A Random Image

Archive for June, 2007

 
|| June 28, 2007 || 11:40 pm || Comments (6) ||

A dip of the head, a slip of the lip.

“You have to wait until you’re uncovered, you have to wait with someone naked, and then you’ll have to wait some more.” Attribute the quote yourdamnself.

Being seen, being known:

There is something antiquarian about me…I have calling cards for when my number is requested, I seal letters with wax, I bake pies for new neighbors. Then there is the me of too-high heels and too-short bangs and too-pondered imaginings.

Raw-nerved and ruined:

All the musically capable and gifted men I’ve known and I’ve never had a song written for me. Not to my knowledge, anyway. Why does this annoy me so?

I wonder if I’d not do better with an amalgamation of memories; those specific, singular traits from The Various plumped all cozy and contradictory in one larger-than-life man. Dark skin, sarcastic wit, smooth chest, broad shoulders, pulsing intellect, slim hips, lanky and gangly and loose. Green eyes that change to blue and sometimes gold but mostly stay green, a braid-puller, a face-caresser, an arch-kisser, an elbow-grabber. A natural-born orator maddeningly incapable of basic self-expression. A saint, a fool, a tragically fallable being. My hero.

Hope busy trying to overtake passion:

There is this movie. It centers around a young woman, one of those females who is unattractive in a myriad of ways, but who has that one thing that matters and you cannot help but be drawn to her.

The young woman, she is classically vacant in a way that cannot possibly considered shallow and she defines herself in sexual encounters. The girl sportfucks unashamedly and with a great deal of aplomb. Then she runs up on her male counterpart, and what-oh-what can happen when someone made of mirrors stands face-to-face with another someone made of mirrors? The infinite, the rabbit hole. Introfuckingspection and desperation collide.

Around this point in the storyline, he –obsessed and overtaken– extracts a vow from her. Here, she begins to grow cold. Your basic male panic, but emanating from a female. It peaks when, while telling her a story about his childhood, he lies underneath the bed, asking her to join him. She refuses, and it was so immediately and startlingly clear to me why: To lie beneath a bed in the still, dusky cool seems an intensely intimate thing to do. Just to lie there side by side, backs pulled by the wooden floor, maybe shoulders touching, maybe palms pressed together, beneath the mattress that had soaked in your sighs and muffled cries and filthy, delighted words for one another. What the ears waste in senseless moments of pleasure the mattress always drinks up.

We’re always pushed for a close:

We are silly, forgetful things. There should be a better summation than that, but I am learning as I go and that’s why I have to relay things in slovenly staccato shovelsful. For that, for my humanity, I am infinitely sorry. So sorry, in fact, that I could never have one hope past hell of conveying even a microscopic bit of to what degree.

What I shambled out of bed late, late one night to put to paper recently:

let me explain something.

If I cast off everything that offended you, I’d be merely a breath.

There’s more than one way to skin a religion:

According to your God’s standards, I have sinned like a champ. (I need that inked across my breastbone in a florid script: I HAVE SINNED LIKE A CHAMP. I try never to fail at beating my accusers to their accusations. Maybe it’s a pride thing. Maybe it’s simply another something that knee-jerk fools like me do.)

According to my Lord’s standards, I’m never beyond redemption.

The shambling, the late night, the setting of pen to paper wildly — none of these are unusual. What I actually wrote, it is a strange new animal. I am growing bolder after my own fashion.

Just imagine.

“Now what’s all this jazz about South America?”

Scout is, at this very moment, falling in love with the story of Holly Golightly. The air is electric around her.

I just may be in trouble here.

 
|| June 26, 2007 || 4:06 pm || Comments (3) ||

right, round and quick

Shut UP, I’m exCITEd about the new Transformers movie and I am not even keedengk about that.

Ever since the Horrible Shoulder Ordeal of last year my left collarbone is all jacked. Having a jacked collarbone is not half so effortlessly sexy as it might sound; oh no, not at all. It inhibits you after a certain fashion. For instance, –if you want to be hindcatcher in a quick, impromptu pick-up game on your lunch hour(s)– you don’t have the ability to do the lightning whip-around thing that once garnered you a wee bit of attention as A Girl That Can Hold Her Own On The Ballfield.

Okay, I can still do it, but my collarbone doesna keep up with me half so well as it used to. This is disheartening. This means there is just one more instance in my life where I have to put on my Game Face tm and Suck It Upalso tm. It also probably means my kegstand days are over*.

It means, as well, that several times a day –’specially if I’m doing something repetitive with my left arm/shoulder– there is this not-so-funny kerchunk, kerchunk sound emanating from that wicked wee bone.

Which kind of reminds me of Transformers, and that’s how all this nonsense I just typed ties in to the first paragraph. Never, never doubt my literary prowess, Muffinasses.

*NoooooOOOOOOoooooo!

“This one time, we had this waitress named Mudd, and….”

No, really:

"This one time, we had this waitress named Mudd, and...."
:: Teh camera, yet again, offers teh proofs. ::

I know you people think I make this shit up. I KNOW YOU DO. You big batch of Doubting Thomases.

 
|| June 23, 2007 || 10:28 am || Comments (0) ||

cul-chah

I wish I knew the phrase, “Lady, you are on my fucking nerve.” in about fourteen different languages.

In absolutely unrelated matters: Last night there were fellows from Greece, and we were explaining some primarily Southerin phrases to them.

“Addlepated, hmmmm.

“I supposed ‘addlepated’ is a good cross of flummoxed and aggravated with an eensy splash of fury tossed in.”

They lapped it all up. We could have been telling them anything.

 
|| June 22, 2007 || 6:27 pm || Comments (0) ||

why I love satellite radio

I just heard The Clash and Cheap Trick back-to-back. I wanted to kiss the receiver.

 
|| June 21, 2007 || 10:09 pm || Comments (6) ||

and the mule they rode in on

Shut the fuuuuuck up,” I said in exclamation. I nodded toward the nose of my vehicle while pointing out the windshield, “Dig that!” Tess was on a call. She snapped her phone shut.

We fell apart simultaneously: “AHHHHAhahaa!” And then, struck by the same sledgehammer of inspiration, we both scrambled for our cameras. I tried to keep a steady sixty while I set the camera with both hands, the heel of my left palm the only thing maintaining the wheel.

I wasn’t satisfied with just a picture of his rear gate. I must talk to this man. Gotta get his name, his story. This is how my brain operates: Curiosity sprints so far past Sense that Sense hasn’t a chance in hell of catching up, even on the back stretch. That Curiosity doesn’t wind easily.

“We gotta talk to him.” Tess dutifully went for the window button, sliding the glass down efficiently and leaning back in her seat slightly, grinning, so that I could holler to him.

“HEY!” I yelled past the wind and the few feet between our vehicles, “HEY! WILL YOU PULL OVER SO’S I CAN FIND OUT HOW YOU’VE BEEN WRONGED?” The word ‘wronged’ came out like a big clang.

We meant no harm. We were full of Damn The Man sentiment and wanted to hear him out, to encourage by way of a few ‘Hell Yeah!’ endorsements. Sir, we are kindred spirits. I guess he thought we were mocking him and we couldn’t get him to give us the time of day, really.

“Yeah,” he shouted back, nodding, “you read it and I MEAN EVERY DAMN WORD.” He turned shortly thereafter. I felt disappointed and mildly defeated for a brief time.

His name was Jack. The side of his work truck, also emblazoned with his occupation and phone number, told us so.

and the mule they rode in on