jhadae's journal:

pachyderms and puff-paint

2009-07-26T01:06:49Z

write here, just where i left off. write in a little dream-scape, like the one that woke me this morning. i am a baby rhino, with a wee pachyderm sloppy ass, and am the dingy, grey color of elephant skin that's been rolled in dirt. i'm trotting along down a sidewalk in some suburb in the nineteen eighties, complete with manicured lawns and bunches of faded yellow flowers. i spy in the distance, down along the same sidewalk, a gorilla, huge and magnificent. a sleek, black head and powerful jaws and arms that reach to the ground and balance him upright. and he sees me. he breaks into a gallop, coming towards me faster than i can run, and bellowing angry primate insults that a baby rhino can only perceive as imminent death approaching. i know that i cannot outrun this creature, and i duck behind a white hatchback car, with black tinted windows. He stops abruptly on the other side of the hatchback, sniffing the air for my scent, head back, nostrils inflamed. angry. he proceeds to chase me around the car slowly. my four little legs tripping me on the slick pavement, and his lumbering slowed by the scraping of his knuckles. but we both know that after i grow weary he will catch me. and i will die. and i wake up. more afraid of being sent back to relive the eighties in my dreams than to be eaten by a gorilla, i sigh and shudder at the fading memory of the ugly, white hatchback car with its dark windows. thankful that i did not wake up back in my mother's house in fresno in say, 1989, wearing a denim scrunch-ie in my waist-length hair, and going to school in turquoise stirrup pants covered in an over-sized t-shirt that has sequin mirrors and puff-paint on it.

in my element

2007-12-28T06:41:20Z

i could see the smooth rocks on the bottom. they swayed slightly with the current. i blew bubbles through my nose with the last bit of an exhalation. i was floating... floating... on the top of a shallow solution. and then i changed my mind. a pisces is given license to do just that every now and again. i lifted my head out. fiery hair sticking to the sides of my face. and dripping... dripping... off of my nose. off of my curls. i kicked forward through the icy cold. and it felt good. the reflection of stark birches and wide, creamy sky came in to greet me. my boots were heavy, so i kicked them off. i like to think that maybe someday a fisherman will catch them, and dry them out. maybe docs are durable enough to wear after being sunk for a few months. maybe the coming ice will preserve them as it does so many things out here. the new life waiting to burst out from below once the thaw hits. but for right now, i am numb. too cold for goosebumps. too cold to notice the cold. and i round a small bend, and then another. up, up, up stream. fighting softly, gracefully, that old current that never ceases to try and pull me back. there are some logs below me. i feel their mossiness between each toe. a carpeted wilderness beneath the waves. and the moss and long grass hold them down. water-logged and split, they provide steps for me, there - just when i need them. and the little silver fish swim past. crowding away from me in quick darts. i put my face back under. it's so clear. when i was younger i used to rub an ice cube over my face each night before bed. there are so many things i was fond of like that. i've replaced them now. the ice cube with my head in the water. the feeling of spring with the feeling of winter. everything about the seasons of this dying year have been true for me. spring was a blossoming, summer a last reveling. in fall i fell, and the winter has brought a hibernation and clarity of the bareness of life, which is beautiful in its own way. i pulled my face out. in time to notice the doe who drank further upstream. i was silent. not wanting to disturb her, i stilled my movement. and then returned to moving when she had gone. short, white tail - the last of her visible as she escaped into the trees. and it was peaceful. running slowly underwater. making a path where there was none. learning the terrain with my whole self. arms, feet, legs, hands. pushing and pulling over the polished stones. over the earth and the water. moving through it and moving with it. the river and i were one.

kattana running

2007-12-21T07:45:46Z

i had a dream that i was holding a kattana (a japanese sword) at my side and was running over a windy plain that was covered with golden grass. it was sunny and i don't know what i was running towards or from. but i was running and running, with ease, never dropping the sword, never becoming out-of-breath.... maybe it's some new olympic sport i'm gonna create.

destruction of the first temple

2007-11-15T04:57:45Z

...but what the fuck? this community's so small you all must know the story already right? okay, so here's my version, maybe loosing it into the wild will help someone besides me. i just needed to get it out. and i do feel better now...

He didn’t want me anymore. I had triggered something in him and he began to see me as dangerous, one of those crazy femmes. He said he couldn’t trust me. He wanted to know what I was afraid of, well:

Every once in a while we all have a crazy idea. And we think “oh, maybe this will work.” And we run with it, full speed ahead, you know? And that’s what we were. But, after some time the idea isn’t crazy anymore. You nurture it and you create it and it becomes something beautiful, not always, but sometimes. And you spend all day, everyday making it beautiful. And you sleep next to it, and you take care of it. And you think it’s perfect. You’re an artist. You have built up a masterpiece. And you give it all of your energy, all of your time, all of your love. Then you stand inside it and look out on the world from it, and you think, “it will always be beautiful like this”. And you see that you have made rose-colored glasses for yourself. And you are proud of your creation. Then, one day you take a step back to try and get some perspective. And you see the world the way you used to for a moment. And you notice that you have constructed a tower of babel – good intentions, but you didn’t look where you were going. And when you take that step out and away, your precious work of art falls flat. It is dust. And no amount of huffing and puffing from you will help it to rise again. And you find yourself alone. And no amount of distraction can ease your suffering. So you write about it like this, with the horrible, angst-filled non-sentences of a teenager. And you can’t even see what you’ve written, because the tears are sheets upon sheets thick. The darkness is so vast, and you find you’ve forgotten how to swim. And there is no shore to be seen. And no one else can make his or her way across your sea to help you. And everything that you love is out of arm’s reach. It is the perpetual motion of smacking yourself into a concrete wall. You’re bloody and hurting. You do not remember feeling a pain like this before. This is why you never end relationships this way. You only ever have once, over a decade ago, when you were too young to hurt this much. And ever since, you’ve protected yourself by running first. Always making sure to be the one with the head start. I guess it's just a life lesson I needed. I fucked up my world by truly feeling, by finally knowing what it is to love. This is my damage. I kept myself from shutting down, and instead felt overmuch. And I’m sorry. I want it all to be smooth. I want to smile for you, but I haven’t got it in me just yet. My face hasn’t been dry in a week. Sleeping and eating have become problematic. I want him to be happy, and I suppose he is. But he doesn’t want me. God help me, I never expected to hear that from him. And he is all that I want. If I wasn’t so poor, I would be a raging drunk by now. If I wasn’t so ashamed of myself, I might have made myself even more pathetic by some traditional public display of femme pain disguised as anger or hate. If I didn’t love him so much, I might have written of something else. Or better yet, be out living, instead of sitting on an unmade bed in my robe. But I don’t hate him. I never will. I envy polyamorous people. What a marvelous theory they enact. All is fun, for them, all is love. I would love to be able to save myself from putting all of my trust and heart into a single person. But I’m not wired that way. I’ve tried to be. And I’ve hurt myself more because of it. I know me. I know what I can and can’t stand. But love overrides all of those things. I am in awe of my love for him. I didn’t realize how far I let him in. I wish it wasn’t so. Adonai help me, I didn’t know. He’s still home for me. Where I feel like putting my feet up. My beautiful baby. Mine. My baby. Distinctly fuzzy. I love him. I can’t help it. I built up this love, and now I live here alone. And it’s desolate in here. Adonai help me, pull me out. It’s so dark. I wish I were fucking fickle, like so many other dykes pretend to be. All of us are walking around trying to keep our hearts and wits about us, suspicious of feeling for anyone. They try to love superficially, safely. Neatly tucked inside themselves except for trysts here and there. Walking about every day wearing safe, practiced faces that betray nothing. I’ve never been that. I’ve been told that I appear to be unapproachable, stuck-up. But I’m just afraid of people, and I don’t play cool very well. I don’t have a safe face to show you. If I am happy, you will know it. if I am faking, you will see it. if I would rather be dead, my look is unmistakable. Often painfully shy, but I’m painfully honest too. No, I’m no martyr. Don’t feel sorry for me. Shit happens, they say. A bitch, a friend, a singer, a meditator, a student, a teacher, the fortitude of a mother, the cowardice of a child, a yogini, an artist, and until recently, a lover – I’m every woman or man, all cliches, the same as you. I just hurt tonight and I thought I would share, because you may have seen me around, but you’ve never heard me speak. I communicated everything with him. I am proud of myself for that. There is nothing I wish I would have said and didn’t. He knows me. Every stupid and wonderful thing I’ve thought and done, he knows. Adonai help me, help me to not shut down. I hope to always be able to feel this deeply. I don’t care how much it hurts right now. I don’t want to become jaded and bitter toward everything. I love him, oh fuckin’ Christ, how I love him, and want him. Just a look, just once, anything… I know what it is, now. I understand the ache. The darkness of separation. I feel the loss of you, gabe. What mighty and terrible distance there is between friend and lover. What hell there is in having no one there to give love to besides myself. And yes, I know my self deserves love. Fuck it hurts. But I’m not angry. I understand pain for what it is. I love you. Adonai help me, I love you, enough to let you go if that’s what you need. But I miss you and Jup-Jup more than you could know. You are beautiful and generous and honest. I appreciate that. And I am lucky that I was given the chance to love you and to be loved by you. Thank you. Thank you for loving me.

for janis martin

2007-09-05T19:10:05Z

just found out that janis martin died on monday of a terminal cancer. and i just started bawling at work. i was gonna send a comment to her myspace page that her granddaughter runs, but i didn't. everything i could think of to say is so fucking inadequate. how do you tell the family of a great rockabilly lady what her music and very existence in rock'n'roll means to you? and how do you say it without sounding like a superficial cad who only knows about it at all because you read it on myspace? i should be taken out in the street and shot clean through. nothing i can say would be poignant and sincere enough through the written word to make any sense. it is a mockery of her, dammit! and i feel more than that.

no vacancy for miles (sequel to: room for miles)

2007-09-05T00:01:24Z

i was nowhere 'cuz i was always looking for somewhere, someone. that was my problem. mama told me right. there wasn't nothin' out beyond that house worth all my worryin'. i'd always said i needed to be out there. but whenever i looked and wandered out there, i couldn't find nothin'. all i saw was open fields. dead, sun-parched earth. and that was okay. sometimes i even liked to be sure the fields were still there. it was a comfort, i guess. that i could leave it all outside and it didn't change very much. so stable, like the earth should be, i guess. everything i wanted... well, it was all in that house. with its big windows and warm, cozy rooms. mama'd said all i needed was god and to stay indoors. damn if that wasn't the truth. leavin' got me into trouble every time. but mama understood me like no one could. she'd forgive me when i'd come home bruised and dirty. she would take care of me when i couldn't take care of myself. i looked again out the window in the big room. that one we reserved for the company that never came. well, this time, company's comin'. i'm gonna turn the house out, for such a to-do ain't never happened here before. company's comin', so i'll be sleepin' by the fire for a while - just till i get a bed made for myself. and i've gotta make sure that my dog stays out of its way. if he wants to go catch a snake or two, i'll let him out from time-to-time. but he's gotta behave when the house fills up. 'cuz if he creeps around underfoot, company will trample him good. and i figured out that when i go outside the fields go on forever. yellow, dusty, but the same. day after day. but, if i look at them from inside, i can make them into anything i want. i can step out that door into a jungle, or an ocean. whatever i want. and after i figure out what i want, well, all the property's eventually gonna be mine. mama'll leave it to me, for sure. there's no one else to look after it. and by then i'll be ready. i'll go outside and build and sow and reap all over those fields, into forever. my dog might be long gone by then, but i'll get another. and i'll train him up right. to be at my side through all the labor of my land. and then the outside will match the inside of that beautiful house. that house that i use to hate so much. i'll just love it, more than i ever have. more than i do now. i'll never leave. and neither will my company.

good fun with a handgun

2007-08-31T20:44:48Z

you sat on the edge of the bed, eyes down. i felt the conversation between us. it evolved all over your face. passing like a tele-prompter across your smile. i knew i was at a loss with this one. it was clear that our time was up. so i stood up straight and held out my hand, forcing a smile in return. you took it gently and shook. crushing my insides. crushing my future. as gently as you could. and i shut the door behind me and descended eleven floors. fumbling with my keys, i made my way to the old pontiac i kept parked on the street.

and you took off your robe. the one you always wore early in the morning. the one you wore to prepare you for wearing clothes. it was how you eased into your day after nude nights and dreams. and you stood in front of the floor-length window. watching me go.

i was determined not to look back. but my will vacillates as do those of all mutable signs. so i turned and found the window. you were so brilliant in that light. but there was a shimmering next to you. i squinted.

you had a gun. and you saw me and waved. and put the silver to your temple. and i dropped in the street, instantly, next to my car. knelt in the gravel. raising both hands, i prayed silently. summoning all the Light i could. begging for your life. begging that you would point it at me instead. i mustered the Light. and i threw it at you like a baseball pitcher throws a curve at a World Series game.

and you dropped the gun. out the window. and down eleven floors. silver and silent. life and not death. and you knelt in front of the window where i could see you. and we were one. across from each other. reflecting each other. one - together. reconciling. the severe with the merciful. Light in Extension.

turbulent indigo

2007-08-30T21:21:38Z

can you describe emotional pain? here, i'll try... you know, somewhere between a thought and tangible pain, but touching on neither. i actually ripped pieces of my emotional garden out with my own astral hands. they were inflamed and they hurt with that unplaceable twinge. here, yes - right here, between my heart and my head. part of me wanted to keep them here. but i saw that they weren't healthy like my other plants. they were burning with that blind focus, that corrupt fire. they were whirling turbulences, tormenting me below that delicate surface. weeds choking the other life in my flowerbed. taking up all of my time and energy. holding all potential goodness back. and shit, i have a lot to give!

i dug them out, an act in itself, and presented them to the reverse vacuum that releases unnecessary thoughts. before now i would have not had the strength to do that. my habit was to force manifestation on the most unstable and irrational of ideas, while turning my head away and pretending that they were not such a fearsome size and shape. there was the comfort of old fear in their existence. that fear of looking around and having nothing to hold onto and simply falling. i didn't want to feel that. i had no faith then. i thought i would be truly alone. well, ....i have never been truly alone. even when i deserted myself a few times, Ha-Schem was always there, loving me. i had to let go of shallow comforts and allow that faith to ripen. to fill me.

i healed and sowed anew with gentle Light the vacant fresh earth. witness this! the creation of a new pattern in the self. and my thoughts became new. and my emotions slowed to practicality, and burned with my true desires. there are no words for this freedom.

see how beautiful is the strenuous growth.

seek it.

the angle of grey

2007-08-28T22:41:17Z

i am gazing up from three feet below a clear, blue moving water. i push up and break surface. i am in a river. before me is a dock. on the edge of which stands a woman. barefoot on the wooden planks. i rise up out of the water, weightless. seeing her feet touching the rough wood as i rise. and i hover before her at eye-level, dripping. long, black, waist-length hair in her green eyes. purple-pale, white skin offset by a silver and green taffeta ballgown. she is five-foot eleven inches tall; intricate, with piercing features, and circa 1763. off to her right side is a lush green oak, hurtling upward from the earth beside the dock. she makes eye-contact with me for a moment. then picks up her skirts, turns on her heel, and runs in slow-motion. hair swaying over-her-shoulder behind her. dress held firmly in both hands so her legs can move freely. she looks like death, she is so white. but i have frightened her. i, who am floating above the water, before the pier, by a force not my own. what must i look like? i cannot see myself, so i watch her. though i am over the water, my eyes behold her from every angle that i wish to see. when i place my sight in front of her and see past to where i am, i see only a blinding light above the water. the shore-end of the dock opens onto a healthy, grassy field that slowly rolls uphill. the grass is tall enough to brush her calves as she runs. still in slow motion, away from me. i can watch every movement of her. see every wrinkle her dress makes as she darts away. all the colours are vivid. green and silver ribbons from her waist come loose, trailing off from her. and then they catch the wind. and are paused in mid-air as everything moves in short, flowing frames. the sky is rolling with deep grey clouds. there is no sun. there is no darkness. only grey. me hovering still, over the water. i realize that before i emerged, the light from the water, she stood in darkness on the dock. with a fierce wind, and an impending storm overhead. looking into the depths because she saw what looked like a reflection of the moon in, not on, the water. and she didn't understand why she saw it, because the sky was dark with clouds. but she found comfort there... but i have lit up the day. and all chaos has slowed to stillness for me, has hastened away. bowed before the light within. but she, my darling of darkness, comprehendeth not the light... and i see. my maiden, rushing from me. and her ribbons. flowing back to me, at eye-level in the air. the grass bends towards me. the wind blows towards me. the tree and the water and the ribbons all come to me. but my maiden, beautiful in her chaos - and in perfect silence, breaks away for the other side of that hill.

the park is my refuge

2007-08-27T22:27:53Z

johnny sat wiping his boots with a paper towel. he wadded the towel up and chucked it toward a trash bin, barely making it. he rolled up off the curb and cruised east down the alleyway. gazing up, he looked at the rectangular sky that blued against the towers around him... remembering trees. and fields... and sunsets. he saw mostly man-made things now. and a lot of man-made people. even the park was strategically lined with pines and dirt trails. he took his shoes off sometimes and walked through the grass there at twilight. just to hear any birds that were left. just to feel close to the land again. there must be something of this in all humans, he thought. in some people it was buried deeper, but everyone here, in the city, feels that loss, somewhere within. he felt it as a lack of his senses in the now thickly-paved world. emerging away from it, and back to the park, he regained them all. as though each touch was new, and each wooden smell sacred. he used to have lucid dreams, long ago, of being a druid. being taken through candlelit hillsides to a meadowed rite. dreams of youth. they came back on those evenings when he didn't give a shit about his boots. when his toes, and his ears and his mouth were enough. when he could inhale and taste the scent of jasmine. and every scent had a memory that would blow past as he walked. those were precious nights, in the park. his only remaining connection with the earth. how the city drove him mad with its chaos, with its fear, its restless energy. providing no comfort for the living. just the aimless buzzing to and from nowhere. johnny was restless too. for the calm of the countryside at twilight. for the gentle hum of life.

mary (writ. 4/28/07)

2007-04-28T09:14:08Z

where to sit without upsetting the large nightstand vase, how to accommodate the priest should he require her assistance, these were all questions that she tried to answer without help as she was ushered into the room. "no need to be frightened, Mary," the nun across the bed from her said, reaching over to pat her hand gently, "these things are common in Rome." but Mary had never had an appointment in Rome before, and here she was, ten years in the Cistercian cloister and then sent away by Mother Superior, at the personal behest of Cardinal Vittoli, to witness and assist with the exorcism of an Italian contessa, of whom she knew nothing. Mary prayed silently for patience and strength and clutched her rosary with slippery fingers. she gazed down at the contessa, who slept soundly before her. for a moment she thought that Cardinal Vittoli had been mistaken. this sweet, angel-faced woman was suffering from possession? surely not. but, remembering that she knew nothing of this woman's character, and she was not to question such a holy father of the Church, she sat quietly and waited. looking about the room Mary noticed, on the far wall, what appeared to be life-sized portraits of the contessa's more prestigious family members, presented lavishly on lush mattings and in ornate frames. she shuddered, remembering as a child that life-like paintings of people always made her feel like she was being watched. but of course, that all seemed like nonsense now. she concentrated on the matter-of-fact features of each face. they were depicted as towering statues to humanity. each jaw was firmly set, paired with a decided stance and those eyes that follow you no matter your position in a room. the portraits seemed to question her. are you as upright a character as i? another queried, what have you contributed to this fine history of mankind? be mindful of your actions, a third cautioned. Mary was faintly dizzy now and had to look away from the fearsome presence of the art. a servant entered. "the Cardinal will be with you shortly, he is wrapping up a phone conversation." and the woman disappeared again behind the door.

draw a cloud about the truth that only few may see

2007-03-28T23:39:05Z

everyone has his or her own story that they feel they must express. that's a given. and one should be able, at most times, to do so with no holds barred. but in that spirited retelling, must one explain the personal details of another, whom they expressly claim to love, with such fiery anger and in such bare truths - to a completely biased public? - for the sole reason of drawing sympathy from friends in order that one feel better about one's own decisions on the matter? would it not be better to instead discuss said matter alone with the loved one first? what is most reasonable? especially in a time of sharp emotion and quick tongues? is there advice that can be given objectively from a public so conditioned? if from only one side? if without all of the relevant information? if without the temperment necessary to handle the entirety of the evidence?

or would a period of silent contemplation and thorough attempt at understanding be more profitable? the whole univserse lies in the self. what cause can there be for such actions on the part of the loved one? could there be factors of which the exposer knows nothing? could there be factors that the exposer does not believe exist, - but which obviously do? for because they do, said factors are being exhibited by the loved one for all to see, through a painful growth of the self. how does the exposer miss such evidence, with it even including himself at times like these? and if the exposer would only look on and ask questions of the loved one, so many things could be made apparent - as they were to begin with.

and what is to be gathered by the loved one from such an expose? only the obvious lack of tact and discretion which the two should share before all others. only a piercing distrust. only that something is failing.

what then can be done?

it could be time to step up the sarcasm

2007-02-20T00:54:54Z

i stood in line behind a row of angry, decaffinated, and recently discharged freshmen. time for that second dose before scurrying off to sleep anyway in their second classes. i sighed and folded my arms, waiting my turn. i suppose you could call it patiently. my only class today was always one interesting turn after the next. we would begin a class discussion and end up somewhere completely unrelated, while me and my friend, the closet-goth, would sit with our fists in our mouths trying desperately not to choke on our laughter. today our hilarity of choice began with the professor describing the "left-hand path of tantrism and the many uses of evil". it finished with two women in the front row arguing about why "...god places no value on innocent children because he punishes people like job and abraham through examples involving their offspring." the "lectures", if i may call them that, are usually so amusing that my evolving good mood is fixed into place for the remainder of the day.

pour mon chou-chou

2007-02-19T17:45:32Z

i saw it in his face so often now. that restless, scared-still look. like he was afraid he might actually be two feet tall and about to become roadkill at any moment. it is so hard to see. i'm constantly picking my own brain for the quick fix. a way to meet his one need - right now. and life just doesn't work that way. but i can't tell him that. shoot down his immediate hopes and explain that he needs to tuck them away for awhile. until we can get everything sorted out. the best attack is not often the impulsive one. but so much time has ticked away already. i'm sick of waiting for it myself. his fiercest want has enveloped me. i want it for him too. and it should not be so fuckin' hard. so psychologists, and physicians, and straight people can't figure out a term for it. so fucking what?! since when has one part of a whole understood the whole? since when has that been necessary? he doesn't need to be pried open, mixed up, and classified - by people who can never hope to understand. he already knows just what it will take to right an intrinsic wrong. how can anyone put a price on that? fuck this society for asking him to put a price on himself. if i could meet a millionnaire in the streets and mug him for his pocket change, you bet your ass i would, and it would be enough. and that's ridiculous. but i wouldn't think twice. politicians, famous people, and the wealthy live above the law. why not me? why not once? anything for him. anything.

hipsters. the subculture that annoys me most.

2007-02-14T22:00:59Z

they leaned against the painted iron that came jutting up from the concrete. each had one foot propped on that sporadic wall, just in front of the glass. each with hair cut into misshapen angles on purpose. where velvet met chain-link. and the color of the night or day was always black. these two had perfected the bored, urban nightlife look. they never quite met your eye on the street. they never had a reason to, mommy and daddy were on speed-dial. and they were convinced of their own invincibility. as long as their sphere of comfort was thickly insulated with a bourgeois lifestyle and carefully rehearsed apathy. hipsters. that's right. the mode of art-cool stretched across all the cultures of the world that inhabited our anxious city. those kids who were on the precipice of adult-hood and were trying their damnedest not to live to see it. they preferred thrift-store clothes and smoking to the usual superhero get-up. though they thought of themselves as heroes, to be sure. cigarettes and sparks were the order of the day, every day. and everywhere you found them, the worshipers were the same. gathered in front of a laundromat, cafe, club, or huddled on street-corners.... the sullen two-some waited and watched. they weren't prowlers. they were an element of the scenery. such that one might experience a paradigm shift, were they to suddenly vacate our metropolis paradise. the other communities had but two options, ostracize or assimilate. but they inevitably permeated every subculture in sf.

the only choice was made clear. we needed to find a pied-piper for the self-declared "cool" kids. this piper would then draw them, by their own repulsive music, through a hole in the side of twin peaks, where they would be swallowed by the earth. and turned into magma. while the rest of us would live happily ever after. finis.... oh wait, piper. take the straight people too, while you're at it.

real life: and why yours is better than mine

2007-02-06T00:15:59Z

ain't life grand tho'? i've worked all day + had a class. i've been hopped up on the amoxicillan i nabbed in mexico, (which worked for my sinus infection last month, so no, i'm not gonna get sick from it just because it wasn't produced in a bush-controlled environment), to curb the swollen lymphnode infection bullshit i've got goin' on, and also taking acidophilus to curb a possibly ensuing yeast infection from the antibiotic. and now i feel like i am developing a fever. does it ever fuckin' end? and i don't want to take anything until i can get home and take my temperature and see what it's risen to. ugh! i feel like poo. i need to get horizontal with a quickness. i wonder if anyone would notice much if i lay on the office floor. oooh! cool linolium sounds like it would feel so good on my face. but i don't have the ovaries to lay on a floor that hasn't been swept and mopped in at least a year. maybe i'll go splash some water on my face. i want my bed. i'm such a baby when i feel shitty. woe is me and all that. what a ranting bitch i am right now. but it's the only thing that's gettin' me through. be glad you have your health, people - because if you haven't, not much else matters. and you know the worst of it? i have a chocolate-chip cookie sitting on my desk that i feel too sick to eat. that's how you know for sure that something's wrong, i'm foregoing the cookie goodness. and where's my friggin' boyfriend when i need him? he's across the bay at a job he hates to commute to because he makes no money at it, and he's sticking around to see if the benefits from it help out with top surgery. aren't we a miserable couple? i'm sick constantly and he's still got boobs. we have each other though, and things are great between us, but our individual lives are not so fun these days. meh.

basil v. the public

2007-01-29T16:35:29Z

then there were mornings like these. basil couldn't keep her head on straight. good thing i'm not a coffee drinker, she thought. the buzz-kill of a thousand early alarms set against a still dark sky and the anxious feelings passed between those moving about the city, everyone on their way to work, made for one frenetic cocktail. fifteen precious minutes in the shower before seven did not rouse her sufficiently. and all so that she could open the office by eight and spend the next four hours directing freshmen and an occasional international student to room 289, the english department, which happened to be only two doors away. dumb-asses. but it wasn't such a bad job, for a college student. at least it wasn't slinging coffee to a bunch of self-important ingrates with an addiction to the rat-race. that's what she had been doing two years ago. in downtown san francisco no less. where the throng of tourists and international business-people made her a sign-language pro. "vous desirez une forchette avec les baguettes?" she would ask the french couple while holding up a fork and pointing to it with eyebrows raised. "oh... oui, oui!" they would break into smiles at recognizing her speech. but she had had to get out of that mess. her boss played favorites with her from the moment he hired her. and once she even overheard the other hispanic manager, who had come to train the new crew for the store they would open, speaking about her looks to her reqular boss in spanish - assuming she couldn't understand him. they were such pigs! her manager hired pretty girls eight out-of-ten times. but she didn't understand why she had been singled out. she was obviously dykey and never missed the chance to correct a man or give one specific instructions so he wouldn't fuck something up. but people choose to notice what they want to, and no one would give a shit if she tattooed her face and wore only transparent clothing to the job at school everyday. so basil pressed on, day after day, automatically pointing to the left when she spoke to anyone who entered the office, already knowing what they would ask.

into the great wide open

2006-12-08T20:01:16Z

here she was - tense, and trying so hard to relax, bending forward to meet the icy wind from the opening carved into the side of the plane. she had always wanted to do this. are you ready? her instructor asked. she forced a smile and blinked back the tears that would have given her away. yes. she held eye contact with him. scared shit-less and exhausted from all of the energy spent being paralyzed, she saw no other route to learning except facing the monster of herself and all of the space that she could fill. what the hell else was she gonna say? she was already up there, strapped to the chute and staring out at an ocean of nothing. okay, go! he said. and on the signal, she freed her hands from the rails. he pushed her into the vacuum of open air. and she was sucked down, down, but slowly, with a motion that was deadly still. she arched into a stable body position, all spread- eagled in the sky. the wind stung from all sides, but time stopped. and gravity became foreign. all of the past wrongs, all of the trivialities that meld into one, big, impassible problem, were lost. the air gathered her in, pulling from every side without favor. the world paused in its miniature form below - seeming more like a crude, coloured drawing than a three-dimensional encasement of life. she thought over everything she had said, done, and denied. what did it matter now? here she was - alone with existence and looking at it almost objectively. or was it utterly subjective now? a cloud blew past. she knew no fear. the build-up of the plunge was fiercer woven from her mind than physical experience could make it. inside the space of all that was, she reigned supreme. happiness, fear, anger, life, death - all thoughts and feelings became useless. and she was simply content. nothing could penetrate her mind. free, she thought. and how good was the inhalation that came with that knowledge. the training for this moment flashed back over her. and instinctively, she pulled the first handle below her right armpit. whoosh! she felt something drop away from her back. then, her leg straps tightened and she held onto the toggles above her head. the ground rushed up to meet her, legs under torso, feet under legs. she landed, yards of cloth stretched out behind her. all in one piece. triumphant.

get off my back

2006-11-03T17:41:38Z

jet squinted and rolled over. she couldn't understand what was taking so long. well? she asked the doctor. she could see his face, blued by the flourescent bulb, in her peripheral vision. he had a concerned, puzzled frown, and kept poking her back with a gloved hand without looking at her. we're gonna have to run some more tests. he finally nodded at her, turning the overhead light back on, and slam-dunking his glove into the biohazard can. she hated that typical, medical non-answer, that all-too-often described anything that the doctor was too stupid or too greedy to figure out on a first visit, and she glared at him in return. yes, but what are the possibilities? what could it be? she pressed. well, either a very angry mole - that will have to be removed, a growth of some sort, though it doesn't look or feel like a calcium deposit, possibly a concentrated rash, or.... at the very worst, a spot of melanoma that we'll have to get rid of, but right now, i just can't tell. okay, she hopped off of the metal table and pulled her shirt back on. he handed her a stack of paperwork and smiled thinly. the receptionist will arrange your test appointments at the front desk. have a good day. and he disappeared into the corridor. jet slumped as she left the building. yay, i'm in my mid-twenties, and i'm falling apart already. and mr. i-went-to-med-school-so-i'm-always-right dude hadn't helped at all. she grimaced and got into her car, being careful not to irritate whatever was on her back while settling into her seat. it's time for a friggin' vacation, jet said aloud. i feel like shit. next week, i'll just have them cut the fuckin' thing off me, and i'm taking a roadtrip.

arena of delights (10/18 11PM)

2006-10-20T06:28:57Z

in waking sleep i saw it - about 15 feet in diameter, fenced in with a rickety, but thick, iron wall about three feet high with a matching gate. the shape is elliptical. the surface, what looks to be astro-turf, is actually closely-trimmed real grass. through its center there is a little winding pathway covered with a smooth, soft sand that leads from one side of the ellipsis to the other. and i've locked myself inside of it. oh, i could climb over the fence, but most of the time i think the grass is truly greener inside the room i've made for myself. the path leads from nowhere to nowhere. and i can see clearly over the fence, into all of the things that could exist beyond, but my boundaries are well defined here. i can walk the path a little ways and still believe that there is more to traverse as long as i stop before reaching the fence. i can shrink down to where the grass is as a forest. i can become lost and confounded in this place. a labyrinth of life - wasted. retracing my fears, my cycles, my self. a duration of meaningless achievements. i can be caught up in a hell within my mind, so that there is not time to expand my boundaries. jumping from pit to pit, the fire will burn me until i am no more. this is not the annhilation of self that the wise strive for. it is where those of a fierce ego think they live. but it is not living. it is the manifest world. and i have a view, a knowledge of the outside, but with that knowledge comes so much space, so much freedom. and it's small and cozy and i know this place too. all of the routine is familiar. one problem, however, is that once i've walked over every blade of grass, it stays matted down. and once the grass dies, i will have nothing but dirt and a sandy path that still leads from nowhere to nowhere, a desert - inside a fence, a cage, with a gate that stays locked. and if i don't stop seeing it as pleasurable, beautiful, and easy, then i will waste away in this place. there is no food in here. no nourishment of any kind. i will surely die. but that's the point. pleasures of this world are little more than this. they appear so vast. yet, upon viewing them objectively, in light of the rest of existence and the rest of negative-existence, they are traps. this just happens to be what mine looks like today. rise, they say. so i learn to unlock the gate, slowly. i learn to feed myself. just one of the paths that leads to loss of the self. find yours and you will know what happiness is.

oooooooo, red hot! al-Chemia

2006-10-18T19:00:47Z

it's been chaotic. reds and golds and greens. i'm going mad. seriously. just walking down a street - all of these strange impulses come to me out of nowhere and it's all i can do to fight them and hold myself back. oh, i should pick up that patio chair and smash that restaurant window. oh look, i could grab that dog from its owner and take off running. or i could come up behind that guy and put my hand over his mouth and pretend to mug him on the corner in broad daylight. aahhhhh! stop it, brain! i could step in front of the bus instead of onto it. let's see. i have no history of schizophrenia in my family, so what can i sum all this shit up to? stress? i suppose. when bicyclists ride past me in intersections i just want to kick my foot out and knock them over into traffic. all of my thoughts are moving at lightening speed. this isn't normally the case with me. i am ms. cool, calm, and collected. okay not cool, but the rest of it. i meditate. i do yoga. i'm, i'm... still not superhuman. sigh. i feel on fire constantly. there is no end to the forest. i am always burning away in my mind. tormented by myself. i'm not self-actualizing. maybe that's it. or maybe this is just stream-of-consciousness writing that lets the fire out onto the page. and everyone feels it and everyone recognizes it. and i'm crazy to think it's all just me............ let me step back from myself for a minute. oh, look. i'm sitting in front of the computer. t-shirt and jeans, as usual. no mapped out goals. just these up-in-the-air ideas that i grab at and hold onto to comfort myself. even my solutions are quick fixes. i spend no time thinking about the consequences. i just rush around like a lemming. and now i've fallen off the cliff, again. lather, rinse, repeat. a thought cycle that rears its head every so often. but behind all the neurosis everything is perfectly clear. also, as usual. it's just habit. all of it. and i have good ones and not-so-good ones, like everybody else. updates and revisions are all that are necessary for me. my goals and plans are just tired. old. they burn me because i let them. they burn me because i have no fight in me right now. they burn me because this is right where i obviously want to be. right here. otherwise i would move. there is no blame that i can throw around. my mirror isn't crowded with other people. it's the usual face. with fistfuls of light and mouthfuls of dirt, i stare back at me. ashes and herbs and solutions. a medicine cabinet of elixirs just waiting to be tasted, if i would just open the door and pick one. i'm clingy and dirty and not looking my best just yet. but all of the answers are there. crude contents in a bowl. raw. blank. and all of this flesh is just a burning shell. with the highest of me hidden in its deepest cave. shining in blackness. pushing back the darkness that encompasses and cannot comprehend. all of the names i utter. all of the circles that be. why do i have to strain to hear, the music of my own damn sphere?

of the baser metals

2006-10-18T18:21:46Z

all jesse dreamt of was "makin' it big" in music. he was a hairband metalhead and learned the electric guitar from his dad almost before he could walk. an arrogant bad-ass, he knew he had the rough, chiseled looks and long hair to go with his talent. and he'd been through almost ten bands before leaving high school; playing the roxy, the troubador, and whiskey-a-go-go a few times. he'd put a few lp's out. he was familiar on the strip. he thought of himself as the new age of 80's rock - who would pick up where the past masters of the aqua-net had left off. so it was too bad that jesse had come of age in the twenty-first century and hair metal had died when ozzy first went into rehab some years back. poor jesse. he also had an insecure streak that left him bitter and heartbroken from the women he had chosen over the years to accompany him to stardom. sarah was just a young bimbo with no conscience, so he couldn't really be upset with her for leaving him. but after jackie and kat both pulled the same shit sarah had, jesse began to wonder what exactly his problem was with the opposite sex. maybe it was because he had the backbone of an amoeba? or perhaps it was the shameful way that his cock curved to the left as though it was constantly pointing due north and due north was always slightly over his left shoulder. whatever the issue, jesse found no difficulty in replacing his women, or finding good material to write music about after they left him. but he felt stuck, plateaued in his mid-twenty's - between the drug-addict drummers and the other assholes with starry eyes who thought they were better than he was - and, of course, were not. so he was in a jaded, bad mood on that tuesday in april when he met brett while auditioning drummers for a new band project he'd thought up. brett was a different kind of bad-ass. he was pierced all over his face and wore only black shirts, black utility kilts, and combat boots. he looked like he was glen danzig and rob halford's lovechild. and he pounded the fuck out of his drums, creating heavy driving rhythms. at one time, he may have been the entire percussion section in satan's orchestra - with a love of industrial music. together with jesse's singer, phil, and his bassist, russell, jesse thought he had finally found a lineup of guys who had the drive and the expertise to help him pack arenas. the tunes kicked ass and riled up all the drunks at the biker bars. a few producers had even invited them into studios to "lay a little somethin' down". after four months, jesse and the boys were setting their sights on hollywood. and then, brett ruined everything - by falling in love with jesse. his drum beats slowly became bright, and beach boys - sounding. his creative taste, that jesse had admired from the beginning, became clubby and trendy. brett pulled a 360 on the boys by showing up to their usual bar gig one night wearing a striped abercrombie and fitch shirt and, omigod, pants! jesse was taken aback and didn't really know what was going on. brett, is this a joke? what? brett looked at him curiously. your clothes, man. what the fuck are you wearing? do you wanna get your ass kicked? brett defended himself. they've heard the music before. these guys love us. yeah, um.... jesse bit his lip. what the fuck was he supposed to say to brett? he had no idea what was going on. he tried another approach. do you wanna borrow one of my shirts, dude? i have another black one in my car. no, i'm fine. let's just play, man. the next week the band went out drinking together and brett threw a few back and pushed jesse up against a wall in the pub. i love you, man. brett looked jesse square in the face. i know, dude. i love you too. we're gonna make it. we're gonna get to l.a. no man, brett held jesse against the wall, and pushed his own body weight into jesse. their faces were almost touching. i mean, i really love you. and brett kissed jesse - full on the mouth. jesse was so startled that he froze for a minute and let brett kiss him. then he recovered his senses and pushed brett off of him. what the fuck? dude, you kissed me! you're gay?! and jesse took a swing at brett's head and missed. i don't know, i just want to be with you, brett tried to hold jesse's fists away from his face. jesse shrieked, let the fuck go of me, you faggot! Omigod! Omigod! do you realize what this means? this means we don't have a drummer! we don't have a band! we can't go anywhere or record anything!.... and we have a fuckin' gig tomorrow night, you fucking asshole! brett tried to calm jesse down. we can still play it. no! jesse shouted in brett's face - putting all of his instant hatred into this one person in front of him who had just cost him his life's dream. another band down the toilet, he realized. get away from me! don't touch me! don't ever even look at me again or i'll kill you! jesse stormed out of the pub, kicking chairs as he went. the band was finished - jesse couldn't take any more music-related bullshit. brett's heart was broken. the next day, brett, (still torn apart by jesse's rejection and needing to feel secure) impulsively moved to las vegas and back to his last ex-girlfriend, (for whom he felt no feelings whatsoever), and jesse applied for a job as a gas station attendant a few blocks away from the house he rents to this day - with his dad.

silas and cougar

2006-10-07T01:40:58Z

silas worked at the corner liquor-store. he spent most of his evenings ringing up crap and crap-beverages with a red laser barcode gun. wishing mostly to be able to taze his more stupid customers with the pulsing line of red light, he grinned to their faces and shot at their backs. s'up this evening, son? old man meyers, a regular who resembled the zz top boys, would smile - throwing his thick newspapers up on the counter. the usual, silas tossed them back at him. my mom's dead, i never knew my dad, no girl, no future - just this damn store six days a week and tv dinners in the freezer, he smirked, going to refill the cigarette shelves. you get yerself a woman, and everything'll be alright, meyers called pointing at the magazines below the counter. and don't go after any'a these hussies, m'boy. git yerself a real woman. and he waved and was gone. silas sighed. what was a real woman? maybe the old man was right. when was the last time he'd had somebody? six months? and even then, he had only hooked up for a few nights - to remember that he wasn't the only warm-blooded creature left alive. what was wrong with him? he never noticed people anymore. they were simply moving shadows cast against flourescent lights or sidewalks. no lasting impressions, certainly. he leaned on one elbow and was almost asleep.... my skull is splitting open, he thought, waking up. a blue-haired punk beauty had been tapping on his forehead with the edge of her beer bottle. anyone HOME in there?! her voice was anything but soft and sultry, rather it was like being wakened by a drill seargent. ring me up, sleeping beauty! she put her 12-pack in his face and lit the cigarette she already had perched on one lip. hey! you can't smoke in here! take that shit outside! silas motioned to the door. look, i just need my beer and i'll be gone, she spoke out of one corner of her mouth and stood up square and tall and looked him full in the face. so you can take your time and die of smoke inhalation, or you can spare the air and help me out! silas pushed the beer back at her with change. alright, get out. she grabbed it and winked at him. you're alright. she stuck her hand out, name's cougar. silas sized her up. beautiful, he decided, but that was no excuse for bad manners. then again, she wasn't your average moving shadow. silas, he extended his hand also. and you know, silas, she took another drag. i used to be a boy and i can see that you used to be a girl, so cheers to us, because there's precious few who pull it off so well. and she winked again and was gone. what-the? silas leaned over the counter after her. he'd been passing daily for five years. yeah, he leaned back onto his stool and smiled at himself. i should get a woman. maybe even that woman. and he went back to shooting flies with the barcode gun.

hejira

2006-10-01T20:57:53Z

his cigarette hung off one lip sideways. eh, you gettin' in here or not, lady? 'cuz i got other places to be too, ya know? mecca ain't home for everyone. faye looked around at the empty street. it was freezing, and this cabbie was the only other sign of human life for miles. she nodded and climbed inside. hejira, please - she instructed. and as he swerved around the black hillsides guided by the bluish-white headlights, faye fell asleep and dreamed of her childhood in Alabama. she sat with a pail and shovel in the tall grass out behind her momma's old wooden house with the giant wraparound porch. nobody can see me, she thought. i could do anything, and nobody would ever know. momma's baking pies, and poppa's reciting his sermon for the church social on sunday. she started to dig into the high grass. pulling up stalks and roots and little curly bugs. humming her favorite bing crosby song, "silver bells", she threw herself into her work. grabbing at the soft dirt with both hands, she was up to her elbows in it. an hour later, faye's hole was three feet deep. a bit more, she mused, tossing bucket after bucket over her shoulder. then, she jumped in. and the hole swallowed her up. she looked to see the last bit of sunlight disappear as all of the dirt rushed back in to cover her. when she opened her eyes again, she was there. in medina. walking through its purple doorway that led to the forest. it was so sunny and warm. she would never have to see a cold night again. or a night at all, for that matter. and all of the forest animals came up to greet her, speaking most eloquently. faye was home at last. her long, perilous pilgrimmage to and from was over. she saw all.

paper stars

2006-09-23T20:26:33Z

they were blue and teal in the corner of my east window. paper stars. they were all different sizes - placed in just the right spots. i licked the front of the last one and pressed it firmly onto the glass with the palm of one hand. flattening out all of the bubbles. there, finally! we stood back and marveled at the handiwork. you coughed, bored with all of the trouble i went through for my trivial pleasures. it wasn't anything fancy, but i thought it looked alright. i didn't really need to have them on my window, of course, but some cheesy, little touches like that added a cozy, lived-in feeling to the room. you sighed and nodded. looks good, babe. believing you were as convincing as you tried to sound. and you turned back - to concentrate on your book again. i felt restless. the room looked lived-in, but it wasn't. i was barely ever there, except to sleep. i'm gonna go out for a bit. i grabbed my sandals and my socks. okay, you nodded - not looking up. for if you had, you would have chastised me, as you always used to do, about wearing socks with my sandals. that's blasphemy! i could hear your words in my head - laughing like you did, but serious. but this time you didn't look, and i wouldn't have heard your comment anyway. i reached the landing and opened the backdoor. the breeze that hit me was surprisingly warm. good. it was exactly what i needed today. the pier wasn't very long either, extending out past the yard. it was sturdy and familiar. klunk-klunking along it, i advanced to the water, biting my lip. hands in pockets. hair in all directions. on the end-plank, i took off my socks and put them in my sandals. pulled my sweater off over my head and pushed my jeans down to my ankles - kicking them into a pile on top of the other clothes. and i stepped out onto its edge. bare skin on the warm deck. kneeling, i gripped the edge and lowered myself into the water. with an arm strength that i don't possess. limb... limb... torso... let go. the surface gave way to me and crowded in around my curves. rising above the water, i dove back in - hand over head - out to untether the jetski. i swung up onto it - like the good cowgirl you taught me to be, daddy. would've made you proud. it sputtered to life. and i was free. doubling back over my own wake. it could have been tears or waves for all of the spray in my face. beading up on my skin. no hands. no thoughts. just the sun and the water and me. squeezing the sides hard with my thighs so i wouldn't fall off. i guess i had been gone for a while. because, by then, you had come out to the edge of the pier to call to me, shielding your eyes with your hand. what are you doing?! wanna go out?! come on! we could do whatever you want! you motioned me to come back to the dock. i glanced at you - squinting and smirking and not slowing down. thinking, i don't have time for this - i'm already doing what i want to do. no! i called back at you. i shook my head and rode out further. my wants and my needs had been tangled up long enough. i shouted over my shoulder and turned back to take on my next wake. do what you want! I'm gonna ride!