march 31, 2002

flip flap morning tranny's gone and roomie is down on bourbon street washing away daddy stuck in a mississippi hospital (nothing's clotting) cringing underneath glossy lamps thinking back to glittered moments when hips moved easily and all time took the time to carve out notches on the front porch swings so easily with all that caramelized conversation words thrown around & under guitar screams and plucking piano shortstops hey don't you feel like dancing? don't you feel like dancing? don't you feel like dancing? i feel it right now drop bass blistered feet something hinting maybe or not something hinting maybe or not everything covered in masa mixed up by raindrops matching easily with foghorn clipped down hot senses keep collapsing gliding into electronic catatonia sip drinks and just keep moving moving moving that's mor(t)ality coming on strong sugar

 

san francisco was splendid. it's a great town, but too much like seattle -- i can't imagine myself moving there since they are so similar, and when i decide to migrate, i'm really looking at lovely lil nola -- and, of course, hoping you'll join me.

had a run in with fauna flash & exited with blisters & my groove reinvented -- good times, good times, mon amis.

today was not without it's own refreshing brand of excitement : received a lovely letter from one of my favorites -- perhaps the favorite -- accompanied by an aging volume of seafaring activity. i had forgotten how wondrous it is to hold in one's hands a written letter, the physicality of it is terrifically delicious.

i am reminded of portions of my youth, spent penning notes to friends far & wide, hooking into the international community and gaining different perspectives.

lazy, sunny sunday, i feel nu wave hovering on the horizon : hoping the hook up happens naturally & without regret.

march 20, 2002

"the signal don't seem right"

just realized the last few entries took place in 2001. no, don't look, i fixed 'em. that was a weird month, march '01.

last night, drank lava flows, ate mahi mahi tacos, and sifted through photos from last october's mexican excursion. lovely to revisit some of those spots, but sort of saddening at the same time. everything's always bittersweet with me, no?

at the end of april i'll be visiting b in nyc -- my first time to that town. never really been that motivated to go there before, but now that one of the lovelies lives there, i've got method, means, and motivation. le triad. i'm absolutely stoked to go to coney island!

strange & exciting things happening on the occupation front. new paths opening up -- when i thought perhaps i'd reached the nexus, it all shifts to the left & i realize, quite happily, that i've got all sorts of room to move/learn. okay, so getting my shit together kind of sucked for awhile, but i think i'm getting better at it -- and i don't think i've completely lost my sense of humor.

oh, you want proof, do ya? christ. okay.

yeah, yeah -- that was too easy. how about something a little deeper?

still not hitting it? all i got left is something stupid.

you got something better? show it off.

march 18, 2002

iggy pug

the roomie has brought home a little bundle of sniveling joy. miss lu is less than impressed by this canine golden child, a bit pissy that her station as singular house pet has been altered by a smashed face little runt.

but he's sooooooo fucking cute! argh! and that puppy smell -- i wish they bottled it. a little bit stanky, a little bit earthy, a little bit sour milk. not quite what you'd call "sexy," yet it has the charm of innocence & potty-training.

dreams last night were strange & rife with peculiar rationalizations. i had read an article on schizophrenia before i went to sleep, and thus dreamt in and out of occasion and circumstance in which i battled various symptoms associated with the disease and thought to myself, "ah, so this is why everything is so vibrant."

and now, galeano for breakfast :

celebration of fantasy it happened at the entrance to the town of ollantaytambo, near cuzco. i had detached myself from a group of tourists and was standing alone looking at the stone ruins in the distance when a small boy from the neighborhood, skinny and ragged, came over to ask if i would give him a pen. i couldn't give him my pen because i was using it to write down all sorts of boring notes, but i offered to draw a little pig for him on his hand. suddenly, the word got around. i was surrounded by a throng of little boys demanding at the top of their lungs that i draw animals on their little hands cracked by the dirt and cold, their skin of burnt leather : one wanted a condor and one a snake, others preferred little parrots and owls, and some asked for a ghost or a dragon. then, in the middle of the racket, a little waif who barely cleared a yard off the ground showed me a watch drawn in blank ink on his wrist. "an uncle of mine who lives in lima sent it to me," he said. "and does it keep good time?" i asked him. "it's a bit slow," he admitted.

hectic week up ahead, but only four days of work. san francisco on friday, about which i'm thrilled. working on a poem, entertaining weekend photography classes, still searching for the right voice teacher -- i'm in it, yet always gauging from a distance.

march 17, 2002

you yourself, a pretty little pop song

"in many ways, they'll miss the good old days"

at 26, i have good days to miss. i think i started collecting them at two.

i hear this song, the strokes' "someday," and i think of you. dunno why, but i
want to rock my hips off next to you in this punk-pop lexicon, ass shakin', grin
makin' all kindsa overtures -- everything necessary to get you into that
certain kinda mindset that lets me curl you up & into my fawning.

"oh my eyes there's a lacking in depth"

do you ever think that certain parts of vanity, & the attainment thereof, could
be considered a skill? i like to think that i've consistently sported my own
particular brand of delectable, but on occasion i wonder if perhaps i could rock
the night harder if i had a keener sense of fashion.

here it is, right in this moment, my tiny corner of existence -- minuscule in its grandeur, knocks my socks off, etc. -- in a blissful space, by virtue of comparison alone. como thinking pieces of art show their shit off as a method of bemusement -- pretty lil' thang throwin' 'round the penthouse forum on random windshields.

fucking beautiful utilitarian word, that. windshield. keep your nature to yourself, sistaqueen.

happy st. paddy's day -- remember kilkenny? fucking fuck -- so smooth, and then i woke up in the morning and remembered that i had been in it, no dreams this time, all that worn-wood stomping & stained stout glass clinking had lived only hours before in the microcosm of mine & 25-odd irish folks' reality; climbing up the ladder of the monastery's bell tower, gazing out over the landscape, recalling something i'd never lived before yet understood anyway, affinity born of free-association.

i said two years, and i'm going to give it two years. but eventually i'll throw in the towel, come rain or come shine.

march 16, 2002

tropical fairy floss

mmmmm, patsy cline. so buttery.

miss lu purring in my lap, the weather engaging in a welcome schizophrenia, 6pm on a saturday evening and i'm feeling softer, softest.

recently : combination integration/segregation. como ice cube's it was a good day on repeat. a little bit surprising, a whole lot inspirational -- get me on the court and i'm trouble, last week fucked around and got a triple double -- and effortlessly groovy.

in the mood to continue spreading galeano:

the function of art the preacher miguel brun told me that a few years ago he had visited the indians of the paraguayan chaco. he was part of an evangelizing mission. the missionaries visited a chief who was considered very wise. the chief, a quiet, fat man, listened without blinking to the religious propaganda that they read to him in his own language. when they finished, the missionaries awaited a reaction. the chief took his time, then said: "that scratches. it scratches hard and it scratches very well." and then he added: "but it scratches where there isn't any itch."

it isn't exactly zen, i still feel frenetic; it's more like the beginning of ecstatic acceptance, or faith in myself, or the realization that i will be able to pull it out of the fire after all. and with all these cycles running around, i'll hit my groove soon enough.

focus on having a damn good time while i'm at it.

march 14, 2002

"i know them & they are inclined to see just who is & isn't a lover in this city."

from eduardo galeano's the book of embraces:

the language of art chinolope sold papers and shined shoes in havana. to escape poverty, he went to new york. there, somebody gave him an old camera. chinolope had never held a camera in his hands, but they told him it was easy: "you just look through here and press there." so he took to the streets. he hadn't been walking long when he heard shots. he went into a barbershop, raised the camera, looked through here and pressed there. in the barbershop they had shot down the gangster albert anastasia while he was getting a shave, and that was the first photo of chinolope's professional life. he was paid a fortune. the photo was a coup. chinolope had managed to photograph death. death was there: not in the dead man, nor in the killer. death was in the face of the barber looking on.

 

march 7, 2002

guerrilla girls!

excellent.

march 6, 2002

"i will tattoo myself tall"

inter/admissions: