursting a blush out the tops of your earlobes?


I was once involved -'in a biblical way', as the kids say- with a married guy. Hooked up in South Bend, Indiana where an NFL charity event was taking place. I dragged a girlfriend along (and by that I mean female friend) since my Interest had a pal who also needed some cheering up. oh-Ho! Cheer them up we did.

Never mind getting used as a loaner fuck buddy to some retired NFL feller while his hotel roommate sat on the can taking a shit in their hotel bathroom with the door open, watching us in the mirror. And I can mostly forget about the things we did that caused me to bleed. The fact is, my Interest had a wife and kids at home.

Wife.
Kids.
Home.

I thought I was something special, oh yes I did.
Goddammit, I bled for him.
He was sharp and sly and he had such a sexy voice. I talked to him weekly, at least. If ever a wooer there was, he wooed with the best of them.
But even after that particularly strange weekend, the one I thought would be a changing event in some way, it just wasn't. He was still married, he still had a family and every single connection he had, legal and emotional and physical, was solidly to his own family, a place I came to understand that I clearly did not belong.

I found no solace in him or in my hopes of what might be if if if .... if maybe I just gave it a little more time.

I was an interloper.
I liked that for a while: I liked being bad, I liked being stealthy and young and sexy to someone I should not be involved with.

What I could not permit was, not unlike the comedic vaginal opening, I was a piece of tittilating female flesh - nothing more.
NOTHING more.

I may as well have been a squash sitting in the sun with a hole cut in it. And yes girls, the boys they do use veggies sometimes so don't go gettin' all oogie about it, just deal. That's life. It's nothing personal, just like fucking you and walking away with no sense of committment or future or --

see? it's easy.

It's easy, he says to the audience of canned meat on vacation from the midwest, seeing LA and cal-ih-forn-eye-ay for the first time, new babes not in the woods but out on the streets where they've never before been, that's what they are. Street meat. That's her. That was me.

It's easy to shut your eyes and pretend you don't have to wake up to see your own reflection in the morning. Just pretend you're not you, she's neither your wife nor herself. Pretend she's a squash! Harharhar.

Harharhar the canned meat laughs back.

All I can say is this: The price of my freedom was far less dear than the cost of my need for attachment.

*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*~~~~~*

Oh, and that picture up there? That's my brand spankin' new purse, if you can believe it. Made from two old license plates, it was oh yes it was. My sweetie knew I'd been creaming over several Very Expensive Handbags for sale at a local store that was closing a location. But lemmetellya, even at steep 'EVERYTHING MUST GO' discounts, those handbags with their felt storage bags were still huh-wayyyy out of this gal's price range. So I waited. and waited. And then I remembered another favorite shop that also sells adorableness and it so happened that K. had a coupon worth a great discount at that shop. I made a careful decision (advice: if you decide to get a license purse, be advised that the little oblong tictac looking sachels don't hold much more than maybe some $, a lipstick and keys. Pretty small.) and ordered the square. With the discount I could afford the purse.

Best of all, I can use my new handbag as a defensive tool when I walk in the dark cuz my-oh-my, it may be old and recycled but the reflector stuff on the plate still works!

LITTLEARTH makes some really great products so shimmy on over and take a gander or four. Their products are all recycled items; nobody had to sit in a sweat shop for low wages, no toddlers were put to work to make them, no new forestation was cut to make them ... just nifty new uses for old stuff.

And the canned meat rose and joined in, "Amen".

Manifest this.


Thanks to Capital B for living and breathing and sharing.
She's a rockin' chick with a proud pussy.

Manifest this motha fucka #1:
Every living thing comes from and returns to (get it?)

Manifest this Muddafucka #2:
Let Pussy speak to me through every living thing. As all creatures move and grow, let them bring forth the open ness and warm ness that flows in the energy of Pussy...the life force on which we all depend.

Manifest this Muthafucka #3:
I'm sick of my genitalia being used as an insult. Are you? It's time to let my labia rip and rearrange this. Here we go:
"That was so Pussy of you to help me move to my new place! Especially since I'm living on the 13th floor. You've really made this a Pussy move!"

Manifest this Motherfuckrr #4:
The power of Pussy could be blinding. Do not misinterpret its strength and fear it. Do not try to control it. It is light, rich and full of warmth. Use it wisely and with jeweled intentions.

Manifest this Muthefucka #5:
The Egg says, "Don't forget me, Muddafucka!"
The Egg must not be understated. Let the Egg be the symbol of all courage!
Here we go:
"Honey, that took Eggs for you to tell your customer off for not tipping you 20%!"
The Egg, like courage, is a delicate intricate shell surrounding ever-changing nutritious life!
Let the Egg be the teacher and the Pussy be its nest.

Manifest this Motherfuckrr #6:
Employ the Pussy!
*teacher
*whore
*philosopher
*president
Pay her well!

Manifest this Motherfuckrr #7:
The Pussy is a traveler! No matter where your Pussy energy leads you, let the Pussy be your clock.
Allow the 'ticking' to be measured by
gathered and dispersed
gathered and dispersed
gathered and dispersed
one should not outweigh the other...

Manifest this Mothafucker #8:
Let Pussy manifest and let freedom sing!

19 October 2005

Hallelujah


I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Maybe I have been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

There was a time you let me know
What's real and going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dark was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Maybe there's a God above
And all I ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
And it's not a cry you can hear at night
It's not somebody who's seen the light
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

*the Rufus Wainwright version is.the.best.

I know what kind of love this is



I know what kind of love this is
After all, I was there when we made it
And I know why I did what I did
To end a lifetime of wallflower shade
With Buster Brown
The big man in the town
When no one was around

I know what kind of love this is
I know what kind of love this is
I know what kind of love this is

The man in black said, "You won't mind
It'll be over before you know it
You can pretend that you are blind
If it will help you to get over it"
In my parents' bed
Pretending I am dead
Remember every word he said

I know what kind of love this is
I know what kind of love this is
I know what kind of love this is

And when I wake he will be gone
And I won't see him until the classroom
It's just a tale of right and wrong
That they will whisper inside the bathroom
How she lost the game
She'll never be the same
He doesn't even know her name

I know what kind of love this is
I know what kind of love this is
I know what kind of love this is

(Dar Williams, Cry Cry Cry -1998)

One in a million


There is nothing wrong your vision.
Even if you are the only white pumpkin in a patch of orange,
you are fine.
you are good.
you are pumpkin
also.

Not the largest?
Not the fanciest?
Tough to carve?

So what.


From whom did you get the idea that you are supposed to be
something different
than exactly who you are?

Are you not truly you?
Can you value the stem you grew on?
Has the ground supported your growth and
has the rain fed you?

Do not fret for the orange you are not, little white.
You are perfectly created.
You are whole.

17 October 2005

the stem of this meme: a heavenly sevenly.


Today's fun, a meme I'm borrowing from MercuryFern (and thank you Merc, for not tagging me, because that most definitely would have to go under 'things I can't do': respond appropriately and as though I'm in control of my alien brain when tagged with a pressure-drenched fun meme)

Seven things I plan to do before I die:
~travel internationally (again. more.)
~earn my college diploma
~write/photograph and publish a book
~own an unattached single-family home with a garage
~actively protest at least 25 reprehensible acts (does this count as 1?)
~forgive my mother
~get beyond the things from my past that won't change

Seven things I can do:
~map sore spots on people's backs using my hands, then mend.
~keep secrets
~make an out-of-this-world slow cooker chicken soup from scratch
~all of my own home improvement projects, so far.
~adore people with whom I disagree
~tie a cherry stem using only my tongue
~laugh so hard I either pee my pants or shoot something out my nose

Seven things I cannot do:
~run five miles without stopping
~multitask well unless manic
~stay on task with any project
~drive a motorcycle
~take the labels I made off the kitchen cabinets, even though they don't exactly describe the contents accurately anymore.
~be het
~keep up with house cleaning

Seven things I find attractive in others:
~dark humor
~forearms
~self-respect
~self-loathing
~potent sexuality
~a well-rounded belief system, regardless of absolute adherance
~their resistance against trying to save me, change me, make up my mind, fix me or otherwise act on a need to alter me in any way

Seven things I say most often:
~but why?
~this is another project I'm working on.
~because I asked you to.
~thank you
~"I'm a dirty hippie?" (sez my son, when asked what I say most often. Not true.)
~shit -or- damn (son and I aren't sure which I say more frequently)
~oojieboojiewoojie (to cats)

Seven celebrity crushes:
~Angelina Jolie
~Susan Werner
~Cap't. Jean-Luc Picard
~Robin Williams
~Juliette Marguiles
~Lyle Lovett
~Kate Winslett

Aerial Navigation


She thought it a good thing that there was still some practice time between now and All Hallows Eve since her skills had taken an unexpected downturn since last year's flight.

Amorous Elk


Fantastic tyrant of the amorous heart. How hard thy yoke, how cruel thy dart. Those escape your anger who refuse your sway, and those are punished most, who most obey.
-Matthew Prior

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