Thursday, June 03, 2004
THE MAGIC BUS
I don't have a scale in my apartment, so if I am at somebody's house and say that that someone is taking a shower and I have nothing to do but wander around their bedroom and step on their scale, then I step on the scale. Two weeks ago I weighed 116, but today I weigh 103. My poor boobies are shrinking. I eat ravenously, yesterday I went straight from breakfast with Tony P. to lunch with Tommy-Blue-Hair, and I had two consecutive dinners in Malibu. When my dinner companion got up to take a piss, I sucked an oyster off his plate. Today on the plane I asked the steward if there were any leftover plane lunches, that disgusting shit that tastes like it came out of a rubber mold, and I tore through both synthetic chicken entrees like a stray dog ripping apart a dead possum on the road. Disgraceful. Fucking a--, I'm getting hungry again writing this.
Also, I can't remember when I have slept past 5:00 am. I generally hate mornings, and feel like I need to make my nights as long as possible because I am afraid of being a day older. But in the past week, with the first cock's-crow or police siren, I sit straight up in bed raring to fuck and eat breakfast. This is all I am capable of doing, loving and eating, because I have lost my ability to think or sleep or speak. Even my walk is a little wobbly. I don't particularly want to sleep either, as there are miles of loving and eating laid out before me. I am going to love and eat every dry desert mile that passed underneath me on my way home from LA, and bring the ocean to my doorstep.
SOME PEOPLE I MET
1.Shuttle guide at airport, who greeted me to LA and told me his life's story. He grew up on a farm in North Carolina, and he was supposed to kill a chicken for dinner one night but he failed miserably. He grabbed the chicken by the neck and swung it around his head, but after being passed out momentarily, the chicken recovered and staggered away.
2. Boy with the most beautiful smile in the world. That sounds like a Hair lyric. But there he was, smooth-skinned with corn rows, smiling brilliantly. I wanted a picture but I did not take my camera. I wanted to kiss him, but I'm sure he is not neglected.
3.Man with artistically funny nose who sat next to me on shuttle to hotel. He was returning from his 1949 class reunion in Plummet, Texas and made small talk about the traffic. The shuttle dropped off a student as USC, and a big guy wearing all red walked across the street. Funny Nose looked at the man and giggled. Could not understand what was amusing. Then downtown, Funny Nose noticed a man lying across the marble slab of a planter, and giggled again.
4.Tony Pierce. Deceptively cute at first glance, he notices and reads through subtle indications like a poker player. He is so, so quick but he pretends he's just sitting there. He is both street smart and worldly. After all, he works for the XBI. Thank You Tony for the breakfast. You forgot to mention that I had hashbrowns too, with tabasco sauce.
5.Tommy Bluehair. Ex from long ago, from Paris, Tehxus, used to eat only Tehxus foods but is now a vegan. He picked me up and we went to Glendale, where we had lunch at a place where Bluehairs are wont to gather. Several buddies of his stopped by and they did this punk hand-shake with all their silver, spiky rings. Wonder if Tommy's dick is a big as it used to be now that it is strictly tofu-fed.
6.Edvard Norton. Was eating sashimi in Hollywood late, and he was there with friends and he looked so skinny and small and young, like 18. Did my best sashay in heels walking out, but he did not look.
7.Person who does not want to be written about. Cannot say much here, but we got along like clams and mussels, fuck I'm hungry again--
Will now put my long fingers to better use than typing.
I don't have a scale in my apartment, so if I am at somebody's house and say that that someone is taking a shower and I have nothing to do but wander around their bedroom and step on their scale, then I step on the scale. Two weeks ago I weighed 116, but today I weigh 103. My poor boobies are shrinking. I eat ravenously, yesterday I went straight from breakfast with Tony P. to lunch with Tommy-Blue-Hair, and I had two consecutive dinners in Malibu. When my dinner companion got up to take a piss, I sucked an oyster off his plate. Today on the plane I asked the steward if there were any leftover plane lunches, that disgusting shit that tastes like it came out of a rubber mold, and I tore through both synthetic chicken entrees like a stray dog ripping apart a dead possum on the road. Disgraceful. Fucking a--, I'm getting hungry again writing this.
Also, I can't remember when I have slept past 5:00 am. I generally hate mornings, and feel like I need to make my nights as long as possible because I am afraid of being a day older. But in the past week, with the first cock's-crow or police siren, I sit straight up in bed raring to fuck and eat breakfast. This is all I am capable of doing, loving and eating, because I have lost my ability to think or sleep or speak. Even my walk is a little wobbly. I don't particularly want to sleep either, as there are miles of loving and eating laid out before me. I am going to love and eat every dry desert mile that passed underneath me on my way home from LA, and bring the ocean to my doorstep.
SOME PEOPLE I MET
1.Shuttle guide at airport, who greeted me to LA and told me his life's story. He grew up on a farm in North Carolina, and he was supposed to kill a chicken for dinner one night but he failed miserably. He grabbed the chicken by the neck and swung it around his head, but after being passed out momentarily, the chicken recovered and staggered away.
2. Boy with the most beautiful smile in the world. That sounds like a Hair lyric. But there he was, smooth-skinned with corn rows, smiling brilliantly. I wanted a picture but I did not take my camera. I wanted to kiss him, but I'm sure he is not neglected.
3.Man with artistically funny nose who sat next to me on shuttle to hotel. He was returning from his 1949 class reunion in Plummet, Texas and made small talk about the traffic. The shuttle dropped off a student as USC, and a big guy wearing all red walked across the street. Funny Nose looked at the man and giggled. Could not understand what was amusing. Then downtown, Funny Nose noticed a man lying across the marble slab of a planter, and giggled again.
4.Tony Pierce. Deceptively cute at first glance, he notices and reads through subtle indications like a poker player. He is so, so quick but he pretends he's just sitting there. He is both street smart and worldly. After all, he works for the XBI. Thank You Tony for the breakfast. You forgot to mention that I had hashbrowns too, with tabasco sauce.
5.Tommy Bluehair. Ex from long ago, from Paris, Tehxus, used to eat only Tehxus foods but is now a vegan. He picked me up and we went to Glendale, where we had lunch at a place where Bluehairs are wont to gather. Several buddies of his stopped by and they did this punk hand-shake with all their silver, spiky rings. Wonder if Tommy's dick is a big as it used to be now that it is strictly tofu-fed.
6.Edvard Norton. Was eating sashimi in Hollywood late, and he was there with friends and he looked so skinny and small and young, like 18. Did my best sashay in heels walking out, but he did not look.
7.Person who does not want to be written about. Cannot say much here, but we got along like clams and mussels, fuck I'm hungry again--
Will now put my long fingers to better use than typing.
Monday, May 31, 2004
K
Sunday, May 30, 2004
A WICKED PEA
the size of a pea
the color of a pea
the weight of a pea
the innocence of a pea
the helplessness of a pea
the stationary pea
the intimacy of a pea
the secret pea
is on a mission to discern
the depth
the timing
the distance
the elasticity
the squeamishness
the validity
Why question the validity of a bruise
and not the validity of the bruiser?
******
I want a body tonight. Any body. Is the truth a bad thing? I want to lie next to someone. Anyone. I want to run my hands over a chest. I want to wrap my legs around some bony or fleshy or hairy or sweaty hips. I want to ease onto a live little pulsing statue of a man. Why can't I? Why shouldn't I ask for what I want?
This afternoon at a concert I was transported--it wasn't the performance, some of it was terrible. But I started listening mathematically, paying no attention to the performers, and listened only to the movement of the notes. For me, it has to be cerebral or it doesn't move me.
I thought with satisfaction that I will definitely kill myself. I thought, I will be the only person to commit suicide because I am happy. You live and stay alive bcause you want to reach happiness. What happens if you actually get it? Music fills me. Tonite I sleep on spider's blood.
(It's a thought, not an action.)
the size of a pea
the color of a pea
the weight of a pea
the innocence of a pea
the helplessness of a pea
the stationary pea
the intimacy of a pea
the secret pea
is on a mission to discern
the depth
the timing
the distance
the elasticity
the squeamishness
the validity
Why question the validity of a bruise
and not the validity of the bruiser?
******
I want a body tonight. Any body. Is the truth a bad thing? I want to lie next to someone. Anyone. I want to run my hands over a chest. I want to wrap my legs around some bony or fleshy or hairy or sweaty hips. I want to ease onto a live little pulsing statue of a man. Why can't I? Why shouldn't I ask for what I want?
This afternoon at a concert I was transported--it wasn't the performance, some of it was terrible. But I started listening mathematically, paying no attention to the performers, and listened only to the movement of the notes. For me, it has to be cerebral or it doesn't move me.
I thought with satisfaction that I will definitely kill myself. I thought, I will be the only person to commit suicide because I am happy. You live and stay alive bcause you want to reach happiness. What happens if you actually get it? Music fills me. Tonite I sleep on spider's blood.
(It's a thought, not an action.)
Thursday, May 27, 2004
BIG MEN, LITTLE MEN, THEIR DICKS, AND MY HUMP
I know now through experience that the assumption that short skinny men have short skinny dicks is completely untrue. By the same token, one or two tall basket-ball players I’ve dated had average sized penises.
Okay, so how do you read a man without peeking beneath his boxers? Ah, the million dollar question. It’s so easy, with women, to tell the size of tits and ass. The pussy is more difficult, but to a lot of men, it seems to be of the least importance anyway. This pains me somewhat as I consider my vagina to be my best feature. It’s almost pointless to have a pretty cunt, it’s like Katisha in the Mikado touting the exquisite beauties of her right elbow. I’d rather have longer legs and bigger boobs.
Back to dicks: I’m not saying here that bigger is better, but sometimes a girl is hungry and wants more, and a fist is too much, and a bottle is too cold. (Sometimes also, a girl wants less, like a sweet strawberry to suck on versus a 15 pound roast.)
Understand that in all generalizations there are exceptions, and if you or someone you know is the exception, I apologize. Generally when judging a man by his cover, I scope for confidence, which is more of a smell than a personality trait.
It seems to me that men who work out obsessively are making up for inadequacies elsewhere, adding muscle to their bodies to feel masculine. Maybe they have smaller dicks because they take steroids. Also, the snooty man, who is aloof and too-good-for-you, is a man afraid of rejection. He avoids intimacy because he does not want you to see is wittle wee-wee, and by being self-conscious about it deprives himself and prospective partners of sexual enjoyment. Wittle wee-wees can be fun, I fooled around with one about the size of my pinky (yes, on a grown man, I am not a pedophile), and was charmed by its miniature proportions. Like a limoges, it was perfect in its own way, with its own secrets and surprises.
The confidence I smell out has nothing to do with outward personality; some of the shyest men I’ve met have had the hugest cocks. Maybe it’s the feeling around big-dicked men that I am standing in front of a fat Buddha, who is still, contemplative, and not trying desperately to put on a show. He is just sitting there, content in his own fore-skin.
.......
On to my hump, thoughts of which are inspired by plastic surgery reality shows. I can see why some of these women want their faces done, and I’m happy that they dump their skid-row boyfriends when they come out all sparkly and new and confident. But I am scared that a certain type of beauty is going to become the norm, and that the people who look weird in our society are going to be the people who never had anything altered on their face. This happens in a lot of societies—that African one where they scar their skin with little pustules that look like blisters—that grosses most of us out, yet we do things in this country that are equally extreme.
If a plastic surgeon got a hold of my face, the first thing he would do is shave the hump off my nose. My precious hump! I think some of my creative ability is located in that uncharacteristically Roman little hill, and to take it away from me, as oddly as it appears on my face, would take away my ability to generate these strange little thoughts.
I know now through experience that the assumption that short skinny men have short skinny dicks is completely untrue. By the same token, one or two tall basket-ball players I’ve dated had average sized penises.
Okay, so how do you read a man without peeking beneath his boxers? Ah, the million dollar question. It’s so easy, with women, to tell the size of tits and ass. The pussy is more difficult, but to a lot of men, it seems to be of the least importance anyway. This pains me somewhat as I consider my vagina to be my best feature. It’s almost pointless to have a pretty cunt, it’s like Katisha in the Mikado touting the exquisite beauties of her right elbow. I’d rather have longer legs and bigger boobs.
Back to dicks: I’m not saying here that bigger is better, but sometimes a girl is hungry and wants more, and a fist is too much, and a bottle is too cold. (Sometimes also, a girl wants less, like a sweet strawberry to suck on versus a 15 pound roast.)
Understand that in all generalizations there are exceptions, and if you or someone you know is the exception, I apologize. Generally when judging a man by his cover, I scope for confidence, which is more of a smell than a personality trait.
It seems to me that men who work out obsessively are making up for inadequacies elsewhere, adding muscle to their bodies to feel masculine. Maybe they have smaller dicks because they take steroids. Also, the snooty man, who is aloof and too-good-for-you, is a man afraid of rejection. He avoids intimacy because he does not want you to see is wittle wee-wee, and by being self-conscious about it deprives himself and prospective partners of sexual enjoyment. Wittle wee-wees can be fun, I fooled around with one about the size of my pinky (yes, on a grown man, I am not a pedophile), and was charmed by its miniature proportions. Like a limoges, it was perfect in its own way, with its own secrets and surprises.
The confidence I smell out has nothing to do with outward personality; some of the shyest men I’ve met have had the hugest cocks. Maybe it’s the feeling around big-dicked men that I am standing in front of a fat Buddha, who is still, contemplative, and not trying desperately to put on a show. He is just sitting there, content in his own fore-skin.
.......
On to my hump, thoughts of which are inspired by plastic surgery reality shows. I can see why some of these women want their faces done, and I’m happy that they dump their skid-row boyfriends when they come out all sparkly and new and confident. But I am scared that a certain type of beauty is going to become the norm, and that the people who look weird in our society are going to be the people who never had anything altered on their face. This happens in a lot of societies—that African one where they scar their skin with little pustules that look like blisters—that grosses most of us out, yet we do things in this country that are equally extreme.
If a plastic surgeon got a hold of my face, the first thing he would do is shave the hump off my nose. My precious hump! I think some of my creative ability is located in that uncharacteristically Roman little hill, and to take it away from me, as oddly as it appears on my face, would take away my ability to generate these strange little thoughts.
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
WHERE ARE YOU ZULIEKA
My waking life is becoming more interesting, so I find it less necessary to enter the dream world. Though in the wee hours of morning for ten minutes I drifted and found myself in an archery contest a la William Tell. The referee gave me a bent arrow and put the apple farther away than he had for the other contestants. I asked for a different arrow, and he smiled and said he was keeping all the straight ones for himself. Naturally, as I tend to do in my waking life, I put my arms around him and we kissed. He still would not move the apple any closer or give me a straight arrow, but I woke up feeling the scratch of his beard against my mouth.
I am going to LA next Tuesday to meet with a movie director to discuss a screenplay I have yet to write—-5 more days to come up with something—-about a girl name Zulieka. Hair-brained? Crazy? But I have nothing else to do. If I don’t write here for a few days, it is because I am writing furiously elsewhere.
The music is on hold--thank you for the lyrics, I have not forgotten.
My waking life is becoming more interesting, so I find it less necessary to enter the dream world. Though in the wee hours of morning for ten minutes I drifted and found myself in an archery contest a la William Tell. The referee gave me a bent arrow and put the apple farther away than he had for the other contestants. I asked for a different arrow, and he smiled and said he was keeping all the straight ones for himself. Naturally, as I tend to do in my waking life, I put my arms around him and we kissed. He still would not move the apple any closer or give me a straight arrow, but I woke up feeling the scratch of his beard against my mouth.
I am going to LA next Tuesday to meet with a movie director to discuss a screenplay I have yet to write—-5 more days to come up with something—-about a girl name Zulieka. Hair-brained? Crazy? But I have nothing else to do. If I don’t write here for a few days, it is because I am writing furiously elsewhere.
The music is on hold--thank you for the lyrics, I have not forgotten.
Monday, May 24, 2004
IF YOUR FEET ARE IN THE CLOUDS, KEEP YOUR HEAD FIRMLY ANCHORED
The concept of upside-down comes up often in my day-dreaming. There are only a few places, in the greater area of the universe, where upside-down in achievable. First, there must be a right-side up, a place of gravity where ostensibly the posture that facilitates movement is the right one though with plants it's the side that meets the sun. Then there must be an observation of angles, of 90 and 180. And then, to fully appreciate the semantics of upside-down, there is the horror, curiosity, and affront to nature caused by the rebellious entity that chooses to turn or is violently heaved into such an uncomfortable position.
Becoming upside-down is not easy. For me, I kneel with my head to the floor, place my hands down on either side of my head, and first move my right knee and then my left up to rest on each bicep. From there, I can slowly bring my legs up without losing my balance. Like this:
I have never tried anything sexual in this position. Both partners could not thrust well in the upside-down position, and the height of each would have to be calibrated just right. Without use of the hands, I do not know how you would manage to guide certain pieces into certain holes. It would be more possible, if one partner was standing on the feet, and if he was male. If the female was then placed in a trench, he could stand with his legs on either side of her torso at a right angle. Like this:
Still, can a hard-on bend that far down? But hard-ons are not always needed, and the right-side-up partner could perform either fellatio or cunnilingus on the upside-down partner.
I think of being in an upside-down house and walking around on the ceiling. Supposing that all appliances were so well-bolted to the floor that they are now well-bolted to the new ceiling, you could glue your non-stick pan to one of the burners on the stove and throw eggs at it while it's hot, catching the cooked egg on it's way down with another pan, and serve breakfast to your sweetie who fell out of bed onto the ceiling fan: eggs just the way she likes them, upside-down.
The concept of upside-down comes up often in my day-dreaming. There are only a few places, in the greater area of the universe, where upside-down in achievable. First, there must be a right-side up, a place of gravity where ostensibly the posture that facilitates movement is the right one though with plants it's the side that meets the sun. Then there must be an observation of angles, of 90 and 180. And then, to fully appreciate the semantics of upside-down, there is the horror, curiosity, and affront to nature caused by the rebellious entity that chooses to turn or is violently heaved into such an uncomfortable position.
Becoming upside-down is not easy. For me, I kneel with my head to the floor, place my hands down on either side of my head, and first move my right knee and then my left up to rest on each bicep. From there, I can slowly bring my legs up without losing my balance. Like this:
I have never tried anything sexual in this position. Both partners could not thrust well in the upside-down position, and the height of each would have to be calibrated just right. Without use of the hands, I do not know how you would manage to guide certain pieces into certain holes. It would be more possible, if one partner was standing on the feet, and if he was male. If the female was then placed in a trench, he could stand with his legs on either side of her torso at a right angle. Like this:
Still, can a hard-on bend that far down? But hard-ons are not always needed, and the right-side-up partner could perform either fellatio or cunnilingus on the upside-down partner.
I think of being in an upside-down house and walking around on the ceiling. Supposing that all appliances were so well-bolted to the floor that they are now well-bolted to the new ceiling, you could glue your non-stick pan to one of the burners on the stove and throw eggs at it while it's hot, catching the cooked egg on it's way down with another pan, and serve breakfast to your sweetie who fell out of bed onto the ceiling fan: eggs just the way she likes them, upside-down.
Sunday, May 23, 2004
LIKE MOTHER, LIKE DAUGHTER
My mother drives everybody looney. She's a charming, strange woman with no common sense, easy to like, but hard to tolerate. She does not care what other people think, and draws attention to herself without meaning too simply by being her eccentric self.
I brought a boyfriend home over spring break one year, and when I pulled into the driveway, she was washing the windows outside wearing purple ratty sweat-pants under her mink coat. She does not believe in glamour, my mother; her reasoning was that it was cold, and that the coat was warm.
(A side-thought: I feel horribly guilty when I see her wearing that coat because I went down on a guy in her closet—a nice soft thing to lean against while you're enjoying yourself, is mink—and got some gizz on it.)
I yelled at her on the phone just now—I am going to to Oklahoma for my brother's wedding two weeks from now, and dreading it as any scared rabbit would amongst a herd of republicans with shot-guns. My mother dreads it too, but rather than put up with being uncomfortable for the sake of diplomacy, she has decided to avoid all her matriarchal responsiblities and only show for actual hour of wedding ceremony. This leaves myself, and the other four guests on the groom's side, who are all from the east coast and who all have Ph.D's, to sit uncomfortably through the BBQ rehearsal dinner conspiring on how to avoid speaking with the bride's father who just got out of jail—not even kidding---with our heads bent over potato salad and that awful green-bean casserole with the onion thingies that only god-fearing Christians can stand to eat. There will be only the few of us, on the one side of the church, and hundreds of the enemy's family on the bride's side of the church.
Fuck, Mommy, if you're not going to the dinner, then I don't have to either.
No, Zurieka, I need foh you to take my place. Tell evewyone I'm sorry, but I can't get out of my commitments. I take my hat off foh you. (I don't know where she picked up that phrase, but she loves it and uses it regularly with no observation of it's common usage.)
I am roused to boiling point by her selfishness: she doesn't want to go, so her daughter should go instead. I am bitter that I will have to sit through this ordeal, and it's unfair that she gets to skip out on it. I am hurt that she will not be there to help me keep my mouth shut about the only things that are worth talking about: politics and religion. I am mad that she doesn't care what the bride's family will think, and that she is not even going to pretend to support her son's marriage. I tell you, this going to be a fucking nightmare, and it's not the last you'll hear of it.
Though a far more pleasant trip in the near future is occupying most of my thoughts.
My mother drives everybody looney. She's a charming, strange woman with no common sense, easy to like, but hard to tolerate. She does not care what other people think, and draws attention to herself without meaning too simply by being her eccentric self.
I brought a boyfriend home over spring break one year, and when I pulled into the driveway, she was washing the windows outside wearing purple ratty sweat-pants under her mink coat. She does not believe in glamour, my mother; her reasoning was that it was cold, and that the coat was warm.
(A side-thought: I feel horribly guilty when I see her wearing that coat because I went down on a guy in her closet—a nice soft thing to lean against while you're enjoying yourself, is mink—and got some gizz on it.)
I yelled at her on the phone just now—I am going to to Oklahoma for my brother's wedding two weeks from now, and dreading it as any scared rabbit would amongst a herd of republicans with shot-guns. My mother dreads it too, but rather than put up with being uncomfortable for the sake of diplomacy, she has decided to avoid all her matriarchal responsiblities and only show for actual hour of wedding ceremony. This leaves myself, and the other four guests on the groom's side, who are all from the east coast and who all have Ph.D's, to sit uncomfortably through the BBQ rehearsal dinner conspiring on how to avoid speaking with the bride's father who just got out of jail—not even kidding---with our heads bent over potato salad and that awful green-bean casserole with the onion thingies that only god-fearing Christians can stand to eat. There will be only the few of us, on the one side of the church, and hundreds of the enemy's family on the bride's side of the church.
Fuck, Mommy, if you're not going to the dinner, then I don't have to either.
No, Zurieka, I need foh you to take my place. Tell evewyone I'm sorry, but I can't get out of my commitments. I take my hat off foh you. (I don't know where she picked up that phrase, but she loves it and uses it regularly with no observation of it's common usage.)
I am roused to boiling point by her selfishness: she doesn't want to go, so her daughter should go instead. I am bitter that I will have to sit through this ordeal, and it's unfair that she gets to skip out on it. I am hurt that she will not be there to help me keep my mouth shut about the only things that are worth talking about: politics and religion. I am mad that she doesn't care what the bride's family will think, and that she is not even going to pretend to support her son's marriage. I tell you, this going to be a fucking nightmare, and it's not the last you'll hear of it.
Though a far more pleasant trip in the near future is occupying most of my thoughts.
