A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || February 1, 2014 || 3:05 pm

All aspects of being so sick that your eye teeth hurt aren’t necessarily bad. When the kind of sick I’ve got right now sledgehammers me, then I know I’ve got the dreams to look forward to. Those dreams, the ones I didn’t have to shell out dough on some overpriced hallucinogens to obtain.

I just have to lie here, mouthbreathing, and twitch and be too exhausted to even die, basically. Dying takes good energy, and this sort of flu is hoggy with all of the system’s resources.

Today I dreamed that I was inside a huge ancient coliseum, one with crumbling stone walls arcing into an inky night. Lynyrd Skynyrd was there, of course, and Ronnie Van Zandt called me out by name, heralding me as a sister of the South and lauding me for co-founding The Esteemed Society of Sister Neckbone. Ronnie wanted me to join him on stage and I shooed him with one weak hand, gesturing at the people and the stairs I would have to conquer to get there. I can’t, Vee Zee, I just can’t; go on without me.

It was then that I found myself buoyed up on a sea of hands, being shuffled easily but carefully to the lip of the stage, where I was gently poured into a pile of lank hair and flannel shirt and woolen socks, my flu-sweaty clothes having accompanied me from the scrambled-blankets landscape of my bed into my dreams. So much for the magical release of reality’s grip. So much for holding the world’s longest record of Good Hair In My Dreams. Forty-two years and some change was a good run, I reckon.

I lie there, an aching puddle of I Want To Die, horrified as the crowd began to chant “Free-BIRD, Free-BIRD,” striking their lighters and expecting in the way that concertgoing crowds tend to do. I started to cry.

“No. Noooooo,” I mumbled weakly, just inches away from the tips of Ronnie’s boots, “Don’t do that….”

I sneezed. I coughed. I sneezed again, twice. Then I parted my parched and cracking lips.

“Tuesday’s Gone,” I croaked. I didn’t have anything else in me. Nobody heard me.

I woke myself up singsniffling “…and I don’t know where I’m going, I just want to be left alone….” in a dry whisper.

 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || November 27, 2013 || 1:05 pm

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Veterans: Let’s do the dang thang.

Newcomers: My friends have Big Personalities and this thing is a hoot. We have a lot of fun doing this; don’t be afraid. Sign up in the comments below (don’t forget to include your email address!) and wait for further instructions via email. To get more of a gist, you can refer to previous posts about the swap here.

I’m capping this year’s participation at fifty swappers. You have until Wednesday, December 4th to sign up; I’ll close the list and start pairing folks then. Yippee kai ay!

 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || July 27, 2013 || 12:39 am

I have a manual typewriter now. If typewriters had vehicle classifications, this one would be a cast-iron tank. It squats elegantly –if imposingly– on the livingroom desk. It would make a good burglar-killer if I could get that sumbitch hauled up over my head without tipping over backwards. This typewriter was built to outlive my grandkids and maybe even their kids. It is not fucking around with its here-ness.

I hope there is at least one person out there who never gets tired of making ribbons for it while I still have breath in me.

I sat down to write on it for the first time a couple of weeks ago, and I was unsure of how firm I should be with the keystrokes. What passed as a comfortable action for my fingers felt somehow soft and insubstantial, so after the first couple of words rendered with two hands I poked the keys without mercy, two-fingered and savage.

Oh Lordy, the typos. But I am more adept at keyboarding  with two fingers and ten minutes than some people are with ten fingers and two hours, so there’s that. It’s like my favorite drunk says: “It ain’t braggin’ if it’s true.”

The paper kicked up above the platen and I noticed little stars in it. For a minute, anyway, that’s what my brain thought, “Now there is a brand-new one: You have gone and typed stars onto paper,” then the inner capitalist kicked in and next I thought, “Holy SHIT, am I ever going to be RICH.”

Then sense came in and started stamping out the flames of imagination delirium: It was only the loud bulb of the lamp shoving its way through tiny holes I’d made in the paper with my no-holds-barred two-fingering madness*.  There were no stars on my paper. I’d knocked out tiny holes; I was using my typewriter as a paper punch: Cut that shit out.

I unclamped the beginnings of the letter and pulled it off the roller to examine it. It was after three in the morning and I wasn’t about to retype it.  I did, however, marvel at the mess I’d made of its backside before rolling it back into the machine, lining it up again as best I could, and finishing it off.

I even remarked on it in the text itself: Holy crap, I’ve made your letter into braille. The recipient will be able to read it into her old age, no matter if time steals her eyes. My overeager indexes outdid themselves. Kind of. I guess.

I’m pretty good at humiliating myself and most of the time I’m comfortable with that state of affairs.

Here I was, though, having sent what I thought was my haphazard braille out across some miles and the recipient said back, “You made lace of the paper.”

I looked at that letter and saw braille. She looked at it and saw lace. Perception is weird like that.

The people that can see the lace are the good stuff of life, and I’m sort of prone to finding them in the oddest ways.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

Is there a non-WASPy way to say, “Hey y’all, I’m in a really great space right now.”?  Because I am. My bones holler and fuss. My heart sings to spite them. I am glad for today.

*Google is going to LOVE that sentence

 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || June 19, 2013 || 9:22 pm

You know, for some years now I’ve been trying to ‘get a hold of myself,’ to be even and mild and measured.
I’m thinking that I’ve put in a lot of work that was antithetical to who I’m supposed to be.
I don’t want to be gentle and quiet as a rule.
I want to roar, both in my laughter and my rage.
Supplanting that roar with a Mona Lisa mouth makes me feel all odd angles and unsatisfactory leanings.

I can whisper when I’m dead.
And if I can’t, I won’t know the dang difference anyway.

Tell me about your misplaced work, sugar. I miss your voice.

 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || March 20, 2013 || 9:58 pm

Hey, so….it’s time once again to launch myself into the Woods of Wunder with all my Doo brethren and sistren!

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I thought I might send a postcard from the artist village to whomever might chance to want one this year.

That’s right, I’m gonna send postcards to my pals from the heart of Doo-Nanny. If you want one please put your John Henry below in the comments-place (I’ll collect your address afore we pack up to leave out at the beginning of next week). International friends, you are most welcome to participate!

Here is the catch, because there is always a catch, son: It may not be signed by me. It may be signed by a world-famous folk artist! Or just some freak who likes bonfires. Or the one laydeh who always hangs around the kitchen, waiting for me to put out more salsa. You just never know!

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DOO-NANNY! \0/ Collaborate, initiate, investigate, propagate, stay up late, create, inflate, relate! Burn stuff! Whoop, holler, dance, sing, hug a neck and pat a back! Amen and amen.

 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || March 13, 2013 || 5:38 pm

Since the dawn of Nick’s new man-sized stature and 34″ inseam, there has been some frustration over jeans and khakis inside our normally-peaceful four walls. The kid is an absent-minded genius and just grabs pants that look like that could maybe-probably-perhaps belong to him, no matter what methods Maxim has employed to deter this sort of thing.

“Listen,” Maxim said tonight as we all stood in the kitchen conferring on dinner, “I just bought a bunch of new jeans with the money that Sam sent me for Christmas. I’m  here to tell you, son, that I am going to go ballistic if I have to go chasing them down even one time. I’m serious as a heart attack.”

Nick, now fully one inch taller than Maxim, looked passively on, nodding. I was amused, because I know what’s coming. Still, I added my two cents in:

“Don’t steal Daddy’s pants, don’t get anyone pregnant: Those are the rules around this joint.”

It was here that Maxim nodded sagely, “If you steal my pants, you are very likely to get someone pregnant.” He slung a thumb in my direction, “See her? I just touched her and here you are, son.”

 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || March 11, 2013 || 6:19 pm

We gather in warm brick houses with brocade paper on the walls. Candles burn in jars and the hands of the boys move so quickly that they become blurs as they play.

The people are happy, the people are smiling and clutching one another mirthfully as they dance. Singing, urging the band on, they are fevered and joyful and shine; the people shine so hard that the stars would be jealous if the roof was not protecting their feelings.

There is shalom in every bounce, in every handclap, in every laughing face of every dark-haired girl.

Dance, women.  Shout, men. Play on, beautiful music-makers. Hold back the evils of the world, make us one with each other. Help us to hear God.


(a very special thank you to Demian, to Katy, to Derick, and to the Flying Balalaika Brothers for the amazing time….also to Sean for that crazy-assed drink that I still don’t know the name of but that suited the mood perfectly)