The First in a Series of Necessary Experiences

Have you ever (in the middle of the night while tripping on acid) listened to the elegant light scrape of ice skate blades cutting into the smooth black surface of a northern lake? Wind and rain followed by deep cracking temperatures yield a plane of crystalline glacier upon which you, lying on your stomach, peer into thick glassy depths.

Gliding in large strides away from other dark forms of moving companions, the soft combined whirr of skates becomes a whisper of your lone presence in a black frigid world. Your stinging cheeks remind you of the flow of blood, your warm body steaming beneath layers of insulation. Life is muscles, blood, skin, electric hum, euphoria, solitary effort and momentum.

Lying on your back, you open your eyes to the stars above the northern pines that own the frozen earth, the marvels of rock-ephemeral ice and soft falling snow and glass lakes and quiet creatures of winter. Like you. Instinctively your arms and legs move in large angel arcs.

Soon your ears prick to the approaching scratch of blades and you arise gliding, passing, receding, circling, orbiting, enclosing, listening... a transitory tribe in a disappearing landscape. Like you.

Around the Bend with the Movie Whore

I saw another death ritual movie tonight! (Like Dead Man, Million Dollar Baby andThe Ballad of Jack and Rose.) What's with that? I think, if I tried just a little, I could make anything fit into my death ritual paradigm. This one even featured Christopher Walken, another "he's so bizarre how can you not love him" actor.



A movie about four generations of men in a troubled family, Around the Bend takes us on a scavenger hunt, designed by a dying great-grandfather, played by Michael Caine, as a way for the remaining men to revisit and make peace with the past. Caines son, played by Walken, shows up on the doorstep of his father, son and grandson after 31 years of absence and with them he begins a roadtrip around the southwest United States where each stop digs up memories and makes connections between the men. The trip ultimately, while making them face demons from their past, brings forgiveness and enables Walken to cross over into death.

This is a cool little movie, and worth seeing, but all my leisurally musings about death must come to an end. Some intense planning is going to take place in the next couple of days. Monday I will face classrooms full of nervous and excited students. Woohoo! Here it comes, and I will hit the ground running.

"It was so dark inside the wolf's body!"

There was lots of perkiness in attendance at my first day of work yesterday. Lots of young (bottom of the pay scale=popular with the administration) new blood and energy, lots of new hairdos, lots of tan, lotsa jokin and lots of maneuvering. Ah, the smell of public school. The informal atmosphere is always accompanied with caveats. Somewhere underneath that administrative sheeps clothing I detect a snarling wolf, said Red Riding Hood.

This insomnia preceding going over the river and through the woods isn't going to cut it, either. Awake at 3 am, my body resents being yanked around like this. It wants to sleep like a cat, whenever it damn well pleases, and get up in the night and write and spend time in the afternoon daydreaming and wander around in the gardens and stay up late. And heal.

I hear the wolves howling. I will stay on the path, with the other pilgrims who head for grandma's. We seek solace in each others' company. Amie the kindhearted, Wendy my Christian-right but we can love each other anyway ("Yes! It's all good!") hallmate and beautiful Kiki (losing her hair!), who openly shares her story of lupus with me. We are hand-in-hand, "we can do this", we aren't alone.

Goals for the year as of today? Don't let go. Stay on the path. Maintain balance. Start planning vacations. Have fun.

Listen, Little Red Cap, haven't you seen the beautiful flowers that are blossoming in the woods? Why don't you go and take a look? And I don't believe you can hear how beautifully the birds are singing. You are walking along as though you were on your way to school in the village. It is very beautiful in the woods. - The Brothers Grimm

Simplify

Rachel Aviv interviews Albert Ellis, the founder of cognitive behavioral therapy, in the latest Village Voice. Ellis "...has spent the past 50 years encouraging patients to 'forget their goddamn past!' The best way to cure people's unhappiness, he says, is to just tell them—firmly—to stop acting irrationally." Here's some of the interview:

When did you decide that Freudian analysis was a waste of time? Freud was full of horseshit. He invented people's problems and what to do about them. Tell me one thing about the past. I'll prove it's not what upset you. It's how you philosophized about it that made you disturbed.

If Freud is horseshit, why are so many people still spending hours on the couch, talking about their dreams? Because people are crazy and stupid! And especially psychologists and therapists are stupid! That's the main reason.

Many of your books include charts, questionnaires and equations, which show readers how to more efficiently deal with their unhappiness. Are there dangers in seeing deep mental processes as a formula? It's not a formula. It's several different formulas. I encourage USA, Unconditional Self Acceptance. I accept me, myself, my personality, whether or not I do well. I prefer to do well, but I don't put my worth on the line. And I accept you—with your [cough attack] stupidity and failings—whether or not you do well. And I accept life without demanding that it be exactly the way I want it to be. I avoid the words "should," "ought" and "must."

Do you think depression is indulgent? Yes, it's "I run the fucking universe and it should do my bidding." That's arrogant and indulgent.

You seem very comfortable swearing—in writing as well. Much more than your average 91-year old. I was the first psychologist at the American Psychological Associate Convention in Chicago in 1950 who was able to use "fuck" and "shit." The rest were scared shitless. It strikes home. It's direct. It doesn't beat around the bush.

This guy really seems to be on to something (plus you gotta love his use of profanity). It reminded me of the questions I asked you the other day:

What it is that you look forward to the most in your life? In what stage do you find yourself? Do you still harbor hope for profound happiness, true love, satisfaction? Do you still matter as much to yourself? Have you tabled some dreams and rearranged others? Isn't it somehow troubling but also comforting that in the end we must release all of our ideas and passions?

which brought this little exchange:

Cookie: Call me crazy, but I still hold out hope for happiness --- although i've definitely shelved some dreams.

MJ: Yeah? Me too, but maybe that's not so bad after all. Simpler.

Cookie: Simpler is good.

I have spent a lot of years agonizing over life and my place in it, and I think my "big lesson" during this phase has something to do with Ellis' idea of Unconditional Self Acceptance. I am nearer to accepting myself, my personality, whether or not I do "well" and I don't let not doing well (shifting expectations) put my worth on the line. I am closer to accepting you, whether or not you do well. And I am giving up the fight and accepting life without demanding that it be exactly the way I want it to be. I am trying to avoid the words "should," "ought" and "must.

I told AJ yesterday that letting go of our desire for something (true love, success, whatever) seems to open avenues for its arrival. At the point when we don't desire or need something anymore, it seems to come to us. And then we have to decide whether the burden of possessing that old dream is too great. Then again, maybe this kind of thinking is just another form of holding-on.

There is joy in letting go of things, especially the torment of understanding the self, with all of its "important" baggage. There is peace in allowing life to be bad, good, whatever, without such huge expectations. There is contentment in accepting the moment.

I hope this lasts.

All in God's Good Day

All in a good day, my friend
The monster said to me
I am thee you are me and the rest is far away
He is!
He is far away

Take your skirts take your hat
Take your bonny leggings
Lay them down by the running stream
Bathe with me today
Yes!
In cool water with me today

No said she yes said he
Around and over and under
Beneath yonder tall oak tree I'll sleep
Before this day is over
Night!
Before the day is over

You are me and I am thee
Around and under and over
Feed thyself with bits of me
Feed thy dying hunger
Love!
Feed thy dying hunger

No said he yes said she
In cool water over and under
You are he I am thee
Feed thy dying hunger
Love!
Feed my dying hunger

The Lavender's Blue, Girl's Book of How-To

I learned how to be a girl from the movies,
to flirt and to kiss and to cry.
I learned to lie from the government.
Be deceptive. Covert. A spy.

Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly,
Lavender's green;
When I am king, dilly, dilly,
You shall be queen.

I learned how to get my own way
from my peers, my sisters in crime.
I learned to how to talk like a sailor
from the grease boys, stoned drunk all the time.

Call up your men, dilly, dilly,
Set them to work,
Some to the plough, dilly, dilly,
Some to the cart.

I learned how to surrender and sacrifice
from a song by Bette Midler I'm sure.
We learned to be nice girls from our fathers,
From our mothers we learned to be whores.

Some to make hay, dilly, dilly,
Some to thresh corn,
While you and I, dilly, dilly,
Keep ourselves warm.

I learned how to believe in God Almighty
from some fucking words in a book
and to resist was futile I finally learned
from the person whose money I took.

I learned to be honest from Bonnie and Clyde
I learned to be thankful from a guru
I learned how to laugh from Laurel and Hardy
I learned regret from you, old friend

I learned regret from you.

I sing, I sing,
From morn till night;
From cares I'm free,
And my heart is light.

Teeter-Totter Bread and Butter Wash Your Face with Dirty Water

We live our lives between the imagined and the real
balancing
compensating
copying
shifting our feet

Weighing our side so as not to go flying

In the air again! (Little Jack Horner)
Lose a tooth again! (Sat in the corner)
Blood and dirt again! (Eating a Christmas pie)

Wishing we were the lighter one
who never fell off.
Leaned back to gain
momentum.

Pushed off.

What a good boy am I.
Agile little mercenary
Ascending and descending

You said we weighed the same

As I sat uneasily
legs dangling
at the top of the world
looking down at you

In the Middle of the Night with the Movie Whore

All this overabundance of (sometimes pain-killer induced) posting will be screeching to a halt very soon. Next Wednesday is my first day back at work. The letter, the calendar, the first-day schedule with its greetings, breakfasts and informative meetings, has already arrived. Plans are in place, progress is clicking along, I'm part of that incomprehensibly enormous and collective effort that keeps the world clipping along to the hum of the status quo. (What keeps us, like mindless assembly line workers, manning this madness?)

Up again in the middle of the night (this new-found insomnia is interesting, but will definitely put a stress on work), I question why my body is trying to destroy itself. I seem unable to compartmentalize these things tidily, keep topics tucked away at the end of the world. What could that possibly mean, on various levels? An immune system, designed to protect me from invading danger, has turned against me and is destroying healthy tissue. That's heavy. I must give this more thought (Yea, like I don't do enough of that). Sometimes I just yearn for manual labor. Turn off the head. Turn on the muscles. Sweat. Sleep. Repeat.

I watched Sin City yesterday and it was very satisfying in its one-sighted relentless drive toward a goal combined with a good dose of self-destruction (self-sacrifice) and violence. And of course I liked the constant dispassionate self-examinating narration. Mickey Rourke is another actor that deserves a post to himself. God, what a freak (I mean that in a good way). The movie is visually stunning.


Frank Miller's Sin City
So maybe work will be a good thing. It does have a way of stopping the thinking process, at least interrupting and controlling its' flow. My mind (and body) for the next 9 months will be directed by outside forces. I will try and squeeze in some of my own direction, but from past experience I will be pretty much checked-out, maxed-out, gone for the duration. Which typically makes me want to scream. I just don't want the self-destruction (self-sacrifice) to eat me up. Yeah. I gotta figure this one out. "Welcome to Basin City, home to a menagerie of killers, hookers, losers, and dreamers, all waiting for their next big score to get by."

If you were with me here in my little upstairs room in the middle of the night I would ask you what it is that you look forward to the most in your life. In what stage do you find yourself? Do you still harbor hope for profound happiness, true love, satisfaction? Do you still matter as much to yourself? Have you tabled some dreams and rearranged others? I know that you are interested in ideas, you have passions. Isn't it somehow troubling but also comforting that in the end we must release them all? Gone. But for a time those drives are tenacious and unrelenting, aren't they?

Mercy! No wonder we need drugs. Speaking of which, I have a very fond memory of one July night in New York City at Le Monde with Mo and Dina, eating cheese and mussels and between us enjoying two bottles of really wonderful wine. Mo and I sipped our first glass at an outside table on that breezy summer evening as Dina wove her way across the city to meet us. Calling my cell when she made it to the cross street, I walked to meet her, and we talked on our phones until we met laughing, breaking our connection, beginning a new one. A hug on the street. I dream of more such nights with friends.

Alrighty then. Snap out of it (Didn't you love Cher in Moonstruck?). I hear animals outside, probably racoons getting into the garbage, and soon I will hear the first bird of the day outside my window. Maybe I will visit Dolly today, stop at Goodwill, let my classroom planning stew somewhere in my subconscious. Maybe go to the gardens later, take some photos. I think I'll decide to practice Tai Chi. I'll certainly be texting AJ, whose last message to me read something like "Fuck them those dirty ass motherfuckers call them back and tell them to shove the pink bumpers straight up their elephant sized assholes." There is no controlling that girl. You just gotta love her, and who started this recreational profanity business, anyway?!

There is rain in the forecast. I look forward to that.

Garden Erotica in Late Summer

Children run past lovers entwined in shadowy paths. Slowly, old folks search for a familiar flower. Energetic men set up tripods on the manicured grass and a girl, wearing a tiara, poses shyly atop clouds of white chiffon. "She is a princess. Look at the princess," say the mothers to their daughters, soaked in fountain water. They have not yet learned to be girls, they stick their hands in the shooting water, delight in the high spray. Too close to the edge, they fall back, legs apart.

Earnest students of Tai Chi flow in unison with their teacher. Backpacks are scattered on sacred ground between native plant paths and formal geometry, balance and proportion. Circling the insecure boundary, I become negative space. Frogs jump before me into ponds thick with algae.

Where can one find these stones and sand, this black and white? Where shall one look for the infinitesimal and the infinite, the place of profane normality? Freedom and control, I skirt your extremities, I traverse your edges, I sit like a focal point in your presence. I pose, legs apart.

Sometimes in the late summer I stride between pleasure and power as if it were possible. I cross the private and the public, the normal and the immoral, the traditional and the natural. The garden in this season allows this overlap, like Jesus Christ gives the avoidance of terror.

Taboo.

Nature, culture, indoors, outdoors, boundaries, balance, no-man's land.
City, concrete, wall, lawn, untamed, uncivilized, raw.

Furniture
Paint
Tables
Rugs
TV.

All is given unto me.

The Movie Whore Likes The Ballad of Jack and Rose

I will see a movie simply to watch Daniel Day-Lewis, which is the reason I rented The Ballad of Jack and Rose yesterday.



I knew, after watching a Charlie Rose interview with Daniel Day-Lewis and Rebecca Miller, that this movie might be too close to my own life for comfort. Would it force me to examine my isolated-outsider-rebellious-social critic-home birthing-eco warrior- antisocial-back to nature-intellectually yearning-self and how my life choices have effected those around me, especially my children? Well of course, and since I am a glutton for punishment, bring it on.

A stringy Daniel Day-Lewis in dense Scottish accent plays Jack, the last holdout of a former island commune off the East Coast. He's an angry, uneasy man, particularly irked by a land developer (Beau Bridges) encroaching on his untamed wilderness.

With a bad ticker, Jack's days are winding down just as his ripe daughter, Rose (Camilla Belle), is getting to that certain age. Jack and Rose have always been close, perhaps too close.

Jack's ideals lead him to some -really bad decisions, as when he ropes in a casual lover (Catherine Keener) and her two warring boys to form an instant family for Rose — who sensibly rebels, but in hair-raising ways.

- Jami Bernard, Daily News Movie Reviews

Like Dead Man and Million Dollar Baby, this movie deals with a character's approach to death. Rose, having lived an isolated existence with her father, creates her own coping ritual as he dies and in so doing becomes her father's guide into the next world. All of the life decisions that effected his daughter's ability to live in the world are dealt with at some level during this ritual process and as Jack is forced to face his fears and self-doubt Rose is carried forward.

I know. I could probably find a way to fit just about anything into my "death ritual" theme lately. It is good to think about dying not only as preparation for physical death, but also for guidance during all of the beginnings and endings that we experience in our lifetime, all of the symbolic deaths and rebirths that we pass through as we grow and change.

Jack, in a self-relevatory moment with a McMansion land developer on his island who threatened his insulated existence said something like, "We aren't so different after all." He saw in his desire to have things his own way his failure to provide his daughter with the skills and knowledge she needed to live in the world. Don't all parents walk this line? How do we balance our criticism and rejection of a world with which we don't approve with our child's need to function in that world? The consequences of that balancing act can be profound.

The Enormous Erection that is George W. Bush

I seem to remember, not so long ago, something called the Women's Rights Movement. Does that ring a bell? It all began in 1848 when Elizabeth Cady Stanton, sharing tea with four women friends, articulated her discontent with the limitations placed on her situation under America's new democracy.

Stanton wrote a "Declaration of Sentiments," which included these words:

"The history of mankind is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations on the part of man toward woman, having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over her. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world. Then it went into specifics:

* Married women were legally dead in the eyes of the law
* Women were not allowed to vote
* Women had to submit to laws when they had no voice in their formation
* Married women had no property rights
* Husbands had legal power over and responsibility for their wives to the extent that they could imprison or beat them with impunity
* Divorce and child custody laws favored men, giving no rights to women
* Women had to pay property taxes although they had no representation in the levying of these taxes
* Most occupations were closed to women and when women did work they were paid only a fraction of what men earned
* Women were not allowed to enter professions such as medicine or law
* Women had no means to gain an education since no college or university would accept women students
* With only a few exceptions, women were not allowed to participate in the affairs of the church
* Women were robbed of their self-confidence and self-respect, and were made totally dependent on men

Nothing against anal sex, but if gender inequality is far behind us, why do I find myself continually watching my ass, looking behind me for that enormous erection that is George W. Bush? Could it be that we are regressing back to the 1950's, where men were men and women were objects and we all put on a happy face?

But let's get real. Things really have changed. I admit it. For instance, getting butt-fucked in the 1950's was still taboo. But in 2005 watch your back, Cindy Sheehan, here gallops faux cowboy George W. Bush, his enormous backlash waving before him. Do you know who he is? He's a war pres-dint, he's got a life to live for Christsake, and he can butt-fuck any damn woman he chooses! Git outa his way! And he's taking care of the country by being on vacation, which means he, "...somehow finds time for a bicycle ride, some fishing, a nap and a Little League baseball game on a single day at his Crawford, Texas, ranch. (Salon)

Bush may not have time to talk to Cindy, but she sure is taking his backlash right in the rear, just like

when John McCain had George W. Bush on the ropes in South Carolina in 2000, he quickly found himself subject to smears about his mental condition and family. When Richard Clarke criticized Bush after 9/11, Dick Cheney tried to discredit him as someone who "wasn't in the loop." When Paul O'Neill said that Bush used 9/11 as a pretext to invade Iraq, the White House said that he was ignored when he worked for the administration and should be ignored afterward, too. When Joseph Wilson said Bush had misled the nation in the run-up to the war, the White House called him a liar and outed his wife. (Salon)

So this isn't a women's issue at all, is it? Bush will stick in the ass a person of any race, class or gender who effects his approval rating.


The question is, will Cindy weather the right-wing gang bang? Always the optimist, Mykeru believes that Bush's

...unwillingness to give Sheehan the time of day while he's on vacation undermines the straight-talking, rib-eating bullshit that Bush has been so careful to cultivate, right down to buying a stage set ranch during the 2000 presidential elections. Every time Bush and his entourage blows by Camp Casey in black SUVs and a cloud of dust on the way to and from some fund raiser, he reveals himself to be what he always was: A callous elitist who doesn't mind other people suffering and dying for what passes for his convictions and, at worst, a coward who can't own up to his mistakes and deceptions. (Mykeru)

But I'm not so sure. I think you're going down, Cindy. With separation of church and state, abortion and the golden rule. Father knows best, so put on a happy face. Quit your talking about terrorism, Israel and oil. Don't act too smart, that will just make daddy mad. Take your grief quietly and with dignity. Obey your husband. Be a good mother. Make sure you smile for the family picture.

Take it in the rear, like a bitch. Fake an orgasm. Just like the good old days.

Family Photos from Abu Ghraib

Speaking of my desire that we take care of one anothers' kids, why don't we just face our dark side? Let's quit hiding it. When AJ, in high school, got ticketed for DUI, unlike other parents involved I didn't get a lawyer to get her off the hook. I said, "You did it, you deal with the consequences."

Which I guess is pretty stupid, because our government obviously doesn't think it is necessary to face the consequences of our actions. Just keep painting a picture of "god is on our side flag-waving hallelulia I'm a patriot" and it'll all go away. Keep hiding the truth, repressing the information.

As the New York Times is reporting, Bush administration lawyers fighting the public release of another round of photos from Abu Ghraib have filed a statement in federal court in New York in which (Gen. Richard B.) Myers warns that release of the photos could wreak havoc in Iraq and Afghanistan. "The situation on the ground in Iraq is dynamic and dangerous," Myers said. "It is probable that al Qaida and other groups will seize upon these images and videos as grist for their propaganda mill, which will result in, besides violent attacks, increased terrorist recruitment, continued financial support and exacerbation of tensions between Irazi and Afghani papulaces and US and coalition forces." If the photos are released to the public, Myers said, "riots, violence and attacks by insurgents will result."

...Donald Rumsfeld said last year that some unreleased photos from Abu Ghraib depict conduct that "can only be described as blatantly sacistic, cruel and inhumane. Seymour Hersh has said that the unreleased images include videotape of Iraqi boys being sodomized. (Salon)

We really are reverting to a dysfunctional 1950's facade, aren't we? Let's hide all the nasty secrets and pretend they never happened. Remember to smile when they take the picture so we can prove we are a happy family! Don't sit by the ranch demanding answers, Cindy. Be quiet. Father Knows Best. Be a good girl.

Bullshit. Let's face who we are, who we have become. I agree that,

If the Bush administration is so worried about how Muslims will react to further evidence of torture at Abu Ghraib, maybe it should spend less time fretting about photos that haven't been released and more time focused on wrongs that haven't been righted. Punishing, not promoting, some of the commanders and lawyers involved would be a good way to start. (Salon)

Right AJ?

AJ's Phone Debacle

AJ has a phone again. I don't want to bore you with the entire series of mishaps and mistakes that have prevented her from having a phone for five days, but a couple are noteworthy. First, on Monday when AJ was mugged on the corner in her neighborhood, there were lots of people around. It was dark, but there were people on foot on the streets and people in cars stopped at the light on the corner. Nobody did anything when the kid robbed (and hit) her. No outward reaction whatsoever, which is exactly what happened when she saw someone hit by a car a few months ago. She met the eyes of people watching her kneel over the man lying in the street through their car windows, and when the light changed, they drove away.

I worry that people are detached and unsympathetic.

I can understand why the insurance company needs a police report, but the hoops she needed to go through ("We can't go any further until we have the officer's badge number." So I call the precinct (AJ doesn't have a phone) and the officer tells me it isn't their policy to give out badge numbers. Finally we make it over that hurdle (another representative decides they can go further without the badge number), AJ takes the subway across the city to pick the phone up and the insurance company, who had assured me that a new Sim card would be included in the box with the replacement phone, didn't include the Sim card. And they "can't do anything but send one out and she'll get it Monday". "That's totally unacceptable! Connect me to your supervisor," I say. Who decides AJ can go to a dealer, buy a card and get reimbursed.

AJ heads back out (mind you, she spent four hours at the police station a couple days before this and was directed to the wrong police station the previous day) to buy a Sim card, but when I don't hear from her all day and into the night, I begin to wonder. I call the cell phone customer service and they say her phone hasn't been activated. The store should have called the serial number of the Sim card into the company. Later AJ calls me from a friend's phone and says she got the card and they told her at the store that it would be activated in up to 48 hours. They had sold her the card and then just let her leave with it unactivated.

To make a long story short, I called the serial number in, the phone was activated in less than a half hour, I talked with AJ at 5:30 am as she was going to bed and I was waking up and there is peace in the world again. (Oh, did I remember to tell you that she got strep throat in the middle of all this and had to drag herself to the doctor?)

I want to believe in the kindness of strangers. That there are people out there who are not too self-involved to perceive the needs of others. That humans aren't too jaded to assist, aid, comfort, take time, trust. That when our kids, young and vulnerable, step out into the world, they will be protected.

Memo

TO: Brethren of the Coast
RE: General information since our last meeting

1. The Pirate Code: Change in policy! Always use pirate references when talking about libraries. (Remember to modify last post to reflect this change in policy.) Libraries are suppressive obsessive compulsive ridiculous self important gate keeping sexually repressed people-hating institutions and must be skateboarded around as much as possible. While a buzz may be circulating that libraries are changing, we must be skeptical of any information coming from the library sciences. Arrrrrrr. And a pox on the no-trespassing bilge-sucking library wenches. Ye'll meet the rope's end for that, me bucko! Steal this magazine, aye!

2. Confidentiality Be Damned!: It has been brought to my attention that some lives are not truly "open books". This must be corrected immediately and the guilty party must leave updates on Update at the End of the World regularly that are not pain killer-induced diatribes, but actually understandable, coherent and informative (In the Sidebar, for your convenience).

3. Soapboxes are Essential: Charting new routes is not easy through unknown territory. We will keep our eyes open for places of refreshment and rest, trust the experienced navigators among us and hope that we have the fortitude to complete the journey. Of course I am strung-out wild crazy-eyed and unpredictable. That goes without saying, a prerequisite in the soapbox biz. And I smell. And invade your self-space, that holy-of-holies guarded and studied by you like the Shroud of Turin. Question at every turn.



4. Dress Code: Appropriate dress is no longer possible. Everyone must dress in a manner totally uncharacteristic to them. Also, a change of posture and demeanor is desirable.

5. Proposals Due: Proposals for the next phase of your life must be completed and approved by August 31 (No extensions and no excuses. Death is imminent, people. Wake up.).

Steal This Magazine!

My booty at the library yesterday yielded an interesting little Chicago-based magazine called STOPSMILING, THE MAGAZINE FOR HIGH-MINDED LOWLIFES and a July 25 Time with Karl Rove on the Cover ("Rove on the Spot"). I was looking for bounty, for treasure, some good words drawn out in an interview (and dirt on despicable Karl Rove), which is rare in a magazine these days. But my marauding paid off in a back edition of STOPSMILING, where I uncovered two memorable interviews by two interesting people who have not (unlike Karl Rove) sold their souls to the devil.

Funny I picked up these two particular magazines. There is the corporate giant Time alongside the little guy STOPSMILING, and speaking for the little guy, I respect anyone who is doing something, and hasn't just caved to what the media conglomerates have said the world should be. Someone who has a vision and steps out and takes a risk, and doesn't wait for the perfect time, the wholly inspired or fully developed idea. Someone who acts. So I liked this magazine immediately, and I liked the EDITOR'S NOTE, with its "small fish swimming upstream in a media monolith river" message which begins,

The media consolidation of the mid-'90's has taken a toll on what once made magazines - and publishing in general - a thankless but inspiring business. Many magazines - if they haven't already folded - have lost their identities somewhere in the vertical integration that has become the practice pyramid model to quash all creativity - and in some cases, censor - any publication threatening its profit-driven global umbrella.

I, in my weakened emotional state, have been crying at the advertisements and reality TV of these media giants (of which The Surreal Life, America's Top Model and my *new favorite*, Trailer Fabulous are at the top of the list, although I did find Going Native fascinating, and Brat Camp is pretty captivating), so it was no surprise when I was choked-up while listening to a review of Jim Jarmusch's new movie Broken Flowers the other day while sitting in the parking lot of the gardens, waiting to take my solitary nightly walk through the shadows and petals.

Broken Flowers is supposedly Jarmusch's most commercial film so far, starring Bill Murray, who has become the new sad clown, after Lost in Translation, A Life Aquatic and now this film. Salon says,

The movie's center is Bill Murray, as a late-middle-age Don Juan who receives an unsigned letter, with a blurry postmark, telling him that he has a 19-year-old son. Murray has no idea who the mother might be. So at the urging of his next-door neighbor, husband and family man Jeffrey Wright (in a relaxed, amusing performance), he makes a list of the women he'd spent time with 20 years ago and sets out, by plane and rental car, to connect (or not) with each of them.

I like the movie already and I like Jim Jarmusch even better after reading the interview with him in STOPSMILING. When asked about his younger brother Tom, he says,

We've worked together and he's helped me on a lot of my films. He did an interview once in France on some of his work, and they said, "Your brother's nine years older than you. What's the most important thing you learned from him when you were a child?" And my brother said, "The most important thing I learned from observing him was, always be nice to weirdos and never judging other people." That make me so happy, because if I did have that effect on him, at least I did something good for him.

He said other kind and wonderful things in the interview, but suffice it to say I am totally in love with Jim Jarmusch.
Totally.

There is also an interview with Lou Reed in that issue that contains some little pearls (wow, I realize I am so hungry for substance in a swirl of media mediocrity), one of which is a memory of George Plimpton.

It's 1965 or 1966 and we're with Warhol's Velvet Underground. No one has ever heard of us. We're not even zero. We're just completely anonymous. Andy likes us, so there we go. They had a benefit for one of these early civil rights things at the Village Gate - I think it was for CORE. We're there, and they've got a cool poster, "Andy Warhol's Velvet Underground." We're playing "Heroin," and Allen Ginsberg is walking around. It was amazing. This is new ground for everybody in 1965 or 1966. No one had ever seen or heard anything like this - believe me - not even close (and not until this day, for that matter). Allen's doing his version of dancing with bells and shit. So anyway, we're leaving, and we don't even have a place to live. There were like 10 of us staying in some apartment someone had. We go to take the poster and Plimpton says, "You can't have that. We paid for that. That's ours." So for me, Plimpton is just a complete asshole. Fuck him. You know - rich guy. Here we were - musicians are always at the bottom. We played, but we can't have the poster? What the fuck is that? I remember.

Lou Reed, in his more acerbic delivery and Jim Jarmusch, in his laid-back sweet acceptance are both doing something despite the media giants who threaten to destroy creativity. Speaking of Andy Warhol, Reed says,

People say Andy didn't care about anybody. He wasn't evil. When we were in The Velvet Underground and we left him Andy didn't say, "Hey, you're under contract, babe. I get 10 percent." He didn't say, "We want 50 percent of your publishing. We made you who you are. You owe us for the next 30 years. You don't like it, you're in trouble." He didn't care. He said, "Off you go, have fun. This is what I think you should do."

That's almost unimaginable in our world today. For somebody to have someone else's interests at heart? And Jarmusch, speaking of a portrait of Joe Strummer in the early days of Clash written by Lester Bangs in Carburetor Dung,

...where he talks about Joe back in England and how all these schoolboys came up from London to see them play. They'd have school uniforms on but would stick a safety pin through their ears. they would have no place to stay and couldn't get back home, so Strummer let them sleep on the floor of his hotel room. He took care of them in a gruff way, but he had a really big heart like that. Who elso would do that? Who's gonna let a bunch of fucking little kids sleep on their floor because they don't hafve a place to go? I mean you're exhausted and on tour and in a rock-and-roll band, most people want to go out and get some chicks and drugs. Strummer, I'm sure, was washing out his one T-shirt in the sink telling them, "Stay in your place on the floor and go to sleep now! And I'll make sure you get on the train in the morning!"

We aren't used to this kind of behavior, are we? It is good to be reminded of its existence. So thank you, Kama Sutra Librarians for my two free magazines. It makes Karl Rove and the Bush administration seem all the more inconsequential. I am reminded that all the little things count. All the small kindnesses and tender mercies, every gentle word and courtesy. When no one is watching. Here. Today.

Drinking Songs (I Need a Drink of that Glass Half-Full)

AJ called after midnight, distraught. She had stepped off the subway into the dark streets of her neighborhood and was fumbling for something in her purse on the corner by the gas station when her phone fell. Mid-air (he seemed to come from nowhere) a kid swooped by, pushed her in the stomach, snatched the phone and ran. She said he looked about 12 years old. Crying again ("I got mugged!"), AJ regroups a little faster than last time, handles it, calls the police, gets the cell insurance number, takes those two steps back that are always required. Then she stepped forward again.

Earlier in the day she (on her cell), doing her Mark Kozelek shtick: "So what if I was a struggling dancer in NYC who, in order to make money, was performing covers of Mark Kozelek songs performing covers of AC/DC songs ('Sing it AJ,' I said. 'I need a fix.' Bein bad ain't so bad. I've had more pritty wimens than most men haaaave.... 'Yes, AJ. Inspired! Yes!'). I would always go onstage with a cigarette and a glass of vodka ('Genius!') and get drunker and drunker as the night wears on and ('Well, duh!') swear at the audience and walk off. Or whatever. I'll have the stage hand bring out a red clown nose and wearing it, sing an angry version of Bring in the Clowns while staggering around the stage. I'll probably forget to take it off. Get all emotional and nostalgic. Cry! Start writing songs onstage. Wish my movie career had taken off. Get all maudlin about the women I have loved. Wax poetic about Ohio. God, the possibilities are endless. Capitalize on the twins."

AJ yelled at the kid. He ran out of the alley and raced away and she screamed at him. (I was glad for that. "Did anyone see it?" I want the neighborhood, the universe to take care of my kid.) Who knows. The fucking phone was immediately turned off, so what is the point? There have been a rash of iPods stolen in the subways. People are supposed to keep them hidden from view. At least he didn't grab her purse, which (haphazardly I am sure) contained all of her rent money. She was thankful for that. AJ was thankful!

Watch over her, universe. I'm sending that message out to you. Take care of her when I can't. Give me a drink of your glass half-full.

(The Glass is) Half-Assed Full

LOVE

Sometimes I think there is a great inhalation waiting motionless under the surface of the culture that will carry us all forward, toward... love.

yes. LOVE!



All of the little notions ever noted about peace and tolerance and compassion will gather together and build momentum, like a wave, until their time comes to break over the earth like psychedelic concerts of the 60's. Call me a dreamer.

Sometimes I believe in the thousands of things that "go right" every day. That without those built in, we would have failed long ago. That Robert Indiana was right



and the radian measure with which the letter must be rotated in order to return it to its upright position would be much too tidy, like midwestern manicured lawns



upon which white couples in folding chairs reminisce about Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Still Afraid

We each reach some balance between our inner and outer lives that allows us to live with ourselves. You may be opposed to the war, but you are living with it, aren't you? I don't see you taken to the streets with a sign and screaming obscenities to heaven, which seems the logical thing. You may hate your best friend, but because you love her you have managed somehow to stay in touch all these years. You detest yourself for being a willing slave of corporate amerika as you nonchalantly size-up other runners as they pass by in Adidas, Nike, Reebok. You have succumbed. You have numbed.

All of the imbalances, all the overcompensations, all the fears, they must all come out now. Me? I'm afraid I can't keep up. Or that I am going too fast. In a dream not long ago, Veronica was once again driving (too fast!) and we sped down a winding road by a familiar muddy river. Her car flew off the road, airborne, and we were left standing on the bank, watching it sink.

Last night as I knelt down by the pond in the gardens to take a picture of the reflection of the flowers and trees, my sunglasses, hanging from my shirt, fell into the water and bubbled to the bottom. I became a childrens' illustration of surprise! Reaching my arm down into the blue-green depths, there was no bottom to feel, and I, wet-sleeved, wandered away, pleased that I can still be thrilled by the unexpected.

Then, my Nautica sleeve dyed blue from the water, I wondered what sort of chemicals they put in there to control algae, and what effect they have on humans. Will it wash off with soap?

I am afraid of the dark. I am afraid of people. I am afraid of sickness. I am afraid of being alone. I am afraid of being undesired. I am afraid of being desired. I am afraid of being stupid. I am afraid of being wrong. I am afraid of criticism. I am afraid of losing people. I am afraid of intimacy. I am afraid of trying and I am afraid of failing. I am afraid of basements. And sharks. And bears. Oh my! I am afraid of men. Of women. Of insects. Of snakes. I am so afraid of getting lost, of not being able to trust my sense of direction, my own judgements, my instincts. I am also afraid of attics, of hidden corners, dark places, creaky steps, dead bodies, dying people and animals and the wounded. I am afraid of emotion, of non-emotion, of change, of progress, of technology.

So. Suck it up. Climb to the top of the lighthouse and lean over the railing and scream "I am not afraid of heights!" Then drive into New York City and right up to AJ's door and park the car. Take the subway by yourself. Don't be a wimp. Hold the snake. Don't run away. Run toward the roar! When shipwrecked and treading water, swim toward the shark. Keep it at bay.

Last night I watched a TV special about people who had been in plane crashes. All of them agreed that the atmosphere in the plane, after the realization came that the plane was about to crash, was one of calm. No Hollywood screaming or hysterical Almost Famous confessionals. Just silence, eyes ahead, holding hands, perhaps a quiet kiss.

Did I mention that I am afraid of flying? Or of ordering new food in restaurants? I am afraid of drowning. Or suffocating. Or having to cut off my own arm after being caught in a climbing accident. Afraid of falling. Being eaten by a bear. Being eaten by maggots. Or dogs. Or cats. Being hit by a car. Or a train! Or a person, and robbed. Being raped. Mutilated. Cannibalized! Of course I am afraid of octypus. And other bizarre sea creatures with venom and colorful wavy-jelly-tenacles. Of some birds. And of things I can't see, like ghosts.

Dolly likes to tell the story of when I was four years old and ran home crying after not making it to my friend's house up the street because I was afraid of a squirrel.

I'm afraid of not having enough money, of being a bag-lady, of being defective, somehow. It is interesting that the concept of low self esteem is non-existent in some cultures. Why is it so prevalent in the West? I am afraid of addiction, of boredom, of wasting time, of misusing my life, of making wrong decisions, of making myself sick.

Does this make you feel better about your life? It's the least I can do, here in my little room in the middle of this night as I try to decide how to approach the rest of mine. Oh! Did I tell you I'm afraid of aliens? You probably knew that already, didn't you?

Unabridged E-Mail: Notes on Loving Willa

Tues, July 5, 2005

MJ.  I have been getting your phone messages and doing a quick respond to them.  Am I doing that wrong?  Haven't you heard back from me at all?  Shit.  Lately I seem to make a lot of mistakes and probably shouldn't be driving a car.  I am tired and I work too much -- full time plus many nights and Saturdays, and usually work through lunch.  I thought I would keep this job until I retire, but am not sure now; I like to work but I don't want to die on the job. 
 
Theo and I are fighting lately and that wears me out, too.  It seems like I just can't talk to anyone -- probably just depressed as hell. 
 
I love you but don't quite know what to do to pull out of this.  I am going to try to come out and see Dolly this summer for a quick trip, but right now I feel like I wouldn't live through it.  I am really thinking about dying a lot again, but I've made it through before -- I didn't say that to worry you; I am fine, really.
 
Willa didn't call me either; but then she has not called me since the girls were little and we went to the store together.  I believe that Willa and I both went far far away once, and she couldn't make it back at all (I am probably half way, eh?).     
 
Damn.  I answered the phone and I have to go and fix something that I messed up.
I love you.  You have a family; we are just all fucked up.
 
See ya soon, I hope!  Georgia

Willa

I'm not just wigging out at losing Georgia, or because Dolly fell. My family disentegrated long ago, and in the middle of that carnage, or at least standing, back to us, a slight side-step away, stood Willa. Willa was the middle girl in a family of three daughters in an era when girls were stupid and frivolous. Ignorant silly bitch cunts! A river of abuse, beginning with the word and the word it was god, flowed solely to Willa's door, or so she thought. She met it, she toyed with it, she reciprocated. In those innocent early years of civilization to my Gidget, Georgia was surely the broken-hearted Judy Garland, and if Georgia was Judy Garland, then Willa had to be Carrie. The explosive self destructive withdrawn powerful ultimately broken and triumphant Carrie. (What, is it strange I haven't spoken before of her?)

Willa always hated me. As far back as I can remember, minus a few moments of attempted sisterly-affection when I reached high school, such as the time Veronica and I got Willa so drunk (six years older than me, she had never touched alcohol) and then left her puking in the bathroom as we ran off to join our night in progress on the eve of Willa's wedding.

I remember the time she hit me (hard!) on the head with her clarinet. And yes, it is true that she did push me down the steps - and there were a lot of steps! But that damage was small compared to the holes that Willa could rip with words. She was a master of mimicry, held near-genius acrobatic-levels of word-mincing and stood ridiculously agile at ridicule. More than the Prince of Cats. O, she's the courageous captain of compliments. She fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion; she rests her minim rests, one, two, and a third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duelist, a duelist! A gentlewoman of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, the immortal passado! The punto reverso! The hay!

A whore. A hurt baby. A sinking ship bringing all in her wake, Willa. And so it goes. First blood must always be drawn by Willa.

Dolly, in her memory-affected state, doesn't make "Father Knows Best" attempts at fostering sisterly devotion any more, and the thin strings that held our little fingers together from room-to-room on Christmas Eve no longer provide comfort, or warmth. We will go down the long staircase together. We will wake each other up. We will be true blue. We will not be afraid in the dark. We promise.

And perhaps it will still come to pass. Perhaps we will all go together. Perhaps one day Willa will love us.

I Ain't Down Yet

Having Veronica back in my life is like having a meddling sister energetically smelling out all the details of my former inadequate existence while bracing to put the future in order. She is a lot like AJ, who is, after all, "a force to be reckoned with". And meddling is exactly what I need right now. After my typical Three-Stooges-esque attempts at a relationship with my own sister, Georgia has predictably disappeared from my life once again, distancing herself with an e-mail. Here is how it went:

Georgia, I'm sorry I wigged out on you. Have I driven you away? I don't want you to feel like you have to make a choice between Theo and me. That's your business.

I freaked out about Dolly when she fell. It is just so weird over there, and I don't know how to deal with it. Our family needs a leader.

I went to Florida for 10 days and stayed with Veronica, and it was great. We took a boat to the Keys and floated in the pool and drank wine and caught up. I was home for a few days (when Dolly fell) and then went to NYC. While I was there I started to get sick and now I have something that is hopefully a virus and will go away soon! I could hardly walk for a while, and forget opening jars! It is like I'm 90 years old. Fuck!

So anyway, I'm sad that we aren't in constant communication, but "it's all good" (that's my new motto). I will take what I can get, cause I love you.
MJ

And here is Georgia's reply.

I love you.  I just retreat into my head a lot.  Also am traveling soon.  Theo and I are going to South Africa Mid August through Sept. 8.  I am glad to go out of the country for a while and interested to see what it is like in that place, post apartheid.
 
I haven't found a counselor yet but have looked.  We will not lose each other.
Georgia

And while I admittedly shed a tear at the emptiness of that last line, I was also bolstered by the knowledge of Veronica, with a seemingly insatiable interest in me as a project. Like a sister should be. An advocate. Biased. Loyal.

Last night it was Veronica who answered her phone with the words, "What did the specialist say?" It was she who offered me questions for the doctor and an invitation to join her at any time of day or night. It was Veronica who is planning our plans for when we are 90 years old and in a rest home raising hell and it is Veronica who is strong and sassy and unafraid. Veronica has guts.

Unlike me. I resemble a quivering mass of insecurity, fear and trepidation. But you know what? I ain't down yet. For this role I will emulate one of my childhood favorites, Debby Reynolds, playing The Unsinkable Molly Brown. Her feistiness always drew me, reminded me of me. I'm not giving up on Georgia and I'm not withdrawing. I'm moving forward and I've got my schemer, Veronica, true blue, to help me. I ain't down yet.

Refreshed

A hundred competing breezes rustle the trees in the gardens tonight and cool bubbling water from the fountain sprays my face. Surprised, I find myself laughing.

In Search of the Color Green

What about the layers of pastels, oil pastels, acrylic chalk mixings, lacquor, linseed oil, precious pollen of ancient extinct plants pestled carefully with one pinch of powdered gold mined where the sky is perpetually pink, she asked sweetly?

Does it mean nothing that cute peach-cheeked boys were killed for the better good or that Neil Young sang his plaintive songs endlessly, or Chris Isaac for that matter, or Doyle Bramhall II?

"So let me do more now than I´ve done before
I´m goin´ down to where the river flows."

Ha! You missionary position in the Kama Sutra Universe. Get thee back! All the Goyas have devoured all the sons of Saturn beside all the flowing oceans, rivers, lakes, tributaries, branches, tricklets.

I stoop before you. I lick one drop. To no avail.

Wailing and gnashing of teeth continues as men fan out to discover new waterways. Using the maps of astronauts and insulating properties developed in the laboratories of the highest of humanitarian chemists, they begin the soft genocide, the gathering of information, the paper which must surely follow.

Perhaps bottled in Michigan, on an assembly line, by a chubby adolescent girl in a kitchen, tasting exactly like grass stains on the uniform of a high school football player.

The taste of progress with flavors, colors, authentic taste. The new water. We set our eyes, together, on the horizon. We search for the color green.

Palm Readings, 2/$20

My inclination is to plaster photos onto each new post and let pictures talk for me. I have no words, just a need to concentrate on one thing so wholly that it blocks out all else. I envision myself tearing apart large pieces of thick rag paper and applying layer after layer of vivid powdery pastels, like a child, tongue out, face close to the powder. I lick it.

Lying scattered around me like new playthings on the bed upstairs are books purchased from the library sale yesterday. A large volume of Helprin's Winter's Tale, because I can't resist buying any used copy of it that appears in my line of vision, Ram Dass' Still Here ("Ram Dass has entered the often stormy relationship between our physical and spiritual sides, and he has lived to tell about it."), a box set of Sacred Path Cards, by Jamie Sams ("...this unique system distills the essential wisdom of the sacred teachings of many tribal traditions and shows users the way to transform their lives."), Who Are You?, 101 Ways of Seeing Yourself, by Malcolm Godwin ("...designed to help you find out more about yourself. It contains 101 mirrors of self-discovery in which you can recognize your dominant behavior, your body type, how you feel and act, how you think and approach your spirituality."), an Anne Tyler novel, Morgan's Passing and Louise Erdrich's latest, The Master Butchers Singing Club. With the exception of the Erdrich novel, the pile, carried out of the library by me disguised as me, came to $4.50, which seemed like a good deal at the time. Famous last words. That would be a good one for a tombstone. "It seemed like a good deal at the time." The Kama Sutra-reading librarians were half-relaxed yesterday, a good day in the land of "You touch my books I'll kill you." I have, in the past, had a very rocky relationship with libraries.

Which reminds me of a post I have been thinking about writing that goes something like this. Everything changes. We see evidence of it every day. You know, like "girls are the new boys". Isn't it true? Aren't girls the new boys? The strong ones? The smart ones? The ones with so much power they need to be held down? They are blowing the lid off the SAT's, ACT's, math, science... Evidence of girls' potential is everywhere, and it is a truth that sets the universe shaking with imbalance. Loss of control. Fear. Desire. Greed. Hunger. Change is hard. Avoidance. Sickness. Death. Turn her around again. Hold her down. Wait.

But enough of my vague notions. I am here to prophecy the future! So pull up your chair and we shall begin with a reading of your palm. Place your hand in mine and show me the mounts of your palm, Mercury, Sun, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Venus and the Moon. I run my fingers over your hand, wisely discerning your strengths, weaknesses, your potential for change. I see that you are self-confident, practical, cautious, ambitious, serious, patient, you have a tendency to be gloomy, too serious and often solitary. I see more, but I pause. Would you like to speak? (This veil over my face grows tiresome, dare I remove it?)

Your heart line originates between the fingers of Saturn and Jupiter, which shows that you are tolerant and practical, with a common-sense view of love. (Ah. I discern pain in this place.) You are sympathetic and sensual. Relax. Your chair is big and comfortable and you have nowhere to go. Next we must see where your head line, which I can see begins with your lifeline, will take us. You are cautious. Mentally capable. Spirited. Independent. Since this line touches the lunar mount, you are strongly influenced by imagination and dreams.

Come closer. This is about you. (I cradle your hand now, feel the warmth, am glad to be with you.) You will find that there is an obstacle in your path, and you will not know how to remove it. You will search for many years in vain for answers. You will feel alienated, depressed, self-destructive, despairing, precious, self-indulgent. You will become bullying, aggressive, wilful, dominating, intimidating, confrontational, belligerent and violent. This is the wilderness.

But everything changes. From here you will allow your creative power to unfold and you will cross the important bridge that divides personal power and truth. What you will choose is up to you.

And now I am tired. Go away. Yes, perhaps you can enter my chamber again one day, if the Kama Sutra librarians say it is ok. They, after all, are the keepers of the ancient wisdom, the priests at the gates of the spiritual realm, the religious types who have forgotten all fleshly creeds and dogmas so as to take away your memory of all that is said or written.

Sosan's words for you. "The more you talk and think about it, the further astray you wander from the truth. Stop talking and thinking and there is nothing you will not be able to know." Go now. It is getting late and I am weary. Yes, I accept tips. Yes, I will see you tomorrow. Yes, we will let go, and we will meet again. Yes.

Kama Sutra Dinner

I think if I must be an invalid I will wear a turban, like 1960's Elizabeth Taylor, and glide on a gurney from coffee table to kitchen, drink in hand, all the while looking vulnerable yet noble. Shelly Winters, in that role, would bring it down.

Or perhaps I will be another variation, Tammy Faye, and my selflessness will ring... (louder, now. Louder.)...like bells in the emply halls of god!



God damn it. I will wear costume jewelry and begin smoking again and use a fucking cigarette holder and then I will become the reclusive Greta Garbo. You are not welcome. Get away from me.

Faye Dunaway Jane Fonda Kay Francis Zsa Zsa Gabor Ava Gardner Judy Garland Greer Garson Paulette Goddard...

The back of my hand is placed just so on the edge of my forehead (delicately!), held just a bit too long, and slow heavy eyelashes lift toward Heaven.

I will go to the library, (disguised as me) and stack book after book to be devoured and digested in a small cart to be wheeled out magnificently by Rock Hudson look-alikes. We will sit by the pool with Ron Jeremy and touch one another in places no one has been touched since

you in your top hat and me in my gloves
twirled on the dance floor
in balanced movement.

What the hell. Those Kama Sutra-reading repressed librarians those Natalie Wood doubters those drownings those dinners those heady days.

Bring em on.

Already Met

Occasionally I think I will meet you in the gardens
amidst the shadows and petals

but then I remember you are already met.

Your needs once spread themselves out on the lawn
and sprouted satisfaction

and powdered the earth with brown pollen and yellow dust rose in the sunshine and then warm rain fell softly and you fluttered colorfully in a sudden breeze and dropped bits of skin, torn by birds, like petals.

That's what I remember.